Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/220323.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Mary_Winchester, John_Winchester,
      Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, First_Time, Hurt/Comfort, Character_Death_(off-
      screen), Panic_Attacks
  Collections:
      Supernatural_and_J2_Big_Bang_2011
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-07-06 Words: 24869
****** The End Is Where We Start From ******
by mickeym
Summary
     What happens when the unthinkable happens, and half your family is
     torn away from you in the blink of an eye? What do you do when it
     feels like your whole world has ended? You gather strength from each
     other, and learn how to start anew.
Notes
     Written for the spn_j2_bigbang 2011. Complete notes and thanks at the
     end of the story, but a couple of things here: The character death
     happens off-screen, though it's referenced throughout the story, and
     I changed the timeline. The story is set in 2009, making Sam born in
     1993, and Dean in 1989, respectively.
See the end of the work for more notes

      [http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/mickeym/493440/48006/48006_600.jpg]
 

When one door of happiness closes, another opens, but often we look so long at
    the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us.
                                - Helen Keller
                 What we call the beginning is often the end.
                  And to make an end is to make a beginning.
                        The end is where we start from.
                                 - T. S. Eliot
 
                                   Prologue
 
It's pretty chilly for early October, and there's too much of that chill
hitting him, so Sam rolls his window back up, then zips up his hoodie for good
measure. At this rate, they're gonna have snow by Halloween, and wouldn't that
suck? Not that Sam trick-or-treats anymore, but it's the principle. Any time
before December is way too soon to have snow.
Outside the closed window, streetlamps whiz by at dizzying speeds, the by-
product of Dad's foot resting heavy on the gas pedal. Mom's fiddling with the
radio, and over his mp3 player come the sounds of Dad singing along with—Sam
frowns. Johnny Cash?
For the moment it takes the thought to form, Sam aches with missing his
brother; misses being able to jostle Dean with his shoulder and make a face,
and know that Dean knew exactly what he was making faces about – or vice versa.
This isn't even Dean's first year away, but it still sucks almost as much as
last year did, and Sam's pretty sure he's never not going to miss having Dean
around.
Whatever. Dwelling on it only makes him cranky, and since they're on their way
to Buffalo Bob's for BBQ, Sam doesn't want to be cranky. He's reaching for his
mp3 player to turn up the volume, when his phone vibrates in his pocket (Dad's
rule: no cell phone ring tones during family time). He flips it open and grins,
because it's kind of like the universe read his mind and compelled Dean to text
him.
yo, bro. 'sup?
dinner w/ rents what r u doing?
date 2nite w/ a hottie im gonna get some ;)
Sam smirks at the text. He can picture Dean's accompanying leer so clearly his
brother might as well be sitting beside him.
does ur bf know? *eg*
im telling u now! don’t b jelus sammy
it's sam and u wish i was ur bf, you shld b so lucky
bite me & you'll alwys b sammy 2 me
Sam rolls his eyes and decides he's lucky Dean doesn't have the patience to
type out something about changing Sam's diapers or something equally
embarrassing.
we're almst @ the restaurant, have fun 2nite and b good
im alwys good ;) tell m&d i said hi.
"Dean says to tell you hi," Sam says, after tucking his phone back into his
pocket. He turns his mp3 player off and coils the earbuds around it before
tucking them into his other pocket. "Said he has a date tonight."
"With Evelyn?" Mom turns slightly to glance at Sam.
"He didn't say. Just said he had a date." Sam shrugs. He's not sure how he
feels about Evelyn. She seemed nice enough when they met her while visiting at
KSU a few weeks back, but there was something about her that raised his
hackles, too. Maybe the way she hung on his brother, like she couldn't stand on
her own.
"Are we gonna get the family special? Because I want brisket and ribs, if we
don't." It seems like it's been hours since he ate anything, and Sam's ready to
devour the whole menu at Buffalo Bob's.
"You growin' again, Sammy?"
Dad sounds amused, and Sam shrugs and shakes his head. "Maybe?"
It would be kind of cool to be taller than Dean. Be the younger brother, rather
than the little brother.
Mom sighs and murmurs something about just buying boxes for Sam's feet, instead
of shoes, and Sam misses the chance to snark back when his phone vibrates
again. He digs it out to check the message. "Eric wants to know if I can spend
the night tomorrow night."
"Don't you have band practice tomorrow?" Dad changes lanes in a quick zip, and
Sam wonders how it's fair that he can criticize Sam's driving, when he's like a
maniac behind the wheel. He's not even really looking at the road now, just
frowning at Sam in the rear-view.
"Yeah, we do. So I could just go home with Eric afterward." Which reminds Sam
he still needs to give his folks the permission slip for the away-game in three
weeks. "They'll bring me home Sunday, on their way to church." Like always.
After four years, this really is old hat, and asking permission is pretty much
a formality, since he and Eric stay at each other's house at least a couple
times a month, if not more.
Dad looks at Mom, gets her nod, then back at Sam in the rear-view, and nods
himself. "As long as you plan to help me with the yard work Sunday afternoon."
"And change your sheets before you leave tomorrow morning," Mom adds, before
Sam can say anything.
He nods – this is also routine, the 'as long as you do' varying slightly
depending on the season, but always something before he goes – and sends a
message back to Eric. they said yes, see u 2moro @10.
He's just closed his phone when there's a cacophony of blaring horns and
squealing tires. Dad shouts something, his voice rough and alarmed, and Sam
looks up in time to see a semi-truck coming straight at them.
The last thing Sam hears over the sound of twisting, screeching metal is Mom
screaming, and then everything goes dark and quiet around him.
 
                                     ~~~~~
 

                                 Chapter One
Hospitals are supposed to be busy, full of activity and people bustling around,
but it's dead quiet when the doors swish open, and Dean swallows down a wave of
nausea at his choice of words. He's pretty sure he's never going to forget the
phone call a few hours earlier.
Dean, it's Gunther. You need to get to Lawrence, son. There's been an accident.
Gunther wouldn't give him details over the phone, which by itself told Dean
it's bad. Mike and Ellie wouldn't let him drive himself, Mike insisting that if
things were that bad, he would need support. So they piled into Mike's beat-up
Toyota, and now he and Ellie are parking the car, after dropping Dean off at
the ER entrance.
Gunther is easy to spot, huge and forbidding, his lined face drawn into a
frown. If Dean hadn't known the guy for literally all his life, he might be
intimidated. He doesn't see Sally, Gunther's wife, but knows she's around
somewhere. Gunther wouldn't be down here without her.
"Gunther. Where are they?" He can't see anything, or anyone, and the panic he's
managed to mostly shove down is starting to creep back up Dean's throat.
"Easy, son. Hang on a minute." Gunther nods to the woman sitting behind the
desk he was standing beside, and she's picking up the phone even as he leads
Dean over to a group of chairs. "Sit down."
"I don't want to sit, I've been sitting—where are they?"
"Sam's still in surgery, I think. The nurse is gonna check for us." Dean's
never seen this expression on Gunther's face before, and he tries to brace
himself.
"Mom and Dad?"
Gunther shakes his head slowly. "I'm sorry, Dean."
It feels kind of like the world falls out from under him, then. Everything
slows down, going a little gray around the edges. Dean concentrates on trying
to breathe in, out, in, out. He hears a wavery, breathless voice ask, "both of
them?"
Hopes that by asking again, the answer will change.
"As I understand it, your daddy—passed—at the scene. Your ma, I'm not sure.
Before I got here. That's all I know for certain."
"How?" That can't be his voice, can it? Actually, none of this is really
happening, is it? It's just a really bad dream, and he's going to wake up any
minute now. Any minute.
"Truck driver fell asleep, lost control of his rig." Gunther settles one hand
gently on Dean's shoulder. "Sit down, boy, before you fall down." His voice is
just this side of gruff, enough to anchor Dean from floating away. The chair is
hard plastic beneath him, but it's solid, unlike his legs.
"How—why'd they call you?"
Gunther settles heavily into the chair beside Dean, familiar scents of tobacco
and motor oil rising up. He smells like Dad smells -- smelled -- and Dean bites
down on his tongue to keep the tears back.
"Reckon it's because your daddy had me listed as an emergency contact. Always
has done, far as I know." Gunther draws a deep breath, and lets it out slowly.
"You drive over by yourself?"
Dean shakes his head. "My roommate and his girlfriend drove me. They're parking
the car. Why'd they take Sam into surgery? What's going on with him? Is he
gonna be okay? Do you know anything else?"
"Doctors wouldn't tell me much, Dean, since I'm not family. I just know he was
busted up pretty good, because they didn't feel they could wait to get him into
surgery. You'll have to fill out all the paperwork, once the doctor's come by
and talked to you."
Gunther's still talking – Dean can hear the sound, if not the actual words –
but nothing's really penetrating. All he can think is, Mom and Dad are dead?
What if I lose Sam, too? God, please let him be all right, and feel the words
echoing around inside his head.
He's peripherally aware of Sally joining them, a warm, comforting presence
beside him, and of Mike and Ellie coming in at some point. Gunther introduces
himself and Sally, and Dean lets the low, quiet murmur wash over him as Gunther
tells them what's going on. What's happened. Maybe it's the echo, maybe it's
hearing it again, but the tears come then, stinging his eyes. Sally pulls Dean
into her arms and holds him while he cries on her shoulder.
                                     ~~~~~
By the time the sun rises the next morning, Dean feels as though he's aged a
hundred years.
Sam's still out, hooked up to more machines than Dean's ever seen in one place
at one time. Dr. Peters, Sam's doctor, said they're going to keep him in a
medically induced coma until the swelling from the concussion goes down some,
and while they wait to make sure they got all the internal bleeding stopped.
"We have him stabilized, and I'm not expecting any complications," the doctor
told him while Dean stared at his brother, trying to wrap his head around
everything he'd just been told. Concussion. Contusions. Broken ribs. Internal
bleeding. But—alive.
After talking with Sam's doctor, Dean had to identify his parents' bodies. Even
now, hours later, thinking about it makes his already unsettled stomach shift
uneasily, and Dean swallows hard a couple of times. Sally and Gunther left
around five to go ready the shop to open, but Mike and Ellie are still there,
taking turns sitting with Dean, or fetching more coffee for all of them.
"Dean, is there anything you want me to do?" Ellie's soft voice pulls him out
of his thoughts, and Dean shrugs helplessly.
"I don't have a clue what needs to be done," he says, looking out the window at
the clear sky and bright sun. As waiting areas go, it's not a bad one. The
couches and chairs are soft, and one of Sam's nurses brought him a pillow and
blanket at some point last night. There are several windows, and the walls are
painted a soothing light green. It'd be a great room to just hang in, if it
wasn't the waiting room for the freaking Intensive Care Unit.
It's almost time for visitation again; he's been watching the clock, chaffing
at the 'no visitation between 6:30a and 9:00a for shift change' restriction. "I
guess I need to go home and see if I can find Dad's—if I can find all the legal
papers." Would they be at the house? Or is there someone else he needs to see,
like, do his parents have an attorney? God, this is nuts. "This is the universe
laughing at me." Dean twists his mouth into something like a smile when Ellie
frowns at him. "This year, when the school year started, I remember telling Dad
he didn't need to worry about me anymore, because I was all grown up and could
take care of shit myself."
Ellie huffs out a breath. "I don't think there's a college student alive who
hasn't said something like that to their parents. I told my mom something
similar just last week, on the phone." She pats his back gently. "Why don't you
try napping for a little while, and I'll make up a list of things I think you
might need to do."
"You don't mind?" Dean's not sure he's going to be able to sleep – at least,
not until Sam's up and around – but not having to focus on all the thousand-
plus things that are gonna need to be done, that sounds kind of like heaven.
"I wouldn't have offered if I minded, you goof." Ellie points toward the
doorway. "Go in and check on him, then come back here and take a nap. While
you're doing that, I'll get to work with my magic powers of organization." She
wiggles her fingers, and Dean smiles.
"Thanks, El. I don't know what I'd do without you and Mike here."
She's already digging in her shoulder bag for paper and a pen, but she gives
Dean a smile. "Go. Shoo."
"Going already, geez." He bites down on the 'Mom' he almost added, and that
trickle of pain winds its way through the numbness that's all he's felt since
late last night.
                                     ~~~~~
"Dean? Dean, you should wake up."
He's only been asleep for a minute or two, he's sure of it, and the room
wobbles and blurs until he rubs at his eyes. Even then everything still seems
to have a bit of a softer focus than usual to it. Ellie's standing beside the
chair he fell asleep in. "Ellie? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. At least nothing new." She hands Dean a steaming cup. "Good
news is, Mike stopped by your dad's shop, and Gunther gave him some papers that
were in the lock-box there. Copies of some of your dad's legal stuff, I guess."
He takes a cautious swallow. Not cafeteria coffee; probably from the Beanery up
the street. Lots of sugar – always a good thing. Another swallow, and Dean
looks around. "Sammy?"
Ellie shakes her head. "It's visiting time again in a few minutes; that's why I
woke you up."
"Has the doctor been by yet?"
She shakes her head again. "I don't think so. I haven't seen him go by, at
least. I stepped out for a little bit, went to get some coffee, and to call my
mom and Mike's folks, but I wasn't gone very long." She fishes a piece of paper
out of her purse and hands it over Dean. "You don't have to do these in the
listed order; I just wrote things down as I thought of them."
"Oh—right." He's only glanced down at it, but he's pretty sure it's a list he
doesn't want to have to read over. Looking at it more carefully confirms that.
Read over legal papers.
Make funeral/memorial arrangements.
Make arrangements for when Sam's released.
Find contact info for insurance company (life, auto).
Check about health insurance stuff.
Find contact info for attorney.
Follow up with police dept (Ellie has ph#)
Contact Sam's school.
Contact Dean's school.
Newspaper re: obits?
Check w/ bank re: funds to keep bills going, etc.
"Geez, that's a long list, El." He feels nauseous again, so Dean takes another
long pull at his coffee, hoping that will help.
"I know it is, but it's all stuff that you'll need to do sooner or later – some
of it sooner than others." She frowns. "I told my mom what happened, Dean. She
wanted me to give you her condolences, and to tell you to let her know if
there's anything she can do for you."
"Thanks, Ellie. Really. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have thought of all of
this." He glances up at the clock and drapes the blanket over the back of the
chair beside him. "I'm gonna go check on Sam. I really wish he'd wake up."
"You remember the doctor said he was keeping Sam in a medically-induced coma,
right? He won't wake up until the doctor takes him off the medication."
"Oh—right." So many things to remember. Dean thinks his head might explode.
"Look, it's nearly one." Ellie tips her head toward the door. "Go on and check
in on Sam, and then we'll head out. I told Mike we'd meet him for lunch at the
sandwich shop across the street. We can go over your list, and make some phone
calls while we eat."
"I can't leave Sam." Dean shakes his head. "If something happens—"
"We'll tell them at the nurses' desk on our way out, and give them both our
numbers, okay? Nothing's going to happen in an hour or so, and you have the
number to call if you feel like you need to."
Dean remembers when he used to think nothing would happen in the blink of an
eye, but not anymore. Still, he follows Ellie slowly out of the room and down
the quiet hall. While other parts of the hospital might be bustling with
activity, the ICU is fairly quiet. It's a little unnerving, actually, so much
silence here.
Sam looks just as he did a few hours ago, so pale and still in his bed, the
bruises around his eyes and across his cheeks the only color around him. His
chest rises and falls steadily, driven by the ventilator, soft hisses from the
machine underscoring the beeps of other machines.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean says softly, reaching to pick up Sam's hand. Sam's other
hand has the IV tubing snaking down from it, and Dean's afraid to touch that
hand. He doesn't want to jostle anything, and hurt his brother. "You need to
get better and wake up, man. I can't deal with all this shit on my own. C'mon,
Sam. Just—wake up, okay? Please."
There's no response, but Dean didn't expect one. He smoothes Sam's hair back
off his forehead and brushes a gentle kiss across it. Ellie watches from the
doorway, radiating concern.
He's only allowed in with Sam for ten or fifteen minutes at a time, so Dean
gives Sam's hand a gentle squeeze, adjusts the blankets, then follows Ellie out
of the room. They stop at the nurse's station to leave instructions to call
Dean's cell if there's any change, then head down the hallway toward the
elevator.
"What day is today?" He asks, as they exit the hospital, out into the bright,
cool day. The sun's bright, and Dean squints, wondering where he left his
sunglasses.
"It's Saturday. Why?"
"Crap." Dean stops and frowns. "Saturdays—shit, Sam has band practice on
Saturdays." At least he's pretty sure he remembers Sam telling him they were
doing Saturday practices this year, since there was a better-than-average
chance of going to the state finals. "I'm gonna have to find Eric's number, and
let him know what happened, too."
"Do you want to go—" Ellie frowns. "We could drive over to the school, if you
want?"
"Nah. I don't know how long practice lasts. I know Eric's number is on the list
on the fridge. I'll call his house later. He'll want to come up and see Sam,
once Sam's—up. Awake."
Ellie nods, then points to where Mike's standing in front of the sandwich place
– Barry's Burgers, the sign proudly proclaims – waving at them.
Inside the shop – Mike disappeared as soon as Dean and Ellie started across the
street – it's warm, and the air is full of the scents of grilling meat, and the
sounds of sizzling heard over the murmur of conversation. It's not super busy,
since it's not lunch hour anymore, so they only wait a few minutes for burgers
and plates piled high with fries. Dean manages half of his burger before his
stomach rumbles unhappily and he pushes his plate away.
"Gimme the papers," he says to Mike, and then, "you want the rest of my fries?"
"Yeah." Mike hands over a manila folder with one hand, and pulls Dean's plate
toward him with the other.
Inside is a sheaf of legal papers, and a couple of business cards, and what
look like copies of insurance policies. One of them is for the policy on the
shop; Dean sets that aside without looking at it. Anything to do with the shop
he can defer for now, because Gunther will keep it going while Dean settles
everything else. The health insurance policy gets passed over in favor of life
insurance papers, and Dean's eyes pop open wide. Five hundred thousand dollars?
Holy shit.
"Guess I don't have to worry about buying groceries," he mutters, then blinks
the sting of tears away. He would so rather have his Mom and Dad, instead of an
insurance policy payout.
"Are there copies of their wills in there?" Ellie pushes her plate away. "That
will probably have information on, um. Burial stuff."
As it turns out, Ellie's right. He skims over the copy of their will that was
obviously kept updated since it names him as guardian for Sam, as he's reached
his legal majority. There's stuff in there too about division of estate if it's
deemed necessary, and what particular pieces go to whom, along with a lot of
legalese that makes his eyes glaze over. At the bottom of the stack of papers,
though, is an envelope with a receipt, a pamphlet, and a print-out in it from
Warren McElwain Mortuary and Crematory. Dean swallows heavily a few times
before he's sure his burger is going to stay put, then he opens the envelope
and reads over the details his folks set down years ago – nearly ten, going by
the date on the print-out – for their funerals.
"They want to be cremated," he tells Mike and Ellie as he skims the papers.
"But they also bought a small plot at Oak Lawn cemetery, for a headstone.
That's where my dad's parents are buried, so I guess they wanted to be near
them."
"Do you want to have a memorial service for them?" Mike's still picking at his
fries, and Dean kind of envies him. He wishes he could eat, too, but even as
good as his burger smelled, it tasted kind of like nothing in his mouth.
"I don't know. I'm gonna—wait for Sam. Talk to him about it." Dean pinches the
bridge of his nose. "What time is it?"
"A little before two. You want to get back?"
"Yeah." He feels antsy, being this far away from Sam for as long as it's been.
Mikes nods. "Gunther said to call him later, and to let you know he and Sally
could come down and sit with you, or spell you."
"Okay. Yeah." Dean's glad other people are thinking about these things – these
things that all seem so logical – because he's not sure he's processing
anything other than autopilot.
                                     ~~~~~
The nurse at the desk tells Dean that Sam's doctor will be coming by about six,
and depending on how he's doing, there's a good chance he'll take Sam off the
meds that are keeping him asleep. Dean calls Gunther to let him know, then
waves Mike and Ellie off to his house to get some sleep. He settles into the
chair beside Sam's bed with Ellie's list and the legal papers, and a notepad to
make some notes of his own. As long as he's quiet, maybe the nurses will let
him stay longer than fifteen minutes at a time.
The blinds on the window are closed against the late-afternoon sun, so it's
fairly dim in the room, and cool enough that Dean's grateful for the sweatshirt
he has on. He shifts around to get comfortable, then looks at his brother.
Dean's pretty sure he hasn't seen Sam this quiet and still ever. It's eerie,
actually. He stretches forward and brushes Sam's hair back off his forehead,
careful not to touch any of the bruises, or the small bandage on his temple,
probably covering up yet more stitches.
"You look like you went a couple rounds with a prize-fighter, Sammy," he
murmurs. "But don't worry, kiddo. I'll take care of you. You got nothin' to
worry about, okay? I promise. You just work on getting better, and leave the
rest to me."
He feels a little silly talking to someone who can't answer him back, but it
makes him feel better. He squeezes Sam's unresponsive fingers, then leans back
in the chair to contemplate his list. So many phone calls to make, and
decisions to come to. How's he supposed to decide some of this stuff? What if
he makes the wrong choices?
There's a business card attached to Dad's will, so Dean writes the number down
on his list; he'll have to call them Monday. He'll have to call the registrar's
office Monday, too, and withdraw for the semester, because there's no way he's
going to be able to do everything he needs to do, and help Sam, and stay in
school. He's going to have to see about transferring his classes to a local
school, too. Unless Sam wants to move—and then they'd have to decide about
selling the house—
"Jesus. I take it all back."
"Take what back?" Gunther's voice is pitched low, but still makes Dean jerk in
surprise. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."
"It's okay." Dean looks at his watch. It's a few minutes before six. "And I
take back everything I ever said about wanting to be an adult."
Gunther gives him a small smile. "It's usually something you get to grow into.
You kind of got it all dumped on you."
"Yeah."
Dr. Peters comes in then, a nurse following behind him. She has another IV bag
she hangs on the pole beside Sam's bed. Dr. Peters gives Dean and Gunther both
a nod, then opens the chart he's holding. He makes a couple of notes, checks
Sam's bandages, looks in his eyes. Dean watches as he palpates Sam's abdomen
gently, then lifts the catheter bag to check it. It's tinged dark pink. The
doctor frowns and palpates Sam's belly again, his frown deepening.
"What's wrong?" Dean doesn't like that frown.
"He's started running a fever, and it looks as though there's still some
bleeding."
"Internally?" Dean swallows roughly. "He's—is he okay? Does he need more
surgery?"
Dr. Peters shakes his head. "Not right this minute, but we're going to monitor
him closely for the next little while." He sighs. "Your brother suffered major
trauma, Dean. We repaired the internal injuries we could see, but it's not
impossible that we missed something. Also, some things his body just needs to
heal itself—"
"He looks like he's peeing blood!"
"Kidneys are pretty fragile things; it doesn't take much to bruise them, or
make them bleed a bit. Right now it's just something we need to keep an eye on.
He's in serious condition, but he's also healthy and young. We'll do all we can
for him, to help him do the rest. I'm going to keep him sedated for now, and
we'll see how he's doing tomorrow. If the bleeding has stopped, and his fever
is down, we'll wake him up."
"So he's—he's not gonna—"
Dr. Peters gives Dean a gentle smile, and Dean feels Gunther's hand come down
on his shoulder. "He's not going to die, no. Like I said, he's in serious
condition, but he's stable, and I'm not anticipating that changing."
"Okay. Good."
"You should go home and get some sleep. Sam's not going to notice if you're
here or not." There's more than a hint of suggestion in that, and Dean sighs.
"I don't want to leave him. I—he's all I have left, doc. I can't—if anything
happens to him—" His throat closes up and Dean can't force any more words past
it.
"I understand that, but you're not going to be any help to him if you make
yourself sick from lack of sleep."
Dean's all ready to argue, and then Gunther says, "What if I stay here for a
while, so you can go home, have a shower and catch a nap? I can call you if
there's any change, and the doctor's right, Dean, you ain't gonna be any use to
anybody if you don't get some shut-eye."
"You don't mind?"
Gunther scowls. "You boys are family. 'Course I don't mind."
Dean's not convinced he'll be able to sleep once he gets home, but a shower
would feel good, and he's been in the same clothes for two days, now. He nods.
"I guess I'll call Mike, tell him to come get me."
Dr. Peters nods. "Good. I'll see you later, then, Dean. Mr. Andrews."
They answer, or at least Dean thinks he does. He's still staring down at Sam,
wishing his brother would just wake up, eyes shining and dimples showing, wide
mouth smiling up at Dean.
"C'mon, Dean. Off you go." Gunther jingles some keys in his direction. "Don't
bother Mike. Take the Charger, and we'll juggle cars tomorrow." He frowns when
Dean just looks at him. "You need a shower, and you need some sleep in a real
bed. I'll call you if anything comes up. Charger's out in the visitor's lot,
not in the parking garage."
"Right. Okay. But call me—"
"Go. Home." Gunther glowers at him, so Dean just nods and goes.
                                     ~~~~~
The house looks just the same as it ever has, though Dean isn't sure why he
thought it might look different. He sits in Gunther's Charger, listening to the
engine tick over as it cools, and just stares for long, long minutes. The
garage door is closed, but behind it is Dad's Impala; they were driving Mom's
Honda last night. Dean wonders if the outcome of the accident would've been
different if they'd been in the Impala.
Doesn't really matter now, though.
Cool air buffets him when he steps out of the car, and it carries a hint of
rain in it. Won't be too much longer before it's snow, which will mean
holidays—
Dean shuts that train of thought down before it can go any further. He
absolutely can't deal with that right now.
Inside the house looks just the same, too, and there are the obvious signs of a
family that was expecting to be home after just a couple of hours: a laundry
basket with folded clothes sitting beside the staircase, waiting to be carried
upstairs. A pile of mail on the table beside the front door, clearly brought in
but not sorted through. Sam's backpack, clarinet case, and grungy gym shoes
dropped on the floor beside the hall tree, with Dad's work boots leaning
against the pack.
Mike's crashed out on the couch, so Dean makes his way quietly through to the
kitchen. There's a note on the table in his dad's handwriting, telling his mom
he'd be home about six and how about dinner out? A newspaper is folded
haphazardly, half finished cross-word puzzle facing up, and set to one side,
with an empty coffee cup on top of it. There's also a notepad with the grocery
list in his mom's handwriting, and a note at the top of the list that says,
need more oj, mom.
Mom's coupon box is on the table as well, and Dean doesn't even need to close
his eyes to picture her sitting there, box open while she clips out coupons
from the ads in the paper and makes her notes for the grocery list.
He's never going to see his mom or dad again, and that thought is like ice
water moving through him.
Ellie is asleep on the bed in what used to be Dean's room, and there's not a
chance in hell he's going to be able to sleep in his parents' room, which
leaves Sam's room.
It's almost meticulously neat – the giant freak – except for his desk, which
has Sam's computer, a chem text, two notebooks, a sheaf of sheet music, and a
bright pink post-it note that says, Call Chandler about tutoring, 785-2332
after 7p. Dean wonders who Chandler is, and if the tutoring is for him, or from
him. He has trouble imagining his brainiac brother needing tutoring in
anything.
Sam has a bulletin board on his wall, ribbons won from band competitions and
soccer games stuck up there with push-pins. He has a Harry Potter poster on one
wall, and one of the Dallas Cowboys on another, side-by-side with a poster
that's a map of the solar system. When Dean closes the door behind him he sees
the periodical elements chart that's hung there since Sam was in the fifth
grade. He's willing to bet if he turns the lights off and lays on Sam's bed the
constellations he and Sam made on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stars will
still be there.
The ache Dean feels, missing his brother and wanting him right here right now,
is a physical thing that threatens to overwhelm him, and he's struck then by an
almost desperate need to see those constellations; to prove to himself that
some things haven't changed – or worse, ended. Dean toes his sneakers off and
switches off the overhead light. With the curtains still drawn, he tosses
himself down onto Sam's unmade bed. The sheets and pillows smell like the
shampoo and bodywash Sam likes, and the fainter tease of aftershave and sweat,
and Dean pulls in a deep breath, letting the scent settle him.
Tomorrow they'll wake Sam up. Hopefully. Definitely. Dean can't fathom having
to deal with any of this any longer without Sam. He needs his brother. Yeah,
he's the oldest – he's the fucking adult in the family now – but he and Sam
have always been united, been a team. It's always been them together, and right
now Dean feels like he's drowning. He needs his brother. Sooner, rather than
later.
He stares up at glow-in-the-dark stars and thinks tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow
until he falls asleep.
 

      [http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/mickeym/493440/46959/46959_600.jpg]
 
 
 

                                 Chapter Two
He's aware of things slowly. The first thing is: he hurts, everywhere. There
are noises around him he doesn't recognize, a symphony of beeps and swooshing
sounds, and people speaking all at once. Everything seems soft, kind of out of
focus, like he's dreaming it.
The first thing Sam sees when he manages to open his eyes, is his brother.
Dean's sitting beside him -- where am I? -- frowning. He looks pale and tired,
but the minute he notices Sam looking at him he perks up, the frown changing
over to a smile. Sam opens his mouth and gags on the tube that's down his
throat. That makes him jump, panicked, and Dean squeezes his hand.
"Easy, Sammy. Hang on, they gotta take the tube out."
'They' move into his line of sight then, a man and a woman, talking to each
other as they fuss and fiddle with things Sam can't see.
The man says, "Sam, I'm Dr. Peters. I'm going to take the tube out for you. I
want you to take a deep breath for me, and I'm going to count to three. When I
pull on the tube, blow out, like you're blowing out birthday candles. Okay?"
Sam nods and tries to pull in a deep breath. He shudders and coughs as the
doctor pulls the tube up and out, leaving his throat burning behind it. He
coughs some more, wincing when it makes the rest of him hurt even more.
"Water?" He manages, the word coming out as a hoarse croak. The nurse is there
in an instant, holding a straw up to his mouth. The water is cool and soothing
going down and Sam takes the cup she's holding and sips at it eagerly. It still
hurts to swallow, but not as badly as it did.
"Do you know where you are, Sam?" The doctor – Peters? Sam thinks that's what
he said – leans in to listen to his chest. Dean squeezes his hand again.
"Sammy?"
"…hospital." The word still comes out as a croak. A painful croak.
"That's right. Do you remember what happened?" Dr. Peters pushes the blankets
down and begins gently pushing at various spots on Sam's abdomen.
Another drink of water. "I—there was a truck. I think?" He frowns up at the
doctor, then at Dean, eyes going wide. "Accident! It hit us, the truck hit us.
Dean--Mom and Dad?"
"In a minute, Sammy." Dean's smile changes, tightens up, shifts back into a
frown, and Sam feels dread move through him, icy-cold and swelling, making his
chest tight and his throat ache for a different reason. "Soon as the doc's done
checking you over."
That can't be a good sign. It just can't be. If their parents were okay, Dean
would say so, not make him wait. Right? Or maybe there's something else going
on, like they're in the hospital too? He wishes he could remember better what
happened. He was texting…in the car, they were all in the car going…where?
Dinner. They were going to dinner and then there was a truck—but it all goes
blank after that.
"What time is it? Is it Saturday? I have to call Eric, tell him I won't be at
practice—Ow!" Sam glares at the doctor.
"Sorry," is the mild response. "I just need to be sure everything's healing up.
Does it hurt here?" He presses a little lower.
"It hurts everywhere," Sam says, gritting his teeth. He wants his parents, or
at least to know where they are and how they're doing, and he wants Dean to
smile again, and he really wants to be on the practice field, getting ready for
next month's competition. He doesn't want to be in a hospital bed, aching from
head to toe.
"We'll get you something for the pain in just a minute." The doctor nods toward
the nurse. "Nothing but clear liquids for twenty-four hours, while we see how
he tolerates those. We'll go from there."
"What day is it?" Sam asks, a little desperately. "Dean?"
"It's Thursday, Sammy," he says quietly, and squeezes Sam's hand again. "I've
already talked to Eric. Just chill for a few more minutes, okay?"
Thursday? That's—he's missing a whole week?
"Well, it appears everything's holding together," Dr. Peters says, stepping
back from the bed, and turning to include Dean. "His fever's completely gone,
and while he's going to have some pain from the surgeries, I'm not finding
anything to indicate any continued internal bleeding. I'm sorry we had to do
it, but it looks like removing the spleen was the right call. You're probably
going to hurt for awhile, Sam," he turns back toward Sam. "You've been through
a pretty severe trauma. But we'll have you fixed up and ready to go again
before you know it. And we'll be transferring you down to a general ward in the
next few hours; you don't need the ICU any longer."
Dean looks relieved at that. "How much longer is he going to be in the
hospital, Doc?"
"It's hard to say for sure; at least a couple more days. We need to make sure
there aren't any further complications, and that his pain is managed and he can
tolerate food. Let's just take it one step at a time. We'll see where we're at
on Saturday."
"Okay." Dean nods.
"The nurse will be back in with some more medication for the pain, Sam, and
I'll be back later tonight to see how you're doing."
Sam nods, and manages to wait until the doctor's out of the room, the nurse
following behind him, murmuring in response to whatever orders the doctor is
giving, before he turns back to stare at Dean. "Surgeries?" he asks finally,
shifting gingerly. "More than one?"
Dean sighs. "You had internal bleeding, dude. They thought they got it – you
were in emergency surgery when I got here Friday night – but then you spiked a
temp and started bleeding again, so yeah. Back into surgery. I thought, for a
little while—" Dean cuts himself off and shakes his head. "Sunday and Monday
were pretty rough, kiddo."
"And Mom and Dad?" The panic is back, clawing at his chest and throat, and Sam
swallows against it. "Dean, where are mom and dad?"
"They—dammit." Dean's voice turns rough, harsh, like he's the one who had the
tube down his throat. "They're both gone, Sammy."
"Gone—" No. No way is Dean saying what Sam thinks he's saying.
"Dead." Dean raises his free hand up to wipe at his eyes. "Dad—was dead at the
scene, and Mom. Died on the way to the hospital. You were in pretty bad shape;
they couldn't wait for me to get here to get you in to surgery."
Dead? Both of them? Sam shakes his head. No. He can't believe what Dean's
saying, because that means they're gone, and just, no. "They're not—they can't
be—"
"I'm sorry, Sam. I really—wish. Wish you didn't—"
"No! You're wrong—you have to be wrong. They can't be gone! I need them, we
need them, they're not—No, Dean. No. Please, no—" Sam breaks off, throat
closing up against any other words. He shakes as the sobs come, and when Dean
shifts around so he can hold Sam close, Sam goes, burrowing as far inside the
safe circle of Dean's arms as he can get, clinging to his brother like Dean's a
lifeline.
                                     ~~~~~
"Hey, sleepyhead. Wake up, Sammy." Dean's fingers dance over Sam's forehead,
and he knows even without opening his eyes that his brother is pushing the hair
back from his eyes. "C'mon, you big faker. They're gonna give you a change of
scenery in a few minutes, move you down to a different room."
"'M not faking." He opens his eyes, though, and blinks a few times. "God, I
hate crying," he mutters, and hears Dean snort. "How long did I sleep?"
"Hour or two? I don't know. The nurse came back and stuck something in your IV,
and you went out pretty fast after that. How you doin'?"
"Just peachy." Sam stares at the IV taped to his hand. "I didn't—dream that,
did I?" He's hoping so hard that Dean will just say 'yes' that he's actually
surprised when his brother shakes his head.
"Sorry."
"Yeah." Sam rubs his eyes – he's not crying again, dammit – and gives his
brother a small smile. "How did you—find out? Who called you?"
"Gunther." Dean stands up when the nurses – one male, one female – come in.
"Dad had him down for Emergency Contact. I got here a couple hours after the
accident." He steps back to make room for the nurses to do whatever it is
they're doing to get Sam and his bed mobile, tucking things in and hooking
things onto the bed itself. "He's been here every day, checking in on us,
helping me get stuff done."
"Okay, Sam, I'm Tyler and this is Angie. We're going to take you to your new
room now, so just relax back and let us do the driving, okay?"
"Please keep arms and legs in the vehicle at all times—" Angie breaks off with
a grin and Sam gives them both a smile. Dean laughs.
"Have you seen this kid? He's all arms and legs."
Sam shoots him a glare. "I'm taller than you now, too."
"In your dreams, Sammy."
"No, really. Just ask Mo—" Sam breaks off, his bit of good mood vanishing
instantly. Tyler and Angie give him sympathetic looks, and Dean reaches over
and pats his arm. "It's cool, Sam."
It just hurts so damn much. Sam's not sure a body is meant to feel something
like this.
Tyler clears his throat. "Okay, kids, let's get this show on the road, shall
we? I might be young and beautiful right now, but I'm getting older and beauty
fades."
Sam nods, then twists – or tries to – as they move the bed and he loses sight
of Dean. He clamps down on the sound that wants out when something inside him
burns hot and sharp, and calls, "Dean!"
"I'm right here, Sam. I'm following you guys, right behind you all the way,
okay?"
"Okay."
It's hard, though, not seeing him, and Dean must sense that because he starts
talking, telling Sam about all the calls he's made the last few days: schools,
friends, an attorney, the insurance agent. "Your teachers told me to let them
know when you're out of the hospital and they'll figure out something for
homework, though with your big brain I don't know why they're worried about
it."
"Funny." Sam bites his lower lip. "What about you? Don't you have school stuff
you'll have to make up? How're you going to do that and be here? You're
staying, aren't you?" Don't go and leave me all alone.
"Hey." They stop to wait for an elevator, and Dean appears beside Sam's bed.
"I'm not goin' anywhere, Sam. Promise." He shrugs. "I called and talked to the
Admissions office, and I'm withdrawing for this semester. I'll probably end up
transferring to a school here in town."
"Sucks you have to drop out."
"Well, yeah. But it's okay. It'll all work out in the end, one way or another."
For the first time since opening his eyes earlier – god, it's only been a few
hours! – Sam realizes his brother looks older. Older, and tired, eyes shadowed
with too much responsibility way too fast. He frowns and reaches out grab
Dean's hand, giving it a quick squeeze before he's being wheeled into the
elevator.
Sam groans when the elevator bumps them as it comes to a stop, and Angie
frowns. "Pain?"
"Pretty much yeah, everywhere," he says. "Not as bad as earlier, but starting
to hurt again."
"We'll get you settled, and get you some more meds," she tells him. "We'll get
you some Kool-aid and broth, too."
"Kool-aid?" Dean raises an eyebrow. "He can have that?"
She shrugs. "It's a clear liquid, it's sweet—would you rather have apple juice,
Sam?"
"Nah. Kool-aid's fine. Just, no purple, okay?"
"You don't like the grape?" Tyler's pretty good at backing through the door,
swinging the bed slowly as they go.
"He doesn't like purple. Traumatic experience with Barney when he was in pre-
school. Gosh, Sam, it's already been a year, hasn't it?"
"Bite me. Contrary to what you might think, Dean, you're not funny." Sam turns
to Tyler. "No, I don't like grape. Not if I have a choice. And it has nothing
to do with Barney." He glares at Dean. "Jerk."
"Yeah, but you love me." Dean waits until the bed is positioned, locked, and
Sam's settled, then asks, "You feel up to company? Eric's been calling every
day to check on you. I told him once you were awake he could probably come up
and visit."
"Yeah, I'd love to see him—and Gunther, too."
"Gunther'll be in after the shop closes, around seven."
"Good." Sam watches while Tyler and Angie move around him, checking his vitals
and IV bag, and—"Oh, god. Is that a catheter?" He feels the blush heat up his
cheeks, and it only increases when Angie nods.
"Once you're able to get up they'll take the cath out, but it was necessary
while you were sedated."
"Meanwhile, don't mess with it," Tyler says, and Sam and Dean shudder at the
same time, and Sam says very emphatically, "no worries there."
Sam drowses while he waits for more pain meds, and the promised broth and Kool-
aid. He's not hungry, exactly, but Kool-aid sounds good. His throat is still
scratchy and sore. Dean's on his phone, and Sam lets the quiet sound of his
voice lull him, drifting on low rumble as easily as when he had chicken pox and
only his brother could settle him.
                                     ~~~~~
While it's mind-blowing to realize he's missing a week of time, being awake,
Sam decides, isn't all it's cracked up to be. It seems like time is slowing
down, moving backwards.
Dean calls Mrs. Westerly to let her know Sam's awake, and that he'd like to see
Eric if she would bring him up to the hospital. Then he calls Gunther to tell
him the same, and Sam has to smile when he hears Gunther's voice echoing over
the cell phone speaker, telling him it's about damn time he got his ass up.
He's trying to doze, restless and achy in spite of the pain meds, but every
time he closes his eyes all Sam can think about is Mom and Dad, gone. Dean's
paging through a magazine beside him, humming tunelessly under his breath, and
Sam tries to focus on that. He's nearly nodded off when there's a knock on the
door, and Eric's peering in, smiling faintly behind a bunch of balloons
cheerily proclaiming, "Get Well Soon!", and a bouquet of bright flowers.
"Can I come in?"
"God, yes." Sam tries shifting and groans when everything inside him screams.
Dean's there immediately, pushing the buttons to get the bed moving so Sam's
sitting more upright. "Man, it's good to see you."
Eric reaches out and hugs Sam gently, obviously mindful of the IV tubing, and
Sam's incisions. "I'm so sorry about your parents, Sam, Dean." He nods at Dean,
then looks back at Sam. "I tried texting you, and then calling you Saturday
when you didn't show up for practice, and Mr. Foster tried calling your mom's
cell—"
"Hey, Eric. You want the chair?" Dean stands up and stretches, then gives Sam a
quick…well, caress, is all Sam can call it. Fingers brushing across his
forehead gently. "I'm gonna go get a soda, Sam, and grab a burger, okay?"
"You'll be right back, right?"
"Yeah. And Eric's got my number. You need me, have him call, okay?"
"Okay." Sam swallows uneasily as Dean heads out of his room, and gives Eric a
tired smile. "You told Mr. Foster where I am, right?"
Eric settles into Dean's vacated chair after putting the flowers on the table
beside Sam's bed. He has an envelope in his hands that he fiddles with. "I
think Dean did. I mean, I know he did, because I gave him Mr. Foster's phone
number. Mr. Foster brought it up in band Monday morning, and, well—here."
He thrusts the envelope toward Sam.
Inside the envelope are two smaller envelopes. The first one Sam opens is
addressed to both him and Dean, and is a light blue and white card that reads,
"With Sympathy". On the inside it says, "Thinking of you and wishing you peace
and comfort." It's signed by Eric and his parents, and Sam's eyes sting with
tears at the note Mrs. Westerly added at the bottom: "Boys, please know that
you're in our thoughts and our prayers. If you need anything at all, any time
at all, don't hesitate to call."
Sam sniffles. "Tell your mom I said thanks, okay?"
Eric nods. "I will. Or you can tell her; she'll be here in a few minutes to get
me."
"Okay." He sniffles again and sets that card aside. The other one is addressed
just to him, and the card inside says "Never Underestimate the Healing Power of
Hope, the Loving Power of Friends." It's signed with different colors of ink,
different messages that range from "thinking of you" to "feel better!", and
everything in between, and just scanning it quickly Sam's pretty sure every
member of the marching band signed it, including Mr. Foster.
He can't blink the tears away this time, and Sam's still crying when there's a
soft knock on the door and Eric's mom comes in.
"Oh, honey," is all she says, and then she sits on the side of his bed and
holds him while he cries. Somewhere inside his head Sam's horrified at losing
it like this in front of, well, everyone. He feels like he's half out of his
mind with pain and drugs, and he's afraid he might never be able to stop
crying. That this will never end.
At some point someone opens the door, but Sam can't see through his tears,
doesn't know if someone's coming in or going out, and he doesn't care.
"I j-just want it to stop h-h-hurting," he sobs, and Mrs. Westerly pats his
back.
"I know, honey. I wish I could do that for you."
He wishes she could, too.
There's more activity around him, around them; Dean's voice hushed and low
mingling with Mrs. Westerly's, and someone else's, and then warmth spreads
through him slow but steady, and Sam's sobs taper off as the world goes fuzzy
and soft around him. He hears Dean talking, hears the other voices, but can't
connect them anymore. He's so sleepy now, everything warm and heavy. From far,
far away he feels the warmth of Dean's hand stroking his hair back from his
face, and hears Dean sigh.
"It's gonna be okay, Sam. We're gonna be okay."
"Don't—promise me," he slurs, tongue thick as sleep closes in on him. "P-
promise me, don't leave me. Stay here…."
"Not goin' anywhere, Sammy. I promise, I'm not gonna leave you."
                                     ~~~~~
It's quiet in Sam's room – too quiet. Dean walked Gunther out a little while
ago, saying he was going to get some coffee and then he'd be back. Sam wants
him back here, now. As long as Dean's here, and talking, Sam doesn't have to
think about the week he's missing, or the accident, or the fact that Mom and
Dad are gone.
Gone. He's never going to get to give Mom a kiss and a hug before leaving for
school again. Or argue with Dad about the best way to mow a lawn. There won't
be any more family dinners, or Mom and Dad embarrassing him by being mushy in
public. He'll never get to see his parents' eyes shining with pride over an
accomplishment, or sad when he's sad.
Tears well up again, and Sam wishes he could turn onto his side and curl up in
a ball, hold all the pain out by making himself as small as possible. Instead
he wipes his eyes and sniffles, and tries to remember his parents as he saw
them last, Mom smiling and Dad smiling at her. Happy. He hopes they're happy
right now; hopes they're together wherever people go after they're dead. Sam
knows Mom will be glad to see her parents again. Grandma and Grandpa Campbell
died before Sam was born, and Dean says he only vaguely remembers them.
He's still sniffling when Dean comes back, steaming coffee in his hand. It
smells really good, and Sam wonders if coffee counts as a clear liquid.
Probably not – at least not the hospital coffee.
"Sam? You okay?"
"Yeah." He sniffles again, and manages a watery smile when Dean grabs a handful
of tissues and hands them to him. "Thanks. Just thinking about Mom and Dad."
"Ah. Yeah." The chair squeaks a little when Dean settles down on it. "I think
I've cried more in the last week than in the rest of my life put together."
"I miss them." It doesn't seem like it can be real.
"I know. I do, too." Dean leans forward and leans carefully on Sam's bed.
"Sally gave me a couple of names for counselors. Grief counselors. If either of
us wanted to talk to someone."
"You gonna?" Sam has a lot of trouble picturing his I can handle anything, I'm
so macho brother going to talk to a counselor.
"I dunno. Maybe." He gives Sam a sheepish smile. "I punched a hole in the wall
in your bedroom. Right next to the Harry Potter poster."
"My room? Why my room?"
"Mike and Ellie brought me home last Friday, after Gunther called, and stayed
until Monday afternoon. While they were here they slept in my old room – and
there was no way I was going in Mom and Dad's room, at least not to sleep. So I
was sleeping in yours, and I just—after they had to take you in for that second
surgery—I kind of lost my temper."
"Dude."
"Yeah, I know. Hurt my hand, too."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Idiot." He shifts a little. "Would you raise the bed, so I
can sit up a little?"
"Shouldn't you be sleeping, or something?"
"I will when they bring the next round of pain meds." Sam wiggles a little,
grimacing when even that tiny movement pulls his stitches and jostles things
inside. "I think I liked it better when I was unconscious."
"I didn't," Dean says quietly. "I'll be glad when you're discharged and I'm not
home all by myself. It's kind of creepy."
"Plus there're all those defenseless walls." That gets him a small smile.
"Well, yeah. That too."
It's quiet for a few minutes while Dean drinks his coffee, and Sam tries not to
think about their parents, but thoughts keep slipping in until he says, "So,
um. What are we supposed to do—about Mom and Dad?"
"Do?" Dean frowns in confusion. "Oh. Um. Their, uh, their will says they want
to be cremated, and then have a memorial stone placed in the cemetery. I've got
all the info at home—they bought a small plot, and paid for the stone and
stuff. I mean, they did it awhile ago."
"Are they still—uh. Did you do the cremation yet?"
Dean shakes his head. "I was waiting for you—to wake up. I just, I don't know.
I thought you should know before I did anything. It felt wrong with you still
asleep. And I figured we could have a memorial service for them, then. I know
Gunther and Sally, and the guys at the shop, want to pay their respects. I
don't know but probably Mom's book club people, and some of the neighbors,
stuff like that."
"Yeah." Sam closes his eyes for a minute, trying to think. His mom was – used
to be – active with Band Fundraisers, and Dad coached his soccer team for three
years in a row, and they'd been active with the Parent-Teacher association for
as long as he and Dean had been in school. "I can make a list. What time is
it?"
"A little past nine. You okay?"
"Hurts again." Sam leans back against his pillow. "Did you—find out anything
about who hit us?"
Dean reaches for the call button, but Sam shakes his head. "They'll be in, in a
little while. I'm all right."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. But if it gets worse, tell me."
"Will do."
"It was a tractor-trailer that hit you guys. The driver fell asleep at the
wheel, lost control. The police said he woke up just as the truck crossed the
median, but it was too late to get control back."
"Is he all right?"
"I don't know. I didn't ask. I know he's alive, and they took him to a
different hospital."
"Glad he's not here." Sam bites his lip. "I want…I wish…"
"That it was him, and not mom and dad?" Dean says it gently, and Sam nods.
"Believe me, I know."
"It's wrong to wish bad things for people."
"Maybe." Dean shrugs. "But it's, I'm not gonna go hunt him down or anything. I
don't…know. I don't want anything bad to happen to him, not really. But
accident or not, our parents are dead because of him. I don't exactly feel
friendly toward the guy."
"Yeah."
Sam wants to say more, but the pain's increasing with every minute, and it
feels like if he opens his mouth all he'll do is scream with it. Dean's
frowning down at him, hand reaching toward the call button. This time Sam nods.
He hates how fast it knocks him out, but he doesn't really want to be awake
anymore right now. He just wants to sleep, and not hurt, and not know his
parents are dead.
The nurse – she introduces herself as Maggie, and says she'll be his night
nurse – comes in to add his meds to the IV. "You get some rest, Sam, and we'll
get you up and walking tomorrow; you'll get to go home in no time at all."
When she's done with her checks and gone back to the nurse's station, Dean
smiles at him. "Least you got cute nurses to look at. I have to go home and
stare at the walls. Or Harry Potter posters."
Sam grabs at Dean's arm, hissing when it makes things shift and burn.
"Don't—can't you stay here? I don't want…to be by myself."
"Sure, Sammy." Dean leans in, and to Sam's surprise, brushes a quick kiss
across his forehead. It's so totally what their mom would do that Sam feels
tears welling up again. All he can do is turn his head and let them soak the
pillow while Dean strokes his hair back off his forehead, whispering over and
over, "it's okay, Sam, we're going to be okay."
                                     ~~~~~
Sam's released on Monday afternoon. He's been up and walking around since
Saturday morning, tiny, careful steps that still had him wincing and left him
exhausted, but walking.
Since he doesn't have a spleen anymore, the doctor goes over a list of
immunizations he has to get, as well as the antibiotics he's going to be on for
a while, until his system has fully recovered from the trauma and can stand on
its own. Tyler goes over wound care with Sam and Dean both, along with a list
of restrictions – "no lifting anything over ten pounds for a couple of weeks"
"well, Sammy, guess you can't walk around with your head attached for a while"
– and exercises to start doing. He has a follow-up appointment scheduled for
ten days from now, to get his staples out, and another with his family doctor
to get the aforementioned immunizations, and there's something in there too
about dietary things and blood work, but Sam's already tired and hurting again
and a lot of what's said just buzzes around him like so much white noise.
Hopefully Dean's paying attention.
Gunther comes along to help Dean get Sam out of the car and into the house, and
settled on the couch. He's glad he spent a couple of extra days in the hospital
so he gets to miss out on the 'no stairs for 48 hours post-op' restriction.
This whole thing sucks balls as it is; coming home only to have to try and fit
himself on the couch would have sucked beyond the telling of it.
Sally's there at the house when they pull up, and she's made a banner to hang
over the door that reads 'WELCOME HOME SAM!'
"I have homemade macaroni and cheese with ham in the oven right now, honey,"
she tells Sam as he walks carefully up the steps and into the house. He goes
happily into her arms for a long, gentle hug, then sits on the couch while Dean
and Gunther go out to switch cars around.
"Eric just called and said he can come by after dinner, if you're up to it,"
Dean says, coming back in.
"I don't know. Maybe. I'll call him in a few minutes." Sam feels absolutely
exhausted, and all he's done is get dressed (with help), get in and out of the
car (with more help), and walk up three steps into his house (with even more
help—Dean was totally standing behind him while he took each step).
Dean frowns. "You okay?"
"Just really, really tired."
"The casserole will keep on warm, if you need to take a nap, Sam." Sally's
already pulling her coat on, and Gunther hasn't taken his off. Sam looks
between them. "You're not staying?"
Gunther shakes his head. "I need to get back to the shop, and Sally's going to
get to work on the accounting stuff until I can get someone else in to do it.
Your daddy did all of our bookkeeping, so we got behind, and it's taking me
some time to get back up to speed." He lays one hand on Sam's shoulder and
squeezes gently. "But we're both of us just a phone call away if you boys need
anything, you hear?" He looks from Sam to Dean and back again, waiting for them
both to nod. "Dean, let me know what you decide to do about the memorial
service, when you want to do it. The boys at the shop all want to come, so
we'll close down for part of a day if we need to."
"Thanks, Gunther." Dean reaches out a hand but Gunther snorts and pulls him
into a one-armed hug. He does the same with Sam, though much gentler, and then
he and Sally are gone.
"Do you want to eat? Or take a nap?" Dean sits beside Sam and brings one arm up
around his shoulders. Sam leans in gratefully. "I need to run to the pharmacy
and get your prescriptions filled, but if you want to sleep while I'm gone,
I'll help you get settled first."
"Can I go with you? To the pharmacy?"
Dean pulls away enough to frown at Sam. "I'm not gonna be gone long, dude. I
just have to turn the prescriptions in; I'll have to go back later to pick them
up."
"I just—" Sam stops, bites down on his lip. How do you say – to your older
brother, no less – that you don't want him to leave you alone, because you're
afraid he might not come back? That you're scared to be alone, period?
"Please?"
Dean stares at him for what seems like forever before nodding. "Okay. Sure. Let
me go turn the oven down, and then we'll go. You need to hit the can or
anything?"
"I'm good."
"They told you to go to the bathroom regularly."
"It hurts when I pee." It hurt like nothing Sam's ever felt when they took the
damn catheter out. He was sure that was that last of it, but no. Days later and
it still hurts some, which would totally have Sam freaked out except the doctor
told him it probably would hurt for a while yet. Just like the rest of him.
"Still." Dean stares until Sam heaves a sigh and pushes himself carefully
upright and off the couch. When Dean makes like he's going to follow, Sam
scowls at him. "I don't need you to hold it for me."
"You know you secretly want it."
"Perv." Sam smiles as he heads for the bathroom. "Don't forget to turn the oven
down. Or better yet, turn it off. It would really suck, after everything else,
to burn the house down."
Dean laughs, a sharp, barking sound of agreement, and disappears into the
kitchen.
It seems to take years that Sam's standing in front of the toilet, nothing
happening, and he has to remind himself he's hurt worse – and recently – and
this pain is less every time. He still has to turn the faucet on and listen to
the water trickling out before he can make himself actually go, and he's
reminded yet again of his mom, how she used that trick many times when he was
really little and insisted he didn't have to go.
He finishes and zips up, washes his hands quickly, and heads out to get in the
car. Dean's already waiting for him, leaning against the side of the Impala,
arms folded across his chest.
"What'd they do with Mom's car?" Sam asks as he very carefully gets in.
"It's at the police impound lot, I think. Unless the insurance agency's gone
and carted it off. Why?"
"Was—did anything—was there anything in there?"
"A few things, but even those were busted up pretty good. I have your cell
phone, but we'll have to get you a new one—it's all messed up." Dean pats his
leg. "The whole car is pretty much scrap metal, Sammy. Not even enough left to
use for spare parts."
Sam nods tightly and wonders if things would've been different if they'd been
in the Impala. If they'd been hit in this, mom and dad would probably still be
alive. He rubs his eyes impatiently and stares out the window, all the way to
the pharmacy.
 
 

                                Chapter Three
His first waking thought is: what's going on? His second is: what time is it?
Dean rubs the sleep out of his eyes and squints at his clock, which proclaims
it's 2:37 in luminescent green.
It's getting worse, instead of better.
Dean stares at his ceiling, listening to the quiet gasps and sobs coming from
Sam's room, until he can't stand it any longer, and gets up.
Like every other night, Sam isn't even awake. He's gasping and whimpering and
crying in his sleep, head moving back and forth, body tense like he's expecting
to have to jump up at any given moment. He actually had some blood on his
bandages this morning, meaning he pulled something at some point during his
nightmares.
"Sam. Sammy. Wake up." Dean shakes him gently, fingers brushing damp, sleep-
warm cheeks. "C'mon, Sammy."
"Huh? Dean?" He rubs at his eyes, and for a minute Dean's reminded of the
chubby toddler who would rub his eyes all the while protesting he wasn't
sleepy, not at all! "Did I wake you up again?"
"Nah, I was awake." The lie comes easily, smoothly, because Sam's already
carting around enough guilt and worry. "You okay? Need anything?" He knows
what's coming as soon as he asks, because Sam's asked him every night since he
came home from the hospital – over a week, now – and Dean knows he shouldn't,
but he can't help it, can't not say yes. He needs to feel Sam close by as much
as his brother seems to need him.
"Sleep with me?" Sam looks so young, hair all tousled and messy and flopping
down into his eyes. No way anyone would believe his brother is sixteen, if they
saw him like this.
"Sure. Scoot over." It takes Sam a minute to shuffle over, and something
tightens in Dean's chest when Sam sighs and relaxes only after Dean slides in
beside him. "Get some sleep, okay?"
"'Kay." Sam already sounds halfway to asleep again, and Dean feels his own
breathing deepening, slowing down, his body relaxing. Sam's like a furnace
beside him, and it's chilly in his room because he likes to sleep with the
window open, so Dean edges a little closer, sighing as he warms up and sinks
into sleep, right behind Sam.
                                     ~~~~~
Dean wakes up with a Sam-shaped octopus wrapped around him, and hard heat
pressed against his hip. Sam's rocking gently, quiet, breathy sighs tickling
the side of Dean's face. It takes him about half a minute to realize what is
pressed against him, and why Sam's rocking, and then he's sliding out of bed as
quickly – and carefully – as possible. He makes it to the door just as Sam
stirs, and Dean braces for –something – but Sam just rolls over and goes back
to sleep.
Dean breathes a sigh of relief as he heads for the bathroom, but he can't help
the weird flush of heat that runs through him when he thinks about how not
little his little brother felt, hard and ready, up against him.
He lingers in the shower, decidedly not thinking at all about Sam as he soaps
up and jerks off, and by the time he's out of the shower and dressed, Sam's
sitting up in bed, yawning and stretching carefully.
Dean stops in Sam's doorway. "Any blood this morning?"
"Nope." Sam wrinkles his nose at himself. "I wish I could take a real shower. I
feel gross."
"Your face is gross."
Sam rolls his eyes. "What are you, eight? Geez. But seriously. You try not
taking a shower for almost two weeks, see how you feel."
"No shower 'til the staples come out." Dean heads down the hall to his room and
surveys the boxes still stacked in the corner. Mike and Ellie drove his stuff
back to him over the weekend, but he hasn't had a chance to unpack it yet. Now
to figure out where his sweatshirts are, because it's chilly out, and the
forecast isn't saying much about it warming up.
"I know!" Sam calls after him. Dean smiles when he hears the quiet shuffling
sounds of Sam heading for the bathroom, and the door slamming shut behind him.
He's happy to have his brother being kind of pissy, if only because it means
Sam's actually letting himself feel something.
Dean knocks on the door as he goes past it. "You want anything for breakfast?"
"Nothing to eat. Just some orange juice." Sam opens the door. "I'm not hungry."
"You gotta eat something, dude. You have all those pills you have to take."
Sam makes a face at him. "I'm not hungry, Dean."
"How 'bout I make you a—what's it called, a smoothie? With orange juice in it."
He's pretty proud of himself for remembering that Sam likes those – though for
the life of him, Dean can't imagine why. Yogurt and juice? Why not just have a
milkshake?
Sam smiles, just a little, but it's enough for the dimples to appear. "That'd
be awesome, Dean. There's some fruit in the freezer—strawberries, I
think—they'll work with the orange juice."
There's that disturbing flush of warmth again, and Dean feels it expanding
inside his chest the longer Sam smiles at him. He clears his throat and nods,
mumbles, "Okay, one fake milkshake, coming right up."
Sam's laugh follows him down the stairs.
                                     ~~~~~
It's gonna be a busy day; they have lots of things that need to be done. Dean
starts to suggest that Sam could stay home and work on the piles of homework
Eric dropped off for him, but he knows what Sam's answer will be. Even though
it's clearly still painful for Sam to get in and out of the Impala (and Dean
can't even imagine what it would be like if it was a small car, like Mom's
Honda was), he won't let Dean leave him behind. At all. So Dean's stopped
suggesting; it eliminates a lot of stress right off the bat.
They stop by the auto shop first thing, and it's the third most painful thing
Dean's done lately, right after having to identify his parents' bodies, and
cremating them. This place is what Dean sees when he thinks about his dad. He
and Gunther opened the shop together, just a couple months before Dean was
born. He's grown up coming in here – both him and Sam have – learning the
basics of oil changes and tire rotations at first, and then slowly learning his
way around the inside of an engine.
He just saw all the guys at the memorial service, but it's a huge shock to be
here, smelling the oil and rubber, and hearing the different noises associated
with the shop. The first time he ever smoked a cigarette was out back, Ernie
and Dad standing there smoking, laughing when Dean inhaled the smoke and damn
near choked to death.
Actually, that was the first and last time he ever smoked a cigarette, though
Dad smoked off and on, according to his moods and stress level.
Beside him Sam whispers, "I didn't think it would hurt this much," and Dean
nods. He didn't think it would, either.
"C'mon," he says gruffly. "I gotta give these papers to Gunther before I forget
'em again."
Bringing the papers hurts too, because they're the legal papers for Gunther to
buy out John Winchester's portion of the shop. Dean doesn't mind working on
cars – it can be relaxing, actually – but he doesn't want to make a living
doing it, and Sam couldn't find his way around an engine if his life depended
on it. Better to sell it outright than have it hanging over them for forever.
Sam and Dean spent the better part of one evening sitting with Gunther and
Sally, going over the numbers, and then Sam and Dean had to talk it through.
If anyone had ever asked him what a loved one dying would have entailed,
paperwork definitely wouldn't have made it onto the list. In Dean's opinion,
it's pretty much at the top of said list.
Gunther has someone in his office, so they hang out in the shop area, talking
to Ernie and Dave and Jason while they wait. It's bittersweet, because Dean
knows they likely won't be back here after this, though they'll probably still
see Gunther and Sally, at least.
"Boys," is how Gunther greets them, a hug-and-handshake for each. He waves them
into the chairs, and sits down to look over the papers. "Did you want to go
through your daddy's toolboxes? I cleaned off his desk for you, put everything
in a box. You can go through it when you're feeling more up to it."
Sam gives a shrug about the tools, but Dean hesitates. Dad has -- had, dammit –
an awesome collection of tools at home, but that one's dwarfed by what he kept
at the shop. "Nah," he says finally. "Pretty sure I got everything I might need
in the toolbox at home."
"If you find there's something you need, you just let me know. They ain't goin'
nowhere."
Dean tries to smile; hopes it comes out more than the grimace it feels like.
"Thanks, Gunther. Do we—is there anything else we need to do, for the shop
stuff?" He waves his hand toward the papers. "I signed everywhere the attorney
told me I needed to sign—"
"No, no, it looks good. I'll go through and sign, and then take them back to
the lawyer, and he'll make sure the money gets into your account." Gunther
looks between them, then gives them an almost-gentle smile. "You boys take care
of yourselves, you hear? And I meant what I said before: you need anything, you
give me a call. Day or night, okay?"
Dean nods; out of the corner of his eye he sees Sam doing the same thing. He's
not sure he can actually say anything, though, because his throat feels like he
has a huge lump stuck in it. Maybe everything he'd like to say.
They say goodbye to Gunther, and to the rest of the guys as they exit the
garage, and then it's just them getting into the car.
"Fucking hate all this," Dean mutters as he starts the engine. Beside him, Sam
makes a quiet noise of assent, and Dean knows if he looks over he's going to
see Sam, pale and tired-looking, mouth drawn down into a tight line. It's hard
to see past that, now, and remember his happy, always laughing, healthy-looking
younger brother. For just an instant Dean's pissed at his parents for dying,
for leaving them, for all the crap both he and Sam have to deal with now. He
tightens his grip on the wheel and breathes slow and deep for a minute until
the anger eases and passes onto the guy who fell asleep while driving and
killed his parents – and his younger brother, to some extent.
He's still mad when he puts the car in gear; angry when he steps on the gas,
tires squealing loudly as he pulls out of the parking lot. He slams on the
brakes abruptly when a car appears out of nowhere, driver honking his horn and
shouting incomprehensibly from behind glass. The tires shriek again—
No, that's not the tires. That's Sam. Sam, gone beyond pale and into white, as
if he's just seen a ghost, eyes wide and scared, hands clutching at his abdomen
where he's still stapled together from the last run-in with a car being where
it shouldn't.
"Sammy? Sam, God, I'm sorry. You okay?" Dean feels sick to his stomach when Sam
shakes his head. He backs the car slowly into the parking lot they just left,
and puts it into park. Sam's across the seat and into his arms before he's even
fully turned, and Dean just holds him and strokes his hair while Sam sobs,
whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sam."
                                     ~~~~~
Once Sam's calmed down enough that Dean can drive again (though 'calm' isn't
the word Dean would use willingly, since Sam's still shaking like a leaf in a
hurricane) they head back home. Forget the doctor's appointment, it can be
rescheduled; so can the appointment with the insurance agent. They can get
groceries another day; there's always pizza delivery.
Dean leads Sam upstairs and strips him down to his boxers, then pushes him
gently toward the bed. He doesn't wait for Sam to ask – beg – him to stay, just
strips his own clothes off and climbs in behind, pulling the covers up around
them. Sam curls onto his side and Dean spoons up behind him, holding him close.
It feels wrong and right, good and bad all at the same time, with the right and
good growing as Sam's shivering slows and then stops. When he turns in Dean's
arms and presses a hesitant kiss to Dean's mouth, it feels perfect. The first
good thing that's happened since that awful, horrible moment he got the phone
call.
One kiss turns into two, three, four, and each one is more perfect than the
last, soft and gentle, practically chaste.
Sam licks at Dean's mouth, tongue tip teasing along his lips, and Dean opens up
for him eagerly. Wants to kiss and be kissed, and make everything bad that's
happened lately just disappear for a little while.
He coaxes Sam over onto him by rolling onto his back, arms coming up to hold
Sam close. Sam makes a little whimpering sound low in his throat and strains
forward, tongue sweeping through Dean's mouth, tasting him thoroughly. Dean
slides his hands down the length of Sam's back, tracing over smooth, soft skin
and feeling the muscles flex beneath it. He cups Sam's ass in his hands, the
heat of his skin burning even through boxers. Sam gasps into Dean's mouth and
rocks downward, his dick hardening against Dean's leg as he moves. Dean's hard
in his shorts, too, and it only takes a couple of tugs to get Sam right against
him, weight providing the best possible friction when they move against each
other.
Sam tenses against him, and Dean feels his erection harden further just before
it pulses, wet heat spreading through two layers of thin cotton. He keeps
kissing Sam, tongue stroking over the soft, slick surfaces while Sam moves
against him. Dean comes right after Sam, body throbbing in time with each
spurt, hips rocking upward, seeking more friction even while it's almost too
much.
Sam snuggles down against Dean, breathing evening out and then slowing,
deepening. Dean rubs his back, slow, sweeping movements up and down until Sam
goes lax against him, snoring softly. That's when Dean's brain catches up.
Oh, my God, what did we just do?
He counts it as a win that Sam doesn't wake up when he practically falls out of
bed in his haste to get out. He makes it to the bathroom just before throwing
up, and spends several minutes dry heaving into the toilet. Even after brushing
his teeth, he can taste the bitterness of bile.
                                     ~~~~~
Dean's at the kitchen table going over the checkbook (he can't quite bring
himself to call it his checkbook yet, and it's weird and inaccurate to still
call it Mom-and-Dad's-checkbook, so he's just going with the checkbook) when
Sam shuffles in a few hours later. He's still flushed with sleep, and his hair
is kind of everywhere, curling and twisting into odd swirls, and a couple of
improbable-looking spikes. He put sweats on, though no t-shirt, and Dean has to
make an effort not to let his eyes wander up and down the full length of Sam's
body.
His stomach rolls, and Dean swallows the nausea down determinedly. Sam doesn't
need to have to deal with Dean's panic attack. Especially since this is the
first time since Dean saw him lying in the hospital bed, pale and still, that
Sam has some color in his cheeks and doesn't look haunted by recent events.
Hey, let's hear it for a little incest, smoothing things over.
Oh, God.
"Hey, Sammy," he manages, and wonders how long he's been lost inside his head.
Sam shuffles past him, pausing to stop and drop a kiss on the top of Dean's
head, and on to the refrigerator. He pulls the carton of orange juice out,
starts to open it, then stops and looks toward the cupboard where the glasses
are. Dean can't help smiling. "Go on," he encourages. "I'm not gonna tell on
you. Besides, it always tastes better out of the carton."
Sam snorts, but doesn't disagree. Instead, he brings the carton to the table
and takes a seat across from Dean. He stares until Dean wants to fidget, then
asks, "So, are you totally freaking out?"
"Maybe." Possibly. Definitely. "Yeah." Dean watches him take a long drink of
the juice, throat working as Sam swallows, and drops his eyes. "Aren't you?"
"Maybe a little bit." Sam chugs some more juice, then sets the carton aside.
"I've thought about doing that before, though."
Dean's pretty sure he couldn't be more surprised if Sam just told him he'd
sprouted a tail and horns. "Say what? You're kidding me, right?"
"Nope. Didn't—plan to ever follow through on it, but I thought about it."
"But—I—dude." It's been a while since Sam was able to render Dean this
speechless. He can't think of anything even remotely coherent to say, so he
settles for shaking his head, and trying to change the subject. "I rescheduled
your doctor's appointment for tomorrow, and I changed our appointment with the
insurance agent to later this afternoon. We need to swing by the attorney's
office, too, and get the power-of-attorney so I can close out Mom and Dad's
checking account, and open up one in our – my – our names."
"In yours, or in ours?" Sam raises an eyebrow. "We could be domestic partners."
"Sam! Jesus." He scowls at his brother. "We can't—that's not going to happen
again. It was just a comfort thing. A one-time comfort thing." No matter how
good, how right it felt to hold Sam like that, it just can't happen again.
Period.
"Being domestic partners isn't going to happen again? We haven't been that, to
start with."
Dean opens and closes his mouth a couple of times before he actually has words.
"Sex," he says through gritted teeth. "The sex can't happen again, and we're
sure as hell not going to be domestic partners. Jesus Christ, Sam. I could go
to jail for what we did. You're sixteen, for fuck's sake!"
"You're gonna focus on my age, instead of how we could both go to jail for that
whole sex-between-siblings thing?"
Dean's pretty sure he's about two seconds away from hyperventilating, and Sam's
sitting there, cool and collected as anything. "Okay, yeah, there's that—but
you're missing the bigger picture: you're sixteen. I'm almost twenty-one! Sex
with a minor—not to mention I'm your fucking guardian, now!"
Sam slaps his hands down on the table and glares – actually fucking glares -
- at Dean. "Age of consent in Kansas is sixteen. I'm sixteen. And I wasn't
planning to run out and tell the world that I had sex with my brother. Besides,
I kissed you. You didn't take advantage of me or anything."
"Still your guardian," Dean says in a weak voice. Sam needs to be a fucking
lawyer, or something.
"Still not planning to tell anyone," Sam snaps back. He gentles his voice then,
and asks, "Who's it hurting if it's something that feels good and we both agree
to?" He pauses, then says, "You say it was a comfort thing—and it was. But it
felt like—like more, too."
Dean shakes his head, not sure of what to say, but unable to just let it go
like that. "Can we—have this talk again later? When I'm not trying to figure
out bills and payments and shit?" Sam heaves a huge sigh and nods. The
animation from earlier is gone from his face, from his eyes; he's back to
looking pale and drawn, tired and sad. Dean aches to realize he did that. Did
both: made Sam happy again, then took it away like a bully taking a little
kid's candy. Fuck. "Sam—"
"Forget it." Sam's already pushing away from the table, one hand on his belly,
making aborted rubbing/scratching motions. "I'm gonna go get dressed. Let me
know when you're ready to go."
Goddammit. Dean wishes he knew what to do, or say, to make things right again.
Or, well. He wishes he had the strength and the guts to do what he knows he
should do…what he wants to do. Because in spite of the fact that Sam's his
brother, for those minutes they were together, kissing and touching…it was
perfect. He and Sam, in sync with each other, caring for and about each other.
Partners.
He thinks he understands better why people are drawn to the things they aren't
supposed to have, once they have a tiny taste. Something that's forbidden
tastes sweet, and once you know how sweet something is, you want more and more
of it. Dammit.
 

      [http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/mickeym/493440/47286/47286_600.jpg]
 
 

                                 Chapter Four
The absolute best part about getting his staples out, is Sam gets to take a
real shower. Finally.
He stays in long enough that the water actually turns cold, which is a pretty
awesome feat considering Dad replaced the hot water heater a few years ago with
a bigger one, so they could all shower without the water running cold.
Dean's helped him wash his hair and do the sponge-bath thing while he's been
healing, but it's not the same. Plus, things have been really weird between
them since that day last week. Weird enough that while Dean is still sleeping
with him, he jumps if Sam so much as glances in his direction, which sucks a
whole lot.
The downside to getting his staples out, is it means he has to go back to
school. Not that Sam is against school, per se. It'll be good to get back to
his classes, especially band and biology. No, what's going to suck like a
hoover is that he'll be at school, and Dean will be here at home. Or at least,
not at school with Sam.
He's doing better, mostly, with the separation thing. Made it a whole thirty
minutes yesterday before the cold sweats started. Sam knows he needs to get a
grip, because this is totally a psychological thing. But knowing something, and
being able to pull it off are two different things entirely.
Dean's out right now, actually, has been for coming on close to an hour, now.
And if Sam's set to wear a hole in his carpet from pacing, oh, well.
"So no more marching band at all?" Eric's over today; his mom dropped him off
after school, along with pan of lasagna she made, obviously not trusting that
Sam and Dean can cook for themselves. Neither one of them is going to argue
with anyone who wants to feed them, because while they can both fix mac-and-
cheese from a box, or make sandwiches, that's about the extent of their
repertoire. So, double win: real food for dinner, plus company. It's nice to
have Eric hanging out with him, because it actually takes his mind off Dean
being gone. Somewhat.
"The doctor said I could probably start back after the new year. I have to wait
and see how everything's doing."
"But you got your staples out."
"God, yes. Finally." And he can scratch the itchy, healing incisions to his
heart's content, now, too.
"Can I see the scar?" Eric looks like he's asking Sam to show him something
dirty or perverted, all sly and stealthy, and Sam grins. Eric makes Sam look
like a wild man, he's so conservative. Asking to see Sam's scar probably seems
dirty or weird to him.
"I have three of 'em, actually." Sam lifts the hem of his t-shirt to show them
off. The first is where a piece of something, metal probably, went through and
into his abdomen; the second is from the surgery it took to repair that damage,
and the third was when they had to go in and remove his spleen. He explains all
this to Eric – though he probably talked about it some when Eric first visited,
Sam can't remember – while Eric stares in fascination.
"Do they still hurt? They look like they hurt."
"This one does." Sam points to the largest one, the one from the second
surgery. "Or, well. It doesn't hurt so much as itch—but inside still hurts. All
achy, kind of."
Eric frowns up at him. "That must feel weird. Because you're missing parts now,
right?"
"Missing a part, anyway, yeah. And it does feel kind of weird, because it's not
like it hurts, but then it kind of does. I don't know how to explain it." Sam
tugs his shirt back down and sits down on his bed.
"Mom wanted me to remind you that you guys are invited for Thanksgiving
dinner."
"Tell her I said thanks, but Gunther and Sally already told Dean they expect us
to be there." Sam gives Eric a smile. "Which isn't really different than any
other year, because we had Thanksgiving dinner with them most of the time.
Just—no parents, this year."
"I'm sorry, Sam."
"Thanks." Sam's sorry, too. He hates mentioning it because it fucking hurts,
but not talking about them at all hurts, too. Like he's trying to pretend they
never existed or something. "So, hey. You said Cassidy Arvada said yes to going
to the Winter dance with you?"
"Yes!" Eric looks almost as relieved as Sam feels to change the subject, and he
launches into a gushing ramble about Cassidy's many virtues, most of which Sam
already knows because hello, Cassidy lives just down the street from him and
he's known her for forever. But it's cute that Eric's so head-over-heels, and
it takes his mind mostly off things.
Mrs. Westerly picks Eric up a little after five, and about ten minutes after
that Sam hears the low, growly sound of the Impala pulling into the drive. He
manages not to fling himself at Dean as soon as he steps through the door, but
it's a near thing.
"Eric's mom brought us dinner," he tells him. "Lasagna."
"Ooh." Dean's eyes light up. "I think we still have some garlic toast out in
the big freezer."
"Yeah, I think so. I'm gonna make a salad, do you want one, too?"
"Vegetables? On purpose?" Dean manages to look so horrified that it's all Sam
can do not to laugh. "Sammy, you're a teenager. You're not supposed to eat
green things willingly."
"Carrots and tomatoes aren't green."
"Well, you're not supposed to eat green things, or orange or red things,
either." Dean sets a thick envelope on the kitchen table, and puts a cardboard
box beside it. "The stuff from Dad's desk at the shop," he says, when Sam
raises his eyebrow. "It's been in the trunk of the car and I kept forgetting to
bring it in."
"And the envelope?"
"From the attorney. Gunther owns A&W Auto Repairs completely now. The money
from the buy-out is in our account, and that's that." Dean says it briskly, no-
nonsense, but Sam knows it hurts—because it hurts him, too. Yeah, it's the
logical thing to do since neither of them have any real interest in keeping on
Dad's share, but it's like one more thing, one more bit of their history, of
their parents, gone. "Sam?"
He refocuses on Dean. "Huh?"
"I asked if you wanted to eat now, or wait awhile?"
"Sorry. Um. We can wait awhile, if you want. I'm good."
"Nah, now is good." Dean hangs his coat over the back of one of the kitchen
chairs, and Sam almost says, "better move that before Mom sees it." He catches
himself, but it's just one more thing on top of a bunch of them, and he finds
himself asking, "It's gonna get easier, right? I mean, everyone says it will,
but I keep wondering if that's just a bunch of bullshit people tell other
people because they don't know what else to say. But I'm so tired of everything
reminding me of Mom and Dad, and I miss them so much, and I hate this."
His stomach hurts, too, both surgical incisions, and that's probably something
to do with some of this.
Dean falters, then steps in closer and pulls Sam into a hug. It feels so good
Sam can't help but cling a little bit, and he shivers when Dean brushes a kiss
across his temple. "It'll get better, Sammy. It kind of has to, because I can't
imagine if it got any worse."
Sam stays in Dean's arms until he feels confident he's not going to lose it
completely, and then he lifts his head and tries on a smile. It must work,
because his brother smiles back at him, then reaches to brush his hair back off
his forehead. "You need a haircut, kiddo."
Sam snorts. "Says you. I like it longer."
"It's gone beyond 'longer', dude. You're rapidly heading into hippie
territory."
"Flower power, peace and love-ins were the bomb, back in the day."
"Which is not a day you remember. Don't you have some homework you need to do?"
"Yeah. Hey, what's that?" Dean's pulled another, much thinner, envelope out of
his jacket pocket.
"My homework. I gotta get all the paperwork done so I can start back to school
in January."
"Yeah?" Sam's belly clenches tight with something that feels like fear. "Here
in town? Or back at the university?"
"Sam." Dean looks at him. "I already said I was transferring to a local
college. Relax. I'm not going anywhere. Promise."
"You shouldn’t make promises you might not be able to keep."
"Hey." Dean takes Sam's chin in hand, and tilts his head down a little.
"There's no way I'm not keeping a promise like that. It's my job to look after
you. Take care of you." He leans in and brushes a light, chaste kiss across
Sam's mouth, then adds, "Even when you're being an annoying pain in the ass."
"Hmph. Sweet talk like that will get you anywhere." But Sam's totally smiling
when he says it, and his lips tingle, just a little bit.
Dean might feel conflicted about the sex stuff, but it's pretty obvious he
wants it, too. Actions – like the kisses – speak louder than any words he's
said so far.
 
      [http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/mickeym/493440/46227/46227_600.jpg]
 
                                     ~~~~~
"You're gonna be late if you don't get your ass in gear." Dean's standing by
the front door, jingling the keys in his hand impatiently, and Sam scowls. He
knows he's dragging his feet on this, but he can't help it.
On the one hand, he's glad to go back to school. He misses his friends, his
teachers, misses having something normal in his life. But on the other hand,
what if something happens to Dean while he's at school? What if there's an
accident and this right now is the last time he sees his brother alive, like
with his parents? He ducks back into the bathroom and closes the door, then
leans forward against sink for support while he tries to slow down his
breathing. Now is not a good time for a panic attack.
"Sam! C'mon, shake a leg." Dean bangs on the bathroom door, and Sam jumps.
"Dude. Come on."
"In—in a minute."
The doorknob rattles, and then Dean's pushing the door open. "Sam?"
He shakes his head, and meets Dean's eyes in the mirror over the sink.
"I…can't, Dean."
"You can't what?"
"Leave—you. I can't do it. What if something happens?"
Dean sighs and leans back against the door, shutting it. "Sammy—"
"Don't say nothing will happen. You don't know that. You can't know that."
"I wasn't going to say that." Dean pulls Sam back against him and winds his
arms around Sam's waist. Close together like this, Sam feels safe. He stares at
their reflections; he's a shade taller than his brother, now, but he thinks he
could be twice Dean's size and he'd still feel safe in his embrace. "I am gonna
remind you that you can call me or text me any time you need to. Okay?"
Sam nods. In the mirror Dean leans in a little, and Sam feels the soft scritch
of stubble against his throat, and the softer touch of Dean's lips, following
the line of Sam's throat up to his jaw. Sam closes his eyes and turns in Dean's
arms. Dean's hands are warm against Sam's face when he cups it, his mouth
gentle on Sam's. So much love, so much caring, and Sam can feel it all through
him. He kisses back, hungry for more, for every touch Dean will give him,
wanting to lose himself in his brother.
Eventually Dean draws back, not pulling away but separating enough to whisper
in Sam's ear, "You're gonna be okay, Sammy. We're gonna be okay. Right?" Sam
nods, and Dean kisses him once more. "Okay. Now let's get you to school."
                                     ~~~~~
"What do you want to do about Christmas this year?" Sam's only half awake,
chewing his cereal with his eyes still mostly shut, but Dean's question wakes
him right up.
"What? What'd'you mean?"
Dean gives him an apologetic half-shrug. "I'm—not really feeling the whole
Christmas thing this year. Thanksgiving was hard enough. I don't think I can
make myself go up into the attic and bring down the Christmas decorations."
Well, put that way. "Yeah, you're probably right." Sam drops his spoon into his
bowl. "I didn't think about it. Didn't want to think about it."
"That's kind of been the theme to our lives the last couple of months." Dean
stretches, then reaches out and snags Sam's juice glass, downing the contents
before Sam's even really aware it's been taken.
"Hey! That was the last of the OJ."
"Relax, Princess. I'm going to the store after I drop you at school. I promise
I'll get you some more orange juice."
"You better." Sam scowls at his empty glass. "Jerk."
"Bitch. Jesus, you're like an orange juice junkie, aren't you? I wonder what it
was mom ate or drank while she was pregnant with you, to make you like this."
"Same stuff she ate or drank while she was pregnant with you, probably."
"Nuh-uh. Because you eat vegetables on purpose, by choice."
Sam rolls his eyes, and gets up from the table, taking his dishes with him.
"Just don't forget to get some more and I promise I won't tell Santa that
you're a jerk who steals the last of the OJ from his younger brother."
"Ah, me and Santa, we go way back. Give it your best shot." Dean tosses his
napkin at Sam. "And think about what you want to do for Christmas."
                                     ~~~~~
Sam considers it all through school, in the car on the way home, and all
afternoon while he does his homework.
He's still thinking about it when bedtime rolls around, and Dean tugs gently on
a hank of hair. "If I'd known you were going to try and short-circuit your
brain, I wouldn't have brought it up. Stop thinking so hard, I can smell the
smoke."
"Oh, shut up," Sam says, and yeah, it's not witty and it came out a little
harsher than he'd meant, but he's tired and his abdomen's been bothering him
all evening. He kicks his jeans off and lays them over the back of his chair
along with his t-shirt, before crawling into bed. The light clicks off and
Dean's sliding in beside him, warm and solid against him.
"Sammy? What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just achy today. Sorry I snapped at you."
"S'okay." Dean snuggles closer, spooning up behind Sam. "You want me to get you
some Tylenol?"
"Nah, I'm good. Just—this. Like this is good." He pulls Dean's arms tighter
around him and sighs when Dean nuzzles at his throat and along his jaw. "I like
that," he whispers, and feels Dean's lips curve into a smile before he whispers
back, "me too."
In the morning, Sam's abdomen is tender and sore. Dean takes one look at it,
and at Sam wincing as he crawls out of bed, and drives them to the ER. They
wait for three hours to be seen – it seems like every person in Lawrence is in
with flu symptoms – and then it's good news and bad news. The good news:
nothing's torn or ripped, just irritated. Probably too much lifting, hauling
his schoolbooks around. The bad news: he's on restriction from lifting anything
heavier than a loaf of bread for the next two weeks, which bites.
"So you'll have to stop by your locker between every class," Dean says. "So
what? You have a doctor's note, they're not going to mark you tardy."
"That still doesn't fix morning and afternoon, for homework. I'll still have to
carry my book bag then."
Dean shakes his head. "I'll carry the bag to your locker in the morning, and
I'll meet you there in the afternoon, and carry it to the car."
Sam lets his head thunk against the car window several times.
"It's only for week, then you're out of school for the winter holiday." Dean
pats his shoulder, which somehow turns into rubbing a thumb over his cheek.
"True." That won't be so bad, right? Just one week to get through.
It still gets him a lot of funny looks the first couple of days, and Sam gets
really good at ignoring those looks. Most everyone who knows him knows why he
was injured in the first place, and they're sympathetic for the most part.
He and Dean decide to do the get-Chinese-food-and-go-to-the-movies thing for
Christmas, foregoing even putting up a tree. It doesn't stop Sam from waking up
early Christmas morning – far earlier than he'd gotten up in years – and
rummaging quietly around in his desk until he finds the little box he stashed
away from prying eyes. He wraps it in newspaper, smiling at Dean's snores and
snorts behind him, then puts a huge green bow on it, and sets it on the corner
of his desk where Dean can't possibly miss it. He slides back into bed, and
into his brother's arms, and kisses up and down Dean's throat and along his jaw
line, his lips tingling from the stubble on Dean's face.
"Muhhh?" Dean shivers when Sam bites down on the long tendon on the side of his
neck. "Sammy? Wha--?"
"Merry Christmas," Sam whispers, then kisses Dean again, licking at his lips.
He's sure he can taste some of the cocoa from the hot chocolate they had just
before bed, and he chases after it, teasing his tongue around and around Dean's
until Dean's responding, pulling him closer and angling his head so Sam can
kiss deeper.
Dean mutters something Sam can't quite make out, and then he's shifting,
reaching for Sam's hand. He draws it down and settles it over his erection,
squeezing at Sam's fingers until he starts rubbing gently through the cloth,
pressing and molding the fabric over the thick length.
"Feels good," Dean says, arching his hips upward, rocking into Sam's hand.
"Can I—take it out?" Sam strokes his fingers up and down the length, then rubs
at the tip, feeling the cloth dampening.
"God, yes." Dean wiggles until Sam realizes he's trying to push his shorts
down, and he goes to work getting them off Dean entirely. His own follow,
leaving them with nothing between them, just lots of smooth, hot skin. Sam
shifts up onto one elbow and strokes Dean's erection with two fingers, moving
lightly up and down. He can feel it throb against his fingers and it makes heat
curl low in his belly; makes his belly tighten with anticipation. "Harder, Sam.
Please."
So Sam strokes him harder, wrapping his fingers tightly around, grinning when
Dean shudders and pushes up into his grip, fucking into the tight warmth of his
fist. He jacks him hard and fast, the way he likes, and is rewarded by Dean
making the most awesome noises, grunts and gasps, breathy pleas for more, more,
please Sammy, more.
Dean's dick swells in his grip, throbbing harder, and then Dean's coming, thick
pulses of spunk splashing on Sam's fingers and up onto Dean's belly. Sam licks
his fingers clean, then leans down and licks at Dean's stomach before moving
further down. Dean sucks in a harsh breath when Sam laps at the sticky head,
tongue poking gently into the small slit. By the time he's finished, Dean's
plumped up some, and Sam lifts his head to give him a huge grin.
Dean flips him so quick it takes Sam's breath away, because he really wasn't
expecting that. He gets half a minute to adjust and then Dean's mouth is on
his, hot and wet, then moving lower, licking and kissing as he goes.
When he closes his mouth over one of Sam's nipples, Sam nearly comes up off the
mattress. He doesn't have a lot of experience, but he also never gave any
thought to his nipples being sensitive. Not a girl, right? But apparently
gender doesn't matter as much as individual, because Dean sucking his nipple
into a hard, tight nub? So, so, so good. Sam threads his fingers through Dean's
hair and holds on, arching upward to get as much of that delicious suction as
possible.
"Dean, God—"
"Oh, baby." Dean laughs softly against Sam's chest, then bites gently on the
other nipple, making Sam jerk. "Just wait 'til I get down to your dick."
"Please, be my guest," Sam manages hoarsely. He whimpers and shivers when Dean
licks downward, tongue teasing at his navel before kisses are pressed along the
still-healing scars. The sparse trail of hair leading down from his navel to
his dick is wetted down thoroughly, and Sam thinks he's going to die of wanting
before Dean ever gets to his cock.
He's just about to say something to that effect when Dean takes him into his
mouth, and oh, Jesus. He's never felt anything as good as Dean's mouth feels,
hot and wet and completely surrounding him. The one other blowjob he's had in
his lifetime was fast and awkward, fumbling around on the couch in a friend's
basement last year, with Alicia Hayes. This? This is a zillion times better.
Dean licks around the crown of his dick, and teases his tongue against the
little slit there before sucking Sam in, drawing him further and further into
his mouth. He sucks Sam slowly, then faster, one hand moving down to cup Sam's
balls, rolling them gently in his hand.
The heat in his belly has transformed into fire. Electricity. He's being
consumed by it, as it spreads all through him.
"Dean—Dean, gonna, I can't—"
Sam comes with a groan, thrusting upward into Dean's mouth with each pulse of
his dick. Dean swallows around him, then licks him clean before sliding back up
to kiss Sam, sharing the taste of his come.
"Best Christmas present ever," Sam whispers, before biting at Dean's lower lip.
He thinks Dean laughs, but it's kind of hard to say for sure, since his mouth
is otherwise occupied.
That's okay. Sam's happy to keep it occupied for awhile.
                                     ~~~~~
"Oh, man. Sam, this is awesome! I love it!" Dean holds the necklace up and
studies the little—whatever it is. Sam isn't really sure what to call it. It's
like a little idol, or statue, or something, and the lady selling it at the
outdoor market told Sam it was a protection charm. That was all he needed to
hear before laying down his money. "Thank you."
Sam beams at him. "You're welcome. I'm glad you like it."
"I love it. And it's kind of gonna make my gift a little lame, but—Merry
Christmas." He hands Sam a small box – really, not much bigger than the little
pendant's box – also wrapped in newspaper, but with a red-and-gold bow.
When Sam rips the paper off, he's staring at a brand-new iPod Touch, and his
mouth drops open. "Really? A Touch? Oh, man! Thank you!"
"I know you're going to shrivel up and die without your tunes." Dean gives Sam
a grin, then pokes him. "C'mon, let's get something to eat, and then we can see
what movies are playing."
They end up getting sucked into a marathon showing of all the Home Alone
movies, followed up by Jim Carrey's The Grinch, so that it's getting dark when
they're ready to eat again, the clock moving toward four-thirty.
"I still like the original, the cartoon, better," Sam says as Dean pulls out
the phone book to find a Chinese place.
"That's because you have no appreciation for the finer things in life."
"Just because I'm not a fan of Jim Carrey doesn't mean I don't appreciate the
finer things in life." Sam gives Dean's shoulder a shove on his way past.
"Besides, the Whos just look wrong in the movie."
"They're pretty freaky looking no matter what," Dean points out. "They have
antennas on their heads." He thumbs through the phone book, then looks at Sam.
"How about Lucky Chin's? They have a buffet."
"Works for me." Sam sits down to pull on his sneakers. "Wanna go look at lights
after we eat?"
Dean nods. "Can't ditch that custom. Remember when the Hammersmiths did their
whole winter wonderland fantasy thing? What was that, three years ago?"
"Four, I think," Sam says, watching Dean lace up his boots. "I wonder what
their electric bill was like that year."
"They haven't done it up like that since, so I'm thinking it was pretty bad."
They run into the Markowitz family at Lucky Chin's, and end up sitting with
them for a little while, just exchanging pleasantries. Sam's had Rachel
Markowitz in at least one of his classes since he was in the third grade, and
Dean used to play baseball with Adam and Bruce, though they were a year behind
Dean in school. After dinner, Dean drives them around the city and then
downtown to look at the lights and decorations.
It's nice, and for a little while, Sam manages to forget how much the holidays
hurt this year.

      [http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/mickeym/493440/46393/46393_600.jpg]
 
 

                                 Chapter Five
 
"We really should clean out Mom and Dad's room," is how Dean greets Sam when he
picks him up from school, the first day back after break. "It's been…long
enough, now."
"You think so?" Sam pulls the car door shut, maybe a little more forcefully
than is strictly necessary. Dean makes an effort not to say anything. "I don't
think it's been all that long."
"Can't be scared to go in there for forever." Dean winces even as the words
leave his mouth, because that really came out a lot more callous than he meant
for it to.
"I'm not scared to go in there—there's just been no reason to go. It's not like
that's the only bed we could sleep in."
"Dammit, Sam—"
"Dean—SHIT!" Sam kind of screams the word, and Dean slams on the brakes. It's a
replay of that day they went to the garage, though at least this time Sam
doesn't break down into a full-on panic attack. He's still deathly pale, eyes
big in his face, but he's not freaking out. Much. Mostly. "Jesus. Jesus, Dean,
don't—you, I can't lose you too, God, please—"
Or, well. Maybe he is. Dean double-checks that no other cars are coming before
pulling out onto the street. Beside him, Sam is a twitching, shivering mess,
and Dean kind of wants to put his fist through another wall. How is that the
one thing he wants to do above all else – protect Sam – is the one thing he
keeps screwing up beyond belief? He reaches out his hand and tries not to take
it personally when Sam flinches away at first. Then Sam's grabbing onto his
hand, twining their fingers together, all the while his breathing shallow and
ragged.
"Sammy. Sam. We're okay. It's all right. Take some deep breaths, you're
hyperventilating—" He glances over and shakes their joined hands. "Sam.
Breathe, dude. Nice and slow, yeah, like that, c'mon, just breathe—"
He talks Sam through the breathing until he can pull off into a Burger King
parking lot and let Sam have a few minutes to finish calming down. Afterward,
Dean gets them both chocolate shakes, and drops the subject of cleaning out
their parents' room. Something to talk about later. In a week or two.
                                     ~~~~~
It takes Dean another full month to convince Sam that yeah, they really do need
to go through Mom and Dad's stuff.
"It seems intrusive," is the first objection Sam makes, and when Dean grits his
teeth and says, "they're dead, Sam, how intrusive can it be?" Sam doesn't speak
to him for three days.
"It's going to be weird. We might find, I dunno, sex toys. Or tapes. Or
something," is Sam's next main objection, and okay, he has a point with that.
Dean's not overly eager to imagine their parents having a sex life, period –
actually, he doesn't even like to consider the words 'parents' and 'sex' in the
same sentence – but once it's done it'll be done. When he tells Sam this, Sam
just pretends not to hear him.
They have an all-out shouting match when Dean finally snaps and says he's going
to go in there and start sorting shit, and if Sam wants to be a prissy little
bitch about it and make him do all the work, then fine.
Dean's actually kind of impressed with the vocabulary Sam has, when it comes to
insults and name-calling. He's a little less impressed with the volume both of
them apparently can produce when Mr. Dawson from next door comes round
knocking, asking if they're both okay, and does he need to call the police?
They both apologize to Mr. Dawson, and then to each other, and then Sam
distracts Dean completely after the door's closed by dropping to his knees and
blowing Dean – and his mind, whoa – right there in the living room.
Dean waits until they're in bed to bring it up again, and this time he does it
the way he should've done it to begin with: gently. Sam in his arms, Dean
combing his fingers through Sam's hair, soothing him.
"If we make it the project for this weekend, we can get everything sorted out
and then we'll be done with it, Sam. It won't be hanging over our heads – and
you have to agree, it's gotta be done. It's not going to be fun; I figure it's
gonna hurt like a bitch. But we need to do it."
"I know," Sam says, voice so low Dean can hardly hear it. "But it's—that's the
last link, Dean. We go through and clean out their stuff, and they're…gone. For
real. Forever."
He hears the hitch in Sam's breathing, and doesn't need to look to know his
brother's crying. Dean pulls him closer and holds him while he cries, his own
eyes burning with unshed tears.
                                     ~~~~~
"Okay, so we have, what, three piles? Salvation Army, keep, and trash?" Sam's
frowning at the pile of clothes on the bed.
"Yeah. I don't think we're probably going to keep much in the way of their
clothes—are we?" Dean doesn't have the faintest idea why they would keep any of
Mom's clothes. Dad's they might be able to wear, but women's things? "We can
just toss the underwear and stuff, right? Goodwill, or wherever, they don't
take those, do they?"
Sam shakes his head. "I have no idea. Probably not—would you want to buy
someone's used underwear?"
"I don't want to borrow someone's used underwear, so, no."
"You've borrowed mine before."
"Once! Because mine were all dirty, because somebody didn't do laundry like he
promised."
"That was right after I got home from the hospital, and you told me not to
worry about it." Sam shakes open a trash bag. "I'll hold, you want to just
toss?"
No, he really doesn't. Dean might be sleeping with his brother, but even the
thought of touching his mother's underwear skeeves him like nothing else ever
has. "Sure. Um. Do we have any of those latex gloves mom used to wear when she
was cleaning?"
"Oh, for God's sake." Sam shoves the trash bag at him, and pushes around Dean
to open the first drawer. "Which one of us is the adult in this family?" He
tosses a handful of pale pastel fabric into the trash bag.
"Not me," Dean says, tugging on Sam's hair.
"Ow! No kidding." Sam swats at Dean's hand, then rubs his head. "Jerk."
"Cut your hair, and I won't have such a good target to tempt me." Dean tugs
again, and ends up with a bra draped over his head.
"Do that again, and it's going to be panties," Sam warns. Dean narrows his
eyes, but he's not willing to risk it. That would just be too gross.
Once they're done with the underwear – which included Dad's underwear drawer,
and ended up scarring both of them when they found a satiny black thong,
obviously for a guy, with a tiny pair of decorative handcuffs on the front –
they take a break and call for pizza. Dean rummages around in the old fridge
down in the basement until he finds a six-pack of Budweiser stashed in the back
behind three cases of Pepsi.
"I can't deal with anymore shocks without a little alcohol," he tells Sam when
he brings the beer upstairs.
They eat pizza and drink beer, and Dean gets a kick out of watching Sam get his
buzz on. His brother's always been the prim-and-proper one, not smoking any
weed or getting drunk at friends' parties. Of course that's probably because
most of Sam's friends are just as geeky as Sam is.
In any case, two beers make his brother a lot more mellow and relaxed, and Dean
wonders why he didn't think to get him drunk sooner. Although, he's done enough
corrupting with the whole having-sex-with-his-brother-the-minor thing. Probably
not the best plan to add much else into the mix.
They finish cleaning out Mom and Dad's dressers, and their closet, and holy
shit Mom had a lot of shoes. "Who the hell needs this many pairs of shoes?"
Dean mutters as he tosses three more pairs of sandals into a bag. Sam just
shrugs. "I think it's a girl thing."
"Must be. Dad doesn't have nearly this many pairs. Hell, I'm not sure you, me
and Dad together have as many pairs as Mom had."
Once the clothes are all gathered and bundled into the Impala, Sam brings Mom's
jewelry box down to the kitchen table. Dean sits down beside him and opens
another beer.
"I want to keep their wedding rings," Sam tells him.
"Yeah. I kind of figured we would." Dean frowns down into the box. "And the
emerald pendant Dad gave Mom for their twentieth anniversary."
"Okay." Sam sets that aside, along with the rings. "What're we going to do with
the stuff we decide not to keep? Sell it?"
Dean watches Sam pull out a gold bracelet. "I guess? I don't know. What do you
think we should do with it?"
"Is there some sort of charity thing we could donate it to?" Sam rolls the
bracelet between his hands, and Dean swallows against the warm feeling he gets
down low, when he's given a visual reminder of how big Sam's hands are.
"Didn't Mom do some work with, I don't know, March of Dimes or something?" Dean
reaches out and plucks the bracelet from Sam's hand. It's just too visually
distracting to watch him playing with it. Dean needs to be able to focus on the
job at hand.
"Yeah. She did. I'll call 'em Monday and tell them what we have, and what we'd
like to do."
"Okay. So now we just need to sort through this, to decide what's going."
Sam takes the bracelet back, and steals Dean's beer for a quick swig. "Yep."
"Awesome." This whole day has been one huge mindfuck, and even knowing it
needed to be done doesn't detract from the mindfuckery. Dean's gonna be glad
when they're finished with it.
"Are we going to sleep in there?"
Dean's just taken a swallow of his beer, and he chokes and spits it out on the
table at Sam's question. "What?"
"Mom and Dad's room. Are we gonna sleep in there?" Sam makes an Ew face, and
tosses his napkin toward Dean. "Gross."
Gross. Like it's Dean's fault? "Uh—I don't—do you want to?" Mostly he wants to
ask Sam where the hell did that come from?
"Not really." Sam shrugs and picks up the bracelet to fiddle with again. "Just
wondered."
"Maybe eventually," Dean says cautiously. "But not right now. Stuff's too—it's
too soon." Privately he's not sure it won't ever stop being too soon, but
that's a worry for a different night.
"Okay. Yeah." Sam rolls the bracelet around the table, then gives Dean a small
smile. "Let's get this finished up."
                                     ~~~~~
Before his parents died, Dean had entertained thoughts of a career in law
enforcement, or possibly as a firefighter. For one fanciful moment he'd even
considered the Air Force, until he decided he wasn't that keen on being
deployed thousands of miles away from his family. He wanted something that
would keep him here, where his family was.
Now the only family he has is his younger brother, and Dean's been trying to
decide what careers he might pursue that won't put him in the line of fire, or
in potentially life-threatening situations on at least a semi-regular basis.
Sure, there could be another car accident, or he could get hit by lightning, or
a million other things could happen, but there's a difference between accidents
and purposefully putting yourself in harm's way.
After thinking about it a lot and talking with one of the career counselors at
the community college, he decides on nursing. He can do it as a two-year or a
four-year degree, he'll probably be able to find a job pretty much anywhere,
he'll still be providing a valuable service, and he won't be nearly as likely
to leave Sam completely alone as a cop or firefighting gig might.
He and Sam fall into a routine of school, homework, assorted doctor
appointments, and learning their way around housework and household chores.
Yeah, their folks had done a pretty good job of teaching them the basics – but
it didn't take them long to figure out that being assigned chores on a weekly
basis wasn't anything like the reality of keeping up a house and yard.
They get tired really fast of macaroni and cheese from a box, bologna
sandwiches, and frozen chicken patties. Dean tells Sam he's happy eating pizza
or take-out, but Sam gives him a scowl and buys a cookbook off Amazon.com
before Dean can even blink.
"Cooking can't be that difficult," Sam tells him, when the book arrives. "It's
just combining different things, and using heat – it's like chemistry."
"Whatever," he mutters, going back to his homework. "Just, when you blow up the
kitchen, I get to say 'told you so'."
"I'm not going to blow up the kitchen."
He doesn't, either. He does manage to make a pretty huge mess, but the
Shepherd's Pie is tasty enough Dean volunteers to clean up afterward, and makes
a note to buy Sam a ruffled, frilly apron at the first chance he gets. Just
because.
So Sam does most of the cooking, but Dean reads through the cookbook, too, and
then starts poking around online for recipes. He decides if nothing else, he's
going to learn how to make pie because Sam won't – he says Dean doesn't need to
eat pie all the time, usually with a condescending little pat to Dean's belly,
which is still flat and toned, thank you very much. Anyway, the point is that
Dean does some experimenting on the days he doesn't have class, while Sam's at
school, and it's worth all the times he had to clean up spills or burned stuff
when Sam comes home one day to find Dean pulling a perfect peach pie out of the
oven.
"It tastes as good as Mom's," Sam tells him quietly, after taking a couple of
bites. "It's really good."
There is no higher praise Dean could receive, and he spends the rest of the
afternoon and evening grinning like an idiot, feeling the warmth of that
mingling with the now-familiar missing-Mom-and-Dad, soothing it a little.
 
 

                                   Epilogue
 
Eric's barely stopped before Sam's fumbling with the door to open it. The
Impala's in the driveway, which means Dean's home, and that makes his already
good mood soar a little higher.
He calls, "Thanks for the ride," over his shoulder, and wonders in passing who
the little green Hyundai parked on the street belongs to.
Dean's had the night shift for the last couple of weeks, and while they've
still had cuddle time, there hasn't been as much of it. Sam misses his brother.
He drops his backpack on the floor beside the hall tree, and tosses his jacket
in the general direction, then calls out, "Honey, I'm home," even as he's
heading for the kitchen.
He stops dead in his tracks in the doorway, anything else he was about to say
dying before it gets past his lips.
"Hello, Sam. It's good to see you again." Evelyn smiles politely at him.
"Evelyn. Hi." His first reaction is to back up and run away; his second is to
demand what the hell she's doing here. He settles on, "Didn't expect to see you
here."
"No, I don't imagine you did." She toys with the delicate gold necklace she's
wearing, and Sam resolutely keeps his eyes on her face, rather than letting
them drift to her cleavage, as he knows she's expecting him to do. "I hadn't
heard from Dean in awhile, and wondered how he was doing, so I drove down to
see him."
Not for the first time Sam wonders why Evelyn even still tries. She and Dean
had a brief -- very brief -- thing back when Dean was still at UofK. But he's
been gone from there for nearly two years, and yet here's Evelyn, turning up
like a bad penny every time they're least expecting it.
"So, um. Where's Dean?"
"Oh, I expect he's showering and getting dressed. He was in a state of, uh,
disrobe when I got here." She flashes a thousand-watt smile at him, and Sam
squashes down the urge to smash his fist into those teeth just because. His
parents raised him better than that.
"Right. Okay, I'll just, be right back."
So much for good moods. Sam backs out of the kitchen and heads for the stairs,
stopping when Evelyn calls out, "You can't keep him forever, you know."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. You can't keep him forever."
"I'm not—he's my brother, Evelyn."
"I know. And you should remember that."
"Uh. Sure." So, now he's confused and upset, and dammit. He's 18, he's almost
done with school, he's received an awesome college offer to show to Dean, and
their future is just waiting for them to discover it. So of course he should've
expected this.
Dean's in their room pulling on his jeans, water droplets still clinging to his
shoulders. "Didn't do a very good job of drying off," Sam says, leaning in to
suck a couple up. "Might mess with your oh-so-sensitive skin."
"Funny." Dean pulls him close for a quick, hard kiss, then releases Sam to go
look for a shirt. "I take it you've seen our guest?"
"Oh, yeah." Sam sits down on the edge of the bed. "She told me I can't keep you
forever."
"Huh?" Dean freezes in place, then shakes himself. "Seriously?"
"Yeah." Sam reaches out and hooks a finger into one of Dean's belt loops; tugs
him close enough to fasten the still-undone button. "So, whatcha think? You
want to trade me in for her?"
Dean laughs. "Sure, Sammy. How about, oh, when Hell freezes over?"
"Sounds good to me." He tips his head back to look at Dean. "Do you think she
knows? For real."
Dean sighs and sits down beside Sam. "I've asked myself that before, and I
don't…I don't know how she could. She only shows up every once in a while, and
Hell, Eric is over here practically every other day—and I know he doesn't
know." He sounds certain, but Sam hears the question there just the same, and
shakes his head.
"No, he doesn't. Like I told you before, I won't be telling anyone. It's
between you and me."
"So unless she's psychic, there's no way she could know."
"Pretty much." Sam takes Dean's hand. "So make her go away, so we can talk. I
have some good news to tell you. For us."
"Yeah?" Dean brightens. "What kind of good news?"
"The kind that's good, that I'm not going to tell you until she's gone. It
might require some spontaneous celebrating."
"Ah. That kind of news, huh?"
"Yep. So go, get rid of her." Sam makes shooing motions, and ignores Dean's eye
roll.
"Not coming with me?"
"Do you really want me to?" Sam raised an eyebrow, his last meeting with Evelyn
still clear in his mind.
It's obviously still clear in Dean's mind as well. "Guess not. It would suck to
have the cops called. That would definitely cut down on the whole spontaneous
celebrating thing."
"Yes it would. So go."
Dean gives him one more kiss, this one slow and sweet, tongue stroking and
teasing until all Sam wants to do is pull him down to the bed and undress him,
then fuck him until they're both too worn out to remember their names. In the
end he lets go of Dean, but it's a near thing.
                                     ~~~~~
He doesn't listen in, exactly; he'd have to be downstairs to actually hear
anything like words. But even from the office – formerly his bedroom – Sam can
hear Evelyn's voice rising. Whatever Dean's telling her, she doesn't like it
and she's letting him know it—loudly.
It culminates in the sound of the front door slamming, followed by tires
squealing just a bit, and Sam winces. It's quiet for a few minutes, and then
Sam hears Dean's footsteps as he comes up the stairs.
"She's gone," is all he says, throwing himself into his desk chair. "Hopefully
for good."
"Probably. She can't drop in to visit if she doesn't know where we're living,
can she?" Sam raises an eyebrow and gives Dean a smile. Dean returns it, but
rolls his eyes at Sam.
"We're not going into hiding over her, dude."
Now he rolls his eyes. For someone who's pretty damn smart, his brother can be
so obtuse at times that it drives Sam nuts. "No, idiot. We're going to move
because I got awarded a full scholarship—" He pauses, feeling the same pride
well up that he'd felt earlier when opening the letter. "Based entirely on
academic merit."
"You did?" Dean busts out a grin. "Way to go, Sammy, you brainiac!" Dean
noogies him, then pulls him in for a hug. "Where to?"
"Our first choice. Also, ow." Noogies hurt, and now his whole scalp is burning.
"Wuss." Dean drops a quick kiss onto Sam's head. "There, all better. So--
Stanford? Seriously?"
"Yup. California, here we come." Sam smiles. "As long as you're sure you want
to go west? I can go to school anywhere, Dean. It doesn't have to be there."
"Better to go where it's being paid for by someone else." Dean scoots his chair
the four feet over to Sam's, and pulls him in for a kiss. "Right?"
"Sounds like sound financial sense to me," Sam breathes, biting down on Dean's
lower lip. He tastes blood, and sucks hard.
"Ow—no biting that hard, Jesus. Don't we feed you enough?" But Dean's grinning
when he pulls away, and he brings a hand up to rub his thumb across lip. "Damn,
you drew blood."
"Mmm." Sam kisses him again, lapping at the tiny bit of blood still oozing up.
They jostle and push each other out of the office and across the hall to their
bedroom, trading kisses in between, with Sam getting as many nips and bites in
as possible.
"Man, whatever happened to that sweet, innocent kid who seduced me?" Dean
raises his arms up for Sam to pull his shirt up and over his head. Sam laughs
as he tosses it aside.
"He grew up."
"Boy, did he ever." Dean's pretty much leering at him, and Sam pulls his own
shirt up and off, enjoying Dean's eyes on him.
He does a little shimmy as he's undoing his belt and the button of his jeans,
and Dean's leering turns into hot eyes scorching up and down the length of
Sam's body. "Like what you see?"
"Oh, yeah." Dean's shoving his own jeans down, and Sam kicks at his, then drops
to his knees. Dean's half-hard, cock thickening, plumping up, and Sam helps it
along with licks and kisses before nuzzling into Dean, breathing in his scent,
clean and soapy, just a tang of sweat and natural body odor. He sucks a mark
into Dean's upper thigh, and smiles when Dean swears. "I'm not the first course
on a dinner buffet, Sam."
"Wanna bet?" Sam bites again, teeth pinching the tender, thin skin of Dean's
inner thigh. His brother yelps and smacks at his head.
"If you wanna blow me, then blow me. But quit biting."
Yeah, that's never gonna happen. But Sam laps at the bites, then shifts to lick
at Dean's balls, teasing his tongue over the creased skin until Dean winds his
fingers into Sam's hair and tugs gently.
"Bed," he says hoarsely, and Sam moves just enough for Dean to back up until he
can sit on the bed. He spreads his legs wide and Sam leans back in, sucking on
first one ball, then the other, drawing them gently into his mouth and tonguing
them to feel them shifting inside Dean's sac. He follows the seam with his
tongue, up to the base of Dean's dick, then licks upward, following the now-
throbbing vein.
He swipes his tongue over the head, gathering the droplets of pre-come there,
then tips his head back. "Wanna fuck me?"
"Jesus." Dean's dick throbs against Sam's cheek. "Yes. Yeah. C'mon up here."
Sam kisses his way up his brother's body and settles over him, rolling his hips
downward so their dicks rub against each other. Over and over, his dick leaking
trails of moisture over Dean's balls and dick; Dean's pressing back against
his. Dean has lube ready, fingers cool and slick when they slide up between
Sam's asscheeks. He rubs and teases Sam's hole, pressing, but not pushing in,
until Sam's shivering and rocking backward, trying to get those fingers inside
him. The first breach makes him groan out loud, Dean's fingers opening him,
stretching him.
"Now," Sam whispers, trying to twist down and get the fingers deeper, harder,
faster. "Come on, man, do it." He drags himself forward, backward, hungry for
as much skin-on-skin as he can get.
"Impatient little bitch." But Dean's slicking up his cock, holding himself
steady for Sam to lower down onto.
It feels fucking awesome to slide down, his body opening, taking Dean inside.
The burn of stretching – because two fingers aren't the same as a dick –
ripples through him, giving him goosebumps. Sam rocks into it, lazy at first,
his own arousal at a slow burn right now. Dean stares up at him, eyes dark,
hot, promising. The kind of promises Sam knows he'll keep. He rocks faster, and
Dean grunts, pushing up to meet him, before settling his hands on Sam's hips to
balance him.
"Jack yourself?" Dean grunts the words, but Sam shakes his head.
"Gonna fuck you after you've come."
He feels the hard throb deep inside him; feels Dean shudder beneath him. Oh,
yeah. Dean likes that idea.
The tempo changes, Dean fucking up into Sam, harder, faster, and it's an effort
not to come, with so much hard heat pounding into him, nailing his prostate
over and over. Sam's grabbing for his dick to hold it, hold back coming, and
then Dean's fingers are biting into his hips as he strains up, up, up into Sam.
He comes with a long, low groan, and Sam feels each pulse, squeezes down around
him, milking him.
Dean's barely caught his breath before Sam's pulling off and rolling him,
grabbing for the lube. He slicks his dick and thrusts forward, Dean jerking
beneath him, opening as Sam sheathes himself.
"God," Dean growls, and then he's clenching down around Sam, and that's enough
to make the top of Sam's head feel like it's coming off. He backs up and pulls
Dean up onto his knees, chest still down against the bed, and fucks into him
hard and fast. No lingering, no finesse, Sam's too wound up now for that. The
whole day's been one long adrenaline-filled ride, and Sam needs to let go and
let it go.
His orgasm starts as an tingling and spreads out, gaining heat and momentum as
it spirals through him and ripples down along his nerve endings. He thrusts
hard and fast, fucking until it's too much, friction against hyper-sensitive
skin. He holds there, flush up against Dean, rocking forward just a little as
he empties into him.
They sink down to the bed and Sam rolls them, still joined, so he's spooning
Dean, and twines their fingers together. Coming down is slow and easy, bodies
relaxing together. Dean's already half-asleep, his breathing slow and deep, and
Sam knows he's not far behind. He presses gentle kisses to Dean's shoulder and
neck and breathes in the rich sweat-sex smell. His breaths get longer and
slower, and he falls asleep curled in on Dean, their arms and legs tangled
together.
                                     ~~~~~
"So we have, what, about three months to sell the house?" Dean sets the table
while Sam dishes up the chili. He hands the bowls off, and reaches up into the
cupboard for the tortilla chips.
"Yeah, about. But we don't have to sell it—we could try renting it out."
Dean shakes his head. "I think that would be way more headache than it'd be
worth."
"Maybe. Probably." Sam concedes with a nod. "Yeah, because then we'd have to
have a property management agent and all that crap. You don't happen to know
anyone at work who might want to buy a house, do you?"
Dean sprinkles cheese on his chili, than passes it to Sam. "Not offhand, but I
could post a notice on the hospital bulletin board."
"That's a good idea." Sam looks around the kitchen. "We're gonna have to sort
through everything again."
"At least this time, there's no one else's underwear involved." Dean takes a
long swallow of his beer and sticks his tongue out when Sam laughs.
"We need to think seriously about downsizing, though." Sam waves his hand to
indicate the house in general. "We have got a whole bunch of crap – and a lot
of it is stuff we won't even need if we get an apartment."
"Like?"
"Well, the lawnmower, to start with."
"Okay, point." Dean nods. "So, not only sorting and cleaning out the house, but
the shed and garage, too."
"Yeah. And we'll have to decide what to do about the car—"
"We'll be driving her to California," Dean says, and there's something in his
voice that warns Sam to just back down from that one.
"Right. Well, we could tow it, if we get a U-Haul."
"We're gonna have go out there and find a place before September." Dean looks
thoughtful. "We could roadtrip for your graduation."
"Or we could fly, and be there and back in a weekend. You still have to work,
you know."
"Fly? Nah. I can take time off. It'd be fun. Hotels, the open road, just you
and me—"
"Dean."
"I don't like to fly. You know that."
"You've been on an airplane once."
"And I hated every minute of it."
"Well, man up, because if we're going to sort through everything in the house
and garage, have a yard sale, pack and drive to California – all while you're
still working – then we don't have time to take a roadtrip right now. We fly
out, spend a weekend, fly back. Done."
Dean stares at him, then smiles slowly. "Wow. When did you get to be so bossy?"
Sam snorts. "You say bossy, I say organized."
"I'm thinking 'controlling', maybe."
"Organized. So, when do you want to fly out?"
"Half past never—but in lieu of that, we could go the weekend after graduation.
I'm already off – they posted the schedule yesterday – so we wouldn't have to
worry about that."
Sam nods. "I'll make our reservations for that weekend, then. Are you off that
Friday or Monday? We could make it a long weekend. Check out the campus and the
area."
"Both, I think, but I'll double check. If I'm not, I can probably find someone
to take my shift. I don't know too many nurses that turn down OT."
"So we're really going to do this." Sam feels an almost overwhelming sense of
excitement building in him. New place to live, new school, new life. Just him
and Dean, living somewhere they don't have to hide. Where they don't have to
keep a second bedroom made up for show.
"It kind of sounds like we are."
"And you're sure." It's been a concern of Sam's almost since the first time he
kissed Dean, that he suggests something and his brother does it out of some
sense of obligation. He knows Dean worried – probably still does, actually –
that he was pressuring Sam, but Sam knows if anyone's doing any pressuring,
even unintentionally, it's him pressuring Dean.
"I'm absolutely positive." Dean tips his beer bottle in Sam's direction. "I
knew we weren't going to stay here forever, Sammy. We've just been in a holding
pattern so you could finish up high school."
And that's only been about a year and a half. Maybe a little bit longer. It's
hard to believe so much has happened in such a short time. There are days Sam
feels like he's decades older than he is. There were a lot of days for a while
when he felt centuries old, and not in a good, wise-all-knowing sort of way,
just in a shit-how-much-more-can-go-wrong sort of way.
"You're gonna be giving up everything," Sam says. Dean loves his job, and he's
good at it. He might laugh at the notion, but he's definitely a care-taker,
someone who was born to help people.
"Sam. I'm a nurse. I have experience as an ER nurse. I'll probably be able to
find a job before you, no matter how many degrees you might eventually hold. I
can be a nurse anywhere—and where I want to be is wherever you are, okay? So
would you please get your head out of your ass, accept that I'm fine with this
– other than the flying part – and deal, so we can move ahead?"
"Wow. And with a speech like that, who says romance is dead?" Sam nods. "Okay.
So, paraphrasing, you and me, wherever, forever."
"You're gonna want to get matching rings, aren't you?" Dean grumbles as he gets
up to dish up more chili. "I can see it now. You're gonna have me jewelry
shopping the minute we get out there."
Sam just smiles at him.
~fin~
 

      [http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/mickeym/493440/46610/46610_600.jpg]
End Notes
     I am so happy to be done and be posting that I feel kind of giddy
     right now *g* I also can't believe that this was my fourth year (!!)
     doing the Big Bang challenge.
     Since getting into this fandom, I've been fascinated with the idea of
     Sam and Dean as SamnDean if they weren't raised as hunters. Would the
     dynamic we see on the show carry through if they were just ordinary
     kids, raised by ordinary, non-hunting, parents? I think it could -
     - particularly if there's a catalyst of some sort, a major trauma
     that could send the boys turning to each other for comfort,
     affection, and love. (And hey, at least John and Mary get to die a
     pretty ordinary way, no burning on a ceiling or selling a soul/going
     to Hell -- that's gotta count for something, right?)
     I tried to stay true to the characters we see on the show. Hopefully
     I was successful. :)
     Now for the thank-yous!
     First off, to Vamptastica for the fabulous art she produced for my
     story. And! Not only is it fabulous, but she did it as a pinch-
     hitter, so she had less time than she would have otherwise, which
     makes it that much more astounding. She made the main picture, and
     some headers, some dividers, and some icons. If you missed the link
     somehow, her art post is here. Go tell her what a fantastic job she
     did!
     Next up, many hugs and thanks to Arliss, Raynedanser and Britomart_is
     for their unending, tireless support and betaing. I seriously
     couldn't have done this story without them.
     And finally, thank yous to Wendy and Thehighwaywoman for doing such
     an awesome job of running this whole shebang.
     I hope you all have enjoyed the story :)
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