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Chapter 2.

Dean waits for darkness to fall. Watches the street lights flicker on one at a time. Lets the gentle lighting caress his tired eyes. He lets his muscles relax as he watches the raindrops chase each other down the glass of the window. The lights reflect in the little droplets, illuminating the window in beads of shining color.

He sighs, thinking he should go inside. He knows from experience there is no such thing as avoiding John Winchester. And Dean is cold, and wet and officially miserable in every way emotionally as well as physically. He needs a hot shower, some warm food, and then a quiet bed. Where he can forget about all this crap till the morning.

Who is he kidding? Dean won't be doing much sleeping tonight.

He sighs, climbing out of the impala and making a dash for their room through the rain. He slips the through the door, shivering a little and watching a few rain drops fall from his clothes to the carpeted floor. Only the lamp by John's bed is on, casting the room in its warm light a little eerily. Dean sighs a little as the sound of the shower on floats to his ears. A few more minutes at a least, before he has to come face to face with his dad again.

He's ready to admit he was wrong in keeping this from John, but apologize? Dean wasn't really all that sorry, just sorry it didn't keep Sam from hunting longer! He checks the fridge for leftovers as he shrugs out of his wet jean jacket. He hangs the jacket to dry on one of the chairs and kicks off his boots by the door.

It feels good to get out of the stiff footwear and pad around on the soft carpet in his socked feet. He decides to swipe some liquor while his dad is in the shower, and takes as much as he can risk without John noticing. He slips it under his bed in a water bottle he usually uses for this express purpose. Not too often mind you. John would notice.

Sometimes Dean just needs a break. Sometimes he just needs to distance himself from Sam, and John, and hunting. Needs to float a little while between sleep and half-wakeful visions of the blonde haired angel that used to sing him to sleep and feed him homemade pie and cut the corners of his PB&J...

Dean tries to look casual as his dad comes out of the bathroom. Not at all like the tension of their argument was bearing down on his soul, or that his apprehension for his little brother was about to make him blow his cool. He kind of lurks around the little table and closer to the door. John recognizes it as his older boy feeling threatened and probably just entirely too stressed out by the whole situation. He knows Dean's defense mechanisms will tell him to flee before John can get anything else out.

He runs the thin motel towel over his damp hair one more time, and then tosses it towards the bathroom door.

"Why don't you take a shower while I get us some supper?" He asks, trying to keep his own agitation out of his voice.

Dean recognizes it for what it is. Sam hunting and his lying is not up for discussion anymore, but his father as no hard feelings. Dean hates that because it most likely means John won't share his decision with the class, but also its relief. No apology or full on chick flick moment confession required...than you dad.

He says nothing on the outside, just shuts the bathroom door as softly as he can behind him. And goes through the soothing familiar actions of getting warm and clean and comfortable. He hears his father leave, shutting the door. The tension visibly falls from his shoulders, he lets the hot water run over the tense muscles, and let's his soul bask in the solitude. Alone...safe.

Dean would never wish to be alone permanently. He hates it, being left behind, not belonging to anything or anyone. But he has come to appreciate the importance of alone time, get in his head and assign places and feelings to every thought. When he finally climbs out of the shower and opens the door steam billows out. He smiles.

John walks in with a bag of food, and smirks at his shirtless son standing in the midst of the fogged up room.

"I take it you enjoyed your shower." He says with a little smile.

Dean relaxes a little more with his father's smile. And just shakes his head smiling as he digs a clean t-shirt from his duffle. He pulls it over his head and joins his dad at the rickety table and takes a deep contented whiff of the cheeseburger John got him. John hands him an order of fries and a cup of Coke.

"Thanks," he mumbles around a bite, and takes his food and sits on the floor against the little love seat in front of the age old tv. He flicks it on, letting the colors and sounds and flavors of his supper wash over him in their familiarity. This is all in control, it's all going to be fine.

...

The evening passes with mostly companionable silence between the father and son. As Dean expected they both take a look over the files, and share their last thoughts. Both clean their hand guns after having them out in the damp weather, and John collects their silver knives together, cleaning them until they shine.

Dean rolls his eyes a little at his father's obsessive cleaning, looking over to John's bed and nothing the neat way it's made up, and the man's only two pairs of shoes; boots and dress shoes lined up perfectly next to the bedside table. The military side of John will drive Dean crazy one day he's sure of it. But without it he'd probably be a miserable slob, he likes to think he's balanced with John around to keep him in check.

Around eleven, Dean decides he's ready to turn in, there being nothing all that good on tv. He brushes his teeth and uses the bathroom. He tosses the cover on his bed back, and sheds his pants pulling on a pair of socks and is about to slip into bed.

John is seated on his bed across from Dean, pulling on his boots. Dean watches as his father props his foot up on the opposite knee and ties his laces. He frowns, thinking for sure their little hiccup didn't trigger his dad for a drinking spree. Especially not the night before a hunt.

"Where ya going, dad?" He asks curiously, as John stands and gathers his wallet and keys off the table, shoving them in the pockets of his coat he just put on.

"Gotta pick up Sammy at the bus station." His father states matter-of-factly, like Dean hadn't almost cried his eyes out at the THOUGHT of Sam hunting.

Dean sits frozen staring at the man, his insides stuck somewhere between boiling with anger at his father and shaking with fear for his little brother. "Dad," he croaks out, "...you called him?"

John gives a patient but sure nod. "Yeah, he hopped the earliest bus for Milwaukie, he should be here in," he donated his watch, "About fifteen minutes."

Dean bites his lip and looks away from his dad. He can't help but feel hurt. He thought this was resolved. Sam wouldn't hunt, not this one at least. He thought that was what he and his dad had agreed on. But apparently no.

"I, I thought," he stutters.

"What'd you think, Dean?" His father prompts. "You lied to me and Sammy for MONTHS, you took something away that we both wanted, just because why? You were scared, not ready...you think Sam doesn't feel the same way? You think Sammy's not scared, think he REALLY thinks he's ready?" John comes nearer to his son and sits on the end of his bed.

"No, I don't think so, I know so. Hell, I'm never "ready" for a hunt!" His father lowers his voice gently, "But...he wants to be with us Dean. He wants to fight the good fight...you want to take that away from him?"

Dean looks down and away from John's piercing gaze, wrapping his arms around himself, making himself as little possible. John's heart aches at the action. He hasn't seen his eldest son do that since before Dean himself, started hunting.

"Dean..." His father urges, a hand coming to cover his son's bony knee. "This is the way it's going to be, this is the way it's MEANT to be. Me, you, Sammy...saving people, hunting things...the family business."

The excitement and feeling behind his words sparkle for a moment in John's grey eyes. They are met with Dean's expressive green ones. John must look away, as for the moment, Mary stares at him, sad and hurt and pleading. It's a moment John thought he wanted. For Dean to look at him unguarded like he used to when he was a kid and looked to him like he was the king of the world.

But it only makes all this harder.

John knows his son. But the two hunters keep their hurts and fears to themselves. As John looks into the eyes of his son he sees what makes Dean tick.

Sam.

John.

Love.

Loyalty.

But, so much fear.

God, John can't even hardly handle that HIS child is that afraid. And then he sees Mary, pleading for the innocence of her sweet Sammy, for the sanity of her first born Angel. Always she called Dean her Angel, whispered to Sam of the angel watching over him.

It was John's dearest wish after Mary died that their children would live this out. That Dean would indeed become Sam's guardian angel, that sweet Sammy would have his own personal protection. Now his heat sinks at the pretty mess he's made for himself, as the fear and guilt chase each other over the guardian angel's young face.

He is breaking what he has concreted in his son, he is ripping the seam out, and in the process he is going to break Dean. He needs to fix this. He needs to fix this now, he needs to fix this for his fellow hunter, for his friend, for his companion...for his son.

"Dean, Sam can't always stay nine years old, he's gonna grow up, he's gonna need to know this stuff. That's your job Dean, teaching him this stuff, having his back while he learns. Sam will change, it doesn't change you or the way you look after him.

"Sure hunting is a scary thing, especially dragging someone you love into it, believe me I know. But we have to prepare Sammy for this life, for the things coming." John pauses, waiting for Dean to either relent, or run and shut himself in the bathroom, or throw on clothes and storm out. The frozen devastated look on his face is not what John wants to see, or even something he can deal with.

"Dean." He says, softly, but firmly.

Dean stays still, he says nothing, gives John nothing.

"Hey buddy?" He questions, a hand coming to rest on Dean's arm. Using the pet name he rarely bestows on Dean...hardly ever really.

Dean jerks his arm away from John looking away from him, the father looks away to give his son some privacy as he hears the wet sniff.

"Dean. This is the way it's going to be."

"I'll go get him." Is the only answer he gets. The young voice sounding determined and...much, much older than John wants to think about.

"Dean," he starts. But his son is finally moving and showing him a hard set face, features and eyes closed off and distant.

"Dad." He drags his jeans back on, but stops to make eye contact with John. "I'm going." Dean slips his feet into his pair of sneakers, having worn the heavy works boots enough for one day. He kneels tying the laces with quick fingers. He pulls on his jean jacket, "You're welcome to come, but I'm definitely going."

John huffs, of course Dean's calling the shots now. Now that he realizes Sam's GOING TO hunt, he's going to damn well be there every second. John runs stressed fingers through his hair and scratches absently at the back of his neck, closing his eyes. This was so not how he planned on this happening. He didn't know what he expected, but not this.

Not Dean turning all doey-eyed and heart broken, and then suddenly all lethal determination, throwing on clothes and sending John hard, but oddly, understanding glares. John watches slightly in awe of the quickly changing emotions and moods in his son. He's always felt like an outsider when it came to the bond between his boys. Perhaps this is for the best. This will be good for Sam...but the alone time with his little brother? Even better for Dean.

Nothing calms his eldest like his youngest. John's often wondered what he'd have done with either of the stubborn jackasses if the other hadn't been born. John sighs, the hurt evident in Dean making him feel like shit.

"Whatever," he says again.

Dean sends him a humorless smirk as he walks out the door. His own son makes John sweat a little, he knows they have reached a turning point. He can only hope that Sammy will appease Dean and tide the two elder Winchesters over.

Dean shuts the door behind him and gulps a deep breath of clear, cuttingly cold night air. The rain has stopped and left behind a soaked world. The puddles are forming ice crystals at their edges, the pavement shines as the rain begins to harden and turn slick.

He buries his hands in his coat pockets after turning up his collar, his breathing dancing in front of him. The street lights twinkle off the ice and rain and he walks down the sidewalk alone on the mostly abandoned down town streets. The wind whistles around him, sending waves into the puddles that are unfrozen. He hears the cars passing somewhere on busier streets, knows somewhere on those busy streets Sam's looking out the window of a bus watching the buildings and people go by and buzzing with excitement and nervous energy.

He sighs and kicks a rock down the sidewalk ahead of him, letting the sound of it colliding with the concrete sooth his tumultuous thoughts and feelings. He reaches the bus stop. He leans on a tree, on the shadowed side, hiding in the low lighting. He toes at the crack in the sidewalk absentmindedly. Mostly thinking of what his father said to him.

It was selfish thing he had done. He can see that. But he had done it for Sam too. And he had done it for selfish reasons FOR Sam. Sam didn't know what was good for him, he was NINE. But his dad was right, he couldn't keep Sam from hunting JUST BECAUSE it was right. You had do things in this life, uncomfortable things. Everyone had to bite the bullet and just fight on. Sam did have to learn this, and it was a beautiful thing that Sam's heart was ready to sacrifice for the good of others.

It didn't mean that Dean had to like, or that, even though Sam thought it was, it wasn't a skip down the yellow brick road. Dean supposed his fears and nerves could be used for the best. They would make him more alert, and more attuned to Sam and his where abouts. Though Dean rarely had to worry about that, Sam and John were admittedly creeped out by his big brother radar.

He watches the bus pull up from his spot in the shadows. Watches a couple of college kids trip down the stairs and then a mother with her child. And then comes his Sammy, looking way too young and small to be on some shit bus by himself. He watches as his little brother hands a large overnight bag to the mother, obviously having been helping her.

Dean smiles, God, he loves that kid.

The bus' doors shut behind Sam and it pulls away. The mother waves to his little brother and walks away leaving Sam on the sidewalk by himself. Dean pushes off the tree and stalks from the shadows and into the circle of light from the street light with Sam. His little brothers gasps a little surprised breath, as he turns around to find his big brother so close. He should be used to Dean's silent, tiger-like habits by now.

"Hiya Sammy." He half mumbles. Not breaking the general silence of the street, as ever not too eager to draw attention to himself or Sam. He takes in the sparkle in his little brother's eyes, the general excitement and confidence. It's a new look on his down to earth sibling, different, good different.

Dean gives Sam the fond, indulgent smile he's expecting.

"Hey Dean." He returns, equally quiet. Sam might be a hunter yet, but he'd been raised by two to be one.

Dean reaches out a hand for Sam's back pack. The little brother relinquishes it to his big brother. He buries his cold hands in his pockets as Dean throws the pack over his shoulder. Sam matches his steps to Dean's, they slowly stroll their way down the street. Dean's in no rush to get back to the room.

Attuned to each other as ever, Sam feels the relaxed pace, but also the tension in his brother's eyes and between his shoulders.

"Dad good?" He asks, just in case.

Dean nods, "Yeah he's fine, just thought I'd come get you myself."

Sam nods, that's no surprise. He's too young for it to make him feel anything but loved (being babysat), but old enough to know something has taken place between the oldest Winchesters. John had said HE would pick him up, and that Dean was anxious to see him, all that was normal.

However as he watches his big brother, he sees something new there. There is the expected loving glint, the soft smile, the helping hand that takes the back pack from his aching shoulder. But Sam knows discomfort in his brother when he sees it. He can read between the lines like a pro. JOHN called him, JOHN instructed him where to go, JOHN said he would pick him up...and DEAN was anxious to see him?

Sam's not an idiot. And he knows what it feels like to be forced into something by John Winchester. He wants to hunt, but he also knows if he didn't want to, he still would be once John got it in his mind. Looking at his brother, he knows something has gone down. But he thought Dean was vouching for him hunting. THOUGHT.

Now watching the quiet, thoughtful way Dean is leading him towards the motel, he's certain things are not as they seemed. His brother is kicking a stone down the sidewalk, for once taking his time to do something. Seemingly enjoying being out in the OPEN in the dead of night.

"You didn't want me to come, did you?" He questions softly.

Dean looks at him sharply, but takes his time answering, toeing the rock around the cement for a minute before sending it flying into a drain.

Sam smiles.

"Score."

Dean smiles too.

"What makes you say that?" He brother questions, sighing as they start up their slow pace again.

"You and dad have obviously fought," Sam says matter-of-factly. "Dad won, of course," Sam smirks, and Dean sends him a sour look, absolving into a bitter smile.

"Dad won so...he wanted me to come. Which means, you must have NOT wanted me to come." Sam cocks an eyebrow at Dean, and sends him as much as a wry smile as nine year old can.

"It's not that I don't want you here, Sammy." Dean starts, "Its just..."

"I now you don't think I'm ready..." Sam gushes, "...but I am Dean, I'll show you, you'll be so pr..."

"Woah tiger," Dean chuckles placing a hand on his arm. "It's not that I don't think you're ready either, it's just..." Dean stops walking all together and looks around miserably before looking down his little brother's big, questioning, soulful eyes, which are reflecting the street lights.

"I don't want to see you hurt, Sammy." He says sounding desperate, running a hand through his hair. "I can't see you hurt and..." He takes a deep breath.

"Dean," Sam says gently, stepping up close to him. "People get hurt, good people, we have to do something about that. Even the best of hunters get killed, get hurt. You can't protect me from everything."

Dean huffs a laugh, looking away from his little brother and waiting for the dampness to leave his eyes.

"So you never even asked dad?" Sam's asks, sounding like he already knew the answer.

Dean gives a dry laugh, "Dad told you?"

Sam chuckles, the childish sound pulling a smile from Dean. "No, but it kinda felt like convincing you more than dad."

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean says looking down, "I just..."

Sam shrugs, showing some wisdom for his age, "In your shoes Dean, I can't honestly say what I would have done either. I love you." He wraps is little, gangly arms around Dean's middle, resting his forehead on Dean's chest.

Dean sighs deeply wrapping one arm around Sam's shoulders and the other around his head, cradling it against his chest. "Love you too, Sammy."

Sam smiles against his brother's jacket.

"If your done sulking around out here, can we go inside now? I'm about to freeze."

Dean cuffs him in the back of his head, ruffling his hair and pushing him away fondly, "I'm not sulking." He defends, picking up his pace at the thought of Sam being cold.

"Yes, you are." Sam says, he laughs, "Dude, dad's not gonna magically disappear or something."

"Whatever," Dean huffs, "Let's go right now, c'mon, it wasn't even that bad of a fight."

"Whatever," Sam repeats his brother, smiling as he wraps his arms around one of Dean's and thrusting his hands down into Dean's pocket along side his own hand. "You're so warm." He nearly hums.

Dean laughs, "C'mon, let's go get you inside and warmed up."

...

Beside him Sam's breaths have evened out. Dean pulls the covers up higher around his chin, rubs a foot along Sam's little ones at the end of the bed to test their temperature. He smiles when Sam kicks his cold toes away in his sleep, whimpering at Dean's chilled appendages. He snuffles into his pillow, burrowing down deeper in its soft depths. A hand creeps to press against his big brother's side to insure Dean's still beside him.

Dean sighs as his little brother's fingers tangle in his shirt. It's a sweet gesture, one that Dean loves, one he looks forward to when they share a bed. He remembers his father's words and he knows he can't be Sam's security blanket for ever. He knows he can't always be there, he can't always stay with Sam. Sam can't always drag him around. (Though Dean doesn't really mind.)

He gently detaches himself from Sam's sleepy grasp and sits up looking down on him. The lights dancing over his smooth, white skin. The way he turns towards Dean as he shifts the bed with sitting up. Dean pushes his bangs from his eyes and back, the love he has for Sam fills his heart with an ache. He bites the side of his mouth to ground him and frighten away the tears and panic rising in his throat.

He slips from the bed, he and Sam are now sharing, and to the floor. Elbows on his knees, he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. He sighs, that helpless feeling of being forced to accept something you disagree with rankling in his stomach. This wasn't the way he imagined things, wasn't the way he wanted them to be. But he knew he is powerless to change it, to stop it.

He reaches for the bottle he had stashed under the bed early, quietly opening it, he presses it to his lips as he leans against the bed, letting his head fall back. The warmth and sting are welcome sensations to his strangely numb body. He smacks his lips quietly and sighs, finally something he wants to feel flooding his nerves.

Warmth.

Control. He controls how much he drinks.

The burn. He chooses to feel this pain, he likes it.

Everything else is out of his hands, Sam is out of his hands now, and it makes his stomach roll in trepidation. He tosses back more liquor, gazing at the ceiling and watching the lights from cars passing my outside dance over it occasionally. But no matter how much he drinks, or how much he likes the burning pain of it washing down his throat, tomorrow is still rushing towards him, uncontrolled.

tbc...

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