A Brother's Sacrifice

by ayosb2000

Completely AU. John really did want Dean to have a home and for Sam to go to school. At Sonny's, Dean saw the possibility of another life, but chose family. Sam is chafing under his father's thumb. An exploration of what might have happened if Dean stood up to his father and decided that normal and hunting could co-exist. A large re-write of a previous story I wrote years ago.

10. February 2001

This was, without a doubt, the dumbest idea Sam had ever had.

Not that Dean hadn't done some spectacularly dumb things in his time. Sam's big brother would be the first to admit it.

Take that incident two years ago, for example.

The Winchesters were outside of Fort Wayne, Indiana with Caleb, cleaning up a job at a haunted abandoned prison. It had been an absolute mess. For some stupid reason, people liked to think the mysterious deaths happening there made it a prime place for a tourist attraction. John had shaken his head in disbelief because more often that not civilians were just that stupid.

Even as he salted and burned the bones, Dad had still been muttering something about If ever there was a time to implement Darwinism…

It had taken all four of them, armed to the teeth and fighting anything that shimmered, before all the tortured dead convicts were laid to rest. Dean and Caleb were bouncing on the balls of their feet from a wave of sheer adrenaline, pumped and ready to go again. The fires in the boneyard behind the prison still radiating an inferno of heat, when John's phone rang.

It was Martin, calling for assistance with a banshee in Orlando. John and Martin went way back. Had saved each others lives over and over again, and John didn't even hesitate a second before promising to be on his way in thirty. Caleb was happy to join them, as he had business in Miami with his munitions expert based there.

It was February, and Sam was off from school for winter break. He and his brother had been at each others throats for days. Sam seemed to be the only kid in his class that wasn't going on some sort of fun trip for the holiday, and he really didn't appreciate the jovial observation from Dean that they were on a trip of their own.

The younger brother apparently wasn't counting a multiple murder scene jailhouse cleansing as a good time.

For the two days the job had taken in Fort Wayne, Dean and Sam had been snapping at each other almost every single minute, and the friction had escalated to the point that John's teeth were set on edge. Caleb was a sort of honorary big brother to both of the Winchester boys and Sam, being fifteen and moody, might have been feeling both a little jealous and a little left out by all of the time Caleb and Dean were spending together.

Sam wasn't used to sharing his big brother and, at that particular moment in time, he wasn't shy about expressing his unhappiness, hence the increase in overall snotty behavior that was trying his father's patience. When both boys were in the Impala with their dad, they were bickering constantly, until John, at wits end, told Dean to ride with Caleb, and that just set Sam off even more.

John's firstborn could take a lot of crap from his little brother and let it go, like water off of a duck's back, but their father could see that the older boy was at his limit of patience. Dean was an energetic young man, and he asked for very little for himself. Certainly less than most twenty year olds wanted to have. It was unfair of John to expect him to take a litany of abuse from his little brother without an occasion reward.

The family had been in Florida a couple of years earlier. Sam had begged and pleaded with his father to take them to Busch Gardens for the great roller coasters they had there and the variety of wildlife that wasn't the kind that the family hunted. John refused when he caught a case in Alabama, and his youngest had sulked in the back of the car for the entire trip. That kind of behavior didn't win you any points when your father was John Winchester, and Sam found himself running laps around their motel for days afterwards.

Seeing an opportunity to broker peace here, John told his sons that they were headed down to Orlando, and then promised Sam that if he behaved himself and did the banshee job without complaint or any backtalk, they would stop in Tampa on their way back north. Dad was pretty good about taking the boys for fun outings after a job if they had the time and cash, but he didn't generally offer a treat when a fuss had been made over it once already, and this was uncharted territory.

Thrumming with excitement, and happy for the first time since vacation started, Sam swore up and down that he would be as good as gold and work his ass off, and was already cleaning up the site and packing in half a heartbeat.

Dean was the only one looking down in the mouth, and his father knew it was because his firstborn wasn't looking forward to spending more time in the car with his little brother. It was a fifteen plus hour trip to Orlando, and Dean would be expected to help John drive so they could get there as quickly as possible.

John could see it in his son's eyes. He wasn't blind to all of the sniping going on, and Dean never complained. He gave as good as he got, but he was never really mean to his little brother, and often would wind up doing whatever was needed to get Sam to stop with the attitude. After days of Sam's moodiness, Dean deserved a break.

It wasn't hard to arrange for John and Sam to join Caleb in his Jeep for the trip and let Dean take the Impala by himself. They weren't all needed for the hunt. The older brother could have some personal time and then meet them in Tampa for a day of fun at the theme park. John gave Dean the car keys, some cash and strict instructions to meet them in five days.

Five states in five days.

A boy could get into a lot of trouble with that kind of time and distance on his hands.

The smile on Dean's face had been a mile wide, thoughts of fun nights with pretty girls and no little brother to care for dancing through his head. Sam was already giddy with the idea of a fun vacation activity and spending time around Caleb without Dean, and then Dean put the cherry on the sundae by promising Sam that he would go on every ride with him.

Twice.

Dean had never told Sam what he did for most of that time, but Sam knew that his brother had made it to Tampa a day early when he called Dad to let him know the room number of the motel he had checked into.

What Sam did know was that Dean had gone to a biker bar the night he arrived, gotten completely hammered and hit on a waitress named Darla, with a hot body that more than made up for her lack of mental acuity. Somehow they managed to score a few joints that, unbeknownst to Dean, turned out to be laced with something that he still, to this day, had no idea what it was.

The next thing he knew there were a ton of people and a wire hair fox terrier puppy in the car with him, and they were headed back to Dean's motel room to party.

When Dad and Sam arrived at the motel the next day, Dean wasn't answering the door, so Dad turned it into a lock picking lesson for his younger son. Dean was still passed out when they found him inside.

Spread eagle, naked and tied to the bed, with a bra gag in his mouth. The room was trashed, furniture tipped over and broken. Empty beer and liquor bottles littering every surface. Whoever was with him the night before had taken Dean's cash, his cellphone and his favorite knife, and left him with a spotty memory, the mother of all hangovers and a raging case of chlamydia.

Dad had been in a blind panic until he finally got Dean to wake up. Then Dad had raged. Sam was sent outside to wait in the Impala, and he would have happily stayed out there if the interior of the car wasn't covered in dog fur and pee, with the remnants of some of Dad's favorite cassette tapes strewn all over the seats.

Sam had contemplated keeping quiet, but finally came to the conclusion that it would ultimately be better for his brother to let Dad scream for everything at one time instead of holding back and allowing an opening for an Ass Chewing Part II. So he braved his father's wrath and peeked in the door, where Dean was sitting slumped on the bed covered with a sheet, and Dad's face had worked itself up from red to magenta.

At his youngest son's prompting, John had taken a quick look at the car, and Sam watched his face go all the way to purple as he slammed back into the motel room, rocking the door on its hinges in his wake.

Sam didn't know exactly what his father said to Dean, but when John came out of the room fifteen minutes later, he strode over to where Sam was sitting on the Impala's hood, pointed an irate finger at him and yelled.

"The rules are simple, Sam. You don't take a joint from a guy named Don and there's no dogs in the car!"

And Sam had blinked and yes, sir'd, and was too scared to remind his father that Sam hadn't done anything to get yelled at for. It didn't seem to matter to John at that particular moment.

Dad made Dean get dressed and painstakingly detail the Impala for over two hours. Sam wasn't allowed to help, so he watched from the motel room window as his big brother, pale, sweating and nauseous, scrubbed every inch of the car with their father standing sentry off to the side, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

They did make it to Busch Gardens that day, just before noon. True to his word, Dean dutifully accompanied Sam on the rides, but Sam could see how green around the gills his brother was, suffering in silence like a martyr and feeling guilty as hell.

After just a few spins on the coasters, Sam declared that he was done, and that he wanted to concentrate on the other attractions instead, but Dad was insistent, and he actually made the boys keep riding, reminding Dean that his poor choices weren't going to ruin his little brother's day.

Dean was clearly miserable, but he racked his shoulders back and did as he was told, as always. The pain in Dean's eyes was crippling, and Sam couldn't enjoy another minute knowing that his brother was feeling like shit. Dean spent the rest of the visit pushing Sam towards every ride, barely able to stand upright and struggling to choke back his own vomit.

Even though Dad had kept his word about taking Sam to the theme park he had begged to go to, and Dean had brought his trouble upon himself, Sam hated his father that day.

That trip had been a pinnacle of dumb things to do in the world of the Winchester brothers, and as Sam pressed on the gas of his Camaro and roared towards the snow capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains, he already knew that he was about to outdo his brother on the dumb idea scale.

/

Dean sat on the recently recovered sofa, tiredly nursing a beer. His whole body ached. Bobby had him working on an engine rebuild all day and it was just being a complete bitch. The weather had been that kind of cold and damp gray pall that just sucked the energy right out of you. He would have preferred snow. At least snow didn't make his muscles stiff.

Not that he was complaining about his job. Bobby had been damn good to them since the move.

He was idly watching the new television set that was showing a decade old segment of This Old House. Bob Vila was giving careful instruction on grouting tile with far too much enthusiasm in Dean's opinion.

Normally, he wouldn't give crap like this the time of day, but the first floor half bathroom in the rented house still looked like hell, worse than most of the run down motel rooms that he had lived in over the years. Except for the few projects that Dad had helped him with, Dean didn't know jack about home improvement.

His father would be by to visit in a couple of weeks and, depending on his mood, which wasn't actually very charitable towards his firstborn at the moment, might or might not be willing to lend a hand. Whatever John didn't agree to, Dean would figure it out for himself.

Not that they really had the money for renovations on a house that wasn't even theirs, but Dean was putting some aside every week just the same. The longer they stayed, the more attached Dean found himself becoming and he often caught himself planning for the long haul.

Realistically, he knew it should only be temporary. Sammy would be done with school in June, and then it would be back out onto the road with their dad. However, until that time, Dean didn't want his kid brother ashamed of bringing home the select few friends that he had made.

Sammy's study group had been meeting at their house once every other week, in rotation with the homes of the other members. Although it would have been nice to have a working bathroom on the first floor, the brothers just kept the door shut during the study sessions and directed the kids upstairs to the big bathroom that the two bedrooms shared.

It was an easy solution when the group had been just starting out and small.

After Dad grounded Sam in the wake of the infamous party incident, Dean had been pleased to hear that his little brother's study buddies were more than happy to just hold all of their review sessions at the Winchester house, instead of trading off, since Sam was on lock down. Quite frankly, it was what Dean had wanted all along, and he was especially happy when the decision was made without him suggesting it, because Sam could still be a bit touchy.

Not just because Dean would prefer the kid stay where big brother could keep a close eye on him, but also because it showed Sam that he really did have some good friends. Ones who would prefer to change their plans around to accommodate him, so that he could still spend time with them, instead of leaving him out in the cold.

As a result, Dean had really been going the extra mile to make them all feel as comfortable as possible.

For a house kept by two young men, it was very tidy. Dad was a stickler about neatness, his military mind demanding organization, and he hated clutter. The brothers split the chores for housekeeping, and floors were mopped regularly and dirty dishes didn't sit in the sink.

The kitchen was Dean's domain for the most part, except for the dinner dishes. He also had all the household laundry going near constantly, and the whole place usually smelled of clean linen and perfumed dryer sheets unless dinner was burning. Sam bitched when he was assigned the chore of cleaning the upstairs bathroom, but his meticulous nature kept all of the surfaces shining regardless.

Over time, Dean had been steadily adding to their mismatched collection of furniture odds and ends.

An end table in the living room, between the couch and stuffed chair, with a lamp that gave a softer lighting than the harsh florescent overheard. A dark wood entertainment center for the upgraded television, replacing the old set borrowed from Bobby and the cart on wheels it had sat upon.

There were framed photos on the walls of the brothers and their parents. Some new, like the ones taken at Christmas and Sam's senior photo from Holy Rosary. Some borrowed from their father's limited collection, copied and enlarged. The living room also had a bookcase, reasonably similar enough to the entertainment center, but not quite exact. Sam was busy filling its shelves, and Dean made sure that he had the means to do so.

The kitchen was newly repainted, and the small table and battered chairs had been relocated down to John's work area in the basement, and then replaced with a bigger farmhouse table Bobby got off a neighbor that was retiring to Florida. It came with a long bench for one side and six chairs for the other three. Large enough for Sam's study group to gather around in the evening.

For someone that had only vague memories of a home, Dean proved to be rather adept at artfully arranging framed prints that they bought cheap for the kitchen walls. There were even a few plants scattered here and there. Dean liked them for the homey atmosphere they gave off, and Dad liked them because they were all herbs that could be used for spell work.

It was a cozy place to gather.

Dean took it one step further, and started encouraging Sam to invite his friends for dinner before their reviews. Their food budget wasn't limitless, but it was decent enough, especially as Sam was growing again.

Pasta was cheap, and Dean would put together huge bowls of it, trying out different sauces and adding another big bowl of salad and the garlic toast Dad showed him how to make. Sometimes it would be a stock pot of chili, with shredded cheese and buttery slabs of cornbread on the side. The kids were even happy with tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.

It was informal and messy. Loud with laughter and friendship.

As word got around, the size of the group increased from eight to thirteen. Sam squinted at his brother apologetically when the kitchen got more crowded, and Dean just smiled, shrugged, and added another box of pasta to the boiling pot of holy water.

With so many kids in the house, the additional bathroom was becoming a necessity, since no one was allowed in John's living/work space in the basement for obvious reasons. Which is why Dean was suddenly concerned with grout.

Over the low volume of the television, Dean could hear the start of his brother's wet cough beginning again, the sound drifting down from Sam's bedroom upstairs. Checking his watch, he noticed that it was almost time for another dose of the prescription cough medicine that they had picked up after their Monday night visit to the local Urgent Care clinic. He had already had his evening antibiotic.

This was the second time that Sam had been ill with the flu since they moved to Sioux Falls. Dean's little brother was generally pretty healthy, and that was saying something considering some of the more skeevy places they were forced to stay on occasion.

The fact that the kid was living in the cleanest environment they had called home since Lawrence, and going to a posh school where even a sniffle was treated with top notch medical care, and he still kept getting sick, was stressing Dean out.

Inwardly, Dean had been really proud of the fact that he could pay for his brother's doctor visit himself instead of relying on the phony insurance cards that their father had pressed into his hands back in August. With them settled in town, Sam didn't need to worry about not getting medical treatment because his insured last name was Daltry.

Pushing himself up from the couch, he climbed the stairs and gave Sammy's door a brief knock before coming in.

Sam was bundled in his bed, books and papers piled around him in what appeared to be an unsuccessful attempt to study. Dean frowned when he saw them, having specifically told his cranky little brother to get some sleep when he sent him to bed after Sam was too feverish and snotty to choke down a little of the tomato rice soup Dean had made for him.

He lifted an eyebrow in annoyance, earning himself a flushed face scowl in return, Sam looking all of six years old pouting under the blankets. Stubborn brat was always a monumental pain in the ass when he was under the weather.

Unless Dad was home, of course. Then it was all glassy eyes and clingy arms and instant compliance to Dad's orders. It was the only time Sam didn't fight with their father, and guaranteed that he would start one with his big brother.

Too exhausted to debate the lack of adherence to the previous command to rest, the older brother refrained from making any comment that might provoke a battle. Neither one of them had the energy at this point as Sam hadn't been sleeping well, and when Sammy didn't sleep well, Dean didn't either.

Shaking his head in irritation, he grabbed the bottle of cough syrup from the bathroom next door and refilled the small measuring cap, carrying it back into Sam's room and handing it to his little brother silently. Sam kept the scowl firmly in place as he reached for it, knocking it back like a shot of whiskey that somehow made him feel less childlike than just obediently taking his medicine like a good little boy.

The silent battle of wills continued after Dean washed the cap off and replaced it. Giving his little brother a don't mess with me look, he proceeded to clear all of the study material from Sam's bed, daring the congested kid to say something about it. For all of his bravado, Sam didn't have the energy to argue either, especially since he could already feel the wave of drowsiness that the medication induced coming over him.

Covering a cough with his hand, he turned over onto his side and burrowed into his pillow, his eyes already shut tightly in exhaustion. Dean reached out a hand, pushing aside the slightly damp bangs as he pressed the back of his fingers to Sam's forehead. Even with his eyes closed, Sam still managed a fairly decent bitch face, surprisingly his only outward sign of indignation at the prospect of his big brother going all mother hen on him, the large rough hand gentle as it searched for an increase in fever.

Satisfied that Sam's forehead was hovering in a normal range all things considered, Dean pulled away and straightened back up.

"Get some sleep, Sammy," he insisted, his voice quiet but firm. "I mean it, kiddo. I come back in here and find books on your bed again, I'll be throwing them in the wood stove to help with the heating costs. Got it?"

"We don't have a wood stove," Sam grumped, choking back another coughing fit into his pillow.

"I'll buy one," Dean snapped, frowning as he switched the light off. "You hear me?"

Sam managed a small grunt of assent, not too tired to flip his brother off as he slipped back into a heavy slumber. Dean watched him for a minute to reassure himself that his kid brother was breathing as steadily as could be expected before soundlessly padding out of the room and heading back downstairs.

Flopping back down on the couch, Dean watched the credits of the show roll and cursed, half annoyed that he had missed the final part of the segment.

Oh, well

He would just have to figure the rest out for himself. Luckily for him, he had always managed to pick up stuff like that fairly easily. He might not have Sam's freaky almost photographic memory, but he did just fine for himself, thank you very much.

Sam had been feeling a little rundown most of last week, and Dean wasn't surprised that the kid was wiped out considering how many extracurricular activities he was involved in. It seemed like Sammy was always on the go from this club to that club to this practice for something.

While Dean worried about his little brother wearing himself down, he was also pleased with the fact that Sam was making the most of his year at his school. Finally able to join whatever he wanted and getting it all out of his system, so that when they had to go back on the road again, there wouldn't be any regrets of if only and I wish I had lingering in his little brother's mind.

No matter what the future brought them, Sam would always have this year to look back on and have good memories of a normal life.

It was the least Dean could do for him. The road ahead was rough and bumpy and dangerous, and while he would do everything he could to protect the kid, they were hunters first and foremost, and they had an obligation to do whatever they could to protect and save people who were in the dark about the real things in life that could hurt them.

The chest congestion hadn't really made itself known until his Saturday evening performance of Our Town. It hadn't been easy to convince their father to let Sam skip out on their weekend meets so he could do the show, once John came back into the area from his mysterious trip.

With Dean backing him up, Sam went to the play tryouts that Tuesday after the little brunette cornered them at the coffeehouse. Alex's bouncy enthusiasm dragged him down the hallway at school towards the theater where the other students were milling around to read for parts. After two hours of readings, Sam had walked away with the part of George Gibbs and, to his complete surprise, Alex was cast as Emily Webb.

The theater kids clique was small and incestuous and, apparently, her assistant casting director position did not disqualify her from being awarded the female lead. Dean had smiled when he heard the news, knowing without needing to be told that this had been the reason behind her full court press regarding Sam's participation.

Sammy was a Winchester. Of course the chicks would be chasing him, the big brother thought fondly.

Dad had come to stay with them for a couple of days later that week, looking well and truly wrecked. The boys had seen the aftereffects of bad hunts before, but these latest secretive trips of their father's seemed to be worse than ever. Leaving Dean concerned for his dad's mental state and, as usual, John wasn't giving any information on his whereabouts for the past month. It was always frustrating for both boys, but this had been the first time that Dean was even more perturbed than his little brother normally was.

As far as he knew, Dad hadn't been on any of the usual brand of hunts.

John would have shared his information if he had been, because it was always important for the boys to understand what he had run up against and also how to take it down in case they had to deal with it in the future. The fact that Dad wasn't saying anything at all was what really got under his firstborn's skin, and no amount of persuasion was successful in getting their father to open up about where or how he had spent his time away from them.

Frustrated and worried, but knowing he wasn't getting answers, Dean waited until Sammy was in bed before he managed to summon up the nerve to ask their father why his little brother was put on lock down during John's absence and why Dean wasn't informed.

His father had looked at him a little strangely, confusion clouding his eyes for a second, before he shook his head in irritation and told Dean that it should have been understood if they weren't with him.

That was certainly not the standard protocol and, for a moment, Dean was going to remind his father of that, but considering the man's current state of mental agitation, he decided against it.

After all of those hours going over the rules at the start of the school year, the mandatory activities of the brothers were laid out in no uncertain terms. Dean didn't know what had changed in his father's mind to deviate from those terms, but he also knew his chances were slim to none about getting any real straight truth about that at the moment. He pushed his raising ire aside and changed the subject for both of their sakes.

Instead, he had gingerly broached the subject of Sam's desire to do the play, and his accomplishment of getting cast in the lead role. As expected, their father had dismissed the idea outright, the irritation on his face getting significantly more noticeable, as if he couldn't believe the brazen impudence of his firstborn to even suggest such a thing.

Dean loved his father, and respected him above everything else in his life. He willingly did anything asked of him and never questioned or complained, because he took pride in being a good son. There was a time, in the not so recent past, when he would have yes sir, sorry sir'd his father and tucked his tail between his legs and told his little brother that he would have to quit the show after all.

Not this time.

For all of the love and respect he had for John, he had made his brother a promise, and Dean intended to keep it. There simply was no good reason why Sam couldn't be allowed to have this, and since his father didn't seen inclined to provide one, Dean couldn't help feeling that it was unreasonable and unnecessary to deny his little brother.

What Sam wanted wasn't dangerous and it wasn't illegal. The practices and the performance were held on school grounds where it was safe.

Dean pointed out to his father that if there was a hunt that John needed back up for, Sam could stay at Bobby's place, like John himself had allowed so many times over the years, and Dean would more than willingly be by his father's side, as always.

Dean's entire life, he had accepted his father's commands like gospel. It would never even have occurred to him to shirk an order, or question it. Maybe it was because he was getting older, or because he was feeling a bit of more freedom of his own. Maybe it was because his father's behavior over the last few months had changed in more ways that one.

Some good, some downright scary.

Whatever it was, Dean wasn't the same snap to soldier he had been in August. He felt somewhat bad about that, because that had never been his intention when suggesting this break in the family business, but he couldn't help the way he felt now. Their time in the little house, less on the hunt and more in the civilian world, had changed Dean in small and subtle ways. Reawakening a small hidden desire for a little more stability in his own life that he hadn't let himself feel since his time with Sonny.

John was always going to be his father, and the man he looked to for guidance and orders out in the field, and sometimes in life too, but Dean was no longer the boy that would accept commandments without question, and it was going to take more than just John saying because I said so now.

Didn't mean Dean wasn't going to still feel guilty about that.

Without being disrespectful, because he genuinely didn't want to be, Dean finally convinced his father to allow Sam to perform, after promising to find a way that Dean himself could be present during the practices. It wasn't an ideal compromise, especially since Sam already felt claustrophobic, but it was going to have to be enough.

Deep down, Dean could feel his father's disappointment in his oldest son's new tone and demeanor. That knowledge disturbed him all the way down to a cellular level, because part of what made Dean who he was, was the loyal and obedient son he had been all of his life. It was hard for him to admit that he was becoming someone he never foresaw himself evolving into.

He also admitted to himself that things may have been different if John had been the least bit forthcoming about the hunt that had changed everything so radically, and given his boys even a tiny scrap of information about what he had been doing when he dropped off the face of the Earth for almost a month.

Dean was no longer a child, and it was getting harder to take things on faith.

They were used to him being gone, but Dean knew something big was brewing, and the fact that his father didn't seem to trust him enough to confide in him was a painful shock to the young man's system. He had always given his all, every minute of every day, and he couldn't help feeling that he had earned the right to be given at least the basics of whatever it was that had his father so drastically altered and shaken.

From the time he was a preschooler he had been prepared to work as hard as he was needed to. Bleed as much as he was required. Train until his muscles gave out. Help raise his brother no matter how much Dean needed to forfeit himself to get the job done. Seventeen years of love, sweat, pain, obedience and sacrifice, only to be stonewalled by the father he had given everything he had in him to give.

The hurt of an insecure child was warring with the frustration and anger of an emerging independent man.

Another part of the equation was the absolute surety that Sammy was pulling in another direction, and Dean was determined to see that never happen. If it took Dean setting the example to their father that his sons were growing up, then that was what he was going to do.

Sam had always exhibited the independent nature that Dean had suppressed for the good of his family. His little brother was kept compliant for now under the threat of punishment for disobedience, but the time was rapidly coming when that would no longer be be the case. Sam was going to need additional inducements to accept his hunting life as a willing adult, and not as a child without a choice.

The research for the hunts was every bit as important as the physical part of them. Sammy was a capable hunter for his age. Strong and talented. Good with a gun or a knife. He didn't hesitate in a fight and not much really scared him, except for clowns. He was a good hunter, but Dean knew that he hated the fight, and hated all the bloodshed that came with it.

Dad was going to have to understand that Sam's part of the family business was going to be as the bookworm, and not the warrior. Dean himself was more than willing and able to do the dirty work. In fact, he was thrilled as hell to see what his little brother could come up with as far as lore went when he had the ability to study it full time.

How many hunts had they missed simply because they didn't have the knowledge to recognize abstract cases? How many more lives could they save with new information?

Dean wanted Sam to see the hunting life as an adult. When the frequent travels were made without the emotional attachments to school friends, and he didn't have to juggle research assignments on top of class assignments. It could be a good life. A fun life, if Sam could just be given the chance to understand that, without having his mind half focused on homework.

It was time for his serious little brother to relax and enjoy himself. Go to a bar with his big brother. Enjoy the company of pretty young ladies. To stop working himself sick, like he was right now.

Sammy was a caring and compassionate kid. Dean was positive that his little brother would still get pleasure out of helping people if it meant he didn't add to his scar collection on a regular basis.

It wasn't as if they hunted every single day of their lives. Sure, evil was busy, but they had never caught cases twenty-four/seven. There would be stretches of a week or two at a time when they laid low and hustled to line their pockets. A chance for the brothers to spend time doing fun things, and not worrying about the next monster coming down the pike.

Time for Dad and Sam to get to know one another as people and not just father and son at each other's throats. Maybe they could finally have the chance to develop the kind of more comfortable bond that John and Dean had and, God willing, Sammy could stop being so angry all the time. They were getting so much closer to that being a reality, Dean could almost taste it.

It was a heady dream.

One that Dean was willing to put everything he could into making a reality. Dad and Sam didn't know it yet, but Dean was going to fight to keep a hold on their little house for as long as he could.

/

When Jim Murphy was a small boy of nine years old, his mother went completely insane.

It happened gradually, over time.

At first it was random bouts of paranoia and increased anxiety regarding Jim and his brother. Whether it was where they were going, or if they were sleeping too much or too little.

Then it was the blink of an eye mood shifts, where she would either be smothering them with affection or screaming at the top of her lungs and pelting them with flying projectiles of whatever was accessible at the moment.

Sometimes she forgot their names, and on the really bad days, forgot who they were entirely.

She would shriek and threaten to dial the police if the two little urchins in her house didn't get away from her immediately. Usually followed by her inability to remember who she was going to call and dropping down onto her bed to sleep for twelve hours while the boys made themselves sandwiches and huddled together on the front steps of their house waiting for the next crisis.

On occasion she would talk about their father, and hysterically rant on the evils of the world. The monsters in it that took good men from their families, and how she needed to protect her boys from meeting the same fate. Jim and his brother were too young to understand what she meant, only knowing that Pop was dead because of a conflict in some country called Korea.

There were good days when she would be coherent enough to collect the mail and remember to deposit the benefit checks that the family received after the death of Jim's father during active military duty. Bills would get paid and groceries were bought, and the brothers could breathe easier for a minute.

Then everything would shift again, and the two boys had only each other to rely on while their mother mentally checked out of consciousness. They learned early to keep their heads down and not make waves because they had already lost their father, and their mother was never really far behind him.

In the end, it was a garbage man with a drinking problem and poor work ethic that finally drove her over the edge.

For some reason that will forever remain unknown, Jim's mother was tipped completely over the edge simply because their street got skipped on trash night. It was as if she saw such an innocuous action as a harbinger that all safety and reality was deserting her and her boys, and an overwhelming need to protect them from the evil that lurked in the darkness took a hold of her and refused to let go.

The boys should have known better. It was only their youth, and a desperate hope to see their mother acting normally, that blinded them to the mania in her eyes when she piled them into the car for ice cream.

It was the middle of the summer, the air humid and ripe with cut grass and barbecue smoke. They drove down to the lake and stopped at the ice cream stand a few hundred yards from the boat launch. Jim's mother gave each of her boys a dollar and they clambered out of the car to stand in line and get their treats, excitement shining in their eyes, like all children when swirly cones and sundaes were scooped nearby.

Neither noticed the thousand yard stare on their mother's face while she sat behind the wheel, leisurely smoking a cigarette.

The boys piled back into the back seat, cones in their hands already starting to melt in the summer heat, dripping down their fingers as they rushed to lick the sides. They jostled each other good naturedly, in the way that siblings do, twisting against the sticky warmth of the vinyl underneath them as they put their bare feet up against the back of the front bench seat.

When the last crunch of cone had been eaten, the boys scrubbing at the messy dribbles on their chins with balled up paper napkins, Mother started the car and pulled away from the stand. By the time the boys realized that she turned left towards the lake and not right towards town, it was too late.

The impact of the car diving into the water shocked them at first, in the way that your mind is aware that something terrible is happening, but can't quite register the specifics of what it was just yet. The windows were half open because the boys had been enjoying the breeze as they cruised along the drive to town, and neither was prepared for the rush of water that poured into the car at high speed.

Mother wasn't moving in the front street, and Jim remembers being confused as to why she wasn't doing something, anything, to help her boys in the back. Her eyes were open and staring at the darkening depth coming ever closer to them, and there was a keening noise in the background that he didn't recognize as his own vocalized terror until he saw his brother choking and flailing when his side of the car pitched further downward than Jim's.

After that, everything seemed to crawl to slow motion.

He remembers the encroaching darkness. The coldness of the lake water that deadened his limbs and infiltrated his lungs, making them burn with agony as his body kicked into fight or flight. The lack of oxygen caused black spots in his vision and he struggled to grab his brother and try to make it to one of the open windows, but his eyes were unfocused, and he was small and scared and his brother kept slipping from his grasp.

He thrashed in the icy water, managing to push enough against the glass of his half opened window to crack it, and then break it entirely. The jagged edges ripped open his wrist and the water tinged pink as he bled.

A sort of peace came over him after that, as he halted his struggles, and he felt himself drift and nothing hurt anymore. But then a blinding white light blazed through his closed eye lids and he saw his brother, glowing and smiling at him, and telling him that everything was going to be okay and, for some reason, Jim had believed him.

He learned the truth when he woke up in the children's ward of the hospital a day later. Two good Samaritans had seen the car take it's watery crash into the lake and they dove in after it. They had reached Jim first and were able to pull him out and resuscitate him, but it had been too late to save his mother and brother.

After almost a week in the hospital, weak from blood loss and fighting off an infection from the bacteria in the lake water that had aspirated into his lungs, he was released into the custody of the state of Minnesota. With no family left to speak of, a local Lutheran church made the arrangements to bury Jim's mother and brother, and then placed Jim in an affiliated orphanage outside of St. Paul.

His entire world shattered, Jim had retreated into himself, speaking to no one and barely going through the necessary motions to keep himself clean and fed. His brother had promised that he would be okay, but the family-less orphan felt anything but okay as he spent his days curled up on his bed in the dormitory he shared with seven other boys.

When one of the pastors that volunteered at the orphanage tried to convince the distraught child that God had saved him for a purpose, it had taken every ounce of self restraint Jim had in him not to lash out at the man over the absurdity of the statement. He settled for grabbing a glass that contained milk he refused to drink, and hurling it against the wall in despair.

The resounding crack snapped him somewhat back to his senses as he watched the liquid drip down the wall and onto the floor in a shiny white puddle and, having always been a good and kind boy at heart, he immediately felt regret. He darted over to begin picking up the mess, accidentally cutting a large gash on his hand from the razor sharp shards.

He didn't know how it happened. Not really.

All he knew was that one minute the kind pastor had been kneeling next to him to assist, blood flowing everywhere, and the next a spectral image was dancing over them, and the pastor's face had gone completely white as he recognized the face of his dead daughter.

That was when Jim Murphy realized that his brush with the afterlife had created a gateway between himself and the ones that had passed on, and he could summon the dead to him, it he was willing to spill his own blood to do it.

It was only a matter of time before he eventually became acquainted with the world of the supernatural because, after all, hunters always come to The Life from some sort of personal tragedy.

At first he thought he was going crazy, since crazy ran bone deep in his family already, what with the homicidal/suicidal mother and all. It took years of maturing and deep personal reflection, and a growing understanding of the sub-world surrounding him, before he finally accepted the Gift? Curse? for what it was. Sometimes he wondered if his mother's mania really did stem from an awareness of the evil in the world and not necessarily just out of a chemical imbalance and early widowhood.

Time spent in the orphanage, under the tutelage and care of the good clergy there, encouraged his entry to seminary. In religion, he found peace. Not just for his own personal need to stave off the possibility of encroaching insanity, but also the fulfillment he found in helping those around him. Some he helped as a newly ordained pastor at a small church in Blue Earth, and some he helped with his less obvious talents.

That was how he first encountered John Winchester and his boys.

John came to him through a mutual friend, and although Jim's attempt to help the grieving widower connect to his late wife had been not only unproductive, but potentially disastrous, the two men bonded over shared grief. The connection to Mary Winchester had been interrupted by something that could only be described as a demonic interference. As if the forces of the afterlife were conspiring to keep Mary and John apart.

Jim had been attacked on a physical and spiritual level that day, and it was a miracle he had survived. Even so, he had offered on more than one occasion after that, to try again. To John's credit, the grieving widower never accepted Jim's offer, although the pastor could see that he was sorely tempted. Jim eventually stopped offering, since his good intentions only served to increase the other man's pain.

That's not to say that he couldn't help the little family in other ways.

Over the years, Jim had welcomed them into his home at the church whenever John and his boys needed shelter and rest. In John, Jim saw his own mother, distraught with grief and desperate to come to terms with the horrific loss he had suffered. In Sam and Dean, Jim saw himself and his brother. Two young boys growing up in a shattered family with only one damaged parent to care for them.

Jim was another hunter in the small circle of Winchester family confidants that genuinely loved the brothers. He had offered his home to them many times over the years so that they could grow up in one place and establish roots, but John had always rejected the offer outright.

Jim didn't push. Whether it was because of his patience as a man of the cloth, or the knowledge of a hunter that knew what was out there in the dark. Whatever it was, John Winchester was determined to keep one step ahead of it, and he kept his boys so far hidden from the rest of the hunting world that most of the other people in the community didn't even know he had kids, let alone where they were at any given time.

They were good boys. Bright, talented and mischievous. Like Bobby Singer, Jim had always been astounded by Dean's devotion to his little brother. It made the pastor ache for his own brother, gone for such a long time, but never forgotten. Jim had been the little brother then, and sometimes he wondered if his brother had willingly gone to his death to make Jim's own rescue and resuscitation possible. He often wished to see the face of the sibling he had loved so much with his special gift, but like a cruel cosmic joke, that last moment in the water was the only time his brother had appeared to him.

Jim had been more successful earlier today, when John had brought his late wife's uncle to the church. He could tell that his old friend was painfully reluctant to ask Jim to spill more blood for his quest, but it was a sacrifice that the pastor had been more than willing to make after so many years of disappointment when it came to John's troubles.

It had taken a deep cut to his own wrist, now stitched and bandaged and aching, to finally summon the spirit of Samuel Campbell. There had been only a brief moment of contact, but it had been enough. Through the shaky veil between brothers, one word was passed from the other side. The name of the demon that had possessed Samuel at the time of his death.

Azazel.

Jim had heard the name before in scripture. Azazel was purported to be a fallen angel, which made an interesting story if it was now a demon, and an old one at that. The story of Azazel was at the very beginning of the bible, millennia ago.

For the first time, Jim began to understand the scope of how big this picture was. How deeply entrenched the small family now found themselves, in things that were difficult to understand, and why, possibly, the connection with Mary Winchester had been interrupted and ended so brutally.

John was predictably sitting in the nave of the church when Jim found him.

His friend, although not particularly religious, had often found comfort in the hard wood pews, surrounded by the heady scent of melting wax and the gentle flicker of candlelight. The light streaming in a kaleidoscope of colors refracted through the stained glass windows.

It was a peaceful place. One of refuge that Jim often enjoyed himself, even after all these years of ministering to his flock. It was where Jim took the people he was trying to help with his gift, and the last place that John had seen his wife's face. John often went to speak to her there, in the grasping hope that she could somehow hear his words.

John didn't indicate that he sensed Jim's presence, but the pastor wasn't fooled. His friend would have known that he was approaching well before he had even opened the heavy wood door to come inside. Walking quietly, he slipped into the pew to sit next to John.

"How's your arm?"

Jim looked down at his wrist and absently rubbed the bandage, a smile on his face.

"I've had worse from trying to rebuild the cabinets in my office."

It was a lie, and a poor one at that, but it broke the ice. John didn't need to feel more guilt than he already did about a multitude of things on a daily basis.

"Thanks."

"You don't need to thank me, John. I was happy to do it. You know that."

They were quiet while John fiddled with his wedding ring, exhaustion apparent in the lines on his face.

"You have a name now, my friend. It's progress."

"Yeah," John replied, sighing deeply. "Singer's already collecting books. I'm heading out in a minute. Just needed to gather my thoughts."

Another moment of silence passed, the only sound the occasional car passing by.

"What are you going to tell the boys?" Jim's voice was soft, but there was firm prodding behind it.

"Nothing," John replied. "Not until I know what I'm dealing with."

"John," Jim cautioned, putting a gentle hand on his friends arm, "They should know. Especially Sam."

"Not yet."

John's words were final. Not up for debate or scrutiny. He got up from the pew, patted his friend on the shoulder and strode out into the daylight without looking back.

/

Dean had really needed this hunt.

Even though he felt guilty as hell about leaving Sam home alone, sick and tired but on the mend, he missed the rush and overall feeling of satisfaction over taking another monstrous piece off the chess board.

Dad was doing better as well. The two of them were exactly alike in that way. The hunt had become an integral part of who they were as men, and there was an ever present gaping hole that needed to be filled during their down time. A good kill was the calm in their storms.

Honestly, Dean had been surprised to get the call. Dad had been so out of reach lately that the summons for a routine hunt was the last thing he had been expecting when he answered his phone on Friday. Six men had gone missing along the south western shore of Lake Superior, and Dad suspected it was the work of a selkie.

Ordinarily, John didn't like to take his boys along on hunts when they fit the profile of the vics, but there was minimal risk with this particular creature.

Selkies were almost unheard of in the states, and they tended to be passive shapeshifters, but this specific female had gone mad due to being stuck in a lake and unable to reach the seaway. She was repeatedly enticing men in the hopes they would take her home, and then getting vengeful when they didn't. It was the middle of the winter. The bodies were being found in the water. Drowned and frozen, with large claw marks shredding the chests.

Dean was itching for a gig, feeling a little cabin fever setting in. It had been over two months since the last time he had hunted with his father and Caleb for the zombies. Sammy was over his flu for the most part, and neither Dean nor their father wanted the kid playing wounded, so little brother was allowed to stay home with strict instructions to lay low and get better. On Saturday, Dean had called to check in with him once in the morning, and then again at night. Other than a little congestion, his little brother sounded okay.

Dean had been happy to play bait. They waited for late Saturday night, when no one else would be around the hunting ground. As soon as the selkie shifted into the body of a young woman and tried to drag Dean into the water, Dad had come out from his hiding spot behind a shed and shot her through the heart with a silver tipped arrow. Although not a particularly difficult hunt, the satisfaction remained the same.

It would have been okay for Dean to leave first thing Sunday morning to head back to South Dakota. The hunt was over. Monster terminated. It was the look on John's face that had his oldest son hanging around a little longer than normal.

Dad was preoccupied.

Acting more on edge than normal, and considering the last few months, that was really saying something. Several times John had started to speak, only to change his mind. Dean had been hoping that if he just stayed quiet but present, eventually his father might confide in what had him so bothered, but by late Sunday afternoon, the older man was still acting close lipped, almost angry but still stubbornly silent, and Dean couldn't delay his departure for home any longer. He wanted to get Sammy fed with a good breakfast in the morning before heading back to school.

It was beginning to feel like his father was upset with him for some reason, and that notion made Dean decidedly uncomfortable, wondering if his father could sense his slightly lessening faith.

Dad had walked back with Dean to the car as he was getting ready to leave, an indecipherable expression on his bearded face. Dean had reflexively stiffened, fearing a sharp rebuke for some unknown offense, years of being on the receiving end of John's ever unpredictable mood swings making him nervous.

He had thought that the weekend had gone well, but when his father had approached him, the older man's demeanor was distinctly giving the impression of discomfort. John didn't speak for a moment, increasing his oldest son's unease and almost causing Dean to miss the quiet words that he first spoke.

"Sammy seems really happy these days, Son," John muttered, his eyes cast down to the pavement of the parking lot. "You're doing a real good job with him."

Dean had taken in a sharp breath in surprise. The sharpness stemming from both the rare compliment as well as the horrific realization of what that admission was costing his father in pride. He knew without being told that Dad was more or less admitting that Dean was better at parenting Sammy than John was himself.

In his wildest dreams he wouldn't imagine trying to show John up in anything. His dad was Dean's living breathing hero and he would rather cut off his own arm than do something to make John feel less than himself in any way. Of course, after all of their years on the road with John running off to one hunt or another, Dean did have more actual experience in the day to day care of the youngest Winchester, but it was a topic that was never openly admitted to in conversation.

Switching gears to his usual mask of bravado, Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat and pasted a smart ass smirk on his face.

"Nah, not really. The kid gives me grief all the time. You're the good cop now," he assured his father.

John laughed softly for a second, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. Regardless of what Dean thought, he knew both of his sons too well to be fooled by his firstborn's attempts to reassure him that he was anything more than a drill sergeant to them most of the time, the recent holidays aside.

Although it could be difficult to show them, he loved both of his boys with an intensity that frightened him sometimes, which only fueled his driving passion to do whatever needed to be done to keep them safe.

Even if it came at the cost of their love for him.

In less than five months time, his twenty-two year old son had managed to somehow tame Sammy's rebellious streak that John had been ripping his hair out over for years. Sammy had been respectful, enthusiastic, attentive and affectionate. Things that he had not been with any real regularity since he was eight and, truthfully, John had never again expected to see.

Sure, part of Sammy's compliance could be a result of not wanting to endanger John's agreement to the year off the road, but the kid was genuinely happy these days.

Anyone could see that.

"Besides," Dean had continued, somewhat uncomfortably, "he's come down with some bug. Again. I'm not sure how this keeps happening. I'm sorry, Dad."

John, saddened by his eldest's painfully guilty admission, turned to give the boy a good hard look. Sure enough, Dean's eyes were downcast as he was prone to do whenever he felt responsible for something going wrong and was expecting a rebuke. John inwardly swore, not for the first time, his oft repeated commands to Dean to keep his brother safe biting him in the ass.

Was Dean really taking the blame for the flu?

He had never meant to make the kid feel like he had to protect Sammy from everything.

"Dean, this isn't the first or last time your brother is going to get a little cold, or whatever it is. You can't take that on yourself," he scolded, using the commanding alpha male voice that Dean had always responded best to.

"Sam's old enough to know how to avoid getting sick when he can help it," John said firmly.

Dean had nodded, somewhat jerkily, and John could tell that his son was not entirely convinced of the sincerely of his words. Frustrated, he tried a different approach.

"Dude, you boys caught everything under the sun growing up. Do you blame me for that?"

Those words did get Dean's awareness and he immediately snapped back to attention, a look of horror on his face.

"No, sir! Of course not."

John allowed himself a small smile at his son's sudden insistence and Dean, sensing an ease in the tension, grinned sheepishly at his old man. His father didn't say anything, just grabbed him in a very quick half hug and opened the driver's side door of the Impala for him. Dean noticed, with a small smile, the way John's hand still reverently stroked the handle of the classic car, reminding him that the old girl had been his father's baby before she had been his.

"Get going, you got a long trip back."

Dean had nodded and slipped in behind the wheel, the happiness he always felt driving washing over him. He gave his father one last nod, the unspoken communication between them filled with the emotional words neither one of them were any good at speaking out loud. When he pulled out of the parking lot, his father was still standing in watch over his departure, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans, keeping an eye on his boy for as long as he could before Dean disappeared again.

Maybe he had been overreacting, maybe not, but Dean knew to his very bones that his father had entrusted both of his babies to Dean, and it wasn't a responsibility that he took lightly.

/

Sam had grown close to three inches since his father bought him a suit last year. It had been barely serviceable for the homecoming dance in the fall, but even now, just a few months later, it was so ridiculously short that Sam couldn't allow himself to be seen in it.

Getting dressed at the motel in Palo Alto that morning, he eventually decided on just a white button down shirt and his school khakis. Dean had taken him shopping a week before the second semester started because his three pairs of khakis that had been bought in August were also looking very high water-ish.

He had needed new pants, plain and simple. Now that winter had set in he was wearing the embossed school v-neck pullovers instead of the polo shirts, and so they had also bought a few dress shirts to wear underneath the sweaters, as well as the two striped school ties.

He gave a passing thought to adding the tie, but decided against it. It might be a little more formal, and made a better impression, or it might just look like he was trying too hard. Either way, it made him uncomfortable and he was having enough trouble suppressing his lingering congested coughs, so the last thing he needed was something choking his neck during the interview.

He was nervous enough as it was.

When Mr. Hopkins had called him back into his office with the news that Stanford wanted Sam to come for an interview for a possible scholarship, Sam had almost outright dismissed it. Things were going really well at home with his family, and the youngest Winchester was less than enthused about stirring up trouble.

He knew it would be a privilege and an honor to even be accepted at such a prestigious university, let alone be offered a chance to study there for free. When he originally sent out the application, it had almost been as a joke. Something humorous he could say to himself like yeah, once I had this dumb idea that I could get a full ride to this awesome school.

Now that he knew how serious the school was about admitting him, it was a little terrifying to be honest.

Mr. Hopkins had all but assured Sam that he would be offered a place. These interviews weren't offered to applicants that were going to be rejected, and the bright boy had a very good chance to be given the world on a plate. No small feat for a kid that came from a disadvantaged home where academic excellence wasn't actively pushed. He strongly encouraged Sam to take every chance he could get to make the best life possible for himself.

Realistically, Sam knew that his father and brother would never willingly take him all the way to California for an interview at a college he wouldn't be allowed to attend in the first place. Dean might be up for a road trip to a beach and some girls in a bikini, but it's not like Sam could just slip away from him long enough to head to the school's campus and have an official meeting.

As far as his father was concerned, John would dismiss the notion completely, and probably lock Sam in his room until his eighteenth birthday just to make sure his son didn't get any more bright ideas that would separate him from the family business.

Still, Sam hadn't turned the interview down either. As far as the scholarship committee was concerned, Samuel Winchester of Sioux Falls, South Dakota was expected in their conference room bright and early at nine a.m. Monday morning of February twenty-sixth.

Sam had that appointment set up for almost two weeks, keeping it to himself as a deep, dark secret that ate away at him day and night, and it showed. He knew that Dean could tell that something was bothering him, and it was a sort of "lucky" break when he caught the flu again, because at least being sick gave him a reason to brush off his brother's concerns of something mental in favor of something physical.

It didn't help that Mr. Hopkins would see him in the halls and grin, repeatedly asking him if he was getting nervous, and then attempting to boost his confidence by assuring him that everything would go well. Right now Sam was lying to just about everyone in his life, including himself, and he was starting to crack under the pressure.

As Sam's health improved, and the day drew nearer, the reality that he was going to have to do something, and quickly, was breathing down his neck like a freight train. He had been putting off confessing to his brother as long as he could, and he had just about decided that he needed to bite the bullet and tell Dean what was going on when his brother got the summons from Dad to help out on the selkie hunt. A hunt where an under-the-weather Sam wasn't required to participate.

It was almost too good to be true.

Palo Alto was a twenty-seven hour drive from Sioux Falls. Sam could easily drive twelve to fourteen hours a day, just about all he would be able to do considering that he was still feeling like crap most of the time. Dean was leaving Friday night to meet their father in Wisconsin, and he wouldn't be back until sometime on Sunday. Sam would be long gone by then, and by the time Dean found out where he was, it would be too late for his big brother to stop him from getting to the interview first thing Monday morning.

It was duplicitous and wrong.

Sam knew that as soon as he had to confess to his brother where he was, all Hell was going to break loose. Dean was going to be furious.

And worried.

And hurt, most of all.

He would see Sam's actions as nothing less than the ultimate betrayal for all of the hard work Dean had done to give his little brother this very special year away from the veritable crap fest that usually encompassed their lives on the road.

Worst of all, Dean would have to tell Dad that Sam had taken off again the minute his big brother wasn't around to keep an eye on him. Sam knew that his father was going to be beyond pissed at Sam himself for going out on his own. He didn't even want to think of the explosive level of fallout that he was going to have to endure once John came home to deal with him. Dad was probably going to need to buy a new belt by the time he was done expressing his displeasure on Sam's ass.

But it wasn't really himself that Sam was worried about.

Dean would end up taking the brunt of their father's wrath, as he always did, because that was just how John reacted whenever something went pear shaped when his boys were anywhere without him.

Considering how much Sam's big brother lived for their father's approval, it was going to be shattering for him. Dad would see the whole thing as a failure on Dean's part, even if it was Sam who was being the sneaky, disobedient one. That knowledge alone should have kept Sam in the house, with a kind letter sent to the committee, thanking them for their consideration and an apology for taking up their time.

That would be the right thing to do here.

But the part of Sam that had spent so many hours over the course of so many years working his ass off, specifically for a chance like this, couldn't brush off the opportunity.

He couldn't.

Even though Sam knew that he would realistically eventually settle for one of the two lesser colleges to keep the peace with his family, the part of him that strove for so much more than the mediocre that had defined their lives had to know if he really had it in him to be the best.

Doing this, going behind his family's backs, was going to absolutely torpedo the rest of his school year. He knew that without being told, and had already accepted that it was the price he was going to need to pay. If he got into his car, the very one that his family had lovingly and thoughtfully built for him, he needed to have already made his peace with the knowledge that life, as he currently knew it, would be over.

There would be no forgiveness for this, and no second chances. Trust would be broken, and the ensuing ramifications would insure that he was never given the opportunity to run off again from his brother's custody.

In the end it was the overall unfairness of the situation that finally decided the matter for him.

In normal families, Sam would be praised and encouraged for earning this chance at such a prize. He would have a father that was beaming with pride as they drove to Stanford's manicured campus and walked to the conference room together, with Dad giving him a confident grin and a pat on the back for good luck as he went in to dazzle the committee members with his hard work and dedication.

Later, after an interview that went better than Sam could have hoped for, his big brother would take him out for a congratulatory beer, bought on the sly, and they could talk about all of the pretty California girls that Sam could flirt with while he attended classes at one of the most elite schools in the country.

Sam shouldn't have to sneak out, like a thief in the night, as if this dream was something to be ashamed of, and that is what finally pushed him to the conclusion that he was going to take the shot while he could get it and deal with the consequences later.

Dean would eventually forgive him, especially if Sam could make sure that his brother knew he was okay. His brother's main concern was Sam's safety, and as long as he could ease Dean's mind about that, chances were they could talk it out.

Not that Dean would let him get off easy.

Long before Dad got a hold of him, Sam would be on lock down so deep he might never see sunlight again. Which would be a moot point when his father came home and killed his youngest son, but at least Sam would not live with the regret of never even having tried.

He had enough money saved for gas and a couple of nights at a motel. Dean kept emergency cash in a book on the third shelf of the bookcase in the living room. Sam could borrow some of that for whatever he couldn't pay for himself.

Honestly, he felt pretty bad about grabbing that.

Probably more so than any of the other deceitful things he was doing. His brother worked really hard for his money now. It wasn't as easy as simply hustling, and Sam felt pretty shitty about taking it without asking. Dean would have more than willingly given it if Sam had asked, but since he couldn't tell his brother why, Sam was now officially the kid that stole from his own brother.

Before the sun was even up that Saturday morning, Sam jumped out of bed, already packed and ready to go. He printed out the route and directions for the campus and shoved them into his backpack. Earlier in the week he had made an approximate schedule that he wanted to keep to, to ensure maximum efficiency for the drive there and back. He would miss two days of school, but Mr. Hopkins had already made arrangements with the attendance office to excuse him.

They would still call Dean first thing Monday morning, but by then his brother would know from Sam himself that he wasn't coming home until late Tuesday.

Grabbing the emergency cash and leaving a note on the refrigerator, Sam threw his things in the Camaro and headed west.

/

All things considered, Dean was in a pretty good mood when he made the turn onto their street just before ten o'clock Sunday evening.

Although his father still was stonewalling him with information on what was really going on in his life, the hunt had been successful, and just being with his dad for a couple of days settled Dean's nerves. He wasn't ashamed to admit that his father's physical presence could lessen the weight of responsibility that Dean always carried around with him. For just a little while, Dean could relax and let Dad drive the bus.

Sam was sounding better, his congestion still noticeable but lessening, when Dean had called him a few hours earlier, so the big brother wasn't feeling as guilty for leaving him behind when he wasn't one hundred percent. Truthfully, it was probably a good thing for them both to have some time away on occasion. He loved his brother, but that didn't mean they didn't need some space from time to time. Dad hadn't minded letting his younger son stay behind, so it hadn't been an issue.

To make up for his absence, Dean was bringing home the Compact Oxford English Dictionary that Sammy had been salivating over, having made a special stop at a bookstore in Minneapolis just to acquire it.

The title was complete bullshit, because the thing weighed a ton and there was absolutely nothing compact about it. It also cost a small fortune, but Dean had managed to hustle two obnoxious preppy dicks at the bar he had hit with Dad the night before. He had been happy to take their money, and it was only fitting that he use it to buy something fancy for his own little geek boy.

Sam was going to flip his shit when he saw it, and that put a smile on his big brother's face as he went to pull into their driveway.

The first thing that was glaringly apparent, was the fact that Sam's car wasn't in the driveway. Dean wasn't ready to completely freak out just yet, but that didn't stop him from jumping out of the Impala and racing into the house. He ran inside and yelled for his brother, heart thudding in fear until he noticed the light on in the kitchen.

They had a message board on the fridge that they used for communication on the rare occasions that they weren't home at the same time, so it was the first thing Dean checked. As soon as he saw the message, Dean's anxiety kicked back down to a more manageable level.

Everything is fine

Give me a call when you get this

- Sam

Dean's fingers were still a little shaky when he hit speed dial 1 on his phone, and it wasn't until he heard his little brother's voice that his adrenaline started to recede.

"Hey Dean."

"Sammy, where are you?" Dean was trying to keep the fear out of his voice, but he wasn't doing a very good job.

"Don't get mad, okay?"

And there went Dean's attempts to be calm.

"Where are you, Sam?"

There was a pause, which did nothing to help Dean's nerves, and when Sam spoke again, he could hear the trembling in his brother's voice.

"California."

For a moment, Dean feared he had gone temporarily insane, because he thought for sure that his little brother had just told him that he was halfway across the country, and that was ridiculous. His little brother would never do something that monumentally stupid.

He took a deep breath and tried to level out his voice, even though the blood was rushing so fast through his head it was almost making him dizzy.

"Please tell me that's the name of a new club in town that you were foolish enough to leave the house and go visit with your friends. Please, Sammy. Tell me that."

Another pause, and Sam's voice was tiny and shaky.

"I'm at a motel just outside of San Francisco."

Dean dropped into one of the new kitchen chairs and raked his fingers through his hair. He clenched his eyes shut tight and struggled to keep his temper in check.

"I'm fine, Dean. Really. Everything is okay."

Neither of them spoke for a couple of minutes, the empty air between them crackling with tense static. When Dean came back on the line, his voice was deceptively calm and deep.

"Is this another Flagstaff, Sam?"

"No! Dean, I swear. I haven't taken off. I just needed to do something and I'll be back on Tuesday night. I promise."

"Do what, Sam. What is so fucking important you had to take off behind my back and drive all the way to California without telling me?"

There was another minute of empty air, and the silence only served to fuel the flames of anger burning up Dean's chest as painful memories of the last time Sam had taken off without warning flooded his brain.

"It's nothing dangerous," came the only response, as if saying that made it okay

"Great," Dean spit out, a red haze of rage descending over his eyes. "Then tell me what it is, because I'm telling you right now, Sam. I'm not really in a forgiving mood at the moment."

"I can't right now. Just…trust me. Please? I'm okay and I'll be back soon."

Dean felt a bubble of laughter burst from his lungs, and he pinched his nose as a monster of a headache began to announce it's presence.

"Trust you? Yeah, I don't think so. That ship's not only sailed, but it sank two miles out to sea. You're gonna need to do better than that, Sammy."

"Look," and Dean could hear the let's talk about this like rational adults tone in his brother's voice.

The one that pissed him right the fuck off.

"I'm heading back home late tomorrow morning. I will call you as many times a day as you want me to until I'm back, so you know where I am and that I'm perfectly fine."

Dean had just about had enough of the stonewalling from both of the members of his family and, quite frankly, he was well and truly sick of it. Holding his phone between his ear and shoulder, he grabbed the large atlas from the shelf in the computer alcove and began to flip pages, mentally calculating drive time in his head.

"Dean, I know you're pissed, and I know that I'm in big trouble, but can we just settle this when I get back?"

The older brother ignored the voice on the phone that was getting increasingly more worried as he plotted his route. When he spoke again, his voice was in control, scarily calm and cold as ice.

"This is what is gonna happen. You're gonna meet me in Elko, Nevada tomorrow. You will not drive back here alone. You will not pass go. You will not collect two hundred dollars. You are going to get your ass to the motel of my choosing and you are going to call me every two hours starting at eight a.m."

"I have to be somewhere at nine." Sam whispered, and it sounded like the kid might cry.

"Every...two...hours, Samuel. Figure it the fuck out. You hear me?"

He could hear the sharp intake of breath on the other side of the line. Probably because in seventeen years, Dean had never used his brother's full name in anger. Good. The kid should be scared.

"Yes."

"Do not make me have to come find you."

"Okay." There was another small pause, and Dean could hear the shaky breathing on the other side. "I'm sorry."

Dean didn't respond. He ended the call with a vicious stab at his phone and felt his pulse speeding up as the reality of just how fucked he was at the moment took hold. He repeatedly raked his hands through his hair and tried to focus his eyes as his vision went blurry.

Chest heaving and feeling like he was drowning, he grabbed the farm table with both hands and flipped it, sending everything that had been on top flying across the room.

"SON OF A BITCH!"

/

Sam was physically and mentally exhausted when he pulled into the motel parking lot in Elko.

He had no idea what was waiting for him inside. He had never heard his brother sound like he had on the phone before. Too much like their father, and the chillingly close resemblance had created icy tendrils of fear that were gripping Sam's heart and threatening to squeeze it until he couldn't breathe anymore.

Dean could be a frightening person when he chose to be. It was the natural reaction of living the life of a hunter. When you spent your life tracking down and killing real evil, mentally it had to take you to a place where you evolved into something else entirely out of necessity. Sam had seen it on his brother's face and in his eyes. Heard it in his voice.

The cold, emotionless surety that there was only going to be one outcome from your entanglement with him, and it was going to be at the expense of your life.

That voice had never been directed at Sam before, and honestly, it was scaring the shit out of him.

Not that he didn't logically know that he didn't need to be genuinely afraid of his big brother. On a conscious level, he knew that Dean would never really hurt him in any profound way. He was sure that his brother was going to be furious and rage about it forever, and Sam had expected that. Had known as soon as he made his decision to make the trip that the repercussions were going to be severe and long lasting.

That was the bargain he had made with himself the minute he conceived of the idea to carry out such a monumentally bold and wholly disobedient plan. Now it was time to pay the piper, at least with his brother, and Sam was going to have to man up and take it.

There was a slight tremble to his hand as he took the keys out of the ignition, and he shook it out, trying to calm down. He pulled in a deep breath and released it slowly, like Dad had showed him, to slow his rapid heart rate. Sam couldn't afford to be a nervous, hysterical wreck when he faced his brother. It didn't help his case that he was adult enough to have made this trip alone if he started to shake like a scared child as soon as he stood in Dean's presence.

Somehow, he managed to get out of the car without fumbling and he reached into the back seat and grabbed his duffel. It was dark, and he was cold and tired. Hungry and weary and still congested and he just wanted to get this over with and crawl into a bed.

By the time he has his things gathered and the car doors locked, Dean was standing in the open doorway of the motel room, his arms crossed and his face a complete blank.

It was the total absence of emotion on his brother's face that unnerved Sam. Not anger or worry, hostility or fear. Just smooth, pale lack of response, and although his brother was now two inches shorter, Dean's much wider and broader form was every bit as implacable, intimidating and firm as their father's had ever been.

It was more than disconcerting, and Sam felt his face pale.

As Sam approached, Dean shifted ever so slightly to gave the younger brother a fraction of space to slip through the open door and into the room. Sam noticed Uncle Bobby sitting in one the chairs at the kitchenette table and immediately knew why he was there. He could feel Dean's hot breath on his neck, bearing down on him, or at least that's what it felt like at the moment. Sam's blood was rushing so fast, it could have been a product of his wild imagination.

He turned just enough to cast a side glance at his brother, before pulling the car keys out of his pocket and handing them over to his silent sibling. Sam gave a passing thought as to when or if he would ever see them again, and the ache in the pit of his stomach lurched over his sadness.

Dean tossed them to Uncle Bobby, who caught them easily and got up from his chair. The older man shook his head at Sam, a mixture of sadness and irritation, and he clapped Dean on the back as he headed to the door and left. Outside, Sam could hear Cherry's engine roaring to life and then fade in the distance.

Legs trembling, Sam managed to keep standing straight as his brother circled in front of him. Long angry strides that ratcheted Sam's tension to stratospheric levels. So far Dean had been completely silent, and the younger brother wished that he would just start yelling already since the tense quiet was a million times worse. He waits, thinking the wisest course of action right now would be to keep quiet, but after the fifth time Dean passes in front of him, he can't take it anymore.

"Dean..."

It's like kicking a beehive.

Before Sam even knows what's happening, Dean's rounding on him and Sam is rocked back on his feet by a solid punch to the left side of his jaw. Stars explode in his eyes and blood rushes to his head as he reflexively begins to put himself in a defensive block, but then he stops himself. Knowing that he probably deserved that punch, and any other one his brother wants to throw at him. He forces his arms to his sides and racks his shoulders back, staring straight ahead and ready to take whatever is coming next without flinching.

Dean has never hit him in anger before. Not really. They've tussled on occasion, like most brothers at one point or another. But they have been trained to be warriors, and their father never allowed them to go at each other full bore because they were taught how to inflict maximum damage.

It's not just the punch that startles Sam. It's the unrestrained force behind it and the absolutely cold look in his brother's eyes as he delivers it. While the pain spreads on his jaw, tears of shock and hurt spring to Sam's eyes without his consent and he's ashamed of himself for showing so much weakness.

Dean is panting hard now, the discipline required to stop him from raising his fist again taking every bit of control he can summon. Sam is standing, but he's trembling, his mouth quivering, working hard to not cry. Looking pale and sick and so damn young, and it's killing Dean to see him like this.

There's a flush of red blooming on Sam's cheek where Dean's fist has connected, and the big brother inside of Dean is disgusted with himself for being the one to put it there. Even if the little bastard deserves it, it doesn't mean that Dean is okay with being the one responsible. There is a war going on in his mind, and the fury in him builds for being put in this position in the first place.

Right now, he would really love to finish kicking Sam's ass, but he resists the urge, afraid that he will be unable to stop if he starts. A million nightmare scenarios had played out in his mind during the eighteen hour drive here and his nerves are shattered. He could really hurt Sam at this moment if he doesn't calm the fuck down.

Instead, he grits his teeth and yanks open their first aid kit. He pulls out a cold pack and snaps it until the chemicals inside activate. Crossing the room, he holds it out for the little bitch, not trusting himself to say a word.

Stupidly, Sam refuses it at first, his injured pride bringing out his inner asshole. Dean growls dangerously and thrusts it in the kid's face. Sam will either use it or have it shoved someplace uncomfortable.

"Take it," Dean hisses and waits until the kid wises up and gingerly pulls it out of his hand. Sam holds it up against his cheek and he looks so wrecked that a small part of Dean's anger recedes.

"I'm sorry," Sam mutters quietly, eyes dragging to the floor, unable to face is brother.

"Shut your fucking mouth, Sam!" Dean snaps back at him, and Sam recoils a little from the vehemence in his brother's voice, but Dean is not done with him.

"You're a selfish little bastard, you know that? You don't care about anyone but yourself. Do you even give a shit about how worried I've been?"

Sam turns his head away to face the wall so Dean can't see the tears continuing to well up in his eyes. He presses the cold pack tighter to his face and nods slightly. Wisely, he keeps quiet until Dean's pacing stops. Knowing that this means that his brother's anger level is starting to lower, he pushes his luck and whispers another barely audible apology as his tears fall.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, voice teary with misery. "I thought if I left that note and kept in contact with you, you wouldn't worry."

Dean's eyes blazed fury as he got right in his little brother's face.

"I left you home alone, because you said you were sick and I trusted you to stay there and rest instead of bringing you along with me to Dad. You stood there and you lied right to my face, and then you lied every time I called you all weekend."

Sam's shoulders, normally hunched anyway in the presence of his father and brother, turned even more into themselves as he stared pleadingly as his enraged brother.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Dean huffed and smiled. The same cold smile that didn't make it anywhere near his fire in his eyes.

"Yeah, so you keep saying."

He started pacing again, rubbing his face with his hand repeatedly, and Sam could see that he was trying to get his anger under control. Sam reached up and brushed the tears off his cheeks, trying not to be obvious. His brother had always hated to see him cry, and Sam wasn't going to give Dean another reason to be upset.

Dean wasn't fooled.

He could see his little brother breaking and it killed him. Sam looked like he hadn't slept in days. Pale and weak, as if he might collapse any minute. The kid had never driven a trip like that solo. It took stamina that needed to be built up over time, and he really had been ill already. Which meant that he probably hadn't been eating well either.

Dean might still be completely pissed off and hurt beyond measure, but he wasn't cruel. Sam needed food and sleep before anything else, and honestly, if Dean had to spend one more minute with him in the same room, he might explode again.

"Take a hot shower. You look like shit," he growled, not looking directly at his brother. "When I come back, your ass better be sitting at this table. You hear me?"

Dean glanced up quickly, just enough to see Sam nod, still looking at the wall. Grabbing his jacket and the keys to the Impala he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Sam stood motionless for a few seconds after his brother's departure. He had expected Dean to be angry, no doubt, but he had wildly underestimated just how much. Dean had been known to lash out when he was scared, but then he would calm down and let it go once whatever had frightened him had passed.

Sam could understand his brother being afraid of something happening to Sam while out on the road alone, but he was here safe and sound, and some stupid part of him assumed that Dean would relax as soon as he saw for himself that Sam was perfectly okay.

He would still be pissed no doubt, and probably lock Sam in the house for the rest of the school year, but Sam wasn't expecting that coldness in his face. His brother was looking at him with hate in his eyes and he wasn't sure how he was going to make that right again.

The idea of a hot shower sounded really good at the moment. Sam tossed the ice pack into the small freezer section of the motel room's mini-fridge and headed into the bathroom. He turned the hot water nozzle all the way up and used the toilet while the water warmed, stripping his clothes off and taking a good look at his face in the mirror.

There was a bruise developing on his cheek and he felt a second of irritation that he was going to have to use the concealer trick when he went back to school. Skin tone makeup was the go-to method of coping for abused wives and children everywhere, and also of young hunters who didn't want to end up in foster care. It wouldn't be the first time.

The room was filled with steam by the time he was done checking the damage. He stepped into the bath and let the hot water cascade over him and, for the first time in almost two days, he felt like he was warming up. It was also loosening up the mucus in his lungs and he started to cough out blobs, spitting them down the drain as he washed.

He would have stayed in there for an hour, but he didn't want to piss his brother off anymore than the nuclear level he was at already, so after fifteen minutes, he shut the water and toweled off. Stepping back into the now relative chilliness of the room, he grabbed boxers, pajama pants, a long sleeved tee and his warm hoodie from his duffel and dressed quickly, trying to retain his recently found warmth. He thought about turning on the television, because Dean usually liked having it on, but decided against it.

Maybe if the room was quiet, they could start to talk this out.

He sat down at the table, like he was told, and waited in the quiet of the empty room. Scanning the walls, they reminded him of every single shit hole motel room he had ever stayed at in his life. It never changed, this life. No matter what he did, or how much they worked towards normal, Sam would always end up in a room just like this one. That was why he needed out and, someday, he would find the right words to make his brother understand that.

It was another twenty minutes before Dean returned. He didn't look cold or angry anymore, which should have been a relief, but the blank mask on his face was somehow worse. Like a stranger wearing his brother's body, and the effect was disconcerting. Dean dumped a bag on the table and pulled out containers of Chinese take-out, placing a quart dish of hot and sour soup and a white cardboard container of low mein noodles in front of Sam.

"Eat. Then hit the rack. We're leaving early to head back."

The words were flat. Emotionless. Perfunctory. So different from the warm, cocky, friendly tone of his big brother.

Sam thought about refusing and just getting into bed, but Dean was staring at him, temper simmering and waiting for compliance. Not wanting to pick another fight, Sam opened the soup and gulped down a small spoonful. Once Dean seemed assured that his little brother was eating, he moved over to the couch and sat back, turning on the TV, but keeping the volume low.

Whether it was because Dean's anger was receding, or because he was on big brother auto pilot, Sam couldn't help noticing that he brought back Sam's favorite comfort food for times when he was sick. Hot and sour soup that relieved the sinus pressure of his nasal passages and let him breathe easier. Slippery low mein noodles that could be easily swallowed without paining a sore throat. It was a gesture of concern and kindness.

"Thanks."

Dean looked over at him and, for the briefest of seconds, Sam swore he saw a flash of hurt in his brother's eyes, but it flickered out quickly. Dean nodded briefly and returned his attention to a repeat of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which they boys found amusing due to the nature of the premise. Normally watching Sarah Michelle Geller in action made Dean smile, but not tonight.

Sam managed to eat half of the food that was put in front of him. He had been hungry, but his exhaustion was winning at the moment. Not ready to get into bed just yet, he braved his brother's ire by heading over to the couch and sitting on the opposite end from Dean, tucking his legs up underneath him. His brother had been quiet for the past twenty minutes, and Sam was ready to risk talking to him again.

"I really am sor..,"

"Stop it, Sam," Dean interrupted, more weary than pissed now. "Saying you're sorry doesn't change things."

And Sam nodded to himself, knowing that words of apology were going to fall flat with his brother for a while.

"I still feel bad you came all the way out here," he said quietly. "I would have been okay to get home on my own."

Dean was shaking his head, like he couldn't believe the stupidity of Sam's words, and the younger brother felt a small twinge of frustration, because Dean was going to have to accept, pretty soon, that Sam was going to be making his own decisions in the near future, without asking for permission.

Although, for now, his brother still had authority over him, and Sam had to acknowledge that.

"So how long am I grounded?"

Sam wasn't expecting the derisive snort that came out of his brother's mouth, or the irritation in his eyes. Dean was shaking his head again, as if he was dealing with recalcitrant toddler.

"As if you give a shit about what I tell you to do," Dean sneered. "Why start now? You're just going to do what you want to anyway."

"Dean, c'mon, man," Sam tried to reason, feeling even more guilty, "That's not true."

Now his brother turned to him and his eyes flared angry again.

"Yeah, it is. No matter what I do for you. No matter how many times I fight for you. Or how many times I've gone to bat for you with Dad, you don't appreciate a goddamn thing."

Dean rubbed his face and got up, shutting the television off.

"You're happy to let me do everything to get you what you want, but you have no problem shitting all over my trust if stands in your way. Do you any idea of what it took to get Dad...you know what? Never mind."

"I do appreciate what you do," Sam protested, feeling his face flush again. "Everything. The guilt of it all eats me up sometimes." And there was painful truth to those words.

Now Dean turned again and smiled, lips pursed in a sinister sneer. "Oh yeah. I could really tell just how much when I got back to the home I tried to make for us and found you gone. Again."

"I told you, Dean. I had to go," Sam muttered quietly, averting his gaze to avoid seeing the pain on his brother's face."

"Oh yeah," Dean said coldly. "And exactly where was that again?"

Sam didn't answer. Couldn't answer, because he knew that to do so would only make things worse than they already were.

They didn't speak for a minute while Dean cleaned up the take-out containers and Sam fiddled with the remote.

"What did Dad say when you told him?"

And Dean laughed again, in a way that was really beginning to rattle Sam.

"I didn't tell Dad."

Sam's eyes went wide, because it wasn't like his brother to not immediately inform their father of anything this big. Generally at length and in painfully minute detail.

"He's not answering again?" Sam asked, now worried. "Do you think he's okay?"

"He's fine," Dean answered, and his voice was tired. "I talked to him this morning."

Sam shook his head, confused and disbelieving.

"So why did..."

His brother wheeled around quickly and grabbed Sam by the shoulder and got right into his face.

"Why? Seriously?" Dean huffed and shoved Sam away hard, pushing him roughly against the back of the sofa. "Man. And you're supposed to be the smart one."

"Don't do that," Sam mumbled, looking down at the floor."

"Do what?"

Sam swept his eyes back up and frowned at his brother.

"Don't talk about yourself like you're not smarter than I am. I hate that."

On another day, those words might have cracked Dean's hard outer shell, but tonight they just seemed hollow to his ears. If Sam thought that Dean was smarter than he was, the little shit wouldn't have pulled a fast one on him, and the notion just pissed Dean off further.

He contemplated just getting into bed and ignoring his little brother, but he didn't. It was taking more energy than he had in him to maintain his level of anger. Sam, for all of his freaky brains, had no idea of how much trouble he caused, but maybe he should.

"Dad wouldn't have settled for whipping your ass and putting you on lock down for this, Sam," he spat out, getting back in the kid's face. "He'd be packing up the house right now, and you'd be cuffed to his fucking truck until you were collecting social security! Don't you get that?"

"But, Uncle Bobby..."

"Bobby isn't going to say shit," Dean snapped. "So, congratulations. You just made liars out of both of us."

"Dean," Sam began, realization dawning on him. "I'm..."

"Sam, if you say you're sorry one more time, I'm going to punch your fucking face again. You get me?"

Dean raked his hand through his spiked hair and shut his eyes tightly.

"Just go to bed already. I can't do this anymore."

Sam caught himself before he apologized again, and simply nodded, getting into the bed on the far side of the wall and rolling over, pulling the blankets up as far as he could. He could hear Dean washing up in the bathroom before shutting the lights off and climbing into his own bed.

Neither of them really slept that night.

Dean woke him up at six in the morning, eager to get going for the eighteen hour drive back to Sioux Falls. By the time Sam was dressed and out of the bathroom, he noticed that the pillows and comforter that had been on his bed were gone and so were the duffels. Dean came back in the room and gave it a quick once over.

"Let's go."

Putting on his coat, Sam followed his brother outside and went to open the passenger door, when Dean stopped him.

"You're in the back."

Startled, Sam frowned. "What? Why?"

"You didn't sleep."

Sam looked in the back and saw that the motel bedding had been arranged on the rear seat. He wasn't sure if it was a gesture of kindness or a punishment exile. Probably a bit of both.

"Can't we just talk," he asked quietly, a note of pleading in his voice. This distance between them was killing him.

"Sure, Sam," Dean responded, too brightly to be genuine. "Where'd you go this weekend?"

The younger brother sighed. "I'll tell you. I promise. Just not today."

Dean just shook his head and scoffed. "Well, that's all I wanna talk about today. So get your ass in the back and get some sleep so I can drive already."

Neither of them was going to budge. Sam knew it, and any attempt to keep up this line of conversation was just going to make things worse, and it was going to be a tough day as it was. He opted for the coward's way out and climbed into the back and laid down.

It was a long trip back.

They only stopped a few times for coffee, fuel, fast food and to use the restroom. Dean didn't say a word, and Sam didn't push, even when he climbed into the passenger seat in the front after their last stop and his brother allowed it. Dean just kept the music playing, although he kept the volume down, and Sam knew he was doing it out of consideration for Sam's still present flu symptoms.

It was these subtle ever-present gestures of kindness and affection that kept Sam's chest pounding with guilt and hurt. Even pissed off, his big brother was his big brother, and Sam didn't want to keep upsetting him with his silence, but telling the truth would be so much worse. There was just simply no reason to hurt Dean with the idea that Sam was even considering to go to California.

Right now, Sam was just a lying and inconsiderate little asshole, and Dean would be able to forgive that after a while. What he wouldn't be able to forgive was a betrayal and abandonment, and until Sam had an offer, he wasn't going to break his brother's heart.

It was dark and late when they finally made it back home. Dean had to be hurting from all the hours behind the wheel. As strong and durable as he was, he was still human and needed rest, but he didn't give any indication that he was as wrecked as Sam knew he had to be.

Sam snapped on the overhead light in the living room when they got inside, ready to put his things down and head straight to bed when Dean's cold voice stopped him.

"Two weeks. No car. No phone. No computer and no study group. You're at school, you're at home and in bed by nine. Period."

Sam glanced at his brother for a second. Could see the tiredness in his eyes and the hurt pinch of his forehead.

"Okay."

He turned towards the stairs and was stopped again. This time his brother's voice was quiet and watery.

"You could have told me. Told me anything. I would have taken you, no questions asked. You didn't have to run, Sam. Not from me." Dean looked up at him, and Sam could see the shimmer of wetness in his brother's eyes. "I've always had your back. I hope it was worth it."

Then Dean racked his shoulders back, wiped his face and headed up the stairs, leaving Sam behind without another word. The little brother dropped boneless to the couch and buried his face in his hands, suddenly feeling like maybe it really hadn't been.

/