Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.

After the door to the bunker closes, there is silence. Dean is staring at the bookshelf with the Men of Letters yearbooks. Specifically, the second shelf; 1932-1937. It seemed odd that a secret society would have a printed record of its members.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice breaks the quiet. It is half-cautious, half-pleading. As if his little brother is trying to offer support and seek reassurance at the same time. Dean's not sure what Sam is thinking about their mother leaving, but he knows he can't talk about it.

"I'm going to bed," he announces. Dean stomps toward his bedroom, but not before grabbing the bottle of Jack off the nearby end table.

If Sam is planning on following him for the obligatory don't-keep-things-bottled-up conversation, he doesn't do it right away. He lets Dean close the door and blast Lynyrd Skynyrd. Perhaps "Simple Man" was a bad idea. The first line about motherly advice almost makes Dean switch the song, but then again, he's always been glutton for punishment, and this night is no different.

Dean takes another pull from the bottle as Ronnie Van Zant gets to the chorus. He was so stupid. Just hours ago he had been playing happy-family with Mom; exchanging snack food preference; arguing over whose turn it was to do the dishes. And all this time she had been thinking about bolting- had decided to bolt.

Missing home.

What a fucking lie that was.

He understood now that she was hurting and that she needed time to adjust. But that was what family was for. That was what he was for. Her home was right here, and if she couldn't recognize that, he didn't know what the hell he or Sam could do to fix it.

Dean had never wanted anything too complicated. Give him a monster to kill, a cold beer in his hand and a good song on the radio, and he was happy. He had learned a long time ago not to want too much. Expectations led to disappointment. His father, Sam, Cass- nearly everyone had willingly left him at some point. But his mother had been killed. Burned on the ceiling of her youngest son's nursery in the middle of the night. She had never left. Not until now.

And it hurt. Dean hated how much it hurt. He should have gotten used to this. He had plenty of practice. So many hesitating apologies followed by long silences and red tail lights.

Lynryd Skynyrd's familiar track moved into the instrumentals. Guitar chords permeated the stillness of Dean's room. The bottle was only half-full now. It was sitting mockingly on his nightstand next to the photo of a happy blonde woman hugging her four year-old son.

Dean tore his gaze from the happy picture, focusing instead on the machete hanging proudly on his wall.

He had tried so hard. So fucking hard to make this work. To try to give his mother space, to giver her time, to giver her a hunt- anything that would make this transition easier. But it turned out that what she wanted wasn't something he could give her. In fact, right now, she didn't even want him.

Dean hears the shower go on down the hall. So maybe Sammy was drowning his sorrows more literally. At least it meant that he wasn't going try to break down Dean's door tonight.

Lynryd Skynyrd moves into the last recitation of the chorus. One final reminder to be something he could love and understand. He had done that. He was a good a hunter, a good brother and a good son. And it still hadn't been enough.

As the last notes fade out, Dean puts down the bottle. He turns off his iPod and the new speakers Sam gave him for his birthday go quiet. There is almost no movement in the bunker. No slamming doors; no conversations. Cass isn't even here to wander the halls or watch Netflix on Sam's laptop.

And now it's no longer stupidity that Dean feels, or even anger. It's numbness. It's an acceptance that no matter what pedestal he placed her on, his mother is perfectly capable of disappointing him. In fact, she may not even be a better parent than his father was.

Because after all this time; after so many sacrifices and close shaves and miracles, Dean is still awake in the middle of the night with a half-empty bottle and a couple of piss-poor excuses. And it's such a familiar position. Because at the end of the day, everyone else in Dean's life has left. And why should his mother be any different?

A/N: At least coming up with the title was easy. Please review and let me know what you think!