Work Text:
we don’t go out in the city
we ain't been part of the scene
i can’t lie, i am yours like you are mine
no lie, we are free
::
In the beginning, there was Sam.
(That’s not exactly right. God’ll probably strike him down for that one. And also for that other thing, the one that’s completely taken over Dean’s life, consumed him: mind, body, and soul. But that’s not the point right now.)
Actually, in the beginning, there was warmth and light and the golden halo of his mother’s curls as she leaned down to kiss the top of Dean’s head. In the beginning, there was a calloused hand ruffling Dean’s hair, bedtime stories told in different voices that made Dean laugh and hugs, always hugs, from the strongest man on earth. John was a hero, even then.
That was the beginning beginning, though.
When Sammy came home for the first time, bundled tight, pink-faced and squinting and so, so fragile, well. It was another beginning.
It was the only beginning that mattered.
::
Sam’s first steps were toward Dean.
That was another beginning. One centered around Dean’s heart, stamping three letters into the frantically beating muscle, knowing then that it would only beat for him, for Sam, anything for Sam.
Anything.
::
Sam’s first word was “De”.
He and John couldn’t decide what Sam had been trying to say, at first. Look at it one way, it was almost “Da”, or even “Dad”. Dean called for their father enough that Sam could’ve picked it up from listening. Look at it another way, and it was short for “Dean”. They puzzled over it as Sam crawled around the latest, nameless motel.
It gave Dean an impossible thrill, knowing that his name might be the first true syllables to leave his brother’s mouth. It felt huge, monumental, like the universe was giving something back to him with open hands, take it, it’s yours, he is yours. Mind, body, and soul.
A few hours later, they figured it out when Sam cried “De!” again and began wobbling his way towards Dean. Dean caught him, of course, always did, (always will), but he couldn’t help looking at his father’s face when it happened.
Dean knew what sadness looked like. It was entrenched in the lines around John’s eyes, drew his eyelids half-shut and carved his mouth down when it should have been curled up. But there was more than sadness there that day; there was loss, tangible loss, like John knew that there was already another person that he loved drifting away from him.
Dean couldn’t have known it then, was too young to really understand, but that same feeling always caught in his chest whenever he remembered Sam’s first word. But more than that, was pride.
(More than that, was greed.)
(My Sam. Mine.)
::
Dean became a lot of Sam’s firsts. Mostly by proxy. Some were not.
First hand Sam held — Dean’s, while crossing the street to the convenience store.
First shoe Sam tied — his own, after Dean did thirty-two demonstrations on both his and Sam’s sneakers.
First kiss Sam had — Dean, on Sam’s seventh birthday, after he had presented Sam with his very own copy of Moby Dick and a beat-up box of Scrabble that Dean had no problem explaining was only to be brought out during times of the most extreme boredom. Sam had launched himself onto Dean so fast, his head spun.
It was sloppy. It was Sam. It was too-hot lips mashed against Dean’s, parted in surprise, ready to suck in a shock of air but getting a mouthful of little brother instead.
They were lucky that John had just turned his back to reach into the fridge for the cake.
Dean’s cheeks had never been so red in his life. Sam had never looked so confused. It had taken a moment for Dean to realize that the look on Sam’s face was because Dean had shoved Sam away, harsh and fast. Dean never did anything like that to Sam, had no memory of his arms even moving to separate them.
“You can thank me, Sammy,” Dean had told him, voice shaking and low. “Just not like that, okay?”
Sam’s reply hadn’t been, “Okay.”
Sam’s reply hadn’t been, “Sorry.”
Sam’s reply had been, “Why not?”
That was the seed. It parted the dirt in Dean’s chest and buried down deep, burrowing under his ribs, into the cracks of his bones.
It didn’t need water or light.
All it needed was Sam.
::
Sam’s first real kiss was from a girl named Claire.
She had fire-red hair as wild as her laugh, and eyes greener than grass.
When Dean asked Sam about it later, when he still had two bright spots on his cheeks, all Sam did was give a half-shrug and make a face.
Dean forced himself to look away when he saw Sam’s gaze drop down to his mouth.
::
One Christmas, John’s absence felt sharper than it had in past years.
Dean wished he could say he didn’t know why, but even at thirteen, he knew the reason this holiday was so different from the others John had missed. Because even despite his blatant promises, John didn’t show up on their motel doorstep on Christmas Eve with the presents Sam deserved. He didn’t show up, and Sam kept asking and prodding, and that meant that Dean had to sit his brother down and tell him that all of those monsters Dean had told him were fake, were actually real. That Dad fought them, and that was why he was gone all the time. That one day, they’d be fighting them too. And that’s why Dean kept a knife under his pillow.
Dean got to sit there and watch Sam turn away, onto his side, with tears in his eyes. He got to sit there, his heart shattered and sinking ever-lower to his feet, and watch as his little brother cried the last of his innocence away.
Stealing the presents from the nearby houses had been easy. Lying to Sam come morning hadn’t.
Dean’s stomach was a pile of knots and nerves, that always-present desire to please Sam, to turn his frown into a smile, to make him happy, was overwhelming. It was what had driven him to find the nearly bare branch of a pine tree and string it with lights in the corner of their room. It took over all of his senses, driving his voice too high and fake when he woke Sam from his fitful sleep, making his hands tremble when he pointed the gifts out. Too invested in the emotional well-being of his brother, too indifferent about how unbalanced it was to care.
Sam figured it out. He always did, eventually.
He gave Dean a square wrapped in newspaper, so light sitting in his palm. Like a feather, weighted and fragile. Dean didn’t want to unwrap it, but one look at Sam’s face and he knew he had to. Hope was a spring in his chest, bursting out the seams and leaking into his lungs. That maybe he hadn’t let Sam down too badly this time, that maybe things will be okay for them if Sam was willing to give him something at all.
The wrapping fell away, and something shiny caught the dim light. Dean’s fingers, surprisingly steady, lifted the amulet from his palm, the etched face swinging from the dark cord. His heart swelled in his chest, rendering him speechless for a breath before the words tumbled out of his mouth.
“Thank you, Sam. I–I love it.”
The amulet slipped past his nose and landed on his sternum with a thump. He could almost feel it make an imprint, a place for itself in his skin. The weight of it around his neck felt right and the smile pulling up Sam’s lips just affirmed it for Dean. That despite everything, despite it all, that they had made this day theirs. And nothing would take that away.
Dean made a promise to himself and to Sam that day, a silent one in his head that burned itself into his eyelids. He promised that, no matter what, he would do everything in his power to make things okay for them. He knew there was always going to be a them, because that’s all there’d ever been, really. Dean was okay with that. He knew Sam was okay with it too.
The rest of the day, through watching old Christmas movies on TV and eating their favorite junk food for dinner, Dean kept finding his hand tangling around the amulet. He memorized the face inscribed into the horned metal, pressed it tight to his palm so it made an imprint there too. And every time he caught himself touching it, he saw Sam watching him out of the corner of his eye, a small smile on his face.
It was then that Dean realized that this, too, this amulet, wasn’t only his. It was theirs, just like this day, just like their lives. Something warm spread through his belly, making him smile right back at Sam.
He wouldn’t trade this for anything. Not for anything in the whole entire world.
::
Dean’s never really been good with words.
That became Sam’s department when he started absorbing new and confusingly long words from any source his eleven-year-old hands could get.
The kid never shut up, always kicked his dirty sneakers up on the back of the front seat of the car (“Feet on the goddamn floor, Sam, you know this.” “Language, Dean.” “Sorry, sir.” “Hey, Dean, guess how many stomachs a cow has.” “As many as the number of Charley horses I’m gonna give you the next time we pull over if you don’t put your feet down.” Sam put his feet down.), always flipped through those whacky world record and 101 Facts You Never Needed To Know books, spouting shit off like it was his day job.
Dean lived for those times: his arm hanging out the window, the rumble of home beneath him, the beat of Metallica vibrating his bones, Dad’s hand curled around the wheel, and Sam droning on and on about statistics and weird things they were never going to use in their life.
It’s when they felt the most like a family.
Anyway. Right, yeah, so Dean’s shit with words, that was never a big surprise. He always found it easier to speak through his body: a punch to the jaw here, a shit-eating grin there, y’know, the usual.
At fifteen, it was easy to find trouble.
Dean knew where to look when the feelings got to be too much. He needed to escape the frustration from being left behind again, from being told that he and Sam needed to stay safe. Watch out for Sammy, hold down the fort while I’m gone, yessir, Dad. Always the good soldier. He also needed something to take his mind off of the mosh pit that had embedded itself into his stomach lately whenever Sam so much as smiled in his direction. It was fuckin’ weird, honestly, and too confusing to focus on, so Dean ignored his too-tight skin and went out to find someone to knock into the pavement.
Like he said, it was easy to find trouble.
Coming home afterwards, though. That was hard.
Namely because he was greeted by barely five feet of angry-little-brother who shoved him onto the couch with only one cushion and stormed off to find the med kit. Namely because said angry-little-brother made Dean sit through twenty minutes of thorough—and not exactly gentle—cleaning of his scrapes. He didn’t even have that many, Sammy, Jesus, but when Dean tried to say that, Sam threw him a glare so cold that Dean felt his blood chill in his veins.
So he sat there and did his best to keep his body under control as Sam skimmed his fingers across Dean’s cheeks and up to finger the cut on his temple, ever-soft even in his anger.
Dean wanted to clench up, to lock his muscles into disuse so there was no chance of them turning traitor and touching something (someone) they couldn’t. But as much as Dean knew Sam inside and out, Sam knew him right back. It was hard not to when the two of them had always lived like vines, tangled up and around each other so deeply that, even then, neither of them really knew where one started and the other ended. He would know that something was wrong if Dean tensed up, so he relaxed instead, slouched down into the cushion despite the sharp spring jabbing through the couch to poke his back.
“You ever gonna tell me why?” Sam murmured as he ripped open a butterfly bandage, his eyes staring meaningfully at the side of Dean’s head.
Dean could feel the breath from Sam’s words tickling his skin, the heat from his fingertips soaking into his bones. He felt like he was on the wire’s edge, dangerous and paper-thin.
Dean closed his eyes.
“‘S not an answer, Dean.”
“I don’t go lookin’ to get beat up, Sammy,” Dean drawled.
Sam heard the lie in his voice. Sam pushed the bandage onto the cut on Dean’s temple with more force than he needed to, making the nerves around the tender skin scream. Dean barely got through his first colorful swear word when Sam suddenly dropped down onto his knees in front of Dean, hands folded in his lap. Dean very nearly choked on his own spit, surprise clenching his throat shut at the same time his lungs tried to expel all the air from his chest. The two actions didn’t mix very well.
Sam was frowning. “I just… I don’t understand.”
After sparing a moment to get his breathing under control, Dean cleared his throat, his mouth dry. “What d’you mean?”
The image of his brother sitting before him was torturous, made even worse by the fact that Dean was refusing to name exactly what it was about Sam’s action that made him react so violently. Because to name it was to mean it was real, this feeling that was so treacherously seeping into his veins. And it couldn’t be real, because this was Sam, and he was Dean, and just. No. No.
“Why you go out ‘n stuff.”
“Sometimes I gotta have fun.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Wasn’t exactly the truth, either.
Sam tipped his head to the side, a small line creasing between his furrowed brows. “This… is fun for you?”
Dean let out a little huff, lifted his fingers to poke at the cut on his forehead. “Told you. I don’t go lookin’ for this. Besides, I mean a different kinda fun.”
Sam’s hands fidgeted on his lap, not sure where to go; they danced from the hem of his shirt to the bottom of his shorts and back again. His voice was small. “Don’t you have fun with me?”
It took a moment for the words to register, then another for Dean to really see what Sam was trying to say.
“Oh, Sammy,” Dean breathed, slipping off the cushion to crumple on the floor in front of his little brother. “Sammy, it’s not that – that I don’t have fun with you, man. You don’t really think that, do you?”
The tremble of Sam’s lip told Dean everything he needed to know.
“Hey, c’mon, Sam.” His hands fluttered to Sam’s shoulder, hovering an inch away, desperate for contact, but scared of what might happen if he closed the space between them. Then his instincts kicked in, the one John had been hammering into his brain since day one about protecting Sam, so yeah, fuck yourself, feeling, Dean’s just gonna fuckin’ comfort his little brother, okay?
Closing his hand around the back of Sam’s neck, Dean drew him forward into a hug that was more elbows than anything. Sam was leaning up on his knees so Dean didn’t have to move and his arms fit awkwardly and gingerly around Dean’s waist, careful of the bruised ribs on his right side. Always careful. God, Sam.
“There’s not a single person out there that I’d rather be with, okay?” Dean murmured. He felt Sam’s muscles give way the second he spoke the words. So fucking trusting. “Sometimes I just go outta my mind, though. You know me. Always worryin’ about the old man, how banged up he’s gonna be this time, so I go out to blow off steam. ‘S got nothin’ to do with you, Sammy. Promise.” He felt Sam nodding into his neck, Sam’s breaths coming hot and humid against his collarbone. Swallowing hard, Dean managed a smirk. “There’s no one else I’d rather cream at gin rummy.”
Sam jerked a little at that, making a noise of protest. “Hey. I beat you last time, four-to-one.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean chuckled, pulling Sam even closer. They stayed like that for a while, just sinking into the heat of each other’s bodies, taking comfort in the knowledge that, even if they will never have anyone else, they have each other.
Dean sighed softly and settled his other hand in the middle of Sam’s back. He could feel Sam’s heartbeat, the beat-pulse of life beneath his palm. How crazy was it that this living thing in his arms, this small, living thing hadn’t yet recognized the force within him, the one that reduced Dean to a pile of rubble every single time? One look, just the slightest hint of a frown, and Dean was on his knees, ready and willing. Prostrating himself before his little brother as if Sam were the church and he was the pious man seeking penance. Forgive me, brother, for I have sinned. (Both in heart and mind, but that wasn’t for Sam to know. Not ever.)
He saw it then, that this was how it was always going to be.
Anything for Sam.
Anything.
::
Dean decided to live with it.
Wasn’t that fucking tragic? That it was bad enough in the first place for it to become that unbearable? That it was such a weight on him, on his conscience, that he had to suffer through it? To feel physical pain from it? From a goddamn feeling? To feel the knot where two invisible hands were pressing on his ribs, pushing out all of his air and bruising his chest, all because Sam’s knuckles had brushed against the back of Dean’s hand? A single touch and every single hair on Dean’s body would stand up, his arms riddled in goosebumps. He had to fight to hide it once his body started betraying him publicly, and without his permission, the asshole, and Christ, it was already hard enough. It was already hard enough, dammit.
But what the fuck else could he do?
So he lived with it.
(The question was whether it really was living if it felt like he was dying every second that Sam’s eyes weren’t fixed on him.)
::
There was an arm around his waist and a head on his shoulder, and Dean knew it was never gonna get any easier.
He had accepted it, finally, had known it for at least the last couple of years.
Didn’t mean it was any less of a struggle.
They’ve always been hands-on while being hands-off, the Winchesters. Weird that they work like that, but that’s how it went. Hands-on during a hunt, especially in the aftermath, fingers finding the frayed edges of skin, the source of the flowing blood, sweeping needle and thread through and through until it stopped. Hands-off in the public eye as much as possible to show that there was no weakness here, no real connection that could make any of them easy prey for the other, nothing to tie them down, because what showed weakness better than physical displays of affection? Of love?
When it was the three of them, it was that way, sure. Always John taking lead, pushing through crowds or into stores or down sidewalks, always expecting his sons just a step behind.
When it was just Dean and Sam, though? Whole different story.
It was better when John wasn’t around. Not that he actively tried to keep Sam and Dean apart, but Dean had been on the receiving end of enough calculated looks that he started keeping his hands to himself, even in the seclusion of their own—temporary—home.
And yet, it was also good, in a way. Dean had become a lot less aware of when he was touching Sam, for some reason. Just started finding his fingers in Sam’s hair or on his shoulder or his hip nudging Sam out of the way and always got stuck wondering why he couldn’t catch himself before he did it. John being around minimized the touches, helped Dean pull out some goddamn restraint for once.
He needed it, truly, now that he’d finally come to terms with the feeling. He saw the seed that had found its way into his heart all those years ago, saw that its roots had dug down and anchored themselves to his very cells. Saw that it had grown, gotten bigger with each inch Sam grew and each laugh that Sam threw his way. Dangerously big, roots too deep. A disaster waiting to happen.
(He’d tried to knock it down, took an axe to it with all of his might. He had to stop after the first swing. It was then that Dean realized it would never leave him. After all, how can you destroy something that is a part of you?)
So there it sat, growing straight up past Dean’s lungs and into his throat, its flourishing leaves choking off Dean’s breath every time Sam’s eyes met his own. It was happy now, because John was on a case the next state over and had left Sam and Dean in a cabin in the woods for the next three weeks of the summer. It’d only been two hours since John had shut the door behind him but, already, Sam was glued to his side, arms wrapped around Dean like tentacles.
“You’re an octopus, you know that?”
“Shuddup ‘n watch the movie, Dean.”
Dean grabbed at the hair on the back of Sam’s head and wiggled it just hard enough to make Sam bitch a little, hands slapping at Dean’s wrist. Normal things. Brother things.
Star Wars was their soundtrack and the summer heat, their blanket. The couch they were on was just this side of too small, made them compress themselves however possible to both be comfortable and still touching at the same time. Touch was comfort, no matter how big or small. And for some reason, Dean was feeling particularly unsettled that day, so he let himself give in, allowed himself to lean into the heat of his brother and press a nose to the hair at the top of Sam’s head.
“Hey. You think Han ever fucked an alien chick?”
He felt Sam buck against him, withdrawing to throw a disgusted scowl up at Dean. “Dude, gross!”
“I was jus’ wondering–” Dean started, a laugh seeping into his words. Sam punched him in the stomach.
“You’re disgusting.”
“Thanks,” Dean said warmly. He’d just done it to see Sam’s face turn red, his movements becoming twitchy and embarrassed.
Sam had just hit thirteen last month and Dean had taken it upon himself to give Sam the-birds-and-the-bees talk the day after. It’d resulted in Sam running into his room and slamming the door shut, yelling that he never wanted Dean to talk to him again. ‘Course, that hadn’t lasted very long.
One of Dean’s favorite kinds of Sam was the one who didn’t know what to do with himself, but secretly wanted to hear more of what Dean was saying anyway. He didn’t get to see that one come out very often, Sam being as conservative as he was, so when Dean saw an opportunity, he jumped on it. Couldn’t really blame him.
“Super disgusting, even,” Sam piped up, even thought a minute or two had elapsed since Dean last spoke.
“Super duper disgusting?” Dean asked. The arm that wasn’t draped across Sam’s shoulders was in his lap, his hand loosely holding onto the forearm Sam had around his waist.
“Yeah, that.”
“Sammy. You wound me.”
“You’re such an idiot, Dean.”
“C’mon. You mean you wouldn’t wanna get a piece of alien tail if you had the chance?”
“Dean!”
“Right. You’d probably just sit ‘em down and ask them nerd questions about their species.”
Sam punched his stomach again, but this time, Dean was ready. He used his grip on Sam’s arm to twist them around and smoosh Sam lengthwise into the back of the couch, trapped between squishy cushions and Dean’s body.
“Oh, God, I’m gonna suffocate in here, lemme go!”
Dean pressed forward, snickering, until Sam was half-swallowed up in the crevice that had ate their remote once already.
“You’re such a dick!” Sam gasped, writhing to get his arms free so he could shove Dean away.
“You’ll understand one day, Sammy,” Dean said conversationally, like he wasn’t working hard to keep little-brother-limbs at bay from dislodging him from his place on the couch. “Han Solo is the man.”
“I’m gonna die!” Sam wheezed.
Dean finally relented, laughing as he pulled Sam free from the cushions. It only took a second for Sam’s grip to change, for his weight to topple onto Dean’s body and crush him flat onto his back in surprise. He let out a yell and tried to raise his arms in defense, but there was a pillow smothering his face.
He heard Sam shout “Payback!”, felt the line of Sam’s body pressing his body deeper into the couch, crushing the air out of his lungs. Swearing, Dean kicked and scrabbled at Sam’s shoulders, trying to launch him off. Panic was starting to spit fireworks into Dean’s head, because even though it was rough-housing, just their usual scuffling, this position felt too precarious. He could feel the heat of Sam, feel the soft lines of his body pressing up between his thighs, the way their hips were nearly aligned.
It was terrifying.
Sam paid no heed, had no reason to, just laughed and squirmed up against Dean’s chest to get a better angle to push the pillow down.
God, couldn’t Sam feel it? The trip-wire alarms seeping out of Dean’s skin, the sudden heat forming a bubble around them, warning them to stop? It was all suffocating Dean worse than the ancient fibers being crushed against his nose.
Dean finally turned his face to the side and sucked in a lungful of air before ripping the pillow out of Sam’s hands, tossing it across the room. It nearly hit the TV, but bounced mercifully off the wall right next to it.
“Hey!” Sam cried indignantly. “I wasn’t done yet!”
“You’re done now,” Dean growled, swatting Sam’s hands away when they tried to cover his mouth, the fucker. “Stop it, you.”
“No,” Sam giggled, his cheeks flushed pink from the exertion, beautiful even in the crappy too-orange light showering down on them from the overhead lamp. Christ, when had he started to think of Sam as beautiful? He was still so young, so oblivious. How it should be. How it needed to stay.
Shaking his head, Dean settled his head against the arm of the couch and turned back to the movie, his arms twining together around Sam’s back, squeezing them together to get him to stop moving. If he didn’t think about it, it would be all right. They were just laying there, like they’d done a million other times, Sam between Dean’s legs, his head on Dean’s chest. It was fine. It was gonna be fine.
As long as Sam stopped wiggling.
“Just lie still, fucker.”
“Y’know you still managed to make that sound affectionate, right, Dean?”
Three more weeks of this kid, this weird, sweaty kid who wore basketball shorts, like, all the time now, and whose hair was too fucking long and whose brain was too fucking big. Three more weeks of him, just him, and that feeling growing in Dean’s chest.
Part of Dean wanted to run. To bolt, just pack his shit and get the hell out before something leaked out of him that he couldn’t stop, couldn’t hold back. It felt like there was a dam inside him with too many cracks that weren’t patched up right.
Because sometimes Sam got this look on his face when he looked at Dean, like he couldn’t imagine being anywhere other than at Dean’s side, like he had too many feelings in his chest and wanted to spill them out, but couldn’t, for fear of being ridiculed for being a sappy little brother.
It was that look that tore Dean to shreds, just ripped him the fuck up and poured tar in the wounds, burning him from the inside out. Those were the days, the times, that Dean wanted out. To protect both him and Sam (but most importantly, Sam).
The bigger part of Dean, the more selfish one, wouldn’t trade any of this for the world. He knew he’d never give this up, not in a heartbeat, not really. Sam had settled down now, content to be smushed along the length of Dean’s body, their legs tangled together and hanging off the other end of the couch. All of this mess? It was them. What more could he want than this?
(A lot. A lot fucking more.)
::
Dean had hoped that, by now, the tree in his chest would have withered. He’s now nineteen, verging on twenty, and, really, for the past however-the-fuck-many years, he may have accepted it, the feeling, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t try to blame it on hormones. Puberty. Huffing too much smoke from salt ‘n burns. Anything to point the blame away from himself, to jab a finger at something else and say You’re the reason I can never give Sam the normal he deserves. But he thinks that, now, finally, he can really say it.
This is all on him. He’s the screwed up one here. There’s probably a billion and one crossed wires in his head where they shouldn’t be, and his brain malfunctioned back in the day and confused “protect Sam” with “love him too fucking much” and now here Dean is, in all his fucked up glory, finally putting words to the feeling that has been festering inside him for at least a decade.
Here he is.
In love with his brother.
Fucking great.
::
Sam is fifteen and bitchy and Dean hates him.
Only sometimes, though. Like when he takes food from Dean’s plate and shoves it in his mouth like he thinks Dean won’t kick his ass later for it (and Dean will, but he’ll let Sam win just to see that new smirk Sam’s been trying out for the past two weeks). Or when he grabs the remote right out of Dean’s hand and switches it to the goddamn Discovery Channel, seriously, Sam? Seriously? Fuckin’ nerd, honest to God pain in Dean’s ass.
Yeah. Dean hates him.
(Some people say that there’s a real thin line between love and hate. Dean’ll tell them all that they’re wrong. Hate’s just an easier word to say when the love’s grown too big to even fathom anymore.)
::
They’ve been stationed in this Bodunk town in Indiana for a couple of weeks now. Dad and Pastor Jim are tracking a band of ghouls that have been wreaking havoc across the Midwest, and for once, Dean’s not worried. Not totally. Ghouls are nasty business, but at least Dad has back-up this time. The last time they ran into ghouls hadn’t been pretty.
So it’s him and Sam once more, facing the world of small towns and temporary friends while Sam gets settled into school and Dean gets settled into work at the garage.
They work like well-oiled machines, creating a rhythm of making each other’s lunches and keeping each other in line. Not that either of them really needs it; Dean’s home most nights, even the weekends, happy to stay in, and it’s not like Sam’s got a raging social life.
Still, they have each other’s back. They keep to themselves, low-profile and tight-knit even in grocery stores and the cafe they sometimes go to for breakfast on Thursday mornings. Routines grow out of familiarity of their surroundings, and time slips by quicker than sand sliding between fingertips.
It scares Dean sometimes, that passage of time. How fast everything seems to be changing, even though nothing really is. Sam is still Sam and Dean is still Dean. Their life is still their own, and they’re scraping by, and yet there’s been a shift. Something urgent has crawled into Dean’s blood, some sort of frantic energy eating him from the inside out, and it only ever boils when he’s with Sam (which is always).
It’s as if there’s two walls closing in on him, squeezing every nerve in Dean’s body until they tingle and burn, telling him he has to do something, do it now, before he combusts (or something worse).
But that’s the thing.
Dean can never do something, anything, has sworn his life on every crooked cross hanging off the churches he flew by at eighty-five miles an hour on those country back roads that he’ll never lay a hand on his little brother the way he wants to.
Not ever.
::
Sam won’t stop fucking growing.
“Stop growing,” Dean says one day when Sam’s shutting the door behind him, school bag sliding down his arm and onto the floor. “You were a shrimp, like, three months ago. Quit it.”
“Stop buying me milk, then,” Sam says back, kicking off his sneakers. The sole is starting to separate from the front of his left shoe, but Sam says he likes it and doesn’t want Dean to get him a new pair. He just adds a note to the list of gift ideas hanging off the counter in Dean’s head that tells him how many days are left until Christmas.
“Maybe I will,” Dean shoots back. “It’ll free up money to buy more booze.”
“Your priorities are out of whack, you know that?”
Dean flips Sam off. Sam returns it with interest. Dean turns on the radio that sits by the microwave in their little kitchenette, dialing up the volume once he hears it’s The Who.
“Think I’m taller than you now.”
“Them’s fighting words, Sammy. You take it back.”
Sam walks over to where Dean is stirring a pot of soup and lifts a hand to the top of his head. Poking his tongue out the side of his mouth like he’s two, Sam watches his hand trail over the space between them before gliding right over Dean’s hair.
“You fucked it up on purpose!” Dean accuses, swatting Sam’s arm away. The little shit’s grinning like he just won the lottery. “Cheater.”
“Did not.”
“Did so.”
“You’re such a sore loser, Dean.”
“What I am is about to kick your ass. Set the table, short stack.”
Sam blusters out a sigh and leans around Dean to pull open the drawer by his hip, jingling the sparse silverware. He grabs two spoons but doesn’t get out of Dean’s space. Instead, he props his chin on Dean’s right shoulder and peers down to where Dean’s hand has stopped stirring the pot.
“What’re we having?”
Dean’s cheeks are prickling, wanting to unleash the blush building beneath his skin, but he calms it down with a slow breath in through his nose. “Fuck if I know,” he replies. “Peter’s mom came by the garage today and gave me a Tupperware of the stuff. Looks like that one that has ‘wedding’ in the name. Who the fuck would name a soup after a wedding, huh?”
“Italian Wedding?”
“That’s the one.”
“Those meatballs look more like severed eyes, don’t you think?”
“Jesus, Sam, sit the fuck down.”
Sam sits the fuck down.
“How was school?” Dean asks as he pours the now-hot soup into two big coffee mugs.
Sam snorts behind him, the sound of his fingers drumming on the table reaching Dean’s ears. “Boring. I told you, I learned everything they’re teaching, like, two schools ago.”
Grabbing the mugs, Dean makes his way over to the table, rolling his eyes. “Pooooooor Sammy. Too smart for his school, too smart for his teachers, too smart to hang around his stupid classmates.”
“Yeah, that about sums it up,” Sam says, taking his cup from Dean. “Woe is me.”
Shaking his head a bit, Dean sits down, grabbing one of the spoons to start stirring the meatballs in his mug around. Sam’s doing the same thing while blowing on the surface of the soup to cool it off. The steam rising from the mug parts in half every time Sam purses his lips and blows, wafting up to curl around his ears before disappearing. There’s something sensual about watching the wisps float around Sam’s face, and it takes Dean a moment to realize that he’s sitting there and staring like an idiot.
“You want an ice cube, princess?” Dean smirks.
Sam looks up from where he’s hunched over the mug. “That would be great, actually.”
Dean rolls his eyes again and stands to get them both some ice. And just like that, standing in front of the freezer, cracking the tray to dislodge a cube or two, it hits him. How domestic this all is: the soup on the stove, the banter, the easy touches, the smiles.
Stupid, Dean tells himself. Don’t be fuckin’ stupid. Stop torturing yourself. That’s all well and good, except for the fact that torturing himself is what Dean Winchester does best.
He walks back over and slips one of the ice cubes into Sam’s mug before sitting down again. Sam gives him a blinding smile before swishing it around until it melts. They eat in relative silence, both too hungry to bother with conversation. It’s not like they need it anyway. They’ve always been able to sit in comfort without speaking, just enjoying the presence of the other nearby.
Afterwards, Sam offers to clean up, taking both of their mugs to the sink and grabbing the pot along the way. He’s elbows-deep in soap suds by the time Dean realizes he’s been watching Sam’s every move, every plunge of his hands into the water, the way he pushes his bangs out of his eyes with a damp wrist.
Dean can’t find it in himself to look away.
His eyes follow the line of Sam’s back, how it curves to accommodate him bending over the sink, the narrow taper of his hips into those faded black jeans Sam just refuses to get rid of, the bird’s wings of his shoulder blades moving in time with when he scrubs a dish clean. It feels like a guilty pleasure and a taboo all at the same time.
Dean knows he shouldn’t, but at the same time, he’s human, all right? A goddamn nineteen-year-old human. And besides, all he’s doing is looking. He’s just looking.
It’s almost like they’re in one of those museums and Sam has a sign taped to his back: Don’t Touch The Art. Dean wants to be that kid that steps over the line and puts his hand right where it’s not supposed to be. He wants to so fucking bad.
Dean goes to bed early that night.
(It’s always easier to escape temptation when you’re not conscious to ache for something you’ll never have.)
::
It’d be really cheesy if Dean said that he dreamt of Sam all the time. Like, gag-worthy, finger-down-the-throat, rolling-eyes kind of cheesy.
Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.
::
There’s just one recurring dream that really bothers him.
It always starts off the same way: him and Sam, both standing in a field of flowers. What kind of flowers they are always changes. It used to be sunflowers, but lately, it’s been red carnations, the really dark ones.
So they’re standing there, and Sam’s talking to him, but when Dean tries to reply, he has no voice. Can’t make a sound. Sam just smiles at him then. Tells him, “Here. Show me with your hands.” Takes Dean’s wrists and pulls him close enough that Dean’s palms are flat on Sam’s chest.
Dean’s always trying to back off at this point. Even his subconscious knows when the line’s being crossed. But Sam insists. Sam pushes forward, gets close. Too close.
“Talk to me, Dean.” Always the same words, spoken into the skin of Dean’s neck, lips brushing his pulse. “Show me what you want.”
No matter how many time Dean wordlessly mouths “No”, his hands start to move. They become animals, devouring every inch of Sam they can get, yanking him flat against Dean and pushing under his shirt to find heated skin. Seeking, craving, fulfilling, taking.
The dream always ends the same way, too.
Dean has to wait until his body, which still refuses to listen to his protests, pushes Sam to the ground and seals their chests together. Has to wait for his hands to find Sam’s and stretch them above his head, pinning them to the now-crushed bed of carnations, their fingers twined. Has to wait for his head to duck down on its own accord to steal the kiss that should never happen from his brother’s lips.
That’s when he feels something slick against his mouth and pulls back to see that he’s left a black stain on Sam’s lips. A stain that grows, spreads from his mouth down to his cheeks and his throat, disappearing under his shirt. The whole time, Dean’s mouth is working, desperately shouting something, anything, make it stop. But Sam is slowly turning black, his skin ashen and his veins darkening like they’re being pumped full of tar.
The whole time, Sam lies there and tilts his head to the side, asking, “What’s wrong?”. Like he doesn’t realize that Dean’s just infected him with something he doesn’t know how to cure.
That’s when Dean finally can get control of his body back, freeing one hand to point savagely at the dark lines marring Sam’s skin, his face crumpling into one of horror and shame, because what has he done to Sam, what has he done?
The last thing Sam says is, “But I wanted it.”
Then he smiles. His teeth are black.
And Dean wakes up.
::
Dean can only take so much of his little brother nerding out over homework on a Friday night before he loses it.
“C’mon, squirt,” Dean says, leaning over the back of Sam’s chair to pluck the pencil right out of his hand. It’s actually a little sad, this stubby yellow thing with barely any eraser left. Pathetic, really. Dean makes a mental note to buy another pack the next time they hit Wal-Mart. “Time to actually do something with our lives.”
“Right.” Dean can hear Sam roll his eyes. “Because getting a higher education isn’t doing anything with my life.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
Sam heaves out the usual put-upon-little-brother sigh before half turning in his chair to meet Dean’s eyes. “Can I have my pencil back, please?”
“You can barely write with this thing, Sammy. Why didn’t you tell me you were low?”
Sam scowls. “I’m not low. I’m just using this one as much as I can.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Dean says, doing his best to ignore the lance in his heart every time they have to have a discussion like this. Sam shouldn’t have to live like this. Christ. “Anyways, you’re done homework for the night.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“Well, ‘me’, you aren’t the one who has to turn all of this in by Monday, so can you give me my goddamn pencil back?”
“Watch your mouth, bitch.” Dean smacks Sam upside the head. Sam uses the opportunity to grab Dean’s wrist tightly and give him Bitchface Number Three.
“Gimme my pencil, Dean.”
“Yeah?” Dean grins. “Or what?”
Turns out that ‘or what’ is Sam twisting Dean’s arm so high up his back that his shoulder nearly pops out of its socket, so, yeah, okay, Sam gets his stupid fuckin’ pencil back, big whoop. But Dean does manage to convince him, after a vigorous round of revenge noogying, that they should go see the late showing of the new Alien movie that’s still playing at the local theater. He has to promise to buy an extra-large bucket of popcorn drenched in butter, but hey, at least they’re getting out of the house.
The walk isn’t too long, maybe twenty minutes, and the air is on just enough of this side of cool to make Dean thankful that he brought a jacket. Sam, of course, being the walking furnace that he is, says he’s fine in just a hoodie.
Dean doesn’t comment on the fact that it’s one of his.
They get the disgustingly buttered popcorn and two Cokes after grabbing their tickets. They file into the theater just as the previews start and start cursing quietly, fumbling around to find a mostly empty row so that they can scoot down and sit in the middle. Sam has this thing about having to sit in the middle. Dean just goes with it.
The popcorn is half gone by the time the previews end, and Dean’s fingers begin a slippery fight with Sam’s to get the last soaked pieces at the bottom of the bucket by the time Ripley kills her clone. Once it’s said and done, which means Sam snagged the last popped kernel, the bastard, Dean puts the bucket in the empty seat next to him and wipes his buttery fingers on the leg of Sam’s jeans. That earns him a punch to the shoulder. Dean just smiles and throws his arm across the back of Sam’s chair, settling in for another hour of mindlessness.
Sam keeps shifting, though, squirming to the right and then down into his seat and then back up again like he can’t make up his mind.
“Dude,” Dean murmurs, bending the arm that’s on Sam’s chair forward until he can tug on Sam’s earlobe. “Sit still.”
Sam just rolls his eyes at him and squirms some more. Asshole.
Dean lets his arm fall from the top of the seat down to the line of Sam’s shoulders, pulling Sam gently towards him with an encouraging squeeze. He can feel Sam tense up, can feel the brief internal hesitation right before he gives in and allows himself to be coaxed into leaning against his big brother in the middle of a movie theater. Dean feels warm all over, like he’s been soaking in a bath for hours, except the comfort he would find in the water’s heat is really the comfort he actually finds in touching his brother, even for a moment. Dean really needs to just focus on the fucking movie.
It’s another ten minutes or so before Sam shifts again. Dean ignores it, lets it happen. Sam’ll settle eventually. Except he moves again, but this time he says something under his breath. A loud explosion shakes the theater at the same time he speaks, so Dean can’t understand it, but he glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye to gauge whether it was meant for him to hear. Sam’s not looking at him though, his gaze locked on the big screen, so Dean brushes it off and goes back to watching the movie.
Sam squirms again.
“Dean.” Sam’s voice is insistent this time, even in a whisper, and Dean realizes that what Sam had said only a moment ago was his name.
“What?” he mutters back, trying to pay attention to the movie instead of the heat of his brother’s shoulders under his arm.
“I–They’re laughing.” The second half of Sam’s sentence is said so softly that all of the Sam-centered alarms in Dean’s body start screaming, tightening his muscles to full alert. His head whips around to look at his brother, his mind frantically scrambling to try and catch up, to figure out what or who has done something despicable enough to make Sam sound like someone just shot his puppy and why he wasn’t aware of it happening.
“Who?” Apparently, Dean says this too loud, because Sam and three other movie-goers all shush him at the exact same time.
After a beat, Sam turns his head into the space between Dean’s shoulder and his chest, his mouth close enough to breathe humid puffs of air against Dean’s shirt. Dean can’t help but stare down at the top of Sam’s head, at the unruly hair nearly tickling his nose. Sam is still a silhouette in the dark, all smudged black, nearly erased from the world if not for the flickering light from the big screen reflecting off of all his curves and angles.
“The guys over there. They’re staring.”
Dean’s eyes slowly drag up from Sam’s head to look further down the row. There’s a group of them, all oily-faced, snot-nosed teenagers with their hands shoved deep into their buckets of popcorn. They’re staring shamelessly, snickering and pointing at him and Sam like they’re a goddamn spectacle in the zoo and not two guys trying to watch a corny action movie. Oh, to be young and have the maturity of a fucking two-year-old.
Schooling his face into his most blank-yet-terrifying expression, Dean holds their gazes while dipping forward to get his mouth closer to Sam’s ear. “You want me to move my arm?”
God, he doesn’t want to move his arm.
It takes a moment for Sam to reply, and in those seconds that Sam fidgets instead of speaks, Dean feels his pulse hike up, nervous energy zipping down his arms. Was Sam that embarrassed by him? That they’re as close as they are? The doubt slams into Dean’s chest in a wave so strong that he’s already begun retracting his arm from around Sam’s shoulders when he feels the hand on his stomach, five long fingers of heat bleeding through his Henley.
“No,” Sam says. It’s mortifying, how that one word leaving Sam’s mouth calmed the storm Dean knows should never have even been brewing in his body and mind. Christ, it’s not that big of a deal, and yet it felt like Sam’s answer to his question was going to be the gavel on the podium, sealing his fate for all eternity. Fuck, he needs to stop. “No, I just… I don’t want them looking at us.”
This kid, Dean fucking swears. Gonna be the death of him, all child-soft voice in a fifteen-year-old body, blunting his edges for only Dean to see in these vulnerable moments. This kid.
“Okay, Sammy,” Dean says. He looks back at the screen for a moment, gears turning. He doesn’t even register that his hand is moving up and down Sam’s arm in slow, reassuring slides until he feels Sam press his arm into Dean’s touch, seeking more. Christ.
“I’ll be right back, all right?” Dean sits forward, taking his arm with him, and he manages to catch a glimpse of Sam’s crestfallen face cast in red as someone dies screaming onscreen. “I’m just getting a refill,” Dean promises, snatching his half-full Coke from the cup holder sitting between them. “I’ll be back, Sammy. Just ignore ‘em.” Sam gives him a shaky nod, eyes flickering briefly to the side where the offending teenagers are now guffawing at whatever gruesome Hollywood gore is being shown.
Dean lets his hand fall onto Sam’s knee for the shortest of seconds to give it a squeeze before standing in a crouch and scooting his way to the end of the row. He’s down the stairs and around the corner in a few leisurely strides. Pushing open the heavy door to the lobby, Dean is bathed in the ugly fluorescent lighting of the concession stand just outside of the theater. There’s just one guy behind the counter now, a bored-looking dude probably around Dean’s age who is playing with the pump on the butter dispenser.
“Hey,” Dean says.
The guy jumps. “Oh. Hey. Hi. Sorry. What can I get for you?”
Dean jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the door he just came out of. “What do you guys do about annoying jerk-offs who won’t shut up during the flicks?”
“Oh, um, well–”
“Because I’m just tryin’ to enjoy my gratuitous violence with my little brother here, man.”
“R-Right,” the guy stammers. “I can come ask them to leave, if you want.”
“That would be awesome.”
“Okay.”
“Row F, three doofus-lookin’ guys at the far end. You’ll know ‘em when you see ‘em.”
The guy nods. Steve, his name tag reads.
“You-You don’t wanna come–?”
“Nah.” Dean leans forward on the counter and tries not to grimace when he feels something sticky squish under his forearm. “I think I’m gonna browse your candy selection here.”
“Okay,” Steve says again. “I’ll be right back, then.”
“Thanks, man.” Dean says it like he means it, and he does.
“Sure thing.” And then he’s gone, disappearing through the doors Dean just came out of.
Whistling under his breath, Dean plays with the lid of his cup as he scans the available candy in the see-through case to his left. He knows what he’s gonna get Sam, but what does he feel like? Maybe some Twizzlers so he can pretend it’s a tongue and stick it in Sam’s ear. That usually gets a laugh out of him. Sometimes Bitchface Number Six, but Sam’s already kinda upset and he won’t get more mad that Dean’s trying to cheer him up. That’s just how they work.
He hums and ha’s over his choices for another minute or two, trying to convince himself he really is just waiting for the guy to get back so he can buy some candy. No other ulterior motive. Nope. Not him. One more minute and he can hear the protests now, shouts of anger growing louder and louder until the double doors burst open and the three fuckhead teens are shuffling through. They’re even uglier in the full light of the lobby, all oversized clothes, yellow teeth and perpetual sneers.
“This your fault?” One of them spits at Dean, his voice an unfortunate, squeaky pitch.
Dean throws on a mask of surprise as he turns around and leans back on the counter, feet crossed at the ankles. “Who, me?”
“Yeah, you, you fuckin’ freak!”
“That’s cute, comin’ from you,” Dean replies easily before catching the panicked eye of the concession guy. He points at the glass. “Can I get this bag of peanut M&M’s please?”
“The fuck you say?” Douchenozzle steps forward, as if he actually thinks he stands a chance.
Dean straightens to his full height and tucks his hands into his pockets, a wicked grin pulling across his face as he shifts into the guy’s personal space. “Is there a problem?”
He watches the blood drain from the guy’s face now that he takes Dean’s whole package into consideration before scoffing and retreating with the rest of his buddies, offering nothing more than some glares over their shoulders as they slam out the front doors of the theater. Smart move on their part, though Dean wouldn’t have minded the sting on his knuckles if that idiot had breathed another word.
Spinning back around on his heel, Dean meanders back to the case holding all of the candies. “Can I get those M&M’s now?”
“Sure, yeah.” Steve nods and pulls them out.
“I’ll take those Sour Skittles too.”
Steve rings him up and Dean walks away with his drink, sans refill, but at least he has some sugary interest and a smile on his face. By the time he gets back to his seat, Dean knows he’s missed out on the best parts of the movie because of the look on Sam’s face. Not a big deal, though. He knows Sam’ll fill him in on the walk home anyway.
Dean’s just settled back into his seat when he feels Sam’s lips brush his ear. “What took you so long?”
Suppressing the shiver that is dying to skitter across his skin, Dean cocks his head to the side and grins as he tosses the bag of peanut M&M’s into Sam’s lap.
“You’re welcome,” Dean whispers.
Sam sees right through him. Dean fuckin’ knows it too, can feel Sam’s gaze penetrating his very soul, stripping him open and reading his insides like the words of his favorite book. He knows that Sam knows what he did, and he also knows that Sam’s not gonna say anything about it because they both know that Dean will deny it in a heartbeat. Sometimes the way they do things hurts Dean’s head.
“Jerk,” Sam finally whispers back, throwing the M&M’s back onto Dean’s thighs. “I know you got me Skittles.”
Christ.
Dean scowls and kicks at Sam’s ankle, so Sam kicks him right back, and they almost start an honest-to-God scuffle right there in the middle of Row F during Alien: Resurrection. But then Sam leans over the armrest, curls his octopus arm around Dean’s side and shoves his goddamn hand into Dean’s back pocket, fingers searching, and Dean nearly goes into cardiac arrest, freezes right up and lets the kid pull the Skittles free from their hiding spot.
“You sat on them!” Sam accuses with a frown, completely oblivious to Dean’s reaction. It’s for the better, Dean decides as he forces himself to relax again.
“Oh, shut up.” Dean is pleased to find his voice is steady. “You only eat half the flavors anyway.”
“Jerk,” Sam says again, and this time the both of them are shushed by their fellow movie-goers. The two of them share a secret smile and sit back to watch what remains of the movie. Dean slings his arm over Sam’s shoulders again and feels warm inside when Sam leans into his chest.
Dean tries not to notice when Sam worms his hand under the armrest and pushes two of his fingers into Dean’s right front pocket, curling them tight, just holding on. It’s just Sam.
And isn’t that the problem.
::
Sam, the bastard, saved most of the Skittles for the walk home so that he could shove as many as possible into his mouth at the same time, chew them into one huge deformed mass, and then show Dean his masterpiece. It was disgusting, quite frankly, and now Dean has the image of what Sam looks like with his tongue fully pushed out of his mouth burned into his skull.
He doesn’t really know what to do with that.
They walk with their arms slung around each other, Sam’s snaking around Dean’s waist, Dean’s across Sam’s shoulders, their steps in sync. Before long, their laughter dies down into companionable silence and it’s just them, the road, and the night sky overhead. Sam is warm against Dean’s body, God, he really is a furnace, and he can see Sam smiling.
Dean smiles too, turning his face into the wind to catch the cool of the breeze against his cheeks. Autumn has always been his favorite season. Just warm enough in the days, just cold enough at night. The smell of leaves as they color and fall from the branches that held them, the sound of them skittering dry across the pavement. How his coffee tastes that much different during those four a.m. wake-ups when he knows he’ll be able to see the colors of fall sweeping past his window. It’s where he feels most at home, in these shaky months before the chill of winter wipes it all away and blankets them with snow. He enjoys it when he can, and right now, with Sam by his side? Dean couldn’t be any happier.
Part of him feels bad about that. Feels bad that he can feel this full, this bright and shiny in his chest, suffocated with too much love, when Dad isn’t around. Because that’s not how it should be. Should be like this when all three of them are on the road and Dad’s playing the music too loud and Sam’s bitching about not being able to concentrate on reading and Dean, well, Dean’ll always be laughing by that point and eating out of whatever crinkly bag of chips is lying open at his feet. Family, spending time together, filling in the holes left behind by their past, their own individual tragedies. That’s where Dean should be his happiest. Right?
But then Sam, always Sam, he’ll do something. Like this, right now, his hand grabbing at Dean’s hip, fingers pushing Dean’s shirt out of the way so they can hook around his belt loop. Sam will do his Sam-thing and that fire in Dean’s chest becomes an inferno, burning everything else out of his veins. And Dean knows that all he needs, all he truly needs, is this. Is Sam.
“Y’know, you always get handsy when you’re sleepy,” Dean comments. He knows Sam can hear the smile in his voice, though. He knows Sam won’t move away.
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam yawns, laying his head on Dean’s shoulder so he can look up at the sky as they walk. “It’s cute how you pretend you hate it.”
All Dean can offer is an offended scoff before falling quiet, Sam’s words bouncing around his head. They’re silent for the rest of the walk, staying wrapped around each other even as they meander down the sidewalk that leads them past door after door of the run-down houses in their neighborhood they now call home. Number 63 slides up to them and fitting the key into the door is the saddest part of the night for Dean, because it means that Sam has to untangle himself so they can both fit through the doorframe.
Their nightly routine unfolds as usual, a dance of one washing their face while the other brushes their teeth before switching places and then heading back to the room to paw through their duffels for their pajamas. Lately, though, Sam’s opted for sleeping in his favorite threadbare briefs and a tank top instead of his sleep shorts and shirt, and the entire concept has sent Dean into a tailspin.
It shouldn’t, he knows it shouldn’t, but it has and it continues to, no matter what he tells himself he should and should not want. His only relief is when Sam slips under the covers of his bed and turns away, the spell breaking.
Dean is fuckin’ miserable.
(Dean would never want to be anywhere but here.)
::
Dean doesn’t mean for it to happen.
Honest.
It’s just that he’s been waiting outside on the front porch for Sam to get home from this lame high school party he somehow got invited to for the past two hours to make sure Sam didn’t O.D. or pass out or something. And when Sam finally appears down the street, an hour after curfew, by the fuckin’ way, he’s apparently so sloshed that he wasn’t able to make it home by himself.
Dean jumps up from where he was leaning on the porch seat, elbows on knees and smoking a cigarette, and blows the last of the smoke from his mouth in a tense huff. Stubbing out the dart—and it’s not a habit, okay, it’s just that sometimes Dean gets fuckin’ stressed out and it helps, that’s all—Dean starts to make his way down the steps to meet Sam and his companions halfway.
“Well, howdy,” Dean says conversationally, hands shoved deep in his pockets to hide the fact that they’re still shaking with leftover anxiousness from his brother being gone this long. “Seems like you gals are carrying a bit of a load there.”
There’s two of them, both significantly shorter than Sam, but they’re managing his weight with their arms around his waist and his arms across their shoulders. The first one, a cute brunette, starts laughing. “He’s not that bad, I don’t think.”
Sam, his eyes lolling closed, lets out a dangerous-sounding burp that seems to make the girl regret her words. Dean quickly takes Sam off their hands, hefting most of Sam’s bulk onto himself as he steadies Sam’s stumbling steps.
“Either of you know how much he had?” Dean asks, his eyes now fixed on Sam’s face. Better to gauge whether or not the kid is about to blow chunks all over Dean’s shoes.
“Dean?” Sam slurs, his eyes unfocused and roaming aimlessly. His hand is groping at the shoulder of Dean’s shirt, fingers restless. God, this kid.
“Yeah, buddy. We’re gonna get you inside, okay?”
Sams nods once, wincing.
The girl speaks up again, drawing Dean’s attention to her. “All I know is that I saw him do two keg stands and then down three quarters of a bottle of peppermint schnapps.”
Oh, this is gonna be a fun night.
“Thanks,” Dean says.
He’s about to turn and head back inside with his dumbass baby brother when he realizes how shittily these girls are dressed for the weather. It’s clear they were ready for a party, both of them in skirts and skimpy shirts and too-tall block heels, and not for the cold walk back.
Taking a deep breath, Dean hitches Sam’s arm more securely over his shoulder. “You girls want to come inside? Call someone to come get you or somethin’?”
They share a quick look, both standing there, shivering in the night wind, before turning back to Dean and nodding in unison. All four of them trudge up the steps and through the front door, though there comes a point where Sam’s legs stop working and Dean just drags him along.
Dean tells the girls where the phone is in the kitchen before excusing himself to put Sam to bed. They make it down the hall and into the bedroom without much fuss. Gently, Dean settles Sam down onto his bed before crouching down on his ankles and wiggling Sam’s knee.
“Hey. Sammer.”
“Mmm,” Sam says, his head nodding down onto his chest. Not helpful.
“Sam. Hey. Eyes on me, man.” Dean lightly taps his fingers against Sam’s cheek. Sam looks up blearily, his gaze fuzzy until it locks onto Dean’s face. A dopey smile spreads across his face and Dean feels one of Sam’s hands pat his hair.
“Heeeeey. Dean. Deano.”
“Hey, kid. So I’m gonna save the ass kickin’ for another day because your hangover tomorrow will be punishment enough, but I need you to not choke on your puke and die in the next, like, five minutes while I make sure your friends get home okay.”
Sam’s face falls, becoming one of slight horror. “Sasha ‘nd Nancy. Ohhh, JesusfuckinChrist, did they walk me back? Oh nooo, ohnoohno.”
“They’re fine, Sam, I just don’t want ‘em walking home this late so they’re getting a ride. I just need to go check on them. I’ll be right back, okay? No dying.” Dean points at Sam to emphasize his last sentence before getting to his feet again.
“No dying,” Sam repeats, his eyes closing, body swaying slightly where he sits. “Okay, Dean. What’ver you say.”
Shaking his head, Dean heads back out to the living room to find both girls on the couch, talking quietly.
“Hey. Sasha and Nancy?” Dean asks, hands back in his pockets.
The one who had spoken earlier smiles. “I’m Sasha. This is Nancy.”
“Thanks for bringing him back. I, uh, told him to let me know if he needed to be picked up, but I guess the schnapps made him forget how to use a phone.”
Nancy giggled a little, and Dean half-smiled. He would be trying harder if his nerves weren’t shot from being so goddamn worried over his brother. Seriously, the one time that Dean tries to let the kid go out and be normal, and Sam scares him shitless. That fucker.
“You guys get a ride?”
“Yeah,” Nancy says. “My brother’s coming to get us. Thanks for letting us use your phone.”
“Hey, no problem.” Dean shrugs. “‘S the least I could do after you girls dragged Sam’s sorry ass home.”
Both of them tittered again.
“We didn’t mind, it’s fine.” Sasha seemed to be blushing a little. “Sam’s a funny one.”
Dean can’t help the narrowing of his eyes for the briefest of moments. He can see that Sasha’s eyes keep flicking to the hall, down where their room is and Sam is hopefully not dying. Immediately, he gets it. This girl’s got a crush on his little brother.
“Um,” Sasha says, breaking Dean’s concentration. “I’m gonna go say bye to Sam before Nancy’s brother gets here, if that’s okay.”
“Uh huh,” Dean manages, stepping aside as Sasha stands and brushes her skirt off before walking down the hall. He watches her back disappear into the dark of the bedroom before a throat being cleared draws his eyes back to the couch where Nancy is still sitting.
"Sam never mentioned he had a brother," she says, her eyes fluttering.
Oh boy. "Yeah, he's kind of like that sometimes." Dean shrugs, what can ya do, and offers a weak smile. "Can I get you anything? Water or somethin'?"
"Oh, no, I'm okay," Nancy replies, but something's changed in her face. It seems, or maybe this is Dean's false hope at work here, that she got the hint of Dean's lack of interest. Not that he has any real reason; Nancy is pretty, with short blonde hair and big eyes and these small hands, but it's just that ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent of Dean's brain is straining to get back into that room with Sam and take care of him and maybe possibly kick Sasha out as fast as he can without seeming like an absolute dick. Oh, and also he's in love with his little brother, but it's not like Nancy's ever gonna find that out, so he lets her believe that he's just playing the hospitable host while they wait for Nancy's brother to arrive.
Nancy fidgets with her skirt for a moment before looking up at Dean. "Can I actually use your washroom before we go?"
"Oh, yeah. First door on your right, down the hall."
"Thanks," she says gratefully, and moves with quick steps out of Dean's sight, the door shutting with a click.
Dean should probably have enough sense to just sit right on down and chill the fuck out, but, well, his brother is loaded drunk alone in a dark room with a girl fifteen feet away from where Dean is standing, so, honestly, no one in their right minds should've expected him to do anything but start to creep down the hall as quiet as he can. So he does just that, slipping by the washroom where he can hear Nancy gagging into the toilet to stand at the doorframe leading into their bedroom. The door is half shut, but Dean can hear low voices, soft laughter, the slight creak of Sam's mattress.
Turn around, Dean tells himself. Just turn the fuck around.
Instead, he leans forward until he can see Sam and Sasha, both sitting on the edge of the bed. They're kissing, Sam's hand clumsily tangling in Sasha's hair, Sasha's hand resting on Sam's thigh as she tilts into him, and Dean's heart is in his throat. He feels like he's just swallowed a hundred knives and his chest aches with this dark hole that's suddenly sucked all the air out of his lungs, but still he stands there, watching as Sam and Sasha pull back to laugh again before their lips find one another again. It's dim, the lighting, but Dean can still make out the wet flash of tongue dancing out of Sam's mouth and into Sasha's. He can definitely hear the moan that leaves both of them, too.
Dean steps back. His heart is hammering against his ribs and his cheeks feel tight and hot. Bracing one hand against the wall, Dean puts all of his energy in turning his body around to walk back to the living room. His joints feel like they're on fire when they lower him to the couch and his head is pounding. Jealousy, his heart hisses in a sickening beat, jealousy, jealousy, jealousy.
Shut up, shut up, shut up.
Should Dean feel like he's about to die? Christ, no.
He does anyway.
Nancy emerges a few minutes later just as headlights flash through the front windows as her brother pulls into Dean and Sam's driveway. Standing up to get the front door, he hears Nancy call Sasha's name before moving past him to get into the car.
"It was nice meeting you!" Nancy calls just before sliding into the front seat. Dean waves at both her and her brother and closes the door to wait for Sasha.
Sasha comes down the hall a couple minutes later, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. Dean can't keep his eyes off of her mouth, which is red and used and swollen and is probably thanking him or something. His brain is short-circuiting, every word in his head centered around how those lips were just on his brother's, are still wet from his brother's spit, and suddenly, he can't control himself.
Dean closes the space between them in a heartbeat and his hands are in Sasha's hair before he can even think to stop. The angle is harsh but Dean goes for it anyway, ducking down to slam his mouth against Sasha's hard enough that their teeth click together. He can feel her noise of surprise, can feel her tense up, but one slide of his tongue against the seam of her lips and she softens in his hands like putty.
He licks into her mouth like he's being paid to, urges her mouth wider with his lips and crushes their bodies together in an effort to get her that much closer. Dean can feel the weak hold she has on the front of his shirt, like she's just trying to hang on for dear life, not knowing at all what's happening except that it feels too good to say no. He didn't mean for this to happen, was just gonna let her step out of their house and out of their lives no problem, but something in him hadn't let it be that easy. Because he knows the effect he has on women, sees it in their eyes, in their body, and knows that it'll be a cold day in hell when one of them says no to anything he has to offer.
And here Sasha is, opening herself up to him, a perfect stranger who has darker motives than she could ever begin to fathom. Because right now, the thing Dean is seeking, is craving so desperately that he's running his tongue along the backs of her teeth, is the taste of his brother. Sam is here, somewhere, a layer in this girl's mouth, and Dean means to take it. He's going to suck her dry if it means having his brother on his tongue, even if it is second-hand at best. Because something is better than nothing, and Dean's only human, can only take so much yearning and denying before something in him shatters.
So he bites on Sasha's lips, licks them open and raw, sucks on her tongue hard enough that she whines, and gets every inch of the roof of her mouth imprinted on his tastebuds. He's rewarded; the taste of peppermint schnapps and beer is prevalent, and Dean knows, knows, that it's Sam. That he now has Sam inside of him, lining his cheeks and slipping into his throat. Dean feels like he's high, floating on a cloud of disbelief and elation. He could live on it, this cloud, could just build his own goddamn home and stay there the rest of his life with this taste on his tongue, except that Sasha is pushing him away with her hands on his chest and reality comes flooding back.
"Oh my god," she gasps, blinking rapidly up at him. "I - I -"
"Sorry." It leaves Dean in a rush. His chest is heaving too, his nerves tingling as he unlocks his grip on her head and steps back from her. "I - Sorry."
Flustered, Sasha rakes her hands through her hair in a poor attempt to tame the strands back to normalcy. She laughs a little, barely meeting Dean's eye. "Is this how you thank all the girls that bring your brother back from parties?"
Dean swallows. Sam. That's Sam sliding down his throat right now. Dean's entire body is on fire.
"Only the pretty ones."
Only the ones that lick the taste of my little brother into my mouth.
Sasha blushes harder. There's two honks of a horn from outside joined by faint yelling. Sasha jumps slightly before stumbling out something about needing to go. She sweeps by Dean with only a quiet, "Thanks," before the door opens and shuts behind her.
Dean is left standing there alone in the living room with a shaking heart and trembling hands and need in his soul. What is he supposed to do now that he knows what Sam's mouth tastes like? Now that he's been given a bite of the forbidden fruit and been overtaken by its taste? Now that he's punched his own ticket straight to goddamn hell?
Dean does what he's always done. Dean gets his shit together, goes, and takes care of his little brother
::
Sam puked on him twice as Dean helped him get ready for bed.
Dean's still in love with him.
::
Dean goes to bed hating himself. Dean wakes up hating himself even more. None of that changes the fact that he can still taste peppermint schnapps on his tongue.
(He's never brushing his teeth again.)
::
Dad comes to get them a week later. They're packed and ready in no time, because even though they were in that house for nearly a month, he and Sam never truly unpacked. They know what's temporary, what not to hook themselves into. It only makes it more painful when they're wrenched away.
This drive promises to be a long one. Dad's asked Dean to take over the first shift of driving since he hasn't slept in the past thirty-six hours, and Sam moves all of his books 'n things up to the passenger seat without missing a beat. It makes Dean warm inside. He doesn't want to think about it. (He does anyway.)
By the time they're on the interstate, Dad is passed out in the backseat, arms crossed and mouth hanging open wide enough to catch flies. Sam asks Dean if they can try shooting Skittles into his mouth, three points if they make it. Dean barely resists saying no.
They cross the state border in another hour, and by then, Sam's made himself a home against the passenger door with a blanket tucked against his side and a pillow he stole from a motel two towns ago behind his head. He's sitting facing Dean, a book in his hands and his legs draped over Dean's lap. Dean can feel the movement of Sam's heels wiggling against his thighs, can see out of the bottom of his eyes that Sam's toes are wiggling too. It's such a stupidly young gesture that Dean's struck momentarily with the feeling of his chest being folded in on itself like origami, like God is trying to see just how small he can compress Dean's body without him dying.
There's too much love in his bones and it's leaking out of his marrow and into his veins. It's flooding Dean's nose and eyes and ears and hands, and he's drowning. Drowning in Sam, drowning in how wrong it is that he can be so in love with the human he raised out of the ashes and into this world. Drowning in how unfair it is, in how much it hurts that the most he can ever do is settle for brief touches and hugs that will never be able to transfer these feelings over to his other half. Because even if Sam doesn't see Dean as his other half, Dean knows that there's no one else on earth that could ever own so much of him than his little brother.
The most Dean can ever do is reach down and grab Sam's toes and make him laugh and thrash around because his feet are the most ticklish parts of his body and yet he presents himself to Dean like this all the time, like he doesn't mind if it's Dean administering the torture because it's Dean, and this is probably all wrong and all in Dean's head, but the thoughts are nice anyway.
God, Dean loves Sam. Loves him more than the moon loves the stars and the sun loves the earth.
(Shame that the only person who's ever really gonna know that is him.)
Dean reaches down and grabs Sam's toes.
(That's okay. Dean will take what he can get.)