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.

11. March 2001

Is this another Flagstaff, Sam?

/

The first time Sam asks about his mother, he is five years old.

Dad was away on a "business" trip for a couple of days, and the two brothers were watching television at Uncle Bobby's house.

Sam had always loved Superman, and had scoffed with a child's unbending certainty at his brother's annoying insistence that Batman was the best. But, of course, it was ridiculous. In the little boy's eyes, there simply was no superhero that could come close to the strength and bravery of the Man of Steel.

Even after breaking his arm a few months earlier by jumping off the tool shed behind the motel where they were living at the time, Sam still idolized him and wanted nothing more than to be just like him. Young and silly, with the sleeves of Dean's red flannel tied around his neck like a cape, and convinced he could fly.

Flipping through the channels at the salvage yard, Dean had breathed a sigh of relief to find the original Christopher Reeves Superman just beginning, knowing that his kid brother would willingly sit for an hour or two of rapt attention as he watched his favorite good guy on the screen. Sammy could be annoyingly chatty a lot of the time. With an insatiable curiosity that left his big brother floundering and weary from the endless stream of questions constantly directed at him.

From the moment he could speak, Sam had always been overly observant for a kid. He studied people with a clinical interest, forehead crinkling in thought and tiny rosebud mouth pursed in concentration as he attempted to suss out information and comprehension. During the movie that day he had fixated his single minded focus specifically on the character of Martha Kent for some reason.

Especially intrigued by how she cared for and doted on her adopted alien son, and was a source of support and comfort for young Clark.

Dean didn't notice it at the time. Sammy was quiet and engaged and, for a few moments, the big brother could lose himself in his own thoughts and worries for his father's safety. Only minimally comforted by the fact that Dad always came back, no matter how long he was gone. Tall, strong and invincible, and able to make his firstborn feel truly safe after time spent kicking evil's ass.

In Dean's eyes, neither Superman nor Batman had anything on John Winchester.

When the final credits rolled, Sam, with a wisdom far beyond his years, had bluntly asked his big brother why Superman, tough, strong and invincible Superman, had needed a mom to watch over him, and the Winchester brothers did not.

Dean was shocked into silence for a brief few seconds. Only nine years old himself, worried about their dad and still bleeding and raw on the inside from his mother's fiery death. He had lashed out in anger against his tiny sibling for having the nerve to bring her up. A reaction so singularly rare in their lives that Sammy had burst into inconsolable tears, ducking under a small corner table and curling up into little ball of misery.

In the middle of the screaming and crying chaos, Uncle Bobby had come running into the room, wide eyed and wondering who was killing who. It had taken a moment, but eventually he caught the gist. In one of the only few times he was ever truly annoyed with Dean, the salvage man had dragged Dean into the kitchen and parked his butt in a corner while he coaxed Sammy out from underneath the table.

Sam had cried himself out on his uncle's lap until he was so exhausted he fell asleep. Listening to his little brother's distress, and knowing it was his fault, Dean had stood military straight facing the peeling wallpaper of the kitchen while his own tears coursed silently down his cheeks.

Later that night, after Bobby had gone to sleep, Dean gently tugged his little brother out of his twin bed in the room the boys shared and put a cautionary finger against his lips to keep him quiet. He helped Sammy slip on his shoes and together they crept down the stairs and out the front door into the salvage yard.

Dean held his little brother's hand tightly as they made their way through the endless rows of wrecks until they came to a light blue Mustang with a small trellis of dying weeds creeping up the sides. Grabbing Sam under the arms, Dean helped him climb onto the hood and then clambered up after him. Together they lay side by side, backs pressed against the windshield as Dean pointed his finger into the brightly lit night sky.

"Our Mom does watch over us, Sammy," Dean had said, his voice hushed with reverence. "She's up there in those stars watching us right now."

And Sam had curled up against his brother's side, wanting desperately to believe that it was true.

"What about Daddy?" Sam had asked, head drooping against his brother's shoulder. "Who watches over him?"

Dean's heart had clenched, because Sammy still didn't know how dangerous John's life was when he wasn't with them, and he couldn't understand why their father was gone so much. All he knew was that he missed his dad.

"Mom watches over Dad too," Dean answered, with more confidence than he felt. "He can see the same stars we do. Even when he's not with us."

And they had fallen asleep together on that old muscle car, with happier thoughts of their parents replacing the sadness and worry that usually engulfed them.

That had been the start of Sam's love of astronomy.

The same fascination that never went away as the years passed, and was the foundation of their ritual of star gazing together in open fields as they traveled across the country. A quiet peaceful time of observation and comfort, when they could pretend for a few moments that all the members of their family were watching out for each other.

No matter how far the distance.

It shouldn't have surprised anyone that Sam chose to strike out for a place like Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff when he was angry and hurting and subconsciously needed to connect with his mother and father.

/

The alarm clock next to his bed was glowing at him accusingly.

Neon red numbers reading out 9:23 casting the only break in the complete blackness of the moonless night blanketing Sam's bed. Laying listlessly on his stomach, arms curled around his pillow and blanket dragged up around his waist. Eyes drifting toward the thin bar of light under his door, he blinked back the waves of drowsiness muddling his mind.

It's been six days since they got back from Elko.

Six long days and nights of getting the silent treatment from his brother. Six days of nothing but one or two syllable commands. Wake up. Breakfast. Eat. School. PT. Homework. Dinner. Bed. Literally the only words coming out of Dean's mouth these days.

Sam was beginning to feel like a fucking Cocker Spaniel.

Every attempt to engage his brother in any sort of real dialogue was coldly ignored. Dean went through the motions of their home life without question or comment. Morning runs and afternoon PT were done without speaking unless it was necessary to give instruction on technique, which was rare since they had been going through the same routines for years.

Sam was driven to and from school everyday without a word. Not even a See you at five, Sammy or an Everything go okay, today? Meals were put on the table without Sam's request or input. Not that he had any sort of appetite anyway, but the consumption of food was, apparently, still required.

He managed to get an entire sentence out of his brother two days ago when Sam's stressed and acid filled stomach had balked at the cheeseburger put in front of him. Dean didn't even look at him, but when Sam pushed the plate away, a low growl from across the table surprised him.

"You're not getting up until at least half that is gone."

And Sam had known from the tone that he would still be sitting at the table until the early hours of dawn if he didn't obey.

Even if his brother had to tie him to the freakin' chair and force it down his throat, one way or another Sam would be eating it. Still, it had been the most Dean had spoken to him at once in days, so he choked down half the burger and somehow managed to keep it down too.

Nighttime was cruel.

Sam spent the majority of the daytime hours sneaking triple red eyes and energy drinks to keep awake because at night, with his mind guilty, depressed and wandering, sleep was completely eluding him. So he was perpetually exhausted, yet jittery. Lack of sleep made his stomach dance and flip, which only made food less palatable, which made the caffeine and sugar he was existing on have a greater effect in unnerving him.

It was a vicious cycle.

Each night he had gone upstairs, after hours studying at the kitchen table, to brush his teeth and change. Then on his knees for his nightly one sided chat with whatever higher power was listening. Begging for an end to the unbreachable wall of tension between himself and his sibling.

Then getting into bed and shutting the light off promptly at nine o'clock as required. Only to toss and turn, rubbing his eyes and temples trying to shut out the nagging voice in his mind chastising him for bringing all of this on himself, as well as the other petulant voice that was angry because his brother was being an unreasonable dick.

Sam shut the last voice down especially hard. Dean had every right to be mad.

The nights would have been easier to get through if he could just immerse himself in a book. A few weeks ago Dean had surprised him with a copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and Sam had been waiting for an opportunity to read it as a way to wind down at night. Sam had only mentioned wanting the fourth book in the series once or twice in passing, but somehow, like he always did, his big brother retained that little piece of information long enough to remember to buy it.

Dean was the one that gave him the giant flashlight, so that he could do just that and not break Dad's rule on lights out, and now it just sat on his dresser mocking him. Reminding him of how often Dean went out of his way to do small kind gestures, and not only since they moved to Sioux Falls either, but throughout their entire lives.

Keeping that in mind, this time Sam wasn't going to skirt the rules.

This wasn't just an arbitrary exhibit of his father's alpha male authority over his youngest son.

This was a punishment.

One that Sam had well and truly earned for himself, and he needed to own it. All of it. Especially since, all things considered, his brother had been extremely lenient with him. Two weeks of lock down was nothing considering that Sam had been certain he wouldn't be allowed out of the house until his eighteenth birthday after the stunt he pulled.

Not to mention saving Sam from their father's wrath which, apparently, would have been far greater than the younger brother had imagined, and Sam could imagine quite a lot.

He wasn't going to cheat and read in bed, even though the long hours of darkness and silence were mentally too bright and deafening in the chaos of his guilty mind. Too much quiet and stillness to reinforce his own selfishness and disregard for his brother's fear and concern. That was probably the point, he supposed.

At his age, a mandatory bedtime of ten was already degrading enough but, although annoyed, Sam hadn't been particularly surprised because it was just another one of the endless examples of his father's heavy handed control over his sons' every waking moment. The same control that was fueling the vestiges of Sam's desire to escape.

Dean was twenty-two and John still had him running around in circles at his command, and Sam would have been kidding himself if he didn't accept that Dad would use every trick in his paternal overlord tool box to make this normal year as constricting as possible.

Being confined to his room an hour earlier than that was purely mean spirited retribution on his brother's part.

Not that Sam didn't prefer the privacy of his own room. A luxury that had never really existed in his life before. Under other circumstances, he would have been more than happy to hide away among his books and his studies without his brother's exhausting energy bouncing off the walls.

Of course, now that he was actually required to be in his room, it only served to irritate him more because Sam hated the feeling of not having a choice.

This particular restriction rankled Sam because he suspected it was more a case of Dean really just wanting Sam out of sight and out of mind. From the minute he came home from school at night until he went back in the morning. The knowledge of that hurt Sam more than he thought possible because, while they could fight and bicker, the brothers had always been best friends as well.

Right now Dean simply didn't want to see him or engage him, and it was glaringly obvious that the earlier he could get Sam upstairs and out of his presence, the better.

Sometimes, as Sam lay on his bed and brooded, he gave pause to wonder how much he was going to miss his brother when he was away at school, if the distance between them right now was absolutely killing Sam when they were still living in the same house.

How bad would it be when they were physically parted?

On those few occasions when Sam had been left behind while Dad and Dean hunted, he had ached for his brother's return, unable to deal with the pain of abandonment. As a child with few constants in his life, the absence of the biggest one was devastating, and Sam had found himself willing to join the hunt just so they wouldn't be apart.

He was older now, but it didn't mean he needed the comfort of his brother's companionship any less.

Dean's attitude towards this whole thing, while not entirely unexpected, was truthfully pissing Sam off a little too. Even though he rationally knew that it shouldn't. Sam was in the wrong here, and he had to admit that to be fair. It was pure bullshit that he had a family where he was forced to hide his collegiate ambitions, and he felt perfectly justified in doing what he needed to do for his own future and would make no apologies about it.

That didn't change the fact that he lied, repeatedly, to his brother.

Or that he left home when he wasn't allowed to, breaking a million rules in the process to do so. The brothers may have been raised in a very unorthodox environment, but they had always had rules to obey regardless.

Plenty of them actually.

It wouldn't be right for Sam to complain one minute about how abnormal their family was, and then the next minute take advantage of that when it benefited him.

The plain truth was that he was still only seventeen and, like it or not, still a minor that was not allowed to just go off and do as he pleased. None of his normal friends would have been able to drive cross country alone without permission and gotten away with it without repercussions. Dean still had partial custody of him for another three months, and even though he was Sam's brother and not his father, Sam felt obligated to respect his authority for several reasons.

His brother worked hard and helped Dad pay for the house and Sam's school. Food, clothes and a million other things that Sam didn't need to worry about, but got the benefit of just the same like other kids. Dean had always put Sam's needs and happiness before his own. Had always done whatever he could to make his little brother's life a little easier, a little safer.

Dean was responsible for most of the really happy memories in Sam's life as well.

It wasn't unreasonable for the older brother to expect just a little cooperation and honesty out of Sam. Sometimes, you just get so used to having a steady presence in your life, you find yourself taking advantage of it always being around and, as Sam was finding out, it might not be there after all if you make hurtful and inconsiderate choices.

As adult as Sam felt he was becoming, he also accepted that he had to do as he was told or face the consequences until he was paying his own way. As the youngest, he had always been taken care of, and it was pretty even between his father and brother of just who was doing the caring as Sam grew up.

Even college kids still followed rules when it was the parents paying tuition and expenses, and since Sam had already made the decision to continue to compromise and defer to his father once he was in college, he couldn't very well justify blowing off his brother now while Sam was still an uncontributing minor in a home Dean was paying for.

After all, it was the normal way. Another uncomfortable truth that Sam was realizing the more time he spent as a civilian.

The bruise on his jaw was already faded, and thankfully no one had asked any embarrassing questions about it. Sam was prepared to give the standard sparring with my brother answer, because all of his friends knew that he and Dean worked out and trained together. He forgave his brother for punching him immediately. It had surprised him, and he was hurt that Dean had done it, but Sam wasn't holding a grudge about it.

Honestly, if Dean had worried him as badly as he knew he had worried Dean, Sam might have felt like throwing a couple of punches of his own.

Sam had told his study group that he broke curfew so they understood about the suspension of dinner and reviews at the Winchester house and also the loss of Sam's car. The girls in the group lamented the missed opportunities to spend time around Sam's cute brother, and the guys sympathized the lack of the beautiful Camaro.

He was hopeful that Dean would allow it to start back up again, but Sam wasn't going to push if his brother wasn't feeling especially generous about hosting his school friends anymore.

So for another eight days, and even longer if his brother decided two weeks was insufficient, which Sam was okay with if he did, the younger brother would keep his tail firmly tucked between his legs and behave himself. Uncle Bobby still had his car at the salvage yard with the keys. Sam's phone was handed to him in the morning before school and then taken back and returned to Dean's pocket when they came home in the afternoon.

No matter how pissed his brother was, Sam wouldn't be left without a means to call him in case there was trouble.

Sam did his training and then did his chores without complaint. He studied in the kitchen, steered clear of the computer alcove, and then went to his room on time without being told. Voicing an apology only seemed to make his brother even angrier, so eventually Sam just stopped trying.

It was Dean's silence that hurt the most.

Except for his habit of asking too many questions of his brother, Sam had always been a relatively shy and quiet kid. When you had a sibling that was pure energy, your entire environment tended to thrum with a constant stream of noise, whether you liked it or not. It had never been necessary for Sam to initiate conversation or liveliness in their household.

Dean singing REO Speedwagon in the shower, off key, at full volume. Using the mixing spoons in the kitchen to pound out the beat to every Def Leopard song while the pasta was boiling. Jumping up and down on the couch yelling Sammy you gotta see this during wrestling matches on TV. Dancing around with the mop, a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business, while cleaning the floors with Old Time Rock 'N Roll blaring in the background.

Their house was never quiet.

Even when his big brother's ambient noise was driving Sam crazy enough to jam his headphones on and crank up whatever musician had caught his fancy at the time. As annoying as it was, it still made Sam smile and shake his head when watching Dean play air guitar in an attempt to get him to laugh.

They have fought before, like all siblings do.

Yelled, screamed and pushed each other around. Threatened each other, ratted on each other to Dad and trashed each other's possessions in anger. Even through all of that, Dean never ignored him. There were times when Sam wished he would, because Dean screaming at him only made Sam more angry and prone to do more mean things, but there was never this cold silence.

Except that one time.

Was this another Flagstaff?

Maybe.

It was beginning to feel the same if Sam was to compare the aftermath of each event.

Up until Dean had made that comment on the phone, Flagstaff had been a good memory in Sam's mind. One of his best, actually.

Not that it had started out that way.

/

That had been the school year when Sam's passion for soccer had really taken off. He enjoyed the thrill of the sport. The adrenaline rush of doing something fun that wasn't training or monster related. He loved being part of a team where his only foes were other human boys striving for nothing more than kicking the next goal.

At the end of the soccer season he had been a student at a junior high school in Pittsfield, Mass and his team went on to win the Division Championship. That little trophy had been Sam's most precious possession, and still had a place of honor in his bedroom in Sioux Falls.

Of course, the Winchesters never stayed in any one town too long. Quite frankly, it was a miracle that Sam had been in Pittsfield long enough to finish out the season in the first place.

That had been in the fall. By the time the end of the school year came around, John had parked the boys at an extended stay motel outside of El Paso. There had been multiple reported sightings and encounters with what John believed to be chupacabras with a taste for human blood along the Rio Grande.

Early summer in that neck of the woods was dry, hot and downright miserable.

John was preoccupied with his research, to absolutely no one's surprise. A little more intense than normal because the kills were becoming increasingly violent and randomly spaced. His tolerance for Sam's mouthiness and poor attitude was significantly lower than usual, and there had already been several fights between them that left all three Winchesters agitated and on edge.

All Sam had wanted to do was go to soccer camp with some of the other boys from his latest school.

He tried to reason with his father, but his pleas were falling on deaf ears. John hadn't wanted to hear about how close by it was. Close enough for Dean to check on him with regularity, even without a car to use. Or that Dean had already told Sam that there was enough money squirreled away in Dean's small activity fund to pay for the admission.

John wasn't having any of it, telling his son in no uncertain terms that he would be laying low at the motel until the hunt was over. Sam had raged over the unfairness of it, demanding to know why he couldn't just be a normal kid at camp for once, and getting nothing but his father barking back at him to mind your tone in return, with a lingering underlining threat of additional PT if Sam didn't start showing some respect.

Although Dean had offered the money for camp, and had originally helped Sam plead his case, after their father put his foot down, Sam's big brother did as he always did and backed Dad's play, angering the youngest Winchester even more. It was beyond frustrating to Sam when his brother acquiesced so easily. He knew that Dean recognized that their father's position on the subject wasn't rational or necessary but, like always, Dean toed the line where John's orders were concerned.

By the time their father was ready to leave for the hunt, Sam's thirteen year old hot temper and emotions were all over the place.

When Dad had gone to hug him goodbye, Sam had pushed his father away for the first time. He called John a Dictatorial Control Freak who was ruining my life and told his father don't even bother coming back. Then he had stomped into the motel bathroom and slammed the door.

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, Sam had wrapped his arms around himself and spent several minutes heaving deep angry breaths, waiting for his dad to barge in and scream and punish him for his disrespect and hurtful words. Although Sam had regretted what he said, almost the second the words were out of his mouth, he was still furious with John.

As the minutes passed, Sam had mentally worked himself up for yet another battle of wills with his tyrant of a father. Ready, willing and able to point out all the ways that only a crappy dad would deny his son a little summer fun.

But John never came in.

It was almost a half hour later that his big brother had finally wrenched the door open and bodily tossed Sam out into the main room so Dean could take a leak. The main room was empty, and John's go-bag and journal were gone. Through the window, Sam saw only empty space where the Impala was usually parked. For a brief second, the realization that his father had indeed left without another word to his youngest son shattered Sam's young heart.

Knowing that John's absences could always very well likely result in Sam never seeing his father again, the thought took the boy's breath away, and he was momentarily gutted that his dad might die thinking that Sam didn't actually want him to come back.

The pain of that idea was too overwhelming to deal with, and Sam pushed it back down deep inside and instead let his residual anger over their fights bubble back to the surface, since hostility and resentment were far easier to deal with than a child's fear and desperation. By the time Dean came back in the room, Sam had already worked up another head of steam over his father's unfair mandates and frequent absences.

Dean was clearly pissed and ignoring Sam, and the older boy's refusal to engage in a verbal sparring match ramped up Sam's hostility level even more. He flopped down on the bed they were sharing, crossed his arms and seethed with the righteous indignation only a temperamental and tenacious thirteen year old could summon.

"Figures he'd just take off again," Sam spat out, blinking back tears. "Just dumps us here like luggage as always."

Dean huffed and shook his head in irritation as he rummaged around in the small unit fridge for something to put together for dinner.

"Yeah, well he left you a little parting gift, Sam-sonite. You get to run laps every morning before breakfast until he gets back."

Sam's eyes had flared then, because the weather had been stifling and miserable, and while he would have been happy to run drills at soccer camp, having to trot endless circles around their motel was not how he was planning to start the summer holiday.

He spent the rest of that day, and the next few besides, seething behind the cover of a book. Dean, for once, wasn't attempting to cheer him up. He made sure that Sam was eating, and that the laps Dad had instructed that Sam run were done faithfully, but other than that, he left his little brother to his brooding.

There was a bar/pool hall within walking distance of their motel, and Dean had started to get into the habit of going out and hunting up some action in the evenings, often not returning until the early hours of the morning. Sam wasn't going to admit it, but his brother's frequent absences were upsetting him. Sam liked his independence, but he also felt better when his brother and father were home safe.

There was a standard policy in their family that the boys weren't supposed to worry about their father missing his estimated return date until three full days had passed. It wasn't unusual for John to be gone significantly longer than anticipated, because sometimes things took longer to wrap up than expected, but Dad would always make sure to call and let them know.

When the third day of overtime in El Paso passed, and then the fourth, and then the fifth and there was no phone call, a blanket of panic engulfed the shabby little motel room of the Winchester brothers.

Dean stopped going out and took to sitting at the table next to the window and staring out into the parking lot as if he could make his father magically appear by sheer force of his will alone. Sam was stubbornly clinging to his lingering resentment, but his resolve was beginning to crack under the pressure of a son's anxiety over his dad's safety.

The regret over their last words was eating him up inside and making him both angrier and more clingy in equal measures.

Lost in his own stress, Dean didn't respond well to his little brother's scared eyes and shaky questions asking every other minute if he thought their father was okay. Whereas he would normally attempt to comfort his brother and reassure him that nothing could hurt their dad, this time he barked and snapped and repeatedly pushed Sam away.

Fear had always sparked anger in Sam, and almost a week after John's missed return date and still no communication, Sam's high rising panic caused him to finally blow after his morning lap run. He had been tired already from lack of sleep and in no mood to act rationally.

It was too hot to really eat anything and he was simply mentally exhausted. He had slammed back into the motel room, sweat pouring off of him from the heat of the pounding morning sun, and flopped down on their bed in agitation.

"This is bullshit, Dean! I'm sick of waiting for Dad to get back so I don't have to sweat my ass off every single morning."

And Dean had turned to him with fury flashing in his green eyes and leveled Sam with a glare.

"Maybe Dad woulda come back if you didn't tell him not to, you obnoxious little shit! Ever think of that?"

Then Dean had stormed out and slammed the door behind him to take up watch outside in the parking lot. Sam peeked out the window and saw his big brother standing stock still on the hot cement, his arms crossed over his chest with his back to Sam.

The younger boy tried to maintain his earlier outrage, but the effort was too hard and he was exhausted and scared. Shaking slightly, he stripped off his clothes and headed into the bathroom. He turned the water on and pushed himself under it, pressing his forehead against the cool tiles. With the noise of the cascading water to hide behind so his brother couldn't hear him, Sam finally lost his battle with tears and cried.

Dean didn't talk to him the rest of the day.

He made Sam a bologna and cheese sandwich for lunch and paid for pizza delivery for dinner, but they ate in uncomfortable silence. Later that night he went back out, leaving Sam upset and alone in the motel to stew. It was almost four in the morning before the older boy came back. Clearly drunk and smelling like smoke and sex, crumpled bills of various denominations spilling out of his pockets.

Sam got him into their father's long abandoned bed. Not wanting to share the larger one with a brother that reeked of debauchery, even though the physical closeness had been the only way Sam had been lulled to sleep lately.

Dean's drunken and disheveled appearance was not a first experience in their lives. It was far too familiar. Too much like their father on many occasions. Sam had read about different smells having the ability to prompt memories, and right now all his brother was doing was reminding Sam of all the times their dad had come home in a similar state, and how Sam never wanted to end up the same way.

They didn't talk the next day either, except for a few occurrences of harshly barked sharp words between them, spending it much as they had the previous one. The difference was that Sam's anger was back in full force, and so was the determination that he was getting away from this life of never ending fear and violence and booze and blood and loss.

When Dean got ready to go back out again that night, Sam had begged with his eyes for his brother to stay home, but the older boy ignored the silent pleading and walked out without a word. Hurt, frustrated and fed up, Sam threw some things in his backpack, grabbed some of the cash Dean kept in the nightstand between the beds, and took off.

It could have been just fate that had him heading towards Flagstaff.

He didn't have a destination in mind as he walked. All he knew was that he was getting away before this life took him over as much as it had his father, and now his brother. There were no buses running at that time of the night, so he headed for a truck stop just outside the edge of the northern part of the city where their motel was located. With any luck, he could persuade a kind hearted trucker to give him a lift.

Sam was a skilled liar.

A talent taught to him by his own father, and although the boy couldn't pull it off where his father and brother were concerned, it didn't take long for him to spin a pathetic tale of a kid with an abusive old man, in need of a lift to get him to the safety of his grandmother's house.

An older driver, on a tight schedule but completely taken in with the soul deep earnestness of Sam's puppy dog eyes, took him as far as Tuscon and even gave the kid an extra fifty bucks for bus fare to get him the rest of the way to Sam's stated destination of Phoenix.

Sam actually had no intention of staying in Phoenix.

During the four and a half hour drive to Tuscon he remembered about Uncle Bobby's cabin outside of Flagstaff and Lowell Observatory there. A place that the boy had wanted to visit ever since he first heard about it a few years earlier. It was easy enough to get a bus from Tuscon to Flagstaff, and even easier to find the cabin once he arrived.

Sam had drilled locations and directions into his memory mercilessly during that time with Uncle Bobby the year before, determined that neither he nor his brother would ever be lost on another hunt without shelter and a means to be found by their father. The cabin was a three mile walk from the bus station on the outskirts of town. Set back from the road and partially hidden, you needed to know where you were going to really notice it.

A full service convenience store along the route had a small deli area and a few pre-made pizzas sitting under warming lights. Sam was hungry and he bought one, along with a six pack of Mr. Pibb and a few bags of Funyuns. No one bothered to pay attention to the messy haired thirteen year old, carrying a pizza box with a huge backpack clinging to his small shoulders as he walked down the road.

The cabin itself was nothing remotely fancy. Even the motel room Sam had just left was nicer, although he was loathed to admit it. There was a fair amount of clutter strewn about on every surface. A small kitchen area clearly decorated in the seventies if the avocado green appliances were anything to go by. There was a dingy gray carpet covering the floor and one entire wall blanketed with kitschy postcards from the various tourist traps along Route 66.

Sam had seen most of them during his family's travels back and forth and, for a brief moment, he choked on the memories of his father taking time out to bring the boys for some occasional fun.

Cheap faux wood paneling covered the walls of the bedroom area that wasn't entirely cut off from the one main room. It had a double bed, situated between twin nightstands, and covered with an ugly plaid blanket that made Sam grimace when he saw it. There was already enough plaid in his life as it was.

Fortunately the bedding was clean.

It was one of Uncle Bobby's standing rules that if you were to use one of his places to bunk down, you left it habitable for the next hunter or you didn't bother ever coming back. An inventory of the cabinets in the kitchen produced a few cans of soup and some chili, as well as a box of stale crackers and a fairly decent first aid kit. Sam was good on money for the moment, so he wasn't going to help himself to anything just yet.

It wasn't until he crawled into bed his first night there that he gave real thought about ditching his brother back in El Paso.

Dean had been angry with him for days, just for wanting to go to soccer camp like a regular kid. Sam was hurt that his brother didn't side with him against their father after promising him that Dean would do whatever he could to make sure that Sam could go. Dad was being completely unreasonable, and Sam didn't regret making sure that his father knew exactly what his youngest son thought of his decision on the matter.

Maybe his brother was worried about where he was.

Maybe he wasn't.

Maybe Dean was finally glad to be rid of him for a while so that he could just go out and have a good time without needing to come back and check on Sam. After all, they had left him on his own before, so clearly they knew that he could take care of himself.

It wasn't Sam's fault that Dad didn't come back when he said he was going to.

It wasn't

Even if Sam had been cold and hurtful, and said something intentionally cruel to his father that he didn't really mean at all and wished he could take back immediately, because the very idea of his father being gone, really gone, made his stomach ache and his head pound.

It was Dad's fault for being such a heavy handed controlling asshole, and Dean's fault for never siding with Sam over their father's ridiculous mandates. If that meant that they worried about where Sam was and what he was doing then it was no more than they both deserved.

It wasn't guilt or loneliness that kept Sam awake that first night.

Nope.

Not at all.

The bed was lumpy, and the sheets were scratchy, and there were all of these unfamiliar noises surrounding the cabin that meant that Sam had to stay awake and alert, just like Dad had taught him to be aware of his surroundings at all times.

That was why he tossed and turned all night long, and no other reason.

The next morning, after a lukewarm shower that was all the minimal plumbing seemed capable of providing, Sam had eaten a few slices of cold pizza and shouldered his backpack for the five mile trek to Lowell Observatory.

He spent the entire day and early early evening there, taking all the tours he could because he was a young student and admission was cheap. Admiring the equipment and sitting in rapt fascination of the stories detailing the various discoveries made there.

There was no Dad telling him to hurry up because they had other places to be. No Dean to tease him continuously for being such a little nerd and being excited over spending time listening to a lecture on unmanned space exploration. Even though his big brother would have been paying just as much attention as Sam did.

In total defiance, Sam crossed his arms and racked his shoulders back, refusing to let the whispers telling him that he was scaring his brother get in the way of the good time he was having. Steadfastly pushing back any thoughts of how much Dean would have enjoyed doing this with him, because Dean was still a jerk.

Three days passed while Sam slept as late as he wanted to. Never made his bed once. No military corners in his life, thank you very much.

He ate as much junk food as he could stuff in his face without worrying about his brother either snagging it from him or forcing him to eat something that didn't come wrapped in plastic.

The younger brother hadn't reached the period of his life yet when he started to prefer a healthier style of eating, and with no girls around to impress, he hadn't really cared about the explosion of zits that spread across his forehead.

On the morning of the fourth day, Sam had needed to trek back into town for more pizza, soda and chips, determined that he was going to just pig out and enjoy the fact that he didn't need to train in the hot summer weather. Halfway back to the cabin, a bedraggled Golden Retriever began trotting quietly behind him and Sam picked up the pace a little in case the dog wasn't actually as friendly as he looked.

Once he reached his temporary home, Sam had shut the door firmly behind him, unwilling to chance getting bit when there was no one around to help him with stitches and first aid. But then the sun began to climb higher in the sky and the temperature steadily crept up, and the poor pup was still lying forlornly on the front step looking tired, hungry and panting from the heat.

Sam didn't have it in him to be cruel to a meek and defenseless animal, and really he had always wanted a pet, but of course his father wouldn't allow it.

It started with him carefully putting a bowl of cool water out on the step and watching through the window as the dog greedily lapped it all up in a matter of seconds. A half hour later, it had progressed to another bowl of water and some of the saltine crackers from the cabinet. Then to actually letting the mangy mutt into the cabin to get out of the afternoon sun, and eventually to sharing Sam's pizza for dinner.

The poor thing was ratty and painfully thin, ribs sticking out in blunt testament to his life as an unwanted stray. Sam had coaxed him into the tub for a bath and, once thoroughly wet, the pup was purely skin and bones, thus leading to his new name.

Bones became Sam's constant companion after that.

Happily wagging his tail as Sam went about exploring the woods around the cabin and taking the occasional trip into town for more food and drinks, knowing after the first trip that the boy would also splurge for some treats for the dog too. Once he was bathed and relatively cleaner, Bones had a place in the bed next to his new little master, and together they slept snuggled up to each other every night.

Sam enjoyed his time in Flagstaff, more than he had ever enjoyed any other place he had lived.

He did what he wanted, when he wanted, with no one bossing him around and barking out orders. He curled up in a chair for hours and read books that he picked up from the convenience store's limited rack. He played fetch with Bones and took afternoon naps just because he could. He even tasked himself with writing a detailed report on all of the cool things he had learned at Lowell, just...because.

At night he would sit out on the front step and gaze at the stars and think of his mom.

He was never really afraid of being out on his own. Even when his second week of his time away from his family slipped by, he wasn't really worried about never seeing them again. Simply put, nothing could hurt his big bad hunter of a father, and John would return when the hunt was finished.

Of that Sam was sure.

He was also sure that somehow his dad would know to come back sooner rather than later. Because Dean needed Dad to be okay, and Sam needed Dad to come to Flagstaff and find him, and for all of John Winchester's many, many faults, he always came when his kids needed him most.

Always

Dean was probably still thoroughly pissed off at Sam, but he would be okay once he realized that Sam being gone was only going to bring their father home faster. The minute John knew that his youngest son was in the wind, he would drop whatever he was doing and go and find his kid, no matter what.

There wasn't a doubt in Sam's mind that his father would know exactly where to look for him, because John knew everything about his sons, and it was only a matter of time before he came crashing through the door of the cabin and took his son home.

Any time now.

Sometimes, in the darkness of the evening, while Sam stared enraptured at the starry sky, he talked to his mother and asked her to try and send his dad a message to get home to Dean. He didn't realize it at the time, but this was the start of his nightly prayer ritual that continued long after he was found. He found comfort in talking out his fears and concerns heavenward, and it would bring a semblance of peace over him that he wasn't alone in the world.

It must have worked too, because just when his second week of adventure finally edged out, Uncle Bobby threw open the door to the cabin, and Sam knew that his father and brother wouldn't be far behind.

Two weeks was a nice vacation from the hunting life. Sam felt rested, relaxed and ready to rejoin his family since he really was beginning to miss them a lot. During the three hours that he and Uncle Bobby waited for Dad and Dean to arrive, he even managed to nag his uncle into finding a good home for the faithful golden retriever than Sam knew he would be forced to leave behind.

When Dad had come barreling through the door, Sam was genuinely happy to see him. His father wasn't even yelling, like Sam had expected him to, or scolding his youngest for taking him away from the job and breaking a million rules designed for his boys' safety.

Dad had just grabbed him up in the biggest hug he had ever given Sam in his life, and the boy had been happy to cling to his father, comforted by the strong arms around him that he missed. The guilt of their last words washing away with their mutual joy in finding each other again. Dean was busy collecting Sam's things and it hadn't even occurred to the younger boy that his brother was neither looking at nor speaking to him at the time.

The little family drove away from Flagstaff as fast as John could gun the Impala's powerful engine. Unwilling to release his youngest, the immensely relieved father had pulled Sam into the front seat between himself and Dean, driving with his left hand while keeping a firm, reassuring right arm around Sam's thin shoulders until they were hours away.

On the outskirts of Albuquerque, they finally stopped and checked in for the night.

Under the lull of the Impala's comforting growl, Sam had snoozed during the trip, a wave of exhaustion and relief having overtaken him outside of Flagstaff's city limits. Dad picked up a to-go bag of tacos and they ate at the table in the motel room with Sam eating twice his usual limit having grown tired of pizza and Funyuns days ago.

It was okay because Dean hadn't wanted any, anyway, going outside to sit at a picnic table near their end unit in the cool night air. Dad told Sam that Dean was tired, and the younger boy didn't have any reason to doubt it. Besides, Sam was still not completely over his annoyance with his big brother just yet.

Dean hadn't even bothered to hug him when they got to the cabin, although Sam had thought that the brother he adored would have missed Sam as much as Sam had missed him.

After dinner, with Dean still outside, Dad had finally reprimanded his wayward son for taking off and scaring them so badly. John took his belt off, yanked Sam over his knee and whipped the holy hell out of his little butt. While it wasn't fun, Sam wasn't even really upset by it. He knew what he had done and that there would be repercussions, and even so he wouldn't have changed a thing about his time away.

Except for maybe finding a way to bring Bones with them.

And it was okay, because when Dad was done, he had nudged Sam into bed and then sat down beside him, leaning back against the headboard and carding his fingers through Sam's hair until he had fallen into the best sleep he had in weeks.

The Cold War between the brothers continued for a few more days as they traveled north to Montana towards another hunt. Dean wasn't talking to Dad either so Sam didn't feel singled out as the car ate up the miles towards the Flathead National Forrest. What John had originally suspected to be a wendigo really did turn out to be a grizzly after all, and with the job aborted, they bunked down at a cabin owned by a friend of Uncle Bobby's outside of Whitefish.

It was clear that John needed some downtime, and no one seemed surprised to find their father hitting the Jack a little harder than normal after all the excitement.

A few days into their stay, Sam had grumped to no one in particular that they were going to miss out on any July Fourth celebrations being the middle of nowhere like they were. Dean didn't say a word to him, but when their father was well and truly passed out, the older brother had snaked the keys to the Impala and taken off for a few hours.

When Dean returned, Dad was still snoring in a chair off to the side, and didn't give any indication that he would be waking up any time soon. Dean had dragged Sam out to the car and opened the trunk revealing an entire crate of fireworks and Sam finally saw some happiness and light in his brother's eyes.

They jumped in the car and roared off down the dirt road, driving for almost ten miles until they came across the perfect empty field. Sam was practically giddy as he hauled the crate out of the trunk and grabbed two Roman Candles for them. Dean had lit them and the two brothers stood side by side in the vast emptiness of the field and watched the sparks shoot into the air.

Sam had genuinely loved his big brother at that moment, and the lingering hurt of missing him so much the previous weeks and then the cold reception in Flagstaff melted away as easily as ice in the summer sun.

Dean was forever finding a million ways to make his little brother happy, even when he had to skirt their father to do it, and Sam had flung his arms around his brother's waist and pressed his face adoringly into Dean's chest, never wanting to let go.

But there was a crate of fireworks still waiting for them, and the lure was too tempting. Sam lit them all up and together the brothers watched the spectacular display, both of them beaming from ear to ear. Sam had been so happy that he ran out into the field and danced around in the technicolor shower of exploding lights as his big brother, looking truly happy for the first time in a long time, watched over him.

Even when the field caught fire, and the boys had to jump back into the Impala and haul ass, Dean was still laughing hysterically, and this time it was his arm around Sam's shoulders as they drove away.

Those had always been Sam's memories of his time in Flagstaff, but now, over four years later, he couldn't help wondering if he had actually missed something very important.

/

It was getting harder to ignore his little brother's hurt face.

To be honest, the gulf between then was killing Dean too. It didn't make it any easier to know that he could stop it any time he wanted to. That one word from him could bridge the gap and make Sammy smile again.

Sam had been trying so hard to get them to talk, and it was tearing Dean up inside every time he forced himself to turn away. He didn't need to actually look at the kid to know that his thin shoulders slumped and his shaggy head bowed in resignation when none of his pleas for communication were granted.

It's not like Dean was being a jerk on purpose.

A lifetime spent making sure that his little brother was spared as much pain and suffering as possible was a habit that was hard to break, especially when he was the one hurting the kid with his silence. It left a gnawing pain in his gut, and he wanted nothing more than to give his little brother a hug and tell him that it was okay and move on like nothing had happened.

But he couldn't do that this time.

Maybe it was a combination of his still hovering resentment over Sam's blatant selfishness regarding his trip, and a primal human reaction of inflicting retaliatory pain on the one that had hurt him so badly.

That was probably part of his reticence to make peace.

The primary reason was that he was hoping that his refusal to talk to his brother at all would finally push the kid into sharing the details of where he was and what he was doing. Not that his little brother wasn't entitled to some privacy, but this was obviously a big deal considering the lengths Sam had gone to, to pull it off.

Dean was going to need some real information on something that major, and he was going to need it quick.

Sammy said it wasn't dangerous, but he was still just a snot nosed kid, and sometimes Dean's little brother had no real concept of what constituted danger in the non-hunting world.

Because Sam was a good boy at heart.

Kind, considerate and compassionate, and he desperately tried to see the best in everyone. That kind of gentle faith in people could get him killed if he wasn't careful, and it was up to Dean to make sure that never happened.

By virtue of necessity, and baptism literally by fire, Dean was a little more versed in the evils that existed in nature, not just of the supernatural kind, and it was his job to protect his little brother from being led down the wrong paths in life. If it meant he had to be cruel to get the truth, then that is what he was willing to do. No matter how strained and stressed their relationship was right now.

He could only hope that sooner or later, Sammy would break and spill all. Hopefully before Dean broke himself. Because if he had to spend much more time with his little brother, gutted, subdued and walking on eggshells around him, Dean wouldn't be able to maintain his own stoicism any longer, and that wasn't good for either of them in the long run.

The drive to Elko had been hell.

As physically exhausted as Dean had already been from the hunt and the drive back from Wisconsin, he hadn't even taken the time for a quick nap before heading west. He did phone Bobby before he left, because the salvage man deserved the respect of consideration as his boss if Dean was going to be gone for another couple of days.

As good as his surrogate uncle had been to the brothers, it didn't sit well with Dean to continue to take advantage of his kind nature and generous work hours. He truly hated being the cause of putting the work of the yard behind schedule because his bitchy little brother got a wild hair up his ass, and Dean was genuinely apologetic on the phone.

Bobby clearly sensed the tiredness and agitation in his voice and had ordered Dean, in no uncertain terms, to come and pick him up and they would do the trip together. It wasn't something the older brother had even considered. While he knew with certainty that he would be driving Sam home in the Impala, he hadn't even bothered to give any thought about what would happen with the Camaro.

It was a huge relief when Bobby offered to help him drive out there.

With the two of them at the wheel, they could switch off and sleep for a while without losing any hours on the road. Bobby was more than willing to drive Sam's car back. He had some stops along the way back that he could make, checking on the hunting cabins and picking up supplies. Assuring Dean that there wasn't anything at the salvage yard that required the immediate attention of either of them.

Bobby understood what John's reaction to Sam's disappearing act would be, knowing his old friend as well as he did, and he agreed with Dean that their days in Sioux Falls would be numbered if their father found out. Dean didn't like asking Bobby to lie for them, and the older man didn't particularly want to. As long as John didn't ask any direct questions, Bobby told Dean that he wasn't going to volunteer information.

It was as good a compromise as Dean could ask for.

He barely remembered the trip out there.

Between blearily ticking off the mile markers and trying to get a few minutes of sleep here and there, the older Winchester brother was running on sheer autopilot. Dean couldn't decide whether to be more petrified for his little brother's safety or of his father's wrath.

All he could think of was what John's reaction had been when Sam had run off to Flagstaff years earlier.

/

It was exhausting at times, playing referee between Dad and Sammy. For two highly intelligent people, neither one of them seemed to possess the capacity to see the side of the other in an argument. Unfortunately for Dean, he could see both sides with equal clarity, and it was pulling him apart at the seams to be forced to continuously choose sides.

To be fair, most of the time he came down firmly on Dad's side, for the simple reason that John was his father and deserved his respect. Everything Dad did, he did for a reason, and it wasn't Dean's place to question it, even when he disagreed with it.

There were times when he wanted to back his little brother's position, because Dad tended to see life through a very constricting pair of blinders, but it didn't sway Dean's obedience.

Sammy was just a kid, and a fairly spoiled one on occasion at that, and Dean was usually the one caught trying to play peacemaker between the other two Winchesters because otherwise their lives would be nothing but screaming fests and tears and slammed doors.

Dad had his reasons for not letting Sammy go to that fucking soccer camp, and Dean was going to respect that.

Although he would have been happier to have actually had a fair argument to make when Sammy threw his fit and then bitched for a week. His little brother was good at sports and he had really thrived on that team back in Mass. Dean had gone to every game and he didn't give a rat's ass what anyone thought about it.

In his opinion, if you couldn't be bothered to cheer on your little brother, that didn't make you much of a man.

He had already known that things were only going to get uglier as the time came for Dad to leave for the hunt and Sammy was still glaring with rage. What he hadn't been expecting was his little brother to scream at their father to not bother coming back.

Then the little brat scampered off to throw a hissy in the bathroom, slamming the door for maximum theatrical emphasis, so he wasn't in the room to see their father's face grow pained and fall. Dean had seen his father in all kinds of dangers, and various states of tension and high emotions, but he had never seen him look so hurt, and it pissed Dean right the fuck off.

Of course, Dad being Dad, their father had sucked in one quick harsh breath and then played through the pain. Gathering his stuff and heading for the door, he bit out instructions for Sammy to run every morning until his return. He ran a quick affectionate hand over Dean's head, with one last glance at the closed bathroom door, and then headed out to face God knew what in the desert.

Dean had been fuming on his father's behalf, more than willing and able to rip his little brother a new hole for being such a disrespectful little shit. Why their father had not taken the time to set his younger son straight before he took off, Dean didn't know, but he wasn't prepared to let the kid get away with the attitude any longer.

If that degree of insolence had come out of Dean, John would have salted and burned his ass before the last word had dropped from Dean's tongue.

Sammy pouted in the bathroom for almost a full thirty minutes before Dean decided that enough was enough. The brat wasn't going to hide in the head for the rest of the day and ponder on the unfairness of his poor, sad little life. Dean had barged in and saw the boy sitting limp on the side of the bathtub and, just for a moment, Sammy looked almost as wrecked as their father had, and Dean felt his anger lowering slightly.

It wasn't in his nature to gloss over his kid brother's unhappiness, and he was just about willing to chalk it up to Sammy's reluctance over their father having to take off again. But then Sam had to do the monumentally stupid thing of opening that smart assed mouth of his and pissing Dean right off again. Seriously, it was like living with a human roller coaster.

Up and Down

Up and Down

And truthfully? Right now, Dean wanted off that ride because he was getting sick and tired of it.

The rest of the week didn't get any better. Sam never stopped his litany of complaints and Dean was getting a migraine from the minute they got up in the mornings. Tired of the constant tense atmosphere, the older brother was crawling the walls to get away. It had never been a problem for Dean to leave Sam safely locked in at their motel room and head out to hustle as long as the bar was within walking distance.

He never even usually needed his fake ID either.

Between his acquired smooth tongue and confident swagger, he always managed to get past the bouncers at the doors. Dad had taught him how to be careful around places like that. Dean drank just enough to seem social. He was careful to watch the company being kept by the women that he hit on, and he spent a long time identifying his marks before he dropped himself into a game.

Over the course of a few days, he managed to make some pretty decent money, and there were two opportunities for some sports sex afterwards that he might have taken repeated advantage of if he wasn't feeling obligated to get back to the motel room where his sulky sibling was surely brooding a hole in the wall.

It had only been a few months since Beth had busted his cherry back in Blue Earth, and Dean was extremely pleased to discover that, not only did he genuinely enjoy romping with the ladies, he was well and truly gifted at pleasing them.

With Dad away, this little mouse was looking to play.

Of course, once Dad had blown his return date out of the water, Dean was not really in the mood to flirt or hustle anymore.

Preferring to stay behind at the motel and hold vigil for his father's return and keeping an extra sharp eye on his increasingly vocal little brother. An angsty and hormonal thirteen year old on a good day, Sammy wasn't particularly Zen about Dad's missing status, and Dean had known that the kid was a bomb ready to go off.

Sam didn't know that Dean had been calling their father's cell a dozen times a day, getting increasingly more desperate to hear Dad's voice reassuring him that everything was okay. Between John's radio silence and Sam's constant stream of moodiness, it was a mentally taxing tsunami, and eventually Dean had just lost it himself.

Maybe Dad woulda come back if you didn't tell him not to, you obnoxious little shit! Ever think of that?

Dean hadn't meant to lash out at the kid like that. Really he didn't. It was just a matter of Sammy saying the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time. And Dean was sorry, he was, but he was still just a kid too, and there was only just so much craziness and stress he could deal with without losing his own shit.

He had gone back out that night and lost himself in a larger quantity of booze than he knew his father would allow.

A less than clear head also drove him into the arms of a late twenty-something barfly with a rented house down the street. Filled with lace, chintz everything, flowered purple sheets and a curious Siamese cat that liked to watch. He barely remembered dragging himself back to the motel room in the middle of the night, and only vaguely recalled how he managed to wind up in his father's discarded bed.

Sammy had bitched at him all the next day, irritating his already widely hungover head and dancing all over the raw nerves that were stretched to the breaking point over the fact that this time John might not actually come home.

Not that Dean was giving up on his father.

He had nothing but confidence in his dad's ability to outsmart, outwit and outrun anything he came up against. But it was one thing to think that, and quite another to pretend that terrible things didn't happen to good people. After all, this whole life was because of a horrible tragedy that no one had ever seen coming.

It was suffocating in the room and the air was thick with dread and hostility. Dean knew that Sammy would be safe there. It was warded up the ass, the kid could handle weapons just fine and there was enough salt poured on every opening to give the entirety of Middle America hypertension just by driving by. The bar was only a few hundred yards away if his little brother needed him.

Dean ignored the puppy dog eyes being shot at him and pushed out the door into air he could actually breathe in.

By the time he made it back a few hours later, a couple hundred dollars richer, not quite as buzzed as he had been the night before, and feeling guilty for ditching his kid brother, Sammy was gone.

Dean still doesn't have the words to describe the heart stopping and breath stealing total and utter helplessness he felt that night. His entire body started to shake as he gripped his head and swayed on his feet, all the while trying to simultaneously formulate a plan to find his little brother.

Sammy's duffel bag was still in the motel room closet where it had been since the day they arrived, but his backpack and some clothes were missing. The best that Dean could hope for was that the kid had taken off in a snit for a little while and would find his way back after a few hours of pouting somewhere.

Before Dean even took in his first real gulp of air, his fingers were already feverishly dialing his father's phone again, but there was still no answer.

For three solid days the frantic big brother scoured the streets of El Paso, running flat out from place to place. From stalking the damn soccer camp to staking out the library and museums. Trying to catch a glimpse of a mop headed thirteen year old that was a little too small for his age and hefting a backpack that, if Dean knew his little brother, probably weighed more than the kid himself.

He must have asked a thousand people if they had seen Sammy, desperately thrusting at them with the photo of the two brothers Dean kept in his wallet.

No one had seen him at the bus station, or at Union Depot. Running on nothing but coffee, adrenaline, and naked fear, Dean had pleaded frantically at the truck stop near the motel for any possible sighting of the boy.

Nothing.

No sightings.

No help of any kind.

Sammy was just gone. In the blink of an eye, while Dean was out self medicating the hysteria that his father was missing, his little brother had taken off too. Every half hour he left increasingly nervous messages on his father's voice mail until the mail box was completely full and all he had left was dead air.

It was almost three in the morning on the third night when his phone finally rang.

Dean had forced himself back to the motel several times during the day and night between searches just in case Sammy showed back up. It wasn't the first time that he regretted his father's unwillingness to spring for another cellphone for his little brother. At least then, Dean might have heard something.

Anything.

Even if it was just Sammy telling him to fuck off, he would have taken it at the moment, but the kid had no way to contact them if he was in real danger.

Dean's hands were shaking like an addict in withdrawal when he grappled for the phone sitting across from him on the table in the motel room, and when he saw the Caller ID he felt practically faint with relief.

"Dad?"

"What...Happened?"

There had been a cold rage to John's voice on the other line. In the background Dean could heard the growl of the Impala being pushed to unsafe speeds, and although he was weak from no food and no sleep there was an indescribable solace washing over him.

Dad was okay

Dad was okay

Dad was okay

Dad would find Sammy, because their father could find a needle in a stack of needles. He was the ultimate hunter and tracker, and Dean didn't doubt for a moment that wherever his kid brother was, Dad would know how to get him back.

His voice suddenly parched, he had relayed the events of the past few days to his father, with John making no comment until he was finished. It wasn't that Dean was expecting his father to comfort him after he had fucked up so royally, and it didn't matter because the man's only other words were enough to ease his firstborn's mind a tiny bit.

"I'll be there in forty."

Then the line cut out and Dean gulped in huge draws of air when he realized that he was on the verge of passing out from holding his breath. Those forty minutes had been the longest of his young life and it had seemed like days before he heard the black beauty pull into the parking lot. He had thrown the room door open and watched his dad, cut and bloodied, with days of beard growth matted down from the heat, stride towards him.

Dean's knees went weak.

A combination of exhaustion and relief, and when his father grabbed him by the shirt, the boy thought at first that it was because John was trying to prevent him from falling to the floor, but then he was rocked back into consciousness by the violent thrusts of his father's powerful arms.

"You...Had...ONE...Job!"

Every word was punctuated by another harsh shake, powerful enough to force Dean's teeth to painfully gnash together in his mouth and make his head loll from side to side like a rag doll.

"I...TRUSTED...You!"

Shake

"I...RELIED...On...You!"

Shake

"Your brother is GONE!"

Shake

"He could be DEAD!"

Shake

"And it'll be YOUR FAULT...because you couldn't stay home...and do...your...FUCKING JOB!"

Shake

Shake

Shake

Hot tears burned down Dean's cheeks and he felt nothing but shame for acting so weak in his father's presence.

The shaking was rattling his brain and making him see spots, and he could feel himself losing his battle with unconsciousness. The blood was rushing to his ears, adding to his distortion, and before he knew it he was bringing up fiery hot bile from his stomach and spewing it all over himself and the grungy motel carpet.

His father let go of him then and Dean sank boneless to the floor, coughing and gagging and struggling to keep awake. Putrid streams of stomach acid streaked down his shirt and matted into the carpet under his knees.

He couldn't bring himself to face Dad. The crushing burden of being the cause of his father losing his youngest son overwhelming him to the point that his entire state of being was just a complete blur.

Somehow he managed to make it to his bed, and he sat there in a daze while his father made a flurry of phone calls. Dean listened through cotton clogged ears, his eyes shifting in and out of focus, as Dad's voice began to swirl faster and faster, like a record being played at the wrong speed and it would have been funny if it wasn't so terrifying.

Over the next few days, Dean wasn't permitted in the car with his father to search for Sammy. John was determined that his firstborn stay behind in the motel in the unlikely event that his little boy find his way back there.

Logically, Dean knew it made sense, but it didn't lessen the humiliation of being sidelined in the search, or the crippling fear that his father simply didn't want him anywhere near. For a boy who lived for his family, the total rejection by both of them in the harshest manner possible brought Dean to his knees.

Caleb joined the search the next day, tearing up the roads between Lincoln and El Paso. He and John created a search grid and they split the difference. Another hunter that was significantly more tech savvy was tasked with checking the traffic cams trying to spot the boy. Meanwhile Dean was forced to sit behind and alone in the motel with his thumbs up his ass.

Feeling more and more worthless, untrustworthy and impotent from his father's rage as the Sammy-free minutes pass.

He stares at the peeling paint of the walls of the motel room until his eyes tear up from lack of blinking. He paces, on increasingly unsteady legs, deep trails in the stained industrial grade carpet that's faded in a million places and dark with unidentifiable bodily fluids in others. He runs his hands through his buzz cut until he's pulling swatches of short hairs through the gaps in his fingers.

His eyes are bloodshot, deep dark hollows surrounding faded green irises that have lost their life and luster since his little brother vanished like a wisp of rebellious angsty smoke. His skin is pasty white with a waxy sheen and his freckles stand out like vivid accusing marks of failure and uselessness.

He doesn't know who he is if he's not his brother's protector.

His father's gun hand.

These past few weeks have made a perfectly crystalline clear case that he is neither. Dad hunted alone without backup because Dean had One Job, and John had returned several scars richer and a pint or two of blood poorer because of it.

Not only that, but, Sammy was God knows where, doing God knows what, or worse, having God knows what being done to him by God knows Who. Or What.

If he was even still alive that is.

Some protector you are, Dean.

You pathetic, useless, worthless, failure of a poor excuse for a brother and son that you are.

All you do is let your family down.

As the week passed before his father finally called in with the news that Bobby was pretty sure that Sam had taken refuge in one of the hunting cabins, Dean was rapidly losing weight as well as his mind. He couldn't make himself eat, and was only sleeping when his body and mind united in rebellion against his will and forced him down for a few minutes here and there.

By the time John finally agreed to swing by and pick him up, Dean was barely coherent and slipping fast. And he's cold. So fucking cold, and his hands shake and his skin is mottled with goosebumps and no amount of hot water in the shower can stop his teeth from chattering.

His thoughts skip back and forth wondering if Sammy is just as cold as he lies dead somewhere. Small, helpless and alone because his big brother failed at watching out for him like he's always promised the kid he would.

Looking back, Dean is pretty sure that he experienced a fairly profound psychotic break during that time. The memories of what happened right after they found Sammy in that cabin are still filmy and he can't think of them without experiencing a delusionary white hum ringing in his ears.

His first clear memory is on the drive to Montana, when his mind finally allowed him to accept the idea that the Dad and Sammy riding in the car with him were actually the real members of his family and not some starvation and sleep deprivation induced hallucinations.

He has vague flashes of consciousness from the days beforehand, but they are disjointed and muddled and most of them don't make any sense at all, because he's pretty sure that there was some kind of dog in the middle of it, and his family doesn't do the pet thing.

He's also pretty sure that he remembers hearing the telltale swish and crack of Dad's belt getting a workout, and Dean is certainly the one culpable in this whole mess and more than deserving.

There's a fleeting moment of wanting to tell Dad that it wasn't any use bothering.

Dean is too far removed from any physical sensation at the time, his mind and body numb beyond comprehension, and all John would be accomplishing is tiring himself out more than he already was with the effort, and Dean's just not worth it. But later, there are no marks on his ass heralding the aftermath of an encounter with it, so maybe he just imagined his cheek resting on the cool flat surface of a natural wood picnic table, lying in wait for punishment.

It's all just so confusing.

There was a wendigo, and then there wasn't a wendigo, and then some rundown cabin in the middle of nowhere. With rusty springed beds and a tattered couch and antlers on the walls. The floor is littered with detritus, and the whole place feels like it was abandoned mid-use years ago judging by the crud encrusted dishes in the dingy sink, the clothing scattered about, and the half-missing ancient wind chimes on the porch.

It's at the cabin that he finally sleeps.

Covered in a scratchy blanket with a flat pillow behind his head, trying not to gag on the smell of must and long term vacancy in the pillowcase. His head slows down so that the spins in his mind finally stop turning at warp speed and it's a halting and stuttering progression of awareness as his eyes flutter shut.

He thinks for a moment that the gravelly rumble he hears in his head is his father's deep baritone softly humming, but it could have just been the thunder caused by the storm coming in dark and threatening from the distance. But there is also a steady weight on his back, and it feels like it could be something shaped like Dad's hand, gently patting and rubbing, and whatever it is, he drifts until his mind is black and he doesn't need to think anymore.

The next morning he awakens to the smell of dark roast coffee brewing, and the aroma makes his empty stomach twist and he breathes deeply and slowly through his nose to keep from dry heaving on the stale linen of his ramshackle bed. Dad is at the stove, his muscled back stretching the fabric of a plain white T-shirt that is smudged with grass stains.

His father doesn't say anything when he turns around to frown at his firstborn, but he jerks his chin towards the rough hewn wood table, streaked with cigarette ash and dotted with random scraps of notes, and Dean knows better than to defy him by staying in bed. He hobbles over to the table like a senior citizen and drops himself into one of the uneven chairs, and there's suddenly a bowl of oatmeal pushed in front of him.

Dean doesn't remember the last time he consciously ate something, unable to shake the lingering determination that failures don't need to have food wasted on them. He balks and gags at the weak smell of the hot cereal, and it's not until his father orders him to eat it that he forces himself to lift a spoonful to his mouth.

Sammy is still sleeping on a small camp bed. Tufts of brown curls sticking up wildly in every direction. His little brother's face is rosy with good color, and his breathing is steady, light and carelessly easy. The sight of him safe and healthy and here is better for Dean's digestion than the tepid bowl of mush that he is picking his way through under Dad's watchful eye.

During the next two days, Dean's world slowly regains color.

Whereas the previous weeks had been a blurry haze of black, white and gray, their lives in that bedraggled cabin in Montana begin to bloom in a rainbow of shades in his mind. Air that was stagnant and thick, barely able to fill his lungs with oxygen, was suddenly clear and refreshing again.

After the oatmeal, he had been pushed back to sleep, Dad's firm hand on his neck propelling him into the bed, and when he woke, the cabinets were bursting with supplies that let him know the family was here for a while. Sammy and their father are having a surreal discussion on the Apollo moon landing and Dean's brain isn't quite able to wrap itself around something that abstract just yet.

Instead, he helps himself to the bag of peanut M&Ms on the table that are most assuredly for him, since neither of the other Winchesters care for them. His stomach growls loud and angry and he shuffles out to the quiet emptiness of the front porch where he lays down on his back and just lets himself breathe as candy coated chocolate peanuts melt over his reawakening taste buds.

That afternoon Dad is clearly done with the world, and he mentally checks out, dragging a bottle of Jack to a chair in the back of the cabin, and the boys know that unless disaster strikes, he is to be left alone for a while.

Sam isn't talking, but that probing, earnest stare that defines his eyes is burning into Dean's brain, but he can't talk to his brother just yet. The words won't come and Dean isn't finished processing the maelstrom of his wildly fluctuating thoughts. He's unable to formulate a sentence that could possibly do justice to the nightmare existence that almost dragged him completely under.

A prayer, a plea, a curse or an accusation. Rage, hysteria, devastation or jubilation.

He settles for slapping together a PB&J and pouring a glass of milk, standing sentry while his little brother consumes both before he flees outside again, because the porch is the only place where he can truly fill his lungs.

Then Sammy is bitching to the room at large about fireworks and the fourth of July, and Dean blinks hard and fast because he hadn't realized that the month had changed while he was drowning. Dad is in a bourbon soaked coma and unavailable for consultation, so Dean doesn't feel bad when he snags the Impala's keys and takes off.

With John home, if Sammy disappears again, it's on him and not Dean this time, and the oldest son shoves back a malicious resentment that Dad should be sober and watching out for his wayward kid.

He travels enough to have a fair instinct about where to find the nearest town, and he's not disappointed when it appears twenty minutes later, after driving a long ribbon of winding road through the forest. There is an explosion of red, white and blue bunting draped over every porch and street light, and signs for barbecues and picnics and concerts.

It doesn't take long to locate a large white tent propped up at the edge of town plastered with signs hawking a plethora of fireworks. The money Dean earned hustling while he was abandoning his baby brother is still bulging like paper accusations in his pocket and he drops it all, every dime and then some besides, and buys a huge crate of explosives.

He heads back to the cabin, long enough to heat up a can of stew for Sammy's dinner, choking back a handful of chips himself, and leaving a sandwich and a bottle of water next to Dad's chair. Although the likelihood of their father regaining consciousness during the evening is next to zero, Dean leaves a note letting him know that the boys will return in a few hours just the same.

John doesn't need another moment of worry regarding their whereabouts any time soon.

Then he bundles Sam into the car and they shoot off down the road towards a large, grassy field, and when it's dark enough Sammy pulls the crate out of the trunk and grabs a Roman Candle for each of them. Together they shoot them off and all Dean can see is his little brother's smile.

Dad would never let us do anything like this. Thanks, Dean. This is great.

Then Sam wraps his thin arms around Dean and hugs him close, like he did when he was so much smaller and affectionate, and finally – finally – Dean fully exhales, and the cobwebs of his mind clear away. He holds his brother, his warm, breathing, safe and cuddly little brother, and feels his world righting itself on its axis again. His nightmare vanishes and he's truly happy for the first time in a long time.

That night at the cabin, Sammy abandons his small camp bed and crawls into Dean's larger one and burrows against his big brother's side.

Dean has scolded him before, and told him that he has become too old to snuggle, so Sam contents himself with curling up so that his forehead is pressed against his brother's shoulder, and Dean allows it because he needs the contact just as much.

And that is how their father finds them the next morning, and nothing about the previous weeks is ever mentioned again.

/

There is a delicious smell of lemon and rosemary in the kitchen as the three Winchesters sit down to dinner, but neither of John's sons are really eating.

The roast chicken is cut up and passed around, scoops of mashed potatoes and corn are plopped on plates. John and his firstborn pop the tops of two bottles of beer and Sammy doesn't even bother trying to plead for one like he normally does. There's no bitch faced little brother petulantly reminding his father that Dean was allowed at his age. The only sounds are the occasional clinks of silverware against plates as bits of food are pushed around.

A glare in Dean's direction gets his oldest son to start shoveling forkfuls in his mouth, almost mechanically, but at least he's eating. John taps his fork on Sammy's plate meaningfully, and although the boy doesn't take a bite, it does serve as the first time his father really looks at his youngest son's face in detail.

Sam looks exhausted.

He has raccoon eyes and his already thin face looks even thinner. It's not the growing process stretching out his features, it's lack of sufficient nutrition. John frowns, annoyed that maybe the kid is working too hard at his studies and not sleeping or eating enough. He is genuinely frustrated because the whole point of this year off was to make sure that Sammy got normal fun out of his system before he settled down to full time hunting.

John is hungry, and the chicken Dean made smells and tastes wonderful, but there is clearly something going on with his kids. Besides the fact that, on a regular day, you could lose some fingers getting between them and food, their eyes are straying everywhere in the room except at each other.

Dean returns his attention to his own plate, and he is determinedly plowing through his meal now, most likely in an attempt to be able to get up and move around the kitchen without having to sit in the stifling atmosphere of the table. His father knows him well enough to figure that one out for himself.

Sam is still listlessly picking at his dinner, without actually putting any of it in his mouth, and John taps his plate again, a little more firmly this time, until his youngest looks up at him through the ridiculously long fringe curtaining his eyes. John tamps back an urge to grab his hair clippers and go to town, because when he specified hair length for the boy, he didn't think to bother with a different set of rules for the front.

Damn too-smart-for-his-own-good kid and his ability to take advantage of loopholes.

"Your brother made a good meal, Sammy," he rebukes sharply, raising a perturbed eyebrow. "You know better than to waste food."

Sam blinks, throws a quick glance at his brother that Dean ignores, and then stares back down at his plate before shoving a bite in his mouth.

"Yes, sir."

John hasn't seen Dean in over a week, and Sammy for longer. All he really wanted tonight was to spend some time with his boys, but the tension in the air is so thick you couldn't cut it with a razor sharp knife if you tried. Dean is chewing and shoveling with military precision and Sammy is forcing himself to ingest tiny bites as if each movement is physically painful.

Neither one of them is speaking to their father either, and finally John throws his napkin on his plate and pushes it away.

"Okay. What's going on with you two?"

Sam glances up once quickly, a flash of guilt in his black ringed eyes, before he hides back behind his mop of hair. Dean wipes his mouth and racks his shoulders back, a fake casual look schooling his features as he shakes his head at his father and lies right to his face.

"Nothing. Everything's fine, Dad."

Sam's eyes dart around the table nervously, but then he purses his lips together and bites down on his bottom row of teeth and jerkily nods his head in agreement.

"Yeah. Fine."

Dean resumes his quest to snorkel the rest of the way through his meal as Sam gulps noisily from his glass of mineral water, and John looks from one of them to the other as his temper rises because if there is one thing he won't stand for, it's being lied to by his kids.

"Okay," he starts in a reasonable tone. "Let's try this again. Without the bullshit. What's going on?"

Sam looks on the verge of saying something, but then there is a sudden surge of hostility in Dean's snapping green eyes and the younger boy pales and grabs his water glass again. Dean takes in a deep breath, but he's a perfectly cool customer as he dangles a piece of chicken on his fork and shrugs nonchalantly.

"Sammy broke curfew last week."

Across the table, Sam chokes on his water, sputtering and gagging as a coughing fit takes over. He slams the glass down and coughs into his napkin as his eyes water, shaking off his father's concerned face as his brother rolls his eyes in agitation and takes another bite of food.

John waits half a heartbeat.

Looks at Dean who looks directly back at him, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, and then over to Sam who is clearing his throat and decidedly not looking at either of them. Dean, under the mistaken impression that the subject is closed, scoops up a forkful of corn and devours it and Sam balls up his napkin and covers the mangled dinner that is now splattered with saliva and sparkling water.

His kids might think he was born yesterday, but John knows that Sammy staying out a little late wouldn't trigger whatever the hell this thing between them is, but he's going to give Dean the benefit of the doubt if his eldest seems content that the situation is handled.

"And that's it?"

"Yes, sir," Dean replies, taking a swig of his beer.

Dean gets up from the table and clears his plate and Sam's, scraping the leftover food into the trash and keeping his back to his father's inquiring eyes. John turns his attention to his youngest who is clearly trying to look smaller than his increasing size allows him to.

"Why were you late, Sammy?"

He waits for a half second while Sam clears his throat and blinks, and when his son answers, it's to the table in front of him and not his father's eyes. Dean has turned surreptitiously to the side, as if he's also interested in the answer.

"I was working on something for school."

Dean's response is just a few seconds too late to be a natural reaction to information he should already have.

"Yeah," Dean says, grabbing the tube of plastic wrap for the leftovers. "But I found him and made sure he came right home."

John nods, as if he's going along with the story.

"Is that why his car isn't in the driveway?"

That simple statement has the profound effect of a bucket of cold water dropped on his kids, and they both immediately freeze in place for a hot second until Dean recovers and continues to fuss with the table as if he didn't miss a beat.

"Yes, sir," Dean answers steadily, stopping his puttering long enough to assume military posture. "I put him on lock down for two weeks."

Sam's face blushes and he averts his eyes when his father sweeps his gaze over to him. John taps a finger on the table as he takes in deep breaths, wondering just how far he should go into Mad Dad mode.

"He fight you on it?" The question is to Dean, even though John is looking at Sam.

"No, sir. Not a peep out of him."

John sweeps his eyes back up to his firstborn, but it is Dean the Soldier standing in front of him now, not Dean the Son, and John knows that information will be forthcoming, but unhelpfully basic.

"Is he following the terms?"

"Yes, sir," Dean replies, eyes forward. "Model citizen."

Sam is sitting slumped in his chair, head down and looking ten years younger than he is. John sighs and rubs his eyes, already weary from this unproductive back and forth. He shoots a pointed look at his firstborn and there is no room in his expression for any more crap.

"Then why are you treating him like he took a tire iron to the Impala?"

The question surprises Dean, who blinks rapidly, and John can see the gears working in the boy's mind as his eldest formulates an acceptable response. But Sam, finally roused from his self imposed distance, is quicker.

"I lied to him," Sam says quietly as he raises his eyes to look at his father. "He called to check in on me earlier in the evening, and I lied about where I was."

"Sam..."

Dean's eyes are snapping and his jaw is clamped tight, wordlessly warning his little brother to watch where he is going.

"He didn't clear the location with me first, Dad," Dean responds, turning his attention back to his father. "He shouldn't have been where he was. But when he was late getting home and I called to see what was going on, he was straight with me. I went out, found him and then brought him home myself."

That, at least, was the truth, John could tell from the reaction of both of his sons.

"I also took money from our emergency stash without asking," Sam continued, his voice growing stronger.

"What?" Dean's voice was shocked and his eyes were wide.

Clearly this was something new, John thought.

"I didn't know if I had enough cash on me for the project I was doing," Sam muttered, his eyes back down to the table. "I put it all back when we got home, because I never actually needed it."

John glared angrily at his youngest, because taking money from the family pot wasn't allowed without discussion and Sam knew it. Dean had his arms crossed and was frowning in disbelief.

"You know better than that, Samuel," his father barked. "Family is all we have. You don't steal from your family."

Sam's face was pure misery as he sat slumped in his chair and rubbed his hands on his jeans.

"Yes, sir." He looked up and stared at his brother pleadingly. "I'm sorry, Dean. I really am."

John watched as Dean took in deep dragging breaths, clearly trying to calm himself. As much as the father in him wanted to storm in and take control of this particular situation, whatever the problem was, it was between the boys. John could only address the issues they were sharing with him, which at the moment wasn't a lot.

Since he was the one that put his firstborn into a position of authority over his younger brother, John had to trust Dean's ability to handle things fairly and reinforce Sam's acknowledgment of it.

"I assume you didn't know about the money when you put him on lock down?"

Dean throws a poisonous glare in his brother's direction and then smooths his face back out again to face his father.

"No, sir. I didn't," he admits, his voice hard. "But it's for him too, if he needs it. He knows that."

John nods, because he expects this answer. Doesn't excuse what his youngest did, though. He gets an idea to help judge just how broken things are between them.

"Lines or laps, Dean?"

Dean's head jerks up, and confusion and horror muddles his expression.

"Sir?"

"For Sam," John clarifies. "Lines or laps for taking without asking?"

Realization dawns on his son's face and Dean's lips purse into a frown. Both of his kids have run an endless amount of disciplinary laps in their lives, and they can do it without blinking.

John is willing to bet that if Dean is only mildly annoyed he will choose laps, because writing lines is what the boys would have to do when they cut loose at Jim's place, and Sam hates having to write them. Both boys always have, which is what made it so effective and why they rarely caused trouble in Blue Earth.

So when Dean says Lines, his father is stunned and, from the look on Sam's face, so is Dean's little brother.

"You heard your brother, Samuel," John says, turning to his youngest. "I will respect and obey my brother and the rules. Two full pages, both sides. Right now."

"Dad," Dean protests, obviously not okay with the wording of the mandate. John holds up a hand to silence his eldest and jerks his head towards Sam to hurry him along.

"Now, Samuel."

Sam gets up slowly from his chair and brushes his hair away from his face.

"Yes, sir."

He sends another apologetic look in his brother's direction and lopes out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room.

In the kitchen, Dean's face has gone from placid to irritated and he's not being particularly shy at the moment about letting his father know it.

"I wish you didn't do that, Dad."

John reaches into the fridge and grabs two more beers. He brings them back to the table and indicates that Dean should retake his seat.

"You chose lines, kiddo."

His son sits reluctantly, but he grabs his beer and takes a sip.

"'Cause he didn't need more exercise," Dean says quietly, not looking at his father. "He hasn't been eating or sleeping enough as it is."

Ah.

That explains it. John should have known that Dean wouldn't intentionally do something that mean to his little brother. Things might not be as bad as John suspects after all.

He reaches out and puts a comforting hand on Dean's arm to stop his son from nervously picking the paper label off of his beer bottle.

"Why don't you tell me why you're really pissed at him."

Dean doesn't move his arm to force his father's hand away, but he doesn't look John in the eye either as he spins the bottle between his hands. John doesn't rush his kid to speak, because sometimes Dean needs a moment to mull over the right words.

His boys are very different in that way. Sam is so hot tempered that he just spits out whatever comes to his head first, usually with little thought and regard to what he is saying and who he is saying it to. John has always been able to understand that, because it's a trait that he has passed to his youngest son himself.

But Dean is more careful with sharing his feelings. Of course he also has a streak of the Winchester temper, but generally speaking, when it's really important, John's eldest doesn't say anything without truly meaning it.

"I thought I could trust him," Dean whispers after a moment, and there is a heavy weight of sadness in his voice.

John doesn't answer right away, especially since he is well acquainted with the feeling. There are very few people in his life that he does trust, and it's because of the large number of times he has been let down.

Of course John has also let people down himself, not the least of which are his kids, but then again, his boys are not perfect either, and maybe it's time to remind his firstborn of that fact.

"He made a mistake, kiddo," John says gently, reaching up to pull Dean's chin over so that they are looking at each other. "He's owned up to it and is paying for it. You can't keep beating him up over it."

Dean is blinking hard and shifts his head away so that he doesn't have to be on the receiving end of his father's reprimand.

"Sammy's only seventeen, Dean," John reminds him, pointedly. "Sometimes seventeen year olds make terrible mistakes. But you also need to forgive them, because at the end of the day they're still just kids."

The look on Dean's face when his head shoots back up is flushed with realization, and John is glad that he doesn't have to emphasize his point any clearer.

"And then you need to forgive yourself," he continues, getting up and running an affectionate hand over his son's head. "Because none of us is perfect, and everyone deserves a second chance."

John doesn't say anything else.

He goes over to the corner of the room and grabs his bag, extracting his journal and the latest Guns and Ammo which he slides in front of his son. Dean can feign interest in the magazine while he's actually digesting his father's comments without it being uncomfortable between them.

Before John buries himself in his writing, he washes the dinner dishes and cuts a slice of the blueberry pie he picked up on his way to see his kids. Grabbing a fork, he slides it in front of his eldest and leaves the boy to his thoughts.

Forty-five minutes later Sam is back, hovering awkwardly in the threshold like a skittish colt as he darts glances between his father and brother sitting at the kitchen table. John motions him over and then indicates that he should hand the sheets of paper he is holding so gingerly to his brother. Sam places them next to Dean's magazine and none of them comment on the fact that the younger boy's eyes are red rimmed.

Dean just turns away and squeezes his own eyes shut because damn it, he is so fucking tired of seeing his baby brother emotionally wrecked. He's also not feeling so charitable towards himself right now after his father's very timely reminder of Dean's own trust issues.

"This doesn't happen again, Samuel," John says sternly. "Or the next time you answer to me. Understood?"

Sam swallows hard and nods as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"Yes, sir."

"Okay. You're in your room for the rest of the night. I'll see you before I leave in the morning."

"Yes, sir." Sam grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and heads back upstairs, leaving his father and brother behind.

Dean waits a couple of hours until his father goes out to run an errand before he grabs his third beer. John has told him that he will be gone for a while, and his eldest son doesn't expect to see him back before he heads up to bed himself. It's not an unusual occurrence.

The papers that his brother has left near his chair glare at him accusingly. They are covered in row after row of the nice version of Sam's chicken scratch. The kind that his brother only bothers using when he's working on something important, like term papers for school. Otherwise Sam's handwriting is atrocious.

Dean is painfully aware of the fact that it's time to let go of the anger and resentment he has been carrying against his little brother. Although his reasons for being such a hardass haven't changed, he at least is man enough to acknowledge that he has been relatively just as cruel to Sam as their father was to Dean four years ago.

Or worse.

Dad might have handled Dean a little roughly, but at least he hadn't clocked him one like Dean did to Sam.

And Sam's crimes were so much smaller than Dean's had been, because you couldn't really equate an impromptu road trip of a boy as old as Dean was when he was out hustling in bars, with the irresponsible act of a careless son who let his thirteen year old little brother slip through his fingers when he wasn't looking.

Dean still doesn't know how his father ever forgave him for that, but he does know it's time to stop raking Sammy over the coals before it kills them both. When the morning comes, it's time to call a truce.

He's beyond tired. Too tired to even kick back with some crap cable for a while. So he tidies up the kitchen and living room, leaving on the porch light for his dad, and then trudges up the stairs to his room. Sam's light is off, unsurprisingly, and Dean has a passing flash of guilt for the petulant exile he has subjected his little brother to.

He'll make it up to the kid, somehow.

Snapping on the light in his room, he pulls off his outer flannel and heads over to his dresser to grab sleeping clothes when something on his bed catches his eye. Perched on the pillow of the side he prefers to sleep on are two large yellow sheets of paper. Ripped from a legal tablet, and longer than the white sheets of notepaper that Dean has angrily shoved into a drawer downstairs until his father consents to them being thrown out.

He picks them up, and when he reads the first line, his hand begins to tremble and he feels sick to his stomach.

Please forgive me. I miss my big brother.

Written over and over and over again. Two full sheets. Both sides. In the same painstakingly careful script.

His legs give out and he slumps down to sit on the bed, shaking his head and rubbing his face.

"Ah damnit, Sammy. No."

He couldn't feel more like an asshole right now if he tried.

Because there isn't anything he can't forgive when it comes to his little brother. There is nothing Sammy could ever do that would be so terrible that Dean wouldn't shove it aside in a heartbeat and let it go.

Maybe that's a bad way to be. Maybe it's not good for either of them, but he doesn't give a damn.

There is simply no act awful enough that would ever stop Dean from being who he is.

And who he is?

He's Sam's big brother and protector. Even if he occasionally has to make hard choices to save the kid from himself, there will always be forgiveness on his part.

No matter how much it hurts sometimes.

Screw waiting until morning. This shit is ending right the fuck now.

He strides with purpose down the hallway and knocks gently on Sam's door, not really waiting for an invitation. Sam won't be asleep anyway. Dean's not stupid. He knows the kid has been caffeinating himself into functionality for days.

Sam rolls over when he hears his brother enter his room and blinks in surprise. Dean doesn't say anything as he approaches the bed, but the unspoken shorthand between brothers makes words unnecessary.

A slight twitch of Dean's head has Sam scooting over to make room on the bed and his brother toes off his boots and lays down next to him on top of the blanket. There is a peaceful silence between them that holds none of the tension of the silence of the previous week. This time there's a comforting easiness to it, and neither of them feel the need to do or say anything for a moment.

But then Dean breaks the ice, because it's been just so damn long since he actually talked with his little brother, and he has missed him more than either of them ever thought possible.

"I was thinking about doing tacos on Thursday night for your study group. What do you think, Sammy?"

A watery chuckle bursts out of Sam's throat and Dean can hear the dimpled smile in the darkness.

"Yeah," Sam whispers softly. "That's a great idea."

Dean nods to himself and smiles, and he can breathe again.

"Okay," he agrees. "Tacos it is."

Another moment passes and Dean shifts down further on the bed and crosses his legs, clearly settling in. Sam hesitates for just a few seconds, but then he curls to his side and leans his head until it's tucked against his brother's shoulder like he did when he was younger.

"Close your eyes, Sammy. You need sleep, kiddo," Dean soothes. "I'll be here in the morning."

Then he begins to quietly hum Simple Man and Sam laughs silently in the dark, because Dean actually has a good singing voice when he hums. It's his smart assed nature that has him belting out tunes off key on purpose when he sings out loud.

Within just a few minutes, Sam starts to drift and his breathing evens out as he sleeps deeply for the first time in almost two weeks.

A few minutes after that, Dean does the same.

/

John Winchester lives in a world where he doesn't run away from the scary things that go bump in the night. He runs towards them. Because they are scared of him.

That's not to say that he doesn't know fear.

He knows plenty of it.

John and fear have met.

But only when it comes to his kids. There is nothing in this life, or the next, that John Winchester genuinely fears except for the things that could hurt his sons.

So when his little boy runs off to Flagstaff it is, without a doubt, one of the most paralyzing moments of John's life.

It retrospect, the whole thing was probably his fault anyway. It's taken a few years to own that little fact, but John eventually comes to that conclusion.

He thinks that maybe thirteen was not yet old enough for Sammy to accept, without question, that it was too risky to be vulnerable at a sleep away sports camp without Dean and his Colt handy to keep the literal monsters away. So maybe John should have taken a few extra moments to get that point across in a conversation that didn't max out decibel levels.

And thirteen year old hormones, combined with Winchester temperament and stubbornness, was easily a catalyst for saying painfully shitty things to your old man because John remembers, with perfect clarity, doing the exact same thing.

It also wasn't a good idea to let his wounded feelings keep him from spanking the disrespect right out of his bratty kid the minute Sammy slammed that bathroom door, and leaving poor Dean to bat cleanup for over almost two weeks until his little brother finally pulled a Houdini.

But John had fled like a coward out to the desert, where he could hunt and shoot and hurt things that preyed on people instead of dealing with his children. Leaving the responsibility of wrangling the volatile powder keg of puberty that was John's baby to his seventeen year old brother.

Oh, God. Dean.

The hunt for the chupacabra den took so much longer, and was so much harder and bloodier than he had anticipated. When it was finally over, he was busted up and straggling along in the desert, limping his way for miles back to the Impala and civilization. Not even sure what the day was, and unable to call his kids because there was no cell signal smack in the middle of Mexican Hell.

By the time he got his phone to work and started listening to all of those nightmarish messages, John had mentally gone to another place and was functioning and surviving on pure animal instinct alone.

He had never meant to be so rough with his firstborn that night.

John's never been shy about handing out some discipline to his sons, but that was the first and only time he had ever laid angry hands on one of them. It's no excuse to say that he didn't actually hit Dean that night, because he shook the boy so roughly and severely in his frantic grief that the poor kid actually puked from his actions.

John remembers the revulsion he felt of himself as his Dean crumpled to the floor, broken and pale and shivering. He touched him again, only once, to grab him up and carry him over to the bed so his child wasn't kneeling in a puddle of his own vomit. After that, John kept his distance, sure that his son wanted his father's hands nowhere near him after being treated so roughly.

For the next few days, he kept Dean safe at the motel, not wanting his other boy to be anywhere near in case they found Sammy dead and torn apart. A kind of condition that John's firstborn would never recover from seeing. To be honest, it was also because John's hysteria was running high, and he couldn't take the risk of lashing out against his oldest again.

John's little boy was simply gone.

He wasn't sure if he should have been proud or terrified of the fact that he had trained his kid so well to cover his tracks that his own father couldn't find him.

Fortunately, Sammy was found safe and sound, because John was already gathering the items necessary to make a deal if his baby was dead. The agony of that was something that he knew he would never be able to live with. Hell itself had no torture equal to living in a world where one of his sons was gone.

His adrenaline had finally started recede in that motel room in Albuquerque, where Sammy was safe and sleeping soundly under his arm. It took a long time, too long, for John to remember that he had two sons that needed to be looked after that night.

He doesn't know how much time had passed before he realized that Dean had never come back inside. At first, he hadn't thought anything of it, because both of the boys tried to make themselves scarce when the other was getting punished. He couldn't blame them. John wouldn't have wanted to be there either if he had a choice in the matter.

Sammy was snuggled up in bed and out for the count when John had ventured outside to check on his oldest son's whereabouts. It never occurred to him that Dean might have taken off, because that wasn't something that the boy would ever do. He would never even think of scaring the shit out of his father like that, especially right then after everything they had just been through.

Sure enough, his son was sitting hunched over on the bench of a picnic table on the tiny spot of grass next to their end unit. It was the first time that John had really looked at Dean in days, and his stomach twisted painfully to realize that his kid looked worse than some POWs that John had seen in his war days.

He strode over, desperation making his movements look more threatening than he would have wanted them to, and Dean had shrunk back from him in fear, his dull green eyes suddenly wild and blinking rapidly. Before John knew what was happening, Dean was laying himself over the table. Arms pretzeled around his head and face pressed so hard into the wood that John was afraid he would get splinters in his cheek.

And it only got worse when the worried father realized that his frantic and hysterical little boy was muttering gut wrenching, quiet, broken apologies and waiting to get belted by him.

He had gathered Dean in his arms and walked him back into the motel room where Sammy slept on unawares. Dean was shivering, and John wrapped a blanket around him and led him to the table where he manually fed his son sips of water and small pieces of a protein bar. Dean mechanically chewed and swallowed, but only because he was programmed to respond to his father's orders.

There was clear trauma in Dean's eyes, and an obvious detachment from reality as he stared blindly behind his father's shoulder and trembled.

Truthfully, John had started to fear that his son might need real medical intervention if he couldn't get the kid to calm down. The shivering wasn't getting any better, no matter how long he rubbed Dean's arms and legs to get circulation going again.

In the end, John had bundled himself and both of his sons into the same cramped bed, not wanting to be separated from either of them at the moment, and they slept huddled together that night with him in the middle and a child under each arm.

As they headed north, John caught wind of a possible wendigo hunt, and he was so desperate to get Dean to rejoin the conscious world, he agreed to look into it, because his firstborn loved a good hunt. Even though all John wanted to do was sleep for a week.

He had been hopeful that planning for one would snap Dean out of his funk, but the whole thing was a complete bust, and it wasn't until they got to Rufus' cabin that his oldest began to show signs of coming back to them.

Once Dean started to interact willingly again, feeding himself and showering and moving around, John had finally let himself go.

But he hadn't been so far gone that he wasn't aware of the silent tension between his kids during those few days in Montana. Days that reminded him way too much of their uncomfortable dinner this evening.

A deep seated fear that was only confirmed even more strongly as John sat in the driver's seat of Sam's Camaro in the salvage yard and looked at the odometer.

One of the perks of having helped build his son's car, was knowing exactly what the mileage was when they gave Sammy the keys. A mileage that was now much greater than any distance that Sam would have been able to cover under his current driving restrictions.

"Where the hell did you go, kiddo?"

John rubbed his face with both hands until the skin started to feel raw, as the realization dawned on him that he might not have as much time as he hoped for.

There couldn't be any secrets kept from John about his younger son's activities anymore. Sooner than he was ready to handle, he was going to have to share with Dean the frightening truth about his little brother.

/

Dean is cutting up avocados and smiling, his back turned to the rowdy bunch of kids crammed around the kitchen table who are babbling loudly over the crunch of tortilla chips. He throws a look over his shoulder to catch a quick glimpse of his brother.

In the center of the long bench, Sam is grinning with all the dimples as he draws a silly picture illustrating the relationship between dyne centimeters and ergs, whatever the hell they are.

Adorable little nerd, his big brother thinks fondly as he goes back to mixing up the bowl of guacamole.

The food is just about ready when their doorbell rings. The brothers shoot each other questioning looks because all of the kids are already accounted for. Dean motions for Sam to stay in the kitchen as he moves with cat-like grace towards the front door, mindful of his Colt tucked in the back of his jeans.

Looking through the peephole, Dean grins and shakes his head, unlocking the three deadbolts on the door and opening it to the cute little brunette shivering on the front porch and holding a pan in her arms.

"I hope it's okay if I join you guys?" Alex stammers as she smiles. "I brought brownies."

Dean laughs and moves to the side, relieving her of her dessert and casually noting the lack of trouble she has crossing the Devil's Trap under the welcome mat.

"If you brought chocolate, you can definitely stay," he teases. "Sammy! Get your ass in here."

Sam comes loping in from the kitchen and then stops short when he sees who is with his brother. He blushes for a second before recovering. It shouldn't be so awkward between them. He and Alex have spent a lot of time together working on the play and then studying together at school, but she still makes him a little nervous.

Dean's chuckling as he takes Alex's coat from her and lays it over the stuffed chair with the others.

"Dinner in ten," he says, before he returns to the kitchen, leaving them alone.

Sam hasn't said anything yet, and Alex starts to get a little uncomfortable as he stares at her.

"Do you mind that I came over?" she asks hesitantly. "You did invite me a couple of times."

Sam blinks and recovers, realizing that he is being rude.

"What? No! Of course not," he stutters. "I'm glad you're here. Just surprised, is all."

"Okay, good," she laughs, relieved, as they continue to stand by the now closed door. "So...Sammy?"

"Yeah," Sam says as he continues to blush. "My brother's an idiot. Still thinks I'm four. Come on. Everyone is in the kitchen."

Alex stops him with a hand to his arm. "Can I wash my hands first?"

"Sure," Sam replies, remembering his manners. "The bathroom's upstairs. I'll show you."

They head up the stairs, moving slowly and throwing each other sweet little grins as they walk. When they get to the second floor, Sam points out the middle door.

"Bathroom's just in there."

Alex hesitates a second and looks at the other doors, both of which are open, revealing two bedrooms.

"So which one is your room," she asks, smiling mischievously.

Sam blinks hard, a little nervous as he feels his face flush again. He rubs a hand on the back of his neck as he nudges his head to the right of the bathroom.

"Um. That one."

"So, can I see it?" Alex doesn't wait for an answer. She grabs him by the hand and tugs him towards his room, and Sam is pleasantly surprised so he goes with it.

As usual, his bedroom is tidy and orderly. Years of living with his dad has drilled neatness into him. He's not the kind of kid that has anything embarrassing laying about. There's no dirty clothes kicked into a corner anywhere, or porn mags shoved under the bed.

"Wow," Alex laughs, looking around. "Are you guys Scandinavian, or something?"

"What?" Sam asks, as his forehead crinkles in confusion. "No. Why?"

Alex smiles and turns around, pointing out the lack of adornments. "You have a very minimalist decorating style."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess." Sam shrugs and sits down on his bed. "Not really into collecting a lot of stuff."

She continues to walk around, stopping in front of his bulging bookshelves. "You've got some great books, though."

He lets her peruse them for a moment before standing back up, knowing that his brother will come investigating if they stay up here much longer. But Alex isn't done snooping. She walks around until she sees the photo of Mom and Dad on his nightstand and picks it up.

"Are these your parents?"

Sam just nods, getting uncomfortable, because he doesn't like to talk about them.

"Your mom is pretty."

And he nods again, because, yeah, she was.

"You look a lot like your dad," she observes, glancing back between Sam and the photo. "Is he military?" she asks, pointing out John's fatigues.

"He was," Sam answers, gently taking the photo from her and replacing it, not wanting to continue this line of conversation. "Marines. But he retired."

She gets the hint, smiles again, and then glances at his bed.

"That explains the neat bed. I never make mine. Too lazy. But I bet you could bounce a quarter off of yours," she teases.

Then Sam laughs, but doesn't mention how many times he's actually had to do that to please his father.

They stare at each other for a minute. Both of them shy, and a little awkward. Sam could get lost in those beautiful blue eyes peering up at him and, before he knows it, he's reaching down to take her hand in his.

Alex looks down at their intertwined fingers and uses her thumb to gently rub a small scar on his index finger. Sam cut himself once when he was ten, while Dad was teaching him how to throw his bowie knife, but that's not a story he's particularly willing to share.

Instead, he hesitates for half a heartbeat before he leans down and kisses her softly on the mouth. She smells like French Vanilla, and her kiss tastes like cinnamon gum, and when he goes in for a second one, she inhales deeply and allows it.

He uses his other hand to take a hold of her free one and they just stand there for a moment, before a loud voice bellows from down below.

"Sammy! Dinner!"

Sam smiles and shakes his head before he leads Alex back to the bathroom. He waits outside while she washes up and then he takes her hand again and they descend the stairs together.

Dinner is a lively event as usual.

A place at the already crowded table was made for Alex before they even made it to the kitchen. Bowls of food are passed around while Dean is frying more tortillas on the stove. Everyone is laughing and joking and eating with their mouths too full, but no one cares.

Sam looks around the table at his friends. Sees his brother catch his eye from across the room and smiles knowingly, because Dean isn't a fool. The warmth of Alex's hand in his under the table makes him sigh happily over the feeling.

Right now, life is pretty good.

/