The door opened, and recognition penetrated the numb shock that had curled around Dean's brain like a wad of cotton. He could see that same recognition flash across Sam's face, as well – Sam, hair a little longer and more unruly, shoulders wider, and somehow more self-assured than Dean remembered him.
"Dean?" Sam asked in disbelief. "How…what are you doing here?"
Dean took a breath. It hurt. It was incredible how everything could hurt when life dealt a blow like this. "It's – it's Dad. He…hasn't been home in a few days."
"That's not exactly new," Sam said, a hint of bitterness coloring his words.
Dean shook his head. That hurt, too. "No. He's – things changed after you left. He doesn't go off anymore. Barely leaves his chair. And he – I got home and he was just – just gone."
Sam continued to stare. "Did you call the cops?"
Dean let out a single exhalation that could have been a laugh. "You think the cops looked that hard for him?"
As though just realizing he was keeping his brother out in the cold, Sam stepped aside to let Dean into the apartment. Dean stared blankly for a moment before taking a step inside.
It was warm, not just in temperature but in atmosphere. There was a permanence to it, a lived-in feeling that made the hair on the back of Dean's neck prickle. It made him somehow edgy, like a caged animal.
"Why did you come?" Sam asked as he shut the front door. "Why not just call?"
Dean spun in place. Maybe Sam was joking – but no. Genuine puzzlement shone honestly on his face. "You're family," Dean managed. "All I've got left."
Sam opened his mouth as though to say something, then closed it in irritation as he took a deep breath through his nose. "Dean, we – we haven't even spoken in, like, four years. I don't even want to know what you've been doing all this time, but – I don't want a part of it."
The numbness should have been a barrier to the fresh wave of pain those words wrought, but Dean was quickly discovering that his comforting world of 'should haves' was dissipating around him like a castle of sand beset by the surf. "Dad's probably dead," he said pointedly.
"He's been dead for a while, to me," Sam said forcefully. "And – and you, too." He gestured. "This – this is me, and my life, and whatever you've been doing with yourself since I left doesn't belong here. Okay?"
"Sammy," Dean began, but Sam shook his head.
"Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old who didn't have the sense to try and get out of a bad situation," he said mercilessly.
"Sammy is my brother," Dean shot back, "who I haven't seen for four years and is the only thing I have left because our father is gone and let me be honest with you: I'm not handling it very well."
Sam looked taken aback, jaw slack as he locked eyes with Dean. Dean grit his teeth and let the seconds crawl past until movement at the corner of his eye made him whip his head around.
"Jess," Sam said, gesturing helplessly to Dean. "This is my brother, Dean." He glanced back at Dean, four years' worth of peace offering in his eyes. "He's…going to be staying with us for a little while."