Every year but the last (implied Sam/Dean) PG-13

Every year but the lastWC: 1290Warnings: Please see the cut and don't get pissy.He finds the book - leather bound and frayed around the edges - tucked into the right side of Dean's duffle bag, next to his dirty socks and a rolled up t-shirt.Sam's fingers skim over the complicated pattern on the front: a crazy, twisted leaf-pattern that’s as much of a mystery as Dean is/was. The faint smell of tobacco clings to the pages. All the cigarettes Dean smoked that he never told Sam about, that Sam feigned ignorance of. Why hadn’t he said anything when he had the chance? Maybe tell Dean he didn’t have to hide that part of himself.He clutches the book tightly and thinks, Oh, Dean.***He doesn't open it til the seventh day, when dust begins to gather on the TV and he feels like crawling out of his skin from sheer boredom but can’t bring himself to face a world without Dean in it. As long as he sits here on his bed, he can pretend like Dean’s just out for coffee and will come back any minute, bitching about the weather. The channel changes with a click. No cable. Goddamn PBS.***Inside the book is a list of cities with a few notes underneath. There aren't any dates or anything, but Dean’s all over these pages - from the surprisingly neat handwriting to the doodles in the margins. This isn’t like Dad’s journal, an equally descriptive and puzzling glimpse of a mysterious, troubled man, it’s no more than travel logs, perfunctory notes on what Dean saw and how he kicked its ass. It isn't until he sees Palo Alto appear multiple times that he realizes that this is Dean's journal of years Sam was gone, busy trying to live someone else's life.Sam's stomach clenches in a funny way when he realizes Dean never stayed at any more than six cities without stopping by Palo Alto again. He rubs his chest absently and keeps flipping through the pages.***When Sam starts the Impala, it groans around him like a tired old thing on the last leg of its journey, which it probably is. He pats the steering wheel softly just as Dean would have done and says, “Just a little further, I promise.”***The first stop isn't far. Sam turns on the radio to a top 20 station that would of made Dean bust something. Sam grins at the thought, imagining all the insults Dean would fling at him: Your hair is stupid; you suck up all that crap 'cause you don’t know better, which is pretty sad for a college boy; you wouldn’t know good music if it tattooed its name on your ass.Dean had once promised to haunt Sam and Sam figures this shitty music is as good a grounds for haunting as any.Come on, Sam pleads silently. I dare you to haunt me.After twenty minutes of boring music, Sam shuts off the radio and drives the rest of the way in silence.***The air is so hot, it feels like cotton in his mouth. In the far distance, he can see dirt clouds coming closer. He feels the staccato beat of some mullet-haired band before he hears them. Sam keeps his head down and keeps walking.Eventually the car reaches him and slows to a rolling stop. "Thought you weren't coming back," Sam says to the driver, finally looking up and squinting through the sun’s glare.Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah right, dude. Get in the car."And this is what they keep fucking arguing about - Dean's constant need to bark orders, but the fact that Dean came back for Sam says...something.Sam’s not an idiot. He’s not going to change Dean, nor is he ever going to get a real apology, but this whole thing means something to him too, even if he doesn’t want to think too hard about the what of it.He opens the door and slides over the sticky leather. "Yeah," Sam admits finally. "I knew you’d come back for me."***There's a handwritten receipt for a local body shop tucked inside the front cover. Earlier, Sam googled the city to find that there had been some vicious bear attacks in an oddly regular pattern. There hadn’t been any witnesses but a whole bunch of scared people, and Sam guesses that would have been enough to get Dean. He can imagine the Impala roaring through town with some kinda attitude, Dean asking around to find out a body shop that wouldn’t stick it to travellers too badly. Like Sam, he'd pull up and ask for a Mr. Guy. The man would step out of the backroom, scratch his head and eye him assessingly, nod his head and ask what the hell he wants. This is where their stories diverge: Dean was looking for parts for the car and Sam is looking for parts of his brother."Hi," Sam says nervously, holding out a well-handled picture of Dean from his wallet. "I’m looking for my brother and I think he might have passed through here. Do you remember him?"Mr. Guy scratches his head, grimy from sweat and shop grease, and studies the picture before shaking his head. "Can’t say I do.""It was a few years ago," Sam supplies, begging this man to know more about his brother, to be able to tell him something.Mr. Guy shakes his head again and it’s somehow worse this time because he really does seem regretful. "Sorry, son. I hope you find him.""So do I," Sam says, a heavy weight settling somewhere in his stomach and lodging there. Before he turns to leave, he asks, "Hey, do you remember those bear attacks here some years back?"The man seems startled. "Course I do, boy. You don’t think that had anything to do with your brother?""No," Sam assures him, "not really. You remember when the attacks stopped?""Sure do, some time back. Weirdest thing, they stopped without any explanation, like they started."Sam smiles, just a bit. "And you don’t remember my brother?"It’s not a question, Sam's already turning away, but he hears the guy’s response anyway. It just makes him feel worse, is all.***When he gets back to the room he falls into an exhausted heap on the bed, even though it's only midday. Dean probably saved half these people’s lives and they can’t even be bothered to remember him. The injustice of it all sours in Sam’s stomach and he barely makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up into the toilette.***A neon light outside the window highlights the lines of Dean's back. The air warm and damp, almost unpleasant but not quite. Sam stretches, muscles lazy and humming. He runs a hand down Dean’s back until Dean turns over with mussed hair and sleepy eyes. He never lets himself get this relaxed unless its around Sam, which Sam secretly loves."Hey, Sammy," Dean says, voice raspy and low."It's Sam," he corrects, too relaxed to be really angry."Sorry," Dean says, though he doesn’t look it at all. "I’ll make it up to you."Sam grins. "Show me."So Dean leans in closer and kisses Sam, a lazy swipe of tongue across his lower lip that Sam leans into.***There's a bug-zapper outside the motel door and the sound, a harsh buzz-snap-snap jars him awake. It’s dark outside and the room is cold. Sam bought a double without thinking about it and the empty bed is too much to look at right now. He rolls over, faces the wall and says, "You could’ve called me Sammy. I never really minded."_________________________A/N: I called hansbekhart at some ungodly hour and crowed, “I have an idea! For a fic! And it doesn’t involve porn (immediately)! She mumbled, "What the hell are you smoking? Ahem. I mean, go on, do tell."I gibbered on happily, "Well, you see, Dean dies!""HOW DO WE MAKE THAT INTO PORN?""SHUT UP AND LET ME TALK." Then I explained it and she said, "Oooh, angst! Shiny."That's not quite how it went, but close enough. So this is not really a multi-part fic, though it really kind of is. Each post is meant to stand on its own and subsequent fics will loosely follow each other, hopefully. If we don’t suck too bad and rewrite each others fics. At any rate, that’s the plan. This might actually be all you get.