[wifimagnet]

scruffyster:

Hunting alone was not a novelty — hell, Dean had been doing it for almost two years now. It had become his full-time occupation, right from the process of looking for and tracking cases to getting rid of the monsters in question. It had been difficult at first, but over time, he’d inculcated the habit and no longer needed any guidance from John. Just because he was hunting alone, however, didn’t mean that he was hunting well. He did alright most of the time, having pulled off some spectacular hunts and some shabby ones as well. But it was hard to deny that the hunting would’ve been much more effective, efficient, safe, and possibly even more fun with his brother by his side. Tonight, if Sam had been around, Dean wouldn’t have dived head first into a vampire nest without at least stocking up on spare knives and a few shots of dead man’s blood. He’d managed to kill the occupants with some effort, but not without injury. There wouldn’t be this nasty gash cutting across the side of his torso, if Sam had been around to watch his back.. All day, Dean had been painfully aware of his close proximity to his little brother. He was less than half an hour’s drive away — the closest they’d been for almost two years now. Driving through Palo Alto, he couldn’t escape it — every sign, every mention of Stanford only intensified the ache. But he’d resisted. Not now. John wouldn’t approve, and either way, there were vampires to hunt. Maybe later… maybe he’d drive past, or drop in a phone call or text message… After the hunt, though, Dean didn’t feel like he had much of a choice. Sitting in the driver’s seat of the Impala, with his palm firmly pressed over the wound through his jacket, all he could think was Sam. He needed to see Sam. He was losing blood quickly — and his vision was slightly blurry, head beginning to feel light and airy. If he didn’t leave now, he wouldn’t be able to drive himself there. Sam. He needed to get there. Fast. After twenty minutes of reckless driving and more blood loss, Dean finally found himself pulling into the parking lot beneath his dorm building, making it to the intercom buzzer without attracting much attention to himself. The blood was yet to soak through his jacket, although the cut across his cheek was attracting a few looks. He was relieved when the buzzer finally clicked, the familiar voice of his brother sending another painful tug at his heart, “Hey, Sammy?” He cleared his throat a little, voice hoarse and slightly faint, “You got a few minutes?”

Sammy. The nickname, that voice brought with it enough memories to knock the air out of anyone, awakening in Sam a far deeper ache. Dean. It was Dean, the person he'd missed so badly it physically hurt. “Dean? Dude, what are you—?” But the older Winchester's breathing was too ragged through the intercom, Dean’s voice too hoarse, as if trying to hide pain, the sound so familiar. Injured. Dean was injured. It was like someone had taken all of Sam's floored relief and longing and had twisted it up into icy distress, adrenaline jolting through him, heart pounding away in his chest. And Sam? That college kid was out of his dorm room like a shot, bounding down the stairs two at a time. Tonight, Sam Winchester’s sixth sense—his nightmares—had been right. And oh how he wished with all his might that they hadn't been. That he could fix this. Fix Dean. The only person in his life that had truly ever mattered. Youthful hazel eyes found Dean leaning far too heavily against the side of the dorm building's brick wall. His stomach sank with more dread and churned worry because Dean was holding his side like his life depended on it, the blond looking like he'd been put through the ringer, too pale looking to be normal.

“Jesus, Dean...” he breathed, concern written all over his expressive facial features, the boy always having carried his heart on his sleeve. He rushed over to support and help his brother into the previously locked dorm building (only students allowed, after all), one arm gingerly around the man, the other helping one of Dean's to rest across Sam's shoulders, “Just up the stairs, okay? You're gonna be okay...” Dean had to be okay. Sam would never forgive himself if he wasn't, the mere thought of Dean not being okay eliciting a panic the kid had to swallow thickly down. He didn't ask why Dean was here. He didn't ask what Dean had been doing. He didn't demand anything, because for right now? None of that mattered. What mattered was getting his big brother up the stairs and into the privacy of his dorm room so that he could help him.

[wifimagnet]

He hadn’t seen Dean in almost two years.

And the worst part of it was, that he never really knew if he was alright. Sam would tell himself not to think about it. Would do everything in his power to keep occupied—studying, reading, go to class, more studying, more reading, take notes, more studying, more reading—but there were those times... those times late at night when young fingers would fly across the keyboard, looking up cases, hauntings, recent death patterns.

Times when his stomach would churn, filled with a dread he couldn’t explain.

That sixth sense that said something was wrong. Get to Dean, find Dean, no one’s watching his back, how could you leave your brother alone out there—

Tonight was one of those nights.

Where was Dean? Was he okay? Should he call? No, no, the last thing the guy needed was for Dad to find out he’d been talking to Sam. John would go off on Dean, and they both knew it.

Drumming his fingers on his dorm room desk, the nineteen-year-old chewed on the inside of his cheek. ‘You asked him to come with you, he told you no… he told you no…’ he would remind himself.

And just maybe, he could’ve smothered that ache in his chest after a while. Maybe his roommate Brady would decide to not stay over at that house party on campus, and he’d come back and keep Sam’s mind off things.

But when the little intercom buzzer rang next to his door?

The voice that answered Sam’s, “Hello?” on the other end of the private intercom, knocked the wind right out him.