Ellipsis: When Sam escaped to college, John couldn't keep himself from checking in every so often, if only from a distance. This was one time when Dean tagged along.
It wasn't raining, but the sky was covered excessively in clouds which stretched into the horizon as they flew down the nameless Arizona highway, large rock forms popping in and out of view like enormous moles on the pimply back of the Earth. Dean's head laid laxly against the door frame, his mind wandering to cradles and thus to Sam. They'd owned a travel cradle for the first couple of years after the incident - Dean used to love rocking his baby brother in it, smiling and giggling back at the small, bundled mess below him. He became pretty good at caring for Sam, especially when their father would have drinking spells and disappear for a night or two. Regardless if they were left at an old friend's place or a dirty motel room, Dean would always find a ray of hope in Sammy's innocent eyes that shined up at him in pure wonder, willing him to stay calm and remind himself how lucky he was to not be an only child in this. Even though he was basically a mother, father, and big brother to Sam, and hardly had anything comparatively to a real childhood, he was glad to have spent what short times he had being a kid with Sam.
The memories flooded Dean's head, and he instead forced himself to focus on the barren wasteland with a heavy sigh. Dean hated getting nostalgic because it made him feel sad, and when he felt sad he became moody and unfocused on what was important and in front of him, which was especially unprofessional when on a hunt. It became even worse when he was working with his Dad who nearly always caught the exact moment that Dean's mind and attention slipped and berated him for it until Dean reformed his emotional wall and continued to let things pile up at the base of it. For the past few months though, he'd parted from his Dad and was hunting with other hunters – "making connections", as his father had called it, being the one to nudge Dean out of his passenger seat with little decision.
Dean couldn't say he hadn't seen the boot coming, considering how sloppy he'd gotten since Sam had walked out of their lives only 2 years earlier, though to Dean it always felt like just yesterday. For a year or so, his dad and he had simply been traveling all over the country, killing things, and saving people, although it'd felt more like a line of jobs than what he'd grown up experiencing and feeling, noticing how he impacted people's lives and how gratifying it could be. For whatever reason, they just seemed to skip over the emotional part of hunting and instead buried themselves in the physical grittiness of the job. As they drove under the thick grey blanket of clouds, they had finished up their combined 213th hunt since Sam had left, and despite all the people they'd saved together Dean couldn't have felt hollower inside. He was practically perfect in health, yet he felt so sick and exhausted and empty.
A streak of light in the distance caught his attention and he lifted his head so he was peeking out the open window, dry desert wind filling his lungs and burning the inside of his nostrils. Far ahead, the mat of clouds had broken up and formed cracks, allowing sunlight to break through and make the land beneath it seem of another world and time when things weren't too bad. If anything, it was simpler then. Dean had begun to realize how complex the world had become compared to when he was little. In actuality, he supposed, it had always been just as complex, but he was finally catching up to the idea and not liking it one bit just like everyone else.
He'd also begun to learn that there was no point in asking his Dad where they were going and what job they were pursuing next while he was driving or even when they arrived, because at the end of the day he would do whatever the old man said and would save people and kill as many sons 'a bitches as need be. Context was only necessary when his Dad asked for help in researching and tracking things via technology, a job Dean hated doing because it was always what Sam dealt with for a reason – the kid was extremely savvy. Dean could typically figure it out, he wasn't a complete moron, but there was always something more efficient and craftier about the way Sam handled the geeky role. Dean had always been more brawn than brain, which he wasn't really ashamed of because Sam was the ying to his yang, although Sam could put up a good fight when he had the motivation.
As they passed from under the cool shade of overcast into the boiling touch of a clear blue sky, Dean closed his eyes and forced all thoughts out the window along with his arm, allowing the biting wind to animate him in how it wished instead of fighting for once. He hadn't felt so calm and centered in a long time, and hoped his father wouldn't start talking or turn the radio up or anything to ruin his moment of serenity. He could barely here Zeppelin's "Ramble On" playing in the background, and he smiled to himself. He was sure he looked absolutely stupid as fuck, and his Dad was probably snickering at how girly he was acting, but he really didn't give a damn. He could almost picture Sam, age 11 or 12, half his body sticking out the window behind Dean, hair whipping around his head like a tumble weed in a tornado, his laugh getting thrown back behind them as they speed down the same long stretch of desert road. The only sounds he heard though were the radio and the constant grumbling of the Impala's engine as they floated through the world, a small blip in the big scheme of things brewing deep underneath the scorched, crusty sand. The unknown.
At one point, they reached a small town which bled into a small, sprawled city, which then folded back out into a small town as they continued their journey. Dean was somewhat confused with the distance they were going for this next hunt, as his Dad was more into hitting jobs along routes and not jumping around so much since the long drives would wear on him. Deciding he was still too relaxed to care much, Dean closed his eyes as they approached more wide open roads, even managing to fall asleep.
The slamming of a car door jolted him awake, cussing nonsense under his breath at the abrupt awakening as he'd been having a very weird yet intriguing dream and was annoyed to be woken up so early into it. Finding himself alone in the Impala parked outside of a motel with a pentagonal sign announcing he was at the "Coronet Motel", though not being of help in identifying where the hell they were in general, Dean stumbled from his well-defined seat and headed into the Motel's office. He'd caught sight of a small pool behind bars on his way there and was both confused and thrilled. Dad never picked quality over price, and a pool screamed 'pricey' to Dean, but he had a feeling this job must not be like most others. Maybe a special request for help from an old friend? Dean settled with himself that he would get to the bottom of this new situation, not comfortable with the mysterious air that surrounded it all.
He found his dad at the front counter, handing his credit card to the woman at the register with a calmness that Dean always tried to copy when handing over one of his cards to commit fraud. They've never been proud of it, but hunting didn't exactly cover the bills and put food on the table like it should. As Dean approached, he Dad turned his head to catch his eyes, a warmth nestled in them like Dean hadn't seen in a very, very long time. This was definitely no ordinary hunt. No fly-by job. This was something bigger – maybe than the both of them. Dean shivered internally, his hands trembling as he shoved them into his coat pockets.
"Hey, what's the deal with all this?" Dean found himself spilling words before he could think, and his Dad raised an eyebrow.
"What do you mean? We've stayed in nice places before." He answered with strangely wide eyes which shone with hidden excitement.
"You know what I mean, Dad. We drove for way longer than usual, most likely across all the damn states, we stay in this upscale place – there's a pool, for God's sake. You never splurge like this, and there's always a reason behind whatever you do, so what's up?" Dean muttered as the woman behind the counter handed the card back to his father who thanked the woman and gestured for Dean to follow him after grabbing the receipt and keys to their room.
They walked in a tense fog of silence, heading to the farthest room which had the closest access to the parking lot, AKA the Impala, AKA an escape route and plan that was engraved into their instincts after so many years of fine-tuning the most practical ways to ensure the safety of their small family. Once inside their room - one of the cleanest and high tech they'd ever stayed in, for sure – Dean turned to his Dad expectantly, arms crossed and head cocked. The room smelt of lavender, filling his head and strangling his senses as the air felt physically heavier because of it, kickstarting a headache in Dean's temples and causing him to feel increasingly irritable. The silence of the room was sliced into small, sharp pieces by the ticking of a clock on the wall, and Dean pinched the soft skin of his forearm to ground him to reality instead of flying off his hinges and shaking answers out of his Dad. He'd forgotten in their short time apart how extremely frustrating it could be to work with his father, and he knew patience would be the only way he'd hear a peep from the old man.
"We're a few miles from Stanford." His Dad announced abruptly, and Dean was confused for a moment, making connections and feeling tricked. Upon realizing that this was no trick, especially with how his father had been acting, Dean slowly sat on the closest twin bed, confusion still painting his features.
"What…why?" was all he could mutter, and his Dad leaned back against the counter of their very mini kitchen.
"I've been checking up on him every five or six weeks for the past year or so. I can't help myself. You two are all I've got and I'll be damned if I let anything happen to him because I told him to get lost." He shifted onto his feet and eased into an office chair at the nearby desk. "I've lost count how many times I've thought about just going straight up to him and huggin' out all the anger and hatred he's harbored for me all these years, but I can never do it. He's moved on, and as man to man I have to respect that, even though he's my kid."
Dean sat slouched in a stupefied quietness, thoughts slurred and slow in his mind as he processed the things – feelings – that his father was revealing to him. He was admittedly a little weirded out by it, but he was overall eternally grateful for a chance to peek into his Dad's mind and hear what he was thinking. He could tell this was somewhat therapeutic for him, and felt accomplished for being his Dad's unacclaimed shrink.
"I've seen how miserable you are, even after being on your own and with other hunters, Dean. I figured if you got away from me too you'd become a little more comfortable with yourself and be able to move on, but…I guess you're too much like your old man to move on." He chuckled sadly, face slack with exhaustion both physical and emotional. "Maybe if you see him happy you'll be a better man than me and be able to move on, though."
Dean's eyes widened. "We're…we're going to see Sammy?" He couldn't believe what was happening.
His father nodded slowly, "Only see, Dean. No meddling and no dashing across a field of flowers to renounce your love." He laughed at Dean's confused and grossed out expression. "You know what I mean though, right? Like looking into a snow globe."
Dean frowned but nodded silently, not fond of his parameters, though thankful for the chance to finally see his little brother again, as painful as it will be. His Dad stretched back in the chair, hands folded above him as his groaned, back audibly popping many times over. He stood up suddenly and headed towards the small bathroom, mentioning how they'd go in the morning tomorrow before closing the door behind him.
Dean sat alone in the darkening room, sunset casting orange and pink hues all about the front of the room and bathing his thoughts in its warm light. Sitting on his bed, he already knew he wasn't going to sleep a wink that night.
As soon as the jet black of the night eased into a deep-sea blue, Dean was up and taking his shower. The water was so hot it turned his skin an angry red, but he wasn't underneath it long enough to care. By the time the sky had slipped into a navy blue with signs of pink on the tips of wispy clouds, he was dressed and staring at the alarm clock that had yet to ring for 6:30 AM. Agitated by the sluggishness of time, he decided to take a walk to try to clear his mind and body, as he had been visibly trembling ever since he heard the news, the motions becoming more severe as time sloshed on.
The world was frustratingly calm and collected around him, and he wished he could strangle every jogger that pranced by, not understanding how they could be so ignorant to what he was going through, although he knew exactly why and felt insane for thinking so manically in the first place. He went around the block about 20 times before he noticed his Dad standing at the door of their room, watching him round the corner – Dean swore he could see his father's shoulder sagging a little upon noticing Dean, as if relieved that he hadn't ran off to confront Sam like his Dad had warned him not to.
Winchesters were known for making their own path and straying from the rules, so his father had some cause for worry, as Dean understood.
"I see you're really ready to go, aye Dean?" his father called out to him, excitement latent in his tone. Dean blushed as he approached his dad, but didn't say anything. "Ready to get some breakfast then?"
They piled into the Impala and headed down the road a bit, Dean's stomach churning at every sign that screamed "STANFORD UNIVERSITY" at him. They pulled into a nearby IHOP, and Dean found himself eating a lot more than he thought he would considering the circumstances, although he knew he hadn't eaten anything since early yesterday morning when his Dad had picked him up after his latest solo hunt.
Eventually they headed back to the Motel and regrouped their thoughts and emotions before finally, finally, heading back out into the still, dry air of San Francisco and going on foot to the almighty Stanford. The university - a giant, living, breathing brick monster which swallowed his little brother alive, hiding him away for so long from Dean.
They'd formulated a plan and had developed disguises – caps, sunglasses, and hoodies of all things – in order to both look not too suspicious, but not too out of place where they would be easily spotted by Sam. Dean wasn't sure how his Dad knew what he knew about Sam's schedule or where he'd be at the time they were there, but he wasn't about to question it. The fact that they would soon be able to find Sam amongst his thousands of classmates was astonishing to Dean, and would be questioned much later if he remembered to actually care.
Heart thumping like a race horse, they easily waded through crowds of student all heading to their classes or dorms or wherever college students at an Ivy league school go. His Dad led them up onto the steps of a chapel-like building, high and mighty smart kids scurrying around like ants below them, and as they stood with hidden searching eyes, Dean threw his arm out and gripped his father's shoulder.
There, far across the expansive courtyard under a large, willowy tree blooming full, pink flowers, was a tall, skinny guy with shaggy brown hair, baggy clothes, and something glistening in his nimble hands.
"Yep, there he is. That's the butterfly knife you gave him for his 13th birthday by the way. I've seen him once or twice sitting out here around this time whittling things and giving them to a girl who meets him in 15 or so minutes. I think they're together." His Dad gave him the scoop, and Dean couldn't help but feel weird and like they were intruding on some sacred event that wasn't meant to be gossiped by family. Although just watching his little brother focusing with such kind and concentrated features, no anger or sadness hollowing his eyes or malnutrition clawing at his stomach – he really looked well fed, better than Dean had seen him since…well, a long time. An energy of power and control and happiness seemed to surround him, giving his skin a healthy glow which made Dean smile like an idiot. A stalker idiot, at that.
"Thank you, Dad." He whispered several minutes later as they watched Sam leap up and hug a blonde girl with the hair of an angel. The look on Sam's face was enough to set fire to all the darkness Dean had witnessed in the past 2 years, forging a clear path to pure joy and an even more intense load of sadness. Seeing his brother happy was one thing, but knowing it was because he wasn't with Dean was another. He really felt kind of betrayed – more alone than he could ever feel. He realized that the emptiness in his heart would never be filled, as long as Sam was away and happy somewhere else in the world.
A Mario without his Luigi. A Lone Ranger without his Tonto. A Batman without his Robin. A Clark Kent without his disguise. Sammy was his disguise and other life which held him together and gave him refuge to be himself and have the motivation to keep fighting for the innocent.
Killing evil sons 'a bitches and raising Hell isn't all that easy or livable without someone to wade through it all with him.
He was the Moon without the Sun.
Even still, as his father and he shuffled away just as Sam and his girlfriend did, time would bring them all back together someday, Dean was sure of it. He wasn't sure when, or how, or why, but they're lives seemed to have funny if not terrifying ways of displaying impeccable timing.
Dean didn't believe in destiny or anything – fate was a load of horse shit.
No.
For Dean, life was just ellipsis after ellipsis…pausing for breath…and continuing on…
THE END.