Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/117474.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-09-16 Words: 9375
****** As Incidental As Blood ******
by Moorishflower
Summary
     There have been a series of events that have led to this point in
     Sam's life: death, betrayal, lies. So many lies. But it doesn't
     matter, because he has Dean. Warning: Brief, non-explicit mention of
     underage sexuality.

Sam isn't sure what's more interesting: the fact that he and his brother are
sleeping together, or the fact that it's never really registered as being
wrong.
Back up - there's more to it than just two brothers (and yeah, the "brother"
part of that equation is important) falling into bed together. It's not like it
happened overnight. Or, you know, out of nowhere. There's been a long series of
events (some of them awful and traumatic and some of them…less so) that's led
to where Sam and Dean are now.
Sometimes, Sam thinks about them.
~
Sam learns that he's supposed to have a mother at the age of six. No one points
it out to him - he's observant enough, even at that age, to realize that there
are two types of kids at his elementary school: the kinds that have both
parents come to pick them up (sometimes alternating by day), and the kinds that
only have one parent come to pick them up. And Sam and Dean fall into this
latter category.
"Why don't we have a mom?" he asks, while they're waiting for their Dad to come
and get them. Dean's expression becomes pinched and wary. He's wearing an old
jacket that's about five times too big for him, but they'd found it at the
Salvation Army for like, ten dollars, and Dad says that having a good jacket is
important (it has to be thick enough to help deflect knives or to absorb some
of the force of a blunt object, but not so thick that it inhibits movement).
"Mom died." Dean's voice is short, carefully uninterested. "When you were a
baby."
"But why don't we have another mom?"
Dean turns to look at him, incredulous. Scathing, maybe. "Where the hell would
we get another mom, Sammy?" A group of older kids, standing nearby and waiting
for their bus, immediately bursts into a chorus of appreciative "oh"s upon
hearing Dean swear. Dean throws his shoulders back, standing a little taller.
Sam shrugs. "I dunno. Ryan Berkey has another mom. And another dad, too."
"That's 'cause his parents didn't die, they split up and got married again."
Sam scuffs his foot against the ground, frowning. "Why doesn't Dad do that?"
"Because he doesn't. Don't ask stupid questions."
Sam glances up through his bangs; he can hear the Impala's rumbling engine
coming closer, it and their father ready to take them back to the motel room
they're staying in for the next three weeks. Someday, Dean has said, he's going
to have that car, and he'll take care of it, and he'll drive Sam to school in
it, and even drive him home again. The implication is that, at some point,
they'll have more than a motor lodge to go back to, that they'll have beds of
their own, and a bathroom, and a kitchen. And Dean will make macaroni and
cheese for dinner every night, and Dad will say that he's proud of them, and…
"I'll make you a deal," Dean says as they both watch the Impala pull up to the
curb, behind the long line of buses. Dad motions for them to get in, and Dean
picks up his backpack and hauls it over his shoulder. Sam's is much smaller,
but no less heavy - not with schoolwork, but with a pouch of salt, a leather
bag og herbs and bones, small pieces of silver and bronze (in case Sam needs to
throw something), a copy of the Roman Ritual, and a butterfly knife carefully
hidden in a secret pocket that Sam had sewn himself. He isn't sure why he needs
all these things, but he knows that, if he doesn't have all of them, with him
at all times, that Dad gets upset.
"What kind of deal?" Sam is understandably wary. Sometimes, Dean's deals aren't
entirely fair…like the time that he promised to make Sam his favorite sandwich
(grilled cheese and hot sauce, but Dean will never tell Sam what kind) if Sam
did his math homework, and then Sam had ended up sharing half his sandwich
anyways because they only had enough bread for one.
Dean shifts, trying to adjust the strap of his backpack without setting it
down, without pausing on their way to the car. "You don't have to have a mom.
Okay? Forget Ryan Berkey."
"But - "
"Man, screw that kid! You don't need a mom 'cause you've got me, okay? I'll
take care of you, Sammy. Always."
Sam wrinkles his nose as Dean pulls open the passenger side door. Dad has a can
of Coke and a can of Schweppes ginger ale held between his knees - he offers
the Coke to Dean as he climbs into the front seat. "So you're…like a mom?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "No, Sam. I'm like your brother. Stupid."
"Don't call your brother stupid," Dad chastises. "What's this about your mom?"
"Nothing, Dad," they chorus. Sam climbs into the back seat, setting his own
backpack next to him, and reaches for the can of ginger ale that Dad passes
back.
In the rearview mirror, Dean winks at him, and Sam feels a little bit better.
~
When Sam is ten, he learns that there's a monster under his bed.
Literally.
The Kindestod is the sort of monster you don't find in neatly labeled
manuscripts from the sixteenth century. It doesn't have a picture of it to go
with its stark and frightening name. Killer of children, Dad says. Crib death.
Fever-bringer. It's been called all these things, and more, and Dad has no idea
how to hunt one because grown-ups can't see it. It passes over them, invisible,
intangible, and latches onto their children, and it sucks their souls out with
its eyes, like huge leeches that have somehow grown from its skull. It's made
of delirium and heat, and Dad doesn't know how to kill it, because no hunter
has ever seen one. You can't hunt something if you can't see it.
"Then let us kill it," Dean says. Dean is fourteen and beautiful in ways that
Sam can't articulate, not just yet, and he's Sam's big brother, which makes him
perfect in almost every way. Sometimes he's annoying, sure, and sometimes Sam
doesn't want anything to do with him…but he's still his brother, and Sam loves
him. "We can see it. All we have to do is let it get us sick, right? And then
we can gank it!"
And their Dad isn't happy, obviously, and he says no. A thousand times "no". He
won't let his kids be put in harms way, not with this thing. Not with this
soul-eating child-murderer.
But, "It's not like we have a choice," Sam points out. He's old enough to
realize that. He and Dean are kids, but they're not like other kids. Other kids
don't have to fight monsters.
Which is how Sam ends up, lying in bed with a fever, while Dean stands over
him, warily brandishing a knife, and their father sleeps (too deeply to be
natural) in the other bed.
"Can you see it?"
Sam tries to keep his eyes open - it isn't easy. He doesn't know how high his
fever is, but he thinks he could probably fry an egg on his forehead if he
wanted to. His mouth feels gummy and dry. His skin itches, but he can't tell
where. It's an all-over itch, but he can't life his arms to scratch it.
"I'm thirsty," he croaks. Dean slashes at the air, slashes at nothing. That
isn't where the monster is. Sam can see it. Dean had said "let me be the one
who gets sick, let me fight it", but they've all seen what the fever does, and
the kids who had been afflicted had barely been able to lift their hands, let
alone defend themselves.
When Sam had offered (even though this isn't what he wants to do with his
life), Dean had had no choice but to accept.
"It's right there." Dean glances at him, at the tilt of his head and the
direction of his gaze, and then he quickly returns his attention to the knife,
to the invisible beast that's leaning over Sam on his right side.
"It's right there," Sam whispers again. "Dean, please."
Dean stabs.
Blindly, wildly, and Sam sees the arc of the knife's blade, glinting briefly in
the moonlight streaming through their open window. He sees it almost in slow
motion, leaving behind vapor trails, and then the moon-bright shine of it
disappears as it plunges into the Kindestod's arm. The thing shrieks; Sam
echoes the sound as a low, long whine, and Dean pulls his arm back, the knife
sticking, catching, and then he plunges it down again, and again, missing the
arm as the Kindestod turns to face this new threat, finding the monster's cheat
instead.
The knife is silver. Blessed by a priest that Dad knows, and, supposedly,
forged and then cooled in a bucket of holy water. Sam doesn't know how true any
of that is, or whether it's just a regular old knife with silver-plating, but
he knows that the Kindestod doesn't like it. It screams again, stumbling weakly
backwards and pulling the knife from Dean's graps. It remains lodged almost
exactly in the center of its chest, and Sam wonders if Dean can see it,
hovering there, stuck in nothing, or if the knife is now as invisible to the
healthy eye as the beast itself.
In the next bed over, their Dad grunts, and then makes a half-aborted gesture,
like he's trying to wake up. Sam feels like he needs to puke, to shiver and
sweat and cry, but he can't look away. Dean curls a protective arm around his
shoulders, his eyes focused on the spot where the Kindestod has fallen, its
eyes wriggling and squirming out of its sockets, flailing like arms. As if they
would separate themselves from that awful body, if they could.
"I think it's dead." Sam takes a fistful of Dean's shirtsleeve in his hand,
clutches at it as his brother leans down and presses a soft kiss to the crown
of Sam's head. He appreciates the gesture more than he's willing to admit to,
because…liking it when your parents or your brother kisses you is for little
kids, isn't it? And yet he doesn't want it to stop.
"It's dead," Sam agrees. The body is twitching, but it doesn't look like it's
going to be getting up and moving any time soon. Sam turns his head against
Dean's chest as their Dad makes another soft noise, and then sits abruptly up,
like someone had just pinched him.
"Sam," he says immediately, "Dean?" And then he glances around the room, and
sighs with obvious relief. "Christ, you two. What happened?"
"Dean killed the monster," Sam says promptly.
But what he should really be saying is "Dean killed the monster for me".
~
Dean clears his throat and looks uncomfortable. He scuffs the toe of his boot
against the carpet, drawing abstract patterns in the thick shag, and then
smoothing them over again. Dad is out gathering information on a hunt, and Sam
and Dean have been left in the motel room. Sam has homework he should be doing
(not that it matters, because he'll be transferring to a different school in
about three weeks anyways), and Dean could be oiling the shotguns, or packing
shells with rock salt, or even sharpening knives.
Instead, Sam is asking questions, and Dean is trying to avoid answering them.
"It's, uh," he says, and then glances down at his feet, at the patterns he's
making. He pauses, and then seems to make the conscious decision to stop. Dean
is seventeen, almost a grown-up, and he should be used to dealing with just
about everything…yet Sam has never seen him more uncomfortable than he is now.
"Well, it's…something that grown-ups do, Sammy. A lot."
Sam frowns. "But Eric in my English class says he does it all the time, and
he's a year younger than me."
"Look," Dean says, and then grabs hold of Sam's arm, pulls him over to the bed
that they share. They drop down at the same time; Dean is a solid line of heat
against Sam's side. He wiggles closer - it's cold outside, almost December, and
the motel's heating is…finicky, to say the least. Sam dreads the idea of being
caught out in the Minnesota winter, but as long as he stays inside, things will
be…not "all right", but warmer.
"First of all," Dean says, "don't get it into your head that you need some
fancy fucking name for it. Just call it 'jerking off'. And second, you
should…aren't they teaching you this shit in school? Why are you asking me?"
"Because you're my brother," Sam says. It doesn't get much simpler than that.
Dean huffs, and then drags his hand back through Sam's hair, ruffling it. Sam
hates when he does that - he isn't a little kid anymore - and he makes a noise
of protest and swats ineffectually at Dean's hand.
"Okay, tell you what, kiddo. There's no way in hell I'm gonna explain this
stuff to you. But I can introduce you to someone who can."
Dean reaches around Sam, for the nightstand beside the bed. Sam never keeps any
of his things in the drawers or cupboards that motels provide them with - they
move around too often, and Sam finds it easier to keep all of his things
packed, just in case they need to leave quickly. Dean, on the other hand, makes
full use of whatever they find, wherever they find it. He pulls open the drawer
of the nightstand, rummaging around in it, moving aside a Gideon Bible and
then, with a softly triumphant noise, he pulls out a crinkled magazine, holding
it up and displaying the front cover.
Busty Asian Beauties, the title blares. Holiday Edition! The woman posing on
the cover is long and lean and pale, her hair is dark and it falls in smooth
ringlets, spilling over her shoulders like a waterfall of ink. She has makeup
accentuating her eyes, making her gaze seem brighter, and she's wearing pink
lipstick that draws attention to the shape of her mouth, the almost perfectly
symmetrical curve of her lower lip. She's dressed in a red satin negligee with
white fur trim, and her earrings are tiny, gold bells. She's beautiful. Sam
would be an idiot to deny that - and he's thirteen, not stupid, no matter what
Dean says, sometimes. She's probably the most beautiful girl he's ever seen.
But he just isn't sure what he's supposed to do with her, or with the magazine
in general. And Dean looks so earnest, and he's so warm. He smells like leather
and gun oil, and it's cold outside. Freezing.
Sam loves his brother. He loves Dean more than he thinks he has words to even
express it, and he knows that Dean loves him just as fiercely.
Except Dean is sitting there, looking like he's expecting something, and Sam
doesn't know how to say "I would rather just sit here and look at you."
"So you…take that," Dean says, and then gestures extravagantly towards the
tiny, dim-lit bathroom. The tiles are a sickly yellow-green, too pale to be
considered cheery and too substantial to ever be mistaken for any shade of
white or grey. Sam knows for a fact that the water pressure is terrible and
that the sink smells strongly of ammonia. As far as motel bathrooms go, it's
not the worst, but it's also not a place that Sam feels comfortable being naked
in for extended amounts of time. "And, uh. Just do whatever comes naturally.
Oh." Dean's expression brightens, and for a second Sam thinks that maybe he's
just had some sort of…some sort of epiphany. Maybe he'll show Sam what to do,
instead of just letting him flounder around in the dark with a confusing
magazine (that Sam is pretty sure he'll get smacked but good for if Dad ever
finds him looking at it).
But instead, Dean just reaches back over to the nightstand, and pulls out a
small bottle. Sam recognizes the label - it's lotion, for when your hands get
all dry in the winter, but Dean hands it to him like it's the Holy Grail.
"Don't forget this," he says solemnly, and Sam, unsure, nods and takes the
bottle, and holds it like maybe it has a snake inside it, and he should be
careful not to let it out. Dean beams at him.
"And that's all there is to it!"
And then he uncurls his arm from around Sam's shoulders (he immediately feels
the loss of warmth, the regret) and gets up, arching his spine, stretching. Sam
watches his shoulders flex and wishes he could have that, that easy grace and
confidence.
He isn't sure if he wants it for himself, or if he just wants it in Dean, near
him, always.
"I'll just let you figure everything out," Dean says with a faint smile.
And then he's gone, striding out the front door, and Sam is left alone,
clutching a bottle of lotion and a dirty magazine, painfully, uncomfortably
aware of the fact that there's something weird going on with his lower half,
and maybe this is what Eric from his English class had been going on about.
Maybe.
Sam carefully sets the magazine on the bed, cover-side down so that the woman
with the golden bell earrings doesn't look like she's watching him, and then he
takes the bottle of lotion into the bathroom, and he shuts the door behind him.
He thinks about Dean, tall and strong, his brother, the only person who has
cared for him consistently, who has loved him unconditionally, who has never,
ever left him. And it doesn't feel wrong.
~
Sam leaves home at eighteen.
No. Not just home, but his family. Sam divorces himself of them, of that
lifestyle, all that blood and loneliness and pain.
"Don't go," Dean says. He doesn't cry; Dean rarely cries. But his eyes are
intense. "Sammy, he didn't mean it. Just…just don't go."
But Sam has to, and Sam does. He goes as far as he possibly can, all the way
across the country, to a school that he sure as hell can't afford, but for some
reason they're willing to pay him to go there. He goes, and his heart breaks
when Dean meets him at the airport, silent and still, trying to be supportive
but only able to see what Sam is doing to their family as a whole.
He doesn't see what their family is doing to Sam.
"I'll miss you," Sam says. Earnestly. Painfully. Dean stares at him.
"Then don't leave."
Sam leans forward, presses his palms to Dean's cheeks. When they were young, he
used to think that he wanted to grow up to look exactly like Dean, wanted his
bright green eyes and his broad shoulders and his bow-legged walk. Now, Sam is
glad that they've grown to look so different, because it means that he can lean
down and press his lips to the corner of Dean's mouth in the middle of a
crowded airport. A few people stop to gape, but not because they can tell that
they're brothers – they're just two guys. They could be anybody.
Dean stiffens, and turns his face away. Sam rests his lips against Dean's
faintly stubbled cheek for a moment, and then rocks back on his heels. He lets
his hands drop down to his sides.
"You shouldn't have done that." Dean's voice is raspy. Sam isn't sure if it's
from anger or disgust, or something else. He doesn't try to examine it too
hard. He's afraid of what he might find. What he might not find. "Why?"
"Because I've wanted to," Sam says easily. It feels like rolling a great stone
away from his heart. He breathes easier, now. "For a long time."
"Sammy…"
"Are you going to tell me it's wrong? Don't you dare tell me that loving you is
wrong, because who the hell else am I supposed to love, huh, Dean? Who else has
been here for me? Who else could possibly understand the kind of crazy shit
I've been through?"
Dean glances at Sam, and then looks quickly away again. "If Dad…"
"I don't give a shit what Dad thinks," Sam spits out. He gropes for his carry-
on luggage; his flight boards in a few minutes. "Remember that, Dean. You're
the only one who's ever mattered."
"Sam," Dean says. He sounds desperate. Angry. Lost.
Sam doesn't wait around to hear what he has to say. He turns on his heel,
carry-on bag slung over his shoulder, and marches towards the gate. Other
passengers are getting up, shuffling their things, forming a line to present
their tickets. The flurry of activity closes in around Sam.
When he looks back over his shoulder, he can't see Dean anywhere.
~
Sam meets Jessica in his sophomore year, but he doesn't talk to her until it's
almost halfway over. Well, he says "meets", but really, they've only had three
classes together (she's a political sciences major, some of their courses
happen to overlap). Truthfully, he doesn't meet her until Bradley (a mutual
acquaintance, who Sam doesn't really like, sometimes, but he's generally an
okay guy to have around) drags him to the Phi Kappa Psi party to celebrate
their upcoming finals week.
Sam thinks that having a party to celebrate finals before they're over is the
stupidest thing he's ever heard, but he goes along with it, because he feels
confident about all of his exams, and he knows he's going to pass all of his
gen eds, Further studying can wait for just one more night.
Bradley shoves a beer into Sam's hand. He protests – he doesn't drink, and even
if he did, he wouldn't drink Coors Light. Bradley smiles enigmatically at him
and then disappears into the crowd of singing, drinking, dancing frat boys.
After a moment, Sam can't even make out where he vanished into the crowd.
People are moving too quickly, too often, and Sam pushes his way through the
throng of people, hoping to eventually make his way towards a wall or a front
door, or…something.
He finds a coat closet. His Coors Light is too cold – Sam wants to set it down
somewhere, but he doesn't want to just leave it on the floor, and he isn't sure
he can make it all the way to the kitchen without being made to do a truly
ludicrous number of shots along the way. The coat closet, for now, seems to be
his best bet.
Dean would know how to act, here, Sam thinks. Dean always seemed to know how to
work over large groups of people, while Sam always did better one-on-one.
He looks at his bottle of beer, and then quickly yanks open the door to the
closet and slips inside. The door falls shut behind him. The only light comes
from the crack underneath the door, spilling over Sam's feet.
"Hey!"
Sam nearly drops his bottle, but he manages to get his other hand under it just
in time. An arm – or a hip? – brushes up against him. Or maybe it's a coat.
But there's definitely someone else in here with him.
"Uh, sorry," he says, quickly. The voice is female. He hopes to God he hasn't
walked in on some couple making out.
The coats rustle. There's a bloom of light, a dim bluish-white. A cell phone.
It illuminates the face of a girl, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, her
mouth pursed in a mild frown.
Sam recognizes her. Jessica Moore.
"I can go," he says. Almost stammers. "I can…yeah, sorry, I'll just…"
"You don't have to." Jessica makes a face, and then turns the cell phone's
screen towards him. Sam squints. His hair probably looks awful…he doesn't think
he's gotten it cut since…last November? A long time. He thinks he probably got
it cut right before Dean called him for Thanksgiving (nothing but a quick
"How're you doing?" and "I miss you" and "Come home, Sammy", but never any
mention of them), and then afterwards he just…lost the will to do anything else
with it. "I'm usually okay with crowds, but it's like a Mongolian horde out
there."
"They are pretty rowdy." Jessica peers at him, and Sam resists the urge to…to
take a step back. To hide behind the hanging coats.
"Hey…You look familiar."
"Uh, maybe." The Coors Light is sweating against his palm. Sam hastily ducks
down and sets it on the ground, next to an umbrella leaning against the wall.
He wipes his hand against his jeans, but it doesn't take away the chill of the
bottle. He thinks that, if it had been an El Sol, he would have been able to
keep holding it. He would have felt better, more confident.
Dean liked El Sol. He drank it whenever he could find it. Sam wonders if that's
changed at all.
"Oh, I know! We have classes together!" Sam jumps, slightly. His foot almost
knocks against the bottle of Coors Light. He never even opened it, but still
his heart pounds in his chest. Jessica is beautiful. She's all long, gorgeous
blonde hair, and fair skin, and she's looking at him…not like he's intruding,
but like she's actually interested. She's beautiful. Sam wants her.
But not the same way that he wants Dean.
"Yeah," Sam agrees readily. "I think we have a few." Jessica leans closer. Sam
wonders if this was Bradley's plan all along, to somehow get him alone with
this girl that Sam has been watching for months. If so, that's pretty creepy,
and him and Bradley are going to have words.
"We have three together, I'm pretty sure." Jessica is smiling at him. Sam
hesitantly tries to smile back. She's so pretty. He wonders if, maybe, he
should just…man up and ask her out for coffee sometime. Coffee is a socially
acceptable first date, right? It's just that the last time Sam kissed a girl
was in the eighth grade, and he had decided that it was wet and interesting,
but not terribly thrilling, and then after that there just hadn't been time to
form attachments. Not to people who didn't matter.
It's not like now. Now, he has all the time in the world. There aren't any
monsters chasing him. He has an apartment that he can go back to, not a motel
room that he has to check out of by eleven o'clock.
"Are you a political sciences major?"
"Pre-law," Sam says. His throat feels dry. Suddenly, he really wants that beer.
Even though he knows that parties like these inevitably get crashed, and if he
gets caught with alcohol he can kiss his scholarship goodbye. He's just…so
parched.
"You look thirsty."
Jessica makes some shuffling movement, the cell phone screen dimming. She makes
a soft sound, and then hits a button at random – the screen brightens, and
she's holding a bottle of water. It's half-empty, and beaded with condensation.
She's holding it out to Sam like a peace offering.
"I'm Jessica Moore," she says, and Sam curls his fingers around the cool
bottle.
"Sam Winchester. It's nice to…meet you."
They both smile, some of the awkwardness of being shut in a closet together
dispersing. Sam read somewhere, once, that the sweetest thing a human being can
ever hear is the sound of his or her own name.
"Jessica," he says, and her smile grows a little bit wider, a little bit more
genuine. Sometimes, when Dean smiles, Sam can see all of his teeth, like his
joy is too big to contain in his expression.
Jessica smiles the same way.
"You can call me Jess, if you'd like."
Sam nods dumbly. Outside, the sounds of the partiers continue on unabated,
completely unaware of what's going on right underneath their noses. Something
interesting. Something…maybe a little profound.
Something in Sam's brain clicks.
"Hey, do you…want to get coffee with me sometime? No pressure just since we've
got all these classes together we could probably compare notes and see how
we're doing."
It's the thinnest excuse Sam's ever come up with, and he's regularly helped his
family con, bluff, and beg their way into people's houses (and universities,
and morgues), so he's come up with some pretty thin yarns before. But Jessica
presses another button on her cell phone, causing the screen to brighten again,
and then she nods.
"Sure! That'd be nice…I don't have a lot of people offering to be my study-
buddy." She leans closer, conspiratorially. Sam unscrews the top of the water
bottle and lifts it to his mouth, takes a long drink as Jessica watches him.
"To be honest? People are sort of giving me a reputation as a hard-ass."
Sam lowers the bottle, taking a deep breath. His throat doesn't feel any
better. "People are giving…?"
"Yeah, well." Jessica leans back. "I don't think of myself that way. But then
again, I guess that's pretty normal."
"I guess," Sam agrees. "For what it's worth, though, you seem pretty nice to
me."
"Thank you." She smiles with her whole mouth again. Sam offers the water
bottle, and she reaches to take it back. Their fingers touch. Her skin is soft.
Not covered in gun calluses and scars. It's new, but Sam likes it. He takes a
chance.
"Do you want to get out of here? Go for a walk or something?"
"God, yes!" Jessica laughs, then leans past Sam and fumbles for the doorknob.
"I've been waiting for an excuse to leave all night! I like parties as much as
the next person, but I prefer to go with friends. I don't know anyone here."
"Then why did you come?"
The door opens, and light spills over them both – Sam squints against it, and
the sudden onslaught of noise. The party continues on unchanged. If anything,
it's grown even more intense. He's pretty sure there weren't this many topless
dudes before.
"This guy Bradley invited me," Jessica says. She reaches back and pulls her
ponytail tighter. "He's in my BiSci class and I sort of felt obligated because
he helped me with an assignment. Bad reason to go, I know, but I ended up
meeting you, so tonight hasn't been a total loss."
"Yeah." Sam shoves his way through the crowd, glad, for once, that he's so
tall. The dancing frat boys and their dates part before him like the Red Sea.
They leave the party, walking back out into the cool evening. It's windy, and
for Palo Alto Sam guesses that this is as close to winter as they're going to
get. Jessica is rubbing her arms.
He offers her his jacket, thin as it is, and Jessica holds her arms out, lets
him slip it over her shoulders.
Dean would have said he could take care of himself, Sam thinks. But it's
different. And good. And that's what's important.
~
They never come out and admit that they're "dating", but everyone seems to know
– either through Bradley, or through people who see them around campus (or
even, on occasion, around town). Sam doesn't make a big deal out of it, because
it isn't a big deal. Dating Jess is precisely the same as what they did before.
They get coffee together, they study for classes, and they eventually make
plans to get their own apartment. By the end of their junior year, Sam is
pretty sure that Jessica Moore is the woman he wants to marry. She's smart,
pretty, she's fun, she can match him shot for shot in any drinking contest,
and, most importantly, she listens when he talks about his family. Nothing
detailed, of course, but…his frustration with his father, his melancholy over
never having known his mother, never having any kind of maternal figure at all…
…His relationship with his brother, seemingly always strained, but always
there.
Jess calls them "co-dependent".
"I don't need to be a psych major to be able to see how close you two are," she
says. "And I'm not gonna tell you it's unhealthy, even though it is. I just
want you to be happy. And if your brother is part of that equation, then that's
the way it is."
Sam loves her. He does. And he tries to show her, but she has high, soft
breasts, and a breathy voice, and the only scars she has are faint stretch
marks on her stomach ("Puberty was hell on me."). Sam finds her body beautiful,
but it takes him a few minutes to see her, to find her…arousing. Jess is so
patient. She reassures him that it's okay to be nervous their first time.
Sam doesn't dare tell her that it's not his nerves that make him pause, but the
thought of narrow hips, and broad shoulders, short hair and a familiar tattoo.
~
"Dad hasn't been home in a few days."
"So he's working overtime on a Miller time shift. He'll stumble back in sooner
or later."
Dean stares at him, and Sam's stomach suddenly feels hollow. "Dad's on a
hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days."
And part of Sam has been waiting for this to happen, for his nice, safe life to
be yanked out from under his feet, and that part of him rails against it, wants
nothing more to do with his father and his brother (especially considering how
they parted), wants only to live with Jess and have boring, normal lives and
one-point-five kids and a house and a dog named something stupid (Bones, he
thinks.
But there's another part of him that sees the intensity in Dean's eyes and
thinks, Yes, this is what I've been missing. It's a small part, admittedly –
Sam didn't leave his family because he wanted to, necessarily, but because he
had to – but it's there all the same.
"Jess, excuse us." His throat is as dry as a bone. "We have to go outside."
Dean looks at him, really looks. He's older, and he looks it. He's a bit more
worn and a bit more heavily scarred. His jacket is the same. When Sam steps
closer, he smells familiar – leather and gun oil and beef jerky. Road food.
Everything is going to change, Sam realizes. Because he can't have Dean and
Jess. There's a choice, here, and when he comes to it there isn't going to be
any compromise.
He wants them both. But that's not how the world works.
~
"I was going to marry her," Sam says numbly. There's a smear of ash on his
wrist. He rubs it, spreading the dark smudge across his skin. Dean reaches over
and cranks the volume down low; he doesn't look like he's listening, but the
stiffness of his shoulders implies that he hears every word. "This isn't how
it's supposed to be."
"Yeah, well." Dean stares straight ahead. His hands are white-knuckled where
they hold on to the steering wheel with unnecessary force. "Sorry."
Sam doesn't want Dean to be sorry. He doesn't want Dean to look at him with
pity, because he already feels pitiful enough. He doesn't want Dean to tell him
that everything will be okay, that they'll fix everything, because Sam knows
that that's impossible. They aren't miracle workers. They aren't God.
Sam doesn't want Dean's sympathy. He just wants Dean.
"Pull over," he says. Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye.
"Sam – "
"I said pull over."
Dean makes a rough, pissed-off noise at the back of his throat, but he abruptly
yanks the wheel to the right, the long highway in front of and behind them
empty, thankfully. The Impala heaves itself onto the shoulder of the road, and
Dean parks and kills the engine, swearing darkly under his breath. When he
turns to Sam, his expression is angry, but carefully schooled.
"What," he demands through gritted teeth.
Sam leans forward and kisses him. Dean makes that same sound, that same uneven
and angry-terrified sound, but he doesn't pull away like he once did. He sits
there and lets Sam kiss him, lets Sam push into his space and take his warmth
for his own, but it isn't enough, it's never enough, because Dean is fire and
Sam is wax, and he can melt, but he can never catch aflame.
When he pulls back, he's breathless and wanting and hurting, a dozen different
conflicting emotions, and Dean looks at him and says, "Sammy."
And Sam has never wanted him more.
"Don't tell me it's wrong." Because it's always wrong, but it's never wrong for
them. He and Dean are special. Sam thinks there's probably no one else exactly
like them, not in the entire world.
"I wasn't," Dean says. "It's just…too soon."
And Sam should be the one saying something along those lines, but Dean has
always seemed to know what's good for him and what isn't. Faster than Sam has
known, anyways.
It's just that there's an empty space between his ribs where Jess used to live,
and he isn't sure what to do with it now. He only knows that it hurts, and that
it's supposed to be full: once with Dean, and once with Jess, and now with Dean
again.
"Let's find a motel." Sam turns his head, stares out the window at the still
field of grass they've parked next to. The moon is almost perfectly full. Sam
realizes that, whenever he's seen a full moon in the past four years, he's
always thought werewolves, not romance.
"Yeah," he says. His lips feel cold. He presses his forehead against the
window. The glass is freezing, too. "Yeah, okay."
~
Faith. Faith is all about trust. So is family. Sam trusts Dean because Dean has
always been there for him, always taken care of him, always. He would trust
Dean with his life. Even greater, he would trust Dean with his soul.
But Dean doesn't trust him.
"It's not that I don't trust you," Dean says. He rubs absently at his chest,
just above his heart. Sam has no idea how many volts of electricity surged
through Dean's body; all he knows is that Dean is okay now. Because of Sam.
Someone else had to die to make it happen, but Reverend Roy's wife is an
acceptable loss, in Sam's eyes.
"Then what? Because, from where I'm standing, it looks an awful lot like I just
saved your life."
Dean's mouth is a thin, pale line. He isn't angry, not yet, but he could be, if
Sam pushes harder.
Sam doesn't want Dean to be angry. But he also doesn't want Dean to think that
it's okay for him to risk his life the way he did. Because if Dean dies, Sam…
Sam doesn't even want to think about what will happen if Dean dies.
"You need to stop doing things like this," Dean says. Sam listens with half an
ear – he keeps seeing the spark of electricity, leaping from the water to
Dean's body, him falling. "I'm not always going to be around to make sure you
don't do stupid shit." Dean lying in the hospital bed, pale and in agony.
Unable to walk without Sam to lean on. How he grimaced, whenever the pain got
to be too much. Sam takes a step closer, and then another. Dean could have
died. Dean could have died and he would have never…He would have…"When it's my
time to go, I want you to let me go, Sam. What's dead should stay dead. No more
messing around with Reapers, you hear me?"
"I hear you," Sam says, and he plants his palms on either side of Dean's
thighs, and then he leans in and kisses him.
It's not like their first kiss, short and cold and confused. It's not like
their second kiss, the car still smelling like smoke and grief. Dean freezes,
like a bird caught by a snake, and Sam presses closer, touches the curve of
Dean's jaw and thinks that he wouldn't have been able to do this, if he hadn't
found Reverend Roy, if he hadn't saved Dean's life. Dealing with Reapers is
worth it. "What's dead should stay dead", yes, of course.
But not when it's Dean.
Dean leans back, his eyes heavy-lidded and his mouth wet, open, beautiful. Sam
thinks about how much he loves Jess (still loves her, will always love her),
but also all the times when he couldn't love her in the way she'd wanted him
to. All the times he'd taken her to bed and he hadn't been able to…
"Sammy," Dean says, and it sends a bolt of pure want straight down Sam's spine.
It's fiercer and brighter than anything else that he's ever felt – where Jess
had been a slow burn, Dean is a lightning strike, a surge, a force of nature.
They aren't comparable. Sam would still take them both, if he had the choice.
"Are you gonna say it's wrong?" Dean sighs, a shuddering breath against Sam's
cheek. He doesn't try to pull away when Sam sinks down, rests his knees on
either side of Dean's legs and straddles his lap. He's so warm. Sam presses his
weight down, feels Dean shift beneath him. He's hard against the curve of Sam's
thigh; Sam wonders if he's ever wanted someone quite this much.
"…No," Dean says. His voice is shaky. Sam presses his lips to the corner of
Dean's mouth, like praise. When he moves, Dean's breath hitches and his eyes
slip further shut. "I'm not."
"But are you thinking it?" Sam shifts his weight, grinds down, wants to push
Dean back onto the bed and hold him there and cover him, but Dean isn't going
to budge, not just yet, because Dean is his big brother. He always has to be
the solid one. But Sam can feel the outline of his erection, thick, hot, and he
knows that this is something he can pull undone, like unraveling a piece of
cloth. He can get Dean to let go, where others have only ever scratched the
surface.
"Sometimes," Dean admits softly. Sam touches Dean's neck, drags his fingers
over the short, soft hairs at his nape. Dean shivers, and holds very, very
still. "But not always."
"Still." Sam leans down, follows the trail of his fingertips with light,
nipping kisses. He can feel the urge to move, to be angry, to do something,
rippling just under Dean's skin. It isn't in Dean's nature to sit passively and
let someone else do what they want with him. He's all about kinetic energy and
passion.
And yes, mistrust. Sometimes.
"You have to trust me," Sam says quietly. He says it against Dean's skin, not
to his face – he's not sure he wants to see Dean's expression.
"I do trust – "
"No, you don't. Not all the time. That's not how we're supposed to work."
Sam very carefully pushes on Dean's shoulder, not hard enough to constitute a
shove, but he's not letting up, either. Slowly, Dean allows himself be pushed
back down onto the mattress, his eyes no longer dreamy and half-focused, but
sharp. Wary.
"What else am I supposed to do?" he asks quietly. "I can't lose you, Sammy."
"You won't." Sam stretches out on top of Dean, and he's taller, yeah, but when
they're slotted together like this it seems as though they're like two pieces
of a puzzle, odd-shaped but never meant to fit anywhere else. Their hips press
together, and Sam bites back a moan. He thinks Dean might be doing the same.
When he speaks, his voice is rough with it, with holding back, with want.
"Trust me. It's okay, Dean. I'm okay, I promise."
Sam still can't talk about Jessica's death without feeling her absence like a
missing valve in his heart. But Dean understands loss as well as he does – you
don't need to be completely without pain in order to have moved on.
Sam tucks his fingers underneath the hem of Dean's shirt, lifts it up and
smiles when Dean raises his hands, lets that first layer of emotional armor be
stripped from him. He's scarred and tattooed and there are freckles dotting the
balls of his shoulders; Sam knows that they get darker when Dean works out in
the sun, without his shirt on. Like when he spent a whole summer helping Bobby
fix cars that Sam could have sworn would never run again.
"Have you ever even done anything like this?"
"No," Sam says immediately. Because first there was Dean, and then there was
Jessica, and there's never been anyone else. Sam has wanted people, sure – he's
got his own ideas of what's beautiful, what's attractive – but he's never felt
the urge to act on those wants. Not with anyone else.
"Jesus Christ," Dean says. He lets his head fall back as Sam goes to work on
his belt, pulling the leather free of Dean's belt loops with a soft,
indescribable noise. When he pops the button on Dean's fly, Dean lifts his hips
almost automatically. Like he isn't even aware that he's doing it.
"I've never really wanted anyone else."
"You're like one of those virgins who wear the promise rings," Dean mutters.
"Now all we need to do is get you a white dress and your wedding night will be
perfect." Sam can't hold back his snort of laughter. He thinks that would have
made him feel awful, a little while ago. Any reminder of his plans to marry
Jess would have left him feeling lost, but Dean is lying underneath him, his
pants half-open and his belt slowly slipping off the bed, and all Sam can think
is "Finally".
Dean has a thick cock, pressed tight against the front of his briefs, a small
damp patch spreading where the head touches against the white cotton. Sam
thinks about all the other attractive men he's known (and he can admit they
were attractive), and none of them inspired this sort of reaction in him, this
heaviness of heart and this smoldering heat coiling up and down his spine. He
aches in ways he thinks he must have forgotten, a long time ago, and when Dean
lifts his hips, lets Sam shuck his jeans down past his thighs, the ache only
grows stronger. His own erection feels too hot, too heavy. His jeans are too
tight. When he scoots down in order to pull off Dean's boots, it places his
cheek right next to his brother's groin. He smells like sweat and gun oil and
the faint hint of leather.
Sam pauses, and then turns his head, pressing his mouth to the tented front of
Dean's briefs. He sucks at the damp cotton, pulls it into his mouth, lets the
taste of it rest on his tongue. Dean is frozen above him, lips parted and a
groan caught halfway between his throat and the cool air. Sam manages to get
his boots untied, tugs them off, and Dean takes it upon himself to get rid of
his jeans, shoving them down and forcing Sam to back off. He doesn't want to,
but things will be so much better without clothes in the way.
"This is fucked up," Dean sighs, and Sam huffs laughter against his thigh. He's
warm here, too. "This is so incredibly…"
"Only if you keep thinking it is," Sam corrects.
"Other people…"
"What other people?" Sam presses the heel of his palm against Dean's crotch,
hums when Dean's breath hitches and then grows harsher. "We're the only ones in
here."
"Sam."
"I like it when you say my name like that." It's an admission, and Sam's taking
a risk, because Dean sounds desperate and wanting and unsure, and admitting
that he likes that might put his brother on guard.
But all Dean does is stare down at him while Sam carefully peels back the damp,
white cotton briefs, hissing faintly when he's exposed to the cooler air.
Dean's erection is flushed blood-dark, and it springs up and slaps against
Sam's palm as it's released. It has a solid, beautiful curve to it, and Sam has
to pause, has to back off a little, because if he doesn't get his pants off
right now he thinks he's going to pop a seam or something.
And as he's yanking his belt free and shoving his jeans out of the way, Dean
says, "I think we should…we should slow down."
"I've already said I'm fine." Sam lets his belt drop to the floor, and
Dean…fuck.
Dean flinches.
Just a bit, but it's enough to make Sam stop and realize that this is new to
him, sure, but he has always known that this is what he wanted. He's always
thought that it was…that it is the one good thing in his life, the one thing
that he can always rely on: that his brother loves him, and will always be
there for him, and Sam wants Dean. But Dean hasn't always had that, he doesn't
think. He hasn't always known, the way Sam has, that this is where they were
supposed to end up.
Dean is lying there, one hand straying absently towards his thigh, fingers
splayed (the skin is pale, there, and soft, with only one long, old scar to mar
it), and Sam wants to follow the path of those fingers with his mouth, wants to
kneel over his brother and jerk himself off, wants to come on that familiar
skin so that Dean smells like him, but he…won't.
Instead, he kneels on the edge of the bed, boxers tented but still on, and he
lowers himself down beside Dean. Close, but not smothering.
"Kiss me," Sam says. Because that seems to be the one thing that they haven't
been doing, and Sam wants that as much as he wants everything else.
When Dean hesitates, and then turns his head to comply, Sam says, "We don't
have to do anything you don't want to," and Dean laughs. Some of the nervous
tension has fled his shoulders; he's loose and easy against the scratchy motel
sheets.
"Now you're making me feel like the girl."
But there's nothing of Jess in the way that Dean kisses him, careful but with
weight to it, with pressure. There's nothing of that old life, of the times
that Sam lay naked with Jess, in bed, exactly like this.
When he throws his leg over Dean's waist, when they rub together but never
reach orgasm, just a long, steady pull of desire, he doesn't think of Jess at
all. And when he finally falls asleep, with Dean quietly snoring beside him, he
doesn't dream of fire.
~
They always seem to come together, like that first time, whenever something
happens that puts either Sam or Dean in mortal danger. And that happens a lot,
because that's what they do. They go out and hunt down all the things that are
too dangerous for normal people to deal with.
Because if there's anything that Sam and Dean aren't, it's normal.
The first time they fuck is after their father dies. It's been two weeks, but
occasionally Sam still turns his head a certain way and thinks that he can
smell the ash of the funeral pyre, the burning cloth, and then he has to close
his eyes because if he doesn't he'll start smelling the charred flesh, too, and
he just…he's so tired.
They continue to ask for rooms with two beds. It's a habit that they probably
won't be able to break any time soon (and besides, sometimes it's nice to be
able to have a bed all to yourself), but Sam starts sliding beneath the sheets
with Dean, late at night, when he can't sleep. And he can't sleep often, these
days. Dean lets him, never complains about how Sam holds on to him too tightly,
or how he's too hot, or how Sam hogs the covers.
When Sam kisses him, reaching for some sort of closure that he'll never find,
Dean winds his arms around Sam's waist and doesn't say anything. When Sam
reaches for the hem of Dean's shirt, Dean lets him, lets Sam strip away his
clothes and lets him kiss his chest, his shoulders, his pale thighs. He gasps
encouragement when Sam touches his cock, when they curl themselves together and
rut like frightened animals in the dark. Dean says his name like it's being
torn out of him, like it's something being ripped from the deepest parts of his
soul, and Sam feels like crying, but he won't. He doesn't want Dean to think
that this isn't something he's been longing for, and no matter how deep in
mourning they are, the slightest hint of distress will make Dean think that
it's him.
But Dean has never been the root of all Sam's problems. That dubious honor has
always gone to their father. But even so, Sam can't help but mourn him.
Afterwards, they stay together, in the same bed, and Sam tosses his leg over
Dean's calves, their feet touching. It feels a hundred times more intimate than
when he had lain in bed with Jess, and, when Dean falls asleep first, Sam
kisses the curve of his temple and touches his thigh with querying fingertips,
surprised that Dean hasn't immediately gotten up to clean himself off.
They'll wake up in the morning, smelling like each other.
Sam drifts off with that thought in mind, pleased beyond belief.
~
Sam dies.
Sam dies, and Dean is alone.
"You told me I wouldn't lose you," Dean says, but Sam's cold lips don't answer
him. He tries to breathe life back into them, to warm them with his own mouth,
but they don't feel real. It's like kissing a mannequin.
He doesn't give up.
~
"Hey."
Sam opens his eyes. Warmth and weight shift beside him, and Dean reaches over
Sam's torso, groping for the cell phone on the nightstand. Dean squints at the
tiny, glowing screen – his face is illuminated blue, and he looks ethereal,
like some sort of spirit. Maybe an angel.
"Time s'it," he mutters, even though he's the one who's holding the phone. Sam
gently takes it from Dean, holds it the right way up.
"Almost six." He's been lying in the dark, awake, remembering, for almost two
hours.
"Mm." Dean burrows closer against his side, content now that he knows he
doesn't have to be up for another hour or so. Sam reaches up, runs his fingers
over the short, soft hairs at Dean's nape, and his brother snorts muzzily.
"Dude. M'not a pet."
Sam doesn't respond. A few moments later, Dean's breathing evens out, returns
to the deep, slow rhythm of sleep. Sam takes the opportunity to run his hand
down Dean's shoulder, over the length of his side. His hip presses against
Sam's groin. He wants, but it can always wait until morning. Dean needs all the
sleep he can get, because they have four months left until he has to pay up.
Four months until…
Sam closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath.
"I'll fix it, Dean," he says quietly. Dean makes a soft sound, a pained sound.
He's been having nightmares. Sam touches his side again, and the sound fades
away into silence. "I'll fix everything."
He closes his eyes. The darkness there is almost comforting. He thinks of Jess,
and how, by now, they would have been married. He would have been a lawyer, she
would have been building up her career in politics…They would have had a house
together. A mortgage. Hell, maybe…maybe even a kid on the way. Or at least a
dog. Sam's always wanted a dog.
But when he feels Dean, warm and heavy beside him, he knows he never could have
made any other choice.
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