Through the Never, a supernatural fanfic

Title: Through the Never

Author: Musingblindly

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Gen

Summary: Four ways Dean tried to get Sam to stay, and the way he left.

Notes: The title is taken from the Metallica song off their self-titled album. As always, enormous thanks to my truly amazing beta reader and friend, alfadorcat, who gave me this prompt and is the reason why any of it makes sense

And Dad always said it was never too late, not 'til you're dead and even then sometimes you only think you're dead—like that time a boulder landed on him in Rock Springs, and he'd still managed to kill the possessed bear that was chewing on Sam's arm—so don't ever give up. Don't let go

"Stanford?"

"Yeah. In California? I, um, I applied for some scholarships and grants and stuff, and I got a full ride. They're paying for everything. My room, my food--" Dean slammed the door on his way out of the trailer but Sam chased after him. Persistent little fucker. "Wait! Can't we just talk about this? It's not that big a deal!"

Dean stopped halfway down the row of trailers and whirled around, Sam so close on his heels that they collided. Sam landed on the ground and Dean didn't offer him a hand up. "You want to leave, you fucking say it. But don't you dare fucking tell me that this isn't a big deal. You--you must have been planning this for months. Financial-fucking-aid...Jesus, Sammy." He looked around for something to hit, but only saw metal and Sam.

"Fine. Fine! So I'm leaving. Okay? Are you happy now—" Dean started to walk away again, but Sam scrambled up off the ground and grabbed his arm before he got too far. "Will you just stand still for a minute and talk to me?"

Dean whirled around and pushed Sam into the metal siding of a nearby trailer. The impact echoed angrily through his words. "What do you want me to say? You want my blessing? You expect me to be okay with this?"

Sam glared back, standing straight and angry. "No! I'm not asking for your permission, Dean. I'm telling you. There's two weeks left before move-in. And then I'm going. There's nothing you can do to stop me."

Dean thought his first plan was foolproof. "I'm pregnant. Ancient god. Freaky new age spell. Gonna spawn soon. You gotta stick around and help me clean up after the little Deans and Deanettes."

"Deanettes? That's the best you can do?"

"It's a hard name, Sam, but it's a hard, magic-filled-pregnant life we lead. Or I lead. By myself. Unless you're gonna stay and support me. Bring home the bacon. I won't even make you cook it! I'm going to be a totally awesome housewife."

Sam didn't say anything as he walked away, so Dean crossed 'babies' off his mental list and moved on to plan B.

The next night, Dean went down, and hard. Flew out a second-story window, and two glass-shards dug deep into the muscle of his thigh and shoulder when he'd landed. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, and there may have been tears but that didn't mean he was crying.

He stayed quiet while John pulled out the glass and bandaged him up as best he could with the field kit, but as soon as he left to finish the job and it was just the two of them, Sam staining his jeans with Dean's blood while he held his head in his lap, he started babbling. "Don't leave me--can't do this without you--see what'll happen?"

He talked himself hoarse, but hours later when John came back for them Sam still hadn't said a damn word. His voice was almost gone but he whispered "please" while the world turned grey around the edges of Sam's face, and saw Sam shake his head, say no, heard him say "I won't watch you die" as the ground under him shivered and his body rebelled. He puked up nothing but bile until he heard his Dad's voice and saw Sam back away.

He crossed another item off his list and thought that maybe next time, he'd try a window on the first floor.

"College is for pussies," he said with a week to go. "The only people who go to college are ugly chicks and gay guys."

"You're such an asshole," Sam mumbled as he rolled over onto his side and pulled his pillow over his head.

"C'mon. You know people only go to college because they're too lazy to get real work. You already know how to do shit. All you really need is high school, and you already did that." Dean waited for a reply and was rewarded with the sound of Sam snoring. "Sam. Sam. Sam. Sammy. Sammich. SammySammySammy--"

"Christ, Dean! I'm trying to sleep, what the hell do you want?"

"Just tell me what this whole thing's really about. You're not an ugly chick, you don't think you're gay--"

"Because I'm NOT!"

"--and most of the time you're not lazy." Dean bounced on the mattress and Sam groaned with every squeak. "I wonder if Dad can hear this through the wall. Bet he thinks we're having sex." Sam stuck a foot out from under the covers and kicked Dean off the bed. He yelped and landed hard on his ass. "Really rough sex."

Sam just groaned again and rolled himself over until he was wrapped like a burrito in the comforter. Privately, Dean though Sam was pretty cute when he was sleepy. Less of a whiny bitch, anyway. That made up for a lot these days. He rotated his shoulder until he felt pretty confident all his stitches had stayed put, then climbed back onto the bed. He crawled on his knees until he was leaning over Sam, then started poking him in the ticklish spot on his neck. "Saaaaaaaaaaaam."

"What?" Now he was pissed off, which wasn't really all that unexpected given that it was eight o'clock in the morning and they hadn't gone to bed until three. But he didn't want Sam to answer him angry. He held sharp words like ammo, and always knew what weak spots to aim for. Worked great for witnesses, not so great for pushy older brothers. Dean rolled gingerly over onto his side of the bed and pondered whether he wanted to get up and grab a second blanket, or steal his half back from Sam. "Dean. What do you want to know?"

Dean shivered on his half of the bed and bounced his foot against the back of Sam's leg. "Why you're leaving." "I already explained this to you," Sam began, his sanctimonious teacher-voice in place. Dean kicked him a bit harder.

"Stop talking to me like I'm stupid, you whiny-ass punk."

"I know you're not." Dean nodded and waited, but Sam didn't have anything else to say. Dean just didn't get it. Get why, get how. He'd never even been able to say no to Dad, much less plan a mutiny against him. But Sam--Sam had always been leaving. Just now, now he was leaving to somewhere. For good, maybe, Dean figured, because he knew that after college came grad school and a sweetheart and kids and a house and routines.

"You got a story made up yet? About me and Dad? About where all your scars came from?"

He pretended not to see Sam nod, not to notice how when Sam wiggled further into his covers, he was already moving away from Dean.

So maybe it wasn't the most mature thing to do, but hey, he was desperate and he didn't think Sam would leave without his suitcase. He'd considered barfing on it or maybe setting it on fire or just tossing it in a dumpster, but Sam had entered the room too soon and so Dean just set himself down right smack on top of it, white knuckled fingers on the shoulder straps of the duffel.

"Dean," Sam said, face still flushed with anger, mad at Dad like he had been since he was eight and couldn't keep that damn puppy.

"Yeah?" Dean asked, looking innocently at the ceiling and then out the window because hey, their family didn't have the best track record with ceilings above beds and obeying silly superstitions was better than burning alive.

"Dean," he said again, stalking closer and he sort of looked like Dean figured Ents would walk, with his legs and arms stiff and brittle like branches. "Get. Off. My. Suitcase! What are you, fucking twelve years old?"Dean really wanted to scratch his head but he figured if he let go of the strap Sam would probably tackle him, grab the duffel, and run. So instead he just shrugged as best he could with eight stitches in his shoulder and raised his eyebrows at Sam. "I'm not the one throwing the temper tantrum."

"That's what you think this is? Some temper tantrum?"

Dean really wanted to hit him, just once, right in the cheek or maybe the eye or even the ear like in Fight Club because hey, he'd always wanted to try it on someone. But he couldn't let go of the bag, so he satisfied himself with glaring. He knew it was more than a temper tantrum, knew because Sam had packed his bags before he'd even started the fight with Dad. And it had been a fight, not a conversation, not a confession--he'd gone into the confrontation swinging, said 'Stanford' and 'you can't stop me' all in one breath like he was ready for Dad to try and hang on and wanted to get a head start.

"Yes. And if you don't cut this shit out I'm going to hold my breath until I turn blue."

Sam didn't even give him an exasperated sigh, just stood, watching. "You have to drive me to the bus stop."

"No. Won't."

"Dean! Will you cut it out? You know I don't have money for the cab."

"How do you expect to get by at that rich kid school, you can't even afford to get yourself there?" Dean knew he'd pushed too far when Sam's eyes narrowed to slits and he started rubbing his right hand against his thigh.

"Fine. You want to be an asshole? I don't need that suitcase, I don't need your precious fucking car, I don't need you!"

He stalked back out the door, out of the trailer, and was fifteen minutes down the road before Dean pulled alongside him, duffel in the back and Metallica at top volume. Sam got in without a word, shut the door gently, and leaned against the window with his eyes closed until they arrived.

Maybe after this, he'd just stop. Park the Impala for good in some town with one main drag, a cafe restaurant with big windows and plastic menus, one bar on the edge of town where he could just be one of the guys and play pool for fun, drink without thinking of Dad and hangovers with every swallow. Now, with Sam crying in front of him and the bus's engine vibrating behind him, he couldn't remember why he always followed the road forward. Maybe he wasn't meant to stop.

"Dean," Sam asked, his too-long hair straggling in his eyes and too-short sleeves squeezing his bony wrists as he held onto his bag. "Is it okay--" and he choked, choked for breath because he was crying and he may be six feet tall and well on his way to becoming a full-grown man, but sometimes he sure could act like a little girl. "Is it okay if I go?" his question hung in the empty air outside the bus stop.

He wanted to pull Sam back into the car and stuff his bag into the trunk and leave it there, bring Dad to a bar and let him get maudlin-drunk enough to forgive Sam trying to leave, forgive Dean helping him. He wanted to make eggs and pancakes and bacon the next morning and watch Sam laugh as he coaxed Dad through his hangover. Wanted to say 'stay' just to piss Sam off, just to make him hurt and suffer the way Dean was suffering now, with Sam's question banging around in his head and the answer sawing its way up his throat. We need you, he wanted to say, you'll be in danger, who will take care of you?, you'll be alone. I love you too much. Don't leave me.

"Go," he said, and didn't breathe until Sam nodded and turned around. His lungs were tight and his palms were sweaty, and when he pulled Sam into a bear-hug he could feel his stitches tearing. "Take care of yourself, Sammy." He stepped back and held Sam at arm's length, looked him up and down because the next hunt might be his last, this crying Sam already taller than him might be the last bit of Sam he ever got to hold. Sam nodded again, tears rivers down his cheeks, and Dean let him walk away.

Thank you for reading!