Author's Note: Thank you all for your lovely reviews and your patience. This is another long one...What's the vote? Would y'all prefer shorter chapters? And to my support team – you know who you are – thanks a million. I haven't lost sight of where we're going it's just taking longer than I thought. Sam gets a turn next, I promise. I hope this chapter rings (at least) mostly true. Please read. Please Review.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Five

The power of hiding ourselves from one another is mercifully given, for men are wild beasts, and would devour one another but for this protection. – Henry Ward Beecher

Dean was warm now, and he paused under another sycamore, using the tree to stretch. Triceps, shoulders, calves, quads, hamstrings. While he always had to work the kinks out before be started moving, years of drills by both his father and various coaches kept him from running in earnest without a prep jog of a couple miles. After that came this – the real stretching. Pushing his heated muscles, willing them to lengthen and loosen.

He held the last stretch with his eyes closed, listening and breathing. The air around him pulsated with life – the way it does between Spring and Summer, when growing things are young and moving and their energy seems to touch you as physically as brushing fingertips.

Dean felt himself softening, layer by layer. The tightness that allowed him to fight and control and not weep every day even though he couldn't rest, releasing. The door easing open, allowing access to the place he kept himself when there wasn't room in the Hunt to hold it. And he began to run, really.

Starting to run again, the decision to do it, hadn't come easily. His gut knew he needed it – for a dozen reasons, but logically, he worried. Before, running had been about letting go. Letting the hunter and the child fuse and reconcile. Now, years of holding on came and went and he wondered if it would bring balance, or throw him off the cliff which seemed to loom just ahead in his tightrope-life.

The first few times out were anti-climactic. Waiting to fall apart, to prove that he couldn't have a moment of humanity, that there was too much pain in his soul to live through actually feeling it. That there would never be any kind of "normal" unburdening, as long as his father and brother needed him for deliverance. Even when they didn't see it themselves. So the running served to keep Dean bound and sane – mostly – enough decompression to keep going and just short of enough to emotionally annihilate him.

When he finally found out why Sammy had cut him off, there hadn't been enough pavement in the world to drive the fury out of him, and he loved the Impala too much to get behind the wheel if he was bleeding to death – literally or figuratively. The run that day had saved his life.

He sensed it building, coming to a head. He didn't know what it was, but in the past two weeks, Sam – if this was possible – was both more withdrawn and more aggressive at the same time. If something didn't give soon – and it wasn't gonna be Dad – paying Hell would be getting off easy.

Dean had been out late, and he woke to what was now the usual sound of Sam and Dad seething at one another. They'd taken to attempting this bizarre, hushed feuding. Sam had told him they were just trying to be considerate and let him sleep – but he wasn't born yesterday. They were practically ready to kill one another and if it came down to it, neither wanted Dean to get in the way.

"You know, some day I'd like a chance to wake up on the right side of the bed." He muttered to himself, pulling the pillow from under his head and covering his face with it. On cue, the volume in the living room rose. Dean took a deep breath and with a groan he sat up, the cool, cracking linoleum causing his toes to curl. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, listening to the words now, not just the discord.

"For cryin' out loud kid, if you hate me so much, if you hate this life, then don't let me keep you!" John bellowed.

"You'd like that wouldn't you Dad, no more baby Sammy to haul around, and oh, best of all, nobody to call you on your same old lame excuses for always, always giving your sons the short end of the stick." Sam hollered back.

Dean pulled a t-shirt on and headed for the bathroom. "Sam's got a nice bass voice when he opens up those lungs." he thought idly, turning the sink on and letting the water warm.

"Don't bring your brother into this, Sam – this is between you and me! Dean's never had a problem with the way I run this family. He trusts me and I just don't understand why you won't do the same –"

"Trust you? You want me to trust you? It's hard to trust someone who doesn't think about anyone but himself, Dad. When was the last time you seriously considered how I feel about anything other than a drive-through menu?" Sam stormed.

"Hey, you want Arby's instead of McDonalds? We can do that without this kind of disrespect, son." cracked John with biting sarcasm. "What exactly does that have to do with you fighting me on everything from how many bullets to bring on a hunt, to how many days of school you're willing to miss when your brother and I need you to watch our backs?"

Dean cringed, stowing the razor in his bag and considering his hair in the mirror. "I thought you suggested leaving me out of this, Dad – Sammy's not gonna let that one pass…" he sighed. None of this was new, and if it wasn't so depressing, he'd laugh that they hadn't learned. They fell for each other's button-pushing bait every time. Then Sam's voice came quietly and stone cold.

"Would you listen to yourself? 'Watch our backs'. This is a crazy way to live, Dad. It's sick and it's crazy and I'm not going to do it anymore. Not for you – not even for Dean."

"You don't have a choice! You're a part of this family, and this family will not rest until – until –" John faltered in his ferocity. "What about your mother, Sam? Are you gonna walk out on her too?"

Dean drew in a breath as though he'd been slapped. He met his own eyes in the mirror and then dropped his hands forward to the basin in front of him, bracing himself against the sudden nausea that came with his father's words and his brother's before that. In his mind, he could see the expression on Sammy's face – the "how could you" look, that showed the fight inside between his misery and wrath and self-control. Sam was speaking again, nearly a whisper now.

"The guilt won't work this time, Dad. I've made up my mind. I'm getting out. I'm going to college."

Without realizing it Dean had moved to lean against the thin, hollow door between his bedroom and the living room. His gut twisted as he heard his brother's voice, pleading to be understood – pleading to be pardoned.

This was it then, the secret his brother kept from him. The Thing that had driven a wedge where Dean had believed it impossible for anything or anyone – including the devil himself – to drive a wedge. Looking back he could see it starting; the fretting, the insecurity, the grousing and petulance. The rebellion. And he cursed himself when he realized that everything he'd given Sam – which had been everything Dean had and all he could steal – was not enough.

Vertigo gripped him as his galaxy somersaulted and it occurred to him that he must be dying – nothing else could hurt this much. Then his father's voice rang out. Clear and deadly calm and scarier than almost anything Dean had heard in his life.

"Then. Go. I. Dare. You."

"Dad –"

"For all your book smarts, you never had the sense God gave a rabbit. I dare you to leave – you won't last a day without your family, Sammy." John snarled the nickname. "Go. And don't come back." The sound of the front door opening roughly and then, "If you don't need us then you can be cocksure we don't need you."

The slam shook the unsubstantial house, and hearing the creak of the sofa Dean could almost see his brother's lean frame collapse upon it. He stood behind the door – only a few feet away, but too far – frozen between wanting to make it better for Sammy and the intensity of his own grief.

Pausing at an intersection for a couple of cars, Dean kept moving, and he glanced at his watch. It wasn't like he had anywhere to be or anyone waiting up for him – he'd trained his family well – but this run was based on need rather than an actual desire to be out and about. His father's indoctrination of preparation applied to more than just cleaning guns. Dean ran because he knew it kept his edge sharp – he was a better hunter because of it, mentally and physically. He ran because it kept him alive, or at least that was how he justified taking this time for himself.

He crossed the street, averting his eyes as he passed porch lights and bright windows. Tonight, he'd rather be "home" (with Sam), watching television or doing research, comfortable in the space and silence that they usually shared. He became aware of the tension in his shoulders and made a conscious attempt to let it drift away. Dean Winchester prided himself on his ability to control his temper and to make that control look easy and nonchalant.

Yet after the strain of this last hunt he'd been about ready to snap in two and so he'd started the con by playing with the waitress. Underestimating his brother's own level of burnout and therefore patience with what he considered Dean's licentiousness. Sam pounced, Dean smacked him back.

Now instead of heading out for a quick run and then coming home in time for microwave popcorn and the midnight movie – sweaty, full of a convincing amount of smirk and smart mouth and comments that reflected less than virtuously on his supposed female companion – Dean had to stay out late enough that Sam would at least be pretending to sleep.

The first time he'd used a woman as a lie, it was uncalculated. The leaves had begun to turn and as usual, Sam and Dad fought constantly when school started. For John it was the anticipation of November and the advent of his wife's death – he always got crazy this time of year. For Sammy, it had to do with trying to study by flashlight in the back of the Impala and having tons of extra credit work in order to make up for assignments missed by absences that you couldn't just … explain to a teacher.

At seventeen, Sam had decided to go for outright hostility when it came to dealing with his father, and their second hunt of the season resulted in broken wrist because he'd refused to lock the car door when Dean and John went looking for a pair of restless trolls. Even when they didn't technically need his help these days, John's punishment of his second son's attitude was to make him come on every hunt "to keep the car warm".

The trolls had found the lone young hunter and done some real damage before his brother and father managed to circle back and dispatch them. For what was, at the time, an unknown reason – Dean figured it was a combination of stress, self-reproach and sheer anger – John had become pretty paranoid, and life had gotten more miserable than usual.

By Christmas, their father barely let either of them shower by themselves. John had given way to major over protectiveness – "pitfall phobia" as Dean thought of it – occasionally in the past, but never to this extent. With current perspective, he knew that his Dad had received independent warnings from several of his friends and there was good reason to worry. At the time though, Dean had been fed up.

They'd argued, rare for father and eldest son. Dean was in disbelief that he couldn't go for a run, alone, like he'd been doing for the past six weeks without someone coming along to spot possible supernatural stalkers. He was twenty-two for crying out loud, and he didn't need a babysitter. As frustrated as he was, he could only bring himself to openly oppose his father to a point. Dean backed down and took his grievances out on a makeshift punching bag bolted to the ceiling of their current rental shack.

A week and a married couple of restless spirits later, Sam had been hurt again – badly enough for three days in the hospital and almost two weeks out of school. Sam with a concussion that left him unconscious for seventeen hours meant Dean out of his mind. He kept himself together because he wouldn't leave Sammy, but he was between a rock and a hard place. He needed to run, needed to relieve some of the pressure… but disobeying his father outright wasn't something Dean knew how to do then.

John had been half-way to hysteria about Sam – he'd been goaded into splitting up that night and letting Sam check the attic by himself. While he'd never say the words, Dean knew his father blamed himself for his youngest son's mauling. When they brought Sammy home from the hospital, Dad was practically downright tender with him.

Then a strange thing had happened. Sam went back to school, and John still made Dean go both ways with him – the seemingly irrational safety concerns hadn't eased. After two days back at school, Sammy came home with a request. He'd passed it by Dean as they drove back to the house and Dean remembered saying something about there being a snowball's chance… John wasn't going to let Sammy go to Melissa's house to study, alone. And then their father looked at his high school senior son – tenderly – and said yes. Dean had been beyond stunned, and then he'd been hurt - the baby brother could go out alone and the big brotehr had to stay home with daddy? Then he'd steeled himself to let it go, but he kept onthinking.

Two nights later, he decided he was done sitting around andhe'd told his Dad he was going out. John wanted to know why and where and follow along, and Sammy had jumped on that bandwagon faster than a speeding bullet. Dean looked from one to the other – he hadn't anticipated they'd team up – and with his stomach moving like a fish on the line, said the first thing that came to mind. He said he had a date. The looks on their faces had been beyond price and Dean grinned even now at the thought. He had realized then that, not for the first time, his mouth had moved faster thanhis brainand the deal had turned out better for it.

His family clearly hadn't contemplated; at least not recently, that Dean might want/need/have a life outside of them. And it certainly hadn't occurred to them that it involved romantic relationships – short or long term. John and Sam were caught so off guard (surprising for a pair of hunters), that Dean walked out the door and drove away without another protest from either of them. It hurt to be obviously thought of as a piece of Winchester… furniture. Always there, no requests. Personification ignored for what it was unless it was needed - and yet the relief at his escape salved offense and conscience.

The first time he'd used a woman as a lie, it was uncalculated. But it worked so well, he saw no reason to change the con. From then 'til now, Dean dedicated a considerable amount of time and talent to the inflation of this act and he was positive that neither his father nor his brother had a clue. As far as they were concerned, Dean was all action, all the time. He partied late, came home early (in the morning), and spent the hours in between with whatever lovely lady he could reel in with his Winchester Charm. They swallowed it whole.

Granted, he liked women, and it wasn't like he never went on an actual date… but the women he spent time with were not the ones Sam and John saw him leering at and leading on. The ones he actually wanted to be with weren't won like that. Not even close in pattern or essence.

He tried not to let it bother him that as his family or even as well-trained hunters, they couldn't see through the guise. Yet he still had to push away the wound that opened every time they fell for it – Sammy especially. It ached to have his little brother believe in a weakness that didn't exist. Hero-worship had always been a underlying thread in their brotherhood (both ways, though Sam didn't know it), and this pretended life tainted that. He toyed with the idea every time he gave a waitress that heartbreaker grin while Sam watched. He'd thought about it this time as he tempted Nikki with the Magnificent Smile (as Sammy called it). And then there were the frequent and discomfiting moments – like tonight – when to keep it all looking right he had to defend his own ridiculous behavior. Could he really continue this indefinitely? Like killing, the lies came easier, but he hated that they did.

Dean could no longer count the times he's used women as lies. To run, or breathe, or be. It seemed like such a stupid thing to be deceitful about, when he let himself wonder at the wisdom of it. But the thought of coming clean, of admitting his secret life – albeit one that was a far sight more honorable than the one they thought he lived now – seemed an unworkable problem. He'd been false too long to feel comfortable displaying the truth.

And some part of him… some part of him rejoiced that in the close quarters of the Hunt, the life he lived behind the mask of Romeo was his own. He was real and himself and he couldn't face losing what he knew his family couldn't give. Permission to be more than a vigilant warrior and a faithful protector. Permission to rest or be radiant as he chose – permission to choose.