The chapel smells like damp wood, old dust, and something coppery that won’t quite fade. Dean tells himself the witch is dead and bleeding on the floor tends to do that, but his nose doesn’t buy it.
The place is small. Too small. One aisle, broken pews shoved against the walls, a warped altar that looks like it hasn’t seen prayer in decades. The stained-glass windows are cracked but intact, colors bleeding together in sick reds and golds where the sun forces its way in.
Not for religious reasons.
Dean doesn’t turn around. He’s scraping dried blood off his knuckles with the edge of a half-burned hymn book, jaw tight, shoulders locked.
Sam notices. Sam always notices.
“You sure?” Sam asks. “That spell-”
“Cas said it’d wear off,” Dean snaps, then exhales. “Sorry. I’m good.”
Sam studies him. Dean can feel it, that quiet weight that’s been sitting on him since the witch collapsed mid-incantation and something cold crawled up his spine.
Because of course it was.
Dean straightens, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s torch the body and bounce. I want pie. Preferably before this place gives me a rash.”
Sam doesn’t move. “Dean.”
“You just said,” Sam says carefully, “that you never left because you didn’t think we’d survive without you.”
The words land wrong. Like they don’t belong to him.
“No,” Dean says. “What I said was-”
His chest tightens, sharp and sudden, like missing a step on the stairs.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters.
Sam’s eyes flick to the sigil burned into the floor. “You’re still under it.”
“No, I’m under a bullshit spell,” Dean snaps. Then, quieter, “Okay. Same thing.”
He grabs his jacket. “Drop it. We’re done.”
“You said you were fine,” Sam says.
Dean lets out a short laugh. “Yeah. That’s kinda my brand.”
The way Sam says his name stops him. Not angry. Not accusing. Just concerned, open in a way that makes Dean want to bolt.
“I’ve been trying to talk to you for years,” Sam says. “You always change the subject.”
“That’s because the subject sucks.”
“You don’t get to dodge this one.”
Dean looks around like something might save him. A demon. A fire alarm. Divine intervention. Nothing shows.
“Great,” he mutters. “Trapped in a murder church with Dr. Phil.”
“You stayed,” Sam says. “When Dad went off the rails. When everything got worse. You stayed.”
“You didn’t leave,” Sam continues. “Not like I did.”
The truth spell hums under Dean’s skin, subtle and relentless.
“You ever notice,” Dean says slowly, “how I’m always the one still standing there when everybody else is gone?”
Sam frowns. “What does that mean?”
“I mean gone,” Dean says. “Not dead. Just… not there.”
He turns fully toward Sam.
“I know,” Dean says immediately.
The speed of it startles them both.
“I know,” he repeats, quieter. “That’s the problem.”
“You think I didn’t wanna run?” Dean cuts in. “You think I didn’t dream about it? Getting out? Being normal?”
He laughs, bitter. “Man, I used to stare at college brochures in motel rooms like they were porno mags.”
Sam’s brow furrows. “You never told me that.”
“Because it didn’t matter,” Dean snaps. “It was never on the table.”
He snorts. ”And at some point I convinced myself normal is for losers anyway, right...”
He starts pacing, restless energy bleeding out.
“You had a door. Stanford. A clean break. I had Dad. You. A job description.”
“I ran,” he says. “Plenty of times. You just never noticed because I always came back.”
Sam’s eyes widen. “When?”
“You ran,” Dean says. “I found you. And Dad tore into me because I failed. Not you. Me.”
Sam swallows. “I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Dean says. “You know what I found out later?”
“That was one of your good memories.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Dean says. “It’s yours. You’re allowed.”
Sam’s voice cracks. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t care about you.”
“I know,” Dean says, almost pleading. “That’s not the point.”
He rubs a hand over his face.
“I had a dad once,” he says quietly. “Before.”
“He laughed, taught me how to throw ball....He trusted me. He was good.”
“And then Mom died. And so did he. Just slower.”
Sam swallows. “I didn’t know him like that.”
“You got to hate him,” Dean says. “You got to be mad.”
He shakes his head. “I missed him.”
“And even when he died,” Dean goes on, “he couldn’t let me go.”
Dean laughs, hollow. “Yeah.”
“You really believe he made that deal just to save me?” Dean asks.
Dean doesn’t wait for the answer.
“He made it because he knew I’d finish the job. Because I’d protect you. Because I wouldn’t leave.”
The truth spell hums, merciless.
Dean looks up, his eyes brimming with tears and a desperate vulnerability, his gaze locking onto Sam with a heartbreaking plea. “I don’t know how to leave,” Dean admits.
The words fall heavy in the chapel.
Sam steps closer, hand hovering, then settling on Dean’s arm.
“You don’t have to carry this alone.”
Dean lets out a weak breath of a laugh. “Funny. Could’ve fooled me.”
Dean looks at him for a long moment.
Then, still under the last dying edge of the spell, he says'
And somehow, that hurts worse than anything else.
I got into Supernatural at the beginning of this year and completed all 15 seasons in less than a month and have been hyperfixating ever since....I know i have a problem but that's a different conversation ☺️✨
This is one my SPN works that I had locked up on my notes app for months coz I wasn't sure if it was good enough. I feel like Supernatural charecters r very emotionally complex and it's important to do them justice so I was stalling kinda.
Anyways hope it's good enough. I'll probably post a few more SPN stuff so please be lenient with the judgement 😅👉🏻👈🏻💖
