Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The entire damn day had been weird. For one thing, Dad hadn't argued with him once. Not even when Sam had known that he was oh so wrong about the translation. Even Dean, hater of everything that involved studying Latin, had given Sam, and then Dad, a look of incredulity. But Dad hadn't disagreed, had said it was fine. And he hadn't been drunk or engrossed in something else. He'd even tried to smile at Sam, and that had just been wrong. Obviously, their dad had been replaced by a pod person who was going to eat them when they weren't looking.

So it was for his own self-preservation that Sam Winchester was crouched on the stairs of Bobby's house, unrepentantly listening into the conversation between their host and his dad. They'd been too quiet to hear until Bobby had gotten angry, and now they were both pissed off. Nothing new.

Their argument didn't make any sense, though. None that Sam could think of.

“You can't do this to them, John. It's inhumane.”

“You don't understand,” his dad said. “It's not a maybe, or a possibly going to happen: I know what happens, Bobby. I know how this goes down. And this is the only way I can think of to stop it without shooting one of them.”

Sam's eyebrows rose. Shooting someone? Had someone been turned into a werewolf? God, Dean would love that.

Except Dad wouldn't hesitate to shoot a werewolf, no matter whether it was human or not. He shifted uneasily on the stairs, careful to avoid the place where one of the steps creaked. For some reason, he couldn't shake the stirrings of wrongness in his gut.

“You don't know jack, only what some supposed 'angel' told you,” Bobby snarled, and Sam barely refrained from falling down the stairs. An angel. Holy shit. Dad said they weren't real, Dean refused to entertain the thought but an angel. He prayed most every night, but it had turned habit, almost. To think that they were real...God, what he'd do to talk to one of them for just, just a minute...

“I saw it,” his dad insisted. “I know what he does. I'd already figured out what had happened with Mary but...but I hoped that keeping him close would stop anything the supernatural had in mind for him. But seeing that future, Bobby, it doesn't do a damn lick of good. No. This is the best way to make sure it never happens.”

“You're a fool.”

“I'm saving the world.”

“You can't separate your boys!”

Sam's indrawn gasp was too loud. Or would've been, if a hand hadn't suddenly slapped over his mouth to catch it. Sam's head whipped to the side where Dean was crouching next to him on the stairs above, finger to his lips. His eyes were as wide as Sam's, though, and he looked every bit as stunned and scared as Sam felt.

The hell did he mean, separate?

“I can and I will,” Dad said firmly. “Tomorrow morning, I'll ask Dean to help me on a hunt, and we'll leave Sam here, same as we always do.”

“Think he'll get pretty suspicious that you and his brother don't come back,” Bobby said sarcastically.

“Too bad, I don't really care. Given what happens to him and Dean in the future, this is the better alternative. Besides, he's never liked moving around much. He'll make roots here.”

Sam felt like he was swaying on the stairs, shock still coursing through his system. They were going to leave him behind, what, permanently? Forever?

“Dean doesn't really like it anymore than Sam does,” Bobby said. Ever the brutally honest man, at least, and it was a small relief to know someone was on their side. “And what happens if I don't decide to let Sam stay here?”

“Then he'll make a life for himself somewhere else,” their dad said stubbornly. “He's a big boy.”

“He's fifteen, John!”

“Old enough to handle himself. He doesn't need me or Dean.”

This time, it was Sam who clapped his hand over Dean's mouth before his brother made their presence known. Dean looked downright furious, and for the first time, Sam actually thought his brother was willing to pick a fight with their dad.

It was better to focus on that than the fact that his dad was completely okay with cutting him loose and leaving him to the mercy of the world. Abandoning him, leaving him an orphan. The stairs felt like they were swaying again.

In half a second Dean's hand were wrapped tightly around his shoulders, keeping him from tilting down the steps. Oh. Guess he really had been swaying that time.

“You're a bastard,” Bobby said, voice pitched low and dangerous. “You don't deserve to have those boys.”

“I know what happens if they stay in each other's lives. Most people split away from their siblings and their parents when they come of age,” Dad said. Solemn and serious. Completely serious about splitting them up and Sam never being able to see Dean again.

“Most people don't grow up in each other's pockets the way those two have,” Bobby argued. “You split them up now, you'll kill the both of 'em. They rely on each other to survive, John. They always have. It's been Sam and Dean against the world since your oldest was big enough to carry Sam on his own.”

“They rely too much on each other,” their dad replied. “And believe me, that's been a worry all on its own. They just...just look at each other, or say only one word, and somehow they've had an entire conversation. I've known mind readers with less accuracy than those two. But now that I know how it ends...I'd rather they die now then be at that place later.”

Sam stopped breathing, and he felt Dean freeze beside him. The living room was silent with a pregnant pause, waiting to give birth to an explosion.

He wasn't wrong. “You self-righteous, pig-headed, sonuvabitch,” Bobby seethed, and the floor creaked from his walking. “You can get the hell out of my house, right now.”

“You can't keep my boys,” Dad said, his voice equally as angry. “I have the law on my side. You toss me out now with the boys, and I'll leave Sam in the middle of somewhere and take Dean with me. It's your call.”

Sam couldn't help the small whimper that was thankfully covered by Bobby's louder swearing at their dad. It didn't matter, though. None of it mattered.

It took a minute to realize that Dean was tugging at his arm, back to the second floor. Somehow, he managed to find his feet and push himself to standing. Following Dean took every bit of strength and focus that he had, and a few minutes later they were inside the room they shared. Dean left him standing in the middle of the room to lock the door and wedge one of the room's chairs underneath the doorknob. What good that would do to keep a determined John Winchester out, Sam didn't know.

His legs threatened to give out beneath him as his mind became too heavy to carry on his own. Fortunately, that was the point where Dean noticed and dragged him over to one of the beds.

It still took him a minute to realize that Dean was kneeling in front of him, worry written across his face, and rising panic in his voice. It was like listening to him speak underwater. Shell-shocked, his mind thoughtfully supplied. You're shell-shocked. The world will come back in a minute.

The world where his dad wanted nothing to do with him, was more than happy to leave him in the middle of nowhere in order to keep Dean, his good, older son who apparently wasn't going to do something dramatic to the world in the future.

Like a rubber band that'd been pulled too hard, everything came back with a quick snap. “-me, dammit Sammy, answer me-”

“Dean?” he managed, voice choking up. Because they were going to get split up like a litter of fucking puppies all because his dad wanted to. And Dad had decided to keep the prize pup to himself.

In an instant his brother's arms were wrapped tightly around him. “I'm here,” Dean swore in his ear. Sam buried his head into the space between Dean's shoulder and neck and tried to blink back tears. “I'm here, Sammy.”

“For now,” Sam managed to get out. “Until tomorrow.” Because he knew Bobby would let them stay. Not for their dad's sake, but for his sake, and Dean's. They'd get one last sleep, and then-

And then.

“No,” Dean said firmly. Sam lifted his head and sat back, wiping at his eyes. Dean knelt before him, determined and strong and fully capable of wrecking anything he saw fit to destroy. He usually looked like that on a hunt, ready and willing to kill anything that tried to hurt Sam.

He wasn't on a hunt now. But he was completely willing to destroy the threat against Sam, even if it was their own father.

God, Dad.

“Don't,” Sam whispered. Besides the fact that Dean, though nineteen, wasn't big enough to hold a fight against their dad, Sam sure as hell couldn't. He'd shot up a couple of inches over the past few months, but nothing spectacular. He was still small, still easy to pick on and bully, and still the weakest member of the Winchester family, though only in size. No matter what their dad said, he could handle any weapon with ease, could out-translate Dean any day, and had no problem putting the pieces of a hunt together.

But it obviously wasn't good enough. Nowhere near good enough to let him come along, to not let him get split up.

Dean was either getting psychic, or he'd seen something in Sam's eyes that somehow transmitted some of his inner thoughts, because the next thing Sam knew, Dean was frantically cupping his face and leaning his forehead against Sam's. “We'll be all right,” he promised. “I'll get us out of here.” I'll keep you safe.

Sam wrapped his hands around Dean's bigger wrists and nodded against his brother's head. It was acknowledgment and trust all in one small move, but they'd never needed anything else. Who the hell needed words when you knew that your brother would rather die than watch you bleed from a shallow cut? That your brother would give up anything just to keep you safe, keep you happy?

Who needed words when your brother knew you'd do the same and anything more if he asked?

“When?” Sam asked instead. They couldn't leave now, because their dad was still awake, and bound to come up and check on them as they supposedly slept. And it couldn't be early morning, because their dad was up at the crack of dawn. Sam's eyes skittered over to the clock in the corner, heart sinking at the time. Almost midnight. Even if they left now-

God, how the hell were they supposed to get out of there at all? Bobby lived in the middle of nowhere.

A tap on his cheek brought his attention back to Dean. Once he had Sam's attention, he gave a small grin. “I'll get us out of here,” he said again. It was a promise and a threat.

For the first time since he'd heard his dad's decision, Sam felt the world even out and settle to a balance. Dean would handle it. Dean would keep him safe. His own personal mother hen, constantly keeping him from harm.

Sam had never had a mother growing up, but after meeting the moms of friends at school, he'd decided that while he'd wished he could meet his own mom, he hadn't felt like he was missing something.

He'd had a Dean, and he felt horrible for the rest of the world who didn't have one.

“Bed,” Dean told him. “Hair above the blankets, eyes closed and visibly so from the door.” Like all the other times they'd played hooky and stayed home from school 'sick', or when they'd pretended to be asleep only so they could keep talking through the night.

Sam scrambled into bed, only to be stopped by Dean. “Get dressed and packed first,” his brother told him quietly. This wasn't just for fun. Tonight, they were letting go of this life for good. Of their life.

Of their dad. Sam swallowed hard but nodded and turned to his duffel. It was cold outside: something warm, but not too warm so that he started sweating under the sheets while they waited for their dad to come up and check on them.

By the time he was finished dressing, Dean had removed the chair from the door and was just throwing on his t-shirt. “Are you okay?” Sam asked softly.

Dean turned towards him, eyebrows raised. “I think I should be asking you that, Sammy,” he said, equally as quiet.

No, Sam wasn't okay. But Dean worshiped their dad. This recent turn of events, this being forced to choose between their dad and Sam, it had to be nothing less than a betrayal in Dean's eyes. “I just,” Sam started to explain, then stopped. There was no real way to put it into words.

Dean let out a small sigh and looked away. “I know,” he said finally. “But this is the right thing to do, and you know it.”

Didn't make it any easier. “I do,” he said anyways, just to have something to say. Then, “I'm sorry,” because he hated this. Hated that Dean was in this position, that Dean was hiding his hurt, his pain, from Sam. That their dad had turned on Sam.

“Don't be,” Dean said immediately, eyes darkening. “This was his choice, Sam, not yours or mine. We're making ours tonight. We're not getting split up.”

No further words needed. He hadn't just turned on Sam, he'd turned on Dean, too, and Dean couldn't be clearer about it. They were fighting this together.

Sam nodded slowly, and Dean gave one terse nod in return. “Bed, if you're packed,” Dean said. “I'll get us out of here.”

If they could make it past their dad. Make it past John Winchester, one of the best damn hunters in the business.

Forget sleeping: breathing was the more important thing to focus on as they waited for their dad. Sam swallowed and pulled the covers up just enough. If they could pass the inspection. Then, they'd go.

“One step at a time, Sammy,” Dean said from the bed across the way. Sam lifted his eyes and met Dean's fierce gaze. “And I'm stepping with you.”

Hopefully between the two of them, they could out-step their dad.

Sam closed his eyes and focused on breathing.

Chapter Text

They were screwed. It was as simple as that.

And not in a, “Oh, we wait for Dad, and then we'll get out of this,” sort of screwed, because Dad was the reason they were screwed.

The hell was he thinking, separating them?

Dean tried not to shift on the bed and instead focused his listening to the sounds around him. The arguing of earlier was quiet now, and there were tell-tale creaks of people walking downstairs. Outside, a scuffle between Bobby's dog and another animal – probably a wayward cat – rose to hisses and growls before subsiding. In the bed across from him, Sam was doing his best to even out his breathing and pretend he was asleep, except Dean could see him continuously clutching at the sheets in a fit of nervousness. It would've gotten them caught if Dad had walked in right then, but so far, Dad hadn't come upstairs, and Sam definitely deserved to have his moment of anxiety.

Dean felt his stomach twist until he was viciously swallowing back something hard in his throat. He'd only gone to find Sam. They were supposed to leave early, and the kid still wandering up and around at midnight was only going to leave him with no sleep. “I'll be back in a minute,” Sam had told him, and then had promptly disappeared for ten. So Dean had gone to find him, because that was what he did. He found Sam, and he was pretty damn good at it.

Except when he'd found Sam, the voices from the living room had caught his attention as much as Sam's wide eyes had. He'd managed to make it down the steps in time to keep Sam from making their presence known. Whatever Dad had been thinking regarding separating them, Dean had wanted to know. He'd needed to listen in: Sam blowing their cover wouldn't have helped.

Dean hadn't really wanted to hear what came next. Or after that.

It was only when Sam had almost taken a tumble down the stairs that Dean had decided enough was enough. The kid was pale and completely unresponsive all the way up the stairs and in the bedroom. Dean had called, pinched, shaken, done practically everything he could to get Sam's far away, stunned gaze back to the here and now.

What had happened after had been a spur of the moment, driven by his need to keep Sam safe. He couldn't do that away from Sam, could he?

But now that night had settled in, now that his nerves were getting tired from jumping so much, doubts started creeping in. Was running seriously the best move? It was Dad they were talking about. John Winchester, hunter extraordinaire. He'd find them faster than a shark finding a bloody fish ten feet in front of its face. They were screwed if they ran.

The other options, however, were even worse. Talking to Dad would get them nowhere, and only give Dad the ammo he needed to separate them. Obviously listening into conversations like children meant they should be treated as such. He knew what was best for them. They would save lives. It was all the usual stuff Dad used to batten down the hatches and get them to buckle up and take what he dished out.

Dean was starting to understand just what Sam had been talking about for the past couple of years, though. Dad didn't respect their opinions. He didn't want sons, he wanted soldiers. He'd been a dad...once. And Dean was fairly certain that their dad still loved them. He had to, right?

His eyes darted across the way to where Sam was still restlessly shifting beneath the sheets. Hearing Dad so coldly dismiss Sam, so willing and able to let him go...

Any and all doubts Dean had vanished in that moment. No. Letting Sam go wasn't an option. Once upon a time, when Dad had been a dad and not a hunter, he'd told Dean to look after Sam, to keep him safe. Once upon an even earlier time, their mom had put Sam in Dean's arms for the first time and whispered, “He's your little brother. Careful, Dean, don't drop him; you're probably only going to get one baby brother sweetheart.”

He only had one. Dean wasn't going to drop the ball on this, or let Sam go. No, he was keeping his brother safe.

If there was even a tiny part of Dad left that was still a dad, maybe he'd understand what Dean was going to do that night. Probably even approve. He had no doubt their mom would.

And for the first time, Dean was grateful that she was gone, and that she couldn't see what her husband was about to do to her boys. He shut his eyes tight.

A louder creak from inside the house caught his attention. That was the third stair up from the ground floor. From the way Sam inhaled sharply, the kid had heard it too. The steps were solid but soft now, a soldier always waiting for what came around the corner.

A soldier. Their dad was a frickin' soldier, and Dean thought they could run and hide from him. Jesus Christ but they were screwed.

But they couldn't stay. They were even more screwed that way.

The footsteps were on the second floor now. Dean couldn't hear what Sam was doing the next bed over; there was too much buzzing in his ears. If he had a panic attack now, he'd shoot himself. If they could get past this, they could get out. Have a chance at proving...he didn't know. Maybe Dad would realize how serious they were about staying together.

Maybe Dad just wouldn't care and would do whatever Dad wanted, no matter who or what was collateral damage. Like Sammy. The memory of Sam's face after Dad had thrown down his ultimatum, the whimper Sam had made of shock and despair, flooded through Dean's head.

And just as the door opened, all the buzzing in Dean's ears, all of his painful, staccato heartbeats, fell away to the same calm state he adopted when on a hunt. If Dad wanted to hunt them down after they ran, he could try.

But he'd taught Dean everything that he knew, and Dean was his own brand of dangerous, especially when it came to Sam. Dad wasn't winning this time.

Now that he could hear again, everything came in super loud. His father's soft breathing as he stood in the doorway. Sam's light, steady breaths, as if sound asleep. His own breathing, a little heavy like he was about to snore. For a long moment, all that could be heard were the quiet breaths from the three individuals in the room.

A step into the room made Dean curl his fist where no one could see. Oh god, what if their dad decided to just up and leave in the middle of the night? They'd done it before. Dean had thought Bobby wouldn't kick them out, but Dad...Dad had been on the business end of Bobby's shotgun enough times to warrant an exit. And if he took Dean with him...

After a long pause, one where Dean wasn't certain he breathed at all, let alone correctly, there was a step, softer this time, and then the door quietly swung shut. The click of the catch sliding into place sounded louder than it should've. Once the door was shut, the footsteps walked away and down the hall, to the room their dad always stayed in.

When Dean clearly heard the sound of that door shutting, he let out a huge breath he'd apparently been holding. “Holy shit,” he murmured. Then, “Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. His voice trembled slightly, but when Dean sought to see him through the moonlight outside, his brother looked determined. Better than broken like he had earlier.

The urge to slam his fist through his dad's face was suddenly raging strong and sure. Whatever the hell he'd been drinking when he'd had his futuristic dream was no excuse for what he'd done to Sam. His 'angel' was probably named Jack Daniels or Jose Cuervo.

There would be an emotional fall-out for his little brother, Dean had no doubt. You didn't just get abandoned, practically disowned, and then be okay with it.

But that was later. Later, as in, when they got out of there.

“When?” Sam asked a moment later, voice a little more solid.

“Now,” Dean said. “Quietly.”

As one they gently slid from bed and began stuffing pillows under the sheets. It wouldn't fool their dad for very long, but maybe long enough to buy them an hour at most. Any little bit was helpful. In a sacrifice to the cause, Dean grabbed a pair of his socks and shoved one into the other, manipulating the fabric until it looked sort of like a foot. He set it under the sheets near the edge of the bed, then closed his bag back up and turned for the door where Sam was waiting. The kid was shifting restlessly from foot to foot, but straightened when Dean looked back his way. Trying to look calm and failing, but still ready and willing to do whatever Dean told him to. Fully trusting in his big brother to keep him safe.

The rush of love he felt for the kid was almost enough to make him stumble. Most days, Dean didn't feel worthy of that trust or dedication or love that came from Sam, but tonight, he refused to be anything less than what Sam saw him as. He had to.

As quietly as he could Dean grabbed the knob and began to twist it. It opened with a few tiny squeaks that made the both of them cringe. After a moment of waiting, no other sounds came forth. Dean carefully stuck his head out as much as he could in order to see down the hall.

The door to their dad's room was shut, the light off. The hallway itself was dark, and the only light came from downstairs. A small lamp that Bobby kept on the table, and Dean knew it was that lamp because the light looked green, thanks in part to the shade Bobby had on it. A soft rustling sound told him that Bobby was still in the living room, probably lost in a book. The front door was out, then.

“Back door,” Dean breathed, barely a sound, but Sam nodded at him. After making sure the coast was clear once more, Dean crept out into the hallway. He knew where the creaks were, same as Sam. But tonight, tonight he felt paranoid that he'd miss one.

They made their way down the stairs as silently as possible. Dean kept his grip on his duffel bag tight, the weight heavy against his shoulder. His other hand was back in Sam's jacket, wrapped tightly around the upper part that wasn't zipped. Sam's own hands were busy with his duffel and wound tight enough in the back of Dean's leather jacket to make it squeak.

When they hit the bottom of the stairs, Dean risked a peek into the living room. Bobby was at the desk, reading a book, but his eyes were looking anywhere except at the text. For half a second, Dean thought about calling out to him, asking for his help, anything to keep Dad from splitting them.

He couldn't. There was nothing Bobby could do to convince John Winchester from changing his mind. And while Bobby didn't want them split up, he probably didn't want one barely legal teen and his definitely not legal little brother out there on their own. Helping them run wasn't going to happen.

With one last sad, resigned look at the man he'd come to call a second father, Dean quietly slipped down the hall past the kitchen to the back door, still holding on as tightly to Sam as before.

He slid the duffel up higher on his shoulder to get the door open: letting go of Sam wasn't an option. When the door finally opened to the cold night air, Dean fought back a shiver. Once they were out there, in the yard, it was them versus John Winchester and the rest of the world. There was no turning back.

He glanced back at Sam, who was still watching him with wide, scared, but trusting eyes. There'd never been a turning back point, Dean realized. Not when it came to Sam.

Dean tugged gently at Sam's coat, and together the two disappeared out into the night.

Chapter Text

The outside was colder than Sam had thought. April in the Dakotas was still a bitch. He glanced up at the house out of instinct, looking towards the window that was their dad's. For half a second, he was certain he'd see a shadow watching them, judging them, waiting to be proven right, that Sam was a troublemaker leading Dean around into danger. Into doing stupid things.

But the window remained dark and empty, and Sam let out a shaky breath he could see. Damn it was cold outside. He shrugged a little deeper into his coat, his hands still holding onto his brother and his bag.

“We'll take the car,” Dean said, eyes scanning the yard. “We need to push it off the lot, though. She makes a lot of noise starting up.”

Sam stared at Dean long enough to make his brother turn back. “What?” Dean asked.

“You realize that Dad will kill you if you take the car?” Sam said incredulously, then stopped at his own words. No matter what they did, their dad would be angry at them. And this wasn't Dean taking the Impala out to see a girl: this was Dean taking the Impala for good.

Dean gave a snort. “One, I don't care. Two, he's got that damn truck. He'll be fine,” he said in a tone that stated he truly didn't care what happened to Dad's ride.

Wasn't like the car didn't belong to Dean: Dad had signed the title over to Dean on his eighteenth birthday and tossed him the keys. Dad himself had gotten a beaten-up used truck, swore it would be good enough for him to get around in until he found something he wanted more. The truck was white with a blue stripe down the side, and the only time Sam had been in it had been a bumpy ride he'd hated.

That had probably been more to do with the company than the truck itself, actually.

Pushing the car was actually a lot more difficult than Sam had anticipated it being. One, the car was heavy. Two, Bobby's driveway, if it could even be called that, was covered in small stones, which made it hard to push against. Three, the gravel made it loud, and left both Dean and Sam wincing at every little displacement of the stones.

But most importantly, the damn car was heavy.

By the time they made it the twenty something feet to the road, Sam wasn't cold anymore. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, and he felt like every deep breath was loud enough to be heard from the house. Even Dean was gasping for air, taking a moment to lean against the vehicle. “Oh baby, why you gotta hate me?” Dean moaned quietly.

From behind them, Bobby's dog began to bark. Sam froze, head whipping back towards the house. Sure enough, Bobby's dog was barking happily at seeing the both of them, having just now caught sight of the brothers. If he didn't shut up, Bobby would come out or look, or worse, their dad would, and then-

Sam suddenly felt himself being tugged, hard, backwards. He struggled to get his feet beneath him as Dean pulled him towards the front of the car. “Get in, now,” Dean said urgently.

They weren't far enough away from Bobby's. “Dean, we can't-”

“We don't have a choice,” Dean insisted. With one hand he opened the driver's side door; the other hand he used to shove Sam through to the passenger seat. “Get in!”

The dog kept barking. Any minute now, Bobby was going to turn on a light and come out looking. Sam scrambled across the seat to the opposite side of the car, heart beating a staccato rhythm and making his stomach sick.

Dean slid in fast, slammed the door, and started the car. The engine roared to life, and Sam cringed and buried his head. Like it was going to do any good.

At least Dean didn't floor it with a peal of tires. He took off slowly, steadily building speed until even Sam could tell they were going faster than any speed limit on the road would dictate. It wasn't helping with the sick feeling.

What if Bobby and Dad had both come out to see what was going on? They'd find the Impala gone and check the bedroom and find both of them gone and then come chasing out after them-

“Breathe,” Dean ordered, his voice louder now that they were away. Sam took in a deep gulping breath and realized his lungs were burning, spots dancing across his vision from the lack of air. Dean's hand fell on the back of Sam's neck and tightened around him. For some reason, it helped. The volume of his voice was a welcoming distraction, too. It meant it was just the two of them, safe in the Impala. No need for whispering. Safe as houses.

For now. Until Dad caught up with them. “Dean,” Sam whispered miserably, and found to his utter humiliation that tears were burning in his eyes. He buried his head even further into his arms.

“We'll stay clear,” Dean promised, as if able to read his mind. “I'll keep you safe. I swear to God, Sammy, he won't take us apart. I won't let him.”

There was only so much Dean could do. But Sam knew, above all, that he'd keep them both safe, Sam more safe than Dean in all likeliness. Dean would rather die than let anything happen to Sam.

It was more than Dad was willing to do. Sam bit his bottom lip in an attempt to keep himself from crying. Their dad. Sure, they had their fights, their arguments, but that was what teens did with their parents: they fought. They didn't agree on anything. But they loved each other in the end, dammit. They were supposed to. If someone had asked Sam to take a bullet for their dad yesterday, he wouldn't have hesitated. He probably still would.

How long ago had Dad let him go? How long ago would Dad have stopped taking a bullet for Sam?

Fuck it hurt. It burned way more than Sam thought it should. He remembered when he'd been his dad's 'baby boy', held and loved and smiled at. He remembered when his dad had showed him how to fire a gun, with only a little impatience. Remembered his dad tucking him in at night, watching over him.

He didn't realize he was outright gasping for air until he was being tugged again, this time over into the familiar cocoon of Dean's embrace. He fought to breathe and stop his tears from flowing, fought to be the strong individual Dean needed him to be. They'd have to both be adults to stay ahead of Dad, not one barely legal and one teenager.

All the while, Dean was hushing and whispering words of comfort, promising things that he shouldn't. That Dad wouldn't find them. That everything would be okay.

Sam finally gave up on all pretenses and buried his head in Dean's leather jacket. Here, at least, he was wanted. Here, he was loved.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift away.



He awoke to the sound of the car stopping. One would think it would be a lack of sound, but the Impala made sounds all her own when she stopped. The engine rumbled just a little louder before it shut off. Then, other noises were heard, small hissings and clankings and the rush of fluids as everything came down from the heated run of a few hundred miles. The jangling of keys as they were pulled from the ignition.

And the one sound Sam always associated with the Impala stopping: Dean's voice.

This time, it came with a small nudge, Dean's shoulder still underneath his head. “Sammy, wake up,” Dean said softly. “We gotta stop.”

The memories of the past day – had it been a day? How long had he been asleep? – didn't come crashing in all at once. They filtered in from the back of his mind, quickly becoming loud and clear. He shuddered and reluctantly opened his eyes.

The sky was a light gray through the Impala's windshield, making it impossible to tell the time. “We need to fill up the car,” Dean told him. He carefully pushed Sam up to sitting, gaze tired but still worried. “You feel like eating?”

Sam felt like sleeping for another hundred years. Food sounded disgusting. But they couldn't afford to sleep now, not with Dad probably closing in on them. This outreach, wherever they'd gone to, this had to have pushed Dean's limits. His brother looked exhausted, and it was light enough out that they were looking at breakfast time. Driving straight for hours on end when they'd been up all the day before? It was the perfect time to crash.

And their Dad probably knew it. He'd work out the distance of how far the Impala would go, how exhausted the boys had to be, and estimate where they'd stop. And he'd probably pick...wherever they'd gotten to. Stopping to fill up was dangerous as it was.

But Dean looked ready to fall asleep on his feet. “You need to sleep, Dean,” Sam voiced reluctantly.

Dean's eyes narrowed. “No I don't,” he insisted. “C'mon. There's a restaurant attached to the gas station.”

If Dean was trying to use food to wake him up, they were screwed. “Dean, you're exhausted,” Sam tried again. “And your arm's probably dead from my sleeping on it. We'll just...park the car behind a building and catch a few zz's, then keep going.”

He didn't get an answer. Instead Dean popped the door open and slid out, only turning back to grab Sam by the hand and pull him out in one easy slide. When Sam had been little, Dad had been the one to pull him out, using his arm strength to slide Sam along the seat until the last minute, then hoisting him out and into the air. Sam would giggle and shriek with laughter, Dean would insist he wasn't too big to be pulled out and he wanted to do it too, and Dad would smile.

Sam shut his eyes again. The darkness behind his lids gave him a small respite from the day outside, but nothing from the memories inside.

“Snag a table,” Dean ordered, but his voice was gentle as he gave Sam a small shove towards the restaurant. “Let me fill her up and I'll be right in behind you.”

Sam nodded, still feeling like he was in a daze, like he wasn't quite awake yet. He stumbled up the stairs to the restaurant, thankful for someone who held the door open for him. Somehow, he managed to get a table and two menus from a small teenage girl who looked just as exhausted as he was, but still able to give him a genuine smile and tell him the specials of the day. Not that Sam paid any attention, but he nodded in all the right places and let her walk away when she was done. Then he turned to stare at the menu, hoping something would jump out at him and say, “Hello, I want to be eaten today!”

He didn't realize he'd zoned out until a hand waved in his face. “Sammy?” Dean called, sounding as if he'd been calling for awhile. Sam blinked and looked up. Dean was already seated in front of him, and there were two sodas on the table.

It was then that Sam couldn't take it anymore. The silent and invisible elephant he hadn't really known existed came forward and sat on his chest, and he blurted it out before the feeling crushed the breath out of his body.

“Dean, what are we going to do?”

If Dean looked surprised to hear it, he gave no indication. His shoulders slumped downward, like he'd been expecting it but hadn't been able to say it himself. “I don't know,” he said honestly.

“We can't keep driving forever,” Sam pointed out, unable to stop himself from stating the obvious.

“I know.”

“And we don't have passports, so we can't go to Mexico.”

“I know.”

“And Dad knows hunters in Canada, so that's out, too.”

“I know, Sammy.”

“And we're gonna run out of money, and I-I want to finish high school, but Dad...Dad'll find us if we settle down somewhere and if I go to school a-and-”

“Hey!”

The whispered shout caught Sam halfway through his ramblings, and he swallowed them back and found himself choking for air. He grabbed the soda in front of him and took four huge gulps to clear his throat and settle is stomach. When he put the soda down, he could almost pretend that the tears rolling down his face were from the choking episode.

Dean leaned almost all the way across the table, napkin in hand. “I know,” he repeated, dabbing at Sam's cheeks and wiping away the tears. He bit his lip, looking far older than his teenage years. “We're screwed, Sammy. I know.”

Sam swallowed hard again, this time managing to continue breathing. More tears threatened, and Sam scrunched up his face to keep them at bay. “I'm sorry,” he gritted out. “God, I'm sorry. You don't need this right now. I need to help.”

“Hey, you're fine,” Dean said with a small, almost nervous laugh. “Better you than me.”

It wasn't an insult, and Sam knew it. If Sam fell apart, then Dean could focus on that, and not fall apart himself as a result. Sam just really hated being the one that fell apart.

“You could take a turn,” Sam grumbled, and succeeded in getting a more genuine laugh out of his brother. Still a tad hysterical, but Sam felt the same way, so he'd take it.

It still left the same huge question between them, but at least now Sam was feeling as if they could fight back instead of winding up crushed beneath the opposition. And he was really starting to hate those moments of hope: they only made the inevitable falls that much more dramatic and tear inducing. And he was fifteen, crying like the drop of a hat was thirteen or fourteen, maybe. Not fifteen.

Of course, at fifteen, he was supposedly able to fend for himself if abandoned on the side of the road.

“Pick something to eat,” Dean said, nudging the menu towards him. “And actually eat it. We'll think better if we've got food in our stomachs.”

And sleep for their body, but apparently they were only getting one of two. Sam actually put focus into reading the menu and almost had a choice made before something else caught his attention. “Dean?” he asked calmly. “How are we gonna pay for this?”

“I've got the card, don't worry,” Dean said offhandedly, and Sam could almost feel the moment his brother froze with realization. If he hadn't felt it, the groaned, “Oh shit,” would've clued him in.

It was nice, actually, to sit and think about this as a problem instead of everything else. “How long until Dad tries to follow the credit cards you've got in your pocket?”

“I just used one to pay for gas,” Dean said weakly, head leaning forward towards the table. “God I'm stupid. I didn't even think, Sammy.”

“It's not your fault,” Sam insisted. “We didn't exactly think any of this through. We just ran.” And it wasn't getting them anywhere except scared, tired, and stressed out to the point of tears. No, it was well past the time to regroup and really think, except neither of them had the energy to do it. And now Dad was probably already on his way. He'd have flagged the damn accounts telling him when the money was used and where.

“Might as well pay for lunch with it,” Sam told his brother, who was still looking at the table like he wanted to smack his head into it. “It's not like he doesn't know we're here and where we're headed.”

The idea hit him so fast Sam felt like he was going to fall out of his seat. “What?” Dean asked, watching him now. “You okay?”

“We have to go back,” Sam said. “Turn around and go back.”

Dean's eyes widened. “Go back? Sammy-”

“Not go forward,” Sam said urgently, and this hope thing was going to kill him one of these days. “Go back.”

It took Dean all of five seconds to catch on to what Sam was saying, and when he did, his lips curled up into a proud grin. “Not bad, Sammy,” he said. “Not bad. Dad's gonna think we kept going east when really-”

“We turned back around,” they finished together. They were going to have to out-think their dad on everything, but this plan might work. Take a slightly different highway back west, then sit and think about their next move when they could breathe. This would throw Dad off for a little bit, at least.

“I'll ask the waitress for the fastest way to the east coast,” Dean added, and Sam's own mouth tugged up into a smile. Waitresses remembered Dean; it was kind of hard for them not to. Dean knew it, Sam knew it, but most of all, Dad knew it. And Dean was banking on that fact right now.

They might make this.

Chapter Text

Dean had to admit, heading back straight in the direction they'd come from was making him nervous. Logically, he knew exactly which highway Dad would take, which was the one he always took: the fastest way straight east from the west. At this point, his dad didn't have any reason to suspect that he was being played. That would take another couple of days, at best. After that, then his patterns would change. Then, they were going to have to get clever.

But Dean was hoping to get a good night's sleep between now and then. Somewhere preferably horizontal for both him and Sam. He had about forty bucks on him, but they'd have to ditch the credit cards somewhere. Sam was right: Dad would trace them. Dean could order new ones, ones Dad didn't know about, but they'd take time, and Dean would have to set up a new mailbox for them to be sent to that Dad didn't know about. It was all going to take time.

The one thing they didn't have.

He turned his head towards Sam. His little brother's head was pressed against the glass window, and his eyes were finally, mercifully shut. The kid had insisted on staying awake with Dean, but the lull of the car and the music had finally done him in. Dean had known Sam would be even more wrung out after that mini meltdown in the diner. Kid tended to conk out after a good cry, and the panic attack in the car earlier probably hadn't helped.

He still looked exhausted beyond belief, but at least he'd eaten something at the diner. Just a plain old BLT, but Dean had taken his good fortune where he could. Something was better than nothing.

His eyes glanced back up to the side of the road, the exit for North Dakota looming ahead of them. The last thing Dean wanted was to get back into the Dakotas, but if he skirted north once he got into the states, way north, it'd be the last way Dad would think of them going. Too close to the border, heading into mountainous areas that Sam hated, less states to hide in.

Plenty of space between Dean and Canada. At this point, he highly doubted Sam would care about the mountains: he'd get the kid gum for the ear popping. And Dean didn't need multiple states to hide in, he just needed one.

Decision made, he took the exit and headed north. He knew there was a highway that led straight up, then another that headed west, or was it just the one highway that turned? He'd deal with it. He could stop on the way up. Get the both of them some real beds.

God, sleep.

It was a few hours later, when Dean nearly ran off the road for the third time, that he finally admitted they needed to stop. He pulled off at the first exit he found and rambled down the main road of the sparse town until he found a motel that looked like it was in their price range. Twenty dollars later and he had a motel room for the night.

Dean stopped on the way back to the Impala. Sam was all but curled up towards the window, lashes fanned across his face in a way that made him look so much younger than fifteen. His father's words raced through his mind again, and Dean found his lips curling into a snarl. “Screw you, Dad,” he muttered under his breath, and couldn't believe how freeing it was to say it. The fact that his dad could so easily give up on Sam and be ready to cut his youngest loose, at fifteen...

Made the words easier to say, so he said them again, just because he could. Sam was right: it felt pretty good.

Now wasn't the time to curse their dad out, though. That would come later, when Sam really broke down. Oh, the kid had done an enthusiastic job earlier, twice. But that was residual, and Dean knew it. When Sam let go, he'd let go. Sam tended to bottle it up and then explode; it was what made his fighting with Dad so violent and dangerous. No, this had just been leaks.

Of course, if it all wound up merely leaking out and thus not causing an explosion, Dean was totally okay with that. It would be better for Sam, and better for them both in the long run.

Dean didn't have his hopes pinned on that happening, though.

As quickly as he could Dean opened the car door and reached inside, catching Sam with his hand. Sam mumbled something but remained asleep. This, at least, was familiar. This, Dean knew how to do.

Propping the door open with his hip, he made sure he had the room key in hand before ducking down and reaching in for his brother. Dean barely felt a twinge in his back as he caught his little brother behind the back and underneath the knees before standing. Sam fit easily against him as he always did, head lolling to rest against Dean's neck. As gently and smoothly as he could Dean headed for the room, Sam cradled in his arms.

It was a testament to Sam's exhaustion that the kid didn't wake all the way through the jostling as Dean fought with the door, the near stumbling in when the door gave, and the careful placement onto the bed farthest from the entrance. Dean snagged the other end of the blankets he'd placed his little brother on and pulled them over to cover Sam. Trying to get his little brother under them was just going to be a hassle.

Even as exhausted as he was, tired down to his bones, his own rest needing to wait on his grabbing their gear from the car, Dean still couldn't help but stand near the bed and watch Sam sleep. Sam's eyes were starting to look sunken, dark smudges beneath his eyes that Dean wanted to wipe away.

It was a long five minutes later that Dean finally forced himself to move. He wouldn't be any good to Sam without a little sleep under his own belt. He had no salt, no journal to turn to. Only the weapons in the trunk, and that supply was limited as well. They'd been planning on stocking up on Dean's weapon stores in the next week. Dad had most of it, having taken it out to clean it.

Despite the fact that they were sleeping unarmed and nowhere near fortified enough for any supernatural evil that came their way, Dean still crashed hard when the door was finally locked behind them.



When Dean finally surfaced, it was to a racket from somewhere in the room. He jolted awake and jack-knifed straight up in his bed, hand reaching for the weapon beneath his pillow that wasn't there. The room was assessed with speed: the door was still shut and locked, the room appeared in one piece, and the other bed was empty. Sammy.

“Sammy?” Dean yelled, shoving the tangled sheets aside and stumbling out of the bed. His heart pounded as he raced to the other side of the room, expecting to find Sam on the floor. When he didn't, his eyes scanned the room until he found the bathroom light on. “Sammy?” he called again, anxiousness and Sam's lack of a response doing nothing for his racing heart. He didn't even bother knocking, simply slammed the door open.

Sam was sitting on the floor, looking up at him with wide eyes. “It broke,” he said simply, like that explained everything. Dean tore his eyes from his whole, in one piece, alive little brother to where the towel rack was. Or had been: only one side was still fastened to the wall. The other half was hanging, broken, with towels spilled all over the floor.

Dean slowly swung his gaze back to Sam. “Sorry,” Sam said, wincing. “I didn't mean to break it. I just wanted to get a towel.”

It was completely unstoppable at that point: Dean burst into laughter. He laughed so hard he wound up leaning against the door to try and stay upright. Adrenaline was still coursing through his system, his fight or flight response was making his heart bounce like a jackrabbit in his rib cage, and all he could do was laugh. Better stress relief than sobbing uncontrollably, but still.

It was only when he finally began to settle that he realized he'd wound up on the floor anyways. “Dean?” Sam asked, eyes wider now than they had been before. “Are you okay?”

“I'm not the one getting attacked by a towel rack,” Dean retorted, still snickering. Sam stuck his tongue out and Dean snorted in amusement. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he felt even more tired than before. Still, his mind was a little clearer than it had been yesterday. Today. No, yesterday. What time was it?

He made to stand up and find out when a dash of red caught his eye. He frowned and peered at the color on the otherwise white towel. Bright red, a few splotches here and there. Like a spill.

Immediately Dean whipped his head towards Sam, any trace of amusement long gone. “You're hurt?” Dean asked, crawling across the small space between them to get a closer look.

Sam blinked, as if confused by the question. “I am?” he said. His gaze went inward as he self-assessed, forcing Dean to wait patiently. That turned to impatience, and Dean finally started lifting limbs and checking Sam over for himself.

Sam hissed when he lifted the left arm, and Dean quickly turned it over to find a cut down his palm. It was still bleeding, though parts of it looked like they were trying to clot. “Let me get the kit,” Dean said, hurrying to stand. It was only when Sam grabbed at him that he stopped and turned back around. “What's the matter?”

“Dad has it,” Sam said quietly. “He took it out to restock, remember?”

Because it had been damn near empty. Any medical supplies Dean needed were going to cost money, which at the moment they didn't have. Which meant Dean was going to have to find a bar, somewhere, and stock up on cash before he hit any stores. Which meant any medical treatment for a simple cut – which had been cut by a dirty piece of metal, thank god they'd had tetanus shots the previous year – was going to take time.

“Just...let me wash it out,” Sam told him, as if reading Dean's mind. “I'll be fine.”

It wasn't acceptable in the slightest, but it was going to have to do. Unable to do anything else except this, Dean carefully hauled Sam to his feet, then turned the faucet on to a decent temperature. The kid was fifteen, could easily wash his hand himself. He'd been arguing with Dad three days ago about being able to hunt without Dad looking over his shoulder all the time.

Yet he was letting Dean wash out the cut like he was all of five again, dependent on his big brother for everything and unwilling to go anywhere without Dean.

The bloodied towel, which was on top of all the others, was already ruined. Dean grabbed it, sniffed it to make sure it was actually clean, then pressed the clean side against Sam's cut. “I'll get you bandages,” he promised. “We'll get a new kit.”

“We need to talk, Dean,” Sam reminded him. Yeah, they did. About what was going on from there.

“Let's get something to eat first,” Dean said after a minute. “We'll think better if we've got food.” He had a twenty left, he'd be fine.

Of course, if he was going to go hustling, Dean would need money to start with. A quick look back into the room and at the clock told him that it was almost six in the afternoon. Bars wouldn't be open for a little while longer, and they needed food now.

“I've got some cash,” Sam said, tearing him from his thoughts. He was still diligently putting the towel on the cut, but he was leaning against the doorway. He still looked way too tired. Kid needed to eat something besides greens. Something with meat on it.

Then Sam's words clicked in. “You do?” Dean said, eyebrows raised. “Since when?”

“Since I cut Mr. McCall's lawn the other day,” Sam said. “It's only a fifty, though.”

A fifty was better to hustle with than a twenty, though. Meant he was more willing to get his ass kicked, or so it would look. “It's perfect for pool bait,” he said, smiling. “You'll have it back before sunrise.”

Sam gave a quick grin back, a touch of pride in his face, and Dean wondered again how and why their dad couldn't just give Sam anything. A kind word, a hint of praise, anything. The kid was always eager to please, happy to help. He'd earned fifty bucks to his own name for mowing that godforsaken huge plot of land of McCall's, and here he was, offering it up like it was theirs instead of his.

Then again, with the two of them, it had always been a 'we' instead of a 'me'. Dad had said it was dangerous. Dean could only see it as a strength.

“Pizza?” Dean asked. “We'll plan out where we're going from here.”

Sam nodded. “Bet the front desk would know of a good, cheap place.”

And probably have a first aid kit for random hurts and accidents.

Perfect.

Chapter Text

“We can't keep running.”

Sam was completely surprised when it was Dean who initiated the discussion. His older brother wasn't even halfway through his first slice of pizza, yet he was starting the conversation.

“No, we can't,” Sam agreed, setting his own slice down. For some unknown reason, Dean had apparently been 'craving' a meat lover's, though Sam was pretty certain it had more to do with seeing Sam bleed than a real want of four types of processed red meat. In Dean's mind, “meat” equaled more blood. Trying to explain to him the biology wasn't going to get them anywhere, so Sam simply ate the pizza and whatever else Dean chose to throw at him whenever Sam got hurt.

“It's not like we can take a stand, though, Dean. Dad...” Sam swallowed and shut his eyes tight for a minute. “Dad's not going to listen to us.”

“So we stay one step ahead of him,” Dean said firmly.

“That means running, Dean.”

“For a little bit,” Dean insisted. “Only for a little bit.”

“Okay,” Sam said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. “You've obviously got some sort of an idea. Spill.”

Dean hesitated all of five seconds before he started. “Okay. We run, but we do it smart. We keep going west, hit the ocean. Head down the coast until we hit the border, then shoot east. We find a place in Texas, we stop. It's a big state, easy to hide in. We stay there for a few months, and then if we don't hear whispers of Dad, we stay longer. We get your high school finished up, then we...” He shrugged. “We go wherever. You get into college, we'll go there.”

Sam stared for so long Dean started shifting uneasily in his seat, but he couldn't help it. Everything Sam had wanted, right there for the taking: high school, college, and managing to keep his brother by his side while he did it. What had been a run for survival was now becoming something like their dreams. They hadn't left for this, but now that the ideas were in Sam's head, it was going to be hard to remove them.

“What?” Dean finally said when he couldn't take the staring anymore. “Something on my face?”

“Yeah, your face,” Sam responded without any thought. Dean rolled his eyes, prompting a small smile from Sam. He couldn't help but add, “You think I should go to college?” because he was only fifteen. It was still over three years away. Not that he hadn't thought about it, but still.

“Sammy, I know you're already thinking about it,” Dean said. That answered one question. “And...yeah,” he finally said, but it wasn't said with reluctance. More of a hesitation to really confirm his answer. “Yeah, Sammy. I think you should go.”

“With you tagging along to look at the hot college girls,” Sam said, and Dean's eyebrows waggled.

“Duh. And now that we've talked about my awesome ideas, let's hear yours,” Dean said, waving his hand with a 'step forward' gesture. “I know you've got one. And eat your pizza already.”

Sam took a bite of the pizza, gave his brother a look, then spoke. “We go west, but only until we get out of the Dakotas. Then we go south, through Vegas. You were always really good at poker and blackjack, we could make some easy cash. Then we go east. I'll be sixteen next month, which means I can take the GED in most states. I know I can take it in Florida. After that, we can move randomly up the coast, maybe find somewhere that's isolated near the ocean. Maybe even just stay in Florida. After what we've seen, I don't think gators and huge bugs would scare us.”

It was Dean's turn to stare. “You hate Florida,” he said. “You hate the humidity and you hate the state in general.”

“I'm sure there's places that aren't all that bad,” Sam protested, his face hot. Okay, he loathed Florida, whereas Dean could happily stay in the state for years at a time. But he'd thought he'd kept at least that dislike to himself.

Dean shook his head, but there was a smile on his face. “Didn't think you loved the sea breeze all that much either,” he said, and there was a knowing grin on the smug jerk's face. No, it wasn't Sam that loved the ocean, that took every chance to swim that he could, that loved walking in the sand and listening to the roar of the waves more than he liked watching the skimpily clad women.

“It's the ocean,” Sam said lamely, but they both knew the truth.

The grin fell away to something fond and way more open than Dean usually was, something that spoke about how much he really loved Sam. Not that Sam had ever needed the words, but still, to see it all laid out, it was humbling and honoring at the same time.

“Besides, you're not taking the GED,” Dean said a moment later, breaking the moment. “You're graduating.”

Sam blinked. “Dean, that's another what, three years? No way. We don't have that type of time. I'm way more useful to you with a GED. Places would hire me for a quick work hand if I had a GED.”

“I said no, Sammy,” Dean said, more firmly this time. “You're gonna graduate.”

“You didn't,” Sam said, giving Dean a look. God, he was only trying to help, and a GED would be helpful. Besides which... “It was good enough for you; why can't it be good enough for me?”

“Because I hated school,” Dean told him. “I barely tolerated it. You actually like it. And...And I want better for you, all right? I want to see you walk across that stage.”

That...Sam hadn't been expecting. “Oh,” was all he could manage. It was such a Dean thing to do, though. To want Sam's dreams as much as Sam did. To honestly want something good for him.

Dean snorted. “Yeah, oh. You can do it. I'll make it happen.”

“That's three years off, Dean,” Sam said, finally breaking himself from his reverie. “What about now? Dad's gonna figure out we didn't go east. If we keep leading him west, he'll corner us. We'll run out of land.”

“Yeah, but Dad could be expecting us to go back east, make another turn around,” Dean said just as easily. “We have to go west.”

“Then south,” Sam said. “Cut through Vegas.”

“You got some sort of gambling habit I should know about, kiddo?”

Sam couldn't help the grin, even as he kept going. “Then...maybe stop in Texas. Maybe he'll expect us to keep running and go right past us.”

Dean finished off his slice before responding. “I think that might work,” he said. “Remember the last time we were in Texas? I worked over at that carpenter's shop?”

“We can't go back to anywhere we've been,” Sam said reluctantly. Dean had actually enjoyed staying there, and it'd been Dean who'd been the more upset of the brothers when they'd had to leave.

“Oh, I know that,” Dean said with a roll of his eyes. “But the guy who ran the place mentioned knowing a couple people in the state, places he'd recommend me to. It'd be easy to settle down in Texas.”

And Texas was one of the other states that let you take the GED at 16, a point that he shared with Dean. Dean frowned at him but shook his head. “As a last resort,” Sam insisted. “Just in case.”

“Not gonna happen,” Dean said firmly. “My baby brother's gonna graduate.”

Sam rolled his eyes but said nothing. A contemplative silence fell on the room. Sam remembered that he still had a slice of pizza to eat and munched on it, mainly as something to do. Mindful of his now bandaged hand, he finished the slice, crust and all, before he looked back up at Dean. Dean was sipping at his soda, eyes locked on the opposite side of the room at nothing at all.

Sam cleared his throat before speaking. “So...west?”

Dean slowly nodded. “Then south,” he added, turning his gaze back to Sam. “Then to Texas. And if that doesn't work-”

“We'll figure something else out,” Sam said. “Lots of other places we could go.”

“Together,” Dean said. “We'll go together.”

Sam couldn't help the smile at Dean's firm conviction. “Thank you,” he said softly. For leaving with me, for me. For planning out a settled down future just to keep us together. For insisting that we stay together.

Dean just winked and sipped his soda. “If we're done battle planning, I've got some pool to play,” he said. “Ready?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I'm ready.” Ready for anything, as long as his big brother was there.



It was almost six hundred dollars richer that they returned to the motel to pack up their bags. The manager had been apologetic to a fault about the shelf and had insisted they stay another night, free of charge. Dean hadn't said no, and Sam was looking forward to sleeping on a flat surface again.

Of course, they'd still needed money for other things, including a new first aid kit, so off they'd gone to the other side of the small town. The bar had been smoky, full of rowdy conversations and loud, awful country music. Usually, it was Dad and Dean who went to the bars and earned the cash, but...well. It was just Sam and Dean. Dean had explained the setup to Sam on the way over, and Sam hadn't imagined it being too hard. He'd been skeptical of it working, sure, but Dean had been confident, and Sam had headed in with him.

It had worked, and like a charm. Dean had acted the faithful tutor, showing Sam how to play pool. Sam hadn't been as tall or long for it as Dean was, but for a first timer, he hadn't been all that bad. Plus, he'd had a hurt hand and a bulky bandage to deal with. Taking that into consideration, he'd done really well. They'd attracted a small crowd, mostly of people also giving Sam pointers. Dean had challenged some of those other people giving pointers to a game, just him and them. They'd played, Dean had steadily gotten 'better' until finally, he'd won.

Sam had then jumped in to play the dutiful dewy-eyed sibling in order to calm tempers. He'd told Dean how great he was and what lucky shots they'd been and one day, would Dean teach him how to play like him? They'd headed out with their winnings, not a single punch thrown.

“You and those puppy-eyes,” Dean grumbled, shoving the cash in his pocket and reaching for the room key.

“The guy was going to deck you, Dean,” Sam insisted. “We haven't bought another first aid kit yet. Besides, you were pretty good.”

Dean glanced over as they walked to the room, lips turning up at the praise. “Not too bad yourself, considering it was the first time you really played,” he admitted. “When you get taller, it'll get easier.”

“If I get taller,” Sam muttered. At this point, he figured he'd be five-three and a half forever. Dean snickered and wrapped his arm around the kid's shoulders, hauling him in.

“You're only fifteen once, Sammy. Once you get almost as tall as me, you won't be able to pull off those puppy eyes anymore.”

“Oh, I'm gonna be taller than you,” Sam insisted.

“Is that a fact?”

“Yep. Gonna tower over you and pat you on the head when you get old.”

Dean actually cracked up at that, digging in his pocket for the room key. Sam's own lips turned up into a wide grin. This whole Dean and him thing? Only them? Heading to college with Dean by his side would be fun. Just the two of them.

The door popped open with a sturdy turn of the key, Dean still laughing. “In your dreams, kid,” he said. “There's no way you're gonna wind up taller than me. I'm not letting it happen.”

“Dean.”

The voice came from the back of the room, and instantly everything changed. Dean's laughter disappeared only to be replaced with his gun aimed into the room and Sam behind him. Even before Sam could turn for the door, it swung shut, and the definite click of the lock had never sounded so loud.

It was complete and utter darkness. Sam immediately began reaching for where Dean had been, only to find a desperately searching hand find him and haul him in. The smell of whiskey, smoke, and gun oil was all Sam needed to know that it was Dean who had him.

That and the familiar voice above him who yelled, “Who the fuck are you?” into the darkness.

“I mean you and your brother no harm,” the voice said again. It was male, and it sounded like it was used to being obeyed. Firm and calm, and nothing should be that calm when they were in a dark room with a gun pointed at them.

Dean's hand tightened around Sam. “That's why you locked us in and kept the lights out?”

“No,” the voice said, still infuriatingly calm. “I did that in order to speak with you both. The lock, I mean. The lights can be rectified.”

One of the lamps near the television clicked on, and Sam had to blink away the brightness. When his eyes could focus, they immediately latched onto the man standing at the opposite end of the room. Taller than Sam, around Dean's height, he didn't look as authoritative or as calm as Sam would've thought. He looked like Columbo who'd been on a bender.

But when he spoke, his voice still held power. His words also packed a hell of a punch, leaving Sam to stare and Dean to almost drop his gun.

“My name is Castiel,” the man said, “and I am an angel of the Lord.”

Chapter Text

“An angel?” Dean said incredulously when he found his voice. “Are you serious?”

Castiel nodded. “I am.”

Dean only hesitated a second before he lifted the gun right back up. “Dean,” Sam hissed, not sure whether to reach for the gun or not. If it was an angel, he doubted Dean's .45 would do any sort of damage. But if it was just a regular guy with a few screws loose, he didn't need a gunshot to his heart, which was what Dean was aiming to give him.

“It's all right, Sam,” Castiel said, and that was the end of the guy just being loony tunes if he knew both of their names. “The gun will do me no harm, as you have probably already guessed. Though your brother met me much the same way the first time we were introduced.”

Sam's head whipped up to see Dean frowning deeply. “We've never met,” Dean said firmly. “Trust me, I'd remember that.”

Castiel shook his head and held up his hands. “I'm not explaining this very well. In the future, well, in another timeline, we meet when you are nearly thirty. Things transpired to bring angels and humans into contact for the first time in centuries. And I met you.”

Dean was still frowning, but the way the guy phrased his words told of something way more than just a simple time jump. “What are you doing here, then?” Sam asked, even as Dean tried to hush him.

Castiel actually looked...sorrowful. “To right a wrong,” he said. “A wrong I thought would make things better, but actually only made them worse. I have come to apologize.”

Sam stared. “You're the angel,” he breathed. “The angel Dad saw. The one who...” Who told him to split us up. This angel, man, whatever he was, he was the reason they were running from Dad.

Apparently Dean had heard the unspoken part just fine, because he aimed the gun even more purposefully in Castiel's direction. “You sonuvabitch,” he seethed. “You told Dad to abandon Sam, to split us up?”

“No,” Castiel said firmly. “I did not say any of that at all. You misunderstand me.”

“You're the one trying to apologize for screwing up,” Dean said with a growl. “Not hard to misunderstand.”

“If you give me a chance to explain,” Castiel began, and there was the firmness in his tone again, the voice that expected to be obeyed. Sam didn't need to see a halo or wings or a harp to know that whatever Castiel was, he had power. He could feel it thrumming through his very being, and it was frightening and awe-inspiring all at once.

“Dean,” Sam whispered. “Let him talk.”

It took a couple of seconds, but after a long moment of tense silence, Dean finally lowered the gun. “You'll stay on the other side of the room,” Dean told Castiel, grabbing Sam and tucking him behind Dean.

Castiel nodded. “I understand. You have Sam to protect. It's why you, the older you, sent me back again to try and remedy what has changed.

“In my time, you two were separated, as adults, of your own volition. Several things came to pass that led to the both of you wanting 'space',” and he put air-quotes around the word, as if he'd just learned how to do it. It was almost endearing. If a powerful angel being could be endearing. Maybe it was Sam that was loony tunes. “So you parted ways. Except...”

Dean tensed beside him. “Except what,” he said, voice pitched low. Sam dug his hand into Dean's leather jacket and didn't dare breathe.

Castiel let his head hang. “You decided that it would be better to stay separated. Sam requested to join back up with you but you said no. Almost immediately afterwards you were shown a vision of the future, one where you two never saw each other again. Hell would invade Earth, Lucifer would walk free, and your brother would no longer exist. When you were brought back to your present time, you were involved in...a fight,” he added after a careful moment of thought. “When you made your way to me, you asked me to find Sam. When you called Sam...there was no response.”

Sam felt light-headed and desperately clung to Dean to stay upright. They'd separated, and Dean had thought it was a good thing? Permanently distanced?

“No way,” Dean said, shaking his head. “No way would I say that or do that. Not a chance.”

“You don't understand the circumstances,” Castiel insisted, right before he stepped forward. The gun swung back up, Dean's speed enough to make the angel, man, whatever he was, stop. “I have something to give you.”

“Throw it,” Dean said.

Castiel sighed but pulled out an envelope from his trench coat. Suddenly it was right before Dean's feet, even though Castiel's arm hadn't pulled back. Castiel looked nonplussed about it, as if it were an everyday thing to make items suddenly appear where they needed to be.

Dean slowly knelt down to grab it, then looked at it. His face twisted in a funny way, leaving Sam all the more curious as to what it was. “Dean?” he asked.

“It looks like...” he started to answer, then stopped abruptly, as if afraid to say any more.

Fortunately, Castiel filled in the blank. “Your handwriting,” he said. “It is. It's a note to you, telling you everything that I have just mentioned, but in your own words. He, you, thought it would help. Dean predicted that you would not believe me in anything I said or did. I didn't think it would require that much assistance, but I underestimated your lack of faith at this age.”

“You're the one that got us split up,” Dean said, glaring at the man across the room. “An angel supposedly decided that the best thing for the world was to split up two practically orphaned brothers. Yeah. I'm feelin' the faith and the love.”

“I did not tell your father to divide you both,” Castiel insisted. “That was not my intent.”

“Why did you come here?” Sam asked, cutting his brother off before Dean could launch into another tirade. “What happened?”

Castiel looked almost grateful for the questions. “When Dean could not locate you, he sent me to try and find you, but I could not. There was word that you had been taken, however, by Lucifer, and Dean feared he was too late to stop the future from happening. He begged me to go back, to try and change the past. I told him I doubted that I could, but he asked me to try.” It was obvious from Castiel's tone that this was a familiar argument.

“So you came here,” Sam prompted. Dean was reading over whatever was in the envelope, brows knit together and lost in what it said.

“So I came here,” Castiel said with a nod. “I thought perhaps if your father knew, things would be different. He was the logical starting point. I showed him the future of what would come to be. I thought that he would think as Dean had, that the world would be worse off if you two separated in 2009.”

Except he hadn't. Dad had simply decided to separate them well before that date.

“It was not my intent,” Castiel said again. “I could not predict your father's actions. I thought he would keep you both together, not distance you two.”

“What happened after?” Dean asked quietly. He was refolding the letter back up, eyes shadowed. When he glanced back up at Castiel, there was still anger and doubt in his eyes. But there was also belief. Whatever had been in that letter had gone a long way towards convincing Dean that Castiel was the real deal. Sam swung his gaze back to the angel, god, the angel before them.

“When I returned to what you would refer to as the future, everything had changed, but...but not for the better,” Castiel said with a soft sigh. He looked weary and worn down, not at all how an angel should look. He looked just like a regular guy whose life was a mess. He looked like a guy who'd faced an apocalypse. “You were there, Dean, but Sam was still missing. Had been for years. The rumor was not that he had been taken, but that he was...” He hesitated on the word long enough that he didn't even need to say it.

“Dead,” Sam said, his voice distant to his own ears. “I'm dead, aren't I? Because we ran.” This wasn't going to end in any good way. The world was apparently still going to go to Hell, and Sam was dead. An icy dread filled his veins, and he was pretty certain that he was really going to pass out.

“No,” Castiel said, and he looked a little less weary than he had before. There was also something that resembled a proud smile on his face, slight as it was. “Not because you ran. Because you were split up. Your father succeeded.”

“No he didn't,” Dean said, sounding as confused as Sam felt. “We're together.”

“Exactly,” Castiel said. “Somehow, you managed to change the timeline. The future that was initially carved out by my mistake was changed, almost immediately, by the both of you.”

“So how does the future look now?” Sam asked.

Castiel's smile faded. “I don't know,” he said at last. “When I returned the last time after my mistake, Dean, who was the only one who knew of both timelines, begged me to return once more. He gave me the letter and told me to find the both of you, not your father, and try to save you both. Except-”

“Except we'd already saved ourselves,” Dean said. “So you have no idea how this ends.”

Castiel shook his head. “And I cannot go back immediately. I don't have the strength. I'll need to rest here before returning to the year 2009.”

“I thought you were an angel?” Dean asked, eyes widening. “Able to do anything, everything? You can't make it home with a single bound, Lassie?”

Castiel didn't need to say anything; the answer was obvious in the way he was standing. “I will retire to a place where I can rest,” Castiel said instead. “Your father is currently heading east, to where you used your credit card. It will still take him time to figure out where you are now. You may both sleep soundly.”

And then he was gone. Sam stared at where he'd been not a second before, and knew without a doubt that he'd heard the quick rustling of wings as he'd left. “Wow,” he breathed. He couldn't help it. An honest to god angel. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so many things he wanted to know-

“We need sleep,” Dean said, stepping into the room. He set the gun down on the nightstand and, after a thought, put the letter beneath it. “If he's telling the truth about Dad, we've gotta make up the miles tomorrow. The more ahead of him we are, the better off we'll be.”

Sam didn't move. His eyes were still glued to where Castiel had been. Why had they been separated in the future? Why were angels and humans in contact? Why was the world ending?

“Sammy.”

Sam glanced up to where Dean was watching him, determination in his eyes. “We are not splitting up,” he said, as if reading Sam's thoughts.

“But we did,” Sam countered. “We do, sometime in the future. You ditch me.”

“Because I'm obviously high,” Dean snapped. “No way, no how do I ever let you go. Never. Especially not when the world's ending. If the apocalypse was really happening and the Devil was giving out candy to people on the streets, I'd make sure you were the first person next to me.”

It went a long way to healing something cracked inside of him that Sam hadn't even known was breaking. “So...future you does drugs,” he managed to say a few moments later. “Kinda unhealthy, Dean.”

Dean's relief was palpable. “Okay, so I make some wrong decisions,” he said with a shrug. “I make the right ones where they count.”

Like with Sam. Staying with Sam was a right decision, a right choice. Dad had abandoned him, let him go, and apparently future Dean had seen fit to do the same.

But this Dean hadn't. Wasn't letting go.

“Get to bed,” Dean said, already pulling back the sheets on his own bed. “We're up and out of here as soon as possible.”

Yet. Wasn't letting go yet. As much hope as Castiel's story had given him, that staying together was better than separating, it had also punched a hole through his heart. Somewhere up the line, Dean gave up on him. Let him go. Wouldn't let him come back.

What had he done? In the future with Dean, or now with their dad, to make him the one they didn't want?

He slid into bed, trying to shut his thoughts down, until he eventually fell into a fitful sleep.

Chapter Text

Sam was quiet. That in itself was disturbing. Sammy didn't do quiet unless he was thinking, doing homework, or disturbed about something. Thinking, maybe. Homework, definitely not. Disturbed...

Dean risked another glance towards his brother. Sam was in the passenger seat, gaze seemingly outside but really turned inwards. He'd been quiet ever since the angel had shown up last night, and the only reason Dean knew he wasn't asleep now was because he could see Sam swallowing, then wincing. Sam's ears tended to pop more easily up in the mountainous ranges.

And as much as Dean didn't want to admit about last night, there was nothing else it could be except an angel. It zipped in and out through the room, there'd been a definite wing sound, and for some unknown reason, Dean had believed its story. There'd been something about the weary but very powerful man that had put a belief in Dean he hadn't had since he was four. He'd believed the angel and his story with little to no proof.

Well, that and the letter. It turned his stomach just thinking about the entire mess, let alone what the letter had said. Apparently he didn't get any smarter through the years: he still did the same damn mistakes. Got in over his head, spoke before thinking. Let Sam go.

That one he wasn't intending on doing anytime soon. He'd keep Sam safe.

They were still a good four hours off from the highway turn they needed. Then it was down through showy Vegas to hopefully get a few funds, then on to Texas. Dean still didn't have a clue where to actually park them, or if he even could. Dad wouldn't give up on them easy. He'd been searching and hunting for one nasty sonuvabitch for fifteen years. If Dean thought that John Winchester would simply let them disappear, then he really was a moron.

His stomach growled, reminding him that it was high time to step off the highway and get food for the both of them, and fill up his baby while he was at it. “Sam,” he called softly, and when that didn't work, called a little louder. “Sam. We need lunch.”

Sam blinked before turning to look at Dean. “What?”

“Lunch,” Dean repeated. “We need sustenance. And the car needs gas.”

Any hope that his multi-syllable word would catch Sam's attention and maybe lead to teasing was lost when Sam merely nodded and turned back to the window. Dean sighed and turned back to the road. Time to do Dean's least favorite thing: talk. “What's going on, Sammy?” he asked.

Sam's, “Nothing,” came too quick, like it had been rehearsed.

“Sam.”

“Everything,” Sam countered then. “We've got some angel who got us into this mess, Dad who's not gonna give up on us if my entire lifetime is any indication, and we've passed two cop cars in the past hour.”

Dean frowned. There was something else beside all of those things that was eating at his little brother, but he let it go in favor of the last point Sam had made. “I'm going under the speed limit.”

“And how many black 1967 Impalas do you see on the road?”

It only took two seconds to see what Sam was hinting at. If Dad had put out an APB on them, they were fried. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Sam said, voice softer now. “All sorts of new ways for us to be screwed.”

They were gonna have to get off the main roads. Exactly what Dad wanted. If they stayed on the main roads, cops would find them. If they skirted off to short country roads, then it would take longer to get anywhere. Dean was really starting to hate the boxed in feeling. “Change of plans?” Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. “Can't. That's what Dad's banking on now, I guarantee it. He's bound to have figured out that we didn't go east. We played him once with his own deck of cards, Dean. He's gonna change his MO now.”

Dad's MO would've been to turn right back around and head west. Call out an APB to find them. A black, older Impala would be easy to find.

The words felt like a betrayal, even before he said them. “We ditch the car.”

“What?”

Dean swallowed hard but continued. “You heard me. We ditch the car somewhere.”

“No,” Sam said, head shaking hard enough that Dean worried about it falling off. “No way, Dean. We're not losing the car.”

“Only for a little while,” Dean said. “Storage places have enough room for cars, some of 'em. We get a dust jacket for her, we take what we need, we buy a junker, and then we keep going. We come back for her later.”

“Dean-”

“End of discussion,” Dean said firmly. Sam was right: anywhere they went, the car stood out like a sore thumb. They couldn't risk it. Two young looking guys, one still a kid, in a black Chevy were easy targets. Dad wouldn't even have to do any work, it'd just be the cops holding the both of them until Dad found them. And no way would Dad ever dream of Dean letting the car out of his sight.

Dean had more important priorities, though. And when it came down to choosing between Sam and the car, Dean would have his decision made before anyone could finish asking.

“I don't want to.”

Sam's soft voice cut through Dean's thoughts like a knife. “You what?” Dean said, staring at Sam. “Sammy, you hate this car.”

“No I don't,” Sam protested hotly, before wincing again. Popping ears. And they'd been elevated for a good two, three hours. He should've said something, Dean should've said something sooner.

Without thinking Dean reached for the pack of gum in his pocket and handed it to Sam. “Yes you do,” Dean continued. “You constantly tell us we should get something comfier, something more environmentally friendly or whatever.”

Sam scrambled with the gum package until he had two strips of gum in his mouth. He winced again as he chewed, but he still answered. “It's...it's home, okay?” he mumbled, looking anywhere except at Dean. His cheeks turned pink as he said a little more loudly, “You can't ditch her. We'll figure something else out, okay? Please?”

As a hunter, the logical thing would be to ditch the car. The APB wouldn't take much to nail the both of them. The car was almost as easy to spot as their dad's truck, what with the damn blue stripe-

Dean swore his eyes were going to fall out of his sockets, they widened so much. “What?” Sam asked as he chewed.

“We passed two cops, you said? And we didn't get pulled over, right?”

“Right...?”

“So Dad hasn't put out the APB yet.”

“No, not yet.”

“Then we do it first.”

“...On us?” Sam asked incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“On Dad and us,” Dean said with a grin. “It'll work, trust me.”

Sam hesitated for only a second before he nodded. “There's bound to be a police office in the next town,” he said. “We're gonna need FBI for crossing state lines, though.”

“Leave it to me, little brother,” Dean said, a grin spreading wide across his face. “You'll see.”



Luck managed to find them a larger city with a police station that put them into direct contact with the FBI. “Just work the puppy eyes,” Dean had told him before they'd gone into the station. “And we'll be fine.”

They'd dumped out everything at a local motel before they'd walked their way over. Dean had hidden the car at some warehouse near the shadier side of town beforehand, and now it was up to his brother's acting skills.

Which, Sam had to admit, were pretty damn good. Dean managed to weave a story about his classic car being stolen by some older guy, giving a detailed description of Dad. He'd seen the guy prowling around, telling them that they looked like his sons, and when they'd come out of their room where they were staying, the car had been gone. Sam 'suddenly' remembered the details of the truck the guy had been in before, right down to the ding in the back right bumper. There'd been personal things in the car, like photos and clothes, since they were traveling to meet family, and could the police help at all...?

Within the hour the police were out hunting for the car and their Dad. Dean's quick leap to put out the APB first meant whatever APB their dad put out on them wouldn't hold merit. He'd wind up arrested first. If and when the cops wound up believing him, they'd both be long gone, and no cops would stop them.

Sam had to admit, his older brother was seriously quick on his feet when it came to the hunt. This was just a different sort of hunt.

Currently, the cops were dropping them off back at their motel, refusing to let the boys take the bus back or worse, walk, not when their day had already been “filled with trouble”. Being in the back of the cop car was actually nerve wracking. Sam swallowed and winced as his ears tried to pop again. God he hated the mountains. His ears were always subject to it. He curled his hand into a fist and winced again, this time as his healing hand reminded him that it was still healing and to stop moving it.

“You all right, son?”

I'm no one's son anymore, Sam almost said, and it stopped him short for so long that the cop up front had to ask again. He swallowed hard and winced again as the sharp pain in his ears let them release, but only for a short while. “My ears,” he managed to get out. “They keep popping.”

The cop at least looked sympathetic as he offered back a stick of gum. “Mountains up here are hell on the eardrums,” the guy agreed. Sam took it through the bars with a nod of thanks and immediately started chewing. Whatever flavor it was, it was disgusting, but Sam didn't care. If it helped relieve the pressure in his ears, they were fine.

A squawk through the radio came through, and for one insane moment, Sam thought they were screwed. That somehow Dad had found them, that they were done for. That...that John had found them. Sam didn't know if they were still his sons, but considering the ease with which he'd been let go...

He swallowed again and shut his eyes, hoping that the burning in his eyes was just from the mountain air. Losing it in the back of a police car wasn't going to happen.

“Copy that,” the cop said, then turned to Dean with a grin. “Congrats, your car's been found. It's up in the seedier side of town. It'll be towed up to the station for you boys, and we'll have you on your way by tonight.”

Dean was effusive in his praise and thanks, and Sam gave a small smile here and there where needed. The cop dropped them off with a nod of his cap and then took off, leaving them at the motel room. The gum had gone sour in his mouth, and Sam had to swallow around the bad taste. They'd wound up not doing lunch, and now Sam was beginning to feel sick to his stomach. That was the story he was going with, at any rate. It was better, easier, than the truth.

Before he knew it, Dean was guiding him inside with a hand on the back of his neck. “We'll be out of here by tonight,” Dean said, shutting the door behind them. “You wanna order something in for lunch?”

Sam stared at the room around him, not even knowing what he was searching for. Dean's voice felt like it was fading out, and the gum in his mouth tasted dry and wrong. Absently he took it out and dropped it in the trash can near the door, then realized he had nothing now to focus on. The hole in his gut just kept swirling and twisting, leaving him to gaze at four walls that held no answer.

And it wasn't even that he was looking for an answer, though they'd certainly be welcome. An answer from his dad would be great. Why me? Why did you have to split us up? An answer from the angel would be nice, too. What happened in the future? Why did you want to fix the past? Why couldn't you go to another point in the past? Hell, as long as he was asking questions, he'd take one from his future brother, too. What did I do? Why did you let me go? Did you hate me? Why? Why wasn't I good enough to keep around?

It wasn't until he tried to shy away from his thoughts that a voice cut in through his thoughts, worried and loud. Hands on his shoulders brought him back to the room with no answers and his present brother up close, anxious and kneeling in front of Sam. His voice filtered in from muted to crystal clear. “Sammy, talk to me, is it your ears?”

There wasn't a single way to even begin describing how he felt, what he wanted, how everything couldn't get better. “Dean,” he choked out, and it was only then that he felt the tears rolling down his cheeks. “Dean.”

Then Dean's hands were moving from his shoulders to his back, hauling him in. Sam fit in against Dean's neck with a sob, hands clutching desperately at his brother's jacket. It had been Dad's, once, the leather so familiar that Sam could've sworn it was on his father just yesterday. Back when his dad had actually loved him.

Suddenly Sam had no trouble finding words. “Why,” he cried, then shouted it, his voice cracking the second time. “Why. Why did Dad, did you, what did I do...”

“Sammy,” Dean said helplessly.

“I get good grades,” Sam whispered brokenly. “I-I do the research, I'm getting b-better with my aim, and teens argue, but y-you're not supposed to...to let go just because we disagree, I-I do my best to do what he wants, isn't it good enough? W-Why did he, why did you...why don't you want me-”

Anger swelled suddenly inside of him, coming out like a burst. He beat his fists against Dean hard, the only buffer and punching bag he had. “Screw him,” Sam cursed, fists pounding again and again until it all just hurt. “Screw y-you, how could you let me go, why-”

And just as suddenly as the anger had come, it left, leaving him nothing but tears and a heart that kept shattering. Questions and demands spilled out, hot tears and accusations burning through him, begging Dean to tell him why he wasn't good enough, why he was the one being left behind, why why why. His legs gave beneath him, bringing the both of them to the floor in a crumpled heap. He cried like it was all he could do, tears pouring unchecked down his face.

Through it all, Dean held on. It was only when Sam began to quiet down to sniffles and hitched breaths that Dean finally spoke. “You're my little brother, Sam. That will never, ever change. I swear. I would do anything for you, always. I promise, Sammy.”

Sam closed his eyes, one last tear falling through his lashes and down his cheek. He had to believe it. Dean was all he had left, everything he had left. If Dean left him, then he'd sink.

With Dean here beside him, fingers clenched tightly around him, Sam could stay afloat through the confusion, doubt, and pain.

Chapter Text

Sam was asleep in his arms, but Dean still had yet to move. There was an occasional sniffle or choked breath even while Sam slept on. The floor was killing Dean's knees, and the clock said that it was well past time to eat. He hadn't expected the thing with the cops to take so long.

Moving, however, wasn't on Dean's current list of things to do. Making sure Sam knew he wasn't going to be abandoned was.

He'd been quiet all the way back from the station, and Dean had assumed it was because of the popping ears. After the cop had left, however, Sam had seemed too out of it. Having to all but lead him into the motel room should've been Dean's first clue.

There hadn't really been a second clue. Sam had just stood and stared and swayed right before tears had started rolling down his face. It wasn't until Dean had called him back that Sam had finally responded.

And it had been the outburst Dean had figured it would be.

Sam had thrown it all at him. “Why doesn't he love me?” and “What did I do?” mixed in with, “Screw him,” and “How could you abandon me too?” and everything the kid had obviously been storing up for the past few days. Couple that in with the revelation from the damn angel and Sam had just been given more fodder for the machine that never shut off called his brain. Dean shut his eyes tight and cursed, again, his older self. The letter had told enough of the story, a story Sam wouldn't see or know about, ever. But there'd been the apology, too, and that part maybe Sam needed to see. To know that Dean's older self could admit to making the biggest mistake of his life and wanting to make it right and willing to do anything, anything, to keep Sam from being hurt.

Dean had known as soon as Sam had asked, 'how could you', which Dean he'd been referring to, and it hadn't been the brother in front of him. But it was still so wrong to think that ever since the angel had brought it up, it'd been festering in his little brother's mind. And Dean knew that it had been tumbling around in Sam's grapefruit since then. Sam was nothing if not a determined thinker. It just hurt to think of Sam, already betrayed by their dad, to believe that he'd be cast out by his brother, too.

Not happening. If Dad wanted to let go of his youngest son so easily-

The other puzzle piece slid into place as to why Sam had gotten so quiet on the way back. The cop's friendly, kind gesture of a stick of gum had carried an unknowing barb with it.

“Sonuvabitch,” Dean groaned softly. Sam shifted but didn't wake. Of course the casually spoken 'son' would dig at his brother. Lovely.

Why hadn't the damn angel kept his hands out of it? Dean knew he wasn't being fair at all – the guy had had all the best intentions an angel could have – but Castiel had left such devastation in his wake that the phrase about good intentions and the road to Hell couldn't help but spring to mind.

His stomach growled again, and it was even louder than his soft exclamation had been. Time to order in something for them both to eat. He'd be damned before he saw Sam waste away.

His knees protested painfully as he rose, pulling Sam up with him. Even with his slight stumble he managed to carry Sam over to one of the beds and set him down. “Hope you don't wind up taller than me, because doing that with a guy over six foot would be a pain in the ass,” he joked. His eyes caught sight of the glistening tear tracks on his brother's cheeks, and yep, there was the painful twisting in his chest, right about where his heart was.

“Goddamn you Dad,” he whispered, suddenly so angry. At their dad, at the angel, at the world who apparently saw fit to keep tormenting the both of them throughout their lives. This wasn't going to end after they found the thing that killed their mom, if they ever found it at all. An apocalypse? Lucifer?

No. They were done. They had to be. If not for their own sakes, then for the sake of the world.

He pulled his leather jacket off and gently draped it over Sam. The room was warm, for all the cold mountain air outside, and Sam instantly curled his fingers around it even in sleep.

Dean glanced at the clock, feeling every minute of his age and more. He felt exhausted and wrung out, just as emotionally battered as Sam, but this had been what he'd been waiting for. The explosion that Sam couldn't keep inside anymore, though it hadn't been as violent as Dean had thought. Maybe there was something to be said for leaking it out over a period of time.

No resting now, he told himself. There was food to be ordered and eaten, a car to retrieve, weapons and duffel bags to put back in his baby, and then they'd head out.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, held back the weary sigh, and then made himself head for the phone. There had to be a sub shop or something around here that delivered.



The next day seemed better. The weather was warmer as they headed into Nevada and towards Las Vegas. Breakfast had tasted good and filled them up, and even now the leftovers were sitting in a styrofoam container between them, bagels and bacon being periodically munched on.

The real reason Sam felt better was because this was the second to last step to being free. After Vegas, they were disappearing. Together, forever, gone.

Last night had been mortifying, not to mention draining. He'd already cried a few days before, and last night had been even worse than that. Logically, it had been too much pressure forced into releasing, but Sam couldn't help but see it as another weakness. Sam, the girl, who always cried. Who couldn't man up, even when his dad and future brother abandoned him. He'd like to think that Dean would've handled the news better than him.

Still, Dean hadn't ribbed him on it once, had instead almost seemed relieved, like he'd been waiting for Sam to crack and break. He probably had. Dean knew Sam better than Sam did.

His eyes were dry today, if just a little bit sore from last night's breakdown. Puffy, too. But the waitress at the diner hadn't said anything about it, Dean hadn't said anything about it, and things were looking up. Looking better.

And if the smile on Dean's face was any indication, his brother felt the same.

That might've had something to do with the lights ahead of them, visible even during the daytime. God there were a lot of them.

“Vegas!” Dean crowed, letting out a whoop. “Sammy, we're gonna clean up.”

“That's what all the hopeful ones say,” Sam told him, but Dean's grin was contagious. They weren't planning on hitting any of the casinos, instead sticking to the bars and smaller poker games to make their cash. There were enough tourists that came in that they could hop from place to place without being recognized by any locals.

They passed through the main strip – which Dean demanded that they see at night, just because they could – and wound their way through a few of the not-so-lit blocks until they were fairly certain they knew their way around. “Motel?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded. “Check in, then play a few games. It'd be easier now than later.”

Sure enough, they cleaned up at one of the poker joints, then moved on to the next. By the time night was falling, they'd traded in chips for a serious amount of coin.

“I could hustle for months and not see this much cash,” Dean said with a touch of awe in his voice. Sam had to admit, they'd done way better than he'd hoped. The amount of cash they were currently carrying with them was enough to pay for half of a brand new car. Not a really expensive one, but still. It was playing merry havoc with Sam's head. A few days ago, they'd had a fifty and a twenty to their names.

Now they had a lot more. Enough to let them start somewhere without worrying about things for a little while.

“Now what?” Sam asked as they headed for their motel room. Lunch was a distant memory, and he didn't like the idea of them wandering around with all of that cash. No, they needed to get to the room and get their earnings inside. Then he'd breathe a little easier.

Dean seemed to think the same way, because he turned right back around and popped the trunk open. Once he was in, he messed with the false bottom in order to get to the secret compartment in the trunk. Cash settled and firmly hidden, he slammed the trunk shut and tossed a grin over his shoulder. “I'm feeling like steak,” he said. “Mashed potatoes. Cheesecake for dessert.”

Sam rolled his eyes but couldn't stop the spreading of his smile. “I think I'll take a chicken sandwich,” he said dryly.

“You would, you loser,” Dean threw at him, and Sam let out a laugh.

“Just because I don't want to keel over when I'm thirty-five-”

“Who's keeling over?”

“-Or wind up weighing three hundred pounds by the time I'm twenty-”

“Hey!”

“I'm just saying,” Sam said, holding his hands up innocently.

Dean glared at him in a way that promised retribution, then brightened. “Y'know, you've been eating all that healthy junk for years, and how tall are you?”

Oh not cool. “You jerk,” Sam said before rushing him. Dean just laughed as Sam tackled him back against the motel's wall, trying anything to make Dean pay.

“Boys, boys, settle down now.”

They both turned at the sound of the voice, their roughhousing a thing of the past. The man coming from the motel office was standing there watching them, eyebrow lifted. “You boys looking for a room?” he asked.

Sam tightened his grasp around Dean's wrist before his brother could speak. Something was wrong. Something felt...off. And there was something familiar about the man, though Sam swore he'd never seen him before. “No sir,” Sam said politely, tugging at Dean's wrist where the man couldn't see. “We were exploring the strip and got into an argument.”

“Seems to me that you parked your car to get yourselves a room,” the man said, taking a step forward. Dean pulled his arm back, leading Sam to move behind him. “If you don't have one yet, room six is open.”

“Dean,” Sam said softly, wanting nothing more than to run. The feeling of wrong was tight in his gut, and his hunter's instincts of flight or fight were completely confused and ready for Dean to take the lead.

“Sammy,” Dean started, only for the man to take another step forward. That was when Sam saw it: the gun tucked beneath his coat. The rugged coarse appearance, the way he walked-

That's why he looked familiar. He moved like Dad. He moved like a hunter.

Sam didn't even stop to think, he merely grabbed Dean's hand and pulled, hard. Dean was already moving though, tugging and yanking at Sam's hand back to the car. “Go!” Dean shouted, pushing at Sam to move faster ahead of him.

There was yelling behind them, and then to their right as more voices joined in. Sam spared a quick look and found the door with a large 6 on it open and letting out two more men, each dressed in a similar manner. More hunters. All of them were heading for Sam and Dean.

Sam flew across the parking lot, heart hammering in his chest. He was almost to the Impala, and if they could get in, they'd have weapons to fight back with, a bigger weapon to run them over with-

Dean shouted suddenly behind him, and it was enough to make him slow to a fast stop. He realized his mistake, but it was too late. A hand suddenly caught him by the back of his coat and yanked, hard. Sam was thrown backwards, his shirts and coat coming forward and wrapping around his throat. His hands flew to his neck, tugging and pulling as he choked and gasped for air.

Then he was whipped around and back against something hard and unyielding. Hands wrapped around him, holding him tight. He struggled hard, hands tearing at his shirts and the arms that held him captive.

“Stand down, Dean,” the voice behind him said. Looking back at the parking lot, Sam could see his brother being held by the two hunters who had come out of the motel room. Dean was fighting and yanking at his captive arms, both of them pulled behind him.

“Let him go, you sonuvabitch!” Dean yelled, fighting all the harder. “You're gonna suffocate him!”

“That's up to you,” the man behind him said. “You stop struggling, and I'll let Sammy go.” To further emphasize his point, he twisted the fabric in his grasp harder, completely cutting off Sam's air supply. Sam choked and let go of the man's arms in order to pull at his shirts. His throat felt tight, too tight, the usually soft fabric of his shirts now harsh and unyielding against his throat. It felt like fire against his skin, tearing at it as it tightened even further. His muscles were screaming as he pulled, but to no avail.

“Sammy!”

His lungs were burning for air, and his pulse was all he could hear. There was a high pitched sound in his ears as black spots danced across his vision. He had to fight back: god knew what they were doing to Dean, what they wanted, and what they planned on doing to his brother...

Suddenly the noose around his neck let go. Sam fell forward onto the pavement, choking in huge gasps of air. His eyes watered as his burning lungs were suddenly allowed air. “Not so hard, was it?” the man behind him asked in a patronizing tone.

“I'm gonna rip you to shreds,” Dean swore. Sam focused on bringing in deep breaths, rubbing carefully at the torn skin of his throat. He felt woozy from the lack of air, but he still managed to raise his head. Dean was held tight, but he wasn't fighting anymore. Not physically, anyway: his eyes told a different story. Any chance he got that didn't involve hurting Sam, and he'd rip them all to pieces, just as promised.

The car. Sam had to get to the car. He knew they hadn't locked one of the doors, since they'd been going into the room and coming back. Sam could get in, get a weapon.

He hung his head with the pretense that he was still fighting for air. It wasn't really a pretense, as he still couldn't breathe. But this was for Dean, for himself, for their future. They had to get out of this one.

Without preamble he shot his left leg back and straight into the guy's kneecap. The man howled and went down, and Sam shoved himself up off of the rough pavement and straight for the car. If he could get in-

A sharp pain hit him in the leg, sending him down to the ground again with a cry. Dean was screaming his name behind him, but he couldn't chance looking back. He pushed himself up on suddenly trembling arms, desperately reaching for the door. They were so close...

Legs blocked his vision. Sam followed them up to the angry gaze of the first hunter. “Think it's time for a nap,” he snarled, and then all Sam knew was black.

Chapter Text

Four hours, by Dean's count. Four hours they'd been in the damn room. He had no idea where they were, or how long it'd been before they'd gotten there. It was still dark through the windows that he could see out of. The barred windows that wouldn't hold any escape.

He glared daggers through the wooden door, hoping like hell that whomever was on the other side could feel their imminent death. Those sons of bitches. They'd jumped them in the parking lot, nearly suffocated Sam, then-

His gaze slid back to where Sam was still laying, unconscious, on the small blanket that had been spread out on the ground for them. They'd at least given Dean a first aid kit and a bowl of what looked and smelled like clean water. Like that was going to make up for putting a goddamn hole in his brother's calf.

The kid was a mess. He'd reopened the wound in his hand from the motel shelf when he'd landed on the pavement. His other hand was scratched to hell, and his knees were bruised. There was a lump on the side of the head from when he'd been knocked out, and on his calf was a dark red wound that Dean was currently rewrapping.

He'd stabbed Sam. Grabbed a knife after Sam had kicked him and thrown it at Sam. “You should be grateful,” the man had told him before he'd cracked Dean across the temple.

Grateful? Grateful that his aim was for crap, and that it wasn't Sam's femoral artery he'd hit? Grateful that he hadn't pulled the gun instead?

They hadn't come in yet. Dean still had no idea what the hell they even wanted.

A quiet moan sent his heart racing. “Sammy?” he whispered urgently. “Sammy, c'mon, wake up.”

Slowly Sam's eyes fluttered open, murky hazel still seeking him out first. “D'n?” he mumbled, but it was enough.

“Yeah, it's me,” Dean said, shutting his eyes tight for a minute in relief. Thank god. “How you feeling?”

Sam licked his lips before responding. “Like...truck...hit me.”

Dean snickered. “Yeah, I hear you. Roadkill.”

“You get the...the name of the driver?”

Dean pursed his lips. “Took off too fast,” he said, trying to make it sound light and failing. “And apparently decided to take us with him.”

He could see the minute it dawned on Sam that they were somewhere else. “Where...?” Before Dean could stop him, Sam was pushing himself up to sitting. Sam hissed and shut his eyes tight, already tumbling backwards towards the floor.

Dean caught him easily, ignoring the throbbing of his head at the sudden movement or his arms as Sam's weight pulled at the already sore muscles. “Don't know. We were already here when I came to.”

Sam opened his eyes at that, fear evident in his gaze. “Came to? Dean-”

“I'm fine,” Dean assured him. “Just another bump on the head. Good thing my skull's too hard to crack, huh?”

Sam didn't look convinced, but he let it go. “What happened? Last thing I remember was...”

“I think you were going for the car,” Dean said, his mind helpfully supplying what happened next: the knife flying, Sam screaming and falling to the ground, Dean doing his own bit of screaming, and then the fallen hunter rising to knock his brother out.

Sam grimaced, hand slowly reaching for his leg. “Leave it be,” Dean said, pulling Sam's hand away before it could reach its destination. Better that Sam not touch it or know how bad it was.

“They haven't said anything? Nothing at all?”

“No,” Dean said. He took a moment to glare again at the door before turning back to Sam. “No one's been in or out. When I came to, there was a first aid kit and a bowl of warm water with a wash rag. That's it.”

Sam began pushing himself up again. “Hey, easy Rambo,” Dean said, trying to push Sam back down. “You gotta rest, Sammy.”

“We have to get out of here,” Sam said stubbornly. Always the determined one, his little brother. “God knows what they could do to us next, and I don't want to stay around and watch them rip your arms out of their sockets again.”

Woozy and down for the count, and the kid was still worried about him. “Won't let 'em this time,” Dean promised, stupidly touched at the amount of concern from Sam. “I'll be right in front of you, and they won't get to either of us, promise.” He frowned, another thought he'd been chewing on coming to mind once more. “And I want to know how they found us in the first place.”

“Probably the same way Dad would've,” Sam said quietly. “Some hunters do have law enforcement connections. If Dad did put an APB out on us, and hunters followed the police who followed us...”

Dean swallowed, feeling sick. They should've just dumped the damn car when they'd had the chance to. “Sammy, I'm sorry,” he said, unable to offer anything else.

“It's not your fault,” Sam said without hesitation, and for the first time since he'd woken up, his voice held no trembling, his gaze solid and focused. “I mean it. I didn't want to dump the car any more than you did.” He cracked a wan grin. “Winchester luck, remember?”

Yeah, Winchester luck. Always bad with last minute saves. “Sometimes I wish we had no luck,” Dean grumbled, but he got Sam's point. No matter how they'd been found – and Dean doubted they'd ever know, though Sam's idea held the most merit – they needed to focus on the here and now.

Sam met his gaze and gave a small smile. “We still have to get out of here,” he reminded Dean, eyes moving around the small wooden room and their limited options. Dean watched him take in the barred windows, the one door, and the random metal shelves with various items in the room.

Dean decided to narrate before Sam got the grand idea to stand up and investigate for himself. Nothing Dean hadn't already done, anyways. “Nothing on the shelves except empty crates. Shelves themselves would topple fast if we put them in front of the door. No weapons, no tools, only a few bottles of engine oil and the empty wood crates. I searched them already.”

“What's in the first aid kit?” Sam asked after a moment.

Dean regarded the little white tin with some hesitation. “Rubbing alcohol, some bandages, and a bottle of aspirin, which you're taking some of in a minute. Medical tape. That and the wooden bowl, a rag, and water that's bordering on cold now.” Yeah, they could get out of there with that.

Except Sam was actually looking at everything like they could. “Wanna share with the class, oh boy scout?” Dean asked with raised eyebrows.

Sam rolled his eyes in perceived annoyance, then promptly fell back onto the floor. “Jesus, Sammy, easy,” Dean exclaimed, hands instantly cradling his brother's nearly white face. Slowly Sam blinked and brought himself back to awareness. “You okay? Sammy!”

“M'fine,” Sam murmured, but he looked glassy-eyed again. God they were screwed. If Sam had a concussion on top of everything else...

“Just rest,” Dean said firmly. “Let me get you some aspirin first, though. And I'll deal with whoever decides to barge in.”

But Sam was already shaking his head, this time more carefully. “No time for meds. Get the oil,” he said softly. “Bring it over.”

Dean rose reluctantly, eyes still on Sam. The kid had almost no color in his cheeks, and his breaths were coming in small pants. “Sammy...”

“We're busting out,” Sam said. “Oil, and hurry.”

When had he ever not listened to Sam? Dean obediently brought the bottles over to where Sam was slouched over himself. “You thinking the windows?”

“Or the floor,” Sam said. Upon peering up through his bangs and finding Dean's bewildered look, he gave a wan smile. “There's a draft through the floorboards. I'm thinking the cabin or whatever we're in is on a hill, because I can smell the night and dirt.”

Tunneling out. Dean carefully stepped over and around Sam to the floorboards his little brother was pointing at. Sure enough, Dean could feel the air coming through the boards. The boards on the wall looked sturdy and were notched into place, but the floor boards were slightly separated. Dirt was obvious between the planks on the floor, except near where they met the wall. There, Dean could feel air. All of the nails looked rusty, but they weren't deeply embedded in the wood. The age of the cabin was visible in the twisting of the boards and the way they had been laid down without concrete, making the nails at the edge the only thing between them and an escape. Any pitch that had been laid between the boards had long since deteriorated.

Dean turned around to ask for the bandages, but Sam was already holding the tin out towards him. “Be careful,” Sam said softly.

With a quick nod Dean got to work. The bandages kept the nails from cutting into his fingers as he gently pulled at one of the highest ones, just to see if it would work, if any of them would come out.

In less than thirty seconds he had it out. The wood gave a little easier after having been freed. He tossed a triumphant grin over his shoulder to Sam, who still looked pale and in pain. But he threw a thumbs up back. Dean forced his inner protective big brother nature to shut up and focused on the boards. If he could get them out, that'd go a lot longer towards helping Sam than sitting there worrying about him.

Logical, yes. Easy to do...not so much.

He used the oil sparingly, letting it soak into the wood and around the nail before he began on the next one. It came out a little easier, but it still took some tugging. The next one was harder to get out, and he spent a good five minutes on it.

By the time he'd loosened enough boards to move, it'd been about half an hour by his estimation. Now it was just a matter of getting the boards out of the way. “Think you can help me move them?” Dean asked, glancing back at his brother.

If Sam had been pale before, he was completely white now, save for the slight flush to his cheeks. Goddamn blood loss. “Shit, why didn't you say something-” Dean started to say, scrambling to reach his brother, when Sam slumped back towards the floor again. Dean barely managed to grab him before his brother cracked his head against the wood. “Sammy,” he said urgently, resisting the impulse to shake his brother back to awareness. “Sammy! C'mon, kiddo.”

“Dean?” Sam whispered, and Dean hated the lost tone to his voice. “Can we go?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “We're leaving.” Whether the boards wanted to move or not.

To get them out, he was going to need to move Sam. As gently as he dared he shifted his brother until Sam was leaning against the wall a few planks over. Then Dean started the tedious task of prying his fingers in between the boards and pulling. Splinters dug and pulled at his fingers and hands, and the roughness of the wood cut through his skin, but Dean had more important things to focus on. Namely, getting Sam out. A few more nails had to come out, and the dry dirt beneath them didn't help, but after some shifting, it became obvious very quickly that Sam had been right: at least one part of the cabin was exposed to air. Either they were in a basement or a hill.

So long as they could get out, Dean didn't care.

They were one plank away from just barely being able to squeeze through when footsteps were heard from outside the door. “Dean,” Sam whispered in between pants, but Dean had already heard. Cover the hole or get out now?

God knew what the men were going to do, and Sam couldn't handle much more. He needed to be somewhere he could actually relax and rest without what was probably a concussion, blood loss, and a little bit of shock playing havoc on his body. Out it was.

Without hesitation Dean pulled at the board as hard as he could. The wood groaned and slowly shifted down across the floor, revealing grass, dirt, and about two feet of clearance. It'd have to do. “Can we go?” Sam managed.

“Yeah,” Dean said, reaching for Sam. Sam let Dean pull him across the floor, his arms shaking. He did try and put his feet through the hole on his own, and managed to slide out with only a few hissing sounds of pain.

Dean was one foot into the hole when the voices outside the door registered, and he couldn't stop himself from freezing.

“I put the call out to hunters to only sit on them, that was all, while I dealt with the cops arresting me. I wasn't expecting the boys to put an APB out on me, but I didn't want this! I just wanted to find them! And now you're telling me they're both hurt?”

“You sounded pretty damn urgent, John, said your boys were getting into all sorts of trouble, and you don't understand, they struggled-”

Dad. The urge to let their dad get them out of trouble was so strong that Dean almost called out to him. Almost.

Then the memory of Sam's face on the stairs, Dad's cold voice from the study, flashed through his mind. No. Dean hadn't gone this far to lose Sam now.

Without pausing this time he shoved himself through the hole, then edged himself out from underneath the building. Definitely a cabin, out in the middle of nowhere, and definitely perched on a hill. It looked like erosion was edging up underneath the crest that the cabin had been built on. Lucky them. Around them was a forested area, but not heavily so. There were trees and hills and were they still in Nevada?

“S'not all desert, Dean,” Sam said softly to his left. The kid was leaning against a tree, looking just as washed out as he had before. But he was upright, or trying to be, at any rate, and still reading Dean's mind without any issue.

“Let's go,” Dean said, hurrying over to Sam. “Get on my back, now.”

Sam looked at him like he was nuts. “Dean, I'm not a kid anymore-”

“You're down a working limb, and you still don't weigh that much,” Dean argued. “Sammy, we don't have time for this, it has to be now.”

Sam looked like he had a lot more to say on the subject, but then he swayed. Dean carefully kept him up long enough for Sam to admit defeat. “Can we hotwire a car?” he asked.

Dean shook his head. Not with their dad inside: it'd be the first place Dad would look once they were discovered missing. “We can make it to the road, hitchhike it,” he said. He was fairly certain that the rushing sound off in the distance was the highway. Rushing sounds meant cars. Somebody would stop to help. “C'mon, squirt.”

It took only one good hoist to get Sam up on his back and wrap his arms around Sam's knees. Dean's arms protested slightly, his shoulders still feeling the tight captive grip of hours before, but he forced it down. Sam had his arms around Dean's neck and shoulders in no time, and with Sam this close, Dean could feel the small tremors that wracked his brother's frame.

Sam should've had medical help hours ago.

Dean started making his way down the small incline and off into the forest. They were on the low ground now, but eventually it would have to go high again. High would mean a road.

The only problem was that it was still pretty dark outside. Trees were everywhere, and while morning was obviously on the horizon, the sun wasn't out yet, which meant their light was limited at best, nonexistent at worst. He found himself pulling his hands away from Sam to keep branches at bay as they made their way through the terrain.

Even with their headstart, Dean could still hear the shouts echoing through the trees. Guess they'd been found out. Time to pick up the pace.

“What do they want with us?” Sam asked against his neck.

“Who knows,” Dean muttered, eyes desperately seeking out the roots around them. The next part looked like it was just long rocks, and he crossed over those with speed. Anything to give them more covered ground.

Another branch came at them, but Sam's hand reached out beyond them to push it away. “Gotta be getting closer,” Sam murmured, and Dean didn't know who he was referring to.

A sharp decline nearly sent Dean head over heels. He managed to get his feet under him and make it a calculated stumble, and better yet, still hang on to Sam. He still tossed a winced, “Sorry,” over his shoulder at his brother, whose fingers were digging in to Dean's skin.

“S'okay,” Sam whispered, but the pain in his voice told another story. Mentioning that now, doing anything except getting out of there, wouldn't do them any good, so Dean plodded on.

When the next chorus of shouts came, Dean could make out the sound of his name, Sam's, and the fact that their pursuers were definitely closer. “Sonuvabitch,” Dean cursed, breaking into a run. Sam kept his grip tight as they ran through the forest. Trees flew by, branches were ducked under in favor of speed, and the ground wasn't even considered. So long as it didn't give beneath them, Dean didn't care.

Finally, his eyes could make out an incline. The sky was a pink color now, making it easier to see. It would work against them, but if they could just make it to the road, they could get a car. They could hike back to Vegas. They could get Sam help. They could get away.

Above them, lights passed and flashed by, and Dean knew they'd hit the road. “Thank god,” he breathed, but didn't stop his speed. He nearly tripped on a root but kept going, Sam's weight nothing while the adrenaline surged through his veins. His heart was pounding in his chest, his lungs were burning, but god they were gonna make it. He started up the lowest part of the incline, eyes tracking the lights that flashed above. The lights that...that weren't flashing, but were getting brighter.

“Dean.”

Dean slammed to a halt, eyes shooting up to the figure standing above them. The lights behind him made his silhouette all too clear, and even if Dean hadn't heard the familiar voice, even if Sam hadn't whispered the name in a shocked tone, Dean would've known his dad anywhere.

Crashing branches behind him told him that the others were practically on top of them, but Dad stood between him and the road, and those were probably the truck's damn headlights that were aimed at the incline. Dad had still known exactly where they'd go, and he'd beaten them to the only exit they'd had.

“No,” Sam whispered, voice filled with despair. “No.”

The sky was burning with a bright sun, but there wasn't anything beautiful or good about it. Dean felt his frustration and misery burn in his eyes. Dad loomed over them, tall and large and imposing, and they were done. They were done.

It was over.

“Dean,” Sam choked out, and Dean finally hung his head and cried.

Chapter Text

Sam was fairly certain that he was supposed to be taking note of the silence in the car. Or the way Dad was gripping the wheel like it would fly out of his hands if he didn't. Or the way Dean was staring at nothing next to him but his hand was tightly wrapped in Sam's. Like it would make a difference.

Instead all Sam could feel was the encompassing numbness. Not from his leg: his calf was radiating pain enough that every bump in the road made him wince. It gave him something to focus on. Something other than the emotions that were begging to come through. Like despair, defeat, fear, anger, humiliation. Grief. They'd been so damn close-

Sam put a cap on those thoughts and let himself drift back into the nothingness he'd been in ever since he'd been helped into Dad's truck. Not by Dad, even though it had been offered with what seemed sincerity. Dean hadn't let him get anywhere near Sam. Even the offer to help them up the incline had been sharply rebuffed by his older brother. Dean had stuffed Sam against the door of the truck and himself against Sam, and Dad had to have noticed. He hadn't said anything, though, no one had said a word, and the unsaids filled the truck to the brim. He knew Dad had things to say, especially in regards to Dean's change of attitude. His once obedient, perfect soldier son had rebelled. He was now Sam's defiant, selfless older brother who'd made a silent, strong stand against their father just that morning.

The same older brother who had openly wept when he'd seen their escape route blocked.

The day was sunny, and it had no right to be. It was all wrong. They'd go back to the motel on this sunny day and Sam would probably be left behind-

Bile rose swiftly in his throat, and Sam swallowed hard to keep it down. Dean tightened his grip, but Sam couldn't manage to squeeze back. It meant he'd have to give in to everything he was feeling.

Sam continued to float for a while in a haze of pain and exhaustion and the numbness that was starting to encompass the rest of the emotions. They'd failed. Everything they'd done, for nothing. They were going to be split up.

It wasn't like Dean wasn't 19 and couldn't go off on his own, legally. But Dad had proven that he could find them anywhere, lock them down in any way necessary, and box them into a corner. He'd find them, and he'd do whatever he wanted. Just like he always did.

If there was ever a time for tears, it was damn well now. Even Dean had broken when Dad had stood over them, the barrier to their freedom. But somehow, Sam couldn't dredge up anything. Everything was numb, comfortably numb. If he pushed too hard to feel anything, then the physical pain came flooding back, along with the crushing despair. This distance, this echo away from everything, let him float in a place where he could pretend they were just driving to another hunt. Nothing different. Same old, same old.

Another bump in the road jarred his wound and knocked his headache, and Sam knew he was forming grooves in the seat from his fingertips. Dean had caught on after the first wince and helped as best he could, pulling Sam's legs together against his to keep them locked together, but the pain wouldn't let up. His head was pounding, vision still a little blurry, and the migraine was only ramping up the nausea. His hands hurt, even his knees hurt from his tumble, and all the pain felt like a never-ending circle of pressure, anxious nerves, and a loss of control. Story of his life.

They were slowing down, and when Sam looked up through the windshield, he found them turning into the motel's parking lot. The Impala gleamed in the sunlight, the safe haven they hadn't been able to reach in time. Sam knew that from this day forward, he was always going to wonder if he couldn't have moved faster, pushed himself harder, done anything to get to the car and defend them from the hunters. The hunters Dad had apparently sent off after them.

The truck rumbled to a stop. The door to room six was still ajar. “Inside,” Dad ordered, and Sam reached for the door handle without thinking. It was easier than arguing. Maybe if he obeyed everything Dad asked of him, maybe he could stay-

“C'mon,” Dean said softly, nudging Sam out. He caught Sam by the arm before any steps were taken out, a move that his calf would be grateful for later. “I got you,” was all Dean said before Sam found himself being half walked, half carried to the door, Dean an ever-present companion beside him. Both of them ignored their father, who was standing by the door watching them. Half of Sam didn't care what he thought.

The other half was still begging to not be tossed away, the same part of him that had been begging since they'd left Bobby's several days before.

The door was shut, a light click that Sam felt should've been a heavy thud, an ominous ending. Doors obviously didn't understand dramatic tension, and yep, there was the dizziness, right on schedule with the weird thoughts. Blood loss messed with Sam and his head for a while.

Dean didn't even hesitate, merely moved him over to the bed farthest from the door – and, subtly, their dad – and made sure Sam could sit up straight. “You okay?” Dean asked, voice pitched low and only for Sam's ears. Sam gave one nod that he regretted almost instantly. He stole a glance at his calf and found that the bandage was fine. Just the stress from the day. He'd be fine. Sure.

The silence was finally broken by their dad, assuming control as always. “They were never, ever, meant to have put a hand on either of you,” he said, and Sam thought he almost sounded apologetic. He definitely looked sorry, genuinely so. Like he cared. Sam felt hope creep in unbidden through the numbness. Maybe the past few days had changed his mind. God, please let the past few days have changed his mind.

“I didn't have another choice except to call for help, though. Not when I got tied up with the police, which we'll be talking about in a short while. You two could've run into even worse trouble, taking off like you did. The hell were you two thinking?”

The destruction of hope pierced through his enforced numbness so fast that Sam felt the air punched out of his lungs, and to his mortification, it came out like a sob.

“What were we thinking?” Dean said, voice dangerously low. Sam wasn't sure he'd ever heard Dean address their dad with that tone before. “What were you thinking, Dad?”

Dad's stern disapproval of Dean was immediately evident. “I was thinking that we were heading on a hunt the next day, which has now been put on hold because of this idiocy. Did you two think this was, what, funny? I had to chase my own goddamn children over multiple states, wondering if they'd been taken, wondering if one of them had been possessed-”

“Right, sorry, that makes sense,” Dean said, sarcasm out in force. “Because why would we ever want to leave when you just wanted to, oh, split us up for good?”

Dad actually looked surprised. It hadn't even occurred to him that they'd overheard that conversation. Dean let out a bitter laugh. “Sorry, but Sam and I disagreed with that.”

“You don't understand,” Dad told them, looking from Dean to Sam and then back again. The fury in his gaze was palpable, as was the other emotion that Sam couldn't make out. He didn't intend on looking closer to discern whatever the hell it was. His comfortable stage of nothing wasn't nothing anymore, and the crushing vise of despair was tightening his chest to the point of actual physical pain. Dad wasn't going to listen.

And yet, and yet Sam had to try. “Dad,” he started, and the dam broke.

“You don't understand!” Dad shouted, and Sam couldn't help the flinch when his headache hammered harder. “Neither of you understand what I saw, what I know is coming. The end of the goddamn world, Dean, and it's not pretty, do you understand me? What happens fifteen years from now, what you both become, what you do-”

“It won't happen,” Dean said firmly, but his voice shook. Sam frowned as Dean bit his lip, and there was a haunted knowledge in his eyes. The letter. It had to have been in the letter from his future self. What had happened? What would happen?

“You don't know that-”

“If you tear us apart, yes it will!” Dean shouted. “Your precious 'angel' came and told us the truth, that he was trying to get you to bring us together, because that future you saw? That's the one where Sam and I split up for years!”

“Don't you dare take that tone with me,” Dad yelled. “Don't you dare. This is the end of the world we're talking about, and if I can do something about it, keep the both of you from becoming what you did, then I'll fucking do it! This is so much more important than you want to believe it is!”

“Don't we matter?”

Both furious gazes swung towards Sam at the sound of his broken whisper. He swallowed and spoke again. “Don't we matter, Dad? Isn't our happiness important? Aren't we important?”

There was something cold in his father's eyes, cold and calculating, and Sam felt as if he were being held up for scrutiny, viewed as if he were something new and ugly and wrong that had been discovered. He shrank back, the lump in his throat about to cut off all breathing. “Daddy,” he choked out, wondering if the man who'd raised him was anywhere inside. “Dad, please.”

There was another long moment of staring, so long that Sam thought he'd spontaneously combust under that burning gaze. Then Dad turned away, and the dismissal was worse than the stare. “Pack yourself up,” Dad told Dean. “We leave tomorrow. Sam gets dropped at Bobby's, and then we go-”

“No,” Dean said, rushed and furious and desperate. “Not a chance.”

“Then we go to the hunt that we're already who knows how many days behind on,” Dad continued, glaring at Dean. “You will come with me and hunt.”

“Legally, I don't have to do shit,” Dean snarled, but his fists were shaking, and his eyes were shimmering in the light. Sam tasted copper and realized he'd bitten through his lip. He shut his eyes and tasted bitter salt next. Let the tears fall. It wouldn't make a difference. Not to Dad, not to his future.

“Then I'll leave Sam here in Las Vegas,” Dad thundered. “You come with me, follow me to Bobby's, I'll leave Sam there, and then we'll go.” He turned and wrenched the door open. “We leave in ten. Is that clear?”

“Screw you,” Dean spit out, and Sam gasped out his brother's name, more tears falling. His heart felt like it was bleeding, his body was shaking from unreleased sobs, and they were done. Nothing Dean could say or do would make this any better than the bottom line. They were being separated, and Sam knew that they'd both be watched like hawks for any future 'idiocies'.

And Dean was trying to make it worse. “You hear me?” Dean yelled when Dad didn't reply. “I'm not leaving Sam, so screw you!”

“Dean, stop,” Sam pleaded. “Don't, please.” Would he be allowed to see Dean on his birthday? Holidays? God, he was thinking about visiting rights to see his own brother. He could feel the loss of Dean hit him with the weight of a two-ton truck, as if his big brother was already gone, as if Dean were dead, and Sam wrapped his arms tight around himself, waiting for Dad's scathing reply.

When none came, he hesitantly glanced towards the door. Dad was still standing there, hand on the knob, facing outward. But he wasn't moving, wasn't talking, wasn't doing anything except standing there. Dean looked just as confused as he was, and they shared a bewildered gaze before Dean called out again, this time much more tentatively than before. “Dad?”

“He cannot hear you.”

Sam whipped his head around towards the back of the room and felt like weeping again, this time in relief. “Castiel?”

The angel looked slightly better, not as likely to fall over as he had their first meeting. “Hello, Sam,” he greeted, then turned to Dean. “I came as swiftly as I could. I'm sorry I couldn't be here to prevent last night's events.”

“It's fine,” Dean said faintly, shocked, like Castiel had forgotten to bring the chips to the party. “Did you-”

“Time is currently frozen, but won't remain as such for long,” Castiel said. “The decision has to be made quickly.”

“Decision?” Sam asked, feeling slow and stupid, but unable to help himself. Hope dared to flutter again, no matter how much he reminded himself of the pain that always came next. It couldn't seem to help itself. But if Castiel was here, and he was offering some sort of decision, then maybe...god, please, maybe...

“Yes,” Castiel said, eyes darting past them to where their dad stood. His lips pursed together before he turned to Dean. “Of how to proceed from here. It is up to you. I can do one of two things. I can go back and remove myself from this timeline and thus leave it untouched. Things will continue in the same manner that they did before, leading up to your future self in the same place he is now.”

“With Sam missing,” Dean said.

Castiel nodded. “That will be something for future you to deal with. Or, I could remove the both of you, with your belongings, to wherever you would like to go.”

Sam felt dizzy again, this time overwhelmed at all the possibilities. They could leave. They could leave, and there'd be no trail to follow. Just them, vanished and gone, with Dad never able to find them.

“You can do that?” Dean asked, eyes wide. “Holy shit.”

Castiel nodded, then paused, as if listening to something. He frowned slightly, then glanced between the both of them. Sam couldn't help the shiver when the angel's eyes passed over him. It felt as if the angel had seen deep inside his soul, and Sam had been left bare and exposed for those few seconds. He wondered what the angel saw, what he would see, if he was watching Sam's future in a glance.

After a moment of reflection, the angel nodded to himself, and turned to Dean. “It's up to you, what you would like to do. I can't guarantee what will happen to you if you choose to disappear. That future hasn't been opened yet.”

The known or the unknown. Sam darted a glance back to Dad, still frozen in the door. He knew where that future went. They all did. That was the one way they weren't going.

“I need a decision, and it has to be now,” Castiel said urgently. “I can't hold this timeline back for much longer, it has to move forward. One of you, decide.”

Sam took a deep breath in just as Dean licked his lips to speak. It was now or never.

Chapter Text

Castiel turned his gaze away from the younger Winchester brother to the older, the man he would one day call friend. Dean still looked wary, but the years that Hell had put on him were nowhere to be found. In their place was a distressed but loyal teenager who already reflected the man he would become. This was a young man who had his absolute faith and trust in his little brother. This was the man who would die for his little brother. This was the part of Dean that Castiel had seen in his aged friend just before he'd jumped back to repair the damage he had unwittingly done.

This timeline would have to work itself out first. He had to return to the future, and quickly. Making his own decision about which timeline to work with first, he turned to Dean before either of them could speak. “Dean. It is your choice.”

If Sam felt unfairly about it, he made no mention of it. Rather, he looked to his older brother for an answer. Dean, in turn, glanced back at Sam, taking in his brother's bedraggled appearance. The bandage on his leg, the shadows under his eyes, the tear stains on his cheeks, not to mention the turmoil of his soul that only Castiel could see.

Yet he wondered, when Dean made the choice Castiel knew he would, if perhaps Dean hadn't seen a little bit of Sam's soul himself. He wondered if Dean had always been able to, when it came to Sam. “Take us back,” he said softly. “Undo it. I don't want to remember any of this, and don't make Sam remember it either.”

“You won't,” Castiel assured him. “But you won't remember what happens in the future, either.” With a gentle nudge of his fingers Castiel destroyed the letter in Dean's jacket. He would never know, not when Castiel intervened and kept himself from returning to the past.

“So we'll still separate,” Sam said quietly. This was the man that would bring about Lucifer's coming, yet right at that moment, Castiel could not help but feel sympathy for the young, broken boy before him. This, undoubtedly, was the little brother Dean constantly thought of, even in the year 2009. This Sam was innocent, kind, thoughtful, and wanted to truly do right by the world and his brother.

Perhaps that hadn't really changed, misguided as his attempts to save the world had been. And Castiel could not judge the man any longer. He, too, had tried to do the right thing, but in all the wrong ways. Instead, he had heaped troubles upon his younger friend, and possibly condemned Sam to a death at Lucifer's hand that Dean could have prevented. Wrong actions, right reasons, much as Sam would do in the years to come. All to protect the ones he loved.

Maybe this venture hadn't been for nothing. Castiel had certainly learned something about himself and about the human he'd so firmly regarded as wrong. It was a humbling thought.

The weight of the timeline pushed against his powers, and Castiel knew it had to be now. “I will never appear to your father,” he said, and meant it. While he couldn't change anyone else's actions, he could change his own. Time was a little messy, but easier to manipulate, when it came to angels.

Sam nodded and closed his eyes, probably more than ready to forget the entire thing. Castiel reached out and laid a hand on his head, then reached for Dean. The hand that caught his wrist surprised him, and he looked into the solemn eyes he knew so well. For a moment, Castiel was afraid he'd already jumped back to the future and was gazing at the Dean he'd pulled from Hell.

Then it was just a young teenage Dean, but the fervent gaze was still just as determined. “You know where I am, which motel I'm at when that other angel, Zachariah, shows me the future,” he whispered. “Pull me out before the fight starts. It might be enough to save Sam.”

After a moment, Castiel nodded slowly. Whatever Dean's future self had written, it had obviously held an account of the current events. Zachariah had gotten to Dean before Castiel had and, to make matters worse, had brutally fought with Dean after the futuristic time hopping. By the time Castiel had realized Dean was not coming to meet him, by the time he'd gone to find Dean instead, Dean had only returned to consciousness. It had taken a day, a long day, all in all. That day it had taken for them to meet up had been wasted time. Time in which Sam had somehow, somewhere, disappeared.

Perhaps this Dean was right. Perhaps it would be enough to save Sam from falling into Lucifer's clutches.

With a quick step Castiel placed his hand on Dean's head and, with a thought and a nudge of his grace, pulled them all back through time. Back past the long days in the car, the hurried flight from Robert Singer's home, the moment in which he'd appeared to John. With another nudge of his grace he pushed himself from the time and back to the future. Back to the present.

The timeline took a moment to adjust, and he knew it would be felt in Heaven. There was nothing Zachariah could do about it now, though. He was too busy showing Dean the future, the wrong future. The future that could still be decided if they moved quickly enough.

When the timeline fully corrected itself, Castiel found himself standing on a lamp-lit road, night still a long ways off from morning. He had no idea what was happening, where Sam was, or what Zachariah was doing.

But he knew where Dean was, and that was the first step. The pushing of time, the traveling through time, had weakened him, but giving up now meant sacrificing both of the Winchesters to a future that was bleak and wrong. He closed his eyes, finding Zachariah's grace almost towering over Dean, but pushed past it to grab his friend and pull.

He heard a gasped breath as Dean appeared beside him, eyes anxiously darting around before landing on Castiel. Dean was older, now. The hounds of Hell had left their mark on his soul, and there were physical and souled scars that Castiel could never hope to heal.

But that same determined light was in his eyes, and Castiel let himself smile for the first time since he'd gone back to meet John Winchester.

Dean gave a relieved grin. “Pretty nice timing, Cas,” he said, and Castiel's smile widened. Dean was unbruised, untouched, unharmed. Time, he thought ironically, was hopefully much nicer this time around.

“We had an appointment,” he said. This time, he'd kept it. This time, he hadn't let Zachariah hurt Dean.

Dean gave a wistful, sad smile that Castiel couldn't understand, then clasped Castiel's shoulder in his hand. “Don't ever change,” he said fervently.

Knowing what he himself would degrade to in the future, from what Dean had told him the first present time around, Castiel couldn't say that he disagreed. A question he'd never been able to ask before came to mind, and he asked it now as Dean quickly pulled out his phone. “How did Zachariah find you?” he asked, even as Dean pushed random buttons. The name Sam appeared on the screen, and Castiel found himself holding a breath. Let it have been enough, Father, he silently prayed. Let this have done something good.

“Long story,” Dean said, pausing for only a second to glance up at Castiel. “Let's just stay away from Jehovah's Witnesses from now on, okay?” he asked, then held the phone up to his ear. Castiel let his eyes flutter shut, his body tight with nerves and fear.

Through the tinny speakers of Dean's phone, Castiel could still hear it ring once, ring twice, ring three times. Then-

A soft click was heard, right before an even softer, hesitant voice answered. “Dean?”

Castiel's sigh of relief was drowned out by Dean's. “Sammy, thank god. Where are you?”

There was a pause, then Sam's voice returned, more confused than before. “Um, I...don't know. I've, uh, I've just been driving. I think I have to stop soon. Gas gauge is looking low. Should've stopped at the gas station a few miles back. Um...sign up ahead says Detroit, thirty miles.”

Dean clenched his fist. “Turn around,” he said urgently. “Sam, turn around.”

“Um...okay...? Dean, are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, and it was obvious he was forcing himself to give an air of calm. “I'm fine. Just, you're going the wrong way. To meet up with me.”

Sam's pause this time was much longer. “Sam?” Dean asked, apparently deciding it was too long of a pause. “You there?”

“You want to meet up?” Sam asked, and he sounded all of fifteen, just as he had in the second timeline: nervous, scared, but ever so hopeful. It made something inside of Castiel physically hurt to hear.

“I do,” Dean said firmly, responding to Sam's lost tone. “Look, we can talk when we meet up in...Cas, where the hell are we?”

Castiel merely smiled. This future would be all right. It was unsteady now, new. Not as it had been.

Yet he was perfectly content with that. He thought that the Dean from this first version of present time would have agreed.

He would return to the split in a little while. First, he had to retrieve Dean's belongings and car in order to send Dean on his way to Sam. Then, he would go back to the previous time, once he had rested. He would need strength to hold back time again.

But he'd felt it, there in the motel all those years ago. When both decisions had been laid out, and the brothers had looked at each other, Castiel had felt what had only happened a few times before: a division of time. Two timelines could run parallel, and there were many circuits of time, different universes, that existed. The birth of a new one, however, was rare. Yet it had happened. In that moment, Castiel's offer had sparked two very different paths.

He would return and offer the choice to Sam. He'd known instantly that offering the decision first to Dean would lead to a return of the main timeline. He'd also known that Sam would agree with Dean.

Yet in this split, Sam's choice might be very...different. Castiel wondered what would happen.

The apocalypse was unavoidable...in this timeline. Parallel worlds, however, were everywhere. This new one might still remain untouched.

Only time would tell, he thought, and imagined that Dean would've found his pun very witty, if the idea of the divided timelines wouldn't destroy his brain.

For the current time, he found Dean's possessions, including his vehicle, and moved them to the road before them. Dean was still talking with Sam, and Castiel could only hope that it would help.

Perhaps the visit to the past hadn't been completely destructive, after all.

Chapter Text

It happened in the blink of an eye, literally. For that split second, Sam was sure Castiel had disappeared.

But there he stood, same as before, not even a hair on his head standing a different way. He looked to Dean for a moment, gave a soft smile that Sam didn't understand, before turning away to face the bed where Sam sat. “Sam,” he said quietly. “It is your choice.”

His choice? Was he kidding? The opportunities that rose before him were way too vast to consider on his own, and, desperately, Sam looked to Dean for advice.

Dean only nodded. Whatever Sam picked, he'd do it, and go with it happily.

Like that helped.

It had to be quick, or Castiel wouldn't be able to hold back time anymore. But to make a decision this huge, to decide their future in the few seconds Castiel was giving them...

“Sammy,” Dean said, voice soft but carrying a level of urgency with it. Time to make up your mind, little brother. The guiding voice that had never steered him wrong, had always done right by him. The voice who loved him.

And in that split second, Sam had his decision. “Texas,” he told the angel, then realized he should clarify his answer. “Make us disappear, pull us out to Texas, please.”

Castiel tilted his head and looked far more like a puppy in that moment than Sam ever could. “Dean?” he asked, gaze still on Sam.

“Do it,” Dean said simply. “But take the Impala with us, if you could. Or can you only move us?”

“I can move you and your vehicle,” Castiel assured him. He seemed as if he was searching for something in Sam's gaze, and whatever it was, Sam hoped to hell that he was found worthy or had the answer Castiel was looking for or whatever the angel was looking for.

The angel blinked, then smiled slightly. Apparently Sam had passed scrutiny. “You're certain,” the angel said, but it was more of a statement than a question.

Sam couldn't help but turn towards the front of the room. His father, still frozen in time, looked every bit of unapproachable as he was. His back was ironically turned on them both, and would forever be that way. He'd probably never see his dad again, Sam realized. This was it, and there was no way to say goodbye.

Maybe it was for the better. Something inside of Sam's soul still felt broken, unrepairable. He wanted to know why his dad didn't love him enough to keep him, wanted to know what the hell happened in the future that had made his dad so determined, made Dean later want to cast him out and Dean now to keep him closer.

“You'll remember this,” Castiel told him, gentler than the angel had ever said anything before. “I would only have enough power to move you, not to erase your memories.”

“I can't go back,” Sam said, finally turning back. Dean was watching him with concern apparent in his gaze, and was completely unabashed about it. Sam shrugged helplessly. “I just...can't. Even if we went back and none of this had happened, Dad would still be Dad. The dad that...that's okay with letting me go,” he whispered, eyes cutting to the floor. The white bandage on his leg left his jeans rolled up and made him look all of six again, and for a minute Sam wished he could go back to that time, when he hadn't known about monsters, and Dad protected him from even the bedbugs at night.

He cleared his throat. “I couldn't let myself live with a man that would do that,” he added. “So...so this is better.”

“You don't have to explain anything to me,” Dean said quietly. “Ever. I told you the night we left that I'd stand by you all the way. I meant it.”

Sam let his eyes rise to where Dean was still watching him. “Texas,” Dean said. It was an offer and an acceptance, and Sam felt fresh tears of joy and relief and gratitude flood his eyes.

“Texas,” Sam managed to get out. Just the two of them for the rest of their lives. No Dad, no Bobby, no anyone. Only them. They were fully on their own.

They could manage it.

Castiel stepped forward and placed his hand on Dean's head. He turned to Sam, other hand outstretched to do the same, and Sam knew this was his last chance. He doubted he'd ever see the other angel after this, and all of his questions bubbled to the surface.

When he looked the angel in the eyes, however, only one thing came out. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Castiel actually really smiled, and it felt like a blessing. “You're welcome,” he said, and his hand fell on Sam's head.

When Sam blinked, Castiel was gone, and so was the room. They were on a dusty road that was empty of traffic. A road sign on the right side of the road said in bright letters, WELCOME TO TEXAS.

“Better than the postal service,” Dean said, and when Sam turned, his brother was standing on the opposite side of the Impala. “Or air mail, or whatever.”

They were home free. “Now we just find a town,” Sam said.

“No, now we find a clinic and get you checked out,” Dean said, lips pursed. “Then we find a town with a good school system and get you graduated. Then...we go from there.”

“I don’t think I need a clinic,” Sam said. “I think…I think Castiel healed me.” He glanced at his leg at where the bandage had slumped, and it didn’t ache even a little. Even his migraine was gone. He felt clear-headed and free, and nearly dizzy with the possibilities.

Dean was there with him, Dean wanted Sam beside him, and Dad...Dad was going to be painful to think about. For a very long time, if not forever.

But they were on their own, and it felt good. Just the Winchester brothers.

“Ready?” Sam asked as he opened the passenger door. The inside of the car was surprisingly cool, and Sam felt like sending a prayer of thanks Heavenward.

Dean slid into the driver's seat, still looking worried, but he gave Sam a grin anyways. “Always, little brother,” he said. He turned the key in the ignition and the car roared to life.

Sam wondered how many miles there'd be between them and their settled down life, then realized he didn't care. They'd get there, and they'd do it together. That was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

Seven years. Seven long years of searching, of keeping his ear to the ground, of doing everything in his power to find them, and they'd popped on his radar at last. Finally.

After seven years, John had found his sons.

They were in California, of all places. He'd caught wind of them being in Texas a few years ago, but when he'd gotten there, there'd been no trace of them. Sam had been in a high school there, but after he'd graduated, he'd left no forwarding address. Wherever Dean had worked, there'd been no address left, either. No such number, no such soul.

California, like Texas, was a big state. And the California tip-off had been a stroke of luck from one of the kids at the high school. Apparently Sam had gotten attached and given the kid his new address. The kid had joked with other friends that Sam was a lucky sonuvabitch who got to play with the hot Cali girls now, if his brother Dean didn't beat him to it. It was enough.

He'd moved his search to the golden state on the coast and started trying to piece together why they'd moved. Had they known he was coming? Had someone called them to tell them? Bobby hadn't heard from them for years, and John knew that Singer would never forgive him for it. Bobby loved the boys like they were his own, almost as much as John did.

Because he did. He loved the both of them. It had just taken seven long years to tell him how much.

Age now had brought his fiery temper to a slow burn. Oh, it was there, and if needed, any demonic son of a bitch in his path would meet it. Or the hunters who had hurt his sons: John swore his hand still hurt all these years later from laying them out before barking at them to help find his boys again, the night they'd slid out of the cabin. But he'd learned patience through the years, too. Listening before leaping.

Humility. Guilt. Grief. All feelings he'd had that he wanted to tell his sons about.

Except it had come three years too late by the time he'd made his realizations, and John had sworn he'd find them, if just to tell them for himself. He'd started two hunts then, the hunt for the demon that had taken his wife, and the hunt for his sons. And somewhere along the way, only the one hunt had remained: his boys, who had become more important than the demon. Like they should have been in the first place.

He sat now in his new black truck, watching the building across the way. One more light on the third floor had just switched off. He'd wait another fifteen, then head upstairs. To where his boys were both living, still together. They'd never separated.

God, what a fool he'd been. But when the angel had appeared to him and desperately shown him the future of his boys, John had panicked. Sam being worn like a cheap suit by the Devil himself, Dean alone, bitter, and suicidal...when Sam's foot had broken through his brother's neck, John had screamed himself hoarse until the angel had finally, mercifully, dropped him back in the motel room. To where his boys had been sleeping next to each other, young and innocent and peaceful.

He'd wanted them to remain that way. Parting them then instead of in the future would've stopped it from happening. He'd been so sure of it that it had engulfed him from head to toe, a raging fire that wouldn't be quenched.

But somehow, the boys had heard him that night when he'd told Singer to take Sam. Sam could've had all he wanted there: a steady life, a stable school system, a home. It would've made him happy. Dean would've gone on hunts with John like he loved to do, would've become a better hunter, would've been a strong man by the end. That had been his plan.

Except, somehow, he'd forgotten the one thing that made his boys the happiest the most: each other. He'd never understood it. He doubted he ever would. They were connected in a way that would never make sense to anyone except each other.

And like the fool he was, he'd tried to break it. He'd tested and tried that bond that night at Singer's, and he'd showed them how it couldn't break. How they would only end up stronger.

John took another sip of the strong brewed coffee before setting it back in the cup holder. He'd sworn off alcohol after they'd disappeared. Sober for seven years and counting. Swore he wouldn't take another drop until it was a celebratory drink that he'd found them. Until he'd explained himself, if they'd listen.

Because what he hadn't realized was that while he'd strengthened the both of them, he'd also destroyed any faith they'd had in him.

His memories through the years of Mary, his wedding, buying his first car, those were fading. But the memory of Sam sitting on the edge of that motel bed, broken and begging, begging John not to toss him away, would haunt John until his dying day. He'd glared at his baby boy, only able to see the cold Devil that would take and wear him. Glared because the angel had told him that Sam had given in, had offered himself up to Lucifer in exchange for what, they hadn't known. Sam had betrayed the human race.

Except he hadn't. John had had seven years to really think about it, and when he'd realized his mistake, one of them at any rate, he'd sat down and cried. Sam had given in because there'd been no one worth staying for. Dean had left him. John hadn't been there, neither had Bobby. Sam had taken the first out. He wondered if his older son had known that. If that was why Dean had looked so hollow, why he hadn't put up more of a fight against the Devil.

He'd turned away from them that day seven years ago. Dean had shouted at him to screw himself, Sam had pleaded with Dean to stop with sobs choking his frame, and John had been so damn determined to keep them all safe. Leaving Sam behind would be the safer route. If Sam stayed out of the damn hunting world, then he wouldn't get involved. He'd opened the door and asked if they were coming. His ears had popped for a moment, and he'd turned around when the boys didn't reply.

The room had been empty. That had been the last time he'd seen them...until now.

College. They'd left Texas for California because of college. Stanford University, where Sam had apparently gotten a full ride, according to the financial aid office. He was staying off-campus in a small apartment with Dean. They'd left a good life, a good job, for a smaller apartment in California where the rent was bound to be higher, all for Sam to go to school. John couldn't believe it.

It had made them easy to find, though. High schools weren't as rigorous about credit checks and identification checks, or transcripts, as a college was. They'd gotten clumsy about the paperwork, had given it all just for Sam to get in. And the paper trail had been easy enough to follow from there.

Now that he was here, outside of their building, though, all of John's confidence felt as it were slipping away. It wasn't a feeling he experienced a lot, and not one he really wanted to know. They were his kids; it shouldn't be this hard. Memories encroached again, reminding him that even before they'd disappeared and left him standing in the room alone, they'd been a united front against him. Sam, broken on the bed, but still looking to Dean for guidance. Dean, arguing with him, arguing, and shouting obscenities and hate-filled words all to try and keep the two of them together. He hadn't raised Dean that way. He hadn't raised Sam that way.

Somehow, they'd grown close together on their own. Somehow, they'd raised each other.

It was then that he realized all the lights were out in the apartment. They'd gone to bed early: good. He'd be able to sneak in now. He didn't really have a choice, he knew that. If he approached them, they'd just as soon shoot him or slam the door in his face without giving him a chance to talk. Better to catch them off guard this way.

He felt every year of his age as he stepped out of the truck. God, when had he gotten so old? Five years of worrying, of trying to hear anything of his sons, to just know they were alive, then two years of searching in California, and it had run him ragged. The gray in his beard wasn't so much a highlight as it was a permanent fixture in his hair now. There'd been hunts through the years, hunts without backup that had led to messed up knees and a back that wasn't always faithful about getting up in the morning.

But none of it compared to having his sons somewhere else. That had been like missing a limb.

He made his way into the building – and the fact that his boys had picked a place with a simple lock to protect them from the outside world disappointed him – and up the stairs until he reached their floor. Their apartment. This, too, also had a mere lock to guard them from the outside world, but the chain on the door was at least an attempt to deter those who wanted in. He snipped it easily and quietly and then stepped inside, eyes trying to adjust to the darkness.

He'd barely made out the room around him before something came down on his head, and then it was all black.



When John came to, the world was still dark. The room held no light, and John realized he could be anywhere. The boys' apartment, the basement, a warehouse...

God, what if the boys had been taken as well? He'd assumed that no one else would be there except them, but what if someone else had beaten him to the punch? His blood ran cold at the thought, and he attempted to move, only to find his arms bound behind him where he sat in what he presumed was a wooden chair. His legs were similarly restrained, and his mind flew back over his own break-in. The lock had seemed awfully easy to pick, and his boys had to have other precautions then just a simple chain. Oh god, what if they were using the boys as leverage, somehow having found out that John had discovered their whereabouts and were just waiting for him-

“I think he's awake.”

The deep voice didn't help quell any of John's fears. “Who the hell are you?” he snarled. “Where are my boys?”

The choked off laugh only brought his anger fully to the surface. “Who the hell are you to ask the questions?” another deep voice asked. “You broke in here.”

Had he gotten the wrong address? Somehow, in his foolish pride, mixed it up? “Let's talk this over,” John said, attempting to be calm about it. The knots holding his hands were solid, though, and he couldn't even flex his wrists. “I think there's been a mistake.”

“Yeah,” the first voice said, right before there was a soft click and the lights came on. John blinked away the flare of pain at the brightness until he could focus. “There's been a lot of mistakes, John.”

Only then did he see them. A memory flashed through his mind, telling him he'd seen them before, but it vanished as quickly as it came. Two men standing in front of him, leaning back against a kitchen counter, unmistakably side by side. One was fairly tall, sharp jawline with green eyes that John would've known anywhere. The other one was taller than the first by a good several inches. He was slender but still built, hair still long and unmanageable. And his eyes, they were all...Mary's. In a split second John knew who each of them were, and how he'd seen them before: grown up, in a future that held nothing but evil.

“Sammy?” he whispered, shocked. “Dean?” By god they'd grown up. Somehow, John had thought they'd still be his boys. These weren't boys anymore. These were men before him now.

Dean, because it had to be Dean, stepped forward slowly, quietly and dangerously. His boy was all lethal grace, and it didn't escape John that he'd put himself between John and Sam. “Hi, Dad,” Dean drawled, and his lips turned up into a smile that held nothing nice in it. Dean followed John's gaze to Sam, then shrugged, all casual and calm. His eyes, though, burned as they stared John down. “I know, Sam's a surprise, isn't he? Kid grew up taller than me after all.” The burning faded for a quick moment as Dean cast a glance back at Sam, all false annoyance and real fondness. “Little bitch.”

“Think you mixed your adjectives up, little jerk,” Sam said, his lips turning up into a small grin. His voice was the first deep voice he'd heard, and god it was such a change that it almost stole John's breath away.

“Shut up,” Dean said, then turned back to John, and all traces of kindness were gone. “How ya been? It was kinda hot outside today, wasn't it? Gotta give you credit for staying out there that long. Sam suggested we bring you lemonade, but we didn't really have any, so, oops. Nice truck, by the way.”

They'd known he was there all day long. They'd outplayed him again, just as they had seven years ago. “It's new,” John said, unable to think of anything else. His entire plan was sinking fast, and he wasn't sure he could salvage it in any way. “I haven't seen the Impala. Did you sell her to afford this place?” Though what a 'place' it was. Nicer than anywhere he'd found for them as kids, but it was still small, and barely held any good hiding places or escapes.

“The Impala's parked in the parking lot for the apartment residents,” Sam said, speaking up. His voice was so much deeper that it still felt like a shock all over again to see him standing there, hearing him, tall and proud and confident in a way he hadn't been as a teen. He'd grown into his own skin, and John had no reservations as to who had helped him do it. “Thought you would've figured that out, considering you've been stalking us.”

“A man tries to find his own children and it's stalking?” John asked Sam, but it was Dean who answered him.

“When those two children want nothing to do with him? Yeah, it's stalking.”

“I just wanted to talk to you,” John began, but Sam cut him off.

“No, you wanted us to listen. Same as you always do. Did you have a sudden change of heart for some odd reason? Decided that maybe, maybe you could keep me around?”

John flushed with shame, another emotion he wasn't familiar with. “Look, I know what I said and did was wrong, and I'm sorry,” he said, and that at least got a reaction. From Sam, at least: Dean remained still, not looking impressed at all. Sam, on the other hand, shifted slightly, relaxed a little, and his face changed to something of hope and want. There, finally, John saw a remnant of the Sam he'd seen last, the pleading child who'd only wanted to stay with his family. This Sam obviously hadn't changed in that regard, and John pressed on eagerly. “I shouldn't have done what I did. I...I panicked, Sam. What I saw happen to you, to Dean, I didn't want that future for you. If I could take it back, I would-”

“Okay, that's enough,” Dean snapped, and John broke eye contact with Sam to face his oldest.

“Excuse me?”

“Don't you dare play that game with him,” Dean said, barely contained fury about to explode. “Don't you dare. You don't think you haven't toyed with him enough? Done enough to him? And now to play it like this?”

“Dean,” Sam said softly, and Dean pulled himself back, but only just. That didn't stop John from speaking his mind.

“You think I'm lying?” he asked incredulously. “That I'm what, saying-”

“I think you're telling him exactly what you know he wants,” Dean said, and his voice was dangerously low. “And it's a cheap shot, even for you.”

“I'm telling the truth!” John exclaimed. “I made a mistake, Dean, with both of you. I shouldn't have done what I did, said what I did. Seven years is a hell of a long time to think about the fucking worst mistake I ever did, and I've been trying to find you both to tell you that. God knows you two haven't made it easy, you laid low-”

“Gee, wonder why,” Dean said sarcastically.

“-Until you both decided to move for what, college?” John said, and he couldn't hide the disappointment or, god help him, the disgust. “What exactly is that going to do for you two?”

“It's gonna give Sam the future you almost destroyed,” Dean said, and his icy tone told John he'd screwed it up. “Did you ever look over any of his grades, any of his accomplishments, and realize just how freakin' smart your kid is?”

“Dean,” Sam called, but he was ignored this time, Dean too worked up to listen.

“Law school, Dad,” Dean said, “He's gonna be a lawyer, and probably one of the best ones a courtroom has ever seen. Helping people, making a difference. Just without a gun. I bet Mom would've been damn proud of him, because I know I am.”

It was a punch to the gut, and Dean had known it. John found all of his irritation falling away. “It's a hell of a thing, a full ride,” John admitted, and his sincerity must've finally, finally come through, because Dean's shoulders dropped a good inch. “You should be proud of yourself, Sam. And yes, your Mother would've been proud of you, too.” He took a deep breath, and for some reason, Sam looked like he was waiting for something else, so John kept going. “No, I didn't come here for that. I came here to ask for your forgiveness, to maybe, I don't know, be allowed to see my sons again. Just...just give an old man a chance.”

Dean looked, for the first time since John had seen him, unsure. But it was Sam who quietly snuffed out all of John's hopes, looking...disappointed? Resigned. “Why break in? Why not just come to us?”

“Because I knew you wouldn't let me talk to you,” John said wearily. The words were too late and he knew it. Dean was unapproachable once more, a solid wall between Sam and John, and Sam was starting to look like the same distraught, hopeless child he'd seen in the motel room that day.

And in one of those rare moments of clarity, John knew it was over. He knew they'd never believe him, never think that he'd changed his mind. No matter how many times he told them the truth, they'd always turn him away. God, had he been that much of a bastard? Was it that unconceivable that he'd apologize to them?

“I love you,” he whispered, looking from Dean to Sam and then back again. “If I've failed in all other regards, please believe me when I say that I've always loved the both of you.”

Dean huffed out a laugh, but it was a wistful, sad thing that tore at John to hear. “You probably do,” Dean admitted. “But you've always had a hell of a way of showing it.”

Sam said nothing, but he didn't need to. One look into his eyes and John suddenly found himself on the flip side of a memory: him glaring at Sam, Sam desperate to prove his worth, begging to be heard and loved. Now, it was Sam glaring at him with barely hidden disgust, eyes cold and disregarding. John could feel his face crumple, wondered if Sam had felt that same searing cut of pain that went straight through the soul.

“Leave us alone,” Dean said quietly. “We've got enough things in life to worry about without you being one of them. Sam's graduating this year, and I swear if you show at the ceremony, I will tear you a new one in front of a million people and God himself.”

The hunt to find his sons was over, but he still had the notes from the other demon. Maybe, if he took it out, kept it from reaching Sam, like it wanted to, maybe they'd believe him then. Maybe it would be enough.

He wondered if Sam had asked himself if he could do anything to not be cut out of John's life, seven years ago, and John could feel the pull of alcohol stronger in his veins than ever before, if just to drown the thought out.

Before he knew it, the door was shutting in his face, and the quiet click of several locks about undid him. There was nothing else John could do except bow his head and let another, new feeling fill him, one he hadn't felt since that night he'd lost Mary: grief.



“Hey.”

Sam kept his gaze locked outside the window, eyes focused on where the black truck had been. “Sammy,” Dean called softly, gently tugging Sam from the window.

Sam went without any sort of reluctance, letting Dean fold him onto the sofa, their sofa. The blanket he threw over Sam's shoulders was theirs, bought at a thrift store for two dollars. It had been lovingly sewn back up at least a dozen times, and Dean kept threatening to throw it out. Not tonight. Not for any time soon.

“Sammy,” Dean said again, and it meant comfort and concern and let Sam say it all.

“He wasn't proud.”

“What?”

“He...” And god, this was so stupid, not even the point, but it had been another hidden barb that dug deep into Sam's soul. “He said that you were proud, and that Mom would've been proud, and that I should be proud of getting in on a full ride. But he never said that he was proud.”

Dean's arm pulled him in with a regretful, “Aw, Sammy,” and Sam shut his eyes. He'd known that any confrontation with their dad wouldn't end well, and this one had ended probably the best it could've: Dean walking their dad to the door, Dad looking back with sorrow in his eyes that Sam had resolutely tried to ignore. And just like that, their dad was gone.

They sat on the sofa for a long time, staring at nothing. He could see why their dad hadn't approved of their tiny little space. By a hunter's standards, it wasn't safe.

They weren't hunters. They were just two brothers who lived together to make ends meet, and the little apartment had become home over the past four years, more than the place in Texas had been. It'd been great, sure, and they'd both made friends. But there'd always been this urgency thrumming deep inside of them, wondering when Dad would show and turn it all upside down.

A week before Sam's 18th birthday, the nightmares had started. Nightmares of Dad showing up and taking Sam away because, legally, he could. They'd never been able to transfer guardianship to Dean beyond a few forged papers for medical reasons. If Dad had shown up with all the real legal documents, which he still had, then it would be over. Sam's head at night had been plagued with Dad's wrenching grip tearing him away from Dean or, worse, Dad coaxing Dean away from him with the promise of a better life, of a hunting life that didn't involve a mechanic's nine to five job.

The day before his birthday, they'd found out that a man had come to town, older man, looking for them. Sam had wound up having a full panic attack until they'd found out it was Bobby who'd used a shadier source to find the both of them. He'd only come down to see with his own eyes that they were alive and well. He'd brought with him protection amulets for the both of them, and a blessed necklace for Sam. It'd been a good birthday, panic attack aside, even though Dean had all but threatened to dismember him if he ever kept nightmares like that from him again.

He was starting to feel that same tight feeling in his chest again. “God dammit,” Sam cursed, scrubbing at his burning eyes. The early morning hour wasn't helping with his tired eyes, but he knew that the tears were all to do with their dad. They'd been fine. Everything had been all right. Even that weird week of dreams he'd had a month ago had passed, once Bobby had warned them about the demonic omens around campus. They'd forded up and blocked them off, and the repetitive dreams, the realistic dreams, had all vanished. Whatever it had been, it had passed them by.

Except this.

“Should've let me key his truck,” Dean grumbled, and Sam snorted.

“And by 'key' you mean 'blow it up in some explosive fashion'.”

Dean had the good grace to look sheepish. “It would've been deserved,” was his counter argument. Sam merely shook his head and moved his gaze to his feet. They were covered in lame socks, Superman socks that Dean had bought him for Christmas. They'd have had no place in the hunting world, and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You need sleep,” Dean said gently. “I've got all the locks on now. Why you didn't let me do that in the first place-”

“Because he would've broken them all to get in,” Sam said with a soft sigh. “Better to practically let him in then deal with needing a new door.”

“Yeah, all right, be logical,” Dean said, and Sam couldn't help the small grin at that.

“I'm practically getting a degree in it, you know.”

“I heard that somewhere,” Dean said, face lighting up. It never ceased to amaze Sam at how proud Dean really was of him, how Dean told everyone that his baby brother was going into law. When Dean said he was proud of Sam, he meant it with every fiber of his being, as he well should. He'd practically raised Sam even before they'd run away. He was the reason Sam had gotten into Stanford, no matter what his big brother might say.

Sam pushed himself off the sofa but kept the blanket with him. He had a feeling it was going to be one of those 'sit on the edge of Dean's bed and talk all night until they both passed out' nights, but he figured Dean would understand.

“You think...you think he meant it? Any of it?”

Sam turned around to where Dean was still sitting. Dean looked all of fifteen himself for a minute, growing into his own limbs, wanting to know how he stood with Dad. Sam wasn't the only one whose father had turned on him.

Still, he answered after a long moment of hesitation. “I think he thought he did,” Sam said. “I think he believed it. Which is the most anyone can do with their words. Seven years is a long time, Dean.”

“Yeah, it is,” Dean said pointedly, and the other side of that message was well heard. It had taken their dad seven years to come around and accept the fact that he'd screwed up.

Would there ever been any sort of reconciliation between them all? Probably not. Stranger things had happened, though.

Dean pushed himself off the sofa with a grace Sam envied at three in the morning. “C'mon, college geek,” Dean said affectionately, tussling Sam's hair as he passed him to head down the hall. “You need sleep. You've got finals in a month and a half.”

“Don't remind me,” Sam moaned. That would be a new fresh hell. This time, they were all that stood between him and the degree, making them loom even more viciously above him.

He glanced around their small apartment, eyes taking in the little knick-knacks they'd gathered through the years. Things that were theirs, that reminded him of newer memories they'd made as two brothers on their own. He let himself smile and pushed thoughts of Dad away.

He'd made it through worse with Dean's help. Finals would be nothing at all.

END