John Winchester takes another long pull at his whiskey, the ridged glass bottle held lazily in his fingers, his glazed eyes staring drunkenly at the television. Dean's next to him, perched on the other end of the couch, staring at the TV, too, but putting most of his attention into not seeing California sunshine and a dimpled smile instead of whatever Dad had scrounged up.
Damn it.
Dean shoves off of the couch, his palms itching, his feet itching, his gut itching, itching to get away from these images. Steady, Dean, he reprimands himself, redirecting his urge to pace into a strut toward the refrigerator chugging noisily across the room. With a rough tug, Dean opens the door before he's caught up in them again; seeing the way hazel eyes glint with amusement; feeling a certain chin, pulled down for a hug and pressed against Dean's shoulder; smelling the softness of thrift store flannel, crumpled in Dean's fingers as he grips Sam closer-
"Dean." Dad's half-growl half-grunt from the couch floods Dean's vision with the here and now, and Dean startles a little, aware suddenly that he's been staring at the two empty racks inside the refrigerator.
"We're out of beer." He manages to grunt back, to cover himself, and pushes the door closed, turning. Dad's watching one of those black and white monster flicks with the paper mache monsters, and the hot chicks, but Dean can't care how well that dress shows Janet Leigh's assets, cause he's hearing Sam snort at the teddy bear monster (Dude, I've seen teddy bears scarier than that thing!) and suddenly Dean's gripping the neck of his empty bottle so hard he could crack itand he can't breathe. He just needs to get out of here, just get out of this room, away from these memories. If he doesn't he's going to start smashing all these empty bottles, because he certainly won't start crying.
He thinks he manages to mumble something to Dad about going to get more beer, before he's out the door, stuttering with the lock on the Impala, and relaxing a little into a sigh as the sound of her engine rumbles washes over him. I am not going to do anything stupid he chants to himself I'm not going to do anything stupid. I'm just going for a drive. He throws the car into gear, and pulls out onto the road, gunning the engine towards the back roads of the Nevada desert, dipping down and around the hills, letting the roll of the road and the pull of the car and the dread of his memories lead him, 'til a sign for 340 West – "take next exit" – brings him up short.
It's the road to Stanford, Dean knows. Ever since Sam took off, Dean's always given special care to knowing the quickest route to Palo Alto, just in case. From this particular patch of nowhere its 340 West to I-80, up 92, then down exit 12B…
He could do it, he thinks. Not that he'd actually go see Sam, or anything ridiculous like that. Not doing anything stupid, remember? Dean wouldn't even make it out of Nevada before he turned around, for sure. Probably wouldn't even stay on the road that long, Dad waiting back at the motel and all. He could-
He does. Hangs right, accelerating up the ramp and onto the highway, letting the feel of the engine's eagerness seep into his skin and sooth his bones. He wonders idly – just because, no real intention in it – what it would be like if he actually went through with this crazy plan of his. He pictures Sam's grin, remembers the light in his eyes when he's pleased, pictures holding Sam so close, his nose is pressed up against Dean's collar bone, and Dean's gripping his shirt, and apologizing, and Sam's forgiving him. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should never have- I don't- I'm sorry.
Dean wipes furiously at his face, cranks up the music and rolls down a window. Sweat, he thinks. Must be getting hot in here.
He's such a liar. Can't even tell himself the truth, much less anyone else. No wonder Sam left.
Babe, oh, babe… I'm gonna leave you.
Oh, baby, you know, I've really got to leave you
Oh, I can hear it callin' me
I said don't you hear it callin' me the way it used to do? Oooh…
Before Dean's really thought about it, he's crossing the state line, screaming at 90 miles an hour down I-80 headed west, away from the soon-to-rise sun, letting the wind ruffle and drag through his hair, loosening and snapping up all his cares.
I know, I know, I know I never, never, never, never, never, never gonna leave you, babe
But I got to go away from this place,
I've got to quit you, yeah
Ooh, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby,
Ooh, don't you hear it callin' me?
There's a tugging at the heel of his gas pedal boot, like that itch from before, this time reminding him how impossible this is – what? You're just gonna take off on a six hour drive to Stanford, without warning, without giving so much as a heads up to the old man, and show up on Sam's doorstep expecting him to let you in? But Dean just cranks the music higher; so loud all he can feel in his whole body and the heel of that boot is the heavy, heady, steady rhythm of Jimmy Page, John Bonham, and John Paul Jones.
Days went by when you and I, bathed in eternal summer's glow
As far away and distant, our mutual child did grow.
Wandering and wandering, what place to rest the search
The mighty arms of Atlas hold the heavens from the earth.
A green sign comes into focus ahead. INTERSTATE 90 SOUTH EXIT 7 and this time it's intentional, Dean pulling into the left lane, slowing through the ramp curve, accelerating onto the new, but still-empty highway. The Impala clock blinks a sleepy 2:30am, but all Dean's seeing is the path before him: 90 running through desert for 20 miles, then the gradual spread of suburbia, before signs start showing for Exit 12B on the right. He's turning into the ramp, following the little college town streets past open commons, huge academic buildings, Neo-classical styled libraries. Left on Sand Hill, right on Maison, third building down. Then jogging up the stairs when no one's watching, and lazily – like he hasn't a care in the world – leaning himself against the door frame, to tap out a knock. Sam opens the door, filling the doorway with his Sasquatch size, looming in it, frowning instead of smiling, angry.
Angry?
Glaring.
Glaring…
You walk out that door don't you ever come back! You hear me, Sam? Don't you ever. Come. Back!
There's a roar in his ears, a flood of emotion more power than the fit that had him driving to Palo Alto on a whim in the middle of the night, and it hits Dean what he's really doing. Sam's not going to want to see him. Sam's got a life now. An apartment all his own. A school schedule, and homework out his ears, and friends, and research papers, and a girlfriend, and dreams, and a normal life. A normal life decidedly without Dean.
It's a good thing the highways are empty, or the way Dean blindly slams on the breaks, and throws the car into a U-turn right there on the five lane highway would have gotten him killed. As it is, Dean's back in front of the motel before he knows it, numb to everything, because otherwise, he's not sure he'd have made it back. (I am not doing anything stupid. I am not doing anything stupid. I am not doing anything stupid.)
Dean's drowning in his own head, as he swings the door open to their motel room. Dad's finally passed out on the couch, the empty fifth rolling at his feet, reflecting the black and white flashes of another monster movie. The sight unexpectedly is a vitalizing breath on the dying embers in his soul, reminding him of similar nights when all Dad needed was for Dean to lay his head on Dad's lap as Dad sobbed for Mom and drank, and things would seem a little better. Reminding him that he's not completely purposeless.
Dean enters the room, flicking off the TV, pushing an arm under Dad's shoulders, and dragging him up, Dad's head lolling to rest against Dean's chest as Dean pulls him to the bed, Sam's bed, farthest from the door. Dean tugs off Dad's boots and rolls him under the covers. As he pulls away, Dad's face changes from an unconscious, inebriated droop to something that could almost be a smile, and Dean thinks he may have even heard the whisper of his name. Thanks Dean.
And Dean knows, then, what he'd really known the whole time: that he could never have left. He knows he's where he belongs for now. With Dad, taking care of the only family he's got left. Sam's safe, of that he's sure. Busy with books and settled with a chick. And Dean knows his place. Here. With Dad. With his family. Protecting what needs protecting. He doesn't have to stop missing Sam, he just has to be able to keep going with what he has.
As Dean tugs the blankets up higher around Dad's shoulders, and sees the happiness smoothing out the worry lines around Dad's eyes, he thinks that maybe – just maybe – it's not quite as impossible as it seemed.
Oh the sweet refrain soothes the soul and calms the pain
Oh, Albion remains sleeping now to rise again.
Wandering upon the rings what place to rest the search
With the mighty arms of Atlas hold the heavens from the earth.
I know the way, know the way
The mighty arms of Atlas
Hold the heavens from the earth.
(Songs as they appear: Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You and Achilles' Last Stand by Led Zeppelin. Many thanks to Shri Quinn for her beta!)