Author's Notes: Anyone that was previously following this story, seeing as I had abandoned it before, I decided to change it slightly when I came back to it. You probably won't be able to tell that there's a difference, but I thought I should mention it anyway.

CHAPTER 1

Dean knew that he shouldn't be driving at this time, especially not at 80 miles per hour on what is normally a highly populated road, but he had to. He had to get away, run away as far and as fast as he possibly could, because now is not the time to be careful and cautious; he could be smart and perceptive some other time, but right now is the time to be angry; it's the time to be horrified and distraught, and reckless. So now, he could drive as fast as he wanted; he could disregard every stop sign and red light if he so pleased to, because for what he had been through, he deserved to do it. He fucking deserved it.

The only problem with a long journey though is that you have too much time to think, too much time to remember and reflect. No matter how hard he tried he really could not stop thinking about it, thinking about them; Lisa - the woman he loved -who he thought had loved him back- and some other man, some other tall, handsome, dark haired man with fair skin, moaning and writhing, grunting in a way that, had the situation been different, Dean probably would've found it attractive; he would have found him attractive. He couldn't stop thinking about this man with Lisa in his bed - in his bed, with his Lisa, where he should be the one with her; the one holding, and caressing her. He should have been the one making love to her; not some assbutt he had never met before.

He could not help thinking that he had done something wrong; that this was his entire fault. That he had driven her into the arms of another man. There was no other explanation for it; it was very probable that it was his entire fault, because if Dean was perfectly honest, he was not always the most faithful boyfriend. He would often take drugs, or drink too much alcohol, and when he got drunk at parties, or even just down the pub, he could not control himself; he would think up the cheesiest pick up line he could before successfully using it to strike a conversation with any girl, and occasional guy, that he found attractive. It was just what he did.

For a second, he thought that he could not blame Lisa for doing what she did, but there was a difference. The difference between what he did while intoxicated, and unaware of his actions and what he stumbled across in his bedroom earlier that day where both participants seemed fully aware and able to appreciate the situation, was that he would never take it any farther than a kiss; he never wanted to take it any further, he wouldn't dream of being with anyone other than Lisa. He had always thought that Lisa was the one, ever since they met; he just momentarily forgot that when he drank too much. So, her actions may not be justified by his, but it was still very likely that this was his entire fault.

That thought did not sit well with him though; he wanted to be angry. He wanted to be livid with Lisa for cheating on him, but he couldn't be. He felt guilty; not just for messing around with other people occasionally, but he thought that it was wrong of him to have just left. He didn't pack any of his things, he never said anything, and he just walked out; Lisa probably never even noticed that he had been there. She was too 'busy' at the time, but she would probably be worried now, wondering where Dean was; why he was not home yet. And that made Dean feel guilty.

Not guilty enough to turn back though. He tried hopelessly to forget about it for the rest of the journey; to just sit, and drive, and not have to worry about anything else, but he couldn't. Sam lived too far away; he would not be there for at least another two hours; he had no chance of keeping his mind off it for that long. Every time he tried to stop thinking about it, it would become clearer, bolder, and more vivid in his mind than ever before. Dean wished that it would go away, but it wouldn't; it was like an instant replay that he could never switch off.

Dean wished that he could just magically appear in Sammy's apartment that very second so that he could just talk with him, tell him everything, and then forget about the whole situation; forget about Lisa, but he knew that was impossible; as much as Dean wished that there was, there is no such thing as magic. Well...at least not that he knew of; 'it would be a nice idea though' he thought. And it would especially be useful for the situation he was in right now, but even if magic did exist, he definitely did not have magical powers and he did not know anyone else who did, so he would have to just sit, drive and wait it out (like any other non-supernatural being) to get to his brother's house.

He was not surprised that he still went to his brother for help at the age of 26. As much as Dean wished that he could handle everything by himself, he always ran to his little brother for advice; Sammy was always very good at cheering Dean up; whenever he missed his mom, Sam was always there to support him, when someone broke his heart in High School, Sammy would bring him Apple pie, and persuade him to just 'forget about them', and Dean would instantly be happier, because he knew that no matter how many people left him, or dumped him, like he was a piece of rubbish, his brother would always be there for him; Sammy always knew how to bring a smile to his face. That is why Sam was the first person Dean thought of when he decided that he had to get away from home; away from Lisa.

Dean feared though that a simple slice of Apple pie and a considerate brother to listen to his pain-filled ramblings would not be enough. He had been with Lisa for well over three years, and he thought they were in love, and that is a lot to just forget about. He would probably have to substitute the pie for a very large bottle of Whiskey. Yes. Getting drunk, forgetting all his problems, and leaving them behind is definitely what he needs right now. If only Sammy didn't live so far away.

Hoping that it would ease the suffering, he stuck a cassette into the tape deck, and sang along quietly as he picked up the speed of his '67 Chevy Impala to 90 miles an hour, and sped down the long, lonely highway.