Author's Note: Thank you all so much for the overwhelming response to Chapter 1. I was blown away! And since you all asked for more, how could I refuse? So here is Chapter 2. Please keep in mind, I only meant for this story to be a one-shot, so I haven't figured out the ending yet. If you have any thoughts, ideas, insights, etc., I would love to hear from you. Thanks again!
SPN
Dean woke to a splitting headache and a dry mouth—he could still taste the beer on his tongue, but now, it was seasoned with some kind of fuzz, which made him groan. Damn… How much did he drink last night? And where the hell was he? Considering his high tolerance to alcohol, he rarely got hammered anymore… unless he was out with a girl… experimenting.
He slowly raised his head, glancing around for signs of a companion, only to find himself in his room, on his bed, over the covers, still in yesterday's clothes. He never even got his shoes off. Not a good sign. Disappointing, too.
Light from the hallway streamed in through his open door, which he normally kept shut. He must have been really out of it when he stumbled in last night. Awesome. How the hell was he going to explain this to mom?
Oh. Mom.
The memory hit him like a punch to the gut.
"I miss my boys."
"We're right here, mom."
"I know… in my head… but I'm still mourning them, as I knew them. My baby Sam. My little boy Dean. Just feels like yesterday, we were together in heaven, and now… I'm here, and John is gone, and they're gone. And every moment I spend with you reminds me every moment I lost with them… And I thought hunting, working, would clear my head…"
"Mom… w-what are you trying to say?"
"I have to go… I'm sorry… I'm so, so sorry… I just need a little time… I love you… I love you both…"
He wasn't entirely sure what happened after that. He vaguely recalled the look on Sam's face, and how the poor kid jumped when the door slammed shut, but he couldn't process the implications. He couldn't process anything but the pain, and the utter disbelief. How could this be happening? Again? He was thirty-seven years old, but in that moment, he never felt more like an abandoned child. Like the first time dad left him in charge, alone with Sam. Eventually, he would take pride in his dad's trust, but way back then, he was still too young, too confused, too distraught. What if dad got hurt? What if he never came back?
What if mom got hurt? What if she never came back?
Dean loved his family. He loved his parents. He tried to act all tough and independent, but deep down, he yearned for them, for their affection and approval. He would do anything for them, but still they left. He was never good enough to keep them. And he never would be. He wasn't even the right age.
No wonder he hit the bottle.
But that was last night. Today, he'd bury it. He'd wear his game face, and get back to business as usual. It was all he could do. It was the only way he knew how to cope.
"I call it being professional," Frank Devereaux said after Bobby's death all those years ago. "Do it right, with a smile, or don't do it."
It still hurt, more than he thought possible, but no one had to know. His pain was his. His alone. And he didn't want to share.
Bracing himself for some dizziness, Dean sat up, and by sheer force of will, fought through the vertigo. He'd kill for some coffee… except… experience assured him it wouldn't help. He was dehydrated. More than anything, he had to drink some water. Eat some food. At least he wasn't throwing up.
He climbed out of bed and made his way to the bathroom, where he relieved himself. Then, he washed his face, brushed his teeth, and finally felt like a real person. His head was still throbbing, but what else was new? He could take it.
Trudging into the hallway, he began the short hike to the bunker's kitchen, only to pause outside his brother's door. A shiver ran down his spine. Something felt… off…
Yeah. Their mom ditched them, and left with dad's journal. In a way, it was like losing him all over again. His thoughts, his memories, his wisdom. What were they supposed to do now? Dean grimaced, trying to steel himself.
He couldn't face Sam. Not yet. The kid was bound to broach the subject, and Dean wasn't ready to talk.
No. He would much rather cook breakfast.
Pancakes.
If they had pancakes. Maybe a supply run was in order.
He kept walking, and tried to ignore the strange misgivings that were plaguing his mind.
SPN
It was almost eleven in the morning. The leftover pancakes were growing cold, and there was still no sign of Sam.
Dean sat by himself at the kitchen table, wearing a pensive frown. The silence was heavy and oppressive—almost claustrophobic—like the walls were closing in. Mom and Cas were both gone, and his brother had yet to surface. Sam wasn't normally this reclusive. The silence… It was far too quiet. Dean remembered walking into the bunker with his mom, only to find blood on the floor and his brother absent. Missing.
He didn't like the silence. It was still too soon; Sam's disappearance was fresh in his mind, and he knew better than to trivialize a gut feeling. Something was wrong, and he should check on his brother, just in case.
Leaving his dirty plate on the table, Dean hastened out of the kitchen and down the hall, spurred by a growing sense of urgency. When he reached Sam's door, he didn't even knock. He just barged in, stopping short at the smell of blood.
It took a moment to process the sight in front of him.
Sam was leaning over his bed, pulling off the red-stained sheets. He had a white bandage on his left cheek, another on his forehead, and a long strip wrapped around his left hand. He was already dressed in a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting plaid shirt—his sweatpants and the T-shirt he wore to sleep were in a bloody pile on the floor.
What… the… hell…?
Sam glanced up at him with a haunted, deer-in-the-headlights expression. "Dean… I…" He trailed off, terrified, and obviously in pain.
Dean stared at him, too shocked to move… too shocked to breathe… He didn't understand—couldn't comprehend—what?—how?
"Sammy?"
SPN
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