Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7071355.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Underage_Drinking, Bottom_Sam, Top_Dean, Alternate_Universe
  Collections:
      SPN_Meant_to_Be_Master_Collection
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-06-02 Words: 18306
****** Happenstance ******
by intrepidheart
Summary
     Dean’s never been really good at that whole “accomplishment” thing.
     Drifting is the one thing he really knows how to do, and a trip after
     his latest failure—college—with just him, his car, and the wide open
     road is exactly what he needs. Running into a boy with legs longer
     than the California coastline was definitely not on the agenda, but
     hey, it’s not like Dean has anywhere else to be.
     When the trip becomes more of a series of detours, Dean finds himself
     more and more drawn to the young boy who seems to be carrying more
     baggage than Dean originally thought. A secret revealed threatens to
     shatter everything they’ve built together in this short time; will
     they make it through or crash and burn like every other thing Dean
     has ever touched?
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Dean knew he was fucked from the moment he saw those legs.
This was supposed to be easy, some kind of escape from the never-ending list of
failures trailing out of his back pocket, yeah, that one there, the one that’s
about fifteen miles long. College is the newest addition to the list, just like
Dean had known it would be the moment he got that acceptance letter.
Stanford. What a joke.
The only reason he even made it through admissions was because of Lisa’s dad on
the board, but even that hadn’t lasted either. Maybe it was because Dean had
started to sleep his way through the cheerleading squad while they were
together, but still.
Either way, this? This is a road trip, for God’s sake. How can anything with
Dean, his car and the highway all wrapped up into one go wrong? It should be
scientifically impossible, unable to happen due to the laws of nature and all
that shit.
At least that’s what he thought until he saw those goddamn legs.
He’d been on the I-15 for just over an hour, fresh off the California
interstate without a weight on his shoulders, as if every mile he put under his
car as he headed towards the Nevada state border was one step closer to
freedom. Once he got out of this damned state, he could leave it all behind,
just another stone added to the pile of things he’s never followed through
with. Just gotta get out of fuckin’ California.
The moment came and went too fast for Dean, even when he eased back into his
seat and slowed down marginally to watch the “Now leaving California!” sign
whip by on the right side of the road, but still he smiled. He may have been
sweating in the unusually warm April sun that was pouring through his window,
sticking his legs to his jeans and dampening the seat that’s molded to his
body, and he may be getting concerningly low on gas, but he made it out alive.
Dean threw his middle finger out the window, his final goodbye to the life he
was never meant to lead. It’s been real, it’s been fun, but it hasn’t been real
fun.
Nevada stretched before Dean like a golden wasteland, red rocks and tufts of
brittle greenery decorating the roadside as he thundered on with nothing but
adrenaline in his veins and the highway ahead of him. He was high on the
freedom that always bleeds into him after doing something like this, leaving
his teeth clenched in a smile too wide for his face and his eyes seeking a new
adventure, conquest, anything that would keep him floating two feet off the
ground with no strings attached.
Unfortunately, the ping warning him that his journey would be extremely short-
lived unless he found a gas station pretty soon disturbed his thoughts and
dragged him back down to reality. Swearing under his breath, he pushed his foot
to the floor and let the deep thrum of Hammett’s guitar guide him until he saw
the Shell sign drawing nearer to him by the second, by far the tallest thing
around for miles.
Pulling into the lot, Dean wheeled the car around one of the rows of pumps to
bring her tank level with the one of his choosing. His window had been open
during his ride, wind clawing at his elbows as it flew past, fast enough that
it felt cool. Just then, stepping out of the car was like walking into a wall
of flames, dry heat seeping into his lungs and caking them with the dirt that
rose from his feet as he scuffed his way to the hose. He’d been smart enough to
ditch his jacket in the backseat when he’d still been on the interstate, thank
God. With the nozzle shoved deep into the throat of the tank, Dean took a
moment to put his back against the trunk and take a look around, one hand
wrapped around the handle to keep the gas flowing.
That’s when Dean first saw him.
Legs, legs, legs for miles leaning against the wall beside the door of the
convenience store, an eternity of tight denim following the curve of calves and
thick thighs until it disappeared under a simple black t-shirt with a loose
collar. A black bag was at his feet, bulging and round.
Thank God for the sun being behind Dean’s head because that meant it
consequently was shining directly on the guy who was stretched out like a cat,
arms crossed above his head to cast a shadow over his eyes. From where Dean was
standing, he could see that the guy’s eyes were closed, which made him feel
better because the creepiness level with which Dean was staring was rocketing
sky-high.
The handle then gave a kick under Dean’s palm, telling him the tank was full.
Blinking rapidly, Dean had finally managed to tear his eyes away from the guy
to set the hose back into the pump and reach into the car to grab his wallet
from the seat. He’d tucked it into his back pocket and made his way to the door
to pay inside even though he can’t remember the last time he didn’t just shove
a card into the pump and get on his way.
Now here he is, picking through the chip aisle indecisively and trying to
figure out why he can’t seem to stop blushing even though he’s the only person
in the store besides the goddamn clerk. His eyes keep pulling up to look out
the glass front of the store to where he can see the side of the guy’s body,
the sharp angle of his elbow where it’s jutting away from his body as he shades
his eyes and the patch of sweat just under his arm darkening the material of
his shirt. It makes Dean wonder how long he’s been out there, if he’s been
waiting for someone. Maybe a tow? But he didn’t see another car when he pulled
into the station, so scratch that.
The clearing of a throat makes Dean twitch, tearing his gaze away to land on
the cashier, who’s watching him with narrowed eyes. Dean grins back just
because he can and forces his feet to the refrigerated section. He mindlessly
tucks three water bottles under his arm along with a Mountain Dew before
trekking to the counter. Opening his arms, everything spills out and fills the
air with the creak of plastic and slosh of liquid inside. Staring blankly at
Dean, the clerk slowly picks up one of the bottles and scans it three times
before setting it aside.
“This everything for you?” the man says in a drawl so grating that Dean feels
his jaw ache in sympathy.
Reaching down, Dean blindly grabs a square rectangle and slaps it down in front
of him. Twix. Nice one.
Rolling his eyes, the clerk scans that too, then the Mountain Dew before
bagging it all and telling Dean the total damage of both the gas and the goods.
Nodding his thanks, Dean fishes the Twix out of the bag, rips open the corner
with his teeth and bites into it as he hip-checks the door to leave. His first
impulse is to look to his right, to find Legs again, and… what? Ask what he’s
doing out here in Bumfuck, Nowhere? Offer him help? Could he be any fucking
creepier?
Dean looks anyway.
The black bag is there, but Legs is gone.
Ignoring the weird lurch that eats deep into the pit of his stomach, Dean
shakes his head a bit and steps off the curb, looking down as he shoves his
hand in the too-small front pocket of his jeans to get out his keys. When he
looks up again, he stumbles to a stop.
The guy is touching his car. Correction: not touching—draping himself over it,
like he has some kind of right to run his goddamn hands along the roof. If
Dean’s being honest, the guy’s just reverently following the sleek lines of the
car with his fingertips barely touching the paint, but look, this vehicle has
been the one constant in this topsy-turvy fuckery of a life so sue him for
being a little over-protective. And holy shit if Legs doesn’t look up just then
to meet Dean’s eyes, and Dean finally sees he isn’t just a guy, he’s a fucking
kid, goddamn eighteen at most and he has dimples. Of course.
“Is she yours?” The boy’s question causes Dean’s mouth to snap shut from where
it’s apparently been hanging open. He’s grinning, bright like he and Dean are
old friends, like Dean’s more than just a somebody.
“You see anyone else around here who would look half as good sittin’ in that
driver’s seat?” Okay, so maybe Dean’s tone is a little sharp on the edge but
it’s just leftover from the shock of seeing someone other than him within a
five-foot radius of his car without his permission. Besides, his reply made
Legs tilt his head to the side and drag his eyes up and down the length of
Dean’s body slow enough that he got goosebumps, so it’s not like he can
complain.
“Definitely not.” The boy’s mouth twists, looking thoughtful. Dean feels his
entire body get toohot and clears his throat, reminding his body how to put one
foot in front of the other until he reaches the driver’s door where Legs is
standing. To his credit, the boy doesn’t flinch away, just stays where he is,
meets Dean’s stare head-on and pats the roof gently. “She’s beautiful.”
Dean chews the corner of the inside of his mouth as he spins his keys around
his pointer finger before catching them in his palm, the bite of the ridges
into his skin making his gaze fall to the white teeth peeking out from where
this kid is playing with his bottom lip, squeezing it and pushing it out like a
bad habit as he finally hops away from the car to lean against the gas pump,
giving Dean space. Kid’s smart.
“Yeah, she is, isn’t she?” Dean says finally, taking another bite of his Twix.
The chocolate is melting in the heat, sliding slickly along his tongue instead
of being more solid like Dean was hoping for. Legs smiles again despite his
bottom lip being pinched between his thumb and forefinger, turning his gaze
back to the sleek black of car in front of him, his eyes devouring every inch.
Dean squeezes the keys in his hand a few more times, taking in Legs a little
more thoroughly now that he’s closer. He can see the kid’s collarbones peeking
through the loose circle of fabric around his neck, two sharp wings branching
out towards equally bony shoulders. He’s more lean than skinny, enough muscle
on him to make him a bit intimidating once his height is taken into account,
which is an inch or two taller than Dean if you can believe it. Hair dark and
floppy, falling over his forehead to brush the twin black fans of his eyelashes
that are half-shuttered over irises that can’t seem to decide on a set color of
green. His face is soft but angled, drawing out a prominent jawline and
cheekbones from golden brown skin. He may look young but has the air of someone
much older, even if he doesn’t portray it in the way he’s gnawing at his
thumbnail and bending down to get a look at the taillights of Dean’s car.
Before he can really think about it, Dean’s hand is in the plastic bag hanging
off his other wrist and pulling out one of the water bottles.
“Hey.”
The kid’s head jerks up, thumb still sitting half in his mouth.
“Catch.”
He snatches the water bottle out of the air one-handed, leaving Dean to duck
through the open window of the driver’s door to toss the rest of the bag onto
the passenger seat in order to hide the impressed look his face decided to pull
out without consulting him.
“Thanks, man.” The guy sounds genuinely confused, as if baffled that someone
would notice that he’s out here alone in the goddamn desert on a hot day
without a single cloud in the sky and maybe have a heart enough to be nice.
“Sure,” Dean says, his hand resting on the handle as he watches the kid screw
off the cap and finish half the bottle in one long pull. “You got a name, short
stack?” Well where the fuck did that come from?
Legs wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and lets out a huff, making Dean
wonder how long it’s been since this kid had a drink, let alone ate. After a
moment’s deliberation accompanied by much head-tilting and semi-narrowed eyes,
the kid relents, meets Dean’s stare and holds out his hand.
“Tim.”
“Tim,” Dean repeats slowly, taking his hand to give it a shake. Never expected
that name to come out, that’s for damn sure. “I’m Dean.”
“Well, Dean, thanks again for the water and for letting me drool over your
ride.” Tim’s stepping back and away, circling around the other side of the car
with wistful eyes before shooting Dean another smile. “Appreciate it.”
“Hey, uh…” Dean folds his hands together on the hood of the car, ignoring the
scorch of hot metal on his forearms as he squints at the boy who looks ready to
go back to his wall and stand there all over again. “Is everything okay? Do
you, y’know, like, have someone around or—”
“Oh,” Tim laughs, rubs his wrist against his forehead to catch some of the
sweat that’s clinging to his bangs. “I’ll be fine.”
Dean blinks at him. Tim shifts now, looking away uncomfortably to stare down
the road.
“Are you waiting for someone?” Dean tries again.
“Um,” Tim says before taking another drink of water, a smaller gulp this time.
“Dude—”
“Hey, look,” Tim laughs again as he takes a step back, but it sounds a little
bit strangled, maybe panic if the deep flush creeping up his collar is anything
to go by. “I just thought your car was nice, that’s all. I didn’t mean to
bother you or anything, alright?”
“You didn’t bother me, man,” Dean protests, his body pushing forward into the
car as if he could turn transparent and walk through it to get just a bit
closer to this kid who once looked confident but now looks like he’d rather be
hiding under a rock. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re not just stranded out
in the middle of a goddamn desert with nowhere to go, you get me?”
Tim just stands there, staring at Dean like he’s grown three extra limbs.
“You, uh—” Dean taps his forefinger on the roof for a couple of beats before
flattening his palm to the metal. “You need me to give you a lift somewhere?”
Tim’s eyes grow comically round, tracing the Impala up and down her length
before meeting Dean’s stare again. “In her?”
“No, on my goddamn unicycle. What’d you think?”
Embarrassment colors Tim’s cheeks, and Dean thinks he looks good like that,
right before the word jailbait flashes to the forefront of his mind and he has
to pinch the skin of his wrist, be good.
“Only if you need a ride, though, man,” Dean says. “I don’t want to step on any
toes if your folks are here or something. I’m just sayin’ it’s open.”
“They’re not here,” Tim jumps in quickly, eyes downcast. “I’m…” Biting his lip,
he looks up again. “You wouldn’t mind?”
Something like electricity sings through Dean’s veins and down into the pit of
his stomach, whirling into a tornado that leaves his hands feeling numb, and
isn’t that just a bit fucked up? “Hop in, my dude.”
Tim is over by the store scooping his bag onto his shoulder and back to the car
in no more than five strides before he’s standing in front of the passenger
door. Dean creaks his own open, about to slide in when he notices Tim
hesitating.
“I don’t want to throw off your trip or anything,” Tim says quietly.
“That’s the best part, man.” Dean grins at him, watches as Tim’s eyes widen
fractionally because of it. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”
By the time he gets into the driver’s seat, Tim is already in the car beside
him with his bag at his feet, hands skimming the warm leather with something
akin to awe gracing his features. Laughing to himself, Dean turns the engine
over and settles in to guide the Impala out of the lot one-handed as he uses
the other to twist the cap off the Mountain Dew that Tim handed him. For the
first time in forever, Dean turns the music down below eardrum-rupturing level
so he can hear Tim talk if he wants. At the moment, he’s staring out the window
as if waiting to watch the world fly by.
“So. Tim,” Dean starts, taking a swig of his drink. “Where to?”
Tim doesn’t miss a beat. “Grand Canyon.”
“Grand Canyon,” Dean repeats, pulling back onto the I-15 N. He watches the slow
spread of a smile cross the boy’s face out of the corner of his eye as he puts
his foot down and the Impala roars, drowning out the music as they shoot down
the pavement towards the shimmering line of the horizon. “Why the hell not?”
                                    ::..::
As it turns out, that’s not where they actually stop.
Twenty minutes into the ride, a sign about the Hoover Dam pops up and Tim damn
near slaps his face to the window to watch it go by. It’s definitely a detour
from where they’re supposed to be going, which is north, but the kid looked so
excited, biting at his bottom lip like he was trying his hardest to hold back
from asking.
Dean gave him a break, not saying anything until he turned onto the 146 E and
saw Tim’s head swivel to look at him instead of out the window.
“You don’t mind if we make a pit-stop, right?” Dean says casually, draping his
arm over the wheel so his wrist can keep it steady. “Figured we could see some
cool shit along the way too. That okay with you?”
Tim nods so enthusiastically that Dean starts to worry about him pulling a
muscle.
It’s half past five by the time they pull into the parking lot at the visitor’s
center, and judging by the fact that there are pretty much no cars left, Dean
decides they may be shit out of luck. It takes Tim bounding up to the front
doors to read the hours for the dam tours for them to realize they’re
definitely shit out of luck; last tours wrapped up over an hour ago.
“Don’t worry about it, man,” Dean says as Tim slumps down in his seat on their
way back out. “We can stick around Boulder City for the night and come back in
the morning.”
“…We?” Dean hears Tim say, his tone tinged with incredulity.
Oh, shit and fuck.
“W-Well, not us, I mean—” Dean stumbles over his tongue, which has become
nothing more than a useless muscle between his teeth for all the good it’s
doing him right now. “You—I can take you to the canyon, y’know, you can meet up
with whoever, I mean, if you are meeting anyone. I’m not trying to—Jesus, that
sounded fucked up.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
Dean shoots a half-hearted glare at the kid to his right, who has an oddly
pleased look on his face, as if watching Dean flounder like an idiot was the
best thing to happen all day.
“I’m just saying…” Dean sighs. “I don’t really know what your deal is, and it’s
not like I do this as a hobby or anything so I just… I don’t want to throw a
wrench in your plans but I also don’t even know if you have ‘em, y’know?”
Clearing his throat, Dean keeps his eyes firmly on the road ahead of him,
focusing on the deep orange painting the asphalt from the sinking sun. “But if
you don’t really have anywhere to go, then it’s not like I’m gonna just leave
you somewhere. So if you need a place, then you let me know and we’ll figure it
out, find a motel or something.”
Tim’s quiet, scratching his fingernail gently on his knee cap as he stares down
at his lap instead of at Dean’s darting glances.
“I don’t have a lot of money, so you should… you can just drop me off at the
next gas station, okay?”
Dean’s head whips around so fast that a muscle spasms. “Are you fuckin’ kidding
me? I’m not gonna just ditch you, man, what’d I just say?”
Tim’s brow furrows, confused. “Well it’s not like I’m gonna be able to pay you
for my half of the motel, so it’s easier—”
“Easier to just dump you on the side of the road?” Dean scoffs, and turns back
to the road where the lights of the town they were headed towards is glowing.
“Don’t worry about it, okay? I can cover food and a night in a motel. No big
deal.”
“It is a big deal!” Tim turns to face Dean, one arm along the back of the seat,
inches from Dean’s shoulder. “How the hell am I gonna pay you back for that? I
can’t ask that of you, Dean! You barely know me!”
“Yeah fuckin’ right, I barely know you!” Dean snaps back. “But I still saw you
back at that station and figured it couldn’t hurt to help out a bit if you
needed it, alright? Listen, you don’t have to pay for anything, I’ll cover it,
end of.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Tim presses, leaning forward. Dean can smell him
now, stale sweat and worn-out peppermint gum and sunshine, of all fucking
things. Dean can smell him and it’s suddenly overwhelming, the proximity to
this guy, boy, who had to fold his legs six ways to Sunday in order to fit them
in the footwell and who has a sunburn across his nose and the tops of his
cheeks and who is decidedly one of the most stubborn bastards Dean’s ever
stumbled across.
Gritting his teeth, Dean steps harder on the gas, blowing through a yellow
light on the outskirts of town to get them there faster, get him out of this
tight space behind the wheel that once seemed so vast when it was just him and
his baby.
“Yeah, you know what? I do. Unfortunately, you got in a car with someone who
actually has a sense of morality, so for now you’re stuck with me.”
A beat of silence, and then Dean feels Tim’s huff blow across his cheek before
he flops back into his seat, arms crossed. Robert Plant croons into the
tension-filled air, doing nothing for once to soothe the bristles that have
burrowed beneath Dean’s skin.
Once they’ve pulled into the nearest motel parking lot and Dean’s hand is on
his door, about to push it open to go get their rooms, Tim speaks again.
“Sam.”
Dean pauses, wracking his brain to try and figure out if he missed something in
the last ten minutes of dead silence they’d been sitting in before turning to
look at Tim. “What?”
“Sam,” he repeats, fingers twisting together in his lap. “My name, real name.
It’s Sam.”
“Sam,” Dean finds himself echoing back, the name for this kid finally feeling
right when it leaves his tongue. Can’t blame the guy for playing it safe.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” Sam says, finally meeting his eyes.
With that, Dean grunts and steps out of the car, swinging the door shut behind
him. The bell to the motel office jingles above his head when he nudges his way
in, finding it just as humid as it is outside.
“Two rooms, please. Singles.”
The man behind the counter, slightly overweight with a thick gold chain banding
his neck, leans forward over the counter and shifts to the side, looking around
Dean. Dean stares at him before turning his head to follow the guy’s line of
sight, right out to where Sam is unfolding himself from the passenger side of
his car, his bag slung over his shoulder.
“You sure you want two?” The man’s chortle sounds congested and smarmy, making
Dean’s skin crawl.
Nostrils flaring, Dean turns back at the attendant and forces out a smile that
he’s sure makes him look like a serial killer.
“Two rooms,” Dean repeats slowly, hearing the jingle of the door bell.
“Singles.”
The man eyes Sam, who is now hovering by Dean’s side, and shrugs as if he
wasn’t trying to imply that Dean had dragged this kid here to break a bed and
leave some dents in the wall. Anger seethes up Dean’s throat, desperate to claw
out of his mouth and say something, degrade this man who thought he’d ever do
such a thing. Instead, Dean sucks in a deep breath through his nose to calm it.
Is he mad at this stranger, who has worked here for God knows how long and
probably seen this exact same scene hundreds of times over with the outcome
that he has now come to expect, or at himself for having those thoughts the
first time he saw Sam stretched out against that wall?
Keys rattle as the man paws through to get two for rooms that are next to each
other before slapping them down on the counter. Dean fishes out his wallet and
nudges his card over for the man to swipe through his terminal. He nearly jumps
out of his skin when he feels hot fingers curl around his elbow, the briefest
of touches.
“Thank you,” Sam says softly, leaning in close enough that Dean feels
goosebumps rocket down his arms when Sam’s breath caresses his ear.
“Yeah,” Dean mutters back, mentally telling his arm that it should pull away.
Damn thing doesn’t listen, just sits there and soaks in the feeling of the
length of Sam’s fingers before they fall away on their own accord. Traitor.
Dean scoops up the keys and herds Sam out the door first, instinctively using
his body to shield the younger boy from the leer of the man behind them. Dirty
old fuck.
After grabbing his bag from the trunk, Dean leads them down the sidewalk to
their rooms, 101 for him and 102 for Sam. Handing Sam his key, Dean gets to
unlocking his.
“You wanna go get something to eat then turn in?” Dean offers, pushing the door
open with the toe of his boot. “You’re probably pretty whacked.”
Sam’s gnawing at his bottom lip, staring down at his fingers that are turning
the room key over and over instead of putting it into the lock. Dean sighs
through his nose, bracing his shoulder against the doorjamb.
“C’mon, Sammy. It’s just dinner. You aren’t makin’ me go bankrupt because I’m
buying you a friggin’ burger. Quit worrying about it, okay?”
Sam lifts his head, his face flickering through a riot of emotions until he
finally lands on annoyed. “Don’t call me Sammy.”
Dean grins and walks into his room, leaving his door wide open so Sam can hear
him when he calls back, “Okay, Sammy.”
There’s a muffled thump that Dean can hear through the thin wall where the head
of his bed is and then a slam before Sam comes stomping into Dean’s room.
“You’re annoying, you know that?”
“I’m also buying you food in fifteen minutes.”
Sam sits on Dean’s bed and kicks at the carpet, shoes scuffing back and forth.
“...Yeah. Thanks for that.”
“Dude, it’s cool. Don’t worry about it.” Dean finishes unloading his toiletries
into the bathroom and comes out to zip his bag back up, making sure all his
valuables are in his hands or pockets before making a clicking noise with his
tongue, jerking his thumb towards the door. “Let’s skedaddle.”
They find a diner not even five minutes away, all neon signs that burn the red
and blue letters into the backs of Dean’s eyelids so it’s all he sees when he
blinks. Most of the red vinyl booths are empty when they walk in so they have
their pick. Sam chooses the one in the far corner, tucked away from the door.
When the waitress comes by, smacking bright pink bubblegum between equally pink
lips, Dean grins and snaps his menu open, falling into his old habit of flirty
banter for the next five minutes until he hears an odd cough.
“Yeah, I don’t mean to interrupt this fascinating mating ritual or anything,
but can I get an ice water and the house salad when you have a chance?” Sam
says rather monotonously, his menu folded shut in front of him on the table.
Dean’s mouth drops open, heat flooding up his neck as he hears the waitress go
“Um, uh” before Sam slides out of the booth, patting the table twice as he
says, “I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” and then is strolling his way across the
restaurant, hands in his pockets and whistling tunelessly.
Clenching his jaw, Dean turns back to the girl, who is scribbling on her
notepad and looking decidedly less interested in getting back to their
conversation from before. Cursing Sam out in his head, Dean glances at the menu
and orders a bacon cheeseburger and fries then apologizes, “The kid’s probably
just PMS’ing or somethin’,” and the girl snorts, snatching his menu away before
saying, “Oh, great, you’re one of those guys,” and flouncing away. Staring
blankly after her, Dean wonders where he went so wrong.
By the time Sam slides back into his side of the booth, Dean has built a
fortress out of the mini milk and cream cups on the table, complete with broken
in half wooden stir sticks to act as turrets.
“You should send that to the MOMA,” Sam comments, wrapping his hands around the
glass of water the waitress had dropped off while he’d still been in the
bathroom.
“You should stop being a smartass,” Dean replies, adding a sugar packet on the
top of one of his towers. It can be a fuckin’ umbrella or somethin’ for the
people who work the rooftop.
“No can do.” Sam shrugs then proceeds to use his tongue to try and catch the
thick white straw shoved in his cup, the thing sliding back and forth away from
him, and all Dean can do is stop and watch. It seems like a mindless thing to
do, just try and use your mouth to get the straw without using your hands, but
Sam’s staring at him while he does it, flicking out slick pink tongue in little
curls that never seem to be able to grab the damn thing. It’s fucking
mesmerizing, is what it is, and Dean thinks he’s maybe lost feeling in his legs
when Sam’s lips finally close around the straw to give it one long suck, hard
enough that his cheeks hollow out. He’s still watching Dean.
“Right,” Dean croaks, completely forgetting what they were talking about
beforehand. Sam tilts his head at him, looking way too innocent and oblivious
as he takes another drink.
The arrival of food saves Dean from having to try and find something else to
say. He crams the burger in his mouth before the waitress even finishes putting
down his plate, which earns him two identical looks of poorly disguised
revulsion. He couldn’t give less of a shit, just forces himself to chew and
keep his eyes on his fries so they don’t drift up to watch the way Sam’s mouth
closes around his fork.
He is so fucked.
                                    ::..::
The rest of the night went smoothly enough. Dean insisted Sam eat half of his
burger and fries because there’s no damn way that the kid wasn’t starving and
some pile of rabbit food won’t do jack shit for filling him up. Sam told him he
was being annoying again, which Dean responded to by blowing a straw wrapper
into his face.
They’re back at the motel now after stopping by the beer store so Dean could
grab a couple of six packs, ignoring Sam’s raised brows when he came back out
with them tucked under his arms. Sam’s sitting sideways on the armchair that’s
near the window, fiddling with the tab on his half-empty can of beer, his long
legs draping down so far that his toes are brushing the carpet while Dean’s
lounging on the bed, flicking mindlessly through channels because he doesn’t
know what he wants to watch but is too lazy to just pick one.
“Hey, Dean?”
“Yeah, Sammy?” Dean takes another pull from his beer, lets the alcohol fizz
warmly down into his stomach and branch out to his arms.
“First of all, it’s Sam,” Sam huffs. Dean can see it from the corner of his
eye. A little plink! fills the air when Sam finally twists off the tab.
“Secondly… thanks.”
Dean throws the remote control at Sam, hitting him in the stomach. “Dude, if I
hear you say ‘thank you’ one more time—”
“You didn’t let me finish telling you for what, you jerk!” Sam whips the remote
back and it hits Dean’s shoulder bone with a crack, making him cuss and rub it
with a pout. Sam just shakes his head and keeps going. “I was going to say
thanks for not, y’know, prying or whatever.”
Dean digests this for a moment then takes another drink. “Sure, kid. ‘S not
like I’m gonna hound you for shit you’re not willing to share.”
“I’m just saying,” Sam presses again. “Most people would. So just… yeah.
Thanks.”
“As long as you’re not some serial killer hitchhiker, I’m good, dude.” Dean
shrugs, sneaking a glance at Sam as he says it. He gets a wry smile in
response.
“Damn. Guess the jig is up,” Sam drawls, getting to his feet. “I’ll go get my
knives.”
Dean raises his can up. “Can I finish my beer, at least?”
Sam laughs then, throws his head back and lets out this bright thing into the
air that Dean never imagined could leave his throat. He’s kind of frozen there
staring at Sam but Sam doesn’t seem to notice, just shakes his head and helps
himself to the other empty half of Dean’s bed. That is enough to snap him out
of it.
“Hey!” Dean sqwaks. “You’ve got your own, get outta here!”
“Chair was hurting my back,” Sam grumbles, propping a pillow up behind him
before leaning back with a sigh. “That’s better.”
Dean can feel Sam’s body heat pouring off him in waves, heating Dean’s entire
right side despite the rattling air conditioner that’s doing its best to keep
the room cool. It’s like a drug, turning Dean’s vision a little hazy and making
his throat feel as dry as the desert outside. He clears his throat and shifts
away a little, giving Sam a bit more room in case he wants to spread out a bit
more or something. Being courteous, that’s all.
“Hey, wanna do a drinking game where we drink every time Scully rolls her eyes
at Mulder?”
Dean snorts as the spooky intro music starts to play. “Well now you’re just
trying to get me drunk.”
“Yeah,” Sam says casually. “Maybe.”
And doesn’t that shut Dean right up.
They finish both six packs—turns out they’d caught the beginning of an X-Files
marathon—and by the time Dean tries to toss his last can into the now
overflowing trash, he’s drunk enough for it to bounce off the window instead.
Sam thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world, falls off the goddamn bed from
laughing so hard. Dean thinks that Sam, this Sam, all sweaty and flushed and
too giggly with clumsy fingers gripping the comforter as he tries to get to his
feet, this Sam is some kind of wonderful. Not too soon after, Dean realizes he
should really get the kid out of his room before he does something stupid.
“Alright, short stack. Time for bed,” Dean groans as he heaves himself upright,
only stumbling once as he walks to the door.
“Booooooriiiiiiiing!” Sam hollers behind him. Judging by the ensuing crash Dean
hears not a second later, Sam fell into the dresser. “Ow, fuck me, ow. Boring,
Dean, you’re friggin’ boring! It’s not even one yet!”
Slumping against the door, Dean tilts his body towards the room again to see
Sam shuffling forward, looking miffed.
“Got an early morning tomorrow, in case you forgot,” Dean informs him, one hand
pawing at the doorknob until he gets a grip on it. “Got the Hooooover Dam.”
“Hooooover Dam,” Sam parrots, giggling like an idiot. Cute idiot. Really
fuckin’ pretty sloshed underage idiot, okay, Dean, open the fucking door.
“C’mon, out.” Dean pats the door and takes a step back, ready to open it but a
hand has appeared by his head, palm flat on the wood, holding it shut. Dean
stares at it for a moment, finds that it’s connected to an arm, whaddya know,
then a boy. Boy who’s way too close, face leaning in, only inches away.
Dean’s frozen, can do nothing but watch the way Sam’s eyes drag all over his
face before finally settling on his lips, can’t move away when Sam ducks
forward and their noses brush against each other.
He can feel Sam’s breaths on his mouth, deep and even, and his lips part in
response to let out his own shaky exhale. Their foreheads are touching now, not
too hard, just a slight pressure reminding them both of this line Dean’s been
trying so hard not to cross. It’s maddening to be this close and not just surge
forward to find out what the backs of Sam’s teeth taste like.
There’s a moment where Dean thinks it’s going to happen, where Sam takes in a
deep breath and his body shifts and all Dean can hear is that voice in the back
of his head screaming yes. Then Dean feels the door bump into his shoulder. He
blinks twice, tries to understand how that could happen when he hasn’t moved
his hand, then takes notice of the heat wrapped around his fingers. Sam’s hand
covering his.
“Should I still go?” Sam’s voice is sultry low, skimming down Dean’s spine like
a waterfall. Oh, Christ. No. No, he shouldn’t.
“Yeah.” What the fuck, Dean? “Yeah, you should, uh… Yeah.”
“Okay,” Sam says, but he doesn’t sound mad or even annoyed. He’s smiling softly
and moving out of Dean’s space, giving him room to finally breathe. “Night,
Dean.”
“Um,” Dean says intelligently as he stumbles back from the door, giving Sam
berth so he can open it fully. “Yeah. G’night.”
Sam gives him a wave and then the door is clicking shut. Sam’s gone and Dean
suddenly becomes hyperaware of the painful tightness at the crotch of his
pants.
“Fuck,” Dean spits, tripping over his feet on the way to the shower as he sheds
his clothes as fast as humanly possible.
He’s under the spray in less than a minute, not even waiting for the water to
warm before all but falling into the tub. Bowing his head, Dean props his
forearms against the checkered tile wall, willing his body to calm down, for
the cool water to work and stop his dick from aching where it’s curling up to
meet his stomach. It doesn’t work. The alcohol’s made him warm all over and the
memory of Sam’s breath on his lips sends shivers down Dean’s spine, and before
he can stop to think about it, Dean’s got his hand on his dick, stripping it
hard and fast with the quickly warming water slicking the way. Hips churning,
Dean turns his face into the corner of his elbow, bites down on the soft flesh
and groans at the white hot swirl deep in his belly, bites harder when just the
right twist of his wrist sends fireworks shooting through his body as he comes
hard, painting the wall with thick stripes.
Panting, he lets his hand fall away to rinse off in the stream of water before
pulling his head back to bang it a few times on the shower wall. Fuck and shit
and fuck.
Trying to ignore the roiling mass of guilt brewing in his stomach, Dean washes
the rest of the day away with the bar soap provided, scrubbing until his skin
is pink and squeaking. He dries off half-heartedly, barely manages to get into
a pair of boxers before he’s flopping face-first on the bed and praying that he
suffocates during the night. All he knows is that he had a pretty set idea
about how this road trip was going to go and now he’s in a tailspin, the world
tilting in all the wrong ways because of a boy with catwalk legs.
Dean’s last thought before slipping down into sleep is how long it’ll take for
him to fuck this up too.
                                    ::..::
Dean wakes up with only a mild hangover and only a shitload of regret for his
little shower episode compared to the truckload it had been last night. He
makes himself busy so he can’t think about it, dresses and packs up quickly.
He’s just putting his boots on when there’s a knock at the door. Sam’s there
when he opens it, bag on his shoulder and a grin on his face.
“How ya feelin’, champ?”
Dean groans and turns away to finish getting his boots on.
“That bad, huh?”
“I’m not hungover,” Dean grumbles. “It’s just too early for you to be smiling.
Or talking, really.”
“I’ll be outta your hair soon enough.” The way Sam says it is so matter-of-
fact, just how it’s gonna be, makes Dean’s fingers pause on his laces.
It’s true, though. Grand Canyon’s only a few hours from here, so even with the
tour they’re planning at the Hoover Dam today, there’s no way this is gonna
last any longer than the next twelve hours, max. For some reason, that makes
Dean feel a bit sick, his stomach revolting with a twist.
“Just meant I need some coffee,” Dean forces out, giving his laces a
particularly nasty yank before tying them off. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
He sees Sam shrug before walking out, leaving Dean alone with his bag and the
train of thoughts running through his mind. Holding his head in his hands, Dean
stares at the floor and tries to figure out just what it is about this kid that
makes everything feel so natural, from light bickering to banter where Sam can
give it as well as he can take it. He wonders if that’s why he’s having such a
hard time wrapping his head around the idea of watching Sam slide out of the
passenger seat, out of his life. He wonders if maybe he’s going fucking crazy
because since when did Dean Winchester give more than one flying fuck about
anyone other than himself? What is it about this kid that makes Dean want to
help so much, protect him and make sure he’s okay and has food in his stomach
and a smile on his face?
Scrubbing his hands on his cheeks, Dean lets his fingers dig into his eyelids
and rubs hard, pressing them in until he sees swirls of color.
“Fuck,” he says to himself, then stands. Grabbing his bag and his keys, Dean
leaves the room, locking it behind him.
Sam’s already at the car, leaning against the passenger side with his arms
crossed and his head tilting back to catch the sun. Long, long legs, also
crossed but at the ankle, clad in those tight goddamn jeans again. Dean lets
out a short whistle to get Sam’s attention and holds up his room key as he
walks forward, about to ask if Sam still has his, but Sam’s already nodding and
jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the main office. Squinting, Dean can see
the same guy in there from last night, leering at Sam from behind the counter
like some kind of voyeur.
The anger is back, fuelling Dean’s strides until he’s pushing the office door
open again, the bell jingling. He smacks the room key down in front of the man
and pastes on his biggest asshole smirk as he leans forward.
“Turns out we didn’t need the second room after all,” Dean purrs, taking relish
in the spasm of shock crossing the clerk’s face right before spinning on his
heel and waltzing the fuck outta there.
He slides into the car at the same time Sam does, both of their doors creaking
shut in unison, and Dean wishes he didn’t like that sound as much as he does.
“Coffee?” Sam pipes up, already trying to rearrange his legs into a more
comfortable position in the footwell.
“Coffee,” Dean agrees, and then they’re off.
                                    ::..::
Dean knew that the Hoover Dam was big but damn is that thing huge.
The tour took an hour, weaving them through the enormous structure with a
chipper group leader who spouted off historical facts and important engineer
names that went in one ear and right out the other for Dean. Sam ate it up
though, listened with rapt attention with his hands in his pockets and his eyes
wide, nodding at all the right places as the guide spoke. They picked their way
through the visitor’s center afterwards and Dean bought Sam one of those dumb
tourist keychains just because he could. Sam had just stared at it for about
two minutes after Dean gave it to him before asking if they could go back to
the car, where he proceeded to clip the keychain right on one of the zippers of
his backpack, smiling down at it proudly once it was all said and done. Dean
tried to pretend that his insides weren’t lighting up like the Fourth of July.
They’re back on the road now, heading north again and Sam is stretched out in
his seat, limbs splayed everywhere. The sun’s pouring in through his window,
catching on the strip of exposed skin that’s taunting Dean between the hem of
his shirt and the band of his boxers that are poking above the top of his
jeans. Dean’s eyes keep drifting back to it and he’s almost run them into a
ditch about three times now.
“So what were you doing back there, anyway?” Sam asks suddenly. His eyes are
closed, face turned into the sun.
“Back where?” Dean asks, fingers tapping to the beat of the Styx song coming
out from his speakers.
“The gas station. Where were you going?”
“Told you,” Dean shrugs. “Wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Everyone’s going somewhere,” Sam says, but it’s so quiet that Dean thinks
maybe he wasn’t meant to hear it. There’s a pause before Sam speaks up again
with another question. “Where were you coming from, then?”
Dean laughs a little. “College. Just, uh… wasn’t for me, I guess.”
Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat that Dean assumes is agreement
before falling back into silence. Dean bites into his bottom lip, chews on it
for a minute before his tongue gets the better of him.
“What about you?”
“What about me what?” Sam’s eyes are still closed but the corners of his mouth
are twisted up a bit, so Dean pushes on.
“How’d you come to be stranded out in the middle of nowhere?”
Sam shifts, slipping down more in his seat so his shirt catches and lifts up
higher, exposing more golden skin and a light trail of hair that Dean want to
touch. He doesn’t touch.
“Had a plan. Chickened out. Decided I’d had enough of the truck driver who took
me across the Cali border asking me to blow him while he drove, so I got out.”
Dean nearly chokes on his own spit. Sam’s tilting his head towards Dean now
though, creaking one eye open to meet Dean’s stare. He’s smiling. “Then you
came along.”
“Then I came along,” Dean says robotically, dragging his eyes back to the road.
He’s feeling sick again just thinking about it, imagining some fat fuck pawing
at Sam, grinning with cigarette-stained teeth as he tells Sam just how he can
pay him back for the free lift. His head swims dangerously and it’s a good
thing there’s a lull in oncoming traffic because Dean may have drifted a bit
over the double yellow before correcting himself.
“I didn’t do it,” Sam points out, both eyes open now. Dean glances at him
before looking away, wondering why he felt the need to tell that to Dean. “Just
so you know.”
Dean’s hands tighten imperceptibly on the wheel. “Why?”
Sam’s quiet now, pushing himself upright in his seat as he thinks. Finally, he
looks up again. “I don’t know.”
Christ, this kid.
“Okay,” Dean says, because what else is there to say?
“I’d only do it if I wanted to,” Sam continues, still staring at Dean.
Dean feels his blood temperature crank up a few notches, flowing faster with
the stuttering beat of his heart against his ribcage. His skin prickles and he
feels like there’s someone holding a huge magnifying glass over him, watching.
Waiting.
“Okay,” Dean repeats, his voice catching a bit. He has a feeling this is going
to go somewhere if he doesn’t put a stop to it soon, so he latches onto the
first thing he sees and jumps on it. “You ever been to Vegas?”
The sign promoting Sunset Boulevard and the MGM Grand blows by, Sam’s head
turning to catch it before looking back at Dean with a smile that nearly blinds
him.
“Seriously?”
Dean shrugs, waits for his throat to stop feeling so tight before replying.
“Unless you got somewhere to be.”
“No,” Sam answers quickly, then winces as if regretting agreeing too fast. Dean
bites back a smile. “I don’t.”
“Okay, then. Next stop: Vegas,” Dean announces, cranking the volume and pushing
his foot to the floor, a grin breaking across his face when he hears Sam’s
delighted whoop.
They arrive within the hour, stopping by a fast food place for lunch. What
makes Dean happiest is that Sam’s stopped thanking him for every little thing,
just accepted that Dean wants to do this and isn’t expecting anything out of
it. Once they really get into the heart of the city is where the fun begins.
Sam’s pressed against the windows to gaze up at the skyscrapers and hotels
lining the streets, mouth open at the spinning signs and blazing lights, even
despite it being daytime. They manage to find street parking a few blocks from
Sunset Boulevard and climb out of the car, meandering around until they make it
onto the strip.
From there, they just do their best to get lost in the crowd. Oncoming
shoulders bump Dean, and usually he’d be annoyed, but they’re nudging him
closer to Sam and Sam’s being nudged closer to him and Dean can feel the back
of his hand brush Sam’s, so he decides he can live with it. They stop into
weird shops that smell like potpourri and sage, candy stores where the girl
behind the cash stared at Dean and tried to deep throat the lollipop she was
sucking on—Sam pulled him outta there pretty quick—and just down the road, Sam
tries to coax Dean into a sex shop that advertises XXX videos and the latest
and greatest vibrator, but Dean grabs him by the ear and yanks him down the
sidewalk, blushing furiously.
They walk by the classic Vegas pit stops, gawking up at casinos and hotels
alike, and Dean can tell that Sam’s feeling bitter that he isn’t old enough to
get in just yet. After a bit of prying, Dean discovers he’s actually seventeen,
a year younger than Dean thought, and he lets that knowledge spin around in his
head before looping an arm over Sam’s shoulders to turn them around. They’re
exhausted by the time they get back to the car, the afternoon sun beating hot
on the backs of their necks as they clamber into the car, loose-limbed.
“Isn’t there a, uh, Ferris wheel or somethin’ around here that you can see the
whole city from?” Dean pants, mopping his face off with the front of his shirt.
Sam nods, equally winded but telling Dean he might’ve seen it back when they
first drove in. So they backpedal, drive up and down the crowded streets until
they’re hopelessly lost and Dean has to pull into a gas station to ask for
directions, grumbling the entire time.
Eventually they make it, pulling into the crowded lot before finding and
joining a stream of people who seem to be going the same way they are. As they
get closer to the enormous wheel that towers above their heads, Dean feels that
balloon in his chest that’s been slowly filling all day with every smile and
every laugh Sam’s sent his way grow even bigger when he watches Sam race ahead
to the ticket booth line, bouncing on his heels as he waves Dean forward with a
flail of gangly arms. This fuckin’ kid.
It’s a half hour wait to get the tickets and another hour until they even get
close to the front of the one that puts them on the wheel itself. Sam’s
practically vibrating next to Dean in anticipation, can’t stop looking up at
the array of brightly colored lights strung along the spokes of the wheel and
decorating each pod.
They’re in the next group to get called onto the High Roller, about thirty or
forty of them being ushered into the capsule as it rotates down to their level,
and then they’re off. Dean’s never been a particularly huge fan of heights but
this is one exception he can make. For one, the view as they slowly rise up and
up and up is incredible, the windows on every side of their pod giving an
amazing panorama view of the world below. It isn’t long until the people look
like ants and they can see the long stretch of Nevada desert spreading out in
the distance. As the sun begins its descent to the horizon, they watch the Las
Vegas nightlife spring up below. It’s both breathtaking and intimidating,
watching the world fade away to miniature while you ascend towards the sky, and
Dean’s left kind of speechless.
“Was this your first time in a Ferris wheel?”
Sam’s voice is so close to Dean’s ear that he jumps, hadn’t even realized they
were both so close together where he’d been leaning on the railing. Sam’s
shoulder is pressed to his and his body is tilting towards Dean, his hand
nearly overlapping Dean’s where it’s gripping the metal.
“I dunno,” Dean admits, turning his gaze back to the ground below. “I probably
went on one as a kid with my mom or something, but I don’t remember it.”
“I went when I was younger. Probably six or something?” Sam says, his voice
echoing with an emotion Dean can’t place. He just knows it makes him sound sad.
“With my dad. Took me on the wheel and I bawled my eyes out the entire time.
Haven’t been on one since.”
The corner of Dean’s mouth lifts. Sam feels comfortable enough with him to
share a piece of himself, of his past with Dean. “Well, this is definitely
better than some rickety carnival crap, that’s for sure.”
“You’re not wrong.”
They both stand there in silence, just taking everything in before Sam wanders
off to another side of the pod for a different view. Dean stays where he is,
folding his arms across each other to rest his chin on them. He listens to the
hum of the wheel’s engines turning, the soft chatter of the other occupants,
the small cries of delight that occasionally arise. It’s peaceful, calm.
A hand brushes down Dean’s back, feather-light. He stands and turns, expecting
it to be some mom and her kid asking if he minds scooting just a bit further
down. Instead, he ends up spinning into Sam’s arms, which are now bracketing
his body, one on either side of Dean and holding tight to the railing. Dean’s
mind, sluggish and warm from the leisure of the ride and the landscape around
them, is really struggling to catch up here, can’t make his tongue respond when
Sam leans in and whispers, “I’m tired of waiting,” before kissing Dean right
where they stand.
His mouth is smooth and soft, fitting perfectly against Dean’s for the few
moments both of them are connected. Dean can smell Sam, the bite of his spiced
deodorant, his skin, all of it blanketing him because of their proximity,
because of the way Sam’s making sure not a single inch is separating the fronts
of their bodies. Sam pulls back from their kiss and lets out a little huff
before tilting his head and coming back at a different angle, capturing Dean’s
lips again in a second kiss that’s more insistent, begging Dean to do something
more than stand there when he drags his tongue alone Dean’s bottom lip. His
brain finishes reconnecting, neurons booting up and firing and finally telling
Dean they’re in goddamn public. Dean’s hand finds its way to Sam’s chest,
pushing him back far enough that their mouths separate with a soft noise.
There’s a brief flash of fear in Sam’s eyes, clearly wondering if he’s been
reading everything wrong and what if he just fucked this all up, but after
watching Dean’s gaze fall to either side of him, Sam seems to understand, the
fear flickering away. He steps back, stretches his arms overhead and starts
casually talking about the goddamn weather, a real life cliché. Dean tries not
to think about how endearing that is until they’re off the wheel.
                                    ::..::
In-N-Out is for dinner according to Sam, who said, “What the fuck kind of rock
did you live under in California for you to have never tried In-N-Out?”. So now
they’re seated at a booth table by the window, digging into burgers and a
basket of fries so good that they both moan. The whole kissing thing hasn’t
been brought up again. Sam’s been Sam, acting as if nothing even happened,
which left Dean a little shell-shocked until he got his ass back in gear to try
and get back to some sense of normalcy. Food is the epitome of normal.
“Tohl yoo,” Sam says, spraying Dean with a bit of his burger.
“I only speak English, compadre.”
Sam rolls his eyes and swallows. Dean tracks the way his throat moves and tries
to remember how to chew his food.
“Told you,” Sam says again, eyeing Dean’s nearly finished meal. “Good, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a regular restaurant connoisseur,” Dean relents, waving a
ketchup-covered fry at Sam before shoving it in his mouth.
“You’re welcome,” Sam snorts, sipping his whiskey and Coke, the whiskey a
courtesy of the flask in Dean’s back pocket.
“Y’know, I should probably stop giving you alcohol. You being seventeen and
all,” Dean says conversationally just to be a shit, smirking when Sam throws
him the annoyed look he was waiting for.
“Right, I’m sure you never drank before you were legal.” Sam rolls his eyes.
Dean noticed Sam does that a lot whenever he talks.
“Never!” Dean mock-gasps, chuckling before munching on another fry.
“Seventeen’s not that young,” Sam continues, picking at the bun of his burger,
his eyes now downcast. “Besides, it’s my birthday soon anyway.”
“Widdle Sammy,” Dean teases, leaning forward over the table as he makes his
voice babyish and mocking. “Widdle seventeen year old Sammy.”
Sam’s jaw clenches a bit and he rolls his shoulders before grabbing a fry. He
leans forward, elbows on the table as he meets Dean’s eyes. There’s a challenge
in the green of his irises, that stubborn streak Dean’s become so familiar with
making a play yet again. Sam taps the fry against his mouth a few times before
smiling at Dean, this curious little thing.
“Seventeen’s old enough for plenty of things.” Sam’s tone is a little too
casual, his eyes holding Dean’s a little too hard. Then he opens his mouth,
just barely parts them open in a little ‘o’ before using his thumb and
forefinger to slide the fry into his mouth in one smooth push.
Just like that, Dean is hard, his head spinning from how fast all of the blood
in his body rushed south. He has to grab the lip of the table to stop from
falling over, holy shit, this kid is trying to kill him.
“Enough with the goddamn phallic symbols, you little shit,” Dean hisses, half
hunching forward to berate Sam, half to shield his current predicament from
unfriendly gazes.
There’s a twinkle in Sam’s eyes that Dean doesn’t like the look of, not in the
least. He finds out why not even two seconds later.
“What?” Sam asks at the top of his voice, just a smidgen below a yell. “What’s
a phallic symbol?”
Dean can literally hear every head in the place turn their way. He covers his
face with his hands and mutters, “I fucking hate you,” to which Sam starts
laughing.
Dean sees movement out of the corner of his eye, a manager or something in
uniform that looks extremely perturbed. He’s out of the booth faster than he
thought his jelly legs could move, making sure to grab a handful of fries
before hightailing it out of there, Sam not far behind. They hit the car
running, throwing themselves in their respective seats and locking the doors
just to be safe. Sam’s wheezing out laughter but Dean’s still semi-pissed so he
gives Sam’s upper arm two hard punches in retaliation.
“Fuckin’ shit, you are.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam waves him away, still giggling a bit as his fingers drift to
the spot where Dean hit him. Something zings up Dean’s stomach and into his
spine, freezing him in his seat as he watches Sam’s eyes flutter shut when his
fingertips dig in, as if he… as if he likes it. Dean’s earlier issue becomes a
problem once again, his dick chubbing up just from the sight of Sam’s mouth
parting open in response to the pain, from getting turned on by it.
His breaths coming a little bit faster now, Sam’s eyes are suddenly open again,
fixing Dean with a dark look that makes his lungs feel like they’re folding in
on themselves. The wrong part of the house of cards has been touched and now
it’s all coming down.
“Drive,” Sam says, his voice sounding hoarse and used, producing too many
images for Dean’s brain to handle at one time. But damn, Dean doesn’t need to
be told twice.
                                    ::..::
If he was paying attention to his moral compass, Dean might have taken a moment
to think about how this was a bad idea. If he gave a shit about anything more
than the way his pants are too fucking tight over his dick, Dean would have
probably tried to be more subtle about the way he entered the motel office and
demanded a single king, right the fuck now, thanks.
Problem is that none of this was his immediate concern. Nothing was except for
the boy standing beside his car, bag in hand, looking flushed and impatient.
They moved too fast, tripping over nothing as they tried to find the room on
the tag attached to the key, of course it was the one farthest from the office,
longest goddamn walk of Dean’s life. Key finally shoved in the door and Dean
can feel Sam draped against his back, Sam’s lips on his neck, the wet gust of
Sam’s breath heating Dean’s skin, making his hands shake and fumble with
opening the door. Sam’s talking the whole time, insistent and low, “Dean,
c’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” and Dean’s swearing, “Fucking shit, Sam,” then the door’s
open and they’re in.
Sam’s bag hits the floor at the same time Dean’s keys hit the bedside table,
then they’re on each other, grabbing handfuls anywhere they can reach, shirts
and hair in death grips as their mouths finally collide.
Sam may be taller but Dean’s got Sam’s hair between his fingers and uses it to
pull him down, pull him in, tilt him at just the right angle so Dean’s tongue
can finally get behind his teeth. It’s going too fast, the rational part of
Dean knows this, but that section of his brain has turned to liquid at the
first moan that Sam feeds into Dean’s mouth. He needs more, more sounds, more
Sam, and the next thing Dean knows, he’s slamming Sam into the nearest wall,
both of them shaking from the impact.
“Dean,” Sam pants into his mouth, palms clamped on his cheeks to pull him into
another kiss, so deep and dirty that Dean feels his bone marrow start to decay.
“Yeah, Sammy,” he manages to murmur once Sam’s given up attacking his mouth.
“Yeah, I’ve got you.”
Sam makes a noise then, his head falling back to thump against the wall,
opening up the canvas of his neck. Dean dives in, latches his teeth around the
skin on the side of Sam’s throat and sucks hard. He can feel the spot between
his lips heat up as the blood rushes to the surface, runs his tongue over it
and sucks again. Sam’s letting out these beautiful hitching breaths, music to
Dean’s ears, and his hips are working in response, jerking up and digging in to
grind against Dean’s where he’s lined them up just right. One of Dean’s hands
drop to Sam’s hip, gripping hard at the sharp wing of bone, praying to God that
it leaves an imprint on his palm for the rest of his life. He moves to another
spot on Sam’s neck, then another, leaves a trail of his marks with nips and
sucks until Sam is writhing against Dean’s body.
“Please, Dean, please, fuck—” Sam’s nearly sobbing, his hands clawing at Dean’s
shoulders, and Dean shivers, rolling his hips up so his cock catches on the
hard line of Sam’s and they both groan.
“What?” Dean mumbles down Sam’s throat, too fascinated by the smooth lines of
his neck to even try to pull away. “What do you want?”
“You, God, touch me, please touch me,” Sam begs, and that’s good enough for
Dean. He bends his knees, drops his hands to get under the backs of Sam’s
thighs and lifts him up right onto his hips. Sam lets out a choked noise, arms
flinging around Dean’s neck until his back hits the mattress and jars them
loose again.
It’s all hands then, pushing Sam up so he can get his head on a pillow and from
there, Dean has no semblance of control where his fingers go. It’s like they’ve
been deprived, crawling down Sam’s torso and then shoving back up to push Sam’s
shirt out of the way to reveal the miles of brown skin that hasn’t left Dean’s
thoughts since he first saw the kid. The bed creaks slightly when Dean gets on
the bed too, legs on either side of Sam’s hips as his palms run down Sam’s
ribcage, relishing the heat pouring off his body. His mouth follows, leaning
down to breathe over one of Sam’s nipples before his teeth latch onto it and
give it a little pull. Sam bucks, his hands flying to the back of Dean’s head,
scrabbling to get purchase in the short strands of his hair as he pants and
moans.
Dean’s trying not to think about how his hands keep shaking, his senses
overloaded by how responsive Sam is, how good he tastes, how much Dean wants.
It’s making it hard to breathe, but who needs air anyway, Dean would rather
suffocate himself in Sam’s skin than have to leave it.
He can feel Sam’s thighs trembling, reminding him of what drew him to Sam in
the first place, and he relinquishes the nub between his teeth in favor of
kissing his way down Sam’s chest, scooting back as he goes so he can get lower
and lower until he feels the coarse trail of hair against his lips. Baring his
teeth, Dean lightly scrapes downwards until he feels rough denim against his
chin, Sam’s back arching up to meet him.
Dean breathes out a laugh, flicking his eyes up. “You’re a squirmy little
thing, ain’tcha?”
Lust has blown Sam’s pupils wide open and dappled his cheeks in red. He looks
wrecked and Dean hasn’t even gotten started, his cock twitching in his jeans
just from watching the way Sam’s mouth drops open when Dean bites at the flare
of his hipbone.
“Maybe—” Sam lets out a huff, his fingers tightening in Dean’s hair and pulling
up. “Maybe if you stopped fuckin’ teasing me—”
Dean sits up, pulling his head away from Sam’s grip with another chuckle,
tugging at Sam’s belt loops. “Get ‘em off.”
It’s almost comical to watch how fast Sam sits up, fumbling to lift his hips
and shove his pants down and off. The moment they’re free of his ankles, Dean
grabs Sam’s calves and pushes at them, wanting to get up between them and feel
them wrap around his waist, the darkest thing from Dean’s dreams. He can’t help
the groan that rattles out of his chest when Sam drops his legs open
automatically, making a space just for him.
“Do you have any idea,” Dean starts, crouching down so he can nose along Sam’s
inner thigh up to the bend of his knee. “How much I’ve thought about these
fuckin’ legs?”
Sam whimpers, fisting his hands in the sheets. Dean relishes making his way
back up Sam’s thigh, the skin on the inside of his leg almost baby smooth, the
perfect path for his lips.
“How often I imagined how pretty you’d look with them spread open just like
this?”
“Dean,” Sam chokes out when Dean mouths over his clothed dick, kitten-licking
at the damp spot on his briefs.
“‘S okay, Sammy, I gotcha,” Dean soothes, kissing Sam’s stomach before slipping
his fingers under the band of his underwear, pulling them down and off of Sam’s
legs with one yank.
Sitting back on his heels, Dean takes in every inch of Sam from the beautiful
flush of his cheeks, to the sweat building on his neck and collarbones and the
dusky peaks of his nipples. His breath catches when his eyes finally land on
Sam’s dick, leaking pre-come from the slit onto his stomach. The head is pink,
the same shade as Sam’s bitten and used mouth, and the very thought of it
sending tingles down Dean’s spine to pool low in his belly. Every single part
of Sam’s body deserves to be treasured, lavished with Dean’s fingers and lips
until Sam doesn’t know what way is up.
Skimming his palms up Sam’s sides, Dean gently lowers himself until he’s draped
over Sam’s body, Sam completely nude and Dean still fully clothed. Sam
immediately tells Dean he thinks that’s all kinds of wrong by pulling at Dean’s
shirt hard enough that he thinks it might rip. Lifting his arms, Dean lets Sam
get it off him and watches as he tosses it aside before planting his hands on
Dean’s chest, mapping it with his fingers.
“You’re so fucking unreal,” Sam breathes, brows furrowing as he follows the
lines of Dean’s pecs down to his stomach and back up again. “Jesus, Dean,
you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Shaking his head, Dean ducks down until his face is buried in the crook of
Sam’s shoulder. “Don’t,” Dean says into Sam’s sweat-slick skin. “Just let me
take care of you.”
Sam’s entire body jerks the moment Dean wraps a hand around his dick and uses
his palm to twist around the head and down until it’s slick with pre-come and
easier to pump. Broken mewls leave Sam’s mouth in rapid succession, his legs
tensing and sliding up and down, unable to stop from squirming as Dean jerks
him harder and faster, pulling him closer and closer to the edge until he’s
gasping, “Stop stop stop, I’m gonna come, don’t—”. Instead of doing what he
asked, Dean slips back and drops his head to take Sam’s cock into his mouth,
pushing down as far as his throat can take it. Sam comes with a shout, bucking
up into Dean’s mouth and cussing loudly as his hand grabs onto the back of
Dean’s head. Dean works him through it, squeezes and pulls and swallows it all,
the taste of Sam’s come coating his tongue, making his dick twitch in his
pants, reminding him that he really needs to get his fucking pants off.
Sam’s cock has just barely slipped out of Dean’s mouth when he’s suddenly
hauled up and into a waiting pair of lips that attack him with vigor. Sam
kisses him hard, shoving his tongue deep into Dean’s mouth, swirling it around
his cheeks and along the roof of his mouth before pulling back to audibly
swallow. That just about sends Dean over the edge, knowing Sam can taste
himself, wanted to taste himself, practically ate it off of Dean’s tongue.
“Take your pants off already,” Sam demands, fingers already crawling to the
zipper of Dean’s jeans. “And get your dick out.”
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean groans, hips twitching up into the warmth of Sam’s palms as
they pull open his button and tug at his belt loops. He nearly falls off the
bed trying to kick them off, manages to finally stand up and step out of both
them and his boxers. Sam’s moved too, stooping over his bag for a moment before
climbing back onto the sheets, tossing two things in Dean’s direction.
The foil condom packet and KY tube take a moment to register in Dean’s brain,
to finally click in that they’re about to do this. After this, there’s no going
back. Dean looks up and meets Sam’s eyes, his breath rushing out of his lungs.
He’s never seen Sam look more determined or more certain of anything in the
time they’ve known each other. Dean would be lying if he said it hadn’t ever
crossed his mind, because it did the moment Dean first laid eyes on this kid
and he’s thought about it nearly every half hour since. He wants this, wants
Sam, wants to feel how tight he is and hear him moan into Dean’s ear as he
pushes in and fuck, okay, yeah, this is happening.
“On your back,” Dean says, picking up the packet. He tears it open and rolls
the condom on, hissing in relief as he finally gets his hand on his dick. When
he looks up to see if Sam’s complied, another noise gets strangled in the back
of his throat.
Sam listened, of course he did, is lying flat on his back with a pillow propped
under his ass so his hips are tilted up at the perfect angle, his legs splayed
open obscenely wide. Dean doesn’t even remember moving; the next thing he
knows, his hands are on Sam’s thighs, stroking gently as he settles on the bed.
His thumbs trace their own path down, down, down, past Sam’s balls to the space
between his cheeks, seeking. Finding.
Moaning softly, Dean turns his face into the crease of Sam’s knee that’s bent
just beside his face. “Fuck, Sam. Fuck.”
He can feel the tight whorl of muscle against the pad of his right thumb, a hot
little hole that Dean is about to breach, to explore with his fingers and his
dick and the very thought of it makes him groan again.
“Dean,” Sam says, his voice sounding unusually high. “I swear to God, if you
don’t get your cock in my ass in the next minute—”
“Dude,” Dean bites out, his eyes squeezing shut against Sam’s slutty words.
“You can’t just—”
“Yes I can, now will you hurry u—”
While Sam was bitching, Dean had flipped off the cap of the lube and slicked
his first two fingers up, just so he could shove the first one in Sam’s ass as
he complained. It works as well as he hoped it would, breaking Sam off mid-
sentence to let out a gasp before it turns into something more needy. Dean
wants to take his time, to curl and spread and fill Sam with his fingers until
he cries, but his blood already feels too hot in his veins and Sam is now
fucking himself down on Dean’s finger and begging for another and he knows
neither of them are going to last long. Sam’s half hard again already just from
being fingered and Dean has to close his eyes to try and keep from being
overwhelmed.
Dean eases in a second finger, scissoring and spreading Sam as quickly as he
can without hurting him, but Sam doesn’t seem to care, writhing and swearing
and begging for Dean’s cock in a way that should definitely be illegal. Still,
Dean refuses to fuck him until he’s certain Sam’s prepped enough, hunching
forward to kiss Sam with a tangle of tongues, hoping that’ll be distraction
enough.
“I’m good, I’m good.” Sam’s biting at Dean’s lips now, squirming and dragging
his sweaty chest against Dean’s so their nipples catch and drag. It’s as if he
knows every single way to fuck Dean right up. “I promise, I’m good, Dean, just
fuck me already.”
Dean grunts, dropping his forehead to Sam’s shoulder so he can look down
between their bodies. Sam got fully hard with three fingers up his ass, his
cock curving up on his stomach again, dripping wet at the head. Sucking in a
breath, Dean pulls his fingers out of the tight heat, trying not to cry when he
feels Sam’s hole grip around his knuckles, trying to keep him in. That’s about
to be wrapped around his dick, holy fucking shit.
Sam shifts a bit on the pillow underneath him, tilting his hips up and
spreading his legs even wider as he offers himself up, so ready and wanting
that Dean nearly drools.
Gathering himself, Dean lets out a whisper on his next exhale, “Okay”, fights
to keep his fingers from trembling as he wraps them around his dick and guides
it down to Sam’s hole. He can hear Sam’s breath catch and then he’s pushing in,
feeding his dick into mind-numbing tightness and heat.
Buzzing fills Dean’s ears, drowning him in white noise as he eases in painfully
slow, seconds becoming hours that spill from invisible hourglasses until Dean’s
hips finally meet the backs of Sam’s thighs. Sam is panting harshly, his face
flushed and strained and shiny with sweat, the prettiest thing Dean’s ever
seen. Instinct screams at Dean to move, to fuck in and out and feel the catch
and release of this incredible pressure on his cock until he blacks out, but
it’s Sam and despite all the begging, Dean’s not exactly small and he needs
time, give him time.
Dean lowers himself down until they’re chest to chest again, turning his face
into Sam’s neck to place a sloppy kiss there before he starts mumbling, “Doin’
so good, Sam, so so good, just relax, it’s okay”, and he hears Sam make a small
noise of agreement. He can feel Sam untensing, letting himself get used to the
intrusion.
It’s another minute of sharp breaths and hands clenching and unclenching on
Dean’s shoulder before Sam’s hips give a tiny buck.
“Go,” Sam breathes.
Who knew a two-syllable word could set off a cacophony of fireworks in Dean’s
body, burning bright and hot enough to make it feel like his bones are being
superheated. Reaching down, Dean gets both arms under Sam’s knees and lifts
them up over his shoulders, nearly bending Sam in half. The movement jostles
them in such a way that Sam yelps then groans and wiggles his ass back and
forth on Dean’s dick.
There, he’s gotta hit there, prostate, his mind helpfully supplies, he’s gotta
turn Sam into an absolute wreck of a human being, loose-limbed and fucked out,
and he’s gonna start now.
With his past hookups, Dean would take his time to ease them into it, make sure
they’re comfortable and go gentle, slow. There’s no room for gentle when Sam’s
folded in half under Dean’s body and has his arms looped around Dean’s neck.
There’s no room for slow when Sam’s whispering, “Fuck me stupid,” in his ear.
So he does. Dean fucks Sam stupid, his hips pistoning into the kid so hard that
the breath is knocked out of him. Sam keeps clenching around his cock,
squeezing so tight that Dean’s rhythm stutters sometimes, but he never falters
in his punishing pace. The sounds of flesh meeting flesh fill the room,
obscenely loud in Dean’s ears but oddly arousing at the same time, this
auditory evidence that it’s finally happening, Dean fucking Sam, Sam taking his
dick like a champ, moaning like a pornstar and looking like a goddamn model the
entire time.
Dean does his best to angle his hips just right, shifting with his thrusts
until he hears the surprised “Oh!” leave Sam’s mouth and he knows he’s hit the
goldmine. Dean bears down on him then, capturing Sam’s mouth in a wet kiss as
he drives his cock into Sam relentlessly, over and over and over to punch those
pretty little noises out of his throat until Sam bites down on Dean’s bottom
lip and comes hard, his cock completely untouched. He paints both of their
chests with thick white stripes, their skin catching and sticking together
deliciously as they slide against each other. The rhythmic clench and unclench
of Sam’s hole is what lets Dean follow, spilling into the condom with short
bursts that match his thrusts until they’re both exhausted, dirty and overly
sensitive.
Sucking in a huge gulp of air, Dean gently pulls out so he can unfold Sam back
down to the mattress and roll off, the humid air in the room settling on his
sweaty face. Sam’s left speechless, apparently, only able to wheeze out some
kind of awestruck noise before Dean’s rolling back over to kiss it out of his
mouth. They hover there a moment, lips brushing, just giving and taking hot
breaths as their eyes lock and hold, neither of them being the first to look
away.
“Fuck,” Sam finally says, his voice raw and gravelly.
“Fuck,” Dean agrees, ducking in to steal one last kiss before flopping back
onto his pillow.
Looking over, he can see Sam’s eyes fluttering shut, exhaustion plain as day on
his flushed face, so he takes it upon himself to stand and head to the bathroom
first, tying off the condom and tossing it before wetting one of the
washcloths. He wipes Sam down gingerly, making slow swipes down his chest and
over his dick until he’s completely clean. He takes care of himself next before
abandoning the washcloth on the floor of the bathroom and crawling back into
bed beside Sam.
Dean was planning to ask Sam if he was okay but the kid’s already asleep, mouth
ajar and hair sticking up everywhere. Smiling and shaking his head, Dean
reaches down to ease the pillow out from under Sam’s limp body, tossing it to
the floor before closing his eyes himself. There’s a war going on inside of
him, emotions that are begging to ruin this moment for him, but sleep comes on
too fast and drowns them all away.
                                    ::..::
“I was going to find my brother.”
Dean looks up from stirring his coffee, meeting Sam’s eyes.
“What?”
They’re in a diner, sharing the morning-after over two breakfast specials,
coffee, and Dean’s residual guilt that had slammed into him full force after
waking up the next morning to Sam blowing him. It all rose up inside him
unbidden, tainting him black and wringing his muscles dry with fear; fear of
hurting Sam, of taking advantage of him, of making him think this was the only
way he can pay Dean back for everything when that was the furthest thing from
his mind. Now they’re here in their booth and Sam’s just broken the
uncomfortable silence that’s blanketed them since they stepped through the
doors.
“When you found me,” Sam clarifies, spearing his sausage link with his fork
tines. “I was going to find my brother.”
“Oh,” Dean says, leaning back a bit to digest this. A new slew of questions
crawl their way to the front of his mind, but it’s as if Sam knows.
“He didn’t know I was coming. I ditched my dad, hitchhiked my way from home,
made it this far before getting cold fuckin’ feet and freaking out. I was just
trying to figure out how I was gonna get back home and walk back into that
house again when you came along, so…” Sam gnaws at his lip, eyes still
downcast.
“Your dad was mad?” Dean ventures cautiously, gauging Sam’s reaction. What he
didn’t expect was for Sam to bark out a cold laugh, his face tightening with a
wry smile before nodding.
“Fucking livid. I kind of deserved it, though. I was going through some of his
old stuff in the attic, looking for something to use in a school project or
whatever when I found these old books. Journals, really, dating back over two
decades. That’s how I found out about the real reason behind my parents’
divorce that happened when I was still a baby, and just as a cherry on top,
I’ve got an older brother out there that I’ve never met, never even heard of.”
Sam’s voice is low and angry, his eyes fixed on his fork that is stabbing into
chunks of scrambled eggs on his plate. “What the fuck kind of parent do you
have to be to hide something like that from your kid?”
“...Maybe there’s a reason—” Dean starts, and immediately knows it was the
wrong thing to say.
“There isn’t!” Sam shouts, throw his hands into the air. “That’s just it, Dean!
No fucking reason, just a joint decision on both of their parts to stay the
fuck out of each other’s lives. They took my goddamn brother from me. Can you
even begin to imagine how that feels?”
“I’m sorry,” Dean shushes him, grimacing at the waitress who is shooting them
weird looks before leaning forward to touch Sam’s wrist with his fingers. “I’m
sorry, Sam, okay? No, no I can’t. What they did was wrong.” He waits for Sam’s
breath to go from choppy back to some sense of normalcy before continuing. “So
how did you find out where or even who he was? Your brother?”
Sam shrugs and starts picking at his food again. He doesn’t pull away from
where Dean is touching him, so Dean leaves his hand where it is.
“Well, I figured out I had one from the journals because the first one started
on the day my brother was born. I don’t know his name though. Any entry in any
of the journals that mentioned his name were blacked out, like he couldn’t even
stand to see my brother’s name. Then I found my mom’s number in the back of one
of the books. It took me three weeks but I finally got the balls to call her
from a payphone and pretended I was taking a survey, asked if there were any
young males in the household I could speak to. She was nice. Apologized and
told me her son was away at college. Stanford. I couldn’t fucking believe it.”
Sam shakes his head. “My older brother was going to my dream school and my
mother had no idea she was speaking to her youngest son. It was like the
world’s biggest joke.”
“Wait. Stanford?” Dean croaks, his mind starting to spin. What are the chances
that Sam’s brother was at his school, well, ex-school, this entire time?
Sam gave him an odd look. “Yeah. Why?”
It’s then that Dean is reminded just how little they both know about each
other. They never talked about shit like school or family; it was all whatever
was right in front of them. For the past two days, they had been living in the
moment, but this was the cost.
“I-I, uh, used to go to Stanford,” Dean finally admits, looking away
prematurely to avoid the look of inevitable disappointment in Sam’s eyes when
he goes on, “‘Til I dropped out.”
Sam’s fork hits the plate with a clatter. “You went there?”
Dean rubs the back of his head and stares out the window.
“Is… Is that where you were coming from?” Sam asks, his tone a lot softer now,
like he can sense this is a precarious subject.
“Yeah,” Dean grunts, dropping his hands so he can start fiddling with his
napkin. “Just wasn’t built for college, I guess. Or most anything in my life,
honestly. Just another thing to add to my long list of fuck-ups.”
Sam bites his lip. He looks like he wants to try to be nice and say something,
but he refrains. He probably knows that all it’ll sound like to Dean is pity,
which Dean would rather choke himself than get any of that shit.
Dean clears his throat and takes a sip of coffee. “Anyways. Your brother. Hell,
maybe I know the guy.”
Sam’s face brightens significantly, hope rolling off him in waves and reverting
him into a little kid with the excitement brewing beneath his skin. “You
think?”
Dean shrugs. “It’s a small world. You never know.”
Sam nods jerkily, his hands twisting together on the table, food completely
forgotten now. “I mean, I don’t have his first name because that was all
scratched out, but he could be going by my dad’s last name. Winchester.”
A boulder tumbles out of Dean’s heart and plummets to his stomach, knocking the
air out of his lungs on the way down.
Sam’s voice has become a bit more fuzzy, a bit more distorted, but he’s still
talking, completely oblivious. “I don’t know if he’d be using my dad’s surname,
though, so it may be our mom’s, which is Campbell.”
This is a joke.
“It’s probably a long shot but that’s all I had going into it, so you can see
why I pussied out.”
This has to be a fucking joke.
“...Dean? Are you okay?”
The room has tilted onto its side. Dean feels sick. He’s going to throw up.
“You… You look green. Dean, are you okay?”
He’s about to throw up, but his fingers still have enough function in them to
pull out his wallet and start fumbling through the cards.
“Your mom’s name.” Dean rasps, struggling to keep his gaze focused on Sam when
everything’s starting to spin. “Was it Mary?”
Sam’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open in shock. “Holy shit. You know him!”
A vicious throbbing has taken root in Dean’s temples, aching with every too-
fast beat of his heart. He wants to disappear, to melt down into his seat and
never resurface again. He wants to throw up and he wants to punch something,
break every fucking bone in his arm, but it still wouldn’t be enough.
Dean finally finds what he was looking for, his thumb sliding the card out of
his wallet. He slaps his driver’s license down on the table, his hand covering
it as he closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe.
“Dean?” comes the nervous laugh. “Seriously, what’s going on?”
Dean shoves his arm forward, his i.d. sticking to the clammy sweat lining his
palm before dropping away once Dean pulls his arm back again. This is death row
and that card is his execution.
“What’re you… What’s this?” Sam leans forward. Dean knows when he’s read it by
the way his body sways back and stiffens up. Knows Sam’s now seen his full
name, Dean fuckin’ Winchester, everybody, take your goddamn bow.
“But—”
Dean doesn’t think he can stand to hear excuses, not when the truth is right in
front of them. There’s nothing more than he can say. He has a flesh and blood
brother, a kid brother, and last night, he fucked him until they both passed
out. A laugh starts to bubble up Dean’s throat, this twisted thing that has no
place here, but his heart is beating too fast and his fingers are shaking and
his stomach’s still churning and he knows what his brother’s come tastes like
and it’s all just a little bit like the universe had been waiting with bated
breath to show him there was still one more thing in life that he could totally
screw up.
Sam looks about as sick as Dean’s feeling. “Maybe it’s not—” you. Maybe it’s
another Winchester who has another mom with his mother’s exact same name.
Well. Their mom now.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Oh, God,” Sam whispers in horror, his face draining of all blood to leave him
ghostly white. Dean wishes he could help, wishes he could do something other
than stare at his i.d. on the table and wish this whole thing had never
happened. Sam’s out of the booth now, stumbling his way to the bathroom.
Dean’s head is splitting open so he lays it down on his crossed arms on the
table and tries to breathe and not vomit on his lap.
Guess it really is a small world out there.
                                    ::..::
The silence in the car is suffocating, dripping down the back of Dean’s throat
and choking off his air with how uncomfortable it is. There isn’t even music
playing. They’ve been on the road for almost two hours, left the diner in a
daze when Sam eventually returned to his seat and whispered, “You need to take
me to the Grand Canyon.” He said he’d borrowed a phone and called his uncle
Bobby, asked him to drive down from Sioux Falls to get him there, so he wanted
to leave as soon as possible.
They’d be getting there shortly, their remaining time together ticking away,
and still Dean couldn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say. What even is there
to say after finding out something like that? What is there to say when Dean
looks over at the boy in his front seat and remembers the way he looks when
he’s bent in half, sweat matting his hair to his forehead and flushing his
cheeks? What is there to say when Dean realizes he still wants to do it again
anyway?
“Can you just…” Sam finally speaks up, his face pointed out his window. “Play
some music or something?”
Dean’s fingers comply, plucking a tape out of the box on the floor and shoving
it into the player. He cranks the music loud, loud enough that maybe the
guitars and drums will rattle all these fucked up thoughts right out of his
head. Sam looks like he’s hoping for the exact same thing.
That’s what they’re both like when Dean finally pulls them into the national
park. He doesn’t turn the engine off, just lets it idle in its parking spot as
he stares out the windshield and thinks about just how fucked up this all got.
He misses Sam, misses talking to him, misses laughing. But this kid, his
goddamn brother, Dean’s sure he wants nothing to do with Dean right about now.
Sam’s picking up his bag at his feet, placing it in his lap as he fiddles with
the straps. He still looks like he’s going to be sick.
“I’m gonna go,” he says, his voice thin. “I’ve got enough money to make it ‘til
Bobby comes to get me, so don’t… worry about that, okay?”
Christ, the kid can read his mind. Dean opens his wallet anyway, pulls out all
the cash in the main pocket and holds it out. Sam pushes his hand away, shaking
his head, but Dean grabs his wrist, turns his hand over and slaps the money
into Sam’s palm. It’s more than he would need to get food and anything else he
needs while he waits for the next eight hours, but Dean feels a little better
just knowing he’ll be secure in that time.
“That’s too much, Dean, I don’t—”
“Take it, Sam.” It’s the first thing Dean’s said since they left the diner, his
voice cracking from misuse. “Just fuckin’ take it, alright?”
Sam’s fingers curl over the bills, just barely brushing Dean’s hand as he pulls
it back.
“What are you going to do?” Sam asks softly, staring down at his lap.
Dean clears his throat once, twice. Looks out the window. Decides he couldn’t
give less of a shit about the canyon when his little brother is about to up and
walk out of his life, so he forces his eyes back to Sam’s face. He takes in the
slope of Sam’s nose, the shape of his lips, how his hair flops down just so
over his forehead, the color of his eyes. He soaks in every inch of Sam,
committing him to memory while he still can before Sam’s gone.
“Keep driving.” Dean shrugs. “See if there’s anyone else’s lives I can royally
fuck up along the way.”
Sam’s head jerks up, his face twisted with pain. “Dean—”
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Dean cuts him off, feels his heart start to wither under
Sam’s intense stare. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“You seem to be forgetting that it takes two to tango,” Sam says, forcing out a
laugh that makes both of them wince. He shakes his head then, still watching
Dean. “We didn’t know, okay?”
“Doesn’t make it any better,” Dean croaks, finally having to look away.
Sam clenches his jaw. “So this is it, then?”
The finality behind Sam’s words are terrifying, burrowing under Dean’s skin and
snagging on his every joint and muscle. He doesn’t want it to be. He doesn’t
want to never see Sam again, to never hear him laugh or bitch again, to look
over at the passenger seat and know that it’ll never cradle Sam’s too-long body
again. He doesn’t want this to be it, but it has to be.
“It’s for the best,” Dean says, because it really is. Sam should go on to have
a normal rest of his life. He doesn’t need someone like Dean, and definitely
not a brother like him.
Sam’s mouth twists, hurt plain in his eyes as he nods shakily once before
turning away. “Okay. I guess, uh…” See you around won’t work here. “Good luck.
With everything.”
Dean tries to pretend Sam’s voice isn’t choking up with tears.
“You too,” Dean says back, barely louder than a whisper but he knows Sam heard
him.
Then Sam’s gone, sliding out of the seat and shutting the door behind him, the
impact rocking Dean back and forth gently until the car settles again. There’s
a burning hot pressure behind his eyes, eating away at that fragile place
inside his heart that wants to call Sam back and tell him they’ll figure
something out, just come back, dammit, but it doesn’t work that way.
The way it works is that Dean puts his car in reverse and pulls away. He stops,
looks out the window to see Sam watching him, his bag slung over his shoulder
and his teeth digging into his lip like he’s holding something back too.
Raising a trembling hand, Dean gives Sam one last wave before putting the car
into drive and stepping on the gas.
Dean can’t help but watch Sam’s still figure in the rearview mirror, becoming
smaller and smaller as Dean gets farther away until he turns onto the
interstate and is finally gone, nothing more than a memory.
                                    ::..::
To say the next week is hard is an understatement.
Dean drove without aim, drifting east until he hit New Orleans and fell into
the bed of an incredible woman who took care of him in more ways than one, even
when he stumbled in at five in the morning with more alcohol in his system than
blood. She never asked, never pried, just existed with him and made him feel
safe and whole right up until Dean realized this void in his chest could never
really be filled. He left the next morning, leaving a note on her pillow and an
apology in the form of a single rose.
From there, he went north, struck with a sudden desire to see mountains. Dean
considered calling Mary, he really did, but every time he thought he had enough
courage to pick up the phone, he heard Sam’s voice echoing in his head and
couldn’t even punch the first number.
Halfway through the second week of his wandering and drunken stupors, Dean
passed through a small town just outside of Montana. There was a carnival on,
the lights casting a glow on the edge of town that drew the people in like
moths to a flame. He was just driving by, on his way to nowhere when he saw the
ferris wheel. Crotchety old thing, looked like it was gonna bust open at the
seams any time someone new climbed on, but there it was, tall and proud and
bright against the evening sky. It made Dean ache, so hard and so fast that he
had to pull over, bent forward and nearly hyperventilating right there.
It was pretty clear what needed to happen from there. Dean drove through the
night, couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so determined and set on a
place and a time and a person. He’d never felt more certain in his life than
when he was with Sam, so why would this be any different?
He thought about stopping a motel for the night, figured he should probably
shower and maybe sleep for the first time in forty-eight hours, but his foot
wouldn’t give up the gas pedal. And so he went on.
It wasn’t hard to figure it out. Just took stopping by the local diner to be
pointed to the local bar to be pointed to the city sheriff, a kind woman named
Jody Mills, who gave Dean the directions he needed. She looked a bit skeptical
when he first walked in, which made Dean wonder just how fucked up he looked
right about now, then decided he really could give less of a shit.
Bobby’s place was just outside the city, situated in an old car junkyard that
would have made Dean itch to get up and down the rows to look at all the old
models once upon a time. Now though, he just has one goal, one destination in
mind for the first time Dean’s ever really known.
Dean parks in between two rows of cars, something telling him he might get shot
off the property if he just rolled up to the front door like anyone’s business,
then gets out on unsteady legs. He’s never felt more or less sure of a decision
in his life. It’s terrifying, finally knowing what you want, what you want to
fight for, and not knowing what the outcome might be. Whenever Dean’s had
situations like this, he was always the first to leave. Can’t get hurt if you
aren’t there to feel the pain or the disappointment or the resentment or the
whatever the fuck else. But this? He’s treading in new waters too deep to see
the bottom, but for the first time, Dean’s ready to drown.
His boots hit the doorstep. Dean pauses, his throat suddenly dry and his body
locking up tight, screaming for him to turn and run, get back to what he knows.
But he can’t.
Lifting his fist, Dean raps three times on the front door and listens as a dog
inside goes nuts, barking and howling and running back and forth to alert
anyone in a thirty mile radius that someone is at the door. There’s a bunch of
scuffling and swearing, a tiny yelp from the dog and the slam of another door
before the one in front of Dean opens wide.
Sam freezes, his mouth parted open in surprise as he registers just who is
standing in front of him. It feels like champagne is sliding through Dean’s
veins, making him feel light and fizzy just from laying eyes on the kid again
after nearly two weeks apart, and isn’t that just codependent and fucked up?
“Hi,” Dean says, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
Sam just stares at him, still speechless. Dean doesn’t know if that’s a good or
a bad thing, can’t judge what Sam’s feeling because his face is a blank slate
of shock and isn’t betraying a single thing.
“Look,” Dean croaks, his fingers clenching in his pockets. “I get it if… if
this really doesn’t work for you. Or if you just don’t want to, after
everything that happened, I get it, I do.” Dean sucks in a sharp breath and
plunges on. “But I can’t get you out of my head.”
Sam slumps against the doorframe, watching Dean oh so carefully but holding
onto the door in his other hand—for resilience? In case he needs to slam it in
Dean’s face?—while biting deep into his lip.
“It hasn’t been the same since you left,” Dean says, then shakes his head hard,
staring at the ground as he scuffs his boots. “That’s not it. It hasn’t been
the same since I left you. And I’m sorry for that.” Dean looks up again,
catching Sam’s eyes, which are wide and shiny and vibrantly green. “I’m sorry I
left you behind, Sammy. You didn’t deserve that, not after everything.”
Sam remains quiet, so Dean keeps going. “I just… how this all went down? That’s
not something I ever thought would happen, not in a million years. I just… I
just wanted to help. But I ended up finding out I have a brother.” A little
laugh escapes him then as tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He tries to
blink them away, doesn’t know if he succeeds, doesn’t really care. “So even if
it’s just as brothers, even if we have to pretend everything didn’t happen…”
Dean swallows hard. “I want to be with you. Here, on the road, wherever home is
for you, I don’t care. As long as you’re there and I’m there, I’m good. I’ll be
good, Sammy. And I just… needed you to know that.”
The dog is whining from somewhere inside the house, scratching at the door it’s
been locked behind. There are birds chirping somewhere in the distance and the
soft sound of both Sam and Dean just breathing. Dean doesn’t know what to
expect, just knows he laid himself bare and will take whatever comes his way.
He doesn’t deserve a second chance here, not after this, which is why he
doesn’t expect anything in the least. As long as Sam knows, that’s what he
tells himself. As long as Sam knows.
Finally, Sam speaks, standing up to his full height as he looks down at Dean on
the front step, something shielding the emotions in his eyes. “You want me to
come with you?”
Taking a deep breath, Dean nods. “Yeah, I do.”
Sam chews at the corner of his lip and pushes away from the doorframe before
walking down a step, another foot closer to Dean. He rolls his shoulders back,
squaring up before really looking at Dean and holding his eyes as he asks,
“What if I want both?”
Dean’s brain short-circuits for a moment. “What?”
“What if…” Sam trails off, his gaze dropping down to watch his hand as it
reaches forward and curls in the front of Dean’s shirt. “What if I want what we
had and a brother?” Dean can feel his heart stutter in his chest, leaving a
strange tattoo on his ribs. “Would you hate me?”
All the breath leaves Dean’s lungs as he grabs Sam’s arm and tugs him down even
closer until they’re nose to nose.
“Never,” Dean whispers, tilting his head just right so his lips can brush Sam’s
as he speaks, smiling when he feels Sam tremble in response.
“Then yes,” Sam whispers back, his hand tugging Dean forward until their mouths
meet, sealing their hearts and their futures together with a kiss that rivals
even the fairy tales.
Just like that, Dean became certain that he’d found his calling, the reason why
he never felt settled anywhere he had gone before. His purpose in life had been
waiting on just the other side of the California border, and now everything was
finally right. Sam is the one thing Dean is determined to never let down again,
and by the way that Sam is wrapping his arms around his neck like an anchor,
Sam believes in him, believes in Dean. That’s more than he could ever think to
ask for, and finally, Dean is happy.
End Notes
     A quick note to thank some of the people closest to me who knew I was
     struggling to finish this fic for the deadline.
     To R, J, and R; thank you for listening to me bitch and moan and then
     disappear for four hours only to come back and say I'd just written a
     porn scene. Your patience and support mean everything, and this is
     for you.
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