A/N: Apologies for anyone waiting on the next update of Protected, I promise I'm working on it, but this little plot occurred to me and wouldn't let me go until I'd written it out, so here we are. This is my first time writing Supernatural that isn't focused on Sam and Dean as children, but it's still pre-series. As always, apologies for any wrong Americanisms and don't forget that any and all reviews, favourites and follows are greatly appreciated!

The thing about drinking to forget is that it doesn't actually work, at least not for Dean, or at least not tonight. Dean's not sure why; usually planting yourself on a bar stool at the first bar you find and ordering enough glasses of whatever's cheapest to clear out your wallet is more than enough to welcome comforting oblivion and ensure that you don't have to think about anything.

But not tonight.

Again, Dean's not sure what it is about tonight. The past few months have been anything but a barrel of laughs, and that much is for fucking certain, but there's nothing about tonight that should make it stand out.

Maybe it's because he's by himself, probably more alone than he's ever been in his life. Not that there haven't been several opportunities to change that. Apparently a black eye and his overall look of 'I don't give a crap' has made him even more of a handsome son of a bitch than usual because he's had four women giving him the eye since he walked in here, a personal best, but he's just not interested. Any other time, he would be all over that, but not tonight, for some reason. Tonight he is alone, and the general chatter and background noise of the bar might as well not even be there for all the attention he is paying it.

Dean doesn't know where his Dad is, which isn't a side effect of all the piss-poor excuse for alcohol he's consumed, God forbid the universe should actually do him a solid, but because Dad hasn't bothered to tell him. In the past few months, Dad has picked up an annoying habit of leaving Dean with his various hunter friends and going off on jobs alone. Dean doesn't quite understand his father's logic in this; after all the crap he spouts about this being a family business, you'd think he'd want to do that business with the son he has left, but apparently not. Dean has a car, he can drive, and in theory he knows that he could just drive away and follow Dad, but so far he's refrained from doing that with surprising ease. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it should, and if Dad had done this a year or two again then Dean would have been totally crushed, and he often was, but things are different now.

In all honesty, Dean isn't in any rush to spend every waking moment with his father right now, and he has a notion that the feeling is mutual. Dean doesn't know which of them he is more angry at, Dad or himself, but maybe it's for the best that they give a each other a little breathing space. Even still, Dean doesn't exactly appreciate being entirely alone for the first time in his life.

Ok, not entirely alone. He's been working with Caleb for the last week or so, which isn't too bad. He likes Caleb, and he's a good hunter, but Dean can't help but feel like some naughty little kid who's been dumped by a long suffering and exasperated father. He sort of wishes that he could go see Pastor Jim for a couple of days, or even Bobby Singer. In that moment, he wants nothing more than to go to Bobby's salvage yard and sleep in the tiny bedroom that was his when he was a kid, but the notion is gone as quickly as it came. They haven't spoken to or seen Bobby in over a year now; Dean still isn't entirely clear on what exactly went down but he knows that option is out. Technically, the fight was between Bobby and Dad, but even still, Dean has the feeling that he wouldn't exactly be welcome on the dude's doorstep. He can only imagine Dad's reaction if he went running to Singer just because he was feeling a bit lonely.

As it is, he's been hunting with Caleb this week, just your standard Wendigo, nothing fancy, and the hunt was over too quickly for Dean's liking. The room was paid for until tomorrow and because they had finished up early, Caleb insisted Dean take a night off and go out and enjoy himself. He even slipped a few crumpled bills into Dean's protesting hand and told him to make a good night of it.

Dean is sure there are plenty of things a man of twenty three with a few weeks worth of pool hustling money, plus Caleb's contribution, could get up to on a Spring evening, but heading to the first bar he saw with the intention of getting entirely shitfaced probably wasn't what Caleb had in mind. It was funny how things changed; a few years ago if Dean somehow had the night completely to himself, then he sure as hell wouldn't be spending it staring into the bottom of a grimy glass as though it held all the answers. Back then, being alone was a rare luxury but now it was a harsh reality and one that he isn't sure he can cope with. The thing is, he is going to have to learn to cope with it, because this is going to be his life now, and if that thought wouldn't fucking depress you, then Dean doesn't know what would.

Caleb acted like getting the night off was some great treat, and maybe once upon a time it was, but Dean would rather be out hunting, if truth be told. At least then you didn't have to think because you were focused on the task at hand and people depended on you and actually needed you around. Dean's fingers curl round the almost empty glass in front of him, wishing he was gripping one of his guns instead. He has one tucked into the waistband of his jeans of course, just in case, and because he kind of likes the way the cold metal steals away his body heat. It's like having a constant reminder of what his job is, and how he can actually have a purpose, if not at this exact moment.

In one swift, practised motion, he picks up the glass and drains it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he shuts his eyes and wrinkles his nose in disgust. It mightn't so much as blur the edges but the stuff burns like a bitch on the way down and Dean knows he's going to have the mother of all hangovers in the morning, which is just what he needs; the consequences of drinking heavily without any of the fun parts. Hopefully he'll get a proper night's sleep for the first time in ages, but knowing his luck, probably not and he'll be throwing up at all hours. He just doesn't get why the drinking isn't working and oblivion just won't hurry up and welcome him in; the method seemed pretty failsafe and had worked for Dad for years now.

Maybe some things are just too big to forget, no matter how much you pour down your throat. Maybe even if Dean sits in this exact spot all night and drinks everything that the bartender throws his way, he just won't be able to forget that his brother has left and is never coming back.

'You walk out that door, don't you ever come back.'

Dean wishes he could forget those words, wishes he could forget the coldness and the sharpness of Dad's voice, the slamming of the door that had seemed to shatter everything they had ever known. Try as he might, Dean just can't obliterate the way Sam's expression had betrayed him for a moment and shown just how much Dad's words had hurt him, before he quickly rearranged his features into that indifferent mask he'd become so adept at.

'Fine.'

Nothing Dean does, or probably can ever do, will erase the way that word was practically spat out, the way Dad turned away in disgust, the way Sam walked away without a backward glance.

Sam. The kid's name had become practically taboo in the months since he left. Every time Dean brought him up, Dad would either ignore him completely or just shut him down, so eventually he just stopped mentioning him, and Dad never brought him up at all. It's like Dean is supposed to just forget that he ever had a little brother at all, which is the stupidest thing anyone could ever ask him to do. There are many things he wishes he could forget, but Sam is not one of them; his dramatic exit from their lives yes, but not the kid himself. No amount of alcohol is ever going to make him forget Sam, not when practically every single memory he has of his own childhood stars Sam as well. It seems strange to think there was a time before Sam existed, four whole years in fact, but memories of that time are few and far between. It's like Dean's life started that sunny May day when Mom came home from the hospital carrying an impossibly small bundle of blankets.

'Come here, Dean. There's someone very special I want you to meet.'

Or maybe it started that November night just six months later when that same bundle of blankets was thrust into his arms with the same instruction he's been following every day since.

'Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back. Now, Dean, go!'

Yeah, that seems a hell of a lot more appropriate.

Either way, it's a tall order for Dean to forget Sam altogether, and it's the one order Dad has given him that Dean is prepared to disobey.

He is pissed at Sam too, quite as much as he is pissed at Dad and at himself. He is angrier than he's ever been at his little brother before; angry at Sam for leaving him alone with Dad, for disappearing without a backwards glance, for making one terse phone call to say he'd arrived at Stanford and then refusing to pick up the phone any time Dean had called after that.

Despite how annoyed he is though, and dear God is he annoyed, he misses Sam more than anything, and that far outweighs any anger he has towards his little brother. It's strange to go from spending practically every moment of the day with someone to never seeing them at all with the very real possibility that they will never meet again. Dean knows that if Sam has his way, and Sam usually gets his way, then they never will see each other again, it's the one order of Dad's that Sam will decide to follow to the letter. Even when Sam graduates Stanford and becomes some big shot lawyer or doctor or whatever it is he wants to be, and really that kid could be anything he put his mind to, then Dean is pretty certain that Sam will carry on without them. If he ever gets over his fear of girls, and finds someone else to give him dating advice since he can't turn to Dean anymore, then he'll find some beautiful chick to settle down with and have a couple of kids. He'll live out in the suburbs in the life he's apparently always wanted to lead and at the same time, Dean has no doubt that he'll find himself in a similar dive to this one.

Sometimes Dean can't blame Sam for getting out. He just wishes Sam hadn't felt the need to completely cut them out of his life. But he had, so that was that. Nothing more to be said.

Dean stands up, not even swaying a little, and pushes the empty glass back towards the bartender, who immediately asks if he wants another as he sinks back into the threadbare bar stool. He does, of course, and he's just deciding whether to have another of the same, because who doesn't love a drink that tastes faintly like turpentine, or whether to splash out on something a bit more upmarket, when the door to the bar opens and a large crowd of kids come surging in. Dean pays them no notice, he barely even registers that there is anyone besides himself and the bartender here at all, and is too busy counting out the change for this latest drink. Caleb must have been even more generous than he originally thought, because Dean finds a folded up five dollar bill wedged at the back of his wallet that he hadn't even noticed yet.

'Hey, Winchester!'

Somehow, that manages to cut though the fog in Dean's brain and he automatically snaps to attention, looking for the source of the noise. Why, tonight of all nights, has he happened across someone he knows? His first thought is that Caleb has found him and is waiting to tear him a new one for not going out and enjoying himself. Dean is really not in the mood for that right now, but the speaker isn't Caleb; the voice is too young and upbeat to be the hardened hunter. Dean doesn't really know that many people, and he's a little curious, in spite of himself, to see who it is.

Then, as it transpires, that preppy college kid who spoke isn't actually speaking to him at all. He's speaking to another college kid and suddenly, Dean finds himself staring at the very last person he ever expected to see tonight. Sam. For a minute or two, it seems like all Dean can do is stare at the brother he didn't ever expect to see again, before he comes to his senses and moves back a bit, skulking further back into a shadowy corner so as not to be noticed.

He allows himself just to look at Sam for a while, just to make sure that everything's okay with him. And by the looks of things, everything seems to be more okay. The kid's as tall as ever, even taller by the looks of things and Dean has a shrewd suspicion that if he stands beside him now that Sam will have surpassed him in the height department. Figures. So much for Dean being the big brother. Sam has filled out a bit; he's no longer all spindly arms and legs like when he had his first growth spurt, so he's still staying in shape, even if he isn't hunting anymore. Apparently, he still hasn't managed to find himself a barber though, and frankly, that hair is getting ridiculous; he'll be able to braid it soon if it gets much longer. That must be the style in Stanford, though, because at least two other guys at that table have their hair flopping all over their forehead too.

For a second, Dean wonders just what the hell Sam is doing out of Stanford and what he's doing in this little coastal town that Dean recently saved from a Wendigo. Then, with a quick calculation and a reminder of the time of year it is, it occurs to him that Sam's on Spring Break.

Maybe the line of empty glasses in front of him have had some effect after all, because Dean is finding it extremely difficult to reconcile the thought of Sam being on Spring Break with the image of Sam he has in mind, even though the guy is sitting not ten feet away from him. In Dean's head, Sam is, and will probably always remain, the slightly chubby twelve year old with his hair in his eyes who followed Dean around and didn't object to being called Sammy. Twelve was a good age, Dean reflects, just before the teenage years hit, bringing with them an ungodly amount of teenage angst; Sammy wasn't Sammy anymore, it was Sam, and suddenly, he didn't want anything to do with Dad, or Dean, for that matter. Yes, twelve was a good age. Of course, Dean was too busy being a cocky sixteen year old dick himself at the time to appreciate it.

Even so, Sam is still too young to be in a bar, Dean surmises. He's eighteen years old, but some of his college buddies must have fake IDs or else the bartender just doesn't give a shit, because at least half of them have bottles of weak beer in front of them and Dean can't help but smirk. Lightweights. A quick look over his shoulder confirms that Sam, who is wearing an old shirt of Dean's that the little punk must have stolen, is nursing a Coke, like the fine upstanding citizen he so wants to be. Dean can't help but smile at that too. He never would have put Sammy down as the Spring Break type, he always preferred books to babes, and he's pretty certain that this trip wouldn't have been his brother's idea.

However, Dean does have to admit that Sam doesn't look out of place amongst those other college kids. In fact, he fits right in. Dean can hear their conversation, he's paying attention now, and maybe his brother isn't as outspoken as some of the others, but he's talking animatedly and they're listening to him. Hell, there's a pretty blonde girl right beside him who just can't get enough of him.

Way to go, Sammy. Sam, he corrects himself. It's Sam now.

More than anything, Dean wants to go over there and talk to his brother for the first time in over six months. The last time he spoke face to face with Sam was the night he left for Stanford after Sam slammed the door behind him and Dean stood in shocked silence for a split second before running out after him. It was cold and dark and Dean thinks it might have been raining, though that might just be his brain embellishing things.

'Sam! Wait!'

'I can't, Dean, I'm sorry. I...I can't. I have to go.'

'Sammy, come on, come back inside. We can talk things over. You can't just leave, man.'

'No, you don't get it, Dean, I have to leave. I have to get out. There's a bus to California tonight and I...I have to be on it.'

'At least let me drive you. You can't just go off by yourself, Sammy.'

'It's Sam...and I have to get the bus, Dean. It just wouldn't be, wouldn't right if you drove me. I need to go.'

'I'll drive you to the station then. Quit arguing and get in the car.'

Dean remembers that virtually silent car journey where the weight of everything that needed to be said and yet couldn't be said aloud seemed to hang in the air between them. It was just fifteen minutes until they reached the bus station but in some strange way, it simultaneously seemed so much longer, and yet so much shorter at the same time. Longer because uncomfortable silences tend to drag the time out, and shorter because Dean knew that at the end of this journey, he would be saying goodbye to his little brother.

With horrible clarity, Dean remembers pulling the Impala into the car park at the station, cutting the engine and turning to face Sam.

'Dean?'

'Yeah, Sam?'

'Are you...I mean, do you...do you hate me? For doing this, I mean.'

Dean remembers not being able to answer that question for a moment or two, not because he didn't know the answer, but because he couldn't believe Sam could actually be asking him that.

'No, kid, I don't hate you. I'm not crazy about this whole situation, but I don't hate you. Never have and never will.'

'I think Dad does.'

'Sam, Dad doesn't hate you. He's just worried, that's all, you know how he gets. He just wants you to be safe.'

'Didn't sound that way to me.'

'He was just...shocked, I guess. But give him some time and he'll come round.'

'Dean, you heard him. He told me not to come back. He never wants to see me again.'

'He didn't mean that. It was just, you know, in the heat of the moment. Of course he wants to see you again.'

'Sure.'

Dean remembers Sam gripping the duffle bag he must have packed in advance so tightly that his knuckles were white, his eyes fixed on the bus station ahead.

'I, uh, this is it, I guess.'

'Sammy, wait a minute.'

Dean had reached across to the glove compartment and pulled out the battered old box of cassette tapes, feeling around beneath the many tapes and pulling out the tight wad of bank notes that nobody else knew about, not even Dad.

'Dean? What is this?'

'Come on, dude, you're going to Stanford, you need to start acting smart. Here, take it.'

'Dean, I can't.'

'Course you can. That's what money's for, right? There's about two, maybe three hundred there. It's not much, but, uh, it should help you get started.'

'But that's not fair, Dean, this is yours.'

'And now it's yours.'

'You're sure?'

'Positive. Now take it before I change my mind.'

'Thanks, Dean.'

Dean remembers Sam climbing out of the car and hoisting the pathetically small bag that held everything he owned onto his back. Dean knew he should have followed him, walked him to the station and watched him get on the bus, but somehow he couldn't move. It was like something was holding him down; he had to watch Sam leave and not do a thing about it.

'Sam, you should, uh, you should phone me as soon as you get there, ok? Just let me know you arrived safe.'

'Yeah, Dean.'

That had been the moment, Dean remembers, that it seemed like Sam was about to say goodbye. For good.

'I'll see you soon, dude, ok? I'll, uh, I'll see you soon.'

'Dean...I...'

'Sammy, please. I'll see you soon, ok?'

If Dean remembers correctly, then he's sure that both of them were crying by this stage; both of them did a pretty good job of trying to hide it, of course, but Dean was familiar with the telltale signs. It was over too soon, and then Sam was walking away, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding back tears and Dean was watching him go, tears stinging his own eyes for the first time in years, and knowing, with a horrible certainty, that he was probably never going to see his brother again.

Except, here Sam is, and here Dean is, and it's funny how things work out.

Dean wants nothing more than to go over to Sam. Honest to God, he wants it more than anything else in the world, but he knows he can't. As much as he wants to, he knows he can't just go over there and pull his his little brother into a hug, and give him a good smack upside the head for being so incommunicado as well of course, and then tell him how good it is to finally see him again.

He can only imagine Sam's reaction if he did.

Dean can't quite pinpoint the moment when Sam stopped looking up to him as the cool older brother he wanted all his friends to meet and started thinking of him as an embarrassment he had to disassociate himself from. Sam's friends probably don't even know that he has a brother at all, much less one you'd find at bar with a black eye and a leather jacket with faded bloodstains on the sleeve. Maybe as far as they're concerned, Sam doesn't have a brother, or a father or any sort of family at all. To them, maybe, Sam simply just popped into being the day his first semester of college started. Anyway, Dean can't exactly see himself fitting in with Sam's Stanford friends. Best to stay away then.

It occurs to Dean that he needs to get out of here, and he needs to get out of here now before he fucking loses it. Maybe it's because he's finally feeling a little drunk after all, or maybe it's because he's sober, but he knows that he can't sit ten feet away from Sam and pretend like he's not there anymore. He can't spend the night waiting for Sam to notice him, and then panicking about what his reaction will be. Dean thinks that he could cope with Sam being angry to see him or, God forbid, actually pleased but if Sam were to ignore him or act like they didn't know each other, well, Dean's pretty sure his damn heart would just snap in two.

He never actually ordered that drink, and the last of Caleb's money is still burning a hole in his wallet. He has a sudden idea, and he calls the bartender over, ordering a beer. When the guy returns with it, Dean stops him.

'It's not for me. Listen, could you send it to that table over there?'

'It's for the hot blonde chick, right?' the bartender smirks, but Dean's in no mood for jokes.

'Look, just give it to the kid with the floppy hair and the plaid shirt, ok?'

'You got your eye on him, sunshine?'

Dean can't help but roll his eyes. 'Yeah, that's it,' he says flatly. 'Just do it, would you?'

'You got it.'

Dean doesn't hang about to see what happens. As soon as the bartender leaves him alone, he is out of there, pulling his jacket round him and exiting the seedy little bar in five seconds flat. He doesn't stop to take a look back, even though it might just be the last look at his brother he ever gets, but he's scared that if he catches Sam's eye then he'll never be able to pull himself away. And that just wouldn't be good for anyone.

He fumbles his keys a little trying to unlock the door of the Impala and the thought hits him that maybe he shouldn't be driving, but he's also certain that he's not leaving his baby here at this dive overnight. And besides, he doesn't want Sam to see the car and think that Dean was spying on him or something. Heinous crime though it may be, the fact remains that there just aren't that many '67 Chevy Impalas on the roads these days so if Sam were to see one pulled up outside a bar, chances are he'll make the connection. The licence plates have been changed at least twice since Sam left, but that hardly matters.

Dean slides into the familiar leather seat of the Impala and starts her up, practically flooring it as he gets the hell out of there, and away from his little brother.

Dean is already on his way by the time the bartender shuffles over to Sam. Sam looks up in surprise as a bottle of beer is plonked down unceremoniously in front of him, the bubbly brown liquid slopping out and splashing on his shirt.

'I didn't order...' he begins but the bartender silences him with a wave of his hand.

'Dude in the leather jacket at the bar sent it over,' the bartender winks and he looks back round at the bar. 'Looks like he left already. Sorry, sunshine.'

Sam can see his own frown of confusion mirrored on Jessica's face and he ignores the laughter from the guys around the table. He's just about to write it off as one of those strange occurrences when he hears the loud and distinctive rumble of a familiar car starting up outside. He barely knows what he's doing, but Sam's on his feet before he can stop himself and he's running to the door, wrenching it open, completely deaf to the confused shouts and calls of his friends.

He stumbles out into the car park just in time to see a black Impala speeding off into the night. He stands there for a minute watching as the car rounds a corner and disappears from view until Jessica comes and takes his arm. She's worried about him, and he lets her pull him away and he knows he'll spend the rest of the night trying to convince himself that this is all just a coincidence. The fact that someone in a leather jacket driving his brother's car happened to buy him a beer doesn't mean anything at all.

And Dean drives away, knowing he'll spend the rest of the night trying to convince himself that his little brother didn't just come running out after him, and that isn't Sam standing at the door staring at the car. Even still, he can't shake the feeling that he's just driven away and left Sammy standing there, just like he left him at the bus station all those months back.

Sam, he corrects himself firmly, it's Sam. And it doesn't matter anyway.