He walks out the door and the righteous anger almost immediately threatens to leave, replaced by wild panic.
All he has is his backpack and duffel bag crammed full of clothing, a ratty towel from a motel they'd stayed in somewhere along the way, two books, his toiletry bag, and the unmatched red sock he's been saving his money in since he was 12 years old. It holds six hundred and thirty four dollars and another five dollars in change.
He hadn't meant for it to go like this. He'd thought that Dad would be angry, but this had surpassed his wildest imaginings.
There were still four weeks until the semester was supposed to start. He'd looked at the bus schedule, but only enough to make sure he could get there, not with plans of buying his ticket today, in this crappy town that's miles from any real city.
Hell, the house they're in is a good half a mile from any neighbors, and he's not sure that the town, another mile or so beyond that, even has a bus station.
But he sure as hell isn't going to go back inside and ask.
He adjusts the strap of his backpack, tugging the long strap of the duffel over his shoulder, and goes down the porch.
He hears footsteps behind the door and then the door opens. He isn't sure if he should look or not- if it was his Dad, it was going to get ugly-
He checks anyway.
Dean comes out. He looks at Sam for a long moment. His face is set in a grim line, his eyes full of nothing but pain.
He hasn't said much since it had all started. He'd just stood there, watching, and then had walked out when things had started getting really ugly. He hadn't gone far, but he hadn't stuck around.
Sam wanted so badly for Dean to side with him, to tell him he was doing the right thing, that Dad was wrong, and being a jerk.
But it hadn't happened like that.
In truth, he hadn't really expected it would, but that didn't stop the ache he felt for not having his brother's support.
Anger and grief build up freshly in him because his brother hadn't supported him, and he tightens his grip on the duffel. "Bye, Dean," he says flatly, and turns away, trying not to hate his brother for letting this be all the goodbye he is going to get.
A soft curse comes from behind him and the jingling of keys. "Get in the car," Dean says, his voice a low growl.
Sam turns back. Dean is headed towards the Impala, and doesn't look back at him. He doesn't look over at Sam even when he is seated and Sam is still standing there, doesn't offer any further invitation or even an annoyed glare to demonstrate his impatience.
Sam gets in the car, tossing his bags in the backseat and sitting up in the front, in what had been Dean's seat until Dad had come home with a truck and tossed the keys to Dean.
Dean starts the car and turns up the music so that there is no chance of talking.
Sam could reach over and turn it down. Dean won't say protest, probably won't even look at him, to judge by the way his shoulders are set.
But that is the problem. Dean isn't going to say anything, no matter what Sam says or doesn't say, no matter how much Sam wants him to.
It takes twenty long minutes to get to the station. Dean turns the Impala into a space and turns her off. "How much money do you have?"
Sam looks over at his brother in surprise, then swallows frustration again because that is not what he wanted to hear from Dean. It isn't what is important. "Enough," he says. "A couple hundred."
Dean snorts and pulls out his wallet, counts out a stack of twenties. He'd been playing pool a few nights ago and had come home flush enough that they'd gone out to see a movie. He tries to hand it to Sam.
"Dean, I don't need your money, I'm okay," Sam says.
Dean finally looks at him, and there is grief on his face that says a lot more than the anger that is also there. "Take the fucking money, Sam."
Sam takes it, cowed by the anger but more so by everything else on his brother's face. He looks up at the bus station, searching for what to say. "Dean," he starts, but doesn't finish.
Dean isn't looking at him again. His hand grips the wheel and he stares straight ahead.
They sit in awkward silence for a long moment before Dean suddenly opens the door and climbs out and goes to the trunk.
Sam climbs out too, grabbing his bags from the backseat before he follows his brother.
Dean pops it open and digs through the hidden compartment. He dumps a ratty shoebox full of bullets into the bottom of the trunk and then stuffs a box of table salt, a pistol and a box of bullets into it. "I don't care what you think of this lifestyle," he says flatly, practically shoving it at Sam. "You protect yourself. Just because you don't want monsters to be real doesn't mean they doesn't exist."
"I never said-" he starts, but stops himself. He isn't going to argue with Dean, not when it is going to be the last time he saw him for a long time.
If you walk out that door, don't come back.
Forever?
Sam looks down at the box, his stomach clenching in fear that he hasn't acknowledged all night.
Dean digs around in the trunk again and adds something else, a half grin on his face that is forced. Sam looks down and blanches at a handful of condoms. "Come on-" he starts, but again falls short when he sees his brother.
Dean has turned away again and is paying way too much attention to closing the compartment, his jaw working furiously.
Whatever had happened with Sam and Dad, it didn't have anything to do with Dean. Dean is hurting, and caught it the middle like he always is.
Sam looks down at the box and dumps the contents, pistol and condoms and all, into his duffel.
"Thanks," he says softly, feeling strange and sad and excited and awkward.
Dean doesn't look at him, but swallows hard. "Watch yourself, Sam."
"You too. Be careful."
Dean nods, once. He shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn't look at Sam.
Sam can't look away from his brother. He feels like he should say something more, but what was there to say? He'd said enough earlier that night.
Dean had said his piece by walking out, not letting his brother or father draw him in.
And now he'd also said what Sam had desperately needed to hear, even if it hadn't been what he'd most wanted to hear.
He'd said it with a gun and condoms and salt, and not with words, but he'd said it.
Sam swallows back the urge to grab Dean and hug him, to beg him to come with him, to say screw it all and live a normal life in California with girls and school and beaches. But he knows Dean would never agree, and it would just make it that much harder if he had to say no out loud.
"Good bye, Dean," he says, and it is hard not to choke on the words.
Dean finally looks up at him, a million emotions crossing his face. "Bye, Sammy," he says.
For a half second, Sam is sure Dean is going to hug him.
He doesn't.
He turns and gets into the Impala, starting it and pulling away.
He doesn't look back again.
Sam stands in the parking lot and watches until he can't see him anymore.
*/*/*
My first Supernatural fic. Hope you enjoyed. Let me know if you spot any errors- I started this in past tense and switched to present tense, so I'm sure I missed a few changes. Any other comments are welcome too.