He always seemed to be the one who was walking away but this time – this time – the walk seemed oh so long.

He had walked away before of course; when he went to Stanford, duffle clutched in his hand, Dean's eyes burning into the back of his head. He had walked away with his dad's voice echoing in his ears.

"If you walk out of here don't ever – ever come back."

And he hadn't – hadn't intended to anyway.

****

Then there was Burkesville – deep in the middle of nowhere, the night so cold it made his chest hurt, his breath blow white in the darkness. Dean had made noises then, his eyes burning into the back of Sam's head, his voice loud.

"I'll drive off and leave you here,"

"Yeah," Sam had said, mouth dry, legs trembling. "That's what I want you to do."

****

In Texas he hadn't remembered walking away. Just buying burgers one minute and gone the next.

He saw himself knock out Dean with a gun butt and he felt his legs carry him out of the room. There were no words this time, no eyes burning, but – trapped in his own body – he still felt strange, displaced, miserable.

But he walked out anyway.

****

The next time he walked away it was from a burning funeral pyre, Bobby by his side. Broward County was in his rear view mirror and pain was the only thing that kept him from putting a gun in his mouth.

He hunted alone for six months and he just wanted it to end.

Without Dean he turned into something he didn't recognise and he hated his brother for leaving him and himself for letting him.

****

There was no fire this time, just a clawed corpse and a grave in the centre of a circle of trees. There was an inevitability to it that made Sam laugh and laugh, the whisky he had in his stomach burning and boiling, making its way out of his gut and onto the earth before he took the bottle and started again.

****

Dean was on his back, his mouth pouring blood when he walked away from the wrecked honeymoon suite, his hands in his pocket, his own cheekbone throbbing. He could feel his brother's eyes burning him and he heard that voice, so different from his dad's yet the same words came out and it hurt him far more the second time, hurt him but didn't stop him.

He hadn't intended coming back.

****

He always seemed to be the one who was walking away but this time – this time – the walk seemed oh so long.

He hadn't cried when he left for Stanford, hadn't shed a tear when he had walked away on that dark night in Burkesville, had felt nothing in that ratty motel room when he had lost control of himself, been colder than ice when he burnt his brother in Broward County, had felt anger inside of him when he had buried his brother deep in the ground. He had felt anger too when Dean had said he didn't trust him, called him a monster, shouted those words to him, words that hurt him and made him angrier.

Now, in the middle of nowhere, mountains rising above them, he walked away from his brother on wobbly legs and wept, wept into his hands, his head low, sobs muffled, Dean's eyes burning him, Dean's slumped figure the last thing he saw.

As he drove away – the impala behind him – he cried and wondered if he would ever have the chance to walk towards his brother – he was so sick and tired of walking away….

End