A/N: To my guest reviewer: I'm glad you're enjoying the story! Thanks for reviewing.

And thanks again to everyone who's reviewed, followed, or favorited. It's very much appreciated :)

August, 2001

The dinner table is laden with food—casserole, mashed potatoes, gravy, homemade cheddar biscuits—all of which Dean would normally be scarfing down as fast as possible, but he's rarely had less of an appetite. Tomorrow, Sam will be going off to college at Stanford, and the thought makes Dean sick.

"Are you feeling okay, Dean?" asks Cheryl. "You're not eating much."

"Just not very hungry," Dean mutters, staring down at his plate.

There's a brief silence, which gives Dean time to feel guilty for ruining Sam's farewell dinner with his bad temper, and then to decide that he doesn't care.

"So what time you wanna leave tomorrow, Sam?" asks Tommy after a moment, in a determinedly cheerful voice.

"As early as possible," is Sam's reply. Dean thinks he can feel Sam's eyes on him, but when he sneaks a glance up, Sam is busy scraping the last traces of casserole from his plate.

"Well, then you better make sure you're all packed tonight," says Tommy, pushing his chair back and getting up from the table. "Dean, would you give me a hand with the dishes?" he adds, as Sam lets his fork fall to his plate with a clatter and bounds away upstairs.

Dean follows Tommy into the kitchen, containing a sigh. He's certain he's about to hear a lecture about his behavior at the dinner table, because of course, there's no way he can be allowed to say what he really thinks of Sam leaving. After all, what right does Dean have to an opinion on the subject? Sam is the perfect little golden child, with straight A's and a full ride to Stanford, whereas Dean is just a disappointment with a GED. John is apparently the only one who doesn't think so, and they call him crazy.

"Here," says Tommy, handing Dean a towel with which to dry. "Now, I don't want to hear any arguments between you boys tonight, got it?"

"Who's arguing?" says Dean sullenly, seizing a bowl and wiping it dry with unnecessary vigor.

Tommy sighs and sets the pan he's washing back into the sink, turning to face Dean. "Look. I understand you're upset that Sam's leaving. We're all going to miss him. But you can't blame him for moving on with his life."

Dean clenches his jaw and turns back to the dishes. He remembers the phrase "moving on" being used to describe what happened to Mary, and he hadn't liked it much then, either. He just wishes Sam wouldn't make it so obvious that he's glad to be moving on—moving away. Nine hundred and ninety-four miles away, to be exact. Almost exactly as far as Utah is from Lawrence, Kansas. Not that Dean is counting.

When Tommy finally releases him from the kitchen, Dean heads straight upstairs, intending to grab his jacket and keys from his room and go straight to the nearest bar. Maybe he can stay there all night, and not return until after Sam leaves in the morning. Or maybe he can just stay there forever, and just pretend that Sam will still be there when he gets back.

He finds himself pausing as he passes Sam's room, though. "Hey Sammy," he says, leaning in the doorway, doing his best to appear casual. "Wanna go out tonight? I'll sneak you into the bar, buy you a drink. You know, to celebrate." His voice goes a little flat on the last word.

Sam is busy folding clothes into a duffel bag, and looks up with an expression that, in the last few years, Dean has begun to term "the bitchface."

"I can't, Dean," he snaps. "I have to pack."

Dean is well aware of this, but he couldn't help hoping that Sam would let him forget about it for a few hours. He supposes he should have known better.

"Oh, that's right," he says, making no effort to hide his bitterness. "I forgot. Clearly an Ivy Leaguer like you wouldn't have time to hang around with a dropout like me."

"Stanford isn't an Ivy League school, and I definitely don't have time if you're going to be a jerk," says Sam coolly, pulling a stack of t-shirts from his dresser drawer and beginning to transfer them to the duffel.

Dean is tempted to show Sam just how much of a jerk he can be, but something stops him. After all, whether he likes it or not this is going to be the last chance he has to spend time with his brother for who knows how long, and he's spent little enough time with him over the last few months. He figures he shouldn't waste this opportunity.

"I won't. Sorry," he says, in a much softer tone. He clears his throat. "Need help packing?"

Sam's expression smooths into something that's almost a smile. "Yeah. Thanks," he says, and his tone is softer, too.

They fold clothes in companionable silence for a while. Dean tries not to be obvious about inhaling the scent of every t-shirt he picks up, memorizing it.

Eventually, Sam breaks the silence. "So what're you gonna do, now that you won't be able to spend your time annoying me anymore?" he asks. His tone is playful, but his eyes flicker curiously up to Dean's face.

Dean shrugs, not meeting his gaze. "Oh, I thought I might head out on the road for a while," he says. "Like Dad." He licks his lips, wondering whether to continue, and tell Sam that he's planning to track their father down.

"Just as long as you don't drive yourself crazy like Dad," says Sam, with a short, sharp laugh.

Dean decides not to tell him. He stays silent, watching Sam's little bronze amulet swing forward on its cord as Sam leans over to pick up another stack of t-shirts. Sure, he thinks bitterly, Sam will take this memory of Mary with him, but Dean—who is warm and alive and here—Dean he'll leave behind. And, moreover, he'll judge him for going to look for the one parent they have left.

Dean stands up abruptly.

"Where are you going?" asks Sam. He sounds disappointed.

"Out," says Dean shortly, and he strides from the room, leaving Sam sitting beside the half-filled duffel bag. Less than a minute later, he's slamming through the front door, practically jogging towards the bar.

By the time he returns home the next morning, Sam is already gone.