-EIGHTEEN-

A hot August bled into an unseasonably cool September, especially for California. Sam and Dean got back to Palo Alto a week before Sam started classes, using most of that week to catch up on the sleep they'd lost that summer. Once Sam and Jess started class, Dean spent an inordinate amount of time in San Francisco, but it was worth the money he spent filling up his Baby to see Melinda's face light up the way it did every time he walked into the room.

Like right now, when he bypassed her secretary and pushed open the door of her office. Melinda let out a sigh, lifting her head from the big poster board she and Gabe were currently pouring over.

"Jesus, Abby. I thought I asked you to hold my … Dean."

He held out his arms, and she actually squealed when she rounded her desk, as he took her in his arms and twirled her around, smiling as he held her tightly. Gabe let out a longsuffering sigh.

"So I'm guessing work is done for today? Tomorrow?"
"Better just black out the whole weekend there, Gabe."

Gabe blew out his breath, muttering under his breath something about Winchesters, as Dean leaned down to cover Melinda's mouth with his own. Her hands drifted up to cup his cheeks, nails scratching through the two-day stubble on his face.

"I missed you."

Dean smiled at the words Melinda murmured against his mouth.

"I missed you too, baby. So what's say you play hooky for the rest of the day?"
"It's not hooky if you've been at work for more than half the damn day."
"Gabe, shh."

Dean smiled as Melinda turned back from looking over her shoulder to face him again, blue eyes sparkling.

"Let's go."

They left Gabe behind, waving a hand at them and shaking his head, and they ended up eating ice cream cones on a park bench just down the road from Melinda's apartment. Melinda's ridiculously nice apartment, which she fought Gabe about, but he downright refused to let her live anywhere except the building he lived in, which he also happened to own.

"So… If you're here…"

Melinda was wearing Dean's jacket (which was actually his father's jacket) against the unusually cold wind that refused to stop blowing. Dean smiled as he took another bite of his ice cream, completely opposite from Melinda's delicate licks to her ice cream.

"Ash's got the bar."
"Does he still sleep on the pool table?"

Dean smiled, biting into the cone.

"As long as I've known that son of a bitch, he's slept on a pool table. Says it just feels weird for him to sleep anywhere else."

Melinda shook her head.

"Do you not pay him enough where he can buy a bed?"
"His paychecks end up being PBRs, Mel."

She let out a laugh before licking her ice cream cone again, and Dean looked away, letting out a shaky breath. Melinda smiled, waiting until he looked back to her, and giving the ice cream a slow, deliberate lick. Dean nodded slowly.

"You know just what you're doing, don't you?"

Melinda shrugged her shoulders, giving the cone another slow lick.

"I really believe that you love it."

Dean smiled, popping the end of his cone into his mouth. Melinda smiled, taking one more lick from her ice cream before leaning over and pressing cold lips to his. She pulled back far enough to lock eyes with him, keeping her lips against his as she murmured to him.

"Let's get out of here."

Dean nearly swallowed his tongue, but he managed to nod. Melinda stood up, tossing her cone into a trashcan, shifting under the jacket and holding a hand out for Dean. He took it, standing up, making her laugh as he took off running, dragging her behind him for just a moment before he stopped, pulling her against him and pressing a kiss to her temple as she rested her head against his shoulder.

Dean let out a sigh and smiled as he ran his fingers through Melinda's hair. She was sound asleep against his chest, one arm around him, hand resting low on his ribcage. One of her legs was in between both of his, she was snuggled up so closely beside him that he had no room to roll over. And he wouldn't want it any other way. He smiled again, leaning to kiss her forehead, and she shifted in her sleep, before she settled down and let out a long, deep breath. Dean maneuvered around her, reaching down and grabbing the sheets, pulling them up over the two of them. He let his head fall back onto the pillows as his heartbeat finally slowed, easing back into its normal rhythm. Melinda murmured in her sleep, shifting even closer to him, and he smiled as he kissed the top of her head, closing his eyes and easing to sleep.

It was dark when Dean woke up again. He pushed himself up on one arm, using the other to rub at his eyes. He glanced around, noting to himself that he was in Melinda's bedroom.

And he was alone.

He sat up, pulling the sheets closer around him as he dragged a hand over his face. He scratched his chin, absently thinking that he needed to shave, then stood up, stretching his hands over his head, letting out a quiet groan as his back popped. He slid a pair of dark green plaid pajama pants on, not bothering with a shirt or shoes, and walked into the spacious living room. He could hear the soft singing coming from the kitchen, and he made his way there quietly.

Melinda stood in front of the stove, a pan in front of her with something quietly sizzling inside of it. She wore Dean's ever-present plaid flannel shirt, and she was slowly rubbing her right foot up and down her left calf. She was singing softly to herself, something that sounded an awful lot like …

"Alanis Morissette?"

Melinda whirled around, letting out a breath.

"Make some noise next time. Jesus."

Dean smiled as he walked over, kissing her cheek as he looped his arms around her waist, standing behind her and resting his chin on her shoulder. She lifted a hand to touch his face, then flipped the sandwich in the pan in front of her.

"I made us a grilled cheese sandwich."

He smiled again, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck, making her shiver. Melinda leaned forward, flipping the stove off, moving the pan off of the hot burner and sliding the sandwich onto a plate. She reached for a knife, slicing the sandwich cleanly down the middle, handing one half to Dean, holding her half in her hand as she turned to face him. He smiled, setting his sandwich down and taking hold of her waist and gently lifting her onto the kitchen counter. She smiled at him, at the way they were now eye-to-eye, and he kissed her as he crowded her space, standing entirely too close to her as he took a bite of the grilled cheese.

"You like it?"

Dean nodded, taking another bite, and Melinda nibbled on her sandwich. Dean swallowed, then nodded at her.

"Were you singing Alanis Morissette when I walked in?"

Melinda smiled, nodding as she took another bite.

"I don't know why, but I rediscovered Ironic the other day and I haven't been able to get it out of my head since."

Dean smiled.

"Isn't that ironic?"

Melinda rolled her eyes, reaching out and punching his shoulder.

"You're such a dork."
"Haven't heard any complaints from you as of yet."

She smiled as she took another bite, holding the sandwich out to him.

"Want the rest?"

He smiled, leaning over and biting the sandwich as she held it. She laughed, shaking her head as Dean finished her half of their sandwich, then laid his hands on either side of her, smiling softly as he just looks at her. Melinda reached out, tracing a jagged scar on his left shoulder.

"What happened here?"

Dean glanced over, saw where her fingers were.

"Got in a bar fight when I was sixteen. Guy was aiming for my head with his beer bottle, caught my shoulder instead."
"Why were you in a bar when you were sixteen?"
"Someone had to help Dad back home."

Her eyes went soft, and he watched as she looked over his bare chest, until she found the scar right under his ribs on his right side.

"And here?"
"No lie, I was helping Bobby in his salvage yard when I was twelve. I didn't notice the rusty barb wire until it was digging into my side. Tetanus shots hurt like a bitch."

Melinda let out a quiet laugh. She let her fingers continue to trace his skin, finding the scar low on his abdomen. His voice was husky when he spoke.

"My appendix went hot when I was seventeen. Thought I was dying before Sam got me to the hospital."
"Sam?"
"Dad was busy, left us the keys."
"So your … what, thirteen-year-old brother drove you to the hospital?"

Dean nodded, and Melinda shook her head.

"What was he doing that was more important than his son needing surgery?"

Dean sighed, reaching up to take Melinda's face in his hands.

"It doesn't matter."
"The hell it doesn't."
"Look, I told you. He's a hard-assed bastard. Always has been, ever since my mom died."

She shook her head glancing away from him, and Dean brought his lips to hers.

"It's okay, babe. I've made my peace with it."

At the raised eyebrow she gave him, Dean laughed.

"Okay, I've tried to make peace with it. It doesn't matter."

Melinda shook her head, letting out a sigh.

"I just can't believe you looked for him all summer and never found him."

Dean swallowed the sudden sour taste in his throat. He nodded slowly.

"Yeah."

Melinda met his eyes, and Dean gave her a smile, lifting one shoulder and letting it fall.

"He's an ex-Marine. If he doesn't want to be found, the son of a bitch won't be."

Melinda nodded, swinging her legs off the counter.

"My dad was in the military. My real dad, not Steve Moore. He was a medic."
"Really?"

Melinda nodded.

"It was long before I was born, though. I can remember seeing his medals and the flag they gave him when his dad died. Grandpa was … Navy, I think?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"It's been so long since I even thought about that."

Dean laid a hand on Melinda's knee, squeezing gently. He leaned forward, gently kissing her, and she looped her arms around his neck. He smiled as he slid his hands under her legs, and she laughed against his mouth as he lifted her off the counter, carrying her back to the bedroom.

"Did you ever want to join the military?"

Dean lifted his head from Melinda's stomach, giving her a look. She shrugged her shoulders.

"I was just wondering."

Dean made a quiet noise, then laid back down, and she went back to gently scratching his head.

"Did you? Ever want to be like your dad and be a Marine?"
"Hell, no."

Dean sighed.

"When I was little, I did. When Sam was a baby. A newborn, I guess. I was four, you know? Dad was my hero. He was big and strong and he wasn't scared of anything and I wanted to be just like him. Then Mom died, and … I got to see what he was really like."
"Dean."

Dean blew out his breath, sitting up, shaking his head.

"I don't mean it like that."

He ran a hand through his hair, then looked at Melinda.

"He had a really hard time after Mom died. Hell, he's still having a hard time. Sam said it best: He raised us like soldiers. We didn't get a chance to be kids. Well, Sam did. I did my damnedest to let him be a kid for as long as I possibly could."

Melinda reached over, taking his hand.

"You did good."

Dean shook his head, smiling sadly.

"I just don't think it was enough."

Melinda sighed.

"Sam is a great guy, Dean. One of the best guys I've ever met. And from what I've heard, that's because of you. You raised him, honey. And you did a damn good job of it."

Dean closed his eyes and Melinda reached over, taking him in her arms as she laid back against the pillows.

A week later, Dean was sitting in a booth at the bar, papers spread out in front of him, Ash snoring away on the pool table. He had a pencil stuck behind his ear, twirling a pen around in his hand as he went over the books for the bar. He jumped at the sudden banging on the door, glancing back just in time to see Ash catch himself from falling off the pool table. Ash shook his head.

"Who the hell is that? What the hell time is it?"

Dean squinted at his watch, then slid out of the booth.

"It's almost one."
"Shit, in the morning?"

Dean rolled his eyes as he walked to the door. He narrowed his eyes, then unlocked the door, stepping to the side as a furious Sam walked in. Dean shut and locked the door behind him, then tossed out an arm.

"Well, hi there, Sam. Why don't you come on in?"
"Where the hell is he?"

Ash nodded, taking slow steps backwards until he stepped into the freezer. Dean stepped forward, pointing towards the freezer.

"Better be a case of PBRs left when I do inventory tomorrow!"

Ash flipped him off, then shut the door behind him. Dean exhaled, setting his hands on his hips as he looked at his brother. Sam tossed out his hands.

"Where is he?"

Dean glanced around, shaking his head.

"I don't have the slightest clue who you're talking about."

Sam groaned.

"Dad, Dean. Where's Dad?"

Dean snorted.

"Hagerstown, Pennsylvania, last I checked. Course, that was about six weeks ago, so…"
"No. No, the son of a bitch is here."

Dean raised his eyebrows.

"Excuse me?"

Sam reached in his pocket, picking out a piece of paper and tossing it to Dean. Dean picked it up off the ground, letting his brother pace around as he unfolded the paper and read it. He looked up and met Sam's eyes. Sam nodded.

"Yeah. That was lodged between the knob and the doorframe on my front door today."

Dean shook his head, and Sam sighed.

"It's coordinates, Dean. It's the same military shit he used to do to us when we were kids."
"I know what it is, Sam."

Sam reached into his other pocket and pulled out a map. He walked over to a table, setting the map down and finding the place he'd marked earlier.

"Here. Little place called Blackwater Ridge, Colorado."
"That's—"
"Surrounded by a shit-ton of woods? Yeah."

Dean scratched his head, and Sam let out a laugh.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me! Dean."

Dean held out his hands.

"What?"

Sam let out another laugh.

"You're thinking about going."
"Well, it's obviously something there, if he's going to all this trouble to tell us about it."
"Christ, Dean. We found him. We talked to him. He ditched us, again. And now, first new set of orders you get, you're running off to be Daddy's little soldier again!"

Sam really should have been expecting the punch. He cradled his jaw as he glared over at Dean. Dean pointed at him.

"You deserved that."

Sam sighed, moving his jaw around, wincing at the ache that was already settling there.

"Even so."

Sam took a seat in one of the high-top chairs beside the table his map was strewn across. Dean let out a sigh as he looped his arms around the back of the chair across from Sam, setting his chin on his wrists.

"I'm going to take it you're not going."
"Not only no, but hell no."

Dean glanced at the map, and Sam sat up.

"I have two tests next week and a paper due. I'm not putting my life aside so that I can chase after something for someone who won't even give me an explanation as to what I'm looking for or why. Not to mention that someone doesn't want to be around me anyway, so why should I bother? Why should either of us bother, Dean?"

Dean lifted his eyes.

"Because he's our father, Sam."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"He's our drill sergeant, Dean. You're more of a father than he's ever been."

Dean closed his eyes, and Sam shook his head.

"I'm not putting my life on the back burner so I can be his bitch, Dean. I'm not. And you shouldn't either. You have a life, too."

Dean sighed, dragging a hand over his face.

"Sam—"
"Goddamn it, Dean."

Sam stood up, pushing his chair into the table with much more force than was required. Dean let out a sigh, and Sam shook his head.

"Don't go."
"Sam."
"No, I'm serious. You have a life here. You have a job. You have a girlfriend."
"In San Francisco."
"Doesn't matter! You can't drop everything because the man leaves a cryptic piece of paper on my doorstep."

Sam reached over then, taking the paper from Dean and crumpling it in his hand. He dropped it to the floor.

"That's what I think of that. And if he has a problem with it, he can come say it to my face."

Sam took a few steps towards the door, then stopped, letting out a sigh.

"We're not kids anymore, Dean. We're not naïve enough to still take Daddy's word as the gold standard. We don't have to drop our entire lives to go wherever he's dragging us to this week, and we don't have to bust our asses to try and get his approval. It's never going to happen, anyway."

Sam shook his head, walking forward and out the door. Dean closed his eyes. He shook his head as he walked behind the bar, grabbing a glass and the first bottle he laid a hand on. He poured himself a drink, doing his best to ignore his shaking hands, then turned the glass up, throat burning at the first taste of bourbon. He swallowed, letting out a hiss, staring at the glass.

"Damn it, Dad."

He whirled around, throwing the glass against the wall with everything he had in him. The sound of the shatter gave him a sick sense of satisfaction, and as he watched the glass shards sparkle, the few drops of liquor trickle down the wall, he tried to bank the fire inside him.

"Feel better?"

Dean sighed as he hung his head.

"Not really."
"Didn't think so."

Dean glanced back at Ash, letting out a sigh.

"You watch the bar for me?"
"Anytime, man. You know that."

Dean nodded.

"Don't tell Sam."

Ash lifted a hand in a salute.

"I never do."

The following Friday, once the bar was closed, Dean had one hand wrapped around his first beer of the week, his other pressed against his bruised—and yes, one was broken—ribs. It hurt like hell for him to take a deep breath.

"No offense, boss—"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"But you look like hammered shit."

Dean smiled, looking up at Ash.

"Thank you, Ash. I don't know how I'd get through without your sunny disposition."
"Just being honest, boss."

Dean rolled his eyes again, pressing a hand against his forehead. Ash nodded.

"Still aching?"
"Fine. I'm fine."
"Uh-huh. I still think you're … what would Bobby say? An idjit? Going to a hospital wouldn't kill you."
"When you show me scientific evidence of that, I'll believe it. Shit. I forgot who I'm talking to. Don't even bother."

Ash shook his head, going back to sweeping the floor. Dean glanced over, caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror over the bar.

"Damn."
"Yeah. You've hit that point. No longer do you have the bad boy, 'you should see the other guy' injuries. Now, you have the … well, the 'I'm the other guy' injuries."
"Not helping."

Ash laughed quietly, and Dean shook his head, pushing the beer to the edge of the table.

"I don't think I can, Ash."
"Damn. Okay, now you're scaring me."
"Fuck you."

Ash sighed. He glanced over, then let out a low whistle.

"Shit."

Dean glanced up, meeting Ash's gaze as he sighed.

"Brace yourself. All hell's about to break loose."

Dean narrowed his eyes, putting his head in his hand as Ash walked over and opened the door.

"Dean?"

Dean lifted his head, vowing to kill Ash in a slow, painful way. He let out a sigh, wincing as his ribs protested.

"Over here, Sammy."

Sam walked over to the back booth, coming to a harsh stop when he caught sight of his brother. Dean pushed a smile on his face.

"Hey, Sammy."
"What the fuck?"

Dean shrugged his shoulders, unable to hide the wince as the twinge of pain his ribs gave him. Sam walked over, leaning over the table and taking a closer look at Dean's face. Dean sighed.

"Look—"
"Don't talk."

Dean could feel Sam's gaze on him, travelling over the bruise high on his cheekbone, his still-split lip, the scrapes on the side of his forehead. Sam stared at him until Dean met his gaze, and then Dean sighed.

"One broken rib, the rest of them bruised, I think. Gnarly bruises all across my chest."
"And the head thing! Don't forget the head thing."

Sam raised his eyebrows, and Dean blew out his breath.

"Concussion. I think."
"Like hell! Concussions don't hang around for three days."

Dean shook his head as he closed his eyes.

"Kill him. I'm going to kill him."

Dean opened his eyes to see Sam staring back at him, and he shrugged his shoulders. He looked down at the table, and Sam let out a quiet laugh.

"Awesome. That—that's great, Dean. You're still doing the man's bidding, and nearly getting yourself killed in the process."
"You don't understand."
"The hell I don't!"

Sam pushed his hands through his too-long hair. He sat down across from Dean, wrapping a hand around the beer at the edge of the table, lifting an eyebrow. Dean nodded, and Sam turned the bottle up, draining half the beer. He let out a breath, settling back in the booth, letting out a deeper sigh as he started to peel the label off the bottle.

"Sometimes I … I just want him to accept me. Just one time, I'd like for him to say he's proud of me. That I'm not the colossal disappointment to him that I think I am."
"Sam."

He shrugged his shoulders, a small smile on his face.

"I think I'm a good person, you know? I try to be nice to everyone. Try not to stir shit up. I love Jess with everything I have in me. But inside…"

He shook his head, tears filling his eyes.

"I'm still that kid that wants his dad to love him."
"He does love you, Sam."

Sam closed his eyes, and Dean reached across the table to lay a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"It's unconventional, but he does love us."
"I don't know if I've ever heard him say it, Dean."

Dean stopped at that, sitting back in his seat, letting his hand fall to the table. Sam sniffled, draining the rest of the bottle. He finally raised damp eyes to look at Dean.

"I get why you do it. But I also think you're wasting your time. It's never going to be good enough for him. And it doesn't make any damn sense. What are we looking for? What have we spent our whole lives on the road searching for?"

Dean sighed, shaking his head.

"I don't know."

Sam sighed.

"Me either. And I don't … I honestly don't know if I even want to know."

Dean let out a quiet laugh.

"I know."

Dean shifted in his seat, wincing as pain shot through his ribs. Sam watched him.

"You bandaged up?"

Dean nodded, still trying to catch his breath.

"Can I help you redo the bandages?"

Dean nodded, and Sam slid out of the booth, helping Dean out and to his feet. They walked over to the stairs leading up to the apartment and Sam came to a stop as Dean started slowly up.

"Uh, Dean?"
"Yes, he's on the pool table. Yes, he does it all the time. No, he doesn't want to sleep anywhere else."

Sam shut his mouth, nodding his head, then turned and followed Dean up the stairs. Dean opened the door, coming to a harsh stop. In the darkness, Sam didn't see him, and he let out a breath as he rammed into his brother.

"Jesus, Dean. Your brake lights don't work."

He heard the ragged inhale his brother gave.

"Dean? Are you okay? Turn on a light, man."

Sam reached over, flipping a light on, stopping when he caught sight of the couch. His mouth went dry, as the man just two inches shorter than Sam raised his head, dark eyes going from Dean to Sam, lips curving in a small smile beneath the dark shadow of his salt-and-peppered beard. Sam swallowed, speaking softly.

"Dad?"