A/N: When I started writing Supernatural fanfic, I thought it would be lots of lighthearted casefics and brother banter. But all I've got in the tank right now is angst, apparently. Cool. This piece is a sequel of sorts to Cling and follows the same format: Someone makes a promise to Dean (the same promise as in Cling, actually), but later breaks it. Obvious tags to 5x16 Dark Side of the Moon, but little references to several other episodes.

Regarding language: If it's in the show without being bleeped, it's fair game.

Friendly reminder that our boys (especially Dean) can be rather myopic when they're hurting. Can't we all? Take their words with a grain of salt. Thanks for reading.

Lock the Door

"Don't you dare do that again. Ever. You hear me, Sam?"

To be honest, Sam's only half-listening to his 18-year-old brother, who right now sounds way too much like Dad. Usually Dean's the one keeping the peace, not the one lecturing him. But maybe Dean's lecturing him because Dad didn't, for once. They had all driven to this joint without a word, then their dad took off (probably for a bar, as usual), leaving the brothers alone, just like they were when Sam made his break. Just like we are all the freaking time.

"Dude, are you even listening to me right now?"

Sam snaps back to the present, to their cactus-decked room in Nowheresville, Arizona. The only important part of the address is that it's at least a hundred miles from Flagstaff, where Sam had tried his little monster-free experiment. He had a place, a dog — a dog! — and a whole two weeks of freedom and pizza and all the Funyuns he could eat before Dad interrupted to drag him back to home-sweet-hotel room.

His brother is sitting on the bed opposite, drilling him expectantly with those big green eyes. Dad says they look like Mom's eyes, but Sam wouldn't know. When Dean laughs, they go all twinkly, which is probably why he's always got girls falling over him. (And boys, too — Sam teased him mercilessly last month after the pizza guy left his number on the receipt, but Dean just smirked and waggled his eyebrows. "Hey, I won't stop 'em from looking if they like what they see." Sam's still working on a plan to turn Dean's laundry pink.)

But right now Dean's eyes are bloodshot, like he hasn't slept enough. Oops. Sam notices the smudgy circles underneath, and the baggy lines that almost make Dean look like Dad. Sam's instantly sorry for putting them there.

"Sammy!"

"Yeah, um ... you said to never do that again." He wonders if Bones found another place to sleep for the night, hopes someone fed him.

"Damn straight! What the hell were you thinking, anyway? You can't just leave."

Why not? But Sam doesn't say that out loud — not just yet. Instead, he offers what he hopes is a remorseful "I'm sorry, Dean." And he is, for making his brother lose a night's sleep. But he's not sorry for leaving. It wasn't like he ran away for good; he just needed to test a hypothesis. He wanted to try out life by himself, or more accurately, life without his family's extracurricular activities. He wanted to see whether he could do normal, if normal even existed for a 14-year-old with paramilitary training, no permanent address and a mind that reads like an instruction manual on how to kill things most people don't believe in.

The experiment was a success. For two weeks, he lived like a normal high-schooler (well, more or less). In fact, he can honestly say those were two of the best weeks of his life. Just thinking about it gives him a nervous fluttery feeling in his stomach, like the kind he got before the division championship soccer game a few years ago. The field went quiet, and they were all singing the National Anthem when he saw Dean sneak into the top row of the stands with one of those obnoxious foam fingers, stolen from who knows where. Sam scored a goal that game, his fifth one of the season.

Live the life you want to live. The words have been swirling in his brain ever since Truman, tossing up possibilities and what-ifs and all kinds of crazy ideas that now seem not so crazy after all.

"So? You promise?" Oh yeah, Dean's still talking. Sam tries to focus, for his brother's sake. "You better, cause I am not spending another two weeks searching for your sorry ass all over the Western U.S."

"Then I'll hitchhike to the East Coast next time," Sam counters automatically, without any spite. His brother's eyes darken anyway, and Sam wishes he could take it back. That's the kind of thing he'd say to Dad. "Sorry," he blurts, before his brother can go all cold-shoulder on him. "It's just … I wanted a chance to be normal for once, Dean. No bullet making, no werewolf research, no target practice. I wanted to be like everybody else, just for a little while. You get that, right?" He needs his brother to understand, to be on his side. He needs to know that maybe his future has more than one option. That maybe Dean will let him go next time — or come with him.

Dean sighs. "We aren't like everybody else, Sammy."

"But we could be." It's the first time he's voiced the idea to his brother, the shift he's made from I don't want to do this to I don't have to do this. If it weren't for an English teacher who actually gave a damn, he might never have gotten there himself. He just wishes Dean would get there too. Then they could both start new lives, be whatever they want. Dean could be an engineer or a chef or something. Sam could be ... well, anything. Maybe a writer. Or a teacher. There are lots of ways to do good in the world that don't involve burning bones.

He fixes Dean with a hopeful eyes. "We don't have to keep following Dad around forever. You're going to graduate this year, you could go to college—"

"I'm dropping out."

Derailed, Sam leans away from his brother, brows bunched. "What? Why?"

Dean shrugs, talks to the carpet. "I've never been cut out for school, not like you. Hunting's a full-time job anyway, and I don't need a diploma for that." He looks up at Sam and smirks, though his eyes are still weary. "Besides, who has time for homework when they've got a punk-ass little brother to keep in line?"

Sam recognizes the lame attempt at a joke for what it is: Dean trying to escape the subject. Sam ignores it. "You don't have to hunt just because Dad does," he points out.

"I know." The smirk is gone.

"Then why—"

"Sammy..."

"Because you could—"

"Sam." That's it, matter closed. Sam shakes his head, wondering how the man who can put together a car engine from scrap and win at poker half-asleep can be so blind to anything but girls and hunting. Dean's smarter than anyone Sam knows. Last year, he rigged the washing machine at a motel to give them free cycles. Dad never asked why Dean gleefully offered to do the laundry for a month. And Sam's pretty sure his brother was responsible for making the intercom at their last school blast the entirety of The Wall three Fridays in a row, though he won't admit to it. He could be so much more than a hunter; they both could. They don't have to be freaks in order to be heroes. Why can't Dean figure that out?

When his brother speaks again, his voice is quiet, huskier, like he's been shouting for days around a bunch of rocks lodged in his throat. "It doesn't matter, man." Yes it does, you idiot! Sam wants to scream. But Dean looks beat, so Sam keeps his mouth shut and lets his brother say his piece. "I don't care why you left or what you think about my life choices. I just know you gotta promise not to take off again. I can't…" Dean scrapes a hand down his face and then rubs it along his jawline to the back of his neck. Their dad does the same thing when he's tired. Sam often wonders which parts of Dean are really Dean and which parts are just borrowed. (He tries not to wonder if he's just a bunch of Dean and Dad pieces duct-taped together. I don't have to be. Right, that'll be his new mantra.)

"Just don't leave like that again, alright? Please, Sam?"

Dean doesn't say "please" much. It freaks Sam out and tugs a promise right out of him like his father's yelling never can. The part that can do that? All Dean. "OK. I promise."

"Good. Well, now that that's settled, I got dibs on the shower." Dean creaks to his feet and trudges toward his duffle. "Runaways get the cold water."

"You're such a jerk."

Dean's voice is slightly muffled by the T-shirt that's halfway over his head. "And you're a bitch. Who damn well better be here when I get out." He snatches his kit and disappears behind the bathroom door.

Sam vaguely registers the squawk of the tap as Dean turns on the water. Yeah, he'll be here. He's got plenty of time to convince Dean that leaving is the best idea for both of them, or at least for Sam, so that next time he leaves, it'll be with his brother's blessing. Maybe even with his brother.

Because there will be a next time — of that, he's positive.

"Come on, Sammy."

"It's Sam," his not-so-little brother snaps as he shoves his kit and a few rumpled T-shirts into his backpack. Sam rips around the room, grabbing everything that's his and nothing he shares with Dean or Dad. It's not much, Dean realizes.

"Not like this, man. Can you just…just wait a few days, let Dad calm down—"

"Ha," Sam snorts and pulls a battered copy of The Silmarillion from among the meager collection in the nightstand drawer. Dean remembers waking up in the wee hours of the night to take a piss once and being surprised (well, not really) to see his brother carefully copying Elvish runes on the motel stationery, tongue stuck out and all. "What the hell, dude?" he had whispered at the time, making Sam jump and drop the flashlight. "We don't hunt elves." Sam had repositioned the flashlight and resumed his concentration, though Dean could see a flush on his cheeks. "Exactly," was all he offered. Dean shrugged and plodded on sock feet toward the bathroom. "Whatever. Friggin' nerd."

That was a few months before Flagstaff, where Sam skipped out on them for the first time, and where Dean worried for the first time that he might be an only child.

Now he's desperately trying to fend off a different nightmare, the one where Sam's alive and well and happy out in the wide world somewhere, and (or worse, because) Dean's not with him.

"Dad's not gonna let me go, you know that, Dean." Sam pauses his packing to stare at his older brother, and Dean suddenly thinks his Sammy looks older than the kid he'll always be. "If I don't leave now—"

"You promised me, man." Dean's voice is quieter than he intends. He wants to order Sammy to stay, with that big-brother voice that used to work every time. But he can't make his vocal chords cooperate.

Sam looks surprised, like he thought Dean wouldn't actually remember the promise he dragged out of Sam five years ago. Then the kid half-smiles, his eyes soft, and it's patronizing and awful and makes Dean feel about two inches tall. "I promised I wouldn't run off without telling you," he says, his tone as soft as his eyes. Dean wants to melt into the floor. "I never promised I wouldn't leave one day. You knew this was going to happen eventually, Dean. I showed you the letter months ago."

"Yeah, but I never thought … I mean… Dammit, Sammy!" He fists his hair with both hands and turns away from his brother, knowing he's got nothing in the arsenal that will make his brother stay — not hunting (yeah, that's hilarious), not family, not even Dean. And God, that's what kills him. Why can't his pain-in-the-ass little brother understand that?

"I just want a normal life, Dean, that's all. My own life. Just ... a chance to be happy. Don't you want me to be happy?" And that's it. Dean's out of ammo, out of energy, and he doesn't want to fight, but he can't let his brother pull that card and get away with it. When he turns around, Sam's still standing over the half-zipped backpack, puppy-dog eyes firing on all cylinders. Dean ignores them.

"Happy? Hell yeah, I want you to be happy, Sammy! What do you think I've been doing for the past 19 years, huh?" He spreads his hands like it should be obvious, because dammit, it is. "I covered for you when you had that theater party last year and Dad wanted you to do some research for a hunt, remember? Hell, I covered for your ass all the freakin' time!"

He wishes he could shut up, because this is not how he wanted this conversation to go and he knows these words will only push Sam further out the door. But he keeps talking. "I worked night shifts at that craphole diner in Amarillo to pay for your prom tickets. I took you to that stupid college fair even though I knew Dad would be pissed. I went to every single soccer game and yelled myself hoarse to make sure you knew I was there."

It's too late now. He's crashing and he's going to drag his brother right down with him. His voice is fierce and low as he gathers steam, pacing around the tiny space that's getting even smaller by the second. "I forged Dad's signature on all your school forms so you could go to those mathlete things. I sat by the door with a damn shotgun while you watched Thundercats or whatever-the-hell like a normal kid!

Sam is stock-still, face blank for probably the first time in his emo-tastic life. Dean barrels on. "I broke into people's houses on Christmas friggin' Eve trying to get you presents! I gave you the last bowl of cereal every single time you asked, even if it meant I had to get dinner from the vending machine!

"So where exactly do you get off, Sam?" he sneers, coming to a halt inches from his brother. "I've spent 19 years trying to make you happy, trying to give you as much normal as I could, and now you can't run away from me fast enough. Well if that's what you want, then fine. Leave. Hell, I'll lock the door behind you. Cause that's what I'm here for, right? To make sure you're happy."

He's panting and sort of whimpering now. It's pathetic, but he doesn't care. He knows he pushed the right buttons to wound his little brother, who ducks his head, zips his bag and shuffles toward the door, looking as miserable as Dean feels. Normally, Sam would fire back, throw a bitch-fit, challenge him to a hand-to-hand match, something, but Dean's been too thorough with his jabs. He wants to feel smug in the victory; instead he feels like throwing up.

Sam's quiet. He pauses in the doorway and gazes at Dean with eyes that are no longer blank, but way too much like their Dad's: tired, frustrated, pleading, screaming at him Can't you see? I'm doing the best I can!

When Dad looks at him like that, Dean does see, somehow, and he cuts the man some slack, even when Dad's already half-drowned in a bottle of tequila. Maybe it's because Dean remembers all the times Dad stitched him up with careful hands or showed him how to disassemble an engine. Or maybe it's because Dean still remembers Daddy, the John Winchester who used to tell him bedtime stories and call him "Squirt" and lift him on his shoulders to make slam dunks in the neighbors' basketball net.

When Sam looks at him like that, Dean can't see, or doesn't want to, not yet. He's still stuck on the part where Sam wants — wants — to leave him behind, to walk away from the little family Dean's tried so hard to keep together all these years. Not hard enough, I guess. He makes no move toward his brother, who finally blinks and sighs and scrubs his face with a flannel sleeve that's too short.

"It's not about you. It never was. I thought you understood that." The words are low, barely there, and Dean can't make his heart take hold of them right now; they're just more noises in the soundtrack to his nightmare. He says nothing. He has nothing to say.

Sam sighs again. "G'bye, Dean." And then he's gone.

For some time, Dean can't move, can't stop looking at the door that just drifted shut on him. The clamor of two fed-up voices screaming over and past each other rises from the living room, but the silence Sam left behind is even louder. When the quiet finally makes his head feel like a gong, Dean sends a lamp hurtling into the wall, then one of Sam's old textbooks, then his fist. He doesn't feel it, or at least he can't tell if it's his hand or his whole being that hurts so bad. Cradling the bloody knuckles, he searches for something else in the room to dull the pain, or maybe make it worse — he's not sure what he wants — but all he sees is a lack of Sam.

That, and Sam's wallet, teetering on the corner of the nightstand. Well, crap.

Dean lifts the faux leather gingerly, notices that Sam's license and a pitiful pile of cash are still tucked inside. His little brother had beamed like a googly-eyed cartoon character when Dad surprised him with the wallet on his 10th birthday. "You're double-digits now, kiddo," Dad had explained, hand on his younger son's shoulder. "Gotta start learning to take care of your own money. You think you can be responsible?"

"Yes sir!" Sammy had proclaimed, and he is responsible, the stingy little bastard. The wallet has seen better days, but Sam always knows exactly how many bills are stacked inside, all facing the same direction, of course, because that's important for some reason.

But in the midst of Dean's verbal beatdown, Sam left it behind. Maybe he meant to, or maybe he meant to leave the wallet and take the money. Either way, he's about to ride a bus or hitchhike or hell, maybe even walk all the way to California without any money. And no matter how pissed and hurt and miserable Dean is, he can't let his little brother walk out on him with no cash in his pocket.

Dammit, Sam.

Clutching the wallet in his good hand, Dean turns toward the door, planning to shove the thing in Sam's arms and bolt before he starts crying or some girly crap like that. But as he reaches the hallway, the shouting stops. One door slams, then another. Heart hammering, Dean jogs down the half-rotten staircase into the main room and sees a sliver of light from his dad's bedroom. And then he sees the chain on the front door dangling free.

"Sammy!" He's yelling before he's even got the thing open. "Sammy, wait! SAM!"

Dean can see a lanky shadow sprinting away between the streetlamps. The kid's close enough that surely he can hear his brother bellowing into the darkness like an idiot. But Sam doesn't stop, and Dean doesn't run after him, and eventually Sammy's gone and Dean's done. Just done. He hurls the damn wallet at nothing in particular and locks the door.