Tomorrow began with a half-awake trek to the kitchen to find the coffee already brewed and a folded piece of paper on the table with his name on it weighted down with a cell phone. A fully-awake run for the bedroom revealed that Sam had repacked everything and left (though not before making the bed with military corners). Dean cursed all the way back to the table, wishing he had something to break.

Dear Dean, the letter began, I'm sorry for leaving like this but I realized I don't know how to explain anything without explaining everything and I can't bring myself to do that. You have a good life here, or at least a safe, normal one, and one of us should have that. You always took care of me when we were growing up and I guess it's my turn.

A few words of advice that might not make any sense: Stay in Arizona. It's a safe place, and you don't really have a reason to believe that but please believe me. Learn to shoot— you were really good before, and I bet your muscle memory will serve you well here. Go to school— you're really smart, Dean, you can be so much more than a car mechanic. Get a degree in something.

Your name is Dean Winchester, but it would be safer to stay Dean Barrow. You were born January 24th, 1979 to John and Mary Winchester. I was born four years later on May 2nd. Your favorite band is Led Zeppelin. Your favorite color is either dark blue or camo green. Your favorite food is a burger with everything on it, but I'm proud of the green stuff in your fridge. Keep that up.

The tattoo is important. Keep it.

You were the best brother a man could ask for, and I'm glad that you're getting out. It's a pretty terrible life, Dean, and it's going to suck doing it on my own but I'll feel better knowing you're out of it. If you need anything at all— I mean ANYTHING —call me with the cell phone I left. It has my number in it. If it's safe, I'll text you sometimes. I switch cell phones a lot, but I'll keep you updated with my number.

Please don't be angry. I guess you'll be angry and that's completely justified but just know that I'm doing the best I can. PLEASE DON'T INVESTIGATE. If you start poking around, there are people who might recognize you and then God only knows what will happen.

If I was in person you'd never let me say this, but I love you, man. Take care of yourself, okay?

Stay safe,

Your brother, Sam

You're allergic to cats but nothing else I know of. Don't drink. The Impala is technically yours but I need it and I'm taking good care of it (I swear the shape it was in when I almost drove into your garage isn't the norm). You had a few steady girlfriends but I don't think you ever thought about marrying them. Enjoy the little things. OH MY GOD YOU LOVE PIE. I can't believe I almost forgot to add that. I won't be so cliché as to say 'burn this after reading it' but it would probably be better to keep this out of sight, since your real name and birthday are in here. I'm being paranoid, which is part of the job. I'm sorry it's like this. I wish it could be different.

"So do I, Sam," Dean muttered, crumpling the letter and throwing it viciously into his trash can. "So do I."

That night he got up after an hour of tossing and turning and retrieved the letter. He smoothed it out on his mattress and read it again by his bedside lamp, trying to extract information between the lines of clear, mostly-even handwriting.

He tried to picture it, Sam sitting at the dining room table or, more probably, shoving the lamp to one side to use the bedside table. Tapping the pen against his lower lip, picking his words carefully, trying to pick words that were 'safe.' There were still so many gaping holes.

Paranoia, firearms, and burner cell phones part of 'the job,' school not so much if he didn't get a degree before. Four uses of 'safe,' several more oblique references to safety (PLEASE DON'T INVESTIGATE). A pervasive air of urgency, the letters starting to crowd at the end, the lines becoming uneven. One mention of their parents, one reference to Dean being the caretaker when Sam was growing up— what happened to their parents? Dead? Left? Practically nothing else about Sam. Birthday, in Dean's care, and the anxiety he could read in the unconsciously emphasized words where Sam pressed the pen down harder, words like 'Arizona' and 'important' and most of the 'please's.

He read it over again, and discovered to his surprise that he'd memorized it. Then again, there wasn't really that much to memorize.

He left the letter on the bedside table, stared at the cell phone for a few minutes, then turned out the light and tried to sleep.

::You're a real son of a bitch.: he typed out a half hour later. ::Nice work, Houdini.:

The phone stayed silent long enough for him to fall asleep accidentally.

:It's a skill.:: was the entirety of the reply he read the next morning. Sam had sent it at three in the morning. He wondered where he was and what he'd been doing awake.

::When do you sleep? Are you nocturnal?:

His phone chimed as he was locking the front door. :Not nocturnal as such, no.::

The rest of the day was different than normal, filled at odd moments with the chime of his phone. Jason looked at him strangely the first time. "Is that you? When did you get a phone?"

"Yeah, uh… yesterday." :Yeah, I said technically. Technically, the car is yours. But possession is nine-tenths of the law, you know.::

"Did what's-his-name actually leave last night?"

"Sam," Dean informed him absently. "And yeah." ::And you can't go 'possess' a different car?:

"Why?"

Dean looked up from the phone. "Huh?"

"Why'd he leave? Did he remember?" Jason leaned over his work table, eyes alight with possibilities. "He remembered, didn't he? Did he say who shot him?"

Dean blinked, trying to sort out how best to answer. "No, he didn't remember," he lied slowly, "or at least if he did, he didn't tell me. He, uh, left a note that didn't make much sense. Something about 'finding himself.'" He rolled his eyes. "Can you believe that?"

To his relief, Jason looked disappointed and dropped the topic. He picked up another bad one when Dean's phone chimed again. "Dude, please tell me that's Heather."

:No.:: "Heather and I aren't 'in a relationship,' Jason," he reminded shortly, utilizing air quotes.

Jason groaned. "Get out while you still can."

:Okay, smart guy, you win. I have to turn my phone off for a while, so I'll text you back when I can, okay? Good luck with Heather.::

Dean frowned at the phone screen as the timestamp changed to say "4 days ago." Clearly we have different definitions of 'a while.'

Heather appeared in the doorway, makeup brush in hand. "Are you getting ready or what?"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry." He pocketed the phone and walked over to the mirror to fix his collar.

"Hasn't texted back yet, huh?"

He couldn't decipher her tone, so he said as neutrally as possible, "Nope."

"Are you worried about him?"

He paused in the midst of figuring out the tie and couldn't keep back a breath of incredulous laughter. "Uh, what?"

Heather reappeared. "I didn't mumble, Dean." She looked… intense. Not angry, perhaps a little puzzled, and definitely intent on his answer.

"Um…" Shit, what's the right answer? "Yeah, I guess. I mean, he left before the doctor…" Heather had frowned, then smiled, then frowned again. "What?"

"I'm trying to decide how I feel about that," Heather said, going back to the mirror.

Dean undid his mixed progress with the tie and started over. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Heather said nothing for a long moment. He heard her sigh. "Dean, do you even realize—" She stopped, then came into the doorway again. She looked like she was trying to decide whether to be angry or sad. "How long have we known each other?"

He felt himself bracing for another argument and avoided eye contact. "Three months."

"And are you aware, Dean, that in that whole time, you haven't given a damn about me? Oh, I know," she held up a hand to forestall his objection. "I know, and I'm not saying you've been a bad… You haven't been a boyfriend, Dean. Not the way I define boyfriend. I'm not saying you've been cold, or mean, or anything, you just…" She shrugged. "I don't know, Dean, but it's like… You never really committed. It's like you're waiting."

"Waiting for what?" His voice came out sharper than he intended.

A faint smile just tipped up the corners of her mouth. "I was talking about a 'whom.'"

Dean's brain blanked on a response, so he said nothing. Their fancy dinner was nearly silent, and when she left Heather kissed his forehead, smiled encouragingly, and said, "Go get him, tiger."

"I… He's…" Dean subsided, feeling hot and embarrassed but also unwilling to explain everything. He smiled tightly. "Thanks."

His phone chimed on the way home and he nearly hit a tree swerving off the road.

:So howd it go?::

::You define a while as four days?:

:That good huh?::

::Dammit, Sam! Are you alright?:

:Im fine.::

Dean sighed heavily, massaged the bridge of his nose, and decided not to press it. ::Yeah, sure, which is why you didn't contact me for four days, and it takes you two minutes to text three words. Without apostrophes. Heather and I broke up.:

:Im sorry dean.::

Whatever, man, she thinks I'm gay for you. He suppressed a shudder. ::It's no big. We weren't serious.:

:Ill ttyl, i gotta sleep.::

::Okay, Sam.: The uneasiness in his stomach roiled a little, reasserting its presence. ::Take care of yourself.:

:Thats my line.::

Sam got gradually more verbose over the next few days, returning apostrophes and capital letters a linguistic marker of his improving health. Their texts back in forth slowed down in number and became more spread out.

Dean tried to keep the questions about the nebulous 'before' short and only asked one or two a day, guessing it had to be painful for Sam to answer. Sometimes the answer was obviously edited. Sometimes the silence went on for so long he'd apologize and ask something else. Rarely, he'd get several texts expounding a particular story or personal quirk.

:Im gonna harass you now.:: Sam announced one evening. :What time is it there?::

Dean glanced at the clock. ::5:45. Why, what time is it for you?:

:7:49. Indiana is borrring. Should I start a bar fight?::

Dean stared at his phone's screen for a long moment, wondering whether he should be worried or not. ::Didn't you just get out of the hospital?:

:Week and ahalf ago. But maybe you're right.::

::You start bar fights often?: Dean tried to imagine the quiet, emotional Sam slugging it out a week and a half after getting out of the hospital (why, he wouldn't specify) and started worrying anyway.

:Not so muchj. If you're wondering, you didn't either. They kind of happende around you sometimes, though. And I'm getting kind of drunk.::

::Any particular reason?:

:Idunno, just felt like being stupid myabe?::

::Well, don't.:

Two hours later he was trying to convince himself that worrying about Sam was stupid. Whatever he was doing, he could handle himself.

Unless he can't, a voice in the back of his head kept whispering. Unless he's injured and angry and hurt and too drunk to be smart. His phone chimed and he nearly dislocated his shoulder flipping over to grab it.

:Whhy arent yuo here?::

::Are you still drinking?:

The reply took several minutes. :Sorta, i bouggt some ofdads favrotie bac kto trh motel. Whu arent yuo here? We shloud be mathcingbeers like before::

::I'm not going to talk to you when you're drunk, Sam. Call me when you're sober.:

Dean turned off his phone, feeling like he was making a mistake.

When he turned it back on at midnight after another hour of tossing and turning, Sam had texted him only once more.

:Iknoww hat you meant nowwhen yuosaid you didnt wannnto do this alone. I don;t want todo thiss aline eithre..::

He shut it off again.

The next morning when Dean turned his phone on he had a voicemail and a text that said :Ignore the voicemail.::

He didn't play it, but he didn't delete it.

Sam didn't text for three days. Dean didn't feel like breaking the silence.

Everyone seemed to give him a wide berth and he was okay with that. He didn't want to talk to anyone anyway.

The fourth day, a package came for him in the mail: a small box, no return address, but according to the postmark mailed from New Haven, CT. Inside a pocket of bubble wrap he found a flattish, roundish grey rock about two inches at its widest point, two smooth holes worn through it. It had been made into a bracelet with the help of red and brown leather cords wrapped around each other and strung through the holes. Found this hag stone at Lighthouse Point Park, the note read in familiar, even handwriting. They're supposed to be good luck, so I bought some leather and made it into a bracelet for you. I don't know if you're looking into college but I can help pay for it if you can't find the right scholarships. I'm sorry about the drunk texting. I don't intend to make that a habit. ~Sam

"Make what a habit, Sammy?" Dean muttered, popping the bubble wrap and tearing up the cardboard box. "The drinking or the letting me know you're drinking?"

The bracelet fit perfectly.

A/N: A few notes:

1. I forgot that ff dotnet is dumb with arrows so when you see ::words words: that's Dean texting and when you see :words words:: that's Sam texting. If it helps, I think of it as outgoing/incoming arrows. Sort of. IDK.
2. Dean's favorite band is basically the only canon up there; favorite colors, for instance, are a complete shot in the dark. The only reason Sam said a burger was his favorite food and not pie was cos he was thinking of entrees in light of the salad fixings in Dean's fridge.
3. The voicemail will be relevant in the sequel. (Hopefully.)
4. If I cared enough I would have edited the part where Sam starts drunk-texting to reflect the fact that he's doing it because he's alone and it's Christmas. Yeah. But I apparently don't care enough. ::shrug::