Sam Winchester had a normal, apple pie life.

He was about to graduate Stanford, was engaged, and was closer than ever to becoming a lawyer. It was the life he always dreamed of having, and he didn't regret any of it.

As much as he told himself he didn't, though, a knowing voice told him constantly he was only satisfied at the surface. Deeper he had a different passion, a different perspective, and a different life. For years, he had thought, "What if I went with Dean?" But what did he expect? Hunting was dangerous. His life was constantly at risk. And there his brother was, standing at his door, asking him to drop his life and hunt the demons he had run from, all to find a man who had abandoned them for probably the last time.

Sam never understood Dean's trust in their father. Perhaps it was because Dean had memories of a time before hunting, however few they were. Or perhaps it was because Dean was obviously their father's favorite. But Sam had no interest in finding John Winchester. Or ever calling his brother again.

Sam was on his way to his final interview with a law firm when his cell phone rang. After searching briefly around his messy car, he finally found his phone. Giving a frown, Sam took note that it was from Kansas. Giving it a toss into the passenger seat, Sam disregarded the call.

Three hours later, and his interview passed with colors. He couldn't help but grin as he strode to his car, planning to call Jess immediately. The smile was wiped from his face when he saw the number again, along with six missed calls. Give a guess where from. Grumbling, he called back, slamming his car door shut as he ignited the engine.

"Is this a Sam Winchester?" a young female voice asked timidly, with . . . sympathy?

"Yeah," Sam confirmed, starting the usual route to his apartment. "Who's asking?"

"I'm from the Lawrence City Morgue. I'm afraid, sir, one of your relatives is here, and you were the only number we could find."

After the initial jolt of surprise, Sam shook his head. A million thoughts surged forward. Oh, God, he thought miserably. My father is dead. Sure, Sam still hated the man to a degree, but he was his father. Suddenly Sam felt ashamed, as all the arguments and I hate yous came to mind.

"Where'd you find him?" The woman must've seemed shocked from how collective Sam seemed. At least, Sam thought he sounded under control.

"In the middle of a field. He seems to have been attacked by a large animal of some sort; maybe a bear? I'm terribly sorry."

It wasn't a bear. Probably a werewolf or a wendingo or some sort of monster dad had written pages about in his journal.

"Will you be able to retrieve his belongings?" The voice cut through his reverie. Sam thought of the long hours ahead on the road. Simply going home and forgetting the unnerving call was a long forgotten concept. He could always call Dean to retrieve the items and save him the journey, but either Dean knew about the death and had not been able to stand collecting his late father's belongings, or he would know eventually. And rather than the awkward call to break bad news, Sam wanted to pay his respects.

"Yeah," Sam said finally. "Yeah, I'll be able to pick up my father's belongings."

There was a moment of utterly stunned silence.

"Mr. Winchester, I'm afraid you've misunderstood. We don't have your father. We have a Dean Winchester."

Sure enough, hours later, Sam's darkest fear had been confirmed. Dean looked too white on the metal table, too inhuman. His eyes were closed. A thin white sheet covered his body from the shoulders down, Sam could see thick claw marks across his neck, trailing down to where Sam could no longer see. It just . . . wasn't Dean anymore.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Okay. All right. We gotta talk."

What ifs suddenly flooded his head, along with a billion other awful images and words and thoughts. What if Sam had gone with Dean that night years ago? This never would have happened if Sam was at his brother's side, where he should have always been. Not at some stupid interview.

"Uh, the phone?"

"If I'd'a called, would you have picked up?"

This was all Sam's fault. Every bit of it. He ignored Dean; he turned Dean down when he knew he needed help. The coroner came over to Sam at some point, handing him a shoebox filled with his brother's belongings. A fuckin' shoe box that held everything Dean had in his life. Most people had a house of furniture and pictures and memories. All Dean Winchester got was a fuckin' shoebox.

"Anyway, I gotta borrow your boyfriend here, talk about some private family business. But, uh, nice meeting you."

"No."

Why was he so stupid? Why did he say no? After what seemed like hours, Sam entered his car somberly. He set the shoebox in his lap, and gently lifted the lid. He was mildly surprised there were no guns, but he supposed they would have been confiscated at some point.

"Um. Dad hasn't been home in a few days."

"So he's working overtime on a Miller Time shift. He'll stumble back in sooner or later."

Dean ducked his head and a moment later looked back up. "Dad's on a hunting trip. And he hasn't been home in a few days."

Dad. Where was the bastard when his son died? Hunting the thing that killed Dean? Like that would do any good. Then a thought pierced Sam straight through the heart: What if Dean died still trying to find Dad? What if Dean died alone?

"I mean, come on. You can't just break in, middle of the night, and expect me to hit the road with you."

"You're not hearing me, Sammy. Dad's missing. I need you to help me find him."

Did Dad even know Dean was dead? Did anyone besides Sam know Dean was dead?

Did anyone besides Sam even know that Dean was alive in the first place?

"I was working my own gig. This, uh, voodoo thing, down in New Orleans."

"Dad let you go on a hunting trip by yourself?"

"I'm twenty-six, dude."

The next item in the small box was dad's journal, to no surprise. Below it were keys. The keys to the Impala. Where the hell was Dad's old car? No doubt it became Dean's after Dad's disappearance.

"Now are you gonna come with me or not?"

"I'm not."

"Why not?"

"I swore I was done hunting. For good."

Sam had everything he needed. A normal, apple pie life. But deep down, he didn't have what he wanted.

"You know, in almost two years I've never bothered you, never asked you for a thing."

The only thing left in the small box that contained his bother's entire life were two photographs. One was the picture of Mom and Dean, before the death and before the hunting. Sam expected the picture to be somewhere in the box; that picture never left Dean's side. It was the other picture that brought tears to Sam's eyes. It was a picture of Sam and Dean, both laughing. Sam allowed himself a small smile. He soaked in the image of Dean: the crinkle of his green eyes when he laughed; the bow-legged strut of confidence he always had; the arm thrown around his Sammy's shoulders, protective of his brother like he always was.

More than ever Sam wanted to go back to his life of hunting. His life with Dean. He supposed he could go back to the thing he was born and raised into. But what was his old life without Dean?

A look into my notes and what do I find? I wrote this thing a little over a year ago, then totally forgot about it! I revised it, finished it (everything after the second break) and viola!

I've always kinda wondered: what would've happened if Sam didn't leave Stanford in the pilot?

(Also, yes, I know, I haven't updated my other Supernatural story in FOREVER, but I'll probably have a chapter up next week! I just had some trouble working out plot holes and stuff. :P )

Hope you guys enjoyed the story!

~palmtreedragons