The grief is almost too much to bear. How can one be expected to move on when their entire world is shattered and singed away in a flash inexplicable tragedy? It's impossible to let it lie, there has to be more to this, the truth needs to be found.
Vows are made, an oath of vengeance, of discovery. It won't end here, that's a promise. Family and friends offer their condolences, their hospitality, their tuna casseroles and none of it can replace what has been lost.
Dean is quiet, now, sullen. Sammy won't stop crying. Weariness and sorrow pulls at the bones, half-baked theories and questions begging answers swirl in the head.
Eventually, the truth is discovered. Eventually, they set off on a hell-bent, crazy reckless mission, driven by rage, by heartache. Driven because the pieces of their lives have been shattered into something too small to be picked back up.
What's left is this. It's not much, but it's something to wrap desperate fingers around, it's enough purpose to pull a tired soul out of bed in the morning. It's a reason not to just lay down and die.
There is evil in the dark, and someone needs to stop it. With a job to do, the misery can simmer on the back burner for a while; a welcome reprieve to the constant hollow ache.
--
Guns and other sundry weapons pile up in the trunk of the Impala. A dagger here, a crossbow there. By the time Dean is twelve they have more guns than candles on his cake. He knows how to clean and use every one of them. He's getting old enough, now, to start coming along on the hunts.
It's a decision that will later be regretted.
They find a pack of werewolves in Wisconsin. Sam waits safe in the car and Dean seems eager to please.
Their eyes gleam silver until the bullets pierce their hearts. Then, they're just people underneath. There's no time to feel guilty about that, not when Dean is bleeding out and he needs stitches. Twelve years old and not quite ready for the hunt yet. Four long deep gouges rent their way across his side, just below the ribs.
The Impala burns rubber and they pull out fast enough that the squealing of the tires drown out an eight year old Sam's demands to know what happened. There isn't time for questions. There is time for driving, for cleaning wounds, for a needle threading through skin, drawing the wounds closed.
Later, there will be time for quiet sobbing, a release of panic and fear that needs to be kept secret from the boys because weakness is no longer an option. But there is not time for that until Dean has been soothed to sleep, mostly due to painkillers and Sam has drifted off, clinging to his brother and refusing to let go, worry lines imprinted onto his face. Sam's too young to have worry lines. Dean's too young to be hunting werewolves.
Life is fucked up.
--
Sam is sixteen and stubborn. He doesn't want to hunt and if truth be told, he's not the only one. But they've been at it so long now, there truly is nothing left to be had. Just a desperate, stubborn determination that someday they will find the thing that came in the night and ruined them. One day, they will kill it.
They won't think about what comes after that. A blind eye will be turned and the knowledge that after it's over, the ache will still be there is firmly ignored and pushed aside.
Sam doesn't want to hunt, and he's not the only one. But facts are facts and the fact of the matter is they need Sam. It's weary work, fighting with him, day in and out. When the lonely miles stretch thin before them and the spaces in between destinations are filled with Sam's complaints about how much school is missing. Tempers grow short.
In the end all it takes are a few words spoken in a tone that is tired, almost broken. I don't want to fight, Sam. We can't do this without you. We'll stop for a while, I promise, but not right now.
Sam slumps, defeated, helpless to lash out against something so broken and raw and pleading. It's a dirty trick, but the sense that Sam will not be around much longer, that he's already slipping away is growing stronger by the day.
Sam will not stay forever, but their tiny broken family feels like it will unravel without him. It's so fragile already; a sand dollar on a perilously rocky shore. Sam's independence is worrying, his propensity to cling to the normal life, to resent the life of a hunter is nothing less than foreshadowing.
Indecision, regret, confusion; they're common, familiar beasts.
Sam doesn't want to hunt and it won't be long before he's old enough to walk away.
--
When the time comes, and they knew it always would, the expected fallout isn't included. There's no fight, no words exchanged at all, in fact.
Sam just leaves a letter on the table and disappears in the middle of the night. Trembling hands unfold the crisp white sheets and bold black letters scrawl across the page, forming words of explanation.
Dear Samuel Winchester, Congratulations, Stanford University proudly invites you to attend our institution of higher education.
The paper is crumpled in a fist that doesn't know whether to be angry or crestfallen. The rest of the words go unread. It doesn't matter. It's enough. But it hurts to know that Sam could not be bothered to write a letter of his own.
Dean is sitting at the table, head down, lips pressed into tight lines, eyes circled with dark smudges that make it obvious he has not slept. A sudden suspicion hangs like a poison cloud in the air. Dean knew. Dean knew and he kept quiet and there's no way to figure out, really, what that means.
Whatever it is, it's nothing good.
Whiskey replaces Sam that night at the dinner table. The three of them whittle away the night with shot after shot of comfort burning down their throat in a way that no words are capable of. They drink themselves stupid, brains fuzzy, and words maudlin until dawn finds them sleeping, slumped over the table.
Morning brings hangovers and loneliness that has increased tenfold in the time it took to empty the bottle that sits between them. Sam is gone away to college and the Winchesters are down to two. Alone against the world, turned on by their own family, though they both agree that running away is not exactly betrayal, just cowardice.
When it all boils down, there's only one truth. Sam is gone and even though it changes everything, really, it changes nothing. There is still evil in the dark and the country continues to fade away in their rearview mirror, state by state as they strive to destroy it.
--
It's hard to look at Dean, these days. It's hard to watch him bury himself in the job, to withdraw and build a wall of stoicism up to shield his battered heart. That's what he's doing. Though he tries to hide it, it's as obvious as day.
Worry seeps in when empty bottles start to collect in the back seat of the Impala. But really, who can talk? The bottles belong to both of them.
Looking at Dean, haggard and exhausted and suffering his heartache so silently, it's hard not to resent Sam at those times. It's hard not to be bitter towards the youngest. It's an excuse not to call, to be secretly relieved that he hasn't called either.
The wish that he would still lingers; for Dean's sake. Dean needs something to smile about.
They ride in separate vehicles now, the Impala passed down the Winchester line. The truck roars, huge and loud, carving out a path across the country and the Impala brings up the rear, purring like she always has. They make quite a team, for a pair normally used to being a trio.
California approaches and despite misgivings, Stanford appears on the horizon, a mantle of darkness draped protectively around the university's shoulders. They come at night and they leave before dawn.
Just to see. Just to make sure.
--
It's time to leave. The knowledge has been weighing heavy for some time now. They're drawing close. Dean doesn't know it, but they are. A while back they picked up a trail, almost by accident, and the secret has been kept since then. Planning, plotting, cryptic notes that Dean can't understand.
There's no kind way to do it. Any way will feel like betrayal and abandonment and knowing that is like a knife straight to the heart. It's hard to have to do to Dean the thing that he fears most. It's hard to leave him behind. It can't be helped. It's getting too dangerous.
Compensation can be found in giving Dean the responsibility to take on his own hunts. The day they find two that need immediate attention and are hard pressed to choose which is more urgent is a blessing in disguise. They split up; Dean goes to New Orleans enough weapons in the trunk to handle anything he might find there and the truck carries a heavy heart to California.
There's no time to stop by Stanford, not this time. Men are dying on a lonesome strip of highway and beyond that, it's imperative that there be ample time to finish the job and fade away; let the highways hide the hurt of having to leave the boys behind. Both of them.
Loneliness has been the truest friend in the world, all these years, and never before has its presence been felt so strongly. But there's a job to do, and the evil that's been the object of their quarry since the beginning is drawing close.
It won't be long now. It's only for a while.
--
Dean can't help but worry, and with no one around to see, he doesn't have to hide the hurt look on his face when dialing the numbers only reaches voicemail. Fuck. He always feared that this would happen, but he had never actually prepared himself for what he would do if it ever actually did.
It's just him and the Impala, now, and a list of missing persons that keeps growing. The miles slip away, state by state he bridges the gap between New Orleans and Jericho. When he crosses into California, however, he drives for an hour before he slams on the breaks and the Impala screeches a protest and the tires leave heavy black marks against the asphalt.
He makes a U-turn and decides he has time enough for a detour.
He never really thought he'd have the courage to come begging to Sam. But the loneliness frightens him in ways he's never been forced to face before. Everyone has left him and he doesn't want to do it anymore. Not by himself. Not alone.
He doesn't ring the bell, the hour is too late for that. He just picks the lock and slips through the door, purposefully making just enough noise that he knows he'll disturb Sam's slumber.
He expects a fight, but he doesn't expect to win so easily. College years have made Sam soft and that's worrisome. Not enough so, however, that he can't joke about it. It's so good to see Sam again. But now comes the hard part.
Dean still has to ask Sam for help.
As if that isn't bad enough, Sam's going to make him do it in front of his – surprisingly hot - girlfriend. Luckily, Sam and Dean have always had a language of their own, certain words containing special, hidden meanings, significant only to them. Time to lay it flat on the table for his brother. He can't do this alone, he can't.
"Mom's on a hunting trip and she hasn't been home in a few days."
A pause, Dean swears his heart skips a beat in that moment when silence rises up to wrap tight around his chest and he stares at Sam, pleading with his eyes.
"Jess, excuse us. We have to go outside."
Thank God, Dean thinks. Thank fucking God. Because he can do this now. Sam will come with him, he knows already, and he'll wait until later to let himself be gleeful that the allegiance they formed as children is still at least partially intact. Sam will bitch some more and Dean will have to pretend to convince him, but it's okay because Dean can do this now because he's not alone, and really, that's all he needs.
It's time to find mom, together. Dean grins and slips into the driver's seat and drives away into the night, Sam at his side and a long past due family reunion on the horizon.