Title: Whatever It Takes
Author: legoline
Fandom: Supernatral
Rating/Warnings/Notes: PG-13 for angst and swearing. Gen fic. Post-Series. Originally written for the spn_gleeweek request challenge. 1,830 words.
Summary: After they've killed the demon, Dean is afraid to be left behind so he leaves first. Sam goes after him.
A/N: I have much love for pheebs1. Her betas are awesome.
Feedback: Is Love.



Whatever It Takes
by Steffi

Dean returns from the old, haunted graveyard with mud all over his face and clothes. He rubs his temples with the back of his hand, sighs; he looks exhausted. Then he stops and his eyes widen. Sam’s leaning against the Impala, hands in his pockets, the right corner of his mouth twisted into a smile. He straightens when Dean approaches and walks around the car, picking up his duffel bag, opening the door and climbing wordlessly into the passenger seat.

“Huh.” Dean shrugs and reaches for the keys in the jacket pocket. He gets into the car behind the steering wheel, not even looking at Sam, and starts the engine.

***

Dean had set him up. He wonders how he could have been so stupid, how he could have missed the clues. His brother had acted weird after they’d killed the demon. He’d seemed detached, moody. Sam had blamed it on the fight; it hadn’t been easy. It had been draining; they’d barely gotten out alive.

Now he comes home, if a motel room can be home, after Dean asked him to go into town and get something to chew on. And Sam finds the Impala’s gone and the room’s empty. The sheets and blankets from Dean’s bed are neatly folded, his stuff isn’t there anymore, it’s like he’s never even been here.

***

They don’t talk, which reminds Sam of old times. He stares out of the window at the shapes of bushes and houses that pass by in the dark; takes in the familiar smell of the black leather seats and the old interior. Leaning back, his head rests upon the back of the seat and he closes his eyes. The position is strangely comfortable. It’s like being back home.

The sudden turn as Dean pulls over to park the car on the motel parking lot wakes Sam. He hadn’t realised he’d actually dozed off; felt like a natural thing to do.

The room looks like all the other cheap motels Sam’s ever slept in; tasteless decoration, worn out mattress, ancient television. At least the shower’s ok. Dean’s already changed and in bed when Sam returns.

Sam lifts the blanket and climbs under it.

“Good night,” he says but all Dean does in response is turn over, his back now facing Sam.

***

His first impulse is to run out on the street, and call his brother’s name over and over again. He gives in to the urge, hollers “Dean! Dean!” at cars passing by, none of them Impala’s, until his voice goes so hoarse he can’t anymore. He returns to the room, searches for signs that Dean might have left behind. Maybe he was taken. Maybe he was possessed. Maybe... Sam pulls out his EMF meter and switches it on, while checking against the list in his mind of things that might have happened. No sign of struggle, no electromagnetic readings, no sulphur.

Of course Dad’s journal’s gone, too, so Sam’s left without the numbers of Dad’s friends; the numbers of those who might help. He leaves a message on his father’s mailbox, Dad, Dean’s gone and I don’t have a clue what’s happened.

Sam buys a car, an old Volvo, and drives to Lawrence, Kansas. Goes to see Missouri.

She tells him nothing supernatural is going on.

It’s then Sam admits to himself that there’s only one explanation now: Dean’s left. Just left. Packed his stuff and took off.


***

Sam’s up before Dean. He gets dressed quietly and shuffles over to the kitchenette. It’s the smell of coffee that finally wakes Dean. A hint of surprise flickers across his face when he spots Sam; he sits up with a yawn and ruffles the hair at the back of his head.

“Coffee?” Sam asks parenthetically and Dean looks at him as if he’s seen a ghost, then shakes his head, “No, thanks.”

Sam shrugs and sips his coffee, notices from the corners of his eyes Dean’s still staring at him, but decides to ignore it.

***

He calls Sarah two weeks after Dean’s disappearance, partly because he misses her and partly ‘cause he’s got no one else to talk to. He tells her about Dean, about the way he left, his anger shining through every word he says.

“I just don’t understand how he could leave just like that! Without a word, or note, or anything!” Sam gnarls.

“Maybe, “ Sarah begins slowly, like she’s reconsidering what she knows about the Winchesters and their history, “Maybe he was afraid of being left behind? I don’t know much about your family but from what you’ve told me....”

“You think so?”

“I don’t know. But it looks like a pre-emptive strike to me.”

***

Sam always makes sure he’s awake before Dean is. It’s not hard because Dean usually sleeps in whenever he has the chance while Sam doesn’t mind getting up early, not if it means making sure Dean’s not leaving without him again.

Still most hours of the day are spent in silence. It’s like Dean’s afraid to talk to him, afraid Sam might ask questions he won’t be able to answer. That’s wrong because the way they were raised, Dean’s supposed to have all the answers to Sam’s questions.

They tiptoe around each other, carefully. Sam tries to read Dean, read the expression in his face or the little waves he does with his hands. He watches his older brother intently so he won’t miss any clues or hints about what Dean’s going to do. He’s not going to be tricked again.

Dean seems to be afraid. Uncomfortable. Like he’s expecting a bomb to be dropped any time now. It occurs to Sam that Dean’s awaiting a lecture. A tantrum. Reproaches. Accusations Sam never meant to make.


***

“Fuck....” Sam gnarls, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Still no word from him. Or any sign. Not even a phone call. Not the slightest hint that he’s doing okay in weeks. Sam’s tried calling him but it appears Dean’s bought a new cell phone. The old number’s out of service.

Sam punches the wall in an outburst of spontaneous anger; his knuckles encounter brick, scratching them up. He jerks and flails his hand, trying to shake the pain off. Damn.

He gets a cool wet cloth from the bathroom, wraps it around his hand and stretches out on the bed, his good hand resting on his forehead. Sam’s determined not to wonder which direction Dean took off in, but it’s no use. His thoughts always return to that one question. Where did Dean go?

Sam would never have thought he’d be the one to be left behind, in the end.

He’s surprised at how lonely he feels, he always thougt he was the loner in the family, the one who could get by without them, but fact is, hell, he misses Dean. And he’s getting an idea of how Dean must have felt when he left for Stanford.

***

“Dude, where are we going anyway?” Sam stretches. He tries to sound casual, normal, but he hears the trembling in his voice and he knows Dean’s noticed, too. His brother might appear as insensitive as a rock sometimes, but he really isn’t. Quite the contrary actually. There’s hardly anything Dean misses out on, and though he’s positively not a telepath it feels like he can read Sam’s mind.

Dean shrugs. “Somewhere,” is all he says. He pumps up the volume of the cassette radio where Metallica’s playing. The music blares through the speakers so loudly the dashboard vibrates.

“Hunting something?” Sam dares to ask, but receives no reply. Dean’s pretending not to hear him. But he sees his brother’s mouth twitch a little when Sam asks the question, like he’s been caught at something.

Sam decides to keep a close eye on the direction they’re going.

***

“He’s in Colorado,” Bobby says, his voice sounding muffled over the phone. “Friend of mine saw him there. I guess he’s working on that haunted graveyard thing.”

“You sure?” Sam asks, eyes focused on the road. The Volvo he bought might almost qualify as “ancient”, rattling and squeaking in a quite threatening way, and it occurs to Sam stronger than ever how much he misses Dean’s Chevy. He’s in Wisconsin and it’s pouring down, water splashing against the windshield.

“Not many hunters with an Impala out there, right?” Bobby replies, and Sam chuckles.

“Guess not,” he says.

Colorado, then.

***

It takes Sam three days until he realises they’re heading for Palo Alto, probably to drop him off, but he doesn’t bring the subject up. Dean still doesn’t talk much or not at all, he’s tense, both hands on the wheel, gripping it tightly. He looks absolutely miserable, so lost and hurt and at the edge, that Sam would just like to shout into his face that he should just ease up because he, Sam, is not going to blame him for anything, least of all leaving. That he’s not going back to Stanford, or any other place unless Dean goes with him, or unless it’s what they both want. No more fights, no more smashed doors - not after what they’ve been through.

He’d like to yell all those those things at him but he knows better. It wouldn’t do much good. Sam doubts Dean would even be listening. He’s probably tired of words.

Sam’s determined to show Dean he means to stay; make Dean realise these things. If that means sticking to Dean like glue, that’s what he’ll do; whatever it takes.

Might take a while. But then, they’ve got all the time in the world.

***

Sarah’s right, of course she is. Sam shakes his head, he’s had some months to think about it. He remembers Chicago now, and how he told Dean he’d go back to school first thing if they ever killed the Demon. That was back then and things have changed, only he failed to let Dean know about that. So Dean must have left assuming Sam was going to shut him out of his life again.

Probably even more than that. Probably another of Dean’s sacrifices. Leave first so Sam won’t have a bad conscience about leaving Dean behind again.

Hopefully Bobby’s right about Dean’s location. Sam’s a little anxious about seeing his brother again –Dean can be unpredictable when it comes to these things.

Sam parks the car some distance away, grabs his bag and decides that the car’s too old to be sold again. Not much waste of money if he just leaves it behind. He walks up the short, muddy road that leads up to the back entrance of the graveyard and his stomach jumps a little when he spots the Impala in the dark. A smile flickers across his face and his fingers run over the black varnish tenderly. He lifts the bag on the hood, puts his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leans back against the car.

-end-