This is my first fanfiction in the whole wide world. I know a bunch of people have written about hunts while Sam was at Stanford. My story looks at why Dean said he hadn't bothered him in 2 years. I hope you like it... I apologize for the shitty title and shittier summary. I promise it gets better. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Who's got two thumbs and doesn't own Supernatural? This guy! Thanks, Mr. Kripke.

XxXxX

Sam rented a one bedroom apartment. He tells himself it's because 18 years of living inches from his family left him wanting to experience freedom in all three dimensions. Deep down, though, he knew it was because he didn't think he could live with anyone right away. The thought of trying to fall asleep near someone he didn't trust with his life or listening to the breathing that didn't match Dean's rate or quality was hard enough, but Sam knew that there were any one of a thousand different reminders of his former life on the road that he didn't want to consider. No use getting home sick for a place you're no longer welcome.

An abrupt and startling pounding on the door interrupted his studying. Is that urgency or impending assault? Years of vigilance had forged both an instinctive need to protect those around him as well as a healthy streak of self-preservation. Sam's mind flew to the hidden weapons placed throughout the rooms. Under the pillow of the bed. Hidden in the door of the closet. In the bathroom medicine cabinet. Beneath the box of spare light bulbs in the hallway. Couch cushion. TV stand. Underside of the dining room table. Butter door of the fridge (It made sense at the time). Running through their positions sharpened his focus and relaxed him enough to critically analyze the situation. Sam walked toward the door noting the location of the closest weapon; a pair of brass knuckles Dean gave him for his 17th birthday were in the TV stand. An errant thought ghosted across the surface of his mind most of my birthday presents were weapons… Sam shook his head as though to dislodge the unwanted memories. This was no time for familial musings.

"Please, I need help" nearly all fears of attack evaporated leaving behind the urgency to protect the destitute. Sam crossed the distance to the closed door in two long legged strides grabbing the knuckles on his way to the door. It wouldn't be the first time some creature had tried sweet talk of that nature. Bending his knees to brace for impact and tentatively squeezing the knuckles held at his side, Sam yanked the door open. Opening the door a crack would just give evil a chance to slam open the door into his waiting face.

The look of surprise on the waiting teen was accompanied by a flinched step back. At 6'whatever" Sam easily could intimidate a (insert rampaging cryptid), add in a flung open door and what could be an already stressful situation for the kid, and Sam was surprised the kid was still standing. Sam slid the brass weapon into a waiting pocket while fixing his face with a look that for years had eased information from grieving widows in a way Dean had never mastered. Dean…

"Please, I need your help." The weight of the plea snapped his attention to the crisis at hand; to the crisis he might be able to do something about.

"It's okay, I'm here. I need you to calm down, so you can tell me what's wrong." Sam took a deep, exaggerated breath, leading by example.

XxXxX

There's nothing like a grease fire to get your blood pumping in the morning. Truth be told, Sam was much more familiar with starting fires than he was with putting them out. An overturned alter candle mishap at 13 and the restless spirit of a former arsonist pretty much summed up his experience with unintentional fires, but the kid looked really shaken, so Sam hurried across the hall to neighbor's kitchen to find… nothing. A pan lay on a burner with a lid covering whatever contents were underneath. Sam vaguely remembered a chemistry class in high school mentioning the fire triangle. Oxygen, fuel and the energy to overcome the flashpoint barrier. Take away one and you take away the threat.

Something didn't sit right with Sam, hunter's instincts told him to stay on his toes. Sam reached into his back pocket and wrapped his fingers around the familiar shape of his brass knuckles. Forcing himself to stop thinking about the fact that normal people shouldn't find the shape of brass knuckles familiar, Sam turned to look at his neighbor expecting to see a devilish grin accented by black eyes or a knife decorated with blood of innocents or something... What he saw was a sheepish looking 18 year old kid who didn't know enough about the world to keep himself from freaking out over a little grease fire. God, I suck at normal. Sam thought to himself for probably the thousandth time. He'd been away from his messed up family for 6 months and was still expecting revenants, demons and werebears around every corner and in every shadow. Throwing on a sheepish grin of his own Sam offered his hand to his neighbor, "Well, that was easier than I expected it to be. Hi, I'm Sam. You're new to the apartment complex, right?"

"Yeah, name's Zach. I just moved to Palo Alto to start school for the spring semester. Look, I'm really sorry to bother you over nothing. I'm not too eager to try my hand at cooking again just yet. Wanna grab a burger? I owe you one. My parent's treat?" Zach articulated his last question with a flashed credit card.

Sam thought back to the homework waiting for him in his own apartment, but his stomach made the decision for him choosing that moment to make a loud and obvious gurgle. When was the last time he'd eaten? This morning? Yesterday? Without Dean keeping track of him, Sam found himself only eating when his body warned him of imminent shutdown.

They set out for a burger place a few blocks away. Sam led the way, Zach being new in the area wasn't yet familiar with the layout of Palo Alto. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam swore he caught movement a block or so behind him. Shaking his head, Sam filed it away as more paranoid delusions of a former hunter.

On the way to the burger shop Sam and Zach talked about what Sam assumed were decidedly normal topics ranging from favorite bands, what they were planning on studying, how Zach liked Palo Alto so far. Sam had come to realize in the past few months that when every conversation didn't hinge on life, death or incredibly painful poison injected intramuscularly via the foretalons of a pre-Columbian, assumed dead demigod he was able to set his brain on autopilot and coast for a little bit. It was thanks to his newfound brain-coasting hobby that he was able to keep tabs on what he was rapidly coming to realize was more than a paranoid day-dream. Someone or something was following them.

"Hey, Zach, you head inside, I'll be there in a bit I just need to get some cash from the ATM." Sam had no intention of getting money from an ATM. Partly because he didn't actually have any money, mainly cause he wasn't about to let some supernatural stalker get the drop on him. Without giving Zach a chance to remember that he'd offered to buy, Sam rounded the corner into what he knew was a deserted alleyway. Crouched down behind a dumpster Sam waited until he heard nearly inaudible footsteps stop inches away from his hiding spot. Steeling himself, Sam lashed out with a kick aimed at a person of average height's midsection only to have it stopped with little more than a grunt. His mysterious new shadow twisted his foot painfully in a powerful and unyielding grasp. Rather than dislocate his hip Sam opted to kick out his second leg at his assailant relieving the pressure and hopefully landing a blow. No luck. His attacker released his hold on Sam's grieving foot only to block the impending second assault. Sam landed hard on the pavement. His attacker landed even harder on him forcing the breath out of him. A carefully thrown elbow was too easily deflected, grasped and used against him. Shit.

"Sammy. Sammy. Sammy. Forget to eat your Wheaties this morning? That was just embarrassing."

The all-too-familiar voice carried the mirth and boyishness that years of hunting had yet to quell and was the only voice that could have made this situation go from shit, I'm dead to "Dean?" That was all Sam's rattled and confused brain was capable of spitting out at the moment.

"Witty as usual, kiddo." Dean's typical snarky banter portrayed his cocky persona, but the sigh that he released as he let go of Sam's arm hinted at a bone weariness that he wasn't willing to let into his voice. As Sam pivoted to look up at his older brother he could see that his eyes couldn't hide it either. The light that had comforted him as a kid when he was sad or scared had dimmed from its former luster. Dean looked tired.

"Look, I know I'm adorable, but, Dude, you're my brother. You stare any harder you'll singe my eyebrows." Dean's quip still failed to mask the slightly haunted look in his eyes.

Sam finally managed to stop staring long enough to find his voice, "Dean, what are you doing here?"

Dean shrugged his shoulders, "Dad sent me here looking for a grumpy casper, and I figured I'd give you a call. See if you've forgotten everything I taught you." Dean arched an eyebrow at that earning himself a smack to the back of his head.

Sam didn't know where to start with a comment like that… Begin at the beginning he guessed, "Wait, Dad is sending you out on hunts alone? That's breaking one of the only rules we had as kids." Sam couldn't keep the concern from his voice.

"Take a Midol, Sammy, I'm 22 years old. I'm more than ready to tackle a simple salt-and-burn." Dean's bravado was marred only by the fatigue Sam could see etched into his face.

"If that's the case, then why are you tracking me when you could be out sending this ghost to the great beyond? And what's so important that Dad would send you to do this on your own? That's not like him." Sam kept the question he'd been itching to ask from escaping. Why wouldn't his dad come to California? Was he still so mad at Sam that he couldn't stand to come to the same state as him?

"Turn that freaky brain down a notch, Sammy. Dad got a lead on whatever killed mom. He went up to Minnesota to meet with Pastor Jim to do some brainstorming." Still able to practically read his thoughts, Dean stopped Sam from going down that depressing road. "Dude, I'm starving. Six hours of straight driving and I'm ready to hit the town. Let's go get that burger you and your buddy were headed towards." Dean tossed him his winningest smile. Many a blonde had lost the strength in her knees from that doozy. Sam wasn't buying.

"Don't you have some research to be doing? You don't expect to go into this hunt cold, do you?" The concern in his face mingled with disapproval this time. Dean had been impulsive when they were younger, but going into a hunt without any prior knowledge of the current nasty wasn't like Dean at all.

"Research is already done. I took care of it before I left Tucson. Jerome Riley, killed in 1969, may he rest in ashes. Every 18 years he drags his ass from the good hereafter to steal some pretty red head from her bar crawl to his favorite haunting ground for an unfortunately efficient hanging. Never figured out the why, probably something about not feeling loved as a child." Dean's shrug was all the sympathy Jerome would be getting, "Lucky for me I found an easybake ritual that has Latin with words small enough for me to sound out." Dean took a painfully long and exaggerated breath at this point which received the obligate eye roll from his brother. "So geek-wonder, do I pass the research portion of this popquiz?" The gloat brought some of the familiar spark back to Dean's face, so Sam let him get away with the geek-wonder crack.

Sam just rolled his eyes again at his brother, this time unable to keep the grin from his face. Man, he'd missed Dean. "I'm guessing the only way for the ritual to work is to read the incantation in the presence of the spirit." The nod from Dean was sagely. "Well…" Sam couldn't believe he was saying this, "I'm coming with you."

Dean went from wise-ass to somber in half a blink no longer looking in Sam's direction. That horrible haunted look was back on his face again. "You said you'd never come back to the hunt, Sam. Are you really going to go back on his word after 6 months?" Sam was sure he heard the hurt in Dean's voice. This time, however, he thought he heard something more. Hope?

"I'm not coming back to the hunt, Dean. I told myself that I wasn't going to, and meant it. That's not my world anymore. But if you think I'm letting you go out there without backup you are sorely mistaken. I'll just tag along and make fun of your crappy attempts at a dead language."

The somber expression only lasted a moment longer as Dean digested the fact that Sam was only stepping in for the night; however, soon enough the light was back in his eyes like it had never left. Dean still looked like he had a year of sleep to catch up on, but the shit-eating grin on his face almost made him look like the big brother that had made hunting bearable. The fact that the only thing that made his brother look this happy was the thought that Sam would be with him for a little while didn't escape Sam's notice.

"Aww, Sam you do care. Hug?" Dean opened his arms wide, sarcastically expectant.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes smiling once again at his brother's "expert" ability to evade any and all sentimental moments.

Dean clapped Sam on the back, pointing the way with Columbus-like certainty, "On to Burger Hut!"

XxXxX

Sam seemed taller. Maybe Dean was just shrinking. God knows he's had a hard enough few months. Dad wasn't taking Sam's exodus very well. When his father wasn't nose deep in some old tome researching their next hunt he was at the bar trying to drown the memories of his youngest son (or cure a methanol overdose). They didn't talk much outside of the occasional compliment for a decent kill or, more often, an angry glare and a scathing comment along the lines of removing his head from his ass after a slip-up.

Even that was preferable over the weeks when his Dad would leave to hunt the thing that killed Mom. Those were dark times, and Dean didn't want to think about the hours of emptiness. Not even hunting could bring him back to anything resembling his usual mood. The knowledge that he was saving people's lives seemed almost blasé. But for now, that didn't matter, cause his little brother was here. Dean couldn't help letting a smile slide across his face as he looked over at Sam.

"What's so funny?" Sam's brow furrowed obviously expecting a joke on his behalf.

Sometimes the kid made it too easy. "Your Face." Sam's groan was accompanied by an eye roll threatening to spin them out of his head. Dean could see Sam was getting thin, too. The kid never could take care of himself. Dean would make sure to leave some money behind with him so that Sam could enjoy some food that wasn't Ramen. Not that Dean thought there was anything wrong with Ramen, but Sam was always nitpicky.

"Shouldn't you be preparing for this ritual? I mean, just because you said it was easy doesn't mean you can just slack off. I'm not saving you if the only reason you're in trouble is cause your tongue's tied."

"Come on, Sammy. I've been doing this whole Hunting thing a might bit longer than you. Blah, blah blah. Deus laudatio, blah blah blah." Dean grinned knowing he'd hit home as Sam readied his lecture on "Professionalism in the Workplace"

"Dean-"Sam's response was cut short as a shriek pierced the quiet clearing Jerome preferred to work in.

Along came Jerome dragging a struggling young woman bodily. She's putting up a good fight. Dean spared the thought for the soon-to-be-freed victim. Well she would be putting up a good fight if the attacker were corporeal. As is she's just giving herself more bruises. Giving Sam a look that spelled out Wait here loud and clear, Dean got out of the car ritual written down in his neat handwriting. Penmanship was his one saving grace in grade school.

"Hey, ugly!"

XxXxX

Sam got the message loud and clear. Sam replied with his own look saying What am I, seven?

Sam wasn't kidding about not wanting to help. He told himself he would never hunt again, and he meant it. The part about not helping Dean if he was in trouble, however, was a blatant lie and they both knew it.

"Hey, ugly!" Sam rolled his eyes. Dean's bravado always helped Sam through the fights. Hearing a pissed off 19th century butcher called a Meat-sucking Nancy-boy was all he needed to calm his nerves. No wonder I don't fit in. Not for the first time, Sam wondered how Dean had fared while Sam had been away these past 6 months. The haggard look Dean had as Sam first encountered him in that alley had imprinted on Sam's mind. It was almost easier to think of as the bizzaro version of his normally cocky, fun-loving older brother. What is Dad doing to you Dean? Whoever he had seen before, his Dean was the one going to work in front of Sam at the moment.

He'd never, ever, tell his brother how he felt, but the efficiently lethal way his brother went about hunting never ceased to amaze him. As a kid, it was Dean that Sam wanted to grow up to be like.

Sam had glanced at the ritual while they'd waited in the car so he'd know the general layout in the event that Dean became incapacitated and he needed to finish it. Sam was banking on not having to do that, but 13 years of training and 18 years of looking up to his brother was impossible to sluff off. Sam took a deep breath shaking the errant thoughts from his head and concentrated on what was going on outside the Impala. There's no sense in letting sins of the past keep him from paying attention to the task at hand.

Dean had two thrice blessed pyres in the ground and lit with a third on its way. What the hell, Dean, are those tiki torches? While following Dean's movements about the field Sam noticed his lips moving in a constant stream of what he assumed to be the Latin incantation. The spirit, Jerome Riley, was clutching his head face screwed into a silent scream of pain. The spirit's almost- victim had run away after Dean had punched the spirit in the face. Sam had asked Dean earlier why he didn't have any of his usual equipment (Sam had decided to give Dean the unlikely and unbelievable personae of computer programmer for Zach's benefit). Without setting down his burger, or swallowing for that matter, Dean explained that he couldn't use shotguns because the spirit wasn't allowed to disperse or the ritual would be ruined. (At that Sam had started choking on his burger. As Dean slapped him on the back grinning like the idiot he was, Sam glared knives… no missiles at him while Zach stared wide eyed like Dean had grown wings and sang folksongs) Sam had noticed a pair of knuckles twin to his own waiting at the bottom of the duffle; however Dean's were made of consecrated iron. In essence they were perfect for slapping a spirit upside the head without fear of having it disperse to… wherever they go when they're not here.

With the Final "pyre" in the ground Dean was focusing on his Latin. The four now-green flames positioned in the cardinal directions trapped the spirit so long as the fires burnt. Eyes glued to the sheet of paper in his hand, Dean was oblivious to the outside world, the one side effect of the ritual. The incantation required intense concentration and precise articulation. Most people that came into contact with his brother wouldn't have considered Dean capable of this level of attentiveness. Nearly every teacher Dean had while in school had labeled him "lost cause" within the first week. Sam smiled sadly to himself, it wasn't their fault classes didn't include firearm maintenance or Native American spirit banishing lore. Sam looked up and froze.

One of the torches Dean was using in his binding circle had gone out. Shit, how many times have I told Dean to use functionalequipment? "Modernizing" the ritual doesn't mean you have to get all of your supplies from Walmart. The spirit was breaking down the last vestiges of the circle that was his former prison. Soon he'd be free to slaughter Dean. Sam had seen enough. Promise or not, he wasn't going to let Dean get hurt while he was 20 feet away twiddling his thumbs. Sam leaped out of the car sprinting towards the broken prison. I wonder what other kids are doing on their Friday night?

Dean was too caught up in the Latin to notice that the circle was broken. The spirit was only feet away. Without thinking Sam lunged toward Dean knocking him out of Jerome's path. With a grunt Sam was knocked off his feet and into something hard and unyielding. Before consciousness left Sam he heard the last few words of the Latin ritual sealing the spirit's fate. Huh, I don't remember the ritual requiring you call the spirit a mother fucker.

XxXxX

After completing a detailed trauma assessment of his brother's injuries, Dean determined his brother to be very very stupid. A couple of bruised ribs were nothing to scoff at, especially when you're supposed to have class the next day. That had never really bothered Dean when it had been a factor, class always seemed like more of a suggestion, but he knew Sam would be upset if he missed learning something important like how to divide by zero or whatever the hell a participle is. Dean chuckled to himself. Normal people…

After doing all he could for his brother's bruised ribs, not that you can do all that much, Dean slipped the kid some of the excess meds he kept from one of the dozens of doctor's visits he'd been privy to over the past several years. When your family goes through more insurance cards than garbage bags you tend to stock up on the strong stuff. After about fifteen minutes of bitching, Sam took on the glassy eyed expression of the blissfully medicated.

"I saved you." Sam's grin was almost manic. Dean remembered a similar smile on a much younger version of his little brother the first time Dean let him help make breakfast. Anytime little Sammy got a chance to help Dean do "grownup stuff" he looked like most kids do when they get ice cream. Apparently saving his brother's life at the expense of bodily harm now fell into that category.

"Yeah, you did, Sammy. Just take it easy. Those ribs are gonna hurt like hell tomorrow morning. No reason to bruise them any more than they already are."

"Deeeann," Dean's mouth half-quirked at the new and improved ways Sam was finding to slur his words. Maybe I shouldn't have given him that many pain killers… The kid's still a lightweight. Good to know. The way Sam murmured his name and the way his face scrunched up to try to get a good look at his brother screamed of forthcoming emotion. Dean gritted his teeth. This would most probably be an embarrassing conversation for both of them. Truth be told, Dean had missed all aspects of his brother's company, even the emotionally charged chick-flick moments, so Dean being the greatest big brother ever let the kid steer the conversation towards the inevitable. Hopefully he could stop the kid before tears could be shed…

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"'t's Saaam." Sam carefully articulated his name giving it several more syllables than necessary.

Dean rolled his eyes, "Yes, Sam?" His response was only slightly clipped with annoyance, not that Sam would have noticed at the moment.

Sam wasn't looking at him anymore his murmured confession barely audible, "I'm nnot gd at nrrmal." After taking a second to process the increasingly difficult new dialect Sam was sporting, Dean's features creased in sadness for his little brother. Sam had wanted nothing in his life more than to be normal. That was something Dean had striven to accomplish every day of their childhood. Whether in the form of the lies he told Sam when he was too young to understand the harsh realities of their dangerous existence or the extra money he'd spent buying "luxuries" for Sam that other children took for granted. Not really knowing how to help or comfort his brother in this matter, Dean opted for a consoling tone, "It's oka-"

" I tried!" Sam had something important to say, and damn if he wasn't going to spit it out. "I rr… rlly tried, but I cn't get the fucking hunter out of m' head." There was only resignation and sadness etched onto Sam's face as the arm currently un-slung awkwardly worked its way through his too-long hair brushing imaginary hunter thoughts from his head. Dean's chest tightened knowing that he had done his fare share of molding the hunter currently residing in his little brother's head. "Would… Could I… Do you think… Dad would let me come..." At that Sam's head fell, no longer able to look at Dean.

Dean blinked in surprise when he realized where this was going. would let me come home... Truth is, Dean didn't know. Their father was as stubborn an ass as they came, even Dean could admit that, and though Dean knew his dad was grieving the loss of his youngest in his own way, he didn't know if John would be able to present his true feelings without starting God knows how many more fights in the process.

"Dad wouldn't have a choice, Sammy." Dean knelt down so he could look straight into Sam's drug clouded eyes putting all the sincerity he had into his next sentence. "If you wanted to come home, I'd make sure it happened."

Apparently the fact that Dean would stand up to Dad for him was enough to push Sam over the edge in to chickflickland. Tears shone in his eyes reflecting an implicit trust. Big brother can make it better. Sam hadn't looked at Dean like that since he was five years old. Quickly changing tactics Dean cleared his throat, "Hey Nancy, I'm gonna go grab a beer, and maybe check the internet to see if there's anything else I can do to make those ribs heal faster." Dean was pretty sure his 18 year old kid brother didn't have any beer, but he could only take so much emotion before he needed a breath of fresh air. Sam nodded his head, apparently still reeling from Dean's revelation and unsure whether words or sobs of relief would escape if he opened his mouth.

XxXxX

True to his word Dean went straight to the kitchen making a show of looking for beer. Opening the butter drawer he arched an eyebrow in surprise as he withdrew a throwing knife he'd given Sam for his 13th birthday. Dean remembered the dual look of appreciation and sadness on Sam's face when he had received Dean's gift. Sam probably thought Dean was trying to get him to embrace the life, but Dean was only ever trying to give Sam a means to protect himself. Finding a profound lack of beer in the fridge Dean proceeded to give the apartment a once over. Holy water on the shelf by the door, sawed-off in the closet, glock in the desk. The kid had his bases covered.

Dean had to admit, the hunter was still strong in his little brother. Jeez, Dean, channeling Yoda, much? No more Star Wars marathons. A crease bridged his eyebrows together as he realized he was still not sure whether that thought made him happy for his brother's continued vigilance or sad for the proof of Sam's lost innocence. With a shrugged shoulder Dean settled at Sam's desk intent on surfing for a little bit letting Sam rest and regain some control over his rampant emotions.

Cracking Sam's password took all of 45 seconds. Dean grinned letting himself relish in the fact that he still knew his little brother better than most parents knew their children. Honestly, Sam, THUNDERCATS83? Logging on to the internet he was greeted with the prompt "Restore Session?" Quirking an eyebrow Dean considered respecting his brother's priva… he couldn't even get the thought out without laughing. Hell yes, Restore Session! Let's see Sammy's dirty little secrets. Five bucks says he's into brunettes.

Dean's eyes widened in shock then quickly crinkled as he smiled with pride looking at his little brother's accomplishments. He knew Sam was smart, but… Wow. Economics, Philosophy, Interliberal Studies (whatever that is…), Political Science. A full course load, Dean noted several had asterisks next to them which he found out signified classes taken for honors. All A's. Dean chuckled to himself noting the one blemish on Sam's record. Women's studies… should have paid more attention to that talk I gave you. Dean stopped contemplating the fun he would have teasing his brother about that particular ineptitude when realization dawned on him… His little brother was considering giving all of this up to come back with him. Sam's one chance at normal, REAL normal, not the offbrand version Dean had been trying to peddle him since they were kids, was in jeopardy because Dean had come back and almost gotten his little brother killed.

The smile faded from his face only to be replaced by a deep frown as Dean weighed his options.

On the one hand he could get his brother back. Squabbles with Dad aside, Dean knew that they were stronger as a family. Hell, maybe he and Sammy could go off on their own. God knows Dad had left Dean to enough excruciatingly lonely hunts these past few months, and if Sam had been actively participating in this hunt instead of being told to wait in the car like he was 7 years old they probably would have cleared this spirit in half the time…

On the other hand, Sam wasn't just excelling here, he was dominating. Dean knew enough about Stanford to know it was tough. He'd done his homework, too, when Sam had left. Dean had checked GPAs and rankings to find out what Sammy was in for. Dean also made sure to check local police reports for crime rates and mysterious deaths, as is SOP for any hunter losing his brother. He wanted to make sure if Sam was going to be on his own he would at least be safe… well, as safe as anyone could be. And Sam could be safe here. Palo Alto didn't register a blip on the supernatural radar (well, not anymore now that I wasted Casper). Come to think of it, that was probably one of the reasons Sam had chosen it in the first place… Sammy could have a future here.

That was what decided it. Anyone who knew Dean Winchester, which in this world was all of two people, knew that family would always come first. When both barrels were empty and the beasty was headed towards Sam, Dean's body reacted before his brain has a chance to send a message from parietal lobe to muscle synapse. Now, just as in hunting, Dean was going to take one for team Winchester sacrificing his own desires and giving his family a chance to live. Before leaving the desk Dean reached into his back pocket and took out all the money he'd won hustling in Tucson. It wasn't much, only about five hundred bucks, it certainly wouldn't make up for what he was about to do to his brother, but Dean hoped it would keep his Sammy from eating Ramen 7 days a week. The money safely tucked beneath Sam's computer, Dean took a steadying breath and turned to leave the room.

XxXxX

Sam was sprawled across his bed looking wholly like someone who was thrown into a tree earlier that evening and couldn't care less.

"Deeann," was all he seemed able to get out. Apparently the time Dean had given him to reestablish his emotional boundaries wasn't enough. Dean wished not for the first time that night his brother was more coherent for the upcoming conversation…

"Hey kiddo, how's the ribs?"

"Sleepy" Not exactly what Dean was looking for, but at least the kid would be honest having lost any and all censoring abilities to the pain killers.

"I know you're tired Sammy, I just wanted to talk for a little bit. See how things're going here at school." Dean hoped his lie would stand up to the drug induced stupor that was evident in Sam's every action.

"Chrisssto"

"Very funny, smart ass." Enough meds to put down a rhino and his little brother was still mouthing off. God, what am I gonna do without this kid? "But seriously, you said you were thinking about leaving school. You saying there isn't anything here worth staying for?" Dean was more than partly hoping Sam would just say 'no' so he could package his little brother in the Impala and hit the road. Dean would finally get his missing piece of home back. However, he shut out that selfish part of himself looking expectantly at Sam now for the million dollar, life-altering answer.

"well, there is… this… girl" Sam's mumble was once again barely above a whisper articulated more by the blush emanating from his cheeks than anything else. Despite the gravity of the conversation Dean couldn't help grinning like an idiot. Sammy's got a girlfriend.

"What's her name?" Dean arched an eyebrow.

"…Jesssca"

"She cute?" Sam blushed further. The goofy grin on his face was the only answer Dean needed.

"She into older guys?" The grin vanished to be replaced by a scowl that verged on sulkiness. Sam seemed to sober at that, his eyes becoming visibly less cloudy.

"t's not funny, Dean." The pout became a scowl which quickly shifted inward, "not that it matters. Once she finds out bout my past… It's not like anyone could understand. Rule number one and all that bullshit. Dean, I don't think Stanford was right for me. I don't think normal is even possible anymore."

Dean was afraid of this. As much as he wanted his little brother back on the road with him. As much as he'd wanted to hear those exact words. As much as he missed the second pair of eyes, the focused researcher, the witty jabs that took his mind off of the hunt, as much as he missed his brother, Dean had made up his mind, and Sam wasn't making it easy. Dean let the muscles in his face slack trying to conceal the emotions threatening to surface and fell into the cold, calculated state he had been surviving on the past six months. Clenching his jaw until it hurt, Dean hoped Sam was incoherent enough not to notice the effort it was taking Dean to unleash what he was about to say.

Dean had never intentionally hurt Sam in his life. Even while sparring he had never pushed his advantage, always pulled his punches or made sure his submissions were gripping instead of crushing. Giving Sam away to Stanford the first time had been heartbreaking, but this time might take the few remaining shards of his heart and grind them to a fine powder some Hoodoo priest probably knew how to use in a few Godforsaken rituals… But Dean knew that when Sam was fully healed he would continue questioning his "normal" life and wonder if maybe he wasn't better off on the road. Dean held no delusions about Sam's feelings towards hunting. Even before the bouts with their dad had started, when they couldn't get there in time to save someone or had to choose the plan with the minimum body count the hollowed out look he found in Sam's eyes was devastating. Each blow breaking off another piece of Sammy. Dean's own eyes hardened as he looked down at his bedridden brother, "Sam, go back to school. We don't need you." Dean knew exactly where his little brother's gigantic brain would take that particular comment and he was counting on it. I don't need you.

It was a lie.

Dean had been lying almost continuously since he was four. Trust me, Sammy, broccoli tastes good… I got these bruises when I fell from a tree outside my house, officer... I'm with the coroner's office… I'm fine, Sam… Detective Hatfield, Kansas City PD… Don't worry, there's nothing to be scared of... After a certain age, Dean never really figured out when, Sam had learned to read Dean almost as well as he read those freakishly large books he preferred. If he'd been more coherent, maybe this wouldn't have worked; however, the crushed look on Sam's already pain-filled face told Dean that the harsh, hurtful, untrue words had hit home. Dean turned to leave so Sam could get some sleep. He probably have class tomorrow morning and Dean wasn't about to let the kid's grades start slipping.

"Wait!" The one syllable was choked with enough emotion that Dean felt his walls instantly began to crumble.

Game face. Game face. Game face... Bye, Sammy.

"What, Sam?" Dean used some of the anger he currently felt towards himself to add enough force behind his words to stifle Sam into silence. There would be no debating or talking now. That would only give Sam more of an opportunity to shake Dean's resolve further. He steeled himself for the finishing blow to his brother's psyche.

"No, don't even start. Look at yourself, Sammy. Laid up after the supernatural equivalent of Grumpier Old Men swatted you off his lawn." Another lie. That asshole was mean. "Face it, kid, this college stuff softened you too much." Sam was still at the top of his game. Dad would be proud. "I suggest you find yourself a pretty girl, get yourself a degree and some letters behind your name, buy yourself a white picket fence and forget all about your messed up past. Leave the hunting to the professionals." With that Dean turned and stormed out of the apartment imagining he didn't hear his name called again or first sob from his baby brother. As soon as he'd closed the door Dean let out a shaky breath, eyes going wide. What the fuck did I just do? Another stilted breath and the world stopped spinning long enough for Dean to find the elevator.

The reflective elevator door shot his glare back at him. How long does it take to get down 5 floors?

The short walk back to the Impala took too long. Too much time to think. Too much time to regret what he'd just done. For the first time in his life the Impala wasn't a refuge. Sitting in the worn leather seats didn't ease his troubled mind. Dean unconsciously looked to his right wishing he'd catch a glimpse of an unruly mop or brown hair. His eyes stung. He couldn't stop sniffing. Fucking allergies. Dean drove back to his motel room in silence knowing that not even the soothing tones of Metallica could break him out of this rapidly developing funk. The worst part was, he'd done this to himself. He'd pushed away one of the two people in the entire world that knew him, maybe the only person in the world that really knew him. A masochist at the best of times, huh, Dean.

Dean had gotten a room with two beds without even thinking. That hurt, too, especially when the motel receptionist asked when his friends would be arriving. The red rimmed glare he tossed at the girl had no force behind it.

He flopped down on the bed closest to the door and closed his eyes. He was exhausted physically, emotionally and every other kind of -ally there might be out there, but no matter how tired he was he couldn't get to sleep. He kept running the last, what could be the last ever, conversation with his brother in his head. It was times like these Dean needed Sam the most. The overwhelming oppression of the walls pushed Dean's demons to the surface of his consciousness. It was after the 40th time Dean was imagining the look on Sam's face as he crushed his brother's last vestiges of hero worship that Dean's cell phone vibrated in his pocket. After a nasty wolverine-hippo beast had almost taken his head off while his cell phone rocked out to Black Sabbath, he understood the importance of the vibrate function.

Dean wasn't ready to go round two with Sam just yet, but he checked the caller ID using the faint dawn light eeking through the hotel's curtains in case it was his dad giving him his next assignment. God, Dean would give his right arm to get a job on the other side of the country. He'd give even more to get his brother back, but he wasn't close to being able to go down that train of thought.

It was Sam. Dean let it go to voicemail and put the phone back on the wobbly nightstand. Not tonight. He wasn't ready. Will I ever be?

XxXxXxX

A week and a half later Dean sat at a table in Dublin, Ohio downing his… manyth beer. He told himself it was in celebration of his recent kill. The manbearpig hadn't seen it coming. Hearing the familiar beep of his cell phone, Dean squinted down at the ID with only minor drunken difficulties. Huh, I don't even remember hearing the call… It was his Dad. Apparently there was another goblin setting fires in Hopkinsville… Whatever. Before he could end the voicemail conversation the next message started up. The sound of his brother's voice perked his ears immediately. He'd stared at the phone working up the courage to listen to the message for more hours than he'd spent sleeping:

"I found the money under my computer, Dean. What am I, a freaking mercenary? 'Thanks for saving my life. Here's some cash for your troubles.' Did you ever plan on taking me back with you? You didn't, did you? All that fucking bullshit about standing up to dad" At this point Sam's breath hitched his next message uttered as a harsh whisper. "I trusted you." Dean caught the past tense. Sam's voice rose with anger as he made his painful decision. "Well, fuck you. I don't need hunting." Sam paused giving himself one last chance to back out, then proceeded in a rush," I don't need you, either. Next time a spirit's in Palo Alto, how bout I just send you the bill."

Dean closed his phone and considered calling his little brother. Considered throwing the phone at the wall. Considered jumping into the impala and driving until he found California. Turning back to the curvaceous bartender who no longer held the appeal she had seconds ago, Dean ordered another… anything and settled for oblivion.

XxXxX

My first fanfiction. WOO! I rock. I had a blast pulling this out of my head and forcefeeding it to my computer. Hope you liked it. Sorry for the lack of happy ending (if you want to feel better, you can watch the pilot and know that eventually they become brothers again). Sorry if you thought it was crap. Sorry for the extreme levels of angst. I wasn't planning on that when I first started the piece. I did take a couple liberties. Nobody ever said punching a ghostie with consecrated iron wouldn't make it dissipate... oh well. Also, Dean said he hadn't bothered Sam for 2 years and that would have been a year after this story would have taken place. Oh well, maybe I'll write another to solve that problem. Thanks for reading. Review if you want to.(it would make me happy, I guess)