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The War of the Winchesters

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“You’re really leaving?”, Sam asked in disbelief as Dean stuffed his duffle bag haphazardly with clothes and shit.
“Yep. I’m out. I’ve had it. Sayonara bitches”, Dean said, his voice dripping with bitterness.
“Dean…”, Sam said literally rendered speechless, “What about the kids?” he said at last, triumphantly. Whatever Sam had done; and he conceded that…maybe…he hadn’t been the best husband he could be…Dean would never walk away from his kids. It wasn’t in him.
“I’m sure we can come to some arrangement about the kids”, Dean said not even slowing down the packing. Sam was feeling the insistent itch of panic in his mid section. This wasn’t happening to them. Not Sam and Dean. Not after all the shit they went through to get here. It wasn’t possible.
“Dean…please”, he begged, allowing a little bit of that desperation to bleed into his tone.
Dean ignored him. Actually downright ignored him. Sam could not fathom it. He took a deep breath and went to stand by the door of their bedroom. The kids were at school; Sam was late for work, the house was empty of anyone but them two. He blocked the doorway, a determined look on his face. If he had to, he’d lock Dean in here until he came to his senses.
Dean finished packing and slung the duffle over his shoulder. He walked toward the door like Sam wasn’t standing in front of him, arms akimbo, ready and waiting for him; refusing him passage.
“Dean…no”, he said as his brother stopped in front of him. There was a flurry of movement and suddenly there was a big ‘ol black .45 in his face.
“Get out of my way Sam”, Dean said, his voice cold in a way that Sam had never heard directed at him.
He opened hi s mouth to tell Dean that he couldn’t possibly mean it but then he caught a glimpse of the murder in Dean’s gorgeous green eyes…and moved out of the way.
Dean brushed past him, without so much as a sideways glance; and he was descending the stairs like he really intended to go.
Sam decided to try one more thing, “I’m sorry Dean”, he said.
Dean actually stopped on the third stair from the bottom. He turned his head, and his eyes met Sam’s. The hope that had flared in Sam’s chest, jump starting his heart beat like a shot of adrenaline died an ignominious death. The fury in Dean’s green eyes said that ‘sorry’ might be too little, too fucking late.
“My lawyer will be in touch”, Dean ground out before disappearing out the door and squealing down the driveway in a cloud of gravel, dust and anger; the black matte of the impala dusted with grey as it disappeared out the gate.
“You’ll be back Dean”, Sam told the empty driveway, “You never could resist me.”