Chapter 1: Completion (Pilot).

It didn't take Dean very long to find out where Sam lived.

When his little brother walked out that door, with the look of an angry puppy and a curse at his father, he hadn't looked back to say goodbye to Dean. Dean didn't take it personally – Sammy would be back, he wouldn't be gone that long; it was just anger that led him on leaving and when that faded, his stubbornness would do, too, and he'd come back.

It took Dean a while to realize that was never gonna happen.

Once that realization hit, it was harder for Dean to pretend all was okay. He'd never admit it to dad, but he felt a constant something on his gut. Something that scratched and scratched on the walls of his body, gnawing and pressing with the continuous reminder that 'Sammy isn't here, he'll never be here again and he's happy – without you.'

Somehow, when Sammy was still there, no matter the crappy motels or the shitty food or the fact that dad was gone for days at a time, Dean felt at home. It took him a while to deal with the fact that, when Sam left, he took home with him, and that there was nowhere Dean belonged to.

Part of him, of course, was happy his brother had gotten out, happy that there was a chance for Sam to live normal and go to college and be satisfied with his life. Part of him was happy that Sam wouldn't have to skip meals and sleep in order to hunt whatever lurked in the darkness and the chaos, happy that he could only get injured by cutting himself with sheets of paper while studying.

But, in the night, when all was quiet and Dean was in between the state of losing himself to sleep and being awake, he couldn't help but disregard the above logical reasoning and miss his brother's body next to him, miss the weight that used to make the bed – their bed – sink. And then an aching so intense would spread up inside his lungs and chest. He'd stop thinking to catch his breath and suddenly it'd be 4 a.m. and his life would be tumbling down, collapsing on itself like stray falling stars and he'd come face-to-face with the realization that there's actually no light, just absence of darkness, and he'd sink deeper in his pain, but not deep enough not to dial his brother's number and beg for him to come back.

But, of course, Sammy never picked up the phone. Which was a good thing, Dean supposed, because if he did, then Dean would make a fool out of himself by either saying too much or by saying nothing at all.

It took him a while, but Dean learnt to sleep through the pain at nights and not bother his brother.

But Dad was gone now, and he knew – Dean knew – that there was more to the sudden disappearance than the incognito of the hunt. Dean felt it in the way his bones shuddered; Dad was in danger. And, damn, if there was a thing that could take Dad down, then Dean would certainly not be able to deal with it alone. He could call Bobby or any other hunter that had ever met John Winchester but this was Dad, their Dad, and finding him was as much of Sam's job as it was Dean's. Or that's what he told himself, at least.

He looked at the building and his first thought was that Sam didn't do that bad. The place looked neat, organized and it kind of smelt like jasmine. He considered knocking on the door, but once Sam saw who it was, he'd probably not let him in. Besides, Dean wasn't a man that really conformed to social procedure. So, he spotted the most convenient window on the back, climbed up the ladder that led to it and pulled out his picklock to work his magic. The window's lock loosened and he pushed it up. He had to squeeze through it, and the steel-made frame pressed hard onto his ribs. He was almost in and – he fell on the floor, face down with a huge thud.

Fuck.

If his brother's reflexes were as good as they used to be, then Dean had approximately twenty seconds until he was found. Standing up with easiness, he tried to orientate himself in the dark and, locating the kitchen, moved towards it.

He didn't have the chance to see if there were any beers in the fridge. When Sam grabbed his shoulder – his palm warm and soft and steady – Dean sighed in relief, because for a split second, something clicked into place, and he was suddenly reminded of the satisfaction he used to get when a piece fitted perfectly in empty space on those tetris games he used to play when he was little. Completion.

And suddenly this became a game – it became fight, a brawl, like the ones he and Sammy used to have over the silliest of things. He knocked his brother's arm away and aimed a hit at him and Sam ducked. The bastard; sloppy, but with good reflexes. By the time Dean managed to pin him to the floor, a gentle hand on his neck and another around his wrist, fingers tenderly grasping his flesh, Sam's bangs were stuck to his forehead with sweat.

"Easy there, tiger."

Sam breathed hard and Dean could see sudden recognition in the way his stance relaxed under his touch, in the way his hand lost its strain under his hold, in the way the fingers of the hand Dean's was holding were automatically and reflexively caressing as much skin of Dean's wrist as they could.

"Dean?"

Dean's whole body shuddered and, for a brief moment, he wanted to beg Sammy to say his name again and again and again, until his ears got tired of hearing the way his brother's voice caressed it. But the moment passed and Dean realized how much of a chick he'd be if he had resorted to begging. So he let out a laugh instead – not that laughing wasn't what he also felt like doing at the moment 'cause, damn, this was Sammy and he was on the floor, panting, while Dean had won another one, just like he always did.

"You scared the crap out of me!"

"That's 'cause you're outta practice."

He knew what Sam's reaction would be and he had been waiting for it the moment his brother's eyes filled with recognition. If there was anything Sam couldn't refuse, that was a challenge and Dean knew his brother too well. He wasn't surprised when he found himself on the floor, with Sam on top of him, a smug look on his face.

"Or not," he murmured.

Sam's body relaxed and loosened around Dean. A tender hand tapped on his arm twice, in a gentle gesture, and then he crawled away. And Dean already missed the warmth of his body, but he wasn't gonna let his brother see that, so he was gonna settle for something more manly.

"Geroff me." He was a bit too late saying it, and Sam probably already understood. But he said it anyway.

Sam rolled on his feet and stretched a hand to yank Dean up, and Dean just realized how much he'd missed exactly that. Being pulled on his feet when he fell down – in more ways than the literal one.

As Sammy asked what the hell he was doing there, Dean grabbed the front of his brother's shirt and kind of tugged him towards him, in a familiar move, but Sam planted his feet on the floor and didn't move a budge. So, Dean dropped his hands by his side and hid his disappointment behind a 'I was looking for a beer.'

Sam asked again, more firmly this time, not buying any of his brother's nonchalant tone, and Dean nodded. He planned on going easy with this, have a beer with Sam, a light talk, catch up with him and, damn, getting used to him just being so close and then telling him. But Sam wouldn't have any of that.

"Okay. Alright. We gotta talk."

"Uh, the phone?"

Dean's mouth clenched, his jaw standing out. He hated the way Sam's eyes looked at him all smartly and smugly because, fuck, he had used the phone and he'd be damned if Sammy would have ever answered it, even just to say "fuck off". Trying not to think of all those times that he had desperately clung to his cell, trying to take in as much of the comfort that his brother's recorded voicemail provided, he answered without missing a bit. "If I'd'a called, would you have picked up?"

Sam's mouth twitched in a way that told Dean he had seen all those missed calls from his brother. But, before he could reply, the light turned on, and his brother's face come into full view, eyes as grey as rain and hair shaggy from sleep and Dean found himself taking a deep breath and turning around just because the image was too overwhelming.

A girl, blonde and pretty and barely dressed, stood in the doorway, looking at the sight before her with confusion.

"Jess. Hey, Dean, this is my girlfriend, Jessica."

Of course, Dean thought with a dull pain in his chest. His face hardened for the briefest of seconds, before he realized it and settled for a grin. C'mon, Winchester, play it tough like you always do.

So, instead of accusing Sam and reminding him of a promise a long time ago – you, only you, always you – he started flirting. He knew that Sam could probably see right through him, but he didn't care. He wasn't going to be the one bitching about it. What he and Sam had – whatever it was – it was a long time ago, before he went to Stanford, and it ended with Sam going out that door.

For Sam, that is.