A/N: This was only ever intended to be a one-shot but I had a few requests to publish more, so here we are, and I thought it was only fair to explore some of what Sam was feeling. Hope you enjoy, and thank you for the interest shown!

'Here, Sam, drink up.'

Sam is unceremoniously jerked out of his thoughts as Jessica places a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He accepts it with a mumbled thanks and wraps his fingers round the cup, allowing the warmth to spread through him. It almost feels like he's ill, feverish, but really he is just preoccupied, filled with an uncertainty that hasn't surfaced in a while.

He can tell that Jessica is worried about him, and she has good reason to be. They've been friends practically since the first week of the semester, and they're close, but he's always been careful around her, and his other friends too. As far as they're concerned, Sam is always smiley and cheerful and studious; the Sam they know doesn't suddenly bolt in a bar and go tearing off after some guy who supposedly bought him a drink. Until tonight, that is. Sam doesn't know what he was thinking, he wasn't thinking, and he's pretty sure he's made a real idiot of himself in front of his friends, but he can't bring himself to care right now. He doesn't even really care that Jessica made excuses for them to leave early and practically had to escort him back to the motel. He doesn't even mind that he's supposed to be sharing a room with Brady and some of the other guys while Jessica shares with her girlfriends, and yet he's ended up in her room.

In his mind's eye, Sam is too busy replaying the night's events to care very much. He remembers walking into the bar with the others, and he remembers thinking that it was a real dive, exactly the sort of place that a hunter might hole up in between hunts.

Of course, he hadn't expected to see his brother there.

But had it really been Dean? That's the part Sam can't make up his mind on. Pretty much all the signs are pointing towards it. The bartender's description seemed to fit Dean, and wouldn't it be just like his big brother to buy him a beer? Then, of course, he heard, and saw the car. Sam practically lived in that friggin' thing when he was growing up, and he'd recognise the sound of it starting up anywhere. That was when he ran after it.

Sam could have been six years old again and Dad might just have dropped them off at another new school. How many times had he stood with Dean at the steps of new, nameless school in another nameless town, watching Dad drive away? He remembers once, when he was very young, trying to make a break for it after the car, while Dean held onto his backpack to keep him back.

'I want to go back to our old school, Dean, let me go!'

'Sammy, stop it. This is our school now.'

'But I don't know anybody here!'

'Well, you will soon. Now, come on, I'll walk you to your classroom.'

Looking back, Sam realises that Dean couldn't have been any older than ten when that happened, but he always seemed so much older and grown up to Sam. Then he remembers another time, many years later, standing watching the Impala driving away, only this time, he was standing by himself and it was Dean who was leaving him there. For the very first time in his life, Sam was completely by himself as he stood at the entrance to the bus station and watched Dean drive away.

He wanted Dean to say something on that car journey; he wanted Dean to show that he felt something that Sam was leaving, potentially forever, but his big brother had just stared straight ahead, clenching the steering wheel so tightly it looked like he could snap it in two. Sam knew he should say something, but nothing came to mind and all he could do was make sure that Dean didn't hate him, and accept the tight wad of money Dean had probably been building up for weeks. And then, all too soon, Sam was on an almost empty bus to California, sitting at the back and trying to cry discretely behind his book.

Sam didn't know what to feel, he still doesn't know and it felt like ten different emotions were battling for prominence inside him. On the one hand, he was distraught to be leaving his brother, who'd done nothing but look after him his entire life, and he was angry at his father for the horrible things he's said. And then, on the other hand, he was excited and he was pleased with himself because he finally got away and got what he wanted for years. And then he was guilty for being so selfish and thinking only of himself. This was all on top of the nervous excitement felt by any other kid leaving home to go to college.

'Sam?'

Sam looks up to see Jessica looking at him, her eyes full of concern. He has almost forgotten that she was there at all, much less sitting across the table from him.

'I'm fine,' he says quickly, hastily taking a sip of his now lukewarm coffee and resisting the urge to spit it out.

'What's up with you?'

'Nothing,' Sam aims for a jaunty, carefree tone but somehow, he doesn't think he quite pulls it off. Certainly Jessica doesn't look convinced.

'Sam, do you want to talk about what happened back there? I mean, you were fine one minute, and then you kind of...'

She trails off, like she's waiting for Sam to fill in the rest.

'I just thought I saw someone I knew, that's all. I just didn't expect to see him. Maybe it wasn't him. I don't know.' Sam's voice comes out in jerky little bursts but Jessica doesn't seem put off. If anything, she actually looks interested.

'Who?' she asks, and she isn't pressing or probing, and it occurs to Sam just how nice Jessica is and how much he likes her.

'I thought it was my brother,' he says quietly after a moment or two of consideration.

It seems that is not the answer Jessica was expecting. 'Your brother?' she repeats, frowning slightly. 'Huh.'

'What?' Sam doesn't mean for that to sound quite as defensive as it does, but he's a little on edge tonight and he can't help it.

'Nothing. It's just, well, I didn't even know you had a brother, that's all. I mean, you never talk about your family. I probably wouldn't even know your last name if it wasn't on your records.'

Well, that much is true. Sam has been perfectly friendly to everyone he's met at college, but he's never once volunteered any personal information about himself if he could help it. He's acted engaged and interested when other people feel the need to tell him their life stories, but he's never had cause to reciprocate. Until now, apparently.

'It's complicated,' he says at last, deciding 'complicated' is the best adjective to describe his family, even if it is the understatement of the century.

'You guys don't get along?'

'No, we do, well we used to but we kind of, uh, we didn't really part on the best of terms, you know? It's not like we had a fight or anything, not really, but we were always really close. I mean, my brother practically raised me when we were kids.'

'But what about your mom and dad?' Jessica's frown becomes more pronounced and Sam can see that she, coming from her nice normal background, is struggling to grasp this concept of his childhood.

'My mom died,' he says flatly.

An embarrassed flush creeps into Jessica's cheeks, tingeing them pink, and she pats his hand in a gesture of awkward, but genuine, sympathy. 'Oh my God, I'm sorry, Sam, I didn't-'

'It's ok,' he forestalls her before she can get any further. 'Really. I mean, I never knew her but my Dad, he, uh, he took it hard and we moved around a lot when I was growing up. He had to work a lot.'

Sam was wrong earlier, this is the understatement of the century, maybe even the millennium.

'What does he work as?'

Sam actually feels himself stiffening, his whole body tensing like he's preparing to fight. If ever there was a moment where he could open right up and spill all the secrets of his messed up family life to Jessica, then this would be it.

But he can't. And he knows he can't.

He can't look at Jessica's pretty, innocent face and watch it crumple as he tells her that every vile creature that stalked her childhood nightmares, plus a whole lot more, are actually real. Sam remembers precisely how that feels; he remembers being eight years old and crying himself to sleep on a hard motel bed after his big brother reluctantly told him the truth. He can't do that to Jessica; it just isn't fair. She doesn't need to know, and she never will.

'He works for a sales company,' he says flatly, and there is it. The old lie surfaces again.

'Oh.' Jessica is silent for a moment, tactfully leaving Sam alone with his thoughts before she speaks again. 'What's your brother's name?'

'Dean.' Sam hasn't spoken his big brother's name aloud in months; he hasn't even allowed himself to think about it too much for fear of what it might bring up. He hasn't even spoken to Dean since the day he arrived at Stanford, and even then it was only because Dean had told him to.

'Dean?'

'Sam? Man, it's good to hear from you.'

'It's only been a couple of hours, Dean.'

'Whatever. You arrived ok?'

'Yeah.'

'Listen, man, you left some stuff here. If you want, I can bring them to you. I can be there tomorrow morning.'

'It doesn't matter.'

'But you left some jeans here, Sam, a few shirts as well and your good jacket.'

'It's fine, Dean, I can get new stuff.'

'Oh. Well. If you're sure.'

'Yeah, I'm sure. Listen, Dean, I have to go.'

'Yeah. Yeah, of course. I'm sure you're busy. It's just, Sammy, you know I'm here, right? You can call me whenever.'

'Yeah, I know. Bye, Dean.'

'Bye, Sammy.'

But Sam hasn't called, not even once. Phone calls would lead to visits and eventually he would be dragged right back into the life he had worked so hard to get away from. It was better he completely cut himself off, right?'

'Sam and Dean,' Jessica says thoughtfully. 'Your names go nice together.'

'You think so?'

'Yeah.' Jessica smiles that little smile that Sam's been falling for since the day he met her, but this is hardly the moment for that. 'So you think that really was your brother back at the bar?'

'Maybe. I don't know,' Sam shrugs.

'Why wouldn't he come over and speak with you then?'

Sam shrugs again. 'Maybe he just didn't want to see me,' Sam mutters and to his absolute horror, he can feel the prick of tears stinging his eyes. He bits down hard on his lip, willing himself to hold it together and not completely lose it like a little kid just because his big brother didn't speak to him. After all, why the hell should Dean speak to him when Sam has ignored all his phone calls and hasn't bothered to pick up the phone himself?

'Sam?' Jessica is concerned again.

'I'm fine,' Sam says hastily, making an extreme effort to keep his voice calm and steady. 'Really, Jess, thanks.' That last part slips out almost without his volition, and he's not quite sure where the Jess came from. He stiffens slightly, awaiting her reaction; he knows better than anyone what it's like to have someone pushing an unwanted nickname on you. For how many years has he been trying to shake the dreaded Sammy? To his surprise, however, Jessica, Jess, doesn't seem too perturbed.

'Nobody ever calls me Jess,' she comments lightly.

'I didn't mean...' he trails off awkwardly, suddenly finding that he can't quite look her in the eye.

'Maybe you should phone your brother?' Jess suggests sometime later when Sam has, mercifully, managed to discretely wipe his eyes and clear his throat. 'Just to see if it really was him, you know?'

'But what if it wasn't him?' Sam can't help but say, even though he knows, deep down, that it was Dean, really.

'Then it'll still give you two a chance to talk, right?'

She's right, and Sam knows she's right, but still, he just can't bring himself to make any sort of move.

'I'll just go and give you some privacy,' Jess says tactfully, but Sam is the one to stand up.

'No, I'll go, I need...some air...' he trails off lamely, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair.

'It'll all be ok,' Jess promises but Sam knows this isn't true.

He makes it as far as the motel parking lot before he allows himself to stop, to think, to breathe. Sam sinks onto a hard wooden bench overlooking the sparsely filled lot and takes his cell phone out of his pocket, turning it over and over in his hands.

He tells himself to stop being such a wimp and to man up. He tells himself that he's perfectly capable of working a cell phone and that he should just get a grip and call his brother.

It's just a pity that Sam isn't listening to himself right now.

Sam tries to reason with himself. The very worst thing that could happen, he thinks, is that he could phone Dean and Dean, seeing Sam's name flash up would deliberately not answer. He immediately feels guilty with the realisation that this is exactly what he's been doing to Dean these past months. How many times has he heard his phone ring, usually in class or some equally embarrassing situation, seen Dean's name and ignored it? More times than he count. He used to listen to all the rambling messages Dean left on his voicemail, but the temptation to call back became too much, and now he just deletes them right away. Except Dean hasn't called in a while now, and Sam thought his big brother had just given up and moved on, until he turned up tonight. Maybe it's Sam who hasn't given up and moved on. And maybe it would be even worse if Dean were to actually pick up because what is Sam supposed to say to him?

'Hey, Dean, sorry I've basically ignored you for months. Whoops, bro, my bad!'

He's left it much too long. He didn't come home for Thanksgiving or Christmas, not that those two days mean anything in their family anymore, but he stayed at school while everyone else went home for the vacation. It was a depressing, but strangely fortifying thought, that however sad it was to stay at school over the holidays by himself, it was a million times better than going home to argue with his father.

But then he didn't come home, or even call, for Dean's birthday, which is probably about the very worst thing he could have done. Christmas kind of went downhill after that year when Dean stole some little girl's presents for Sam and Dad didn't bother his ass showing up, but birthdays were always good. It didn't even matter that Dad was there some years, and noticeably absent others, even when he missed Sam's sixteenth, or the day Dean turned twenty one because they always had each other to celebrate with. Sam's May birthday meant sunny afternoons spent in playgrounds when they were little, and Dean fixing up an old bike whose origins Sam didn't care to question because he was too busy racing his brother. It meant throwing an old baseball round or running around for fun, not for drills, or going to the movies because there was some film Sam just had to see. Dean's birthday meant snowball fights if it was cold enough that year, and lopsided snowmen that always fell apart and vicious battles in the snow that always ended with Dean kicking Sam's ass before ordering him inside to warm up with some hot chocolate and the best blanket.

Sam wonders if Dean even celebrated his birthday this year. He turned twenty three in January, not a particularly important birthday by all usual counts, but still a pretty major milestone with the hunter's lifestyle his brother leads. Dad probably didn't even acknowledge it, or even remember, and of course Dean wouldn't have mentioned it. Sam remembered it, the thought wouldn't leave him alone for the entire day, but he didn't acknowledge it.

Sam wonders if he'll celebrate his own birthday this year. He'll be nineteen soon, and he knows that if Jess and the others find out the date, then they'll insist on celebrating for him. If Dad acknowledges the date in any way, then it'll only be in recognition of the fact that it's exactly six months before Mom's anniversary, or exactly six months after, depending on how you look at it. Sam's pretty sure the fact of his youngest son's nineteenth birthday won't even cross John Winchester's mind. But Dean will remember. He'll remember, and what's more, he'll make the effort to acknowledge it. Sam can picture his big brother dropping whatever he's doing and making the drive to California, no matter how far away he is. Dean could be on the other side of the country and he'd still show up on the morning of Sam's birthday, probably with a present in tow too. This is because Dean is an infinitely better person than Sam, and Sam is very much aware of this fact.

Sam knows he should get over himself and just phone his brother. If Dean doesn't pick up, then this is the closure Sam needs to end that part of his life and concentrate fully on college, right? And if he does pick up, then Sam will talk to him. How hard can it be to talk to his big brother? After all, they used to spend practically all day everyday with each other and Dean knows Sam inside out. More than anything, Sam wants to feel able to call Dean whenever he likes. He wants to tell Dean about his classes, and how well he's doing with all his assignments. He wants Dean to know all about the friends he's made, and he sure as hell needs his big brother's advice on how to deal with girls because he's got a major crush on Jess and he's not quite sure how to proceed. And he needs Dean to tell him that he still doesn't hate him and that he hasn't got himself hurt on some stupid hunt and that Dad hasn't been too hard on him.

Sam isn't going to hear all that unless he calls his brother.

So he stops turning the phone over in his hands and he flips it open and he calls Dean.

And he waits.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

Sam's clutching the phone so tightly that it's in real danger of snapping clean in two.

Four rings.

Five.

Sam's got his cell phone pressed so tightly against the side of his face that he'll probably end up with a permanent imprint of it.

Six rings.

Sam is just about to give up, throw his phone as far away from himself as he possibly can when he hears his brother's voice. All of a sudden, the words are tumbling from Sam's mouth, and it's a struggle to even speak coherently because he's found the words now and Dean needs to hear them. He's waited long enough, after all.

Except Dean doesn't hear them. Because Sam is talking to Dean's recorded voicemail message.

'Hey, this is Dean Winchester, but if you're lucky enough to have this number then you already knew that. Leave a message!'

It's the same message Dean has had forever, and never has Sam been less pleased to hear it. This is possibly even worse than all those times, and there were many, when Dean got hurt or went missing on a hunt and Sam was in desperate pursuit of him.

Sam listens to Dean's voicemail and then comes the beep, inviting him to leave a message. For a second, he dithers, wondering if he can really convey everything he needs to say in one short message, before he makes the decision and snaps the phone shut with much more force than he intended.

He's crying now, properly crying with the streaming eyes and the heaving shoulders and the whole nine yards. Sam doesn't know why he's so upset that Dean didn't pick up; he had the suspicion that this would happen but it hurts a lot more than he expected. He's getting a taste of his own medicine now, and Sam doesn't like it one bit. Honestly, he can't blame Dean for not wanting to speak to him if this is how he's felt every time Sam ignored his calls.

Even still, Sam knows he won't call Dean again.

He can't put himself through this again, and Dean has made it quite clear that he can't either. Despite that maelstrom of words that came tumbling out just seconds before, it seems that neither brother has anything to say to each other.

That's just the way things are now. And this is the ways things are going to be.

Sam takes a deep, shuddering breath and forces himself to calm down. He drags his sleeve across his streaming eyes and just hopes he doesn't look too red and weepy. He switches off his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket because he doesn't want to be tempted and he honestly doesn't want to be reminded of what happened, and what might have been.

This is the closure he thought about earlier, the closure he thought he achieved all those months ago when Dean dropped him off at the bus station. It looks like he's finally achieved that independence and self sufficiency he's been craving since he was about thirteen years old.

Sam wonders why it doesn't feel better and why it feels like he's lost something rather than gained it.

He stands up and takes another deep breath, quickly rearranging his facial features into a smile because he's fine, really, he is. He's going to walk into that motel room and tell Jess that he's fine, because he is, and get on with the rest of his life. Maybe he'll stick around for the rest of Spring Break, even though it's not really his thing at all, or maybe he'll go back to school early and get on with his studying. Maybe Jess will come too. Sam really wants to spend more time more time with her and get to know her and see if, maybe, she would like to go out with him some time.

Sam has more than enough to be getting on with. He doesn't have the time to be dwelling on who and what he used to be when he has so much to do now.

So maybe that was Dean in the bar, and maybe it wasn't, because it doesn't matter either way since Dean didn't want to talk to Sam. He isn't 'always there' like he promised to be. And that's ok, because they've both moved on. Sam thinks he's made it more than clear that he doesn't need his big brother any more.

Sam takes another breath as he prepares to enter the motel, and the start of the rest of his life. He's about to start a new life, hopefully one in which Jessica is heavily present; a new life that is nice and normal and safe. And Sam's happy, he really is. Because this is the life he has always wanted to lead, right?

Sam is going to spend the rest of the night, possibly the rest of his life, trying not to think about Dean and all that he has left behind. Miles away, Dean is of a similar mindset, trying to rid himself of the image of Sam watching the Impala driving away, until he realises he left his phone behind at the bar. He sure as hell isn't going back to that dive anytime soon and he's never setting foot in this whole stupid town again, if he can help it. It was only a cheap old cell phone and it was about time he got a new one anyway. There wasn't anything important on it and he has all his contacts written down anyway so he can replace it easily enough. He calls Dad on a payphone and to his surprise, the old man actually wants his help sorting out a poltergeist in a town a couple of states over. Dean knows John isn't going to acknowledge their weeks apart and there's no way Dean's going to bring up the fact that he saw Sam. And that's fine.

He slides back into the front seat of the Impala, keen to start his journey right away, and he doesn't even look back at the town whose name he doesn't care to remember as he speeds away. He pushes his favourite cassette tape into the stereo and turns the volume up as high as he can stand it because he doesn't want to think, or dwell, or any of that crap.

Sam doesn't know that Dean left his phone behind, and Dean doesn't know that Sam actually tried to call him, but, all things considered, maybe that's for the best. Neither Winchester can see the future, at least not yet anyway, and they don't know that they won't call each other again. In fact, they won't even see each other for nearly four years when Sam's attempts at a nice, normal, safe life are disrupted by a big brother who needs him much more than he lets on. But that's a whole other story entirely.

Right now they're apart, headed down different roads, and living their own lives, which is best for everyone. And that's fine, that's great, really.