Chapter Text
In the summer of 2001, Sam left. He packed one singular bag with his minimal amount of possessions the same way he had done every morning when the three of them left the previous night’s motel, but this time it was different: he left the guns behind.
“Forgetting something?” Dean said jokingly swinging his duffel on his shoulder and gesturing to the revolver John had given Sam at the age of ten sitting on the bed. Dean’s had his since he was five, not that he was keeping track.
“No..um.” Sam trailed off, holding his hands together awkwardly. Dean turned back towards him, praying it wasn’t what he thought it was. Hoping against all hope that his brother had not been stupid enough to actually apply to college. Sure he was smart enough, that wasn’t the issue. Dean hadn’t even considered that college could be a part of either of their lives, it just wasn’t the way John raised them. He hadn’t even mentioned it to anyone, maybe in another dimension there was a version of himself who left his guns on the bed and went off to get an education, but this was reality, and reality meant survival.
“Sam..” He said, with the warning tone he used when Sam started pushing John’s buttons a little too much, started picking a fight he wouldn’t be able to win.
“Dean I’m sorry.”
Son of a bitch. He was doing it.
Dean wondered how far he’d get. If he’d even be able to get off the bus before John hunted him down and beat him black and blue for abandoning his family, his job, his duty. He hoped he would just leave without telling their father, maybe then he’d get a head start. John was a good tracker, but Sam was a smart kid, he knew their dad’s tricks he could hide if he wanted to.
“Forgot your gun, Sam.” John’s voice came from the doorway behind Dean. He had brought the car around and was waiting for the boys to load their bags into it. The air was thick with tension, Dean wanted to scream at Sam to pick up his gun. To put up and shut up like he’d been trying to get that kid to do his whole life. Sam was just always different. Even as a kid, he never played by the rules their father set for them as much as he should have. Dean didn’t understand that, Sam had been raised a hunter his whole life, he had no memories of their normal white-picket-fence family like Dean did. It should have been easier for him to adjust but it never was.
“Dad, I’m leaving. I applied to Stanford, I got in and I’m leaving.” Sam said all in one breath. John didn’t say anything and Dean couldn’t breathe. He felt like something was blocking his throat but he didn’t dare cough and disturb his father.
“Did you hear me, dad?” Sam said standing there awkwardly holding his bag, looking too tall for the small motel room. Dean was struck by how much he looked like a child in this moment, the same little kid he’d been trying to protect his whole life just willingly putting himself in the line of fire all for the sake of college? Dean wanted to scream.
“Have you lost your damn mind?” John said his voice dangerously low.
“I got in and I’m going,” Sam said.
Dean shot him a look urging him to shut up before it was too late. Sam always pushed too much, he was too much like their father. They both always had to be right, always had to have the last word, always had to have their opinions heard. Dean didn’t understand why. It was easier to shut up and listen to their father than fight him. He was looking out for their best interests no matter how unkind his methods of enforcing that were. He was their father, it was their duty to be quiet and obey but Sam never understood that.
“No, you’re not,” John said laughing darkly and grabbing his bag.
“I am Dad. I’m leaving right now, whether or not you like it.”
“Sammy!” Dean hissed. “Shut up.”
John’s eyebrows raised at Sam’s retort. He dropped the bag he had been about to take out to the car.
“Dean take the bags to the car.” He said without breaking eye contact with Sam. Now although Dean wasn’t one for disobeying direct orders, the last thing he wanted to do was leave Sam alone in here with their father after this interaction.
It was his job to be the buffer between his father and brother. To be the one to stop them before they killed each other, more often than not it was before John killed Sam.
“Dad-” Dean started to say, but John turned and glared at him with a look that said there would be no arguing this. He glanced past his father and Sam gave him a nod to assure him he would be fine, so Dean grabbed his duffel and John’s and loaded them into the car. The door slammed behind him and he sat in the passenger seat listening to them scream, barely muffled through the thin motel walls. He placed his elbow on the car door, pressed his palm against his ear, and closed his eyes. He hoped if anyone saw him they would think he was tired and resting his head on his hand. He hoped it wasn’t obvious that this was the closest he could get to plugging his ears and running as far away as he could because that wasn’t what soldiers do. Soldiers do not act like children and soldiers do not run away from their problems. They sit there and listen to the screaming and pray their father wouldn’t leave permanent marks on their brother.
When the door opened Sam walked out first. His lip was split open and blood was dripping down his neck, but at least there was blood on his knuckles too. He tossed his gun at Dean with wild eyes.
“Shoot first.” Was all he said before breaking off into a run.
John had a broken nose, he fished a beer out of the trunk to hold to his face and motioned for Dean to switch with him. Dean tucked his brother’s gun into his ankle holster, but not before noticing it only had one round left. He drove away from the motel thinking about Sam, wondering if he was on the Greyhound yet. Hoping he had money, hoping he knew what he was doing and he wouldn’t call Dean begging him to come to get him in a week’s time. He hoped Sammy made it, and he hoped to god the time wouldn’t come to use the gun he left. He couldn’t do what Sam wanted him to do, even if it killed him. He couldn’t shoot John.