A/N: Wow, thanks a bunch for all the feedback! I know it's angsty as heck, but... actually, that's all I got. Whoops, sorry. I posted a slightly different version of this chapter on AO3, but I like this one much better. So you're welcome, I guess. Anyway, here's the second part.

Blue Creek, Minnesota: May 2, 2003

Dean stuck his hands in the deep pockets of his leather jacket and watched his breath condense into little puffs in the early morning chill. The sun's light was still weak, just barely warming into the pleasant spring day the weatherman promised it would be, but after driving five hours straight, Dean welcomed the bite of the wind keeping him awake.

He leaned back against the hood of the Impala (his Impala, finally) and scuffed his boot in the dirt shoulder of the road. His right hand brushed against the plastic burner phone in his pocket and he flinched away from it as if it had bit him.

It wasn't that he was scared to make the call. Dean scoffed at the thought. He was just being… cautious. Which was why he was up at the ass-crack of dawn in the north woods of the Midwest, trying to build up the courage to wish his own brother a happy birthday.

It was nearly a ritual at this point. Dean would drive out to the middle of nowhere, usually after driving all night, park, and watch the sun rise over some backwoods town – or in this case, the actual woods. He'd stare at his cell for a while, think about what he was going to say, then call and leave a message when it was still early enough for Sam to be fast asleep. It was easier like that.

He took a deep breath and held it as he slipped the cell from his pocket, flipping it open with clumsy hands. He deliberately pressed in the number he'd stubbornly memorized so his dad would never "accidentally" happen across it. Dean had known that if Sam didn't want him contacting him at college, then any call from Dad definitely wasn't on the table.

As he listened to the ringing tones, he gathered his thoughts. Short and to the point like always, maybe throw in some best wishes from Pastor Jim, nothing too fancy. Just enough so Sammy knew he had… what? Family? A brother who had to drive out to lumberjack country to make a simple phone call? It wasn't something he wanted to think about. Dean shifted uncomfortably. Maybe this had been a bad idea…

"Hello?"

Dean opened and closed his mouth several times before finding his voice. "Uh, hi?" He may not have heard from Sam for a while, but he was pretty sure his voice had been an octave lower last time they talked. He frowned.

"Who's this?" the girl mumbled, obviously half-asleep. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" Dean cleared his throat, completely thrown off his game.

"It's—I mean, uh, sorry. Is this Sam's phone?"

"No telemarketers," came the sleepy reply.

"No, I'm not—" Dean's throat clenched up in frustration. Who did this chick think she was? Also, who the hell picked up someone else's phone? That was just rude. "I'm not selling anything. I just want to talk to Sam."

"He's sleeping." Perfect. Dean worked his jaw. That was just great. Not only was he stuck talking to his brother's one night stand, but there was no way he'd be able to get Sam on the line. The girl huffed, getting irritated. "It's four in the morning."

"Yeah, I guess I forgot about the time difference." He hadn't. "Sorry you woke up."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Okay…" the girl drifted off, sounding more confused than she had started. "Do you want me to give him a message or something?"

Dean paused. Did he?

"No, I'm good," he said eventually.

"Sure?"

"Positive." He heard a rustling on the other line and a fainter voice in the background.

"He's getting up, d'you still wanna talk?" The girl said, then whispered something inaudible to the new voice.

Dean laughed dryly. Not really, no. Not in front of a stranger. "You know what, I think I've got the wrong number."

"Wrong number?" the girl echoed dubiously. "You sure about that?" Dean bit his lip.

"Yeah," he decided, then immediately regretted it. "Uh, hey, um…"

"Jess," the girl supplied warily.

Dean nodded to himself. "Right, Jess. Just—just tell him happy birthday. Got it?"

The muffled voice sounded nearer, and Dean was now sure it was Sam's. "Who's that?"

Jess brought her mouth away from the receiver long enough to say, "Some guy? He sounds kinda shady, but he said he wanted to talk to you." There was a pause.

"Did he say his name?" Sam asked, a hitch in his voice.

Uh oh. That was his cue for a swift exit. He sharply inhaled and took the cell from his ear as Jess replied. Before he could end the call, he caught the strains of Sam's voice through the speaker.

"Dean?"

He took a deep breath, then plastered an unconvincing smile onto his face to, you know, sell the part. "Hiya, Sammy," he winced at the sound of his own voice. "Long time no talk." For a moment, Sam didn't answer and Dean half-hoped, half-feared he was going to hang up.

"Yeah, no kidding."

Dean frowned, unsure whether Sam was just cranky and tired or if he was being passive aggressive on purpose. And Dean had invented passive aggressive non-answers; that was his thing. Sam was all about that touchy-feely crap. Or had been. Whatever. Who knew what Sammy was like these days anyway?

"Dean," said Sam. "It's four in the morning."

"Yeah, well," Dean looked down and toed at a rock with his boot, "I'm a couple hours ahead." Sam started laughing. Dean blinked. That was… pleasantly unexpected. It'd been a while since he heard that laugh. "Something funny, bean pole?" And just like that it was like no time had passed.

"Nothing, nothing," Sam sputtered. "Just, what is it with our family and not knowing the appropriate time to call someone? Did you know Pastor Jim called at twelve-oh-one? He said he wanted to be the first to wish me happy birthday."

Dammit, Jim, thought Dean. "Sounds like 'im." He cleared his throat. "So it's your birthday, huh?"

"Guess it is."

"Well, this is embarrassing," Dean said, "I'd completely forgotten."

"Shut up. Jerk."

Dean grinned. "Very articulate, Mr. Stanford University." Bitch, he added to himself, not yet comfortable enough with this new Sam to say it aloud.

Sam laughed at that, then grew silent. When he spoke again, his voice had sobered. "Dean, about last January—" Dean winced.

"Sammy," he interrupted quickly, "it's really not something that needs to be talked about. It's your birthday, right? Just forget about it."

Sam paused, seeming to debate whether or not to let it go. "Okay, Dean."

Dean rubbed out a smudge on the Impala's hood. "Listen, Sam, I've got the Impala now so—"

"What? Why, did something happen to Dad?" Sam asked. "Is he okay?"

"Huh? Yeah, he's fine," Dean mentally face-palmed. Of course Sam would jump to that. Picturing John without the Impala was like trying to, well, like trying to imagine John without the Impala. It just didn't compute. "Baby was giving him some trouble over Christmas, I mean, I told him she couldn't do Colorado mountains in negative degree weather, but you know how Dad is… Anyway, he ditched her at Bobby's so I fixed her up pretty and now she's mine." To make a long story short. The real story involved Bobby kicking John off his property and threatening him with a shot gun loaded with something with a bit more bite than rock salt, but that was all water under the bridge.

Well, Bobby still wouldn't acknowledge John's existence and it put Dean in an awkward situation, but Sammy didn't need to hear that either.

"Right, as I was saying, I've got the Impala and summer's just around the corner, and, uh," Dean stumbled over his words, regretting that he'd brought it up, "school's out soon, so if you wanted to, you know, for old time's sake…" he drifted off into shameful muttering.

"That'd be great, yeah."

Dean waited for the but.

"Dean? You still there?"

He briskly shook himself. "Uh, so a road trip?"

Sam snorted. "Just as long as it doesn't involve, you know," his voice got quiet, "hunting."

Dean smiled and shook his head. Yeah, right. "No promises, little brother. Trouble's got a nifty little trick of finding us Winchesters."

"Yeah, well, Winchesters have a funny way of looking for it," said Sam.

Dean shrugged. "What can I say, it keeps me busy." He remembered his brother's (many) opinions on John's – and now his— livelihood when Sam didn't answer right away. "It's important, Sam," he said quietly. "What we do? It saves lives."

"It ends them too," Sam snapped. Dean winced, wishing he'd never mentioned it.

"I don't want a fight, Sammy," he sighed heavily.

"I'm just saying—" Sam cut himself off, huffing impatiently. "You know, there's more to life than following Dad all over the country. Don't you want more, Dean?" His voice was desperate, like he needed to hear that his brother suddenly grew a backbone, or at least had an independent thought of his own. (Well, that's how it sounded to Dean).

Dean flinched. "I'm where I'm supposed to be."

A pause. "Okay." Dean couldn't help but feel he'd somehow answered incorrectly.

His phone beeped, telling him he had another call coming in. It was probably Pastor Jim or Bobby calling to ask if he'd seen John lately. Like he had a clue. "Listen, Sammy, I gotta get going now. I know you're at your cushy university, but stay safe, alright? Don't get sloppy."

Sam snorted. "Got it." In a more serious tone, he added, "You too, Dean. Take care of yourself."

"Happy Birthday, Sammy," he grinned into the receiver. "Don't be a stranger." He waited for Sam to hang up first before taking the incoming call.

"Yeah?" he said curtly, no other introduction needed. The only people with the number to the burner knew exactly who they were calling.

"I need you in Cleveland in three hours." The gruff voice wasn't the one Dean expected; these days John Winchester wasn't exactly big on communication. "Skinwalkers. Thought you might want in on the action." That was Winchester speak for In hot water, bail me out.

Dean swallowed. "Dad? I'm—uh, did you say Cleveland?" In three hours? From Minnesota? That was a bit of stretch but—

"Can you swing it?"

Of course he could swing it.

"Yeah," Dean rubbed his eyes, knowing the forty-five minute power nap he sneaked in at that truck stop in Wisconsin was the only sleep he was going to get for the next twenty-four hours. "Yeah. Ah, where…?"

"I already sent the address."

"Right," he rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll see you in three hours then."

He slid into the front seat, slamming the door after him. Dean took a moment to let himself relax; the Impala's worn leather worked better than the best shrink in the business. As he turned the key, feeling Baby purr to life, he knew that road trip he'd talked so enthusiastically about would never happen. Sam was right about one thing: no matter which way you looked at it, Winchesters and trouble went hand in hand. Like peanut butter and jelly. Silver and holy water. And as much of a selfish sonovabitch as he was, he didn't want that for Sammy. No, Sam was right where he belonged.

And if Dean ever had the faintest feeling that maybe he possibly wanted something more than the empty road and a glove compartment full of burner phones and fake IDs, well he'd better suck it up, buttercup.

He had a job to do.