A/N: I hope this chapter is up to par. I had a horrible week, the absolute worst, really, but at least I finished this and got to the point I wanted to reach. Have fun reading it! I'm excited to hear your thoughts after you reached the ending. :)

"Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind."

- Neruda, Lost in the forest (part 1)

True to his word, Sam left him alone for three days. No calls, no texts, nothing. It must have been killing him, but Dean is beyond grateful he kept his distance, because they needed to cool down and clear their heads of this funk they've gotten into. This is the fourth night, though, and he has no doubt his phone would be ringing if he didn't switch it off in the morning.

He tried to go up to Sam, honest. Watched his silhouette through the curtains, puttering around in the kitchen, and imagined how they would bicker over Sam's bland cooking until his face would get all red and sulky. But then he realised Sam might not take his light jabs as jokes tonight, and the thought made him break out in cold sweat. Dean is no good at staying serious when he is nervous.

He drove around the block instead, parked Baby behind the rundown five-and-dime he visits whenever he wants to buy Sammy a gag gift. He sat there for twenty minutes, gripping the steering wheel, then scrambled out and went for a walk. Moving, focusing on the contract-release of his muscles and the rhythm of his body never fails to soothe his jitters. His feet drew him to the nearby park on instinct - something about that place always hooks him in. He ended up at the playground - deserted, this late at night - and wedged himself into a swing. Now, still sitting there, his thighs are starting to ache from the chains digging into them. Dammit, he's way too old for this. He shifts his legs to get more comfortable, and something skitters away, nudged by his left foot. Dean frowns and picks it up.

It's a lighter. A working lighter, it turns out. What kind of a jerk litters a playground with stuff like this? What if a kid found it and worked out the mechanism? Fucking careless assholes. Dean leans his head against the cold chain of the swing and thumbs at the silver metal switch, grumbling to himself. The flame lights up, bright and searing. It's yellow, with a blue edge just above the tip of his thumb. Yellow and blazing, like his father's gaze was when Dean stumbled down that stairwell on the day of the fire. That's another snapshot of memory he recovered in the past year, his father sitting slumped against the wall, his mother's hair fisted in his hand, blood dripping from the ceiling. Dean doesn't know if he was alive at that point or not, but he remembers his eyes, consumed by the yellow-orange of the fire, locked on him and shining with the remains of a deranged laugh, a demon laugh. He didn't tell Sammy. Not sure he could, even if he wanted to. But this flame… it's just like his memory, the right shade and form.

He could touch it. Just slide his finger a little higher, dip it into that burst of colour. The light would lick around his skin, enfold it, make saltwater spill from the corners of his eyes. He could burn himself, make his flesh tender and sore, have that pleasure-relief run through his body for weeks without having to sneak around Sam's back. He could burn himself. He could. He hasn't done that before. It seems scary, but the relief it promises makes Dean's saliva gather in his mouth. He has been clean for so long before punching that wall, he craves it more than anything tonight. But it scares him too, that Sam might have been right. About him needing therapy again. He doesn't want to be the person they have to lock away because he can't control his craving for destruction.

To abate his yearning, he tries to do Sam's pressure-thing for himself, pushes at his chest and tries to find the right spot, but it doesn't work, he got used to the exact span of Sam's hand and his own does nothing to satisfy the yawning gap inside.

"Fuck." He curses and drops the lighter before anything stupid happens. This isn't what he came here for. He tucks his hands into his pockets, fisted and clammy, and presses his forehead harder against the chain, blows out a mouthful of air.

"Don't blame me if your dinner gets cold." Dean hears from the side and his head snaps up to find Sam trudging through the slightly unkempt bushes behind the monkey bars.

"How did you find me?" He asks when Sam comes to a stop in front of him.

Sam shrugs, smiling. "I know you."

Dean nods. He could have found Sam too. If the tables were turned and Sam didn't wanna come home, he would have holed up in the library, probably. And there's this bakery he always brings pastries from, that would have been Dean's second choice.

They fall silent for a while. Where to start? Dean's not even sure if Sam still wants him after thinking it over. There are some things Dean worked out regardless of how Sam thinks of him, but he… he has to know how bad it is.

"Did I ruin your life?" He asks quietly, surprising even himself by voicing the thought that's always there in the back of his mind. This isn't the question he wanted to say, but it will do.

Sam's eyebrows climb towards his hairline. "Are you kidding? You are the best thing in it." He spreads his arms wide in a helpless gesture. "I love your stupid ass."

A lopsided smile spreads over Dean's lips. "Only my ass?"

Sam's posture relaxes. "I guess you have other decent parts I can put up with." He smiles back.

The early spring breeze picks up and pushes the other swing into motion. It creaks ominously, loud in the quiet, empty park, and Dean watches it move back and forth. Better to look at that than Sam's expectant face. He's not about to admit it, but sitting here like a sad child while Sam's standing a few steps away as his Godzilla-sized self makes him feel inferior. He's not going to stand up though, because that would come off as needy or repentant and Dean is neither. Neither, got it?

But Sam seems to have no such qualms. He comes closer, crouches in front of Dean and braces his forearms on Dean's knees, sends a tingling feeling up Dean's legs to his heart. He looks up through his bangs, sincere and hopeful. "I quit."

Dean extracts his hands from his pockets to grab onto the chains. Not for anything else, just for that. Sam's weight makes the swing unstable. "About damn time."

"Lucas didn't take it too well, but… he can kick the bucket for all I care."

"Thought you were best buddies or something." Dean can't help making a snide remark about it. He's an asshole.

Sam sighs. His index finger picks at the inseam of Dean's jeans, which is really annoying, so Dean lets his right hand fall and capture that finger. In his usual touchy-feely way, Sam takes that as a cue to start holding hands. Dean would pull away, but he is too tired to deal with the kicked puppy look that would come his way.

"I'm sorry I was such a jerk about you giving me advice." Sam tells him, always the first to come out and say shit that needs to be said between them. "I play the model student, go through the notions, but deep down… I don't think I fit in. And I tried to remedy that, you know, tried to be better, prove I'm an independent grown up at all costs, and find my place through that. But the only person I click with - the only one who really understands me is still you."

The insecure beast inside Dean's belly settles down for a nap. "That's 'cause you're a freak."

Sam laughs. "Gee, thanks."

"Well, I'm a freak, too. I'm right there with you, all the way." Dean flashes a small smile, brushes his thumb over Sam's pulse point. (Alright, so he is holding hands with his brother. But it doesn't count, it's not like he started it.) "I think I'll give that shrink a call. The one you picked out for me."

That's one of the things he decided somewhere between drowning his brain cells in alcohol and scarfing down Benny's stale cereal. Relationships require compromises, Jody used to tell him whenever he asked if she minded all the scrap metal littered around the yard. So Dean's doing his end of the deal.

"Really?" Sam smiles bright enough to give the sun a run for its money.

The sight of his elation makes Dean falter. He was going to fake indifference, pretend these decisions had been easy. But goddamnit, Sam has to go and ruin his bravado with his stupid grin and his stupid hand - now how could Dean tell him his other plan? He has been saying the exact opposite ever since middle school, how can he explain the change of mind? He has been thinking about this for a long time, but in secret. Then he checked out some websites in the last three days, and now he kinda wants it, actually, but if Sam realises he does, he is going to dig in and try helping him, and that's the last thing Dean needs. It would be far too embarrassing. Sammy, the Stanford whizz-kid helping him with that… Nope, let's not.

"And uh, I have an idea. It's dumb, but, uh… I don't know." Great job. In case Sam had any doubt that this is important for him, now he sure doesn't.

Sam arches a playful eyebrow. "Eloquent."

Dean clears his throat. If he lowers his voice and makes it all gruff, he can still trick Sam into thinking this is just another chore he grudgingly completes. Right? "I'll apply to a community college."

"What?"

"Yeah. I looked it up. Some of the stuff they teach could come in handy if I wanna take a break from banging rich people's toys back together." Sam still looks stunned and confused, so he glances away and adds "And I'm tired of you whining about your exams. When I have my own you won't get out of doing the dishes."

"So… You will do this just to make me do my share of the housework?"

Dean shrugs. It can't be that much of a far-fetched concept, him getting a degree. He just doesn't want Sam to think he is a whole new person. He is not. He still hates studying, complying to stuck-up teachers' whims. But he can see the draw in college life and, well, degrees do have their advantages. He loves cars. But… he is beginning to think he can try other stuff as well.

"I'm not going to talk you out of it if that's what you are waiting for." Sam smiles, sweeps in for a kiss that Dean does not welcome like a starving man, then stands up and groans. "Jesus, my legs are going to fall off. Can we continue this back home, or do you want to brood here a little longer?"

The knot in his chest loosening, Dean follows his suit and fishes their apartment keys out of Sam's jacket pocket. "Depends on what you made for dinner. Might have to take a detour if we're having a veggie day again."

Sam narrows his eyes at him. "Bite me."

Dean laughs. They might be over the worst of it, now that these issues are out of the way. This might just end well for once. "Don't mind if I do."

A month after their last fight - well, if you can call something without yelling and broken plates a fight - Sam is still amazed that Dean developed a subtle interest in college. It's an unexpected decision, but if it means he is a tad bit closer to realise his own potential, Sam is all for it. He hopes therapy will help him with that too. Dean's relationship with Missouri isn't out of that rocky first period yet, but Sam trusts that woman to handle Dean's shit better than the other therapists he talked to. The fact that Dean has become chipper in the last week may just be the first sign of progress. Or he's just enjoying the perks of Sam's jobless status, who knows?

Sam has to admit some of them truly are awesome. For example, sex on a weekday afternoon. By daylight. Without a single reason to hurry.

"Rematch tomorrow. I dare you." Dean mutters and noses at Sam's bare stomach, throwing his pants in the vague direction of the bathroom.

He has this thing about giving head where he pretends he doesn't like it, because he thinks that's too gay. (Yeah, right. Being in a monogamous relationship with another guy is proof of how straight he is.) He puts up a fairly good act - it managed to fool Sam the first few times, but the hidden delight underneath Dean's facade showed through clear as day after that. Now it's just as amusing as his faux-indignance when Sam is in one of his moods and wants to shower him in affection.

"You rigged that game, I know." Dean mumbles into his hip, right on cue. Never mind that he lost intentionally as soon as Sam said the prize is a blowjob. Dean is an excellent Xbox player, he very much wanted this.

"Just admit it, I beat you." Sam smiles and sinks into the pillows, thoroughly enjoying his winnings. The sun filters through the curtains as a soft, orange collection of rays, and as he closes his eyes, it feels like a caress on his skin. His phone beeps on the bedside table, but he pays it to no mind, just rolls up into Dean's touch and hums his encouragement. Dean chuckles and does wicked things with his tongue Sam hasn't yet figured out how to handle without falling apart. Nothing better than a lazy blowjob and a happy boyfriend. How nice it would be if Sam could just bottle moments like this and save them for later to douse his soul in this cosy sensation. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. Then the phone beeps again.

Fucking A, Sam fumes and reaches out to silence it, but his eyes catch a glimpse of the latest message and his blood runs cold.

I've been waiting for you for a long long time. Come on, Sam. You have to admit, you can feel it, right?

Lucas. The guy can't take no for an answer, it seems. Ever since Sam quit his job, he and Ruby have been harassing him with unsettling texts and calls. Sam had to block him on Facebook. To top that off, Ruby seems to have declared him as personal enemy No.2 after Sam confronted her for what happened during the night she got him high without his consent. Why the hell can't they leave him alone? He made a mistake, alright, but it's not like the shop crumbles without his part-time work. Can't they all go on and live their own lives in peace? Are they inflicting some petty revenge because he broke their ties, is that it?

"Wanna go further, Sammy." Dean groans, oblivious, and starts making his way up to Sam's chest and neck.

Sam panics and throws the phone back on the table, smiling back awkwardly when Dean grins at him. The amulet tickles his sternum where it dangles from Dean's neck as they kiss, and he tries to narrow his attention to that, steer it away from Lucas and his creepy entourage. When Dean turns him over and starts on painting a trail of kisses down his back, Sam's stomach fills with burning heat. God, he knows where this is going. His blood rushes to his cheeks, fills them with excited warmth. They rarely ever do it this way. Dean is thick and heavy, and he is afraid, always so afraid of hurting that he can't let go properly unless Sam sits on top. But not today, oh no. And despite Lucas, despite the worry nagging at Sam's soul, he starts to loosen up again, muscles unknotting from their tension as Dean's lips descend along his spine.

Then another text comes. And another.

"Someone's popular today…" Dean snickers and bites into the globe of Sam's ass.

Sam jerks, riled up more than necessary, but those texts, those fucking texts keep coming, creepy messages, what if he is sending them right from the doorstep? What if he has a way of looking through their window, sees them like this, shifts his attention to the prettier one and starts stalking Dean? What if he hid microphones in here somehow?

Dean pauses in the process of lapping at the dimples above Sam's ass, does a quick hands-on assessment of the frontal situation, then scoffs. "Am I boring you?"

"No." Sam denies frantically, turning back around. He regrets it a second later - now his softening cock is on full display, flopping around, useless.

Dean seems genuinely upset about it, almost to the point of despondency. "Then what's up? 'Cause you sure aren't."

Sam lets out a weak laugh. "Just an assignment I'm worried about." The phone chimes again and his heart seizes from unease. He gulps.

Of course, Dean picks up on it instantly. "Bull." He grumbles. "Flimsiest excuse if I ever heard one."

"Don't -" Sam starts, but it's already too late, Dean's agile body swings to the side and snatches up the offending device that keeps buzzing and beeping in his hand. He lowers himself back down and props the phone up on Sam's chest, frown lines deepening as the seconds tick by.

Sam combs through his short hair. The tips of it turn golden in the afternoon light, a marvellous colour to compliment his stormy green eyes. If only his lips weren't pressing together into a deep pink testament of fury.

"I didn't want you to worry." He admits, tapping the place where Dean's short sideburn disappears into stubble.

Dean tosses the phone on the other side of the bed and closes his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Tell me not to kill him. Tell me or I swear to God -"

"Don't kill him."

"Alright. You're getting a new number." Dean declares and drops his hands to glower down at Sam. "Anything else I should know about?

Sam shakes his head. What can they do anyway, short of moving to the other side of the city? They can't call the police. Cops sniffing around their stuff could lead to a reveal much more dangerous than a pissed off tattoo artist could ever be. Even if he has a whole bunch of connections in the shady underworld. Which Sam hopes he doesn't. He read that if you don't give your stalker any fodder to fuel their obsession, they will stop after a while. That's how it's going to go down, he tells himself. He is going to avoid places where he can bump into Ruby or his ex-boss and they will forget this mishap ever happened.

Except, the website he read was wrong. The stalking only intensifies when he tries to hide from it. They leave him unwanted gifts on the doormat, notes in the mailbox, send messages to him via his schoolmates. It gets out of hand real fast. One afternoon Sam goes out to the library and comes back shaking and out of breath from the running he had to endure to get away from an unknown guy following him. Dean doesn't know more than half of it, which is probably for the best.

The whole thing explodes one day in early May, not long after Sam's nineteenth birthday. He is not in the best of moods as it is - Dean asked him out to an actual restaurant (not a diner) and he had to say no because by now he grew afraid of getting out of the house after nightfall. They go grocery shopping instead, because Dean's wine-and-dine plan was mostly just a clever attempt to avoid the trip to the supermarket. They end up in different aisles - Sam has lost Dean somewhere around the snack rows, and he is hovering beside the dairy products, trying to shudder off the chill from the freezers, when someone pats his shoulder.

Expecting his brother, Sam holds out a yoghurt. "Dude, will you eat some fruit if -" His sentence dies halfway out of his throat. That's not Dean. It's Lucas.

"Sam! Long time no see. Come, give me a hug." Lucas smirks at him, unabashedly cornering him against a freezer. "I know you missed my sublime company."

Sam has to swallow twice to make his throat work. His free hand fumbles behind him for something to hold onto, grabs the sticky metal of the cart. With Lucas' arms spread the way they are, it feels like being locked into a cage that's meant to hold only one person. Sam's mouth goes dry. "Leave me alone."

Lucas tuts at him. "Is this any way to talk to a friend?" He leans closer. The tobacco smell of his breath wafts over Sam's face and makes him flinch. "If only you stopped resisting, we could be like peas in a pod. Just think about it, Sam. I would be a better bunkmate than that trigger-happy boyfriend of yours."

Even though Sam is at least three inches taller than the guy, he finds himself looking up into maliciously twinkling eyes. His pulse speeds up. He's so creeped out that he's hunched over like a kid wanting to disappear from the face of Earth. Lucas' eyes are bloodshot. Shit, is he on some harder stuff? Does he get violent?

Sam is about to do something embarrassing like sucker punching him and making a run for it, when a leather-clad forearm pushes between his chest and Lucas'.

"Howdy?" Dean grins - well, snarls, actually - and slots himself between the two of them, completely unfazed by how they are crowding each other in like a bunch of nutjobs. It must be a comical sight for anyone who wanders by.

"Ah. Speak of the devil." Lucas comments, then laughs as though he has just shared an inside joke with himself.

Dean raises his right fist - holding a chocolate bar and a ten-inch chef knife. It's still in its plastic holder, but the threat is evident in the gesture as Dean presses it to Lucas' throat with a predatory hiss. "You have ten seconds to get your mug out of my sight or I'm calling the cops."

It's a bluff, but Lucas has no way of knowing that they can't possibly involve the police in their business. This has to work. This has to scare him away for tonight.

"Don't rush your answer, Sam." Lucas smiles at him after a nerve-wracking staredown and winks, stepping back. Thank God. He's retreating. "I'll be around for that yes you'll give me."

The ride back home is tense and uncomfortable. Sam doesn't need to hear the 'I told you' Dean is keeping himself from saying, it's expressed in every glance they shoot each other until the car rolls into the underground parking lot Dean hates. They didn't even get the food in their hurry to get away from the shop. This can't go on like this anymore. They spent enough of their childhood living in fear, not again. Never again.

"I don't feel safe here anymore." Sam admits quietly, staring at his lap. From the corner of his eye, he sees Dean's nod, but no reply comes. Changing their lives because of this man feels like a failure. Sam's failure, him letting Dean down. He has to go for it, though, because there doesn't seem to be any other sensible solution and they can't let this drive a rift between them. "I want to move away."

He's banking on a long argument, something about not getting another deal like the one they have, of Sam being a selfish wuss, but Dean just looks at him, simple as that, and closes his eyes. "Okay. But don't bitch at me if you have to get up earlier."

"Deal." Sam grins, knows Dean hears it even if he doesn't look, and that is that. They are going to move out.

They find a suitable place twice as far from the university as their current flat is. It's completely out of reach for Lucas and his associates, on the top floor of an apartment building filled with retired professors and middle-class families. With two bedrooms and a couch that fits Sam stretched out it's a dream compared to the alternatives. Dean grits his teeth and accompanies Sam to visit the neighbours, devouring every welcome snack they receive and snickering behind his hand whenever someone pinches Sam's cheeks and calls him a 'sweet boy'. They don't meet a single student during their visit - it must be too far from the campus for their lazy asses. It's amazing, nothing like what they are going to leave behind. Sam is begging Dean to choose this one even before they exit the stairwell.

The problem is: the place is only available from July, but their rent on their current flat is up by June. There's a fortnight long gap they have to make arrangements for. Going home to Sioux Falls would be the obvious choice, while their stuff is held in a storage unit, but Sam has an idea. A little bit crazy one, but an idea nonetheless.

"I think we should go back to Kansas." He tells Dean, stuck in traffic during a surprise rainstorm. "Check out the places we have lived in."

Dean gives another driver the bird, only halfway listening. "What? Why would we?"

Sam puts a hand on Dean's thigh. It makes him jump and bristle - gloomy weather and a forced standstill with his Baby makes Dean sensitive and snappish. What a diva. "Because pretending those times never happened doesn't make it so. I think it would do both of us some good if we built new memories to rewrite the old ones."

Dean's leg jiggles under his palm. He seems ready to honk at the dumbass Range Rover that's trying to cut into their line. "You mean we should go back to that group home in Kansas City where they made me clean the entire dorm?"

"I mean every place."

Dean gulps. "Even…?"

"Every single one."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? 'Cause that sounds like torture to me."

"It's called facing your fears."

"New age bullshit crap."

"Bullshit crap?" Sam tries to bite back his smile, but it's not very successful. The corner of Dean's lips twitch. He knows he is ridiculous, but wouldn't change a damn thing about it, the bastard. How lucky he is Sam likes him this way. "Think of it like a road trip."

"Road trips should be fun."

"It will be fun." Sam scoots all the way over to him, cajoling. "Come on. You, me, Baby… Greasy fast food. A room with a nice, big tub. Magic fingers, if you are good..."

The row of cars stops again. Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of Black Sabbath's Iron Man. There are beads of sweat pooling in the dip of his collarbone. His face splits into a smile. "Now we are talking."

Most of the time Dean puts special effort into not thinking of his past. It's basic self-preservation. One half of his childhood is pure crap, the other is murky darkness. Not much to marvel about. He has some good memories sprinkled in there too, but they are scarce and most of them are related to Sam one way or another. He doesn't want to go back and relive any of them. Why would he?

The only time it even came up was on the first anniversary of their adoption. Jody was feeling under the weather, caught a bug or something, and Dean had the crazy notion in his mind that it was his doing. Maybe he brought it home from school or something. So, he spent the entire day trying to comfort her, going as far as curling up next to her on the couch and letting her arms pull him into an embrace. She had a fever - probably the reason why she started talking about the blank spots in his past.

"I don't know where their grave is. It got lost somewhere in your records." She said, stroking his back. "If I knew, I would tell her that I'm taking care of her little angels. I would tell her how well you are doing."

Dean doesn't think he is anything even remotely close to an angel. And, after all the work they have done with Cas when he was a teenager, he knows both his father and his mother would have agreed with him. It's just something Jody does, loving them so deeply she is being biased, but that's a soothing thing to believe in, and as long as Dean doesn't let the truth of his memories flood his mind, he can maintain that belief to some extent. The belief that he is a good man.

Going back to Kansas is going to stir the bad things up again, he has no doubt. Yet, he's doing it, because he is in love and this is Sam's little summer project. He's doing research, searching for old institutes, tracking people down, and recites his findings at any random time, in the car, at dinner, when they shower together. Dean nods along indulgently, but his insides get all queasy at the mere mention of the state. He has a bad feeling about this.

On their way there, they stop one last time before Lawrence and Kansas City, because Sam wants to get there in the morning and Dean is nothing if not a caterer to all the boy's needs. They get a motel room - with one king this time, screw the look the clerk gives them - and eat Chinese take-out, chortling at a movie they watch on Sam's laptop. Dean could almost forget where they are headed.

He wakes Sam up that night after three hours of insomnia - kisses awareness back into his body until tanned muscles ripple and shift to give him space and permission. Sam doesn't open his eyes, but takes Dean's hand and presses it flat over the minute curve of his belly, calm. Dean slides into place in silence, finds the spot where Sam's thighs squeeze together the tightest, uses that crease because he has no patience left for anything more. He fits himself flush against Sam's back in silence, chases his bliss in silence, coats Sam's legs slippery in silence. No noises. He doesn't know if it counts as a setback or not - but this close to Demon-ville, his walls are up high and quake from fear. He's not supposed to be here. The day he left this living hell, he swore never to come back if he can help it. He can't, though, can he? What Sammy wants, he gets.

"Don't do this for me." Sam mumbles, reading his mind. "Do it for yourself or go home. I'll be fine on my own."

"Big talk. You can't navigate to save your life. I need to stay around so that you don't get lost." Damn right. Only reason why he stays.

Sam sighs, but leaves it, too sleep-loose to argue. Lost in thought and swamped by the joy-rush of hormones, Dean dozes off, the pictures of dorm beds and yelling adults flashing through his mind. A freaking nightmare as soon as he closes his eyes. He snorts back to alertness a minute later when Sam kicks his shin with his ice-cold foot.

"Dude, you gonna leave me hanging?"

Oh. Oh, right. Dean blushes, glad that Sam has his back to him and can't see his face right now. "Just taking my time."

"Take it faster." Sam fires back and turns around to show what exactly he's waiting for.

Dean doesn't have much chance to worry about tomorrow after that.

Kansas City is the dusty dump it always used to be in Dean's mind, nothing much to look at. The first thing on their agenda is breakfast with Donna, which is basically a love-fest between her and Sammy while Dean stands by the sidelines looking after the toddlers who are apparently hers and Doug's. The whole meeting makes him squeamish, partly out of shame. The only thing he likes about his old self is how strong he was for a brat his age. Everything else - the delusions, juvie, all the mouthing back and fighting he did - he is ashamed of to a degree he doesn't want to admit even to himself. Sam deserved better. Deserves better. Someone nice and good, someone who could have gotten them out of the system faster than six miserable years.

Donna doesn't mention any of the bad things, though, she reminisces about the old days as if they weren't a pain in her ass the entire time she had to handle their case. Sam goes along with it easily, sips his tea and brings up stories he and Dean have never talked about before. It pushes Dean out of kilter, because he thought there's nothing he didn't know about his brother, yet the things Sam talks about are just as new to him as they are to Donna. He's hit by the heady realisation that there's still more, more to discover, understand and embrace. It's a wonderful eyeopener.

Another wonderful thing is the fact that they should have filed a written request to have access to their records, which renders their plan of getting the info out of Donna bootless. Riding the wave of this news, Dean gleefully suggests they head home to Sioux Falls. Sam hits his shoulder for it, Dean curses, the toddlers scream in delight and Donna buries her face in her hand, pointing at the swear jar on the counter. All in all, it's a fitting ending for their weirdass breakfast.

Of course, Dean doesn't get to go home after that. Sam has a gazillion of places he wants to visit, written down from memory and hours spent browsing Google Maps for hidden treasures in the city. They play connect the dots all day, eat ice cream at a parlour they didn't have the money to visit as kids, talk to an old groundskeeper Sam used to be afraid of and find a bench near Garth's old place Dean carved their initials into. They have fun.

Right until Sam leads them back there.

"No." Dean says when they enter Lawrence and round the corner of the street the Peters family used to live in. He parks the Impala right there, along the curb, not willing to make the distance any smaller than it already is. What an idiot he was for agreeing to this! He can't go any closer, no fucking way.

Sam has the nerve to take his hand when Baby's purring dies down. "You can't live in fear of this house all your life, Dean."

He has no right to say something like that. He doesn't know. Dean still doesn't remember much from their lives before, but this, he does. Not all of it, alright, sometimes he went away and left his body behind to deal with what it had to, but almost everything is crystal clear in his recollections. It's enough load for him, thanks. Reliving the memories would just make it worse. His bones are aching with phantom pain at the mere thought, his chest is filled with a million needles, and the world is going black, the door of hell is closing…

"Hey!" Sam pinches his elbow. The shadows clear away. "Don't panic. It's safe. They don't live here anymore."

"How can you be so sure?"

Sam purses his lips. "I checked. His wife moved states years ago, after he died in prison. His fellow inmates - you know, they aren't fond of his kind in there. It wasn't pretty."

Dean nods, blows out a breath. Good riddance. He doesn't care about karma, he hopes that guy suffered. Really, really hopes he did.

Sam's hand tugs on his fingers, impatient. "Come on. We will just take a walk down the street and back. Nothing else, I promise."

Screw you, Alastair Peters. Let's do this. Dean is not a fucking coward, he is not scared of dead men and their dead memories, if he wants to walk down a random suburban street, he's gonna do just that. Face hardening, he forces his locked-down muscles to work and climbs out of the car. When he reaches the sidewalk, Sam takes his hand again.

"I don't need a chaperone." Dean snaps and wrenches himself away, rude enough to feel a little guilty. Sam raises his hands and apologizes, but stays only one step behind as they approach the house at a snail's pace. Three fences away, Dean closes his eyes for a brief moment, squares his shoulders, then marches straight up to the front yard he had to be dragged through countless times in the past.

The house looks inconspicuous, normal - it got a new paint job, some flowers on the windowsills, pinwheels close to the front door. There's a calico cat basking in the sunlight on the front porch. It's a pleasant place, significantly different from the looming dungeon Dean constructed in his mind. There's nothing harmful in sight. He is dead, Dean tells himself again and exhales huge lungfuls of air, letting it go. He feels empowered, standing here - even if that bastard crawled out of his grave right now, he could shove him back there and burn his remains. He's not a kid anymore. He will not be forced into a damp cellar again.

"No big deal." He mumbles, perhaps to firm his own confidence, and touches a honey brown picket in the fence. The ground doesn't open up under him. The birds keep singing on the trees that line the sidewalk, the air is sunset-warm and clear around him, a car rumbles lazily in the distance. It's okay. Nothing hurtful could touch him here anymore. He's fine.

Well, no, actually - "I'm hungry." Dean announces, grinning. Sam jumps, but recovers quickly, and doesn't talk about the house again that day even when Dean shovels a ridiculous amount of pie down his throat to wipe the slightly manic smile from his own face.

They spend the next few days in a similar manner. Exploring Kansas City and the agglomeration, parts they have never been in before and others they discovered between moving from foster to foster. Then, at the end of each day, they go back to Alastair's old house and Dean spends a few minutes walking down the street and coaxing the calico into a petting. It's kinda weird, this exposure-therapy or whatever Sam is trying to use on him, but Dean has to give it to him, it's working. Over the years, the picture of this house his brain conjured up became less of a memory and more of a symbol for everything evil in the world. The original image distorted and darkened to fit the feelings he attached to it, then became a knob of shadow inside him he couldn't get rid of. But replacing that picture with this is like undoing a knot and feeling it loosen in his chest. It's an incredibly freeing sensation.

It's on the fourth day that Sam finishes a call with a woman who might have been their first temporary foster and says "She knew the first orphanage we've been sent to."

Dean can't say he's excited, but Sam is hyped enough for the both of them, so off they go. Orphanages aren't impressive in class or style, they are in regular or slightly worse conditions and have nothing distinctive that would make them stand out from their surroundings. In Dean's opinion, these buildings suit the government even better than freshly built establishments - if people aren't smacked in the face with a giant sign that the poor strays are living there, everyone can go forget that there are misfortunate kids all over the country who would need the support more than the NRA. That's just life. He's not upset about it, but he is not interested in being reminded that things haven't changed for the better in the past nine years.

The house under the address Sam scribbled down looks rather old, but it's still in use as some sort of nursery school, because there are toddlers playing tag outside in the accompanying yard. They aren't let in at first, which Dean marks as a sign of a good staff - if two fully grown strangers could just waltz in there and root around the kids' stuff, it would be quite alarming. He has an ace up his sleeve, though, the orphan card, and he shamelessly uses it (and his flirting skills) to charm their way inside and make Sam happy. They are told to find someone called Adrienne or Adel or something (he got the intel, it's Sam's duty to memorize it, okay?), because she is the only woman here who used to work at this place back when it was functioning as an orphanage.

A perky redhead leads them to a small room filled with children's toys and puzzle play mats. There are some matchbox cars too, which reminds Dean of the old Baby he used to own and makes him frown. Nothing else strikes him as familiar, but what's new. He might have just forgotten. There's a faded clown painting on the right wall, its unnatural grin forever frozen there, and Dean has no idea who put it there, but it was a complete moron if he thought the kids would like it. Also, that thing explains a thing or two.

"Found the reason for your clown phobia, didn't we?" He nudges Sam's shoulder, thinking of their first… well, the first time they went out together and Dean thought about things no brother should have. It's a fond memory. Sam blanches and keeps his eyes on the image until the kind (and sexy) nurse begins introducing them to the crone nesting in a comfy-looking armchair in the corner. She doesn't seem to be a day younger than seventy, but her eyes are sharp and none of her joints creak as she rises from her seat to greet them. Dean holds her gaze and sees something in there - not quite recognition, more like that tip-of-the-tongue sensation, if it makes any sense. When you know something, but you can't recall what it is. He sees that blink of confusion in her eyes. It makes him uneasy under her scrutinization.

"Boys, this is Aunt Addie." Lovely redhead chirps. "Addie, this is Dean Winchester and his brother -"

The old crow gasps. "Sam Wesson?"

She croaks and grips the young girl's elbow to keep herself upright, gaping up at them in shock. The laughter of the efflorescing clown on the wall seems to echo in the bewildered silence that follows. Redhead makes an apologetic face. Is this something usual, something that happened before? Random bursts of names coming from the woman's mouth? Dean frowns at Sam, gets a confused shrug. She stares at them as though they are ghosts of a long-forgotten life. Sam Wesson. Wesson. What is it about this name? This is the first time Dean hears it used for anything but the guns. What. The. Hell.