Author's Note: Second last chapter! One to go. Hope you enjoy.

Fifth - September, 2001

Some things were literally unbelievable. They were just so impossible, so far from the realms of 'ordinary' and 'normal', that the human brain couldn't wrap itself around them. For most people, such things included demons and werewolves and shtrigas and wendigos and vampires. No place for monsters in their safe, neat, universe. Even when the evidence of the existence of such beings was right in front of them they usually managed to find some other, non-supernatural, explanation.

Dean Winchester had no problem with believing in such things. Dean's categories of 'ordinary' and 'normal' were full of the things that went bump in the night, along with researching them, hunting them, carrying the weapons to deal with them. For Dean the category of 'unbelievable' was made up of other things. 'Unbelievable' was settling down in the one place; getting a civilian job; having a 'relationship' with a woman that lasted for longer than a week. 'Unbelievable' was disobeying his father. 'Unbelievable' was not protecting his brother. And most unbelievable of all was his little brother walking out the door for good. And yet that was exactly what Sammy had done.

Sure, Sam had warned him: had said he was going to college no matter what his father and brother might say. But Dean had never really believed him. Not when he found out that Sammy had applied to colleges; not when he found that five of them had accepted him; not when he found that two of the five were offering Sam partial scholarships; not even when he found out that Stanford was giving Sammy a full ride that meant that for the first time in his life Sam wouldn't have to rely on John or Dean for money. The idea that Sam could leave, could go somewhere where Dean couldn't watch over him, protect him – it was just impossible. It couldn't happen. And so Dean had spent a happy six months dwelling in denial, while the fights between his father and his brother got longer and louder and more intense.

Until the final argument, a few days before Stanford expected its first years to arrive on campus. Sam had asked John if he or Dean would drive him there; John had again told Sam that he wasn't going and that was all there was to say about it; and the fight had escalated until finally John had told Sam that if he walked out that door he was never to come back, before storming out himself. And Dean had sat, frozen in a corner, unable to move, while Sam called a cab to take him to the bus station; added the last few items to the bags he'd had packed for a week; and walked out the door. Dean had sat, staring at the closed door, until it had opened again and Sammy had run back in, a whirlwind of arms and legs and too-long hair. There had been time for a single relieved thought, he's not going, before Sammy had been on him, hauling him to his feet, hugging him and crying.

"I'm sorry, Dean, I'm so sorry, but I have to do this, I have to go, I have to live my own life, I'm so sorry."

And then he was gone, the door closed again, and this time Dean could hear the sound of the taxi as it left, taking his brother, his heart, his life, away.

John had come home late, drunk, which told Dean that his Dad had known that Sammy wouldn't be around when he returned. It wasn't until a few days later that he worked out that John had sat in his truck outside the bus station, watching as Sam left. He didn't know whether John had had a last impulse to protect Sam, watch over him for as long as he could; or whether his Dad had been sitting there, hoping against hope that his youngest wouldn't get on the bus. Dean was just angry that his Dad had had that final glimpse. All Dean had been able to do was sit in the empty, darkening motel room, as his heart slowly broke.

Sam had called the next day, called Dean, not John, to say that he'd arrived safely. He'd called a couple of times in the week after that, letting Dean know about his roommate, his classes, reassuring Dean that he was fine, he was safe. With each call Dean felt Sammy slip further away from him, into the Joe College life that was apparently all he wanted, away from the brother who would give up his very soul for him but couldn't give him what he needed to stay. And then the calls stopped, replaced by messages that still let Dean know Sam was alright, but didn't tell him anything else.

And now John was away on a hunt and Dean was alone. Part of him had wanted to join his Dad, been pissed off when John had said he would go after the spirit alone, but it was a small part of him. He was a big, hollow shell, and nothing seemed to matter, not even hunting, not even his Dad. He knew it was wrong, strange, could recognise how out-of-character he was being, but he just didn't care. He knew John was being gentle with him, giving him the time and space his Dad thought he needed, and he couldn't be grateful, because it had been John who had told Sam never to come back. So now he wandered through the motel room, aimlessly, picking things up, putting them down, until he finally ended up sitting on the bed that had been Sam's. He'd been avoiding it all week, as though if he didn't look at it, didn't approach it, he wouldn't notice that it was empty. But now, suddenly, he wanted to be reminded that Sammy was gone, needed to have the hole in his life reinforced. So he lay down, full length, on the bed that had never, ever been his, the one furthest from the door.

Something hard was digging into his head. There was something under Sam's pillow. He reached a hand for it and pulled out a book. Of course a book. Not just any book. Sammy's second copy of The Lord of the Rings. He stared at it. Sam had gone to college without it. He remembered the conversation they'd had about it in February:

Sam looked thoughtful, eyes huge and deep. "I guess I find it comforting. Maybe it's because we move around so much, but it's good to have some things that don't change." Sam smiled at Dean. "Like you. It's kind of my literary equivalent of you."

Well, why shouldn't Sam have gone to college without it? He'd gone without Dean, after all.

Without a conscious decision Dean opened the book and, for the fifth time in his life, started reading The Lord of the Rings. He read for hours, one page after another, partly drawn in by the story, mainly because in some weird way this made him feel closer to Sam. Until he got to the first chapter of Book Two. Suddenly, as Frodo woke in a strange bed to find Gandalf watching over him, the whole thing was too damn close.

'Where's Sam?' Frodo asked at length. 'And are the others all right?'

'Yes, they are all safe and sound,' answered Gandalf. 'Sam was here until I sent him off to get some rest, about half an hour ago.'

'Where's Sam?' Always Dean's first question on waking. Silent, if answered instantly by Sam's presence, by puppy-dog eyes and a dimpled smile. Aloud, if Sam wasn't there. Always answered immediately by John, who knew that it outranked all other questions, even if the later questions included: What happened?; Why am I in hospital?; Are all my parts still working? First question, first impulse, check that Sam was safe. How many times had he asked that question?

… We have been terribly anxious, and Sam has hardly left your side, day or night, except to run messages …

A four-year-old fighting their Dad, who was trying to separate them so Sammy wouldn't catch Dean's cold. A nine-year-old sitting by a tonsillitis-infested Dean's bed, ready to run any errands Dean might have. A sixteen-year-old leaving Dean's bedside only to scour Black Rock for things to cheer him up. Anytime Dean was sick Sam had been there, beside him, leaving only to do something for him. Had Dean ever thanked him?

At that moment there was a knock at the door, and Sam came in. He ran to Frodo and took his left hand, awkwardly and shyly. He stroked it gently and then he blushed and turned hastily away.

'Hullo, Sam!' said Frodo.

'It's warm!' said Sam. 'Meaning your hand, Mr. Frodo. It has felt so cold through the long nights …'

Tiny, baby fists wrapped round his forefingers. A plump, six-year-old hand welded to his on the first day of school. A dirty ten-year-old hand with bitten nails clinging to his in comfort while John stitched a slash in Dean's side. A long, slender sixteen-year-old hand holding his whenever Sammy thought an injured Dean was asleep. An eighteen-year-old hand, bigger than his now, limp and unresisting in his grasp as he urged Sammy not to let the pneumonia beat him. How many times had he held Sam's hand? How many times had Sammy taken his?

… not that I have had the time or the heart for much listening since we got here. But I'm getting to know some of the ways of the place.'

"I know what you have been doing, Sam,' said Frodo, taking his arm.

John trying to get Sam to leave Dean's hospital room, to go back to the motel, to have a decent meal, to get some sleep and Sammy, Winchester-stubborn, refusing, insisting that he wasn't tired, that he didn't need anything, that he was staying with Dean. How many times?

It was too much. There was the sound of someone sobbing and Dean realised that it was him. God, he wasn't just sobbing, he was keening, he sounded like the frickin' banshee they'd killed in Illinois. And it didn't matter how much noise he made because John was on a hunt and Sammy was in California and neither of them could hear him and he was alone. So for the first time since Sammy had walked out of his life Dean allowed himself to give in to the grief. The book fell to the floor and Dean curled up on Sammy's bed and cried like he hadn't in decades, cried until he fell asleep.

When he woke the next day, still on Sam's bed, he felt like he'd come through some dark tunnel, broken free of some weird imprisonment. He still missed Sam, but for the first time since Sam left he felt like 'Dean' again. And that meant he still had a job to do. He called John, found out where he was, arranged to meet him there. Then he packed up the motel room, putting all the stuff Sam had left into one bag and tucking it into the Impala's trunk.

He put The Lord of the Rings in that bag, too. He felt better, but that didn't mean he wanted to encounter Frodo and Sam and their damnably loving relationship again anytime soon.