โDean, I โ He feels himself becoming frustrated, a sudden rush of blood setting at the crease of his brow as it pinches the bridge of his nose. This is where the strain in their estranged relationship seemed to become most apparent: when they talked. There was too much unsaid between them, something Sam suspects will haunt them in years to come, but Dean was very much a closed book a leather-bound journal with a latch. And the key swallowed. He was a little too much like Dad in that way, avoiding a sincere conversation as though it would open him up to hurt, like swinging first in a fight. Sam had been the generational breakthrough, seeking normality through college and career endeavours, the family's youngest the coach for the elders. He'd tired of it. He'd tired of his maturity outpacing theirs, mediating frank discussions that had turned nasty in the heat of it. He'd tired of feeling his mother's ghost wafting through the bones of a barely-there home, watching, muted, from every dark corner. Sam was an outlier if there'd ever been one, and even as he studies Dean now, he realises he's stood with his father's double. He purses his lips, recalibrating his thought process before he really does become frustrated and sends Dean into contempt an emotion far worse to face than his fury. โI don't want to be your therapist.โ Sam finally settles on a permissible response, something he hopes won't make Dean sprint in the other direction. He figures he's about two words away from sticking two fingers into his ears and la-la-la-ing his way out of the conversation, which would only tend to send Sam to an early bed. He pauses, a twitch on his lips as he tries to ease the tension that has started to draw taut like a bowstring between them. โBelieve me, I don't want to get inside your head.โ
