Sam was gone. Not like, Oh, he's going to get some snacks, he'll be back soon gone. He was Sam took a duffel bag with all of his things in it gone, and he wasn't coming back.

Dean was screwed. He had been put in charge of taking care of his little brother, and now here he was alone in the motel, no sign of Sam anywhere. Sure, they were both adults, but that didn't mean anything. They were Winchesters, and they were family. They were supposed to stay together so no one got hurt. Now that Sam was on his own, who was going to protect him?

When he had woken up from being sprawled out on his bed, the first thing Dean noticed was that his dad was missing. He had probably gone out on a hunting trip, Dean had told himself, though he was sure that his dad was out hunting whiskey or scotch. The second thing he noticed was that his brother was missing, along with everything that his brother owned. Shirts, shoes, books, everything; it was all missing.

So he had panicked to begin with. Dean turned the room inside out and upside down looking for any indication of where his brother had gone off to. There wasn't a note or a pamphlet or anything, so he dashed outside and ran around the dark parking lot for a while, hoping to see his brother hanging around in a car or something.

Nothing.

After he returned to the room and checked again, looking harder this time, Dean called his brother about a thousand times, getting the answering machine each time. He left dozens of messages, each getting more and more desperate than the last. "Sammy, please pick up. Please," he had begged into the speaker, his throat tightening.

Dean was terrified. He was scared of what could have happened to Sam, even though he was sure his brother had run away willingly. Still, he could be dead somewhere on the side of the road, or kidnapped by some monster Dean was supposed to protect him from. He was scared that Sam didn't want to be found, even by his own brother. What if Sam was tired of not only their dad, but Dean? What if he hated them both?

Dean buried his face in his hands, pressing his eyes with his palms so hard he started to see white. His throat was raw, and every breath he dragged in felt like a knife. This was all his fault. He should have been awake, so he could actually watch over his brother. He should have heard the shuffle of feet, or the packing of clothes, or the slam of the door. He should have woken up and stopped Sam from leaving. He should have done something.

He looked again, searching under the beds, in the vents, behind the toilet, in the little bible that was in a drawer… He looked in every crevice and under every surface for anything and everything that he could find. Still, he found nothing.

Dean was on his knees at the foot of the bed, gripping the ugly comforter to stop himself from losing it completely. His eyes stung painfully and his chest was tight. He felt like sobbing or screaming or both, but nothing was coming out of his open mouth. He just gaped hopelessly without even breathing, not sure what to do. There was nowhere left to look.

Behind him, the door flew open and slammed shut. Dean hiccupped and pushed himself into a standing position, turning and hoping to see his brother, but of course that was only wishful thinking.

"What the hell happened?" John looked around the motel room at the disarray. Pillows were strewn about, the drawers were all left open, and Dean's things were in a pile on the ground. "What is this mess?" He entered into the room further, tripping slightly over a stray shoe. He kicked it violently away and glared at his son, looking for an answer.

"I—I," Dean couldn't form any words. He backed away slowly, his throat closing up in panic. His dad followed suit, stepping over things to get to him.

"What did you do?" John reached forward suddenly and grabbed him, pulling him forward. They were so close, Dean could smell the alcohol in his dad's mouth, and he could feel the heat of his breath on his face. "What the hell did you do?"

"I'm sorry, sir," he spat out, trying desperately to pull away. Even drunk, his dad was ten times stronger than he was. If anything else, his dad was just bigger than he was. It was like trying to escape a bear. "I—I was looking for," he stopped suddenly. He couldn't put this all on his brother. His dad would be furious. Then again, Sam was gone. He didn't have to face their dad anymore. He'd be okay. Dean swallowed hard, trying not to let his voice tremble. "I was looking for Sam," he muttered.

"What?" John shouted, shaking Dean once, hard. "Where's Sam?" Silence. "Where is he?" He shook Dean again, making his head snap backwards painfully.

"I don't know," he shouted back, pulling out of his dad's grip. He stumbled backwards and hit the wall, pressing himself up against it. John advanced toward him, and Dean briefly considered two options. He could run, ducking underneath his dad's arms and escaping through the door. His drunken dad would never be able to follow him for long. Or he could fight back and throw a few punches, maybe getting in some good ones.

Neither would work, he knew. Both would backfire.

Dean settled for just telling the truth and taking the punishment. He deserved it anyway; he had let it happen. "When I woke up Sam was gone," he confessed, seeing the anger rise in his dad's eyes. "He took all of his things with him."

"You let him leave?" John took a step forward.

"I didn't—"

"You stupid son of a bitch," John screamed, leaning forward. Dean cowered against the wall, bracing himself. "I leave you with one job: Take care of your brother. And I come home to this? I come home to find out you just let him walk away?" He ran his fingers through his hair roughly, pulling on the strands. "He could be dead. Sam could be on the side of the road, murdered by some creature. You know what's out there, Dean. And you let him go out in it anyway."

Dean's eyes were shut tightly, and his head was down. With every word, his heart was ripping in half, because he knew, deep down, it was all true. He knew it was his fault, and he knew he had it coming.

"How the hell are you going to amount to anything when you can't even look after you own brother? You're a failure," he spat the word like venom. "You're fucking worthless," he accented this one with one swift smack to Dean's jaw, and the sound reverberated through the small room.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered, not moving an inch.

"Oh, you're sorry," John yelled sarcastically, holding up his hands. "Now everything is better. Thank you. I take it back, Dean. You are a perfect child." He grabbed Dean by his shirt, pulling him close. He leaned in to whisper in his ear, his breath thick and heavy. "Go to Hell, you worthless piece of shit." Then all Hell broke loose.

John threw him against the wall, then lunged forward and punched him in the gut, making Dean bend forward with a groan. Dean could feel the hard metal of his dad's ring smack against his skin with every hit, leaving behind purple bruises. By the time he was on the floor, covering his head instinctively as his dad kicked at him, Dean's mind was elsewhere, like it always was when this happened. It was just easier to pretend he was somewhere else.

He pictured Sam, a full duffle bag hefted over his shoulder. He was standing on the side of the road, one arm out and his thumb protruding upward. He was alone, and it was dark, but everything was okay. Because Sam wasn't here right now, being torn apart by their dad. Sam was safe. He was away from home, but he was safe. And, Dean thought, pulling himself into a tighter ball, that was better than nothing.