16th August 2003
At first Dean had just been angry, and the rage had been like fire, flames of it coursing through him, consuming, flickering at the edges of his vision, smoke clouding all rational thought. Anger at Sam, his father, himself. The motel door had slammed in Sam's wake, and Dean stood, staring at it, hands clenched into shaking fists. It was several minutes before he was able to recover any semblance of control.
When he finally looked away, it was to find John slumped at the table, one hand pressed over his eyes, the other clenched around the base of a bottle of whiskey, which he raised to his lips as Dean watched, taking a long pull and setting it back down on the table none too gently.
"That's it?!" Dean exploded. His father removed his hand from his face, and gave Dean a tired look, the look of a man who has seen too much for his short years.
"You're just going to let him leave?" he continued when John failed to respond.
"I don't feel as though I actually have much say in the matter anymore, Dean," his father said quietly, almost resigned, and it sounded strange after the hours of yelling.
"Much say? You're his father, you shouldn't let him speak to you like that!"
"Like you're speaking to me now?" John fixed his son with a pointed glare.
Dean glowered back for a moment, biting back the first response that came to mind before breaking. "Screw this," he muttered, striding forwards and snatching the car keys from the table. John sighed heavily and picked up the whiskey again. Dean left without looking back, making sure to shut the door with more force than necessary.
Once in the car, another wave of anger caught him like a punch, and away from his father or brother, he let it bubble up in his throat, breaking out as a yell of frustration as he pounded the heels of his palms against the steering wheel. When it abated, he took a few moments to steady himself, resting his head against the steering wheel, taking a few deep breaths, breathing in the rich smell of the leather interior, the smell of home.
He caught up with Sam a few blocks up, and could still see the rage pinned inside him by the set of his shoulders, the length of his stride. He slowed up beside him, reaching across to wind the window down.
"Sam." His brother kept walking, but his shoulders seemed to relax a bit at Dean's voice, expecting his father's instead.
"Sam, get in the car. Let's talk about this," Dean reasoned, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.
Nothing.
"Sammy, please." His voice cracked on the last syllable, and he hoped Sam wouldn't notice it. His shoulders dropped though, and his pace slowed.
"There's nothing to talk about, Dean," he said stiffly. "I've got a full ride, and I'm not passing this opportunity up."
"And what will you tell your college people about me and Dad? And Mom? And why you never stayed at one school more than a month your entire life?"
"I won't. Why should I have to?"
"So you're just going to leave us? That's it?"
"Yup." He picked up his pace again.
"And that means nothing to you?" Dean demanded. Sam drew to a halt. Dean stopped the car entirely.
"Of course it means something, Dean, but it's never been what I wanted for myself!"
"You're selfish, you know that?"
"It's my life; I think I'm allowed to be once in a while."
Dean suddenly felt very tired. "Right, okay. Sure."
Sam set off again, and this was it. He could feel him slipping away from them with every step his brother took away from the parked car.
"And what about Mom?!" he called, grasping for anything he could use to stop his brother leaving. "All this is for her, Sam. Does that even mean anything to you anymore?"
Sam turned slowly, the tiredness Dean felt reflected in his eyes.
"She's dead, Dean."
29th September 2003
The anger was still there, over a month later, but it had dulled, a range of other emotions filling the spaces it had left. Concern, bitterness, hurt – though he was loath to admit it – and an overarching numbness had appeared over the weeks that followed Sam's leaving. Both Dean and his father's tempers had shortened considerably since, until one day John left Dean at their motel in Oregon for a few hours, only to return with a large black truck, parking it alongside the Impala. Dean had eyed the car with distaste, catching on to his father's intention.
"I'm not driving that thing," he stated plainly, considering the truck's mere presence next to the vintage Chevrolet to be akin to blasphemy.
"Well that's good, because I didn't buy it for you," John replied. Dean looked up at him in confusion. "The Impala's yours," he amended.
"Mine?" Dean asked incredulously, his eyes running over the car.
"Yup. I figured it was about time we travelled separately. You'll be able to do some of your own cases now."
"Yes sir," Dean nodded, trying to keep his eagerness out of his voice.
Since then they'd worked a couple of cases together, travelling separately, going their separate ways after each job only to meet up again at the scene of the next case. It seemed to suit them both just fine, for the most part, but Dean would find himself making crude comments out loud as he drove through the maze of endless American highways and backroads, and looking to his right, expecting his goofy smile to be met by a disapproving look from his brother or father, only to find empty space staring back at him. The smiles quickly faded.
It took until the last week of September for him to break. The bar had been relatively empty that night, and none of the women worth the effort. He'd stared at the bile coloured walls of that week's motel room for what seemed like hours before making his decision. He reached for his phone.
He picked up on the third ring.
"Hello?" There was noise in the background, music and laughter.
"Heya Sammy, just thought I'd check up on you," Dean said brightly, trying to keep any images from the last time he'd seen his brother from his mind.
"Erm, okay. Hey. Yeah things are great here. I'm really enjoying it..." Dean couldn't decide if Sam sounded distracted or awkward, or which he preferred.
"Picked up any hot chicks yet?"
"It's not really been a priority, but yeah I guess."
Dean chuckled, "That's my boy."
Sam coughed lightly, and the sound crackled statically through the receiver. "Is there any other reason you called?"
"Uh, no. No."
"Okay. Well, uh, I'd better go. I'll see you around, Dean." The line went dead. Dean shut the phone and returned to staring at the patterns of damp on the wall, feeling worse than he had done before.
The next time he called, a couple of weeks later, Sam didn't pick up.
January 1st 2004
Dean spent New Year's in an unfamiliar bed, and didn't remember much in the morning.
March 6th 2004
It was just because he was passing through, he told himself. He parked a few streets away from the main reception of Stanford University, hoping Sam would have no reason to come over to this part of the University on a Saturday.
"Excuse me, would you be able to tell me where Sam Winchester is staying?" The receptionist looked stern, and Dean was torn between turning the charm on full blast, or turning it off altogether and going for mere politeness. However, Sam had always been better at the latter, and Dean found a flirtatious smile tugging at his lips of its own accord.
The receptionist assessed him for a moment, taking in the grease under his fingernails in the stench of petrol and flames that clung to his leather jacket. "What's your name, sir?" she asked eventually, and eyebrow raised sceptically at him.
"Dean Winchester. I'm his brother."
"Surely you should know of his housing then, Dean."
"Well, you see, I haven't actually visited him yet. He's in his first year, see, and we wanted him to get settled in by himself. I thought I'd surprise him though, and it would give the game away if I called him to ask where he's living."
The woman tutted in a somewhat impatient way, but leant over to tap something into her computer, then scribbled something down on a piece of paper, sliding over the desktop to Dean. "There you go."
"Thank you." Dean threw her a wink for good measure before leaving, checking the street outside before jogging down the steps and back to his car.
He waited until nightfall to drive over to Sam's dorms, parking the car in the shadow of another building, switching the headlamps off. He wasn't sure how long he'd have to wait, or even if he'd see Sam at all, but his pride wouldn't let him go inside, knock on the door of room 216, see his brother face to face for the first time in nearly seven months. This would have to do.
It was 9:30pm by the time anything happened. Dean had been leant back in the driver's seat, humming along to a Metallica tape, fingers drumming against the steering wheel when the front door of the dorm building had opened, spilling light out onto the pavement. Dean sat up suddenly, heart leaping into his throat as a figure appeared, but a second later dropping in disappointment as he realised the silhouette was female. He was ready to glance away again when a second figure appeared in the doorway. Male. Tall. Somewhat gawky. A car drove past, its headlamps illuminating the man's face.
It was. It was him. Dean saw the girl turn, a few metres down the road from Sam, and hold her hand out to him. Sam jogged a few steps to catch up with her, taking her hand and tugging her into him slightly and planting a kiss on her lips. Dean almost smiled. Maybe this was the girl Sam had mentioned on the phone last September. He seemed happy though. And that didn't seem fair. Sam got the girl, and he got the freedom, and Dean had an absentee brother and a father who called him occasionally to let him know of jobs he could be doing. Sighing, he started the engine and turned the car around, putting his brother and his brother's new, happier life in his rearview mirror. He could have sworn, just before he turned the corner, he saw Sam glance at the retreating vehicle, confusion etched on his face.
July 12th 2004
"Come on, Dad, it's been nearly a year! How long are we going to keep this charade up, eh? Are we really just going to pretend like he doesn't exist? He doesn't belong at college, he belongs here, with us!" Dean raged. Behind him, flames rose up from the grave they had just dug, but all thoughts of a quick escape had left his mind when the issue of Sam had somehow come up.
"Because as far as he's concerned, he doesn't belong here with us, Dean! To him, his life is getting a job, a wife, a house. And that life? We're not in it! Not you, not me, not fucking demons. Normal, apple pie, so very Sam."
"And you're just going to let him have it? He's part of this family, Dad, he can't just ditch it!"
"He can and he has, and as far as I'm concerned, yes, he can have that life."
Dean drew to a sudden halt. "Wait, so after that huge blowout and you trying to stop him leaving you're just... fine with it?"
"Of course I'm not fine with it! We've got ourselves in enough messes that anything could go after him in revenge and he would have no way of protecting himself, but we're just going to have to deal with it."
"Deal with it?!"
"I'm doing what I can, Dean. I stop by and check on him whenever I'm in the area."
"And what if something happens when you're not there, Dad? How are we even supposed to know?"
"I've got friends. They're keeping an eye on him."
They'd reached their cars, and Dean slumped down heavily on the bonnet of the Impala. "So that's it? He's just... gone?"
"Looks like it. Maybe we'll get a wedding invite." John walked over to the truck, opening the door.
Dean scoffed, walking back round to the driver's side of the car.
"I'll see you around, kiddo." John nodded in his direction and climbed in, slamming the door a little too loudly for the still night. Dean watched his tail lights disappear into the trees for a few moments. Sam wasn't coming back. Something in Dean's chest seemed to tear open wide, flooded by an overwhelming emptiness at knowing that Sam didn't want him anymore. Sam didn't need him. His one job for twenty years, his only concern, finished.
The nearest bar was three miles away, and it was sunrise before Dean made it back to the motel room.
September 17th 2004
She was beautiful, intelligent, feisty, and downright out of Dean's league, even he knew that. That didn't stop him from chasing her though. He and his father were staying in town for a couple of weeks working a job, and she was a journalist in the area. A funny, sexy journalist...
It took eight days to get her to agree to go on a date with him, and Dean enjoyed the chase, bored of months of easy pickups. Still, eight days was a long time for his ego.
He took her out the night after they finished the case, and when he saw his father the next morning, John gave him a knowing look at Dean's grin, and told him he'd call if anything serious came up and he needed backup.
Cassie almost made Dean forget about Sam, his father, his mother, hunting. He felt more peaceful than he had in a long time, perhaps ever, and sometimes when he looked at her, he would get a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach that he didn't want to name.
The call finally came after a couple of months though, as expected. So he told her. Everything. In a moment of blind panic and not wanting to let go, he told her his biggest kept secret.
She slammed the door, and he didn't look back.
When he met up with John in Colorado, he didn't say a word on the matter, and John didn't ask questions.
December 25th 2004
Dean reached for the amulet heavy around his neck, and for the first time wondered if he'd ever see Sammy again.
May 9th 2005
It was better this way, he told himself. Easier. He didn't have to watch Sam's back all the time. Didn't have to endure his disapproving looks whenever he stumbled into their motel after a night of blatant drinking and sex. There was no one to whine about his music, or walk in on him watching some pay per view. He was definitely glad to be free of those aspects of his life with Sam around. But man did he hate doing all the research himself. That is, when Bobby or Caleb or Pastor Jim couldn't do it for him.
October 28st 2005
Three weeks with no word from John, and Dean was out of his mind. But his pride was almost too much to swallow. Sam had left, and he had practically begged him not to, but here he was again, on his little brother's doorstep, about to do it all over again. And Dean wasn't one to beg.
But at least Sammy was okay. Dean had once again sat outside for hours, waiting for a glimpse of his brother to show that he, at least, was okay. And he was. And instantly a weight had lifted off Dean's chest that perhaps he hadn't realised he was there, but since he had realised that John was missing it had been like he had been holding his breath until he knew that his brother was safe.
But that was just the first reason why Dean was here, and the easier reason. It was three in the morning now, October 29th. In three days it would be the anniversary of his mom's death, Dean noted. Weird how all these things were happening around the same time. He decided he no longer liked the autumn. Sam and his girlfriend had returned a couple of hours ago, from some halloween party, he had assumed by the girlfriend's outfit. Sam remained in normal clothing. Dean was unsurprised. Now the light to their bedroom was off, with no signs of life.
The lock was picked worryingly easily. Dean wasn't really one for knocking and pleasantries.
It wasn't the stealthiest of entries, he had to admit. Dean soon rediscovered that shins were, in fact, created specifically for the purpose of finding furniture in dark rooms. That would get Sammy out of bed, at least.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, he counted down the seconds to the first impact, hoping that the two years away from the job wouldn't have changed Sammy's attitude to intruders: attack first, talk later. Four, three two- Something grabbed him by the back, swinging him around. Quick off the draw there, Sammy.
It took Dean a pitiful sixteen seconds to floor Sam, but it took far less time than he had predicted to persuade his brother to come with him just this once. From all he could have guessed at before, Sam didn't give a damn what happened to their father. Maybe that was still the case, and Sam just hated to see Dean beg as much as Dean hated doing it. He hoped it wasn't that.
And now, with Sammy beside him in the impala for the first time in years, asleep with his head against the window and his endless legs stretched out beneath the dashboard, Dean could almost imagine that the time the separated them had never even happened.