Title: Always

Summary: "Dad," Sam asked. "What did you ever do to the letters I sent to Dean while I was at Stanford?" Coda to 14x13 Lebanon. Hurt/Comfort. Protective!Dean. Fix-It.

Warnings: Rated T for bad language, child neglect, domestic violence, and abuse.

Disclaimer: Neither the artwork nor the characters belong to me. Just borrowing them for a bit of fun. Also, this idea has been done before by someone on Oh!Sam over at Livejournal. This is my twist on the fic prompt/idea. It never sat well with me that the boys (being as close as they were) didn't stay in touch during the Stanford period.

ooOoo

"You know I'll always pick up your call

'Cause I'd rather have that than nothing at all," - Andy Robinson

ooOoo

Their dad had always been a force to be reckoned with.

John had been gone for thirteen years and now that he stood there, with his withered face and his wrinkled skin, looking as though dust had settled on his aging body even though he had time-traveled here from the past, Sam had too many things to say and none that made it past his lips. He had too many unanswered questions, too many wounds that had never quite healed, and no idea where to start.

He watched his father move stiffly around the library like he'd been teleported there from outer space. And despite his six-foot-four frame and his thirty-six years' worth of life experience, Sam felt fourteen years old again and trying to work up the nerve to approach his larger-than-life dad.

He cleared his throat and then put on a forced smile when John turned around to face him.

"Sammy," John said softly and for a moment Sam's fight-or-flight instinct kicked in so hard he felt the urge to turn around and run from the inevitable conversation. He wished his father wasn't standing quite so tall, wasn't holding his shoulders up so high, eyes boring into Sam as though he saw right through his chest and into his soul.

John was still the same mountainous man he'd always been. Still the same bridge that Sam never knew how to cross.

Sam wondered if he'd ever get a chance like this again, to get all his thirty-six years' worth of baggage of his chest. And then he concluded that it didn't matter. None of it mattered. Not Stanford, or the hunting or the run-ins with the CPS, or the only time John had ever hit Sam, or the time he'd dumped Dean off at Sony's or the time he'd forced a crying, thirteen-year-old Sam to sew Dean's wound up or the time he'd given Dean a beating for when Sam ran off to Flagstaff. Or the way he'd leave them in trailer parks and sleazy highway motels with nothing but a crinkled twenty-dollar bill to their name.

Sam had made his peace with most of that a long time ago. He'd forced himself to accept an apology he'd never received from a father who never lived long enough to utter it. And he'd learned to forgive because somewhere in between heaven and hell and Lucifer and Amara and the freaking Apocalypse, daddy issues didn't even make the cut.

But there was one thing. One thing Sam hadn't quite been able to shake in all these years and he'd been itching to ask John ever since he'd returned into their lives. It was a question he had mulled over time and time again, never quite satisfied with the answers he'd conjured up in his mind.

"Dad," Sam said, mustering up every bit of strength and bravery inside of himself. "What did you ever do to the letters I sent to Dean while I was at Stanford?"

John was silent, just as Sam had expected him to be but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, dimmed only by the orange hue of the lamps on the table between them. The atmosphere was stuffy with tension, row after row of neatly lined books with their spines looking down upon them like some sort of tension-filled audience.

Somewhere in the distance, they could hear laughter coming from the kitchen. And Sam knew Dean would be so fucking disappointed to come looking for them and find them fighting, but Sam simply needed to know. Fourteen years he'd wondered, never working up the nerve to ask Dean. He had spent weeks, replaying that goddamn fight over-and-over in his head 'if you walk out that door, don't you ever come back'. He had walked out that door with his father's words resonating in his ears, thrumming through his veins, whooshing through his lungs. He'd stomped out with his shoulders squared and his chin lifted and his blood boiling on anger and adrenaline. But he'd never, not ever, believed that the same ultimatum John had uttered that night also applied for his brother.

Not until Sam had sent his first letter to Bobby asking the grumpy old hunter to hand it to Dean when the Winchesters stopped by in Bobby's salvage yard in Sioux Falls and never got a response. Not until he'd sent a happy birthday card to Dean shortly after that and never heard back. Not until he'd gotten shit-faced at Brady's fraternity party and drunk-dialed Dean's number, only to reach his voicemail. He had slurred some sort of insult into the phone that night, a half-assed, broken-hearted accusation about brotherhood and being daddy's little soldier and following their old man so blindly that he couldn't see straight anymore. And he had hated himself for that voicemail even years later, thinking he deserved the lack of response that followed.

But here John was, resigned and battle-weary and with so much sorrow in his eyes. And Sam suddenly had the answer to his question without John even opening his goddamn mouth. "Did you…" Sam looked away, his vision growing blurry as something painful tried to crawl up his throat. "Did you block my number on his phone?"

John's shoulders slumped under the weight of his guilt. He looked heart-broken, guilt-riddled... defeated and Sam couldn't fucking believe this.

He let out an incredulous laugh that bordered on insane, looking up at the ceiling, anywhere but at John. "You did, didn't you?"

"Sam…"

Sam held up his hands, closing his eyes as the truth of what John had done fully sank in. "Don't."

He remembered that one time he came down with the flu in his first month in California, alone, homesick, with no friends and barely enough money to buy himself any medicine. He had fallen asleep curled up in one of Dean's hoodies, clutching his phone to his chest and waiting for a call he never got.

"Why?" Sam croaked, gripping the backrest of one of the library's chairs for support.

How could their father have done this to them? Letting Dean believe that Sam could go four years without reaching out when Sam hadn't been able to go four days without his family before he completely broke down in his dorm room. Letting Sam believe that Dean - Dean who'd been so much more than just a brother to him - Dean, who was the only constant in Sam's life, no longer cared enough to return a call or send a damn postcard.

"You want the truth?" John asked shakily. "I was selfish," he said and he had no goddamn right, no right at all to make his voice crack like that, to make Sam's heart break like that. None. "I guess just always knew that if push came to shove, that if Dean had to decide between you and well, anyone else…" John shook his head once more, not finishing the sentence. Not needing to. "I couldn't lose him, too."

"So you made me lose him, instead?" Sam asked incredulously. "After all these years of you preaching to us 'the importance of family'. I mean you practically made him raise me and then you just- you just block my number on his phone? What the hell kinda father does that to his sons?"

"It was your choice to leave, Sam," John said, an undercurrent of steel suddenly lacing his words where there had been only sorrow before and Sam immediately felt his nostrils flare with anger. Thirteen years and John still managed to push his buttons better than anyone else in the entire world. "You were the one who walked out that door."

"You're right, I did," Sam said. "But you made Dean think I never tried to contact him in four years. How could you do that to us? To him?"

"Dean would have come running the second you'd have called and I couldn't take that risk!" John beckoned, his voice thundering through the bunker. It was still instilled somewhere deep, deep inside of Sam to go still at the drill-sergeant tone and the sheer volume of his father's voice. The intimidation rolling off of their father when he rose to his full size. But just as quickly as John's anger had come, something changed in his eyes. It was as though someone had dumped ice over both of their heads and suddenly Sam became aware of the eerie silence of the bunker, no more laughter coming from the kitchen… shit. There was no way Mary and Dean hadn't heard the ruckus they were causing. John must have realized it at the same time as Sam did, for some of the angry tension drained from his features and suddenly he looked weary again… sad, even, by the course their conversation had once again taken. "Sam, your brother... He'd have dropped everything and driven all the fucking way to Palo Alto and I couldn't…" John pressed his lips together. "I needed him more than you did." John's eyes glistened. "I would have gotten myself killed without your brother to keep my head straight."

"And you call me the selfish one," Sam said, feeling drained from the exchange. There was nothing but resigned bitterness in his tone, nothing but hard accusation in his eyes.

"What if something had happened to me?" Sam challenged. "How would you have even known?"

John came to stand in front of Sam.

Sam's muscles twitched with the urge to do something really stupid, like plant a fist in his old man's face and his ears were filled with white noise, his heart going a mile a minute with the effort to rein all this hurt and the pain and the pent-up frustration of thirty-plus years' worth of failed parenting from a father who was even more flawed than Sam had ever given him credit for.

"Son." John's voice was rough with emotion, a mix of frustration and disbelief and beneath it, so much love and affection. "You seriously think I didn't come to check on you?"

"You…" Sam frowned, words failing him.

"You think I'd let my youngest move thousands of miles across the country without scoping the place out first?" John said, chuckling roughly, like all that anger that had been there a second ago was suddenly gone. "Without checking in on you every once in a while?"

"I never—"

"Oh, please," John huffed out, a teasing glint in his eyes. "I know my parenting won't win any awards anytime soon, but give your old man some credit, yeah?"

Sam was still angry. So fucking angry. Nobody had ever gotten under his skin this way, nobody had ever made him lose his temper as their father did. But this… this was too fucking much, even for John Winchester's standards. And while Sam was also strangely comforted by the fact that John had come to check on him during his time at Stanford, it didn't make up for the fact that John had manipulated him and Dean into thinking the other no longer cared. Into not trying to reach out anymore. Into becoming estranged.

"Sammy listen, I'm—"

"What's going on in here?" Dean's voice had them both spinning around in surprise. He was standing in the doorway of the library, arms crossed in front of his chest. His expression was carved of stone, but Sam saw the disapproval in the crease of his forehead and the disappointment shimmering at the bottom of his eyes. This was Dean's deepest desire, his most meaningful wish to come true- the wish for their whole family to be reunited, happy, and safe and for once, carefree. And Sam had ruined it.

Dean looked from Sam to John and back to Sam. He studied his brother intently for a moment and Sam's skin crawled with the intensity of Dean's gaze, with the accusation burning there, the unspoken 'why did you have to ruin this for me?' and the 'did you just pick a fight with the guy who's been dead for over a decade?'. It was all there, loud and clear in the air between them. Instead of laying in on Sam, Dean's apprehensive eyes seemed to notice that something was wrong, though, his big-brother radar going off at the sight of how distraught Sam was... how hurt he looked. How vulnerable. "Sammy?" Dean prompted.

"I'm gonna…" Sam muttered, driving a shaky hand through his hair. His heart was thudding painfully fast in his chest and his breathing was too quick and his eyes were burning and he wasn't sure how much longer he could go without breaking, so he ran. "I need some fresh air. You guys have dinner without me."

"Oh, no, you won't," Dean growled and snatched Sam by the upper arm. Sam tried to yank himself free, but Dean's grip on him only tightened. "Dad's been gone for thirteen years, Sam. Thirteen years! And out of all the things you guys could talk about, you choose to pick a fight with the guy. What the hell's wrong with you?"

"Let go," Sam growled, trying to pull away, but Dean's fingers clamped down on him.

"Hell no. I won't let you run from this," Dean shot back. "This might as well be our only chance at a family dinner with mom and dad together. And you wanna skip it?"

"Boys—" John tried to intervene.

"You don't know what he—"

"I don't care!" Dean beckoned. "He's our dad, Sam! Whatever he said can't be bad enough to—"

"STOP IT!" John shouted, the words echoing threateningly through the bunker's large halls. The boys flinched, both of them going rigid at the tone and volume of their father's voice. John rounded the table and roughly pulled his sons apart - one gnarly palm resting comfortingly on Dean's chest, while the other one pressed over the spot on Sam's heart. "Stop it, both of you. You don't… I don't want you to fight, okay?"

There was a beat with all of them breathing heavily, and then John turned to look beseechingly at his oldest. "I… I did something while Sam was at Stanford."

"Stanford?" Dean frowned. "Dad, do we have to go through all of this again? It's in the past, okay? Mom's back, you're back - let's just—"

"He blocked my number on your phone, Dean."

There.

There it was.

Dean's mouth snapped shut, all the color bleeding from his face as the words sank in. Four years of radio silence. No card, no letter, no call. Not on birthdays or Christmas or mother's' day (which they had turned into 'brother's day' as a small, idiotic, child-like rendition of the holiday to make it less painful when they were kids). Still, neither of them would have let it pass without calling each other to say 'hey' or sending some sort of letter or text message. But 'nada'. Four years' worth of radio silence between them. And it was John who had put them through that. Who had forced them to live without each other after he'd made sure they grew up completely and wholly codependent.

"Dean," John pleaded with his oldest, taking a step toward him, but Dean took a step back.

His eyes narrowed as they bored into John. "Tell me that you didn't."

John looked like he had reached his breaking point. A single tear slipped from his eyes, coursing down his stubbled cheek and Dean took that for the answer it was.

"You know, fresh air isn't such a bad idea, after all." Dean turned around, storming off toward the map room and upstairs to the main entrance of the bunker.

Mary, who had come looking for them, called after him. "Dean, honey. Where are you going?"

Sam, who had never dealt well with seeing his brother in pain, was moving before he even consciously realized it. He hurried up the stairs, taking two steps at a time and ignoring his father's and mother's frantic calls as he followed his brother.

"Sam?" Mary yelled, clearly worried. From the corner of his eyes, Sam saw John put a hand on her shoulder to stop her from going after them. He yanked open the front door and stepped into the cool, breezy November air, not really caring whether John told their mom about what happened or not.

For a second his heart dropped at the sight of Dean sitting behind the wheel of the Impala with the engine running, but then he realized that the car wasn't moving. Sam slowed his steps and strode over to the Chevy. He waited for a second, taking a steadying breath before he opened the creaky door on the passenger side and slipped inside. He pulled the door closed, giving them the privacy they both craved and it was only then, inside the Impala, with her soothing engine purring reassuringly in the background and her smooth leather beneath his palms and Dean sitting behind the wheel, that Sam's heart rate slowed down again.

There was a long stretch of comfortable silence between them before Dean started speaking.

"The night you left," Dean said softly. "Was one of the worst nights of my life."

Sam felt his throat close up. He looked down into his lap while Dean stared out the windshield, neither of them able to look at the other.

"I sent you postcards," Sam admitted under his breath. "And birthday cards. The silly ones from hallmark with music and everything. I sent them to Bobby's place because I didn't know where you stayed at the time. I guess I figured you were just too busy, at first. Then, after a few months, i started getting worried."

"Sam."

"I called you, too," Sam continued. "Man, I just wanted to hear your voice so badly. When you didn't pick up I thought something had happened to you and then I called pastor Jim and Caleb and they said you were fine. So I figured you just…" Sam shrugged, voice wavering.

The chords on Dean's neck twitched and in the golden shine of the street lights, Sam could tell Dean was fighting tears of his own.

"I figured you'd just…" Sam sighed, unable to finish the sentence. It shouldn't matter. Stanford was fifteen years ago and with everything that had happened in the meanwhile Sam's time at college almost seemed unreal, like he had never even been there. Like he had dreamed it all rather than lived it. But here they were, fifteen years down the line, with both their mom and dad resurrected and a home to call their own. And they were sitting in the car crying like a bunch of kids over a couple of 'lost' postcards and 'missed' calls. "I'm sorry if you ever thought I didn't—"

"Yeah," Dean said roughly. "Me too."

There was another beat of silence. "I should have realized..." Dean trailed off. "All these years I thought you just couldn't be bothered to call and I never once considered that dad—" Dean snorted. "Even now, my first instinct was to defend him. Guess I really am the mindless soldier you always accused me of being."

"Dean, no," Sam said. "I was just a stupid kid back then. I was pissed at dad and myself and more often than not I let it out on you, man. I didn't mean any of that."

"You were right to say it, though," Dean returned. "I mean, I put the guy on a pedestal. But I would have never thought he'd go to such lengths..."

Sam sniffed, taking in the words. He gave a slow nod, knowing better than Dean probably gave him credit for, how complex Dean's relationship with John was, how heartbreaking and ugly and distorted and deep his older brother's love for their father was. But there was still one thing he couldn't shake off… one thought just kept circling back to the forefront of his mind. He cleared his throat, locking his eyes with his brother. "He said if I had called and asked you for help… that if push came to shove and you'd be hard-pressed to make a choice between me and him—"

Dean grimaced, not liking where this was headed. "Sammy."

Sam swallowed hard at Dean's use of his nickname. His heart clenched in his chest in a way it never had when John had called him 'Sammy', maybe because John had never done it with such tenderness. With such care.

Dean cleared his throat somewhat uncomfortably at the direction their conversation had taken. It took him a moment, but eventually he got his voice working. "I hope there is no goddamn doubt in your mind - not one - that I would have answered every one of your calls. Always. No matter what." He glanced over at Sam, making sure his little brother was listening. "Anything you needed, it would have been yours."

"Thank you," Sam breathed out shakily because it's always been like that with Dean. Always. "I... I think I knew that. Deep down."

'But would you have chosen me over him if I asked you to?' the nagging voice in Sam's mind taunted.

"I called you too, you know," Dean admitted. "None of my calls ever went through. I suppose the care packages I sent you never made it either."

"No," Sam said, smiling through the hurt because only Dean - only Dean - would send his grown-ass brother a care package to get through his first few months on campus. "Could have used that, though. Those first few weeks weren't exactly fun." He looked down at his hands, chest tight with all the things he didn't tell Dean about. All the nights he spent worrying about John and Dean in his dorm room, all the nights he'd spent miserable and alone and wishing for the old-familiar sound of Dean's breathing in the motel bed next to him. He swallowed hard, thinking back on what a simple phone call would have meant to him back then. Just one conversation with Dean would have probably made him feel lightyears better and gotten him easily through a week of exams and heartbreak and loneliness. "I really missed you back then, you know."

Dean's lips twisted. "Girl," he chided softly, but his voice was too gruff, too emotional to drive the jibe home. He cleared his throat and then looked at Sam, really looked at him like he hadn't ever since he walked in on him and John fighting in the library. "I missed you, too, Sammy."

Sam sighed, feeling something loosen in his chest. A heavy weight seemed to be lifted off his heart at the exchange. A long-forgotten wound suddenly starting to heal without them even realizing it. Funny, how Sam hadn't even noticed how heavily this had still weighed on him before John's reappearance had brought the hurt back up. Maybe this was the real gift in their dad's reappearance, the knowledge that Dean hadn't actually cut him out of his life after he left for Stanford. The fact that Dean had never actually ignored his calls, had never stopped caring. If it wasn't for their father's interference, they probably would have been in touch every week. Dean would have come by for frat parties and keg stands and cheerleaders while Sam would have freaked out over introducing Jess to his older brother.

"We can go back inside if you want," Sam offered after a while. "You've been dying to get a chance to have both mom and dad together like this."

Dean shrugged. "You know that little place near 37th and 8th? Emma's Deli?"

Sam frowned. "You can't be seriously thinking about pie right now."

"Man, that lady's blueberry pie is the best," Dean smirked and released the handbrake, pulling out of their parking spot in front of the bunker, gravel spraying everywhere.

It was close to 9 PM, their deceased parents were alive and just a few feet away from them like some untouched, irreplaceable birthday gift from the universe and yet here they were, going to a small roadside deli for a slice of blueberry pie and some lukewarm instant coffee. Just the two of them and the Impala. And then and there Sam had his answer to the question who Dean would choose if 'push came to shove'.

Dean would choose who he always chose.

And so would Sam.

After all, all they ever had, all they ever needed, was right here in this car.

The END.

Hope you enjoyed the story! 've noticed that a lot of people seemed to have left the fandom lately, or stopped writing and reading. I hope some of you will stick around, even after SPN is over! This fandom is too great to be abandoned... gotta stick together, everyone! Please drop me a note if you can spare the time and if you liked what you read. Reviews fuel the fire. Xoxo