This story was originally written in French by Litany Riddle

Thanks to her for entrusting me to translate and to Ishtar for the beta-reading .

Disclaimer: the characters do not belong to us. We wish they would ^_^

Can I call you ?

Dean suddenly woke up from a night of debauchery with very little sleep when he heard the phone ring. In any case, the text message little signal was loud enough to keep him awake.

Besides, he could feel the sun rays beaming through the curtains. He remained on the bed nevertheless, motionless, curled up in the warm comforter. He had the sensation of a coated tongue and aching muscles all over his body. He had been celebrating his twenty-fourth birthday, drinking way too much the night before. It seemed it was the signal his misspent youth was ending, as he felt the painful sensation in his muscles. Aches… then what? Grey hair perhaps?

A luscious blonde emerged from the kitchen.

"You're awake, handsome. Do you want some coffee?"

He got out of the comforter, with that dreamy smile on his face and grumbled something. The pretty blonde smiled and twirled around back in the kitchen, her white short skirt twisting. She returned with a cup of hot coffee and put it on the glass night table, at reaching distance, with two lumps of sugar and a finely-worked little silver spoon. She seemed ready to leave, dressed up in a little pink top, fake pearls and perfectly curled blond hair, gently caressing her shoulders. The same curly hair that had caught his eyes the day before when he was making up his mind between a blonde and a brunette… He had even thought they would propose a threesome. Anyway, he was not complaining when this one had accepted to follow him, on the very first night, without making any fuss.

"I gotta go to work, handsome. It's already 11:30, I'm late, I'll have to skip breakfast. Make yourself comfortable, I'll be back tonight. We can pick up where we left off. I think of a million things we can do, she added with a mischievous smile."

He smiled back at her. Indeed, she was a gorgeous piece of chick and had turned extremely hot last night. He only had vague memories of the evening, yet he remembered the exquisite moments he had spent with her.

He had tried to have as much fun as he could since Sam had decided to give up on him and their father. That is, when he had decided to go the university five months before, which didn't actually sound the same. Except that both of them pig-headed jerks couldn't help it and dramatize the situation, persist and eventually broke up for good. He had seen his family torn to pieces and couldn't do anything about it. He had tried, as usual, to do something, to negotiate, to smooth the angles between them, to explain to each one the feelings of the other, try to find a common ground, to calm things down… as he had always done. He might as well try to make two alpha males in a tiny cage get along.
Therefore, he was having fun, anyhow, with anyone, in order to forget his family had been split and his reason for living was gone. Well, not all of it. He was still hunting monsters, save people, the ordinary living. But his real goal, his true mission in life, the only thing he was in charge of, was to protect Sammy. And now that his little brother was gone, there was a hole in his heart. As he was going on like a robot, his life had been nothing but the pale version of what it was before. The hunting routine was just the same, but the mood for it was no more. John hadn't noticed because – and Dean would understand this much later – killing Azazel was the key: he would avenge and protect his sons.
His father had a reason to live. Dean had not. It was obvious his father was worried for Sam, because he could not protect him as before. The man of few words had turned into the man of no words at all. He only spoke with him only to give him orders. Not that he was asking how he was doing, before, mind you but he was asking how Sam was doing, what happened in his absence, just to catch up. Now they had no reason to talk. That was one more reason not to speak with him.

He also understood why his father had a liking for the bottle. Getting drunk was a way to forget, if only for a while, that his little brother was far away from him, that he didn't need him, that he didn't care… or at least tried to persuade himself he didn't care… before getting sober again.

Hunting was helping too. John had been sending him more and more often on a mission of his own. Each one preferred to go on alone. When they were together, Sam's big shadow was floating between them. It was harder to cope with his absence than to go along with his constant angry teenager's moods swings, who drags his feet and says no to everything, for the sake of it.

When he managed to save a person, that was the moment when he felt somewhat still alive: he was taking care of someone. Someone, that was rather vague, and it was in no way replacing Sam. At least he had the memory of that feeling. The sensation he had felt when he was helping him falling asleep before their father came home, so that Sam wouldn't see John covered with blood, when he managed to find some milk meanwhile they were totally broke, when he sacrificed himself to make his little brother feel good.
He felt that same sensation when he was hunting monsters, when he dug up bodies, when he was chasing ghosts, doing all those things nobody – or very few – would ever know about. All those moments made him feel alive, barely.

So he got laid. Always in need of affection. Mary had been gone a long time. John was not eager to show signs of fatherly tenderness. Sam had stopped giving him hugs and kisses, arguing he was not a kid anymore and Dean had to stop thinking he was. It never crossed Sam's mind that Dean was the one in need of affection. For Dean, it was better this way…

Instead, he hugged unknown bodies. Just to feel a little comfort, during a short while, even very short... He recalled his mother's hugging and Sam's. It was like comparing a bomb and a dud. The idea was quite accurate, in theory. So he got laid and flirted like mad, never missing an opportunity except when he was on the hunt. He had put quantity above quality, even if it was not filling in the void in his heart… Yet, properly mixed with alcohol, the illusion was working for a while, for one evening at a time. With the proper girl, at least as miserable as he was… As soon as it was getting more serious, he was running away fast, to avoid hurting. He was not a jerk and didn't want to act like one. He was clear from day one, the girls knew what to expect: one night of crazy love, not a love story. If it sounded like it could turn into something more serious, he felt like he had a regular lover, like he was betraying someone, something… his own feelings. What he felt for two persons and only those two, the ones he had given everything to, done everything for, without ever asking anything in return. He couldn't bear receiving anything from a stranger while his own kin wouldn't care to give. He hadn't chosen to avoid any affection, his attitude was born at an unconscious level, he thought he was not the sentimental type, that's all. Whereas he was too much. He was possessive and demanding. He only wanted one person in his life. Besides his father, who was barely present, almost gone.

Dean stayed in bed after the blonde was gone. Finally, he picked up his phone and felt butterflies in his stomach.

Sam.

A short text message: "can I call you?"

At first, Dean didn't feel anything. He just thought of the options he had: how would it feel to talk to Sam? He was still… a bit angry at him, of course, but above all overwhelmed and unable to recover from his departure. How could he? He would always be angry, for letting him down, to have shown him he didn't need him meanwhile Dean could not live without Sam. His little brother had rejected John. He could understand that, even if he didn't agree, but leaving HIM… Dean had taken care of him, he had given him his life and Sam hadn't cared for a second. Of course, asking him to stay would have been wrong: Sam had to live his own life and Dean had wished for him the normal life he wanted. But he remained family. With Sam and John gone, what would become of him if he was not John's son or Sam's big brother anymore? He felt selfish. Sam was right. How could he bear him a grudge? Dean felt very selfish. He couldn't hold a grudge against Sam as he found himself to be the weird one. He was in pain anyhow. Each time he remembered his family had split, he felt a cruel sadness crawling inside. Especially when the memory of the last awful fight was popping up in his mind, the one that had been the last draw. He didn't want to suffer again. So he took the phone after a little while and typed: OK.

After a long minute, the phone rang. Dean picked it up.

"Hey."

"Hey. I just wanted to wish you a Happy Birthday. What's up?"

Sam's voice was like a balm right from the first syllable.

"Good," he heard himself answer in a neutral tone. "Getting older. What about you?"

Sam gently laughed and Dean felt a sharp pain in his heart.

They talked. Actually, Dean was not really answering and Sam didn't know exactly what to say, so he talked about his life at the university, which was nothing but desperately casual.

"Good. I just got up. I'm not home, I didn't call last night because I was spending the evening with friends."

"Don't worry, it's OK."

"Man, I'm starving, do you mind if I go grab a bite to eat at the same time?"

" 'Course not."

"I slept on the couch; as you can imagine, it was too small..."

Dean has no trouble imagining the face his brother was making when he said that. He knew Sammy by heart, as he were his own creation.

He pictured him with clean hair (and why would he do that as he just woke up after a rough night?) that were probably shining in the sunbeams bathing his face. A beaming face, with slightly dark circles around the eyes, but fresh anyway. When he was standing, he was looking at his feet. If he was walking around the house, he was probably thinking the plan in his head. Brilliant little brother! He was so proud of him. John thought Sam was borderline, yet Dean didn't agree. OK, Sam had mood swings from time to time, sometimes even violent ones, but he knew what he wanted and what he wanted to do with his life. His rebel side was just a side-effect of his teenage period, aggravated by their peculiar life style. Dean never experienced this, and that was the weird side of it. Dean never wanted to leave his family, someone had to take care of Sammy…

"OK, I found the kitchen, what a mess..."

Sam went on talking about unimportant things, not even asking how their father was doing.

It was a strange conversation.

There was such a distance between them. Dean felt like he was not speaking with his brother, even if he knew his tone of voice, if he could imagine his smile, the expression on his face when he was talking… he could even guess what Sam was going to say and on which tone, he knew the words he was gonna choose. Dean couldn't figure out whether he had missed speaking with his brother, but the voice was so familiar and strange after all these months...

"I'm baking myself an omelette with ham and some salad. Well, it's a packet one, but it's better than nothing. I need to go tot he library this afternoon, I must go on with my revisions, I can not wait till they wake up."

"I understand."

"I got a 4.3 GPA after my first semester. I couldn't believe it!"

"You did good."

Conversation was kind of mechanical. As if they both gave birth to a lie, but at least they were trying to talk. Sam was doing most of the efforts. Because he had sent a text message first, because he had made the call… Dean found it difficult to say something nice in return, because he was overwhelmed, too busy to guess what he was really feeling. Consequently, Sam was doing most of the conversation and Dean was reacting at proper moments with "ok", "great", "good" or "nice".

"You know, Dean, I think you'd love the library. I thought of you the very first time I went there. It's a very old building, dark, with these old lamps on the tables, all the furniture are made of wood, it's like being in one of those horror movies you watch."

"Oh yeah? Sounds nice."

It was as if he could picture Sam in his head, with all the smiles, moving around in the kitchen while he was cooking and eating, the way he picked the food. He had seen him doing all this a million times, he knew exactly the way he was holding his fork. And his laugh, very soft, that sounded so genuine...

It felt like sitting close to an open fire after spending long nights in the cold, but without the permission to sit close to the warmth. Like seeing the sun again after long nights in the dark, yet through the narrow blades of a Venetian blind… Suddenly, he felt a burst of jealousy towards the people that Sam lived with everyday. He surely had a girlfriend, or would not last long finding one.., his friends were sleeping at his place! This unknown house… these friends who were still sleeping. He couldn't take it because it was so obvious. Sam was so obvious. As if Sam were the only tangible thing in the whole world. There was nothing else that Dean could see. The rest was lost in some blur. Sam WAS the color. The only truth in his life. And it hurt too much. He wanted the conversation to end soon, yet he couldn't resolve himself to finish it. It was too much to ask of him.
If his little brother had no intention to come back and live with him, with them, he'd rather not have any news at all. He knew their father would check whether he was all right, at a distance, as soon as he could, when he was getting closer to Stanford or California, perhaps making a detour. Dean could not do that, keeping a distant relationship, little by little, with one phone call a week. He'd rather not see him at all, not have him at all. Sharing only a little part of Sam, the little part that Sam would let him have because he wanted to or because he felt he should, was more than he could bear. It would only feed his obsession and he knew it. The pain from being apart would only get deeper.

All in all, it was impossible to be satisfied with so little.

It felt easy to let the conversation slowly wither and eventually, twenty-one minutes and twenty-eight seconds was already long enough to share platitudes, to listen to Sam sharing them. Sam cared for his brother. He wanted to keep in touch with him. He missed him too. Not as much as Dean missed Sam, yet Dean knew this phone call was an opening, an attempt to resume the dialogue. But Dean refused, knowingly, coolly, and Sam got the message. Nevertheless, he managed to keep a cheerful voice until the end. Dean felt his brother wasn't desperate when handing up. It was even better that way; otherwise he wouldn't have been able to cope and let Sam suffer from a painful silence.

"It was cool to speak with you, Dean. But I gotta go study."

"Ok. Yeah, it was nice."

"See you."

Sam hung up.

Dean heard the echo of his brother's voice for a long time after that, until he felt the urge to leave the silent apartment and drown the memory of this conversation in the noise of life.

It was the last time they spoke until Dean broke into his apartment through the window many years later.

*.*.*