Title: Wild by Skye

Author: MissAnnThropic

Spoilers: Pilot

LiveJournal: miss_annthropic(dot)livejournal(dot)com

Summary: Back on the road with his brother after the Stanford fire, Sam notices that there's something different about Dean, and he's determined to figure out what it is.

Disclaimer: None of it's mine. I'm just a sad little fangirl that spends her days writing fanfic and watching DVDs of her favorite shows :(

As the fire leapt toward him - leapt down, not up – Sam jolted awake with a cry on the tip of his tongue.

He bit back the sound before it could escape. Before all else, he had to maintain control.

It had been three weeks, and he was getting better at not actually crying out for Jessica in the throes of a nightmare. He was still haunted by her in his dreams, his heart still slammed into his throat, and his breath still refused to catch, but in three weeks he learned how to be a true Winchester again. A real Winchester didn't cry out. Didn't show weakness. Didn't feel pain.

Sam felt it all, he felt it so powerfully that his lungs seemed filled with smoke when he bolted awake in the dead of night, but he didn't let the cries pass his lips.

For a few seconds he blinked up into the blackness of their latest motel room. He didn't remember the name of the town they'd stopped in, and he only had a vague idea of the state, but it didn't matter. A motel room was a motel room, same as any of the thousand he had stayed in growing up. He tried to control his breathing. If (by some lucky break) he hadn't woken Dean with his start to consciousness, he had to be careful or his erratic breathing would. Dean's senses were frighteningly acute when it came to any hints of distress in his little brother.

Sam had to be twice as stoic as any other Winchester, because Dean made it necessary. If Sam so much as paused wrong, Dean was on him. For someone who didn't like being asked if he was all right, he sure threw the question at Sam a lot. Dean could be relentless. Even when Dean never said a word, Sam could feel Dean watching him. That was his big brother, prime to put Sam in a corner and hold off the world with only his body as a shield.

Sam didn't want to need that kind of protection. He wasn't a kid anymore. Sam had expected so much of Dean when they were growing up, had asked so much of his brother (only four years older) that he hadn't even realized at the time was far and beyond what a brother should be asked to give… he didn't want to keep asking of his brother like that. Dean had more than earned a break from being Sam's protector and counselor.

Sam took a few testing deep breaths and found his heartbeat slowly returning to a calmer pace. The ceiling above him was blessedly fire-free, and the only sound he could discern was the loud rattle of their room's air conditioner on its last leg.

Tentatively, Sam turned his head to look toward his brother.

Dean's bed was empty.

Sam lay perfectly still and listened for sounds from the bathroom. He was listening for retching. Outside of a threat (which Sam could not detect, and even his years at Stanford had not dulled that Winchester sixth sense to danger), sickness or injury were about the only thing that woke Dean in the dead of night.

There was nothing from the direction of the bathroom, not even the normal sound of running water. Sam sat up and craned to get a better view. There was no light coming from underneath the door, either.

"Dean?" Sam called out.

Nothing.

Sam got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom door. He pushed it open only to reveal a lavatory as empty as Dean's bed.

Becoming concerned, Sam went to the switch by the door and turned on the room light. Dean's bed was rumpled. He'd been in it (Sam had honestly fallen asleep before Dean turned in, so the state of the sheets was his only way of knowing if Dean had used the bed), but the question was where was he now?

Sam turned to the hotel room window and drew back the curtain enough to peer into the parking lot. The moon was full, casting enough light for Sam to make out the cars in the lot.

The Impala was gone.

Sam scowled thoughtfully. He was less panicked to know the car was gone. It was normal enough for Dean to sneak out at odd hours. Thanks to their job, Winchesters kept strange hours and Sam knew what it was like to be beset by restlessness when the rest of the world should be asleep. Sam's answer was usually to go for a run to tire himself out. Dean went for a drive.

Sam turned back to the room and noted Dean's scattered belongings.

He had been here, was coming back, probably took the car out for a spin. He looked for a note scribbled hastily on a scrap of paper; when they were younger, they always left each other notes, even if it amounted to nothing more than 'Run' or 'Beer'. There wasn't a note, but then Sam had to remember Dean had spent two years not having to account for his whereabouts to his little brother. He probably got out of the habit while Sam was at Stanford.

In any case, it wasn't reason enough to call out the dogs yet.

Sam stumbled back to bed, crawled under the covers, and prayed this time he wouldn't dream of Jess pinned to the ceiling and wreathed in flames.

The next morning, Sam woke to the sound of Dean in the bathroom brushing his teeth, humming to himself some unidentifiable tune. Sam yawned and rolled out of bed. When he came up behind Dean in the open door of the bathroom, Dean caught Sam's reflection in the mirror and gave him a half-nod with a frothy mouth of toothpaste.

Sam picked the sleep out of his eye, waiting for Dean to spit, and asked, "Hey man, where'd you go last night?"

Dean rinsed, spat again, and looked at him. "Huh?"

"Last night?"

"What do you mean? I was here, asleep," Dean answered easily, not a hint of deceit in his voice as he turned back to the sink.

Sam narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to tell Dean that he knew very well he hadn't been, not all night, but stopped himself short. If he told Dean he knew he was lying, Dean would want to know how exactly Sam knew that. Then he'd want to know why Sam had been awake in the middle of the night.

Sam didn't want to have another conversation about his plaguing nightmares about his dead girlfriend. They made him heartsick and his suffering only made Dean twice as watchful of his little brother.

Sam didn't want attention. He wanted to grieve, alone, in private, and on the road with his brother, that meant flying under the radar and being, as best he could manage, invisible.

Dean was back and none the worse for wear, so Sam figured it was just as well to let it go.

With a careless shrug, Sam shouldered his way into the bathroom, shoved Dean out, and turned on the water for a shower.

Through the closed door, Sam heard Dean muttered, "Bitch."

With a smile, Sam called back, "Jerk," before stripping down and getting into the shower.

To Be Continued…