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There he is.
Dean stared unblinkingly through the long glass window of the cafe he was seated in at the tall, unruly-haired boy who had turned the corner about sixty feet ahead, across the street.
Damn, little brother, not so little anymore, are you?
Dean swallowed hard, his gaze tracking his brother's unhurried progress up the sidewalk, backpack slung over his right shoulder and hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.
Dean's breath hitched, but he stayed still as Sam paused and swiveled his head to look over his left shoulder, his eyebrows furrowed as his gaze swept the street behind him as if he knew someone was watching him. After a few seconds, he turned back around and resumed walking, and Dean's fingers, which had tightened around the handle of the coffee mug he was holding, relaxed slowly.
Still sharp, Sammy. Good boy.
Dean continued watching his brother until he'd turned another corner, and Dean could no longer see him. He sighed, swallowed the rest of his coffee, and signaled the waitress for another refill.
Two coffees, three beers, one receipt with a phone number scribbled on the back, and five hours later, Dean left the cafe and made his way down five blocks to where he'd parked his car that afternoon. He slid in behind the wheel and glanced at his wristwatch.
10 p.m.
He started the car, eased out of the parking spot, and ten minutes later came to a rolling stop outside the building where Sam lived. He turned off the car's ignition and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, angling his head to look out of the driver-side window up to the floor where he knew Sam's place was. He knew because he'd checked out the building earlier that afternoon before heading off in search of some coffee to perk him up after that long drive to California and, hopefully, his courage, which had deserted him as soon as he'd found himself facing Sammy's apartment door.
The apartment lights were on, but the curtains were pulled closed, and he was too far away to hear any noise. He looked at his watch and rolled his eyes in exasperation at himself. Then, he took a deep breath and got out of the car but made it only a few feet before he lost his nerve and came to rest against the trunk of the car.
He slid his hands into his jacket pockets and stared ahead unseeingly, his mind transported to that day two years ago, when he'd called Sammy on his birthday to wish him.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Sammy."
"Dean?"
"Yeah..."
"Happy birthday, dude."
"Um, wow, yeah, thanks."
...
"Is everything ok, Dean?"
"Yeah, Sammy, why wouldn't it be?"
...
"No, that's good, yeah...I'm just surprised you actually called, that's all. It's been, what, two years?"
"Yeah, whatever bitch. I just realized what day it was and figured what the hell, you know? I mean, I'm not the one who abandoned my family and never bothered to check if they're still alive."
...
"Dean - "
"You know what, save it, Sam. Just...whatever, man, I hope you're happy...and safe."
Dean may or may not have checked his phone every few minutes over the next hour after hanging up, hoping that Sam would call back, but he never did.
The sound of a distant siren brought Dean back to the present. His stomach was in knots, and his mouth was dry. Sammy probably wanted nothing to do with him anymore. He must still be angry, or he would have called, right?
Fuck. This is a bad idea.
What if Sammy hated him? What if Sammy was so happy in his new life that he never wanted to see or hear from Dean again? What if Sammy didn't care if Dean lived or died?
What if...?
Dean clenched his fingers into tight fists and forcibly derailed that train of thought. He was here for a reason. Their dad was missing, and he needed Sam's help to find him. He fought the urge to check the time.
Dean Winchester was a 26-year-old man who faced all manner of supernatural monsters on a regular basis. He was a hunter. He was a killer.
He was, apparently, also a pussy when it came to his little brother. His little brother, who he'd practically raised himself since he was six months old after carrying him out of their burning house.
Then again, Sammy had always been the exception to his every rule. The last four years without him had Dean feeling like a boat adrift at sea without its anchor, going wherever the hunts took him; yet a part of his heart - his soul - seemed always oriented toward Palo Alto, even though he'd never had the guts to go there. Until now.
Dean shook himself out of his reverie, drew his fists out of his jacket pockets, and relaxed them. He did not look at his watch but inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and took a resolute step toward the building and the apartment now shrouded in darkness. Toward Sam.