Here's the introduction to the next story, which can be found under the name "Colette: Season 10", which is a continuation of the AU


"You ever, uh, seen a grown man naked?"

"Would you turn that off please?" Sam asked, entering the room, glaring at Dean and then pointedly staring at the television screen. He looked oddly out of place in the motel that they were staying in, Hair damp where he'd washed it, face smooth and eyes bright, alert, like he hadn't just been sitting around for the better part of two weeks. Dean didn't see the issue towards growing lazy and rested while they could, sneaking naps on the couch and hitting whatever bar hadn't kicked them out yet. Sam wasn't too for the second, if Dean was to take in Sam's near constant bitching about it. Nor was he really that hyped up over the first, Dean always managing to do something annoying while Sam tried to sleep. The one memorable time that he had drawn a penis on his brothers cheek with permanent marker had also been remembered for Sam's revenge. Three cans of tinned spaghetti, tanning oil and a whole lot of empty shampoo bottles.

Dean glanced over and grinned. "Why, is it making you uncomfortable, Sammy?"

Sam glared, not sitting down but moving further into the room. "It's Sam. Anyway, you know the rules. No porn, not while I'm in the room."

"It's not even porn," Dean looked back to the screen dismissively. The day was rolling down to an end and he'd tried to ignore how agitated Sam was being. Clean hair and day clothes, twitching fingers and determined glances. Of course, He was due back any minute now, but surely Sam should at least be prepared for that. The fighting? Well, Dean would mediate. As always. Get them both to bed without anyone throwing punches. Like always.

Sam gave him a look. "If you say, 'Explicit Romantic Plot Line' one more time, I swear to God―"

"Nah, it's Flying High," Dean said, eyes not moving from where the movie was playing out, staring hard, not seeing Sam in his jacket, not seeing the nearly packed bag by the door.

"You do know that that sounds like the name of a porno, right?"

"It's a comedy," Dean explained, waving his arms airily in front of himself for emphasis, before letting them drop to his lap. "Whatever. I was bored of this conversation like, three minutes ago."

Sam paused and was silent for a few minutes, finger tapping incessantly on his thigh. "When―"

"He said a few days, it's been a few days, he'll be back," Dean answered, rolling his eyes, before Sam could get the words out. "What's the rush, anyway?"

Sam looked purposefully nonchalant, brushing his too long hair back from his eyes and shrugging, unable to look up to meet Dean's gaze. "No rush. I'm just worried."

Dean scoffed and turned his attention back to the movie. "Worried. Ha. That'd be a first."

"Jesus Christ. Don't be such a jerk, Dean."

Dean raised his eyebrows, looking again over to his little brother. "Don't be such a little bitch, Sam."

Sam just made a tight face and looked away, sighing and staring pointedly towards the closed curtains over the window.

Dean sighed to himself and dropped over his arms so that he leant on his elbows, skin pressing onto his soft track pants. He glanced over to Sam and tried not to feel...jealous? Was that the word? That Sam could want their father back. It's not that Dean didn't love the guy, it's not that he didn't want him home, but as soon as he walked through the door, there'd be something wrong. Sam would pick it up or John would, and then they'd butt heads. And they wouldn't stop. Not until John found another one man job, or Sam took off to clear his head. And Dean would be caught in the middle. Smiling through gritted teeth, one hand on his father's chest, the other one pressed into his brothers.

Ordering Sam to cool his head, take a walk. Staying behind and apologising on Sam's behalf, saying that Sam didn't mean it, that he was just bitter, that is was the life...And John would just sit, alone on the table, staring dejectedly off into the distance, only perking up when Sam came home, eyes wary, but mouth pulling into a hesitant smile. And Sam would apologise, and the peace would last an hour.

Those hours were Dean's favourite time. The in-between. Where they'd watch whatever was on, and John would clean out his gun, over and over again, and Dean, when he was younger, he'd fall asleep to that sound, arm pressed into Sam's slowly breathing back, John's deft fingers working up a Hunter's Lullaby. In the very early years, when it was just them, and he wasn't old enough to take care of Sammy on their own, the clicks were slow and careful, wrong and disjointed, coupled with curses under breath and John shifting his leg on top of the bed, irritated. Sammy would be softly snoring, his hair brushing on Dean's shoulder, Dean's knee, Dean's arm, his breaths slow and calm, his face lost amid innocence and no concern. Then he'd found the diary, John had grown tougher, trained Dean to be tougher, trained little Sammy to hold a gun and everything started unravelling.

Years and years later, after everything, Dean would wonder when it happened. His switch, from child to adult. From home meaning a place and a time and Dad, to meaning a black car with toy soldiers stuffed down crevices, Sam. He and Sammy and Baby, that was home. On the road, singing as loudly as they could to a song they'd heard a thousand times. Dean knew all the lyrics and Sam did too, though he only sung the chorus, and the world would flash by like days slipping from spring to winter.

(Oh God, Dean missed Sam so much. So damn much.)

There was a rap on the door and Sam stood to attention. And then Dean noticed the bag, and the clothes, and the shoes, and the time.

"Where are you going?" Dean asked, trying not to sound worried, trying not to be terrified. He gave Sam a once over and stood up. "A little late for the bowling alley with Jose and the boys, isn't it?"

Sam just looked down and clenched his jaw.

Dean felt something build in his stomach, something freezing and wrong. He felt it collide in it's iciness, in its invasion. It travelled up his spine and settled as a bad taste in the back of his mouth.

No.

The door opened and John walked in, smiling in greeting. "Hiya boys. How were things?"

"They were fine, Dad," Dean answered readily, walking over and shaking John's hand, helping him by taking the weapon bag over to the third untouched bed.

"Sorry you couldn't be on this one," John sighed. "It was a bitch, but it was a one-man bitch."

Now, that sounds vaguely dirty, Dean felt like saying, and would have said were it anyone but their father.

John looked over at Sam, sitting down heavily on the table. His quick Hunter's eyes drew to the bag and the clothes and the shoes. "Goin' somewhere, son?"

Sam cleared his throat, looked over and raised his chin.

Dean closed his eyes. No, Sammy. Not now.

But when Sam spoke he was perfectly civil. Like he'd been practising it. Like he'd been practising it for years. "I've been accepted into College."

You could hear the American Flag over the entrance of the motel flapping in the wind.

"I'm sorry," John frowned, standing slowly, looking across at his proud youngest son with steady eyes. "You what?"

"Got accepted into college," Sam repeated, not looking at Dean, looking at anywhere but Dean. He stared hard at John though, those Hazel eyes burning with defiance. "Stanford, actually. Pre-Law."

"How the Hell did you get accepted into College?" John asked, and though he didn't mean it to undermine Sammy's intelligence, Dean winced anyway, seeing Sam's face darken, feeling the threatening storm of words and regret that would soon follow.

"I applied. I got a full ride," Sam replied monotonously, which Dean was grateful for. Keep it simple, keep it safe, please, please, don't tear their family apart. He clenched his jaw. "I'm going."

That taste, that had crept along Dean's tongue and through his throat, that taste that seemed the reverberate through his entire body, seemed to ache now. Just ache with exhaustion. Sammy had gotten into college. Sammy was leaving Dean. Sam was saying goodbye.

"The Hell you are," John snarled. "You think you can just leave us? Me and your brother? Family? What kind of son are you?"

Sam looked like he was expecting this, looked like he was ready with an answer, and Dean had to wonder how long Sam had known. How many times he'd nearly said, how many times Dean had nearly found out. "I'm not just your son! What the hell kind of father isn't proud of their kid who gets a full ride? To Stanford?"

"You're leaving us, and you want me to be proud?" John asked, laughing humourlessly. "You're a selfish son of a bitch, you know that?"

Dean balled his hands into fists. Wrong, wrong. Push and he'll just push harder. Sammy, so stubborn and defiant, especially in times like these, especially when he was told that he mustn't do something.

Sam nodded and gave a short bark of laughter. "Selfish? You got some nerve, Old Man. You drag me and Dean around the country and you expect us to just wait around for the goddamn monster that killed Mom to just fall into our lap? You ruined our childhood just so you could avenge some memory?"

"Don't talk about her like that," John said, and his voice was deadly cold, distant. The boys could feel it, he was close to losing it, close to really getting angry. "Don't you dare."

"If I didn't have a picture of mom, I wouldn't even know what she looked like," Sam spat. He hadn't set down his bag. If anything, his hand had tightened around the handle. "So yeah, I'm gonna go to college. Because that's the life Mom would have wanted for us. You really think she'd look down at this and be happy? You think she'd be ok with any of it?"

"I swear to god, Sam," John said, nearly shaking. "Shut your damn trap."

"Well, I'm going," Sam looked around the room, to John and then to Dean, finally to Dean, and whatever Dean must have looked like must have made Sam falter, must have made him pause. But then he moved on, eyes flashing bright and angry again. "I'm going to go and make something of my life."

"Saving people," John said curtly. "That's not makin' something of your life? That's not doin' good enough for you Sam? You gotta be some hot-shot lawyer to finally feel like you're contributing?"

"Don't twist my words," Sam told him harshly.

He turned and walked to the door, throwing it open. The breeze that rushed through it was like a punch to Dean's gut, like a sock in the jaw. Like the last song of a swan before it died.

"I swear, Sam," John said low, slow, desperate. "You walk through that door, you don't ever walk back. You hear me?"

Sam paused, looked over his shoulder and sent a tight, bitter smile their way. "Loud and clear."

The door slammed shut, cutting off another gust of wind. Sam disappeared outside, the motel room shook empty with only two people in it.

John was breathing heavily, but Dean couldn't hear anything, nothing but the ringing in his ears. Sam had just left. Left like...like all of it...their family...was nothing. Like they were nothing. Nothing and nothing and nothing.

"Goddamn it!" John swung his fist and flipped over the table, yelling and kicking out, catching the faux wood before it hit the ground.

Dean's breathing picked up, his heart rate crept up. Nothing and nothing and nothing amen.

John spoke, but Dean couldn't hear the words. Just the sound and the tempo and the door slamming, again and again. You should have seen, you should have known.

Nothing and nothing and nothing.

"Dean!" John barked. "Dean!"

Dean blinked and looked over.

"Did you know?"

Did he know what? That Sam was going to leave? Or that Sam didn't want to stay? That Sam wanted to be a lawyer? Or that he didn't want to be a Hunter? That Sam knew what Mom wanted more than both of them, and they both knew it, or that Sam was never coming back?

Dean swallowed and shook his head slowly, trying to unravel all his thoughts, trying to sneak through all he missed on purpose. "No. I didn't know."

John watched him, half surprised, half upset. Then he bared his teeth and kicked again at the ruined table. "Goddamn it!"

Dean just stared off, towards the door Sam had exited. Exit stage left. Left. He'd left. Left Dean. Where was home now? Where? Left? Door? Sam? Come back?

Nothing and nothing and nothing.

(Nothing and nothing and nothing. He'd forgotten how consuming it was. Darkness and nothingness and hoplessness and death. And watching him die. And death.)

Dean stared. He did not sleep that night.

Neither of them did.


The rest can be found if you look for it on my author page. Thanks for reading!