Title: Two Years, Two Brothers, Today

Rating: G

P.O.V. : Sam

Episode: Croatoan

Missing Scene Place: Right before the final scene with Sam and Dean drinking in the field.

Summary: Sam thinks about how Dean's been acting and how he used to be while preparing to ask Dean about his words ("I'm tired…") in the clinic.

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It's a tricky operation. Or at least it seems that way. Or maybe I just wish it was.

Getting Dean to open up lately has been easy and confusing and completely out of my control. And somehow, I'm supposed to control it this time.

There's a reason I haven't had this talk earlier. I know my brother. I know I'd never have anything to say because he was dealing with things his way.

I don't even know how I'm going manage it. And I have to manage it because whatever is going on inside Dean is killing him. What's worse, I think he's starting to let it.

Telling me, oh so calmly, that he was staying with me as the demonic virus coursed inside me. I was supposed to become some possessed person bent on killing him and he was going to let it happen. Or maybe he would have killed me first. Or maybe he would have let me infect him too.

It's a good thing the virus disappeared. It cuts me to the core that I don't know what would have happened if it hadn't, that I don't know my own brother anymore.

All the things we've been through. Driving across the country and staying in the same motels together for how many months and he's almost a stranger now.

As much as I liked to comfort myself these last few weeks that I knew Dean and I knew what he needed to do to deal, I didn't have a clue. Not a clue.

He confesses that he's tired of his life and I don't have a damn clue what he's talking about.

Right now, I have him buying us some beer. He still likes to drink and I think he'll be more open if I keep things casual. A simple question asked nonchalantly over a couple of beers with no one else around and room to breathe. Maybe try a few tactics I used when we were kids.

It's my rather pathetic plan to get to know my brother again. I thought it up last night when Dean was checking that all the infected people had vanished. While I stayed at the clinic for observation, he drove around and stayed away from me and any chance of conversation for hours.

When he got back, it was pretty much just to tell me we were going. We talked a little about the case before we got in the car, but that was it. Almost as soon as we were driving again, he put on some music just loud enough to ward off any notions of talking.

After about an hour, I asked if we could stop in the next town for the beer. I wasn't even sure he had heard me until he looked over at me. His eyebrows slightly crooked as he examined me, faint concern and curiosity in his eyes.

"Okay," he'd finally said, sounding like he knew something wasn't right with me but not willing to push the issue. Then his focus returned to the road.

It was another forty minutes before we arrived in this town or hamlet or wherever the hell we are. I didn't even look for the welcome sign. For Dean, this is just a pit stop on our journey to Ellen's. I think that's where he's taking us. It usually is.

Dean and I never said where we were heading this time. Just driving somewhere, like always, hoping we'll end up wherever we should be.

He doesn't want to go to the roadhouse, of course. Not that he'll actually say that, of course. That would make things easy. Dean acts like he's not even bothered by what happened with Jo. Whatever it is that did happen with Jo.

She came out of that roadhouse upset. Dean talked to her, came back to the car and said we should leave.

"She said we should go," he'd said before climbing into the Impala, expecting me to silently and blindly follow his lead. I had hoped he'd explain in the car, maybe give some hint as to what Jo had really said and why it seemed to hurt him. But he'd just repeat that line and then get mad until I dropped it.

And I dropped it, of course.

Dean can be so damn stubborn and secretive sometimes it's like talking to our father again. But with Dean, there was always some telltale sign that let me know what was going on inside. He says drop it and then there's a look or he says something later on that shows a little of what he's feeling or thinking.

I could drop subjects with him and stand it. At the end of the day, I knew he'd heard me and I would have gotten something from him.

So he's getting beer, probably grateful for this delay on our way to Ellen and Jo. I don't doubt he knows I want to talk about things. That's probably why he's taking his time.

The Dean I remember and the Dean I've been stuck with since dad's death both hate talking about things the way I want to. That is to say, they prefer not to talk.

I remember the night I left for college. Dad had told me to "just leave, leave your family and your responsibilities and don't come back." He'd gotten in his car with Dean already in the backseat and drove off to the motel.

I've always regretted having that argument outside the warehouse of our latest hunt. Our motel was on the other side of town and I picked right there to push my old man. He was getting in the car when I just started yelling. I know Dean tried to calm us down, but the powder keg of anger we'd been building for so long was finally exploding. He hadn't known that. If he had, I don't think he would have given me shotgun. But he did, and dad and I fought, and dad drove away with an empty passenger seat.

That night, as I wandered around town trying to figure out if I should say good-bye to Dean, our car pulled up with Dean behind the wheel. He must have been driving everywhere looking for me.

My bag was on the passenger seat.

"I can't help ya, Sammy," he'd said, never really looking at me for very long. "What happened tonight… I hope it's worth it, man."

I opened the door and grabbed my bag, not sure if I was welcome in the Impala. "It will be. You know, Dad may—"

"Don't need to hear it," he cut me off. "You want your life away from this, away from us, you've got it. I'll drive you to the bus station."

"Dean."

"Are you getting in the car or what?" He acted like he was mad I hadn't gotten in yet, but I knew that wasn't it. In his mind, I was abandoning him, turning my back on my big brother.

"I've gotta do this," I had tried to explain. "I'm not like you and—"

"Close the door, Sam," he cut me off again. Clearly he didn't want to listen or talk about things anymore and at that point, I didn't either.

"Fine," I said, slamming the door and stepping away from the Impala. "You don't want to listen, we won't talk. You go your way, blindly following dad and I'll go mine to something better."

"Something better?" He just shook his head. "All right, Sammy, all right. You want your better life. I won't stop you. Now get in the damn car before I get out and beat you."

I got in and we drove in silence, save for me saying thanks. While Dean clenched and unclenched his jaw, I checked out the contents of my bag. Amongst the clothes was one of Dean's knives—I later sold it at a pawnshop to pay for a textbook, though I'm sure that wasn't his intention. Everything had been thrown in and I had the feeling some of my belongings were still at the motel. Dean must have just grabbed what he could and tossed it in the bag before coming to find me.

He parked in front of the bus station, but made no move to leave the car. Dean just sort of scoped out the place before finally looking at me.

"I won't be calling. I'm not going to stop by to see how you're doing, and I don't write letters," he said matter of factly. "I'm not playing referee for you and dad anymore. You two get to work out this fight. When you want to come back--"

"I'm not coming back."

Dean briefly turned his attention back to the station before looking at me again. "Then you probably don't want to miss your bus."

"No, I guess I don't." Forget the fact that I didn't have a bus ticket yet. Forget the fact I wasn't sure if I had enough money for a bus ticket. The message was clear and I got out of the car.

"Thanks Dean."

He just drove away. I didn't see or hear from him again until the night he told me dad was missing.

Two years, we didn't talk. No messages or letters. Not that I wasn't tempted to send him something. Some kind of proof I wasn't wrong. Some evidence that we could have lives beyond hunting. There were times I hoped he would just pop by so I could introduce my friends and show him what a life free of hunting was like. The first few months I stopped myself from calling him, just to hear his voice and know he was still okay. Every now and then, I wondered if he stopped himself from calling me.

Because he never called—true to his word. And after awhile I took that to be the sign that he was okay. No news was good news after all.

Besides, Dean wasn't and isn't a talker, but he could listen. We had been pretty close growing up and even when he was taking dad's side, I believed he still had my back somehow. I could open my heart and he'd listen… cringing here and there, clearly uncomfortable at times, but he'd usually listen. There were a few times when I knew Dad's position on something had softened because the night before I talked to Dean and he, unlike our father, actually bothered to hear me out for the most part. He must have said something to dad, and suddenly we could stay somewhere a few more days or I got a book instead of a knife as a gift.

As hard as it can be to get him to talk, conversations with Dean are usually pretty good. He always managed to keep things from getting too serious. Life was a blast for him and he always wanted me to find the fun.

That's the real reason I never called. I knew my brother. I knew what we'd talk about when I called. I knew I'd never have anything to say that he'd want to hear.

He always seemed to love this life. Everything about it was something he liked, even when he complained about it. Dean could be covered from head to toe in mud and gunk, hurting and probably bleeding from more than a few scrapes, and he still loved the hunt. Dad or I would mention killing whatever we were after and Dean's eyes would light up. I never understood why and I probably never will, but Dean's only vocation seems to be hunting demons and he is happy about that. Or at least he used to be.

Now he's apparently tired of doing the only thing I could ever see him doing. For weeks he's been complaining about it. Suddenly he doesn't like the different motels and wants—or wanted—to drive back to the roadhouse and stay there. He doesn't want to eat convenience store food; he practically wants to sit down at a restaurant. The demons are more annoyances than targets; like they're keeping him away from something else he wants to do. He's almost eager to call for help, to let someone else in on the hunt so he doesn't have to do so much. Violence has become more than a necessity to him; it's become a pleasure. Killing demons is now an insane mission for him, some satisfying addiction as a means to an end… or at least a break until our next job.

I don't even understand it. I don't think he does either.

Dean's coming out of the store now with a small beer case in hand. I can see the wear in his face, the wariness as he looks around while approaching the car. His whole body looks tired and worn.

He puts the beer in the back, offering no explanation as to what took him so long. I could demand a reason, but I won't push. I didn't mind this delay in my plan. I almost wish he had been in there longer.

"Where to," he asks as he hops in the driver seat and starts the engine.

"Uh." We're already out of the store's parking lot and back on the main road heading out before I can think of an answer.

"Hey, you wanted the beers, but if you don't know where to drink 'em…" Dean's smirking slightly as he trails off.

"Just drive and I'll tell you where to stop."

"Whatever you say," Dean replies, laughing a little. But it's clear in his eyes that he knows something's up and for all his joking, it's going to be serious.

We're brothers, after all. We know what we're going to talk about. We know neither of us has anything to say that the other wants to hear. But today, we're going to talk.