Somewhere in Central USA – 2010

The bad dreams were the least of Sam's troubles.

As he sped the family friendly SUV dangerously fast into the rain drenched night, the receding imagery from his nightmare was a mere footnote on his current list of problems.

It was strange to be driving like that again, with feelings of urgency and barely contained panic simmering just beneath the surface.

It was equally disconcerting how easily Sam had slipped back into that state of constant anxiety and unease, how familiar it all felt again, as if he'd never left that life, never abandoned those feelings. Almost as though he hadn't spent the better part of the last decade escaping it and building something new and far, far removed from it all.

And he had escaped, he had removed himself, and he had something new, something oh so much better than the hunter's life he'd grown up in, a new life filled with more joys than he could have ever dared pray for.

At that thought Sam's eyes flitted for a moment to the reflection caught in the rear-view mirror, of the children sleeping in the back seat, and he had to force himself to focus back on the road, force himself to blink to clear the tears that were threatening his vision. There should be three children, not two. There should be three children, and their mother.

He had to drive, he had to get them to safety. He had to get help.

He needed Dean.

After so many years, the familiarity of that need had rung out like a chapel bell, calling him to sanctuary in his hour of desperation and it was the one feeling he had no doubt in, the only familiar echo from his past that was worth believing in.

He pushed the pedal further and the car sped a little faster, deeper into the torrential night.

He needed to get to Dean.

-oOo-

The rain had petered out, dying to a fine mist by the time he stood outside the motel room.

It was funny how quickly old familiarities came back. It was the first motel he'd tried but he'd known it would be the right one, even before he'd spied the sleek outline of the Impala, glinting in the rain-kissed neon, gracing the otherwise rundown parking lot with a touch of elegance and class. He wouldn't have predicted any feeling at seeing her again, that wasn't even something that had crossed his mind. But his heart skipped a beat when his eyes came to rest on her silhouette, an unexpected reaction like homesickness he hadn't anticipated and he had the absurd desire to walk over to her and pat the roof, trail his fingers across the hood, something he used to see Dean do on occasion, but had never been inclined to mimic himself. That made it all the more bizarre when his own fingers seemed to twitch with that sudden urge to caress and make contact. He humoured the idea for the briefest of seconds before the memory of why he was there returned to him and he balled up his fists.

He'd known which room Dean would have chosen, whether the Impala had been parked out there or not, but even so, even with that surety, when he was stood outside the door, his hand raised to knock, he found himself suddenly assailed by fear and doubt.

It had been almost a decade.

He'd turned his back on his family. Well, on what had been his family up until then. Had turned his back on Dean, who was now all there was left of that side of his family, that side of his life. Dean, who'd been his brother, was technically still his brother, but still, Sam had turned his back on him and had never tried to mend the bridge, not really. Hadn't even looked back to see if the bridge was still intact or just burnt and destroyed after he'd crossed it, a smouldering ruin left buried under the fallout of his choices.

And now, now that he needed help, here he was, mere inches away again, so close, his hand poised in a fist ready to announce his presence.

And yet he couldn't.

Because a thought that simply hadn't even occurred to him in all that time driving, in that intense, panicked frenzy to get here, suddenly crashed into him and it left his heart thumping with anxiety and his innards twisted with fear.

What if now, after so much time, Dean turned his back on him?

Sam knew Dean would have every reason to do that, knew Dean would be well within his rights to tell Sam to get lost. Because Sam had done the same to Dean. Maybe he hadn't articulated that sentiment in so many words, but his actions the night he'd left for Stanford had said as much. His subsequent inactions in the years since, his lack of effort to communicate, had all screamed and bellowed and echoed as much.

I don't need you in my life Dean. I don't miss you there.

An assumed sentiment that, no matter how incorrect, would have ripped Dean's heart to shreds. His breath caught at the acknowledgement of his actions, an acknowledgment too long a time coming, one he'd always avoided, and his throat dried and he felt himself choking.

Dean had turned his back on Sam too once, years ago, at John's funeral. And even though at that time, Sam could understand that perhaps Dean's own pain had caused his brother to abandon him, and even though Sam knew he of all people had no right to complain because he'd done the same thing to Dean and their father, knew his own actions had been the catalyst that had started it all years before, the memory of Dean's abandonment still haunted him sometimes.

That memory fuelled his doubts and fears again now, setting them ablaze with a fervour that left him breathless, as if it were gasoline thrown over the embers of his qualms, reigniting them anew.

But he had no choice. Even if he wouldn't deserve it, even if he would have to beg, to plead and he was ready for that, was willing to swallow down every ounce of pride he had, to beg Dean to help him, even if he had to do something more, anything, he was willing to do it. Because he needed Dean. Needed a hunter. Needed the only person he would ever trust.

It was the only way to save his family.

So he banged on that door, and he waited.

He could instantly sense Dean on the other side, as if there had always been some invisible cord connecting them at their core, suddenly pulling taught and snapping to attention now that he'd made the commitment to re-enter Dean's life.

Sam could picture Dean, gun in hand, senses alert. He stepped back, knowing his brother may be peering from the window to glimpse who, or what, was out there, and wanting to give him ample opportunity to see that it was only him. Not a threat. Just a long gone stranger.

Although…

Maybe that would be a mistake. Maybe that would be enough of a reason for Dean to not respond. Maybe he should have hidden himself completely.

Those thoughts, those doubts, were still worrying and worming their way around in his head, writhing in a cesspool of fear, when the door opened and suddenly, there he was.

Dean.

Wrapped in a towel, hair damp, gun in hand but thankfully lowered, eyes narrowed and a frown creasing features that looked so much older than Sam ever remembered.

"…Sammy?"

And Sam could have cried at hearing the name that no one, not even Jess, had ever gotten away with calling him.

Before he could respond, he saw his brother's eyes flicker past him, over and beyond his shoulder, saw them linger on the SUV, and the thought reminded Sam that he'd left his children alone in there, with no one but Sunny, the family Labrador Retriever, for protection.

"Is Jessica there?"

Why would Dean suspect she wouldn't be? How did he even remember her name? Was his choice of car that obvious? But Sam couldn't wrestle with those thoughts right then. All he could do was shake his head in response to his brother's question, suddenly feeling drained and empty, the full weight of the past few days slamming into him.

Dean seemed to sense all this, seemed to realise Sam was on his last legs, and nodded, taking charge, as Sam had hoped he would.

"I'll meet you back there. Give me a minute." And with that Dean turned, grabbing clothes off the floor from around the single bed in the small room. Sam was about to protest, to say he'd bring the children in, but then stopped short, because it was then that he registered the bra draped over the dresser and the form of someone asleep on the bed, one slender arm poking out from under the covers and hanging listlessly over the edge.

Of course.

Of course Dean wouldn't have been alone.

Of course there would have been someone else in the bed, or the room, or the shower. Why had he not even considered this, when it was so blatantly obvious. Dean was still Dean, after all.

So he turned, walked back the few steps to the car and slowly climbed back in, closing the door as silently as possible. Sunny was curled up on the passenger seat and both children were still asleep, thankfully, but even as he was thankful, a knot twisted in his gut knowing that his wife and youngest son were missing.

He leant his head back against the head rest and closed his eyes. Some of the anxiety had ebbed away, despite it all. Because Dean hadn't slammed the door in his face. Dean hadn't turned him away completely.

Dean hadn't called him simply 'Sam'.

The light double tap on the window startled him awake. He hadn't realised he'd fallen asleep at all, and on instinct his gaze shot to the back seat; the children hadn't stirred. They were still safe. Sunny had sat up, ears perked and head at an angle, staring out at the man peering in.

Dean's face was lowered but his features were too well masked for Sam to be able to read the thoughts dancing behind them. Either that or Sam was out of practice at doing it, having been absent from his brother's side for so long. Dean straightened and took a step back, giving Sam space to step out.

"Bags?" Dean queried, eyeing the dog before turning to Sam and it took Sam a minute to understand what Dean was asking.

"In the trunk." He replied, belatedly.

"Can you carry them both?" Dean asked, nodding towards the sleeping figures, and again it took Sam a minute to respond.

"Yeah… Yeah."

"Good." And with that Dean headed to the trunk, popping it up and shouldering all the bags as though they weighed nothing.

Sam had a sleeping child in each arm as he followed Dean, with Sunny trailing close behind. But rather than return to his room, Dean led them towards a different part of the motel. He somehow managed to wrangle the door open without so much as a bag slipping even slightly from his balance.

Sam followed him in, noting instantly that the room was considerably larger than the one Dean had previously been occupying. There were three beds for a start, in addition to a kitchenette, dining area, sofa and, presumably, both a bathtub and shower towards the side somewhere. Pure luxury in comparison, and it dawned on Sam that Dean must have booked the room after Sam had turned up at his door. How long had Sam been asleep in the car? It had felt like barely seconds, but it clearly it must have been more.

And then, he felt guilty. He still remembered how they used to live, hustling dollars, counting dimes. If the choice of motel was anything to go by, things hadn't really changed that much.

"I'll pay for it," he offered, the words escaping him before he even knew what he'd said, and he cringed a little at hearing how he sounded. Dean apparently heard the same thing because he gave him a look. Not quite offended, not quite disgusted, but not far off from either.

"Thanks Rockefeller. But how 'bout for now you just settle them into bed, huh?"

The older child, a girl, had stirred and was rubbing her eyes, but Sam soothed her, lowering her to the nearest bed and gently coaxing her back to sleep, laying her toddler sibling, a boy, next to her as he did so and pulling the covers up over both of them. Sunny jumped up on the bed, curling up at their feet, seeming to settle as instantly as the children.

It was an effort for Sam to tear his eyes away from his children, but when he did, he was met with Dean's hazel green eyes staring back at him.

But these were not the eyes of Dean, his brother. These were the eyes of Dean, the hunter.

"Why don't you have a drink?" Dean suggested. And there was an edge in that offer as Dean held out a glass towards him, holding it at arm's length and eyeing him warily.

"I'm… I'm fine Dean."

"C'mon Sam. For old times' sake."

And he'd said 'Sam' and his voice was cold and detached, and from what felt like miles away, Sam heard Sunny whine, responding to the sudden change in atmosphere. But Sam didn't linger on any of that, because more pressing was the fact that there was a gun in Dean's other hand again, the ivory white of the grip almost luminous as it peeked through his fingers. The gun wasn't raised, but it was there all the same and when Sam looked at his brother, he found he couldn't read him at all.

His mouth suddenly felt very dry and his first thought went again to his children. He took a tentative sidestep, hoping to shield them with as much of his frame as he could, although perhaps, he thought belatedly, he should have put as much distance as he could between where they were lying and where that gun might end up pointing.

Dean didn't stop him in any case, the tumbler still held out and steely flint like eyes calmly, coldly, assessing Sam's every move. His expression was as though chiselled from stone, suddenly devoid of any humour or warmth. The flashing neon lights from the motel sign outside jumped across his face, painting his features in alternate twitches of reds and blues, but it was an illusion of movement, because Dean was as still as a predator, eyes steady, glinting with a dangerous weariness that Sam didn't really remember having ever seen when he was younger. Maybe he'd forgotten. Or maybe he'd never been on the receiving end of this version of Dean. This version that was suddenly oh so utterly terrifying.

"You gonna leave me hanging here Sam?" But despite the light-heartedness of the words, despite the unnerving calm in Dean's voice, there was a very obvious threat lurking there behind the invitation.

Sam cautiously reached out and took the drink, feeling for the briefest second, the keychain that was still in Dean's palm glancing over his skin before Dean pulled his hand back. He stared down into the glass. He couldn't make out the colour of the liquid, but would that have even mattered?

His eyes flickered to Dean again, but his brother's expression hadn't changed at all, and he realised there was nothing he could do. He brought the tumbler up to his lips and downed the whole lot in one go. Instantly, it burned. It burnt as it went all the way down, but after the initial shock he recognised it as the remotely familiar burn of whiskey, nothing else. He stared down at the glass, then back up at Dean, wondering what he was missing. But Dean's eyes had softened, his features had changed, making him a new man, the one Sam remembered, and he saw relief flood into the lines of his older brother's face. The handgun was gone.

"Glad you're not a demon Sammy. Or a shifter. Or a ghoul."

Holy water. Of course. Mixed with the drink. And a silver keychain, so subtly done. And suddenly Sam didn't know what to say or what to do. This old life, the rules, the paranoia, he had run so far from it, had run so far he had almost escaped.

Except now, here he was, running scared, back in a crappy motel, back with the reality of monsters and guns and holy water in the night.

He took a shuddering breath, his unsteady hand putting the tumbler down on a side table, and he returned to face his brother's gaze. He should say something he realised, he'd been quiet too long. And Dean's return to reticence was equally unsettling, his momentary relief from just seconds ago possibly turning to anger and resentment, and that, Sam already knew, would be justified. Dean was eyeing him, was waiting for him to set the tone, to make the first move, but for the life of him, suddenly, Sam didn't know what that would be.

He was a stranger. Not just in this life but in this room. They were strangers. He'd made a mistake, he realised, coming back. But even as he thought that, he knew he'd had no choice; there would have been no one else who's help he would dare to ask. There was no one else in the world whose help he would trust.

But now that he was actually here, physically just a step away and yet somehow so far, he suddenly saw the true distance that had built up between them over the years and it felt so vast he didn't know how, didn't know if, they would ever be able to traverse it.

He took another deep breath, biting his lip, and found that simply even looking at his brother, even looking into those hazel eyes that had once been so familiar, that had for so long once, been his only solace and comfort in the world, now suddenly stabbed at something inside, set a hurt aching deep, deep within him and his sight became blurred even as he fought to quell his tears.

Dean for his part, was holding back, watching his younger brother fight some internal battle, wrestling with whatever it was that had brought him back to this godforsaken life.

And whatever it was, Dean knew without question it must have been something terrible to send his brother to him. To bring him here, half his new family in tow and the other half, his wife and youngest son, who knew where?

"Dean… I…" Sam tried, but he was floundering, Dean could see that.

And then the instincts Dean had been resisting but couldn't really supress kicked in, and before either of them knew what was happening, Dean had stepped up, bridging that seconds-ago seemingly insurmountable gap, arms wrapping around his brother with the comforting support only Dean could bestow, and the vast chasm between them fell away to nothing.

There was a fraction of a second, where Sam was taken aback, but when he recovered he returned the embrace with more force and energy than he felt he'd had in the past few weeks combined.

The smell, the warmth, the familiar Pavlovian feeling of safety that Dean's closeness elicited in him, that Sam remembered from throughout his childhood, that nothing and no one else, not even John had ever been able to provide in the same way, flooded back into him with a tidal force and he sank into it. Tried his damnedest to not cry and held on tighter than he felt he had energy for. Held on for dear life and love and everything in between.

They weren't really strangers after all. It was still Dean. It was still his big brother. His family.

They would always be family.

There was no distance at all because they would always be brothers.

"It's okay Sammy." Dean said, words muffled in Sam's shoulder. "Whatever it is we'll… it's okay. We'll figure it out."

At Dean's gruff assurance, a promise Sam had been craving but couldn't have dared even hope for until it was uttered, Sam couldn't hold back the tears that escaped him and he held his brother tighter.

"It's gonna be okay." Dean repeated.

For the first time in days, Sam allowed himself to believe it might be.

-oOo-


To be continued.

As always, thank you for reading.

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