Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6606532.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      High_School_Student_Sam, Sibling_Rivalry, First_Time, Power_Play, this_is
      evolving_into_an_actual_story_so_hold_onto_your_coattails, Witchcraft,
      Soul_Bond, trickery, and_some_crack_because_I_simply_can't_control
      myself, Pre-Stanford, Celtic_Mythology_&_Folklore, Honestly_this_story_is
      getting_overrun_by_the_tangled_mythology_behind_it, and_there_is_no_sex
      yet..._so_just_avoid_if_this_isn't_your_thing_okay?
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-04-20 Updated: 2016-05-25 Chapters: 7/? Words: 7324
****** Slant ******
by guanoo
Summary
     [a few months before Sam leaves for Stanford, his father cuts his
     hair...]
***** Chapter 1 *****
It was short. 
Sam reached up and felt his skull through the feathery buzz cut. Little shorn
bits drifted down to the floor. 
"You look good, son." John clapped a gruff hand on Sam's shoulder. "Thanks for
letting me take care of it this time. You know Dean never cuts it short enough.
And long hair's dangerous in our line of work."
Our line of work. The family business. 
Makes it sound so damn respectable. 
Sam kept quiet. He really looked different—the short hair emphasized his long
neck, and worse, his weird eyes. And with only four months to grow, his hair
would be a curly mop during the first few months of university. Not that Dad
knew about that yet. He wouldn't take it well, especially not after Sam's
apparent acquiescence. But Sam wasn't doing it for his dad. No, Sam was making
a show of joining the hunt so he could spend more time with Dean before he
left. 
Dean was a thickheaded 22 year old who spent the majority of his "civilian"
hours drinking and fucking anything that looked at him sideways. It pissed Sam
off, mainly because he never ranked anymore. He would if Dean knew about him
leaving, but he couldn't tell Dean yet—too risky. Dean might tell Dad, might
sabotage it somehow. Might still be able to talk Sam out of it if he cried and
pursed his pretty mouth just right—Sam couldn't let that happen. He had no
future here. Unlike Dean, he wasn't going to shoulder Dad's burden. Unlike
Dean, he wouldn't allow the old man's tyranny to dictate every aspect of his
life. 
"You like it, son?"
Sam heard the plea for approval in John's voice. "No," he said, and stalked
off. 
~
Gorgeous. Tall. Slanting, hazel eyes.
Dean didn't actually recognize his brother at first—otherwise he'dve never made
that mistake. But the sun was in his eyes.
He stared too long before realizing his mouth was hanging open, and recovered
himself in a cruel laugh.
Sam's lips twisted with scorn.
"Ahh I'm sorry Sammy, it's just, you know, without the hair... You look like
E.T. What'd you do, princess, get glue in it again?"  
"Dean, I'm not five," Sam said, voice dangerously quiet. He tried to shove past
his brother, but Dean reclined against the Impala, crossing his arms, blocking
the door. Sam was recently taller than him, but he was still too skinny to beat
Dean in a fight, and he knew it—never picked fights with Dean anymore. 
"Move," Sam demanded, sticking out his sharp jaw, narrowing his eyes further.
And Dean was staring again. He felt a weird urge to touch Sam's short short
hair—shorter than he'd ever seen it, so short it looked pale in the sun—
Dean flinched as a big hand clapped down on the roof next to his head. He
smiled obligingly. "Aw Sammy what's your rush, huh? Can't even say hi to your
brother?" 
He played it cool but he was sizing Sam up, realizing he wasn't such a string
bean after all. Well at least he'd put up a fight. Not like that guy from
earlier. Or was that yesterday?
Sam was leaning in close, and his eyes, no longer hidden behind floppy hair,
were breathtaking—Dean was actually having trouble breathing—when the motel
room door slammed and John's voice called out, "Boys, stop horsing around and
get in the car." 
Dean ducked out from under Sam's arm and slid into the passengers seat,
catching his breath. He sensed Sam getting in directly behind him, glaring at
the back of his head. It tickled, how he could push all of Sammy's buttons,
make him so mad. Without sparing his brother a glance, he stretched an arm over
the back of his seat, taking special care that his elbow jutted back into Sam's
space. Their singular focus on each other broke apart when John opened the back
door and tossed the last backpack in.
Sam, darling brother who he was, utilized the fraction of a second between the
backdoor closing and the driver's door opening to chuck the backpack into
Dean's lap. Oh, that hurt. 
Dad handed him a styrofoam cup of coffee and a map of Arkansas, then glanced at
the backpack. Dean looked at it too, sheepishly. 
"Dean what have I told you about bags in the front seat?"
"Sorry Dad."
He muscled the bag over his shoulder, hoping karma was on his side, but his
dorky brother caught it. So he waited until they pulled out onto the highway,
then casually dropped his arm behind the seat and squeezed Sam's knee,
satisfied by the girly yelp from the back. 
Dad glanced in the rearview mirror. "Sammy you all right back there?"
"Prolly just realized he's not Rapunzel anymore," Dean snorted. 
Something swatted the back of his head. 
"Ow, bitch."
"Jerk."
"Boys."
 
***** Chapter 2 *****
Wasn't long before they had to pull off for something. 
"This's Larry's place," John said, gesturing towards the office with his
eyebrows. "I'll only be a minute. You boys stay in the car."
"Yessir," Dean said automatically.
"And Dean? Don't torment your brother about his hair."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Dad."
Sam waited until John slammed the door, then hissed, "Suckup."
"Phone home, Sammy," he said cooly, eyes out the windshield.
He heard his brother shifting around behind him. A long arm dropped heavily
across the back of his seat, and a new-shorn head appeared at his shoulder. But
Dean was an expert at ignoring his stupid little brother the way said brother
was an expert at rock paper scissors (shrimp always cheated, Dean just hadn't
figured out how yet). 
Pretending he was alone in the car, Dean popped the lid from his coffee. The
heat of it scalded his tongue, but he kept his face neutral as he swallowed,
pondering the black liquid. Then he glanced over at Sam, who was gazing up at
him, brow wrinkled mournfully.
"Hey kid," he said gently. Slanted eyes trained on him. "Here, drink this.
Maybe it'll stunt your growth." 
Sammy leered back at him, still beautiful and unfamiliar. But he drank, wincing
as the coffee burned his mouth.
"Shit, that's hot," he gasped. 
Dean cackled.
"Fuck you, Dean."
"Yeah, right. Just finish it, bitch."
And Sam did.
Dean had to see, so he twisted around in his seat. "Sucker," he taunted, but
watched intently—otherwise he'dve never noticed it. Cup lifted to Sammy's lips.
Adam's apple bobbing sharp under tanned skin. Wince—burned again. Tongue
poking out to taste the bead of coffee on the styrofoam rim.
Dean's grin faltered, and he eyed the cup with surprise. "Huh. Always figured
you for a 'cooties' type."
His brother squinted at him, not immediately comprehending. Then a slow smile
cut across his face. "What, you care that I drink from the same side of the cup
as you?"
Dean's skin crawled. "Hell no! You're the prissy one. Me? Hah, Sammy, you know
me. Don't give a rat's ass about hygiene."
Sam sneered. "Why'd you bring it up then."
"Dunno. Just seemed nasty."
"Is."
Their eyes met. Sam scowled and looked out the window. Cheekbones high, left
cheek shadowed in the sunlight. He looked strong and delicate all at once,
devastatingly beautiful, so different without the hair.
Dean blinked, a little dazed by his own thoughts.
And Sam caught him looking.
Dean blurted, "You've just got a little—" he pointed in the general direction
of Sam's mouth. 
Sam indifferently scrubbed a sleeve over his lips, eyes out the window again,
probably watching for their father. Dean should've taken that chance to look
away, but when his brother turned back, Dean was still staring at his mouth.
Friction-red.
"Here, lemme get it," Dean said, inventing another excuse. Sam regarded him
narrowly, but leaned forward when Dean reached over the bench and caught his
sharp chin. He rubbed his thumb along Sam's lower lip, wiping away the
imaginary droplet. 
"Stubborn drop of coffee, huh?" Sam smirked, eyes flashing like razors.
Dean tried to yank his hand away, but Sam anticipated the motion and caught his
wrist. Slow, dream-slow, he brought it back to his lips, licking the pad of
Dean's thumb.
Dean ached, trapped in that slanted, unblinking gaze. Hot tongue pressing into
his finger. 
"Fuck, you always taste so gross," Sam breathed in a rush, sucking Dean's thumb
between his teeth. Dean felt his dick going hard in his pants, and scrambled
forward, flipping his hips so he knelt in the front seat. Sam moved with him,
digging his knees through the other side of the upholstery, still telling Dean
how unclean he was—
"Especially your mouth. Can't stand drinking after you," bony hand strong on
Dean's face, finger curling behind his ear. "Always tastes"—lips brushing
against Dean's—"so goddamn"—tongue flicking out to taste Dean's mouth—"filthy."
Dean made a soft, wounded noise, a tiny "ngh." Later he would remember that
breathless sound as the same sound Leeanne Burke made when they fucked his
first time—that first thrust. Fireworks. He'd remember it and want to crumble
to dust because the same desperate noise came out of his slack lips when they
hovered a centimeter from his brother's.
Sam hardly laughed. Just a flutter of hazel eyes, lips quirking, and a small
exhale over Dean's wet mouth. Later he would realize that Sam was mocking him.
He'd found out about Dean's sick desire—a desire Dean couldn't even put words
to—and decided to torment him with it. Which was only right. It was disgusting,
and Sam smelled the filth of it on him, tasted it on his mouth.
But during that instant, staring into the narrow slant of his brother's eyes,
he shivered with want. 
Sam's hand ran down his collar, fingers gripping flannel, and Dean parted his
lips for what he was ready to accept as some twisted form of brotherly
affection when Sam shoved him away.
"Sonofa—"
The door swung open. 
They broke apart roughly just as Dad slid into the driver's side. Dean
scrambled into his seat, squeezing his legs together painfully to kill his
boner. His father dropped a large, wrinkled paper bag in his lap.
Dean swore under his breath. Goddamn everybody dropping shit in his lap today.
John took one look at him—Dean couldn't meet his father's eyes as he
flushed scarlet—and chuckled.
"Sammy got you back, huh? I warned you about tormenting your brother, Dean."
Dean glowered. Dad obviously had No Idea.
"What's in the bag?" Sam butted in, leaning over his shoulder. Dean's heart
thudded erratically in his chest. 
"Sacrificial daggers. Fairy bones. New gun."
Despite the throb of his balls and the racing of his heart, Dean cracked a
grin. "Awesome."
"Dean," John's voice carried a warning. 
Dean's eyes widened guiltily. 
"Don't spill the ram's blood, son."
 
***** Chapter 3 *****
They ate at a place called Elena's Pancake Shack. It was a one-room affair,
smaller than most motel rooms, but clean, and the waitress was pretty, beaming
at Dean. She spared a lingering, appreciative glance for Sam, too, and Sam
managed to look smug at Dean's confusion.
Their father slid into the booth beside Dean, arm pressing into his son's, and
Dean smiled at John. Sam scowled at them both.
His older brother then decided to enforce peace by leaning back—pretending to
stretch grandly—and kicking Sam's shin under the table. It smarted. Sam shifted
around, trying to escape the offending boot, which earned him a concerned look
from John (who remained blissfully unaware of the entanglement between his two
sons). Sam's scowl deepened.
He tuned out their conversation—something about hunting, cars and guns.
Shellycoat here, ghoul there. And oh joy, they had AKs in their trunk. That'd
go over real well with the highway patrol.
Sam had more important things to think about, like college. He was deciding
between law and medicine—Duke for pre-med, Stanford for pre-law, since he
didn't want to go to Yale.
He could picture Dean fitting in around Durham, but it'd probably be easier to
talk him into settling down in California for a few years. Because, you know,
babes and sunshine.
Dammit, you've gotta stop letting yourself believe that Dean might come with
you.  He can't. No point in dwelling on it. 
Despite himself, Sam entertained a moment of dark rumination, going through his
past with a scalpel and a fine-toothed comb, trying to imagine life without his
brother. 
Anyone would be close, growing up together the way they did. But Dean repaired
everything Sam broke, and Sam embraced everything Dean discarded, and they
played their game to disguise an old rift between them. They played by The
Rules, hidden under a trapdoor of quick banter. Beneath that door, a no-man's
land, a moat, a fortress. When those failed, as often they did, it became a
fight not to lose ground—even verging on cruelty—resorting sometimes to open
war, sometimes to stealthy assassination. Lower, the desperate softness of
regret, and slick forgiveness, especially for their darker sins. And below, in
the pit of their inferno, a physical connection arced between them like
lightning if they accidentally uncovered it. Beyond that, who knew.
Even beneath numerous thick facades, it was still too raw. People noticed and
commented, mostly the one phrase—'wish I had a brother like yours.' Mostly
addressed to Sam, who grimaced because he knew. Occasionally addressed to Dean,
who grimaced because he didn't want to know. If people really understood, they
wouldn't desire it.
It hurts. Hurts like being torn in two, eight thousand years ago, and wandering
through the mists of time, bleeding, until you're brushing up against the other
half of yourself, over and over, blind, growing sensitive to the dual rightness
and impossibility of unity. Every touch more painful, every word more volatile,
every repulsion more necessary. Better to cauterize your half if you can never
be whole. Yet it hurt to part ways almost as much as it hurt to come back.
Every time they exchanged even the meanest words, some dark magic ensnared
them, drawing them deeper into one another. Calling them more powerfully to
continue their downward journey until they collapsed or flew apart.
Sam and Dean were cursed. Sam still hadn't figured out all of the details—he
flatly refused to discuss it with his brother, since Dean was the one who
cursed them—and so he wasn't sure if the curse altered their interactions, or
if it merely aggravated some innate bond. 
He discovered evidence of the illicit spell by accident, spring of 99. Since
then, he'd used the curse to conveniently explain his less-than-brotherly
urges. Not that Sam had ever done anything to Dean outside of his
imagination—outwardly, he'd always tried to be normal. Which basically
precluded dicking his older brother.
Things changed. Haircuts happened. 
It was just a crummy buzz cut, but Dean kept staring. Sam felt sick with it at
first, like his brother was noticing his freaky, slanted eyes for the first
time, but then he recognized Dean's expression. 
Knew he wore the same face when Dean emerged from the bathroom, fresh-shaven,
towel slung low over his thick ass, cheeks red, water dripping down his chest.
And the towel had a habit of slipping when Dean bent over his duffel bag for a
change of clothing. 
So gorgeous, fuck. 
He tried not to squirm too much, remembering his surroundings.
Think about school. 
If Dean wouldn't come along when he went to college, they probably wouldn't
reconnect afterwards. Dean might never forgive him for leaving. But Sam
couldn't stay. And when it came right to it, Dean was too attached to their
father, too committed to hunting, and too straight-laced to follow his geeky
little brother across the country.
So. Maybe these next few months would be it for them. The final chapter of Dean
and Sammy's Epic Adventures. 
His chest tightened painfully. 
Pick a school so you can mail in your acceptance before chasing (Dad's)
monsters.
Duke? or Stanford. 
He was leaning towards medicine, because Dean got himself injured all the
time—come on, Sam, focus—and if he worked in the E.R., he could probably get a
better starting salary. Though long term, law might be the smarter choice. Not
because Dean committed felonies on a regular basis or anything.
"Wait you mean Sammy's coming along? On a hunting trip?" Dean was saying.
Sam snapped back to the present.
John smiled. "Yes he is."
"How'd you talk him into that?" Dean gaped up at their father, eyes full of
wonder.
Stupid beautiful moron, Sam thought.
"He offered," John said. "Isn't that right, son?"
Sam nodded tightly. Dean watched him, a question in his eyes. Sam flicked his
eyes out the window, telling him to drop it, since it wasn't important. Dean
sucked on his bottom lip.
Though Sam's brain knew better—knew Dean was fucked in the head somehow, knew
Dean had cursed him for some reason, knew Dean thought of him as nothing but a
goofy kid brother until the haircut—his dick still got heavy as he gazed at his
brother's mouth.
John was saying something about Whitefish, a friend of Bobby's, a hunt. He
rustled through his journal, and Sam focused his intentions into a few clear
words, trying to project them into Dean's thick skull with nothing more than a
thought.
Gonna fuck you til you scream.
Dean's mouth fell open. Weird how he could sort of read Sam's mind sometimes.
Above the table, Dean schooled his expression (though his hands went into
fists). Below the table, the boot which had kicked Sam earlier now slid up the
inside of his thigh, halting at his groin and applying a light, taunting
pressure. Sam bit back a moan and straightened his spine, cock going rigid
without his permission. Dean smiled wickedly. 
John—who always managed to ignore the live wire of tension between
them—continued talking. "We're meeting up with Calvin and some others at the
cabin. From there it's about a day's drive to where we hunt these things."
Something in John's statement made Dean jerk away from Sam, shifting his
attention completely. "Wait, Calvin? As in... Calvin?"
Sam's skin prickled at some phantom in his brother's voice.
"Only Calvin I know. Why, s'that a problem, son?"
"Nah, no. I like Calvin. Calvin's great," Dean said in that soft voice he only
used for telling lies. John nodded, absolutely buying Dean's shit, then
disappeared to call Bobby.
Sam leaned across the table. "Dean, who's Calvin?"
Dean shot him a dark look, then plunged a dirty forefinger into Sam's little
white dish of ketchup, holding the reddened tip up at Sam—pointing to his
heart.
Sam sighed—first moment they'd had alone in three hours, and Dean wasn't in the
mood to talk.
"Ouch," Dean said in a creepy voice.
"Dean, lay off the E.T. crap. Seriously."
"Not my fault you look like a fucktard."
A slow, irritated smirk cut across Sam's face. "You know, I still can't believe
how many times you made me watch that movie when we were kids. I'm gonna be
scarred for—"
His pretty, idiotic brother stuck his finger, dirt and all, into his mouth.
Sucked it thoughtfully.
Sam narrowed his eyes. "You know you have an oral fixation, right?"
Dean pulled a cheeky smile, displaying the filthy drag of his tongue over his
knuckles.
"'S fucking nasty," Sam groaned, leaning back and shielding his eyes. His dick
throbbed between his legs.
If a knee jutted between his and stayed put for the rest of lunch, Sam didn't
mention it.
 
 
 
***** Chapter 4 *****
~
 
Bobby Singer cracked open an ancient grimoire named Etsi. The rotting, flesh-
bound volume had been left behind at the turn of the twentieth century by a
particularly nasty warlock who preached End of Days magick and conjured filthy
spells from a flawed Karma. 
He'd had to decline John Winchester's oh-so-tempting offer to hunt a dangerous
pack of Nimerigar out in Wyoming. Big group hunt, John said. Bobby hoped it
wouldn't turn into a slaughter.
"Can't. Got a case," he said truthfully. And hello to you, too.
John tried to sweeten the offer by mentioning how Bobby's best friend was
joining them.
This coming from the same bastard who used Ole Bill as bait, he thought
immediately, shaking his head. Real shame to lose a hunter like that. John
hadn't meant for anybody to get hurt, but he was too reckless. Especially with
his own boys.
Lucky Rufus could take care of himself. Actually between the two of them? Bobby
didn't know who was more nuggets.
Probably Rufus.
"Well tough shit, John," he growled, "I already got my hands full with an
incubus down in Baton Rouge."
But seeing as John was bringing both his boys this time—and Sammy didn't hunt
much these days, from what Bobby heard—he decided to try catching up with
them after all, despite the scathing "No" he gave over the phone.
He rushed into the study, determined not to waste any time dispatching that
incubus. Knew where to look, at least.
But the one page he needed from old Etsi was missing—torn out messily, as if by
small, grubby fingers. He eyed the damage with immense suspicion, swearing on
his testicles. "Balls!" Etsi was one of a kind, which meant he had to haul ass
down to Florida to dig up his other copy.
He jumpstarted an old blue Camaro, and was pulling out out of the yard,
crunching gravel, when he suddenly remembered a thirteen-ish Dean Winchester
asking him for a binding spell. Bobby slammed on the brakes.
"Don't you go meddling in black magick, boy! Now I ain't your Daddy but I can
still tan your hide."
"Wasn't looking to meddle in no black magick, Sir." Dean looked crestfallen.
"Just wanted to read up on it. So's I'll know."
Bobby instantly felt guilty. He knew John was already taking the kid on hunts.
Best not keep him ignorant, so long as he was risking his life. 
"Ah, Hell, kid... You don't have to call me Sir. Bobby'll do just fine."
Dean stared up at him through eyes like green glass.
Bobby sighed. "Well? You know where the library is."
And Dean sure did. Apparently knew where the other library was, too.
"Balls!" He shoulda child-proofed that house better.  Urgency doubled,
he peeled out of the lot, tires squealing. That warlock was a mean old bastard,
designing spells to trick the user. Bobby just hoped to God Dean Winchester
never actually used the spell. 
It sure wouldn't have the intended effect. 
 
 
 
***** Chapter 5 *****
Two states later, they pulled into a gas station. The spring sunlight was still
bright in the early evening.
"All right, boys, get out and stretch your legs. Be back in twenty minutes."
They wandered off together. Sam thought they were going inside but then Dean
gestured to a couple pictographs, indicating restrooms and a payphone around
the side of the building. "Cm'ere Sammy."
"Dean, if you tell me to Phone Home one more time I swear to God—"
But Dean was pulling him around the corner of the building, out of sight, and
mashing their lips together.
It wasn't like kissing a girl—there was a lot more biting and shoving, and Dean
always smelled gross, his palms were rough against Sam's neck, and then there
was the hard-on digging into Sam's leg when Dean backed him into the
whitewashed concrete.
They broke apart panting. Dean slid calloused fingers through Sam's short hair.
"Still think I'm filthy?" he said against Sam's mouth.
"Disgusting," Sam sighed. "Don't even know what you taste like." Then Dean's
boner stabbed against his own, and he gasped out, "Dean!"
Dean laughed.
"Oh fuck you," Sam choked, fighting for control. And Dean—that little
shit—started thrusting his cock against the hard line down Sam's leg, eyes dark
on him the whole time. Slow-mocking.
Sam surged forward, tangling his tongue with his brother's—both groaned into
the other's mouth at the overwhelming press between their groins. Then Dean
threw his arms around Sam's neck and Sam grabbed Dean's hips and they worked
out an impulsive rhythm, humping through tight fabric, breathing ragged.
Sparking like flint, curling like tinder, and then—
An old-timer with a deep tan and pale eyes strode out of the restroom to their
left. Dean's hips stilled tremulously and his lips left Sam's mouth. The guy
gazed at Dean, maybe seeing thick lashes, plump lips, round ass, or maybe broad
shoulders, muscled arms, flat chest. Maybe he saw the pistol shoved down the
back of Dean's waistband. Sam couldn't tell, but he knew without checking that
Dean was staring the guy down. The guy stared back, neutrally, squinting in the
sunlight. Just looking. 
Sam shifted his hips slightly, and Dean's eyes snapped back to him. Blinked,
parted his kiss-darkened lips. Sam heard a crunch of gravel as the guy walked
off. And then they were attacking each other's mouths again, Sam twisting them
around, tumbling Dean into the wall's cool shadow.
The second time someone walked by, they actually separated, each leaning back
against the wall at a safe distance and shoving his hands deep in his pockets.
"Can't phone home, anyway, since we don't have a home phone."
"Don't joke about that."
Dean wouldn't look at him.
"Think you picked the most popular side of the building," Sam muttered as some
lady walked by with her kids.
"Yeah we should go."
"Yeah."
But they drifted away from the car, to the back, where the highway was visible
beyond a chain-linked fence. Dean threaded his fingers through it and stared
off at all the endless cars flying away from them.
"You ever think of just having a home sometime?"
"Sometimes."
"Could be just you and me."
"Yeah, and Dad."
Sam squinted at the bright flash of sunlight off the streaming cars. "Dad's a
hunter."
"We're hunters too, Sammy."
"I'm not."
Dean eyed him sidelong. "Yeah, well. I am."
They didn't speak for a moment. Sam leaned a shoulder heavily against the
fence, legs splayed out so he was looking up at Dean, real close. Dean turned
his face towards Sam but kept his eyes on the road.
"Who's Calvin?"
Dean frowned at him. "I'm going back."
They separated, trading places like dancers, eyes locked on one another. Sam
knew his suspicion was right—Dean and that guy had a history. And judging by
the hard set of his mouth and the flint in his eyes, either it wasn't a good
history, or Dean wouldn't part with it. Or both.
"Dean—"
"Said I'm going back. You got five minutes."
Sam collapsed back against the chain links, watching Dean leave. Watching the
sun turn his golden hair white.
This hunt was gonna be fucking weird.
 
 
***** Chapter 6 *****
When he turned sixteen, Sam flatly refused to take part in
hunting, simultaneously swearing off its associated duties. Miraculously, John
gave him room, suggesting that Sam focus on school for a while, which left Dean
to complete the bulk of the research himself. At first, Sam was okay with
this arrangement—if his brother had such a hard-on for monsters, he should at
least read up on them; meanwhile Sam could enjoy the relative peace of a full
course load, soccer practice, debate team, and an aspiring social life. 
Sam's so-called "life" lasted about two weeks.
Then he came home to find his brother slumped over, half entombed in a pile of
books. For one heartstopping moment, he'd thought something awful happened. But
then he rolled Dean over to find him snoring, drooling on a diagram of needle-
sharp fangs.
Dean was plenty smart, but he'd always struggled with any reading activity that
didn't involve pictures. He fell into a stuporous trance, dozing on the spot,
throwing his arms over his head so his shirt rode up. When Sam dragged him to
his feet, Dean leaned on him heavily, turning his face against Sam's neck. Sam
took a moment to appreciate his brother's lung capacity. The way he buried his
face in paper, it was remarkable he didn't asphyxiate.
He ignored the skin Dean bared, slipping feverish and smooth under his palms,
and focused on manhandling his brother towards the mattress, wondering how the
hell Dean—who had singlehandedly slain a 16-ft tall Georgian Nessie after it
took their father out—managed to get so incapacitated by a fucking reference
book. Partial blindness would not have been his first guess. 
Of course, he thought darkly as he attempted to deposit his uncooperative
brother in bed, maybe he drank and fucked away the relevant parts of his
brain. 
At length he disentangled himself, dropped Dean roughly on the mattress, and
was pulling away when Dean reached up and caught the back of Sam's neck,
throwing him off balance. He fell on top of his brother in a messy sprawl. 
"Dean, ow! Cocksucker."
Dean licked his pretty lips and stared past Sam, up at the ceiling. No word of
apology, no Thanks for moving my heavy ass before I could ruinallDad's books
with my nasty drool, just, "Heya, shrimp."
Sam snorted. He shoved away from the warmth of Dean's body, but the arm Dean
slung around his neck remained, anchoring them together.
And Dean was soft and muzzy, stroking down Sam's neck, folding a strand of hair
between his fingers, then sighing, rubbing a hot thumb across Sam's cheek.
"Don't tell Dad, okay?" His voice drawled like he was fucked out, but a note of
unease had Sam privately vowing to keep Dean's reading problem a secret, even
as he cursed his brother's stupid, lewd beauty. 
"Fuckin hell, Dean," he groaned, "You realize this means I gotta do all the
research again."
Dean came out of his daze a little, enough to roll on his side, propping up on
one elbow. When he moved, they both realized Sam's hand was still resting under
Dean's shirt—Dean pinned it there with a grin before Sam could withdraw it.
Their hands were almost the exact same size, and Sam tried not to squirm,
feeling Dean's stomach rising and falling beneath his splayed fingers. If he
didn't break away soon, he wouldn't be able to hide his reaction. 
"Dean, come on," he begged. 
"Too much for you?" Dean smirked, and Sam didn't know whether he meant the
unexpected research or the maddening caress. No matter how much heat coiled
through him at the thought of his brother's skin, he knew he wasn't special.
Everybody touched Dean, and Dean always liked it. 
Sam wrenched his hand away and curled out of the bed, showing Dean his back,
still thinking of Dean's eyes on him.
That was when he realized that there was something wrong with Dean's eyes. 
He set to work immediately, ignoring his aching dick, and managed to identify
the fangs in the sketch within an hour. Then he pored over the book
called Identifying Supernatural Faces: Subtle changes and how to recognize
them. Flipped straight to the section on eyes.
He slapped Dean awake, comparing his eyes to a diagram. 
"Sammy, wha—?"
"Checking if you have vamp fangs," Sam lied grimly. 
He recognized the anomaly in Dean's eyes right away. A brown pattern to the
iris made one eye look darker than the other—indiscernible, except up close.
The caption read: Eyes of a Knight: Witchcraft. See Vol. 43 for full spell
information. Note that the pattern alterations are typically visible in the
eyes of the spellcaster, not the recipient. 
Of course, they didn't own Volume 43. 
But Sam remembered the ritual. Now that he thought of it, he wasn't sure why
it'd never crossed his mind before, sticking out like it did—bloody and
ancient—between the regimented hours of life under Dad's military command.  
"Sammy, you gotta actually open my mouth to check for fangs," his brother
sneered. 
He let the book fall closed in his hands. "God, Dean, what the hell did you
do?"
~
"Sammy don't wuss out on me now, man," he whispered, blade trembling in his
outstretched hand. His palm oozed freely, blood dripping down silver. Sam took
the handle, fingers sliding through Dean's blood, and deftly sliced his own
palm open.
Witchcraft. A binding spell. Dean lied about it though: told Sammy they'd be
together forever when the spell only ran in one direction. And since Dean had
murmured the incantation—Sammy's young lips would probably screw up the Latin
and turn them both into frogs, he reasoned—the spell would prevent Dean's
little brother from going where he couldn't follow.
Sammy was a pain in the ass, and you know, in case Dean ever lost track of him
again...
Dean could still leave anytime he wanted, though the spell promised his heart
would break.
"Now," came Sam's high, reedy little voice.
Dean threw the weeds in the fire and the flames shot orange, then darkened to
crimson as Sam clasped Dean's hand, the slit in his tiny palm bleeding into
Dean's. Their blood mingled in the ruddy firelight.
"Unum," they said together.
~
The spell pulsed through their shared blood. For years, Dean thought it'd
worked.
Then Sammy ran away to Flagstaff.  When he'd recovered somewhat from the agony
of that ordeal, Dean asked if he could spend the rest of the summer with Bobby
Singer.
He found the book he'd copied the spell from—she, her name was Etsi, and she
stank and rotted, cover flaking away in his hands—and read it again.
Apparently, if the knight sent the prince away with adequate protection (or if
the prince possessed dark powers), the spell lifted temporarily to allow the
knight respite from his duties, provided the prince returned within a certain
amount of time.
Bullshit, Dean thought, reading it again. He'd never send Sammy away.
Dean tore out the leathery page and took it with him, re-reading it again every
so often. One of his eyes didn't do so good with text—the words generally
blurred and shifted away from him, but the spell remained clear. At least, the
words remained legible to his failing eye, though as he grew, their implicit
meaning seemed to grow murkier. Etsi's final words on the matter were the most
unclear: 
  If the prince undoes his knight, the spell will be broken, and the two will
                         walk again as severed halves.
 
It was like old people deliberately made no sense.
 
 
***** Chapter 7 *****
~
 
Dean slept.
 
He dreams he is a small boy, small even for his age, with golden hair and eyes
like spring, which look back at him from a small, circular glass in a long,
blue room. He walks the length of the room, observing high ceilings and stately
windows open to the fresh air. He has been here before, in many other dreams,
but they were not the same. Each time the storm on the horizon blows closer,
and the flowers, dark roses which have grown in thick over the windowpanes,
begin to tremble in its rumbling course.
But the storm moves slowly—he first noticed it crouching on the horizon several
summers before—and it blows a steady current of warm air through the windows.
The sky has darkened so gradually that he'd but scarcely mark it, only his eyes
mirror a brilliant, robust green that is caught in the leaves rustling beneath
the stormcloud. The vividness of the color startles him, and he averts his
gaze.
An old man and woman come to greet him as they always do. They treat him dearly
and dress him in rich fabrics, cut in old patterns like he's seen in heavy
tomes of lore and legend. His trousers bloom out before cinching tight around
his knees, and his jacket closes with a good amount of silver buttons. It's a
tremendous hassle, dressing like this, but when he's finished the elderly woman
smiles so happily that he cannot refuse her each successive visit. He checks
the glass again. It is visibly warped, but otherwise he sees nothing about his
face that strikes him as irregular. His clothes appear out-of-place, but he is
very young, and has the sense that he should save his remarks for topics more
pressing than attire.
As before, he eats cold food from decorated plates, then he's escorted out-of-
doors, into the static air, and seated in an open wagon, carefully and richly
made, and pressed in between the elderly man and the man's gentleman attendant.
A third man takes the reins of blind animals which rush them across the
countryside. 
The hills look emerald under the clouds, and his hair stands up at the color
they are showing. He focuses instead on the shape of the hills, the stream
cutting through them and occasionally twisting underneath their path—crossings
over which the horses' hooves clop hollowly. In the vast and regular splendor
surrounding him, he finds himself dozing.
He dreams he is a young man, deep in the future—a hidden warrior who watches
over his people. He's cross-cut with scars, going blind in one eye, young body
already heavy with muscle and regret, but his mind is as empty as the rocky
coast in spring, already settled West by South and beyond the dark-cut bluffs,
white sand and blue ocean as far as the eye can see. He stirs, the significance
of this place eluding him, but the heavy ornament he hid under silver buttons
thumps against his bare chest in both places. He knows without knowing—this
place is the eternal dream. As soon as he suspects impermanence,
the stormclouds break, spilling torrents of rain into the water, swirling it
grey, then crashing it against the cliffs. The tide pulls him under.
He's woken by shouts and rough jostling. Big hands unseat him and throw him
hard across tangled foliage. His breath catches when he sees that the storm has
rushed in while he slept and now tears across the countryside in a motley
company, dark men on dark horses with weapons that flash like silver lightning
through their racing numbers. He searches for a face, and the one he sees is so
horrid—grinning and covered with a writhing ink pattern, slick with sweat under
a coarse matted mane, eyes wild and burning—that he crawls on his knees away
from the scene. As he nears the line of trees which promise shelter and safety,
a metal foot drops onto his spine, driving the breath out of him, the sudden
bolt of pain forcing him to the earth on his belly. He tries to wriggle free,
but he's utterly helpless under its weight. He's kicked hard and he tastes
copper, then the pressure releases and he rolls faceup on instinct, to behold a
sky roiling with pitch. A great swarthy man looms over him, nearer than the
storm. The man has beads in his beard and flint in his eyes and regards him
coolly before pressing a blade to his throat. The man speaks words that mean
nothing to him.
In the background, another man—he thinks that is the voice of their driver—begs
in a language he understands, gives a strangled, wet cry, then falls silent.
The blade bites into the soft skin of his neck and he closes his eyes, waiting
for agony, waiting to drown in his own blood. But another voice
approaches—higher, young yet sharp with command—and the blade is knocked away.
He covers his face as the creatures beyond his eyelids snarl and collide. It
doesn't last long. He hears a wounded sound and the victor crouches before him
at once, tearing his hands away from his face.
He blinks—surprised not to see the man—at a boy about his age, maybe a bit
older, with brown skin and long hair and slanted eyes. The boy is barely
dressed, wearing only an animal skin sewn into rough trousers that bunch over
sharp hips, and high, hard shoes, yet he is the one who feels naked under the
boy's gaze. Those focused, narrow eyes move over his rich clothing, his
stockings, his silver buttons, and back to his face with a sneer. When the
boy's hand goes to his neck, he flinches and the boy laughs, fingers tracing
under the cord there, then drawing his pendant from under his shirt. This the
boy examines, finding a tiny horned deity. The boy's lips curve with pleasure,
long fingers turning it over several times before hanging it from a neck
already taut with muscle and marked with a tiny white scar just above the
clavicle. The little god dangles directly in the center of the boy's bare
chest.
Aching and uneasy, he simply observes his pendant for a moment, bewitched by
the tiny light it casts on that sun-dark skin. He knows the boy is considering
him as he watches it swinging and bumping against the boy's sternum. His fear
vanishes and is replaced with the very odd sense that he was rescued by someone
important.
Then he's dragged roughly to his feet. He turns away from the carnage spreading
sticky across the countryside—from the broken, overturned wagon in which he so
recently and so pleasantly rode, from the ripped pouches, for whose contents
the rest of the company has been laid to waste, from the dead eyes of the men
who invited him along for a ride to mark their noble business—this the boy
kindly does not remark on, but yanks him onward when he shuffles his feet. He
follows the touch of command to a sable horse, lingering amid the rapidly
departing heathen storm. It whinnies at the boy's approach, and the boy gives
it a rough pat and a tug to its bridle. He watches the exchange
numbly until the boy seizes him again, drawing a coarse blanket off the horse's
back and wrapping it around him, concealing his finery.
It is in that moment that his eyes light on the eviscerated corpse of the
elderly man who owned this countryside. His horrified gasp is muffled by the
boy's hand. Fingers dig into his jaw and a narrow gaze bores into him, making
him swallow his breath.
He understands. Because he did not die, they expect him to adjust to their
grisly carnival. He stares at the pendant on the boy's chest and, in a flash,
sees the boy younger, smaller, paler, but with the same unmistakable gravity in
his eyes. Here the boy rides a toy horse on a rotating track. Carnival music
floats down from above, jangling thin and metallic as the boy goes around and
around.
Abruptly he falls to his knees behind the wagon's shattered bench and loses his
breakfast.
After a moment he knows he is taking too long by the scrape of a blade against
his neck. The boy's blade is short and curved, built for close combat. He
swallows, and the edge of it moves with the lump in his throat.
He does not cling to life so desperately this time, but winds his fingers
through the grass instead, wishing to anchor himself to the moment before his
dreams went awry. The boy, however, is clearly not intent on killing him,
stowing the blade and wrapping an arm around his midsection instead. After
several moments' desperate struggling, he gives in limply, still holding clods
of dirt and grass between his fingers. The discarded blanket hides him again.
It smells like earth around his shoulders.
The boy hefts him up with ease and he sits astride the horse on a worn, dyed
cloth, the boy settling in at his back. They take off at a gallop. With the
speed, the boy leans low behind him, and his own pendant cuts into his
back like a dagger.
~
The dream lingered just long enough to startle Dean awake before melting out of
his consciousness.
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