Dean stumbles back into the motel room a little past two in the morning, bleary and aching and still drunk. The small desk lamp is on and Sam's passed out in a chair beside it, arms crossed over his chest and lines of worry creased into his face even in sleep. He starts awake when Dean opens the door; hand going for the gun sitting on the desk and used to be that would have made Dean proud but now it just makes him sad. His eyebrows crease as he looks Dean over, taking in the fresh bruises on his face and the blood staining the front of his shirt.

"Jesus," he says, frustration and concern all wrapped up in one in a way that only Sam can manage. "What the hell happened Dean?"

Dean shrugs, grins till he tastes salt in his mouth.

"Guess the folks around here aren't a fan of my particular brand of charm. I'm fine though."

Sam sighs, standing with one hand on his hip and the other rubbing at his forehead looking for all the world like an aggrieved parent confronting their kid who'd snuck out to go partying. Dean smirks at the thought. And then doesn't.

"I was worried, you said you were just going to grab dinner but then you didn't come back and I tried calling but you didn't pick up and I thought…"

He trails off there, but Dean knows how the sentence was going to end. He sighs, and even though looking at his brother right now feels like sticking a knife in his stomach and twisting he does it anyway, holds his gaze.

"Hey, Sammy, I'm fine." He repeats, as gentle as he can manage. "I promise. It was just a couple stupid college kids who drank too much all right. Seriously, you should see the other guy."

He cracks a smile at the last bit, holding up his bruised knuckles and wiggling his fingers. Sam looks like he wants to say something, eyebrows still creased and worried but Dean doesn't let him because he thinks right now any more kindness might undo him.

"Look, it's late and I'm wiped. You can lecture me about it in the morning okay."

He doesn't wait for a response, just stumbles over to his bed, trailing pieces of clothing as he goes. He can feel Sam's silent judgment radiating off him in waves as he wrangles the heavy covers over himself, sinking into the under stuffed mattress with a groan. He doesn't fall asleep for a long time though. Instead he lies in bed and listens to Sam move around for a bit, switching off the lights and pulling off his clothes. Listens to the rustle of sheets as Sam gets into his own bed, listens as his breathing slows and deepens, settling into the gentle rhythm of sleep.

Eventually, he slips away to the even in and out of his brothers breath and if he dreams he doesn't remember it.

The next morning he's woken by the sun streaming through the motel window and the sound of an engine revving in the parking lot outside. He groans, lifting a hand to shield his tender eyes from the light, squinting against the pounding that echoes against the back of his skull. His mouth tastes like stale whiskey and regret and he runs his tongue over dry lips. His nose is sore and tender to the touch, and when he swallows he can taste blood. Rolling over he blinks the sleep out of his eyes and looks at the cheap alarm clock sitting on the bed stand. The blinking red letters spell out 9:27 AM. Sam let him sleep in then, which is unusual for his brother. Normally Sam's the one dragging him out of bed at ungodly hours in the morning with more energy then anyone should reasonably have at that time of day. Maybe he's taking pity on him for once, which all things considering he thinks he deserves.

Glancing at his brother's bed he finds it empty and already made, neat and tidy. He rolls his eyes at that and then immediately regrets the action, head spinning wildly. Propping himself up on an elbow he scans the rest of the room and finds it just as empty as the bed. Something that feels a lot like fear starts to bloom in his stomach but he ignores it. Sam's probably just in the bathroom, he's probably going to walk out any second and start lecturing Dean about communication and trust and all that girly shit. A few minutes pass though and Sam doesn't emerge, and he can't hear any sign of his brother either. The fear starts to grow, clawing it's way into his chest and up his throat, and he gives up on trying to tame it. Pushing off the covers he swings his feet onto carpeted floor, calling out as he does.

"Sammy?"

The word echoes against the cramped walls, sounding small and tentative in the emptiness. There's no reply. He stands; walking quickly over to the bathroom door, nearly tripping over his jeans abandoned on the floor from the night before, and shoves it open without knocking. The room is devoid of any sign of Sam. He steps back, pulling it shut and running a jittery hand through his hair.

He's being ridiculous, he knows that, because Sam wouldn't just leave like this, without even saying goodbye. For all that they bicker and squabble they still care about each other, it's just what brothers do. Sam wouldn't… but Sam did, a small bitter voice in the back of his head whispers, Sam left you then with nothing but a note on a pillow and a promise to call once he got settled at Stanford. He swallows hard, shoving the thought away. That was a long time ago, a lifetime ago it feels like now, and so much has changed since then. Things are different now; he and Sam are different now.

Still, he calls Sam, twice, just in case. He gets voicemail straightaway both times, and each time he feels his stomach sink a little farther. He ends up pacing up and down the length of the small room, heart hammering uncomfortably in his chest and his mouth dry as bone as the minutes tick by.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when the door creaks open, spinning wildly, his hand reaching for a knife that isn't there. Sam's standing in the doorway, one hand on the handle and the other holding a grease stained paper bag and a cardboard tray of coffee. Dean nearly sags in relief at the sight, heart slipping out his mouth and back into his chest.

"Where the hell were you? I called! Twice!"

He's too relieved to be properly angry though, and he's aware of how much he sounds like Sam did when he stumbled in last night. He tries not to think about the irony there. Sam raises his eyebrows, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

"I was just getting breakfast man, chill. Thought you'd want the extra sleep. And my phone was dead."

He says, setting the coffee and bag down on the table. And then, giving Dean an appraising look,

"You look like crap, Dean."

Dean's throat tightens and he turns away, trying to cover how his voice wavers when he replies.

"Yeah, well, good morning to you too dickhead."

Later, over cheap bitter coffee and oily breakfast sandwiches from a cafe a few blocks down (and really that's just another sign that's something up because Sam is always the one going on about how a heart attack's going to get him before the job does if he doesn't eat something that's not fifty percent grease) Dean finally broaches the topic he's been trying not to think about.

"So," he says between bites, "When do you think you're heading back to California?"

He tries to sound casual, like he couldn't care less what the answer is. He's not sure how well he succeeds. Sam sighs, wiping his hands off on a paper napkin.

"Um, today, actually."

Dean swallows a chunk of English muffin and cheese, setting down his own sandwich.

"Oh. That's soon."

Sam shrugs, fiddling a little nervously with the lid of his coffee cup, snapping it on and off again repetitively. Dean watches him, the greasy food suddenly sitting heavy in his stomach like a rock.

"Yeah I know. I just… I figured sooner is better then later right? If I'm lucky I'll be able to enroll before the next semester starts."

Dean nods, clears his throat.

"Yeah. Of course. Well, I'll give you a ride down then I guess."

Sam shakes his head, bangs flying back and forth across his forehead in a way that would have been comical in any situation other then this but now just feels vaguely tragic.

"It's fine, you don't have too. If you just drop me off in Medford I can take a Greyhound."

"Aw come on, it'll be fun. Our last family road trip." Dean jokes lamely, trying to smile. "Anyways, I'm headin' that way to get to Arizona so I might as well."

Sam watches him carefully for a second and Dean watches back. Finally he shrugs.

"Alright, if you're sure."

Dean rolls his eyes, standing and wiping the crumbs off of his lap, shoves the last of his breakfast in his mouth.

"Of course I'm sure. Think I would have offered if I wasn't?"

He says, around the lump of food in his mouth. Sam laughs at that, finally smiling. He stands too, shaking his head.

"Yeah, I guess not."

The drive to Palo Alto's about seven hours. Seven hours and then Sam's gone, off to his apple pie life and his old friends, off to be safe and comfortable and happy. Seven hours till the future Dean had built for himself crumbles away. It's the longest and the shortest drive of Dean's life.

There are a thousand things Dean wants to say to him: I'm sorry, I love you, I'm proud of you, I forgive you. None of them come out though, stuck in his throat like glue. Instead they chat about stupid everyday things, which Zeppelin song's the best, whether or not the pretty blonde schoolteacher back in Ohio had wanted to bang Dean or not (Dean says yes, Sam says no). They don't talk about dad, or the job, or what's going to happen now that Sam's leaving, or anything important really.

Maybe that's for the better though. Maybe it's best that Dean remembers Sam this way, as the little moments in between the chaos and the violence and the hunts. The moments where they could just be two brothers, driving down the sunny California coast with the wind in their hair and rock music playing a little too loud out the open window and their whole future stretched out in front of them on the interstate. It's a nice thought, but it hurts a little too much so Dean locks it away with all the other dreams that aren't coming true.

They stop in Sacramento for lunch, grabbing burgers at a fast food joint. Dean picks at his, pretending to eat it and then sliding the thing into the trash when Sam isn't looking. When they pull back onto the highway Sam gives the dashboard a funny glance.

"What?"

"Dude, the speed limit's seventy."

Dean glances at him, confused.

"Yeah, I know. So?"

Sam shrugs.

"You're going seventy."

Dean glances down at the speedometer and sure enough the needles hovering at just above seventy-one. He frowns at, glances back to the road.

"Okay, so I'm going the speed limit? What's the big deal?"

Sam gives him an incredulous look, laughing a little.

"What's the big deal? Dean, I've literally never seen you go the speed limit before in my life. You get pissed off if you have to drive behind someone who's five miles over."

Dean clears his throat, suddenly defensive.

"You really want to criticize me for being a safe driver man? Really? I'm just watching out for both our necks here, California drivers are a menace."

He says gruffly. Sam snorts, shaking his head.

"Sure, whatever you say Dean."

He replies in a tone of voice that very obviously implies that he doesn't believe him in the slightest. Dean presses down on the gas pedal in response, car rocking forward jerkily as it accelerates, and turns the music up a little louder.

When they finally hit the Palo Alto city limits Dean thinks he might actually be sick. He never thought that he could hate a city so much but as he passes the battered green and white city limits sign he think he wouldn't mind so much if the whole damn place burned to the ground. Sam for his part looks excited, perking up a little as they get closer and the spark in his eyes would almost be endearing if it weren't because he was leaving Dean behind.

He drops him outside a crappy motel just off the interstate, one that looks exactly like the hundreds of others they've bunked down in over the years. Dean sits in the drivers seat; numb and unmoving as Sam shrugs on his jacket and pulls his duffel out of the back, collects every piece of his life from the Impala.

"Well," he huffs finally, "I guess this is it. Thanks for the ride."

"Yeah, no problem."

Dean reaches into his pocket for his wallet, fishing out all the cash he has left and pressing it into Sam's hand

"Here, this should pay for a room and some groceries."

Sam looks at the crumpled wad of bills and back at Dean.

"I can't take this Dean."

He says, trying to hand it back but Dean just waves him off, looking out the window.

"Yes you can Sammy. I still have a few credit cards all right, and there's always drunk idiots to hustle wherever I go. Just…just let me do this for you, okay?"

Sam seems to sense that it's not a battle he can win and stuffs the money into his pocket.

"Thanks, Dean."

He says softly. Dean just shrugs it off,

"It's nothing. Anyways, you should get going. If I wanna make it to Arizona by midnight I gotta get a move on."

Sam swallows, eyebrows all creased in that way Sam always gets when he's trying not to cry, mouth twitching convulsively.

"Alright. I'll call you in a few days okay?"

Dean nods,

"And you'll have to visit once I get my own place and get settled in. I can show you around, you can meet some of my friends from school."

"Sure, of course Sammy."

Dean says, smiling. He knows of course, that he won't. What place would he have here in the land of pretty tan co-eds, libraries that you don't use for researching the latest supernatural freak trying to kill you, and concerns that don't have to do with whether or not you remembered to pack the silver bullets. No, Sam will call him a few times and they'll talk and pretend nothing's changed and then eventually the calls will come slower and slower, just on holidays and Dean's birthday, and then eventually they'll stop coming at all. Eventually Dean will slip away, a shadow of a life that Sam doesn't live anymore, doesn't need anymore. And honestly, it's better that way. For the both of them.

Sam gives him one last look and then he turns and pushes open his door, sliding out of the Impala. He's just walking around the front of the car towards the motel when he hesitates, turning back and tapping on Dean's window. He rolls it down, mouth dry. Sam leans down till he's level with Dean, bracing his arms on the window frame. He has to bend almost double to reach.

"Hey, Dean, you gonna be alright? You know, without me or…or dad?"

Dean scoffs.

"Of course I will be dumbass. You know I did manage to survive on my own before I picked you up from geek-land. I'm actually pretty good at my job, believe it or not."

Sam doesn't seem convinced, that irritating hint of concern surfacing in his eyes.

"I know but just…be careful alright?"

"Jesus Sammy, I'll be fine okay. Just stop worrying about everything for like ten seconds."

Sam sighs, taking a step back and hitching his backpack higher on his shoulder.

"Okay. Well… see you around Dean."

"Yeah, see you around." And then, because Dean doesn't like saying goodbye but he needs to say something, "Bitch."

Sam smiles at that, a real smile and it tears at Dean's heart a little.

"Jerk."

And then Dean's rolling up the window and pulling out of the parking lot, heading towards the freeway entrance because he thinks if he doesn't leave now he might never leave, might sit in that motel parking lot forever. He watches as Sam grows smaller in the rearview mirror, watches him till he disappears into the line of the horizon and once again Dean is alone.

As soon as he hits open road he reaches down into the foot well of the passengers side for his box of cassettes where it had been relegated upon Sam's arrival and tosses it up on the seat. Then he puts Sam's least favorite Metallica album in and turns the stereo up as loud as it'll go, yelling along to the music as he drives. It won't be so bad with Sam gone, he thinks. It'll be like the old days, just him and baby and the road. Nobody to nag at him to eat something that doesn't come prepackaged, nobody to look out for on the hunt, nobody to scoff at his music taste. Yeah, it'll be better this way.

He feels something wet on his cheek and suddenly the road is blurry in front of his eyes. He sniffs, reaching up to wipe at his face and his hand comes away damp and salty. And suddenly it's like something in him snaps and then he's crying for real, shoulders hitching and chest aching and he has to pull over on the side of the road because he can barely see the highway and his hands are unsteady on the wheel. The air in the Impala is stale and suffocating and he shoves open the door and half stumbles half falls onto his hands and knees in the dirt and gravel of the shoulder of the highway. He feels like he's choking, deep gulping sobs wracking through him and he can't remember the last time he cried like this. Not when Dad died, not even when he thought he'd lost Sam forever. And how selfish is that? That he cries like this only when he is afraid of his own loneliness, that he cries like this for no one but himself.

Still, the tears don't stop and all he can do is ride out the wave as best he can. His fingers scrabble in the dust for purchase on something, and he closes a fist around a handful of gravel and squeezes for all he's worth. The sharp little rocks cut into the fleshy skin of his palm and fingers but he just squeezes harder, letting the pain burn through the fog of hopelessness threatening to pull him under and ground him.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, crouched on his hands and knees in the dirt but eventually the sobs fade into silence, lungs unclenching, and he pushes himself up; sitting back on his haunches and taking deep heaving breaths. Carefully he uncurls his fingers, gravel slipping out of his grasp and skittering across the ground. His palm is a mess, red and raw and the rocks have punctured skin and drawn blood in a few places. He rubs it absent-mindedly on the dusty knee of his jeans, smearing red into the fabric. It's not the first bloodstain these pants have seen, likely not the last either.

He doesn't know if he feels better now, mostly he just feels empty. Like the tears washed away everything out from the inside of him and now he's a shell, a dead man walking whose body just hasn't gotten the message that his heart's stopped beating yet. Stopped beating the second he left Sam behind in that motel parking lot because all he ever goddamn wanted was a family and the world sure as hell did a good job of making sure he never got his back.

It's starting to get dark now, he realizes. Somewhere during the course of his pity party the sun had set and he shivers in the cool air. Sniffing he runs his unfucked hand down his face, wiping away snot and tears and pushes himself to his feet, getting back into the Impala. She's still running, engine a low comforting hum he can feel through the warm leather seats, and Metallica's still blaring in the background, James Hetfield crooning away like some jacked up Winchester version of a lullaby. It's almost eight, and the Arizona border's still 500 miles away. Dean pulls back onto the highway and drives.

If Sam were here he'd tell Dean to slow down, get some rest, pull over and find a motel. Sam's not here though, so Dean just keeps driving till he hits the border and then drives some more. Drives till his eyes feel gritty with exhaustion and there are dark flickers at the corners of his vision and the sun starts to peek over the horizon, cool and pale and watery. He drives long enough that the only things that seem real anymore are the leather of the steering wheel under his hands and the smooth black expanse of the highway stretching out in front of him like a river.

When he's finally so tired he's pretty sure it's not safe for him to be on the road anymore he pulls off and finds a small dingy roadside diner. It's just past one in the afternoon now and he's running on nearly 48 hours of no sleep. The pretty blonde waitress flirts with him as she takes his order and he gives her a small smile and nothing else. He orders the biggest sugariest pile of pancakes on the menu, with whip cream and sprinkles on top and a black coffee. He's not very hungry but he figures he should take advantage of the fact that Sam isn't here to bitch about him about his arteries or whatever. You only live once as they say, why not enjoy yourself in the mean time.

When the pancakes come he gets three bites in and then feels like he's going to throw up. He shoves the plate away, draining the last of the coffee and throwing a wad of bills on the table without counting. Pushing himself slowly to his feet he heads out to the car, not looking back when the pretty waitress calls out a goodbye. He can almost hear Sam's lecturing in his ear, Dean, you know you can't survive on shitty coffee and no sleep forever, you gotta eat something and even in Dean's head Sam still sounds as maternal and irritatingly concerned as ever. Dean snorts, if Sam actually gave a shit about Dean then he would have stayed, wouldn't have abandoned him like this. He shakes off the thought as soon as he thinks it, guilt rising in his throat like sugar-sweet pancakes. That's not fair to Sam; it's just the sleep deprivation talking.

He sighs, reaching down to fit the keys into the ignition and he turns to the passenger seat and there's such an emptiness there it takes away his breath for a moment, the wrongness of it all. He can almost see a hazy image of Sam sitting there, burned like an after-image into his eyes, faint smile on his lips and his elbow on the window sill, hazy and ragged around edges but so real for a moment Dean almost reaches out to touch him. He blinks and when he opens his eyes again it's gone. Which makes sense, because Sam's a state away in Palo Alto. He shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes. Maybe he really should get some sleep, last thing he needs right now is hallucinations fucking with his head.

The town he's heading for, Ash Fork, is still a couple of hundred miles away. It's located on the edge of the Cocino National Forest somewhere between butt-fuck nowhere and no one cares, a few hours north of Phoenix. Fishing a road map out of the glove box he traces the spidery lines of the highway eastwards. He should be able to make it to Ash Fork before nightfall if he drives fast and doesn't stop to piss.

As it turns out he doesn't make it there before nightfall. An hour and a half in he nearly runs himself off the road when he nods off at the wheel, jerking himself awake when the Impala's tires hit gravel. Yanking the wheel straight again he's forced to admit he's liable to get himself or someone else killed if he keeps going, which is really not how he wants to go out. Conceding defeat he get off at the next highway exit. He needs to buy some more of those caffeine pills he used to down like tic-tac's back when he was riding solo while Sam was off at college. A few minutes off the interstate a flickering sign advertises the "Sunset Hill Motel" and Dean turns the Impala into the mostly empty parking lot, throwing the car into park and grabbing his bag out of the trunk.

When the bored looking woman checking him in asks double or single he replies before he even has time to think about it, exhausted brain on autopilot.

"Double, please."

He doesn't even realize what he's done until he unlocks the door and throws his duffel on the floor and sees the second bed staring at him from across the room, and then it feels like someone punched him in the stomach. He turns and runs and tells himself he's not running even as he finds the nearest bar and orders beer after beer and tries to forget the reason he's here. He hustles some dumb hicks at pool, makes a bit of cash and gets the hell out of dodge when it looks like the dumb hicks are starting to catch on to his game. He doesn't want to go back to that motel room, doesn't want to face the emptiness he's going to find. There's nowhere else for him to go, though.

He collapses into bed as soon he gets back, barely even bothering to take off his boots and jeans before he wriggle under the covers. As exhausted as he is though, he can't fall asleep. It's too quiet, he thinks, without Sam. You don't realize how loud silence can be until you're alone. It's the little things, the soft click of fingers against a keyboard, the shuffle of feet over carpet, the quiet sound of someone else's breathing. All the little things Dean used to complain about, now he aches to hear them. And ain't that a bitch.

He thinks this is what he was avoiding, the muted finality of a dark motel room and an empty bed. The quiet is oppressive, suffocating. It settles over him like a too heavy blanket and the shadows in the corners of the room seem to scream you are alone again and you will be alone forever because everyone leaves you in the end. Finally after he lies sleepless for an hour he gets up and switches on the TV, sets the volume on low; just to hear something other then the sound of his own heart in his ears. The screen casts a soft neon glow across the still room, chases away the dark just a little bit. That night Dean falls asleep to the sound of static and America's Deadliest Catch.

AN: whenever my family used to go on road trips and stay in motels we always watched america's deadliest catch, I don't know why but me and my little brother were obsessed with it. my mom didn't really let us watch tv at home but road trips were the exception and we always got so excited about it. for a show with the world 'deadliest' in the title, it was weirdly relaxing.