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The first time Sam notices that Dean’s being weird is a few weeks after Dean picks him up at Stanford. A few weeks after Jess. It’s not that Dean’s being weird weird. He’s just…different in some ways than Sam remembers. Maybe it’s because they’ve both grown up some over the last few years. Sam’s hormones have evened out, even though he still feels restless and his blood is quick to rise when it’s been just him and Dean in the car together for hours, the scents and sounds and the way Dean’s hair shines in the stupid sun finally getting under Sam’s skin enough to make him irritable. Dean, as perpetually adolescent as ever, still seems…older. He’s a little more thoughtful, a little bit less quick on the draw. And he’s surprisingly sensitive about Jess.
But he’s still Sam’s brother. And Sam knows him better than anyone.
Which is why he notices when Dean is being…weird.
Weird as in the A/C in their crappy motel room breaks and Dean sleeps in the black t-shirt he’s been wearing to bed ever since Sam came back on the road with him, even when it’s a million degrees and Sam’s long since tossed his. Growing up, Dean would sleep in just his boxers half the time, warm weather or no. So maybe he just likes sleeping in a t-shirt now. But still, kinda weird.
The next time is when they have an unexpectedly free afternoon and their motel actually has a pool. It’s Texas in November and the pool’s not heated but it still feels blissful on Sam’s skin, wearing the athletic shorts he usually reserves for laundry day. But Dean doesn’t join him, just sits on side in a sun-faded lounger and reads a car magazine. Even when Sam splashes him a little from the deep end, he doesn’t take the bait. Sam swims alone. Weird.
The third time is right after the thing with the creepy town and the evil scarecrow. Sam had felt jittery and off the second he walked away from the Impala and Dean, and coming back to rescue his big brother had allowed him to take a full breath for the first time since he left. They might have different ideas about what course of action to take, but Sam knows now that they need to stick together no matter what. He just doesn’t feel right without his brother by his side anymore. He guesses he never did.
They make it out of there, don’t stop driving until dawn. Dean finally pulls over at a deserted rest stop, and that’s when Sam notices he’s got his hand clutched protectively over his ribs on the right side.
“You okay?”
“I think I bruised a rib,” Dean says. “Fucking scarecrow.”
“Let me see,” Sam says immediately.
“What? No.” Dean keeps his hand over the area.
“It might be broken. Let me take a look.”
“It’s fine, Sam.”
Sam glares at his brother. He wants to shake Dean and yell at him for being a stubborn asshole. He wants to press him against the Impala’s vinyl and kiss him breathless. He wants to make sure Dean don’t have internal bleeding. But all those desires fall away when something he’s been working on subconsciously clicks into place. In all the weeks and months they’ve been back together, he hasn’t once seen Dean without a shirt on. He literally bites his tongue, tasting metal, before asking the question out loud. He might want to know why—but asking would be too revealing. He doesn’t want Dean to start thinking about why Sam would clock something like that.
So he keeps quiet. Is it all just a coincidence or is there something Dean’s trying to hide from him? A scar, maybe? Did he get into trouble on a hunt while Sam was at school and he was maybe disfigured in some way? Does he not want Sam to know?
Or worse—does it have something to do with Sam? The way he can’t help smiling at Dean’s stupid jokes or the way sometimes Dean’s eyes are so green Sam gets a little hypnotized by them or the way it’s hard to think about hooking up with one of the random barflies Dean’s always pushing him toward and it’s not because of Jess. Well, not only because of Jess.
Maybe Dean knows and he thinks it’s safer for him to stay clothed, like a Victorian-era virgin.
Sam swallows against a wash of bile hitting the back of his throat. He mentally talks himself down. Dean doesn’t know because there’s nothing to know. And if he did think he knew something about what Sam thinks about sometimes in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep and Dean’s even breaths and the curve of Dean’s hip in the dark are the only things keeping him sane, well. He wouldn’t just cling to his t-shirt. He’d ditch Sam so fast the Impala’s tires would leave marks on the pavement.
No, that can’t be the reason. A scar is probably all it is. Some time when Dad used Dean for bait and he got hurt and Dean doesn’t want Sam to know and get mad about it. Yeah. That makes sense.
But Sam still wants to see.
Okay, he's a little weird, too.
***
He has his chance a week later. They’d caught a case—missing children, the worst—and tracked the rawhead to a house on the edge of town. Sam gets the kids out, tells them to stay put by the Impala, and he goes back for Dean. Sam thinks he’s dead for one terrifying second, before he scoops his brother up in his arms. He doesn’t remember hauling him up the stairs or out of the house but suddenly he’s on the phone with the 911 operator and Dean’s eyes are closed and his breathing is shallow and Sam—Sam’s checking him all over for injuries. There’s no blood, but Dean’s mouth is tinged blue. Almost without thinking about it—almost—he shoves Dean’s shirts up, his fingers dancing along Dean’s skin. His intact skin. There are no wounds. No raised, healed scars, either. He glances down and thinks he sees a dark, curved line on Dean’s right side, but then the sirens are there, and the lights, and he forces himself to let the paramedics take charge.
Dean wakes up, but he’s not well. He looks like death warmed over. Sam wants to scoop him up in his arms again and take him away from the hospital, this place of fluorescent lights and doctors who say idiotic things like “a few weeks to live.”
Dean isn’t dying.
Sam won’t let him.
When Dean shows up at the motel drowning in Sam’s hoodie, Sam wants to cry. But he doesn’t because he has work to do. He’s going to save his brother, even if Dean doesn’t believe him.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Dean says when the TV show he’s watching goes to the credits.
“I’ll help you,” Sam says instantly.
Dean rolls his bloodshot eyes. “I’m not dead yet, Sammy. I can handle a shower.” But once he’s put his legs over the side of the bed, he stops, as if gathering strength to merely stand up.
“Humor me, okay?” Sam grips Dean tight, walks him the few feet to the bathroom, flips on the water in the shower.
Dean unzips the hoodie and Sam holds his hand out to take it. Dean hands it over grudgingly. “Okay, I got it from here.”
Sam’s patience snaps. “You know, I’ll see whatever it is you don’t want me to see when you’re dead, anyway. So it doesn’t really matter if you show me now.”
“Excuse me?” Dean’s face goes even paler.
“Just, you know,” Sam says, instantly backpedaling. He hadn’t meant to be so harsh. “Whatever it is, it’s not a big deal.” Sam hopes Dean doesn’t think too hard about the idea of Sam stripping him after he’s dead.
There’s a long moment where the only sound is the tepid flow of the shower. Maybe Sam’s gone too far. Maybe Dean really does know and he actually hates him. Sam wouldn’t even blame him.
Finally, Dean speaks. “Come on, Sammy. You’re letting the water get cold,” Dean complains with as much gruffness as he can muster.
“You’re letting the water get cold. Let me help you.”
“You want to take my clothes off?”
“I want to make sure you don’t kill yourself in the next ten minutes.” Dean taking his clothes off is a bonus.
“I—” Dean sways on his feet and closes his eyes and Sam grabs his arm again to steady him.
“Maybe the shower should wait,” Sam says. He pulls Dean back into the bedroom, sits him on the bed, then goes back to turn off the water.
When he turns back to the room, Dean’s laid himself back against the pillows, skin gray.
He walks over to the bed. “Please don’t touch me, Sam,” Dean says dully.
Sam doesn’t, just drapes the hoodie over Dean’s chest.
“Sorry,” he says, apologizing for nothing and everything at the same time. Dean doesn’t respond.
***
Sam doesn’t let Dean die. He’s not going to think too hard about who else had to die to make that possible. Instead, they move on. He’s torn between delight and jealousy at meeting Dean’s ex. She’s pretty, of course, but the fact that she’s whip smart has him a little flummoxed. Not that Dean doesn’t deserve someone smart. It’s just…confusing.
It’s also confusing when Cassie gives him a strange, inscrutable look when they meet. She glances between him and Dean and she and Dean exchange a look that Sam can’t read. He wonders if Dean talked about him to her. He wonders what he might have said to make Cassie look at him with big, speculative eyes.
And he pretends it doesn’t bother him when Dean spends hours over at Cassie’s while Sam’s researching on his own.
But then they’re solving the case and defeating one of the strangest spirits Sam can remember hearing about. And he might hold his breath a little while Dean says goodbye to Cassie, but say goodbye he does.
***
It’s laundry day, thirty-six hours after Dean rescued Sam from those human-hunting freaks. To say he’s been hovering over Sam ever since is an understatement, but Sam guesses he understands. He’s feeding quarters into the dryer and staring out the window at the tattoo parlor across the street when it clicks.
“You got a tattoo?” he asks his brother, who’s loading the machine next to him.
Dean stiffens and scoffs. “What?”
“You got a tattoo,” Sam repeats. It’s the only thing that makes sense and Sam’s an idiot for not thinking of it earlier. “And you don’t want me to see it.” He thinks back to the day Dean got zapped. He’d been practically out of his mind with fear and worry, but he still remembers seeing a curved line on Dean’s side. It must have been part of a tattoo. Someone’s name, maybe? “Cassie?” he guesses out loud. It churns his stomach to think that Dean was so gone for her he’d get her name inked on his skin. But then again, she had her chance. Sam’s the one by his side now.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean says, slamming the dryer door shut with a bang.
“Come on, it’s not a big deal,” Sam argues. “Just because Dad said he’d kill us if we ever—”
“Drop it, Sam.” Dean stalks over to the soda machine and stares at it like he can make a soda drop down with the power of his mind.
Sam should drop it. So Dean got some girl’s name tattooed on him. Why should Sam care?
“Did it hurt?” he asks.
Dean’s still glaring at the soda machine. “It hurt a little,” he mumbles.
Sam takes some of his leftover laundry quarters and walks over to the machine, feeds them in and punches the number-letter combo for a Coke. When it drops into the slot, he picks it up and hands it to his brother.
Dean takes it, doesn’t open it.
“Who did it?” Sam asks. It’s just information. Just casual. He’s not asking to see it. Not yet.
“This bad-ass chick in Rochester.” Dean smiles a little at something. A memory.
Sam huffs a laugh. “You slept with her.”
“Hey—she came on to me,” Dean says. “Still charged me two hundred bucks.”
Dean grins and cracks the can of Coke open and Sam watches his brother’s throat work as he takes a sip. He’s not so sure any more that Dean got a girl’s name tattooed on him. He’d give almost anything to know. But he realizes that Dean’s got to be the one to show him.
So he just…lets it go. Buys himself a Coke and waits for the laundry to dry.
***
A few days later, Dad’s there. And then he’s gone. Sam’s face is slashed to hell. Dean’s banged up, too, but it’s him carefully cleaning Sam’s cheek in the gas station bathroom.
“Shallower than it looks. I’ve got some butterfly bandages in here,” Dean says, rummaging around in the first aid kit.
Sam exhales, relieved not to have to endure stitches on his face. “Thanks.” He stands still, hunched over, like a good boy, while Dean carefully affixes the bandages. His face throbs, but he’ll live. “I could use a drink.” It’s not his normal coping mechanism, but seeing Dad and dealing with Meg and having Dean’s mouth three inches from his makes numb seem like the best option.
“Got you covered there, too,” Dean says, patting his pocket. His ring makes a dull clink against whatever bottle he’s got stashed there. “But maybe we should put a few more miles on the odometer first.”
Sam’s tired. He aches, outside and in. Dean smooths the last of the bandages over the claw marks on his cheek. There’s dried blood on Dean’s temple, blood on his shirt. “You should clean up,” Sam says, wetting a clump of paper towels and handing them to Dean, who dabs at his face futilely. “Here,” he take the wad back, gently cleans the blood from his brother’s face. They’re close again. He’s trembly from the fading adrenaline. From holding himself back.
“Sam.” Dean’s voice is surprisingly soft in the small space.
“Yeah?”
“That’s what got.”
Sam doesn’t understand. Dean’s face is inches from his and weirdly blank. “You got Sam?” he says, feeling stupid.
“My tattoo. Sam.”
Dean keeps saying his name and Sam keeps not understanding until he does.
“Show me.”
Without a fight, Dean lifts his shirts. Sam sees exposed skin, creamy with a few freckles, the edge of a pink nipple. And then, directly below Dean’s right armpit, over his ribs, in flowing script three letters. Sam. The tattoo is about the size of a large bandaid. Maybe Dean figured he could cover it up if he ever had to.
Sam has questions. A lot of questions. So many questions he can’t formulate any single one. Instead, he just lifts his index finger and traces the letters lightly. Dean lets him, just holds still and lets Sam touch him, feather-light.
He does it a second time, a little harder, writing his name on Dean’s skin, and Dean shudders all over. Sam makes a decision.
“We’re not doing this here,” he declares, stepping away from Dean, who drops his shirts back down. “Get your stuff.”
They pick up the first aid kit, hightail it to the car. Dean drives. Sam hopes he has some destination in mind. He’s not even sure what direction they’re going in.
Finally, after what feels like hours, but is only forty minutes by Sam’s watch, they pull into a Knight’s Inn. He waits in the car while Dean gets a room. They grab their stuff and go inside room seven.
Once inside, they drop their stuff and look at each other. Sam’s been puzzling it out on the drive. He thinks he knows what it means. But he’s been wrong before.
“You want that drink now?” Dean asks. He seems…jittery. Like he’s waiting for Sam to take a swing. Or waiting for Sam to—
“In a minute.”
Dean takes the bottle out of his pocket, unscrews the cap, and takes a swig.
“Can I see it again?”
Dean hesitates, then shrugs. He puts the bottle down, removes his jacket, then his flannel, then his t-shirt. Sam drinks in the sight of his brother’s naked top half. He’s got a bruise on his chest from their run-in with the Daeva, a bit of a farmer’s tan. And Sam’s name tattooed on his side.
Sam doesn’t know what to say, and Dean doesn’t look like he’s full of words, either. But there’s something he can do. He takes off his jacket, then his button down, then his shirt. Dean’s eyes are unreadable and dark, watching him. When he goes for his belt, Dean bites his lip. Sam unbuckles, unbuttons, unzips. His cock is half thick in his boxers, thinking that undressing in front of Dean means they’re getting lucky. Too soon to tell, buddy Sam would say, if he was the kind of person who talked to his dick. He doesn’t push everything down, just his jeans and his boxers a little, on the left side. He exposes a few inches of his hip.
“Here’s mine,” Sam says. Dean’s gaze zeros in on the ink. Four letters, in block print. Dean.
“When?” Dean rasps.
“A while ago.” It had been at Stanford, of course, when Sam missed Dean like a free diver missed air.
“Why?”
“Why’d you get yours?”
“I asked you first,” Dean mumbles.
“You know why,” Sam says calmly. And then he walks up to his brother, puts his hands on Dean’s jaw, and kisses him, hot and messy and wet because if it’s the only time then Sam’s going to do it right. Dean opens his mouth to him and Sam’s cock goes to full mast and suddenly he’s making out with his brother and it feels like heaven on earth.
***
“You thought I had a horrible disfiguring scar?” Dean chuckles, lying on his side in the bed.
“I don’t know—maybe,” Sam says, laughing a little, too. “You were being weird. What was I supposed to think?”
They’re facing each other, propped up on their elbows. Sometime in the last frantic hour, Dean left a hickey on Sam’s tattoo. Sam, in retaliation, did the same to Dean’s. They also made each other come. Twice.
Sam doesn’t need Dean to tell him why he got the tattoo, because he knows. They were apart, and it’s not their natural state. They needed something to fill the void—a promise, perhaps, that one day they’d be with each other again.
It doesn’t matter why. It only matters that they’re together now. Together forever. It’s a childish thought, but it fits.
Dean puts his hand over Sam’s hip, the one branded with his name. He noses along Sam’s neck, kisses him under his jaw. They’re touching the way brothers shouldn’t touch. They’re completely naked. Sam’s about to suggest taking a shower together.
And it isn’t weird at all.
End