Author's Note: Hi, all! Not much to say; just wanted to remind anyone seeing this that all of my works are cross-posted on AO3, just in case this site does shut down the way I've been hearing it might. Be well!

Sam makes it all of two seconds after the door slams shut before he shatters. The flinch that accompanied metal swinging shut has faded, replaced by a look of heartbroken sadness that shouldn't be as familiar as it is, half-hidden beneath a curtain of hair. Tears glitter in his eyes like pebbles of broken glass, and yet he still looks over at Dean, still inhales a ragged breath and scrapes his hand over his face. He doesn't look any calmer after, eyes still holding that kicked-puppy look that would end in the world burning if Dean weren't still frozen in his tracks, but his voice is halfway steady. "Dean-"

And that's enough to have Dean breaking down too. He's not delusional enough to say that he'd been whole before, but the whole mess of cobbled-together pieces and hairline cracks finally implodes. He's walking out of the room before Sam's voice dies down, heading in the exact opposite direction from the way their mother went, stumbling down the steps to the kitchen as quickly as he can without cracking his skull open on the floor.

He'd started keeping the alcohol in the kitchen in the week or so since their mom had come back, and he'd toned it down on the harder stuff. The fridge is fully stocked with beer, but a thing of vodka has been shoved to the back of the freezer and the whiskey's hidden at the rear of one of the lesser-used cabinets, out of sight, out of tempting mind. It had been a stupid effort to make things a little less dysfunctional - a little more normal - but it hadn't been that much of a sacrifice, not when they'd gottan an actual win for the first time in too long, not when their mom was back and happiness didn't seem so far-fetched.

Stupid was right.

Dean reaches into the cabinet for the whiskey without much by way of conscious thought. It occurs to him only after he has his hand around the bottle that Sam might be watching, might be stuck there trying to help his self-destructing brother despite facing the same gaping loss, and part of Dean doesn't want to turn around to see. He's not sure he can face his brother looking so damn shattered, not again… but he turns and looks anyway.

The kitchen is empty. So is the doorway. Judging by the sounds - or, rather, the lack thereof - from outside the room, so is the hallway.

One of his hands tightens around the neck of the bottle; the other is already white-knuckling the cabinet door. He waits for the rush of shock to swarm him as he takes in the emptiness surrounding him, as he notes his brother's absence along with everyone else's, but it doesn't. He's not surprised at all. (Unkindly, flashes of memory from the past flit into his head, Sam walking away again and again until a flare of guilt at even entertaining that way of thinking shocks Dean back to the present.)

He fumbles down a glass from one of the cabinets, and - if he can feel much of anything beyond the heavy sensation of lack weighing him down - he's almost surprised that he didn't drop it, that it didn't shatter against the sharp corner of the counter. The image of broken glass cascading across the floor is still replaying on loop in his head when he finally gets the lid off the bottle, pouring out one or three - or five - fingers.

The numbness already hanging over him isn't enough, so he doesn't even contemplate savoring it; for all he knows, the whiskey's high quality stuff - alright, so it's not, since they never buy anything better than bottom-shelf swill, but it's the principle of the thing - before slamming it down. He follows it up with another.

The bottle hadn't been anywhere close to full to begin with, but it's run dry before he really processes it. He's got half a mind to just drop it - to let those crystalline shards spread across the floor - but he can't bring himself to make that mess in the common space. He sets in on the counter instead, aiming for gentle but missing widely as it clanks loudly into place.

Dimly, he considers stopping. He's got a buzz going and he could just stop, could just disappear to his room and pass out until morning comes. There's even the possibility that he could get some decent sleep, that blissful unconsciousness waits a few steps and some hallway away, contained in a comfortable pillow and a memory foam mattress.

It won't be that easy, though. It never is.

He only half processes reaching the freezer. The burn of chilled glass prickles at his skin, breaking through the pleasant, tingling of his skin. In some ways, it's a nice sensation; after all, he's learned enough over the years to know that pain could be a gift. That it - most of the time, at least, though he has to stubbornly shove away the clogging brimstone of Hell memories that he's never been able to ignore - means you're still alive, still moving, still fighting.

On the other hand, it's too reminiscent of the case they'd just finished. His skin's vaguely pink where it touches the bottle, and he can see, in his mind's eye, the bright red handprint - too much like the handprint Cas had left on his shoulder so long ago, and yet not enough like it at all - burned onto his mother's arm. He can feel the freezing chill of that self-same ice coursing through his own chest, Mary-but-not-Mary holding a frost-covered hand against the material of his shirt and pressing.

He remembers. And he drinks.

The chill of the freezer is still cascading over him a minute or so later, and it's only then that he registers its mouth still hanging open. Usually, he'd never have let that happen - it was one of his most adamant rules, in fact, spawned from years of motel rooms and unreliable utilities - but it doesn't really matter. Open freezer, closed freezer; it wouldn't change anything important. He nudges it shut anyway. (Part of him is delusional enough to wonder if it would change something important. If the hiss of the temperature-regulating seal shutting would be followed by the clang of the bunker door and Mary Winchester's voice. But it isn't, and he's not surprised.)

She's gone.

More than that, she's been gone for a while, for longer than he knew. He hadn't thought about it at the time - not when she was leaving - but she hadn't had to pack a bag. She'd snagged her pre-packed duffel from the chair and walked out, without even making a pitstop in her room, and that meant everything because this wasn't a spur-of-the-moment thing.

She'd planned it.

Sitting there - back against the counter, legs kicked up in front of him, in the same spot and position as he'd been that first night when both Sam and Mary were safe and in the bunker, the photos gone now but the alcohol still present - he wonders when she first came up with the idea. If she'd known that she was planning to leave when she'd asked him to pick up those newspapers from town. If she'd been looking for a hunt, not because she wanted a distraction, but because she wanted an excuse.

She probably did, he decides. He's not surprised.

Yeah, he feels like the ground dropped out from under his feet, but that's on an emotional level. That's in the way he feels - and wouldn't Sammy be thrilled to hear that he's being all reflective and shit - and feelings are stupid and unreliable at the best of times.

No, he's not-surprised on a more intellectual level. On the level that keeps a running tally of all of his failures - the greatest hits, the honorable mentions, even the damn participation trophies - and brings them out whenever something like this happens, a vicious, self-inflicted form of I told you so.

Dean still remembers John's expression after that shtriga case way back when, the look of hot, furious anger directed his way. He still remembers the way the orders to watch out for Sammy and protect Sammy and take care of your brother picked up afterwards, and the way John started giving him a harsher-than-it-had-been glare before slinging his duffel over his shoulder and heading out the door.

He remembers Sam, too. Sam when they finally tracked him to Flagstaff. Sam when he left for Stanford. Sam with Ruby in that hotel room, and the manic look in his eyes as he spat out words like weak and coward. Sam after Purgatory. Sam after Gadreel. Sam saying - openly, explicitly, and so, so clearly - that no, actually, situations reversed, he wouldn't save Dean's life. (And yeah, the kid claimed he'd been lying or misunderstood or any of a long list of ameliorating factors, but that didn't change the look of honesty in his eyes, or the way the words still rang in Dean's head on repeat.)

The bruised skin around his neck pulls as he takes another swig from the bottle, and he can't help laughing - loud and bitter and manic, splitting the room into two - before the tail end transforms into something that could very well be a sob. Like mother, like son: the family that throttles the liability together, stays together. (Or not.) It's an uncharitable thought, but he's never been a saint and he can let himself revel with the sinners again, just once. (He takes another drink.)

At some level, he'd expected John to leave; same with Sam. They were both so much better than he was - John a better hunter, Sam so very, very smart - and they'd both had goals that never really aligned with his.

Mary, though, he'd held sacrosanct. Not in the way Sam did, though: a role rather than a person, someone who should've been there to cut the crusts from his sandwiches, the concept of a Mother because he'd never had the real thing. Yeah, sure, Dean had been surprisingly saddened to hear that his memories of his mom's meatloaf were actually memories of some unnamed grocery store clerk, but the food hadn't ever been the point.

Those first four years had been the first and last - the only - time that he'd been allowed to just be . Not to be a soldier or a caretaker or a vessel, but to be a kid. To have the easy simplicity of innocent childhood, unaware of the things waiting in the dark, taking care of his mom as best as he could because she did the same for him.

Indeed, what little he remembered of her, it had been the two of them against… well, against everything. Even before John moved out - but especially afterwards - they'd spent mornings and afternoons and nights, just the two of them. They're some of his happiest memories, even if they are the hazy memories of the less-than-four years pre-fire, and they're the closest to unconditional love his cynical eyes have ever seen. If anyone could see past the screw-up exterior of Dean Winchester and just stick around, he'd figured it'd be Mary.

And yet she'd taken one look - or, rather, a week's worth of looks - and she'd seen exactly what everyone else (Dean included) could see. Someone violent and angry and hateful and broken and so, so very poisonous that getting far, far away was the only way to ensure you didn't get burned. The one person he'd thought would never leave voluntarily had walked right out the door.

In hindsight, he really shouldn't have expected otherwise. After all, it was his fault she'd been pulled from Heaven in the first place. For some damn reason, Amara had looked at him and decided that what he really, truly needed was his mother back, and as happy as that had made him - as much as he'd truly wanted to have her back for years, ever since he'd pulled Sammy out of that fire and had to figure out how the hell to change his diapers - it had cost his mother her Heaven. (What kind of son - what kind of person - was he that he'd been happy about that, however indirectly?)

Her Heaven was a different Sam and a different Dean and a John who'd never lost her, never became the revenge-driven hunter he'd morphed into once she'd gone. A John who'd never died and gone to hell saving her screw-up of a son. A Sam she could raise and raise right, without making the many, many mistakes Dean had made trying and failing to do the same. A Dean who was four-years-old and hadn't torn down the world again, and again, and again, and again. Who hadn't gotten the people he cared about killed over and over again.

He wishes she'd stick around the bunker, or that she'd at least give it a try with Sam. Yeah, he's probably not the innocent, happy son Mary would have raised, but Sam-the-hunter was capable as anything and nerdy as all get out and so good that it hurt to see. Dean might not be able to rightfully blame her for leaving him, but leaving Sam? He sure as shit blamed her for that. Sam had only just gotten his mother back, after all, and none of this was his fault; he didn't deserve to lose her.

He reaches into his pocket, fingers less shaky than he expects, and digs out his phone. Tapping the power button has the screen flashing, and some stupid, naïve part of himself hopes to see a notification waiting there. There isn't one, and somehow he still has the capacity to feel disappointed.

He opens his text messages anyway, cuing up her contact information and hovering his fingers over the keys. He doesn't type anything, but he could. Sam deserves a chance, for one. He's the better of us, for another. I'll make it easier: I'll leave the bunker if you just give him a chance, for a third. But he can't figure out how to condense it all into a single text so he just drops the thing onto the table, uncaring of the resulting thud.

The sound of footsteps floats into the room, easily identifiable as Sam's familiar double-time gait, and Dean takes a swig of vodka in preparation. (He's not drunk enough for a feelings conversation yet - hell, he's been pacing himself for once, and he's still only barely passed buzzed - but he knows that's what Sam will want.) It's another moment before Sam's freakishly tall frame slips through the door, heading for the coffee machine and sloshing some of it into a mug.

"Want anything?", he asks, voice a little too cheery.

Dean taps his phone again, trying not to be distracted by the continued lack of notifications as he checks the time. "It's late. Caffeine's gonna wreck your sleep."

Sam shrugs, heading over to Dean's table and sinking down across from him. "Neither of us are getting much sleep tonight and you know it. I'll take the energy." He pauses, and Dean feels his eyes on him without meeting the gaze. "Dean-"

"Nope." He takes a drink.

"You've gotta talk about it eventually."

He nods. "Yeah, maybe. Maybe not."

Sam huffs out a sigh, and Dean's still not looking at him, but he's reasonably confident that Sam's got one of his trademark bitchfaces on. He's not sure, though, and part of him wonders if Mary leaving is big enough to fracture that, too. "Can I have a drink?"

Dean raises an eyebrow, even though he's not sure Sam can see it on his profile. "You gonna give it back?" He hands it over before he gets an answer.

Sam takes his own swig, then passes it back. The silence falls, oddly comfortable with the both of them in their own heads. Eventually, Sam breaks the silence, "She just needs space."

"Drop it, Sam." He's heard that before. He's basically heard it from Mary's mouth a few minutes or an hour ago.

"If anyone can get that, it's us, Dean. We've taken breaks before; we've always come back."

Part of Dean wants to be annoyed that Sam didn't just let it go. The rest of him is buried under the memory of all those "breaks": of Flagstaff, of Stanford, of Sam's post-final-seal departure from hunting. Of Sam, soulless but alive, leaving Dean stranded in a suburbia of nightmares and guilt. Of Sam leaving after Amy Pond. Of Sam and Amelia and a dog. Of everything after Gadreel. Of all the other "breaks" that were almost always initiated by Sam, almost always the exact opposite of what Dean wanted.

He still nods. "Sure." He takes another drink, then shifts to pass it back to Sam. "What's up in that head of yours? You good?"

"Yes." Sam shrugs. "No."

Dean somehow finds the ability to laugh, even though it's humorless. "That was clarifying."

"You're one to talk; at least I'm communicating." Dean pointedly doesn't say anything, and Sam sighs. Grudgingly, he continues. "I don't know. I mean, we got her back. And it was… it was nice. I know we've met her before, but time travel doesn't really count, you know? And it was the first time we thought it might have been permanent, the first time we weren't racing against a clock of some kind or another."

"Yeah."

"But I don't really know her, and that makes things easier, in a way. It's hard to mourn something you never really had. She's been dead all my life; her being gone doesn't really change anything."

Sam's voice is level and matter-of-fact, and Dean almost believes that it's genuine, but there's an edge to it that he doesn't trust. "Don't give me that crap, Sam; I know you. You ain't peachy keen with her leaving any more than I am."

"I mean, yeah, I'm upset. Of course I'm upset." Sam smiles, and Dean finally looks over, and it's a flat smile, barely hitting the corner of his mouth, much less his eyes. "But I'm better than I could be. Better than you are, I think-"

"I'm fine, Sammy." He's taking a drink before he can process that it kinda undermines his point.

"No, you're not." Dean's not sure what to say, but Sam stops talking anyway, so it's a moot point. Silence reigns for a second. Then, it's interrupted by the scrape of a chair moving as Sam shifts in his seat. "I don't know what to say this time."

"Told you. Talking's overrated." He gestures with the bottle. "Drinking's better." He follows through on the comment.

"You need to talk to someon-"

Dean shakes his head. "Nope."

Sam nods, and the motion is resigned. "She'll be back."

"Dammit, Sam, just let it go, alright?" He's standing before he realizes it, the vodka sloshing wildly in the bottle he holds, his voice louder than he means it to be even though he doesn't bother to fix it. It's fitting, really; Sam is a cascade of shattered glass pebbles, but Dean's always been a bit more of a broken beer bottle: thick shards aimed to hurt. "Whaddya wanna hear: that you were right? That she's been wanting to leave for days now? That she already had the damn bag packed and she was just waiting for an excuse?"

"No-"

"Well, congratu-freaking-lations; you were! And she has! And she did." The impassioned energy drains out of his words, and he sags back against the wall. "Yeah, she might come back. But she won't, and we both know it."

"I don't know that, Dean."

"Well, you should." The vodka sloshes again. "It's just what happens."

Sam's eyes narrow, and Dean processes what he just said. It's more than he'd wanted to say, but he doesn't really care at this point. "What do you mean, it's just what happens?"

"Nothing, Sam." He turns, heading towards the door. "I don't mean anything." (And he'd meant those words as a way of pulling back his earlier oversharing, but damn if the other meaning wasn't accurate as well. He can see the moment Sam realizes it, too, but he hurries past it.) "I'm going to my room."

"Dean, wait-"

He shakes his head. "Not now, Sam."

"Should I call Cas?" Sam sounds vaguely desperate, but he apparently hasn't gathered that everyone leaves, including Cas - especially Cas, profound bond or no - and that calling him in for help because Dean can't keep his shit together won't exactly have the angel rushing back.

"Nah." He shakes his head again. "No point; don't waste your time. Or his." And then he walks out the door.