A/N: Enjoy, and please review!

I own nothing but raging feels.

For the whole first month, he tells himself that nothing's changed. It's an illusion that Dad is all too happy to maintain. He follows the same routine, and if his lips are a little tighter and the crease in his forehead a little deeper, Dean can fix his eyes on the road, let strands of songs play through his mind and never look behind him.

For those few weeks, life is pretty predictable. Research, hunt. Eat, sleep. If Dad stays up late with a few extra bottles than he used to, if Dean doesn't come back until morning because a waitress caught his eye, they don't ask questions.

Dad checks his phone more often.

Dean grabs three shotguns, then puts one back just as quickly.

Still, no questions.

They've never been keen on questioning each other, Dean knows. Just shut up and work. Do the job. It would be easier to stomach if it weren't for the memory of someone who always asked questions, who never shut up.

He bites down hard on the thought, locking it away. Take a swallow of beer, wink at the girl walking by, call the bluff of the guy who's across from him, who probably wouldn't make the mistake of playing poker with a Winchester again even if he had the chance.

Smile and lie, don't question or think or remember, don't let the scenes play back in front of your eyes.

Sam, shouting at Dad, hurling back the accusations, matching Dad blow for blow in a way that Dean had once wished he'd never be able to.

Sam, walking out, shoulders squared, jaw defiant, without a backward glance.

Sam, leaving, taking a piece of Dean with him.

He feels his throat get tight so he shuts it off for real this time. Another beer, a few hundred won at poker, and he's out.

Dad's outside. Hunting time—there's a vengeful spirit four floors up in the warehouse down the block.

Dean grabs the shotguns.

He won't let himself question why he remembers, this time, to only take two.