They are crashing in a motel along the highway, somewhere in Montana – just a stopover on the way to Billings. An in-between place, neither here nor there, and motels like these seem to overcompensate for their nebulous locations by being goddamn awful. Just so you don’t forget them easily, Sam supposes.

Last night, Dean had to put his hunting skills to use to eliminate a cockroach scuttling around under the bathroom sink.

“You didn’t have to use a gun,” Sam had said, scuffing out the spray of rock salt splattered all over the dingy tile with the toe of his sneaker. "It’s just a bug."

“Nothing is just anything,” Dean had said, and was that supposed to make sense?

Sam opens his eyes and the gray light of morning filters in through the cheap, thin curtains. Dean is sleeping on his stomach, one arm curled under his pillow. Sam always wonders how Dean manages to breathe, with his face flat down on the pillow like that.

Something is different about this morning. Sam isn’t sure what it is. He sits up.

What is it? It’s that emptiness you feel, that itching at the back of your mind, when you know you’ve lost something, but you’re not quite sure what the thing is.

The realization hits Sam like an 18-wheeler – no cold sweat, no sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, no… sadness.

Sure, guilt is still there – the guilt will always be there. Sam has learned to accept that.

But today, for the first time in a long time, Sam doesn’t wake up and think of Jess. Actually, the first thing he thinks of is that stupid dead cockroach under the sink. And doesn’t that say something about him? Only six months and the mourning is done.

Some boyfriend he is.

Immediately Sam feels like he wants to throw up. He clutches his head, but that’s not where the source of the problem is. He has a weird urge to grab at his chest, claw at his heart. It’s the closest you can get to your soul, isn’t it?

Dean turns his head just enough to mumble, “Sammy?”

And Sam manages to say, “Nothing. Go to sleep.”

Dean makes a grunt that sounds like agreement, and Sam barely gets to the bathroom before he doubles over the toilet, sick to his stomach and dry heaving.

* * *

Only when Sam sees the tear-off calendar on the wall of the diner, tacked up next to a broken clock, does he realize it is exactly six months to the day.

Is that a sign? If it is, what does it mean?

“What?” Dean asks, following Sam’s line of vision.

“It’s been six months since Jess died,” says Sam. He concentrates on tearing up his toast into little pieces, to avoid meeting Dean’s gaze. He knows Dean heard him throwing up this morning, because Dean had been up and dressed and studiously packing his t-shirts when Sam finally came out of the bathroom.

Dean doesn’t say anything at first. It’s not surprising. Dean can be an asshole when he wants to be, but most times, he knows when not to push. Except for that one time, after the exorcism on the airplane, Dean has been pretty much silent about Jess, and Stanford, and that two-year black hole in their lives.

Sam sometimes wonders what Dean did during those years. What happened to him. Who he met, how he slept, what he fought, where he drove, if he got hurt. Sam only learned about Cassie through happenstance. What else is Dean not telling him?

Just about as much as Sam isn’t telling Dean, probably.

“Did I tell you Mom died on the same day that Jess did?” Dean asks suddenly. He has this familiar set in his mouth and this crease between his eyes – that look he always gets whenever he talks about something he doesn’t want to talk about.

Sam drops his toast onto his plate. If he had been drinking something, he would’ve choked on it. “I think I would’ve remembered if you did,” says Sam carefully, trying to keep his voice even.

“Fuck, don’t be mad at me,” says Dean, exasperated. “She had just died and you probably would’ve punched me in the face if I ran conspiracy theories by you right then.”

Which is… probably true.

Sam pushes his plate away and grabs his jacket. “I’m going back,” he says, and gets up from the booth.

Dean is shouting after him, “The fuck is the matter with you?”

And Sam doesn’t know. He pushes his way past the waitress with her tray, past the big-bellied truck drivers, brain whirling in confusion. He feels a headache coming on, flaring up in his temples.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He doesn’t know if he’s angrier with Dean for not telling him, or angrier with himself for not knowing his own mother’s date of death in the first place.

* * *

Dean bangs open the door and declares, “Okay, you better have a good excuse, because I don’t let just anyone run out on me and stick me with the bill.”

Sam groans and buries his head further into his pillow. His headache is worse and everything is pulsing to the rhythm of the pounding pain in his skull. “Shut up,” he says.

It doesn’t even matter anyway, because they share all of their money. But Sam doesn’t say any of this, because a) his head fucking hurts, and b) Dean already knows all that anyway and he’s just trying to be a jerk.

“Hey, Sam, you okay?” Dean asks in a more serious voice. The mattress dips a little to the right as Dean sits down beside him.

Sam is never going to be okay. It’s pretty much a fact of his life now, but goddamn if it doesn’t suck.

Dean’s warm hand covers Sam’s shoulder blade. “Come on,” says Dean. “What?”

Shrugging off Dean’s hand, Sam turns over. Dean’s sitting on the edge of the bed, torso turned around to face Sam. Dean looks like he can’t decide if he should be nice or sarcastic.

“We’re going to California,” Sam says. “We can make it there before the end of today, right? So I can. So I don’t.” Sam tries to finish the sentence, but it won’t come.

So I don’t feel so much like an asshole.

“Yeah, Sammy, if you want,” says Dean. After a moment, he scrubs a hand over his face, letting out a long exhalation.

Suddenly, Sam is struck by how much older Dean looks. He doesn’t know why it has taken him so long to notice, but this Dean isn’t the same Dean that dropped him off at the Greyhound station all those years ago. This Dean is more careworn, beaten down. This Dean smiles all the time, but laughs a lot less.

When Dean came to Stanford to get him, Sam had only seen what he wanted to see, he guesses. So Dean looked the same, on first glance.

It has taken six months on the road for Sam to finally see the Dean sitting beside him. Really see Dean.

“We can go by Lawrence, too,” Sam says. “I mean.”

At this, Dean looks at Sam, a little surprised. He pats Sam on the knee, before standing to pack up their duffel bag and laptop. “If you want,” Dean repeats.

Dean doesn’t like California. Sam guesses he knows the reason for that, but he doesn’t care.

* * *

I’d do anything for you. I’d die for you. It’s easy enough for Sam to say, because, while it’s true, it’s also true that Dean never asks him for anything.

Sam has always assumed it’s some sort of macho posturing, because Dean is too stubborn to ask for help. But… in Sam’s entire life, he can’t remember Dean ever asking him for anything. Nothing… except to be there. And Sam can’t even give him that.

But is it really Sam’s fault?

It’s not his fault that he wants to be his own person, that he wants to live a life of his own choosing. If that makes him selfish, so be it, but it’s also goddamn selfish of Dean (and Dad, Sam’s mind whispers) to try to mold Sam into something he’s not. Push him into a life that he’s fucking sick and tired of.

Sam’s also tired of constantly having to choose between his own happiness and his family’s. Those two things shouldn’t be mutually exclusive, but, in their twisted world, of course they are.

Dean doesn’t have many weaknesses. Maybe it’s Sam’s own skewed view – since Sam could crawl, he figured his big brother could do just about anything. And Sam hasn’t been proven wrong enough times for the childhood fixation to fade.

Except… except Dean has this one huge Achilles heel that is so obvious that even Dean probably knows it as well as Sam does.

Out of all the black eyes, the wounds, the gashes, the bruises, the burns… all the injuries in the world can’t hurt Dean as much as Sam can with one single word. Dean knows it, Sam knows it, and it’s the enormous white elephant in the room.

But that’s not Sam’s fault, either.

I didn’t ask you to love me this much.

So why does Sam still feel so fucking guilty all the time?

* * *

Sam is dreaming, but he doesn’t mind, for once. Because it’s a nice dream.

Jess is there, and she’s leaning on the kitchen counter of their apartment. She’s wearing that white sundress with yellow flowers that Sam thinks makes her look utterly beautiful. She adjusts the strap of the sundress as she tries to peer over Sam’s shoulder.

You can’t cook, don’t try, she’s saying.

I can so, he retorts, using his height to his advantage and blocking her view of the stovetop.

He’s trying to make pancakes, but instead of pancakes, the kitchen is filled with the scent of Jess. She smells like paint (she’s been taking an art class as an elective) and pineapple (from her shampoo). It’s a weird smell, but it’s a good smell.

Whatever, Jess says. You have already given testimony that you’ve never cooked in your life. You said Dean did all the cooking. Don’t lie to the court, Mr. Winchester. That’s perjury.

And that’s when Sam knows this is really a dream, because he never talks about Dean with Jess, except to confirm the fact that Dean exists and that Dean is four years older. Jess doesn’t know about Dean, about Dad, about anything that really makes Sam who he is.

Suddenly, Sam has an irrational fear that Jess is going to burst into flame, right there, standing next to him in the kitchen. He backs away from the stove, as if that will help matters.

He has to tell her. He has to. It doesn’t matter that it’s a dream. Maybe… somewhere… it’ll count for something. He has to do it right, if he can, even if it’s just a dream.

Jess, I have to tell you – Sam starts to say.

But she’s up against him, standing on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. Oh jeez, Sam, Jess murmurs. Get over it already.

But the way she says it, soft and gentle in his ear, makes Sam uncertain if she said Get over it or Get over me.

What do you mean? Sam says. I don’t understand.

Oh come on, says Jess, leaning back and smirking. Play it again, Sam.

She always says that whenever she thinks he’s lying to her. She puts this little sardonic purse in her lips, this tone in her voice, and twists the famous old line until it becomes the equivalent of Yeah, yeah, I heard it all before.

Fire. Fire is all that Sam is thinking.

No, you don’t understand! Sam says. I haven’t told you that –

Play it again, Sam.

And then Jess goes up like a firework, like a phoenix dying its last explosive death.

* * *

“Sam!” Dean is shaking Sam awake with one hand and steering with the other. “Sam! Don’t go all Carrie on me right now, that ain’t cool!”

That’s when Sam realizes that the car is shaking and that Dean has a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, trying to keep the car from spinning out of control.

“Oh shit,” Sam says, and tries to calm down. Breathes. In, out, in.

The car stops shuddering and Dean loosens his hold on the wheel. Slightly. He looks at Sam, alarmed. Also a little angry, which pisses Sam off, because why the hell should Dean be angry? It’s not like Sam did it on purpose.

“Wanna explain that one to me?” Dean asks hotly.

“You know about as much as I do,” Sam snaps. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He slumps down in his seat, as far as he can go without knocking his knees on the dashboard.

“You were having a nightmare,” Dean says, and it’s not a question.

Sam crosses his arms. “I wasn’t.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at him.

“Okay. Well. I wasn’t, at first. It was…” Sam sighs and looks out the window. He thinks they’re in Idaho, if all the potato fields are any indication. “It was a good dream. At first. Maybe that’s why it… made me do… that. Because the bad part seemed even worse because the beginning was so nice.”

“Sort of like those chicks who are hot from far away but ugly close-up?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Are we there yet?”

Dean looks like he’s about to say something argumentative, to push it, but he pauses. He says instead, “We’ll be there at sundown.”

Sam doesn’t close his eyes again. He watches the green fields roll by, watches the sun inch across the sky, watches Dean carefully keep both hands on the steering wheel.

* * *

They reach the cemetery at sunset, like Dean said they would.

Sam goes to the grave alone. Dean stays in the car, reading the newspaper.

And Sam almost wrenches all the petals off of the bouquet of daisies he bought, because he’s finally here, he’s right here, and he has not one single word to say.

* * *

They’re in a motel again, on the outskirts of Modesto. Since the cemetery, neither of them has said a word to each other.

It’s very late at night, so late as to be considered “morning” in some circles, but neither of them are sleeping. Dean is sorting through their laundry and Sam is lying on his bed, fully dressed and wide-awake.

Sam finally breaks the silence. “Dean?” His voice is croaky from hours of disuse.

Dean looks up, surprised. Sam doesn’t know how surprised Dean really is – they had to start talking sometime, right? “Yeah?” says Dean.

“Do you… do you think I’m a bad person?” Sam asks.

“You’re the most selfish bastard I’ve ever known,” says Dean, deadpan.

Sam sits up. “What!”

“What?” Dean demands, dropping his t-shirts and spreading his arms wide, an invitation for a fight. A come on, hit me if you really want gesture. “You want me to lie to you, Sam? I won’t. You’re one of the few people I don’t lie to. Most chicks don’t get that privilege.”

“Or punishment, depending on how you look it at.” Sam lies down again. He stares at the ceiling. He hates ceilings.

Dean is suddenly there, leaning over Sam and filling his vision. “Why with the Dr. Phil talk, all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know. I don’t.” Sam gestures for Dean to sit down. “It’s hard to talk to you if you’re upside-down.”

The mattress gives under Dean’s weight as he sits, and Dean’s hip is pressed against Sam’s thigh.

“I think I’m forgetting her,” Sam mutters. Just saying the words makes a huge ball of something choke his throat. He wishes he could cry – it would mean there are some feelings left in him after all – but he can’t even manage that. He must have a heart of fucking ice or something.

Silence is all the response that Sam gets, and Sam is a little pissed off. He had hoped Dean would have something to say, something about Mom, how he dealt with it when Mom died, but. Maybe Sam had been expecting too much. This is still Dean, after all.

“Never mind. I—”

“You’re never going to forget her,” Dean interrupts. “You’re just… You’re learning that life goes on. And it does. It doesn’t mean she’s any less important or that you’re a more of a jerk than usual or anything else. It’s just… time. Time passes. Shit happens. You can’t be all emo forever.”

Strangely, Sam feels the lump in his throat dissolve and fade away.

“Okay?” Dean says.

“You really think I’m selfish?” Sam asks. He doesn’t want to hear the answer, but he does.

“Yes.” Dean shifts a little, bumping his hip against Sam’s. Sam scoots over and Dean lies down next to him, crossing his arms under his head. “But I guess I’m sort of to blame for that,” Dean continues, talking to the ceiling and not looking at Sam. “I always gave you the last cookie, you know that? And anyway… You have a right to be selfish if you want.”

Sam doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t.

He wants to know why he and Dean are like this, like bipolar magnets – inseparable if you match them the right way, instantly repelling if you turn them the wrong way. A thin line. He wants to know why he feels the simultaneous need to run as far away from Dean as possible and to lie here like this forever and pretend that he never grew up.

“Stay here with me,” says Sam. The bed’s too small, but it doesn’t matter.

“If you want,” says Dean, an echo of what he said this morning, like it’s that easy. He turns off the light on the nightstand.

Sam finds Dean’s hand in the dark, drags it across his stomach until Dean is holding him, one arm wrapped around him. Dean doesn’t say anything. He lies on his side, facing Sam – eyes closed, breathing even.

When Sam falls asleep and dreams of Jess, Dean is there, too. And they’re all talking and they’re laughing together and Sam wishes his life could be different. He wishes for a life where things don’t always have to be so goddamn hard all the time. And if that makes him selfish, so be it.

But he’s never going to stop striving for that – that elusive moment of perfection that Sam has never experienced, even in dreams. There has to be a happy ending somewhere, and Sam is going to find it.

The End