DISCLAIMER: I actually did own the characters of Supernatural, for a brief period of time. Dean and Sam did whatever I wanted them to and they even hugged once. But…then I woke up, and sadly, I haven't had that dream since. I also don't own the song "What Hurts The Most" by The Rascal Flatts.

Characters: Dean and Sam Winchester, with a guest appearance by John Winchester. But it's short, I promise.

Setting: Pre-Pilot

Warnings: None, except that this is NOT WINCEST, despite what the lyrics of the song may make the more perverted of readers think. So get your minds out of the gutter and just try to enjoy the story in the way it was intended, okay?

Falling To The Sky

I can take the rain on the roof of this empty house.

That don't bother me.

I can take a few tears now and then and just let them out.

I'm not afraid to cry every once in a while.

Even though going on with you go still upsets me,

There are days every now and again I pretend I'm okay.

But that's not what gets me.

Later on in his life, Dean Winchester would look back and think that he should have seen it coming.

He should have seen that his little brother was becoming unhappy, discontented with their life. Sam certainly hadn't been troubling to hide it—more the opposite, actually. And yet, Dean, big brother extraordinaire and self-claimed expert in al things elder sibling, noticed nothing—until now.

Disconcerted, Dean watched Sam stare at the flames that wrapped around the corpse they were burning. The look in the younger Winchester's eyes was almost…loving, mixed with awe and a weird sort of longing.

It was…disturbing. More than disturbing.

It was just wrong, and Dean hoped—faintly—that the look had nothing to do with the fire that could so easily end a man's life—or death.

Dean reached out and clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder, wanting to do something, anything, to get that look to go away.

He should have known then.

But he never saw it coming, until the letter arrived in the mail.

XXX

Sam acted decidedly weird all the next morning. He hardly said two words when he walked into the kitchen, wide-awake and grouchy, muttering something about mail and leaving through the only door leading to the outside world.

But when he came back, he was again different—paler, quieter, radiating…something. He didn't respond at all to Dean's admittedly overly-cheerful barbs, but rather just dropped the mail stack on the table and left the kitchen without a word, headed straight back to the room he and Dean shared.

Of course, Dean was the only one who noticed something off, and what did it say about their family that Dean just took that fact for granted?

Well, whatever. The point is, Dean noticed that something was up, and being The World's Most Rockin' Awesomest Big Brother, he followed Sam up to his room after hanging around the kitchen for a few minutes, planning his assault.

Sam was lying on his bed, holding something in his hand and looking at it with that creepy stare he could do sometimes—that one where he never even blinked, at all. Dean closed the door—now, why did Sammy have to scowl like that? He thought he'd been fairly quiet—and didn't even try to sound offhand as he asked, "Dude, what's wrong with you this morning?"

You had to hand it to the kid—Sam could look truly innocent if he wanted to, and he obviously wanted to now, as he looked up at Dean and said, "Huh?"

He stopped being so innocent, though, when Dean strode forward and snatched the envelope from his hand, but Dean ignored the gripes and opened the sealed envelope, unfolding the paper and starting to read aloud with honest curiosity. "We at Stanford University would like to thank you for applying…blah, blah, blah…"

The little Stanford stamp in the top left corner should have been the first hint that there was trouble brewing, but instead it just gave Dean a little insight to Sam's surliness.

He'd known Sam had applied to the university, weeks ago. He'd been the only one who knew, actually, except for whoever had written the letter of recommendation. Sam had told him he just wanted to know—to see if he was good enough.

Dena knew nothing of applying to college.

But he knew plenty about wanting to be "good enough."

"We would also like to congratulate on your…"

He really had known that Sam would get in—he'd known it all along, he just didn't realize it until now.

So the actual acceptance didn't surprise him. Really, it was more the fact that anyone in their family was smart enough, dedicated enough, to be accepted to college that forced him to do a double-take.

But Dean still managed the dutiful—and actually heartfelt—congratulations, and Sam said thanks, and Dean said the next part without really thinking.

"…You're not gonna go, obviously, but…"

Sam looked away. "Yeah…about that…"

That one, Dean hadn't been expecting, and for a second he just stared. Then he grinned, since it was a joke and you're supposed to laugh at jokes and all.

But then Sam didn't smile back, and the bottom dropped out of Dean's world.

What hurts the most

Was being so close,

And having so much to say,

And watching you walk away,

And never knowing

What could have been,

And not seeing that loving you

Is what I was tryin' to do.

Dean had not been planning to be in the room when Sam told John about applying to Stanford. In fact, he hadn't intended to be in the house—or in the neighborhood—at all.

He didn't know whether it was morbid curiosity or what, but somehow he ended up canceling whatever plans he may have had and sticking around the house that night, slipping into the hall like a shadow a couple seconds after Sam went into the living room, where their father was poring over clippings and articles, searching for hot spots and trouble.

He knew that Sam knew he was there, but he was equally sure that John had no clue he was anywhere but his and Sam's room, and so he was able to listen in on the inevitable argument with impunity.

The show ended up being quite a bit shorter than Dean had expected it to be. He'd been waiting anxiously for shouting and that anger that seemed to spark between the oldest and youngest Winchester men whenever they were in the same general vicinity for any length of time without there being any threat of bodily harm from outside sources.

And yes, there was some anger there, but nothing really out-of-the-norm, and Dean had to actually strain to hear the words. He actually began to hope that maybe John and Sam would actually talk this out like rational human beings.

He realized he'd made a mistake the moment John said, in a voice frozen and devoid of any compassion or understanding, "You're not going, and that's final."

Now, these words would have been more than sufficient to shut Dean himself up instantly, no matter how he seethed inside. But the fact was, the Winchesters were the very definition of "so close and yet so far apart," and that was how Dean came to be able to predict Sam's reaction—almost to the word—before he said anything at all.

"I know. And I'm not asking your permission. And that's final."

Dean heard Sam's careful tread moving toward him, but…something told him not to leave yet, and that was how he was able to hear John's final ultimatum.

"If you walk out that door, you stay gone."

XXX

It was remarkable how very alike John and Sam really could be sometimes—remarkable and irritating. After an hour of trying to convince one or the other to at least talk to each other, poor well-intentioned Dean was forced to give up entirely, without having made any difference at all. John didn't lighten up, and Sam didn't agree to so much as compromise, and John and Sam continued to pretty much hate each other, and Dean managed to hold onto his belt as Eternally Failed Peacekeeper.

It's hard to deal with the pain of losing you everywhere I go,

But I'm doin' it.

It's hard to force that smile when I see our old friends and I'm alone.

Still harder

Getting up, getting dressed, livin' with this regret,

But I know if I could do it over,

I would trade, give away, all the words that I saved in my heart,

That I left unspoken.

Dean dropped his brother a line a couple days after he left for Stanford, but it took several months for him to actually go to the university. John came and went whenever he was in the area, but…well, Dean couldn't seem to bring himself to do the same. He told himself firmly that it was just because he really was as angry at Sam for leaving—for deserting—as he wanted to be.

But the fact was, he was…afraid.

He didn't know what the hell he was afraid of, but he was all the same.

And he hated it—really, really hated it—and he was determined to do something about it.

Which was how he ended up hanging out at Stanford like some kind of stalker, hoping for and dreading a glimpse of his brother.

He was actually fairly surprised when he got one.

He was more surprised to find Sam with a girl.

A really, really hot girl.

Who was laughing at something Sam had just said, and holding Sam's hand, and Oh, my God, Sammy has a girlfriend.

Sammy hadn't ever had a girlfriend.

And Dean couldn't ever remember seeing his little brother as happy as he seemed right now.

And now Sam had stopped, and was looking around with that look that could mean only one thing…

Dean was running for the door of his Impala and practically throwing himself into the driver's seat by the time Sam's eyes landed on him, and he drove away like there was a fire behind him even while Sam screamed for him to wait.

But it wasn't because he was afraid, this time.

No…it was because he finally felt the fury he should have been feeling all along, bubbling up in his stomach like an angry, venomous snake uncoiling inside him.

He thought he'd gone as low as was possible.

But he still had a long way to fall.

What hurts the most

Was being so close,

And having so much to say,

And watching you walk away,

And never knowing

What could have been,

And not seeing that loving you

Is what I was tryin' to do.

The next four years were really nothing more than a constant downward spiral. Without Sam, Dean was just basically one half of a whole now broken, and it was only now that he realized a crucial fact—one that he would never speak aloud or allow to even slip out of his heart and up into his conscious mind.

John had never been part of the family equation.

Now, don't take that the wrong way. Dean loved John Winchester—loved him with all his heart, so much that it nearly killed him sometimes. But John Winchester was not a father, and had not been for many years. He was the commandant, the general, the battlefield, but he was no longer able to be a dad, simply because he'd forgotten how.

But Sam…now, Sam was a brother, in every sense of the word. Sam, before anything else, was Sammy, baby brother, best friend. Brother first, friend second, Sam the Soldier last of all. John never could accept that, and as they grew even a part of Dean grew to resent it, but not the important part of him. Not the big brother part of him, the part that was still able to cast off fighting and vengeance.

The fact was, Dean and Sam and Sammy were the Winchester family.

Only now Sam was gone, and he had taken Sammy with him, and there was no Winchester family anymore.

Dean never did get over it. Not really. He acted like he had—in front of John, in front of their friends, in front of the things they hunted, the only ones who were never fooled. He told himself the lie, over and over again, until he almost believed it. He continued to hunt with John, and, after a couple of years, without him. He stayed away from Stanford, Sam, and Sammy after that first visit—well, most of the time, at least. Sometimes he even managed to say something against Sam, if he was in the wrong kind of mood after a hunt gone wrong, the victim died, and he'd been at the whiskey again.

But he hurt, still, and no one could tell him whether or not that would fade with time.

XXX

When Sam was five years old, he had a nightmare. He crawled into Dean's bed sometime around midnight, his tiny, stick-thin arms winding around Dean's waist as he curled in close.

"Whassamatter, Sammy?" Dean mumbled sleepily, returning the hug with one arm.

"I had a bad dream," Sam said tearfully, in that way children have of making you feel like nightmares are the end of the world. "You went away…I wanted you to stay, but you left anyways…"

Dean sighed—he knew that dream. He'd had it before, himself. "'S okay, Sammy," he said, letting Sam burrow into his side. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

"Dean, can I sleep with you tonight?"

Dean smiled into the dark. "Sure. Just tonight, though, okay?"

"M'k…" Sam mumbled, already halfway back to sleep. "Love you, Dean."

Dean smiled again. "Love you, too, Sammy."

XXX

"Love you, too, Sammy."

When had those words become so difficult to say?

Dean really did love his brother. Of course he loved Sam! And John did, too, obviously. They'd always just assumed Sam knew that. Even though no one ever said it, the two older Winchesters had always thought their youngest knew he was loved more than life itself. Didn't all their actions scream that, even if they never said it aloud?

Well…okay, maybe not.

Still, wasn't that kind of thing supposed to be implied?

Nope.

Wasn't it kind of obvious?

Not so much.

So maybe…Sam hadn't known? Well, okay, so he had to know deep down, but maybe it didn't often occur to him? Maybe the coolness with which John tended to treat his sons, combined with Sam's completely obvious hatred of hunting was what had eventually caused him to give up?

Maybe it really was John and Dean's—or at the very least John's—fault that Sam had packed up and left.

And didn't that just suck?

All in all, Dean really hoped Sam was just deeply disturbed and paranoid.

XXX

John disappeared somewhere near the end of Sam's senior year at Stanford. He called Dean during his banshee hunt to see how things were going, and that was the last Dean hard from him. There had been absolutely no indication of trouble, but there was also no sign of John, and that in itself was trouble.

It took him a couple weeks to go to Stanford, because it took him that long to cross over into panic, and utter panic was the only thing that could make him go to his brother again.

The weekend that he spent with Sam was enough to make him wonder how he'd survived the last years. It didn't last long enough—not even close—and it also turned out to be utterly useless. And he didn't care.

Well, not much, anyway.

Because that weekend, he rediscovered something he'd thought lost—the older-brother instincts. The feelings that told him when it was time to jump in and help Sam, when hovering was in order, when he should back off. The intuition that told him something was wrong with his brother even when they were miles apart. (Scientists call it the Winchester Paradox, but Dean just liked to refer to it as Sam-sense.)

Feeling that again…it was like a dream.

Until the weekend ended, and they went back to Stanford.

Because it was that night that Dean found out that being the oldest didn't give him the power to protect his baby brother from absolutely anything, and that there were some things he truly didn't understand. Things like a love for one woman as deep as Sam's love for Jessica, and a grief so all-encompassing that it really could swallow a man whole.

Things like the fact that sometimes, it is possible to find yourself living in a nightmare.

And while he watched his brother dealing with all the practical and painful details following Jessica's death, Dean hit the ground at last.

What hurts the most,

Is being so close,

And having so much to say,

And watching you walk away,

And never knowing

What could have been,

And not seeing that loving you

Is what I was trying to do.

Dean pressed the gas on the Impala, and his beloved car sped up. He glared at Sam, and once again he wondered what Sam was feeling right now, as they headed for St. Louis to see one of his old friends from Stanford whose brother was being accused of murder.

"You okay, Sammy?"

Once he said it, Dean realized that it was a really stupid question. Of course Sam wasn't all right—he hadn't been all right since the fire that horrible night. He was on the same drop Dean had been on for those four crappy years apart.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

That was crap, of course.

But at least the Brothers Winchester were falling together now.

Not seeing that loving you…

That's what I was trying to do.

Author's Note: I…have no idea why I wrote this story. Its companion piece, A Normal Feeling, got virtually no response, and I don't think people will be very interested in this one either. But I might as well post it anyway, since I went and wrote and typed it all. I do hope I get some reviews, though…

By the way, readers (if I even have any left), I am really sorry about all the doom-and-gloom stuff I've been writing lately. It's not like I'm trying to be depressing here, but these writing bugs bite me and I just can't ignore them. And even if I'm not getting many reviews for the stuff I'm writing nowadays, that's not the point of being on this site, anyway. At least not to me.

Also, I'm sorry I've been writing so slowly lately. I've been reading Jodi Picoult, and…well, if any of you have ever read even one of her books, you won't require any more detail than that. Plus, I've been having so many issues. First there was a stomach thing and I had no idea what it was, and then when I felt okay to write again, I got a second-degree burn on the thumb of my writing hand. Then, when THAT blistered over and I could write again, I got some kind of flu or something. But now my throat just feels like it's being stripped away, so that's the only pain I'm dealing with and it doesn't hinder my writing, and I'm reading Dragonlance instead of Jodi now, so I can start popping out fics again. Hopefully.

Well, anyway, that's enough of that. I've blathered on way too long to people who probably aren't even there. I hope you enjoyed the story, and I'd really appreciate a review! Thanks!