Title: Settle for a Slowdown

Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.

Warnings: spoilers for pilot; AU during season 1

Pairings: none

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 1265

Point of view: third


The first time Sam left Dean, they were still kids.

Sam'd had another fight with Dad about school and hunting and Dad not minding when Dean leaped in the way, almost dying. They went around and around, repeating for hours—they hadn't said anything new in years.

Dean stood in the doorway, watching and listening and trying not to cry because he was the strong one, wasn't he? Dad and Sam screamed and shouted and threw stuff—never at each other, just in general—and finally one would storm away.

At ten years old, Sam thought he knew best so he told Dad, "I'm gone," and stalked out the door.

Dad just snarled, "Go," and stormed to the kitchen to where he'd hidden the beer. He slammed stuff around, searching, but Dean'd poured it out days before.

Dean stood in the doorway for a few more minutes, trying to process what Sam could possibly mean. I'm gone. But he was just a kid. Where could he go?

So Dean flew out the door, chased by Dad's curses and the room still filled with the scent of his blood—his body wasn't up for this, this headlong rush after Sam, but he had to catch his brother before something happened.

He found Sam on a park bench as the sun rose. He slid down beside him, whole right side on fire, and Sam had to help him home.

As a repentant Dad and Sam put him to bed, Dean slurred, "Don't ever leave me 'gain, 'kay?"

Sam nodded and Dad's eyes swore.

Dean never once told them he saw the lie.

-

Eight years passed and Sam's promise slipped his mind. Caught up in school and making it to college and hiding all evidence from his brother and father, Dean fell into second place.

For so long he'd been first and he didn't notice for a long while, because somewhere along the way Sam grew into a mighty fine actor.

Not as good as Dean—never as good as Dean—but damned close.

For almost a decade, Sam and Dad had fought about the same old stuff, Dean always in the middle, trying to keep the peace in the midst of a maelstrom. He never took a side, even in his head, because he knew it would show.

Of course, he was seen as the traitor by both, even as they leaned on him more and more.

His nightmares consisted of being left behind, either because they died or grew bored. So, to protect them, he started getting more injured, taking hits meant for them, taking raking claws and glistening fangs and slams into walls.

Which only intensified the fighting, because Sam and Dad blamed each other.

And then… "Dad…" Sam began softly one night, near his graduation. "I got… I got into Stanford."

Dad glanced up from his hamburger and Dean slid a sidelong look to his little brother. Now's not the time, his eyes said. Wait until later tonight.

Sam continued anyway. "Dad, you don't have to pay anything, 'kay? I got a scholarship."

"Stanford's in California," Dad said, taking a long gulp of his Coke. "Why do you wanna go there?"

"Because it's one of the best schools in the country," Sam answered, and by his tone they all knew he really said, Because it's so far away. Away from you. Away from this life.

Dean lowered his head and was the only one to finish his meal as they tore into each other.

They both demanded he fight on their side, and for once he wished he could. He wanted to tell Dad that Sam needed to go, that this life was killing him.

He's not like us, Dean wanted to explain. He can't live like this, without a place to grow roots. He's got dreams, Dad, big dreams. Dreams he can actually see through. He doesn't remember Mom—this isn't his quest.

And he wanted to tell Sam, Dad just wants to protect you, Sammy. The thought of you so far away, away from his knowledge and skill, away from him when after eighteen years you've been his world—it terrifies him. More than anything.

But he kept his mouth shut and finally left, knowing Sam had truly left long before.

-

And then Dad ran. Abandoned him with no warning, no clue, not even the shadow of a ghost of a hint.

Dean was really getting tired of being left behind.

He waited a while, nearly two weeks, thinking Dad might've just headed on to a new hunt and forgotten to check in. No calls, no texts, nothing.

So he headed on to Stanford, first time he'd seen Sammy face to face in two years.

He hated having to disturb his little brother almost as much as the fact that Sammy'd left. But he played the part well, so well Sam didn't even know how close Dean really was to the edge. Didn't glimpse the small breakdowns in his psyche, the scars he and Dad had caused.

Sam didn't hear Dean ask, Do you ever get tired of leaving me? as he walked back toward his apartment, to law school, to Jessica and the normality he'd craved ever since he'd learned everyone didn't hunt.

Sam didn't hear Dean's soul cry out for something, anything, a breadcrumb, as he drove the Impala away.

And Sam didn't hear Dean curse himself when he pulled Sam away from Jessica's burning body.

I'm so sorry, Sammy, Dean silently screamed over and over in the following weeks. I'm so, so sorry.

-

And Dean knew Sam would leave him again. Knew it with a certainty he'd felt about nothing else.

It was his life. He did his damned hardest to give people reasons to stay, and they kept on finding new reasons to go. He wasn't even sure what he did wrong, most of the time, but he knew his exterior was bristly, knew his tones and words pushed outsiders away.

Defense mechanisms couldn't be helped when you grew up in a war-zone and were the only peacekeeper.

Oh, he could be charming when he had to be, when he wanted to be. Could be the most charming person on Earth, second to Sam, who only had to turn on the little-lost-orphan-please-trust-me look he'd perfected by three.

They were an excellent team, and they both knew it, but Dean was the only one who wanted to keep it that way.

With every breath, every look, Sam told Dean, We find Dad, we find Jessica's killer, and I'm gone.

And Dean always responded, I know.

In his dreams, Dean begged "Don't leave me. Not again."

And Sam and Dad always said, "Of course I won't," but then they'd walk away.

-

All they ever did was walk away.

And then Dad flew away, to Heaven and the angels and Mom. Mom and Jessica were avenged and Dean lay prone on the ground, bleeding out too quickly for any aid at all.

Sam knelt beside him, held his hands to the wounds, begged Dean to hold on, keep your eyes open, okay, help's on the way, please, don't go.

"I'm not the one who goes, Sam," he whispered, eyes failing.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam whispered back, pulling Dean into his arms and sobbing. "I'm so sorry, for everything."

"I know," Dean answered, heart finally giving up.

"Don't leave me," Sam murmured, eyes shut against the reality. "Please, don't leave me."

And his subconscious provided the answer Dean would never have said in a billion lifetimes.

You left me first, Sammy. You left me first.