Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural
Warning: NOT A HAPPY STORY.
A/N: The lines mean either time change or POV change.
"You walk out that door, don't you ever come back!" The shabby wooden door slammed with a loud bang and rattled for a moment before stilling.
Fire raced through Sam's veins, causing his entire body to shake with indignation. The sting of his father's words left a bitter taste in his mouth. He never intended to leave this way - with hateful words he knew he would one day regret. He shifted his weight back and forth on his feet, wondering if he should go back and apologize. A chilly breeze whistled past the narrow step Sam hesitated on, carrying the smell of dead fall leaves. The yellow porch light flickered.
And throw away a future, a scholarship handed to you? Sam's subconscious nagged at him. He had worked so hard for this once in a lifetime opportunity to escape the endless road trip. Besides, it's too late to go back….
The thought of facing his father again made his chest seize, choking the air out of his lungs. Sam heaved his bag, squared his shoulders, and walked away. Years later he would think back upon that moment with regret - he should have taken his father's beating and stayed.
On the other side of the door, the sound of Sam's retreating footsteps echoed through John's mind. All rational thought left him. He yelled, throwing the empty bottle of whiskey against the stained tile wall. The glistening glass shards lying scattered on the floor danced in a blur before his eyes. Who did that boy think he was to just walk out on his family? Didn't I raise him better than that? He snatched the last bourbon from the gray plastic bag on the floor and slumped onto the recliner in the middle of the room. He wrenched the cap off, and as he raised the bottle to his lips his unsteady hands sloshed some of the drink on his filthy shirt. He glared at the news reporter on the small TV in the corner. They were interviewing the single mother he had saved from a vampire nest earlier that day and thanked her mysterious rescuer. Eventually, the babble from the TV became an incessant hum and he drifted off the sleep with the half empty whiskey bottle still on his lap.
John never remembered much of that night for years. An overwhelming feeling of loathing towards Sam for walking out shadowed him. It was the same hatred that started him on the path of vengeance for Mary, his deceased wife.
Dean heard everything. He heard Sam's confession about receiving a full ride to Stanford and his intention to use it to get a degree. To do something with his life.
Part of him soared with pride for Sammy's accomplishments. He used to kneel beside the bed at night when no one else was awake and whisper prayers to all the gods that Sam would be able to leave their life on the road. He kept track of his brother's perfect scores in a secret notebook though he never knew when or why he would need it. Dean negotiated with his father on so many occasions to stay in various towns an extra week or so. He told his dad he wanted to make sure whatever monster that had killed was truly gone, but it was mostly for Sam to finish a semester or take crucial exams that allowed him to pass to the next grade.
But his dreams of Sam achieving a normal life were crushed after his little brother's first kill. It wasn't even a true kill. They'd already dug up the corpse but - as was typical with Winchester luck - the ghost had shown up to stop them. With his dad knocked unconscious and Dean trapped against a tree it was left to nine year old Sam to throw the match into the grave. His bright eyes were like saucers as he watched the ghost go up in flames. As soon as Dean raced straight to his baby brother and searched him for injuries. Once he assured himself that Sam wasn't hurt he looked at his brother's slack jawed face and said, "Are you ok?" The tears on Sammy's face burned like acid in his mind. Dean sat him down on the ground and held his brother as he sobbed in his arms. As their dad came to, Sam shuddered and wiped away the last tears. They both quickly stood up and started gathering their guns and shovels. They made it back to the motel in one piece (more or less) and packed up their stuff to move once again. Dean peeked over at his brother's face while folding his pants. Sam's lips pressed together and his hands still shook from shock though he tried admirably to conceal it. It was the dried tears on his cheeks, the lack of complaining, and complete obedience to their father (at least until the next town that revealed his true feelings. The resignation Dean sensed seared away any hope that dared to grow in Dean that Sam could live an apple pie life.
The larger part of him was jealous that Sam would leave him for an idea that would never come true. No one escaped the hunting life. It would always find them. There was only one, permanent way out.
He heard their verbal assaults through the paper-thin motel walls. He sat silent and invisible on the bed like a ghost tethered to one place for eternity. His only family was tearing itself apart. The words thrown back and forth cut him to the core. He wanted to believe he never could have said such terrible things to either of them. When he heard the door slam shut, something changed. The finality of it made Dean flinch. He waited all night for his brother to return. He waited in his bed lying stiff as a board, almost forgetting to breathe, so as not to miss his Sammy's return. But he never came back.
Dean's dying thought would be of that night. He would die in anguish because he didn't run after his younger brother and beg him to stay.
The following morning, Sam sent a text telling them he arrived safely in California.
The tension in the air was palpable. Without a moment of delay, John told Dean to pack their bags for their next hunt. Dean, ever the obedient soldier, placed his few belongings in the trunk of the Impala. He kept his face impassive, not wanting his father to catch on to his true emotions. Not that Dean could name them anyway.
At the next gas stop, Dean looked at his father and said, "I'm gonna go take a leak." John gave a nod and grunted.
When Dean rounded the side of the building, he slid his phone from his pocket and dialed his brother's number. It rang twice.
"Hello?" came a groggy voice.
"Sam." All the things Dean wanted to say fled from his mind in that moment. "Uh, how are you?"
There was a moment of silence. "Fine." More quiet. Dean swore he felt the bitter electricity over the phone, causing the gears in his mind to slow down. "Dean, we both know this isn't a social call. I'm not coming back, ok? Dad wouldn't allow it and I don't want to."
A tightness began to form in Dean's chest. "That-that's not why I called…." Dean's voice trailed off as he tried to find the words to what he was thinking. I just wanted to hear your voice. I wanted to hear you were ok. I miss you.
Sam sighed long and heavy. "Well, why did you call?"
Dean's breath caught in his throat. "I- just-" he broke off again. He was stunned at the impatience coming from his brother. His tone stabbed through the tinny phone connection. It cleared all thoughts and left behind tendrils of humiliation. He wasn't the type for touchy-feely conversations and his brother's dismissal was a knife to his heart.
"Dean, I don't have time to just chit chat, so if you have nothing to say then I need to go."
"I'm sorry," Dean finally managed to choke out.
Sam scoffed. "It's about damn time. After all the years you stood by doing nothing while dad screamed at me and smashed bottles on the wall. For not stopping dad from kicking me out. For being a lousy brother. Yeah, whatever, man. It's too little, too late. I will never forgive you for what you did. And there is nothing you can do about it." The line went dead.
Dean stared in shock at his phone. Was that really what Sam thought of him? Did he really believe that he was a lousy brother? The betrayal rocked him to the core. His mind didn't want to accept that his baby brother hated him. He felt his hands start to tremble and punched the wall next to the building. Dean swore fiercely and cradled his bleeding fist. He flexed his fingers to make sure nothing was broken.
When he got back to the car, John saw his hand and asked, "What happened? Were you attacked?"
"I'm fine," Dean's voice came out like gravel, so he cleared his throat. "I lost a fight to the wall though." He gave a small chuckle then ducked into the passenger seat of the car. John shrugged and got in on the driver's side.
Thus, the remaining Winchesters continued what they did best. Disregarding their painful feelings by drinking and hunting. They formed a wordless pact never to bring up Sam's betrayal or the fight that occurred that night.
John seemed unaffected by Sam's absence. He acted like the younger Winchester had never existed. He continued on with his life by immersing himself into every hunt. He'd never bothered with emotional trivialities since Mary. He ran on fumes. When he spent himself completely, he drowned his memories in the bottom of the bottle.
Dean couldn't do that. Everything reminded him of his brother. So, he kept calling Sam. He rang week after week until the number no longer worked. Months went by with no word. Sam had left him in the cold. He abandoned Dean to fight their father's unending war. Sam deserted his family to find the normality he always sought. Even as a kid, Sam strove for ordinary even though he killed werewolves on the weekend. But as soon as the opportunity arose for him to escape, he took it. He snatched it like a beggar snatches a crumpled dollar bill.
After months, John couldn't stand Dean's sulking and distraction on the job.
Driving down another backroad, John glanced at his son to gauge his emotional status. He knew that the more he ignored the reason for Dean's depression the worse it would get. A part of John was starting to worry that much more of this relentless routine would push Dean off the deep end.
He cleared his throat, but Dean didn't notice. "Dean, it's not your fault," he said, shaking his head a little.
Dean didn't bother turning his head. "What are you talking about?"
"Sam."
The name hung tense between them. Neither of them wanted to have this discussion. Neither dared to admit or administer blame. A jumble of emotions now whirled through Dean with that one simple name. Resentment. Sadness. Regret. Shame. Anger. He ground his jaw but didn't respond.
John ended up breaking the silence again. "You can't keep-"
He couldn't believe his father brought this up now. "Keep what, dad? Keep worrying? 'Cause in case you haven't noticed; Sam hasn't said one word since he said he got there. I don't know if he's dead or alive or safe or why he left in the first place." Dean had started yelling. Yeah, he was lying, but he didn't want his dad to ask about that terrible conversation. He didn't want his dad to think any lower of Sam than he already did.
"That's not what I was going to say." John tried to keep his voice steady so as not to push Dean's temper any more. "I'm worried, too. I think about him every night and hope that he's at least happy. I was gonna say you can't keep beating yourself up over it."
"I'm not beating myself up over anything," Dean answered, sending a harsh look towards his father.
"I mean-" John paused. "I can't stand seeing you mope around all the time. I can tell you're- upset. I know because I'm your dad. Knock up job I've been doing recently though, eh?" John attempted a joke to lighten the mood. It didn't work.
"Look. I'm fine, dad." Dean tried to reassure him but knew he couldn't convince his father otherwise. John Winchester was never fooled by the word "fine." Still, he hoped his dad would drop the subject and they could go back to avoiding it.
John glanced over again. "Just-"
"Do you want me to be mad?" Dean interrupted a second time. "'Cause I'll get real pissed if we don't drop this anytime soon."
"It'd be better than what you are now," John muttered, "Maybe then you'd be a better hunter."
Dean didn't miss Sam anymore after that night.
10 Years Later...
Dean woke to the sound of the phone ringing. He grumbled about more time and let his phone go to voicemail.
It rang again. He ignored it again.
The third time it went off he picked up his phone and hit the end call button. He hoped whoever was calling would get the message and leave him alone.
The person didn't attempt to call again and Dean fell back into a restless sleep.
Three hours later, Dean's raging headache wouldn't allow anymore rest, so he got up and took an Advil. He didn't drink too much most nights of the year - he wanted to stay sharp when hunting. But every year on the anniversary of Sam's abandonment he indulged as much as he could with no regret. The pounding in his skull soon subsided enough for him to form a coherent thought, and he checked his phone.
One voicemail. John.
He and his father had started hunting on their own six years ago. They often helped each other out with various cases. It was around that time he stopped calling him dad. He listened to the voicemail, assuming John was responding to his latest inquiry.
"Hey, Dean. It's Sam. I know it's been a long time, but I need you. Please call back and I'll tell you where to meet."
Dean stood in stunned silence holding the phone to his ear for several minutes. His heart pumped double time and a torrent of thoughts crossed his mind. Shapeshifter? Demon? Hallucination? He couldn't be sure. Dean prided himself on his alertness and ability to never get caught off guard. He could never have anticipated this turn of events. He tossed the phone on the bed, so he wouldn't chuck it across the room. He ran a trembling hand through his hair and took several deep breaths. Why, after 11 years, is Sam calling now? Do I even want to know what the hell is going on? Is Sam safe? Is he in danger? Do I even care?
Dean battled with himself for a while. Sam could have a supernatural problem that he couldn't handle. Forgotten his training is more like it. He felt no loyalty towards Sam, that was certain. But he didn't necessarily care for any of the people he saved either. He also didn't have any bad memories with them.
If Sam can't handle whatever he may be hunting, he should call someone else. Unless it wasn't a hunt. Maybe his brother was dying. He didn't give anything away on the phone, unfortunately so he didn't know. Dean tried to pinpoint his feelings. There was a thick woolen blanket on his mind suffocating his emotions like a flame under a jar.
After much thought, Dean concluded that he would never find out if he didn't take a chance. He dialed the number and called. He hoped it would go to voicemail so he could avoid a confrontation. It couldn't have been some kid prank calling him. Fat chance. No kids had his number. Sam picked up on the second ring.
"Hello?" The voice sounded haggard. Rough. Like he'd swallowed a bunch of sandpaper. Or screamed for twelve hours straight. A bit too much to drink last night, Dean thought dryly to himself.
"Hello, Sam," Dean replied.
"Dean." He heard moving and bed springs. "So good to hear your voice."
Dean closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. "We both know this isn't a social call. Get to the point." The corner of his mouth twisted up in some mutated form of a smile. The irony of the situation didn't escape him.
"I- uh, need some help."
What on earth could make Sam so desperate he came running back? He spent the past 11 years running away from his family and everything they stood for. Did Sam suspect something supernatural and didn't want to - or couldn't - deal with it himself? "With what?" he snapped back.
"Can you meet me at 8243 Windsor Point Avenue in Martinsville, California in three days? I'm in apartment B." Sam asked. Sounded like he had the address memorized. Must be a home address.
Dean wrote down the address and said, "I'll be there in less than two days."
A sigh of relief. "Thanks, man. I really-"
"Yeah, be ready." Dean hung up before Sam could say anything else.
He carefully placed the phone on the table and took several more shaky breaths. Sam needed help. He wanted to meet. Dean sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. Who does Sam think he is to call me up and demand to meet? He debated whether to even go. Going would mean confronting the feelings he had spent 11 years drinking away. Staying meant he would never find out why.
Within ten minutes, Dean stuffed all his belongings and gear into the trunk of the Impala.