Summary: Written for apreludetoanend in the Supernatural Summer Gen Fic Exchange 2008 over on LJ. Sam acquires a camera. This is the story of his last year before Stanford through the pictures he took.

Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Kripke and the (unappreciative) CW – I do not profit, monetarily at least, from this venture. In terms of canon and realism, I am not familiar with the US all that much so what I didn't know, I made up. Huh.

A/N: Title comes from the Audioslave song – gotta love Cornell.

Super-duper thanks to the wonderful Rinkle (Rinne) for her great beta job on this. Any and all remaining mistakes are mine, and mine with a passion!

Yesterday to Tomorrow

"Damndamndamn," Jess muttered under her breath as she sank down on to her knees and reached forward into semi-darkness, pushing back a strand of long blonde hair which was obscuring her view of the inside of the closet.

"Only when you are already late," she complained to herself as her hands picked out one shoebox after another, discarding them haphazardly to the side when the contents were not what she so eagerly sought.

Contrary to what it might have looked like to a casual observer, Jessica Moore was not late for a party, looking for appropriate shoes to go with her current outfit. Instead, the young Art and Art History major at Stanford University was looking for a shoebox containing her well-worn and lovingly used watercolour materials which included some brushes and old palettes.

Although her main medium of expression was oils and acrylics, with a heavy focus on drawing, watercolours offered that special quality Jess was hoping to bestow on a new art piece and it didn't help that she needed them as of ten minutes ago.

Ever since she and Sam had decided to move in together by co-renting an apartment, things had been a little… chaotic. The rent period of their small, yet comfortable, one-bedroom domain had started the day before the first semester of their third year at Stanford and the two students had been immediately thrown into the melee of an Ivy League education. Neither had had much time to organize their belongings for all that Sam hadn't brought much to the table save for mostly clothes and books and a few small things, here or there.

Somewhere between packing and moving in, Jess had stored some of her not-used-often art supplies in empty shoeboxes but hadn't had time to label them properly. She therefore concluded that the box in question had to be hiding amongst her formal shoe-wear, her heels, flats and one pair of raggedy old trainers she couldn't bear to throw away, or replace.

Reaching forward even further into the recesses of the surprisingly spacious closet, Jess grabbed hold of a box right in the far back corner, optimistically confident that this was the one. She brought it out and sitting on her heels, placed said box on her lap, frowning slightly when she didn't recognize the faded label emblazoned on the black and white cardboard container.

Shrugging, Jess dug her fingers underneath the lid and pulled. To say she was surprised at the box's contents would have been an understatement. A honk from the road sounded through the semi-open bedroom window and shook her out of her fascination of the contents and a quick glance at her wristwatch had her suddenly scrambling to stand. She replaced the lid and shoved the shoebox back into the closet, careful to remember its exact location so that she could find it again at a later point. That is, if Professor Blackburn forgave her for being late to a lecture again, and let her live.

Three hours later, Jess wearily trudged back to her apartment, slipping her bag off her shoulder and dumping it just inside the front door. She attempted to drive all thoughts of Renaissance painters and their techniques out of her mind by firmly deciding to go out for pizza, maybe pasta, when Sam got home from the library. Italian food was the only thing she could handle right now in terms of the European continent.

Speaking of Sam…

Energy suddenly filling her being, Jess hurried into the bedroom, a hand flinging out to flip the light switch before opening the closet door. In mimicry of earlier events, Jess went down on her knees, pushed back a strand of her hair and reached forward to grab a shoe-box.

This time, however, Jess knew exactly where the box she was looking for was and she took it out and placed it on the bed a few feet behind her before seating herself beside it.

The box opened much more easily this time around since it had been pried open by Jess herself only a few hours ago. Earlier on, however, it had taken an extra ounce of strength, suggesting it hadn't been opened often by Sam – and there was no doubt in Jess's mind that this box was Sam's; it certainly didn't belong to her.

Any twinge from her conscience over the invasion of Sam's privacy was quickly buried. When they'd first moved in, Sam had taken a lockable drawer for his own use. "Don't worry Jess, it's not drugs or porn or anything like that. Just some personal stuff I don't want to leave out in the open lying around," Sam had reassured with that irresistible smile of his. Jess had simply shrugged and said nothing; after all, she had a lockable drawer for her own personal (mostly lady-related) stuff and one thing she'd first learned about the tall, dark and handsome Sam Winchester was that he was an intensely private person. And Jess respected that. But this shoe-box… it wasn't hidden in Sam's drawer, locked away from prying eyes ergo, she reasoned, it was fair game.

Nonetheless, Jess glanced quickly at the digital clock on the bedside table, somewhat comforted by the fact that it was only six o'clock and Sam had said not to expect him before seven.

Jess reached out and brought out the uppermost object in the box. The small leather case was well-worn but it was clear that it had been carefully looked after. Turning it over, she couldn't help but snort in amusement at the "Zeppelin Rules" emblazoned in white correcting fluid at the back. She knew Sam had a Zeppelin concert t-shirt, it was hanging in the closet right now but she couldn't quite believe it was his – it just wouldn't fit him, for one, his shoulders were too broad. As for listening to the classic tunes themselves, it was only when she'd gotten to know Sam much better did she discover him to be a closet metal head, listening to AC/DC, Metallica, Bad Company and the like in privacy, sometimes during certain - mostly forlorn - moods. So this overt love for Zeppelin on the leather case… well, Jess wouldn't have thought it of Sam, that's all.

Getting past her fascination of the two words, Jess peeled away the Velcro strap and pulled out an Olympus Stylus camera from the case. It was one of those old cameras, taking photographic film instead of digital memory cards and Jess found herself appreciating the rapidly disappearing style. The camera in her hands was still in good condition with only a few nicks here and there on the black exterior to suggest that this piece of equipment had been put to good use once, rather than sitting forever in a box somewhere. Checking quickly to make sure there were no batteries in the camera that might melt and spoil the delicate intricacies of the working inner parts, Jess put the camera back in its case and to the side of the bed so she could focus on the box's other contents.

Jess carefully took out the sole photo – it was of a slightly bearded man with his arms around a young blonde woman, both smiling brightly into the camera when the picture had been taken. She could clearly tell that the couple in the slightly worn-around-the-edges photo were Sam's parents – familiar eyes looked up at her from the face of Sam's mother and the smile gracing the man's features all belonged to her boyfriend.

She placed the picture back in the box with great care. She knew that that a house fire had killed Sam's mother and taken away a lot of invaluable personal possessions along with it, such as pictures and mementoes of a once complete family existence, but she was glad that Sam had at least one of both his parents – she'd get a nice picture frame for the photo and place it in a prominent location in their apartment. Jess knew Sam was immensely closed off about his life before Stanford – he hardly ever mentioned anything about his family, nor did they call or visit – but she wanted his past to be present in their future.

With the camera and photo put to the side, Jess pulled out the last few contents of the box. Twirling the two rolls of used-but-not-developed film in her hand, she was struck by an idea.

"Hmm, I think I just might," Jess murmured to herself as she made up her mind. Putting the camera back into the box where the sole photo was, she replaced the lid and put the shoebox back in its hiding place in the closet.

The two rolls of undeveloped film, however, found a temporary home in Jess's handbag.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Thanks Libby; I really appreciate you doing this for me," said Jess as she handed over a few folded green bills to cover the cost of material, accepting in return the small brown envelope stuffed with 8'' x 10'' photos.

Libby just shrugged as she chewed away at the gum in her mouth. As a Goth, at least in apparel, majoring in Pharmacy with a healthy interest in Photography, she and Jess didn't have much in common other than having attended the same high school back in Michigan and having shared the desire to head to Cali come college time. Nothing much fazed the young woman who'd more often than not would keep her mouth shut and get on with life, unconcerned with other people's affairs and problems. It was part of the reason why Jess had asked Libby to develop Sam's photos – not only would she be cheaper than a commercial photo-shop, but Sam's privacy wouldn't be much invaded.

"No porn or anything like that in the photos, was there?" Jess asked half-jokingly. She wasn't going to look at them herself; she wanted Sam to come to her on his own initiative to share them.

Libby shrugged, looking out towards the quad. "Nah." She turned her face sideways and looked directly at Jess. "So you really like this guy, huh?"

Jess smiled, blushing slightly. "Yeah, I do."

"Umm hmm. Would prefer the brother myself. He was hot," commented Libby, jerking her head in the direction of the envelope of photos Jess held. "See ya." Libby started to walk away.

"Thanks again!" Jess called out. "I owe you one." She was awarded with a half-hearted wave over the shoulder.

Jess quickly glanced up at the tower clock when she suddenly realized she had some place to be.

"Crap, I'm going to be late."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"…and there's no milk left."

"Okay, milk run, got it."

"And it's your turn to do the laundry, don't forget."

"I won't."

"And-,"

"Jess!" Sam interjected, cutting his girlfriend off mid-sentence. "Everything will be fine; I'll take care of it."

"I know, I know." Jess's dubious expression belied her words as she sighed.

"You're only going for the weekend; I don't think I'll accidentally set the place on fire just because you aren't here to stop me." Sam tried to reassure Jess before reaching out and opening the passenger side door of Jess's cousin Terry's Volvo. "You're going to be late and I think Terry is getting ready to drive off without you."

"She wouldn't dare!" declared Jess with a cheeky smile towards Terry who simply rolled her eyes as she sat in the driver's seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the keys in the ignition waiting to be turned.

Jess turned back to Sam and said in a much calmer tone, "I baked cookies for you earlier on. They're hidden in the oven."

Sam leaned forward and gave Jess a quick kiss in response. "Thanks."

"And I-," Jess began again.

"Jessss," said Sam warningly.

"… got a small present for you. I left it on the bed, I hope you like it," Jess continued, not heeding the interruption.

"What for?" Sam asked in surprise. It wasn't his birthday anytime soon. And he was sure there wasn't any upcoming anniversary he was forgetting…

"Just because." Jess stood up on the tips of her toes and planted a firm kiss on Sam's lips who returned it more than willingly.

"See ya Monday!" Jess said after they broke off the embrace. She got into the car and Terry immediately turned on the engine, not wanting any more delays to suddenly come up.

"Bye, and have fun." Sam raised a hand in farewell as the car moved away from the curb and headed down the street before finally disappearing out of sight as it turned a corner.

Turning to face his apartment building, Sam quickly shuffled up the stairs to his abode, alone for the first time since he'd moved in with Jess earlier on, at the start of their third year. Two years at Stanford had already imbued in him what it felt like to stick in one place for a long time, to consider the possibility of a permanent residence, an address that could be his for more than a fortnight. The rent on this place was decent, it was comfortable enough for two people and the landlord wasn't a glorified Hitler. All in all, these were good things in Sam's books and he didn't see why he and Jess couldn't continue living in this apartment even after graduation and Sam, at least, started his post-grad.

Sam softly closed the door behind him and drew the bolt across. He wasn't expecting company tonight and he wasn't in the mood to go out. After a few constant weeks of pressure, Sam just wanted a quiet night at home, beer in hand.

He'd already stolen two cookies from the tray in the turned-off oven and was steadily munching his way through a third when he remembered Jess's present and went into the bedroom to find a blue, square- shaped gift box, complete with a bow on top, placed on top of the covers on his side of the bed.

Retracing his steps, Sam first grabbed a cold beer from the fridge which he placed on the beside table along with his cell-phone, wallet and keys before plumping up the pillows and sitting down on the bed, back resting against the headboard, his long feet stretching out before him. Leaning forward slightly, he grabbed the gift-box and placed it in his lap.

"What have you got me now, Jess?" Sam murmured to himself, thinking back on his girlfriend's habit to leave little presents for him here and there, especially candies after she'd found out about his indomitable sweet tooth. Gift-boxes, and stuff big enough to be placed in gift boxes, was a new high however - at least outside of birthdays, anniversaries and holidays.

Pulling the ribbon which would unravel the bow on top of the box, deft fingers pried open the lid and kept it to the side, their speed slowing down when Sam's eyes caught hold of what the 'present' actually was.

The camera case was slightly shiny after the polish it had been subjected to by Jess but its cleanliness was ignored by Sam who stared at the "Zeppelin Rules" defiantly scrawled across, his mind automatically thinking back to how he'd got the camera in the first place.

It was the summer before Sam's last year in high school and the Winchesters had hit the road hard. A tentative promise by John to Sam that the youngest Winchester could spend his last year in the same school meant that they had to take advantage of every school-free day to criss-cross the continental United States many times over when they could, before a town, wherever Sam ended up transferring, became their holding spot.

It was near the end of June and the Winchesters were currently holed up in a relatively small town bordering the states of North and South Dakota. Reports of multiple maulings had alerted the eldest Winchester to a possible werewolf in the locality, the lunar cycle had fit and now the whole family had shown up, the full moon two days away.

While their Dad researched away, Sam and Dean got a chance to explore the town for a little while. There'd been signs for a garage sale plastered all over and the Winchester wardrobe and arsenal were in dire need of being replenished ("Back to school shopping, Sammy!" Dean had declared with a grin while Sam had rolled his eyes). Since it was common practice to buy a map in every town they hit, the brothers had no trouble finding the place, Sam handling directions while Dean drove the Impala.

Pulling up down the street where parked cars were in abundance, the brothers soon found the garage sale to be on a much larger scale than they'd thought. Spilling over into the neighbours' driveway, the family had clearly been in a cleaning mood.

Sam and Dean had wandered into separate directions; Dean mostly concerned with finding anything that he might be able to convert into weapon form – silver for melting into bullets would especially be great and if there was ever a hunt they needed those bullets for, it was this one.

Sam in the meantime was far more distracted, not looking for anything in particular but simply browsing aimlessly. He knew in the back of his mind that the number of t-shirts that he owned with holes, tears, blood stains, some with all three, were taking over yet at the moment, he couldn't be bothered to replenish his wardrobe.

Sam's eyes raked over the odd items here and there that were being sold. From bits and pieces of conversation he found out that the family responsible for the garage sale were moving to Europe and wanted a new start without old possessions dragging them down. Since the move was only in a few weeks, they were also desperate to get rid of their things and who better to sell them cheap to than neighbours and town members?

He was near the small table holding all sorts of small electronics such as a Walkman and at least two small, hand-held radios when he noticed the camera. On an impulse, he'd picked it up and toyed with it, noticing the features, the sliding front portion which would reveal the lens and flash, the button to take a picture with. He lifted it and observed the garage sale through the view finder to get a feel for it. He wasn't sure as to how long he'd spent toying around with it when Dean had joined him at the table, immediately going for the Walkman.

"Hey Sam… think I can make an EMF detector out of this?"

Sam, shaken out of his reverie, snorted. "Yeah right," he scoffed, putting down the camera.

"Ouch, have a little faith, little brother," Dean admonished. He jerked his head in the direction of the camera. "If you like the camera, buy it. You still have that bundle of cash you got from tutoring that Wilkins kid in Rockford, don't you?"

"What am I going to take pictures of, Dean? Wendigos? Vengeful spirits? Hey, maybe if I take a picture of a poltergeist, it will be so flattered it won't chuck a knife at me."

"Alright alright, no need to get nasty dude, it was just a suggestion," Dean replied, rolling his eyes. "Go look at the clothes, they seem to have some decent flannel; if you're going to act as angsty as Kurt Cobain, you might as well dress like him."

Sam shot Dean a glare who just as easily ignored it. "Move it, Sam. Dad will probably start wondering if we've fallen in a ditch somewhere if we don't get home soon."

"You mean the motel right?" Sam immediately jumped on Dean's use of the word home.

"Whatever, dude. I'll be chatting to the hot daughter over there," Dean pointed to the girl who was helping her mother run the sale. "She looks over eighteen, right? Perfect."

Without waiting for any response, Dean left his side and Sam, with a last look at the camera, moved off to more fruitful pursuits.

Two days later, hunt complete, bags to be packed and placed in the car for the next move, Sam came across something unexpected in his duffel. Pulling it out, he saw he held a rectangular shaped leather case in his hand which was filled with something heavy. Any questions as regards to who was responsible for this disappeared as he noticed the "Zeppelin Rules" written in white correcting fluid.

Dean. Who else?

But where the hell did he get the correcting fluid?

Better yet, where the hell did he get the camera? Sam could easily tell that it was the same one from the garage sale but he hadn't seen Dean buy it and since it was relatively cheaply priced, he'd expected one of the many other visitors to the sale would have picked it up.

Sam stormed outside where Dean was shoving his bag into the trunk of the Impala and doing last-minute checks.

"Dean."

"Sam," retorted his brother, not even looking up.

"Where'd you get this?" Sam held up the camera.

Dean turned his head and looked at what Sam was referring to and with an absolutely straight face replied, "The Easter Bunny dude. Didn't you get the memo? He apologizes for being late this year."

"Dean."

"What, Sam?" Dean sighed. "Where does it look like I got it?"

"I was with you at the garage sale, remember? I didn't see you buy it." Both brothers caught Sam's emphasis on the word 'buy' although neither could be sure if it was intentional or unintentional.

"That's because I bought it off Claire when we went for our date that night – remember? The hot chick whose garage sale it was?" Dean shook his head as Sam just shrugged. "Figures. I'd asked her to hold it for me until I could pay her the money for it later. Anyway, consider it an early graduation present, egghead."

"Dude, I haven't even started senior year yet."

Dean shrugged again. "It's not like you don't have the grades, Sam." Dean suddenly brightened. "Hey, maybe with the camera you'll get interested in taking pictures of hot babes and you'll leave the books alone." Dean paused. "Well, maybe not 'hot' babes, they're kinda outta your league."

"Ass," retorted Sam.

"And a nice one at that, too," replied Dean, twisting Sam's words around. Slamming the trunk lid, he added, "Come on, pack your shit up, we should have hit the road by now."

"Alright, alright." Sam turned around to go back into the motel room. He'd only taken a few steps when he swivelled on his heels to face his brother again.

"Dean."

"What?" Dean said, exasperation in his tone.

"Thanks." Short and simple, the Winchester way.

Dean just shrugged and sat in the car. "You have sixty seconds before I leave without you, Slowy McSlow."

Smiling at the memory, Sam ran a finger over the extremely Dean-like slogan which had served better than any sappy Hallmark card could have in terms of declaring the gift-giver and injecting the affection. Putting the camera carefully to the side, Sam took another sip of beer before peering further into the box – he had a feeling he was going to need it.

The brown envelope was stuffed with the developed photos – Jess hadn't bothered doing anything with it other than placing it in the box. Sam pulled back the half-closed flap and he wasn't sure if he was excited at the prospect of seeing photos from his last year with his family – for that was what it was, rather than just his last year in high school – or if he would rather just shut the box on his past permanently, both literally and metaphorically.

The part of Sam that still yearned for his family, that still remembered the good moments from over 18 years worth of co-existence, wanted nothing more than to revel in the never-before seen photos. Although the camera had been given to him by Dean, Sam had been responsible for purchasing any and all film – something that was hardly cheap, let alone for a family whose main job was hunting creatures nobody wanted to believe actually existed. All the money that came from hustling and credit card scams obviously went towards food, board and ammo.

That wasn't to say the camera had stayed unused throughout. No, Sam had bought some film but he'd been careful every time he snapped a picture. Besides, it wasn't like he could take a camera with him on a hunt – how would he explain a large, freaky, extremely large looking monster to the guy developing his photos. Of course, a costume was a plausible explanation to a degree, but to get to that point, Sam would have had to survive the wrath of John Winchester when he discovered what the distraction had been during a hunt.

Speaking of developing photos, Sam had never gotten around to getting any rolls done. First off, it took ages to fill up a roll – it wasn't as though he'd taken pictures of normal, everyday high school life. Sam had figured he'd get them done one day, but it never came until three years after the fact and a girlfriend who'd somehow discovered his photographer side. When he'd first arrived in Palo Alto, the camera and rolls of film had been stuffed in his duffel bag with his clothes and a weapon or two – he'd shoved them in a box somewhere shortly after and never given it much thought since.

To be honest, he'd forgotten all about it and the curious and nostalgic part of him couldn't help appreciating his girlfriend's thoughtfulness.

He pulled out the whole batch of photos and placed them on top of the envelope. It was only the first photograph and he was already smiling at the moment captured in it – a nagging part of him wondered how long the smiling would last as he made his way through the pile but for the moment, Sam just focused on the photo in front of him.

He held it up slightly to see it better. He could remember clearly when he'd taken the picture. It was shortly after Dean had given him the camera and the massive road trip was still in progress as summer inched its way slowly towards autumn. They'd spent a few days with Bobby at the Singer Salvage Yard and although the man was an expert on demons and the supernatural, it was his… other worldly expertise that was being consulted in the photo.

Sam, while standing on the front porch at least twenty feet away, had on impulse raised the camera to his eye and snapped a picture, capturing the scene of John, Bobby and Dean as they stood in front of the Impala's raised hood, staring at the engine as though it would suddenly spout out the answer behind its clanking noise. The elder men had had their arms crossed in front of their chests but Dean, clearly the more distressed over the condition of his 'baby', had one hand on his hip and the other on the back of his head.

Sam snorted as he stared at the photo – the three main male influences of his life and all of them worked up over a car. Granted, he loved the Impala, it had been a constant home to him throughout the years, but the hours spent curled up in the front seat as his legs cramped from lack of space and movement? That he could have done without.

However, he wouldn't mind hearing the throaty growl that was signature of its engine; the feel of wind rushing through the open window as the speed limit had been treated more as a suggestion rather than a caution; the sound of Black Sabbath blaring from the car's speakers; the driver to the left of him singing along tunelessly…

However, the next picture quickly sobered Sam up from all desires of his past life. Whereas the first one was normal to the point of ridicule, the next picture brought home just how not normal his life had been. The picture had been taken during the same trip to Bobby's as the first one had been but this was not of any humans – Sam had been idly flipping through one of Bobby's books and had come across a symbol that had ignited his interest. Hearing his father and brother call for him to get a move on, they were leaving, Sam hadn't had time to copy the symbol and in his hurry had quickly snapped a picture of it, thinking he'd learn it when he'd eventually develop the roll.

That had never happened and now Sam had no use for the complicated symbol with its two circles with multiple pentacles within a triangle inside of it, animal sigils and Latin words filling up blank spaces. Sam couldn't remember exactly what the symbol was for but he knew it was a trap of some kind.

He took the picture and placed it face down on the covers, a little away from the first photo so that it wouldn't get mixed up. He'd either destroy the picture later on, or shove it in a corner of his locked drawer. He didn't want to consider the possibility that even in his apple-pie Stanford life it might come of some use one day. He shared an apartment with the most beautiful and wonderful woman he had ever met – there would be no salt lining the doorways and window sills, nor cat's eye shells hanging here and there, no knife under his pillow as his brother was wont to do. He was surrounded by books which were written by PhDs; kitchen appliances used more often for meals than a trip to a local diner; papers that were graded; he was surrounded by normalcy and he liked it that way. In a deeper part of 

his subconscious, he knew he was employing the logic of a child who covered its eyes and thought if they couldn't see the monster, the monster couldn't see them.

He wanted no more part in that other sort of life anymore. He'd been at Stanford for three years already and had nothing supernatural take place. If he avoided It, then It would avoid him, an unspoken deal that Sam was perfectly okay with.

Sam, who'd flipped through a few pictures of some random shots of the scenery in one of the countless moves they'd made as a family, stopped when he came across a picture of Dean and he was glad he was alone in the apartment or else they would have heard the loud guffaw he released.

The picture was pretty ordinary but what amused him immensely was what Dean was doing. From the background, he and his brother seemed to have been standing in a parking lot somewhere, the neon sign of the Blue Sun Motel advertising its vacancy.

Another week, another state. Sam shifted his weight from foot to foot as he leaned against the trunk of the Impala, impatient for his father's return so that they could all leave this place once and for all.

Dean was strolling aimlessly in the parking lot – since he was the designated driver of his black beauty, as he liked to call it, he preferred stretching his legs as much as possible before the start of any road trip. Sam, though taller, stood stubbornly rooted to the spot.

After watching his brother complete what seemed like the fifth circle around the parking lot, Sam dug his hand into his bulky jacket pocket and drew out his case-covered camera. With college to be applied to this year, all in secret if he had any say, he'd started pooling his money in order to pay for his SAT tests and college application fees. Since he'd be asking for financial aid, he had the option of waiving the application fee but there were a few schools he was interested in that didn't have that. Credit card fraud was out of the question, so Sam had no choice but to grab some honest jobs here and there between hunts to get some cash. He knew he'd do better once school started and he'd be in one town but there was no harm in starting early.

As such, the roll of film in the camera was the same one since he'd been gifted it. He'd taken a few snaps here and there but they didn't form a large chunk of the 36-odd pictures he was entitled to on the Kodak roll.

On a sudden impulse as he watched his brother complete yet another leisurely turn, Sam's fingers fumbled with the Velcro strap holding the mechanical equipment in its protective covering as he pulled out the camera. Pulling back the flap that covered the lens, he lifted his hands so that he could peer through the viewfinder. As Dean's route brought him close to Sam once again, Sam called out:

"Hey Dean."

Dean paused and looked over to his brother, shaken out of whatever reverie he'd immersed himself in as he wandered aimlessly.

"What?"

"Say cheese," said Sam, the camera in front of him not quite managing to obscure the smile now gracing his lips.

Dean quirked an eyebrow in a you-gotta-be-kidding-me look but the moment Sam's fingers pressed on the capture button, he morphed his features into a classic Blue Steel pose to rival that of Ben Stiller's.

Four years down the road and the photo he'd taken that day finally in his hands, Sam laughed as heartily, if not more, at his brother's expression as he'd done that day, so long ago. Dean had burst into laughter along with Sam as soon as the flash had faded and both brothers had continued chuckling until a few moments later their father joined them and all three Winchesters had then proceeded quietly into their vehicle of choice, Sam of course going with Dean, and they'd revved their engines and set course to yet another town for yet another hunt.

Still smiling, Sam put the picture with the one of his father, brother and Bobby, and away from the picture of the symbol – unintentionally separating his friends and family members from their jobs and what gave their lives definition.

Moving on, he quickly glanced at pictures of some of his friends in Stevenson High – the place he'd started his last year of high school in - in the town of Finchley, Wyoming. Sam didn't need to think hard to remember the names of the teenagers in the pictures. His memory sometimes was both a blessing and curse in terms of what it was able to recall, but for all that he'd managed to study in one place for a significant amount of time, he was much closer to his friends in Stanford. Perhaps the fact that he'd walked away from the family business once and for all, and no longer had to set aside weekends to quick hunts or research, meant that he'd been more willing to let people in, to spend more time with his friends. Hell, he doubted he could have asked Jess out had she been a senior in high school with him.

No, Stanford had allowed him to be more normal, in the true sense of the word, than high school where his brother and father always offered contrast to his apple-pie school hours.

The pictures of his school friends forming yet another pile, away from the previous two piles, Sam took another sip of beer before looking at the next few pictures.

He really should have known better than to consume beverages when Dean was in proximity, even if his brother was currently nothing more than pixels on photographic paper.

Beer snorted from Sam's nose as his eyes fell on the next picture, his hand thumping his chest and the tears in his eyes a combination from the liquid going down the wrong pipe as well as from laughing.

They were in Nebraska, and it was winter.

It was a deadly combination for just about anyone, save perhaps Eskimos, but Dean Winchester took it to another level.

Sam knew that if his brother had a choice, he would prefer to sweat in Arizona than shiver in Alaska but when had Dean ever had a choice?

Of course, none of this stopped Sam from smirking at the sight of his brother blowing warm air into his cupped hands as he shifted his weight from foot to foot in a bid to increase body temperature. They were waiting by the side of the road leading to a ramshackle house which was currently being plagued by two women who'd refused to give up this world in peace. Their father was going to join them after a run to the grocery store for more bags of salt and once he did, all three Winchesters were going to raid the house.

Until then, Sam was happy to just laugh at his brother. They could have just sat in the Impala but in a bid to save fuel meaning they couldn't turn up the heat, the car was acting as an icebox, the inside almost as cold as the outside.

Dean was standing beside Sam and the youngest Winchester could swear the air was about to turn blue – not because it was freezing, but because Dean was cursing uninterruptedly under his breath, using words Sam was sure he'd never heard before in his life – and considering the people he and his family hung out with, that was saying quite a lot.

"God, what's taking Dad so long?"

Dean might have meant the question to be rhetorical but Sam couldn't help answering: "No idea. But when is Dad ever on time?"

"Don't start, Sam," Dean warned immediately.

"I was just answering your question, dude." Sam wondered if maybe he'd be doing his brother a kindness by riling him up so much, he'd forget the cold (and the fact that their father was running late, as per usual).

Five minutes later, their Dad's truck still nowhere in sight and the mood between the brothers still slightly off, Sam decided to clear the air. He never wanted to go into a hunt with issues still in the air, and he used the time he had on hand to his advantage:

"Hey Dean?"

"What, Sasquatch?" Even coffee couldn't prevent Dean's crankiness today, and the previous exchange probably hadn't helped. Not that Sam was surprised when he heard it in the tone of his brother's voice.

"Scientists say that you're going to feel the coldest if your head and feet aren't covered."

Dean turned his head to the side to give his brother a look. "Um… I'm not sure about you, Sammy, but I'm pretty sure these are combat boots I'm wearing. And just because I don't have a mop on my head doesn't mean mine isn't covered."

Sam ran his hand through his brown locks for the sole reason that it would annoy his brother. "No need to be jealous of the hair, bro. And as I was saying, head and feet need to be covered. But most of all…," Sam dug his hand inside his (very warm) jacket pocket, "the nose should be covered." Sam presented his brother with a red clown nose, the one he'd bought and was keeping in store for the opportune moment, such as this one.

Dean reached out a hand and took the red nose from his brother but the way he was glaring at it made Sam wonder if he should perhaps start running away. His brother's aim was a thing to behold and at least this way, Sam could warm up a little too.

However, seventeen years of being glued to his brother's side had to count for something which was why Sam wasn't too surprised when Dean simply shrugged and put the red clown nose on his face and put his hands in his pocket as he waited for the extra… layer… of covering to take effect.

Plenty of time for Sam to open the passenger side door and lift his duffel bag onto the seat, using Dean's distraction as he surveyed the open roads for any sign of their father to bring out his camera. Wanting to take his brother by surprise, Sam took the case off and slid back the shutter before ducking out of the car again and standing upright.

"De-ean," Sam sing-songed his brother's name, making it clear that his intentions in calling out for his brother were nothing short of mischievous.

The elder Winchester turned to face his brother, clown nose still in place, and it was something to be said of his reflexes when he managed to flip his brother the bird just as the flash went off.

Oh, this was so not his brother's shining moment, Sam thought, as he shook his head fondly at the picture. A freezing Dean was usually reason for laughing but a heavily jacketed Dean with a clown nose on as he frowned, holding up a heavily gloved finger to the camera and his little brother?

Yeah, that was bribery material right there.

The next picture, however, completely removed all traces of good humour from Sam's features as his mind travelled back to the day this picture had been taken, however unwillingly:

Sam was in no hurry to get home, as had been the case for the past two days. On Monday, he'd walked through the front door to find a note on his bedspread:

Dear Bitch (read the note),

Dad and me gone to fry some buggers in S. Dakota – be back Friday.

Don't let your brain overload from too much studying, but no strippers over either.

Love,

Jerk.

Dean. The letter-writer of the family, clearly.

Under the note was a small pile of cash, enough and perhaps just a little more to tide Sam over till the end of the week though he was sure that if he opened up the fridge and the cabinets in the kitchen, he'd find them recently stocked. Ever since his school year had started, Dad and Dean would often leave for days at a time to deal with a hunt, most of the times in another state though never too far away.

Dean, at twenty-one and no longer tied down to formal education, had taken up a part-time job as a mechanic in a garage in town to try and earn some honest cash. It wouldn't bode well for Sam as a student in the high school if his family was seen hustling every bar in a fifty mile radius, along with flaunting fake credit cards here and there. Of course, out-of-state hunts meant that his father and brother were able to keep their cash swindling talents in practise and that's where most of the family's income came from in any case.

However, each time his father and brother left on a hunt, Dean would first do a store run to make sure Sam wouldn't want for anything in the meanwhile. Canned goods, cereal, milk, two minute noodles, instant coffee – all that a growing boy needed (or as Dean would say, much too overgrown boy, still smarting from the fact that his four years younger brother was four inches taller than he was).

It was now Thursday and Sam knew better than to expect his brother and father to be home ahead of schedule. On the other hand, delays were par for the course although it got harder and harder for the youngest Winchester with each passing extra day, not knowing if his family was alright. Dean would call every night they were apart for a status check but if they had to stay longer than expected, the fact was usually accompanied with them being too busy to call and ease Sam's fears.

Still, today was alright. Dad and Dean had one more day before Sam started the fine art of silent panicking and since there was nothing waiting for him at home, Sam took his time, enjoying the fresh air and feel of the sun on his face. In his head, his brother called him a pansy but Sam ignored the tease, for all that it was imaginary.

Unlocking the front door, Sam carefully stepped over the salt line and closed the door behind him, flipping the flimsy lock but leaving the bolt untouched, even though he wasn't quite sure – he had no intention of leaving the house today, and it wasn't like he was expecting company.

Shrugging, Sam turned away from the door and made his way towards the kitchen for an apple. Even if any intruders came (human or non-human), Sam knew enough self-defence to put up a hell of a fight. Besides, Dean had strategically placed weapons, big and small, all around the house and Sam only needed a moment to reach for one.

Apple in hand, Sam went into the small living room which also housed the small TV. Munching his way through the fruit, Sam's fingers kept a steady pressure on the channel button as he flicked from one to another, barely stopping at any for more than a few seconds. He must have done at least five rounds by the time the apple finished and he decided there was nothing worth watching on TV. At least, not for the moment anyway.

Going into his and Dean's room, Sam grabbed perhaps the only two items he could label as "luxury items", as his Economics teacher would call it: his camera, and his walkman. He then went to his backpack and dug out the book he'd borrowed from the school library before heading home.

The three items in hand, Sam seated himself in the sole comfortable armchair in the tiny house, the faded brown one facing the front door. Kicking off his shoes, he rested his feet on the coffee table in front of it and started putting the headphones in place. The walkman had been another item yet another garage sale had been a result of, though in a different state. Dean, finally tiring of Sam bitching about the music as they criss-crossed the country, had bought Sam the cassette player. What Dean didn't know was that during one bored day two months ago, the fifth since he and their dad had gone for a hunt in Oklahoma, Sam had compiled a cassette of his favourite classic rock songs, ranging from Zeppelin to Pink Floyd to even a Motorhead one. Of course, Sam would never allow his brother the gratification of knowing he liked most of Dean's music – he'd much rather horrify him with a passion for Bon Jovi and all other sorts of "emo music", as Dean would label it.

With Jimi Hendrix attempting to hold a tune in Sam's ear, the seventeen year old Honours student cracked open the book he'd borrowed – Bram Stoker's Dracula – and started reading.

Fifty pages later and the cassette reaching the end of Side A, Sam put down the book and flipped the cassette around, wincing slightly as the screams of Robert Plant replaced the relatively soft crooning of Paul Rodgers. Having lost interest in the book, Sam picked up his camera instead. Having taken it to a school soccer match recently which had been rained out, he had a fear that some mud might have invaded the case and was crusting the delicate works of the machine.

Turning it over in his hands, Sam was glad to see that there wasn't much. He used a thumbnail, which was in dire need of clipping, to scrape away the dried mud that was lining the outside of the shutter.

He'd just raised the camera to his eye to make sure there was nothing obscuring the viewfinder when the door directly in front of him was kicked open and his finger pressed on the button in reflex, the resulting flash surprising all.

Sam took one last look at the picture, enough for him to sear it in his memory before he brought his fingers to the middle and pulled, tearing the picture in half, once, twice, many times until each piece was no bigger than a dime. He carefully placed the pieces on the bedside table next to his bottle of beer. He'd burn the pieces later, but he knew there would be no forgetting.

It hadn't been a monster which had burst into the tiny house in Finchley that day, nor it was a crazed spirit bent on revenge or a drunk human having no idea what he was doing, although Sam would have preferred any of those three scenarios than the one he'd been presented with:

John Winchester all but carrying his barely-conscious first born across the threshold, not even waiting to knock but kicking the door open – he couldn't be faulted for being surprised when he'd immediately been greeted by a flash of light. Unbeknownst to all three Winchesters before today, the camera flash had managed to capture more than surprise on John's face – Sam could clearly see worry and fear in his father's eyes, something he hadn't noticed that day, branding his father apathetic and unconcerned in his rage.

Dean, however, had been a mess. With his chin touching his chest, he'd been too out of it to realize that his father had broken every speed limit between here and South Dakota to get him home to be patched up. His entire left side, from the gash on his forehead to the deep claw marks in his side and leg, seemed to be covered in blood and the camera flash had only served to illuminate the gruesome colours.

They'd all been injured to various degrees in their line of work; Dean had certainly been injured worse before, but Sam wasn't quite sure why that day, and the days after, were cemented so firmly in his mind. Perhaps the shock of the door bursting open to reveal a bloodied and bruised brother with his arm across their father's neck had left an indelible mark on Sam's consciousness – he did not need a picture to make the day all the more clearer.

The next picture soon joined the previous one in terms of being ripped to tiny pieces. Though an innocent observer would only have seen the right-side profile of a man sitting upright in bed, a remote in hand, lollipop in mouth and presumably watching TV, Sam saw more.

He knew that although his brother looked perfectly fine in the picture, one only had to walk to the other side of the bed to be faced with the true reality – gauze covering the gash over the left eyebrow; t-shirt covering the bandages swathed around Dean's middle; blankets cloaking Dean's wrapped leg.

Though over three years ago and only one of many things, Sam still remembered this event as something which had pushed him further to go to college, to get away from it all.

He didn't want to see his brother's blood spilt over and over again, unable to do anything except perhaps bandage his wounds – at least the physical ones. Sure, Sam did reason that if perhaps he'd gone along for the hunt, he might have been able to watch Dean's back better, make sure the Tailyope didn't get a jump on his brother but that was a possibility, not a certainty. It would take more than the fingers of one hand to count the times Dean had been injured because Sam had been there, in an attempt to protect the youngest of the Winchesters. No, Sam wasn't going to stick around to bury his family. It also grated on his nerves that Dean could take this all calmly; that laid up in bed just days after almost bleeding out in a ramshackle house, he could be satisfied with just watching the tube, waiting until he was mobile enough to jump head first into yet another hunt.

No, Sam didn't regret leaving hunting. He didn't regret it at all. People's lives were threatened by more than supernatural forces in this world and there was more than one way to live other than being driven by revenge and a desire to kill every monster between here and the demon who'd killed Mary Winchester.

Sam would and was going to help people his way, and fulfil his dreams along with it. The way it looked right now as he glanced around the bedroom and noticed all the Jess-isms, such as the easel and canvas in the corner next to a pile of law books that overflowed from the bookshelf, he was damn well already on the way.

The picture, ripped into a reasonable amount of pieces adding to the first pile, Sam focused on the next one and suddenly couldn't help but feel that perhaps the Winchester's hunting lifestyle hadn't been all that bad - Sam doubted he could have gotten to know half the positive influences in his life without them.

Pastor Jim, for example - part-time preacher, part-time hunter. In the photo Sam held in his hands, the Blue Earth resident was facing the stove but had turned slightly to his right to smile into the camera as Sam took a picture. The camera had also managed to capture the fact that both of the priest's hands were covered with oven mitts and he was wearing a 'Kiss the Cook' apron. On the stove was a piping hot (at least, that's how Sam remembered it) straight-out-of-the-oven apple pie and it should have been impossible that the scent of it could reach Sam all the way into the present but there was no doubting it - it was as though the apple pie was right in front of Sam in his apartment, causing his stomach to release a growl, and Sam tried to remember just how many cookies Jess had left in the oven…

Speaking of ovens-

The Winchesters had travelled to Minnesota for a hunt during Sam's winter break and having been able to wrap up their hunt in time, they'd descended on Pastor Jim's porch the day before Christmas Eve and he'd been more than happy to receive them.

In fact, his happiness at the company was demonstrated by the feast he'd cooked up for Christmas Day. Sam had always known that the older man had a soft spot in his heart for Dean and the apple pie had been evident of the fact, for all that everyone had shared it. And in spite of the deteriorating relationship between Sam and his father, both had managed to put aside their differences for the few days they were in Blue Earth and Sam couldn't help but guiltily notice that Dean also seemed more than happy at the brief respite.

And one way or another, that year's Christmas had been one of the nicest Sam had ever experienced, including the one last year with Jess and her family. There had been an honest-to-goodness tree with proper lights, snow lining the windows and the landscape around them, a sense of family with all three Winchesters present and accounted for, even though one was still slightly limping, and let's face it, damn good food and eggnog.

Too involved in the festivities to use his camera more than once or twice, Sam had still made sure to snap a picture of Pastor Jim, unaware at the time that it would be the last time he'd see the man. The preacher had called plenty of times during the course of Sam's Stanford years and though the man never chastised Sam for his choices and encouraged Sam to be the best he could be, Sam still linked hunting to a part of the old man's persona - who else carried all sorts of weapons in their church office? And no, he didn't just mean the holy water.

However, he'd learnt a lot from the old man, and a photo of him wasn't unwelcome in Sam's book.

Moving on, the next picture was a relatively simple one. Location-wise, it was another motel although Sam couldn't be sure where. In the foreground, Dean was sitting on one bed and using the other to spread out all the weapons the Winchesters had and was cleaning each and every one of them, face expressionless as he made his way through the boring and repetitive task, cloth in one hand, a gun in the other. In the background, their dad was sitting at the small desk in the room, papers spread out before him; pen in hand and leather-bound journal in front of him, dutifully recording the latest hunt.

The picture should have reeked of normalcy (Winchester normalcy, at least, what with the plethora of guns all laid out on the bed) but Sam knew better. The eldest and youngest in the family had just had a huge argument, big even for their standards. Dean, who normally turned into a post when Sam and John went at each other, was only in the room to make sure his father and brother suddenly didn't decide to tear each other to pieces even though a silent truce had been called and everybody was quiet.

Too quiet.

Had things really been a-ok, the TV would have been on in the background, providing some much needed background noise. Dean would have been making asinine comments, mostly to get a rise out of his brother; Sam would have been replying when provoked but mostly trying to concentrate on his text-book and John would have contributed in the form of pen-scratching and paper-shuffling and the occasional "Knock it off, boys", "Dean, stop torturing your brother" or "Sammy, don't rise to his bait."

But when the picture had been taken, the silence had been over-whelming and suffocating until Dean had judged the situation stable enough to start humming some Metallica and when Sam had randomly decide to snap a picture, the unexpectedness of it caused the tension to lighten in each man, John smiling slightly even though his head was bowed and Dean giving his little brother a "What the hell do you find photogenic now, ass?" look.

The next picture was much the same, though lighter in nature somewhat.

It was either lunch or breakfast time, judging by the light poring in through the windows from the right in the photo. In the foreground, John was sitting across from Sam at the diner table, reading the newspaper and Dean, clad in his signature leather jacket, was half leaning over the counter in the left background of the picture, chatting up a redheaded waitress who was holding a pot of coffee.

Part of the reason Sam had taken this photo was because it was Dean being so… Dean, and the other was he was bored – his father had been too busy reading the paper and it's not like they had much to say to each other those days, nothing of import at least, and neither wanted to spark off another fight with an offhand or careless comment.

Silence was preferable to shouting some days but neither were afraid to revert to raised voices when it mattered. And neither would back down, resulting in Dean having to intervene, sometimes physically, and have them retreat to their corners – John to a bar, Sam to his room even though he shared it with his brother who was oft left standing in the middle of the proverbial battlefield, having no idea what to do or how to fix things.

Looking at the picture, Sam wondered if maybe he and their father had done a great injustice to Dean – and how much it must have hurt his brother to have his two remaining family members go at each like that.

He couldn't imagine what it would have been like for him as a kid and before John became Enemy Number One, if Dean and their father had always fought, always at each other's necks.

To have the two people whom you loved most in the world go at each other like wolves.

But, Sam thought, it was over now. It'd been three years since he'd last communicated with his father and both of them were living the lives they wanted – one getting an education and well on the way to realizing the American Dream, and the other hunting creature after creature as he tracked down the evil bastard who'd killed his wife.

Dean no longer had to intervene – Sam had removed himself from the equation and there was nothing to worry about now, everybody was happy.

He was happy.

The next picture took Sam by surprise. As he hadn't used the camera very often, he pretty much had a rough idea of what the roll contained and would have been able to come up with examples had the developed versions not been in his hand.

He didn't remember taking his camera to graduation.

He also couldn't have taken a picture of himself, for all the weird things he'd witnessed in his life.

No, this was purely his brother's doing. Sam had gone to school early for the dress rehearsal and the students' families would arrive later on in the afternoon. For Sam, that meant Dean knocking off work early at the garage, making sure he wasn't at a hunt and wearing clothes that didn't contain large blots, or even traces, of either grease, blood or graveyard dirt.

As for their dad – Sam had learnt not to expect anything.

Sam had also been nervous about the speech he was supposed to deliver – as Valedictorian of the Class of 2001, he'd been scheduled to take centre stage soon after the principal's gratifying message to the parents and students thanking them for finally getting their butts out of school. While the principal had prattled on, Sam had spent the last few minutes wondering if it was wrong to prefer facing down a ticked off poltergeist than risk slipping up on the podium, in front of hundreds of people including his big brother.

Only Dean could have remembered to poke around in Sam's stuff before leaving to grab the camera, and then to use it to snap a picture of Sam with his mouth open, deep and profound expression on his face as he bull-shitted about a past in reality coloured with staying on the fringes of the law, delivering a damn speech wearing a friggin' blue gown and a mortar board's tassel swinging in front of his face.

Strangely enough, Sam felt kinda touched that his brother went through the trouble of commemorating his graduation by snapping a picture of it. God knew Sam had enough pictures through his friends' parents telling him to jump into the shot, the youngest Winchester often towering over his friends in the photo and causing the eager parent to take a step or two back in order to accommodate his height, but this one was special.

This was Dean realizing the import of the event to Sam even though high school in their line of work was pretty much useless, with science subjects only good for knowing how to rig a bomb to create a diversion and Latin for spells. Who needed sissy subjects like English Literature and Spanish? It wasn't as though the Winchesters could cross the border with a trunk full of weapons or face the ghost of Shakespeare spouting iambic pentameter.

Finally coming to the last picture in the bundle Jess had had developed, Sam found his resolve to break away from the Winchester clan waver as the previous pictures had never even come close to managing.

From a technical point of view, it wasn't Sam's best picture – it could easily be called the worst picture taken of the lot. Snapped through a glass pane with horrible lighting and the subject further away than in any of the previous pictures, it was hardly top quality photography.

From an emotional, human point of view, however, it spoke volumes, especially to Sam who knew the story behind the snap.

It was of Dean leaning against the hood of the Impala, hands stuffed deep inside his jacket pockets. Ordinarily, a very common pose for Sam's brother. What made this time, and this picture, different was the circumstance.

Sam had snapped the picture from his seat on the Greyhound which would take him to Palo Alto – and away from his family, changing the Winchester hunting dynamics forever. The flash had clashed with the glass pane dividing him and his brother - one of many things - resulting in a spiky blob of white light on the top left corner of the photograph – adding a supernatural quality only those who'd never actually experienced the other world would associate.

Also adding to the off-ness of the photo was Dean's expression. There was no trace of the good humour his brother was infamous for – able to go from teasing his brother to switching on the charm to impress the waitress who'd come to take their order, all in the space of a few seconds.

The Dean in the photo had found nothing to laugh at – something Sam and their father had been collectively responsible for.

Quite literally the day after Sam had graduated, the Winchester family had packed up their belongings and hit the road, leaving Finchley, Wyoming behind them forever. Being settled in one place for so long had rankled the two eldest members of the family but Sam, the only one who had never known what it felt like to have a permanent home since even Dean had had four years of Lawrence at least, enjoyed the change and stability.

However, Sam had received the offer from Stanford long before he donned a cap and gown but had never brought it up, never mentioned it to anyone, carefully hiding the letter away as he'd never hidden anything else.

It took Sam a month of being on the road again to work up the courage to talk to his father. A week and the fight of all fights later, Sam had walked out of the door of their current shindig motel.

John had been the first to storm out that night, actually. Issuing the ultimatum Sam would never forget – "if you're gonna go, stay gone!" - the words and voice still ringing fresh on his mind even three years down the line. John had left, presumably to go to a bar, making it absolutely clear what choice Sam had – to either stay and invest fully into the hunt with no more bitching, or to leave and never come back.

It was the exit Sam was looking for – an excuse on a silver platter to choose normal over obsession, danger and death and never look back.

However, Sam knew he wasn't guiltless in all his actions that night. After the slamming of the door had dissipated, Dean and he were still standing in the room, silent. Dean, without saying a word to his brother, had turned to follow their father outside when Sam spoke out loud words he wouldn't regret until he'd calmed down and the bus was only five miles away from Palo Alto:

"Sure. Go follow him. It's the only thing you know how to do, right?"

Although he wasn't sure what had made him say something so horrible to Dean, Sam figured it might have been part of the self-righteous anger that had allowed him to pack his bags up within ten minutes and walk out the door without a pause, only to come to a complete stop when he saw Dean in the driveway, once again leaning against the Impala.

"Come on, I'll give you a ride to the bus station," was all Dean had said, in a tone Sam couldn't decipher.

The ride to the station had been silent, the growing chasm between the two brothers filled only by music. Once there, Dean stopped the car and turned off the ignition, waiting for the throaty engine to finish emitting the few clanks it was wont to do.

"Sam…"

"I'm going, Dean. And nothing's going to stop me." Sam had wondered then if Dean would be able to catch the lie in the sentence. He knew exactly what would have made him stay. Even now he hadn't yet figured out whether Dean's not making him stay was because he'd failed to read Sam even though he'd never done so since Sam had been born, or if, despite knowing the key to making his little brother stay, Dean had chosen to let him go.

Sam was almost afraid of what the truth might be.

In the time it had taken for Sam to get out of the car with his two duffel bags and buy a ticket from the counter, Dean had taken up the pose Sam had photographed him in. There'd been no hug, no teary goodbyes – Sam had simply turned around halfway between the bus and the ticket counter to wave a hand in farewell, waiting only for Dean to reciprocate before continuing on his way and getting onto the waiting bus.

With the photo of his brother in his hands, Sam began to wonder, for the first time since he'd come to Stanford, if he'd really come here with no regrets at all.

Khatum (The End)