Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4806329.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Original_Female_Character(s), Bobby
      Singer, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Pre-Stanford, Hurt/Comfort, Wincest_Big_Bang_2015
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-15 Chapters: 8/8 Words: 30078
****** When the Levee Breaks ******
by SammysGirl666
Summary
     After Sam’s first hunt goes horribly wrong, Bobby takes him and Dean
     to his old vacation home in California, by the beach. Three
     uninterrupted months of beach time would be a dream to any kid. But
     Sam can’t stop having nightmares and can’t stop reliving the painful
     memories over and over again. Too add to that, he has to deal with
     the sick feelings he’s cultivated for Dean, his brother. And on top
     of all this, he has one life-changing decision to make that will
     shake the very foundations of everything he’s ever known.
     Thus ensues three months that change Sam’s world as he knows it.
     After this, things will never be the same again.
Notes
     So many big thanks to give.
     I want to thank Ander (PuppiesRainbowsSadism) and Sandy
     (buttheyrebrothers) for beta reading the final product of this work.
     I also want to thank everyone who read it long before it was
     finished. This is my first big bang and I've worked on this story for
     two years. Even if it doesn't do so well, I owe so much to those who
     helped me.
     Special shout out to Wicker for the amazing artwork. So many
     incredibly talented people helped me with this project and I honestly
     couldn't be more pleased with the end result. I love you all so much!
     UWU
     I hope you enjoy the story!
***** Chapter 1 *****
[When the Levee Breaks]
The silence isn’t the same anymore. Maybe, when he was younger, when he was
immature, it was respite and salvation. Maybe it had been those things once.
Now, it’s suffocating and terrifying and comes down on him from every angle.
He can hear everything
Creaking floorboards make him jump and the wind outside plays a haunting melody
against the windowpane. It’s the season of sun but clouds shade the sky and
warm rain falls like tears. The silence is heavy and unwanted and inescapable.
Another creak of floorboards startles him but it’s succeeded by footsteps.
The door opens and concerned green eyes look in on him, a voyeur in a situation
beyond his reach. Sam isn’t supposed to get hurt (protect Sammy). Sam isn’t
supposed to almost die.Sam is supposed to be safe; a fragile little china doll
tucked neatly into the folds of his brother’s protection. Except werewolves
don’t heed the metaphorical yellow tape surrounding Sam.
“Are you alright?”
This is a funny question to Sam but he doesn’t laugh because that would be rude
and unfair. Is he alright? Physically, yes, just a few scrapes and bruises; a
nick on his neck where huge canines almost sank in (just a scratch, you’ll be
fine kiddo). Emotionally? Well that never matters, does it? On the inside he’s
had his throat ripped out in a hundred different horrifying scenarios. On the
inside, he’s already dead. But his bones are still holding him up and his skin
is pulled over them just fine.
“Yeah, I’m good.” Whether it’s a lie or not, he can’t tell. Nothing pervades
the numb feeling in his gut.
The bed dips as Dean seats himself next to Sam. The proximity, which had been
so problematic before (does he know? can he see it? come closer. go away.) is
now only comforting. A warm hand on his shoulder, a reassuring smile, and an
entire barrier of miscommunication between them. Dean looks hopeful. Sam feels
hopeless.
“Hey,” Dean says, “look at the bright side, dude. We’re in California. Bet ya
thought you’d never get to come here, right? Look out your window, man. That’s
the beach, right there. Our front yard. I mean...that’s something isn’t it?”
Dean doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t know the whole story
(just shoot Sam. shoot. don’t look it in the eye). Dean couldn’t handle the
truth, Sam knows. So he smiles and nods and Dean relaxes and the numbness
inside Sam carries on.
“Will you be okay?” Dean asks, standing up from the bed.
Yes, Sam should say. But he’s already made Dean enough promises he couldn’t
keep so he goes with honesty.
“I don’t know. Eventually, I’ll have to be, right?”
“You will be,” Dean answers, sounding sure. “Nobody’s first hunt goes smoothly.
I know mine didn’t. Don’t get hung up on it, Sammy. The past is past.”
Sam nods and smiles again. The numbness moves into his fingertips. Dean looks
at him one last time before leaving the room. When he’s gone, Sam sighs and
falls back onto the bed, head thudding against the pillow. Dean’s interruption
has served to make the silence less unbearable and he closes his eyes. It hits
him, as his body relaxes, that he’s been awake for two straight days. Sleep
takes him.
His dreams are filled with music.  
 
*
 
When he wakes up, it’s to see Bobby leaning in the doorway of his room. The
older hunter is looking at him with concern and Sam inadvertently shies away
from the silently communicated affection. He supposes he should feel grateful
toward Bobby for taking them off John’s hands when their father decided that
Sam was too much of a liability to take on another hunt. John decided, in a
gesture of guilt, to let Sam have the summer off for recuperation. Of course,
Dean had refused to leave Sam behind so Bobby took the both of them in.
And then he surprised them with a road trip to California.
The semi-retired salvage yard owner owns a small safe-house (vacation house,
once) on the west coast and when Sam and Dean were dropped off at his door, he
made the decision to take them on a summer- long vacation saying, “You boys
need a little fun in your life.”
Sam should feel grateful toward Bobby, for doing things for them their own
father never did. But Sam doesn’t feel much of anything right now so he looks
at Bobby and plasters on a somewhat believable smile and waits for the hunter
to say something.
“Breakfast is ready,” is all he says before nodding at Sam and walking away
back down the hall.
Sam sighs and sits up in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The smell of ocean
breeze is new to his nose and he looks outside of his window. The sky is
overcast, a dusky grey and the ocean looks ferocious with its great foamy waves
crashing against the shore. The breeze blows forward and he shivers in the wake
of it. He gets up and walks over to close the window.
After getting ready, he heads for the kitchen where the pungent smell of bacon
is permeating the air. Dean and Bobby are sitting at the table, already halfway
through their plates of eggs. Sam dishes himself some breakfast and takes the
last seat at the table. The unspoken platitudes are there (are you okay? you
haven’t said a word since you walked in the door. what’s the big deal? I’ve
almost died a hundred times over). Sam feels bitterness rise up from his
stomach even though nothing’s been said yet.
Surprisingly enough, the words never come. Dean and Bobby chat mildly and Sam
is left to eat his eggs in peace. Except Sam doesn’t know which is worse: being
ignored (given space) or being cared for (suffocated). The words exist, he
reasons, presumably on the tip of his tongue. He could sit here and talk about
the monsters scraping away at his insides (the metaphorical ones, of course.
you’re alive, no matter the numbness in your bones). His lips press together
tighter. Dean and Bobby break out into laughter over something. Bitterness
freezes Sam’s blood and he has to stand up.
Muttering his dismissal, he walks over to the sink where he rinses off his
plate. The window, cut into the wall above the faucet, faces out toward the
ocean and Sam looks on. The numbness he’d felt the night before seems to ebb
and flow, only dispersing in favor of anger or despair. He can’t make sense of
it. He was never taught to.
He imagines, distantly, running into the waves of the sea. Drifting along, in
search of something, he wonders where he would end up. Would it matter? Is
there a difference between the shores of some distant land and this? Who’s to
say he wouldn’t end up right where he stands, anyway? In a dead woman’s kitchen
with a family he’s slipping away from.
(you can’t run from what’s inside you.)
“Scooch over,” Bobby says, coming up next to Sam. “Let me clean up. You go with
your brother out into the sittin’ room.”
There’s no point in arguing, not that Sam wants to. The agitation, that had
been so hard to bite back just minutes before, simmers back down and the
numbness takes back its throne. Sam steps away from the sink and does as told,
heading for the sitting room where Dean is spread out on the couch, sharpening
an old knife from one of Bobby’s collections. The sun picks this moment to peek
out from behind the clouds, shining in on where Dean’s sitting.
The sunlight catches the blade more than it does Dean but that’s not what Sam’s
looking at. Instead, his gaze fixates on the patch of skin on Dean’s arm, where
the skin glows in the sunshine and the tiny blond hairs are thrown into
contrast against the light. From this distance, he can’t see it, but there’s a
pink scar running lengthwise on that patch of skin (a snake bite, this time,
the reason Dean never wants to go back to Arizona). His gaze travels up to
where Dean’s bottle green eyes are fixed on the knife
Sam shakes his head and walks fully into the room, sitting in the chair
adjacent to the couch. Dean doesn’t look up from what he’s doing and Sam
doesn’t expect him to. What might’ve been a comfortable silence, makes Sam
fidget. Being close to Dean has always been touch and go. He never knows when
or how his feelings will manifest. Sometimes they’re a tickle at the back of
his throat. Others, they’re a rash on his skin.
He’s not really sure what he’s feeling right now and that seems worse. Having
definitive, classifiable feelings made it easier for him to adjust his life to
accommodate them. With the nothingness inside of him now, he’s completely
unequipped to deal with anything. Whether he stays or goes, he’s not sure it
would make much of a difference at this point.
“Any plans today, Sammy?” Dean asks, putting the knife down on the coffee
table.
Sam shakes his head in the negative, opting to not use words. Starting
conversations isn’t high up on his list of priorities at the moment. Plus,
Dean’s question falls flat anyway. What plans could Sam possibly have that
didn’t, consequently, involve Dean? That’s the thing about his life: no plans
are his own. It’s not like being on vacation changes that. Everything Sam has
or does is intrinsically tied to Dean. Even his freedom.
Perhaps Dean picks up on Sam’s mood. Or maybe Dean is simply tired of fighting
Sam’s wayward emotions. Whatever it is, Dean accepts Sam’s nonverbal
communication and goes back to sharpening his knives. The silence that descends
around them is suffocating, almost as bad to Sam as being alone. He’s becoming
restless. It’s been a day but the adrenaline hasn’t abated and now he’s fidgety
and he’s half-wishing that John was around to take him away from here. He’d
rather be fighting monsters than staring down the barrel of this particular gun
(gun metaphors. nice, Sammy, you gonna be a comedian?)
His fists clench and unclench at his side and he closes his eyes. The soft
scrape of the pumice stone against metal is the only sound in the room, aside
from the distant crash of waves against a sandy shore. Sam lets himself get
attached to those sounds, the subtle nuances of their cadences and the way they
bounce off each other. The sound gets louder behind his closed eyelids: louder,
still until it’s grinding against the sensitivity of his ear drums (this is the
sound of the bones in your body, scraping together, trying to hold up the
things the wolves left behind. is that a metaphor?). His eyes pop open and the
sounds recede to the background.
“What about the pier?” Sam asks abruptly, the words almost leaving his mouth
without his permission. The fidgeting gets stronger and his fists get tighter.
The scraping of pumice against metal stops and Sam can feel Dean’s eyes on him.
“You wanna go?” Dean sounds surprised and Sam can’t blame him. Sam’s given no
impression of taking any measures to actually enjoy this vacation. Granted,
it’s only been a day but Sam never opts to do fun things for the sake of having
fun. Happiness is coincidental to Sam; it’s never been something he seeks out.
“I mean,” Sam shrugs, “if you want. We might as well do something. Bobby won’t
mind, will he?”
“No,” Dean agrees, “he won’t. You want to go right now?”
Sam doesn’t want to seem too eager to get away but he can't help the antsy
feeling in his stomach. He shrugs again, a form of affirmation between the two
of them. Dean gets it. He stands up and puts the knife and pumice down, walking
off down the hall to go grab his jacket, or something to that effect. Sam sits
up, crossing his legs and waiting for Dean.
His brother comes back out, leather jacket (always just that much too big on
him, this second skin that’s just too much like their father) thrown over his
shoulder. He nods at Sam and they shout their goodbyes to Bobby who’s in the
den before they leave the house, taking off toward the pier. It’s only a block
away and their walk is filled with more silence, bearable this time as the
ocean plays its ebb and flow in the background.
Sam smells the pier before he sees it. Cotton candy, sugar, and warm things
hang in the air and Sam is drawn in by the aroma (some memory of childhood. a
trip to Austin. a fair. a dream you once had). The lights on the pier flash
bright and the Ferris wheel towers over everything. Even though it’s mid-
morning, there’s a liveliness to the pier that makes Sam hesitate. But Dean is
pulling ahead and Sam trails, dutifully, in his wake.
Dean heads for the games where girls are trying and failing to win prizes. Sam
rolls his eyes at his brother’s predictability and scopes out the rest of the
boardwalk. Shops line the sides, alternating between restaurants and surf
shops. Brightly colored t-shirts with snappy sayings adorn the outer walls and
Sam finds himself hovering outside of one. A shirt hangs on one of the hooks
reading, “The sea will bring you home: Santa Monica Pier.” (well what if you
don’t have a home? what if home is the backseat of a car that is fifteen years
late for a tune up. with a trunk filled with blood-collecting tools fit for a
serial killer.)
“Hey kid,” a female voice calls from inside of the shop. Sam starts and looks
in. The brightness of the outside makes the dimness of the inside nearly
impossible to see and Sam has to squint to catch the shape of someone walking
toward him. “You need a job, kid?”
Sam stands there, speechless, unable to form any sort of response to the words.
The woman comes closer and her features are thrown into light. Seeing her up
close, Sam realizes she’s young, has to be close to his age. She’s got a head
of tightly wound black curls that seem to be natural and barely brush the tops
her shoulders. Her face is heart shaped and her skin is the color of brown
sugar. She's pretty all over but Sam gets stuck on her eyes which are a
startling--almost paradoxical--shade of ice blue. Standing at no more than
5’4”, Sam towers over her. Still, she has an air of confidence about her that
makes her seem bigger than she is.
She reminds Sam a lot of what he imagines Mary was like: petite and pretty but
packing one helluva punch. The dark freckles on her nose scrunch up as she
tilts her head to look up at him. Her brilliant eyes brighten when they meet
his own and her lips stretch into a lewd smirk that doesn’t quite fit the
youngness of her features.
“Hey handsome,” she chirps. “You want a job here?”
The words make no more sense the second time they leave her mouth. Sam doesn’t
say anything and when the petite girl makes no move to explain herself, he
finally says:
“Are you serious?” The words leave his mouth a little more sarcastically than
he means them to (force of habit) but the girl doesn’t bat an eyelash.
“Mo’s short-staffed and she just fired another pretty boy. You got brains in
that cute head of yours?”
“Uh…” Sam is unable to articulate anything past that which, he thinks vaguely,
isn’t a good way to prove that he does, in fact, have brains in his head.
“We can trial run you. Whattaya say, pretty boy?”
While there’s something tempting about taking this risk (one that won’t put
your life on the line), about saying yes just for the sake of it, Sam is
nothing if not rational. So he smiles like she’s joking around and shakes his
head.
“Sorry,” he says politely, “M’afraid I’m not sticking around here long. Just a
summer vacation sort of thing.”
“That’s plenty of time,” the girl shoots back, leering at Sam. This time, he
can’t help but chuckle. The girl’s vivaciousness is endearing.
“I can’t. It’s family time, you know?” It’s not wholly a lie. He should be
spending more time with his family while he has the chance. Whether he does or
not isn’t any of this stranger’s business.
“Alright then, handsome,” she shrugs. “If you ever come back here though, ask
for Kandice. I’ll hook you up with something nice.”
With that, she turns away and walks back into the shop. Sam shakes his head in
mild bewilderment  before turning away from the shop but not before glancing
back at the yellow shirt hanging on the hook: “The sea will bring you home:
Santa Monica Pier.” Sam sighs and rolls his eyes before taking off down the
boardwalk to find out where Dean ran off to.
What he finds is Dean flirting with some girl by the arcade. She can’t be more
than 17 years old but Dean’s moral standing when it comes to sex, drinking, and
gambling have always been a little grey. He finds a spot to observe the
exchange inconspicuously. They’re leaning toward each other, heads close and
Dean’s got a hand on her waist. Sam closes his eyes and breathes.
These are the times that he wishes the same hell-bent bloodlust that ran in his
dad’s veins, ran through his with the same tenacity. It would be better, he
imagines, than this feeling: not just this jealousy that bites and nips at his
ego, but the overall feeling of loving Dean. He’d rather lust for the blood of
monsters than lust for…he can’t even finish the thought.
(you’re so sensitive, Sammy. always worried about feelings. where’s your steel
gut, boy? you call yourself a Winchester?)
He sits in his hidden spot and waits for Dean to close the deal. His brother
won’t go home with her, Sam knows. She’s too young for that and Dean has to
hold to some righteous code of conduct. He might get head behind the arcade
though. The picture itself isn’t an unpleasant one but Sam doesn’t let himself
dwell on it, pushing it away almost as soon as it occurs, ignoring the rolling
of his stomach.
As Sam predicted, Dean disappears behind the arcade with the girl. Something
ugly clinches in Sam’s stomach. He turns away and looks back out toward the
beach, the endless stretch of water that goes on forever and loops back on
itself. The boardwalk is bright and colorful and it smells like candy and
better times. Sam’s got twenty bucks in his pocket and maybe, if he were a
different person, he’d go raid the shops and buy little souvenirs and tokens of
memory. But he doesn’t.
Suddenly the idea of being outside seems unbearable. The noise and the smells
and the fact that Dean is behind an arcade with some girl he just met (and she
isn’t you. she will never be you. you will never be her) is all too much. His
stomach gives another unpleasant lurch and he has to lean back in his seat to
keep from becoming nauseous.
He should go walk around. He should go try and find something to buy Bobby or
go try and find something to do. He shouldn’t sit here and stare at the arcade,
waiting for Dean to pop around from the back with a dopey, satisfied grin.
Possibly out of some misplaced masochism or possibly because he doesn’t know
how not to wait on Dean, he stays where he is and stares at the colorfully
flashing lights of the building.
The pier continues to fill with people as the sun slowly makes its way down.
The breeze picks up and sure enough, fifteen minutes later, Dean comes walking
out from behind the arcade with the girl in tow. Except the dopey, satisfied
grin is absent from his face and the girl doesn’t seem as romantically awe-
struck as she should. In fact, she looks pissed or, at least, a strange mix of
hurt and confused that’s more befitting of a jilted lover rather than any girl
who’s just spent the last fifteen minutes with Dean Winchester.
Dean looks guilty and distracted, his eyes shifting around the pier as if
searching for an escape. The girl opens her mouth to speak and, though Sam
can’t hear what leaves her mouth, the words are obviously heated. Dean says
something back, probably apologetic or that mastered tone of insincere
sincerity that he sometimes uses on women. More words are exchanged and, in a
surprise turn of events, Dean seems to concede defeat. He ducks his head and
closes his eyes. The girl’s eyes go big and forgiving. She puts a hand on
Dean’s harm and says something that Sam only wishes he could hear. Dean shrugs
and a sad smile forms on his face. The girl nods, kisses him on the cheek, and
then walks away.
Dean is left, standing alone, looking at the girl as she leaves. Sam waits an
appropriate amount of minutes before taking his cue and walking over. He
doesn’t mean to sneak up on Dean, knows better than to do that. He tries to
make as much noise as possible as he walks up behind his brother but, somehow,
Dean is so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t hear Sam at all.
“Hey man,” Sam says as he walks up. Dean jumps and whirls around.
“Jesus Sam, don’t do that!” Dean snaps, putting a hand to his chest. Sam
furrows his eyebrows in confusion. Dean’s never this wound up. His shoulder are
tensed and his jaw is clenching and unclenching like it does when he’s worried
or angry.
“You okay, dude?” Sam asks, trying to sound as benign and non-accusatory as
possible. Dean sighs, rubbing his hands over his face.
“It’s nothing.” That’s a lie and Sam doesn’t need his seventeen years of
experience with his brother to know it.
Sam knows better than to ask. It won’t go anywhere. Dean will just dodge the
questions (like bullets)until Sam gives up and, eventually, Sam will. Getting
past Dean’s barriers and walls is often more work than it’s worth. If it’s ever
something important, Dean doesn’t hesitate to tell Sam. Personal things, on the
other hand, don’t take priority. Those skeletons can stay locked up forever and
a Winchester will never say one word about them.
“You, uh, wanna go back to Bobby’s?” There’s no telling what will set Dean off
so Sam asks quietly and softly, trying not to spark the fuse.
“Huh?” Dean mumbles distractedly, eyes looking anywhere but Sam. “Sure,
whatever.”
Before Sam can respond, Dean’s already taking off down the pier, back toward
the house. Sam sighs, unsure of what’s going on but unable to do anything about
it.
He follows Dean back to the house but comes to regret the decision. Back at the
house, the silence is unbearable again. Not because of the soul-crushing
pressure of his near-death experience, but because Dean seems to be ignoring
and avoiding him. Whatever happened in the half hour that they weren’t together
on the pier, it wasn’t good. Sam wants to ask, he really does. He also knows
exactly where that will go.
Still, being ignored is worse than opting out of conversations. This isn’t on
his own terms. He has no idea why it’s happening and he’d give anything to make
it stop (is he angry at you? does he know your secret? ...which one?). He only
makes it an hour in the awkward, tense atmosphere before he’s leaving the house
again, walking down toward the beach.
Is that how it’s going to be all summer? Sam can’t help but wonder. Dean isn’t
one for holding grudges. But he never ignores Sam like this either. Whatever
happened with that girl really messed him up and Sam’s not sure if he can
handle a whole summer of Dean avoiding talking about it.
It’s clear that the beach house is never going to be a comfortable place for
Sam. When not faced with his own personal struggles, it seems he has to deal
with Dean’s. He sighs. The sun has set and he should go back before Bobby
starts to worry.
Going back is the last thing he wants to do, though (going back to a dead
woman’s hometimes…back to Dean and a thousand problems that you’ve never worked
out).
Going back means lying in bed until sleep finally takes him, but not before he
agonizes about every little nuance and happening of the day as he tries to
figure out what went wrong. Going back means waking up in the bed that isn’t
his and trying to ignore the way Dean ignores him the next day. Going back
means facing his problems.
Maybe, just this once, Sam can live up to his family name and dodge the bullets
until they hit him in the chest.
He takes off toward the pier, running. He’s not sure how much time he has and
doesn’t bother looking at his watch. The sand turns into the wooden planks of
the boardwalk and his sandaled feet flop loudly as he moves. He ducks around
people, hoping to all that is good that the shop will still be open.
The mocking, yellow shirt hangs on its hook. “The sea will bring you home:
Santa Monica Pier.” The board shop isn’t closed yet but the small, feisty blue
eyed girl named Kandice is reaching to pull the gates down to lock it up. Sam
runs up to her, stopping behind her. He bends over, hands on his knees, gasping
for breath.
“He-hey,” he gasps, rubbing his chest with his hand. Kandice turns around,
eyebrow raised. She looks at Sam and her face lights with recognition.
“Oh hey, you’re the pretty boy from earlier!” She exclaims, smiling. Sam nods,
unable to form words just yet. He takes a huge, steadying breath.
“Hey,” he gets out, finding some oxygen. “Were you serious, earlier? About that
job?”
“Uh,” Kandice hesitates, “why?”
(because you’re desperate. because you can’t stay in that house every day and
having just a few hours to yourself would be a blessing that she couldn’t
possibly understand. because you’re a coward and because you’re running from
things bigger than you. because…)
“Because I’ll take it,” he says quickly. “If you’re really offering, I’ll take
it.”
Kandice looks him up and down, that same eyebrow raised. There’s a brief pause
as she scrutinizes him. Then, a smile breaks out on her face. She reaches her
hand out.
“Alright then,” she says candidly. “You’ve got the job, er…”
Sam takes her hand and shakes it, inexplicably feeling as if a huge weight has
been lifted off of his chest.
“Sam,” he tells her, “Sam Winchester.”
 
***** Chapter 2 *****
“You got a job?”
They’re sitting in the living room again. This time, the TV is going on in the
background, playing old reruns of the Andy Griffith Show. Dean is looking at
the TV, not at Sam, as he talks. Sam rolls his eyes but Dean isn’t looking so
the effect is lost. It’s better than he’d suspected, Sam supposes. He can
handle questions. He’s well trained in the fine art of lying through one’s
teeth. It’s better than an argument or a fight. He’s tired of butting heads
with Dean. Since Flagstaff, it’s all they ever seem to do.
The only time there’s ever any respite from arguments is when Dad’s not around.
This is why Sam is really at a loss, here. Dad’s not around. He’s halfway
across the country. By any right, he and Dean should be getting along better
than ever. They’re not, though. They’re in California with no one but Bobby to
keep an eye on them, and they’re further away from each other than they’ve ever
been before.
“Yeah,” Sam answers, “at a board shop on the pier, last night. The girl that
works there thinks I’m cute so she hired me.”
There are better ways to word that sentence. He could’ve left Kandice out of it
altogether but something spiteful and hopeful inside of Sam takes over his
mouth. He wants a reaction out of Dean, one he knows he’ll never get.
“Playin’ the field, Sammy?” Dean asks, voice laden with a teasing lilt. “Never
thought that was really your style.”
“What can I say?” Sam asks, maybe with a bit more venom and vindictiveness than
is strictly necessary. “I guess it runs in the family.”
Sam sees Dean’s jaw clench and is genuinely surprised. He really is working
Dean up. Why, though, Sam can’t guess. Is Dean just really fed up with him? Did
Sam really do something wrong? Before he can examine it, Dean slaps a fake
smile on his face. He finally turns away from the TV and looks at Sam. Those
bottle green eyes are cold and hard and kind of terrifying. Sam feels
uncomfortable. He’d wanted a reaction from Dean but, somehow, he feels he’s
crossed a line. But how? Why does Dean care that Sam has job with some girl?
Like always, Sam wants to run. He wants to get as far away from whatever’s
brewing between him and Dean as possible. He stands from the couch but just as
he does so, Dean’s eyebrows go up and those green orbs take on an accusatory
shade.
Sam forces himself to sit back down on the couch. Whatever this is, he won’t
let Dean win. Whatever game they’re playing, he won’t forfeit before he knows
what’s at stake, what they’re playing for. No, he’ll toughen up. He’ll sit here
and wait for it to blow up or defuse. He’s tired of running.
It defuses, which is irritating. But the only person more stubborn than Sam is
Dean and his brother seems to have made up his mind to not talk about it.
Whatever “it” is. Sam still isn’t sure. He isn’t sure if this is some residual
crap from Flagstaff or if this is some whole new monster. What he does know is
that he can’t stay here and try to figure it out. If Dean wants to ignore him,
that’s fine, but he can’t expect Sam to sit around and take it.
This time when he stands up from the couch, there is no shame. Dean doesn’t
look at him and that’s how Sam knows. He knows that Dean is playing with him,
whether intentionally or not, Dean is just as aware of what’s going on between
them as Sam is.  Even though Sam isn’t 100% clear on what started it, he’s
ending it. He checks the time. His first day of work doesn’t start for another
two hours.
“Are we okay, Dean?” Sam asks because he’s never been good at letting dead
things stay dead (or killing them for that matter. how many more monsters are
you gonna let walk free?).
“We’re fine, Sammy,” Dean says but he’s still not looking at Sam, still
watching as Andy and Barney exchange words on the screen.
They’re not okay.
(you are not okay.)
Sam walks out the door, not sure if being two hours early for work will look
good or sad. He takes a detour, walking along the beach, right up close to the
shoreline where the water ebbs and flows. He lets it graze the bottom of his
sneakers and watches as the dust and shells swirl in the water. Not for the
first time, he wonders what would happen if he let the water carry him away.
How far out would he make it before he drowns? Or maybe he’d hit some remote
island where all monsters breed and be shredded to bits by his own ineptitude.
Or maybe he’d find peace, somewhere out there, in the rolling water of the
ocean. Maybe that’s where the good guys go when there’s nothing left for them
here.
The morning sun is still low, still fighting its way to noon; like everyone,
it’s just waiting around for lunch break. Sam tries his best not to think about
Dean which is, surprisingly, easy since he’s spent the better part of seventeen
years fine-tuning his ability to ignore his brother when something is wrong;
something that isn’t skin deep; something that no amount of gauze or medical
tape can fix. He never talks anyway, so Sam’s learned not to try.
So when the problem is emotional, when it’s this negative energy surrounding
them and rotting away at the ties that bind them, Sam ignores it.
Sam closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Off in the distance, he can hear
the day begin on the pier: the chain-clinking sound of board shops opening up,
voices starting to lull through the morning air, and the sound of music just
under it all. He follows it up to the pier where things are just getting
started. It all looks different in the morning. There aren’t people milling
around everywhere. A few regulars, and the shop owners all linger, but the day
hasn’t really started yet. Sam thinks he likes this time of morning as he makes
his way to his new place of employment. It’s pretty much a replica of the other
twenty or so shops lining the pier but the ugly yellow t-shirt hanging in the
front sets it apart from the others.
“Santa Monica Pier: the sea will bring you home!”
Sam can’t help but roll his eyes at the cheesy, touristy merchandise in the
store. But this job is a way to avoid his problems so he doesn’t have much room
to complain.
“You’re here, early,” a female voice says from behind him. He whirls around to
see Kandice, standing in jeans shorts and a flannel that’s far too big on her.
She sizes Sam up briefly, and then grins.
“Tell me, do you like to get high, pretty boy?” She asks, hazel eyes glistening
with mischief.
“Uh,” Sam stutters dumbly, “why?”
Sam’s not foreign to getting high. He’s done it a couple times, himself.
The first time he tried it was when he was fourteen and feeling angry and
rebellious. He smoked some weed with some kids outside of his “school of the
week”. The second time was at a party with Dean where he got to watch his
brother suck smoke from the mouth of some girl that’s already been forgotten.
“C’mon,” Kandice says, and she starts walking in the direction of the beach.
There’s still an hour before work starts so Sam follows her.
He watches Kandice as she walks. She’s short and her build is average, not thin
but not fat either. She holds herself proudly, chin jutted out and head thrown
back. She knows who she is and, even though Sam barely knows her, he envies
her.
(if she turns around to attack, use your height. she’s smaller but could be
stronger. downward blow to the head with your elbow, could crack her skull
right in half. she could be a shifter. vampire. siren. succubus. incubus.
goddess. werewolf. so many monsters with human faces…).
“You always this deep in your head?” Kandice asks as they come to halt at the
edge of the shore, where the water barely brushes the soles of their shoes. He
doesn’t answer right away, closes his eyes and tries his best to shut off the
part of his brain that’s always thinking like a hunter.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, “just had a long week.”
“Mm,” Kandice hums noncommittally. She reaches up, hand disappearing behind her
mass of curls as she pulls something from behind her ear. She comes back with a
joint. Sam almost mistakes it for cigarette but the lack of filter and its
distinct homemade look gives it away.
“Light up with me?” Kandice asks, holding out the joint to Sam. He looks at it
for a long moment and considers himself, this restlessness under his skin
that’s been getting worse and worse with each passing day. Since Flagstaff
(since you tasted freedom), he’s been feeling suffocated and trapped by his
father and his love (obsession. passion. need. ache. lust.) for Dean. These
things, that he once was able to ignore (suffer silently through), now threaten
to be the end of him. He stares at the joint, probably for too long, before
taking it between his thumb and forefinger and holding out his hand for a
lighter.
She hands it over, a BIC with the safety removed. He sparks the joint, puffing
on it before inhaling, feeling the smoke blaze a trail down his throat, then
start a fire in his lungs. To his credit, he doesn’t cough, just exhales
roughly and breathes through his nose until the feeling passes. He hands it
back to Kandice and turns his eyes toward the horizon.
The sun is higher, causing the water to glitter brilliantly in its light.
There’s a faint chill in the air, the gentle coast breeze that makes Sam tuck
his hands into his pocket as he stares off into the distance.
They pass the joint back and forth and Sam’s mood lifts as the weed affects his
brain. He feels calm, relaxed, like the rolling waves of the ocean before him.
And he wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to fall into the
water and let it carry him. Where would he go? Or would he just dissolve into
salt at some point, and become a part of the binding waters?
“It sorta makes you feel trapped, doesn’t it?” Kandice asks, causing Sam to
snap out of his daze. He turns his glassy eyes to her and cocks an eyebrow
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” she starts, taking a drag off the joint before passing it back to Sam,
“it’s the ocean. I mean, yeah people say it symbolizes freedom or whatever but
it’s just millions of miles of empty water, you know, save for fish and all. I
never really got why people come here to feel more ‘free.’ They put Alcatraz in
the middle of an ocean for a reason.”
“Yeah,” Sam agrees mildly, “but it’s also the one thing that connects us all. I
don’t think people come here and see freedom, though. I think they see
opportunities…places they’ve never been…people they’ve never met, all just an
ocean away. It can feel like freedom when you look at it like that.”
“You wanna get away from something?” She throws the dead joint into the sand
and crushes it with her foot before the water carries it away. Sam almost
laughs at the question.
“Do you?” It’s an obvious deflection but she doesn’t call him out on it.
“Yeah,” she admits, “this place. I’m so tired of living next to a giant expanse
of nothing. I want to go live in the city or the country…as far away from the
damn ocean as possible.”
“You ever gonna do it? Leave?”
“Yeah, whenever the hell I want. I can leave this place whenever I want.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
Kandice pauses and her face gets contemplative and sad, freckled nose
scrunching up. Then she looks at Sam and raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“Why haven’t you left whatever deal you’ve got goin’ on?”
It’s an obvious deflection. Sam doesn’t answer.
 
*
 
When Sam gets back to the beach house, it’s dark and he’s exhausted. The day
had picked up quite a bit after his and Kandice’s morning on the beach.
Customers had flooded in around 2 and the shop remained busy all the way until
closing hours. He’s relieved to be back at the beach house and, simultaneously,
he dreads it. He hadn’t left things on good terms with Dean this morning.
He’s lucky, though, because when he enters the house, the lights are off. He
peaks into Dean’s room and, sure enough, his older brother is sleeping. He lets
out a relieved breath and closes the door before walking to his own room.
(how long do you think you can avoid him before it blows up in your face?)
Sam sits on his bed and stares out the window, listening to the ocean for
minutes on end before he finally crawls into bed and goes to sleep.
***** Chapter 3 *****
It becomes a routine, of sorts, over the next few days. Sam gets up in the
morning, does his dance with Dean: a careful game of avoidance and delusion,
and then he goes to meet Kandice an hour before work to smoke a joint on the
beach.
They don’t talk much, save for the broad introspective topics (safe topics,
something besides bullets and werewolf hearts) that seem to bubble up when the
effects of the weed kick in. In fact, it doesn’t occur to Sam until a week
after they’ve started this strange routine that he doesn’t know much about
Kandice beyond the color of her hair. Maybe he should change that but he
doesn’t make any attempts. He doesn’t ask any questions. He likes the
anonymity,their long silent stares into the horizon. It’s not something he’d
call friendship, just the understanding between two drifting, young souls
almost saying, “I’ll let you exist, if you let me.”
Sam likes this, as it is, standing on the beach in the morning sun, passing a
joint between the two of them. It’s the only time of the day that he feels
light, doesn’t feel the pressure of fangs at his neck or the phantom feeling of
a gun on his forehead. He feels afloat, drifting in and out of the waves of the
ocean. He feels free.
“Maybe it’s more like freedom then you think,” Sam says abruptly, turning his
eyes toward Kandice who’s drawing shapes in the sand with the toe of her
sneaker.
“Huh?”
“The ocean,” Sam explains, “maybe it’s more like freedom then you think.”
Kandice shrugs and looks out over the water and Sam can see how the water
reflects in her eyes. They almost look green in the light. She takes a last hit
off the joint that Sam’s just handed back to her. She throws it down and snubs
it out in the water.
“Just looks like a million miles of nothing to me.”
 
*
 
Sam gets back extra late form work that night. In the last two weeks, he’s been
getting home kind of late anyway but he tries to make it back in time for
dinner. He’s missed the mark by a mile tonight. He walks down the hall and
peeks into Dean’s room. Usually, Dean is either up listening to music or asleep
at this point. But tonight, he’s not here at all. Sam furrows his eyebrows and
steps away, walking back down the hall toward Bobby’s study.
He knocks twice before cracking the door open. Bobby’s sitting in a chair in
the corner, reading a book and sipping a tumbler of whiskey.
“Hey Bobby,” Sam says, peeking his head in, “where’s Dean?”
“He went out,” Bobby answers, looking from his book. “Didn’t tell me where.
Figure he’s enough of an adult to look after himself.”
“Adult is a loose term for Dean,” Sam mutters, stepping fully into the room.
Bobby chuckles and closes his book.
“That reminds me,” Bobby says, standing up from his chair and walking over to
his desk, “I gotta call the other day.”
Sam waits for Bobby to elaborate but the older man just continues shifting
things around on his desk.
“From who?” Sam asks. Bobby doesn’t answer, just continues talking like Sam.
“They called me back in April, but you weren’t around so I never got to tell
you. But they just called me again today and told me that this came in the
mail.”
Bobby hands him this this envelope that’s stamped with a fancy red seal
from—Sam gasps.
“How did they--? Wait, how did you--?”
“Guess you put me down as a contact when you applied. But only my phone number,
guess you must’ve given them the address of the place you were stayin’ in at
the time. Anyway, when they figured out that you didn’t live at the address on
the application, they gave me call. Said they don’t usually do it but you were
a special case. They asked me where you were and I couldn’t tell ‘em ‘cause I
didn’t know how long you’d be there. But I knew where you’d be in June so I
asked if they could send it then.”
“And they agreed?” Sam asks, astonished. “Why didn’t you just have them send it
your house in South Dakota?”
“I wouldn’a been able to help myself. I wanted you to be the first person to
open it and if I’d been handed that letter two months early, I wouldn’t’ve
hesitated.”
Sam laughs, a little hysterically. He appreciates Bobby’s honesty, but he can’t
manage to move his hands. He keeps staring at it, like it’s going to explode
(what if it’s a rejection? but why would they try so hard to reach you if they
didn’t want you? not the cruelest thing to happen to you, is it?)
“I think you got in boy,” Bobby says, smiling like he can’t help himself. Sam
thinks so too but he doesn’t want to hope too hard.
He opens the envelope and there’s a lot of paper but he starts with the one on
top, the one that decides his fate. His heart jumps into his throat and he
blinks a few times but, no, he’s reading it right:
Dear Samuel Winchester,
It is with great pleasure that I inform you of your acceptance into Stanford
University, Class of 2004! …The rest doesn’t matter.
Sam’s gaping at the letter, eyes wide. He looks up at Bobby, and he feels
giddy, tingly all over. He can’t control the smile that blossoms on his face
and he can hardly breathe with how hard his heart is pounding.
“I got in,” he whispers, “Bobby, I got in.”
Bobby smiles and pulls Sam into a hug that Sam can’t help but melt into. He
pulls away, smiling, and digging in the envelope for the rest. He got into
Stanford. He can’t believe it.
“Looks like it’s a full ride too,” he says, numb with shock and happiness.
“I’m proud of ya, son,” Bobby says and he means it and he’s smiling but Sam
sees the sadness there in his eyes and, suddenly, his happiness is dwindling.
“What am I gonna tell Dad and Dean?”
Before Bobby can answer, the front door slams. Dean’s home. Sam curses and
shoves all the papers back into the envelope as carefully as he can. He gives
Bobby a weak smile and then darts out the room so that he can get the letter
hidden before Dean can see it. He gets it into his duffel just as his bedroom
door opens and Dean comes stumbling through.
He’s drunk, hammered, and Sam winces as Dean drags himself forward to stand in
front of him.
“Dude, you smell like a bar,” (please don’t stand so close to me. you get me
from zero to sixty and you don’t even know it).
He’s standing far too close, breath ghosting over Sam’s chin, and their bodies
are practically touching. And Sam just can’t handle the proximity. It doesn’t
help that Dean has next to no understanding of personal space, and that’s when
he’s sober. His brother is a tactile person and it gets even worse when he's
drunk, especially this drunk, the kind of drunk he won't completely remember
tomorrow. Drunk Dean communicates solely through the use of his hands and body
and it drives Sam crazy.
“Shuddup,” Dean grumbles, and then he grabs Sam’s face between his hands. “You
have been a pain in my ass, Sammy.”
Sam’s closes his eyes and tries to breathe normally. This isn't the first time
Dean's been hadnsy with him while drunk. Dean's the textbook definition of a
handsy drunk and there really doesn't seem to be many exceptions to who Dean
will put his hands on. When they're in a bar, it's any leggy brunette who looks
at him the right way. However, when it's just the two of them, the honor falls
to Sam. But he isn't prepared to deal with it right now.
“Please just go to sleep, Dean,” Sam asks, trying not to sound desperate.
“Can I sleep in here?” Dean asks, and before Sam can answer, Dean’s crawling
into his bed, leaving enough space for him to get in too. Sam feels cornered..
“Dean can’t you sleep in your own room?”
Dean huffs and pouts before reaching out and tugging Sam down onto the bed. Sam
yelps but situates himself and, suddenly this is him, lying next to Dean on a
bed that isn’t nearly big enough to fit the two of them on it. It's not the
first time that Sam's had to cuddle a drunken Dean either. He's been doing this
damage control since Dean turned sixteen, but it's gotten much more difficult
to do recently. Being close to Dean is a lot more of a risk for him than it
used to be and every day, he feel closer to that edge.
“I’m sorry Sammy,” Dean whispers, and he throws an arm over Sam’s stomach,
“please don’t leave me.”
He doesn’t know what Dean’s talking about or why he’s drunk but he doesn’t say
anything. This usually works best if Sam is quiet, anyway. He closes his eyes
in an effort to relax but it's really no use, not with Dean pressed up against
his side. 
He doesn’t sleep that night: eyes squeezed shut, breathing shallowly,
acceptance letters shoved into the bottom of his duffel bag, forgotten.
 
*
 
When Sam opens his eyes, he realizes he must have dozed off sometime in the
early morning. Dean is gone from his side, and when he looks at the time, he
groans. It is late morning, later than he usually wakes up. He’s lucky it’s the
weekend and he doesn’t have to be at the shop, not that his hours are that set
anyway. Still, he doesn’t work today which is a blessing and a curse, like
weekends usually are for him.
On the one hand, it means he doesn’t have to do anything all day. On the other
hand, it means he doesn’t have anything to do all day. He sighs and then scans
the room casually with his eyes. He pauses on his duffel. Shoved into the
bottom of that black bag, is his acceptance letter to Stanford.
Fuck.
The funny thing is that he’d applied as a fluke, something to pass the time
when they were holed up in a town for a week or two. The school he was at had
handed out about a bunch of applications for different schools and, for no
particular reason at all, Sam had filled them all out and sent them to their
respective destinations.
He never imagined that he would actually get in. When he filled out the
applications, it was a pipe dream, like wanting to be an astronaut or
something. Now, though…
He sighs. He doesn’t want to think about it right now, about what a game
changer this is…if it even is one at all. Getting out of bed, he opens the
blinds and the afternoon sun floods the whole room with light. He puts on some
clean clothes and walks out into the hallway, rubbing absently at the scars on
his neck (there are no werewolves at Stanford).
Dean’s in the kitchen, sitting at the table, pressing an un-open, frosty can of
beer to his forehead. When he sees Sam come in, he winces and turns his eyes
back to the table. Sam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t bring up last night’s
drunken incident and he certainly doesn’t bring up the acceptance letter. He
doesn’t know when he’ll get around to bringing that up. He sighs audibly and
walks over to the coffee maker to make a pot. Dean’s going to need it.
“Uh…sorry about last night,” Dean says, breaking the silence. He doesn’t look
at Sam, keeps his eyes fixed on the table, cradling the beer between his hands.
“No problem,” Sam mutters and it’s a lie because the way Sam feels is a
problem, but Dean doesn’t know that and he never needs to.
He turns toward Dean and ducks his head, so he can watch his brother from
behind his hair. Dean is beautiful as ever, even with his eyes downcast toward
the table. Sam traces his strong jawline and admires the way the blonde hair on
his arms reflects the light that shines on it. He lingers on his lips, those
perfect pink lips and then he can’t look anymore because it’s too much. It’s
suffocating and how does Dean manage to steal all the air from the room without
even saying a word?
He thinks about the acceptance letter and his heart becomes heavy. Will leaving
change anything? Can he escape these feelings, these sick and twisted backward
feelings? Is it about proximity or is his love for his brother finely impacted
into his bones, so deep in there is no extracting it?
(you can’t run from what’s inside you.)
“It’s just been a, uh, weird week.” Dean continues, “Ever since-…listen, I’m
just sorry things have been weird.”
Ever since what?Sam wonders, but he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
Dean’s apologizing—okay so it’s kind of an apology—and that’s amazing in and of
itself. So Sam will take what he’s given and let sleeping dogs lie…for now.
“I’ve been kinda weird too,” Sam admits because he doesn’t know how not to
share the blame, “ever since that hunt…I’ve just been…I don’t know, off?”
“It was a close call. But we all have bad hunts, Sammy. Just a part of the
life.”
Sam doesn’t agree or disagree, because he finds that’s the best way to deal
with Dean when it comes to recurring arguments. If he agrees, Dean thinks he’s
won and they never talk about it again. If he disagrees, that starts a fight
that just isn’t worth it. So he shrugs, happy to accept Dean’s tentative olive
branch. He pours two cups of coffee and hands one to his brother before going
off to get the mail since Bobby seems to either still be asleep or absent this
morning.
The air outside is cool and damp and Sam stands on the porch for a good minute,
mail in hand, staring off into the ocean. It’s an addiction, he finds, watching
the rolling waves against the patchy, blue and grey sky. He could stare into
the distance for hours, never looking away, and never feel the need to leave
the spot where he stands.
He breathes in and it’s thick and salty and, strangely, refreshing. He stares
at the glimmering surface of the horizon for a few more seconds, gets lost in
the way the light plays with the water before he shakes his head and turns to
walk back into the beach house. He flips through the mail and most of it is for
Bobby but he gets stopped up on a letter addressed to himself.
His name is written on the envelope in swirly, sloped handwriting and he puts
the other mail aside to open it.
He pulls out a folded piece of paper, and tosses the envelope aside. He unfolds
the letter and laughs when a perfectly, pre-rolled joint rolls out of it and
into his waiting hand. His first paycheck is there to and he doesn’t bother
checking the amount before slipping it into his pocket. It’s not like he got
the job for money anyway.
Pretty boy,the letter reads which makes Sam roll his eyes but he doesn’t really
mind.
This is your first paycheck so congrats! Welcome to the mediocrity of minimum
wage. It loses its novelty, I promise. Anyways, don’t come into work tomorrow.
There’s some type of concert happening on the beach and all the board shops are
gonna be closing early. Don’t bother coming in. But I’d still like to see you
so meet me by the candy shop around noon, okay?
Also, as you’ve probably seen, I enclosed a little present for you. Enjoy.
-Kandice.
He turns the paper over to see if there’s a number of some sort that he can use
to reach her. But he doesn’t see any so he shoves the letter into his pocket
and looks at the joint in his hand. Just as he’s trying to decide what to do
with it, Dean walks in. He sees the joint in Sam’s hand and his eyebrows shoot
up into his hairline.
There’s a moment of awkward silence before, on the tail of Dean’s olive branch,
Sam decides to reach out his own sort of branch. He holds the joint up to Dean
and the older boy’s eyebrows go higher, still. But then he shrugs and pulls a
beaten up BIC lighter from his pocket. He walks past Sam out onto the porch
and, taking a bracing breath, the younger boy follows him.
Dean’s a sight to see any time of day, whether it’s just getting out of the
shower or covered in grease after spending grueling hours working on the car.
But Sam never really thought about smoking. There’s something addictive about
the way Dean’s lips close over the end of the joint, even more so in the way
his chest expands as he inhales and the t-shirt he’s wearing presses tight to
the muscles (he’s always been your drug, your poison).
“Never knew you had it in you, Sammy,” and the return of his childhood
nomenclature makes his shoulders relax and it’s some kind of fucked up irony
that Dean can calm him down as fast as he can rile him up (your rehab). But Sam
supposes that’s the nature of the thing. Loving Dean is as magnificent and
terrifying as it is paradoxical and tragic; doomed, even. And as he stares at
those pink lips and that broad chest, he can’t help but wonder again how he
ended up here and what he could possibly have done to stop it.
It’s too late now.
Just to make a point, he takes a long pull of the joint when Dean hands it to
him, exhaling the smoke smoothly. He watches Dean out of the corner of his eye
and the older boy nudges him with his shoulder. This, automatically, elicits a
chuckle from Sam and they shove each other back and forth, until they’re both
grinning.
It feels more like home than it has in months.
Dean takes the joint from his fingers and ends up standing right in front of
him. Their eyes meet as Dean takes a large inhale of smoke. Sam doesn’t recall
leaning in but, suddenly, they’re so close, their noses are almost touching
(and your lips). Sam can’t read the expression on Dean’s face and for one wild
and surreal moment, Sam thinks Dean might kiss him.
But then the older boy turns his head, and blows the smoke out of his lungs.
The moment passes and silence settles over them. Despite everything, the
silence is comfortable and when he meets Dean’s eyes again, the older boy
smiles. Sam is powerless but to smile back.
He all but stares at Dean and thinks that maybe he doesn’t have to lose this,
maybe things will be okay with them (maybe you can learn to love him the right
way). But even as he thinks it, and even as the sun sets on them and they fall
back into what they’ve always been, Sam knows it can’t be so.
He closes his eyes to the setting sun and breathes the ocean air in and he can
feel Dean next him even though he can’t see him.
In his room, the acceptance letter burns a metaphorical hole through the bottom
of his bag.
***** Chapter 4 *****
It’s strange how time can fly by once a routine sets in. Before Sam really
knows it, a week has gone by. The disconnected numbness he’s been feeling fades
in and out, striking at the oddest times. Every morning, he’ll look at the
scars on his neck and every day, they get lighter and lighter. But even as time
passes and the distance from then to now grows larger and larger, Sam can’t
stop feeling the numbness. He can’t stop reanalyzing the entire night (don’t
look it in the eyes. don’t ask questions. just shoot.) The nightmares won’t
stop and the memories are relentless.
And it’s weird to live half his life in normal environments while this inner
turmoil goes on inside him. But, somehow, he manages this routine. He wakes up
and goes to work and hangs out with Kandice, then he comes home and hangs out
with Dean whom he’s been on good terms with for the last couple weeks. For
which, he’s grateful. On these fronts, Sam feels he’s got things handled.
But the night brings darkness and terror and memories and a thousand hours
before morning to just lay awake and replay the scene again and again in his
head, trying to decide if the wolves got him or not. During the day, it’s easy
to not think about. It’s easy to distract himself but, at night, it’s
impossible and he ends up fighting a losing battle with his own mind.
The morning comes and he gets up and does it all over again and it’s not all
that healthy or functional but it’s more of a routine than he’s really ever had
before. Maybe that’s why he likes it, though. Regardless of circumstances, this
is the most normal he’s probably ever been.
His and Dean’s relationship is better than it’s been since Flagstaff and he’s
beginning to think it might all work out except reality can only be held at bay
for so long before it rears its ugly head again.
“So Stanford?” Kandice asks. Sam had almost forgotten he told her. They’re
standing on the beach, smoking their morning joint and talking about the big
abstract ideas that are always safe.
For all the time they spend together, Sam doesn’t know much about Kandice and
she doesn’t know much about it. The heavy things just never come up and Sam
prefers it that way. He has a feeling that Kandice does too. But the question
is like a bucket of ice water, drenching his sun-warmed skin. He’s been trying
to forget about Stanford. It’s quite the task, considering the acceptance
letter is still buried in his bag and every time he catches a glimpse of it,
simultaneous sparks of excitement and guilt skitter along his spine.
“I want to go,” Sam starts because he knows that he does. He’s never tried to
pretend that he doesn’t. “But…I feel like it’d be selfish of me.”
“Why? It’s just college.”
And Sam can see that in Kandice’s world, it really is. Despite their surprising
similarities, they still live in very different worlds. She turns her brilliant
blue eyes on him and cocks her head.
“In my family…” Sam trails off. He doesn’t really have the words to explain
(you’re a killer from a family of killers and yeah the things you murder are
monsters but, god, those eyes. the damned eyes. look anywhere but the eyes.)
“It’d hurt them…it’d hurt my brother and I just don’t know if I can do that
again.”
“So maybe it is selfish,” Kandice says after a beat. “But maybe it’s okay to be
selfish sometimes. Even if it hurts the ones we love.”
Her eyes get far away, then. Sam wonders about her story. He knows that she’s
got a mom and an absent dad. That much, they’d covered. He knows her mom is
sick but, with what, he can’t guess. Overall, he doesn’t know that much about
anything when it comes to Kandice. But he feels like her words come from a
deeper place. Maybe she knows what he’s going through, even if it is just the
basics.
“But isn’t that bad? To knowingly hurt someone?” Sam asks and it sounds sort of
childish, the kind of thing they go over in kid’s shows. It’s bad to hurt
someone you love. But…
“Sometimes we have to save ourselves, Sam,” Kandice answers. Her face gets
serious and she reaches down and grabs a handful of white sand. It clashes
brilliantly with her darker skin and they both watch as it sifts through the
gaps of her fingers. When there’s only a little bit of it left in her palm, she
takes the last of the joint and snubs it out in the small handful of sand.
“Save ourselves? From what?”
“From the people we love.”
It’s harsh, much harsher than it should be. All of his life, Sam’s grown up
being constantly reminded that family is everything, that family supersedes any
and all wants and wishes. But how far is he supposed to stretch himself?
Surely, the darkness will eventually consume him. If he doesn’t leave, if he
doesn’t get out, he’ll die here. He knows it. He’ll die with a gun in his hand
and maybe that’s a good enough deal for dad and Dean but it isn’t for him. It
never has been.
But Dean…
Leaving Dean seems unbearable, too much to ask of Sam to just leave him behind.
The love he feels, however twisted, is the only thing that’s kept him alive
this long. And if loving him weren’t so horribly destructive (and, oh, how it
destroys you), then it might be enough. Eventually, though, even this love will
kill him.
He doesn’t want to die.
“Sometimes we have to save ourselves,” Sam repeats, turning his eyes to the
horizon and watching as the water rolls into waves and crashes on the shore.
Kandice nods, her curls bouncing with the movement.
“If they really love you,” Kandice says, “then they’ll love you, anyway.”
(will he love you, anyway?)
*
When Sam gets home later that night, Dean meets him at the door, handing him a
half smoked joint and a beer. Dean lets Sam drink and Sam doesn’t know if it’s
because he doesn’t like to drink alone or if it’s because Dean sees him as an
equal. Sam likes to think it’s the latter.
Dean’s clearly already baked and, maybe, tipsy if the two empty beer cans on
the table are indicative of anything. He smiles lazily at Sam, and Sam grins
back. They make their way into the living room where Dean has some Monster
Movie Marathon playing on the television. Sam cringes. He’s never really liked
horror movies. They’re not scary to him, really, he just doesn’t like them.
“Dude, why are you watching this crap?” Sam voices his disapproval.
“You try finding something to watch when we only have seven channels,” Dean
retorts. Sam has to concede the point. Dean hands him a lighter and Sam sparks
the half joint he has between his fingers. He cracks his beer open and takes a
long sip before relaxing back into the couch.
Sam sits through about twenty minutes of some horribly gory movie and is
halfway to turning it off when Dean speaks again.
“You ever think everyone else has got it wrong?” Dean asks. It’s the kind of
existential thing that people ask when they’re high but Sam thinks on it
anyway.
“What do you mean?” Sam replies, cocking his head as he snubs out the butt of
the joint on the beaten up coffee table.
“Like society, ya know?” Dean asks. “There’s all this stuff we’re not supposed
to do, like…like cussing in public. It’s politically incorrect or whatever. But
maybe all that stuff’s just made up? Why are bad words even bad? Sometimes,
they’re just honest.”
“They’re just words,” Sam agrees. “But I think society’s rules are here to
protect us from ourselves, to keep us from doing the things we’re not supposed
to do.”
“You really have that much faith?”
“In what? God?” Sam believes in God, he thinks. He has to believe in something.
“No, humanity,” Dean corrects. That’s a different question altogether. Does he
have faith in humanity? Sartre said that in the way man chooses to live his
life, he creates his own ideal for mankind. And, all things considered, Sam’s
supposed ideal is pretty dysfunctional.
“I mean, we’re all that’s really here, right? Whatever we believe in, the only
thing that seems to stay the same is that we’re human. We’ve all got to have
faith in that, to some extent.”
“So you never think that society could be wrong about some things? There’s so
many taboos. When are we allowed to just…be? Why are there so many rules?”
“To keep us scared,” Sam answers. “If we think we’ll get in trouble for it, we
won’t do it.”
“Fear,” Dean says and doesn’t say anything else. He fixes his eyes on the
ceiling and stares into a place Sam can’t see.
Out of habit, Sam traces Dean’s profile with his eyes. The slightly upturned
nose, the plump pink lips, and the stubbly chin. The overwhelming urge to kiss
the older boy consumes Sam and it’s only by sheer force of will that he
refrains (yes, fear will keep you in your place). When the feeling subsides Sam
closes his eyes, reaching up to trace the scars on his neck.
“Sammy,” Dean whispers. Sam looks at Dean but Dean’s eyes stay fixed on the
ceiling.
“Yeah, Dean?”
“I’m tired of being scared.”
It’s almost vulnerable, the way Dean speaks. Sam doesn’t really know what to
say. He doesn’t know what Dean’s scared of. He’s never really thought that Dean
was scared of anything. But he knows what fear feels like and he’s tired of it
as well.
“Me too, man,” he finally says, “me too.”
*
“What are you most afraid of?” Sam asks Kandice the next morning as they’re
standing on the beach before work hours start. Sam can’t stop thinking about
the conversation he and Dean had the night before. He’s stuck on it.
All his life, Dean’s been fearless. He’s never flinched or shied away from
anything. The vulnerability his brother displayed shook Sam and as he woke up
this morning, he found himself remembering the conversation instead of
recovering from nightmares.
“God,” Kandice answers after a minute of thinking.
Sam thinks he heard wrong and looks over to see if she’d said it as a curse
rather than an answer to the question. However, Kandice is staring straight on
at the ocean, her dark freckles scrunching up as she tugs a curl out of her
face.
“What? Like God fearing?”
“No, you idiot,” she says affectionately, “I’m scared of the idea of God, and
not really scared. Like not the way I’m scared of spiders. It’s scary in a
bigger way, ya know? It’s almost too big to be afraid of, but sometimes…it
scares me a lot.”
“Like you’re afraid that he doesn’t exist?”
“No, I’m afraid that he does.”
Again, Sam doesn’t respond right away. Kandice is always throwing curve balls
and he never thought someone who’s never seen the true terrors of the world
would ever make him think so much. Perhaps it’s an elitist hunter ideal, but
he’s grown to inadvertently disregard anything that civilians say or think
about the world. They only ever know half the story, so what they think is,
usually, automatically in contradiction with the way things actually are.
Kandice isn’t like that. She makes Sam think (you’d fancy yourself in love with
her, wouldn’t you? if you weren’t certifiable, if you weren’t a hunter, if you
weren’t desperately pining for your own flesh and blood…if…if…if…).
“Why would that be a bad thing?” He finally asks, after pondering her words for
a second. He can’t make sense of them.
“Because then life is absolute. No matter what we do or say, we’re all going to
the same places: heaven or hell. If he exists, then all the questions of the
universe are answered. There’d be nothing to explore, nothing to question. We’d
all just…exist. And then we’d die.”
“Wouldn’t life be easier if we just knew all the answers, though?”
“Oh, most definitely,” she agrees, bobbing her head in a nod, “but where’s the
fun in that?”
Sam is pretty sure he believes in God but he can see what Kandice is saying. He
wants to explore the world too. And maybe not having all the answers is what
keeps them all alive. Maybe not knowing is all hope is.
He doesn’t know what’s going to happen with Stanford, but he hopes it will work
out. He doesn’t know what’s going to come of his feelings for Dean, but he
hopes that they eventually fade.Hope is just ignorance, he decides, but one
that needs to be clung to desperately or humanity will die out altogether.
“What’s your biggest fear?” Kandice asks and Sam guesses he should have
expected the rebuttal.
He thinks about it seriously. What isn’t there to be afraid of? He fights
monsters for a living. But even as he thinks it, he knows it isn’t true.
Monsters don’t scare him, not really, not in the way they scare little kids who
think they’re living under the bed.
Is he scared of Dad? No, not at all. He may be intimidating but Sam has long
since stopped fearing his father.
It’s almost an epiphany.
Sam isn’t afraid of any external forces. No, the worst monsters are where
they’ve always been…inside him. He thinks of Dean and the way that every waking
second around his older brother is another test of his self -control.
He looks at Kandice and gives her the most honest answer he’s probably ever
given in his entire life:
“I am.”
***** Chapter 5 *****
Sam is in his room, sitting on the bed, fingering the corner of his Stanford
acceptance letter as he reads the words on the paper over and over again. It’s
dark outside, the night’s taken over but the nightmares have robbed him of
sleep once more. He still doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He’s waiting on
some divine intervention, some sign from God or whoever that he should just
go…or stay, the dilemma is ceaseless.
Bobby’s been side-eyeing him since he got the letter and Sam knows that Bobby
wants him to go. He’ll never voice it and never give his input, but it’s clear.
Of all the people in Sam’s life, Bobby’s always been the most supportive of
them getting out of the hunting life. Dean’s a lost cause, but Sam’s always
been different. He’s always been too soft for this life.
He sighs and puts the letter down. It’s Fourth of July weekend and there will
be fireworks on the beach. He wonders if Dean will want to go, if they’ll go
together, maybe get stoned beforehand. Things have been good between them
lately and Sam wonders if this is permanent and, somehow, immediately knows
that it’s not. Whatever’s happening between him and Dean, this easy calm that
they’ve developed, is doomed to end. And when things end in the Winchester
family, it’s always in fire and explosions.
There’s always a price.
But, for the first time in Sam’s life, he’s deciding to live in blissful
ignorance. He’s deciding to hope instead of being realistic. He’s deciding to
not overthink things and let them happen as they will because, the truth is,
he’s missed having Dean like this and whatever the price is in the end, he’ll
pay it; a thousand times over (you ache for him, don’t you?).
He notices the horizon lightening up with the rise of the sun. He looks over at
his clock and sees that it’s almost eight. He needs to get out of bed and get
ready for work. It’s a touristy weekend so they’ll be busy at the shop. He
stands from his bed and opens the windows, embracing the cold air as it blows
through the room. It’s cool, but muggy and sticky with humidity.
On the horizon, he can see the sun surfacing, reemerging from its watery
slumber. The ocean starts to glitter and glimmer with the sun’s reflective
light and he turns away from it, picking up his jeans off the floor and pulling
them on. When he walks out of his room, Dean is standing there as if he’d been
waiting there all morning.
“Uh hey,” Sam says, mildly confused at Dean’s presence at his door.
“Hey little brother,” Dean says and his voice is higher than it normally is,
almost as if he’s nervous. It’s even weirder because Sam doesn’t think he can
recall a time where Dean was nervous. His brother is not only fearless, but
shameless. Dean having any doubts, self-centered or otherwise, is a foreign
concept to Sam.
“I was just, uh, gonna grab some breakfast and go to work,” Sam says when Dean
makes no move to start a conversation. He’s severely weirded out now and
wonders if Dean got stoned before coming to his door.
“Oh right,” Dean mumbles, “well I just wanted to know what you were doing
tomorrow night, for the fourth of July, I mean.”
Whatever you’re doing,Sam almost says. But he doesn’t want to be rude. He’s
just confused. He’s never really had Dean ask about stuff like this. Usually,
it’s implicit, an unspoken understanding that wherever Dean goes, Sam will
follow. They always spend the fourth together and Sam doesn’t know why that
would change so Dean must be asking for another reason. He must be asking
because he’s planning something special and that’s almost weirder. They haven’t
had a planned fourth since a few summers before Flagstaff. After that, most of
the time, they just went to bars and hustled pool while listening to the
explosions of fireworks all over the city/town/dung heap they were staying in.
“I don’t have any plans,” Sam answers, instead. “There’ll be fireworks on the
beach, though. We can check that out.”
Dean smiles, this million watt smile that Sam doesn’t completely recognize.
He’s not sure he’s ever seen this side of Dean (and what side is it? how can
there be parts of him that you still don’t know?)
“That sounds good,” Dean agrees, “but how ‘bout it’s just you and me? No Bobby
and not that chick you always hang out with in the mornings.”
Sam blinks. He hadn’t been aware that Dean knew about Kandice. It isn’t that
strange, arguably. It’s not as if he’s been trying to keep her a secret but the
fact that Dean knows they spend so much time together is jarring to Sam, for
some reason.
“Uh,” Sam thinks on it, “wouldn’t it be kinda rude to just leave Bobby here by
himself?”
It’s half the reason that Sam isn’t completely comfortable with being alone
with Dean on the 4th of July. The other half is that he isn’t sure it’s wise.
Him and Dean, alone under the fireworks on the beach? It’s too much like…
(romance). Anyway, Dean hasn’t specifically asked for alone time with Sam in
months, maybe close to a year. It’s unexpected but…not entirely unwelcome.
“He’ll be fine,” Dean assures, “the old man doesn’t even like fireworks. You
know that. He’ll want to stay here and drink and watch the parade on TV.”
Sam can’t exactly argue but he’s still confused by Dean’s persistence for alone
time. It’s almost foreign. Dean hasn’t requested alone time since before
Flagstaff and hasn’t been this insistent about it since they were in grade
school.
“Um yeah,” Sam finally agrees, against his better judgment, “then that’s fine.”
Dean smiles again, that smile that throws Sam completely off while
simultaneously making him want to do anything within his power to make his
brother keep smiling like that. It’s a good look on him, whatever it is.
Dean steps out of his way and they don’t talk anymore about it. Sam shrugs it
off. He supposes it’s not that big of a deal. He figures that, as usual, things
will work themselves out. Whatever Dean’s planning, it can’t be that bad. He
doesn’t know why he has so much trouble believing that.
Sam finds it surprisingly hard to focus the rest of the day. When he meets
Kandice on the beach after he left the house—closing the door on an
uncharacteristically friendly Dean—he finds himself drifting in and out of
conversation as he wonders what Dean has planned for the next night.
“What’s up, sasquatch?” Kandice asks when she notices Sam’s not listening to
her.
“My brother--,” Sam can’t really figure out how to put into words. What is
supposed to say? That he’s in deep, unfathomable love with his own sibling and
is trying not to overthink the implications of them having a night completely
to themselves? Somehow, he doesn’t think Kandice would be receptive to that.
“Things have been good between my brother and I,” Sam finally decides to say.
“That’s good,” Kandice says, “but I’m not sure why that’s making you think so
hard.”
“It just…” Sam trails off, “it hasn’t been like this in a long time. We’ve sort
of…drifted apart. But he wants to spend the fourth of July with me…alone, just
the two of us. I don’t know why, though.’
“Maybe he wants to clear the air,” Kandice suggests.
Yeah, that would make perfect sense. Except Dean doesn’t clear the air.
Winchesters don’t clear the air. They let the air get heavy and dark and dirty
with resentment and anger and lies and then, when it’s too much, they light a
match and watch the whole mess go up in flames. They fight, they argue, and
then they try and pump new air into the room to replace the bad air. But it
doesn’t really work, the air is always a little dank. The wounds always fester.
Maybe they try and replace the air with monster hunts and killing things, Sam
isn’t sure. He just knows they all have quite a few scars, mentally and
physically (you feel those fangs at your neck and you see those eyes, those
horribly human eyes). Sam doesn’t think for one second that Dean wants to spend
tomorrow night dredging up all the bad blood between them. It’s something else,
he’s sure of it.
“He said something to me once,” Sam says suddenly, “that he doesn’t want to be
afraid anymore.”
“No one does,” Kandice scoffs.
“I just…I wonder what he meant by that. He’s not afraid of anything.” Sam
doesn’t know why he’s saying this to her but if he doesn’t talk about Dean, he
might explode.
“Everyone’s afraid of something.”
“Yeah,” Sam says disbelievingly “I guess that’s true.”
*
The next day drags on. It seems impossible, by noon, that the day could stretch
on any longer. Sam’s antsy, more anxious still that Dean left the house early
in morning and hasn’t been back. He’s reduced to twiddling his thumbs. The
board shops are closed today so he doesn’t have work. All he has is half a
joint that he puffs on when he first wakes up, but he even puts that away when
he realizes it will just make him more anxious.
Bobby’s in and out of the house all day, picking up stuff to barbecue for
dinner. Apparently, they’re going to eat here before he and Dean go watch the
fireworks. Which, by the way, is just Sam’s assumption since Dean never
actually told him what they’re going to do tonight.
So he ends up spending the day on the couch, switching between nervously
overthinking what’s going to happen tonight (maybe he just wants some alone
time with his brother. maybe he just wants you to himself. it’s been awhile.
maybe he wants you. don’t do this to yourself) and reading whatever books he
can get his hands on. Miraculously, more time passes and when Dean comes
through the door a few minutes after five, Sam feels simultaneous rushes of
dread and excitement run through him.
“Need help with those burgers, Bobby?” Dean asks, walking by Sam and ruffling
his hair. Sam slaps the hand away but can’t help the small smile that appears
on his face.
Sam follows the two older hunters to the back. Bobby’s setting up the grill and
Dean’s standing close. They’re talking about past Fourth of July barbecues,
ones where John was present, ones that Sam can’t quite remember. Sam turns away
from the conversation, content to listen to the familiar cadence of their
voices rather than their actual words.
His eyes find the horizon, as they often do. He can’t see the ocean completely
since the house blocks the way but the sun is descending, the sky melting from
a clear blue to a duskier grey. The clouds nearest the sun are cast in
different shades of orange and pink, purple around the edges, fading out into
the greater grey of the sky. He can hear the water, the crash of the waves, and
the air is heavy with the smell of barbecue, but he can still smell the ocean
underneath it, a soft saltiness that hangs there indefinitely.
He turns his head back toward the barbecue. Bobby’s standing off to the side,
sipping his beer and laughing at something Dean’s said. Dean is holding a
spatula. Where he’s standing, the orange shine of the sunset makes it look like
he’s glowing, aside from the patches of shade that litter his skin due to the
trees blocking the light. His eyes are caught just right, though, green and
sparkling in the evening glow, slightly crinkled at their corners because he’s
smiling.
Very suddenly, Sam feels as if he never wants to leave here, never wants to
leave this moment. He wants Dean to keep smiling and for Bobby to keep laughing
even if it means he has to ache perpetually, that’s okay. He’d pay that price
for their happiness, really he honestly would.
“So Sam,” Bobby asks, knocking Sam out of his thoughts, “what’re you gonna do
when school’s over for you?”
Dean turns his head then, eyebrows raising as if he finds the question odd. Sam
knows why. To Dean, there is no question. Sam will graduate (one better than
Dean) and then he’ll hunt and keep hunting until they find whatever it is that
killed mom. To him, it doesn’t make sense for anything else to happen and that
makes Sam frown, makes him sad because he can’t stop taking that acceptance
letter out of his bag and reading it.
“Uh,” Sam says. He doesn’t know why Bobby’s asking. He knows that Sam can’t
just up and say he’s going to Stanford, if he decides he wants to go, “maybe
I’ll find some online classes or something.”
Dean’s turned away so he shrugs at Bobby as he says this. Bobby sighs and Dean
seems placated. If Bobby wanted Sam to just tell Dean, then and there, he
obviously doesn’t know the Winchester way very well. Sam won’t tell Dean unless
he really decides to go and he has no idea when he’s going to be able to make
that decision.
Winchesters don’t clear the air.
Dean announces that the burgers are done and they start plating them. They’re
going to eat in the sunroom, a dusty and unused part of the house that Bobby’s
spent the day trying to clean. Sam walks into the sunroom and looks around,
really looks around for the first time. The sunset washes the whole room in a
warm, golden light but the disuse is clear.
The dining table is the cleanest, made of glass and wiped clean by Bobby. Its
white frame is rusted in some parts, chipping to reveal the brown metal
underneath. The chairs are black, iron-looking, with intricate patterns of
twisted flowers and thorns making up the backs. The seat paddings are worn and
moth-eaten, torn in places due to too many summers sitting in the sun with no
one to tend them.
The floor has been swept, but not well. There are broom trails cutting through
the dust and, still, a fine layer of dust lay underneath that.There are
hanging, potted plants strung up on the ceiling. The pots are coated in dust,
their designs barely visible. The plants are brown, long dead, nearly black,
hanging over the edges of their pots.
But the sound of Bobby and Dean laughing, and the smell of food, and the
evening sun…it all seems to put a little bit of life back into the room (maybe
that’s all you need then, food and sunlight and family and all the dark broken
places in you will be fixed. oh boy, you know that’s not true. you can’t run
from what’s inside you). Plates are laid out by Sam, and Dean takes care of
napkins and utensils.
Sam looks at their spread: all-beef burgers on a plate, freshly baked buns from
the bakery on the pier, new bottles of ketchup and mustard, crispy and brown
tater tots in a serving bowl, and a small salad in a blue serving bowl, almost
added as an afterthought. It’s all thoroughly American, Sam thinks, even the
napkins have red, white, and blue stripes. He thinks that it’s funny that they
celebrate a country that they’re merely ghosts in. Constantly switching towns,
living under the radar, dodging the police and social services at all costs.
They’re convicts, refugees, bonafide criminals. Their worst enemy is probably
the very people they’re celebrating today (home sweet home) but he doesn’t
voice this.
Ironic or not, this is a time for family and fun. Sam’s not going to ruin it.
This isn’t about America, it’s about him and Dean and Bobby and the only family
he’s ever really had.
“So you and Sam are gonna see the fireworks tonight?” Bobby asks. Sam doesn’t
say anything because he doesn’t know what’s happening tonight. But Dean
blushes. He honest-to-god blushes, a sight that Sam doesn’t think he’s ever
seen before. Then he smiles, that sun-in-the-sky smile that threw Sam off this
morning.
“Yeah,” Dean says, “we’re gonna go watch ‘em on the beach, but I was wondering
if there’s any place here that’s a little more private. Don’t exactly wanna mix
in with that crowd.”
“Oh yeah,” Bobby answers, “there’s a little private beach about a mile north of
here. You won’t be as close to the fireworks but you’ll probably be alone. I’ll
let you borrow the car if you wanna drive.”
Sam’s mind runs rampant with the idea of being alone with Dean on a private
beach under fireworks. It feels as if one of his sick dreams is becoming a
reality and he really isn’t sure how to feel about it. Just like that, he shuts
down. Dean’s weird uppity attitude and the prospect of trying to reign in his
fucked up urges all night strikes some internal chord in Sam’s head and the
numbness creeps back without him realizing it.
He becomes melancholy because is this his life, now? Only ever half enjoying
Dean’s company because it’s as much torture as it is reprieve? Constantly
having to remind himself that he’s a sick fuck just so that he doesn’t give
into his unnatural desires? He looks down through the glass table he’s eating
on.
Through the middle of the floor of the sunroom, there’s a large crack that
breaks up the tile, another sign of how unused and unloved the room has been
for so long. And no matter how much they might clean and tidy and no matter how
much they may try to bring the room back to life, that crack will still be
there (broken things stay broken. there’s no running from what’s inside you).
“How does that sound, Sammy?” Dean asks. When Sam looks up and sees Dean’s
beatific smile, he feels an even more profound sense of melancholy. But he
smiles back anyway.
“Sounds great,” he says, hoping that his voice is an acceptable imitation of
excited.
Dean smiles even wider, if at all possible, eyes crinkling at the corners. And
there’s a warmth in the smile that Sam isn’t immune too and the ice that crept
into his veins thaws a little. But there’s still a rock in his stomach.
It’s sinking, slowly.
***** Chapter 6 *****
After they help clean up dinner, Dean practically drags Sam out to the car
Bobby’s letting him borrow. He gets directions from the older hunter and all of
a sudden they’re driving. They’re driving to a private beach where they’ll be
mostly (if not, completely) alone together. Panic starts to well in Sam’s
throat. It’s one thing to control his urges in front of people or in fear of
being caught by Bobby.
But to have such unreserved access to Dean while fucking fireworks explode
above their heads, it’s too much to ask of Sam’s self-control. He bites the
inside of his cheeks until he can taste blood. He rubs nervously at the scars
on his neck and wonders if it wouldn’t have been better that those fangs
completed their task.
They don’t talk as they drive. Dean plays classic rock tapes at a soft volume
and rolls down the windows, giving Sam that damn smile and Sam’s completely
lost. Was it not just a few weeks ago that they were avoiding each other? Dean
could barely look at him. But, apparently, his brother’s undergone some weird
transformation because that smile isn’t one he’s ever seen before and the more
he sees it, the harder it gets to keep a hold on his urges (you would want him
anyway, though, wouldn’t you? he could hate you and you’d still think the sun
rises and sets with him). He can’t make sense of any of it.
He doesn’t know why he tries. Dean’s obviously undergone some psychological
reconstruction and it’s fair to think that while Sam’s been agonizing over his
problems, Dean’s dealt with some of his own. What frustrates Sam is that he
doesn’t know what conclusion Dean’s come to or what the problem was in the
first place.
All he knows is that the more Dean smiles at him like that, the more his
resolve weakens and that’s dangerous for everyone involved.
But he doesn’t ask Dean to stop or to turn around. On some level, he’s excited
and that’s even worse. He’s missed being alone with Dean, regardless of how
hard it gets to control himself. He’ll repress his urges until he snaps before
he denies Dean anything.
When they pull up to the beach, Sam tries to shake off his melancholy attitude,
trying to match Dean’s enthusiasm with his own. He comes up short, obviously,
but manages a convincing enough smile when Dean asks him if he’s excited.
 They get out of the car and Dean grabs a large paper bag from the trunk and
then they head off in the direction of the beach. The sky is almost completely
dark now, still a hazy purplish color right after sunset. There are a few other
cars in the parking lot and Sam can see a few bodies scattered among the beach,
people laying out on towels and one couple that’s swimming in the waves of the
water.
The sight of people makes Sam less antsy and once they get down closer to the
water, a lot of his previous anxiety has melted away. What was he so scared of
anyway? This is just what they’ve always done. It’s the Fourth of July. It’s
always been a special night for them. This isn’t something he needs to agonize
over. He’s overreacting, he knows. He’s tired, stretched too thin with too many
things on his plate. Without meaning to, he’s projected these feelings onto
Dean.
To be fair, Dean is acting really weird which doesn’t help Sam’s situation at
all.
“Don’t mean to--uh…just why are we doing this?” Sam asks once they’ve chosen a
spot on the sand to sit and watch the coming firework show.
“Whattya mean, Sammy? It’s the Fourth of July! I thought we could celebrate,”
Dean says smiling, but it melts away abruptly and his eyebrows draw together in
something akin to sadness. “You used to like it…the fireworks.”
(you used to like fireworks. before you fell in love. before Flagstaff. before
the wolves and the scars and those haunting eyes. you can’t give him before,
though, can you? you can’t take it back, any of it. you can’t run from what’s
inside you.)
Sam feels like an asshole. He’s been sitting here, worrying about himself and
didn’t think about Dean’s feelings. He’s just so lost. Being around Dean is too
confusing and too overwhelming and he can’t think straight when they’re alone
together. But he’s the one making it complicated. Dean’s just trying to spend
time with his brother. Sam’s the one whose sick urges make him want to do
things that he wouldn’t ever be able to atone for.
“Sorry,” Sam mutters, “I guess it’s just been awhile.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “but things are gonna change, Sammy. I’m not scared
anymore.”
“Of what?” Sam asks, caught off guard.
Dean looks at him and, again, his face turns kind of sad. But his mouth is
smiling, pink lips crooked upward at the corners. He looks resolved, like he’s
accepted some fate that Sam has no idea about. It’s infuriating.
“Of anything.”
Sam doesn’t have anything to say to that, just more irritation at the fact that
he has no idea where Dean’s attitude stems from. Why is he suddenly determined
to get Sam alone? And what was he afraid of before that he isn’t afraid of
anymore? He could, reasonably, ask Dean but that wouldn’t get him anywhere. If
there’s one thing about Dean that won’t ever change, it’s that he doesn’t like
to talk about his feelings. Whatever this is, Dean clearly has it figured out
already.
Silence overtakes them and the sky darkens steadily.
The first firework goes off at eight and Dean lets out whoop before grabbing
the paper bag he brought with him and pulling its contents out.
“Here,” he says, handing Sam a package. They’re sparklers. Dean bought them
fucking sparklers. It’s so childish and silly but Sam smiles, big, and rips the
flimsy cardboard packaging to pieces, yanking out two sticks and handing one to
Dean.
Dean pulls out his zippo lighter from his pocket and lights them both. Sam
holds his out in front of him and watches the sparks fly. He looks at Dean who
has his lit and is holding it a bit closer to his face. The bright light casts
shadows across his features and makes his eyes glimmer. He’s looking at Sam
with some emotion that the younger boy can’t quite identify but, for once, he
doesn’t let it bother him. He can’t give Dean the past. But he can give him
right now.
Suddenly, Sam can see himself, always looking up at his big brother, the light
of his world. He can see himself, at every age, at every precipice where he
stood here: looking at his brother like the whole world is right there, in
those bottle green eyes (every version of you has loved every version of him.
sweet but twisted. bittersweet, at best). And he wants to keep this, keep what
feels like a profound knowledge of himself. He’s loved Dean since he could
breathe and even if that’s all it ever is (gasping, choking, and begging for
oxygen), he’ll take it. It’s all he’ll ever be allowed to take.
The fireworks become more consistent and the sparklers die out. Sam plucks
another two out and gives one to Dean. Dean lights them but holds Sam gaze and,
very suddenly, they’re standing really close (entirely too close. don’t do this
now, please. you’ll ruin everything). Dean meets his eyes and Sam’s never seen
him like this before. It’s unsettling but it’s Dean and he trusts Dean with is
life. So he doesn’t back up, even though having Dean so near makes him crazy.
He stays put and holds Dean’s gaze, unwavering.
“Remember what Dad used to say to us whenever we were afraid that a monster was
gonna get us?” Dean asks. He has to talk loud, to speak over the booming
fireworks that are becoming more and more consistent. The finale is probably
coming soon, Sam thinks. They should watch that. But he can’t move his eyes
from Dean’s.
“There’s nothing to fear but fear itself,” Sam repeats the old saying. It’s one
of Dad’s favorites and had been a maxim of their childhood. It wasn’t an
encouragement, but a rule to live by.
“Right,” Dean says, nodding. He licks his lip and Sam catches the action, can’t
help but look at Dean’s mouth.
The fireworks are definitely nearing their finale stage as the booms get
quicker and the lights get brighter.
“What are you afraid of Sam?” Dean asks over the sound of the show.
(him. monsters. everything. yourself.)
Sam doesn’t get to answer the question. He doesn’t get to even open his mouth
to try. Dean’s close, then he’s too close, and then his lips are on Sam’s.
Dean is kissing him. The roar of the last fireworks is completely mute to Sam
because Dean is kissing him. Sam kisses back. Of course he kisses back. Not
kissing back would be heinous, unthinkable. Even as his whole world gets tilted
on its axis and everything he’s ever known comes crashing down around him, he
still kisses back.
Then, Dean pulls away.
“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean says softly. For what? For kissing him? Or for the
incest thing? Sam should be on the moon right now, should stand here and tell
Dean that this is everything he’s ever wanted because it is.
But he can’t manage that. He just feels numb. His mouth is dry and his lips are
swollen and he doesn’t know what to do here.
“It’s okay,” he says instead.
It’s not, though.
*
Sam doesn’t really know how they get back to the house or how he gets back to
his bedroom. But he’s here now, in the dark, his lips tingling with the memory
of Dean’s lips. It’s insane, wild, fucking perplexing. This was never the plan.
This was never ever supposed to happen. It was supposed to stay a secret, one
that he was ready to take to his grave. And all he can think now is how did he
fucking miss it?
Dean’s felt this way, presumably for a while, and Sam had been completely
oblivious to. Beyond oblivious. He’s an idiot and it shouldn’t matter. It
shouldn’t matter how it happened or why. He should just be happy that it did.
All the things he was so afraid of shouldn’t be scary anymore.
But…
He can’t help but feel betrayed.
This was supposed to be Sam’s burden to bear (don’t you be a martyr now, boy).
He was the sick one. He was the one who had it wrong (your burden, your love).
Dean wasn’t—isn’t supposed to return these feelings. And even if he did, he’s
the one with iron-clad control. Dean should’ve…should’ve stopped himself
because it’s not supposed to be like this.
There’s a knock on his door. Dean comes in.
Sam hadn’t said anything while they drove back. Dean had obviously been tense
and nervous and losing his shit. But Sam didn’t know what to do, how to assure
him. He still doesn’t know how to feel.
“I’m so sorry Sammy,” Dean says and his voice sounds wobbly like he might cry
which just makes Sam feel worse. “I only did it because I was going crazy. I
know it’s fucked up but—.”
“Why now?” Sam asks and he finds that that is what he really wants to know.
They were barely speaking to each other a few weeks ago. So why now? What
changed? “I mean…we were barely talking before so…”
“That day on the pier,” Dean sighs, as if he’s letting loose some big
confession, “when I went with that girl behind the arcade. She—uh, well, I’m
guessing you don’t want the details. But when I, uh, finished, I said your
name.”
Oh.
Suddenly, a lot of things make sense. And Sam, yet again, can’t believe he
didn’t see it before. It seems so obvious now. Maybe if he saw it earlier, he
would’ve been able to stop it (incest is wrong). But who is he kidding? He
wouldn’t have stopped it just like he didn’t stop it tonight and won’t stop it
if it happens again. It’s wrong. It’s sick. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.
“It freaked me out,” Dean continues. “I mean…I’ve had these…urges for a while
but I thought they’d pass, ya know? I didn’t think it was that big a deal. And
then that happened and I thought that putting distance between us would be
best. But you were so miserable and I didn’t want you to blame yourself so I
thought I could just put it all aside. I was afraid of what would happen if you
ever found out. But the more I wanted you, the less I could stand it. I was
tired of being scared of the consequences. I figured you’d hate me afterward
but I couldn’t just…notdo anything anymore. And I realized that you hating me
would probably be best. It would make it easier, ya know? I wouldn’t have to…”
He trails off and Sam realizes this is most Dean’s ever talked about his own
emotions and Sam still feels betrayed. Here Dean is, admitting that he couldn’t
control himself. He’s lucky that Sam feels the same way. What if he really did
hate him? (don’t start blaming him for your own mistakes. he gave you exactly
what you wanted). He figures the exception has been made but it’s still
surprising. This level of honesty from Dean is incredible. He still doesn’t
know what to say, though. On the one hand, he wants to just have this. On the
other, it’s wrong. It’s…It’s…but the excuses are getting weaker. He wants this,
no matter how twisted it is. He wants it far too much and he’s tired of not
allowing himself to have the things he wants.
“You caught me off guard,” Sam admits. “But…I feel the same way.” It’s not what
the confession should feel like. He doesn’t feel ten pounds lighter for having
said it. Dean’s smile, however, is almost enough.
“So you wanna try…this? Us?” Dean asks. Three weeks ago, the idea of having
this conversation made Sam snort derisively. It was just a silly fantasy, a
pipe dream, something that he hoped would eventually fade. It’s real now and he
still isn’t exactly sure how they got here.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, “I do.”
***** Chapter 7 *****
It is odd how one good thing can make all the bad things fade to the
background. Sam still hasn’t tried to rationalize it to himself. He hasn’t
tried to make sense of this new found contentment because if he does, he might
destroy it. After weeks of numbness and anxiety and general unhappiness, Sam
suddenly feels light and happy.
He has tunnel vision, and his sight is aimed at Dean. All the things from
before. The wolves, the Stanford letter, all of it, fades. He has Dean. What
could he possibly be worried about?
After their conversation, Dean had kissed him again and with each kiss, Sam’s
resolute cynicism dissipated more and more (it’s wrong. so the fuck what? it’s
sick. says who? incest. yeah, get the fuck over it). He’s in a bliss bubble and
Dean is there with him and he doesn’t ever want to leave.
And the transition from brothers to…more isn’t nearly as awkward as it should
be. The first few kisses are strange, sure. But it gets easier, more natural
and Sam feels like he’s won the lottery. A voice in his head tells him that it
can’t last, it’s all temporary but he ignores it. He finally has the one thing
he thought he would never get and he’s happy.
Dean’s happy too. Dean’s fucking ecstatic. He’s constantly smiling at Sam and
touching him and saying things to him that make him blush and it should be
weird, should be a huge paradigm shift but it’s what Sam’s imagined since he
can remember. It’s like playing a role that he’s been preparing for since the
first time he looked at Dean and realized he had a problem, and it’s not a
problem anymore. If it is, it’s not his alone anymore. Dean shares it with him.
“Whattya wanna do today, Sammy?” Dean asks, coming into his room which has
become a habit of his these last few days. Sam can’t say he minds.
It’s a whirlwind is what it is. Things have changed fast, almost impossibly
fast. Dean has taken Sam’s world and shaken it apart. He’s changed the rules.
No, he’s changed the game completely. A part of Sam wants to panic about it, to
stop it, to freak out about it. But a bigger part of him is just enjoying the
moment. Sure, it happened fast, almost too fast to comprehend, but he’s a liar
if he says he’s not glad for it.
“Beach?” Sam says, standing up from his bed. “We haven’t been swimming since we
got here.”
“Yeah, but how about that private beach? We could have some alone time.” Dean
smirks and winks. Sam rolls his eyes on principle but his heart rate picks up.
They’ve only kissed. Sam’s imagined everything else, of course, but thinking
and doing are two very different things. Kisses, he feels, are nice and he
likes them but they can be forgotten. They can be brushed under the rug. If
(when) they come to regret their decision, they can at least appease their
guilt by reminding themselves they only ever kissed.
Sam knows it’s an unrealistic idea. Of course Dean will want more. He wants
more too. He’s just nervous and uncertain. There’s this unshakable feeling that
this will all somehow go wrong. If they take their relationship further, if it
gets to be naked and sweaty, there’s no coming back from it. It’s a line they
can’t uncross.
“Sure,” Sam says despite himself, “I’ll just go and put my trunks on.”
He walks down the hall, away from Dean. He feels dizzy. He’s been trying his
hardest to just let himself enjoy this but every time he thinks too hard about
what he and Dean are doing, he gets overwhelmed. It just happened so fast. And
it’s amazing. It’s a fucking dream come true. But Sam still doesn’t know what
to do with all of it. A few weeks ago, it didn’t matter because it was all just
in his head. Now, it’s a reality.
When he walks into his room, he quickly changes into his board shorts, shoving
his thoughts aside because he is determined to enjoy today.
He’s walking back toward the living room when he suddenly becomes very
conscious of his own body. Dean’s seen him shirtless hundreds of times but now
things are different. There are implications here that weren’t there before.
As expected, Dean’s eyes fixate on Sam’s bare chest when the younger boy walks
into the room. It’s strange because he’s seen Dean do the same thing to women
before, staring at their breasts unashamedly. Sam doesn’t have breasts but he
does have a muscled chest which, for Dean, might be just as appealing. The
truly weird thing, though, is that there must’ve been a time before now that
Dean has looked at him like this. There was a time, somewhere in their recent
history, where Dean had looked at him with this raw and guilty lust and Sam had
been completely oblivious to it.
It all seems obvious, now. But hindsight is 20/20 so he tries not to
overanalyze the fact too much.
Dean peels off his own shirt. He’s had his board shorts on since early this
morning because he had washed Bobby’s car. Sam takes him in, briefly. He’s
always liked his brother shirtless, not because of his lust for him (even
though that’s there too) but because Dean has always been unabashedly
confident. Sam doubts his brother even knows what the word “bashful” means.
He’s beautiful and he knows it and it’s always impressive but it gets amped up
when his clothes come off.
The confidence becomes swagger and it’s as if he’s putting on a show, just
pretty enough to be art but not so bawdy that it becomes something embarrassing
to witness. It’s a sight to behold. There’s also the fact that Dean has a great
body, strong and stocky and soft in all the right places. That Sam now has
permission to touch all that skin is deeply unsettling in the best possible
way.
“Gonna stare at my ass all day, sasquatch? Or are we gonna swim?”
“I can’t do both?” Sam asks and Dean grins, swaying his hips exaggeratedly as
he leaves the house. Sam laughs and is, once again, shocked at how easy this
is.
It’s like the flirting is just an extension of their regular banter. Sam’s
nervousness from minutes ago dissipates. Whatever happens with Dean will be
good, he decides. This is what he’s always wanted. He’s no longer going to
question it.
They get in the car, hissing at the feeling of hot leather against their skin
as they relax against the seats. Dean has a packed cooler in the back seat and
there’s a small brown paper bag that Sam doesn’t have to guess too hard about.
It’s a nice day. The sun is out and the sky is blue and the waves are calm.
There are hundreds of people milling around the main beach and the pier is
filled with beach goers. The Ferris wheel looks bright and colorful even in the
light of day. The air is thick with salt and sweetness from the vendors but
they drive away from all that.
As they put distance between them and the main part of the beach, the sounds of
people and music die down. They’re left with the quiet roll of the ocean and
the low rumble of traffic. Seagulls call loudly overhead as they scavenge for
food. When they reach the private beach, most of civilization is a few miles
behind them.
Unlike the fourth of July, the small beach is completely empty. It makes sense,
Sam thinks. It’s a small place, easy to miss if it isn’t being looked for.
“Looks like we got the place to ourselves, Sammy,” Dean observes, winking
lasciviously at Sam. It makes the younger boy blush.
He doesn’t know how to feel about having a whole beach to themselves but he
doesn’t get to consider what it might mean too much before Dean grabs his wrist
and drags him toward the water.
The first touch of the ocean is bracing against Sam’s skin, but not unpleasant.
He lets Dean drag him into the waves, wading in until the water covers their
waists. Dean splashes Sam then, causing the younger boy to yelp in a much
undignified manner.
“You dick!” Sam yells, laughing and retaliating with his own splash. It
devolves into a splash fight which devolves into wrestling and Sam doesn’t
notice the chill of the water at all, not with Dean’s hands on him.
Once they’re used to the temperature of the water, they’re unstoppable. They
body surf and wrestle and splash until the skin on their fingers and toes is
pruned. When they’re both exhausted, they wade back to the shore. The sun is
high in the sky when they lay down on their towels, wet and tired but smiling
stupidly at each other.
Dean reaches out, then, and his damp fingers brush Sam’s cheek (this is where
things change). Dean gets closer and Sam closes his eyes (this is how things
are different). When their lips meet, Sam sighs, melting against his brother
(this is why things will never be the same). The kiss heats up and Sam feels
Dean’s tongue scrape along his lower lip. Sam lets him in, happily
reciprocating.
Sam’s only done this a few times with a girl and it’s worlds different with
Dean. He feels like he’s flying, adrenaline pounding through his body and
everywhere Dean’s hands go, a trail of fire is left behind. It’s overwhelming
and Sam thinks he could get light headed from it. The way the air is stolen
from his lungs, punched out of his gut, it’s like drowning. Dean pulls away
just enough for Sam to breathe but he doesn’t want to breathe, he wants to
drown. Dean smiles and Sam smiles back and it’s all surreal and dreamlike and
Sam’s afraid that he might wake up from this and find himself in bed (or,
worse, in the middle of the forest, pressing your fingers to the blood on your
neck. where the wolves almost got you).
Dean kisses him again and, this time, he moves himself over Sam so that he’s
blanketing the younger boy’s body with his own. Sam’s heart rate spikes. This
is the furthest they’ve ever gone physically and it’s overwhelming, huge. It
feels like the pieces being set in their places. It feels like a sealed fate.
It should be a bigger realization than it is but, like everything else, it just
seems like something that Sam’s been preparing for all his life. Even as Dean
inserts one his thighs between Sam’s legs and even as the kisses and the
touches get hotter and more insistent, Sam never once thinks of stopping or
pulling away (you were always going to end up here).
They start grinding against each other and the sudden stimulation to his cock
makes Sam gasp. Their board shorts are the only things in the way of full skin
on skin contact but they can’t stop long enough to change that. Dean knows what
he’s doing with his hips as he thrusts against Sam, and the younger man
couldn’t ask him to stop if he wanted to.
Sam’s nails drag down his brother’s back and he can’t breathe under all this,
under all this heat and lust and affection. They thrust faster against each
other, seeking more friction, seeking relief. Their rhythm is sloppy and
unpracticed but enough that neither of them feels the need to change position.
They’ll finish fine just like this.
And they do. Sam gasps as Dean ruts against him and the friction becomes too
much. He clings to Dean and the world goes white behind his eyelids as he comes
in his board shorts, spurt after spurt making the inside of his trunks sticky.
Dean grunts and sighs and his whole body shudders and Sam knows that he’s come
too.
They lay there for a moment, just getting their breaths back, rubbing their
hands gently over each other’s skin.
Sam closes his eyes and breathes in, trying to avoid the reality of what just
happened His emotions are fluctuating. He wants to just go with this, to be
okay with it but every time he allows himself to think, he’s doubting it all
again. It’s like an album stuck on repeat but he has no idea how to make it
stop. Dean’s happy with this, wants this. By all rights, Sam should be happy
too but he just can’t get over his insecurities.
“Was that good, Sammy?” Dean asks and Sam’s never heard this tone of voice
before, nervous. But it’s not the nervousness of the last few weeks, it’s
tremulous, a near plea: please be okay with this, Sammy.
“Yeah,” Sam says and he means it. It was more than good. It was incredible,
mind blowing, beyond any word he can think of in the English language. “It’s
just overwhelming.”
Dean snorts but nods in agreement, pulling Sam close to him again. Sam goes
willingly, curling into his brother’s broader body. He breathes Dean in, the
salty ocean smell mixed with the leather and aftershave. If he could have a
candle made of any smell, it’d be this, this sex-ocean-Dean smell that he knows
will be imprinted in his memory from this day forward.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Dean whispers. It’s a sober moment, a moment of self-
awareness that’s rare for either brother. Sam knows what he’s sorry for because
he’s sorry for the same things.
“Me too, Dean,” he whispers back before closing his eyes and losing himself in
the feel of his brother’s arms around him.
The must lay there for hours and when they finally get up, the sun is nearing
its setting point. They stay long enough to watch it sink behind the horizon
and Sam, in that moment, feels at peace. He leans into Dean who’s sitting next
to him and he just wants to always have this. He never wants to be without it
again.
“Ready to go, Sammy?” Dean asks once the sky begins to turn colors.
He nods and they stand up to go. Somehow, he realizes in that moment that they
won’t ever come back here. He will probably never stand on this beach again. He
glances back at the water, feeling nostalgic for it already (what if you let
the waves carry you away?). He turns away and doesn’t glance back as they drive
home.
When they get back, Sam showers the sticky and sandy mess off of himself. When
he comes out of the bathroom, Dean’s laying on his bed, eyes closed, head
tilted back. There’s fading sunlight coming through the window that highlights
the curve of his brother’s jaw. He’s like some fallen angel, a work of art in
the dreary backdrop of their lives. He’s the sun and Sam is suddenly
overwhelmed by his love for Dean.
He walks closer and reaches out to trace his fingers over Dean’s ribcage,
grazing the tanned skin with his fingertips. Hazy green eyes open and look up
at him, filled with a simmering contentment that Sam would give anything and
everything to keep there. Dean smiles, slowly, grabbing Sam’s arm and dragging
him forward until he’s bent in half, over the bed, mouth hovering over Dean’s.
“Will it always be like this, now?” Sam asks before their lips can meet,
because he needs to know. He needs to know this isn’t temporary.Dean’s slow,
lazy smile evaporates and his eyes become serious.
“Yeah, if you want it to be,” he answers and Sam hears the question under it
all: do you want it to be?”
“I do,” he says back hastily, almost too hastily, “I really do.”
“Good,” Dean chirps, lips curving back up as he takes Sam’s mouth in a kiss.
*
 “You look different,” Kandice says a week later, when they’re standing on the
beach before work. They’ve already finished their morning joint and are just
killing time now.
“I do?” Sam asks, head tilted to the side. He feels different, lighter somehow,
less encumbered by the issues of his life.
Kandice nods but she’s looking at him strangely. There’s a smile on her lips
but there’s something in those translucent blue eyes that gives her away. She’s
worried for him and he doesn’t know why. He finally has everything he wants
(everything?), there’s no reason for her to worry about him at all. She doesn’t
say anything else though, just turns her back on the horizon and begins walking
toward the pier.
Sam follows her and when they get to the shop, Sam glances at the yellow shirt
on display right in front of the shop, the yellow one that stands out among the
rest:
“The sea will bring you home: Santa Monica Pier.”
He smiles slightly to himself as he walks into the shop to start his day.
His work day passes in another blur. People come and go and the pier has this
calm familiarity to it that Sam can lose himself in. He can feel Kandice’s
occasional glances, always curious and searching. He doesn’t know why she’s
worried and tries to dodge her most of the day
Even so, when she offers him a joint at the end of the work day, he accepts and
they end up smoking on the beach again as the sun sets.
“So what’s got you so happy, Sam?” Kandice asks once she’s lit the joint. She
presses it between her plump lips and closes her eyes as she inhales. She opens
them again on the exhale and raises an inquisitive eyebrow at Sam.
“Things have…” he wants to say ‘changed’ but that doesn’t quite feel right,
“gotten better.”
It’s not a perfect or, even, accurate description of what’s happened but he
shrugs and smiles. He’s happy. Why does he need to question it?
“Really?” Kandice responds, sounding dubious.
“Yeah. I mean, some good things have happened. I didn’t think it’d ever be like
this but it is and I’m happy.”
“So you’re going to Stanford?”
Sam pauses and closes his eyes, breathing deeply through the sharp pang that
goes through his chest.
He’d been trying to forget. He’s tried so hard not to think about it. But why
would he give up Dean for Stanford? In what world is that a good trade? He
can’t give up Dean, not now. There’s no way he can leave.
“No,” Sam finally says, “I’m staying with my family…i-it’s where I belong.”
Kandice doesn’t say anything for a long time, eyes fixed on the horizon. Sam’s
looking out there too (what would it be like to simply float away? how far
would you get before you drowned?) and he can’t make sense of the aching
pressure that squeezes his heart just then but his stomach drops and he
swallows loudly.
“You deserve to be happy, Sam,” Kandice says quietly, almost too quietly for
him to hear. The wind almost carries the words away but he hears them. He can’t
think of a good response to that because he is happy (liar) and he doesn’t know
what she expects. So he shrugs, hands the joint back to her and says goodnight.
He doesn’t look back as he walks away but he can feel her eyes on him the
entire time.
*
He gets home kind of late, having walked slowly most of the way back, but Dean
is up waiting for him as is the routine these days. They’ve only been doing
this thing for four weeks but Sam feels as if he’s been doing it for years. So
when he gets home and Dean drags him to his bedroom, he goes willingly and
doesn’t hesitate.
“Eager, are we?” Sam jokes as Dean tackles him down to the bed. They’ve been
relentless these last few weeks. Every opportunity they get, they take it. It’s
a bit ridiculous but Sam is thankful for it.
The weight of Dean on top of him or beneath him or, really, anywhere within
reach makes the weight of his other burdens feel non-existent (he’s the perfect
distraction). When Dean’s hands are on him, Sam can’t think of anything but the
need for more skin on skin contact. He can’t think of anything but Dean and
it’s intoxicating, like a high that he can’t come down from and why would he
want to? Things are easier with Dean. He doesn’t have to think.
“You know it,” Dean breathes in response, his lips forming a small smile
against Sam’s neck.
They’ve been getting progressively more risqué with their touches and their
boundaries. They’ve made it as far as full frontal hand jobs and with each
progression, it gets harder to imagine ever stopping this. He feels like
they’ll just keep going down this road, that there will be no end in sight and
he can’t say he minds the idea of being with Dean forever.
Dean’s kissing him and all his higher brain function cease. They’re tearing at
each other’s clothes and Sam is wildly seeking out his brother’s skin. Every
minute that he gets to have his hands on Dean’s bare flesh is precious and he
doesn’t ever want to let go. Dean is beautiful, all muscle and strength and Sam
has no idea how someone as gorgeous as his older brother could ever want him
but he’s long since stopped questioning it.
Dean pulls down his boxers and Sam moans quietly before he looks down to take
it in. It’s just an erect dick, Sam tells himself. It’s long and thick and
pinkish with a purple-y head, and it’s veiny in a “just enough” sort of way. He
can’t explain why the sight is so electrifying. He especially can’t explain the
sudden, almost knee-jerk, desire to have it in his mouth. He doesn’t even
really think of doubting the impulse, just falls to his knees in front of his
brother.
“Sammy,” Dean gasps in a shocked whisper. But Sam’s not listening, ears filled
with white noise as he slowly licks Dean’s cock, tasting it for the first time.
In the way of blow jobs, Sam’s sure it isn’t anywhere near the best Dean’s ever
had. It’s Sam’s first time and all he really knows is to keep his teeth out of
the way which is more instinct than anything else. But he loves it. He loves
the sloppiness, loves learning his own boundaries and he loves the way Dean
falls apart above him. He feels powerful, accomplished in a way he’s not sure
he has words for.
He just sucks Dean down further and harder, trying to use his tongue to drive
Dean wild. It seems to be working. His brother is a mess, head thrown back,
hands braced against the wall behind him. He keeps chanting Sam’s name and
growling and moaning. Sam almost wishes he had a recorder, just so that he
could keep those sounds forever.
“Fuck,” Dean mutters. He reaches down and grabs Sam gently by the hair, slowly
pulling him off. Sam makes a sound of dissent but looks up at his brother. What
a picture he must make, swollen lips and flushed cheeks, eyes bright with
arousal. “Jesus, Sammy, look at you.”
Sam just wants to get to back to sucking Dean’s cock and finds himself on this
wonderfully narrow train of thought where his only prerogative and only concern
is to please Dean in any way that he can. It should be jarring to feel this way
but Sam’s starting to get that there’s no rules here. There’s no should,only
willand Sam will do whatever he needs to keep Dean happy. There is no time
limit, no amount of waiting will make what they’re doing any less odious in the
eyes of society.
So why wait? (this may be the only chance you get).
There aren’t words for the decision Sam’s just made so he stands up and walks
to the bed. He pulls off his boxers then climbs on top of the sheets, laying
down on his back and barring himself to Dean. He feels Dean’s gaze on him and
can’t fathom what the thoughts behind it might be (does he think you’re
beautiful? are you not, still, just his naked little brother?).  Dean steps
forward slowly and then stops again, eyes flicking around nervously.
“Do you know what you’re asking for, Sam?” Dean asks, voice quiet and timid.
It’s only been four weeks, a whirlwind of four weeks that still makes Sam feel
breathless when he thinks about it. Maybe he should be more hesitant.
But Dean is standing there, and the room is getting darker, and the air is warm
and muggy. He’s still kind of stoned from earlier, and he feels good and lazy
and relaxed and they might never get another chance (will he love you,
anyway?). And it all feels so temporary.
So fleeting, like he might wake up and find that the wolves have got him and he
doesn’t want that. He just wants to feel, for as long as he can, that this is
something he can have indefinitely. He can’t explain why it isn’t, but he knows
he needs to feel like it is (will it always be like this?). He needs to feel
like this can last (no).
“Yes,” Sam answers, trying to sound sure. To his own surprise, his voice is
steady and he holds Dean’s gaze.
“Okay,” Dean says, letting out a shaky exhale on the word, “then let me
just…grab some things.”
He walks out of the room and Sam waits, feeling odd and exposed laying naked on
his own bed. But he doesn’t attempt to cover up. He doesn’t want some under-
the-covers rumble that they can forget. He wants to see it, wants to see every
inch of Dean’s skin as it comes into contact with his own (you may never get
another chance).
Dean comes back, holding a condom and a small bottle that Sam can only assume
is lube. He’s never had sex but he knows the logistics of it. Dean comes
forward again, tossing the lube and condom on the bed beside Sam. Sam ignores
them, ignores the clinical side of what they’re about to do. He doesn’t want to
remember the brand of lube they used or the size of the condom. He wants to
remember skin and touch and sweat and all the messy things they’ll turn out to
be.
And when Dean puts his hands on him, they’re clammy (he is not magnificent). He
runs them up and down Sam’s sides, tracing patterns into the skin (he is not a
god). His eyes are wide and scared, but still nearly black with arousal (he is
human). He gives Sam a tremulous smile, one that wavers when his fingers graze
Sam’s erect cock (he is just as broken as you are).
Suddenly, this is real in a way it wasn’t before and Sam becomes desperate. He
arches into Dean’s touch which seems to give the older hunter confidence. His
hands wander further and further, rubbing against all the private places that
Sam has. There is no going back. Dean will never be able to pretend this didn’t
happen and Sam will never forget these touches, given as the room slowly gets
darker and darker.
They could spend hours on foreplay for all that Sam’s aware. He only feels the
burn and stretch and pleasure as Dean’s shaky hands prepare him for the
inevitable. He only feels Dean’s body against his, their sweaty skin siding
against each other. And when he feels Dean, inside, he closes his eyes and
breathes, listening to his brother’s heartbeat mix with the rush of blood in
his ears (this is the sound of being put back together).
Together, they move like the ocean. Push and pull, rhythmically until the tide
comes to disrupt the flow. Then, they are a hurricane, a mess, a rush, a force
of nature that tears down everything in its sight. Sam could spend forever
here, resting on the crest of pleasure with Dean above him, saying sweet
things.
“So good, Sammy.”
“I love you, Sammy.”
“I’m sorry, Sam.”
The last one, whispered and then the world goes white and the storm abruptly
clears and they lose themselves to each other. It could be hours. Sam rides
wave after wave and feels Dean shaking apart above him.
In the afterglow, they are destroyed beyond repair. Sam feels raw and open, on
display and Dean holds him so tightly, he can hardly breathe. It feels good…and
sad…like a goodbye. And he’s not sure why it feels that way.
“I love you, Dean,” he whispers.
But Dean is asleep, breathing evenly against Sam’s neck. Sam closes his eyes
and turns into his brother’s embrace, holding on for dear life.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Goodbye, Pt. 1
The moon is out and full which makes it the most dangerous time of the year for
this kind of hunt. It’s quiet but not silent, the kind of quiet that only
exists in nature among the rustle of leaves and call of owls. A gentle breeze
blows through the trees and a twig snaps. Sam spins around at the sound,
raising his gun in a sure hand, ready to shoot should he need to.
“Fucking forests,” comes Dean’s gruff voice from the trees, “why is it always
god damn fucking forests?”
“Don’t do that, Dean,” Sam whispers harshly, “you scared the shit out of me.”
Dean shrugs unapologetically and readjusts the shotgun in his hand. They’ve
been out here for hours, waiting. John had told them to split up but not to go
too far. If he finds Sam and Dean together, they’ll get a tongue lashing. Dean
is obviously aware of this because he winks at Sam and keeps walking through
the trees until Sam can no longer see or hear him.
Sam takes a breath, ignores the way he wants to chase after Dean and goes back
to scanning the area around him on high alert.
It all happens really fast.
One minute, he’s thinking about the homework he has to do when they get back
and the next he’s thinking nothing at all except that he needs to pull the
trigger. The werewolf had come out of nowhere, breaking through the trees in a
near sprint and stopping a few feet from Sam, blue eyes narrowing in a
predatory way.
Sam raises his gun and…and…
This wolf does not have fur. It’s just a man with claws and teeth and haunting
eyes. He’s still wearing his work clothes. Sam stands there and looks at him
and realizes a harrowing fact.
This wolf, every other day of the year, is a person. He is a person like Sam,
like Dean, like every monster who does not choose to be that way.  He goes to
work or school, maybe. He has a family and friends and people who care and,
despite the feral look in his eyes, Sam knows that his eyes are probably really
brown…or green. And every other day of the week, he is a fucking human.
His finger is on the trigger and he has an open shot that any hunter would be
lucky to have. But he can’t fucking do it. This wolf has killed people and he
knows that but he’s still just a guy. Whatever he is right now, 98% of his
life, he’s just a man. He probably doesn’t even know that he’s a werewolf and
now he’s going to die for it.
And then Sam’s on the ground and the werewolf is above him. His gun is knocked
out of his hand and lands too far away for him to retrieve it. Panic sets in
and he struggles. The werewolf opens its mouth and puts its teeth to his neck.
He can feel the pressure of those sharp canines sinking in and this is it.
This is how he dies.
A shot rings out and the werewolf—the man—falls to the side, dead. Sam shimmies
his way out from under the body and stands up, pressing his fingers to his neck
which is bleeding heavily.
“Are you alright, Sammy?” Dean asks, suddenly in front of him. He looks at
Sam’s neck and curses.
“Sam! Sammy!” John comes tearing through the trees. “Hey kiddo, you’re gonna be
alright. Dean, go start up the car. What happened Sam?”
He knows he has to lie, has to lie through his fucking teeth.
“It got the jump on me,” he says. “It was in the trees and it got the jump on
me.”
John nods stoically and wraps an arm around his youngest son’s shoulders. Sam
lets himself be lead back to the car. When they’re driving away and Sam is in
the back, pressing gauze to his wound and trying to not think about how he
almost just died, John reaches back and pats Sam’s knee reassuringly.
“It’s okay, son, no one’s first hunt goes smoothly. You’ll get the hang of it
in no time.”
Sam doesn’t know what to say to that so he just nods numbly.
“Yeah, Dad, I’m sure I will.”
*
Sam wakes up slowly, the memories fading as he becomes more aware of his
surroundings. Dean’s next to him, still fast asleep, snoring softly. The sun
isn’t up yet which is good because Dean wasn’t supposed to spend the night in
here anyway, not naked at least. They can’t chance being caught by Bobby. He
nudges his sleeping brother, to no avail. Dean just turns his head and keeps
right on sleeping.
Sam sighs but doesn’t try again. He figures it can wait a few minutes. He
shifts around, feeling his naked, sticky genitals rub up against the rough
cotton of the sheets. If he scoots about an inch, he’ll be flush with Dean. He
doesn’t.
It might be irrational, but he feels like he’s lying to Dean. He thinks about
the acceptance letter in his bag and feels guilt turn his stomach. Dean
deserves better than what Sam can give him. The more he tries to deny it, the
harder it is to make himself believe that he hasn’t thought about leaving. The
fact that it’s gotten to the point where he can’t deny it makes him feel even
guiltier.
He closes his eyes and breathes, turning his head to look at Dean. He’s
adorably rumpled in his sleep, hair splayed out on his pillow, plush lips
parted as he emits soft snores. The guilt Sam feels intensifies and he swallows
it down, turning his eyes away and breathing deeply again. He looks to the
window and sees that the sky is getting lighter. The morning fog is going to be
thick, he observes, and he turns a little more onto his side to nudge Dean
again.
This time the older hunter jolts awake. He inhales sharply and snaps his head
to the side to look at Sam. He, then, mumbles incoherently and pulls the
blankets up to his chin. Sam rolls his eyes and shoves him again.
“You have to get dressed and go to your own room,” he whispers regretfully.
“Bobby can’t find us like this.”
For a second, Sam thinks that Dean’s fallen asleep again. But then he hears a
hefty sigh and the whole bed shifts as the older hunter slips out from under
the covers, shivering when the air hits his skin. He pulls on his clothes and
leans over to give Sam a parting kiss that Sam returns wholeheartedly.
“Do you have work later?” Dean asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” Sam answers quietly, “but I can probably get off early since it’s a
Sunday.”
Dean nods and smiles, pecking Sam on the lips one more time before he slips out
the door and goes to his own room. When hears Dean’s door close, Sam shuts his
eyes again, hoping to catch another hour of sleep before he has to get up.
However, it’s all in vain. It seems impossible for him to fall back asleep, so
he lays there for an hour, staring out at the grey dawn and drawing patterns
with his fingers on the bed sheets pulled up over his stomach.
The morning is quiet, the same quiet that he’s gotten used to these last few
months. The sound of the ocean is almost indiscernible to him now. If he
focuses, he can hear it but when he lets his mind wander, the room becomes
eerily silent. He thinks mostly about Dean. It’s the safest topic these days
(which is an irony you’re not missing, right?). With Dean on his mind, nothing
else really matters to Sam. He knows it’s tunnel vision in its purest form but
he can’t bring himself to care.
He’s afraid to let his thoughts drift anywhere else (Stanford, leaving, the
wolves, and those god damn eyes, a fucking nightmare you can’t wake up from).
Life in a relationship with Dean is much smaller than life just being his
brother and it’s oddly comforting to Sam, to not have to think very far beyond
that. Maybe it isn’t exactly productive or healthy, but he’ll take it over the
numbness. He’ll take anything over that.
After an hour of sitting there and making sure to not let his thoughts slip too
far past Dean, Sam kicks the blankets off of himself and gets out of bed.
He takes a quick shower and gets ready for work, throwing on a t-shirt and a
ratty pair of jeans. By the time he’s made it to the kitchen for breakfast,
Bobby is awake and cooking bacon in a pan on the stove. Dean must still be
asleep so Sam sits down and waits for the eggs and bacon to be done, idly
toying with the salt and pepper shakers on the table to amuse himself.
“Mornin’ Sam,” Bobby says, turning away from the kitchen counter and setting a
steaming plate of fried eggs and crispy bacon, as well as a glass of orange
juice in front of Sam.
“Moring Bobby,” he replies, “thanks for breakfast.”
Bobby waves him off and sits down at the table across from him. It becomes
silent for a few minutes as they eat. Sam isn’t really thinking much of
anything, placidly munching on his breakfast, staring out the bay window at the
cloudy morning sky. So he’s caught off guard when Bobby finally asks, “So, you
thought anymore about Stanford?”
Sam chokes, almost swallowing the piece of bacon he was chewing. He coughs and
takes a sip of orange juice. He clears his throat again and when he can breathe
right, he looks at Bobby and shrugs. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t
want to talk about it. If he talks about it, then it’s real. Not thinking about
it is the only reason these past weeks with Dean have been possible.
The truth is, he’s thought a lot about Stanford (no wolves. no guns. no blood
and bones. no monsters). He just doesn’t know what conclusion he’s come to yet
(Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean).
“That’s it?” Bobby asks and his voice sounds kind of heated. “You get into one
of the best schools in the country and you’re just gonna shrug about it?”
Sam sighs. There’s really no way he can explain. He obviously can’t mention
Dean because Bobby wouldn’t understand. Bobby clearly wants him to go and he
appreciates the support but he just…can’t. He sighs and tries his best to
articulate, to some degree, what he’s been feeling.
“I don’t know, Bobby,” he starts, “I mean, I’ve been a hunter my whole life.
What would I even do in college? And how would I even survive? I’ve never had a
real job and neither has Dad or Dean unless you count occasionally working at
garages and getting paid under the table as a ‘real job.’ I don’t have any real
world experience, I mean, c’mon Bobby I’ve never even lived in a real house
before. How am I supposed to survive on my own?”
“You’re one of the smartest kids I ever met, Sam,” Bobby argues, not missing a
beat as if he expected Sam to make this argument, “anything you don’t already
know, I’m sure you’ll figure out. Either way, that ain’t a good enough reason
to not go. This is an opportunity you won’t get twice.”
Bobby’s approval and assurance feels good, warm, and unfamiliar and something
he thinks he could get used to. But it doesn’t change the fact that the older
hunter doesn’t know the whole story. Leaving wouldn’t just be going to Stanford
or leaving Dad and his brother…it would be leaving Dean too, not the brother
he’s always had but the lover he’s just found. He can’t just walk away from all
that (if he really loved you, he would love you anyway). He doesn’t want to
have to walk away.
“I don’t know, Bobby,” he repeats. “I just don’t know.”
Bobby sighs and nods, looking disappointed but understanding. Sam feels bad
because he can’t describe how happy it makes him that someone in this life
wants this for him. But nothing is ever that simple, especially with a
Winchester (especially with you). Bobby stands up, taking their empty plates
and carrying them to the sink. He rinses them off and then turns to walk out of
the kitchen. He stops at the door, though, and turns his head to look at Sam
out the corner of his eye.
“Always hoped you’d get out of this life, kid,” he says, not turning to face
the younger man completely.
He leaves at that, not saying anything more.
Sam slumps in his chair. What does Bobby know? He thinks, suddenly angry. How
could he ever understand the position that Sam’s in? Staying in the life should
make everyone happy, anyway. Bobby should be pleased, not disappointed. Hunters
don’t go to college. Hunters don’t leave the life. Why is he special? What
makes him so different? (well, for starters, you got into Stanford with a full
ride).
He sighs heavily and stands from the kitchen table. He almost runs into Dean on
his way out of the house. His older brother slumps into the kitchen looking
like death warmed up. He ignores Sam and heads straight for the coffee maker.
He puts on a pot and rubs a hand over his face before turning to give Sam a
sleepy kiss, good morning.
“You leavin?” Dean asks, running a hand over Sam’s hip.
He technically has another twenty minutes to kill but, for some reason beyond
him, he’s overcome with the sudden need to get out and get as far away from
this place and Dean as possible. He can’t explain it and he’ll chalk it up to
stress later but he really needs to get out. He smiles and nods and pecks Dean
on the cheek before he ducks out of the kitchen and then out of the house
altogether.
He walks away and briefly imagines, in a random instant, what it might be like
to walk away for real (what if you didn’t have to come back?). He shakes the
idea off and continues on his way. He makes it to the beach pretty early and by
the time he gets there, he still has ten minutes to spare.
He sits down and looks out over the water (what do you see out there? a million
miles of freedom. some place you’ve never been before). It’s an open expanse of
life that never ceases and connects everyone to each other. It’s beautiful and
terrifying, how something can be so impossibly big and uniting, while also
being the only thing that truly separates humanity.
It makes him feel small.
With nothing but the feeling of breeze on his skin and the sound of the ocean
to pay attention to, Sam’s forced to think about the things he’s been avoiding.
Does he want to go Stanford? He hasn’t looked at the acceptance letter since
Dean first kissed him. It had all seemed like a moot point. Dean loved him and
wanted him and that’s all he’s ever really wanted so nothing else mattered.
But how much of that is true? Is Dean really all he’s ever wanted? Why does he
still feel so strangely unfulfilled? (you know that this life will kill you.
stop pretending it won’t. remember those teeth and those eyes that were once
human). He wants this to be endgame, for Dean to be the answer to all his
problems and internal struggles…but that’s not the case and he’s not sure what
to do about it.
Sometimes we have to save ourselves. Kandice’s words ring through his ears and
he sighs. Hunters don’t save themselves, though, they save everyone else. Is he
a bad person for not wanting to do that? Is he evil simply because he doesn’t
want the fate of the world on his shoulders? Is it so bad that, for five
seconds, he just wants to be young and stupid and not have to worry about the
consequences?
The breeze picks up and he closes his eyes, breathing deeply. He doesn’t think
he’s ever been this confused about anything. For such a long time, Dean was the
most important goal Sam had. Dean trumped everything and everyone else. There
was nothing, not one single thing, he could ever imagine himself wanting
besides Dean.
It’s different, now. He has Dean and it’s not what he thought it would be. It’s
not the way he always pictured. In his dreams, Dean solved all his problems and
love was the answer. But this is the real world and it just doesn’t work like
that here (he is the problem and you have the answer).
“Hey,” Kandice voice startles Sam out of his thoughts, “thinkin’ hard?”
Sam looks up at her. She smiles and pulls a joint from behind her ear, handing
it to Sam along with a lighter that she pulls out of her pocket. Sam looks at
it and reaches out to take, but stops, abruptly feeling like he wants to be
sober. He doesn’t want to be high anymore. He’s not sure he has the words to
explain why.
“No thanks,” he says, instead, “not today.”
Kandice’s eyebrows raise up but she shrugs and tucks the joint back behind her
mass of curly hair. She takes a seat beside Sam and, for the first time in two
months, they don’t smoke. They just sit and watch the clouds get lighter in the
sky as the morning begins.
“I’m leaving,” Kandice announces after a few long minutes of silence.
“What? Like right now?” Sam asks, confused. Kandice rolls her eyes but smiles
and shakes her head.
“No, dummy,” she scoffs, “I’m leaving next week. I’m going to Austin.”
“What about your mom?”
Kandice’s mom is sick. It isn’t something they ever talk about and, up until
this point, has simply been one of those facts that Sam knows about her. There
is no substance to it, not for him. It’s one of the few things about her that
he feels he truly knows. But she’s never discussed how she feels about it or
what the circumstances are. For all Sam knows, Kandice hates her mom and is
happy that she’s sick.
“She’s gonna die here,” Kandice says finitely, a fate she’s already accepted.
Sam can’t tell if she’s sad or not. He can see, in her eyes, the resignation
but maybe the sadness has passed. Maybe she’s already moved on (you can
certainly understand that can’t you?).
“And you?” Sam questions. “Why’re you leaving now? I mean, what happened?”
“Not one thing,” she says airily. “Maybe a lot of things all at once, I don’t
know. She’s just been sick for so long…I can barely remember a time where she
wasn’t. And…I guess I just don’t want to forget that. She used to be so lively,
ya know? She’d always be the life of a party and was always looking for new
ways to make other people happy. I just don’t even recognize her anymore, ya
know?”
Sam nods his head even though he doesn’t really know.Kandice continues to
speak.
“She’s got people here that can take care of her. I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t
know she was gonna be okay. But she’ll die here and I just…can’t.”
She looks at Sam, blue eyes weary. In a lot of ways, they’re similar. He hopes
for her, then, hopes that she’ll be okay and that she’ll make it and that
nothing bad will ever happen to her. But, mostly, he hopes that she’ll be
happy. In whatever context, he hopes that she can find happiness.
“Plus,” she adds, “if I don’t leave now, I never will. I’ve come up with too
many excuses to stick around. I guess I’ve run out.”
The words strike a chord in Sam. Maybe they come a little too close to home
base. He tries to shrug the feeling off but it sticks.
“So is today your last day?” Sam asks her in an effort to change the subject.
“Uh no,” Kandice says, looking sheepish. “Yesterday was…I just didn’t wanna
make a big deal out of it. Sorry…but I wanted to tell you the right way. You’re
a weird kid, Sam Winchester, but I like you.”
Sam smiles. This may be the most he’s ever actually seen of Kandice and part of
him is sad that he didn’t spend more time trying to get to know her. But he
knows it’s for the best. She’s been exactly what he’s needed her to be and
nothing more. They’ve been friends but he’s had no delusions about it and he’s
glad that she doesn’t seem to have any either.
It makes saying goodbye easier.
Just like on the beach, he knows that this is the last time he’ll ever see her.
It’s inexplicable, the way he knows it. But he does. He smiles and pulls her
into a hug, and thinks that even if things don’t turn out as planned, at least
this summer wasn’t completely wasted.
“So I’ll see you around, sasquatch?” Kandice says pulling away from the hug and
giving him a tiny, sarcastic smile, similar to the one she wore when they first
met.
“I’m sure you will,” he says back. She walks backwards slowly until she gets a
few feet away and then she shrugs at him before turning around and walking off.
Sam doesn’t watch her leave.
Work that day isn’t as fun without Kandice around. He does his job, makes his
sales, and then leaves but not before telling his boss that he’s quitting. It’s
not just for Kandice, though. It just feels like the right moment.
He can't explain it but he's getting used to it, just going with his gut.
At the end of the day, he stands on the beach for another few minutes, until
the air gets chilly with the falling night. He feels strange and disconnected
from his surroundings, but serene in a way he can’t quite make sense of. He
leaves the beach when the sun sinks behind the horizon. The sky is turning dark
as he walks back to the house.
When he gets there, as has become routine, Dean is waiting. He pulls Sam into a
kiss that the younger hunter falls into easily, eyes slipping shut as he goes.
They tug at each other’s clothes and barely make it to the bed before things
get messy. They fuck well into the night and fall asleep, sweaty and sticky, in
each other’s arms.
Sam doesn’t dream.
 
Goodbye Pt. 2
It’s like glass, breaking over his head. It’s some sort of epiphany, he swears,
but one he saw coming from miles away.
He had tried to ignore it. After Kandice left, he thought he would just quit
his work, come home, sleep with Dean and continue to ignore his problems. But
he can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop running her words over in his head.
He's spent the whole day trying to distract himself from them and has found
that he can’t. He's tried to read, to watch tv, and even clean but the thoughts
are relentless and tormenting.
They spin around and around in his head and it makes it impossible for him to
focus on the words of his books. He attempts to watch old reruns of "I Love
Lucy" but during every commercial break, his thoughts slip from his control and
he's back to it, mulling over the same words over and over again, trying to
understand why they're bothering him so much. So he gives up on trying to
distract himself with Lucille Ball's ditzy humor and shuts off the tv
altogether.
He gets antsy, then, and in an attempt to quell it, he goes to the sunroom.
Despite Bobby's efforts for the fourth of July, there's still a fine coating of
dust covering everything. He starts to clean and, for a while, it works. He
gets so absorbed in the simple tasks of dusting, wiping, and shining that he
momentarily forgets his dilemma. But when he runs out of surfaces to wipe down,
the thoughts return in full force.
Now he’s sitting in the sunroom and Dean has been out all morning with Bobby,
doing God knows what. But, really, it's the only good thing about the day. It's
hard to deal with these relentless thoughts but it'd be even harder with Dean
around. So he’s sitting here, chewing away at Kandice’s words, not entirely
sure why they’ve caused such an upset in him.
I’ve come up with too many excuses to stick around.
Has it all just been an excuse? Dean? The wolves? Everything? Is he simply
running from things that he created, fears that exist simply because he doesn’t
want to leave what little happiness he has, behind (you can’t run from what’s
inside you)? But there could be so much happiness elsewhere, so many new things
and new people.
But no, Dean’s not just an excuse, could never just be an excuse. Dean is
everything and yeah, maybe Kandice was right when she said people need to save
themselves from the ones they love, but Sam doesn’t feel that way with Dean.
It’s not Dean that’s going to kill him, it’s the life, and his brother just so
happens to be inherently tied to all of it.
He doesn’t know what to do or think because this isn’t about Dean, not
really.If he wants to leave, it’s only because he doesn’t want to live this
life. If he does this, it’s not because he doesn’t love Dean because he does,
God he does (there isn’t a version of you that exists that doesn’t love him)
but he’s just not sure it’s enough.
If he thought, for one second, that he could talk Dean into coming with him, he
wouldn’t hesitate. But that’s impossible. Even if Dean wanted to leave, there’s
no way he’d be okay with abandoning dad to the hunt.
It’s impossible to think about himself without Dean. He’s not exaggerating,
it’s literally impossible for him to think of himself separated from his
brother.
All his life, it’s been “Sam’n’Dean,” “the boys,” “the brothers,” “those two,”
and so on and so forth. Dean’s been a part of his identity since he was born.
There isn’t a faucet of his personality that isn’t somehow linked to his
brother. In fact, when he takes all the parts of his personality that are tied
to Dean out, Sam’s not really sure what is left. He’s not really sure who he is
without Dean.
It’s never been a big deal but, really, maybe it is. Maybe this is where it all
stems from, the desire to leave and be normal. Maybe, in a way, even that is
tied to Dean. And, it really isn’t that he doesn’t love Dean. He does. Some
days, it’s all he thinks about. But there isn’t a corner of his life where Dean
doesn’t exist, and not even his deep abiding love for his brother can make him
blind to the fact that his life, thus far, has been small and centered on only
two (sometimes three) people.
And maybe, no matter how impossible it seems, there’s a version of him that
exists without Dean. He doesn’t like the way it feels to think about that, but
he can’t help it.
He doesn’t know what that version of himself must be like. He can’t imagine it
and, in a lot of ways, it doesn’t seem like something that Sam really wants to
explore. How could Sam without Dean even work? But the more he thinks about it,
the more clearly he can see it in his head.
Maybe that Sam has an apartment.
Maybe that Sam has a bedroom and a bed, one that’s really his own.
Maybe that Sam only ever uses knives for cooking and getting splinters out of
his thumb.
Maybe that Sam has a dog or two and he goes on runs with them every morning on
the Stanford campus track.
It hits him like a ton of bricks, then.
There’s a version of him that exists without Dean It may not be much a version
of himself, hell it may even be a sucky version of himself. But it’s possible.
It can exist. However much he may not want to admit, he can survive in this
world without his brother.
He buries his head in his hands and sighs. He loves his brother so much, too
much. This is too hard of a decision to make because at what point is this him
being selfish? What’s the difference between putting himself first and making
others suffer just so he can have what he wants?
Sometimes we need to save ourselves, Sam thinks, remembering Kandice’s words
once again (if they really love you, then they’ll love you anyway).But it would
also mean giving up this relationship he has with Dean, this relationship that
he’s pined after for years, this impossible thing that he has with his brother.
After wanting it for so long, he’d have to walk away.
It leaves a bad taste in a mouth, rots his insides a little bit. He figures
that leaving Dean would be like lopping off a precious limb, something vital,
like the entire right half of his body.
He doesn’t know if he can do that. And if he does, he’s not sure he can deal
with the aftermath, not just Dean’s inevitable heartbrokenness, but his own.
Sighing again, he leans back in the chair and closes his eyes.
He must have dozed off. He supposes that the past two days’ events have
exhausted him so he doesn’t hear Bobby and Dean come home. When he wakes up, he
can hear Bobby in the backyard, banging around, probably gardening. Rubbing the
sleep from his eyes, Sam stands up and goes to find his brother, trying not to
think of the decision he needs to make.
As it turns out, the decision is made for him.
There are seconds in this life, Sam’s read, which can seem to last forever.
These moments are random, and usually near death experiences (the wolves) or
moments that occur during a time of transition or change in one’s life (the way
he kissed you).
When he walks into his room and sees Dean rooting through his duffel bag, he
has one of these moments.
It happens in slow motion and Sam is powerless to stop it. He'll find it
strange, later when he can reflect, that things can take a turn for the worst
at the drop of a hat. The real world needs no build up, no dramatic music, and
no preamble. Things can simply fall apart, suddenly, for no rhyme or reason.
And they often do.
Dean’s hands must find the bottom of the bag, find that dreaded piece of paper.
He pulls the acceptance letter out and his eyes skim the first line, just like
Sam’s had nearly a month ago. Except Dean doesn’t smile.
This is the second that lasts Sam a lifetime. This is the second where
everything comes crashing down.
And suddenly, someone’s pressed the fast-forward button. Everything that
happens next is a blur of motion.
“What the fuck is this?” Dean asks, voice angry and confused, like he’s looking
at something he can’t quite make sense of but he knows it’s not good.
“Why the hell are you going through my things?” Sam snaps back and maybe
defensive isn’t the way to go here but he can’t help it.
“Answer my question, Sam. What the hell is this? You’re going to Stanford? You
were just gonna leave? Were you even going to tell me?”
“I was going to tell you! I just haven’t decided if I even want to go or not!”
“Do you?”
 “I don’t know, Dean,” Sam says, trying to make his voice sound as honest and
pleading as he feels. “Ever since that hunt…I’ve been confused, I guess I—.”
“That hunt?” Dean asks, sounding incredulous. “You mean the one with the
werewolf? Jeez, Sammy, you’re still on that? Dude, I told you that no one’s
first hunt goes smoothly. So that wolf got the jump on you, so what? It’s an
occupational hazard.”
“One that nearly cost me my life, Dean!” Sam cries.
“You think I don’t know that?” Dean bellows. “You think you’re the only one who
sees those scars on your neck? I almost lost you, Sam. You don’t think I’m
thinking about it all the time? Well I am. And it terrifies me but I’d rather
have you here where I can keep you safe than off at college where there’s no
one to look after you.”
“I’m not a child!”
“No,” Dean agrees, “you’re not. But you’re mine and I need you…Sam, I need to
know that you’re okay.”
“Dean,” Sam pleads, “I need to do this. There’s so much more out there. And I
can take care of myself. You taught me how.”
Sam doesn’t know when he made the decision but sometime during this shouting
match, he did. He’d say it’s the heat of the moment. But something tells him
that this has been a long time coming (you were always going to end up here).
He’s going to Stanford and no force on this earth, not even Dean, can stop him.
“So you’re leaving?” Dean asks, voice sounding raw with emotion. “I thought you
just said you hadn’t decided yet. What changed your mind? That wolf getting the
jump on you or…or…”
Dean doesn’t say it but Sam gets it, inexplicably.
“Oh god no, Dean, no, please don’t think that.” He steps forward, getting close
to Dean. “It has nothing to do with us, with you, please understand that. I
just need to know if there’s something else out there for me.”
“That wolf really scared you that bad?”
Sam sighs because Dean’s still not getting it and he knows, now, that he’ll
have to tell the truth. All of it.
“That wolf didn’t get the jump on me, Dean.”
“What? But it almost got you, Sam! The scars—.”
“I hesitated,” Sam says abruptly. The truth hurts but lying simply isn’t
working anymore. “I hesitated. I had the perfect shot, practically had the gun
at the thing’s chest and I had the perfect shot and I hesitated. I couldn’t do
it. I just—I couldn’t…That wolf was also a man, ya know? A fucking human being
every other day of the week.”
“But hekilled people, Sammy—.”
“I know! God, I fucking know. I get it, to some extent, I totally get it okay?
But I just don’t think I can live this life Dean. I mean, look at the things we
fight! How many of them have human faces? Human eyes, maybe even human souls. I
can’t take someone’s life Dean… I just can’t.” (watching those glowing blue
eyes fall dead before it collapses on top of you. that’s what your nightmares
are really about, forget about the scars on your neck).
“That was just your first time in the field though,” Dean argues. “I’m sure
you’ll get used to it.”
“That’s just it, Dean,” Sam says through a humorless laugh, “I don’t want to
get used to it. It was one thing to do yours and Dad’s research. It was one
thing to train. But I can’t be the hunter you need me to be. I need to know if
there’s something else out there for me, if I have a calling or whatever. I
don’t know. I just need to find something that’s my own. I…I hope you can
forgive me for that.”
“Sammy…” Dean trails off and doesn’t finish whatever that sentence might have
been. Sam raises his hands to cup Dean’s face, and forces his older brother to
look him in the eye.
“I love you, Dean,” he says firmly, “and you have to know that if I could have
you, have us, away from all this…I would. But I know you’d never leave Dad and
I…I need to, okay? I love you, god I love you so fucking much but I can’t stay
here. You can understand that, right? Please tell me you can understand that.”
He’s crying now, tears running down his cheeks. Dean backs away and Sam’s hands
fall limply to his sides.
The room is silent for a long time. Dean doesn’t say anything more and after a
few minutes, he turns away and walks out of the room. There’s no slamming
doors, just the rumble of a car engine starting up. Sam stares at the spot
where he stood blankly, glassy eyes becoming dry. He wipes the small tracks of
tears from his face and sniffles, standing up.
Sam aches now, but it’s not with the intensity he’d been expecting. He’s
heartbroken, undoubtedly, but resolved. He’ll be running on empty for a little
while, learning how to live with the hole inside him. But he’ll survive. He
only hopes that Dean can do the same.
He’s made his bed, he supposes, and now he has to lie in it.
“Everything alright in here?” Bobby’s voice comes from the doorway and Sam
turns to look at him. “I heard some yellin’.”
“Dean and I got in a fight,” Sam explains. “I told him that I’m going to
Stanford.”
Bobby gives him a sympathetic look, but then he smiles and steps further into
the room, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry to hear he didn’t take it well. But I’m proud of you, son.”
“Thanks Bobby,” Sam says, picking the Stanford acceptance letter form where
Dean had dropped it on the floor. He smooths out the crinkles in it and lays it
down on his bed.
He doesn’t say it but, in a weird way, he’s proud of himself too.
*
(if he loves you, then he’ll love you anyway.)
When John surprises Sam by pulling up in the driveway a few hours later, Dean’s
still not back. Sam thinks the universe is toying with him, making him leave
the very next day after Kandice tells him goodbye and the same day that Dean
finds out about Stanford. It’s poetic or maybe Bobby called John. Either way,
he thinks it’s fitting.
John comes in and greets Bobby and Sam. They sit down and John regales them
both with tales of his latest hunts. He asks Sam how the summer has been and
Sam doesn’t know how to answer right away. It’s been crazy, a fucking
whirlwind. But it’s also been the best ten and a half weeks that he can ever
remember having.
The end result is a bit messy, sure, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been worth
every dirty, rotten second.
They sit there for a good 45 minutes, talking and telling stories. John tells
them about how he took out a black dog in Minnesota and, in the same week,
killed a nasty witch coven. Sam likes the stories, despite himself. The stories
were never the problem, anyway.
Before they leave, Sam makes the bed in his room. He helps clean up a little
bit, tiny messes that speak of his and Dean’s time here: the burn mark on the
coffee table where they snuffed a joint, the discolored come stain on the couch
cushion where they couldn’t control themselves, and a bunch of other little
scuffs of dirt that remind him of what this summer was.
The house no longer feels like a dead woman’s home and Sam is no longer numb.
This place, instead, is the house where he found himself (you’re a smart boy.
college boy to be). This is the place where he first tasted Dean’s skin (and
will you ever taste it again?) This place is a memory, a fond one, and he knows
that he’ll never really forget it.
They bid farewell to Bobby who’s going to make his way back to South Dakota
sometime during the week. There’s a good chance they won’t see him again for a
couple of months.
“Thank you,” Sam says to Bobby after pulling him away from his father, “for
everything…for believing in me. Having your support…it, uh, means a lot.”
“Don’t strain yourself, kid,” Bobby jokes. “You’re a smart kid Sam. I’d hate to
see it go to waste.”
They hug and when Sam pulls away, he sees Dean pull up in the driveway in his
borrowed car. He gets out and Sam’s heart leaps into his throat. There’s still
so much of him that just loves Dean, that just wants to be in his brother’s
arms. He just wants to take it all back and be with Dean again but he can’t. He
made his choice. All he can do now, is hope that he and Dean find that peace
again someday.
Dean disappears into the house, carrying a black plastic bag. Sam doesn’t ask
what’s in it. The older hunter comes back out with his stuff. He greets their
Dad and says goodbye to Bobby. The three of them sit and chat for a minute
while Sam throws his stuff in the trunk of the Impala.
“You ready to go, boys?” John asks, as he finishes packing up the car.
Sam looks back at the beach, at the endless expanse of blue ocean (you won’t be
missing it for long). He no longer imagines drifting away off to sea. He’s
found his path. He looks back at his Dad and Dean and nods. For the first time
in life, he really is ready to go.
“Yeah, let’s get out of here,” Dean says. He meets Sam’s eyes and Sam is
expecting to see vitriol or fire. But he just sees calm resignation and it
gives him a little hope.
Sam climbs into the backseat and the Impala feels like coming back to something
warm and familiar, the closest thing to a home he’s ever had. He doesn’t resent
it now, because he knows he’ll miss it later (a part of you will always exist
here).
The sun is setting as they drive off and it’s something poetic, Sam swears. He
doesn’t look back, doesn’t think about Kandice or all the memories he’s leaving
behind. He’ll have plenty of time to think on those things later. Dean turns
around from the front seat and tosses the black, plastic bag at him.
“Got you a souvenir,” Dean says, and there’s a ghost of a smile on his face.
Sam feels a little more hope grow.
Sam opens the bag and nearly laughs. It’s a yellow t-shirt, the one that used
to hang every day, outside the board shop. He never knew that Dean knew where
he worked. The gesture is so oddly sweet and sentimental and Sam knows, in that
moment, that they’ll survive this.
He reads the words on the shirt, the ones that he’s committed to memory: “Santa
Monica Pier: the sea will bring you home!” He looks at Dean who’s watching his
reaction from the rearview mirror. So many things have changed between them
but, in a lot of ways, they’re exactly the same. He smiles at Dean, then, and
nods. They’ll survive this.
They may never be okay, but they’ll keep going.
  Works inspired by this one
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!