June 1999 – Somewhere in Kentucky
Sam stumbled out of the truck, not bothering with thanks. He looked around, forgetting the name of the town the man had given him. The sun was high, the air thick and heavy. It made his head spin. Sam squinted and shook his head, struggling to think clearly. Gas station. He walked inside, grabbed a water bottle and a protein bar, and tossed them at the woman behind the counter. His hand dug into his pocket for a few crumpled bills.
She looked at him, concerned. His eyes were too bright, too empty, his lips swollen and pink. "You ok, sweetie?"
Sam took the change she offered and stumbled back outside, ignoring her question. He fumbled with the lid of the water bottle, hands shaking, then sloshed a bit into his mouth. He swished for a moment; leaned over; spat. Twice more, then he took a long drink, savoring the cool liquid on his throat. The protein bar was crammed into his pocket with his dwindling supply of cash while Sam assessed his surroundings. Then he picked a direction and walked.
South. Have to go south. Warm. Sam hesitated, confused. He was hot already. He shook his head again, muttering to himself. He was too hot, too hungry to change plans now. South. For a moment, he considered the protein bar in his pocket. But he'd be hungrier later.
Same time – A nondescript motel along Route 63 in Iowa
They were far enough out of town for there to be silence. Real silence, broken only by the occasional passing semi and the soft snores drifting from the other bed. Assured by the sounds of his father's sleep, Dean crept into the bathroom, easing the door closed before he switched on the light. He pulled a crumpled scrap of paper from his pocket and sat on the toilet lid to read.
Dean,
I can't do this anymore. I just can't. I'm not a hunter, never was. I hate all of this.
I'm leaving. Don't come looking for me. You won't find me. And if you do, I'll just run again. Leave me alone, let me build whatever scrap of a normal life I can. If you find me, I'll just have to start all over. Please don't do that to me. Please.
Dean, I love you. But I see the way you look at me, and...and Dean, I can't. I can't be that for you.
Please just leave me alone. You know I can take care of myself. I'll keep the knife on me always.
Sam
Dean could barely make out the words through the tears in his eyes, but it didn't matter. They were engraved onto his heart. It had become a ritual of his, reading this letter every night during the weeks since they'd come back and found Sammy gone. Gone. It was his penance, this letter, not that it helped much. The guilt and the shame and the piercing loss always returned, like the tide, eager to engulf him once more.
But he deserved it. He clung to the pain that kept him afloat. Sammy was gone. He'd run away. He'd run from Dean.
And for once, he thinks, Sammy had been able to deceive him. He'd seemed so excited that night that John returned. Happy to see his father. Happy to stay in school. Happy for Dean to go on that damned hunt.
At least he had finished the school year. Dean had discreetly checked. He wasn't sure, though, when exactly Sam had skipped town. Kid knew how to cover his tracks.
The worst, the absolute worst part, he thinks (as he does every night), is that maybe he could have found Sam, talked to him, brought him back, if only...if only...
But I see the way you look at me, and...and Dean, I can't. I can't be that for you.
Dean lingered in the cold bathroom for hours, feeling the wash of pain and sorrow, and fiercely, desperately clinging to it. He'd stow it all later, when the hunt was on. Now, he just felt.
January 2000 – Atlanta, Georgia
Sam stuffed his hands into the pockets of his flannel jacket as he trudged back home. Home. Sam snorted, bitterly. What was home? The unremembered house abandoned when a rogue vampire dined on his mother? The isolated summers locked in survivalist cabins while John explored the secrets of the dark? The string of moldy motel rooms haunted by his father's hatred? He figured the rattrap apartment where he spent his nights now was as much of a home as any of the others. And it was cheap, probably illegally so, though he paid the landlord a bit extra to play his father at parent/teacher functions.
It was early yet, but he wasn't working tonight. Not tonight. Tonight was for perching on the roof with the stars and the bottle of Maker's Mark he'd splurged on earlier. Tonight was Dean's birthday.
Sam hadn't let himself think about Dean much since he'd left his family. He couldn't. There was too much there, it would swallow him whole if he let it, and he needed to survive. He needed to survive for Dean, though chances were that bridge had burned for good.
He thought of the letter John had made him write. Of all the things he had endured at his father's hand, that was the worst, the most excruciatingly shameful. He could deal with pain, with humiliation. They were familiar, and, if not welcome, at least not frightening. But that...
I see the way you look at me, and...and Dean, I can't. I can't be that for you.
He closed the door to his tiny apartment, sliding the bolt shut behind him. He dropped his bag, then climbed out the kitchen window and onto the narrow ledge, hoisting himself up to the flat roof. He could drink up here, safely, and then sleep until sobriety claimed him again.
For the first time, Sam allowed himself to think about that letter. John had practically dictated it word for word. He'd had a purpose for every piece. But what was the purpose for that?
The whole point of the letter, Sam knew, was to convince Dean not to follow Sam. And John had to have known that would take something pretty powerful, because Dean had always put Sam first. So what was the point of including...
Oh. Shit.
Sam closed his eyes and imagined Dean. His powerful shoulders, his capable hands, the strength that had only ever been a threat to anyone threatening Sam. He traced imaginary fingers along Dean's square jawline, through his soft hair, down the firm lines of his chest. He leaned in, smelling him, soaking up the scents of worn leather and safety and suddenly he thought he smelled him for real. His eyes flew open. Only darkness looked back.
Well, darkness, and city lights, and the scattering of stars visible through the smog. Sam sighed and took a long pull of whiskey, because he knew now what that letter had meant. What John had seen. He had seen love and desire in Sam's eyes that night, and he had seen the same in Dean's.
August 2000 – Bisbee, Arizona
Dean bit his lip and swore. Fucking hell, it was hot. Damned poltergeist could've picked somewhere hospitable to haunt. They'd been two weeks hunting this thing, verifying details, checking history, scouting location. Wish geek boy were here. Research would've gone faster.
He could think about Sam now without crumbling under the pain. His daily rite of self-castigation had helped, actually, forming his grief into something solid and foundational inside him, something that couldn't knock him by surprise because it was always there.
Dean's phone rang. "Dad."
"Son."
They didn't talk much anymore, grunting out only the words necessary for the hunt. "Find anything?"
"Yeah, I think I've got it. I'll text you the address. I've got to pick up some ingredients for the cleansing. We'll take this bastard out tonight."
Dean hung up. It wasn't necessary to acknowledge his father's directions. Acknowledgment was assumed.
He kicked the dust up a bit as he headed back to the bar to kill some time. Maybe hustle a game or two. Extra cash was always welcome.
The brunette behind the bar looked surprised to see him again, torn between giving him another shot and avoiding a second sharp rejection. She chose the latter. Well enough. He didn't have the energy to feign interest.
Dean grabbed his beer and settled at the corner table, hoping to avoid small talk. There weren't enough people here for pool. Least they could do was let him drink in peace.
What he wouldn't give to have Sammy here with him, knocking back a beer in this hellscape town. He would take it all, the fights with their father, the sulky bitch-fits, the endless nagging about vegetables and exercise, if it would make their family whole again. Hell, he would even take the restless ache that, even now with Sammy gone, led to near daily jerk-offs in cold showers.
Sam was a bright kid, and he had been right: he really could take care of himself. Maybe it was better for him to be gone. For Sam, at least. But the longer he was gone, the more that ache inside Dean grew, stretching itself out until he thought he might suffocate.
Dean figured he knew what it meant to die of a broken heart. It wasn't the sudden, keening agony that got you. It was the human in you slipping out in a slow, relentless draining.
June 2001 – Atlanta, Georgia
The late afternoon sunlight trickled through paper-thin curtains onto the boy's face. Sam wrinkled his nose and yawned. "Mmph." He stretched his long limbs and held it, breathing deeply. Then he opened his eyes.
He had a lot to do. But it took him a minute to focus, to convince himself that this was real. He sat up and glared at the white envelope on his kitchen table, daring it to vanish. It didn't.
Stanford, he thought. He was going to Stanford.
He was leaving at the end of the month for California, which only left ten days to pack and plan and earn as much cash as he possibly could. His scholarship would cover tuition, thanks to his good grades and the bribe he had slipped his landlord for putting together some fake W-2s for the FAFSA. But he still had to pay for housing and food, and the books he would need, and some halfway decent clothing, and...
Stop.
First things first. He had to arrange the bus ticket, because he sure as hell wasn't hitchhiking all the way there. He had enough cash on hand for the ticket at least.
Sam grinned. This was real. He'd finished high school; he was going to college. And sure, maybe he wasn't going about things in the most traditional way. But he was making it work. He was surviving. And once he had a college degree, he could put down roots and get a real job. And by then, if he was lucky, John would be dead. Maybe he would have a chance to find Dean.
He often thought about that, about John dying. He didn't want to do the deed himself - if I ever see that bastard's face I'll stick a knife in it - but he'd sure be pleased if someone else did it for him. He could be dead already, Sam mused. Definitely possible. John was a good hunter, but he was getting older, and hunters don't make it to old age. He never once wondered if Dean was dead. He wasn't. Sam knew.
He rummaged through the heap of clothing by his bed and yanked out some ripped jeans and a wife-beater, pulling them on as he stumbled to the bathroom to prepare for the day.
His morning routine complete, Sam squinted at himself in the mirror. He was thinner than he should be for his height, he knew, but it worked for him. The thin smudge of eyeliner and the glisten of his lipgloss pulled his look together well. He wouldn't be able to play the twink much longer if he kept growing, but for now, it worked.
He knew it was unlikely that Dean would be thrilled to see him, whatever he had felt before. But once John was gone, maybe they could try being brothers again. Not living or working together, definitely not...not that other thing. Maybe just phone calls and the occasional card at Christmas. That would be enough, Sam told himself. That would be enough.
Same time – Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Dean watched the flaming pyre with dry eyes. Bobby stood to the side, glancing at him tenderly as if he expected Dean might shatter.
Dean wasn't going to shatter. He hadn't before; he certainly wouldn't now. Things with John had never been the same since Sam left. He supposed he should probably blame Sam for some of that, but he didn't.
Sam was a constant ache in his soul now, but Dean hardly noticed anymore. He couldn't remember anything different. His whole life, it seemed, had been protecting Sam, desiring Sam, punishing himself with the nightly reminder of Sam's abandonment. Sam.
And yet, he realized, firelight in his eyes, it had always been John he'd blamed. Not for any reason he could name – John had loved and missed Sam too, he knew. But after that first night, they never spoke of him, never discussed searching for him, never mentioned the gaping hole in their family Sam had left behind.
He blinked at his father's burning corpse. He should blame Sam. Sam had left. But somehow, it was John he hated.
