Dean doesn’t know where he’s driving to.

All he knows is he needs to get out, as far away from the motel of the week as possible. He’s driving too fast, he knows that, and he’s got way too much alcohol in his system to be able to keep the car steady. If he swerves, dad’ll probably be pissed about the Impala, but Dean isn’t sure that grief will extend to him. Maybe he’ll get a hunter’s funeral before dad packs up and drags Sammy to the next job.

Sam. Fuck.

He’s fourteen now, old enough to look after himself. That doesn’t make him old enough to be the one to take over for Dean. Dean had always done his best to shield his little brother from dad, make sure that he didn’t have to see the screaming and the hits that were thrown. Dean wasn’t even in elementary school before he was using all the strength he could muster to roll his dad onto his side so he didn’t choke on his own vomit each time he passed out drunk.

Sammy shouldn’t have to deal with that. That was Dean’s job — look out for Sam, look out for dad. Make sure everything kept running smoothly after mom passed.

Dean’s train of thought is enough to sober him up a little, foot easing on the gas. He doesn’t think much as he turns down semi-familiar roads until he’s in a residential area that he recognises. He isn’t even entirely sure how he ends up at your place, he just does.

You don’t mean anything to him but a little fun. You can’t. As soon as this job is done, Dean’ll be states away from you. Shit, he’s barely known you two weeks.

He should just drive away. He almost does. Contemplates the idea as he circles your block before parking just down the street.

As he drags himself through your bedroom window, he almost chickens out again. It’s late. Dad’s passed out, Sammy probably won’t be able to wake him if something happens. He feels like an idiot, halfway through your bedroom window, just staring at the shape of you in bed. You turn, and he’s quick to put on a smile, dragging himself the rest of the way through.

“Hey.” Dean says, carefully shutting the window behind him. He treads over to your bed, kicking his boots off before he climbs in alongside you. He’s quiet for a while, just thinking.

“We’re gonna be packing up soon. Think we’ll probably leave within the next week.” Dean doesn’t know why he’s telling you this. He normally just up and leaves without a word. Maybe the whiskey he stole from dad’s stash is loosening his tongue. “Don’t miss me too much, yeah?”

He doesn’t know why he says that, either, not when the words come out choked. All he wants to say, what he really wants to say, he can’t. Please, miss me, he thinks, as he presses his face into the crook of your neck, holding you for the first time without trying to invite more. Don’t forget me. I’m sorry I have to leave. I won’t forget you.