A/N: So this took me longer than expected but finally it's here. Thankyou so much to the people that did review, they were lovely and I enjoyed reading every single one. As usual my wallet is bare and my bed is Dean-less so I still don't Supernatural. As usual thanks to Bron but also a big thanks to the Supernaturals who did most of the Beta-ing this time. I know this one's short but I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Four.

Dean gave the deserted motel a once-over, then leaned back into his car and grabbed the bottle of whiskey he'd left there. The place was shabby at best; with a layer of dirt over everything and a sign that sparked dangerously whenever someone bothered to turn on the lights. It was exactly the reason Dean had chosen this place; because all you got was a surly inspection from the manager at the front desk and no questions.

It took Dean a little longer than usual to find his room. The two had fallen off the twelve, leaving only a clean spot that seemed at first a trick of the eye, but eventually he was inside, surveying the musty carpet and single bed. The floorboards creaked as he crossed the room, and he treaded carefully, not wanting to fall through a patch of rotted wood. The kitchen made him stop and stare again. Everything, from the fridge to the cabinets, was enamel-coated in a sickly shade of pea soup green.

Dean pulled open one of the cupboards and swore when it came off in his hand, revealing a startled mouse that hissed at him angrily before bolting off. He gingerly opened the following cupboards, looking for glasses, but gave up when he found the remains of the mouse's ancestors. He chose instead to take a long drink straight from the bottle before sitting down heavily at the table.

The liquid burned its way down his throat and Dean tipped the bottle back again, longer this time, trying to dull the memories that were assaulting him, not just from the previous night but also from the first time Sam left - the time he left for Stanford.

Part of Dean acknowledged that Sam had left their father too, but mostly he just blamed John. After all, it was their father who had pushed Sam constantly, and he was the one that finally snapped, told Sam to get out, to get out and never come back.

It had taken a long time for Dean to forgive the man he'd previously hero worshipped, and the blame was easier to deal with than the grief at losing his brother, of losing the reason he got up every morning knowing he'd have to face the things that merely haunted the dreams of his peers.

At first he'd just challenged his father, pushing at him the way Sam had, but eventually he'd left, not with the yelling and the drama that had followed Sam, instead, he'd slipped over the salt line and disappeared out into the night.

He used to just stare at his phone for days, the screen lit up with his little brother's name, willing himself to pick up the phone and hit the call button. He knew it wasn't supposed to be that hard to call your own brother, but he didn't want to admit what that might mean. He didn't want to face the fact that they hadn't exactly been raised like brothers.

Eventually, he had gotten the courage to call, at first hanging up before it even started to ring. But eventually he waited, counting the rings. Waiting. Still, Sam never came to the phone, never picked up, and Dean realized that no matter how many messages he left, Sam wasn't going to call him back. He wasn't going to, because he hadn't just abandoned their father and he hadn't just abandoned the life of a hunter – he'd abandoned the brother who would throw his life away in a second to save him.

When John Snr. finally tracked Dean down he was so drunk he could barely see through bloodshot eyes to mutter, 'Dad?' It was only the knowledge that Dean wouldn't remember it in the morning that allowed his father to respond:

'I'm sorry, son. Sorry for everything.'

…

He remembered, too, the time after their dad died. After he told Sam what their dad had said. Sam had left him again, sneaking off so he couldn't follow him; couldn't protect him. It had been hard to call everyone they knew, pretending that he was just worried and angry. Ellen's, 'Are you okay, honey?' had almost disarmed him, and he was grateful that she ignored the shaky breath before he answered her.

At least then he'd been able to mask his real hurt with worry for Sam, especially after he ran into Gordon and heard his plans. Actually, it was just like Sam to run off and get both of them into a lot of trouble. The time before that he'd met Meg and they'd spent weeks escaping her before Dean finally exorcised the demon, still too late to save Pastor Jim and Caleb.

That was why, when Dean had first met Susan and seen the devoted puppy-dog look in Sam's eyes, he had initially refused to like her, ignoring all the times she went out of her way to gain his approval, knowing how much his approval meant to Sam.

Dean knew Sam had told her. About what they did for a living. They'd had a huge argument about it not so long ago, but he hadn't expected her to bring it up so casually. The way she'd said, simply, that no matter how committed she and Sam were the brothers should keep going, that Sam shouldn't stop hunting the Demon just because he'd met her. And she was happy to wait till then, to find out what should happen next. Then she'd turned to Dean, smiled, and said: 'Couldn't we find a way for Sammy to be there for you and here for me?'

It seemed like a second later that Sam came up with the idea – that he'd help his brother find hunts. And it was Susan who suggested that they could make sure Dean had a place to come and rest at when he was between jobs.

Dean had told Sam to marry her that night.

That was why it had hurt so much when their behaviour changed, when her behaviour changed. Dean had opened up to Susan, almost as much as he did with Sam. He trusted her completely and not even his brother knew how much stronger he was for having a place where he could just be safe, where they knew his favourite foods; and where his most pressing worry was how best to entertain his niece and nephew.

On the rare occasions Susan had complained about the effects of Dean's lifestyle Sam had always defended him, placating her with the knowledge that the things Dean hunted were one less thing to hurt their kids. But Susan had never been this pushy, she'd always limited herself to sharing her fears with Sam, letting him soothe them so that she could sleep soundly instead of lying awake terrified for her children. Dean understood that. He'd never told either of them, but there had even been a few hunters more than willing to hurt the children, and to make Dean a willing helper in their less-than-virtuous dealings. After Dean dealt with them they never hunted again.

Susan was worse than usual, but Sam had barely bothered to defend him, and that hurt more than anything else. He loved Susan, and her behaviour had hurt him deeply, but it was Sam's lack of faith that really cut him to the bone. It was a long time since he and Sam had really fought, and Dean thought he'd gotten past the emotions connected to Sam's numerous disappearances, his rejections. But now all the hurt felt bloody and new.

Dean wasn't sure how he could cope with this. He just wanted to forget, but unlike Sam who seemed to forget him all too easily, Dean couldn't put it out of his mind. Worse he couldn't stop remembering.

A sober Dean would have struggled harder against his despair, but he'd gotten through more than half of the bottle and it hit him fast. He hadn't eaten since dinner with Sam and Susan… he didn't want to think about that. Dean pushed himself upright and stumbled over to the bed. He still had the bottle in his hand, so he propped himself up and drank the rest in one go before dropping the empty bottle on the floor.

The bed creaked beneath him as he lay back down. He thought he heard his phone ringing, but it didn't matter. It would only be Sam, ignoring what he said and calling him anyway. Dean felt his eyes burning and he pressed them into the pillow, ignoring the damp stains seeping from them.

His phone was on the table. The name on the screen read 'Jason'.

…

Dean woke blearily, minutes, hours, days, later… At first he thought he was hung-over, but then he realized the whiskey was still flowing through his veins. He was still drunk. The bed beneath him felt harder than it had before, and rougher, like rock. He looked down at it, and realized he couldn't see properly. In the dark it looked like it actually was rock.

Dean rolled over gingerly, feeling like he was in one of Sam's visions. The motel room was dark and to his blurry eyes the walls seemed more like cave walls than those belonging to an old building. And it was so cold; there was a draft of air coming from somewhere near his feet. He tried to sit up, worry seeping through his fuzzy thoughts, and saw a full moon. Well, he saw three, but it was enough to calm him. Window's open. That's it.

He lay back down. As he closed his eyes, he thought he heard a cackle of wicked laughter, but sleep had claimed him before he'd given it a thought.

He wouldn't remember the dream in the morning, wouldn't realize that there were no windows in his little, airless room. Even if he did remember, he would just dismiss it as a harmless dream.

And that was one of the most foolish mistakes a hunter could make.

TBC.

A/N: Like I said it's short but I needed it. I hope you like the way I played Dean in this chapter, I needed to get into the vulnerability thing which even the scriptwriters avoid. So I hope you like it. Please review and let me know.