-Imagined adjustment period for the boys after Sam leaves for Stanford in which both brothers are written to be noticeably more codependent than they actually are, but not by much (who are we kidding?)
For the third time that night, Dean found himself dialing Sam's cell. Of course, his younger brother wouldn't recognize the new number, hadn't recognized the new number, and Dean knew that the call would go through to voicemail, prompting him to leave a message that he never would.
After shutting his cheap, gas station phone in frustration with an audible *snap* and slamming it down onto the wooden table, he palmed his forehead, horrified by the fact that he felt almost close to tears.
Almost being the key word, here. Dean Winchester didn't cry.
He didn't cry eighteen years ago when he had stood outside the burning tomb of his family's house clutching little Sammy to his chest while their father curled himself nearly in half with a wail that had pierced Dean through to the bone.
Sammy had needed him. Sammy had needed him to be strong.
He didn't cry fourteen years ago after slicing the head off of a sobbing, young vampire girl while she clung desperately to her mother's broken body.
"They're monsters, son. All of 'em, monsters, and I need to know that you can do what needs to be done to keep Sam safe when I'm not around, so finish this. Take her down."
Sam had been watching from the open window of the impala, his eyes frozen in confusion and horror, and Dean didn't even cry afterward on the long, silent drive that seemed to stretch on for lifetimes under his brother's splintering gaze and the harsh, accusatory light of the moon.
"Come on, boys. Get some sleep. It's been a long day, and we're still six hours out from Boulder. Close your eyes, now, both of you. Just…get some rest."
Dean didn't cry four months ago when Sam had announced over dinner that he was leaving them for Stanford. While John had fumed, Dean had taken a long swig from his bottle of beer to conceal the sharp stab of icy dread that had flooded his chest with such severity for a moment that he hadn't been able to breathe.
"You think you're better than us? Than your own family? Is that how it is? If you go, Sam, you'd better stay gone, you hear me? YOU HEAR ME?"
Dean didn't cry the afternoon that Sam had pulled him aside for a forced hug before climbing into the taxi that would take him the fifteen miles to the nearest bus stop.
"Take care of Dad, okay? Promise me you'll give me a ring when you can. I'm, uh, I'll miss you."
"Yeah. Me too. I will. I'll…I'll call when I can."
As he had watched the yellow paint of the cab fade to a speck in the distance, Dean had stood motionless on the side of the street for what might have been hours, paralyzed by the thought that Sam was gone, that he wasn't coming back, that Sam had…had left him behind.
He didn't cry during the days after, even when he had bolted awake from a nightmare about Sam with his body torn to shreds on some distant, nameless highway. Choking on a silent scream and drenched in cold sweat, he had found himself praying for the first time in his life.
"Keep him safe. Please, God, or whoever's out there…if someone is out there…please, please just keep him safe."
He hadn't cried two evenings ago, at this very same bar, after chasing too many shots of cheap whiskey with too many bottles of cheap beer and half-fantasizing in his inebriated mind that somehow…some way…Sam's smiling, puppy-dog face would be at the bottom of his next glass telling him that everything was going to be okay.
He hadn't cried a few hours ago after yet another phone call to Sam had gone unanswered, despite the fact that he realized, deep down, he wouldn't have known what to say even if his brother had picked up.
He had just…he had just wanted to hear Sam's voice. If he could just hear Sam's voice, than he would feel…well, he wasn't sure, to be honest, if he would feel better or worse, but at least he would know that his brother was alright.
Fuck you for doing this to me, Sam. Fuck you…
A hand on his shoulder started him out of his reverie, and he snapped his neck around to see the blonde waitress he would half-heartedly flirt with every once in a while looking down at him with sympathetic eyes.
"Seems like you might be missing someone pretty bad," she murmured softly, glancing at his phone on the table. "You know, if you don't want to be alone tonight, I'm off in an hour. I'm a good listener. If you want to talk, well, you know…it might help."
Dean hunched his shoulders defensively.
Normally, he would either be milking the pity card for all it was worth so that he could use it to his advantage, or, at the very least, snapping back with some machismo-filled retort about chick flick moments, but tonight, he just didn't have the energy.
"Thanks, but I'm heading out after this beer," he said flatly, avoiding eye contact. "I'm fine. Really. I've just had a long day."
I don't know who I am without my brother...
She smiled and shrugged, sauntering away to a nearby table, and Dean sighed, draining the bottle in his hand.
"Sam? What are you still doing up? It's past one. You've got class in the morning, don't you?"
Sam looked up from his computer desk, rubbing his eyes wearily.
"Yeah," he mumbled, forcing a smile. "Yeah, no, I'm…I'm coming right up. I guess I lost track of time."
Jess made a tired little sound in the back of her throat, closing the distance between them and rubbing Sam's shoulder gently.
"You're thinking about Dean again, aren't you?" she asked in a way that wasn't a question. "Baby, I don't understand why you don't just call him. I'm sure he wants to hear from you."
Sam spread his fingers over hers, giving her hand a reassuring little squeeze.
"No. He doesn't," he said, his voice cracking a little. "I know my brother. He'll get in touch with me when he's ready. It's complicated…but listen, I don't want you to worry about it, okay? So, come on. Let's go to bed."
Finishing his bottle of beer in a few quick swigs, Sam pulled himself from his chair and stretched out the ache that had been growing in his neck from hunching over his desk in the dark since Jess had gone upstairs at 10:30.
His heart was heavy.
"You sure you're alright?" Jess probed, her eyes still filled with concern. "I worry about you, you know."
Sam reached over to ruffle her hair, rearranging his expression as best as he could.
"I know you do," he said with another forced smile, "and it's one of the many reasons why I love you so much. I'm fine. Really. I've just had a long day."
I don't know who I am without my brother…
"If you say so," said Jess, stifling a yawn. "And Sam, this whole being away from your family thing, it'll get easier and easier as time goes on. It will. I know how close you and Dean were, but it'll get easier. You'll see."
Sam knew she was right. It would. It would get easier.
And that was what scared him most of all.