It was two years before Dean saw Sam again, and during that time he did all in his power to block out the memory of the night Sam left. It wasn't that hard seeing as it was all kind of fuzzy in his mind. Really, all he could remember was a strange man with piercing blue eyes standing over him wearing a trench coat. And of course waking up on the bathroom floor in a pool of dried blood. That he remembered very clearly. What was less clear was how all the blood had gotten there. Looking down at his arm all he could see was a long half healed cut, reaching from his wrist to the crook of his arm. By the looks of it, it had been one of the deepest he'd ever made, and yet he had no memory of its cause. These thoughts ran through his head as he began to clean up his mess. First the water, then the bleach, and then some soap, add some more bleach, and scrub. He scrubbed till his hands were raw and the thoughts in his head had stopped their swirling. Until he could hear John stirring in the next room. As he stood, he noticed the stain seemed to be somewhat disappearing, but wasn't gone entirely. Hopefully, John would be too hung over to notice anything. Taking a deep breath, he opened the bathroom door.
Stepping out, he saw John in the exact same position Dean had left him in last night, lying on the floor, not having made it to the motel bed. He was just beginning to wake, with what would undoubtedly be one hell of a hangover, when Dean walked out of the bathroom.
"You're still here then." John mumbled, right on the verge of incoherence. "Thought maybe you'd left, gone after Sam. But I guess I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up." With these words, and feeling as if he was going to explode any second, Dean ran out the door, to the impala, and sped off before John could fully comprehend what was happening. Of course he was still there. I mean, where else could he have fucking gone. Up until now, he had always known his place was wherever Sam was, protecting him, making sure he didn't get into trouble. And now? He couldn't even blame him. With this realization, he slowed the car from its breakneck speed, and turned around, back towards the motel, towards John. Walking back in the room he braced himself for the words he was sure would soon be slung at him. Instead he was met with a cold hard silence, and the weight of his father's judging eyes wherever he went.
Time passed, and at first it was unbearable, not having Sam there, having to be alone with John day after day. But soon even John left to go hunt on his own, his only contact coming from sporadic voicemail messages. This gave Dean ample opportunity to sit, sometimes for hours, and just think. Think about how he had failed everyone in his sorry excuse for a life. How everyone had now left him, his father, his brother. Always John's voice in his head, "Worthless. Fuck up. Idiot. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless." Still, everyday he'd pick up his phone and hold his finger over the speed dial for Sam, and everyday he would set the phone back down. Sam didn't want to talk to him, and the sooner he got that through his head, the better it would be. During this time, the razor was all that kept him alive. When it all became too much, the razor's bite took the edge off, never as much as he wanted, as he needed, but enough to keep him alive, if not sane.
And then, the messages from John went from sporadic to nonexistent. At first, Dean thought nothing of it, but as weeks turned into a month, and then another month, he couldn't push the thoughts out of his head. What if something was wrong? What if a hunt had turned bad? If his father was in trouble, and he didn't try to do something, well then he was more worthless than anyone could've imagined. He tried calling, but he always got the voicemail, never his actual father. Until one day he received a voicemail. It was so short, no more than 30 seconds long. "Dean...something big is starting to happen….I need to try and figure out what's going on. It may…. Be very careful, Dean. We're all in danger." His first thought was why in the hell would his father send him that message. Never in his life had he told Dean to be careful. Sam sure, but never Dean. But then, after relistening to it a couple times, it clicked. "We're all in danger." Not just him, not just Dean, but Sammy too. The be careful had not been for his own safety, no, it was a warning, a threat. Be careful not to fuck this up like he'd fucked up everything in his past. This message had not been for his benefit, but for Sammy's. He was in danger, and it was Dean's job to protect him. His father's words from that night so long ago spring back unbidden into his mind. "Watch after your brother. That's your job. Take care of him….Stop being so fucking lazy and do your damn job."
Dean felt his stomach drop and he fell to his knees, the weight of it all pressing down on him. He had to help Sam, he had to do his job, it wasn't over, it would never be over. He pressed the ever present razor to his skin and pressed down, pulling it across his skin, watching it part, as the blood started to flow. But then he stopped, the face of the trench coated man suddenly swimming before his eyes, and the razor dropped to the floor. He didn't know why, but that face seemed to do what the razor could not. It calmed him, let him breathe, let him think. And with this momentary peace, he picked himself up off the ground, and got in the impala, starting the two day drive towards Stanford and to Sam.