They've been on two hunts since they killed Azazel, and to be honest Dean's still trying to wrap his head around that, that Azazel's dead and they're not. The first was a nest of bloodsuckers down in Ohio, and they're just coming off a salt and burn in Klamath Falls, Oregon. They haven't gone perfectly, the two of them a little shaky, a little shaken, but Dean figures it's because they just wasted the thing they spent most of their goddamn lives chasing. Came out the other side one father short and a heap full of issues heavier, but alive. Both of them (and it's both or nothing, he knows that now) alive. He keeps waiting for the penny to drop on that one, can't help but feeling like they dodged a bullet he's not even sure is coming. Either way, he thinks they're probably entitled to a little bit of a rough patch. A few more jobs under their belt and the strangeness will iron itself out. Things will go back to the way they were before. And sure, dad is gone and sure Sam had some freaky psychic shit going on with his head that neither of them have really recovered from yet, but they'll bounce back. Winchester's always do.

He lets himself fall back onto the lumpy motel bed mattress with a groan, massaging his shoulder. The ghost bitch had got him good before her bones went up in flames, thrown him straight into a solid granite gravestone. Sam too, she'd managed to send his brother right down a flight of stairs when he wasn't looking. He'd complained all the way back to the Impala about his ribs, but when Dean had checked them over he hadn't found any breaks or fractures. Nothing a little ibuprofen and an ice pack couldn't fix right up.

There are a few cold beers in the motel mini fridge just calling out to him, and he'd seen a diner down the street from where they were staying with five-dollar burgers that looked nice and artery clogging. He's tired and sore and his head still feels a little fuzzy from where it collided with gravestone but he's got his brother and his baby parked outside and for the first time in a long time he feels…satisfied. He almost smiles at the thought, his dad would tell him he's going all soft in his old age, but if this is what it feels like he doesn't mind so much. Funny, he's turning 28 in January, and sure that's not that old but there were some days (a lot of days) he didn't think he'd make it to 28. Maybe he's got someone looking out for him after all.

"So," he says, reaching for the remote and flicking on the TV, "Hunter friend of mine was telling me about some weird cattle mutilations down in Arizona, thought it might be a skinwalker or a black dog. That's only a two days drive from here, how 'bout it?"

Sam's silent for a long time, and when Dean glances over at him he's got that look on his face that means he's thinking real hard about what he's going to say next. Dean almost never likes what comes when Sam's looking like that. When he finally speaks it's quiet.

"Dean…I'm not coming with you."

The gentle hum of some talk-show host in the background fades away till all Dean hears is static and he swallows.

"What," he says weakly, "Gonna a let a few bruised ribs keep you out of the game? Didn't realize you'd turned into such a girl Sammy."

He knows that's not what Sam means, not really, but maybe if he just pretends Sam will drop it and laugh and make some snarky comment about how he's not a girl and then they'll head down to that diner down the road with it's five dollar burgers and everything'll be alright. Sam doesn't laugh though, just looks at Dean with big puppy dog eyes and shakes his head.

"No, Dean. I mean… I've been talking with someone from admissions at Harvard. They're willing to give me another shot at an interview, because of everything that went down with-well, with how I left. I think I'm going to take it."

He sounds hesitant, faltering his way through the sentence like he's just waiting for Dean to stop him, waiting for the anger to come. And at first Dean is pissed. The anger's familiar and it starts in his stomach and claws it's way up his throat and he welcomes it because anger is safe and easy and if he's angry then he doesn't have to be anything else. And goddammit, he thinks he has a right to be pissed because after all this, after everything they went through, losing Dad and killing this freaking demon and the shit that's happened Sam's just gonna up and leave him first chance he gets. Go back to his safe normal life like he'd promised Dean he would in that hotel room in Chicago. Back to remnants of the all the ordinary he'd built for himself. Like none of this mattered, like they had never mattered. He's about to open his mouth and tell him so, but then he looks at Sam, really looks at him, and he just looks uncertain and nervous and so so young and he feels all the fight drain out of him, just like that. Just like always.

Because what's so bad about what Sam wants. A normal life, a safe life. Once upon a time Dean had spit that word out like a curse but now…now he's not so sure he means that anymore. He looks at his brother, pale and bruised, sitting on top of the covers of a crappy motel room bed with hope in his eyes and thinks that he deserves better then this. Deserves better then bruised ribs and rock salt and .45's, better then driving town to town with no place to call home and probably getting your guts ripped out before you're thirty. Sam has a chance at something better, something with a home and a family and maybe even a happy ending and really, who is Dean to stand in the way of that? What right does he have?

He could tell himself some pretty lies about how Sam needs him. How he needs to protect his little brother from the things that go bump in the dark and he could almost pretend they're true. The real truth though is that Sam hasn't needed him since he turned 18 and hopped on a greyhound to Palo Alto, maybe he hasn't ever really needed him if he's honest. No, the real reasons Dean wants Sam to stay are because he's selfish and weak and so so scared of being alone.

So he pushes down the anger and the bitter and slaps on a smile.

"That's great, Sammy."

And it feels like he's talking through a throat full of glass, but he forces the words out anyways. Sammy glances up at him through his sloppy bangs that he really needs to get trimmed and there's a look of such hope in his eyes that Dean has to turn away.

"Really?"

He almost whispers, all hesitant and surprised and Dean's stomach twists into a knot.

"Yeah," he grits out through a smile that feels a little like it's bleeding at the edges. "Of course. So hard to believe I'd be proud of my little brother, even if he's a giant geek?"

Sam laughs a little, and it sounds relieved.

"No, I just figured you'd try to talk me out of it or something. Call me an asshole at least."

Dean shrugs.

"You're a big boy Sam, you can make your own choices. If this is what you want, I'm not gonna stop you."

Even if what you want is to leave me behind he thinks vaguely, but doesn't say. Swallows it down with all the other things he's never had the guts to say and never will.

Sam's smiling now, a real smile all big and wide and sunny and he thinks he hasn't seen Sam smile like this in years. And then Sam's hugging him, lanky arms squeezing him so hard it almost hurts and his hair's pressed into the side of Dean's face and it smells like dirt and lighter fluid and smoke and it smells like home and Dean lets him for a few seconds before he gently shoves him off.

"Hey, what've I told you about chick flick moments. Don't need any of that sappy shit alright?"

He says gruffly, because gruff is all he's ever known and all he'll ever know and it hurts too much to wish for something else. Sam laughs again, a little wet and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Aw, are you cryin' Samantha? You really are a big girl after all."

He teases lightly and Sam rolls his eyes and snorts and mutters something under his breath before tossing a pillow at Dean and it's so easy and normal that for a second the knot that's formed in Dean's chest uncoils a little. Then he remembers that suddenly this has an expiration date and it's like he can't breathe. The room feels too small, static of the TV still buzzing in his ears and the faint electric whine of the mini-fridge in the corner and he needs to not be there anymore, needs to be anywhere else but here in this tiny shitty room with Sam and the knowledge that the only thing he has left in the world is leaving him behind.

"Saw a diner down the street on the way in, I think I'm going to grab a bite."

He says abruptly, standing and grabbing his jacket from where he'd thrown it over the back of a chair. Sam stands too, frowning a little. His forehead creases and it makes him look young, despite the fact that he towers over Dean. He remembers when Sam had been small enough to tuck under his chin, small enough to hide from the world in Dean's arms when he had a nightmare. Those days are long gone now, though.

"Want some company?"

Sam asks, trying to be casual and failing but Dean just shakes his head.

"Nah, I'll be fine. Don't need your weird nerd shit killing my vibes anyways."

Sam rolls his eyes and huffs, but the concern doesn't leave his face and Dean makes a quick exit before Sam starts to pull his whole 'lets talk about our feelings together' shtick because he thinks he might actually tell him how he feels if he asks and he can't afford to fall apart, not now. Not in front of Sam.

Klamath Falls is a tiny town and it only takes him a few minutes to walk to the sleazy bar he saw a few buildings down from the diner. It's familiar, in the way most small town dive bars become after a while. Seen one and you've seen 'em all, Dad used to say. Still, it's comforting in it's familiarity. There's something about the dim lighting and sticky floor and the muted hum of neon and The Rolling Stones that seems to promise that some things will never change. The world could burn to ashes and all the Al's Taverns and Tiki-Ti's of the world would still open their doors up every morning for business like clockwork, and hell if there wouldn't be someone to drink in them, sticky floorboards and jukebox tunes be damned.

There's a few other patrons already drowning their earthly woes in alcohol at six in the evening but Dean ignores them and heads straight for the bar. He orders a shot of something dark and strong and when the bartender moves to put away the bottle he shakes his head and slaps a twenty down on the grimy bar top. Bottle safely in hand he retreats to an equally grimy booth in the far corner of the room and sets himself to the task of getting fucked up enough to forget about the ache in his chest.

A few hours later and he's done a pretty damn good job of that. His mouth tastes of whiskey and he sees the room through the gentling haze of alcohol and where there used to be a knot in his chest there's just a comforting numbness. The bar's filled up a bit now, and somebody changed the Stones to some corny ass country crap that grates at his ears. He's just about to get up to go switch it back because he's had a shitty day and the last thing he wants to do is listen to some hick yodel about how he wants to fuck his truck or whatever those songs are usually about, when someone clears their throat. He glances blearily up to see a pretty brunette with too much eye shadow and a beer in her hand standing in front of his table in an outfit that doesn't make much sense considering the chilly November weather outside, although Dean's pretty sure she wasn't thinking of the weather when she got dressed. She smiles at him, white teeth flashing in the dim.

"Hey there cowboy," She says and her voice is husky and low and sounds like smoke and cigarettes. "You here all alone?"

He shrugs, runs a thick tongue over his lips and tries to think of something clever to say.

"Yeah, just me tonight."

Is all that comes out, and he thinks of legs that never quite fit under the table and luke-warm beers and the way Sam still can't hold his liquor even though he's 24 years old. She still laughs though, and it's a nice laugh.

"Well then, how would you feel about some company?"

He looks at her with her soft skin and nice laugh and the way her jean skirt hangs low on the curve of her hips and thinks about how very much not like Sam she is and waves a heavy arm.

"How could I say no when company looks like you?"

He answers with a wink. She grins, sliding into the booth across from him and setting her beer down on the warped plastic of the table. It's humid in here now, too many bodies and not enough windows, and he can see beads of condensation that cling to the dark glass of the bottle, tricking down the peeling paper label.

"So," she asks, taking a sip of her drink. "Got a name?"

"It's Dean."

He replies, helping himself to a shot of whiskey and throwing it back. The bottle's almost empty now. She watches him, little half smile playing on her lips.

"Any reason you're drinking like the world's about to end, Dean?"

He shrugs again, laughs a little bitterly and pours himself another shot.

"Oh you know, family drama."

Her eyebrows quirk but she doesn't question further, just lifts her beer in the air.

"Well, I'll toast to that."

He raises his own glass, lets the rim clink against her bottle.

"To family."

She says.

"Yeah, to family."

He echoes or what's left of it and the word tastes more bitter in his mouth then the whiskey on his tongue. She watches him as she drains her beer, eyes fixed on his and there's a look on her face that Dean's learned to recognize ever since he turned 16 and learned what a wink and a few pretty words could do. He holds her gaze and doesn't look away.

At some point her legs have migrated under the table and now he can feel her bare skin sliding against the denim of his jeans with a quiet rasp. She leans over, lips close enough to brush against his cheek.

"Follow me, Dean."

She whispers, and her breath sends shivers down his spine and when she gets up and sashays her way towards the bathroom he does follow her because he knows you can't drink and fuck the pain away but that sure as hell won't stop him from trying.

As soon as the door swings shut behind them she's on him, hands in his hair and under the hem of his shirt and her lips pressed hard against his. Up close she smells like sweat and spilled beer and something cheap and floral, skin sticky against his. Her hands push insistently at his button-down and he wriggles out of it, letting it crumple to the floor beneath their feet. Her blouse joins it a second later and he runs his hands up her stomach, enjoying the way she shivers under his fingers. She nips lightly at the line of his jaw as her hands work at the buckle of his belt and he throws his head back against the wall behind him as she palms him through the fabric of his boxers.

Just as he's working his t-shirt off somebody pounds loudly at the bathroom door. Freeing an arm he pounds back.

"Bathroom's in use, go piss in the alley buddy."

He growls, and there's some irritated mumbling from outside but he can hear footsteps trailing away.

"I like man who knows what he wants."

She says a little breathily in his ear, half-laughter. Her hands slipped inside the elastic band of his boxers now and it's getting hard to focus on anything but the heat of her fingers.

"Oh, sweetheart," he says, and lets his voice darken, "I know what I want."

Wrapping his hands around the backs of her thighs, just below the curve of her ass, he picks her up and spins, pinning her back against the wall and hitching her legs around his waist. She gasps in surprise, but it quickly turns to a moan as he leans down and presses his mouth to the swell of her breast. The lace of her bra is scratchy against his lips as his tongue flicks teasingly against the hard point of her nipple. He feels her fingers curl in his hair and sucks a little harder, smirking when her grip tightens.

Lifting his head again he kisses her rough, reaching down between them to push her panties aside, lining himself up.

"Hold on," she says a little breathlessly, grabbing his wrist, "Do you have a condom?"

He swears and nods, fumbling in the back pocket of his jeans till he finds his wallet and slipping out the foil packet he always keeps there, tucked behind fake credit cards and the cash he hustles off of drunks. Sam would make fun of him he knows, make some snarky comment about always being prepared, but Sam doesn't know and he won't ever know and he'll never get to make those snarky comments and that shouldn't hurt but it does.

"Having second thoughts?"

She asks, half-joking and sultry. He shakes his head, ripping open the packet with his teeth and letting her fish out the condom. The foil tastes like iron against his tongue, tastes like blood and he's not sure which is more familiar.

"I don't want to think at all."

And he's not joking, not even a little bit. Then he slides into her, his fingers pressing into the backs of her thighs and her fingers scratching at his back and lets the anger and the loneliness and the fear slip away for one brief shining moment of pleasure.

When he finishes he presses his face into the curve where her throat meets her collarbone, fingers digging bruises into her legs. She cries out, high and keening, and her body trembles beneath him, skin feverish where it touches his. He stands there for a moment with his face pressed into her neck, her arms around his shoulders. It's a pale tawdry imitation of intimacy, belayed by the grimy bar bathroom they're in but Dean clings to it. When they've both caught their breath a bit he lets her down slowly, steadying hands at her hips as she unwinds her legs from around him.

He watches her quietly as she pulls her skirt down around her waist, collects her shirt from the floor. Glancing in the mirrors she smooth's her hair down a bit, pulling a stick of lipstick out of her pocket to fix the smears of red at her mouth.

"Thanks for the ride, cowboy."

She says with a grin when she's done, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and then just like that she's gone and Dean's alone again. The hazy afterglow of sex burns away just as quick, leaving him numb and empty with a hole in his chest that won't go away.

And maybe that's why he's in the bathroom of some shithole bar with most of a bottle of Jim Beam in his stomach and the lipstick of a woman who's name he never even learned pressed onto his cheek like a brand, because he's always looking for things to fill that hole. Always looking for more and never quite finding it in the booze or the women or the violence. Suddenly the sweat drying on his skin and the scent of her perfume that still clings to him feels dirty and cheap and crass, feels like a betrayal of something he can't put words too. The heat in his stomach from the cheap liquor is fading, leaving the cool grasping fingers of reality to wind their way around his neck and squeeze tight and Dean's throat aches for another drink.

Shaking his head he pushes open the door and stumbles back out, squinting owlishly against the sudden light and noise. Weaving slightly he starts to head back to the bar for another round, accidently clipping some skinny college looking kid's shoulder as he brushes past. He slurs out an apology, eyes still fixed on his goal with the single-minded focus of the truly shitfaced.

"Watch where you're going, asshole!"

The kid barks, obviously trying to sound threatening but coming off more as a little whiny and petulant then intimidating.

"Hey man, I said I'm sorry alright. No harm no foul?"

Dean says, raising his hands in a placating gesture. The guy doesn't look very placated though, thin lips twisting in an unpleasant snarl. Around them the room's gone quiet, everyone holding their breath like they can smell the fight in the air.

"You made me spill my beer!" He spits, gesturing to the damp stain down his front, "I just got this shirt."

Dean sighs, eyes flickering back to the bar. He doesn't particularly want a fight, just another drink, but he's a little past three sheets to the wind and he's never been very good at diplomacy anyways, that was always Sammy's gig.

"Probably did you a favor to be honest," he says, grinning crookedly, "Piece of advice buddy, chicks don't dig dudes who look like they just raided their great grandfather's closet for date night. Although, I think you're shit out of luck in that department either-"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. He sees the fist coming from a mile away but he's too drunk and sore to get out of the way and it clips him solidly in the cheek. Of course it has about as much strength behind it as a prepubescent Sam could muster so it doesn't do much (and it's funny how he thinks that, funny how everything in his life always comes back to Sam). The kid gets two more shots in, another to the face and then one to the stomach before Dean pulls his shit together and lets most of a life spent getting in fights take over. A few seconds later and Dean has the other guy on the floor, legs on either side of his chest, and starts to whale on him.

He struggles, bucking and wriggling under him but Dean's heavier and bigger and stronger and now he's pissed off and drunk too. A flailing elbow catches Dean in the nose and pain blooms white hot, something warm and salty trickling down his lips and chin, but Dean shakes it off and keeps pounding. It feels good, if Dean's honest with himself. And it's a little scary that it feels good. But everything else in Dean's life is falling apart right now and there's nothing he can do about it and this makes him feel a little less helpless, a little more in control-a fucked up rationale a shrink would probably have a field day with. Sir, are you aware that you have an unhealthy relationship with violence, alcohol, physical intimacy, emotional intimacy (and the laundry list goes on and on) because Dean is nothing but a nicely wrapped package of issues. Still, he may be shit at most things but at least he can still win a fight if he needs too.

At least he's winning until somebody brings a chair down across his back, as it turns out whiny has a friend. The cheap wood splinters and cracks on contact but the force is enough to throw Dean off of the other man and send him sprawling on his side, air knocked right out of him as he skids across the hardwood. He barely has a second to catch his breath before a foot barrels into his stomach. He wheezes, but reaches out to grab at the attached leg, giving it a hard yank. The second guy comes down nearly on top of him and from there it's a mess of arms and fists and teeth, the kind of dirty all out brawl you get when you mix too much booze and not enough brain and a whole lot of repressed anger and hurt and pain.

The familiar sound of a twelve gauge being racked stops them both in their tracks though, still tangled together on the floor.

"Now you gentleman are welcome to continue this, but it will be outside of my goddamn bar, unless you want me to call the cops on your dumb asses."

Dean looks over to see the bartender standing behind the bar with the business end of a shotgun pointed down at the two of them. Smiling widely he carefully releases his death grip on the other man's collar, holding his hands up and slowly getting to his feet.

"Woah there, I'm not looking for any trouble. Me and my pal here were just having a little friendly disagreement."

The bartender scoffs, the barrel of his gun not wavering.

"I'm sure you were, and like I said, you're welcome to continue. Outside."

Dean's new friend scrambles clumsily to his feet, glaring daggers at Dean and if looks could kill, well, he'd be six feet under. Fortunately for Dean though they can't, and so all he does is glare as he pulls his buddy to his feet and with a middle finger pointed in Dean's direction make a beeline for the exit. Running with his tail between his legs, Dean thinks as he watches him go, a numb satisfaction settling in his chest. Around him the quiet hum of conversation resumes, the entertainment over. Reaching into his wallet he pulls out the biggest bill he can find and walking over drops it on the bar top.

"Sorry about that, here's something to cover the furniture."

The older man finally sets down his shotgun, leaning it against the bar.

"It's alright, thing was a piece of shit anyways."

Dean shrugs, but leaves the money where it is. Blood's still dripping down his face so he tilts his head back, pinches at the bridge of his nose with a wet sniff. He feels something being pressed into his other hand and glances down to see a mostly clean rag.

"Here, don't bleed all over everything."

He raises an eyebrow but tilts his head back again, pressing the rag to his nose.

"Thought you wanted me out of your bar."

He says, voice muffled by the fabric. The bartender shrugs, picking up an empty glass and starting to clean it half-heartedly.

"I mostly wanted those two idiots gone." He says, gesturing towards the door. "I was watching you son, the brat in the ugly paisley threw the first punch. And two against one, well, that's not what we call fair where I come from."

There's something about him that reminds Dean of Bobby, not the scruffy beard or dirty tee or even the slight smell of beer and car oil, he thinks it's the eyes. Kinder then you'd expect to find in such a worn face.

"Well, I may have thrown some fuel on the fire."

He admits with a half smile. Sniffing again he pulls the rag away from his face, prodding carefully and his nose and wincing. It's sore and tender, but not broken as far as he can tell. The bartender snorts, setting down one glass and picking up another.

"I'm sure you did." and then eyeing him carefully, "You got a place to stay tonight, son?"

Usually Dean hates when people call him son, first because he's nearly 28 and he could very well be somebody's dad himself, and second because he isn't anybody's son. Not anymore, not ever again. But for some reason he finds he doesn't mind it so much now.

"Yeah, I do. I should actually be getting back. Thanks for…"

He trails off, waving the bloody rag in the air. The bartender nods, shrugs.

"It's no problem."

And then, as Dean turns and starts to walk away he calls out.

"Whatever demons you're running from, I hope you find some peace from them."

Dean pauses, swallowing. Without looking back he says, almost to quietly for the other man to hear,

"Yeah. Me too."

Because he doesn't know how to tell him that the kinds of demons that follow Dean, well you don't ever get peace from them, you just hope they kill you quick.