A/N: I figured I'd take a shot at the night Sam left for Stanford. My apologies to John-I've painted him in a harsher light than I think he deserves, but this story isn't about him. It's all about the brotherly love and my boys. (And yes, I know they don't actually belong to me, but I couldn't love them any more if they did.)

Sam slammed the door of their motel room behind him, his father's final words ringing in his ears. If you walk out that door, don't you ever come back! How could he do that? What did he have against Sam just wanting to be normal?! Fine, then. If he didn't want him there, then Sam certainly wasn't going to stay. He hated hunting anyway. The training and the rituals and the secrecy, lying to everyone and always moving around. His father's orders and bossing him around like a drill sergeant. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time his dad had acted like a dad and not the commander of his own private army. That morning at his graduation, he'd been so shocked to see his dad out in the audience, they'd had to call his name twice before he got to his feet. Sam snorted disdainfully. That was everything wrong with this family right there. What normal person was surprised when a parent showed up for a major life event?

Sam hitched his duffel bag up on his shoulder—the one he'd packed that afternoon in the stony silence he knew would precede the yelling—and huffed out into the parking lot. He was halfway to the road before he realized Dean was calling his name.

"Sam!"

His feet stopped before his brain decided it wanted to. He knew Dean was here to talk him back inside, and he wasn't going to listen, not this time. Dad had pushed him too far, and the letter in his jacket pocket was a chance to finally, finally, get out. But he couldn't ignore his brother, either. He turned around.

"Get in the car, Sam," Dean said, nodding back at the Impala.

"What?" That wasn't at all what Sam had been expecting to hear.

"Get in the car," Dean said again. His voice was gentler this time, but his face was carefully neutral. Sam had no idea what he was thinking. After a moment he nodded. As he slid into the passenger seat, he kept his duffel in his lap—he was still going, but he would hear Dean out. He figured he owed his brother that much. To his surprise, Dean didn't get in. "Wait for me a minute, okay?" he asked, tapping a hand on top of the car. Sam nodded again.

Dean turned and walked back into the motel room. He slammed the door behind him so hard it bounced back open again—the only clue Sam got that Dean was feeling, well, anything. Was he really that angry at Sam for wanting to leave? His dad being angry was one thing (it's not like Sam wasn't used to being a disappointment), but if he'd made Dean that mad…a knot of doubt settled into his stomach.

Raised voices coming through the open door and car window pricked his ears up, jolting him back to the moment.

"What the hell, Dad?!" Dean yelled. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"What's wrong with me?" his dad demanded. "I'm not the one leaving! I'm not the one betraying our family!"

"What, you think I want Sam to leave?" Dean shot back. "I want him to stay just as much as you do, but 'betraying', Dad, really? He's going to college, it's not like he's signing up for the demons' team!" Sam couldn't help a small smile at Dean's comparison, though he knew in his dad's eyes, that's what he might as well be doing.

"And you know what?" Dean went on. "Most people, if their son gets a full ride scholarship, they congratulate them, not tell them they never want to see them again!"

"It's not safe out there, Dean," his dad snapped. "He's so caught up in these stupid ideas of his—I was trying to make him see reason."

Dean snorted. Sam could practically see him rolling his eyes. "Yeah. 'Cause making sure someone never comes near you—that's a great way to keep an eye on them."

"You watch your tone," John said, his voice dropping into a dangerous calm that made Sam's shoulders tense, even out in the car. "From day one, I have taught you boys that family is everything. Sam is turning his back on that. He's turning his back on us. And if being 'normal' is more important to him than us, then we're done. We're letting him go."

Sam swallowed back a lump in his throat. His father's words stung just as much second-hand. He didn't hate his family, honestly he didn't. There just had to be more to life than hunting. But whatever Dean's intentions had been in standing up for him, he knew this was where he would cave. He knew a direct order when he heard one, and while he had no problem arguing with Dad, Dean always followed his orders.

"Maybe Sam wouldn't be trying so hard to run away if you didn't push him so hard," Dean said, his voice dropping to a calm to match his father's. Sam blinked, looking up as if he could see through the wall of the room. Dean was…still defending him?

"I wouldn't have to push him so hard if he'd just do what he was told the first time," John retorted, a warning in his voice for Dean to drop the subject.

"Did you ever think of switching up your methods? The drill sergeant thing doesn't work on everyone, you know." A stunned silence followed, and Sam was sure those words had shocked their dad as much as they had him.

"I told you to watch your tone, boy," John said at last, almost hissing now. Sam was straining to hear now, knowing that his dad had crossed the room to face down his newly defiant son. "You will drop this, and you will drop it now. He's my kid, and I will treat him however I see fit, you understand?"

A short silence followed. "He's not your kid," Dean said at last.

"Excuse me?" John demanded, and if Sam had thought his voice was dangerous before…

"I said he's not your kid," Dean repeated, a little stronger this time. "He hasn't been your kid since he was six months old." His voice was growing stronger with each word, and Sam could picture him stepping towards his father, maybe even jabbing a finger in his face for emphasis. Where was this coming from?

"I carried him out of that fire," Dean said, slowly, steadily. "When he would wake up crying at night, I was the one to get up to feed him. I would put him to bed at night and get him dressed in the morning. I taught him how to walk and talk—do you even know what his first word was? I played with him, I took care of him when he was sick. I taught him how to read. I took him to school every day, I handled the bullies, I helped him with his homework. I was there when he had nightmares or a bad day at school. I showed him how to talk to girls, and how to drive." Dean's voice was picking up speed and volume with each sentence now. "And where were you? You weren't there when he started walking—hell, Bobby saw that before you did! The one time you let us stay somewhere long enough for him to be in a school play, you didn't show for that. He was in the hospital for a week after his appendix was out, and you left a freaking voicemail. Hell, you wouldn't have been there for his graduation this morning if I hadn't dragged you! You were the one who taught him how to be a soldier, but I'm the one who raised him! I was there every time you weren't! So, yeah, he may be your son, but he is my kid." Dean took a deep breath. "And if my kid wants to go to college, then I'm going to let him."

In the quiet that followed, Sam let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and wiped hastily at his watery eyes. They'd never articulated it before—Sam may have never even consciously thought it before—but Dean really had been the one to raise him. He was the one Sam could count on—big brother and parent and infinitely more, and if he wanted to say that Sam was his kid…well, it didn't rankle, as Sam would have thought. It actually seemed to ease something into place.

The front door of their room slammed once more, and Sam rubbed at his eyes again, pulling his face into an expression he hoped would pass for normal. He was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to have heard any of that.

The driver's door wrenched open and the engine was roaring to life before Dean had time to slam the door shut all of the way. "Where are we going?" Sam asked carefully, once it was clear Dean wasn't going to say anything.

"Bus station," Dean answered curtly. He glanced over at Sam, raising an eyebrow at the puzzlement on his face. "What, you wanted to walk to California?"

Sam opened and closed his mouth, at a loss for what to say. Several streets rolled by in silence. "You don't want me to go, do you?" he said at last. Even if Dean hadn't said it to their dad, Sam would have known anyway.

Dean gave him a long look that was hard to read. "Of course I don't want you to go, Sammy," he finally said.

Sam sighed. Dean was just as much a hunter as their dad was, felt just as strongly about their family. He was just…better at expressing it than John. He may have defended him to their dad, but did he really feel like Sam was betraying them too?

"But it's not because of any of that crap Dad said," Dean went on, catching Sam by surprise for a moment before he remembered that everything Dad had said to Dean a few minutes ago, he'd yelled at Sam in the fight before that. "I just…" He trailed off.

"What?"

"Never mind," Dean said. There were so few windows of real openness with Dean anymore, and Sam sensed that whatever had led him to open this one up was starting to fade. He couldn't let it go, though. Not yet.

"Dean, what?"

Dean looked at him again. "I'm just gonna miss you, man."

Sam swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. He'd been looking forward to leaving, so excited to be free of their dad, he hadn't had time to stop and think about Dean. California suddenly seemed a lot less inviting. "Dean…"

"Uh-uh," Dean cut him off. "I know what you're thinking, so stop it. I'm not trying to guilt you into staying, and I sure as hell don't want you staying out of pity or whatever." Sam blinked. Dean had been able to read him like a book for eighteen years—it shouldn't still be surprising him. "Honestly, I don't get why the whole college thing is so important to you, but I do get that it is." He rolled his shoulders, starting to get uncomfortable with the emotional direction the conversation was taking, but plowing on. "And that's enough for me to be okay with you doing this."

Sam looked up. "Really?" he asked, the lump loosening in his throat.

"Really," Dean confirmed. "And you know, if you're giving this normal thing a shot, you picked a good place for it. Cali, sun, beaches…girls in bikinis." He waggled an eyebrow suggestively and Sam laughed. He would never have asked for it, but he'd been craving Dean's blessing.

"You'll have to come check it out sometime," Sam said, knowing Dean would pick up the invitation.

"Maybe I will," Dean replied.

They pulled into the station then, and the next few minutes were busy with gathering things and buying tickets. The next bus left in fifteen minutes.

"Hey, um," Dean said with a cough. "I got you something." He held out a shoe box he'd pulled from the back seat. "You know, graduation and all."

"You got me a graduation present?" Sam asked, taking the box carefully.

"Well, yeah," Dean scoffed. "It's not every day your little brother graduates high school. Just 'cause I didn't do it doesn't mean I don't know it's a big deal. Besides, top of the class and a full-ride scholarship?" He cuffed Sam's shoulder. "You did good, kid."

Sam smiled and ducked his head, starting to blush and hiding it by pulling the lid off the box. On top was a small metal cross, about five inches long. The weight of it in his hand told him it was iron, no doubt consecrated. It was covered with an intricate pattern of runes and sigils, carved with every attention to detail. He looked up to see Dean awaiting his reaction.

"I made that for you," Dean said with a nod at the cross, probably not as off-handedly as he intended.

Sam's eyes widened. "You made this?" He looked back down at it. It was beautiful.

Dean shrugged, trying for casualness. "I know you can take care of yourself, but I figure a little extra warding never hurt anybody."

"Dean, it's great. How long did it take you to make this?"

Dean relaxed, trying not to show how pleased he was that Sam liked it. "Oh, I don't know. Been working on it the shop for a while, when no one was around to complain about me using the tools for personal reasons," he smirked.

That explained why Dean had been staying late at work. "Dean, I love it," Sam said, hoping his brother understood how much he meant it.

"There's more in there," Dean said with a nod at the box, clearly fearing an emotional scene.

Sam unfolded the thick black material that had been nestled under the cross. "An old hoodie?"

"My old hoodie," Dean corrected. "You've been stealing it since you were fourteen. I figure if you need it that bad, I can get a new one."

Sam fingered the worn material gently. Sometimes he forgot that underneath the guns and the gruff leather exterior, Dean was truly a deeply thoughtful person. The cross was both protection and a reminder that Dean thought his brother was worth working hard for, and the hoodie (which, for all Dean's bluster, was his favorite) was his way of sending a piece of himself to Stanford to keep Sam from being alone. "Thanks, Dean," he said softly.

"So," Dean said. "College. You got everything you need in there?" he asked with a nod at Sam's duffel.

Sam nodded.

"Knives?"

"Yes, Dean."

"Salt?"

"Yes, Dean."

"Clean underwear?"

"Yes, Dean."

Dean nodded. "Listen, Sam," he began, looking down. "Just because you're going…Don't stay away, okay?"

Sam swallowed hard. "Dean, Dad said—"

"Dad said," Dean cut him off. "Not me. You want to stay away from Dad for a while, that's fine, I get it. But you can still call me. You wanna talk about a girl, find a ghost in your dorm or just miss the sound of your awesome big brother's voice," he smirked. "You call. And if you need me for anything—anything—I'll get out there. You got it?"

Sam nodded, suddenly not trusting his voice.

"Now get going before they leave without you," Dean said, giving him a shove towards the bus.

Sam nodded again. "Be careful, Dean," he said.

"You too, Sammy."

He made his way onto the half-empty bus and deposited his bag and Dean's box into a seat. Then before he could think about it, he'd flown back out of the bus and thrown his arms around Dean's neck. "I'm gonna miss you too, Dean," he said thickly into his brother's shoulder.

Dean's arms held him tightly, one hand threaded up protectively into Sam's hair. "I know, kiddo, I know," he said gently, correctly reading the unspoken I'm sorry for leaving/I'm scared of doing this on my own/I love you tacked on to the end. "You're gonna be okay." He gripped him even tighter, then held him back at arm's length. "I'm proud of you," he said, reaching up a hand to ruffle Sam's hair.

Sam automatically reached up to smooth it back into place. He couldn't help but smile—he usually knew what Dean was feeling, but hearing it for a change was nice.

"Call me when you get there, let me know you made it okay," Dean said, and this time Sam didn't need the words to hear I love you too, little brother.

The bus's engine roared to life, and Sam quickly hugged Dean one more time and rushed up the steps before the doors closed. He sat pressed against the window, eyes on his brother as the bus pulled out of the lot and onto the road. He imagined he could hear the roar of the Impala starting up and heading off the other way. A lump rose up in his throat and he swallowed it down, determined not to start crying on a bus full of strangers. He pulled Dean's hoodie out and slipped it over his head, instinctively comforted by the lingering smell of gunpowder and his brother's aftershave. It was still kind of big on him, as it was every time he 'borrowed' it, and he suddenly felt like a kid dressing up in his dad's clothes. He smiled to himself—it wasn't really too far off, was it? "Thanks, Dean," he whispered, leaning back and nestling into the hoodie as he closed his eyes.