Author's Note:

Supernatural and its characters are not mine. I claim nothing except the plot. No copyright infringement intended.

I'm not American so apologies in advance for any honourables instead of honorables etc. that escape editing.

Story Title from WB Yeats- He Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven
"Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN++++++++++++++++++++++++

Sam Winchester's first memory was of his brother's voice. It was accompanied by a small hand stroking his cheek, the smell of chamomile lotion, a burning itchiness, and soothing whispers that he was a good boy not to cry and wake Daddy. There were earlier vague impressions of Dean and all the goodness and warmth associated with his brother, but it was that humming comfort offered by his big brother that Sam cherished close to his heart.

Later Sam learned that the winter when he was 3 and Dean was 7 they both came down with measles. The night Sam's fever spiked and Dean ran stumbling with his own illness over the two blocks from their motel to an emergency room wasn't the first time they came to the attention of the CPS nor would it be the last. Sam knew this because John drilled it into Dean that hospitals were the last resort. After the measles incident and their flight from the children's ward, fevers meant ice baths and Tylenol, fractures meant splints, and there was never any hope that Dean would receive treatment for his selective mutism.

It was almost ironic that Sam's last memory of his brother also involved Dean's sparingly used voice. They roared for each other in unison as Sam was restrained by an officer and Dean was forcibly taken away. They told Sam they were taking him to the hospital, to treat his suspected concussion, said they'd be reunited at the foster home. They'd lied. Everyone lied.

Sam Winchester sat in his comfortable spot. He was surprised that the dirt didn't hold Sam-shaped grooves from all the times he'd escaped from John's wrath or drunken raving finding haven in between the junkers in Bobby's yard. The current pair of door-less sedans were a perfect distance apart for his back to rest against the side panel of one while his feet were braced against the tire of the other. The angle of the overhanging crushed vehicle meant his History and Culture of Egypt text book was shaded from the Sioux Falls slanting winter light. He had found the perfect sawn off end of a plank to use a lap table for his notes. He was supposedly doing his pre-course work in advance of the next quarter of his sophomore year at Stanford. Actually he was thinking about how he was going to make up all his lost wages. He'd secured extra shifts at the restaurant over the holidays. He was damned lucky that the boss was a considerate employer and was keeping his job open for him, after Sam had up and deserted them at the last second. Brady, whose waiter service involved mixing up orders and dropping glasses, had stepped up to cover a few of Sam's shifts. Jess said if she hadn't been going home to the folks, she would have gone down to one of the scary floor managers and tried to pick some of Sam's absence too. The student appreciated his friends rallying around him. He sighed long and tried to concentrate again on getting a heads up on one of his new course selections.

Huddling down inside his warm ski-jacket style coat, Sam enjoyed the respite from his father's grouchy temper. He was doing his best to stay silent, slowly turning pages with his mitten-free fingers, and scratching rare words or underlining with his mechanical pencil. He had left his Discman in his repacked duffel, wanting to hear any noise of John limping on his crutches or Bobby letting Rumsfield out for a run. He needed a break from the tension in Uncle Bobby's house.

Sam rolled his eyes purely for his own benefit. He should be at The Gates helping clean up the leavings of New Year's Eve, joking with Meg, maybe having a coffee with the boss on his break, trying to avoid Alastair's drill sergeant mode of management, and planning what to do with the extra bucks beyond rent, student loans and topping up his scholarship. But John had to go and break his leg.

To be fair it wasn't his father's fault some jerk newbie had left the jack fall during a pit stop. The team had paid all his medical bills and bought John an automatic truck. Sam had inherited the Impala, so something good had come from having his holidays ruined. As soon as John could get around on crutches they were off to Bobby's junk yard to recuperate. Although Sam grudgingly conceded that Bobby had done his best on Christmas Day with a huge side of roast beef. Then later there was a beer, snacks and game watching get together for the Winchesters, the Mills and Bobby's buddies from the roadhouse.

Sam didn't get why Bobby put up with John. Sure they were old friends but John was insufferable with his injury. In Sam's experience most of the time John and Bobby couldn't stand the sight of each other, yet when Bobby's wife died they had spent two months in Sioux Falls, and when Sam got pneumonia they had gone to Bobby, and when Dean died...

Sam bit his lip. He clicked his tongue and tried to look at the text book, but now that he had thought of Dean the print swam on the page. Being here, it brought back memories. Hide and Seek with Dean between the cars, his own high pitched childish giggles and Dean pouncing silently on him. Being here, allowing Dean to be a child not Sam's caregiver. On the road with Dad, as they travelled from stock car circuit to NASCAR to drag racing and private collectors, in motels and cheap rentals, Dean took care of Sam. John was busy, working, drinking with other mechanics, attending the races if he wasn't in the pits. Sometimes they were left alone for days, even weeks but Dean always managed.

Just when things were good it was all taken away. It was Sam's fault. He squeezed his eyes tight not wanting to relive it again but unable to prevent the memory from surfacing. Stupid prick of a kid, he was. Shouting at Dean, drawing attention to them, Sam had known better, knew it was a bad idea, but he'd lost his temper…

… Then there were the motel owner, paramedics and cops and it was all a mess. Sam stayed at his school principal's house until the following Monday when John Winchester breezed back into town, high on adrenalin and his bonus for a team win. Sam never knew the details, even when over the years he had tried to prize them out of his father. He knew Dean's injuries extended to a bruised rib and a concussion. There was talk of Dean's mutism, his anger, ADHD, broad spectrum Aspergers. It was bullshit. Sam tried to tell them but no one would listen.

Then the kicker, John hadn't known his son was a carrier. He hadn't had the tests. They had moved schools and districts too often. Dean wasn't just a member of the one in three thousand men who had a vestigial womb, they had done a full medical, he was one of the one in ten thousand who could carry a child. From the crack in the open door, Sam saw a look a horror and disgust pass over his father's face. The social worker and teacher took sips of their iced teas while they discussed homes and options for Dean... unsuitable lifestyle for a disabled carrier... wouldn't your younger clever son thrive in foster care? Two hours later John and Sam were on the road, heading for a new job in a new state, leaving Dean in the hospital in Arkansas.

On Thanksgiving Sam pestered his Dad to go and visit Dean. He pleaded, refused to eat, stood in front of the TV during the game, cussed out Pastor Jim when he tried to calm him, finally his father had roared that they couldn't see Dean because Dean was dead.

Sam's world stopped. The planet no longer turned. It tilted on its axis. He didn't speak. He knew that hurt his father. He wanted him to hurt. Not a word passed his lips until John left him in Blue Earth with Pastor Jim.

Sam decided to live. He would do it for Dean. His brother had always made him do his studies, now Sam threw himself into them. When John uprooted him and took him to Bobby's place, Sam quickly became known as the new guy who would do your homework for a fee. Later when they hit the road again, John left him on his own in motels and apartments. Sam survived on his wits and brain, bartering trig quizzes for school lunches and history papers for actual cash. He skipped a grade when they'd landed back in Sioux Falls for a season, taken AP classes, bugged teachers so that his credits transferred from school to school, state to state. Getting the scholarship to Stanford was the best moment of his life. He could leave John and the travelling existence behind, be normal, show the world he could be someone, just like Dean would have wanted.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning he could load up his Impala. A smile broke across Sam's face, at the thought of bringing her to California. He would drive his car back to college and forget about the last few weeks of stifling parental disapproval.

He heard John's crutches and Bobby's firm steps coming down from the front porch. He checked again that he was hidden from sight hoping they weren't looking for him.

"John, you gotta tell the boy." Bobby's gruff voice urged.

"Don't think so Bobby, he is better off this way. It is easier."

"Easier for you, you mean you idjit. It has been anything but for him."

If Sam was a dog his ear would have cocked. He waited for his father to respond but Bobby spoke again with a break in his angry voice.

"Balls, Winchester, I can't believe you kept it from me for nigh on seven years."

"Wouldn't have told you at all if you weren't such a nosy so and so." John's crutches tapped on the wooden steps.

"Hey it is my damned house. I thought the letter was for me."

"Huh. Well you know now. You gonna disrespect my wishes and tell Sammy?"

Sam cringed at the pet-name.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't." Bobby challenged.

"He is going back to Stanford tomorrow. You don't want to ruin it for him. Seeing Dean could throw him off the rails."

The world narrowed. It shrank down to a single pinprick.

"You ever even visit the boy?" Bobby accused.

"No. It was better this way. They said in the letter that he is very well adjusted. It was a clean break for us all."

His father's voice seemed to come from a distance, traveling through a long tunnel of years of deception.

"Balls, John. I know you have a problem with gays but not all carriers are homo."

"I will not have a queer for a son and I was proved right. He was a fairy."

Sam cringed at the language. He curved a hand over his own stomach, thanking every god and angel his father had never questioned him, happy to presume his younger son was growing up to be a red-blooded straight hulk of manliness, even if leaving for Stanford meant he wasn't rednecked enough to make John proud.

"That is some spew of crap coming out of your mouth about your own boy." Bobby growled.

"Facts, Bobby. How else do you imagine Dean got himself up the duff back then?"

"I don't know John, and you never took the trouble to find out, did you ya dumb sonvabitch?" Bobby's voice was rising further, "The whole thing sounds off to me. Why did they write to you to ask if they should press charges?"

"I'm still his next of kin. Suppose there were some rules about it, seeing as he is a ward of the place."

Sam felt sick. His mind was spinning. Bobby and John were talking as if Dean was alive. Alive and had been pregnant and was in some kind of trouble. He jerked the plank and book onto the ground and stood up. The two older men's faces fell when they saw Sam's tall figure appear behind the car.

"Where is Dean?" Sam demanded through gritted teeth. His hands curled into fists by his side.

"Sammy?" John's face collapsed, paling under his salt and pepper beard.

"No you don't. Don't you 'Sammy' me! Where is Dean? He is alive. I heard you. Where is he?"

"Arkansas."

"What is he doing in Arkansas? Where does he live? Did CPS put him in to foster care? Why did you tell me he was dead?"

"Hospital."

"What?"

"Dean never left hospital." John sighed.

"Since I was twelve? For nearly half my life Dean has been in a hospital? Why? Did he get ill? Is that why you told me he was dead?"

"The day we left, when I took you from that teacher's house, I signed the papers for Dean to go into adolescent psychiatric care. They said it was for the best Sam. And you were old enough not to need Dean to take care of you."

Sam growled like an animal. He wanted to rip John's head off his shoulders, but he waited.

"You don't understand Sam. He's a carrier. I always thanked the angels that I had two boys, you couldn't travel like I do with a girl. It would only be a matter of time before Dean got into trouble, and with his silence and his shyness, and those perverts looking for pretty boys who hang around roadhouses and motels. You know, he was better off in the system."

"Don't you dare..." Sam fumed, nostrils flaring, "Don't you dare justify your actions by saying they were better for Dean. Easier for you."

"And you Sam." John said in a pleading tone, "You didn't have to cope with having a mute faggot carrier for a brother. Look at you, how well you are doing, how good you have turned out."

"That is because of Dean, Dad. Everything is in his memory." Sam cried with tears of anger. "Where the fuck is he?"

"Arkansas Care for Indigent Carriers. They transferred him there."

"Why? Dad? Why didn't you get him?"

John shrugged.

Sam seethed. There were no words that could have explained this, no rational John could have given to satisfy his raging nineteen year old. The fact that John didn't even try coiled battery acid in Sam's gut. He couldn't look at his father. Sam huffed with shoulders hunched, trying to wrap his head around everything. "What letter? Bobby mentioned a letter?"

"Dean got himself a boyfriend somehow, some sick pansy fuck working in the hospital. The perv has been fired but they wanted to know if I'd like charges pressed."

Sam didn't listen. He never wanted to hear another word from his father's lips. He took Bobby's stairs two at a time. His bags were packed for the morning. He swept up his last personal belongings and was in the Impala in less than ten minutes.

Bobby and Rumsfield stood in his way under the salvage yard sign.

Sam pulled up.

"You can't stop me Uncle Bobby. I'm going for Dean."

"I know you are son." The older mechanic bent down to lean on the window jam, tipping his cap, "Here something for the journey."

Sam took the canvas bag and placed it on the seat.

"Thanks." He muttered.

"You take care now, Sam, of yourself and your brother. Be good to Dean and prepare yourself son. The man you'll find may not be the boy you remember. And you know, you can always come back here if you need somewhere."

"Thanks." Sam repeated, "You're one of the good ones Uncle Bobby."

He tore out of the yard before John could make an appearance. A few miles down the road he pulled over to check his father's truck wasn't following. It wasn't. He opened the door and vomited his breakfast all over the asphalt. Pressing his head against his hand, Sam took long shallow breaths. He didn't have a long term plan, only the goal of getting to Dean. After a pause, Sam glanced at the lunch Bobby had packed, finding a thermos, a hipflask, some sandwiches and two thousand dollars in a money clip with a post-it saying "for a new start boys."