Their motel Dean and Sam returned to go to after their hunt was small and quaint. They got into the one-bedroom, one bathroom motel room. The walls were of dark red wallpaper – the floor sporting dark red carpet. The red carpet started about 2 meters from the door and the bathroom door, which was beside the entrance door. The beds and furniture was all old-fashioned and dark chestnut-wood style. The window at the end of the rectangular room was covered by white blinds. The two beds were side by side on the wall directly opposite the door. Across from the beds there stood a desk with an old lamp, a phone, water, and some paper. The room in general looked inviting.
Crashing onto the beds, a wash of relief ran over them again. Silence followed. A lot of hunts were like this afterwards. The boys had gotten close again to being seriously injured. Now they were running it through their heads again, the instant replay of their hunt.
Conversations were limited and short – Dean especially was always quiet after a hunt, but now this too quiet. Something was wrong again. For the past couple of days Dean seemed to be jerking off doing other things, saying odd things that were completely weird. Sam kept trying to come onto him and open up but Dean kept refusing – kept pushing him further back and back. A few hours later of silence except for the TV – which proved to be a relief from the silence, Sam had had enough. Shutting off the TV, he got up and looked at Dean, who was standing over his bed.
"Okay, man, what's going on with you?" Sam said inquisitively and with more force as Dean didn't look at him and meet his eyes.
He replied absently, "What're you talking about?"
"You know what, Dean. Something's been on you mind, hasn't it? It is about that deal you made with that bitch demon? It is me? What is it man? Talk to me."
"There's nothing wrong Sam, I've just been tired that's all."
"So you're sure you're all right?" Sam asked Dean, a look of concern washing over his face.
"Cause you seem kind of – off. Out if it." He looked at his brother, but his brother wouldn't turn up to him or meet him gaze again. Dean was looking down at the duffel on his bed.
"I'm fine, dude." Dean brushed off his brother's concern for him with an emotionless face that Sam couldn't read and had such coldness as he continued to rummage through the weapons in his duffel bag on his bed, holding and examining a few. Pretending to be busy.
"Seriously man, you've be acting strange – just tell me what's on your mind. You don't have to handle this alone – whatever it is, I can help you."
"I said I'M FINE Sam!" Dean growled and raised his voice a little more significantly, this time raising his head and turning to Sam to look at him squarely in the eyes. It was that look. The look that said "back off." Dean turned his attention back to his bag, and Sam caught on and dropped it, but couldn't help saying,
"Bitch." Dean said
"Loser." Sam said, and turned around thinking Dean was okay, he just didn't want to show his emotions to him.
Sam knew that Dean didn't want to his little brother to know that there was something wrong – and there was always something wrong. The Winchesters always had their problems –and unfortunately they were most often quiet about it. John had raised his boys to handle problems and take emotional abuse and pain – they were taught to be like soldiers: to not complain and shut about things. Dean somehow incorporated that more than Sam, and Sam never knew why, that he always wanted to show his little brother just how strong he was. That he was the stronger and tougher of the two. The dominant.
There was that military streak to him that John had enforced into Dean since they were kids that would never leave him. John laid so much responsibility on Dean right from the start – since he was the oldest of course. Dean always had to look out for Sam, he was the bigger of the two until Sam was seventeen – where he grew past Dean and didn't stop growing until twenty-one. Now at twenty-four, Sam stood a good three inches taller than him. But somehow, height didn't matter. Dean was always bulkier than Sam – he always had a stronger frame than Sam. Sam was long-limbed and flexible, but Dean was always stronger. Both had such opposite strengths.
Unfortunately, it was that second that Sam turned around to face his back to Dean that Dean took it to his full advantage. He dropped his knives, and his full attention – which had actually been for the whole time of their conversation – was on Sam. Sam stalked towards the bathroom, only able to walk a few paces when the back of his head was met with a blow from Dean's fist. Sam yelped and jerked forward. Dropping to his knees, his vision blurry and swayed – his hunter instincts kicked in and he turned around to face his opponent. The pain shot through his head – a radiating throbbing pain – seemed to vibrate his entire skull. Sam's first thoughts were that someone – or something else was in the room, had most likely quickly knocked out Dean, and then went for him, because Dean would never hurt him. But he was met with a surprise – Dean was standing above him, a sly smile across his face, ready to attack Sam again. Surprised, Sam got to his feet with a little bit of trouble,
"Dean, what they hell?" His response was met with a punch to the face, causing the younger man to groan stagger back. Putting one of his hands to his face Sam felt and saw warm blood coming out of his nose.
"Dean, w-what're you doing?" Sam looked at Dean with bewilderment and disbelief in his eyes. When Dean advanced on him, Sam knew it was shoot first, ask questions later. This time Sam fought back, blocking another punch from Dean as he aimed for his little brother's chest. But Dean managed to use the momentum and maneuver himself to the side of Sam, landing a well-positioned kick to Sam's stomach. Sam groaned and curled in as he was standing.
Dean grabbed Sam's shoulders on either side, and held him still as Sam's body was met with a vicious kick to the legs from him. He tumbled to the ground, gasping.
Another kick to the stomach. Fire shot up his spine to his neck. Sam curled on in himself into his best protective ball, but Dean continued to kick his him. His eyes were glaring.
Sam dodged a few on the floor, and managed somehow – he was in disbelief as to how he was able to manage it at the time – got up before his big brother managed to lay any more kicks, and with one hand grabbing his stomach – got into a fighter stance.
Shocked and frustrated, Dean advanced on him again. Sam aimed a punch at Dean and it settled into his skin, breaking the skin and leaving an opening with fresh flowing blood coming out of it.
"You just want me to match you, huh?" The blood oozed from the new cut on his face.It wasn't deep, but shit, it hurt and it was enough to piss off Dean even more.
"Ho," Dean said under his breathe, and recollected himself as Sam had done, "You're gonna pay for that little brother." he spit out angrily.
Dean launched himself at Sam, this time very quickly and in one swift motion, wrapped both hands around Sam's throat and shoved him against the wall so that he was pinned, oxygen escaping him. Sam body hit the wall hard and he choked and gasped, restraining and trying to lash out at his brother, fists flying at him and trying to grab his hands and yank him off, but his muscles were growing weaker every second. One of his fists did manage to successfully hit Dean in the face again– and he staggered back, not as such as Sam wanted him to though.
Letting go of Sam's throat, Dean walked back up to Sam again, and he all-too-quickly grabbed both of Sam's wrists. Sam's eyes were in panic and he fought harder against Dean; flexing his muscles to try and pry Dean's hands off of him that were grasping him tightly. But he couldn't. Sam achieved bringing their arms up in the air even though Dean was the stronger in the situation, but Dean's vice grip on him and the hits Sam had already taken were starting to take a toll on him.
Both shaking violently against each other's strengths and each other's resistances to try and get the other down, Dean was slowly winning. They looked at each other directly in the eyes, knowing that they were testing each other's physical ability – they exchanged glares and grunts as they fought against each other's muscle power. Dean was slowly bringing Sam's arms down to his sides again. Sam's arms felt like they were on fire.
When Dean felt that Sam's arms were lowered enough, he head-butted his little brother in the head. Sam's head snapped back to expose his now bruised neck, and he cried out. Sam forced himself to focus only on his brother and his strength at that moment. His head lowered down again and sagged sideways slightly.
No! Not when he was this close! Now his knees gave out, and he found himself looking up at his big brother leaning over him still grasping his wrists, which were above his head now but below Dean's head, both of their arms perpendicular to each other and bent at a ninety degree angle up.
Sam's eyes were now of fear, begging his older brother for mercy. Dean's eyes now were triumphant and dominant – a sly and smug look. The shaking was less now because Sam was growing weaker and resisting less.
"Dean, please…. w-wha…" In the position they were in, with Dean bending over Sam, who was now sitting on his feet, Sam's stomach was exposed right in the area of Dean's legs. Seeing the advantage point, Dean kicked hard at his little brother's stomach and let go of his wrists. He stepped back.
Sam fell onto the floor in front of his big brother's feet face first, gasping. Clutching his stomach with his arms wrapped around himself, it looked like he was almost hugging himself. Pleased and satisfied, as Sam tried to slowly get up or move, Dean placed a foot on Sam's head. Sam's face was pushed right onto the floor, and it was hard to find air.
Struggling for air, Sam squirmed. He tried to buck his brother off of him. The youngest Winchester turned his face to the side so that he could breathe, and coughed.
Dean released his foot but knelt down beside him and grabbed a fist of Sam's hair. He arched Sam's head back and up so that he could look at him in the face. Sam's shoulders and legs hurt. He couldn't move – or didn't have the strength to move. Sam's watering eyes were pleading – the puppy look that Dean always fell for no matter what. But not this time. He looked up at his brother.
"It didn't have to be this hard, Sam. You brought this upon yourself."
Realizing what was coming, Sam pleaded,
"Dean please stop! No! Dean!"
Those were the last words Sam said before his brother brought his head up further, arching his neck, and smashed him face-first onto the floor hard, blackness surrounding him.