Disclaimer: I do not own "Supernatural" or its characters.


He wasn't sure why he was here. The place was too clean— the patrons too quiet, too nice; the bartenders too helpful, too chatty.

The stool he was sitting on was too plush and comfortable, the mug in his hand too clean, the counter-top too smooth and polished.

The lighting was too precise—not dark, not well-lit, but carefully dim.

The music, he snorted softly to himself in disgust, if he was being charitable— he'd define the "music" playing as generic and leave it at that.

The place was nothing like the dark, smoke filled places he'd grown-up frequenting.

It was the kind of place Dean avoided like the plague. But hell, this entire town was the kind of place he tried, and usually succeeded, in avoiding.

He was here now though, and the why of that still baffled. All logic seemed to have abandoned him recently.

He knew better than this... dammit, he was stronger than this. Except... that apparently he wasn't… because he was here.

It had started innocently enough. Three weeks ago, a poltergeist in California, a soccer game, an incessant voice that hounded him to just be near Sammy...

He stared down at the glass of "beer" in front of him as if it would tell him what the hell to do.

You could stop stalling and just go see him…

A voice whispered and he lifted the glass to his lips, ignoring it.

He had left.

He'd driven away. He'd driven like the devil was on his tail withthe music blasting and his baby roaring... hell, he'd made it to Nevada before...

... before the door he'd snapped shut on his thoughts swung open and the words swarmed around him with the buzz and relentlessness of angry bees.

Sam was getting married.

Sam would belong to another family.

Sam would have his own family.

Sam would be completely unreachable then, completely gone, completely normal...

It had happened again... suddenly he'd been driving in the direction of California-- and FUCK, he hated fuckin California...

But he hadn't been able to not head back here. It was like a siren call, whirling in his mind, drowning out everything else and all he could do was curse that fuckin couple he'd run into!

After all,who the hell was that fuckin friendly to strangers, anyway? Who talked to people on the side of the road... after midnight! Who the fuck told strangers anything about their lives?

Sam.

Sam would, that small voice piped up again. Sam was trusting enough, nice enough, to talk to complete strangers-- he used to do it all the fuckin time. Chit-chat with people... it used to drive their Dad insane, the way Sammy would just slip into conversation with people when they were on lines or waiting for their food to come.

Sammy had been a sweet-tempered puppy when Dad had wanted anattack dog.

It made sense that he had friends who behaved the same way. Dean snorted in disgust, a pile of happy-go-lucky, chit-chatty, fuckin friendly puppy-dogs.

It's not a crime to be friendly...

The tiny voice chimed in, a voice that was sounding too damn much like his little brother.

He wasn't actually near Sam at the moment. He was two towns over to be exact. In a wanna-be college town that was almost glossy in its projection of the apple-pie life.

The place nauseated him.

The entire situation was sort of making him sick-- he was almost, but not really stalking his baby brother.

Almost and not really, because he hadn't actually seen Sam, hadn't actually been back to Palo Alto... he'd just sort of hovered near it.

So far he'd hit nearly every town around Stanford and he was beginning to piss himself off.

He wasn't made for this fuckin hesitant shit-- he did what he had to do when he had to do it...

The problem was, he wasn't really sure what it was he had to do. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do... hell, he wasn't even sure what he wanted to do... he really wasn't sure of anything.

Dad hadn't contacted him with a new job, which was good, because his mind wasn't really on the hunt.

Taking a vacation wasn't a bad idea. He had homes he knew he was welcome in, people he knew would be thrilled to see him... but none of them were Sam-- and that had suddenly become important to him.

It had suddenly become an issue, because suddenly he realized-- Sam wasn't eighteen anymore. His baby brother was grown-up, his baby brother was living his life, his actual grown-up-in-the-real-world life and Dean wasn't a part of it.

Sam didn't want him to be a part of it.

And that hurt.

He slammed the glass down on the bar, the urge to hit something, to destroy something washing over him. He could use a vengeful spirit to salt and burn right now or hell even a really good brawl, he thought, lifting the glass and finishing the beer.

He almost rolled his eyes when the bartender re-filled his glass almost as soon as he'd drained it. Fuck. Good service? What kind of place was this?How the hell was a guy supposed to start an argument in a place like this?

He turned away from the bar to study the bar. The tables were high and round with high-backed stools surrounding them, the booths in the corners and along the walls were plush and wide; the TV's were flat-screen and tuned to football, baseball, or the news, the waitress were tastefully pretty-- everyone was smiling, chatting, drinking, or watching TV... and it was all being done so fuckin quietly.

He sighed; maybe he should come back tonight and salt and burn this place. He shifted a little to study the other side... three dart board, three foosball tables - what the hell? - and three...

A smile tugged at his lips.

He set the beer down and stood.

... three pool tables— now that he could work with...


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