Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8498785.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Soul_Bond, Wincest_Big_Bang_2016, Alternate_Universe_-_Soulmates
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-11-07 Words: 9849
****** Soul Love ******
by Juul
Summary
     Summary Your soulmate’s name is branded on your wrist the moment you
     turn 18. Dean feels like a pervert, because his soulmate is his
     little brother. Ashamed and terrified, Dean will try anything to make
     sure the bond isn’t reciprocated. He forgets, for a second, that you
     can’t mess with destiny.
Notes
     Title: Soul Love
     Author: @hastendownthewinchesters
     Artist: @daemonrose
     Rating: NC-17
     Warnings: Underage
     Word Count: 10.106
     Beta: my amazingly supportive friend @minxchester
     Notes Written for the Wincest Big Bang 2016
     I got the idea for this fic when I was writing head canons for the
     second Wincest Love Week. You can find those head canons here: http:/
     /archiveofourown.org/works/5951611/chapters/13680040
January 24th 1997
Dean was looking at the fluorescent green numbers on the digital alarm clock,
mentally counting down the seconds. 11:59:56, 11:59:57, 11:59:58, 11:59:59, 00:
00. His wrist was already bared, and as soon as the numbers changed, he looked
down at it. He felt a burning sensation, like someone was etching the name into
his exposed skin. The name, what was it? He couldn’t quite make it out yet. He
squinted in the soft lamplight, tried to breathe slowly and stay calm, and then
suddenly the writing became clear[,] and calm flew out the window.
The inside of Dean’s wrist said “Sam Winchester” in neat, familiar, loopy
script. It was exactly the same scrawl that always added ‘strawberry pop tarts’
to Dean’s grocery lists, no matter how broke they were.
Dean had turned eighteen thirty seconds ago. As promised, the name of his
soulmate had appeared on his wrist at exactly that moment. His soulmate was his
brother. There was a loud knock on the door and an excited yelp.
“Who is it, Dean? Who is it? Can I come in yet? Please?”
Dean hastily yanked his sleeve down and murmured “Yeah,” in a grave tone.
The door flew open. “Who is it, Dean? Who is it?”
Dean didn’t have to feign the tears in his voice when he said: “The writing’s
not red anymore, Sammy, whoever it is is already dead.”
Sam gave him a pained look, but Dean wasn’t paying attention. The knowledge
that he was exactly as much of a sick fuck as he’d always feared, that the
evidence of it was branded on his skin, was eating away at him. He had four
years to figure out what to do.
He looked at Sam and begged him: “Please leave me alone.”
*************************************************
January 25th 1997
Of course, Sam didn’t leave it alone. As Dean was driving him to school the
next morning, he asked:
“What was her name?”
Dean didn’t answer. He tightened his grip on the wheel.
“Dean?” Sam sighed. “Dean, I’m really, really sorry about this. But we could at
least google her. Or something.”
“Google her?” Dean almost laughed. “You think it would get better if I knew
what she looked like?”
Silence filled the car until Dean pulled up at George Washington Middle School.
He watched Sam’s back as he walked towards the gates, then put the car into
gear and drove to the library. He needed to make a plan.
*********************************************
Dean himself was royally fucked, that much was obvious. He could kiss happiness
goodbye. He knew, now, that what he felt for Sam was the truest love he’d ever
feel, and there was no getting past that. It didn’t necessarily mean that there
was no saving Sam, though. Soul bonds being one-sided was rare, but it was not
unheard of. A little shaky, Dean started grabbing books off the ugly, plastic
shelves. Anything that had to do with soul bonding was worth a try.
Behind a desk near the entrance there was a woman with red hair and a severe
expression. Her eyes softened as she noticed Dean, nervously leafing through
pages in the mating section. It looked like she was going to get up to approach
him, and Dean quickly walked around to another shelf. Local history.
Unfortunately, the lady wasn’t fooled. She hadn’t sat back down. All Dean had
to be grateful for was that the room, besides the two of them, was deserted.
“How old are you, dear?” her voice was gentle.
Dean said nothing.
“Turning eighteen soon? Or just had your birthday, maybe?”
Dean said nothing and turned his face away. The lady didn’t take the hint.
“It’s nothing to worry about, dear. I didn’t meet my husband until I was thirty
years old.” She sounded wistful about it. It was supposed to reassure him: even
if you don’t know yet who this person is, you will cross paths eventually. But
crossing paths wasn't what Dean was worried about.
“Is it…” now she seemed to be aware that she was being nosy. “Is it…black?”
“It isn’t black,” Dean bit out. He thought it would have been better to have
black writing. Better a dead soulmate than one that’s your brother.
Still, the lady didn’t leave. Dean sighed. Okay then.
“Is it always romantic? The bond?”
She looked at him oddly. “Well, yes. Why wouldn’t it be?” Then something seemed
to click within her. “Oh. Is it a boy, dear?”
This made Dean laugh. If only he were just having a run of the mill sexual
identity crisis. “Yeah,” he told her. “It’s a boy.”
He didn’t check out any books, for fear that Dad or even Sam would find them.
He didn’t say goodbye to the lady, who had been nothing but kind and helpful.
He just stormed out and stood, for quite some time, crying in the parking lot.
*********************************************
If you fell in love, if you really, truly fell in love before your eighteenth
birthday, then you got to pick your person. Not that you get to pick who you
fall in love with, of course, but whoever you were in love with at that moment
would be written on your wrist. So it was a confirmation that your feelings
were real, that you and your partner were compatible.
That’s what had happened to Dean. He loved Sam. First, he thought everybody
loved their brothers and sisters like that, like you would die or kill for
them. Not that dying or killing was anything to write home about in the
Winchester family. Dean had gotten in trouble more than once for beating up
bullies in Sam’s class. He’d often gone hungry to see Sam’s face light up as he
took just a few extra bites of mac and cheese. He had stayed up nights to make
sure Sam’s fevers didn’t run too high, and his homework never got too
overwhelming. Dean was only alive when he had Sam to take care of, and it had
always been like that.
Then, somewhere along the way, Dean had stopped looking at girls. He wasn’t
actually sure he’d ever really started. Of course, there had been kissing teens
with pink lipgloss under the bleachers, and groping the occasional waitress in
the bathroom of a diner, but that wasn’t important. What was important was that
he’d swagger back to the motel room, grinning broadly and smelling of beer,
with his collar unbuttoned so that Dad could see the hickeys and hit him upside
the head for staying out late. It was what a Winchester was supposed to do,
after all.
At the end of the night he’d always crawl into the twin bed next to Sam and
sling one arm over his slender waist, pull him close and breathe in the smell
of home. Sam was so small still, and so sweet, and he desperately needed Dean
to protect him. So Dean did. He tried to tell himself he was being a good older
brother, but in truth he was being selfish: Dean was nothing without Sam.
As Dean turned fourteen and then fifteen, and as Sam turned ten and then
eleven, Dad started booking them separate beds. Being economical was one thing,
but boys of their age always sleeping together simply wasn’t right. Dean lost a
lot of sleep in those years. He waited until he heard Dad snore, which could
take a while, and then he snuck into bed with Sam. He’d leave the curtain open
a little so the first rays of sun would wake him, and he could be back in his
“own” bed before Dad woke up.
This was also around the time that Sam started complaining. Not about their
lifestyle yet, no, that came later. If Sam complained it wasn’t because the
beds were hard and itchy or the food was greasy and tough or the car was cold
and drafty. He’d only complain to Dean, in those days, and even then only when
they were on the cusp of sleeping.
“I wish you didn’t go out all the time, De.”
Dean was, for a moment, confused. “I’m literally always with you, Sammy.”
“No, you’re not. You go out in the evenings. You come home late.”
“I wouldn’t say ten was late, exactly.” Dean was tensing up now. If Sam asked
him to stay, he would stay. He would always, always stay. But would he be able
to keep his secret?
“Dad thinks ten is late,” Sam pointed out. “And I worry about you.”
“You don’t need to worry about me.” Dean knew that was a useless thing to say.
Sam always worried, especially when it came to Dean.
“Okay,” said Sam in a tone that meant he wouldn’t stop worrying, probably ever.
He sighed, turned over, snuggled closer to Dean. Both boys closed their eyes
and Dean imagined the moment would never end.
*********************************************
Of course, it did end. The complacency and the comfort and the delusional idea
that this was all okay and normal ended the moment Dean turned eighteen.
Sam noticed a change in him. He had already noticed that morning in the car,
but as Dean and he drove back from school in the afternoon, Dean was sure Sam
was catching on.
“Something’s wrong,” he said before Dean had even closed their front door.
“Well, I was supposed to have a soulmate and she’s dead,” Dean tried to keep
his tone even, but it didn’t work. His voice cracked a little, and Sam knew
better than to press the issue.
“Shall I cook?” he offered, a little awkward.
Dean nodded gratefully and fell face first onto the bed. Not Sam’s. His own. He
was never going to sleep in Sam’s bed again.
“There’s pasta and tomato sauce somewhere,” Dean mumbled. He gazed into the
dusty darkness of the pillow and definitely did not look at Sam. He was never
going to look at Sam again, not really. He’d promised himself as much last
night.
*********************************************
February 5th 1997
Miraculously, Sam gave him space at first. He didn’t comment the first night
that Dean didn’t come to his bed. He didn’t comment the second night, either,
or the third. He didn’t ask Dean why the hugs in the school parking lot had
suddenly ceased, or why Dean was out much more often at night now, and stayed
out until much later. He didn’t even complain when Dean smelled of booze and
was hungover in the morning.
It was Dad who commented.
“Son,” his voice was heavy with whisky and sadness, and it startled Dean as he
entered the dark motel room. Usually both Dad and Sam would be asleep when he
got home this late.
Dean walked softly towards Dad, gestured for them to step outside. He leaned
against the outside of the door and explained: “I didn’t want to wake Sam.”
John nodded. “Dean, what did the writing say?”
Lie. It’s the only way to get out of this conversation. He’d kill you.
“Her name was Clara,” he said softly. “Can we leave it at that? I don’t want to
look for the family or anything. The writing was black.”
Dad nodded. He didn’t say anything. Dean tugged at the leather cuff now
covering the name on his wrist, and felt relieved his Dad had taught him to lie
so well.
“I’m sorry, son.”
John’s face was mostly hidden in the shade, but Dean knew he was. Suddenly, in
a flash, he could envision the black writing on his father’s wrist. Tidy and
graceful, like everything about her: “Mary Campbell.”
Dean swallowed and said: “I’m sorry too, Dad.”
They went back inside. Sam woke up from their rustling, but didn’t tell them.
None of the Winchesters got any sleep that night.
*********************************************
May 12th 1997
It was three more months before Dean mustered up the courage to set his plan
into motion. Once more, they were in the Impala heading towards school. It was
a different school this time, in a different town in a different state, and
they were just pulling out of the parking lot of a different motel when Dean
finally asked:
“Hey Sam.”
A beat of silence. Come on, Winchester. Be a man.
“Have you ever had a crush on anyone?”
The moment he asked he knew it was wrong. Sam’s face turned roughly the color
of a tomato and he turned his head away towards the passenger side window. He
was silent, and Dean didn’t press the issue.There was time. Not much time, but
there was some time. Dean prayed that it would be enough.
Three days later, over steaming bowls of spicy chicken noodle soup, he asked
again. There was more bravado in his voice this time, more of the teasing big
brother.
“So, who is it then?”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “Huh?”
“The crush. You turned all red and quiet the other day.”
Sam didn’t meet his eyes. He stared down into the swirling noodles in his bowl
and murmured: “No one.”
Dean didn’t buy it for a second.
“So, if you’re not going to tell me who it is, at least tell me one thing. Do
you have a type, Sammy?”
He pulled it off. His delivery was just teasing enough to disguise his nerves.
Sam snorted. “You’re so superficial, Dean.”
It wasn’t true, but Dean didn’t protest.
“Fine, yeah. I have a type. My type is funny and smart and kind.”
Dean forced a laugh. He wasn’t smart. That’s the ballgame. Yeah, but like, what
about looks? Brown hair or blonde? Or ooh, Sammy, what about redheads? And are
you a boobs man or an ass man?”
Sam muttered: “You’re disgusting,” and turned his attention back to his dinner.
Yeah, Dean thought. Sam was right about that.
*********************************************
They had just turned a rugaru into a pile of ashes in Wisconsin and Dean waited
until Sam was done washing the grime off his skin before asking: “You think you
could ever date someone who wasn’t a hunter?”
Sam, in his blue striped pajamas, looked at Dean a little funny. “Was she a
hunter, your mate?” he asked softly. “Did she die on the job?”
“I don’t know,” Dean said. Maybe the easiest way to get Sam to share was by
sharing some of his own thoughts. Not the real ones, but Dean was confident in
his ability to lie.
“I wonder if she was,” he went on. “Balance of probability is she was around my
age. It’s not right for someone to die that young.” The pained expression on
his face wasn't feigned. Imagine Sam dying, and it’s not hard to look
miserable.
“No,” Sam agreed. “But it could have been a normal accident. Or an illness, or,
I don’t know.”
Dean, who was now imagining all manner of disasters that could befall his
actual soulmate, the slender boy sat on the bed across from him, held up one
hand to make Sam shut up. Mercifully, he changed the subject.
“I suppose it would be easier. If someone was in the life. Or at the very
least, if they knew what was out there. It would save me an awful lot of
explaining.”
Dean nodded. He needed to find Sam a girl, and she should know about them. That
was not going to be an easy task.
“But you would want to live in one place, right?” Dean asked. It wasn't really
a question. They both know Sam daydreamed about settling down somewhere. He
didn’t have the same restlessness in his blood that his father and his brother
had.
So Sam didn't answer for a while. Then, softly, he spoke.
“I want to go to college.”
It was like a bucket of ice water being dumped on Dean’s head. Of course. Of
course Sam would want to get a degree. It made so much sense. It fit with
everything Dean knew about his little brother. But it was a statement about the
future, and Winchesters are in the habit of avoiding those. Even worse, it was
an ominous promise. It said: one day, not too long from now, I’m going to
leave. I’m going to leave you.
“Don’t tell Dad,” Sam added. Dean nodded and pulled the sheet over himself. The
comforter didn't warm him one bit.
*********************************************
As Dean tossed and turned that night, his mind seemed to be torn in two. The
deadline, the boundary in his mind had strengthened. Regardless of what
happened, everything would change when Sam turned eighteen.
He cursed himself for a fool. What had he been thinking? That he’d just pimp
Sam out to some All-American sweetheart and go on living his life? There was no
one else for him; everyone had writing on their wrist. The pain of it was too
much to bear.
The alternative was to spend his life with his little brother. Really spend it
together. That idea gave Dean the kind of delirious feeling he only got when
something was seriously fucked. It was the feeling you got from drugs, or when
a monster was messing with your head. It was happiness, and Dean didn’t trust
it one bit.
He’d go to college with Sam. He’d follow him anywhere in the world. He’d change
his name to something that wasn’t Winchester, or maybe Sam would change his,
and that way no one would know.
But Dean would know. He would always have to live with the secret. Maybe he
couldn’t. Maybe there were other options. He hoped he’d think of them in the
morning.
*********************************************
April 22nd, 1998
“Who was that?”
“Who was who?” Sam was blushing and his voice cracked a little, so Dean knew he
was on to something.
“That guy.”
“What guy?”
“C’mon, Sammy, you know the guy. The one you were bear-hugging when I came to
pick you up.”
Sam was so distracted that Dean managed to change the channel without him
noticing. No more nature documentaries. Die Hard was on.
“Oh, that guy,” Sam said with fake nonchalance. “That’s Brady.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “I don’t care about his name, genius. Who is he?”
“A friend.”
Dean scooted closer and elbowed Sam in the ribs. “So every time we go somewhere
new and I ask you if you’re making friends yet, you’re just lying to me?”
Sam sighed and tried to take back the remote.
“I’m not lying Dean, fuck off. I don’t tell you everything, you know?”
That hurt a little. Dean didn’t press the issue any further.
*********************************************
April 24th 1998
Sam was holding hands with the Brady guy. Sam was holding hands with the Brady
guy. They were quite a distance from the car, but Dean had sharp eyes and there
was no mistaking it. They were two boys holding hands in the parking lot of a
High School in Indiana. It was a miracle they weren’t being yelled at, or
worse. But then Sam always knew how to take care of himself. He’d probably
given some football player a wedgie on his first day or something.
When Sam spotted the Impala, he dropped Brady’s hand like a hot potato. Brady
looked a little hurt until Sam leaned in, way too close, to whisper something
in his ear. Brady nodded. The boys looked at each other for a second and then
Sam started walking towards Dean, while Brady headed off in another direction.
When they had been sitting in the car for a few minutes, Dean said: “It fine
with me, you know.”
Sam snorted, like a laugh without the amusement. “It’s fine with you, huh?
Well, that’s great, Dean. Thank you ever so much for the stamp of approval.”
“Dude,” Dean muttered. The sarcasm was a recent addition to Sam’s how-to-be-a-
difficult-teenager starter kit.
Dean didn’t say what he had been going to; that it was reckless to flaunt your
homosexuality in a town like this. He was sure Sam already knew that, and that
he didn’t care.
*********************************************
April 25th 1998
This new information regarding Sam’s sexuality didn’t surprise Dean, per se. It
made sense. After all, the universe seemed pretty convinced that Dean would be
his perfect partner, and Dean was a guy himself.
But it complicated matters. He had hoped for bisexuality, maybe, so that there
were lots and lots of people he could set Sam up with before admitting defeat.
That wasn’t likely to happen now. The Brady guy was a possibility, sure, but
Dean didn’t like him for some reason. He looked like a bit of a bore.
“So, are you ever going to let me meet Brady?”
It was over breakfast that Dean asked, and Sam was so surprised he got some
scrambled egg up the wrong pipe.
After some teary-eyed, red-faced, coughing, he managed: “No.”
Exactly as Dean had been expecting. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not serious.”
Oh crap. He should have seen this coming. Sam was one of those destiny-
believing sappy romantics. Dean tried very hard not to find that adorable. It
didn’t work.
“Not serious? I’d say holding someone’s hand in public was pretty damn
serious.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “He likes it.”
Oh. “Sammy,” Dean said cautiously, “you shouldn’t do anything you don’t feel
comfortable with just because some random guy likes it.”
“Jesus, Dean. I was holding his hand, not sucking his cock.”
Don’t picture it, Winchester. Do not picture your little brother on his knees.
“Okay, okay,” Dean cleared his throat. “But even if it’s not serious you can’t
blame me for being curious.”
“Actually, I can,” Sam answered. “When was the last time you brought some girl
home to meet Dad?”
He had a point. “But why would I?” Dean defended himself. “It’s not like their
name was on my wrist or anything.”
Sam smirked at him. “Exactly. So why would I bother?”
One-nil for Sam Winchester.
*********************************************
September 12th, 1987
They were in Minnesota and it was cold. Dean was wearing a pair of dark blue
mittens. He liked them. They had a penguin on the back. Sam, who was still so
small and so sweet and who sucked his thumb in the night, was huddled close to
Dean in the backseat of the car. Both were wearing almost all of the available
clothes, including some of Dad’s which were way too big on either of them.
Whenever the electric doors to the Emergency Room opened, Dean would pull at
Sam until they were lying flat on the backseat, side by side, and invisible to
whoever was at the hospital.
It was what Dad had instructed. Stay in the car, keep warm, stay out of sight.
Most importantly: wait. Just wait and wait and wait until Dad came back. They
had to turn of the heating in the car to save the battery, and all the clothes
they owned offered little protection from the cold. Dean watched as the clock
moved, ever so slowly, and prayed that Sam would stop crying and fall asleep,
just for a little while.
“De?” Sam got his attention by tugging softly at Dean’s scarf.
“Yeah, Sammy?” Dean was so tired, and he was so cold. But he wouldn’t sleep.
Not even if Sam did. Someone needed to keep an eye out and tonight that job
fell on him.
“Is Dad going to be okay?” His speech was a little slurred, with tiredness or
chill Dean couldn’t be sure.
“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean said, as he pulled Sam a little closer. “I’ll always take
care of you, you know that, right?” Sam nodded like it was the most obvious
thing in the world but he didn't seem quite reassured. A little frown was
wrinkling his forehead. Dean sighed. “Sam, I promise you, Dad’s going to be
fine.”
And all through the night, Dean prayed that he could keep his promise.
*********************************************
July 28th, 1998
Dean made a point of always wearing his cuff. It was made of leather so dark
brown it was almost black, engraved with protective symbols in almost every
writing known to man, and it covered the name scribbled on the inside of his
wrist.
But when it was the middle of the summer in Florida, once, just once, he took
it off to take a swim. Maybe the relentless rays of the sun had melted his
brain or something, because it was an incredibly stupid thing to do. But he
wasn’t wearing it and just as he stretched out both arms and dived into the
sea, he heard Sam give an indignant yelp.
When Dean resurfaced, casually floating with his hands folded behind his head,
he gave Sam a lazy, questioning gaze. The kind of gaze that said: “I am a way
better swimmer than you, and way better looking, and you’re just a string
bean.” It’s the way Dean has been looking at Sam a lot these days and it’s a
complete lie.
But Sam’s expression wasn't vaguely annoyed this time, like it usually was in
response to Dean being a cocky asshole. His eyes were big and he looked dead
serious.
“I saw something red on your wrist.”
Dean panicked, lost his balance and went underwater. When he came up, salt
water up his nose and in his lungs, he desperately kicked at Sam to keep him at
a distance and made his way back to the beach.
As soon as he’d clasped on his cuff he went looking for Sam, and when he
spotted him it was like a punch to the gut. Sam’s nose was bleeding. Probably
the water was thinning out the blood and making it look way worse than it was,
but it looked terrible. Salt water in the wound probably stung like a son of a
bitch, too.
“What the fuck!?” Sam yelled, slowly making his way out of the water. “Dean,
what the actual fuck?”
Dean apologized and apologized and used his t-shirt to stop the bleeding and
bought Sam a huge ice cream sundae with sprinkles, but the damage had already
been done: Sam knew, now, that Dean was hiding something from him.
*********************************************
October 3rd, 1998
Sam was like an ambush predator. He bided his time.
“Gotcha!” Dean had Sam pinned to the mat they’d spread out between the trees
behind this month’s motel. It was in Tennessee and they were alone together.
Dad’s instructions had been very clear. He wanted them to do their drills, to
run their laps and to practice their sparring. So Dean, heavy with dread and
nauseated with the wrong kind of excitement, was wrestling Sam to the ground
over and over again. Sam lay panting and writhing beneath him. Dean let go of
his slender, unmarred wrists first, then dismounted.
“C’mon, Sammy. You can do better than that, surely?”
Sam grunted and wiped his brow. Dean tried to keep their spirits up.
“Go again?”
“No Dean,” Sam was a little out of breath, but his tone brokered no argument.
“I’m done.”
Dean felt something twist uncomfortably in his gut but he just shrugged. “We’ll
start again tomorrow.”
“No,” said Sam, annoyed already, like he was gearing up for a fight. “We
won’t.”
Dean followed his brother back to their room, catching up with long strides.
“Yes we will,” he insisted. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
Christ. Dean went to take a shower and left Sam to ruminate behind the tv for a
while. He tried not to think about their close proximity making Sam
uncomfortable. He tried not to think of his own discomfort, and whether Sam’s
was the same.
*********************************************
Later, as he was unpacking burgers and fries from plastic bags with the name of
the local diner on them, Dean asked: “Why not?”
Sam didn’t need clarification. “I just don’t want to. Isn’t that reason
enough?”
“For me, sure,” Dean lied. “But I don’t think Dad’s going to be too happy.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Dad.”
“Sam.”
But Sam didn’t take his words back or apologize. He started eating the fries,
nibbling at them one by one like a picky rodent.
“Why won’t you tell me who it is, Dean?”
Dean was so startled by the question that he dropped his burger. The tomato
slid off the patty to the floor with a wet splatter. “Drop it, Sam,” he said,
crouching under the table to clean up his mess. To clean up the part of his
mess that could be cleaned up, at least.
“No, I won’t drop it. You completely freaked when I didn’t tell you about
Brady, but you won’t say a word about this?”
“That’s right, I won’t,” said Dean, taking care not to meet Sam’s eyes. “She’s
dead. It’s not exactly my favorite topic of conversation, you know?” Try as he
might, Dean couldn’t muster up Sam’s signature biting sarcasm.
“But she isn’t dead, is she?”
Dean closed his eyes.
“The writing was red. I saw it.”
“No, the writing is black. She’s dead, Sam.”
But neither of them believed it.
*********************************************
October 6th, 1998
Dad came back to Tennessee three days later, the proud new owner of three
broken fingers and two Minotaur horns. They were smaller than Dean had imagined
they would be, and sharper, and Dad told them he’d used a bone saw to detach
them, after the monster was already dead, because the pattern of swirls on the
horns of a Minotaur was said to ward you from evil. He gave one of the horns to
Sam and one to Dean, and Sam immediately sat down at their rickety table to
study the patterns and compare them to Sumerian writing.
Before he went to sleep that night, Dean put the Minotaur horn in the side
pocket of his duffel, where he kept all his stuff. There were two pairs of
jeans and a handful of shirts and socks and boxers, all neatly folded. There
was the amulet Sam had given him years back, and a single creased picture of
Mary. For a few hours, Dean lay on the bed only two feet removed from Sam’s,
every bone in his body aching with sadness and longing. Then he got up, very,
very quietly, took his duffel and left the Tennessee border behind before
sunrise.
*********************************************
October 7th, 1998
Dean had no problem hot-wiring a car and stealing a handful of creditcards.
After that, it was easy as pie to keep himself fed and watered and take shelter
in an unknown yet familiar motel room once he gets sick of sleeping in the car.
After a few days, he called Dad from a payphone.
He got about eight million years of verbal abuse before he could cut in with
“Dad? Dad, I’m fine.”
“That’s not the point, Dean, and you know it. The point is you could be dead
and how would I know?”
For a split second, Dean felt guilty. He thought of Mary, burning on the
ceiling, and of himself, sneaking away like a thief in the night. He cleared
his throat.
“Point is, I’m fine.”
“Well son, congratu-fucking-lations. Where the hell are you?”
“Dunno,” Dean answered truthfully. “Somewhere in the midwest, I think.”
John made a frustrated growling sound over the phone. “We’re still in
Tennessee. Just come back right away and there won’t be any further
repercussions.”
Dean couldn't help it, he laughed. “Repercussions? Christ, Dad.”
“Sam was worried sick about you,” said Dad, and Dean was a hairbreadth away
from turning around in the direction of Memphis. “Can I put him on the phone
for a second?”
“No,” Dean managed. “I can’t talk to him.”
For a moment, John covered the receiver with his hand and there was the muffled
sound of an argument on the other side of the line. Then Dad was back.
“Call me once in a while, will you? And Bobby, too?”
“Yeah,” Dean said. He was about to hang up when Dad asked:
“Is it about the writing, son?”
Dean just said: “You’re writing is black too, Dad, and it’s kept you on the
road for fifteen years.” Then he hung up the phone.
*********************************************
December 20th, 1998
Dean didn't rejoin Sam and John around Christmas. He called them a few days
beforehand to tell them he wouldn't be there and he was pretty sure he heard
Sam smash a few plates on the floor or something.
Dad just sighed and said: “You gotta do what you gotta do.”
Afterwards, Dean payed his motel room for the weeks ahead and didn’t move from
the bed until it was 1999.
*********************************************
One day blurred into another, which blurred into the next. Bit by bit, the
fibers of Dean’s heart and soul started unraveling, so that he sometimes forgot
to lock his door or to shower or to eat. He thought, in a way, that Sam would
appear to help him, if only he fucked up badly enough. But dreams and reality
don’t really mix. That part was only in Dean’s head. And Sam didn’t come.
January was cold, freezing cold, and Dean hated it. He drove south and hoped
for sunshine to warm his bones, but it didn’t. The heat burned all the places
that had been freezing until nothing was left but scorched pieces of him.
Sometimes, Dean opened his phone to see two hundred and twenty-three missed
calls. He kept the stupid thing on silent these days.
In the mirror, he saw his eyes fade from staring into the sun and the dust of
the road. He saw his cheeks slowly collapse inwards and he saw how his fingers
shook when he handled a gun. Maybe, he thought, his soul had died. Maybe it was
a monster. Maybe it was Sam, who had more power over him than any monster he’d
ever encountered. Whatever it was, in the end Dean called Dad and they agreed
to meet in Michigan.
*********************************************
April 30th, 1999
Suddenly, Dean pressed his foot against the accelerator with purpose, and he
drove from Baton Rouge to Grand Rapids in a little under two days, with a brief
layover in Marion, Illinois. He beat Dad and Sam to the agreed upon location,
and tried to eat a few cheeseburgers so he’d look less like a consumptive.
Just as Dean was trying to see how many fries he could fit in his mouth at
once, the bell at the door clanged to announce some new customers. There was
Sam. Dad was with him, obviously, but Dean couldn’t focus on that right now.
The six months they’d been apart had treated Sam well. He’d shot up like a
weed, his shoulders had gone broader and his jawline was sharper and more
pronounced. Dean flushed. Meeting up with them had been a mistake.
Suddenly not hungry, Dean unfolded a napkin and deposited the excess fries in
it, hoping no one had noticed. He messed with his hair nervously, like a
teenager on a date, and tried very hard not to stare as Sam came closer and
closer with the hypnotic swing of his hips.
“Dean!” his voice had gone lower, too. It was a thrilling sound.
Sam leapt at him, scooting closer until he was pressed against Dean’s side in
the booth. Dad sat across from them and smiled indulgently.
“Good to see you, son.”
“Good to see you, Dad.” He swallowed. “And Sammy,” he managed to tousle Sam’s
hair in what he hoped was a casual way. I love you. he thought. I love you so
much that it hurts. How could I ever have left you?
Sam was looking at him, eyes big and round and still so much like a puppy’s.
“I’m glad you came back before my birthday.”
Sam’s sixteenth birthday was close. Too close. Of course, Dean hadn’t
forgotten. Only two more years until the shit would hit the fan. He started to
cry.
It wasn’t full on sobbing or anything. Winchesters didn’t do that kind of
thing. He looked down at his lap and let a few lonely tears fall. Sam pulled
him closer. Dad didn’t comment. Mercifully, neither of them asked whether he’d
found out anything about his dead soulmate.
Dad and Sam ordered themselves some food and sat in silence until Dean had
calmed down a bit. Sam was drawing little circles on Dean’s back and it was
both helpful and not.
The waiter that brought them Sam’s salad and Dad’s steak was tall and lanky,
with unruly brown hair and dark eyes. He looked a bit like Sam, the way Sam
would undoubtedly look in five years, kind and sharp and devastatingly
handsome. Dean looked at him for a beat too long.
Over dinner, Sam told Dean about the monsters they’d encountered lately, and
how he, Sam, had singlehandedly slain a werewolf. Dean looked at Dad when he
heard that, eyebrows raised. Dad just shrugged, and muttered: “You can’t baby
him from the other side of the country, Dean.”
Which was true, of course, but it still stung. Dean blinked furiously not to
start crying again.
*********************************************
After the dishes had been cleared by the Sam-lookalike waiter, Dad declared he
was going to check out the local speakeasy, to see if anyone knew anything
about their case in the area; a ghoul.
That left Dean and Sam alone in a motel room around nine at night, and it was
everything Dean had been dreading and hoping for. Sam lay down next to him on
the single bed, put a slender hand on Dean’s chest, and whispered:
“It’s me, isn’t it, Dean?”
His breath was warm against Dean’s neck, and Dean felt himself tense all over.
His muscles were already giving the truth away, but still he barked:
“She’s dead, Sam. Leave it the fuck alone.”
“She’s dead? So you weren’t checking out that waiter just now?” Sam was
scooting closer and closer, and Dean couldn't think.
“Leave it the fuck alone, Sam.” Dean wanted to roll over, to get off the bed,
to take a cold shower, but somehow he didn’t. It had been six months since
they’d been together, after all.
“If it is me, I just wish you’d told me sooner.”
“Goddamnit, Sam,” Dean made his eyes spit fire. It was something he’d been able
to do since they were kids and it was usually enough to get Sam to back off and
stop provoking him. Not now, though. This time, Sam is not to be deterred.
He leaned in ever closer, and Dean craned his neck away from Sam’s face but he
could still smell him, and he smelled so nice and he smelled so much like home
and Dean allowed himself a split second to relax into it and then Sam was
kissing him.
It was heavenly. Dean worried a little that he’d gone insane, because this was
Sam, his little brother, who would never do anything as fucked up as kissing
his brother. Also, kissing shouldn’t be this good. Kissing had no right to feel
this good because if it did, how did anyone ever manage to do anything else?
Dean was pressing ever closer to Sam, putting an arm around his waist and
rolling half on top of him and biting gently at his lips and it was like a
dream. And then, as Dean’s brain started floating up into seventh heaven, Sam
snatched his cuff away and pulled Dean’s wrist close to his face.
It said Sam Winchester. Sam began to cry. “I knew it. I knew it. You fucking
asshole.”
In a flash, Sam had locked himself into the bathroom. Dean pressed his palms
against his eyes until he saw little twinkling lights behind his lids, and
prayed to God that Dad would stay out late that night.
*********************************************
Dad stayed out late that night.
Dean sat on the floor, with his back against the bathroom door, fingers
plucking at the filthy carpet beneath him.
“Sam?” his voice had gone a little rough from asking, over and over again:
“Sam, please open the door? Sam, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Would you please open
the door so we can talk?”
But Sam didn't open the door. Dean could hear him cry, and throw up, and flush
the toilet and cry a bit more. Dean waited. Nothing happened. When, eventually,
Dean heard the Impala pull up, he crawled into the bed, still clothed, and
hoped Dad would be too drunk to want a shower.
Throughout the night, he could sometimes still hear Sam sobbing and he thought,
maybe, that he should have stayed away. It would, perhaps, have been better
than this. It would have been better than the broken sounds Sam was making now,
sharp and venomous, cutting Dean’s flesh into little pieces from the inside
out. Dean cried, too. He kept it quiet, so Sam wouldn’t have to hear. So Sam
wouldn't hurt anymore than Dean had already made him hurt.
In the morning, when Dean woke, Dad had gone out for coffee and breakfast and
Sam had pleaded the flu, or so a note on the bathroom mirror told Dean.
Sam was in his bed now, eyes closed and face pale and sickly, but he was
definitely not asleep.
“Hey,” Dean tried.
Sam turned away and pulled his pillow over his ears and the message was clear,
but Dean couldn’t handle anymore rejection. He never, ever meant to make Sam
sad. Sam should know that.
“Sam, listen,” he tried.
With a jolt, Sam sat upright. “I’m fucking done listening to you, Dean. It
makes me sick, it makes me sick to my stomach that you think I’m so useless you
have to make decisions for the both of us.”
Dean was so surprised, both by the words and their tone, that he fell off the
edge of the bed. Sam laughed at him but there was no amusement in the sound.
“That’s not what I…” he attempted to get up, but he felt clumsy. He hadn’t
slept in a while.
“Isn’t it? Because that was a very mature thing you did, Dean, running away.
Fat lot of good it did us!”
“But it would have,” Dean argued. “It would have worked out great if I’d been
strong enough to stay away longer. It would have worked if I’d given you enough
time to fall in love with someone else.”
Sam screamed, then. Not in words, not in anything Dean recognized as language.
He just opened his mouth and let out a long, frustrated howl. He threw the
pillow at Dean’s face and yelled: “But I was in love with you all along, you
absolutely insane idiot!”
Dean’s ears were ringing from the noise. He must have heard that wrong.
“You…what?”
Sam let out another frustrated noise and left the room.
Dean just sat there, looking at the ugly wallpaper, wondering whether anything
ever is what you think it is.
*********************************************
When Sam came back, he was carrying a bazillion containers of food and there
was still no sign of Dad.
Dean had never been happier to see anyone in the world.
“You’re in love with me?” Dean asked.
Sam rolled his eyes and somehow the gesture made perfect sense. If everything
changed between them now, if they became mushy and showy and romantic, they
wouldn’t be Sam and Dean. But they were, so Sam rolled his eyes.
As Sam was unpacking the food, Dean asked: “Kiss me again?”
In a flash, Sam was on him. Sam was in his lap, and he was so slender and
beautiful and he smelled so nice and his hair was so soft, and after a few
swift kisses he pulled back to whisper:
“Your lips Dean, oh my God.”
Dean grinned. He knew about his lips. He’s heard those words before.
“All for you, Sammy,” seemed like a fitting response.
It made Sam grin, but he also said: “I’m still pissed at you.”
“Okay,” Dean replied, and leaned in to kiss him again, more deeply. “But can we
talk about it later?”
*********************************************
It’s later, but not so much later that they’re exactly talking yet, and Dean
has got Sam spread out on the bed with his jeans pulled down around his ankles.
Sam’s dark blue boxers are still on and there’s a wet patch in the fabric where
Sam wants Dean to touch him so bad he can’t see straight.
“Please,” he breathes. “C’mon, Dean, I’ve waited so long.”
Dean is taking his sweet time sucking hickeys into Sam’s sharp hipbone, one
hand reverently cupped around it. Sam’s so beautiful, so beautiful. Dean can
hardly believe this is real.
“I’ve waited just as long as you, baby boy. And I’m going to enjoy this.”
Sam growls. “It’s all your fault we’ve had to wait this long.”
Dean raises his eyebrows. “You sure now is the time to be sassy with me,
Sammy?”
Sam squeezes his eyes shut and his cock twitches in his boxers. “No, no, I take
it back, c’mon.”
Dean chuckles and pulls Sam’s boxers down a few inches so that his cock head is
just peeking out of the waistband. It’s glistening and red and Dean presses his
tongue against it firmly.
“Ugh,” Sam’s whole body goes taut for a second, his fingers tensing and
relaxing in the sheets.
“Tell me what you want,” Dean whispers, his breath against Sam’s wet, sensitive
skin.
From one moment to the next, Sam’s embarrassment vanishes. He is no longer the
blushing, bashful virgin. He’s gone insane with lust. “Suck my cock,” he
demands. It’s not begging, it’s not submissive like before. Sam’s voice is
rough and it sounds like a threat. So Dean obliges. He gulps down as much of
Sam’s shaft as he can, throat bobbing up and down, and it takes Sam all of
three seconds to come.
*********************************************
After their initial shy declarations of mutual devotion, Dean starts picking up
business cards everywhere he goes. He takes them from each motel they stay at,
every diner they eat from. He even takes them from the numerous police stations
and hospitals they visit. If they stay somewhere that doesn’t have a business
card, like Bobby’s place, he keeps every scrap of paper he can find. On the
back of all them, he writes down something that happened at that particular
place.
***********
After only a few months together, Dean has a shoebox full of torn off pieces of
paper. There’s a business card from the Galaxy Diner in Flagstaff that says, in
neat blue ballpoint pen: “This is the place where I flirted with the waitress,
because Dad was there. Sam was pissed, so he practically started sucking off
the straw in his milkshake. We had another three hours of driving to go after
that little tease. I won’t be flirting with the waitress again.”
*******
On a flyer from the Cheesecake Factory: “In San Fran, dad took us to the
Cheesecake Factory because we’d done well catching a werewolf. It was awesome.
They give you these beepers that go off when a table becomes available and
until then you can browse the whole Macy’s. It’s a girly store but I shoplifted
a ring for Sammy. Later that night I proposed to Sam, kind of as a joke. But he
said yes, and then it wasn’t a joke anymore. Best day of my life.”
******
On a business card from the Bean Cycle Cafe in Fort Collins, Colorado: “We had
breakfast here this morning. Dad went off to hunt down the wendigo and Sammy
just geeked out over Hobbit Street. I’m taking him to the university library in
a minute.
PS: Apparently, Sam thinks libraries are a great place to exchange hand jobs.
Score!
*********************************************
It’s hard for Dean, at first, to accept that the fantasy of the last two years
has become reality, and that it’s perfectly fine to enjoy it. Hand jobs are
fine, but Dean is always incredibly selfless in bed, incredibly gentle. Sam,
who is used to bruises and teasing and rough edges from his brother, has soon
has enough.
“C’mon Dean, tell me what you want. You’ve had years to think about this.”
Dean shakes his head, blushes, and looks away. Sam’s been trying to get him to
spill dirty words almost since their fist kiss, but he can’t bring himself to
oblige.
“Years during which you were fourteen years old, Sam.”
Sam raises his eyebrows. “Yeah. But I won’t always be fourteen. I’m already
taller than you. How long do you think it’ll be before I can pin you to the bed
and fuck you till you beg, big brother?”
Dean groans. He looks quickly at the motel door, but Dad had said he’d be away
for three days and that usually means a week, if not more.
“Come on, Dean,” Sam goes on. “I know you have a filthy mouth. I heard you with
the waitress in Wisconsin.”
Fuck. Dean had hooked up with the waitress in Wisconsin in the messy weeks
directly following his 18th birthday, and he’d been more than a little fucked
up at the time. He still wasn’t sure how to feel about that in retrospect, but
it had been really goddamned good at the time.
“Is it true?” Sam coaxes. “Is it true, what you said, that you’ve never fucked
anyone in the ass before?”
“Yes Sam,” Dean bites out. “Of course that’s true.” Suddenly he’s had enough.
He needs Sam to be the one blushing and squirming, and he needs it right the
fuck now. He pitches his voice extra low, makes it hoarse and dark, and says:
“I’ve never fucked anyone in the ass. Do you want to know why?”
“Why?” Sam squeaks.
“Because no one ever had an ass as sweet as yours.”
Sam keens, presses his palm against his crotch and makes little, stuttering
movements with his hips.
“Hands off,” Dean hisses. “You wanted a tease, now you’re going to get one.”
Sam yanks his hand away from where he’s grinding against it, stuffs his fingers
in his mouth to stifle the breathy noises he’s making.
“Good boy, Sammy,” he murmurs. “Now, don’t touch, just listen.”
Sam closes his eyes, as though Dean’s stare is quickly becoming too much for
him. His hips are still moving against the empty air. Dean doesn’t order him to
keep still; decides that he should work up to being a toppy asshole slowly. He
feels a rush of power, thinks that if he just said: “hold still,” Sam would
freeze.
“I already know your ass is the sweetest, baby,” he goes on. “But just to be
sure I think I might have a taste.”
Sam groans.
“Would you like that? My mouth on your hole? I know how you feel about my
mouth. I bet you would come just like that, cock twitching helplessly against
your stomach.”
“Dean,” Sam whispers. “Dean, please let me,”
“No,” Dean says. “You’re going to wait, Sammy.”
Sam honest-to-God whimpers.
“So yeah, one day soon you can pin me to the bed and make me yours -open your
fly-,” the last bit is an offhand remark, but Sam, whose attention is focussed
on Dean entirely, does as he’s told and lets out a little sigh of relief when
his hard-on suddenly gets room to breathe.
“But until then you’re totally and completely mine.
Dean leans forward and takes Sam in his mouth. It’s over quickly, but Dean
doesn’t mind. Every moment with Sam is precious.
*********************************************
April 2nd, 2001
As Sam’s eighteenth birthday approaches, Dean starts getting nervous. After
all, there’s no guarantee Sam’s wrist will read Dean Winchester. Sam rolls his
eyes at him when he brings it up, and whispers how much he loves him at night
and whenever Dad isn’t paying attention, but still, Dean worries.
He looks at the people they meet, the boys and girls around Sam’s age, and
thinks that some of them are kinder than him, and smarter. Worst of all, he
knows he’s right and Sam’s wrong: there are people far better suited to take
care of Sam than Dean.
Of course, Sam pays none of these people any attention. Sam looks at Dean like
Dean hung the moon. But Dean can’t really see that. Dean can’t really
understand why.
So it’s a nerve-wrecking countdown to May 2nd.
May 2nd
Sam had asked Dean to stay with him, to please stay, but Dean had refused. If
it suddenly said Sally Smith on Sam’s skin, or some other wholesome, blonde
cheerleader-type name, Dean didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want someone
else’s name branded on Sam’s skin, and he didn’t want the image branded on his
retinas, either. It would be too much.
Dean thanked his lucky stars Dad was enough of an asshole to miss his son’s
eighteenth birthday in favor of hunting down a nest of vampires. His current
state of nervousness would be tough to explain.
So when, at three seconds past twelve, Sam’s wobbly voice came from the other
side of the bedroom door: “Come in, Dean,” for a second, Dean couldn’t get his
body to move. His heart was in his throat and his muscles were heavy with
dread. But when he didn’t come as quickly as Sam wanted, Sam ran towards him
instead, tackled him down onto the carpet and kissed him open-mouthed.
“Of course it’s you, you incredible idiot,” he breathed. Dean couldn’t kiss Sam
for a while, because his mouth was too busy grinning. He grabbed Sam’s wrist
and saw his own, messy handwriting there in blood red ink: “Dean Winchester.”
And Dean Winchester was the happiest man in the world.
He bent Sam in half, right there on the dirty carpet, pulled down his jeans and
started groping at his ass. They had done this enough times by now that Sam
knew to hold on to the backs of his knees and keep still. Keeping still was the
only reliable way to get Dean to hurry up. Sam writhing and moaning and begging
for it was what Dean loved most in the world, so unless Sam wanted to suffer
hours of frustration, he should keep those things to a minimum. Usually he
didn’t, because he loved the tease. Every second that Dean’s hands are on him,
that Dean’s voice is meant only for his ears and that Dean’s attention is
focused solely on him is like heaven to Sam. But not just then. Just then Sam
was in a rush to get fucked.
He handed Dean the lube he’d grabbed from the nightstand and Dean laughed.
“You’re such a boyscout, Sammy.”
Sam knew better than to argue. He just spread his legs, relaxed his breathing
and waited.
*********************************************
“D’you wanna leave?” Dean asks. They’re done, they’re wrapped around each other
in the tiny bed, the comforter kicked to the floor because they were all sweaty
and hot.
Sam’s brain feels fuzzy, and he doesn’t know what Dean is talking about.
“I mean,” Dean’s tracing small circles on the flat of Sam’s stomach and it’s
electric. It’s distracting. Sam doesn’t tell him to stop.
“Surely Dad’s going to ask to see your wrist,” he adds, and suddenly Sam
understands.
“Can I tell you something?” He’s afraid and his body grows tense. Dean notices
and pulls him closer.
“Anything, baby boy. Are you okay?”
“Dean,” Sam lets his breath out with a long woosh. “I got accepted at
Stanford.”
Dean freezes.
Nervously, Sam babbles on. “I applied on a whim, I mean, just to see if I
could. And they accepted me, and it’s a full scholarship including housing and
I looked into it and you can room with your soulmate, it doesn’t cost any
extra.”
Still, Dean doesn’t say anything.
“It’s in California,” Sam goes on. “In Palo Alto.”
In one swift movement, Dean gets off the bed and for a second Sam thinks this
is it, everything is ruined, but then he sees Dean’s face. It looks like
Christmas and the world’s best cheeseburger arrived at the same time and
someone has just told him he can light some fireworks to celebrate the
occasion. He looks happy, like Sam always, always wants to see him.
“Stanford?” Dean’s voice has gone higher, like an overexcited little boy all
over again, and Sam loves him so much and so fiercely that it aches in his
chest.
Sam nods.
“Isn’t that, like, one of the best universities in the world?”
“Kind of, yeah.” Sam looks at his feet, suddenly a little bashful. It’s not the
Winchester University of Hunting, after all.
“We’re going.” Dean says. “We’re going, and I love you, and I’m so fucking
proud of you, Sammy.”
Sam starts to cry because now he’s got everything he’s ever wanted and Dean
holds him until he quiets down. Dean sheds some tears of his own because the
beautiful boy in his arms is all his, but Sam doesn’t say anything about that.
After a while, Dean is the one looking bashfully at his feet as he asks: “Hey
Sam, d’you think I could get an engineering degree somewhere in Palo Alto?”
Sam grins and grins and grins and starts crying all over again.
Epilogue
“Sam, what the fuck is this?”
Sam kept on scratching the dog behind his ridiculously long ear and met Dean’s
gaze. His eyes were sparkling with mirth. Damn it, Dean was going to cave on
this. He could already feel it in his gut.
“What’s it look like, Dean?”
“Well, it looks like a dog. But there’s no way that’s right since I distinctly
remember us talking about it just a few months ago.”
“Yeah,” Sam nodded. He was still grinning.
“So?” Dean prompted. The dog disentangled himself from Sam and was cautiously
approaching Dean now. Okay, so, yeah. He had a cute snout. Dean would take that
observation to the grave.
“So, we talked about how it would be impossible to keep a dog in the car. And
how they’re not allowed on campus.”
“Yes,” Dean said firmly. “What do you think not allowed means, Sammy?”
“Usually it means a good spanking.” Sam was looking him straight in the eye,
unblinking. Jesus. He’d be the death of Dean.
“I sincerely hope the people from university admin keep their hands to
themselves,” Dean growled.
Sam laughed out loud then. “My ass is all for you, baby.”
Sam got off the bed and approached, hips swaggering in a hypnotic motion.
“Sam. Sam, what about the dog?”
“We’re moving this weekend, Dean. We won the bid on the High Street apartment.”
The apartment was large, and they had been dreaming of it ever since they moved
to Palo Alto. Best of all, it was close to the campus as well as the location
of Dean’s part-time job: Heinichen’s Auto Repair.
Before he allowed Dean to kiss him, Sam said: “The dog’s name is Cerberus, by
the way.”
THE END
Playlist
• Tears At The Birthday Party - Elvis Costello With Burt Bacharach
• Soul Love - David Bowie
• Mayor Of Simpleton - XTC
• Hand In Hand - Elvis Costello
• Hearts Of Stone - Southside Johnny And The Ashbury Jukes
• Do I Wanna Know - The Arctic Monkeys
• Blinded By The Light - Bruce Springsteen
• The End Of The Innocence - Don Henley
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