Author's Note: Hey readers! Okay, well, I know I said that I was going to update this once a week, but because this fic didn't get very much response (*wails dramatically in corner of the room*) I thought that I'd update early for those... few... people who seemed to not hate it too much. XD

So, a HUGE thank you to my very lovely friend tii-chan17 for being my one and only reviewer. :P But, PLEASE, GUYS, review if I made you feel any emotion at all. I love reviews so much, and I actually put effort into writing this. (: Um, okay, bribes... hmm... The next chapter is super fluffy and a little bit sad... um, there's kissing and tears... and the speed that I update this depends on how many reviews this chapter gets...? Yes. I'll do that. XD SO PLEASE REVIEW, GUYS! (: Review! (:

~Rainbow Fruit Loop xx

~I'll Be Back Before You Know It~
Chapter Two.

One Hundred and Eighty Two Days Before.

When Sam awoke the next morning, Dean was fast asleep on the sofa, arm tossed over his face to block out the light streaming through the wide-open curtains. He was fully dressed - just like Sam - and his ruffled appearance made Sam sad for reasons he couldn't quite understand.

Maybe it was because he knew he was the cause of all Dean's problems.

With a weary sigh, Sam pushed himself off the bed, and crept into the bathroom adjacent to the lounge. He splashed some cold water on his face in the hopes of sharpening his mind, brushed his teeth, and made an interesting 'yelp' when Dean's face appeared behind him in the chipped mirror.

"Jesus, Dean, a little warning next time?" Sam huffed, moving out of the way to let Dean use the sink.

He didn't expect a reply; Dean was known for going days without talking if he was pissed off, so Sam was pleasantly surprised when Dean answered with, "Calm it, Sammy, and leave the room because I need to piss."

"Ah, okay."

Sam left the room, and headed for the kitchen, wondering why Dean appeared to be talking to him so freely after their argument the previous night.

When Dean emerged from the bathroom, Sam raised an eyebrow at him.

"What, guy can't pee so early in the morning?" Dean grumbled, glancing at the clock that read twenty past five.

"What? No." Sam paused awkwardly, and held up the cheap motel-room kettle. "Do you want coffee?"

Dean glanced up at him from where he was rummaging though in his bag in the hopes of finding a clean-ish shirt. "Are we not going to go out for breakfast again?"

Yet again, Sam raised an eyebrow at him. "You willingly want to go out with me after…" he trailed off, and shuffled uncomfortably.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I? We're brothers, right?" Dean flashed him a grin, and, having located a clean shirt, pulled his old one off and tossed it to where a vague 'wash pile' was forming.

Sam tried desperately not to ogle Dean's naked chest as his brother hunted for his deodorant. Being caught staring at his brother's bare torso would probably snap Dean out of his weirdly cheerful mood.

It was only then that Sam caught the last half of Dean's comment.

We're brothers, right?

Wait a minute. Did that mean- Was Dean suggesting that they- Did Dean want them to stop? Was Dean insinuating that - whatever was happening between them - he wanted them to end it?

Because Sam wasn't sure what he would do if Dean wanted them to stop. He'd come to find their closeness as a comfort - an assurance that Dean loved him, and though it may not have been the type of love that Sam so desired, simply knowing that with his strong fingers and skilful tongue, he could bring Dean to a state where he was totally undone; open and exposed; completely and utterly trusting… well, it did funny things to Sam's heart.

"Yeah. Brothers." Sam muttered, jumping out of his daydream as Dean pulled his new shirt on.

Brothers.

The rest of the day progressed without any arguments, without any snarky comments or unhelpful digs. Dean was friendly. Too friendly.

Sam felt as though he was walking on eggshells; desperate to say something to break the tension that surely Dean felt too, but at the same time, afraid to say something that would make Dean remember everything that they had said.

What we do, it's not normal. You have to know that. It's wrong.

Because, more than discussing what was happening with Stanford, more than anything, Sam wanted to bring up the fact that both of them had totally dismissed whatever it was that was happening between them.

Dismissed that, when Dean walked into the room, Sam stopped whatever he was doing just to look, to take in the stunning sight that was Dean. Dismissed that, when Sam wasn't around, Dean couldn't think straight - yes, half of it was worry, because that was what Dean did best, but also because he was filled with a strange sort of insatiable desire.

They dismissed that, when they lay together after sex, breathing heavily, covered in sweat, they were both completely and utterly content in each other. They didn't need anyone else. It was them against the world, and, really, they loved each other far too much to not be filled with such a greedy longing.

Because, despite Sam's barefaced lies, his physical relationship with Dean meant everything to him, and it hurt him to hear Dean call it wrong.

Because it wasn't wrong… was it?

Sam knew that it wasn't normal, but surely that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. When had anything in their lives ever been normal? Why should they start now? If they didn't take what they could get, then where would they be left? They didn't lead the type of lives that could provide the warmth and happiness that they could give to each other, and it seemed almost ungrateful to ignore what little God had given them.

But… deep down, Sam supposed that he knew that it was completely immoral, but how could he fight it when Dean was just so irresistible? He knew that finding release in his older brother was something that would disgust anyone sane, but when he was with Dean, he couldn't bring himself to care.

But now? Now he was leaving. Leaving the life, leaving their father, leaving Dean. Was he really about to give up everything he thought he and Dean had? What he thought they could be - if only they both admitted it? Wouldn't he be happier if he stayed? Wouldn't he be happy wherever Dean was?

So was he going to be miserable at Stanford? Was he going to be counting down the days until it was all over? Or would he enjoy it? Enjoy the freedom he got - enjoy the idea that, despite his eternal love for his brother, he could find someone else? Someone whose hand he could hold in front of their father? A pretty girl, who he could introduce to the world with delighted cries of: "This is real. This is right." He could hold her tight in a way he could never hold Dean, could marry her and start a family.

A family.

But when he thought of being happy, he just couldn't picture it. Happy without Dean in his life? It didn't sound right. Because, no matter how hard he tried, the anonymous woman's face always twisted and distorted until he was looking at the perfect image of his gorgeous brother.

Constantly being in the presence of his Dean meant that the emotions Sam felt so strongly could only strengthen; toughened by their shared experiences and intensified by their shared 'I love yous', even if Sam knew that Dean only meant it platonically.

Because what Sam felt… It wasn't something that would ever go away.

One Hundred and Seventy Nine Days Before.

When John came back a few days later, Sam was pleasantly surprised when he announced that they wouldn't be leaving for another week. He hadn't asked why, nor had Dean, but Sam was thankful for the fact that he could settle for a week.

The letter was still on his mind, and he didn't know when to bring it up to his father. He could imagine what John would say to him - what John would say to Dean. Because Sam knew that John would find some way to make sure that Dean felt more terrible than he already did.

And, much to Sam's disappointment, Dean's attitude was still unwaveringly bright. He hadn't initiated anything, hadn't given Sam that look - the look that meant everything in the world to Sam, because he knew that it was Dean's way of telling him how much he wanted him.

Dean had always been bad at being subtle around their father, and Sam never knew whether it was because he didn't care if their dad found out - though Sam couldn't think of anything worse - or if it was just because he found a sick sort of pleasure in watching Sam squirm.

Either way, John had never noticed anything, had never said anything when Dean made lewd, completely innuendo-soaked comments about something Sam was wearing, or something he had said, or even something that they had done the previous night.

John had never said anything about the way that sometimes their touches lingered, the way that sometimes they woke up just a little bit too close to be acceptable, or the way that their eyes sometimes watched each other in an almost predatory way; smouldering, intense, hungry.

John had never said anything, and Sam thought it was because he didn't really pay them much attention. At nineteen and twenty three, John had decided that they were adults; they didn't need constant surveillance or the worried parent act.

And, while a little part of Sam resented that - resented the fact that John recognised that Sam was an adult, yet still expected him to follow around - he was glad that their father was completely oblivious. What an awkward conversation to have - Hey, Dad, Dean and I are screwing around. I hope it doesn't bother you.

Ignorance, they always said, was bliss.

"Sam, I want you at the library in ten minutes." John instructed from the other side of the room. Though he had only been back from the ghost hunt for a few days, he had already caught wind of a new case. This one was probably a werewolf, and it didn't interest Sam in the slightest.

"Why?" Sam asked, already frustrated at his father's usual demanding tone.

"Because you need to see if you can find any regular death patterns, probably going back a few decades."

"I thought we had already established it as a werewolf." Sam muttered, sighing to himself. "Silver bullet to the heart, that's it. There's no need for me to go to the library."

"Sam, you will do as I ask for as long as you're living under the roof I put over your head." John said, his tone sharp.

Sam prickled at that. John wasn't asking him to do anything; that was the problem. He was demanding - demanding in that rude, arrogant way that he always did. And the 'roof I put over your head' thing was absolute crap. The only reason they ever had money to pay for the cheap motels was because he and Dean either hustled pool, or got jobs when they were in a town for long enough.

"Okay, guys, enough." Dean said - ever the mediator. "Sam, you head off to the library for an hour or two, and Dad and I will focus on finding out who the werewolf is. All right?" He shot Sam a look that said a million words, and Sam found himself glaring.

"Dean, can't you see that all he ever does is expect us to follow his orders? Do you really have no backbone?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to have this conversation with you." He gave Sam another look - this one pointed, and saying "I'll tell Dad about Stanford."

Sam shut his mouth, rolled his eyes at his brother, and stormed out of the motel.

As he walked to the library, he thought bitterly about his relationship with his father.

He knew that John was trying his best in an impossible situation; had been trying to raise two young boys alone. Simply being a single parent to two boys was hard enough for anyone, but the situation was made worse by their lifestyle.

Sometimes, Sam wondered why his father had ever bothered. He knew what this life did to his children - knew what this life had already done to his children. Was the death of their mother's killer really worth more than everything that they could have had? Did the thought of killing whatever the hell it was cancel out the pain and the heartache and the stress that they had all been put through?

Sam wasn't sure that he would have done what his father had done, if he'd been given the choice. Because, as much as it still pained him to say, their mother was gone now, and she wasn't coming back, no matter what anyone did, no matter what anybody killed.

Okay, so maybe Sam was sometimes a little bit hard on their father, but that didn't give him the right to treat them how he did. Sam was nineteen now - an adult. Not a child.

Sam sighed again.

And Dean. Typical Dean. Always ready to jump to their father's defence; always ready to agree with whatever unfair scheme John had thought of. It was times like these when Sam wondered just how much he really meant to Dean. Surely a brother was worth more than a father?

Perhaps it didn't work like that, but with Dean as his brother and his fuck buddy, Sam would have thought that Dean would have been, perhaps, a little bit more supportive of his complaints.

Sam scrubbed a hand over his tired face, and climbed up the stairs to the library.

He was in for a fun afternoon.

"God, I hate you!" Sam slammed the door to his and Dean's room shut, and flopped down on the bed, blinking back his tiredness.

After another row with John over Sam's "lack of actual research" that had resulted in many harsh words and threats of actual physical contact, Sam had had just about enough.

He wanted out. He couldn't live the life that his father seemed so determined to force him into. He just couldn't.

Maybe Dean would see it as Sam leaving him when he needed his brother the most, maybe he would see it as Sam wanting another life - anything but the one he had been given. But Sam didn't care what Dean thought. Screw Dean. Dean hadn't helped him when he'd needed backup against John. Dean hadn't been supportive when Sam had said that he has been accepted into such a great school - something that would have made most brothers proud.

No, Dean had been the opposite of everything that Sam had wanted - the opposite of everything he had needed. And of course he still loved his brother with all of his heart, but maybe… Maybe going away would give them both the chance to figure out what their messed-up relationship actually was.

A knock on the door disturbed Sam.

"Sammy?" came Dean's hesitant voice. "You all right?"

Sam ignored him, and turned over in the bed; his back facing the now open door.

"Sam? Dad's gone out for a while, and I'm going out for dinner. Are you coming?"

Again, Sam ignored him, and fidgeted on the bed, pulling the pillow down until it rested comfortably underneath his head.

"I'm sorry you fought with Dad." Dean tried, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything he said."

It's too late now to try and help.

Stony silence from Sam.

Dean sighed. "All right, you be a bitch about it. I'm going out."

As Dean slammed the door shut, Sam sat up and glared after his brother. Dean's attempts at fixing whatever he thought had been broken were useless now; he'd needed support during the argument, not afterwards.

And Sam knew that, if their father had still been around, Dean wouldn't have even attempted to talk Sam out of his mood.

And all of this, this fighting, this shouting, this feeling that Sam couldn't quite shake, but it was a feeling that told him that, if he stayed, things were going to get a whole lot worse; all of this had made his mind up for him.

Sam was going to accept his place at Stanford.

Since he was alone in the motel room - sulking like a ten year old - Sam pulled out a sheet of paper from his bag, and set himself up at the table; pen gripped tightly in his hand.

"To whomever it may concern…"