The world is mocking him.

It's the only explanation that makes sense. Ha-ha. Fuck you. Not even your baby brother wants to be anywhere near you. Why else would he leave?

Dean heaves a shuddering breath that rattles through his chest, leaning back against the Impala's windshield. Usually, he feels nothing but joy when he's next to the chevy, but tonight, as his world gets smaller, all he can think about is how the black hood is freezing against his ass, how the curved windshield is pressed just wrong into his back.

The lst of the morning darkness fades away, but Dean still doesn't move. The world moves on around him, people shouting out to each other, acting as if his world hasn't just imploded, crashed down on itself, swirled away with a simple sentence.

"I'm going to Stanford."

It's amazing, really, Dean thinks, that four words could hold so much. Nothing else that was said only twelve hours ago matters. Not the "I'm not going to live like this!" or the "You are a soldier in this war, and you will learn your place!"

Not even the "You walk out that door, don't you dare come back."

Because Sam had always had a stubborn streak a mile wide. If he said he was going to Stanford, then damn it all, he was going Stanford. Dean closes his eyes, sees Sam standing, impossibly tall and resolute, chin set, soft hazel eyes flaming, duffle bag in hand, ready to march straight out the door and all the way to California if he has to.

And Dean had seen it coming. Seen it for years, ever since Sam had found out about college from Bobby. He had seen it in the way Sam had started carefully shuffling his money away, tucking it into the bottom of his bag, not offering it even when Dean had no idea how either of them were going to eat without stealing something.

Worse, Dean had gone with it. Never murmured a word to his father, never asked about the stash of cash. In fact, he had taken it upon himself to add to it. Drunk pool players, man. They are so damn easy to skive an extra hundred or so off of. Dean had seen the end coming long before Sam had announced it to the world.

Dean breathes again, long and slow, in through his nose, out through his mouth.

Sam's half-way to California by now. Dean took him to the bus stop himself, made sure to slip a few extra thousand into the bag, hug his idiot little brother, and watch him board the bus. Watched him walk away.

He remembers Sam's parting clap on the shoulder, the tears that stung both their eyes. Sam had wanted to go to college, but not like this. Never like this. He hadn't wanted to sever all ties to John and Dean, just to pull away from hunting.

Dean laughs hollowly. Sam should have known that Winchester luck never ran that way.

But Sam left, three hours ago. And Dean's been sitting out here, on his car, freezing his ass off for three hours. Sam wasn't coming back.

Dean can't blame him. He can't. There was nothing more that he wanted than for his little broother to get out of this cycle of violence and revenge.

Slowly, Dean slides off the Impala, moves to the driver's door. A glint of sliver catches his eye, and he frowns, opening the door to see what Sam left him in the passenger seat.

Sam's gun, the one with the mother of pearl grips John had given hm for his eighteenth birthday, rests on worn black leather. Dean's breath catches.

The silver hued steel flashes, the swirling engravings completely free of dirt. This gun matches Dean's own. John had been so pleased, a flash of the father he used to be showing, when he had handed these beautiful tools to his sons.

Sam left it on purpose. Sam left him.

Dean's vision blurs. Sam is gone. And he won't be back.

~W~

Well, that was depressing. I hope, anyway. If I did my job right, it was.

Poor Sammy. Season 11 ain't gonna be kind to him, I can predict that right now. 'Course, what season has been nice to him?

Feed the starving author reviews, okay?

'Til next time!

-The Irish Lass