Archive of Our Own ^beta

John doesn’t think about it. Why would he? It’s not the type of thing that crosses someone’s mind – and when it does, it’s buried fast, pressed aside. Being the one to think it feels wrong, like imposing something twisted where it’s not, as if it’s the interpretation that’s evil and not the act. So he doesn’t think about it, and any chance where he might have noticed has been suppressed with a finger of whiskey and a tight frown around his lips.

That was – he didn’t think about it. Now he has no choice but to.

…

The summer of ’96 is hot.

John spends half of it on the road, trailing a pack of rougarou and working through the last of them with Caleb. He’ll take the boys to help with the task the week after they've broken up the pack and get to chasing down the remaining runners. Dean would’ve been with him already if someone didn’t have to keep an eye on Sam, too dangerous still for his youngest to wade into. But it was high time the kid learned how to hunt a rougarou anyway, so he figures he’ll bring the boys along for the tail end of it.

Sam’s churlish these days. He’s started to shoot up, almost 14 and all angles. It’s like watching a deer learn how to walk half of the time, a sight that he has to suppress snickers at. The other half of the time… John’s proud, or something just left of it. Sam’s learning to put his new size and developing muscles into practice. He’d still rather keep his head in a book and complains whenever John and Dean make him train but he’s landing more blows and hitting harder.

That part though… that might be an issue. At 14, Dean hadn’t been a handful. A snapped comeback sometimes but he always fell in line. He wasn’t the ball of ever-present rage that Sam is becoming. John can see it simmering away beneath the surface, sees it slip when he hits too hard in sparring, not that Dean ever seems to mind. John’s on the receiving end of it too, more than a comeback or two thrown his way these days. He doesn’t tolerate much back talk but Sam seems determined to find and press every limit he can.

John tries not to think too hard about it, about Sam’s anger, as he rolls up to the one-off rental they’re calling home right now, a motor inn kind of place with separate units. He might need to give the Impala a look-over before they set out again, her engine’s growling more than purring. He hops up the front, looking forward to a shower and a mattress, the last three days spent camping out and sleeping in the car.

He can’t figure out what's off when he enters the house, not right away. It’s something, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Instincts aren’t something he doubts, and he’s already slipping his hand behind him toward the gun slung in the seat of his pants when Dean rounds the corner from the kitchen.

“You’re home early.”

John relaxes, fixes his jacket. “Where’s your brother?”

Dean points his thumb toward his and Sam’s shared room.

“Everything okay?”

Dean’s too careful expression tells him the answer. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Dean.”

The boy opens his mouth, guilt glancing off his face and he visibly recalculates.

“We had a fight.”

John works not to let his relief show too much. That was easy. The silence that felt off in the house was his boys at odds and that, at least, isn’t dangerous or even out of the ordinary.

“About anything in particular?”

“The usual stuff.”

“Let him know we’re pulling out at first light.”

“Where to?”

“Hunting.”

It turns out that’s when it started, so that’s when he should’ve realized. He didn’t, but he should’ve.

…

’00 is the year he finds out.

They were hunting a black dog, a spirit omen that tracks travellers and kills them, and managed to gank it eventually, but not until it had rushed Sam. He’d got out of the way of its snarling jaws before John had shot it, but its paws were massive and Sam’s ribs were small, and the way it threw him to the ground made him crack his head good and hard on the not-that-forgiving ground. At least the February slush and snow had helped pad it a bit.

So he’s in pain, breathing deep through it. Dean sits in the back with him the whole time, looking worse than Sam even though he doesn’t have a scratch on him. Sam’s not exactly dying here, and at 16 he doesn’t need his brother to cluck after him this much.

John gets them to the motel, makes Dean take a shower and clean up while he shines a flashlight in Sam's eyes. Dean frets whenever he has to patch Sam up and the kid is fine. A little bumped around, some bruised ribs, a mild concussion – not the end of the world. 

"Next time, keep your wits about you."

Sam's expression is mutinous, but he clips out a "yes, sir" and John will take it. Dean comes out of the bathroom still hauling on his shirt he was in such a hurry to check on his brother, and Sam's eyes zero in on him immediately. John shakes his head, tired. They should be celebrating a hunt well done but Sam's got them all on edge and apparently won't even look at him.

"His ribs?"

"Bruised."

"Should I wrap them?"

"Don't, they're not bad enough to need it and he got sick last time."

Dean nods and John can't figure out for the life of him why Sam looks disappointed. 

"I'm right here you know. Don't I get an opinion?"

"You get an opinion when you don't get yourself concussed because you can't keep your wits on a hunt. Now put your shirt back on and help clean these guns."

The moment stretches and John, not for the first time when he’s coming down from the adrenaline of a hunt, feels out of his depth. But Sam complies once he’s done glaring, slowly rolling his feet to the ground and setting his jaw to grinding.

John gives up and goes to do inventory in the car, lets his sons have their quiet, half-whispered conversations and gives them a moment without him looming so they can all relax. He doesn't even hate to admit that Dean’s better with Sam than he'll ever be. He's not surprised when he comes back inside 20 minutes later and they're both more at ease, Sam watching Dean's fingers raptly as Dean cleans and puts a gun back together, Sam following suit.

"Pizza for dinner. You earned it."

It gets him smiles from both of them and finally the gnawing ache between his shoulder-blades eases a little; he even accepts Sam's choice of vegetarian. He appreciates the fact that the kid is keeping them all from getting scurvy, he really does, but who the hell likes vegetarian pizza?

He's back to an itch under his skin not long after they eat, watching the boys settle in to watch something on TV he won't pretend to understand, bad humour and worse acting. 

"I'm out."

They pause and look up at him. Dean's lounging with his feet out on the coffee table and Sam's lounging with his back against the side of the couch and his feet on Dean.

"Gonna be the whole night?" Sam asks it innocently but it rankles. Dean jumps in before John can lecture him.

"What I think Sam means is should we lock the chain?"

He's mollified, if only a little. Not worth starting a fight over, not when Sam’s only snappy because he’s in pain. "You're not going out?"

Dean shakes his head, "gonna watch our concussion case here."

If it came from Sam he'd suspect it was a dig, but from Dean it's like breathing. He always steps up, takes care of his brother. John almost wants to urge him to go out instead. Dean ought to be having fun, chasing tail and living a young man's life. But it's not like Dean's lacking in it if the marks on his neck these days are anything to go by. Not to mention this town only has two bars anyway, so Dean’s chances of running into his father while trying to score would be non-zero, which might be a laugh for John but no one wants their dad around when they’re trying to flirt.

In the end, he leaves without complaint, leaves the matter of how long he'll be undecided. He's pretty sure they don't expect him till morning but for once Sam keeps his trap shut about it. He hustles a bit of pool, nothing too big, just enough to cover his drinks and their room for the night, sipping more whiskey than he maybe ought to as he does. It doesn't help, hasn't really in years but that doesn't stop a man from trying.

It would be good to unwind. Wash off the day in the best way he knows how. But he can’t. Whenever he closes his eyes for a second, it’s waiting behind his lids – Sam, distracted out in the field, missing that he was being tracked until the last second, startling at John’s shout, getting a shot in on the black dog just in time not to get himself mauled. And Dean, shouting and rushing for him even as he got knocked off his feet, John lining up the dog in the sight of his shotgun. Then Sam coming to, groaning and rubbing his head, the white pallor of Dean’s face relaxing, John’s own heart restarting.

It’s always hard, seeing one of his sons come that close. The job isn’t easy, the survival rate isn’t high. That’s why he's always training them, pushing them. Days like this, though, remind him how young they are, especially Sam. He hopes it reminds Sam, too, about how important focus is, how easy near-misses become not-misses.

John winces around his whiskey. It wasn’t a near-miss, not really. Sam was concussed, or close to it, bruised up. And angry, again, maybe not for no reason.

The thought's enough to ruin any cheer the pool winnings or cheap liquor might bring. He finishes his drink and pays up his tab, decides he'll call it early and give the kid a little more attention than he's had time for recently. It’s the least he can do.

He drives back to the motel early and slowly, parks a little far from the door because the lot’s full. He should've reconsidered the last few fingers of whiskey, he thinks. Too late and nothing for it, but it's hitting him now that the bar is behind him, the way liquor does. He drags a hand down his face, breath misting in the late winter air. It’s February cool but he wishes it were cooler still.

The light’s off in the room if the window’s anything to go by. It’s early yet but the boys need their rest. He tries to be quiet when he slips toward the door, feet soft on the steps. He’s quieter still when he slips out the key, thinking of Sam’s baleful glares and how he’s going to be wearing one if John wakes him because he can’t get the key in the lock on the first try.

He’s quiet the whole way as the door slides open.

The room though – the room isn't quiet. 

It fills his ears all at once – the slap of skin on skin, the creak of old springs and a slick – Dean gasping Sammy and Sam with a noise that sounds like a wounded animal, keening and pained when Dean –

The tableau John sees, processes before he can even think—

In the light of the parking lot streaming in from behind him, they're on the bed, naked as the day they were born. Sam's on his back, head tilted back, eyes screwed shut and mouth wide open. There’s a goddamn pillow under his hips and his fingers are digging into Dean's – Dean's – Dean’s – back and the light from the street behind John shows angry red marks all down it from Sam’s nails. The only part of that back that isn't visible is the part obscured by Sam's legs wrapped around, leaving nothing to the imagination about what's happening, what's been happening. And – it’s not Dean, that can’t be Dean – has just rocked his hips, fucking into Sam.

It only lasts a second, not even. Just long enough for them to gasp, register the sound of the door, the light falling on them. Just long enough for a single thought, a single feeling to cut through the noise of John's fried brain. 

Protect Sam.

They're throwing themselves off each other, untangling and exclaiming but John's reacting and he's faster, a few steps and he's got that thing in his arms and he's throwing it away from Sam with a shout. It's wearing Dean's face and shifter is his first thought but he discards it just as fast because a shifter wouldn't rape Dean's brother so demon comes quick to mind and he spares a half-second thought for when in the hell Dean got possessed and how long it's been riding him and that's when he registers that he's shouting at the thing, punching the creature wearing Dean's face and body like a suit and Sam is on him, grabbing his arm and wrist and shouting -

"That's Dean – Dad that's DEAN! STOP!"

He does. His breathing is ragged but beating his son's face in won't help with the possession. The demon isn't even fighting back, won't look at him, on the ground as soon as John dropped the grip he had on him, shaking a little. 

Sam tries to move to his side but John blocks him with an arm.

"That's not your brother, Sam. Christo."

Dean flinches but he looks fleeting up at John and his eyes don't go black. John's own narrow.

"What are you?"

Not-Dean flinches again and shakes his head. His face is busted up the way a human's would be, with a split lip and red blood, the redness of pre-bruising around the eye and cheek, the beginnings of swelling that tell John he didn't crack anything but it probably came close. His eyes are watering and he's doing a damn good impression of how scared and ashamed his son would look right about now.

John looks down. He doesn't want to see, but he's evaluating and the monster – the monster is wearing a condom. Or was. It's dislodged from his softened dick and on the ground, a sad and shriveled scrap of evidence. It stops John cold.

A monster wouldn't bother.

Unbidden, his brain rattles loose a memory from three summers ago. An uncomfortable conversation about protection since Dean got the clap and John had chuckled a little in private but swore a blue streak to his son's face about it because he ought to be smarter than that, and he's lucky it's not worse, that no one's pregnant, and yes dammit we'll pay for a doctor but if I ever catch you skipping protection again son you bet your life you're running double time each morning for a month.

Seems that lesson sunk in. He's not sure how so many others didn't. Like the 'don't fuck your brother' lesson he figured was taken as given.

"D-ean?" his voice doesn't crack but it does something, scratches in disbelief and he didn't give his mouth permission to talk but it comes out anyway because he can't – this can't –

His son lets out a breath, slow and shaky. Jesus Christ. His son. That's Dean. And Dean was - 

"If you're not cursed then you had better have a damn good explanation for what the hell you were just doing to your BABY BROTHER you sick f - "

"DAD!" It's Sam again and John finally looks at him. He's breathing heavy. They all are, but Sam is covered in sweat and still naked and shaking and jesus christ there is a bite mark on his clavicle and his lips are far too red but he's got that angry, determined set to his face and it twists something horrible in John's gut because everything in that little tableau tilts on an axis with Sam's expression - 

"Put some clothes on Samuel."

"But - "

"Now."

Sam glances at his brother then John for a second before complying, moving over to where he's got boxers and a t-shirt sitting by the side of the bed. John curls his lip at Dean but leans over to scoop up the set by his own feet and throws them at his son’s chest.

"You too."

Dean still won't look at him but he complies without question. Still more obedient than Sam, even now. Except he's not, because a good son would never – Dean would never – 

Dean did. John feels sick.

And Sam is already edging back toward his brother, trying to get in between John and Dean.

"Just let us explain – "

Oh he’s having none of that. "Stay out of this, Sam. What your brother did – "

"He didn't, I – "

"THAT'S ENOUGH!"

It's enough to make them both flinch, to make Dean to finally move, putting himself between John and Sam. Protect Sam, always. How did that lesson get so twisted around.

"Dad."

John almost flinches too. His knuckles are burning and he's halfway considering punching Dean again no matter how wrong it might be because what Dean did was so much worse. And Dean continues,

“Please.”  

He shakes his head. He won't get a straight answer out of either one of them while they're together. 

"Put on some pants. You and me – we're taking a drive."

Dean's back stiffens. Sam immediately tries to protest.

"There's no way – " 

"Not another word, Sam."

"I'm not just gonna let you take him somewhere and take this out on him when I'm the one – "

"Sammy." Dean’s voice is ragged and quiet and he hasn't heard him sound like that in a long time, not since the last time Sam was hurt bad enough to need a hospital. It stops Sam though, eyes looking at his brother wide and worried. "It's fine."

John realizes they're the same height, the two of them. Sam's actually an easy inch taller. He knew it, but it's different to see it. John always thinks of him as so much smaller. And he is, in the ways it counts. He's leaner and less muscle, still a kid – god he's still a fucking kid, how could Dean –  but he's taller and he's going to be big, bigger than either John or Dean. 

If Sam were a few years older, a little more trained, John's not sure he would've got that first punch in on Dean. Not sure if he'd be able to drag Dean out for a drive if Sam didn't want him to. The hate-filled look his youngest is giving him now is testament to it. Sam's always had anger, but he's never had the size or strength to do much about it. That's changing. 

"Let's go."

"Yes, sir."

"If you hurt him..." Sam lets the threat hang at their backs. John pauses for a second then keeps walking. He follows Dean out, keeping his son in front of him. He's sober enough to drive now, no problem. Nothing to sober a body up like the worst shock of a lifetime.

How did he miss this?

He wonders that around the roiling of his stomach as he peels out of the parking lot, Dean silent in the passenger's. His head is going through sick scenarios and he keeps resisting them on instinct, coiling away but then reminds himself it was real, that that just happened and it's not wrong to try to figure it out when it was happening, to replay their interactions in his head for the signs. The way Sam stared too long and too adoringly at Dean. When did that stop being hero worship? The marks on Dean's neck – they were consistent. It wasn't a gamut of different girls who all found that same spot or three on his neck to suck. How could it be? How could John not have noticed the consistency? The way they didn't complain as much anymore about the tight quarters, all the times they shared a room or a bed and – 

John’s ill. Sick enough he has to pull over, get out, and gag. Dean gets out but doesn’t say anything and John breathes through the dry heave, bent partway with hands on his knees and spit on the dirt by the side of the road.

"It's sick, Dean."

"I'm sorry."

It’s loud, too loud because it sounds broken, like it’s ripped from him. John shudders and shakes his head. "Get back in the car."

Dean hesitates. John doesn’t blame him. He’s not sure where they’re going either except that he is, he knows but he isn’t forming that thought yet. He moves back to the driver side and Dean follows again and they’re silent for another hour, passed the state line. Dean fidgets when they cross it.

"Where – "

"We'll see." His tone doesn’t invite further conversation.

He pulls over again on a dirt road some twenty minutes later. He's driven long enough to feel exhausted again, which is good. Exhausted means he’s less likely to kill his son. He doesn’t want to, couldn't rightly even consider it and doesn’t plan on it. But molesting, raping his younger brother – that was inexcusable and he doesn’t trust his own anger.

He gets out and drags both hands down his face. The night’s finally cold and Dean's arms are bare. John watches him shiver. He doesn’t complain though – Dean never does. John knows Caleb, Mark, Daniel all call him a good soldier like a compliment and he'd heard Sam sneer it to his brother as an insult. He is a good soldier, a good hunter, and John was normally – he was normally proud of that fact, at least in private. Something he'd done right. 

He's not so sure if he did anything even approaching right at this point.

Dean looks scared. He's got bluster, he always does, but John knows every tilt to his shoulders and that closed off expression.

"Tell me."

Dean pulls in a breath. "What – what do you want to know?"

John shakes his head. None of it. All of it. "You know it's wrong."

"Yes, sir."

He gears himself up for this. "Then why? He's your brother, Dean. He’s sixteen." 

Just thinking about that makes him ill again. It’s plenty old enough on the one hand, but not at all old enough on the other, not to be doing it with someone who’s just turned 21, not old enough to be doing it with someone who's his brother.

"Were you so mad at life you thought you could take it out on him? So tired of protecting him you twisted it around?"

Dean's eyes are wide and that, at least, is a relief. The spark of outrage at the accusation, the way he takes a step forward and speaks in a way that John can actually recognize. "I would never – never – hurt Sammy. I wouldn't. It's not like that."

"It's not like that?" John throws his arms out wide. The moonlight's enough to light them up and it's quiet enough in the middle of nowhere he can yell. "You were raping your brother!"

"It wasn't rape!"

Now they’re getting somewhere.

"Even if he said yes that doesn’t give you the right." He shakes his head, disgusted. "He can’t say no, not to you and you know it. Pushing him because you can take – because he’d do anything for you."

"No! Never, I’d never push him, I’d never even ask –"

Bingo.

"So that is how this started. He convinced you."

Dean realizes his mistake too late and shuts up tight, tense as a bow. John presses his advantage, takes a step toward his son,

"He get all twisted up in his hero worship for you, hit puberty like a freight train and start – what, asking for tips? That's where it started, didn't it? Then crawling into your bed, probably thought you were crazy for thinking he was doing it on purpose, rutting up against you – "

"Don't – "

But he can see it as he spells it out and realizes it's the only version of this that makes any sense even if it's still as sick. "And then when he first put his hands on you – you said no. Tell me you said no the first time, Dean."

Dean shudders. He looks small, smaller than he is. Curled on himself even though he's standing straight, looking down and away and there's tears in his eyes and they're starting to fall, breath getting ragged again. 

John nods. He almost hates that he knows his boys this well, that all it took was Sam’s face to spell it out even if he needed to know for sure. He hates even more that he's relieved this is how it happened. "How long'd it take before you said yes?"

"You're making it seem – "

"Sick? It is sick, Dean. He is your brother. You're supposed to be smarter than that. Steer him right, get him a girlfriend, help him get over his confused crush on you."

Dean chokes out a laugh under the tears and brings the back of his wrist up to his mouth, obviously trying to hold it together.

"How long?"

His son shakes his head now. John doesn't want to know, he really doesn't, but he needs a timeline. 

"Dean."

"He – I – it didn’t happen overnight. It wasn’t... " He shakes his head again. Too young, then. John’s stomach threatens to heave again but he pushes it down and waits. And waits. Dean’s done protecting himself now that he’s got John’s angle, back to protecting Sam like he always does, so he'll sort out fast that John's not going to blame Sam for however young he was when he started getting twisted up about his older hero of a brother. "First time I said no he was thirteen. He kissed me."

It curls his stomach and lip again. He forces through the feel of bile creeping up his throat, focused. He doesn't want to know what kind of kiss, or if Dean kissed back, or how he felt about it. He doesn't need to know either so he doesn't ask. 

"How long after that –  "

"Almost a year before – before anything else. We didn't for a long time, and even when we did it wasn’t...” He loses track of it, gathers himself. “He was fifteen when I…"

"When you fucked him?"

Dean shakes his head, fresh tears falling. "Not that. Not that till he after he turned sixteen. "

John thinks about Sam’s sixteen birthday, how he hadn’t been there. He doesn’t want to think it through any further, what type of gifts...

"Going on close to a year then?"

Dean nods. “Not even but... I guess, yeah.”

Which really means almost three years of this since that first kiss Sam must've planted on his brother.

It all makes such a horrifying amount of sense that he feels dizzy for a minute. He moves to the hood of the Impala and leans himself against it, hand over his face again. He's still mad, still mad as hell but three quarters at himself now. 

Well, not entirely.

"I know you want to give him the world, Dean, but you were never supposed to give him this."

Dean's wiping his tears. He swallows hard though and when he looks, John notes his hands have started to shake. He quirks an eyebrow at him.

"You're wrong. Sir. About – about what this is. It’s not like – I'm not giving this to him like I give him the last poptart in a pack. This is – it's my fault, Dad. I don't know what I did but I twisted him up and made him want this and I didn’t do it on purpose but it’s still my fault. He shouldn't feel like he does but when he offered I couldn't help myself. That’s me."

It’s getting harder to bite back the bile in his throat. Because he can see that scenario play out too. Dean, always protecting Sammy, treating him special. In his mind's eye he can picture just a little too much affection, holding him just a little too close, hands slipping maybe a fraction here and there, by accident to start but – just the right amount so that he can lie about it to himself, deny and repress like it's not their family motto, just enough to influence Sam's puberty-fueled haze. Building his whole world around Sammy until Sammy looks at him like he's the sun and Dean liking the feeling, liking getting that attention and affection, feeding on the affirmation and indulging it. He’s always been a showman, and Sam’s always been his favorite audience. And them, sleeping in the same bed when they were too damn old for it and lord knows that's John's fault for being a tightwad but Dean was there and probably teaching – teaching his brother how to touch himself, passing on skin mags or introducing him to porn or them overhearing each other and all of it because they're teenage boys and how did John let this go on so long and why didn't he think – 

He blows out a breath. It’s too much, his skin is too small for this burden. "If I thought you groomed your brother on purpose I'd be digging your grave right now, son or no son."

Dean's body goes taught, and then relaxes almost just as fast. He shakes a little, then haltingly comes to sit next to John on the front of the Impala.

"I'm sorry."

John shakes his head. "That doesn't cut it."

"What – "

"It's gotta stop."

Dean swallows. Tension and the angry kind of heat warms up John's chest again, voice more of a growl when he continues,

"It has to. There is a line, and then there’s this, and this is so far past that line it’s not funny. It’s fucking with his head – both of yours – too much and it's wrong."

"I know. I know it's wrong, and Sam knows too. It's – it's incest,” he almost chokes on the word. “We know but – "

"There are no buts, Dean! This can't ever happen again!"

Dean shudders, deflates. He’s still for a long time. "I love him."

For a moment, a tired drawn out moment, that tastes like grief to John. It's probably true, in its own fucked up way. They love each other. They're family. There's never been any doubt his boys love each other. But it's not supposed to look like this, or be like that. And if he distills that love they show for one another into that... it's too much. They need each other too much as it is and he's never thought that till now but it's there, he's made them rely too much on one another and he wanted them to put family before anything else but it's a liability, a big screaming neon sign that says 'this is my weakness' and now he's not even sure –

"Some time apart will do you both some good."

Dean's head snaps up. "What – "

"A few weeks, a month. Maybe two. Caleb will take you on a hunt. He said he’s looking for someone for a case. Then if we need more time, Jim can."

"Time for what?"

"For you to get over each other. Get over – this."

Dean shakes his head. His eyes are imploring when John can bear to look at him, which isn't for long. "There's no getting over – "

"Then to get past it! To get your head around the fact that you can't be his brother and be that –to learn to live without each other."

Dean swallows. His voice is raw again when he asks, "a few weeks?"

John nods. "I'm not turning you out, son." It crossed his mind. Crossed his mind to drive all this way and leave Dean to find his own way from here and never look back. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to and he doesn’t but – Sam would be gone the next day. "But I can't take you back there right now. We're heading straight to Bobby's, it's the closest. And we'll move past this, but for a little while, you can't be around Sam."

He nods and John sees the shame there again. They get in the car, still a forty-minute ride to Bobby's. When they're close, Dean finally fidgets enough that John tells him to out with it already.

"What're you gonna tell him? Sam, I mean."

"Same damn thing I told you."

"He's gonna argue. I don't – he just is."

Like John needed Dean to tell him that. "He'll live. 'N live better when he gets this out of his head."

Dean doesn't say anything else. John leaves Dean on the doorstep at Bobby's. It's shy of sunrise but warming up, and they had a go bag in the car for Dean, the way they always do. He'll tell Bobby that he and John had a fight and he wants a few days away, wants to cool his head, and John will give Caleb a call to come and scoop him up. 

They'll be alright.

 …

It’s his birthday.

The clock on the dashboard says so. It’s 1:13am and that means he’s 14 now and he thinks he should feel something about that, anything about that, but he doesn’t. The thought forms up weird and hollow in Sam’s chest as he presses the bandage tighter to Dean’s skin and hopes to god his brother doesn’t bleed out in the backseat.

He doesn’t. Small miracles. But he does take three days of bed rest to get back to normal and Sam is going crazy the entire time.

He can’t stand it because – it’s his fault. It’s his goddamn fault Dean got hurt. And no matter how many times his dad tells him not to worry and that Dean will be fine, it doesn’t matter because that doesn’t change the fact that it was him and he should’ve been watching and he should’ve protected Dean but he didn’t and he can’t – he can’t even tell his dad why it’s his fault.

It’s his fault because twenty-eight days ago, Sam kissed Dean. Sam kissed his brother and it fucked everything up and almost got him killed.

It had been building for a long time, somewhere inside of him. He was determined to keep it there – inside – locked up tight where feelings like that should be. It had taken so long to even identify it that by the time he did, he had almost no defense against it except denial, which was suddenly coming up short.

It wasn’t so bad at first. It wasn’t so obvious. The way he wanted Dean’s attention more than anyone else’s, the way he liked to spar with Dean and get thrown around. That was healthy, rough-housing, getting adrenaline out. And the way Dean looked in the sunlight with that dazzling smile that made every girl in a 100-yard radius bat her eyelashes at him. That was admiration and envy, at first, or at least he’d convinced himself of it. And the comfort from Dean, of being scared and wanting Dean close when he was, the routine of slipping into his brother’s bed when he was too old to have an excuse but still not getting judged for it, just getting a sleepy arm thrown over him. That was good too, and easy to explain to himself; there wasn’t a lot in their lives that made him feel welcome or safe, and this was one little thing he could hold on to, so he did.

But it built from there, when he turned 11, then 12, and this past year, 13. The longer time went, the more it turned itself around and inside out and he’s not sure he ever would have found the label for the warm sensation that crept through him whenever he thought of his brother except his body wouldn’t let him pretend. Morning wood had gotten more insistent whenever he slept around Dean, and then sparring had become a problem, the way Dean’s arms felt when they threw him around. Sam got worse, not better, at throwing his brother off. He got better, not worse, at finding ways to keep their bodies in contact before he realized what he was doing and made it stop, forced himself to focus. It was just a sensation, he told himself, just hormones and puberty. He told himself that with his hand around himself in the shower, thinking about Dean holding him down to the floor, arms caging him in.

It was hard to pretend, after that. A little bit of panic bubbled up in him when he got hard watching Dean clean his guns, and then a lot of panic when he couldn’t tear his eyes off Dean’s ass in his boxers when they were asleep in the same bed in a ramshackle cabin, Dean sleeping on his stomach with his ass popped out and plump.

The amount of times he got called a spaz in the nine months after he’d figured out his feelings weren’t just happy warm fuzzy like brothers were supposed to have, but also wanting hot needy like brothers were not supposed to have was uncountable.

He’d been panicking and angsting about it for longer than he can count, now. He kept indulging it, sneaking away to deal with it in a very physical sense, kept swallowing back the urge to touch or – god forbid – the urge to tell Dean. Part of him kept pushing him to act, to ask if Dean wanted the same, even though he knew Dean didn’t, couldn’t. Sam was the freak here. It wasn’t just hormones, it wasn’t going away, and his adoration of Dean – powerful, beautiful, funny and too-perfect Dean, universally admired – was mixing up with something he wasn’t supposed to want or to feel and that was just – how it was.

He had a crush on his brother. Or – that wasn’t quite right, though it stirred some butterflies in his stomach when Dean ruffled his hair, and part of him was constantly daydreaming about Dean’s lips. But Dean was his brother, and there was too much love and comfort there for it to be a crush. Which meant that he didn’t know what to call it, and mostly didn’t call it anything.

Eventually, almost a year into Realizing, it had started to settle. He had always hero-worshipped Dean, and if some wires were crossed there now, then sure he was a freak but what else was new. He could numb himself to it. It was just another weird thing in their ever-weird lives and if it wasn’t going away then he would just ignore it. He’d avoid indulging in it, make sure he didn’t creep on Dean, and it wouldn’t matter.

And it didn’t stop him, he learned, from liking to kiss girls, like Becca Jennings who got dared to kiss the new kid in the class behind the school one afternoon (Sam wasn’t complaining, and if being the new kid always meant getting slipped some tongue, he might actually stop whining so much about how often they moved).

But daydreaming about doing more with Becca Jennings also didn’t stop him from dreaming about doing more with Dean, either. It seemed his brain had decided it was smart enough to hold both feelings at the same time. Dean had always been there, nestled in to his heart, so there was no need to rearrange or do anything to make space for new people. The same room for them was always there, without changing the space Dean occupied, would always occupy.

Sam had thought he’d live like that forever. He’d gotten used to it. He’d let his guard down.

…

Dad’s been gone for three days, off to an old, unnamed hunter's place to do some research and stock up on weapons. Sam doesn’t mind, used to it being Dean and him. Dean’s looking out for Sam. Well, Dean’s drinking beer acquired with a fake ID and making out with a girl on the couch while Sam’s in their room studying for his science test, but that’s pretty much the same thing.

And it’s fine. It’s typical. It’s a normal Friday night, and there’s really nothing out of place except the feeling in his gut. That part’s new. Well, new-ish. It’s newly identified, because before it wasn’t this shade of jealousy, it was just a natural craving for attention, but now it’s... different. It’s warmer, angrier.

When it clicks that’s what he’s feeling, it stops Sam up short. It’s like a thrumming in his veins that he can’t shake. He keeps checking his watch, tapping his leg, thinking about heading out to the living room, practicing excuses he could use to interrupt. It’s stupid, and Dean’s happy and he should leave it, leave them, probably on their way to second base or more. But its consuming him, hard to think about anything else, and he halfway doesn’t know what to do about that. His ears strain to catch every sound and he finds himself sneaking across the room, to the crack in his door, aiming to decipher every minute creak of the couch cushions.

He shouldn’t. It’s stupid. Dean isn’t his, and his blood has no right to boil. He can’t convince himself to stop listening, can’t see from here but he wants to.

There’s a very distinct moan from down the hall. Jealousy might’ve made him stupid, but desire is what does him in. It was Dean’s voice that made that sound, and Sam finds himself out of his bedroom without even thinking.

Except –

He has no plan.

He’s in the doorway, cheeks flushing to the roots of his hair. The hall’s short and he can see. She’s on top of Dean, sighing, no shirt on but her bra still intact. He can’t even see Dean, just the back of his head, but he can see her, with her red lips all smudged and Dean’s fingers working on undoing her pants. She’s grinding down into him, onto him, and denim might be in the way but it’s not like Sam can’t imagine –

She looks up when she sees Sam standing there, gasping.

“I, uh –” he swallows, “bathroom.” He points and then makes a beeline to it and slams the door behind him, pretends that’s what he’d been planning to do all along.

She was gorgeous. Easily the hottest person he’d seen in that level of undress in person. She was beautiful and her tits were amazing and her bra had been red and lacy and he can’t stop picturing it and how her legs must have felt cinched around Dean’s waist and the way she was moving –

“—cannot be-LIEVE you –”

“It’s not a big deal, he’s just – ”

“It’s a big deal to me!”

Oh shit.

Sam presses his forehead to the hollow wood of the bathroom door and listens to Dean’s date snap at him about Sam being there. If nothing else, its helping soothe his aching boner, which could be for Dean or for his girl or for both of them together, it’s impossible to say. That thought isn’t helping – Sam’s brain thinking of being between the two of them, her tits in his face and Dean’s warm body at his back and that –

He swallows and hears the door slam. Damn. Dean’s gonna be pissed. Sam’s been in the bathroom too long already as it is. How weird would it be if he took a shower right now? Too obvious? Too obvious.

He flushes the toilet and splashes water on his face and the back of his neck and towels it dry before poking his head out of the bathroom. Dean’s got his shirt back on, sitting on the couch, expression aggravated.

Sam swallows. “Sorry about… that.”

“Couldn’t hold it?

He shakes his head. Dean sighs.

“Not your fault, Sammy. When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

He didn’t have to go. He’s really not about to tell that to Dean.

“Not sure why she was so pissed.”

Dean tosses him a half-smile. “Don’t worry about it. Wanna watch a movie?”

Everything lights up, most of all his own smile. And then he comes closer and notices what Dean is rolling between his fingers. It’s definitely not a cigarette.

“Is that pot?”

“Yeah,” Dean shrugs, still rolling it, and Sam sits carefully on the other end of the couch. “We were gonna get high, told her I could get some. Guess the thought of getting high and getting off with someone else around freaked her out. Maybe that and she’s still sixteen. Her dad’s a cop.”

Dean had just turned eighteen a few months ago in January, after all. Did that make it illegal in this state? Sam couldn’t remember. “Oh.”

“More for me, I guess. Can’t leave it lying around for dad to find.”

Dean pulls out a lighter and Sam steals glances at it between his fingers, settling a little closer on the couch.

“Make some popcorn, would you?”

Sam does, not even complaining about the hassle, too eager and he can’t quite say why. The butter coats his fingers with his first handful but he’s settled next to Dean on the couch and after a few minutes, unspoken, Dean passes him the joint.

He coughs a little and Dean laughs, not unkindly. “Exhale slowly. You’ll get the hang of it. Make sure you don’t just puff, you want to get it in your lungs.”

Sam does better the second time. It kind of tickles his throat a little but he only coughs the once when he passes it back. It tastes almost as bad as it smells but it’s heady, too, and he’s sharing it with Dean. Dean, who takes the lion’s share, but doesn’t skimp on letting Sam smoke his fill. It doesn’t really take much. Dean’s turned on the TV and flicked it to some movie and Sam finds himself laughing but he’s not quite sure why because the jokes haven’t really started yet.

He’s hyperaware of the feel of his own clothes, kicks out of his socks and runs his feet over the scratchy carpet, sighing at how it feels. Dean passes him a final toke and he takes it easier now, the beginnings of feeling boneless.

Time slows. The popcorn tastes – he laughs because it tastes awesome and he tells Dean so. Dean laughs and tells him he’s high and that makes him laugh more. He licks the butter off his fingers and wants to lick Dean’s too, almost does but Dean’s licking his own and Sam’s not above staring.

Dean quirks an eyebrow, expression easy. Sam sighs his way into laying his head on Dean’s lap, staring up at him. Dean doesn’t complain, just smiles down at him, cool and relaxed. After a bit, he cups Sam’s face and his fingers feel soft on Sam’s skin, so soft, and then they sift through his hair.

“Getting long, Sammy.”

“I like the way that feels.” It’s sluggish, too slow to respond, and by the time he does he’s not sure if he’s talking about keeping his hair long or Dean’s fingers running through it. That last one makes him shiver and everything is focused on just that feeling, that sensation along his scalp.

“Yeah?”

What’s he asking that for again? Right, right, the hair, the feeling. “Yeah. Yeah. Always feels good when you touch me.”

Dean hums. Sam can’t handle how nice that is, that sound rumbling in Dean’s chest. He leans up, not thinking, and he kisses Dean.

He tastes like pot and popcorn and it only lasts a second (a minute? He can’t honestly say) and then Sam realizes what he’s done.

He’d panic right about now – he’d pull away and lock himself in his room forever and apologize until he was blue in the face but he doesn’t have to. He’s only managed to retreat an inch when Dean leans in and recaptures his lips, more open now, Dean’s hand on his jaw to guide the movement.

Nothing’s ever felt as good as Dean’s lips on his.

His eyes roll back, not that they were open, and he has no sense of time, just warmth and Dean’s lips moving against his own. He flicks his tongue like he did to Becca Jennings and there’s a sound against his lips before Dean’s mouth is open on his. Sam’s body is hot, too hot, skin too small, and Dean’s tongue is in his mouth and unlike Sam, he actually knows what to do with it.

It goes on long enough for Sam to crawl into Dean’s lap and straddle him, for Dean’s arms to wrap around him in that way he keeps dreaming about. Just long enough for Sam to really feel like every fiber and cell in his body is alight with Dean, with a hand holding him firm around the waist and another tugging on his hair in a way that that makes his hip roll it feels so good.

And then it ends. Dean pants against his lips and he’s breathing so heavy and trying to re-capture Dean’s but Dean leans his forehead against Sam’s lips instead, catching his breath.

Dean clears his throat. “Let’s – let’s watch the movie, yeah?”

Sam’s heart thrums. He’s not about to complain about anything in the world. If Dean wants to go slow – he doesn’t want to but he doesn’t care. He couldn’t care about anything right now. He sighs and untangles himself from Dean and he’s never been so hard and he desperately wants to do something about it but he doesn’t, just lays back down and puts his head on Dean’s lap, on the pillow that materialized there for him. He wants to stay awake and enjoy the glow, but his eyelids droop, Dean’s hand feels soothing on his shoulder.

…

The next morning isn’t pretty or perfect. He wakes up in his room alone in the same clothes he passed out in. Dean’s nowhere to be seen and Sam is antsy and embarrassingly needy for affirmation, affection. He keeps replaying it in his head, over and over.

He kissed Dean. Dean kissed him. Dean kissed him. That happened. Dean tasted like buttery popcorn and smoke and felt like every wet dream Sam’s going to pretend he never had. He’s buzzing with it whenever he thinks about it.

But Dean’s not there, and he doesn’t know what that means. And when Dean comes home with some burgers it’s not till 4pm and he’s acting it never happened.

“Hi Dean.”

“Sammy, got burgers. Clear off the table.”

Sam does, cleaning his homework off it in a rush.

“Where were you this morning?”

“Out. Had to make it up to Alexis.”

Sam’s stomach drops. Dean’s sitting down, already biting into a burger.

“But about last night – ”

“Yeah you passed out like a wuss, man. Two tokes and you were gone.” He only pauses from his bite to laugh. It just seems so normal that Sam’s suddenly doubting.

Did he… dream it? He’d never been high before. Is that possible? It was so vivid, so real – he can still feel Dean’s hands on his sides when he closes his eyes. He’s uncertain for the first time.

“I mean, before that.”

It doesn’t help that his heart has taken residence up somewhere near his throat.

“With Alexis? I already told you not to worry about it man.” Dean’s still acting normal, sipping his coke.

“No I…”

“Sammy?”

And he looks so concerned, so naturally concerned and so Dean that Sam’s suddenly sure it’s all in his head. The kiss, the hair-touching, all of it. He wants the floor to swallow him whole.

“You okay, little brother?”

“Just – not feeling well.”

“The burgers?”

He shakes his head, but leaves his at the table. He really isn’t feeling well, and when he heads to his room he can’t place any words on the feelings swimming around in his stomach but none are pleasant. They remind him of how he felt the first time they moved away from a town he felt at home in, and at the same time, the way he felt when he first saw a dead body, and the way he felt when he first realized he was in love with Dean.

He lays there till it’s dark out. Dean comes to check on him and tells him he doesn’t have a fever. Sam knows that. Dean hesitates, sitting on the side of his bed.

“I’m… sorry, Sammy.”

Sam wants to cry again. He did earlier, so now he doesn’t, but he feels it bubbling away, the hot sting behind his eyes. He sighs out his next breath, stretched out on his bed and staring at the ceiling. He’s not sure why Dean’s apologizing except he is. Because Dean would rather pretend it never happened than anything else. Sam could take the rejection, he could. But the fact that Dean wants to erase it is too much. He’s taking the best Sam’s ever felt and returning it to zero.

He doesn’t say that though. Because that’s his problem and not what Dean wants, and everything else was an accident because Dean was high and bored and maybe horny. He knows he’s been given the benefit of the same excuse. He knows he owes it to Dean to let it slide. He has to. But he can’t, not easily.

He shrugs out from under Dean’s hand on his forehead and turns his back on his brother.

Things stay weird the whole month. His dad comes back the next day and doesn’t seem to notice, maybe because both of them were good at pretending. Sam spends most of his time at the library anyway, and with Becca. She’s uncomplicated. She likes to kiss Sam and doesn’t pretend otherwise. Then his dad leaves again, something about a hunt and a rougarou and to keep up their training, and Dean’s back to being overprotective, and Sam doesn’t overthink it when he brings Becca back to his place.

Doesn’t overthink it, that is, until Dean walks in on them making out. They’re in the living room because it’s after school (not like Becca’s parents would let her stay out late, so she’s over to ‘study’ with him for their upcoming history test) and no one was home and Dean wasn’t supposed to be home until after work but apparently Sam lost track of time, royally. Because he’s on the couch with Becca and they’re laying down and kissing and he’s feeling bold enough to consider sliding his hand along her front and she’s giggling and pulling away but leaning in like that’s not confusing him when the door opens.

They’re sitting up immediately, Becca’s face beat red and her head in her book as far as it will go. Sam’s clearing his throat and reaching for his own when he catches Dean’s eye. And Dean is – his eyebrows are up, and there’s surprise there, but for a second before he masks it, Sam thinks he looks almost mad.

“Howdy.”

“Hi Dean,” Sam mumbles.

“And this is?”

“Becca. We were just studying for our history test.”

“Uh huh,” Dean’s got that sly charming look on now, fox-like and Sam would kick him if he were in range because Becca is nice and embarrassing her isn’t.

“Her dad’s gonna pick her up in an hour,” Sam says before Dean can get in another word. “We’re just gonna go study in my room.”

He means it genuinely, mostly to separate Becca and Dean and all the weird feelings associated with them being in the same room, but Dean winks at him and Becca buries her head further into her book and he realizes how it sounds. He sticks to it though, grabbing up his books and not giving Dean another look as he leads Becca down the hall.

“You kids have fun!” Dean calls after him and Sam’s ears almost burn.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she shakes her head. “He won’t tell my dad, right?”

He actually laughs, and she relaxes, and they manage to get a little studying done before Sam leans forward and kisses her again. They’re sitting on the ground between his bed and Dean’s and Becca didn’t even ask why they share a room and that alone makes him want to kiss her more. It doesn’t hurt that she’s been leaning with her back against Dean’s bed and now, this close, all he can smell while he’s kissing her is Dean. It should be weird – it is weird, but it’s going straight to his –

There’s a knock at the door of the house and 5 minutes later he’s said bye to Becca on the step and her dad is smiling at them and waving goodbye and Dean’s laughing his ass off as soon as the door is closed.

“Smooth.”

“I hate you.”

“No really Sammy, well done. I’m proud. She’s cute and I was worried your floppy hair might stop you from bagging any tail but I see you’re a Winchester after all.”

“I don’t remember you complaining about my hair when you kissed me.”

Dean’s mouth his slack, laughter cut off. Sam can’t believe he said it, but he did and there’s no taking it back.

“Sammy – ”

“Screw you, Dean. Just because you don’t want to kiss me doesn’t mean you have to be an ass to anyone who does!”

He doesn’t find out what Dean would say in response to that because he heads back to his room, door slammed, and turns on some music and tries and fails to put it out of his head. He doesn’t say anything to Dean for the rest of the night, not even when he comes in to sleep, or the next morning before he heads to school. He doesn’t talk to him when he gets home from school, though Dean tries.

“Hey, Sammy, hold up – hey!” He grabs his arm in the hall. Sam stills, breathing tense and shallow. “Talk to me, would you?”

“Why? So you can convince me it’s all in my head again?”

Dean winces. Sam feels vindicated in a way that twists warm and powerful in his gut.

“Sam you know I – we were high, man. It doesn’t mean anything.”

It’s a slap in the face. He thought he could take the rejection. He was wrong.

“It meant something to me.” He yanks his arm out of Dean’s grip and slams their bedroom door. And then he quietly falls to pieces because –

He’s a freak. He knows it now. It did mean something and he was honest and he’s in love with his brother but Dean is right – they were high and there’s no reason he’d ever want Sam so what the hell did he just do, exposing himself like that? Why? What’s he got to gain except his brother hating him and thinking – knowing – that Sam is fucked up and wants this too much and wants him and he shouldn’t but he does and its –

He feels sick; he doesn’t get a lot of time to dwell on it. An hour later Dad is home and Dean is knocking on his door and telling him they’re leaving at first light.

And two days after that they’re in the back wood with Caleb wading through mud and picking off the remainders of a pack – a whole freaking pack – of rougarou and Sam’s still pissed at Dean and they haven’t been talking and that’s why –

That’s why he wasn’t watching Dean’s back like he should have been. He was thinking of just himself and of Becca and of everything in the world except Dean and keeping track of him like he was supposed to. He was avoiding looking at him and that wasn’t an option on a hunt.

And then Dean got hurt. And it's Sam’s fault.

…

Dean’s at Bobby's for two days before it comes up. 

"Can't have been that bad a fight if he's calling on the daily."

They're out working on one of the cars. Bobby's showing him how to change a fan belt. Dean almost bumps his head, jumping at the sudden not-quite-accusation. Bobby said it way too casually to be idle conversation.

He grits his teeth and refocuses. 

"Told you - he just wanted to drop me off on his way so I'm closer when Caleb swings by to pick me up tomorrow."

"Uh huh, and I'm a monkey's uncle. C'mon idjit, I got eyes, don't I?"

Dean sighs and steps away from the old truck they'd been working on. "It wasn't a regular fight."

"Figured that out – it was with you 'n not with your brother, for once."

Dean winces. 

"Both of you?"

"Bobby – "

"Now I got the lay of it. You stepped up to defend Sam 'n your dad dropped you off here to cool down while he tries to convince Sam how to listen to reason."

It's close enough, if not the truth, and Dean nods. "Something like that, yeah."

It comes up again after the hunt with Caleb, when Dean's back at Bobby’s but John's not inviting him back yet. He overhears Bobby on the phone that night – 

"...in tarnation could be so bad that you won't even let... no I will not drop it. A month's the longest you've made these boys stick apart since that summer you dropped off Sam and dragged Dean all around Michigan on a wild goose chase of a hunt. An' if I recall that was only meant to be a week, not four, but you lost track of time."

Dean could remember that. Sam was ten and not inducted yet into hunting, too young to take for what his dad wanted to go after. Sam had freaked on them both when they got back and demanded that they never leave him behind ever again. He'd meant it, and Dad had stuck to it, never ditching him again if he took Dean on a hunt. It had been the three of them together since then on.

"You're a stubborn son of a bitch, John Winchester... Yeah, you too. Tell Sam hi from us."

He hangs up and sighs. "Well, you just gonna stand there eavesdropping or you gonna come in?" His voice was pitched to carry and Dean winces. Never try to sneak up on a hunter. He tiptoes into the kitchen with a winning smile.

"Was just waiting on an invitation."

Bobby snorts and Dean can't blame him. "Well, how about it?"

"The weather?"

"Don't play cute with me, boy."

Dean shakes his head, coming more fully into the room. "It's nothing, Bobby."

"This ain't nothing and you don't lie as good as you think you do."

His lips flatten out to a frown. "I can go somewhere else if you want – "

"That's not what I'm saying, you – " he waves it away with an annoyed look. Always trust Bobby to look annoyed at the suggestion of dis-hospitality. Dean doubted he'd be welcome if Bobby knew the truth though, and the thought claws its way up into his chest, fast and mean enough to show on his face.

"Come on, boy. What is it? Is it Sam?"

"I – " He looks away and has to stop, realizing with a start his voice was about to crack. Where the hell did that come from? He tries to reign the feeling in.

"What'd he do?"

"He didn't do anything, Bobby. I'm the one who – "

He lets it hang. Bobby's looking at him now like a puzzle he's trying hard to solve. It makes his insides twist up. The only thing he has on his side is the fact that almost no one is as sick as him, so almost no one would consider that he'd do that to his own brother.

"Who did what? Stood up to John? No, that's not that face, you’d have to hurt him to look that miserable. Did something to Sam?" He looks confused, like that isn't right and it's not, because Dean wouldn't, he'd never hurt Sam. But he was. Not hurting him short-term, but fucking him up for life, long-term, in a way he didn't mean to but – 

"What'd you do to Sam, Dean? Because we all know you'd never hurt a hair on his moppy little head, even when the brat's got an ass-whooping coming some days."

He doesn't mean it about the ass-whooping, no heat in it, just the way Bobby talks but it makes Dean laugh a little brokenly. He shakes his head through it, too wrung out, then says all he can say on the subject. "I just – I can't be around him for a while. That's all."

He's said too much. Bobby's eyes go narrow, then fervent, then his face twists up and Dean feels like he's translucent and his heart starts hammering in his chest because there's no way, Bobby's not gonna put the truth together, he can't – 

"I see."

Dean swallows. 

"Makes those bruises you were wearing when you got here a little more reasonable. I was worried about that development."

His dad wouldn't kill him, but Bobby's not his dad. And Bobby's a good man, which means this could really go either way.

"He – he thought I was possessed."

It makes Bobby's eyebrows go up a little. He's too still, but there’s a change in his expression, an honest reaction, and it's a minor grace.

"Idjit."

Dean almost cracks a smile. Bobby's still tense, but he's frowning now, and of all things that's a good sign.

"You hurt him?”

"Never."

"But you still..."

"Yeah."

"That's complicated."

He does laugh now, can't help it. "Tell me something I don’t know."

"Sam okay?"

"He's – Sam." There's a beat. "And he was also, I didn't just – "

"Okay, okay, I don't want the details. Some of us ain't got the stomach for that. It's wrong. ‘N I get it. The two 'o you, messed up ‘n all, but Sam’s young ‘n you’re… " He shakes his head. "Time apart ain't so bad. You can help out in the yard as long as... as it takes for this to blow over."

Dean nods. It's not a blessing, it's not a curse. It's four steps to the left of tolerance. But hell if it isn't a thousand times more than he deserves, so he'll take it.

…

Dean doesn’t know what the hell to do with himself. It’s sick, it’s fucking wrong. It’s in his head now and it won’t. Fucking. Go. Away.

He still doesn’t know what he was thinking. He wasn’t thinking. He was stoned and mellow and going with the flow. It felt good. Sam’s hair felt good under his fingers. His smile felt good like it always does, warming Dean from the inside out. And his lips felt good when they landed on Dean’s.

It didn’t take much thinking. He could feel Sam pull away and could feel him tensing already and that wouldn’t do, because Sam shouldn’t be tense, or worried, not about something so easy that felt so good. So he’d pulled his brother back in and that was that—they’d kissed. And it felt awesome. Awesome enough that he was hard when Sammy was in his lap, rocking himself just so, settled like a perfect little weight on Dean’s hips.

It was about the time he’d thought seriously about doing something about that that he’d pulled away from the kiss. He hadn’t freaked out yet, brain a little too fuzzy but he’d had to catch his breath, had to dodge Sam and force them to focus on the movie while he tried to process what had just happened.

And then he had freaked out. For the subsequent hour of film, for the clean-up that involved carrying one very passed out Sam to bed, for the entire next day when he’d gone straight to the nearest girl he could find that he knew would be down to fuck and he’d tried hard to get it out of his system.

He hadn't expected Sam to shut down so hard when he’d brushed it off. He’d hoped he really was just down with a fever but he wasn’t, no such goddamn luck. And after that the whole month was a mess of push and pull and awkward glances until he came home one night and Sam was there exactly where they’d been together on the couch macking on some girl that was his own age. She was pretty and brunette with long hair and kissed-red lips before she’d dodged behind a textbook and Dean felt a well of hot, mean anger surge up inside him before he clamped down hard on it.

Sam wasn’t his. Sam wasn’t for him. And what the fuck kind of sicko did it make him that he not only kissed his baby brother – while high, he kept telling himself, some paper-thin excuse for that kind of sin – but then was getting hot and jealous over him?

He'd pushed it to the side as best as he could but goddamn Sammy just had to go and slap him in the face with it the second he’d closed the door behind the girl. He was trying to make things normal for chrissake but Sam had to freaking bring it up and into the open air. Chasing him down the hall didn’t work because—

Because they weren’t allowed to want that. Sam shouldn’t want that and the only reason he even did was because it happened while he was high and Dean never should’ve let it go so far and he’d fucked Sam up but now all he could do was tell his baby brother it didn’t mean anything.

It didn’t. It couldn’t.

Sam went back to not talking to him. Dean felt sick. Then his dad came home and now they're stuck on the road and in a motel room sharing a bed.

Which is hell. Sharing a bed with Sammy is –

Dean feels it stick in his throat. He can't sleep, watching Sammy in the dark and feeling like the most twisted kind of freak. Sammy isn't even 14 yet. His birthday not for two more days and he's thirt-fucking-teen and Dean had wanted to hit that.

He doesn't at the moment. He looks at Sam in the dark and all he can see is his baby brother, long lashes and too-long legs already, messy hair and quiet breathing. That sight and sound calms him every time he gets too stressed. It works now too, but not even safe and sound Sammy can ease the weird gnawing in his stomach. Dean's eyes linger too long and he knows it, but doesn't know when it started. Was it before the kiss? Had he looked at Sammy the wrong way before? There had to be a reason Sam had kissed him, and the only one he can think of is the way Dean was looking at Sam.

He almost reaches out in the dark, almost brushes Sam’s hair out of his face. He's beautiful, but in a soft, way-too-young-and-baby-faced kind of way. Like a cherub or something.

Up until Sam yelled at him about the kiss, about it meaning something, he’d thought they were back to normal. Normal is so far in the rearview mirror he can barely see it on the horizon.

He’ll fix it, though. Somehow. Get himself a girlfriend. Get Sam a girlfriend. Or did he already have one, back in that last town? Were he and that Becca girl going steady? And why does that thought make him a little queasy?

Point is – he’ll fix it. He’ll fix it, and he’ll forget it about, and they can go back to pretending nothing ever happened.

 …

The next two months are hard. The only thing that helps John keep his temper is the knowledge that they're so much harder on his boys than himself.

The conversation with Sam went about as well as expected. He'd gone white as a sheet when John got back to the hotel without Dean. 

"Relax," he'd raised his hand immediately on entry, "He's at Bobby's."

Sam hadn't been mollified much. John had tried a gentle tact, spent the whole drive home thinking of how to broach the subject, how to be delicate about incest and unintentional abuse and unhealthy dependency and other words he’d heard but never cared to think too long about. It turned out he didn't need to broach it. He'd been two sentences into his prepared spiel ("I know you and Dean love each other but what's happened between you is wrong. Now I know I let you two get too close and depend too much on each - ")

"You think we're doing this because we're co-dependent? Because we live a weird life? Everyone we know lives the life and a full half or more are co-dependent on someone and I'm pretty sure none of them want to fuck their own brothers!"

John had flinched. Dean was ashamed. Sam wasn't even in the same hemisphere as shame.

"It's hurting you both – "

"Hurting? My ribs hurt – my bruises hurt! The only thing that doesn't hurt me about hunting and 'the family business' is Dean! He's the only good thing in my life – "

"That's the problem! Don't you see? You're too wrapped up in each other to realize how wrong this is."

"Why? Seriously – give me a rational reason why and maybe I'll agree with you but I can't find one! And I’ve tried, Dad, I’ve thought about this for years. It's not like we care about breaking the law and it's not like me and Dean can have kids. We're both consenting and we care about each other!"

John breathed out through his mouth and tried to come up with a logical reason but some things didn't need logic, dammit! They just were.

"It's how it is, Sam."

He'd fumed, but ultimately there was nothing he could do about it and so relented at least for the night. John had let them talk on the phone the next day for a couple of minutes, supervised, over-analyzing their every word to each other even though it was all small talk and questions about how the other was doing, if they were okay. 

And so it went. He argued with Sam. They called Dean. Dean went on a hunt with Caleb. He argued with Sam. Sam poured over his books for school. He brought Sam to a library to help him research for a hunt. Dean went back to Bobby's. John brought Sam out to the field. He argued with Sam. His sons spent two months apart and learned it wouldn't kill them to look after only themselves and not each other.

And as best as he could, John put it out of his mind.

 …

The first month of being 14 is the worst. He’s behind on school again thanks to the hunt he was out for and finals are coming up fast. Becca won’t talk to him since he left town suddenly without telling her, even though he’s back now. Dad’s around and keeps crowding his space, their house too small for the three of them without either of the grown men working. Oh, and Dean’s still recovering from the rougarou wound he got.

It took a week for Dean to remember his birthday, and Sam feels guilty when he does because Dean feels guilty about forgetting.

“We had bigger fish to fry.”

“Screw that, we’re getting you a cake.”

They go back to not mentioning it. Sam’s over it now, mostly. Seeing how his stupid jealousy got his brother injured was enough to remind him of what mattered, and it wasn’t his own bruised ego. There are more important things in life than whether Dean wants to kiss him back, and he buries those feelings as deep as he can over the next month. There’s a tense period during the first few days around the house where he can tell Dean’s still not sure if it’s water under the bridge, but it relaxes before long.

By the end of the month, Dean’s back to full health, including being back at work and back to picking up girls. Sam bites his tongue about it. Dad leaves in June to Bobby’s to drum up some possible hunts for the summer and Sam knows they won’t be staying much longer than it takes for him to finish writing his last exam for the term. He supposes he should be glad he got to finish the schoolyear in one place at all, but that might’ve had just as much to do with Dean’s injury needing time to heal as it did with consideration over his grades.

He almost brings it up one night. Dean had another girl over, not Alexis, and took her to the master bedroom. Sam could hear them through the wall and it drove him nuts, enough that he had to get a hand on himself. His ears were burning when he did but that didn’t stop him, gasping in the dark and listening to the thud of the bed against the other side of the wall and the way Dean’s girl kept praying to god for more and harder. Every gasp or grunt in Dean’s voice was quieter but better, a thousand times better and he could hear the –

“Shit, gonna – ” followed by a groan. Sam’s already finished, heartrate smoothing a bit but his dick gives an interested twitch anyway at hearing it.

But the girl leaves. Sam hears Dean walk her out to her car and can hear them chuckle outside his window before she drives off. He figures Dean will head back to the master and sprawl out on the much larger mattress, but instead he slips into their shared room, to his smaller twin bed that was separated from Sam’s only by the space of a few feet.

Sam’s surprised enough that he forgets to pretend he’s asleep. He’s staring right at Dean when he slips in the room, and Dean looks him right in the eye.

“Hey Sammy.”

His throat clicks. “Hey.”

Dean slides off his pants and shirt, sweat shiny on his skin in the moonlight, and then he slips beneath the covers of his own bed. Sam watches raptly. It’s June and it’s hot and this house doesn’t have A/C, but Dean normally sleeps in a shirt anyway and it’s like something secret, like if he comments on it the skin will suddenly disappear, but it feels like a gift.

“Sorry if we kept you up.”

It’s more acknowledgement than Sam expected. It’s also not like it’s the first time, but either Dean normally sleeps (with or without the girl) in the master if he has someone over, or else stays up for another hour and watches TV and Sam really is asleep by the time he comes in to bed.

“It’s fine.” And it was. Dean likes girls and Sam – Sam still doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

“Did you and that Becca girl ever work things out?”

Sam rolls onto his side to face his brother’s bed. “No.”

“Damn.”

He doesn’t know what to say. That he’s sorry but not sorry? That they’re leaving in a week so it doesn’t really matter, even if he wishes it does? That he likes Dean more than he ever liked her. He’s not going to put his weird crush on Dean again. But it leaves him coming up empty on anything else to say.

“I’m sorry about… her. How things went sour between you two, y’know,” Dean says eventually. Sam was halfway to sleep but he perks up a bit.

“Why’d you even care?” He’s not asking to be a dick, he just really doesn’t get it.

Dean sighs. “I just mean… things don’t always turn out the way you might hope. That’s okay. Some things… shouldn’t happen. It’s better that way.”

His chest is tight, heart thrumming suddenly and he’s alert now. It takes his brain longer than his body to catch up, but then it clicks. Dean’s not talking about Becca anymore.

“It’s – I’m sorry too, Dean. I didn’t mean to make it weird. I was just…”

“Not your fault, Sammy.”

“It was. So was… I’m sorry about your injury.”

“Hey, whoa, that definitely wasn’t your fault.”

Sam sits up. “It was. I was supposed to be watching your back and instead I was…”

Dean sits up too, voice more careful than Sam’s, “was what?”

He looks at his hands, toneless in the dark. “Too mad to pay attention. Too busy avoiding you to watch your back.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. Sam feels guilt churn in his stomach, and he knows he deserves whatever’s coming—Dean not talking to him, Dean telling their father, Dean mad in a way he can’t fix because his brother got hurt and it’s his fault—but he doesn’t expect what actually happens.

Dean gets out of bed and comes to sit on the edge of his. Sam’s eyes go wide, but Dean’s face is deadly serious when he puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder. He feels the weight of it when he meets Dean’s gaze.

“We don’t get to pick the shit that happens to us. And it’s a lot of shit, little brother. I know it is. The one thing we choose is that we get to help people, and we watch out for each other when we do. That shit that happened – I’m sorry. But in the field, on the job, that goes away. It has to.”

“I know,” his voice is quiet and fervent and he means it. God, he means it. “I know, Dean. I won’t let you down like that, ever again. No matter what.”

Dean nods and Sam does too. And then Dean claps him on the shoulder and stands up and he’s fluid and light again.

“Good boy, Sammy. And besides, we ganked the whole damn pack, didn’t we? Still a job well done, so no foul. Let’s get some sleep though, you’ve got finals this week.”

Sam doesn’t complain.

…

“You know this is the most time we’ve spent together since I was 10.”

“That’s not true.”

It’s not, not really, but it feels good to say. “Outside of a hunt.”

That part his dad doesn’t seem to be able to refute as easily. “We’re hunters, Sam. No point in comparing time together hunting ‘n not. And sit up straighter, would you? My back hurts just looking at you.”

Sam does, half annoyed at himself for it. “Did you tell Bobby?”

His dad gives him a look. That answers that, and shuts down the entire line of questioning at the same time.

“Here Sam, since you’ve got so much free time to worry about Dean and Bobby and not hunting—tell me what you make of that.”

He taps a newspaper article from a Maine paper. Sam skims it. “Three dead, claw marks, suspected wild animal, except they were all at home with the doors locked when it happened… no signs of forced entry.” He glances back up at his dad. “It can’t be a ghost, right? Not in different locations. Doesn’t say the hearts were missing so not a werewolf. Corporeal with the claw marks but not the doors so…uhm… alright, I give up. What is it?”

“A case.”

 …

The summer had been hot, but it fades fast into fall on the road. Fall brings Sammy doing a play at school, something called Our Town and Dean teases him about it the whole time until he finds out he’s just doing tech, and only signed up because there’s some cute girl involved.

Stuff like that shouldn’t bother Dean, and he’s pretty good at pretending it doesn’t. He misses the days when it actually didn’t.

Sam asks him one morning over breakfast if he thinks dad is gonna make it to the play. A couple years ago he would’a lied. They’re older than that now.

“He’s saving lives. Lives beat plays, sorry Sammy.”

The kid just nods, dejected. Dean’s heart feels like a rock in his chest. He sighs and grabs up their cereal bowls. “I’ll be there, man. What more d’you need?”

Dean is eighteen and he’s tired. It shouldn’t be possible to be this tired. He was on a hunt last week, dragged halfway through a swamp, him and dad both glad that Sam had a growth spurt so the muck wasn’t any higher on him than the rest of them. Dad’s on a salt and burn now, routine haunting somewhere in Missouri. Dean doesn’t expect to see him for another week or three.

“Nothing, I guess.”

When Sam goes to school, Dean puts his fist through the drywall, then calms down and cleans it up before he heads to work. Dad left him some research to do on a cursed object he’s been tracking and damn if he isn’t gonna get it done so he can get out of this shit town and on the road again as soon as possible.

Just as soon as Sammy’s done his play, anyway.

 …

Dean’s 19^th birthday is spent in frigid South Dakota, which means they celebrate at Bobby’s. It’s the first time in years his dad is around for the actual date, and there’s a newspaper-wrapped package on the table, a smile on his dad’s face. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Really?” He shouldn’t feel so surprised, but there’s something kind of fuzzy pushing in at the edges when he lifts it up. The weight of it tells him almost immediately what’s inside the wrapping, and he peels it open gently.

“It’s a beaut.” He means it.

“It’s a colt, M1911A1. Nice piece of metal. Should shoot straighter than your old .45.”

Dean whistles, testing the grip. “Can’t wait to try it out.”

Bobby slides a box of ammunition across the table. “Well go on then.”

He grins, and Sam grabs his jacket and follows him outside. They all have some of Bobby’s mulled cider (heavy on the rye), and Dad even lets Sam have some. He’s going on old enough, 14 now with growing pains every other week, and Dean lets him take a few shots with the new piece too. His aim’s a lot better than it used to be. Not dead-on yet but he never misses the target.

“Thanks,” he tells his dad, and the clap on the back he gets is enough. Dad’s not really a man for words, and Dean feels—

Well, he doesn’t need to be a chick about it. But he doesn’t turn down the second or third beers, and lets himself have the celebratory whiskey that Bobby breaks out when they’re all a little more relaxed and laughing after dinner. It’s hilarious to see Sammy’s expression when he sips his own, scrunched up against the burn.

“Can’t handle the heat, Sammy?”

He glares and sucks it back and Dean’s laughing himself halfway to pissing at the way he coughs for a minute straight after. Dad chuckles too, even if he caps the bottle.

“’Bout enough of that, unless you wanna be holding his hair when he’s hunched over the toilet tomorrow morning.”

Dean reaches over and runs his fingers through that mop of hair, grinning lazily. “S’not that long. Not like a chick’s.”

“Yet,” Dad grumbles. Dean’s not really paying that much attention. Sam’s face is doing something weird and for a second Dean’s worry he might actually hurl but then he slots the expression into place and is worried he might hurl.

He pulls his hand back from Sam’s hair and coughs. “Gotta piss.”

He’s gone from the kitchen and splashing water on his face in the bathroom a minute later, telling the room to stop spinning long enough for him to berate himself.

He hasn’t touched Sam’s hair since… since.

He’s heard of repression, where people just forget things they don’t want to remember, kind of too conveniently. He’s not a trauma case and thought that shit was made up but he can’t for the life of him figure how he’d managed to go so many months just casually forgetting that he kissed Sam. And kissed him good, tongue and everything, filthy on the couch in some town he can hardly remember the name of with popcorn flavor on his lips.

He knew it, logically, abstractly. They’d freaking talked about it, not that he’d wanted to. But he’d forgot it too, sometime between kissing Sam and the hunt that came after. Had put all the details out of his mind and forgot what Sam’s skin and hair felt like under his fingers and what he sounded like, breathing desperate into Dean’s mouth.

Thank god he’s too drunk to get reasonably hard or else he’d be diamonds and that—that’s a sobering thought. Sam was—Sam is a kid. And Dean’s 19 and he’s obviously a freak.

He leaves the bathroom and rejoins the party and smiles as bright as he can manage but they’re turning in not long after, the evening quieter.

Bobby’s place is big, but it’s mostly books and inventory. There’s a spare room his dad always takes, and Bobby’s room, and a library and office and a basement they never go to except for tools. Sam and Dean trade off on the couch and cot and floor when their dad’s around, and tonight Dean’s got the couch and Sam’s got the cot.

Dean rolls over for what feels like the fiftieth time. He hears Sam sigh in the dark.

“Can’t sleep either?”

He opens his eyes. He’s wide awake. The booze should have dragged him under but he can’t stop thinking about it. It’s making his skin clammy and his mind race every time he closes his eyes.

“Yeah,” he whispers back by way of explanation, voice a little hoarse.

“How uh… how’s it feel being nineteen?”

“How’s it feel being fourteen?”

“It sucks.”

He laughs a little but it’s not funny. “Yeah. Nineteen’s better.” Except the part about creeping on his younger brother. Sam’s at least the younger one in their equation, so he’s only damned once and not twice for –

He can’t even bring himself to really label it in his head. His mind flashes back to the way it felt, molten in his veins, but he can’t label it.

“You should let me cut your hair. Properly for once, take out the clippers.”

“So I can look like you?”

He scrunches his eyebrows. “Nah. You’d look like Dad.”

“Why d’you think I don’t cut it?”

It stops him up. He actually sits up on the couch. “Is that really why…?”

Sam sits up too, and from what Dean can make of his silhouette in the dark, he’s shrugging.

“I know you wish he was around more Sam, I do, ‘n I get it, but he’s… Dad. He’s saving lives, man. He’s a freaking hero. You don’t have to be so hard on him all the time.”

“Whatever, Dean.”

It’s not a ‘I agree with you Dean’, more like a ‘I’m too tired to fight about this, Dean’. He drags his hands over his face and remembers that the room isn’t as solid as it feels. He thinks he’s in control. But it’s not really like him to bring this shit up either.

“It’s just – it’s long.”

“My hair? Do you think it looks bad?”

“No its…” he doesn’t know. He shakes his head.

“It’s what?”

“Soft.”

That gets a chuckle, a shifted movement. Sam’s feet hit the floor, sitting facing Dean. If Dean’s feet were on the floor too, their knees would be touching.

“Wanna feel it again?”

Without his permission, his feet do hit the floor; their knees knock together. He moves his so they’re framing Sam’s. The air goes still, and he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but Sam bows his head and offers his hair and Dean can’t stop his arms from moving up. His hands reach the strands and start carding their way through. Sam lets out a sigh, soft in the dark, and Dean feels his chest loosen, lets out the breath he’d been holding.

He gets bolder, running his fingers through the way he wants to, closer to the scalp. He tugs just a little and Sam gasps but doesn’t say anything. Dean suppresses the knowledge of his own dick getting fuller inside his boxers. He uses one hand to tug, the other to massage, and Sam stuffs a fist in his mouth to stifle the noise. His dick throbs. Sam’s biting back moans into his hand and all Dean’s doing is touching his head. That kind of power…

He tugs sharply, pulling so that Sammy’s head raises, forced up, neck stretched. God he’s going to hell a thousand times over. Sam’s breath is coming in pants around the fist he’s biting so hard into. Dean’s hand not grasping tight into his hair softens around the side of his head, fingers playing with his ear, sliding forward to cup his cheek. Sam drops the fist from his mouth, leaves it open. It’s so goddamn inviting. Dean’s thumb catches it, his lower lip, his bottom teeth, pulls at his jaw then presses in against his tongue. He leaves the pad of his thumb there and wonders what Sammy tastes.

He’s so hard he could die.

Sam’s just letting him, letting him -

He replaces the thumb with two fingers. Sam’s hands are in fists, balled up and shaking on his thighs. His lips wrap around the digits. His mouth is so hot and wet and Dean’s eyes fall lidded, feeling him start to suck.

He’s crossing so many lines.

Sam’s cheeks are flushed and beautiful.

And Dean—

There’s a sound upstairs. Dean’s hands are off Sam so fast he could swear they’re burned. There’s a light and then the unmistakable sound of the bathroom door closing. They’re both laying down perfectly adroit by the time the toilet flushes and whoever it is heads back to bed.

They’re breathing heavy. Dean feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

“We don’t—this didn’t…”

“I know. This didn’t happen.”

He swallows tight and could swear he tastes blood. But eventually, he sleeps.

 …

"It's been two months."

John looks up from the newspaper he's perusing, looking for signs of anything that might be up their alley. He doesn't have to ask what Sam is talking about, though he's not sure what the hell his son is playing at, bringing it up in a diner.

"Hasn't been so bad, has it?"

He doesn't get a response to that, just a complicated expression. A weird side benefit of it being just him and Sam has been that John sees him clearer now. Without Dean as a buffer, it’s easier to see Sam as the man he’s becoming, not like a kid who can’t take care of himself. As it turns out, he can. He’s ruthless on a hunt when it’s just the two of them, steady and sharp and an actual help in the field with the poltergeist they took care of the week prior. John’s almost impressed before realizing it means his son’s been relying too much on Dean, or else holds back when he’s around.

Dean treats him too much like a kid. Or else, John thinks with something wry twisting at his lips, Dean might treat him more like an overprotective lover, but hell if he ever wanted to notice or think about that. He shoves the thought aside now, and Sam finally asks what he's gunning for.

"Can he come home yet?"

He's mulling it over. Nice as it’s been to get to know Sammy a little better without the Dean-buffer, there’s no Dean buffer. Sam is too much like John, and both of them are too quick to shout at each other given half a reason. Sam’s smart enough to know his good behaviour is part of how this gets patched over and part of how Dean comes home but stubborn enough to be insubordinate even as he follows every order. John’s not sure if he can handle another month of Sam’s bitching, he’s really not.

"Think you can behave?"

He really doesn't want to have this conversation in a diner. Maybe it was better though, since Sam wasn't likely to start shouting about how he wants to sleep with his older brother and how there's nothing wrong with that with so many people around.

John's gotten very used to the reality that son really, truly, does not care about how much he shocks his father with that admission. He gets it too – Sam is ashamed. So he wraps it in anger and throws it out into the world, mostly at John's face like a weapon. He'd do the same, but he's never had a brother to fall incestuously in love with.

He shouldn't be able to joke about it inside his own head and yet here he is, in this brave new world.

"It’s not hurting anyone."

John puts down the newspaper and looks his son in the eye. He's getting better at that. "You need a haircut."

"I'm serious."

So was he, but he let the hair thing drop, if only because Dean was normally the one to trim it for him. "Some things are just wrong, Sam. Demons – wrong. Vampires – wrong. Killing humans – wrong. Incest – wrong."

Sam actually looks around when John says that so casually, glancing as if they're being eavesdropped on. John's long since learned that dropping the words demon and vampire into conversation means that no one will think a discussion is anything but hypothetical at most if they do care to listen. It's a way to make most of them tune out. But Sam's always cared what people think, always hushed up in public and whenever they had to talk about a job, hissed it out like it was dangerous. Because being a hunter is weird, and Sam – 

"There are reasons those things are wrong. There's no logic-based reason why this – "

"Reason? It comes down to your gut. Everybody knows it’s wrong. Ask anyone in here and they’ll tell you the same. Go on, ask." He waves around the diner and Sam curls in his seat slightly. John feels it, something pulling him forward. “Didn’t think so. You know it’s wrong.”

"You don't care about what other people – "

"I don't. But you do. You like normal." He’s leaning forward in the booth to hiss now, hushed and quiet. “You think there’s anything normal about what you and Dean get up to? You think anyone in their right mind is going to think that? Not even other hunters, Sam, you said it yourself. No one will accept this."

Sam swallows. John’s making ground here, finally, and his face settles into an unkind half-grin. 

"You thought the names they called you were mean in middle school? Just think of what they'd say if they knew this."

Sam’s face is tense. There are spots of colour on both of his cheeks. "If I explained it to them – if they understood - "

"Here, Sammy – "

"Don't call me that."

John's grin widens. "Here, Sammy. Let's imagine something, just for a second. I'm man enough to admit that Dean did as much work bringing you up as I did. Looked after you, fed you, taught you how to clean hand guns and helped you with homework, all of it. Still does. Right?"

Sam nods, looking suspicious.

"So he was as much a parent to you as me. As much a father as a brother some days. Now take a half second real quick and swap him out with me, huh. How would you feel doing that with me?"

Sam's expression is enough answer. "Dad what the fuck?" It's hissed and horrified and John's halfway to laughing. It's a kind of turnabout revenge for the images he's never going to be able to burn out of his brain of the two of his sons tangled up together.

"Precisely, son. That's precisely how it's supposed to feel. Wrong. Some time, you know something's wrong just because it feels wrong. And even if that's broken between you and Dean from – from a lot of things, that doesn't mean that it's broken for the rest of the world."

He gets up then and pays the check. It's better to let Sam's brain work its way around an idea then spend too much time talking him through it. Neither of them say anything for most of the day after that, and in the evening, John makes a decision.

"Let's pack up, Sam. We'll head to Bobby's for your birthday."

 …

Mexico is hot. 

There’s a chupacabra, because of course there is. There’s also a ton of hunters in Mexico who can handle this easy, but Dad comes down here sometimes for information and supplies and this time one of his contacts asked him to look into it, so he’d grabbed Dean and Sam up and dragged them across the border and several hours south.

South into a fucking desert.

Dean’s pretty sure his skin is going to melt off. He might be a Kansas boy but his body is designed for flannel. He’ll take winter in Colorado over Mexico at the end of June. Hell, he’d take winter in Minnesota over this.

The A/C is nonexistent. For once, he quietly curses his father’s frugality when it comes to picking a place to stay. He’d gone out to a pub to gather some intel, and while normally Dean would be with him, his Spanish is shit (Dad’s fluent) and Dad’s weird about leaving Sam alone even at a motel when they head south of the border. Dean would get it, except Sam’s Spanish is better than his and he’s been keeping a gun along the seat of his pants for almost two years now. At fifteen, even Dean thinks the kid could do with more free reign sometimes. Dean sure as hell had it.

But it’s not his place to argue, so he’s stuck trying and failing to flirt in a language he doesn’t know, next to a pool that’s their only solace from the heat while Sam’s in the water swearing he won’t get sunburnt. The girl walks away, gorgeous hips swinging and Dean’s not above watching, but then she’s gone and there’s no one to look at except Sam.

And he definitely shouldn’t look at Sam.

Sam’s fifteen and too fucking pretty. It’s dangerous, and someone’s gonna get the wrong idea and Dean – Dean’s probably gonna have to break a jaw or three. He’s shot up another inch in the last few months, and his hair is a floppy mess that normally helps him look his age but right now it’s wet and pushed out of his face. He’s shirtless and dripping and in trunks that cling to him when he climbs out the pool and all that exposed skin is practically begging for someone to come along and mark it all up.

Dean wonders if he’s a fucking pervert for recognizing how pretty Sam is. He tells himself it’s clinical, necessary to know and understand in order to keep Sam safe. Even if Sam weren’t his freaking brother, he’s still fifteen and that’s considerably younger than the girls he bats his eyelashes at these days. It’s not quite convincing. It might be if he’d never kissed him or run his fingers through his hair or shoved his fingers in his mouth, but he did, so now all he can do is repress, suppress, and redress his thoughts.

“How’re those shoulders?”

Sam turns his head to look at them. There’s no chance he can see them at that angle.

“C’mere.”

He obliges, and Dean tilts up his sunglasses to get a better look. From his spot in the shade, he winces.

“That’s gonna hurt within the hour.”

“No way.”

“I told you.”

“I had sunscreen on!”

“Not enough. Here.” Dean grabs it up and stands, squirting some on his hands. It’s perfunctory, sliding it over Sam’s skin, his shoulders and back, the spots he can’t reach easily. But Sam stiffens, muscles tight, and leans just a little into it. Dean’s not an idiot. He wishes he couldn’t read Sam this way, but he can. It’s like a freaking lightswitch from normal into territory they shouldn’t spiral. And right now, Sam’s spiraling.

Dean’s hands slow down of their own accord. He presses his fingers in over the muscles of Sam’s shoulders. “You’re tense,” he mutters, going for annoyed, not sure if he succeeds. He’s gotta get Sam to relax. He won’t examine why he’s gotta, but he definitely has to. Maybe then he can relax too.

Sam lets out a breath and nods. “Yeah. Beds’re too soft.”

Dean hums and sweeps his hands down, digging into the middle of Sam’s back with his thumbs. He gasps.

“Can we – can I lay down, if you’re gonna work the kinks out?”

His wording has Dean’s throat tight, but he steps back and clears his throat. “You’re that sore?”

“Yeah.”

He’s not sure if Sam’s telling the truth or just milking this, but he’s never been good at denying his brother. So he nods and follows him back to their room, back to the stifling heat without reprieve, back to sweat erupting on his skin the second he’s out of the cooler shade by the pool and the light breeze it provided.

Sam lays on the bed, splayed out like an offering. Dean kicks him.

“Outta the trunks, man, you’re gonna soak the sheets.”

Sam starts shimmying them off.

“Get some boxers!”

He huffs but climbs off the bed to do it. Dean tries to avoid looking at his expression, but all that means is that he ends up looking at how low-slung his trunks are, the v of his hips and the trail of hair running down, revealing almost everything. Dean looks away when he slides them off, turns his back while Sam roots around for boxers. He doesn’t turn to face him again until he hears Sam climb back onto the bed.

This was a terrible idea.

“You too,” Sam murmurs from where his head is resting face-down on his arms. “Don’t soak the bed.”

Dean’s trunks have been drying for a while but he changes anyway. He thinks about putting on a shirt, pants, anything else to sit between their flesh, but the heat doesn’t let him complete the thought.

He climbs onto the bed next to Sam. It dips under his weight. This shouldn’t be weird. He’s given Sam a thousand rub downs for various reasons – sport practice, growing pains, injuries. Sam’s done the same for him, and each of them have even done it for Dad on occasion, particularly for his shit knee. It’s not weird. Neck and shoulder rubs aren’t weird.

Sam’s skin is hot to the touch. The burn is setting in. He makes a mental note to track down some aloe vera and presses his thumbs in. It earns him a hiss.

“Told you.”

“I’m fine.”

Dean laughs, a little dryly, and focuses on his neck. It’s a mass of tension, and he works it as best as he can. It actually relaxes him, the fact that there’s real tension there, and he gets into the motions of it while he works on Sam’s shoulders too.

His hands dip down to his shoulder blades, and he almost pauses. Sam’s shifted, spread out a bit more, and his skin is getting moist with sweat or else just the humidity in the air. Dean’s hands are sliding easy over it, and he pushes himself on and digs his thumbs under the tight muscle he finds there, making Sam let out a quiet moan.

“Good?”

“Yeah.” It’s panted. Dean pushes that aside and tries to recapture his monk-like focus on Sam’s muscles. It doesn’t work. He blames the noises Sam’s making for that. All the way up and down his spine, Sam appreciates his work with little mmms and ahs. Dean’s thumbs rub circles into his lower back and Sam arches like a cat.

“Right there.”

It’s not sexual. It’s not sexual. It’s not sexual. He repeats it like a mantra. Hell, Sam’s too young to even know how to run such a clever seduction, not that he would. (Except he had before, hadn’t he? This isn’t the first time - )

Dean’s breath is coming a little harder. His hands move to the waistline of Sam’s boxers, and then at the last second fan to the sides, to his hips, and start to rub circles there.

“Shit – that’s, ow.”

Dean laughs. Good. Ow is good. “Sore?”

“Seriously.”

Dean works it. The tension draws his hands down, and down means Sam’s thighs. He spreads them. Dean needs to stop here.

Dean doesn’t stop.

He rubs Sam’s thighs up and down. Just like he’s done to the kid’s legs before, since growing at the speed of light makes him ache enough to seize. He ignores the micro movements of Sam’s hips, rolling into the mattress. He ignores the panted breaths. He ignores the itch in his fingers, the way his fingers keep sliding a little higher on the upswing until they’re pushing up the edge of Sam’s boxers. He gasps when they finally hit the curve of Sam’s ass, and he’s not brave enough.

“Dean.”

He can’t do this. He can’t fucking – he’s not doing this. It’s just a massage. It’s just because Sam’s tense. He’s between Sam’s spread legs so he can reach, dammit. He’s not here to perv on his brother.

“Does it – ” he clears his throat, “hurt anywhere else?”

There’s a pause. A breath. “Hips. And… my lower back.”

He’s gonna be the death of Dean. He slides his hands to Sam’s hips. They stop their fucking rocking, at least, and that’s something. He absolutely doesn’t roll them in his hands into a familiar rhythm. He doesn’t let himself do that. Instead he grips, massages, and his thumbs press along Sam’s gluts. They really are tense, and Sam’s hiss is real enough. Dean moves up to his lower back again, and this time his thumbs dip under that waistband.

“Here?”

“Yeah.”

Dean contemplates getting Sam to take them off. It would be easier to massage. It’s about twenty steps too far though and he pulls back, breathes through the thought, and just presses his hands over Sam’s ass though the fabric instead. Sam inhales, and Dean massages his gluts .  All the running they do – up at the asscrack of dawn for three miles just this morning despite the heat. Holding Sam’s asscheeks in his hands is just – it’s just clinical.

Sam rocks his hips. Dean grips them, tight and hard and sudden. Sam stills. They both breathe.

Slowly, Dean reaches one hand up to the back of Sam’s neck. Sam doesn’t move. Dean presses down on it. With his hips, Sam arches just a little. His spine is a graceful S. There’s sweat on his tanned skin, shoulders an angry red. His hair is wet and clinging to Dean’s hand on his neck. His boxers are clinging to his skin, and his legs are spread wider than can be comfortable, especially with arching his body up so that his ass is popping toward Dean.

Dean’s mouth waters.

“Don’t – ” he swallows that one back. Don’t tell. What kind of freak does it make him that that’s the first thing he wanted to say? “Don’t let me touch you like this again.” As if he’s moved his hands. As if his skin isn’t burning where he can feel Sam’s skin and body under him. As if his chest isn’t too small and tight for his heart.

“Dean you’re not even – touching me.”

Dean laughs but there’s no real mirth in it. “The hell I’m not.”

There’s a noise in Sam’s throat. His muscles tense under Dean and Dean knows he’s going to move. He flexes his own to keep Sam in place, and for a second he stills.

“If... if you’re gonna not do it again, you might as well actually do it.”

Dean’s throat closes. Sam rocks his hips again to make his message clear, as if it wasn’t. Dean’s hand is off his hip, suddenly holding Sam’s arm down instead, curled behind his back, and this time the sound Sam makes is distinctly aggravated. He tries to turn and – and Dean’s not proud of this – it turns into a grapple within an instant. Dean tries to push him back down, not even sure why he gives a damn, and Sam tries to push up into him, to roll over.

They’re both most of the way naked, sweaty, and not at all thinking with the right brain. It takes nothing for Sam to roll over in his arms, nothing for Dean to grab up his wrists, nothing for their bodies to slot together.

This is why he didn’t want Sam to roll over, to stand up. This is why he held him down.

Dean’s hard as diamonds. Sam’s gasping in his ear, snug up against it with his own rock hard dick. Some noise flairs and dies in Dean’s throat.

Shouldn’t have Sam’s arms over his head. Shouldn’t be on a bed. Shouldn’t be mostly naked. Shouldn’t ever have put his hands on Sammy. Shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t.

“Please.”

He can’t. He wants to, god help him, but he can’t. He can’t because he wants to.

Dean flexes his hands around Sam’s wrists and steels the last shreds of self-control he has left. He pushes back and stands up.

“Go take care of that,” he nods at Sam’s lap.

Sam gets up, red faced and Dean’s not sure if he’s more pissed or embarrassed, but the bathroom door slams as loud and hard as it ever has behind him and then it doesn’t matter. Dean can breathe again.

He drops his head into his hands and wills his erection to go away. He can’t touch it. That way lies madness. It’s a normal bodily reaction. It has to be. Except he can’t indulge it because if he does he’ll think of Sammy and if he does that he’s a monster.

He breathes deep and slow and tries to block out any sound that might filter out of the bathroom. Eventually, the shower turns on, and Dean forces himself into shorts and a tee before Sam comes out.

By some small miracle, Sam doesn’t mention it when he’s clean and back in the room after, but he doesn’t put on more than his boxers for the rest of the day, not till the sun goes down and Dad’s back with the intel they need.

They kill the chupacabra. Dad takes them to see some ruins Sam begs him to. It’s pretty cool, and Sam’s got this dopey grin on the whole time as he tells Dean and Dad all sorts of trivia he picked up along the way, and Dean finally starts to relax.

He did it. By which he means, he didn’t do it. He didn’t tumble over that line. They’re still brothers. Sam’s still his dorky self. They’re gonna be okay.

They don’t have A/C for most of the trip and the humidity’s almost enough to kill Dean, but he keeps his shirt on except when there’s girls around. Sam keeps his off at about the same frequency. He throws Dean challenging glances, sometimes, but refrains from complaining when Dean finally manages to score, brings a girl back to the motel room and exiles Sam to sit by the pool till he’s done. He’ll take it as a win.

“You know,” Sam says that night, their last night in Mexico. Their dad’s been gone for two days and Dean knows he’s off with some woman he met but he’ll be there in the morning to drive them back over the border and that’s what matters.

“Hm?” Dean finally prompts. They’re laying in separate beds covered in nothing more than a thin sheet each, too hot to sleep.

“I don’t care about you and girls.”

It takes him a second, and then he closes his eyes. “Gotta get you a girl soon, Sammy. Too many hormones and nothing to do with ‘em.”

Sam snorts. Dean can pretend they’re just having a normal discussion, though, so long as Sam skirts this.

“I’m just saying… you’re my brother. I know that. Whatever else… I just mean. I’d never expect – ”

Jesus, he’s not about to go there. “We’re brothers. Like you just said,” his voice is flinty. “No girl’s gonna get between us, because girls and what we are – that’s separate worlds.”

“Right.” He can almost hear the flinch in Sam’s voice.

“Right.”

“So the next time you get hard when you’re on top of me – that’s just brother stuff, right?”

Fuck. Dean sits up, a whole body reaction and rejection of what Sam just said. “Fuck off, Sam. Weeks since I had a girl, it was a body reaction. This’ll be out of your system as soon as you get laid. Just drop it till then.”

“And if it’s not?”

He breathes out of his nose, frustrated. It’s dark, enough so that he can barely see the outline of Sam, but the room still feels too small anyway.

“Then ignore it till it is.”

He rolls over, the conversation over. It’s at least a dozen minutes later, after he’s sure they’re done talking about it and is starting to breathe easy, when Sam’s voice drifts across the divide between their beds.

“Next time… if you don’t wanna touch me like that, then don’t. Because I’m never gonna say no or be the one to make you stop.”

And like that, Sam takes the last word. Because what can he say to that? Dean’s eyes are closed, his cock is hard, and he’s really not sure if he’s gonna be able to stop himself next time.

…

The fight is epic.

“Hunters don’t need a goddamn Stanford education!”

Doors are slammed. Walls are punched. Suitcases are packed.

“You won’t let me live my life on my own terms but I’m done living it on yours!”

“Sam - !”

“No! No – I’m done. I’m done with hunting, I’m done with you dictating how I live, I’m done with anything resembling this life – I’m out! If I have to be normal then I’m going to be goddamn normal!”

It punches the air out of Dean’s lungs.

“Sammy – ” he interjects finally, desperately, the first thing he’s said since Sam said he was going, that he was doing this.

“Don’t.” If his brother’s ever been cold or cruel, he is now, anger on his face Dean doesn’t recognize. It’s not like Sam’s never mad, but this is vengeful and mean. He pushes past Dean and doesn’t even look at their father as he heads to the door.

“You walk out that door, son, don’t you ever come back! You hear me? Never!”

Dean chokes. Sam’s hand is on the knob, bag over his arm. Dad doesn’t mean it. Dean wants to tell him that Dad doesn’t mean that. He can’t get the words out. Sam doesn’t turn.

“Don’t worry,” his voice is more controlled now but the fury’s still there, Sam’s shoulders are shaking with it. “I don’t plan on it.”

And like that, he’s gone.

Dean throws up, the first time in years he’s lost his stomach from anything other than food poisoning. He drinks until he might honestly forget, and throws it all up again by the end of the night. His dad’s been at the bar all night and it’s just him, alone, crying over a toilet and wondering ‘what if’ -

What if what if what if –

What if he’d never kissed his brother?

What if he’d never been so careless as to let Dad walk in on them?

What if he’d been a better brother, been able to stop Sam from wanting this too?

What if he’d had more self-control?

What if he’d never given Sam false hope?

What if –

What if he was better?

…

“Haunting?”

“Most likely.”

“Shouldn’t take more than a week or two then?”

“That’s the idea, son.”

Sam looks up from the table where he’s skimming over his homework. Dad let Dean come home with them after Bobby’s, and Sam was hoping – stupid of him, really – that they might get back into something resembling a normal routine in this place. Apparently that’s not going to happen.

“I shouldn’t miss two weeks of school.”

The men both turn to look at him. His dad’s eyes are appraising. “Any tests?”

He wants to lie. He doesn’t. Three weeks until finals.

“Then bring your homework on the road.”

He does. And he’d probably manage to get through it all except for the growing pains.

They’ve been in this small down about a few days, looking into the job. The plan is to check out the location after dark tonight, and the sun’s setting when his legs start to cramp. They’re headed back to the motel after dinner and he’s got the back seat to himself so he stretches them across the bench, his back against a door, but within a minute he knows. There’s no beating this pain, not how bad he tends to get it, and no amount of stretching out is gonna fix it. It’s been six months since the last time but apparently his growing pains are back with a vengeance.

It takes a minute, but then the cramping starts up in full swing. Around the time that he bites his wrist to distract himself, totally frustrated and head pressed back against the window, Dean notices.

“Alright there Sammy?”

He wants to nod, shakes his head instead. “Legs’re cramping.”

“Again? Jesus, how tall does your body want you to be?”

It catches him off cause and he laughs but it’s huffed.

“Don’t worry, we’ll stretch them out when we get back to the motel. Give ‘em a rub down ‘n you’ll be good as new before we head out.”

“Like hell you will.”

Dad’s voice is ice and Sam’s eyes pop open. They immediately land on Dean, who’s gone white in the front seat.

“I didn’t mean it like that, sir.”

“Sam can stretch his own damn legs out. You coddle him, Dean.”

As if that was the issue. Sam shifts in the back seat, heart thumping a little in his chest. He’s gearing up to defend Dean but his dad’s eyes in the rearview catch his and it stops the protest in his throat.

“D’you want me able to walk,” he asks after a minute, trying to keep his voice level, “or am I sitting this one out?”

They pull into the parking stall. His dad turns around in his seat, elbow thrown over the bench. “You don’t need a goddamn massage to be able to walk, Sam. Shake it off.”

Sometimes, the growing pains are annoying fatigue feelings, like after exercising too hard one day tires out the muscles. Sometimes they’re cramping so bad that it wakes Sam from his sleep and leaves him gasping. When he was 14 he’d shot up a whole five and a half inches in one year. A couple times that year he’d roll around in bed trying to grasp at his legs and stretch and massage them all at once, and when things weren’t weird between he and Dean, his brother would come over and stretch and rub them out for him, help soothe the ache. It wasn’t sexy, not when he was in pain, and even happened in motel rooms with dad. It wasn’t a ‘thing’, it was just a thing.

Not anymore, apparently.

“Yessir.”

He tries to, he does. But four hours later when he’s sprinting through a graveyard because a vengeful spirit is after him and Dean’s not burning that body fast enough, he’s not sure shaking it off is really cutting it. He gets thrown against a gravestone, and then scratched up and thrown against another. The damn thing has its hand in his chest when it starts to go up in flames and he’s on the ground gasping still when his dad and Dean catch up to him.

Dean gets one arm under him to help him stand. He immediately stumbles and his weight drops out from under him, caught by his brother with one arm.

“Sam?”

He’s got one arm around Dean and balances himself on one leg, looking down with a wince. “That’s… sprained.”

Most likely. He hopes it’s not a stress fracture. His dad swears but lets Dean help him hobble back to the Impala, so as much as it sucks, he takes a small amount of pleasure in it. It’s the first time he’s been this close to Dean, touched him for longer than it takes to pass a piece of pie between them, since Dad walked in on them.

It’s that thought that makes him lean a little more into his brother than he needs to, soaks it up while he has the chance. Dean smells like Dean, feels like Dean, and there’s something so reassuring about it he almost cries. He has to cough to cover it when Dean turns him to help him sit on the back bench of the car. If he notices Sam’s reluctance to let go, he doesn’t comment.

They ice it, and it’s swollen but he doesn’t think it’s broken. Between that and the growing pains and the fact that he can’t even muster the energy to shower because that would take standing on his foot or, with his recent luck, falling on his ass and breaking something, he couldn’t care less about homework for once.

It’s a week later and he’s back in class and using a foot brace for another week – doctor’s orders when his swelling didn’t go down immediately – apologizing for his missed assignments that his teacher looks over his glasses and says to him,

“Have you ever considered distance education?”

…

Dean’s ten when they meet Bobby Singer.

He knows what his dad does, has been doing for years. The first time he lined Dean up with empty cans on a fence and a gun in his hand, Dean was six and Dad smiled at his aim. So yeah, he knows, and he’s totally on board. He’s come out to a couple hauntings armed to the teeth in salt and iron, helped dig up bones, watched his dad kill a wraith (and that was different than the ghosts, but he wasn’t going to say it. It just looked so human – but of course it wasn’t and he knew that), learned about cursed objects and helped make a box to hold one.

But his main job is, will always be, looking out for Sammy. And that’s what he’s doing when there’s a knock at the cabin door. They’re both alert in seconds. Dean eyes the shotgun next to the door but moves instead for the knife under his pillow. Sam’s eyes never leave him but he motions to Sam to stay out of the doorway and heads over.

There’s a man outside when he cracks it, with a beard and a ranger jacket. Dean eases a little, slips the knife onto the table by the door even as he opens the door a fraction wider and puts on a smile.

“’lo sir.”

“Yeah, hi. There an adult around I can talk to?”

Dean’s smile doesn’t fade. Cops don’t always like it when he’s looking after Sam on his own so he’s got this line memorized.

“Dad just stepped out to the corner store. Should be back in a dime if you want to wait in your car.”

“That so? Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Uh…”

“How long you been out here?”

Dean shifts on his feet. What’s he want? “Couple days. Fishing trip with Dad. Who’s at the store. On his way back here.”

“Yeah kid I heard you the first time.”

And so it goes – the man asking questions about the area, if he and his dad have seen anything weird out on the water or in the forest, heard anything, and eventually Sam comes over. Dean tries to shoo him and Sam pokes him and there’s a half-second scuffle that makes the man laugh and then Sam introduces them. Dean steps on his foot. They’ve been waiting too long for their Dad to be ‘at the corner store’ but the man leaves, eventually.

He comes back three hours later covered head to toe in mud along with their father.

“Can’t believe that sonuva bitch got the drop on us,” the man is saying on his way in the door.

“Language!” Sam’s voice is high when he looks up over the book he’s had his nose in.

“Uh – ”

“These’re the boys. Said you swung by here earlier?”

“Didn’t realize this was the same cabin. You bring kids out on a hunt?”

“Hunt?” Sam’s too smart for his own good.

Dad jumps in before Dean has to come up with a story. “Bobby’s a park ranger, son. He’s been out hunting a bear in the area. Got the drop on us when I was out fishing.”

Sam looks a little skeptical and Dean doesn’t miss the look the man gives his dad.

“This is Dean, that’s Sam. Boys, this is Bobby.”

“Bobby Singer.”

They say hi. Dean’s back is straight. Sam’s curious. The men both take turns at the shower and then have beer. Dad gets Dean to put Sam to sleep despite some protests. Dean doesn’t get shoo’ed away.

“So uh, a bear?” he asks after he’s sure Sam’s nodding off in the other room, slipping back out to the main room and taking a seat at the old wood table.

Dad snorts. “So much for a black dog, thing was a rougarou. Get me my journal?”

Dean hops to obey, questions on his tongue. Bobby Singer beats him to it.

“Kid knows?”

“Dean does. Not Sam, not yet.”

“Bit young for the life, don’t you think?”

Dad doesn’t even bat an eye. “Monsters don’t care if you’re a kid, we can’t either.”

There’s a tense look between them. Dean slides the journal over across the table to his dad. “You’re a hunter too?”

Bobby’s eyes land on him. He’s not sure why it makes him feel guilty but it does.

“Sure am. Like your dad.”

“And me.”

The man takes a swallow of his beer.

“Anything else you can tell me about rougarou? This was my first encounter.” Dad’s voice interrupts their staring contest. The man provides some information and Dean tries to memorize it.

They don’t know a lot of other hunters. They’ve met a man, Caleb, and a psychic, Missouri, but if his Dad has other friends on the job, Dean doesn’t know them. His Dad calls some folks, he knows, but Dean hasn’t met most of them. He’s heard the name Walt, and Martin, but he doesn’t know if they’re friends or just names.

“I should take off,” the man says before much longer. His dad makes a vague noise in his throat. “Good to meet you, John. You ever need anything, I’m up in Sioux Falls.”

…

It’s been seven weeks since Dean’s 19^th birthday and Sam still can’t get it out of his head – the soft midnight touches in the dark at Bobby’s, the way the air felt like electricity between them.

He’s not sure Dean can either, because he catches him now – looking, in a way he didn’t before. Sam wouldn’t say it’s totally awkward between them, most of the time nothing’s different at all, but some days Dean alternates between totally normal and then hops away from Sam (with his eyes or his body depending on the situation) like Sam’s contagious.

It would be funny if it weren’t so damn annoying.

Sam’s almost fifteen. He’s not that gawky kid who climbed onto Dean’s lap a year before. He’s filling out, and he knows Dean knows it. He helped exorcise a demon two weeks ago. He’s coming on most jobs with Dad and Dean; he passes most of Dad’s stealth drills now; he’s slowly improving at picking locks using the methods Dean taught him; he’s getting better at untying himself whenever Dad’s in a sadistic mood and decides they need practice with ropes (and explaining the burns on his wrists to teachers has resulted in more and more hoodies being added to his wardrobe). He can be trusted, relied on – he’s a hunter. He’s one of them.

Which is why Dean getting up off the bed if Sam sits on the edge to read, or Dean hovering too far if he and Dad need to look over Sam’s shoulder at a book, or Dean ruffling his hair then snatching his hand away like it’s burned – it’s a slap in the friggen face.

He’s supposed to be Dean’s partner, his shotgun. And Dean’s acting like he can’t even trust him not to jump his bones if he touches him for a half second.

It’s not like he’s been a dick about it. He gets that it’s – that what he’s weirdly too okay with isn’t what Dean’s okay with, even if he’s looking. It gets Sam’s hopes up, too. The long looks, the handle-with-care distance. The first kiss they were high, and Dean shut him down so hard after that Sam felt like a freak the whole year since. But this? This is different. This is Dean who touched his hair and his face and made Sam suck his fingers and he knows exactly what Dean was thinking when he did.

Sam wonders sometimes. What would have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted by a noise from upstairs. Would Dean pull away? Or would he let Sam – would Sam keep sucking, then slide forward on his knees onto the ground? He was thinking it, then, and can’t imagine Dean pushing him off. He wouldn’t know how, but sucking’s not exactly rocket science. Would Dean let him? Would he keep his fingers in Sam’s hair the whole time?

He’s getting himself off to the fantasy, laying in the dark in the shitty little two-room motel they’re renting. Dad’s in the room with a door, snoring like a tank. Sam’s in the main room, Dean’s on the couch not far away. He wonders if Dean’s awake, if he can hear.

Sam throws off the blanket, too warm. He’s got his hand around himself and the noise gets louder, the slap of skin on skin. Nothing’s gonna interrupt Dad’s snoring so he doesn’t worry about that. He lets himself gasp a little, the springs creak under him as he shifts into it. He hears something from the couch, wonders if Dean’s rolling over. It makes him pause then start again, more desperate.

“Dean,” he whispers, too quiet to carry. He does it again. And again. He’s not getting off to the fantasy anymore, but to the reality, the hope that Dean might awake, might be tormented as Sam feels, might come over into his bed and shut him up.

He doesn’t, but Sam gets off to hoping, arching up into his hand and panting his brother’s name. Still the snores through the door don’t abate, a small mercy, but when he comes down, his ears strain for other sounds, anything from the other side of the room.

He swears he’s not imagining it when he hears a familiar smack of skin on skin from the couch. There’s no accompanying whispered name, just heavy breathing that’s too fast for Dean to be asleep, but Sam can hope.

He’s not in this alone. He can’t be. And maybe Dean doesn’t feel exactly the same as him. (Hell, Sam’s not entirely sure what he feels except that whatever it is, it consumes him). But whatever is going on between them, it’s both of them, and that’s enough for now.

…

Dean drives Sam the morning of his SATs. Fall of his senior year. That was about the same time Dean dropped out.

“Don’t know why this matters,” he mutters. He hadn’t written his own. Highschool was in the rearview, and he knows Sam likes this school crap, but he puts too much stock in it. A bit of biology, those Spanish classes, taking mechanics and shop – sure, that all comes in handy. Why he needs all that math though, or to stress himself out over homework and his grades...

No, he’s not going there. He’s not fucking thinking about that.

“You’re gonna crush it,” he says instead of any of that.

“We’ll see.”

Sam’s voice is deeper than it used to be. It reminds Dean just how much his baby brother’s grown. He puts the car in park. There are other parents there, dropping off their test-taking teens, brimming with pride and encouragement. Somehow, the rest of the students all look younger than Sam.

“Smartest guy I know, Sammy. Can’t be any harder than hunting a rawhead.”

It cracks a smile out of him.

“Just think – this test is your bitch.”

“Dean.”

“C’mon.”

Sam laughs, finally gives into it. “Alright. This test is my bitch.”

“That’s the spirit.”

He drives away after Sam gets out and tries hard not to think about what SATs are good for, and the fact that Sam never did tell Dad he was taking them.

…

They’re sparring. They haven’t in a while, and when Dad noticed he was pissed. He doesn’t get it – that touching each other is difficult these days. That Sam feels like his skin is too small and also like it’s going to burn up every time Dean touches him. And he’s never going to get it, he’s never ever going to know how Sam feels or that he’s kissed Dean. Never going to know that Dean dug his fingers into Sam’s back to work out the kinks and he’s still getting off to the sense memory.

So Sam grits his teeth and says ‘yes sir’ when he barks at them they need to train each morning after their run.

With dad looking on, sparring’s not weird. It’s focused, and precise, and Sam’s height is working in his favor. He’s almost the same height as Dean now and it’s great. Dean’s stronger but he can’t pin Sam anywhere near as easily, and Sam didn’t realize just how much pent up anger he has until he’s a little too savage that first time, hits too hard, too mean.

“Again,” their dad says, and they go again, and again, till they’re both exhausted and he’s satisfied.

The whole week goes like that, and Sam remembers why he sometimes hates having dad around. It’s not that he doesn’t miss dad when he’s gone, not that he doesn’t like him. It’s just that he’s an asshole and life feels like a bootcamp when he’s around.

That and – he’s fifteen and it’s August so school’s starting in a week and dad’s already talking about heading to New Mexico for a case with no clear monster yet and he just – he’s so tired of moving.

“I already enrolled in a school here.”

“So enroll in one there. You’ll only miss a few days, it’s not a big deal.”

It’s a big deal to him. “Yes it is.”

“Enough backchat, Sam.”

“But you never listen to what I want.”

“Life isn’t about what you want. It’s about what you get.”

“Then let’s—let’s spar.”

His dad raises his eyebrows.

“If I win – if I win we stay here for the term. That’s what I get.”

He thinks his dad is gonna say no. He doesn’t spar with them, not outside of showing them moves for training, teaching them the ropes. But he looks almost amused when he sets down his newspaper and agrees, and Sam wants nothing more than to wipe the look of his face, right then. He’s mad enough, fast enough, and dad is older and getting slower. He’s got a bum knee that Sam knows just how to target. He’s sure he’ll win.

He doesn’t win. Not even close. His dad wipes the floor with him without breaking a sweat.

The worst part might be that he’s not even mean about it. Sam’s all aggression and his dad can disarm him without even pulling any moves that are going to leave bruises. He does it three times and takes Sam’s impotent screams of rage in stride and pins him faster than he can react to. It’s nothing like sparring with Dean. Dean might be strong but their dad is a wall of iron.

Apparently Dean thinks so too, from the look on his face on the sidelines.

“Had enough, Sam?” Dad asks. Sam snarls from the ground. “Good. Never give up when you’re losing. That’s smart.”

He wishes he felt anything but angry about the praise, pinned as he is.

“Let’s just agree we’re heading to New Mexico. I’ll give you a few days to cool down, gotta head down there and find us a place, something more ‘n a motel. I’m thinking this might take a while; lots of weird going on, there’ll be a lot of research to sort it out.”

Sam’s not sure where he’s going with this, but his muscles are starting to seize and ache, and his cheek is itchy from where it’s pressed into the dirt.

“Truce?”

Sam huffs out a breath. His dad gets up, lets him go, and stretches before moving into the crap cabin they’ve been squatting in. Dean gives him a hand up and Sam actually takes it. He can’t help the curl to his lip. He hates that he lost so easily. He hates how useless he feels.

“What’s with the long face?”

“Don’t, Dean.”

“I’m serious—you got Dad to spar with you! That was awesome.”

“He kicked my ass.”

“He didn’t even hit you.”

“That makes it worse.”

Dean shakes his head. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

“How’s that?”

“A full term in one place. C’mon man, thought you were the smart one.”

He claps Sam on the arm before following their dad into the house and Sam realizes that’s the truce his dad was offering. His tongue catches on the embarrassed gratitude, words twisted up tight in the back of his throat because – he doesn’t want to be grateful, shouldn’t have to be. But he is, and that stings too.

He’s pissed the next two days, almost more so when Dean rolls his eyes at it.

“Winter in New Mexico beats the hell out of winter somewhere like Michigan. It’s the little things, Sam. Apple pie, warm winters, silver bullets. Gotta learn to love the little things.”

Sam grits his teeth. A semester in one place, he’ll be grateful for that. The rest of it… he’ll sort it out.

Then dad’s gone, out to scope out a place for them to spend the next month or three, leaving behind the usual orders.

“Dean, look out for Sam. Sam, listen to your brother.”

“Yessir,” both of them in unison, same as ever.

“And don’t neglect your training, either of you. Sam needs more wilderness practice, more sparring while we’ve got the space for it. I want to hear that he’s training every day.”

“Yes sir,” Dean doesn’t hesitate. He never does. Sam just shakes his head.

But Dean keeps them on schedule. They’re running every day, tracking drills in the woods with target practice thrown in (and they’re not gonna pretend it’s not dangerous but neither of them has been shot yet and that’s half the point). And Dean insists on sparring.

“Dad’s orders.”

Sam knows it’s a bad idea. The trip to Mexico two months prior, he’s not good with temptation.

At least he doesn’t give in easy. He smacks Dean’s flesh like he means it, wrestles with the height he’s got, feels a flash of something in his gut that’s like savage pride when he remembers how this feels, that Dean’s not a wall of iron, he’s flesh and blood and Sam can almost beat him. And then Dean’s got his arm and he’s going down, grapples on the fall, catches Dean’s legs with a hooked ankle and they both go down. Dean won’t let up on his arm and if he wrenches it any harder Sam might have to cry uncle but it feels—

It feels delectable. It feels like if he stops fighting for a second he’ll have to acknowledge, have to do something about this and he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to give in so he keeps struggling against Dean’s grip and keeps his free hand behind him, up over his head, gripping at the collar of Dean’s tee because it’s all he can grab. They’re on the ground and he’s panting and it has less to do with the exertion and more to do with how Dean’s hips slot in against his from behind and press him to the hard dirt—because they’re outside god they’re outside and no one’s anywhere nearby but—and Dean presses his hips down and that pressure is so—

He lets out a sound and covers it desperately with a grunt. He won’t give in and Dean’s breathing harsh next to his ear and it almost tickles but doesn’t, just sends something up his spine – a spine that’s arched taught and stuck that way with the relentless grip Dean’s got on his one arm. He tries a kick back and Dean presses a leg between both of his and Sam—

He can’t pretend anymore. He can’t hold on. He gasps and feels himself rut back, into the pressure of that thigh, of Dean’s hips. He’s not the only one who’s hard but he might be the only one who’s dizzy with it, dry mouthed and desperate.

“Dean – ”

“You give, Sammy?”

He swallows around air, shakes his head. “Never.”

Dean pulls at his arm, and then his other hand makes itself known from where it’s helping pin and hold Sam, wrapped around and under him, snaked up near Sam’s armpit with his forearm across Sam’s chest. It moves, making his shirt ruck up in the process, pulls up so the angle of his body is tight and it wraps in a way that’s almost around his neck. He can breathe but it’s thin; he can’t win, can’t move and the hold makes him press his waist and hips down. His dick is aching and pushed against the ground, a pressure that has him seeing stars.

“Sure about that?” Dean’s breathing sounds ragged. Sam ruts his hips back again, pretends—because Dean wants to pretend and Sam can pretend, he can—that he’s struggling, that he’s not grinding when Dean’s thigh shifts, that he can’t feel Dean rocking his hips against his ass.

They’re in jeans but he can feel it like they’re not, like there’s nothing between them. His eyes roll back and he keeps grinding into the ground, feels Dean grinding into his ass, pushing him into the hard earth and holding him there. Sam’s breath is hitched and tight and his heart’s staccato and Dean’s movements get more deliberate, more targeted long rolls and Sam can’t take it.

“Gonna give?”

“Ne-ver,” he gasps.

Dean shifts his arm so it’s holding him and he can feel the skin of Dean’s arm because his shirt’s rucked up to his chest and he’s laying fully over him, fully moving on him.

“Fuck, fuck fuck,” Sam’s whispering and his face is pressed to the dirt now and he doesn’t care, can’t care, “fuck, Dean—”

Dean bites his shoulder, the spot just inside of it, closer to his neck and it’s too much. It’s Dean. Sam’s eyes roll back and he groans, feels his dick throb in his jeans against the packed ground and grinds back into Dean as he suddenly cums. He shudders uncontrollably, gasping in air like he’s been underwater, all sensation. He can hear Dean swearing over him, hips rocking down hard and –

Dean lets go of his wrist to wrap both arms around him and holds him tight around his middle. He ruts and digs his teeth back into Sam’s shoulder and makes a sound Sam’s never going to forget. The way he shudders it out is enough to make Sam’s softening dick twitch in his jeans in sympathy.

But he’s gone before Sam can collect himself. By the time he makes it back into the cabin, Dean’s in the shower, using up the scant shreds of hot water. Sam doesn’t even bother. He collapses on his bed and drags his fingers through his hair and decides if he ever wants it to happen again, he’s not going to be allowed to talk about it.

He can do that.

Except they don’t talk about it the next time they spar, or the one after. Dean doesn’t press him to the ground again and make him forget what breathing feels like. He wishes he would. He’s mad enough that he actually manages to hit Dean too hard, manages to draw blood from his nose. Dean seems to get it. He throws himself at Sam with a snarl and they both walk away with more bruises than normal.

He wishes he felt contrite. He wishes hitting his brother didn’t feel like so much vindication.

Sam wishes for a lot of things these days. He wishes his dad didn’t come back a day after that and drag them down to New Mexico the following morning. Wishes they didn’t move so many times a year he’s lost count of all the places they’ve stayed. Wishes he had a friggen’ life. Wishes he didn’t learn how to make a sawed-off shotgun when he was twelve, that he didn’t learn how to draw the salt lines when he was eleven, that he didn’t get quizzed on lore and what weapons could kill what monsters on all their long drives.

Mostly, he wishes he and Dean never kissed. Then maybe he wouldn’t miss it so much.

…

Bobby wraps Sam up in a friendly hug when his dad and Sam arrive, and Dean has to tamp down on a knee-jerk well of jealousy. He’s not really sure what flavor it’s in, that he wishes he was young enough to still get a friendly hug from Bobby every time he showed up at the door, or that he wishes he felt like he was allowed to hug his own brother. Sam looks like he’s going to go in for the hug, but Dean’s eyes shift to his father and there’s no way that’s happening.

“Hey.”

Sam shifts from one foot to another, “hey.”

“Why don’t you drop your bag upstairs, Sam?” their dad suggests casually and Sam sighs and hops to. “Son. How you been?”

“Keeping my nose out of trouble, sir.”

“Good.” He turns, holds out his hand. “Bobby.”

Bobby holds out for a second before reluctantly returning the handshake. Dean wishes he understood more about their friendship because sometimes he could swear Bobby can’t stand his dad.

“Didn’t bake any cakes,” Bobby says by way of greeting, the three of them wandering toward the kitchen.

“Sam’s too old for that anyway.”

Bobby’s look disagrees. Dean disagrees too. “I’ll head in to town. We could use more beer anyway.”

“Wanna take the truck?”

As if his dad is gonna let him drive the Impala again anytime this year. “Sure yeah, thanks Bobby.”

“Don’t thank me, it’s yours.”

“His?” his dad asks.

“You’ve been going through lemon after lemon keeping Dean ‘n you both on wheels. Figured it was time he had something that’s not gonna fall apart on him.”

“The Impala doesn’t fall apart.”

“It’s about the only thing.”

His dad’s face tightens and Dean decides against commenting that the spare cars they’ve been using when they need a second set of wheels really aren’t that bad. This isn’t about cars. He grabs the keys to the truck.

“Any requests from the liquor store?”

“Whiskey.”

He nods, and Sam’s thundering his way down the steps as he’s about to leave the kitchen.

“Hey – huh, where are you going?”

“Just into town.”

“Can I come?”

Dean’s eyebrows go up. Seriously?

“We just got here, Sam. You can help with dinner,” Dad calls from the kitchen. Sam rolls his eyes and Dean’s smile feels stiff.

He goes and buys the cake, the booze, and they have an actual, honest-to-god little celebration. Sam’s birthday isn’t for another day but cake is fair game once it’s in the house and they could all use the excuse to relax. They stay up late, drink too much beer (Sam’s learning to handle that better, at least), and all in all… Dean feels almost like they’re family again.

Which is why he’s not sure what to do when Sam sneaks into his room in the middle of the night.

He’s a hunter. The sound of his door opening makes him sit up before he’s even aware he’s awake. Sam doesn’t look surprised, in the doorway, just slips in quietly. For the life of him, Dean can’t figure out why he’s left the door cracked open.

“Hey,” his voice is almost inaudible. Dean strains to hear.

“You can’t – ” he lowers his voice even quieter, “we can’t…”

“I know.”

“Yeah?”

Sam nods, then sits carefully on the far side of Dean’s bed, facing away from him, toward the door. He stares at his hands for a hot minute.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” He sounds like there’s a lump in his throat. For whatever stupid reason, it makes Dean feel like he’s tearing up. He blinks, glad it would be impossible to see that in the dark, even if the moon’s full tonight.

“Not your fault.”

“I… I’m a freak. I know that. I know – it’s disgusting. To other people. Normal people.”

Dean shakes his head. He’s not wrong but, “it’s not about normal.”

“It has to be.”

He won’t pretend to understand that logic. “It’s gonna fuck you up. I’m sorry I did that to you.”

“You didn’t. You didn’t, Dean. Was like this before, remember? I started it.”

Dean’s not so sure he believes that anymore. “Not your fault.”

Sam sighs. There’s a creak down the hall and they both still. There’s another. Sam stands.

“Guess that’s my cue.”

He’s slipping out the door before Dean can even say anything. He doesn’t hear anything from the hall except footsteps, but there’s definitely two sets. He flops back down into the tiny cot he’s on in the upstairs library; the proper spare room went to their dad like it always does and the couch downstairs went to Sam. Normally he’d take the floor by Sam or drag this cot into the same room at least, but not anymore.

He tries to sleep. He tries not to be disappointed that Sam gave up so easily. It’s for the best.

…

Some hunters specialize. John’s been in this line of work to meet all kinds. Some, like Elkin and Walker, mostly go after vamps; some, Caleb as a prime example, spend most of their time on creatures like wendigo and rawheads and ghouls; others go in for ghosts and other apparitions. The apparition hunters, he privately thinks, maybe have it the easiest. Easy to detect, easy to salt ‘n burn, easy to fend off a pissed off ghost. Most of them that kick the bucket get it from stumbling across something that’s not an apparition, like a cursed object or a hex bag. Witchcraft kills a lot of good hunters.

But for all the types out there, and the generalists like him, what’s probably the most dangerous and most rare are the ones who specialize in demons.

See, demons are rare, but they’re mean. A rouragou hunts to survive, a werewolf because it loses control or needs to eat. A ghost just needs to move on (and sure a poltergeist can be a bitch but - ). Demons hurt people because they enjoy it – because they can. They give witches power and grant idiots their foolhardy wishes and they collect souls with nasty invisible hounds and they take bodies, especially of the desperate and vulnerable, and use them for kicks.

Jim specializes in demons. Pastor Jim, as half the community calls him. And these days, when Jim gets a demon, he calls John.

Sam’s 14, will be turning over to 15 in a couple months. John weighs it, decides he needs to learn sooner or later. Not without some safeguards though.

He leaves Sam at the motel. Takes Dean with him, tells him on the way where they’re going.

“A demon? Man, how long’s it been?”

Two years, and Dean knows it. John says as much, a bit of a growl in his voice.

“Right, sir. Uh.”

“Out with it.”

“Just wondering why we aren’t bringing Sammy?”

John chews the inside of his lip, turns down the narrow road to the parish. “You’ll go grab him before we’re done. First... first we’re gonna get this demon to tell us what it knows.”

It’s gruesome work, and not the type that Jim’s got the stomach for himself. He leaves them to it, to the demon chained in a chair in the center of his basement, the one with the trap painted on the floor and ceiling. It’s wearing the face of a young brunette. John’s own chest gets tight, and he takes no pleasure in it but he can clamp down on that to get the job done. This monster’s done worse to the vessel it stole, so hurting it doesn’t mean much of anything.

He keeps an eye on Dean when he threatens the demon. He’s pacing, watching, learning. When it starts running its mouth, Dean’s the one to punch it, to shut it up. He’s good. John nods in approval.

“You’ll never find him. Your ‘yellow-eyes’. You know we know all about your revenge quest, John Winchester.”

Dean looks to him. He raises his hand to stall him, eyes narrowed on the demon.

“Then you know you’re as good as expelled but before we get there – I can put you in a world of pain. And I will, unless you tell me what you know about him.”

It rolls its head in a laugh. “Poor Johnny. Chasing his own tail around the country, raising his little brats,” it spits at Dean’s feet, “in squalor. All for what? Revenge?”

He makes a noise in his throat, steps in closer.

“No, you’ve gotta be smarter than that. All these years, you’ve gotta know there’s more to it.”

“More to what?” Dean’s voice is strong and angry, but John’s stomach is tight. The demon laughs and Dean repeats it louder.

“Nuh uh baby boy. These lips are sealed.”

John flips the knife in his hand and slams it through the Demon’s shoulder. It screams and he knows he’s managed to hurt it, dipped in holy water as the blade was.

“Dean,” he growls. “Go get your brother.”

It’s a command and Dean doesn’t hesitate.

“Oh yes,” the demon’s eyes are fully black now, its smile bloody and grotesque at it stares up at him from the chair it’s chained to. “Go get Sammy.”

John twists the blade. The demon gasps in pain and he spares a momentary prayer that the human soul the vessel belonged to has already died.

“Oh John – you've gotta know.”

“Know what?”

“Don’t you suspect? Don’t you ever wonder why he was in Sammy’s room to begin with?”

His muscles are coiled, they can’t get any tighter, but at that he swears they do.

“There it is. You’ve thought about it.”

“Tell. Me.”

“You already know the truth.”

He doesn’t give it the satisfaction of seeing him shudder. “Yellow-Eyes was there for Sam. Why?”

The demon shakes its head. “Now that part – that's above my pay grade.”

“Tell me.” He punctuates with with pain and the demon screams, gasps, then breaths fast and panted.

“All I know – all I know is that he’s not the only one, there are lots. I don’t know why the boss needs them, that really is above my pay grade, but little Sammy’s not alone and whatever Azazel did to him, to all the kids he’s found, Sam’s different now.”

John gags the creature before the boys show back up. He can’t admit that he’s shaken, doesn’t let it show, but he thinks Dean might see it anyway, pick it up from the way he snaps at Sam. Sam can’t tell the difference, but it’s his first exorcism so he doesn’t seem to care either.

“This is... a demon?”

His hesitation doesn’t bode well. John’s standing behind the demon and his gaze hardens on Sam.

“I know it looks human, but the person inside that suit’s long-since dead.”

“How can you tell?”

His lips turn down. “Mind your tone, son. You know because demons ride a body hard, and this one was in rough shape before we got here.”

It’s halfway a lie, but Sam nods and that’s good enough.

“Remember your Latin?”

He’s got a cheat sheet, but doesn’t need it. John’s a little proud of that. He hesitates when it starts to writhe, to scream into its gag, but Dean’s by his side, got a hand on his shoulder, and it’s enough for Sam to finish.

The black smoke surges out of her. The boys both take a step back but the demon is gone, slammed back down to hell and John breathes a little easier.  He’s about to congratulate them when –

She moans, low and in pain. Her head’s still dropped forward but she shifts and John’s heart almost stops.

She’s alive.

His eyes land on Sam. The boy’s are wide as saucers.

“Boys. Go get the pastor.” He tries to keep his voice calm and warm, commanding but unperturbed. Dean takes a step but Sam doesn’t move. “Sam.”

He ignores him, takes a step toward the girl. Her head snaps up and she’s crying. She’s got a head wound with blood down her face and injuries that make John’s stomach turn just a little because he’s the one who left them there.

“Sam!”

He snaps to, eyes still wide, and lets Dean drag him upstairs. John cuts the girl out but she cries, scared of him even though he helped save her. He gets it but it rankles. He’d never hurt her.

She’s still shuffling away when Jim races down the steps with the boys. John swears at him under his breath. He was supposed to leave the boys upstairs. She’s afraid of Jim too, just sobbing, and of all of them, it’s Sam who gets her to calm down, talks to her like a spooked animal. It’s Dean who’s left calling an ambulance and Jim who’s working hard on a lie and John who’s left useless by the sidelines.

He watches Sam hold her. She’s clinging to him. She knows she was possessed but she’s soothed by Sam explaining it to her, that it was a demon, that she’s safe now, that it won’t come back, that it won’t hurt her anymore.

He walks her to the ambulance with the paramedics. John would prefer to be the hell out of there, less questions to answer, but Jim cuts him off when he tries to get the boys gone. They’ll be out of the state within the hour anyway.

“Thank you,” he catches the girl say to Sam. “For saving me.”

Sam’s jaw is tight the whole way out of the state. John’s shoulders feel tight. He’s waiting for the attempt at a lecture. It never comes. When they finally get to the motel a state over and Dean runs in to get them a room, what Sam actually says surprises him.

“I didn’t know it was like that.”

John makes a noise, indicating he’s listening. Sam leans forward in the back seat. John eyes him in the rearview, but Sam’s staring straight ahead.

“That demon – it didn’t care about her body. It didn’t protect her. It let her get hurt, and it used her. And we – we saved her. We can – so much of what we do, we show up when everyone’s already dead. But we saved her. We can save people.”

He moves enough to catch Sam’s eyes. They’re steely as hell. There’s something new behind them.

“That’s what we do, Sam. We do it for a reason.”

“Yeah.” His voice is fervent. “I knew that. This was different.”

John nods. He gets it. Not exactly, not for demons, but he gets that feeling of a grateful person, knowing he did something right. He knows that look on Sam’s face.

“You did good, son.”

“Thanks Dad.”

He sends up a silent prayer, as Dean slides back into the shotgun seat and provides their room number, that Sam never discovers how that woman got her wounds.

…

New Mexico is okay. Dean likes it just fine. Misses wearing all his layers but it’s too hot in October for it here and his leather jacket is more of an evening accessory these days.

“You signed up for a what?”

“A musical. Oklahoma.”

“They name plays after states?”

“This one, yeah.”

“That last play was bad enough, you’re subjecting me to showtunes now, Samantha?”

He watches Sam roll his eyes.

“I’m just doing tech. You don’t have to come.”

“Oh I’m comin’.” As if he’d set aside an opportunity to have material to tease Sammy about from now until the next century.

Sam smiles, and then there’s a little mischief in his eyes and it spreads into a grin. “That’s what she said.”

Dean almost spits out the drink he’s swallowing. “Did you just make an actual joke?”

Sam shoves him good-naturedly. Dean elbows him back. It turns into a headlock and a noogie moments later, because they both have too much steam to blow off pretty much all the time. They’re wrestling easy, right up until Dean gets Sam by the front of his shirt and presses him to the counter. Then he has to hesitate, because Sam’s hesitating, and suddenly they’re both breathing the same air.

He hates this. He wishes he understood it. He wishes it didn’t make his throat dry up and something shrivel inside him at the same time as something deeper and darker takes over, demanding.

Sam looks a second from leaning in.

“Don’t,” Dean’s voice is too rough. He’s surprised he said anything. Surprised Sam actually pauses, swallows.

“Okay.”

Dean adjusts the front of his shirt and clears his throat. “Good.”

“Gonna let me go?”

“Right.”

They separate. Dean runs his hand over his head. “So. Theatre? That nerd shit won’t help you get a girl, Sammy.”

Sam doesn’t even call him on deflecting. “I’m not trying to get a girl, Dean.”

He leaves the kitchen then and Dean sighs, feels himself just let go of the tension he was holding just being in Sam’s presence.

God he’s gotta get that kid laid.

…

It's a week after The Kitchen Incident and Dean calls Sam’s name when he's just barely in the door. “Sammy!”

He flicks his gaze up from the book he was halfway reading while he was walking. "What's up?"

"Finally—thought you tripped down a well on your way home. Get dressed, we're going out."

He looks down at what he's wearing then looks up at Dean, his expression definitely getting his question across.

"Double-date, man. Hot girls. You can't go out dressed like that."

His eyebrows are in his hairline. "Double... you want me to go on a double-date with you?"

Dean shrugs, already heading to the bathroom, presumably to shave. "Why not? Amanda's got a friend. She's 17, Sammy. Perfect for you."

He doubts that, not the least because in his experience, highschool girls don't really like dating guys younger than them.

"Is she ugly?"

Dean laughs. "Self-burn, man. And I dunno', haven't seen her, just told Amanda to find someone. C'mon, just get ready. We're picking them up for dinner."

Sam sighs and snaps his homework closed. When he slinks past the bathroom, Dean's hauled off his shirt to shave. He snaps his eyes back forward and keeps walking.

Whatever this thing is between them, Dean seems to want to forget about it every time something happens. Sam can't pretend he's not twisted up about it, but changes anyway into a nicer shirt and a cleaner pair of jeans. He muscles into the bathroom next to Dean and attempts to fix his hair a little. He definitely doesn't do it for an excuse to stare. He definitely isn't pleased when Dean musses up his already impossible to tame hair.

They're in the car 10 minutes later.

"Does this girl know I'm not 17?"

"I told Amanda you were my younger brother."

That means no. Younger brother could mean anything younger than Dean's own 19. He doesn't have to complain long though, including about how weird it is that Dean was clearly the instigator in setting this up as a double-date, because they're picking up Amanda and her friend Ashley right after that. Amanda's 18 and graduating this year. Ashley's a senior too and the look she gives Sam says that she's less than impressed about being on a double with him.

Sam would be kind of insulted if he cared, but he doesn't really. He wants to be here about as much as she does, even if she thinks she's a pity date for him or whatever her friend told her when she begged her to come so that she could score with Dean. Either way, Sam and her suffer it out together, making polite small talk through dinner. Sam only has to kick Dean in the shin a single time under the table for an off-colour comment and an eyebrow wiggle, so he'll call it a win. The girls are giggling about it anyway.

Ashley warms up to him by dessert. She actually starts asking him genuinely about his past once she seems to clue in that he's not fumbling and embarrassed or out of his depth with her. He was with girls as little as a year ago, but times change.

"You've moved how many times?"

He shrugs, "you get used to it. Dad's a travelling salesman."

"Don't you get tired of it?"

"I mean, it wreaks havoc on my grades, but…"

"Don't be so modest, Sammy," Dean cuts in. He's got his arm thrown over the other girl (Amanda? that sounds right)'s shoulder. "Kid's a genius."

"Not genius enough to be ready for the PSATs this year."

Dean's eyebrows go up. "You wanna write those?"

He shrugs, suddenly wishing he hadn't brought up it. He hadn't planned to tell Dean at all and definitely doesn't want word to reach his dad. "Why not?"

Dean gives him a look but doesn't comment and the conversation moves on from there. They pay up and slip out of the restaurant, make it to a movie where he's pretty sure Dean and his girl miss 80% of it. Ashley shifts a little in her seat, but Sam's the one stuck next to them. He glances her way with a wince and she laughs a little, but he doesn't try anything except for stealing the rest of her coke when she's not looking. She flicks him for it and he grins.

He's actually feeling alright after that. Dean making out right next to him in a movie theater should be enough to make his blood boil but with how things have been going… well, his blood is boiling, but not in anger or jealousy. Well, a little. But it’s different now. He’s mad that Dean’s making him sit through this knowing he’d rather be back at home with just Dean, and he’s mad that Dean needs to keep backtracking and he’s jealous that this girl gets to be out in the open with Dean but he’s—

He’s mostly trying really hard not to get hard. The soft sighs coming out of the girl’s lips are haunting him, just close enough to hear. She doesn’t seem to mind that they’re in the back of a movie theater, or that she’s sitting next to Dean’s brother. There’s a moment partway through when Dean’s hand shifts from wherever it was to grip the armrest between her and Sam, and that means Sam can feel it, feel Dean’s fingers just next to his arm. He hates himself for wearing an over-shirt. He also doesn’t move, a little breathless, when Dean’s fingers brush his arm, too steady and careful not to be deliberate.

He swallows and glances over with just his eyes. Dean’s are closed in concentration. He’s leaning over the girl (Sam really can’t remember her name anymore) and her hands are sneaking up his t-shirt. Sam tracks the skin they’re exposing, the way he can see just a hint of it, of Dean’s muscles flexing.  

He has to let out a breath because he’s going to spontaneously combust. It’s like every cell in his body is keyed into the feeling of Dean’s fingers through his shirt, that point of contact. His thumb brushes the inside of Sam’s elbow and he bites his tongue around the sound that threatens to escape. He wants—

And then it’s over. And Dean’s leaning back and whispering something he can’t hear in the girl’s ear and she’s quietly laughing and Dean’s fingers are gone and Sam’s chest is two sizes too small. Dean and her get up and leave. He winks at Sam on his way. Sam deflates.

“Uhhh,” Ashley whispers next to him.

“Don’t worry, they’ll be back by the end to drive us home. Dean never takes long.” It’s a dig and he’s not proud of it, and he’s not really sure if he’s insulting Dean or his date, enough layers in there, but Ashley giggles and relaxes and finishes the movie with him so whatever.

She also gives him a goodnight kiss before slipping out of the Impala’s back seat when they drop her off later that night and Sam grins to himself for three days after.

…

When Sam gets his acceptance letter from him dream school, from Stanford, his hands shake so hard the paper tears.

For the first time in a year, in over a year, in what might be half or all of his life, there is something akin to purpose, to a path. Almost inexplicably, he thinks of being nine years old and getting a call from Dean, being told he’s allowed to hop on a bus and join him and Dad on his first hunt. Because he used to think hunting was everything. Used to ache to be by Dad and Dean’s sides and take up his role in the family business.

He’s not nine anymore. He’s killed things, bloodied himself. He’s lost things, ones he doesn’t know how to count. And most days, he barely even feels it. His hands have stopped bleeding when he has to dig up graves and he barely hissed the last time Dean had to dab vodka on a wound he got and it took him an hour to notice when a finger got dislocated after tangling with a werewolf and there’s something wrong with that, with him.

So when he gets the letter, he holds it tight and for the first time in a long time, he feels. He feels something other than he urge to run until his legs cramp, to spar until his bruises are green, to get close enough to a monster to let his ribs get cracked. Feels something other than the spite that twists up in his veins when he kisses whatever girl he’s convinced to study with him, and something other than the anger that makes him pour out his Dad’s whiskey every time the asshole’s dumb enough to leave a bottle half-empty when he passes out. He feels something other than the urge to hurt (because hurting’s the only thing that grounds him and for a minute makes him feel like existence is more worthy than not existing anymore, and half the time he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to exist at all and that scares him more than he’s willing to admit, the feeling buried so deep he can barely acknowledge it even to himself and - )

Sam’s knuckles have been red for weeks, and the letter has been in his hands for a second and it’s already torn. It’s fitting that his Out is a little busted and broken too.

…

Dean’s pretty pleased with how things are going with Amanda and Ashley and Sam. The whole thing’s one of his better ideas, and it’s working out better than he expected. Ashley’s actually chill with Sam. Dean’s not really surprised, not exactly, but there’s still something about it sitting tight in his stomach he’s not analyzing any time this century.

They go out again the next weekend, the four of them. There’s less of a pretense this time, hanging out at Dean and Sam’s, their dad gone for the weekend. Dean’s barely got the movie in the VHS player when he feels Amanda shifting next to him. He holds out his hand, tries to give Sammy a sly eyebrow wiggle on his way past but his little brother’s got his jaw set. Whatever.

Amanda’s hot. She’s also eager, and spicy, and likes Dean enough not to complain about doubling with his little brother so much. He likes that about her.

When they make it back to the living room, satisfied and a little more relaxed for the end of the movie, Sammy’s made popcorn and his cheeks are a little flushed. Dean spies a mark on his neck, just red still but it’ll bruise. There’s something hot in his stomach and he crushes it hard and fast. That’s Sam, and that was the whole point of hooking him and Ashley up.

It’s in full view later though, when they’ve driven the girls home (and Sam had quite the goodnight kiss this time, a lot longer than the time before and did they have to do that in the car while Dean is sitting right there?) and Sam’s taken off the flannel and is cleaning the kitchen with him in just his t-shirt.

“Told you she’d be perfect for you.” His tone is light and breezy, just like he wants it. He waggles his eyebrows at the hickey.

 “She’s still a senior.” Sammy rolls his eyes. “She barely acknowledges my existence at school.”

“Whatever, she’s hot for you. You’re tall enough to pass for a senior these days anyway.”

“Is that envy I hear?”

“You wish.”

Sam laughs and Dean grins. It’s a little true, the kid’s sprouted right up since a year ago and he’s Dean’s height now, on track to be taller. He kind of hates it but refuses to give Sam the satisfaction of admitting it.

“Besides, no matter how tall you get, you’re still the little brother.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Dean’s halfway to mussing up Sam’s hair but hesitates, chest tight. Is Sam just being Sam, or is he hinting…

But Sam’s eyes go a little wide at whatever expression he catches on Dean’s face, and then he’s shaking his head. “You know what I mean.”

He clears his throat. “Yeah, yeah.”

He went and made this awkward, dammit. This one’s on him. But Sam doesn’t push to talk about it for once and he’s grateful. He’s grateful anytime he gets to ignore it. His bed still smells like Amanda and sex when he turns in. He tries not to examine why that’s bothering him, but he’s pretty sure he knows.

…

It’s hard to know how to count a first kill for a hunter. Does a ghost count, when it’s already undead? Burning the bones smells awful, but you’re not hurting a person, just helping a spirit move on. Does a creature count, something like a black dog that’s not humanoid? Or does it have to be like a shifter, a werewolf, where it walks like a person and talks like a person and begs like a person but it’s actually a monster.

John’s never given it much thought, but Dean’s 13 years old and he’s covered in arterial spray from the silver knife he just stabbed into a shifter and there’s a look on his face that screams this is different. The blood is hot and the creature looks human and for a second, John wonders if it was such a good idea to bring him along for this, even if he was a good help.

“Alright there, son?”

Dean makes a noise in his throat and withdraws the blade finally. He pulls in a shaky breath, then looks up at John with big, wide eyes. “It’s done?”

“It’s done.”

“I did it right?”

“Yes son. You did.”

His face splits into a grin. John’s chest relaxes. He steps over and ruffles Dean’s hair. “Come on. Let’s get back to the church. Pastor’s making chili. We can pick up a pie for dessert.”

“Pie!”

He makes Dean wash off his hands and face before they head back inside so Sam doesn’t see or ask about the blood. He changes his shirt too, but his grin is irrepressible. He wraps up his little brother in a huge hug as soon as they’re in the door, and tells them he caught the biggest fish ever but threw it back. The fish is two feet long in his retelling. John can’t help but smile. Jim nods at him to talk and John follows, debriefs with him.

It’s an hour later, over pie, Dean stuffing his face like he’s starving, that Jim finally comments. John was waiting for it, that line between his eyebrows stuck there ever since John said he was bringing Dean.

“He seems okay.”

“Just fine,” John agrees. They’re standing in the kitchen, talking quiet while the boys are at the table in the dining room.

“Might need to be careful with him, John.”

“He’s strong. He can handle it.”

Jim shakes his head. “It’s not that.” He evaluates, then looks at Dean. “Being raised in iron and blood – a body can get a taste for it.”

It’s not what he expected, and something in John’s stomach tightens. He looks back over at his son, regaling his little brother with stories and grins and at ease even though he hasn’t showered off the blood under his shirt yet. Both of them are laughing, Dean making faces, Sam shoving his arm. They’re just boys.

“Not Dean. He won’t.”

Jim doesn’t comment.

…

They go out again with the girls. Dean and Amanda haven’t been going steady so much as she’s become one of Dean’s fuck-buddies, and Ashley and him aren’t really a thing so much as tag-alongs. Not that Sam’s complaining, considering she stopped treating him like a kid after the first date, and last time he actually slid all the way into second.

He is ready to complain though about the fact that Dean thought going for a drive would be fun. It’s never fun, and it’s not going to be especially now. It’s almost December, and even in New Mexico, the nights are getting chilly.

“Should’a brought some booze,” Ashley’s observing her nails in the backseat next to him. Dean decides that’s a spectacular suggestion and pulls in at the nearest liquor store.

“If you drink and drive, Dad’s gonna murder you,” Sam grumbles as Dean flips through his wallet for the right fake ID. Amanda’s looking slyly over at Dean.

“Then we better find somewhere to pullover,” Dean winks at him. Sam rolls his head toward the ceiling of the car. He finally figured out Dean’s plan.

Dad’s in town this weekend, it’s not like they can bring the girls back to their place. Jesus.

He’s not wrong, either. They drive a little more and make their way out of town, music up, the girls drinking coolers and Sam sipping a beer and eyeing the road behind them, aware just how easily they could get pulled over for this. Ashley nudges him and tells him to lighten up, whispers it in his ear. He flushes a little, smiling at her, admiring her dimples.

He’d almost forgotten Dean’s not the only one who might get laid tonight.

“Stargazing, anyone?” Dean says when he pulls the car over and kills the engine, reaching back and grabbing one of the beers from the sixpack between Sam’s feet.

The girls are all giggles, tumbling out of the car, and Sam follows, lets Ashley drag him by the sleeve into the field. He indulges, letting the beer settle in his stomach, pointing out constellations she doesn’t know.

“Seems like your brother got all the brains in the family.” He hears Amanda nearby, her and Dean listening in on him explain the story of Castor and Pollux. Sam looks over and Dean’s grinning, not insulted.

“Yeeaaah, but I got the good looks.”

She leans back at looks at him, a sly grin on her features. “Would you look at that, I guess you did.”

Dean kisses her. Sam feels something warm in his stomach, not the same as the rage-filled jealousy he knows but not benign. Ashley shifts beside him and he clears his throat and looks at her, eyebrows up. Her hand is on his arm, looking up at him underneath well-mascaraed lashes and he knows this cue.

He tries not to think about the fact that Dean and Amanda are right there. Tries not to think about the fact that he can hear them kissing. Tries to focus on Ashley’s lips and Ashley’s waist under his fingers and Ashley’s warm body pressed against his.

It works, mostly. It works until he hears Amanda giggle, and Dean chuckle and say something he can’t quite hear, and then their footsteps through the grass as they make their way back to the Impala.

Sam swallows.

“I guess it’s a little chilly out here.”

Sam laughs, turning his attention back to her. “Yeah, I’m sure they’re just going to uh, warm up.”

She laughs too, tucks some hair behind her ear. Then she takes his hand. “C’mon.”

She’s leading him back toward the Impala too and his eyes get a bit wide. That seems like a recipe for disaster.

He can’t quite make out what Dean and Amanda are doing in the backseat, can’t look too long (can’t tear his eyes away), but as he gets closer it’s not hard to see Dean’s bare back, or Amanda’s knees up. He’d stare forever, would get into the front seat and kiss Ashley there and get off to the sound of Dean but she diverts at the last second from where he thought they were headed and tugs him over to the hood. She puts him where she wants him, halfway sitting on the cold hood, her standing between his legs.

“There,” she whispers against his lips, kissing them again. He smiles a little. He kind of likes that she’s bossy sometimes. He likes that she’s older, too, a little more sure of herself than the girls in his grade.

“Now what?” he asks her, fingers teasing up her shirt, hopeful. He can’t help being hopeful. She’s beautiful and Dean’s only feet from him, getting naked and sweaty with someone else. The car is starting to rock. He’s harder than the cool night should physically allow.

“You’re so cold,” she gasps, instinctively dodging the fingers, even as she leans her body into him.

“So warm me up?” It’s such a Dean line that he almost cringes at himself, but her eyes are full of mischief when they catch his. She’s playing with the front of his jacket, and then there’s a loud moan from the inside of the car and they both laugh a little. Sam manages to wince. Amanda’s not quiet.

“Sorry about that.”

He shakes his head.

There’s a second of hesitation. “So are you… you’re for real moving in a month?”

He feels something like disappointment slot into place. He puts on a brave face anyway, glancing to the side. “Yeah. Maybe before Christmas.” Definitely before Christmas. He’ll get his report card mailed to Bobby’s. There’s no way their dad is gonna want to waste any more time here when they could be on the road.

“So anything we do… it’s not like it matters, right? No one will know?”

His eyes snap back to hers, the way she’s biting her lip. He swallows hard. “Y-yeah. No witnesses. No rumours.”

“Good.”

Just like that, fluid and sinew, she’s on her knees. His eyes might be bugging out of his head.

“I need to practice on someone. I have no idea how to do this.”

He almost laughs again but not unkindly, just that holy shit is this really happening feeling is almost transcendental.

“I’m sure—” his throat constricts because she’s got his pants open and it’s cold against his erection but her hand is there a second later and – “I’m sure you’re gonna be great.”

That’s even cringier than the last thing he said but it doesn’t seem to matter.

And after that—it’s quite possibly the most amazing thing he’s ever felt. It’s hot, and wet, and determined. There’s no rhythm and if he had to guess, she’s not good at it, but like hell if it isn’t heaven anyway.

He lets out a sound, surprised and gasping and partway moaning, and then he shoves his fist in his mouth because—because they aren’t alone. God they aren’t alone. The car is still rocking and he’d just assimilated the rhythm. But now he can hear it, under his own sounds and the slurp of Ashley’s mouth on him, there’s moans from inside the car too. They’re mostly Amanda and she’s vocal, some begging for harder and more and for Dean so much that Sam’s ears start to burn. But Dean’s grunts are there under all that, and he shouldn’t be straining to listen but he is.

“Oh baby, gonna cum—”

Sam gasps, almost cums himself, only manages to hold off because Ashley takes that exact second to catch her breath.

“How’s it feel?”

“So good,” he looks down at her. She smiles at that, and she’s beautiful, and Sam wishes he could just be fucking normal and think about her and focus on her and not on his goddamn brother getting his rocks off in hearing distance. “I’m really close.”

She smiles at that and refocuses her attention. It’s getting better, she’s got a rhythm and isn’t trying to go too deep anymore. “Yeah,” he whispers at her, encouraging. Tentatively, he slips his fingers into her hair. It does feel good, it’s constricting and then there’s suction and that—that’s divine. Enough for him to close his eyes and let his head fall back. Enough that he doesn’t even really register the sound of the Impala door opening, close enough that he’s just chasing that high, right on the brink and he’s—

“I’m gonna—”

“Wha—oh, uh—”

Sam’s eyes snap open, meeting with Dean’s wide ones, like he didn’t even know Sam was there. In his peripheral vision, Amanda’s face is shocked and delighted and Sam—

It hits him like a freight train. It was already out of the station but his whole body tenses and it doesn’t matter that Ashley’s pulled back, that the last thing he saw before his own eyes rolled back was Dean.

Sam swears and bites down on his wrist to cover the groan, body thrumming with it. He opens his eyes at the tail end to realize that he’s caught Ashley on the face, didn’t plan to but—wow. She stroked him through it but doesn’t look too pleased about that.

“Finally,” Amanda’s the one to break the silence. “I thought you were never gonna get around to touching a dick.”

Ashley laughs. Sam can’t pretend he really understands girls. “Bitch. Get me a tissue.”

Okay, maybe he does. He’s pretty sure that’s exactly what he and Dean would be like if they were girls. He glances at his brother to confirm the thought, a little easy grin on his face but his chest constricts when he catches Dean’s expression.

It’s… hungry. It shoots through Sam like lightning, and if he hadn’t just cum his dick would be hard just from that look. He’d never have guessed Dean could look at him that way but he’s seen every one of Dean’s expressions enough times to know how to catalogue each one in his sleep. And it’s gone as fast as it was there, the second Dean notices he’s being observed his face is smoothing over, looking away and dropping into a smile that probably doesn’t look fake to anyone but him.

“Well now it’s definitely a party! More beer!”

The girls cheer. Sam belatedly remembers to put himself away and kisses Ashley’s cheek when she’s done cleaning up, makes sure to thank her and likes the way she curls into his side when they eventually drive back.

He’s right about December. They’re packing up during finals, and gone long before Christmas. He says bye to Ashley at school, and that’s pretty much… that.

…

“Status report?”

Dean’s back straightens a little. “My truck’s gassed up, bags are packed, Sam’s nabbing a couple books from the library to pack with us on the road.”

Dad nods. He just got back from his first full overnight away from them since – well, since. “And?”

Dean’s throat clicks a little. “Nothing else to report, sir.”

His Dad eyes him. It makes him feel guilty and exposed, even if it’s true. He didn’t touch Sam. Sam didn’t even ask, or hint that he wanted Dean to either. They acted like normal freaking brothers the whole night. Hell, Dean even went out and played pool for an hour.

“Keep it that way.”

Dean nods, breathes a little easier when Dad slides into the Impala driver’s seat.

“Grab your brother from the library. I’ll meet you boys in Michigan.”

…

Dean’s going abso-fucking-lutely crazy.

He’s not sure what else to call it when you can’t stop thinking about how your baby brother looks when he’s cumming. He’s so fucked in the head. But he can’t stop replaying that moment, Sam sitting on the hood of the Impala and groaning for that pretty girl on her knees that Dean helped set him up with.

It shouldn’t make his blood boil. It definitely shouldn’t now, it’s been over a damn month.

It reminds Dean’s his birthday is in a few days. He’s almost 20 and Sam’s still 15 and that knowledge sits uncomfortable in his gut too. He remembers, wishes he could go back to repressing, what he was like to be 18 and kiss his brother when he was way too damn young. Just remembering is enough to make him feel a little bit ill, because 13-year-olds? Not sexy. Not even close. Never mind that Dean got his cherry popped at just a few months into being 14, or that Sam was almost that old himself when he crawled into Dean’s lap, it’s still the exact type of thing he knows he’d murder another man for doing. Some 18-year-old put a hand on 13-year-old Sammy? He wouldn’t keep that hand, and would be lucky to keep his head – either head.

Dean needs to get laid. He needs to get it out of his head.

Her name is Rhonda, and she has bright red lips and the shortest shorts he’s ever seen on a woman, especially in winter. It might be El Paso – they’re stopped here for a few days while Dad skips down to Mexico for some supplies he won’t tell Dean about – but it’s still not exactly beach weather.  

“How old are you, doll?” she asks him. It makes him think she’s older than she looks, but there’s no chance she scrapes 30 so he decides to be honest.

“Nineteen.” He grins, “why – like ‘em young?”

She looks him over. She has confidence oozing out of her in a way that tells him it’s either a sure thing or he’s gum under her shoe. “And impressionable.”

There’s a wink there and he thinks he’s having an epiphany about how most of the girls he picks up feel about his lines. It’s awesome.

He clears his throat. “Then what are we waiting for?”

She pulls out an honest-to-god lollipop and puts it in her mouth. His jeans get a little tight. “Think you can handle this?”

“Think I wanna try.”

She writes her phone number on his hand in sharpie and he thinks he might be in love, just a little. Twelve hours later when she’s got him spread out on her bed in a pair of her silky red underwear, he’s not sure if he can handle it, but damn if that’s not exhilarating.

“You look so pretty like this.”

He’s always hated when people call him pretty. He doesn’t hate it right now.

“You ever done anal?”

His eyes snap to hers. He hasn’t, but he wants to. Her smile is wicked.

“Oh doll, I’m going to ruin you.”

It’s life changing. It feels like hot velvet inside her and it’s so tight he sees stars. They do it three times in three different ways and the second one, she slips a finger into the panties she’s made him put back on and it ends up somewhere new and different and he doesn’t complain, can’t work his mouth around anything but pleased noises and grunts.

It’s 2am before he leaves, sated and sore. She doesn’t invite him to stay over, doesn’t ask him to call. What she does is slip the ruined panties into his pocket with a wink on his way out the door.

…

They’ve barely been left alone together for five straight months.

The most they’ve been allowed is trips to the store, the grocer, and the occasional slew of hours where dad can’t help but hit a bar and Dean manages to beg off and not come. Even then, whatever look Dad gives Dean seems to put the fear of god into him.

“It’s done and over, Sam. Shouldn’t have happened in the first place. And I swear if we even talk about it, I’ll tell Dad so don’t even go there, okay?”

He’d almost punched Dean when he said it. Instead, he’d gone to the library, met up with a cute girl in his math class he’d volunteered to help study for their unit exam, and made sure Dean got an eyeful of him kissing her on the steps outside the library when the Impala pulled up to grab him a few hours later.

Dean gets his revenge in due time.

They’re out for a late dinner. Dad had him doing research on the latest case all evening – something killing hikers in the woods and he’ll laugh his ass off if it really is a cougar like the Rangers are saying – and he’s reporting in on everything he’s found while Dad and Dean have beers and he’s stuck with a soda. It’s not like Dad or Dean hadn’t been lazy though, and they have their own business to report. Dad does most of the footwork, interviews the locals; Sam spends the most time in the library looking up lore; and Dean spends the most time keeping the ship running, at least until it’s time to start killing, and then he’s in the thick of everything. Dad’s knee is getting worse and Dean’s muscles are getting bigger.

“That tracks with what the witness said,” his dad agrees with Sam’s assessment about it being a Crocotta based on the lore. “Said her husband had been hearing the voice of his dead mother.”

Sam nods, glances at Dean to see if he has anything to add. Dean’s not really paying attention. He’s got his eyes on the waitress. Sam rolls his eyes and kicks him.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. Crocotta, makes sense. How do we kill it?”

Always down to business. He ignores the careful look his dad is giving him.

“I’ll find out,” Sam says.

“Sounds good.”

The waitress takes that moment to come over, and Dean turns his flirting into full effect. He’d flirted earlier, but it had been aimless, the natural Dean charm just kind of oozing out, but she must have smiled the right way because now he’s turning up the dial. There’s a moment where he catches her wrist and she actually giggles.

Sam isn’t scowling. He stabs the fry at the end of his fork.

“Y’know, I’m off in a few minutes.”

“You don’t say.”

Sam moves his hand, his drink tips, and his dad catches it before it spills. His stomach drops. Dean glances over. The waitress gasps then claps.

“Good reflexes! That was almost a mess.”

Dean glances at him then slides out of the booth. “Why don’t you show me where the extra napkins are, in case he gets clumsy?”

He follows her, and she lets him, her hips swaying as she walks.

“Sam.”

He shakes his head at Dad’s voice. He really doesn’t want to hear it. Dad sighs. Dean’s back a second later, a napkin with a phone number written on it in hand. He’s grinning ear to ear. Sam’s stomach turns a little.

He hates this.

“The library’s open until 10. Mind if I head back?”

Neither of them stop him, so he does. He finds out how to kill a Crocotta, and then he heads to one of the computer terminals. It’s close to the deadline, and he’s been on the fence, but his nerves feel like steel when he goes online and finishes the registration process.

He’ll write his SATs next month. He’ll find a way to make damn sure they stick around here that long. Maybe with Dean chasing tail, Dad will be willing to head out and leave Sam here at school for a couple weeks. Either way, he’ll sort it out.

He’s getting out of here, out of this churn of town after town and skirt after skirt and injury after injury. It’s in his family, in his blood, but his blood feels tainted and he’s a freak and if he doesn’t have an exit strategy he’s not sure if he can make it to the end of the year because the feeling in his gut keeps twisting up his throat and he’s angry – angrier than he’s ever felt, and his hands itch toward his guns and he hits too hard when he spars and he’s up at dawn to run without being asked and he’s scaring himself. He’s fucking scared.

He’s gotta get out, one way or another.

…

“She had these huge – ” Dean motions the size of her rack, exaggerating for Sam’s benefit but it was ample. Sam laughs at his eyebrow wiggle. “I thought – no chance. But then she’s giving me that look, a little wink. Suddenly, I’m in business.”

“But the boyfriend?”

“The boyfriend. So – ” Dean goes on with the story. Sam’s laughing at all the right parts. They’re waiting at the Pastor’s for their dad to get back from gathering some intel and have time to kill. Sam’s done his homework and Dean’s done with the whole school thing, has been for months. The fact that he made it to seventeen in the system is more than enough for him, and it’s not like Dad cares.

“Under the bed? Are you crazy?”

Dean laughs, “oh yeah. I was pretty sure I was crazy in that moment. You won’t believe what he did next.”

“Don’t tell me – Dean he didn’t.”

“He did. Hops right in, believes her hook, line, and sinker about waiting for him in that getup.”

“But your clothes!”

He laughs. Trust Sam not to miss a single detail. He loves it when that laser focus gets distilled onto him instead of those books and all that homework.

He continues with the narrative, about how he almost made it out of there clean and easy. He’s at the part where he’s buck naked, holding up his pants and nothing else when the boyfriend sees him. He’s describing how her tits are still out (and beautiful) when he hears someone clear their throat.

Dean swivels in his seat. Pastor Jim is there, frowning.

“That’s enough of that, Dean.”

“Sorry sir.”

The man’s eyes flick to Sam – who’s blushing scarlet now, poor kid – then back to Dean. “You should be careful about how much filth you fill your brother’s head with.”

“We hunt monsters,” Sam pouts. “Dean’s stories aren’t anything compared to that.”

The look the Pastor gives Sam is patient, but the look he gives Dean is less comforting. Dean’s the one who clears his throat this time.

“Nah, Sam, he’s right.” He ruffles his kid brother’s hair. He’s just turned thirteen, which is plenty old enough to be thinking it and hearing it, but Jim’s not wrong either. Dean doesn’t need to be filling his head with it.

“Whatever.” He’s batting Dean’s hand away from his hair. The moment passes; the Pastor asks them to help him with dinner and they hop to.

It’s a day later, after Dad’s back, after they’re stocked up and ready to hit the road, and it’s out of Dean’s head when the Pastor steps up beside him outside the car (Sam and Dad still getting their bags) and rattles it loose.

“Take caution, Dean.” He pauses for Dean to turn and look at him. “With how you talk to Sam, and hold yourself around him, lest you do something you both come to regret.”

Dean doesn’t get it, but Pastor Jim gives him a long, careful look, and something guilty and angry takes up residence in his gut anyway. Whatever Jim’s getting at, Dean would never do anything that isn’t in Sam’s best interest. He opens his mouth to say so, but Dad’s coming out the door, and Jim’s greeting him, and the moment passes.

…

West Virginia doesn’t have a lot in the way of entertainment, especially in early, muddy March.

Dean spends three days in the back country with Dad tracking a couple of werewolves who’ve gone off the grid, and Sam joins them on the weekend with fresh clothes and provisions. It’s a godsend. They spend another day out there before they’re done and the silver bullets do their work. Sam didn’t have to shoot. He’s not yet sixteen and Dean won’t admit to anyone that he’s trying to keep Sam from having to kill something so humanlike, but he is and if he keeps it up, Dad’s going to notice. Sam’s a good hunter, smart and sharp, but he’s innocent still, sweet in a way Dean’s not, and there’s some small part of Dean that’s trying to keep it that way as long as possible.

“So uh, how long are we sticking around here?” he asks Dad after the hunt. His father grunts.

“Any particular reason?”

He glances toward the horizon. Sam’s in the bathroom at the rest stop on their way back to their motel, a rent-by-the-month place. “We’re paid up till the end of the month. I’ve got some spare work washing dishes to fill up our cash stores. Sam’s doing good at school, think he’s got a girl he likes and a date this weekend.”

“A girl, huh?”

“That’s right. Might be good to let him finish mid-terms here before we move on to wherever he’ll finish the year.”

Dad stretches his neck. “You coddle him, you know that?”

It’s not harsh, so Dean finds himself smiling. “Yes sir.”

Dad smiles too. “You boys did good out there. We can wait out the month. I’ve got some things to do in the area anyway, people to drop in on, errands.”

Dean nods and it’s settled. Now all he needs to do is procure a girl for Sam to have a date with on the weekend, because he most definitely made that part up.

…

“Doubling again?”

“Why not?”

Sam doesn’t comment, just closes up his textbook. It’s not like it didn’t work out great back in New Mexico, so why not try his luck here in West Virginia. “She a senior again?”

“Don’t think so. She’s in your class. Some uh – Sandy? Sadie?”

“Sadie Banks?”

Dean snaps his fingers. “That’s the one.” He calls it from down the other room of their motel, muffled. He must be changing.

Sam almost groans. Sadie’s cute, but in a pretty done-up kind of way. He’s pretty sure her dad’s a Pastor or something. Still, he gets up and heads toward the bathroom to fix his hair.

“How did you get Sadie Banks to agree to a date with me? How did you even run into her?”

“To get someone to date your skinny ass? Definite hoodoo involved.”

Sam leans out into the hall to shoot him a dry look.

“Okay so she came into the diner where I’m scrubbing dishes and looked about the right age.”

“Seriously? You’re accosting girls who come into your diner now to score me dates?”

Dean shrugs in the process of buttoning up a fresh shirt. “Hey man, whatever works.”

“I can get my own dates.”

“Not with that mop on your head you can’t. Here, let me fix that.”

Sam holds still and obliges. Dean comes in behind him a moment later, then he’s running his fingers through Sam’s hair. His eyes drift closed of their own accord.

“Gotta cut this.”

“Tomorrow?”

Dean hums. He’s the one who always cuts Sam’s hair, at least in the past several years, since Dad gave up with the bowl then gave up on being around in general. Despite everything else that’s gone on over the past year or two, and despite how much of it involved Sam reacting way too strongly to Dean touching his hair, it’s never weird when Dean cuts it. He can’t let it get weird; he doesn’t want his hair botched, and he’s been avoiding a cut for a long time. Besides, being agreeable means Dean pulling on the strands right now, no scissors in sight, and figuring out how much work it’s gonna be.

“Two inches?”

Sam’s eyes snap open. “One.”

“Your hair grows as fast as you do, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam.”

Dean rolls his eyes, their gazes meeting in the mirror. Then Dean’s smiling, fixing Sam’s hair into something more presentable again, and his thumb lingers on the back of Sam’s neck when he asks, “acceptable?”

“Yeah.” If Sam’s voice is a little unsteady, it’s not his fault. He can hear Dean swallow, but he rubs that thumb in another circle before pulling his hand back.

It’s going to drive Sam crazy one of these days – the not-touches. The hints, the memory of Dean’s form pressed over his on the dirt ground, of Dean’s hands on his back rubbing out knots, of his hands in Sam’s hair and in his mouth. But that’s all its been – memories and hints, and nothing more than a lingering shoulder rub, a wink while Dean is flirting with his girl of the week, a glance while Dean’s kissing someone else. Sam’s been responding as best as he can, not leaving the room if Dean’s got a girl there willing to make out during a movie, savouring each glance or – one time two weeks ago, when he felt particularly daring – stretching his arm out over the back of the cramped couch, close enough to reach Dean, to rub slow circles on the outside of his wrist for a minute before retracting the touch.

“Ready?”

He follows Dean out to the car, off to pick up the girls. They go for milkshakes and Sam discovers that they are apparently going to a drive-in movie, since this town’s small enough that it still wants to capture that 50’s feel. He’s pretty sure West Virginia exists just to drive him crazy, but the milkshake tastes good, and a b-grade horror is right up his and Dean’s alley so he won’t complain.

Sadie makes good company, too. Sam can tell pretty quickly, now that they’re away from school and all that goes along with it, that Sadie actually does have a crush on him. She blushes when he shows up at her door and leaves her hand on the bench for him to reach out and hold on the drive, tucked in the backseat together. He does, and catches her dimpled smile, and still thinks she’s too sweet and innocent, but Dean gives him a grin in the rearview so Sam decides he doesn’t mind.

Dean’s date is – fun. There’s almost no other word for it. It’s the same girl as two weeks ago who Dean was kissing on the couch, and her name is apparently Mel. She winks at Sam as she slides into the front seat and in the same motion reaches her hand back to introduce herself to Sadie. Sam wonders if Dean’s met his match with this one when she’s tying cherry stems over milkshakes and whispering something in Sadie’s ear that’s enough to have her red and giggling.

They go off to the bathroom together, because that is – Sam has long-since discovered – just what girls do.

“Mel’s fun.”

“So’s Sadie.” Dean waggles his eyebrows. Sam shoves him, since they’re on the same side of the booth.

“Her dad’s a Pastor.”

Dean shrugs. “Play your cards right, Sammy. That girl is looking to have some fun. She jumped at the chance to take you out ‘n she didn’t even know me.”

Sam purses his lips, but Dean nudges his leg with his thigh and leaves it there, so he doesn’t complain. Sadie’s eyes are bright and happy, cheeks flushed when she comes back with Mel, and he thinks (hopes) that maybe Dean’s not wrong.

The Impala is great for drive-ins. Most cars, the backseat doesn’t work because whoever’s back there wouldn’t be able to see over and around the seats’ headrests. The Impala’s bench makes that easy. Sadie curls into Sam’s side on one side of the car in the back and Mel curls into Dean’s on the opposite in the front. They have popcorn and sodas that the girls barely touch. It’s next to perfect, as far as dates go.

That is, of course, until Dean and Mel get bored of the movie. Sam shouldn’t be surprised, but he almost is when a noise in the front seat sends a jolt through him. His ears strain, his eyes glance over, and all too predictably, Mel is probably in Dean’s lap judging by how close they are, lips locked. Sadie’s stiff next to him and Sam rubs his thumb in circles up and down her arm, his own long-since having wound around her shoulder. She shifts a little in her seat a few minutes later, a breathy noise from Mel covering the sound, and it occurs to Sam to wonder just how far the front-seaters are going to take it.

He looks down at Sadie to apologize, to offer to go for a walk, but the look she’s giving him – he swallows the apology back. She’s nervous but intent and he knows that look. He shifts in his seat too, thinks back to Mel and Sadie in the bathroom having whatever little gossip session girls do and wonders briefly if Mel knows something he doesn’t. He cups Sadie’s chin. Her smile is faint and her eyes are closing, so he erases the distance between them and kisses her. She doesn’t pull back, leans into it instead, and maybe he was the only one who didn’t realize she was good to go.

She’s less practiced than him at this but he doesn’t mind. She’s a little shaky, then a little awkward, but makes it into his lap nonetheless, straddling him. His arms wrap easily around her narrow waist and up to play with her long hair. She’s wearing a skirt and he likes how warm her thighs are on either side of his own. His hand slides up to her chest, and he thinks he’s gone too far when she pulls back from the kiss with an inhale. She doesn’t go far though, just breathes in the air between them for a second.

He leans in, close to her ear, voice low so that it won’t carry, so that his breath will ghost over her neck. “This okay?”

She swallows, her hands on his shoulders. She rolls her hips just a bit and he doesn’t know if it was on purpose but it sends stars through him anyway. After a moment, she nods.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He kisses her neck. He loves that she lets him, tilts her head obligingly, hair falling out of the way for him with a delicate wave of her arm. She makes a noise, a delicious, whining, gasping one when he sucks just a little and he almost stops, almost frozen by it, but does it harder instead. She ahhs and digs her hands into his shoulders and his dick throbs.

There’s another mmm from inside the car, and this one isn’t from Sadie. It reminds him that they aren’t alone, that he’s been filtering out the noises of two other people kissing and touching and shifting.

Mel’s noise reminded Sadie they aren’t alone too. She starts a little and pulls back, looks down at him from up on her knees. He plays with the hem of her shirt, wanting to slide his hand up, and gives her a questioning look. She bites her lip, glances toward the front bench.

“Shit, that’s good,” Dean’s voice is soft as hell but carries anyway in the quiet space. It breaks the hesitant reverie. Sadie claps a hand over her mouth to stifle her nervous giggle and Sam grins. He wraps one hand around her waist and his other holds on to her thigh and he moves quick and sure, a move he learned from sparring reapplied to the present situation, and moves so that she’s under him. She blinks in surprise, mouth open, hands on his arms, back on the bench.

Sam leans over her, close, whispering again. “Only what you want. Whatever you want.”

She swallows and nods permission. He grins, ignores the renewed noises from the front bench. He’s pretty sure he can hear a zipper being pulled down up there. He refocuses on kissing Sadie, on the way she’s gotten better at it now that she’s less nervous, the way her arms feel as they wrap around his shoulders.

He’s feeling bold. He rocks his body against hers, slides his hands up her sides. Slowly, slowly, but she responds and it’s thrilling. In the front seat, Mel moans. There’s a wet sound and Sam swallows and tries to block it out. Sadie’s hands fist in the back of his shirt. Mel moans louder. Even Sam’s ears feel like they’re about to burn and this is far from the first time he’s been exposed to Dean’s antics. It might be the closest he’s been though, for something like what he thinks is going on in the front seat.

Sadie tugs on his shirt. He pulls back to check on her and is (pleasantly) surprised when she keeps tugging, a nervous grin on her face. His own eyes light up and he pulls it over his head, drops it to the floor. It’s a first; things in New Mexico never went quite in this direction.

His hand slides along Sadie’s thigh. He swallows and tries to pretend he’s not nervous. Mel whispers, “fuck, that’s the spot” from the front seat. Sadie spreads her legs just a little with a shy smile.

Sam presses his luck; presses his hand up. He has no idea what he’s doing here, but he’s not going to let that stop him. He feels Sadie inhale when his fingers reach the edge of her panties. He swallows. Gently, she shuffles just enough to pull her skirt up a bit. Not all the way, but so that it’s bunched enough that he can just see.

His mouth waters. In the front seat, there’s a fast, quick, wet noise and Mel’s breathing is coming in fast gasps, has been for a minute.

“There – yes! I - !”

Sam presses his thumb against what he hopes is the right spot, or a right spot, on the outside of Sadie’s underwear. Mel makes a noise like she’s dying but in a good way and Sam knows, stiffens. She’s – she’s climaxing. He’s frozen for a moment, listening, his whole body pulsing a single time to the sounds, craving.

“Wow,” Mel whispers too loud after the moment has passed. Everyone else in the car laughs at the same time. Mel does too after a second. Sam feels a bit of the tension seep out of him. He glances at Sadie and she’s biting her lip again, looking toward the front seat. He wonders if they’re done here, if Dean’s turn is next and if the noises and distraction will be enough for Sadie to keep going, if he should move or ignore the front benchers completely.

Mel makes the choice for him. She sits right up while Sam and Sadie are still looking at the empty space above the bench. Her hair is askew, her lipstick a little smudged, and she’s still wearing a bra but her shirt is apparently long gone.

“Ooohh, now what’s going on here.”

This time, Sam’s the one to blush. He pulls back even as Mel leans up and crosses her arms along the back of the bench.

“This looks like fun,” she continues.

“Uh,” Sam’s at a loss here. Dean’s head appears next to Mel, shirt also apparently misplaced. His hair is messier than hers. Sam can guess at what he was just doing all too easily, and part of him wishes he could’ve seen while another part wishes he had any idea how to do that for Sadie and part of him boils with jealousy.

“Nice,” Dean comments after surveying them. Sam’s going to have to give him another lecture on not being an ass to his dates.

“Um,” Sadie says.

“Oh don’t worry hun,” Mel waves her hand as she talks, “Dean’s harmless. We’re congratulating you two. If Sam here is anything like his brother, you’re about to have an awesome time.”

Sam feels his cheeks pink again, just slightly. “You guys mind?”

“Not at all,” Mel says at the same time as Dean offers, “you need any pointers?”

It gets Sadie to laugh at least. Sam glares. “No, I don’t need pointers.”

“Lots of tongue,” Mel adds, nonchalantly. Or at least he’d believe it was nonchalant if her grin wasn’t totally wicked.

“I know that.” He turns back to Sadie, ears burning. “Sorry about them.”

“Mel’s nice.” She clears her throat. “And your brother’s hot.”

“Damn straight I am.”

Sam rolls his eyes. No need to inflate Dean’s ego. “Can I...?”

Again, lip biting. Then another nod. “Mel said she’d tell me what to do.”

His eyebrows go up. Well then. He might have to send Mel a fruit basket after tonight or something. As it is, the woman’s moving across the front bench so that she’s closer to Sadie’s head, and she reaches out her hand. Sadie holds it.

“Oh gorgeous, it’ll be awesome. You can stop at any time but I swear it’s a good time.”

Sadie nods. Sam won’t pretend to fully understand what’s happening here but he’s starting to suspect that Mel might swing every which way and one of those ways might be toward Sadie. Not that he’s complaining in the slightest. He glances at her then back toward the task at hand. Not that he’s about to admit it, but he’s a little intimidated by the unexpected audience.

“Tongue first, right up the middle, long broad strokes, right over that cotton.” Dean offers it without much inflection, not teasing, and Sam recognizes it as the same voice he used to teach Sam how to pick locks and clean guns. He swallows and leans in, following the instruction. The fabric of her panties is wet under his tongue and a little sweet, but Sadie sighs nicely and her legs part a little more to give him space, bent at the knee.

“That’s it, Sammy. Point your tongue a bit now, toward that spot at the top that’s making her make those noises.”

He obeys. Sadie shifts into it. Dean continues instructing, voice calm and steady, telling Sam exactly how to move his tongue, where to put it, when to pull her panties down and what to do after. Her insides are hot and slick and remind him of velvet and of the inside of a mouth at the same time, and he can barely fit one finger in but Dean tells him how to crook it, how to be gentle, how to multitask.

“You can get your hands in his hair,” Mel whispers. “It’s all there and long and pretty for a reason.”

Sadie half-chuckles and half whines at what he does with his tongue. “’m okay. Wanna hold you.”

Sam is relatively confident that when he and Dean leave town, neither Sadie or Mel is going to be lonely. He’s not sure if Sadie knows that about herself though, so keeps the thought to himself, listening to more of what Mel is whispering to Sadie, about how to flex and tense and how to let it build.

And then a hand does land on Sam’s head, into his hair, and it takes him a second to realize – it’s not Sadie’s. It’s too big and too warm and too heavy on the back of his head. He shudders, goosebumps sliding all the way down his back, counterpoint to the heat pulsing in his lower abdomen.

“Keep going, Sammy. She’s close.” Dean’s voice is rough and his fingers dig in just a little, pull just a bit. Sam keeps at it, scalp thrumming under the attention. Mel whispers more directives to Sadie and then Sam can feel it – and hear it. Sadie’s voice gets loud, her insides get tighter and somehow even wetter, and he laps at her until she throws her back into an arch and there’s convulsions and Dean holds Sam’s head through it, holding him there, fingers firm in his strands, educating.

Sam moves back when Dean’s hand retreats. He catches Sadie’s eye and she’s smiling in a dazed, lazy way. Mel grins too.

“See?”

“You were right. That was amazing.”

Something in Sam’s chest loosens, delighted. He was amazing.

Sadie starts to readjust her clothes. Sam takes his hands back to himself. He’s not entirely sure what to do with the one that’s still slick, his middle finger coated in her juices, and wonders whether it would be rude to wipe it on his pants. Dean solves that for him too. He catches Sam’s hand and pulls it over, and Sam tries hard not to let his cheeks flush any harder when Dean’s lips wrap around his finger and suck. It’s enough that his eyes want to roll back, that his dick reminds him it’s still hard and wanting in his pants, but the flash of heat and suction only lasts a second, maybe two. And then Dean pulls back with another of his famous grins and winks at Sadie.

“Tasty.”

She laughs, self-conscious, and Mel shoves Dean gently.

“So uh,” Sadie sits up, still flushed but like reality is settling back around her. “What now?”

It’s a great question. Sam’s got several serviceable ideas, but he’s not sure if Sadie’s had more than she can take for one evening of exploration. Would it be too much to ask? She’s got that hesitant look on her face again and he doesn’t want her to feel obligated.

“Why don’t I teach you?” Mel suggests, and Sam can see she’s reading Sadie’s hesitation too.

“Teach me?”

“Here, swap me spots.” Mel starts climbing over the seat. Dean complains about the upholstery and Mel flips him off. It’s awesome, and Sam almost wishes Dean could keep her around. Sadie moves a little less gracefully over the seat as well, ending up next to Dean, looking curiously into the back seat.

Sam’s curious too. And then he figures it out, when Mel tells him to sit with his back against the door and make room for her between his legs. Oh. Oh hell yes. He’s – excited isn’t a strong enough word. Anticipation barely scrapes it. He glances at Dean, who’s still watching, eyebrows now climbing toward his hairline.

“You’re gonna blow my brother?”

“Yep!”

“Awesome,” Sam adds, in case his opinion on the matter holds any weight.

“What about me?”

“You,” Mel points at Dean from where she’s now sitting between Sam’s outstretched legs (one on the bench, the other bent so his foot’s on the floor), “can wait till next time. We’re doing a teaching demonstration here. And don’t even think about perving on Sadie, she’s now my student and way too good for you.”

Dean rolls his eyes but Sam recognizes that he’s not actually complaining, just complaining to complain, to hear himself speak. Mel seems to get it too, because she ignores him after that. Sam glances at Sadie, who’s eyes are bright and excited, watching.

Then it clicks. They’re going to watch. Dean’s going to watch.

His heartrate shoots up and he’s not sure if it’s because of the realization or because Mel is suddenly touching him. She’s murmuring instructions to Sadie as she does and he listens, pays attention, but it’s hard to focus as soon as his pants are open and her hand is on him. He lets out a breathy noise and she grins, catches his eye.

“See? That’s good. That’s what a good reaction looks like, Sadie. Follow noises like that.”

It’s good advice and it might not be directed and him but he – oh. Oh wow. She knows what she’s doing. It’s so much different than with Ashley, so much more sure and confident. The backseat is warm and so much better than sitting on the frigid hood had been. The only reason it’s not over embarrassingly quickly is because she pulls back to tell Sadie something – he’s no longer paying attention – and he has a second to catch his breath.

He glances at Dean. It’s a mistake, because Dean’s eyes are blown and intense and that gaze is naked and almost too much. Sam shudders in a breath and grips the back of the bench near Dean’s hand. When Mel’s mouth returns to him, Dean’s fingers land over his.

Sam swallows, disoriented. Mel does something wonderful with suction and tongue and he makes noises he didn’t know he could, punched out of him with each swirl of her tongue and each stroke. He grips Dean’s fingers, laced between his now.

“I’m – it’s – ” he’s not sure which of the three optional names to say, so he doesn’t bother, “close. Gonna – just – right – ”

Dean’s fingers tighten in his. Mel gets even more targeted and he doesn’t last. He cums, making a noise no quieter than Sadie’s, groaning deep and satisfied and Mel is apparently the kind of girl to swallow, which just drags it out and makes it feel that much better.

When he catches his bearings, his fingers are no longer laced with Dean’s. Mel and Sadie are giggling, whispering and he ignores most of it as he adjusts his clothes. Dean’s looking at the girls.

“So how was it, Sam?” Sadie asks once his pants are done up.

“Five stars.”

Mel winks. “Told you. And you,” she turns to Dean, and then Sam watches as she leans forward across the divide between their benches and kisses him. Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. She has to taste like – but there’s definitely tongue in there. “You get to daydream about that till next time I see you.”

Dean clears his throat, “awesome.” It’s a little deadpan but Mel grins all the same. Sam seriously wonders where the hell Dean finds these girls.

And then, surrounding them, headlights start up, and it appears the movie that none of them have been watching is over and it’s time to go.

…

Dad taught Dean to shave when he’d just turned fourteen. His upper lip had a dusting of hair when Dad came home from a hunt one day and he’d smiled like he was fond, steered Dean into the bathroom, and walked him through the motions.

It wasn’t like learning to drive, that had been under a more strained tutelage, much as he’d loved that too. But this had been different, more easy going, his dad gently teasing. It’s a favorite memory. Dad complimented his easy skill with the razor, something Dean hadn’t really thought twice about, just another tool in his hand. His chest had almost burst under the praise.

He tries to make things similarly fun when he teaches Sam to shave. The kid’s churlish, glum about the darker peach fuzz that’s growing in just slightly coarser. He’s thirteen and there’s only about ten hairs but they’re noticeable and he’s embarrassed about how they look. Dean can’t really blame him, they look silly as hell, but he tries not to tease too hard when Sam asks for the lesson.

“Wish you’d let me shave your head too.”

“Good luck.”

Dean smiles and hands Sam the razor, his face lathered in a much wider swath than it needs to be. He teaches Sam to stretch the skin, watches him nick himself. He winces. Dad was better at this than he is.

“Careful.”

“No shit.” Sam pouts at his own reflection, the dot of red on his cheek.

“Here, let me show you.”

He does one cheek, Sam does his other and his upper lip. Sam rinses his face, the drop of blood circles down the drain, his face smooth in the mirror under his self-scrutiny. He pulls back and his reflection grins at Dean. He hands his baby brother some aftershave with a smile of his own, a little proud, mostly at ease. It’ll be a good memory, definitely.

“See? Nothing to it. You're a fast learner.”

…

Dean drops Sadie off first. Sam walks her to the door and Dean watches as his little brother does the gentleman thing and gives her a chaste kiss, tucks her long hair over her shoulder in a way that hides the hickey he left. Good man, Dean taught him well.

“Sammy sure is something.” Mel’s voice has some insinuation in it. Dean looks over, cautious.

“He sure is.”

“You sure he’s just 15? Boy’s built like…”

He shakes his head. Sam’ll be sixteen in two weeks. “Pretty damn sure. Not my fault he’s grown like a weed.”

“Grown everywhere.”

“Yeah, that’s enough of that.” Dean reaches for the radio. Mel laughs at him but swats his hand away. “You didn’t have to blow him you know. Sam can handle it if his date’s not in the mood.”

“Oh I didn’t mind. You should see how jealous you looked when I climbed into the back seat.”

“So that was just to tease me?”

She gives his thigh a quick grope and smirks. It’s all it takes to make him hard again, but then Sam’s back, sliding into the back bench, and though she doesn’t take her hand back, she doesn’t do anything more exciting with it by the time he drops her off.

“Sure I can’t convince you to come over, finish a movie, stay the night?”

Mel leans across the bench and kisses him slowly. This time, her hand does do something a little more exciting, but it’s only fleeting, enough to make his blood hot and not much else.

“Next time,” she promises, and then she’s gone. Dean sighs. Just his luck. He waits for Sam to get himself into the front seat before pulling out of the driveway and starting toward home.

“So.”

Dean snorts. “So, seems like you had a good night.”

“Yeah,” Sam’s voice has got a dreamy quality to it.

“Told you Sadie was down for it.”

“Yeah. Sorry Mel didn’t, uh, that she and me…”

“Don’t worry about it. Pretty sure she was punishing me for something I don’t know I did wrong. Girls. You just gotta go with it sometimes.”

“You…”

“Hm?” he prompts after a minute, when Sam doesn’t follow it up.

“You’re the only one who didn’t get off.”

Gee Sam, tell him something he doesn’t know. “I’ve got a right hand. Gotta be gracious whenever a girl says no. That’s rule number one.”

“Yeah, no I know, I just mean…”

Dean’s not sure what he means, so he looks over. Sam’s watching him, expression intent. “Sam?”

A warm hand lands on his thigh, exactly where Mel had had hers not that long before. Dean manages not to swerve into oncoming traffic, just barely.

“Sam – ”

“I was listening. To everything Mel told Sadie.” His voice is breathy and it takes a sec before it clicks for Dean. Jesus; his dick throbs. But no, he can’t, they can’t, that’s just not –

“Sam,” he tries again, voice more strained when Sam’s hand moves up, gropes his bulge. When the hell did Sam get so bold? Probably sometime between you digging your fingers into his hair and watching your girl get him off, jackass, he thinks to himself unhelpfully.

“I’ve got this,” Sam’s voice is mostly confident, just a hint of nerves belying it, not something Dean thinks anyone else would notice. Because he knows Sam, because Sam is his brother, and brothers don’t –

Sam’s hands are undoing his belt. Dean’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “Jesus Christ Sammy, I’m driving.” As if that’s the issue here, but it’s the first his mouth managed to get out.

“So drive.”

“You can’t just – ”

But then he does, and Dean’s protests die in his throat. Sam’s mouth – Sam’s freaking mouth – holy god that’s Sammy’s mouth –

The noise he makes is guttural, uncontrollable. It escapes from him and he’s gonna drive into a tree. He’s got one hand in Sam’s hair and he meant to use it to push him off but it’s mostly just gripping his hair like a lifeline. Fuck.

“Sam,” he tries again, but the word stop won’t come out of his throat. He pulls off on the next farmer’s field empty road he sees, distracted as hell, and by that time Sam’s moved from a careful, testing suck on the tip to really getting his mouth on it – nothing to do with Dean’s hand pressing into to all that hair – and Dean has to lift his hand off to slam it into park. Sam grips his thighs and Dean almost chokes.

“Sammy.”

Now he can stop Sam. He should stop Sam. He’s definitely going to hell for this one, but god help him, he doesn’t stop Sam.

Sam grips at his thigh to shift him. Dean gets it, through the fog his brain’s turned into.

“Yeah just – lemme’ – ” he gasps.

Sam pulls his mouth back and Dean makes the mistake of looking down. Sam’s eyes are lidded and his face is flushed and he’s goddamn beautiful. He’s looking up at Dean like he’s all he ever wanted and Dean’s never had enough self-control. Sam helps haul his leg up and Dean goes with it, turns so he’s in a better spot, back tucked against the door and leg spread along the bench, Sam between his thighs. All of the half-second it takes, almost enough to catch his breath, to stop and think but then Sam’s mouth is back – back on Dean. His hand never left; he never stopped stroking. He’s going to be the death of Dean, he knows it.

“Fuck, Sammy,” he gasps because his mouth has decided to have a mind of its own. “Feels so good. So hot, fuck.”

Sam makes a noise around his dick. Dean almost laughs, swallows it back because it feels too perfect.

“Slower.”

Sam obeys. Dean wishes unkindly that he was always so obedient, then shivers because the thought does disturbing things inside his head. He looks down again, down at Sam, at his head bobbing on Dean’s cock, learning, figuring it out.

“So smart, Sammy.” Dean’s hands both slide through his hair and he grips it gently. Sam groans around his dick again. “Such a faster learner.”

There’s more suction then, more determination. Dean’s holding on to the edge by the skin of his teeth. He wants this to last, wants to make Sam’s jaw ache, punish him for throwing them over this precipice. He cradles his head in both hands, willing his hips not to thrust, not to choke Sam, thinking about doing just that.

“Learning just how I like it.”

Fuck, he can’t think like that. It’s wrong and twisted and he tilts his head back against the cool glass of the window, can’t look anymore at how he’s debauching Sammy.

“Sam – ”

Sam’s throat convulses around him, took too much and he’s about to gag, but it’s all Dean needs.

“Gonna come, fuck Sammy I’m right there. Coming – fucking – ah – ”

Sam starts to swallow as fireworks go off behind Dean’s eyelids. It’s constricting around him, tight as a wet little vice. He shudders and his fingers run rhythmically through Sam’s hair as his cock pulses, seed spilling down Sam’s throat.

He shudders after Sam finally pulls back. He wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist and Dean closes his eyes for a sec, catches his breath.

Fuck.

Fuck, what did he just do? Stupid fucking hedonist. Stupid, stupid – he -

Dean tumbles backwards out of the car, pulling in the cool night air. He slams the door behind him, does up his pants, tries to quell the panic in his chest. There’s a decent chance he’s gonna hurl.

“Dean?”

He shakes his head, holds a hand up to stall Sam. As if Sam ever listens (except when he’s got a dick in his mouth, apparently, but that thought makes Dean feel even more hysterical so that’s great) -

“Dean, come on, don’t shut me out.” Sam’s over on this side of the car now.

“Just - just shut up for a minute, Sam. Just give me a second to get my head on straight, would you?”

Sam does, thankfully. Dean leans against the Impala and closes his eyes, tries to block it out. He manages to stop his hands from shaking after a minute, appreciates the feel of the cool metal at his back. But there’s no way he can wrap his head around this. It’s too big, too much. His heart won’t stop racing.

“I need time.”

“Time?” Sam’s voice is hesitant. Dean opens his eyes to look at the trillion blinking stars above, barely any light pollution out here to soften the look of the milky way. It’s beautiful. If he believed in heaven, he could almost accept that it’s up there somewhere in the sky, with angels looking down.

But if they were, they’d be looking down on this, on blasphemy so profound, Dean knows they would recoil. They’d have to.

“Just a day, a few days. To get my head around what we just – around... this.”

Sam steps closer; Dean hears him and forces his eyes back down to Earth.

“Dean...” his voice is a little shaky now and Dean swears internally. He’s standing in front of Dean, hand reaching up to the space between them, hovering. His face looks stricken, tight, and it’s all wrong. Dean can’t leave that expression on his face, that sick pallor on his skin.

He reaches out and reels Sam in, presses their foreheads together. Sam’s breath is choppy until Dean cups his face with both hands. He closes his eyes again, feels Sam’s hands fist in his flannel.

“We sailed over about twenty lines here, Sam. I need a few days.”

“Days to what?”

His brow furrows, pinched where it’s pressed to Sam’s forehead. He doesn’t really know. You don’t exactly process something like that. “Sort things out.”

“I just – I just need to make sure, Dean, that you’re okay. That we’re okay.”

He opens his eyes. Sam’s are there in front of him, staring, too close to focus right but there all the same. So familiar, enough that it comforts him, relaxes the line of his shoulders a bit.

“We’re okay. We’re always okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Sam swallows and nods. He steps back, out of Dean’s reach. “Okay. Lemme know... lemme know when you sort things out.”

They drive back in quiet, but it doesn’t feel strained like he thought it might. Dad’s snoring on the couch when they get in and it twists up something in Dean’s gut. He clicks off the TV for his old man without really looking at him, not quite able to, then slides into bed in the tiny room he shares with Sam and tries not to think about what his Dad would do if he ever found out what Dean just did.

…

John wonders about taking notes on his sons. He puts them in the margins, sometimes, into his journal where they’re not allowed to look, but knows they’ll read someday anyway.

Sam’s got the Winchester stubbornness in spades, it’s just hidden better than with him and Dean. John makes that note with a fond smile. He puts the ones about Dean being a good soldier down too, about his loyalty and duty, his knack for battlefield strategy, his absolute relentlessness.

There are other notes he reconsiders. Ones that aren’t as glowing. Sure, Dean’s good, he really is. Saving people is what he cares about most, and he’s good at it. John knows why he’s in this, and it’s not so pure. He knows Sam’s in it out of loyalty, family. But Dean? He’s good, in a way John won’t ever be.

That aside? He can also be self-righteous as all hell. If he thinks he’s right then he knows he’s right, and he’ll let you know. There’s no way to put that down in his book, but boy does it piss John off some days.

Like right now, today.

“You sure Sam should come?” He doesn’t come right out and question an order but his tone skirts that line some days.

“You think he shouldn’t?” John plays along. It’s about Sam. Dean’s always precious when it comes to Sam.

“Ghouls mostly just take muscle.”

“That’s right.” John takes a bite of the apple he’s been holding.

“So – Martin, Walt, and Roy? That’s plenty of muscle.”

Ah. John’s thought about it. He’s not too keen on spending time with groups of hunters. He tends to piss people off at the best of time, and he’s got a reputation at this point. He’s been kicked out of the Roadhouse a half-dozen times to prove it. By now, he works with a couple of other hunters and that’s about it.

He’s also never been too keen on his boys connecting with the mainstream hunting community – not this young and possibly not ever. He won’t even breathe a word about the Roadhouse to them. Hunters are calculating, observant, and Sam is… special. There’s a pit in John’s stomach whenever he thinks about it too long, wonders what Yellow-Eyes might want with his son.

Still, Sam needs to learn, and hiding his kids from the network and from their strongest allies will only hurt them in the long run.

“It’s a whole family of ghouls to gank. At least according to Walt,” John counters, just to see what Dean’s angling at here.

“Five? Six?”

“Six.”

Dean squares his hands on his hips and squints off into the distance. “It’s new territory,” he says eventually.

Ah. Ghouls take the form of humans, look like normal people, and need their heads chopped off or their brains bashed in. Its gruesome work, no helping a ghost move on, no neat and tidy bullets. Better to learn in a group that’ll have his back, better on a ghoul than a vamp.

“Sam’s sixteen. He can handle it.”

Dean nods. “Okay.”

It stirs something in his gut, annoyance circling around inside him. “Tell me, Dean. Why else don’t you want your brother on this hunt?”

There’s hesitation but only for a second. It was an order. “It’s your call, sir. It’s just – you know how he gets some days. Stubborn, I mean. He’s better recently, but he doesn’t know Walt or Roy and we don’t work with them too often. He’s only done research for Creaser, never hunted with him yet.”

Martin Creaser isn’t Caleb. John would almost let Caleb take Sam solo at this point, the same as he lets Jim or Bobby look after the boys regardless of what type of trouble might pop up. Dean’s not wrong, but he’s not right either. There’s more going on here and Dean can’t see it.

“So you think you know what’s best for him?”

Dean doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t; he won’t contradict John.

“He’s my son.”

“I know, sir.”

“I know what’s best for him, and what’s best for him is to get to know more of us. He’s a hunter.”

Dean just nods. He thinks he needs to protect Sam, even from this, from threats he doesn’t know about or fully understand. He needs to trust John more, trust that he knows what’s what, that he wouldn’t risk any danger to Sam, that he has a better view of the situation. But Dean thinks he’s right and when that happens there’s no convincing him, just ordering him.

Later that night, John makes another note in his journal. Dean’s a natural leader, it reads. He’ll be calling the shots one day, and he’ll keep everyone he works with on the straight and narrow. He’s righteous. But his biggest blindspot is Sam. If you’re ever put in a position where Sam has to play the sacrificial lamb, don’t let Dean make the call. Dean sees trees, Sam sees the forest.

…

Sam was fourteen the first time he got drunk as a skunk. Dean loves the memory – Sammy insisting he could handle whiskey, Dean sliding a shot across the table to him, just to watch him splutter as it burned down his throat so he could laugh his ass off at his little brother.

“What the he - ” a coughing fit “why do people drink this?”

“Because it’s awesome.”

“It sucks.”

“You’re just a little bitch, Samantha.”

“Jerk,” he elbows Dean hard. Dean can’t stop grinning. “Let me try again.”

Dean hands him a beer instead. He’s never gonna let Sam know that the first time he snuck into Dad’s whiskey he ended up spitting it out in the sink and brushed his teeth just to get rid of the flavor. That was years ago though and he’s accustomed himself to it, mostly under Dad’s smiles that were almost just a little proud around the eyes when he first handed Dean a shot and he could handle the burn.

Sam proceeds to get wasted. A shot of whiskey and two beers and Dean had forgot he was just a featherweight kid because that’s all it takes.

“You hurl on the carpet and you’re cleaning it.”

“Not gonna hurl,” Sam’s unsteady on his feet, swaying, dopey grin softening those lines he already gets between his eyebrows, always worried or mad at the world.

“Better not.” Dean sips his beer and watches, content, as Sam sidles toward the table in their shitty motel and grabs up a slice of cold pizza, leftover from lunch. Carbs’ll do him good. He leans back against the table, almost falls on his ass when the table isn’t where he thought it was, and Dean’s gone again, laughing at Sam’s indignant expression.

“I meant to do tha’.”

“Sure you did.”

“Jerk.”

“Already called me that.”

Sam trips over the coffee table on his way back to the couch but makes it eventually, Dean righting him, messing with his hair just to make Sam spazz out. Clearly a strategic mistake because Sam retaliates by grabbing Dean’s beer and finishing it in three quick, large gulps. His burp is loud enough to rival some of Dean’s better ones and he deems it,

“Eight out of ten.”

But beer number three is enough to tip the scales and Sam goes from happy, slurring buzz to a total dick.

“Drank the last beer, you fucker.”

“Ta’e more of Dad’s whiskey.”

“He’ll notice if we drink too much.”

Sam snorts, slouching so far into the couch it looks like he’s trying to become one with the cushions. “Dad won’ notice shit. Prob’ly think he drank it all if we finished the bottle.”

“Why’re you always so hard on him, man?” Dean shouldn’t start that fight but fuck it, Sam drank his beer and he’s had enough himself to not want to bite his tongue.

“Why aren’t you? Leaves for weeks at a time ‘n drags us around ‘n he treats us like shit ‘n you always take his side.”

“Whatever, you’re just a spoiled bitch.”

“Fuck you,” Sam snarls, “Dad’s perfect little soldier.”

He tries to stand up taller to make his point and it crosses his face. Dean switches gears immediately. “Toilet.”

Sam’s already rushing, hand over his mouth, and he makes it (thank fucking god, Dean did not want to clean that shit up) and empties his stomach. He’s groaning and shaking a little, head in the toilet when Dean finds his way into the bathroom with a bottle of water. That’s one way to end a fight.

“Told you.”

He flushes down the pizza and beer and gratefully accepts the water but shudders as he drinks it. There’s sweat on his face, or maybe tear tracks but Dean’s lot looking.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

Sam lets himself get hauled up by an arm, but he clutches to Dean and his voice is scratchy and sad when he speaks, on the threshold of the bathroom, bed in sight.

“D’you hate me?”

It takes a second for it to even process. He grips Sam tighter, mouth thinning. “You’re wasted.”

Sam turns, out of his reach and hands in his shirt, looking up at Dean with wide, glassy eyes. He looks like shit. “I mean it Dean, d’you...”

Ah shit, those are definitely tears in his eyes. He better not fucking hurl again.

Dean swallows. “Of course I don’t hate you, Sammy. C’mon, get in bed.”

He’s not letting go. Dean’s considering whether prying his hands off will result in a scuffle.

“But I – ‘m a burden. I fucking – I weigh you down. Stuck looking after your stupid fucking bitch brother ‘n can’t go with Dad and you always take his side ‘n I know I freak you out ‘n I let you get hurt ‘n I - ”

Dean’s throat is tight. “Jesus, Sammy,” he breathes, at a loss for what else to say. Sam’s crying like he did as a little kid and he hasn’t let Dean see him like this in a long time, too proud and too grown up except right now he’s not, he’s sniffling and red-faced and it’s too much.

Accepting he’s gonna have snot all over his shirt, Dean gives up trying to usher him to bed and wraps his arms around Sam, lets him cry against his chest for a minute, holding him so hard it makes him wince.

“Not a burden, little bro.” He manages after a few minutes, long enough later that he’s sure it’ll sound honest. Sam’s not a burden, he’s Dean’s responsibility. He’s not bitter about that, he’s fucking not. It’s not Sam’s fault Dean has to look after him. He could be less of a bitch about it and act less goddamn spoiled and -

Dean swallows it back, pats Sam’s hair.

“Could never hate you. Don’t care if you’re a freak, you’re my little brother.”

Sam shakes in his arms, lets out another sob. Dean rolls his eyes upward.

He gets him into the bed a few minutes later, once Sam’s dried himself out. It’s not like it lasted long, and he holds to Dean’s arms as he’s lowered into the mattress, that furrow back between his eyebrows.

“You’re gonna get wrinkles you keep making that face.”

If anything, his eyebrows knit in harder. “’m sorry I drag you down.”

He flattens Sam’s bangs away from his forehead, heart feeling too big, too fond for his chest. “You don’t, Sammy. You’re fine.”

“’m a spoiled bitch.”

Dean winces. Okay, he earned that one, maybe a little, but jeez if Sam’s not fucking pulling out the stops tonight. No more whiskey for him, possibly ever.

“Damn right,” he injects a smile into it. “But you’re my spoiled bitch. Got it?”

That gets his eyes to open, bleary and already full of sleep, dragged down and dark with worry. He’s still holding Dean’s arms. “You mean it?”

“Yeah Sammy, ‘course.”

He nods, smiles a little, that furrow softening once more. “Love you, Dean.”

He gives in and kisses Sam’s forehead, right over that stupid spot that’s gonna wrinkle way too young. “Get some sleep. I’ve got you.”

And Sam does. Because that’s Dean’s superpower – looking after Sam, giving him what he needs. And fuck if it doesn’t make him feel like Atlas some days, but it’s worth it. Sammy’s more than worth it.

…

Sam’s hands are shaking. He’s been thinking about this for so long, he’s built it up in his head too much. It’s not that it’s bad. It’s actually the opposite of bad, realistically. It still feels like a strange, twisted up kind of betrayal when he steps into the car lot at Bobby’s where he’s working on an old beater.

He’s beating something with a wrench. Sam knows enough about cars to know that’s sometimes the best way to beat something out before you take out the rubber mallets, but he’s still wincing at the noise. Bobby’s going to get tinnitus if he doesn’t start wearing earmuffs.

“Hey uh – hey!” he has to say it louder to get Bobby’s attention, and when he does he immediately balks a little. His hands slide into his pockets of their own accord.

“Sam, hey.” Bobby stands up, adjusts his cap. “Y’alright there?”

“Yeah uh,” Sam scratches the back of his neck, “I wanted to ask you a… favour? If that’s alright?”

Bobby grunts in agreement, making a rolling gesture with his hand for Sam to get on with it. He’s never been patient.

“I’m thinking about writing my SATs this fall. D’you mind if I get my score sent here? I’m not sure what school I’ll be at, and… yeah. You know.”

Bobby nods and waves his hand in a ‘too easy’ kind of gesture. He’s already turning most of the way back to his work. “’Course Sam. Same as your report cards. That it?”

He clears his throat and nods. “Yeah, that’s it.”

He’s about to turn back into the house but Bobby’s voice catches him. “’N what about your college applications? Gonna send them here too?”

His stomach drops out. He spins to look at Bobby, shaking his head. “My uh – I’m not - … ”

“You sure about that?”

He glances toward the house, where his dad is, his brother is. They’re still in there.

“I… how did you know?”

“I see all those report cards, y’know. No reason to keep your grades that high – ‘specially on the road – not unless you plan on doing something with ‘em.”

Right. “Does my dad know?”

Bobby shrugs. “What your dad can deny could fill my library.”

Sam snorts, but his stomach unknots. The way Bobby talks about his dad is always a breath of fresh air. “Yeah. Alright. Um. Then yeah – them too.”

“How you planning on doing it?”

Bobby’s got his arms crossed now, casual, leaning back against the car he’d been working on.

“Just – writing the SATs first. Getting the admissions books and stuff from whatever school I’m at. Fill out the applications at the library, just follow the instructions. I talked to a career counsellor at the last place I was at and she gave me some advice on what schools to look at.”

“And?”

“Uh. Well obviously around here there’s the University of South Dakota. Then there’s Kansas…”

“Sam.”

He looks at his feet. His hands have found their way back to his pockets. “My counsellor… she said with my grades, given my history, the way I can write an essay for some schools to explain… if I do good on the SATs I can go somewhere big time. Like Columbia or…”

Bobby waits.

“Stanford.”

“Stanford?”

Sam nods, then looks out over the car lot. He can’t believe how tight his throat feels, how hard his heart is hammering. “I know it’s far but it’s – it’s different and I – ”

“Sometimes different is good.”

“I don’t want to live in New York. Winter sucks, the city’s too big. I can’t stand Chicago for four years. I don’t want to live that long in Texas. And if Dad doesn’t disown me then California’s easy to visit, and if he does disown me, well…”

“It’s easy to avoid.”

Sam shrugs.

“It’s a good choice.”

He perks up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. ‘N if your counsellor thinks you can do it, go for it.”

He’s warm all the way through. “Thanks Bobby.”

“No need to thank me. Just grab me another beer and get your brother to get out here ‘n give me a hand with this car. You’re gonna be the genius in the family but there’s still a thing or two I can teach him about an engine.”

…

Other hunters are assholes. That’s Sam’s professional opinion, at least. Martin Creaser is okay but the other two, Walt and Roy...

Maybe it’s the difference between a hunter knowing him growing up – like Bobby and Caleb and Jim – as compared to meeting him as a teen, or maybe it’s just how Walt and Roy are, but either way they keep completely dismissing Sam. It’s setting his teeth straight on edge. He’s sixteen, not six. He’s here to kill ghouls, the same as them. Hell, he’s here to kill ghouls because of them, because they asked for back-up. In a way, Sam’s doing them a favour (okay, so his dad’s doing them the favour and Sam and Dean are just along for the ride, but the point remains - )

“Should we station someone at the morgue?” he asks, unable to stop himself from interjecting on their plan. His dad looks up, considering, and Martin glances between Dad and him, but Walt waves his hand.

“No need, Sammy. We know they’re all in the funeral home.”

 “It’s Sam.”

His Dad gives him a warning look. He’s pretty sure his tone could be labelled as ‘pissed’ but he’s not contrite, because he’s right and he knows it.

Ghouls can eat the dead, and when they do, they’re often grave-robbers. This pack of them (which isn’t that common itself, they normally don’t buddy-up so much) has set itself up running a funeral home. Walt and Roy might never have noticed them if one of the youngers hadn’t gotten out of line and got for live meat, killing. Sam’s not entirely even sure why they need to kill the whole pack, except that they’re monsters and probably won’t let them walk away after killing one of their own. The point is though – the bodies go from the morgue to the funeral home, and if they do that, chances are they’ve got a person inside the morgue, or else a driver or someone else involved.

He says as much. Walt looks at him with narrowed eyes. “I get it, kid, you wanna cover your bases. But leave this to the pros, yeah?”

His hackles raise. He gets a quick, angry look from his dad that he categorically ignores, body twitching forward, just a micro-movement as he’s about to argue his case.

Dean’s hand on the back of his neck surprises him. It’s there for all of a quarter second, the brush of his thumb against the back of his neck right under his hair, almost ticklish, and then it’s moving forward as if that wasn’t on purpose (but it was, too deliberate not to be) and he’s clapping Sam on the shoulder.

“Sounds good to us, right Sam?”

Dean’s hand is warm where it grips his shoulder, even through his flannel. Play nice. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t piss off Dad. They’re all doing the best they can. Sam breathes, shoulders relaxing with the exhale.

“Of course. Happy to follow your lead, Walt.”

Everyone relaxes. His dad nods, no stern reproach forthcoming in privacy later, and they all break to gather supplies and suit up. Dean takes him over a little ways, out of earshot but not far.

“Getting testy.”

He glares at his shoe, scuffing it on the ground. His hands are in his pockets, hiding his fisted knuckles. “He’s treating me like I’m a kid.”

“You’re not a kid. But he doesn’t know you, and every hunter’s got his own way of doing things. You know how it is.”

“Dad listens when I say something worth listening to. So do Caleb and Jim. I’ve never even hunted with Creaser and he listened.”

Dean nods and looks over toward their dad, hefting a ridiculous barbed-wire covered bat out of the trunk. He looks way too pleased with his handiwork on that one. Sam’s glad he’ll be using a machete and not a blunt instrument.

“Dad agrees with you, for the record. He probably would’ve said the same if you hadn’t first.”

“Walt wouldn’t have ignored him.”

“Nope, he would not.” Dean shrugs like it’s not important. Sam wants to pull his hair out. “Look – you just rub some people the wrong way, Sammy. Don’t worry about it. Walt and Roy aren’t really friends, but they’re professionals, so I’m sure they’ve got this on lock. Let’s just suit up and do what we’re doing.” He pauses, then his voice drops, and his hand lands back on Sam’s shoulder, just barely cupping the back of his neck. “Okay?”

The word feels like a promise, a reference to something far away from this muddy farmer’s field and far more comforting. Sam sighs into it. “Okay.”

Three hours later, after dark and well into the hunt, it turns out he was right. There’s more ghouls – twice as many, in fact. A neat dozen of them in this cozy operation, with the cavalry arriving while they’re only half-done at the funeral home. If Dad hadn’t brought them along, it would be almost enough to overwhelm the hunters. Thankfully, it’s not.

Sam’s hands are steady. He’s lopped off two heads so far. He’s got blood spray on his face and his hands are wet and slippery on his machete, but he’s calm and focused when Dean catches his eye and nods around the corner in the basement. One more in there. And who knows how many left outside with Dad and Martin. Walt and Roy are upstairs.

Dean turns around the corner, distracts the ghoul with some fancy (dangerous) knife moves, gets its back to the hall and then Sam follows. It’s head number three.

“That the last one?” Dean asks. Sam turns and surveys the room.

“Down here at least.”

“Awesome.”

Sam swallows and nods.

“You good?”

“Yeah I’m – I’m okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

They share a grin. Dean’s just as bloody as he is, but somehow it almost seems to suit him. He looks like an action movie hero, tall and strong and built for adventure and danger. There’s a flutter in his chest, and Sam doesn’t dare kiss him, not here, not surrounded by hunters, but god he wants to. He settles for nudging his arm with another private smile and following him upstairs, content.

They all clean up after, head back to the crap restaurant next to the motel to grab grub and take stock. Roy’s impressed as hell that Sam killed three, but Walt doesn’t seem to want to admit it. His dad looks proud. Dean’s kill count is two, Dad’s is a whopping four, and each of the others got one each.

“Three? At your age?” Roy shakes his head.

Sam laughs, feeling a little bashful. “Dean did most of the heavy lifting, I just finished them off.”

Martin ropes him in by an arm and knuckles his hair. “Kid’s just being humble. John’s boys are naturals, raised into it. You don’t see it often. Sam ‘n Dean Winchester, they’re gonna be the best of all of us some day soon.”

He shoves Martin off good naturedly, denying it, and Dean’s already giving all the glowing credit to Dad. There’s enough cheer around them that Dad doesn’t comment when Sam reaches over to steal Dean’s beer and takes a generous swig. Dean’s grin is rakish when he steals it back, and under the table, his foot hooks around Sam’s.

It’s all they can get away with here, surrounded by fellow hunters. They’re some of the most perceptive people, his dad’s always warned (and why that even matters, he’s not sure, because it’s not as if Dad knows about him and Dean). Dean and he are being careful, careful as hell, and Sam almost feels like there’s a new language developing between them. Casual touches, feet under the table, words with double and triple meanings. It’s special, and he likes it. Different than what other couples get, but it works for them. Everything is a layer.

They go their way the next morning. His dad doesn’t ask his opinion on Walt or Roy, but doesn’t mention working with them again after that.

…

It’s been a week. It’s been a week since Sam put his mouth on Dean’s dick and that week hasn’t been anywhere near enough time to process. They’re already a few states over, all the way to Missouri, and he’s had lots of open road to think, not that it’s helped much.

Sam wanted it, that much is obvious. But Sam shouldn’t want it, and neither should Dean, and he shouldn’t be getting off to the memory every time he wraps his hand around himself.

Last night he hadn’t even waited till Sam was asleep to get his fist inside his own boxers. He’d heard Sam do the same, creak in the motel room bed so close to his own. Dean wasn’t sure if he was trying to goad Sam into forcing the conversation or just really couldn’t help himself, but he got off to the sound of Sam’s labored breathing just three feet away and that’s when he decided he needed to talk about it, even if he didn’t want to.

Because not talking about it? Isn’t working. Not talking about led down a rabbit hole of bad decisions and if he can't help himself enough to stop from encouraging this shit, he can – no, needs to – at least set some boundaries on it. And he definitely needs to do it before Sam gets impatient enough to push them down a cliff again.

Problem is – he’s really not sure how the hell to bring it up.

Dad left yesterday morning and Dean doesn’t think he’s gonna be back for a couple weeks. He’d dropped them off at the motel and said something about working a job and Dean had almost itched to come, but it was Sam’s birthday in a week and he didn’t want to chance being away. Besides, they just rolled into town and someone’s gotta keep an eye on the cash flow and make sure they’re paid up at this motel if Dad’s gone longer than planned.

But that leaves just him and Sam, and Sam being pissed about enrolling in a new school and the timing fucking up his grades (“why the hell does that even matter, Sam?” “Because it does, Dean!”) and other than late night shame-filled jerk sessions, there’s no indication at all from Sam that he even remembers blowing Dean next to a farmer’s field a week before.

Dean brings dinner back to their motel. Sam’s pouring over an essay when he gets back, pen scribbling halfway-illegible scrawls on the looseleaf, and Dean drops the take-out bag in front of him on the table.

“Thanks,” Sam murmurs without looking up. Dean glances left and right as if that’ll somehow help him start this conversation. It doesn’t. No inspiration forthcoming. He steps closer.

“Whatcha working on?”

“English class. Book called On the Road. There’s a guy named Dean.” Sam’s voice has a hint of tension, and Dean leans over his shoulder to squint at the scrawls. His hand lands on Sam’s shoulder and his baby brother stops writing.

In conclusion, Sal’s worship of Dean and worship of madness go hand-in-hand throughout the narrative. Sal tries and fails to live in a way that approaches that madness, and instead resorts to clinging to others, most notably Dean, to approach that same sensation or experience. What he cannot have in himself, he experiences vicariously through others. For this reason, Sal can never cede his love for Dean, even though Dean abandons him.

Dean slams a hand down on the page.

“Dean?”

He’s breathing too heavy. His other hand’s shifted to the back of Sam’s neck, thumb rubbing. He feels Sam hold his breath in response.

“That how you feel, Sammy?” he rasps after a minute.

“It’s a book.”

He nods. It’s a book. A book about Sal and Dean and clinging to madness. Dean lefts out a rough laugh.

“You know we’re brothers?”

Sam stiffens under his hand. His back straightens. Dean lets it, but doesn’t let him move beyond that, hand firm on his neck, cradling his skull.

“I know.”

 He nods. “So what happens when this blows up?”

“What?”

“When – shit always goes sour, Sam. There’s girls, there’s hunting, there’s Dad. What do we do when this goes sour, when one of us calms down from this hormonal mess and decides he doesn’t want to ride the incest rollercoaster anymore?”

There’s a pause, a slow inhale, exhale. Dean fills the silence.

“I’m not gonna pretend – we’ve got some wires crossed. Tried to uncross them but right now that ship’s sailed. But even if they’re crossed doesn’t mean we have to get on that ride. This shit, it’s too easy for it to mess us up.”

“I won’t – Dean it won’t.”

He laughs, ragged and dry. “It almost has a few times.”

Sam shakes off his hand, stands up. Dean lets him, lets them get eye to eye. Sam’s tall now, level with him. He’s not a kid anymore.

“We want it. I know you want it.”

Dean shakes his head. He wishes he didn’t. “We’re brothers, Sam. More than brothers, hell, I changed your diapers.”

And Sam doesn’t get that – that this must be easier for him, because it’s not easy on Dean, not even a little. Half the time he sees Sam, he sees a goofy little kid, sees him as a baby, a toddler, as a shy four-year-old, as a petulant nine-year-old who ran off too many times and who scared Dean to death every time he did. He sees Sammy with scraped knees and big big eyes asking for a bedtime story and he sees a seven-year-old brat falling out of a tree and an eleven-year-old kid saying ‘I know you are but what am I’ ad nauseum because he hasn’t got a better comeback to Dean calling him a bitch.

So it’s fucking twisted that he can see all that and still another portion of the time see Sam with desire. And it’s not – Dean's not creeping on him. He’s not checking Sam out when he gets out of the shower or salivating about his arms or – shit, he might look too long at a scrap of skin when Sam yawns and his shirt rides up but that’s it. He’s not itching for it till the moments that he is and he shouldn’t be able to compartmentalize so well, the little brother whose laces he used to tie compared to the little brother who gets his engine revving, but God’s never been kind to Dean Winchester and this is just another way his life is fucked.

Sam doesn’t get that though and Dean’s not about to spell it out for him, all the ways he’s so much more fucked in the head than Sam is.

“We don’t get to want it,” he continues, determined. “Only thing to do is – look I won’t stop with the doubling if you don’t want to. The playing. We can play. But we put a wall around it. A rock solid wall. No getting distracted on the job, no sparring - ” his throat clicks, “no sparring sessions that aren’t about sparring. And no fuckin’ blowjobs, no kissing or – because we – we spiral a little and we’ll fall right down a fucking well, you get that?”

Sam steps forward. Dean’s muscles coil impossibly tighter. “You don’t think we can handle it?”

Dean knows they can’t - knows he can’t.

“I’m never gonna abandon you Sammy. We’re not like the guys in your book.” He pokes the page on the table, meets Sam’s eye. “That’s not us. We don’t chase that madness. Maybe it’s there but I’m – I’m not willing to lose you over it.”

Sam’s eyes go wide, denial ready. “You – ”

“Don’t. Okay. Don’t argue.” His throat feels raw, the last word comes out too desperate: “Please.”

It shifts something. Sam’s eyes calculate, he swallows. “We both like it. But we shouldn’t, so we contain it and... play. We mess around with girls and we keep a wall around it, don’t let it go farther than it does now. And then we don’t lose each other.”

“That’s right.”

Sam turns and sits back down at his essay. “Okay. Let’s try this your way.”

It sounds like a challenge. Dean hates him just a little for it.

…

“SAM!”

“Sonuva bitch,” John swears, next to Dean. He’s not sure why, but some days it seems like Sam’s a magnet for all things evil in this world. Shtrigas, demons, the kitsune he thinks John doesn’t know about, and now today, one hell of a pissed off witch. Like hell if they could just go six months without something trying to get their claws in his youngest. All seventeen years of his short life, evil’s been out for him.

Dean pounds on the door Sam got pulled through before it slammed shut. John tells him to move and lines up his sawed off. The first shot takes off the handle. The second blows the cheap wood to nothing. Dean kicks it the rest of the way in.

They take the stairs down two at a time, guns up. Sam’s got magic bonds glowing on his wrists, chaining him to the floor. The witch has a hand in his floppy hair, a hex bag in her other hand.

“Shoot!” Sam urges them. John knows their bullets won’t work on her. They thought this was a ghost, all signs pointed to one. Rock salt won’t do shit on a witch. He makes a mental note to figure out if witch-killing bullets are a thing he can find a way to make.

“You take one step closer,” she says, acting as if she actually has the upper hand here. “This hex bag goes in his mouth.”

Dean shoots her. John swears. It doesn’t do much except knock her back a step, and she shoves the hex bag into Sam’s mouth in response.

He gags immediately.

“Iron, Dean.” John reprimands.

There’s the iron bar Sam had brought in to fend off the hypothetical ghost but it’s on the floor next to him and too far away considering his bonds; there’s an ax by a pile of wood near a wood burning stove down here, and he wonders if he could cut off her head with it; there’s a knife that looks like it’s silver on her spellcasting table; he’s got iron in the car, a steel knife in an ankle holster, and the gun in his hands.

“Let me go and I’ll spare his life.” The witch drags up Sam by the hair. He’s got black veins sliding up his throat, skin turning purple.

John calculates. Sam’s got a minute. He’s not a kid anymore. 

“Alright.” He holds his gun up, pretends to be playing nice. “Just get that hex bag outta him.”

Dean’s breathing harsh and scared next to him. John wishes he could learn to focus when Sam’s in danger.

“Hunters words don’t mean shit. Get out of the way and I’ll take him with me. He’ll make it to the car.”

“Like hell he will,” Dean’s voice is harsh. John wants to smack him upside the head.

“Sure thing.”

Dean looks at him with wide eyes, betrayed. Sam’s eyes are wide too, choking, but John gives him a hard look and hopes he gets it.

“Dean.”

Dean’s hand falters, and with a shudder, he lowers his gun.

“Fools.”

She tosses herself to the side and activates a spell. John halfway saw it coming, hopes his gamble plays out right. He’s got glowing bonds on him too now, so does Dean, and they burn like a motherfucker, which he didn’t expect. Sam didn’t give any indication he was even in pain.

The witch is casting again, Latin streaming out of her mouth.

“Sam!” Dean is freaking out.

John’s eyes land on Sam.

The witch had to let go of his head, and John was right – he’s got his wits about him. Sam’s got his iron rod scooped off the floor, hasn’t even pulled out the hex bag, and bonds on his wrists or no, he’s got enough space to lunge with it. Even John feels shocked when it thrusts up through the witch’s sternum. He expected Sam to smack, not stab. But from the angle he was at, this is the leverage he got, and John’s a little proud. Sam's choking, gagging still, but he’s got blood soaking down his hands from where he put that rod right through the witch, clean in one end and up out the other. It must’ve taken a hell of a lot of pressure, that thing was blunt.

She gargles and collapses forward, blood soaking down her mouth and chin, dead. The bonds on them disappear; Sam’s able to pull the hex bag out of his mouth. He’s coughing up a storm and Dean’s on him in an instant, pulling him up, holding his face, wrapping him up in a desperate hug then pulling back and checking his face again, pushing back his hair.

“M’alright. I’m okay, Dean.”

“Sam,” Dean’s voice is shot. “Thought she had you. Thought you would – are you… you did good.”

Sam shakes his head, still cupped in his brother’s hands. John’s hanging back, stomach starting to work a little. Their little moment can end any time now.

“I’m… ” Sam sucks in a breath, looks down at his hands. They’re marinating in red and it clicks into place for John. Sam’s first human kill, because witches are evil but they’re still human. He’s done ghouls and monsters that masqueraded as humans, but that’s different, chopping off a head is brutal work but it’s a reminder that what you’re killing isn’t normal, can’t die normal. And now here he is with his hands layered thick in human blood. No wonder he’s shaking. “Dean.”

“You’re okay. You did good,” he repeats. “So good, Sammy.”

Sam’s face is looking more wrecked by the second.

“She was – ” Sam pulls in a breath and tries to nod. John’s partway worried he might start to cry and shifts on his feet.

“Gonna kill you, Sam.”

“Gonna kill you.”

And John is chopped liver.

Dean butts his forehead against Sam’s. John’s stomach turns.

“Sammy.”

There’s a moment, a hesitation, and then – John recoils – Dean kisses him. Kisses his – kisses Sam. This is the part where John’s supposed to separate them, supposed to tear them apart and then tear Dean up one side and down the other for this indiscretion. Supposed to do something other than stare slackjawed as they inhale together, like one, and supposed to do anything but stand paralyzed as Sam melts into Dean, kisses him back, holds onto his arms with bloodstained hands like a lifeline.

John’s hands are shaking with suppressed rage by the time they pull apart. It wasn’t long. It was too goddamn long. It wasn’t lascivious. It was goddamn salacious. It wasn’t –

It wasn’t anything but them comforting each other and John doesn’t know what the hell to do with that.

Sam pulls back, knocks his forehead against Dean’s, expression calm and steady. “I’m good.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” Sam’s hands slide off their hold on Dean’s arms. He steps back and casts a glance at John. John flinches and covers it. He looks at Dean, who won’t look at him.

“Let’s get out of here,” Dean manages to say. John couldn’t agree more but doesn’t move till Sam heads to the door. He moves aside for him after a moment, and Dean follows his brother, shamefaced and not looking at John. He burns the hex bag and follows them up.

…

Dean steps outside. His dad’s been out there for an hour, smoking. He almost never smokes, so if he’s chainsmoking, well…

Dean clutches the keys to his truck in his hand so hard they dig in. Sam looked pale when Dean grabbed them up and stepped outside, but didn’t try to stop him. Dean’s throat feels stuck, and his knees want to knock together, but he forces himself out the door anyway and stands next to Dad. He can’t look at him, looks forward instead, but his Dad doesn’t give him the easy way out, doesn’t speak first.

When Dean can’t stand it anymore, he finally gives. “Should I head to Bobby’s? Or you want me to go…” Somewhere else. Somewhere farther, more permanent. His throat won’t let out those words.

In his peripheral vision, his dad puts out the cigarette.

“Neither.”

Dean inhales, waits for the other shoe to drop.

“Sam’s strong. Getting stronger.”

Okay, he’s honestly not sure where that’s going, but he’s willing to cling to it like a drowning man to a life preserver. “Yessir. He uh – he’s taking it well. Didn’t know he had it in him to gank a witch like that.”

John nods. “Anything stands between you boys, neither of you hesitate.”

He knows it’s true, but isn’t sure if that line is going anywhere good.

“That the first time you ‘n him…? Since?”

There it is. Dean inhales, straightens his back. “Yes sir.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Dad nod. “Good.”

He wants – god he wants to do this. Wants to take the win, go back inside, pretend it never happened, that Dad never saw. But he can’t. He can’t because of who he is. He’s the guy who wants to do it again, and again. Wants to go in there and not pretend, to go in there and hold Sam and kiss him until he can feel Sam’s blood rushing under his skin, heart beating in his chest, feel the breath as it enters and leaves his lungs and know that he’s okay, he’s alive.

“I – I should go, Dad. Because I don’t know if I can…” stop.

“That kiss. The two of you. It’s…” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose and turns to face Dean head on. Dean forces himself to face him too, hands clenching, keys almost cutting into the skin of his palm. “He didn’t force you. And you weren’t – that wasn’t you preying on him.”

Dean can almost taste blood in the back of his mouth. “No sir,” he grits out.

“You get stupid when he’s in danger. You gotta fix that.”

He thinks back to the tunnel vision he felt, the need to put distance between that witch and Sam, the shock that stalled his feet. He thinks about how he took the shot to distract her, get her attention on him, that he almost had it right before Dad interrupted. She’d have shoved the hex bag in Sam then taken her chance to run. He’d have lunged forward to save Sam, the witch convinced that was his only angle after he acted to desperate to get to his brother, and he’d have a chance to get his hands on that iron. He’d have been able to take her out in the back, knock her unconscious with the rod or else stab it through her if he had to.

He doesn’t say any of that. “Yes sir.”

Dad nods, then looks out over the parking lot. “You make him stronger. Steadier. You make each other better.”

Dean feels his eyes sting, and that’s just freaking stupid. He blinks them hard.

“But that thing between you – that’s a liability, Dean.”

His throat is too closed to respond.

“This life, hunting, you can’t afford attachments. You ‘n your brother, you’re each other’s weak spot and that is what it is, but being… that – it’s a weakness that’s too easy to exploit. Hunters’ll turn on you if they find out – and they’re not stupid and you’re too sloppy, they will find out. Demons’ll use anything they can get on you and twist it around. Witches, monsters, doesn’t matter. It would be too easy to drive a wedge between you boys, you keep this up.”

He nods. He knows.

“What I’m saying is you can’t fucking kiss your brother every time his hands shake.”

“Yes sir. I know.”

“Do you, Dean?” His voice is loud and he rounds on Dean. His back is so stiff it might start to ache but he manages not to shake at the ire in his father’s voice. “Because to me it looked like you didn’t goddamn care about me and the world watching.”

“Is that – ” Fuck, he snaps his mouth closed. Stupid, stupid fucking question.

“Is what, Dean?” Dad sounds pissed.

Dean closes his eyes, breathes in. “Never mind. Stupid.”

“Dean.”

“Is that your only problem with it? Problems. The – the liability, people finding out? Coddling Sam?”

His Dad’s face is dark with anger, and he steps closer to Dean, as mean as he’s ever seen him. He’s got his finger in Dean’s chest, pressing hard. “You know it’s not.”

He nods. Stupid. His Dad nods too, stepping back and readjusting his jacket.

“It makes me sick. But sending you away again won’t fix it ‘n I get that now. But I swear to you, son – I see it, I smell it, I catch you two so much as playing footsies – any evidence at all, Dean – and I will find a way to make it end.”

His heart hammers in his chest. He doesn’t – he doesn’t understand. He knows what his Dad’s saying but his brain is trying to tell him he’s saying something else.

“Understood?”

“Yes sir,” he croaks out like a reflex. Dad nods and pulls out another cigarette, turns on his heel.

“I need a drink. I’ll be back after one.”

Dean falls back against the door, hands shaking, knees not fully able to hold him. And then he turns and slips inside the room before his dad can look back, before he can take it back.

“Dean?” Sam’s already standing, eyes wide and alarmed.

“’m okay. I’m okay. Just – ” He lets Sam get close then reaches out and reels him in, wraps him up in a stupid hug that catches Sam by surprise.

“He said – ” Dean clears his throat, not letting go of Sam yet. “He said he can tell I’m not… perving on you. You’re not pushing me.”

“Obviously.” Sam halfway scoffs. Dean isn’t, wasn’t, so sure. But if Dad believes it…

He steps back, out of Sam’s reach. “Sam.”

“What is it, Dean?”

His hands are shaking. Fuck. Can he do this? “He said sending me away won’t fix it. Said I – said if he finds evidence, he’ll - said he’ll be out till one.” Dean said he couldn’t stop and Dad didn’t make him leave.

It takes a second and then Sam gets it. His eyes go wide in shock, inhales.

Dad didn’t tell them to stop. He said to hide it better.

“Dean.”

He swallows, nods. Sam’s seventeen. Sam’s seventeen; he’s got blood on his hands, has killed a witch, a human being; he’s written his goddamn SATs and Dean’s afraid to think about what it means, how long he’s got, how far Sam’s going to go and what the hell Dad’s going to do when he finds out.

“We’re brothers,” Dean whispers. “Not boyfriends. Okay? Not ever. No petnames, no Valentine’s, no fucking – no footsie under the table. No getting it twisted, no riding off into the sunset. You have girlfriends and I do my thing and...”

He exhales. Sam reaches out, holds his arm, his sleeve really, vice-tight.

“We’re brothers – first, Always. You wanna stop, I wanna stop,” Sam's voice makes it clear how likely he thinks it is that he’ll ever want to stop, “then it stops. But we don’t stop being brothers. Nothing comes before that; nothing ever changes that.”

They should’ve said all this months ago – years ago.

“We deny it if – no one finds out. They can’t. No one can, not Dad – fuck I don’t even know if, he didn’t give us a freaking blessing, Sam. He might seriously castrate me if we aren't careful.” His voice is a little hysterical at the end there.

“I don’t need roses, Dean. I don’t need anything. I just need my brother. Need to be able to lean on you again. Need to be able to hug you and talk to you and not have Dad freak the fuck out. But I want it. Want you like this.”

Dean swallows. How the hell did they get like this? So wrapped up and needy for each other?

“Can I...” Sam’s hands are shaking and they’re hovering between them.

“We’re not supposed to want this.” It’s a last-ditch effort and he’s not proud that his voice is shaking.

“I know.”

They kiss.

When they’re done, they’ll air out the room and make it clean, get rid of any evidence, make better rules for hiding it and make so Dad never has to so much as think about it. They’ll make it so perfect that he’ll doubt it’s even happening, so improbable that Pastor Jim won’t ever look at Dean askance again, that Bobby will chalk it up to teenage idiocy, that no one else will ever find out.

Right as soon as he’s done making Sam feel whole again.

…

The thing about the Winchesters, Bobby thinks privately to himself, is that they’re all halfway feral. He can’t blame the boys, but he doesn’t know how the hell John came that way. The man grew up in a steady, stable life; marine or no, he lived apple-pie normal until his wife burned on the ceiling. It’s hard, Bobby knows too well, too personal, but dead family or not, he never turned into whatever John Winchester is.

He raises his sons like soldiers. Bobby didn’t like it the first time he met them, how good Dean was at lying, how this little boy identified as a hunter. Didn’t like it later when John brought them by, when even the youngest slept with a gun despite just discovering the truth about life, when Dean could headshot a moving target and Sam was already learning to take the recoil.

They were goddamn kids. Kids, but in some ways, stray dogs. They ate like them, that was for sure, with nothing approaching table manners. Bobby barked it into them, but all it took was a look from John and suddenly they were sitting up straighter, elbows off the table, mouths closed while chewing. Like he had taught them, but only how to appear civilized, not actually be it.

They wrestled constantly, like kids do, but more dangerous and mean over the years because they both were trained to fight. Nothing was off limits. John didn’t seem to mind, just made them take it outside if they were in danger of dropping a pile of books on themselves. They mostly took it outside themselves, didn’t require much in the way of orders from their father ever.

Dean tended to Sam. That was absolute, when John was around and even more when he wasn’t. John would leave them here and give them their usual orders (watch your brother, listen to your brother) and Bobby didn’t have to so much as make food for Sam the first three times. Dean took care of everything. Bobby pushed back on it eventually, told Dean to sit and he’d make the meals, at least the dinners. Let the kid be a kid.

He didn’t get how Dean could be a mother to Sam but still so undomesticated. Cook, wash, brush teeth, laundry, chores – sure, easy. But howl at the moon and dirt on his face and holes in his jeans and this wild look in his eyes. It wasn’t just mischief, it was violence, carefully caged and channeled. It was a laugh at bloodshed and a grin at a ‘sick’ cause of death and a dare to ‘try it’ to anyone who threatened him. It was fuck high-school who needs it, fake IDs, drowning in girls and stirring up trouble because he couldn’t function except in dysfunction. It was saying whatever was on his mind, no matter how inappropriate, and not giving a single shit about what normal or settled looked like. Bobby had seen him tell a cop to suck his dick and watched him grin through the blood that settled on his teeth when that hadn’t gone over well. (Bailing him out had been fun, but there was no way he was telling John what trouble Dean got into that time, not when the kid landed in a boy’s home for trying to feed his brother not that long prior).

More than anything, with all three of them, it was the way they moved like a pack. John, an alpha, watching over his pups and letting them bark and yap, intervening only when they became unruly enough to attract attention. It was each of them baring their fangs when cornered, a switch from carefree to violence, shoulders hunched and hackles raised. It was Sam’s fox-smart eyes watching, learning, and Dean’s readiness to put a knife through the hand of a man who muttered veiled threats about a twelve-year-old Sam during a poker game. It was John not even blinking when he did.

Enough years gone by, you can get used to anything. Bobby got used to the Winchesters and their strange mannerisms, got used to adoring the boys, then got used to thinking of them like family. He steered them, best as he could, toward growing into something more person-like, less feral. It mostly worked, he likes to think on his better days, watching them walk through the doors and feeling like what he sees doesn’t scare him as much anymore.

He loves them, his adopted sons, not quite strays. He loves them but when he puts his finger on it, on why Dean got exiled here away from his brother for a month gone by, he wonders if he loves them too much. He shouldn’t be able to forgive that kind of thing from anyone, definitely not from an older brother, old enough to know better, to know how wrong that is, how much it’s gotta be messing Sam up and how twisted it is to take that kind of advantage.

It settles uncomfortable in him, but he doesn’t, can’t turn Dean away. Can’t tan his hide like he should. Can’t help anything but think – it figures. They’re still not less than halfway wild. And if Dean can grip his brother’s arms and hold him down till Sam cries uncle while John just nods in approval, or if Sam can sleep with a gun that John gave him under his pillow even on the couch and sip whiskey at fifteen that John watched Dean pour – how the hell did anyone ever expect them to be civil in this way? How did John expect this shit to go, those boys having no one but each other, no fixed point in their lives, nothing but scorn for normality?

Still, most of Bobby wants to rip them away from each other. Rip Dean away from Sam and tell Sam to run while he still has time to learn to be a person. But Sam arrives with John right before his 17^th birthday and all that anger dissolves in an instant. Because Dean’s had his teeth set on edge since he arrived and even the hunt with Caleb did shit all to soothe it, but as soon as Sam’s in his line of sight, something in him stills. It’s impossible to say what it is, and Bobby’s not so poetic anymore to call it anything other than kinetic energy, but if he were feeling wistful he might say that a thrumming in Dean’s soul is softened by Sam’s presence.

Sam still looks at his brother like he’s the sun, smiles like he can’t help it. He had an angry, mean twist to his lips until he caught sight of Dean, and then that shifted into something like light, like Dean – hell, Bobby really is getting poetic, damn them boys – chases away some shadows inside his soul too.

You can get used to anything. Bobby worries he’ll get used to this too. Worries he might even come to see sense in it. He feels a million years old, and he blames John Winchester and the wild things he raised.

…

Dean doesn’t plan it. That’s important; he’s not quite sure why really, but he knows it is.

If pressed, he might acknowledge that he knew all the pieces of the equation were in place and, if the pressure turned up, might admit that he’d been lighting matches close to gunpowder and waiting to see if a spark might strike.

But he didn’t plan it.

"Heading out.”

Sam looks up from the lore notes he photocopied at the library, a project for Dad. “Where to?”

“Just out.”

Sam’s pout comes out in full force. Dean feels his stomach stir in apprehension.

“You want to play, you know you can get it here.”

His throat closes a bit. He hates talking about it. He glances at the door. “I’m in the mood for something different.”

Sam glares at his notes and doesn’t respond. Dean slips out the door and lets him be jealous. God knows Dean would be if Sam was slipping out to get laid.

The thing is – the thing is they’ve been playing. They’ve been – god, Dean is going to hell for this – jerking it in the dark from different beds, not even pretending to hide it, Sam whispering Dean’s name when he cums. They’ve been roughhousing too much and when it pushes up against that wall they built, Dean pins Sam and steals a quick grope, can’t freaking stop his hand, even as his words get cruel. Go take care of that, bitch. And then he steps back and Sam goes to shower and Dean wraps his hand around himself and they both know what they’re doing, getting there separate but still too close to together. A week ago, Dean came home from a date and Sam had softcore on the TV and Dean just – just sat down with him. He let Sam get on his lap and stripe his dick till he came all over Dean’s stomach while Dean just dug his fingers into Sam’s thighs and tried with every fiber of his being not to lick the hollow of Sam’s throat.

So right now Dean knows if he sticks around he’s gonna regret it. Because they’ve got that wall and they flirt too much with it, but it’s still there and that’s what counts. Except he’s not in the mood to play; right about know all he can think about is how he wants to sink into something hot and wet and grip someone’s skin and kiss them all sorts of places he’s not allowed to kiss his brother.

It doesn’t take much to find a girl. He’s pretty sure her ID is fake and whispers so in her ear, making her giggle and blush. She’s out with friends who are egging her on, and she admits to him it belongs to her older sister, shows him the picture of a woman who looks a bit older but a lot like her.

“So what kind of jailbait are you?” he wiggles his eyebrows a little to show he doesn’t mind. She puts a hand on his arm as she’s laughing, a little self-conscious.

“None at all, I’m eighteen.”

“Well isn’t it my lucky day.”

He doesn’t pretend at anything he’s not this time. He tells her he’s just passing through, only around for a few weeks. Turns out she’s only in town for the night anyway – on a road trip with her friends and her sister’s ‘borrowed’ (“stolen?” “I prefer the term liberated” god, Dean likes this one) ID.

“I’ve got a room,” he says after another drink, figures it’s getting time to close the deal. Her eyes flash under a smile, dimples. He loves dimples.

“One sec.” She writes the room number on her friend’s hand along with Dean’s name, with a promise to make sure they’ll avenge her if Dean turns out to be an axe murderer.

“Maybe I should write your name on my brother’s hand, make sure you’re not an axe murderer.”

She’s walking arm-in-arm with him and the night’s warm enough considering it’s May.

“You’ve got a brother?” she asks, just making conversation, walking slow so she doesn’t trip in her heels.

“Yep. Gonna have to sexile the poor guy from the room.”

She laughs but pushes his arm. “You jerk.”

“Unless you want him to watch,” he quips. It’s a joke, his tone makes it an easy one. His heart’s suddenly furious beating disagrees with that assessment, but he knows he said it as a joke.

She presses a finger to her cheek, mock considering, droll when she says, “I dunno, is he as cute as you?”

“Cuter probably.”

“Might have to sexile you instead then.”

He grins. “You gonna pop my brother’s cherry and I’m getting kicked to the curb?”

Her eyebrows go up and she stumbles a little over her heels, leans into him and giggles when he catches her. “If you tell me your brother’s a kid I’m gonna feel like a creep now, you know that right?”

“Nah, he’s sixteen.” Recently turned, complaining all the while about Dad being gone even though Dean got him a cake instead of a pie like he wanted. “And a lumberjack.” He directs her into the parking lot of the motel then, steering her with a hand in the small of her back. She’s petite and pretty and he likes that, how feminine she is, how she’s going to feel in his hands.

Sam’s still researching when he opens the door. His eyes shoot up, then his expression flattens out into the level bitchface he’s had perfected since he was six.

“Sammy, this is Nicole. Nicky, Sam.”

Sam stands up, already gathering his notes. He knows the drill.

“He really is a lumberjack.”

Sam snorts, his mouth curves up a bit. Dean’s chest smooths out a bit of the guilt for this, Sam’s not so pissed he can’t laugh, but his stomach tightens at the same time. He hears Mel’s voice, telling him how built Sam is for his age. He glances at Nicole, how she’s still smiling at Sam, her face a little hungry.

“Been feeding him growth hormone.” Grown everywhere, that’s what Mel had said. “Last girl I dated took one look at him and decided she was more interested in blowing him than sitting on my lap.”

Sam glances his way, some of that annoyance shifting into apprehension at Dean’s tone of voice. Nicole giggles hard enough that Dean has to catch her as she tilts into him, arm around her comfortably. She probably thinks he’s joking.

“You know...” he leans closer to her ear to not-really-whisper. They’re still in front of the door, blocking Sam’s exit. “You really could pop his cherry if you wanted to.” His eyes flick to Sam, the hint of surprise, eagerness, hands clenching at his sides all the sudden. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Nicole pushes off his chest a little with her hand, looks up at him. He’s leaning close to her face, her blonde bangs almost brushing his forehead. She’s short, cute, and looks like she’s about to scold him but not like she’s really mad. That’s his sweet spot.

“And here I thought you liked me. Turns out you’re just wing-manning me out.”

He chuckles, easy and relaxed, thumb rubbing up and down her lower back, right over her spine. “Nah, don’t it twisted. I like you plenty, those cute dimples, those pretty blue eyes. Can’t wait to get my tongue between your lips.” He grins, slides both hands down to her hips now to make sure she knows what set of lips he’s talking about. She blushes, hands on his chest. “You just seemed interested.” He kisses her. Make it seem like it’s her idea. That’s something Sam taught him. “I’m man enough to share if you wanted to sample the full set.”

She sighs into the next kiss, just a little tremble or shiver going through her. Dean’s getting hard just thinking of this possibility. When she pulls back, her eyes are dark and a little lidded. Her lips look red and a surge of heat pulses in him.

“How’s that work?” she asks. “You first? Or him?”

…

“For this exercise, you’re going to draw what you want to be when you grow up. An astronaut, a doctor, a firefighter. Whatever you want to draw. We have twenty minutes. Can anyone tell me where the hand on the clock will be in twenty minutes?”

They all shuffle and get colored pencils. Sam pulls a set closer and looks at the blank page, ready to scrawl. It takes a minute, and then he frowns and looks up.

“Mrs. Mercy,” he asks, arm in the air. “What’s that mean?”

“What’s what mean, Sammy?”

“What I wanna be when I grow up. What’s that mean?”

She smiles and folds her skirt beneath her as she kneels down at his desk. He’s bigger than most kids, she doesn’t have to squat as far. The desk feels little and he hits his knees against it. He jitters his leg a little.

“You know how your mom and dad are grown up?”

“I don’t have a mom.” He says it while grabbing at a green colored pencil, and blinks back at her when she doesn’t keep talking.

“Right. So your dad, he’s grown up?”

“Yep!”

“And what does he do?”

He shrugs. “I ‘unno.”

Her smile gets weird. “You don’t know what your dad does for a job?”

“Nooo,” he rolls it off the tongue. “Should I?”

“Maybe when you get home tonight, ask your dad?”

He nods. He’ll ask Dean later, at recess.

“Okay. Well, you know about doctors, right?”

“Yep. They make people feel better.”

She smiles. “Good, that’s right. And teachers?”

“You’re a teacher! You teach us.”

“Exactly. Doctors heal people, teachers teach people, astronauts go to space, scientists study science, police protect people.”

Dad doesn’t like the police. Sam kicks his feet under the chair; he likes how it scuffs the rubber on his shoes.

“So what do you want to do when you’re grown up like your dad? Protect people? Teach people? Go to space? What do you want to be?”

He pushes out his lips like he’s seen people do when they’re thinking hard. Those questions aren’t the same and it confuses him. “I wanna be Dean.”

…

Nicole feels tiny in Sam’s hands. His fingers wrap around her waist and it’s not quite narrow enough for them to touch but he feels like if he squeezed it could get there. She feels fragile and flighty like a little bird and it shouldn’t turn him on but it does. Maybe because where he’s pressing against her front, kissing her deep with her arms around his shoulders, she’s got her back pressed to Dean, who’s as solid and steady as she is soft and malleable.

She sighs between kisses and he remembers that she’s had a few, not drunk but not sober, enough to think this is a good idea. He plans to keep her drunk on kisses, on pleasure, make sure she doesn’t come back down to earth and wonder why she’s having a threesome with two brothers.

Dean kisses her neck and Sam inhales. He’s - he’s taking off her dress. It’s short and cute like she is and he’s unzipping it along her back. She pulls back from the kiss and they all watch one strap slide down, more skin. Sam kisses it and she tilts her head to give him room. He feels Dean help her slide the dress the rest of the way down, onto the floor.

Sam’s going first, thank god. He’s not going to last, not even until he gets inside her unless he’s careful, but if he had to watch Dean then he’d blow long before he ever got his shot.

She spreads her legs but it’s Dean who rubs her clit, hand looping around from behind her. She hums into it, presses herself all needy against Dean, opens up for Sam. Dean tosses him a condom and Sam feels like he’s gonna combust. Nicky opens her eyes and makes grabby-hands at him.

“Your hands are so pretty,” she whispers out, like a secret. He swallows and thinks about Dean’s hands, about what he likes when Dean gives in to temptation. He scoots closer, thumbs her lip. Her eyes spark and she turns her head a bit, catches it between her teeth. He grins; so does she. There’s no hesitation when she sucks his fingers, moans around them and it’s a little much but his dick’s not complaining, leaking a wet spot against his boxer briefs, naked except for them. His fingers slide out of her mouth and he resists the temptation to thrust them back in, to fuck her mouth with them, opts instead to fuck her properly where she wants the digits. She stretches out, beyond Dean’s reach because she’s on her back, knees up, and Dean scoots against the headboard, eyes on Sam.

He feels like he’s on fire, but he doesn’t stop. She’s sloppy wet and all sorts of hot inside and he realizes he’s about to feel that around his dick and groans for real. She stretches out, arms over her head, knees up, rocking against his fingers. Dean’s behind her, holds her hand. Might start playing with her lips. Sam hopes he does.

“Can I?”

“Hm?” she opens her eyes, lidded and swimming in a happy way. They land on him with a grin that flashes teeth. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

He knows how to roll a condom on, manages not to make himself look like an idiot, not to cum right there and then though for a second it’s close. He made the mistake of catching Dean’s eye, seeing the naked hunger there, Dean’s own eyes trained on Sam’s lap, on his flushed and weeping cock. He has to refocus because it’s enough to punch the air from his lungs, and it doesn’t help when Dean says,

“Get her legs around your waist. She’ll wrap ‘em there, let her hold on.”

“I know.” He doesn’t need directions, has seen plenty of porn, thanks, knows all about how this works. But Nicky laughs and Dean’s using a raspy as hell voice and Sam sucks it up, gets his hands around her creamy thighs, delights in the way they pull him snug.

He swallows. He’s really – he's really about to do this. To lose his v-card, the big one, and – he glances up at Dean again. He’s looking at his eyes this time. Sam bites his lip, gets his hand down there, needs to look to line it up, but when he slides in, he holds Dean’s gaze for as long as he can.

Which really – isn't that long. He has to close his eyes and moan because holy shit holy shit holy shit.

She groans, rocks up, and it’s useless. He’s pulled in by the torrent of sensation, rocks his hips in a rhythm he can hardly control, folds himself over her and gets as much skin contact as he can, groans when the angle makes it feel even tighter, even better. She’s so slick and hot and god it’s so good it’s so good it’s so -

He doesn’t last, not long. He clutches – he reaches out, gets a hand on Dean’s bare thigh, digs his fingers in even as he groans into Nicky’s neck and shoots. She rocks him through it, whispers yeah and come on, that’s it and he shudders. A hand drops into his hair, faint and soft and ruffles gently and he shudders again, an aftershock, feels it in his toes. Then it retreats and Sam swallows and starts to come back to himself.

He pulls out, careful, holding the base like he learned in health class. Dean wastes no time taking his place. By the time Sam’s done ditching the full, tied off condom in the bin next to the bed, Dean’s slamming home inside Nicky and she’s arched up and clawing at his back, moaning loud. He catches Sam’s eye and winks, changes positions so he’s leaned back, up on his knees, and his hand has full access to her clit.

He gets her off twice before he takes his. Sam’s most of the way hard again from watching, laid out next to them, playing with Nicky’s tits and helping her along.

She’s pliant and happy afterward, soft sighs and partway dozing. They’re all spread out on the bed, Sam absently thinking about jerking off, Dean half curled up with Nicky till her phone buzzes. She sighs and gets it, “gotta let ‘em know you weren’t an axe murderer,” then slips into the bathroom. When she comes out she’s back in her dress, hair slightly tamed.

“Not sticking around?” Dean leans up on his elbows. She surveys them, hesitates for a sec but Sam doesn’t think it’s a ‘maybe I should stay for round two’ kind of hesitation. The look she’s giving them isn’t quite that. His chest gets tighter.

“Nah. We’re driving out in the morning, should head back so I can sleep right, now that I’m mostly sober.”

Dean slides on jeans and nothing else, walks her to the door, offers to call her a cab but she’s way ahead of him, did from the bathroom. There’s something like shame clawing its way up Sam’s chest.

The room’s too quiet after she leaves.

“Need a shower.” Dean scrubs a hand down his face.

“Dean.”

He stops but doesn’t turn, doesn’t look at Sam sitting up and naked on the bed. There’s a million things he wants to say, but he doesn’t know which ones will shatter this and which ones might coax Dean into bed with him, even just to talk.

“I’ll grab us some beers once I shower,” Dean says before he can figure it. “Celebrate.”

…

Four years is a long time to spend away from your family. They call sometimes – birthdays, 4^th of July, never on Christmas. Sam didn’t change his number, waited for Dean to call first, almost cried when he finally did.

Dad’s never called. Sam hasn’t called him either.

Dean rolls through Palo Alto six months after Sam moves, twitchy like there’s an itch under his skin he couldn’t scratch. Sam knows the feeling; it’s the longest they’ve ever gone without seeing each other, without just making sure the other is alive. Phone calls aren’t the same.

He crashes on Sam’s couch and neither of them say a word about anything else, anything more. He’s gone in the morning without a note and Sam punches a wall so hard his fist goes right through it. He’s out of practice; his knuckles almost felt that one.

Dean stops by again, drives through the summer after first year. He laughs at Sam for taking a summer class, calls him a nerd while they sit on a bench in the park with Sam’s textbook and notes spread between them. Sam fidgets and explains that he wants to finish his degree as fast as possible. He’s double majoring in history and classics. There’s an inkling in the back of his mind about more education, finding a career, something like law where he can help people. But that means -

“I’ve never stayed in one place for so long. It’s weird.”

Dean looks like he’s going to comment and decides better of it. Sam’s tempted to ask all the places he’s been in the last year and refrains.

Dean doesn’t stay on the couch; he doesn’t stay at all. Sam moves three times the next six months into different rentals. He stays in a motel for two weeks and the twitch in his shoulders relaxes just a little. He calls Dean and Dean doesn’t answer he jerks himself in the dark and pretends Dean’s sleeping in the next bed and not a thousand miles away somewhere.

Dean comes by again over winter in Sam’s second year, two weeks before Christmas. Sam asks him if he’s going to stay. He doesn’t ask him to stay and regrets it later because Dean doesn’t. Sam wanted to introduce him to Jess, the girl he’s started dating.

“She’s something else.”

Dean’s smile is brittle. “I’m sure she is.”

“You’d like her. She’s... she’s a lot like you.”

Dean doesn’t meet his eyes. Sam wishes the floor would swallow him. And so it goes.

…

“You know if Dad finds this he’ll flip his lid.”

Sam’s back goes shock straight. Dean grins down at him and moves around the table before Sam even has time to turn, coming into his line of sight and slipping into the seat opposite him.

“I mean seriously – SAT study guides?” He flips the cover closed on one and a person from the next table gives him a dirty look. Libraries, he rolls his eyes.

“Dean.” Sammy’s not whispering either. They’re gonna get shushed out of this place. Dean grins at the thought.

“What’d’you need this crap for anyway?”

“I told you before I wanna take them.”

“You’re sixteen, Sam. It’s summer break. I get that you’re a nerd but this is just pathological.”

Sam’s face takes on that stubborn, embarrassed look he used to get when he was seven and Dean teased him about playing with girls at recess.

“It’s not like I have time during the school year to study.”

Dean drums his fingers against the table, edging off that argument and thinking. SATs, Dean never took ‘em but he knows how it all works. Sam wants to take them at the end of junior year like all the good little boys and girls, then do the real one at the start of senior year. Following that picket fence script. The whole idea of taking a pre-test so you can re-do the test later and do better is madness as far as Dean’s concerned, and why Sam feels like it matters to stuff his brain full of equations is another matter.

“Can’t you spend your time on lore if you’re gonna be an egghead?”

“I already called Dad and gave him everything I could find on djinn.”

Dean flicks a paperclip at Sam. Right in the forehead, bullseye. He grins.

“Whatever, let’s get some grub. Library’s closing soon anyway.”

Dad’s gone a whole week. Sam finishes the prep book and then dumps it, not about to let Dad find it when he’s back. Then they’re on the road, miles of countryside under their tires. There’s something killing hikers in upstate New York and Dean’s skin itches, not far from Hurleyville, from the boy’s home where he spent two months when he was Sam’s age, left by John to teach him a lesson about not getting caught when he’s going for a five-finger discount, about not being stupid with the money he was given to feed his brother. Not like Dean was trying to make that money stretch by taking that poker game, not like Dad had left him enough to feed Sammy for half as long as he was gone.

He shoves that thought away, turns away from the road signs and focuses on Sam’s backseat lecture about Latin declensions. Dean was willing to memorize the stuff but hell if Sam wasn’t determined to learn the whole language.

“Hey Sam,” he cuts in. Dad doesn’t even blink. He waits till Sam’s shut up then continues. “Unless you’re practicing to be a college professor, knock off the sermon, would ya?”

Dad snorts. Dean glances into the back seat where Sam’s expression is mutinous and angry. Under it, though, there’s something else. Something a little like fear, too pale, eyes too wide. Dean’s stomach drops and he looks ahead again, too fast, eyes skating to Dad but he hasn’t glanced at either of them. After a few minutes, he turns up the radio.

The job goes fine. Well, fine as can be. They all get scrapped by branches and covered in mud and Dean gets thrown in a slew and gets to dibs first shower but that’s all pretty much normal when you’re hunting what turns out to be a forest spirit that feeds on human ‘sacrifices’ once a century. They’re two days and three hundred miles west by the time Dad dumps them for a few days because he wants to reconnect with Caleb god knows where, and figure out where they’re gonna spend the next couple months. That’s when Dean finally gets the chance to ask.

“You’re planning on going to college.”

Except it doesn’t come out like a question and Sam doesn’t answer but his sudden stillness is as good as one.

“What the fuck, Sam?”

“I didn’t say I’m going!”

“You didn’t say you’re not going.”

Sam stands up. His hair is getting too long again but he drags both hands through it in frustration. The flush on his cheeks reminds him – fuck, reminds him of Sam pressed into that girl, Nicky, with his eyes closed in concentration and his mouth open and his cheeks a healthy pink, hair all askew and just waiting for Dean’s fingers to tangle themselves in it.

Now’s really not the time for those thoughts.

“I’m just keeping my options open.”

“You’re not even in junior year yet and you’re thinking about it. Planning for it. You’re a fucking planner, Sam, I know you.”

Sam glances at him, away too fast. Ashamed. Dean’s hands ball into fists.

“You knew I was studying.”

Yeah, he did. He knew. He hates that he managed to lie to himself about it for a whole year too.

“Why?”

Sam shakes his head.

“Why?” he demands again, louder, harsher. Sam’s gaze is imploring.

“You don’t get it, Dean. I’m not – I'm not sure I’m cut out for this life. Not the way you are. I hate moving all the time. I want friends.”

“We have friends.”

“Ones our own age! I want – I want to know what it’s like. To have a steady girlfriend and people I’m not going to leave behind in a month and never see again.”

“You have me. You have Dad.”

Sam’s smile is small and sad and rueful and Dean fucking hates it. The smile asks ‘do I’ and he resists the urge to throw something, the wipe it off Sam’s face, to yell ‘of course you fucking do’ right into that tip of his lips.

“Sam.”

“I’m not planning anything, Dean. Two years is a long time, okay? I just - I just want options. Options you never had, because you had to take care of me and I know that, okay? I get it. But I wanna help people, and maybe this is another way to do that. Go be a doctor, or a lawyer, or something good. And I dunno – maybe I won’t want to. Maybe I’ll try it out and hate it. Maybe I'll stick on the road and just do like, distance classes for it, or take time off for hunts or something. That’s the thing – I don’t know.”

“But you know you want it.”

Sam shakes his head, and he’s talking to Dean like he’s a child when he continues. “I know I want options, that’s it. I’m not leaving, Dean. Not really, not out the door, not running for the hills. You’re my family.”

“You ran away when you were six, when you were eight, when you were ten and eleven. You spent two freaking weeks in Flagstaff and I thought you were dead – don't tell you me you’re not running.” He almost surprises himself, the heat in it, the anger, the way he steps finally up close and mad into Sam’s space. Fucker’s getting tall.

The condescension doesn’t drop from Sam’s gaze. “Because I was lonely, Dean. Because you and Dad left me alone for days or weeks at a time and my only real friend was the one I made up in my head, in case you forgot. Hell, I’m still lonely. Aren’t you?”

It’s like a fucking smack to the face. He sure as hell takes it as one, grabs Sam up by the front of his hoodie and watches his face freeze into pissed off stiffness.

“You think you can just run away again because life’s not a fairytale, Princess Sammy?”

Oh that does it, Sam moves to break the hold. Dean doesn’t plan to relent, and the ensuing scuffle gets an elbow in Dean’s solar plexus, an arm around Sam’s front, Dean almost tripped on his ass if it weren’t for the table, Sam thrown against the wall, flipped around so he’s got his back to the wall because Dean wants to look him in the eye while he’s chewing him out, even if he needs a hand hard against Sam’s shoulder and another flexing hard enough around his wrist to feel the bones click in order to keep him in place.

Sam’s breathing heavy, pressed up tall against the wall, and it’s just enough that Dean notices their eyes don’t line up. Fucker got taller than him sometime in the last month.

“You’ve. Got. Me.”

Sam’s jaw must ache from the way he grinds his teeth.

“You think that fixes anything? I’m a freak, Dean. Our lives are so messed up even other hunters keep their distance and it’s not like Dad lets us know too many of them, keeps us away from them and won’t tell us anything. He’s gone for weeks and treats me like I’m a disappointment the shit amount of time he is around. Don’t - don’t fucking tell me it’s because I fight with him, I swear to God, Dean. I’ve got you and nothing else – no friends and no future and no - nothing else in this whole damn world and I’m - I’m spiraling, man.”

It’s here that Sam’s voice breaks. The anger drops right out, along with Dean’s stomach. Sam’s eyes go from hard to desperate in a blink and then he’s looking at the ceiling, no longer even fighting Dean’s too-rough hold on him.

“I’m spiraling, Dean.”

“What,” his own voice is too rough, “what’d you mean, Sammy?”

He shakes his head. Dean flexes his hands, pushes.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t, Dean.”

Sam’s not saying and Dean’s imagination is worse, has got to be worse.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about doing something stupid.”

Sam pulls in a breath through his mouth. “I’m not. Not planning, not – I just - ”

“Just what?”

“Just think it, some days.” It’s so quiet, Sam’s eyes closed against it, a little wet around the edges and Dean’s hands drop off him entirely. “I guess I am running.”

“No, Sam.” Shit, his own voice is shaky now. “You don’t get to run there, not – not there.”

You don’t get to fucking kill yourself.

“I won’t. I promise, I won’t. I just – I need a future, Dean. I need a life. Or else why...”

Why bother living. Dean closes his eyes, so angry and fucked up he can’t look at Sam for a second.

“Something inside me’s broken. I don’t know what but it’s always been there. I can’t be like you or Dad, I don’t know how. I tried, I am trying. I swear to god, I’m trying, Dean. I want to be a hunter but I can’t stop feeling like there’s something dirty under my skin and I can’t get it out and every time Dad looks at me it’s like he sees it too.”

He grabs him, not his wrist or shirt but all of him, tight around the shoulders and Sam hugs him back too hard.

“You’re fine, Sam. You’re not broken. Wouldn’t let you be broken, little brother. You’re good, I promise you’re good.”

Sam’s shaking a little. Dean hates this, hates Dad, hates himself. He hates Caleb for his meaner jokes and Bobby for his sad eyes and Pastor fucking Jim. Hates all of them who ever let Sam feel like he was anything but perfect.

“You ever hurt yourself,” Dean says into Sam’s neck, holding too tight still. “I’ll kick your ass, you hear me? You kill yourself? You fucking do that and I’ll find a way to bring you back and I’ll kill you again myself just for doing it, I swear, Sammy. It’s fucking selfish is what it is and I’m not letting you toss aside sixteen years of raising you, you hear me?”

Sam laughs a little, a kind of broken-off chuckle but none of this is funny. “I won’t, Dean. I promise, I won’t. I wouldn’t do that to you, I swear.”

He nods, pulls back. That’s that. Sam won’t. Dean’ll make sure of it. He’ll make sure Sam knows he’s good and get Dad to stick out the remainder of Sam’s school in one town per term and get the kid some fucking – some pen pals or some shit, something more permanent.

He pulls back enough to have his hands cupping Sam’s neck and jaw, to press their foreheads together. Maybe not a pen pal. Hell, maybe he needs a therapist. As if Dad would ever allow that. Jesus, what would Dad say if he knew Dean had let Sam feel this way?

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

He shakes his head, steps back, sniffs a bit to sort his own face out. “It’s fine, Sam. Teen angst, happens to the best of us.”

Sam screws up his face, the joke doesn’t land, but he doesn’t comment. They separate and Dean’s fingers itch for something, possibly a cigarette but he’s worked hard as hell not to fall into that as a habit, Dad would murder him.

He hops to the nearest convenience store instead, grabs up some popcorn because the motel’s got a microwave and some chips, a six-pack and caves in, gets some scratchies if he’s not gonna let himself smoke. Wins ten bucks, so maybe his luck is turning around.

He gets back to the room and Sam’s picking out a movie on pay-per-view. Dad won’t be the one clearing the tab so it’s not like he has to know. Dean tosses him the popcorn, settles himself on the couch, both of them with a beer can in hand.

It’s three quarters of the way through the movie when Sam kisses him. Dean doesn’t stop him.

…

Mom’s body burned up in the fire, but there’s an uncle that Sam’s never met that got a headstone made and put into a cemetery in Illinois. Sam doesn’t understand why and he tells his dad so.

“She didn’t die here.” She died in Kansas.

“I know Sammy.”

“She’s not buried here.” Or anywhere.

“Ashes are scattered.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “We never even lived here.”

“I know, Samuel.” Oh great, now he’s mad. Sam pouts at the grave. Dean’s quiet the whole time. Sam knows it makes him sad, visiting. Dad drags them here every now and then and Sam doesn’t really get it. He knows he doesn’t. He never even met her, she died when he was a baby, and he doesn’t even like thinking about her, not really. He's got Dean, got Dad. It would be nice if he had a mom but he doesn’t and life’s not fair so deal with it. (That’s what Dean said the one time Sam had brought it up, mad, demanding to know why all the other kids had moms except for him).

“Can we at least visit our uncle this time?”

“I don’t see eye to eye with your mother’s family. Most of them aren’t kicking around anymore anyway.”

Sam sighs, defeated. This visit is pointless. Dad gets sad, Dean gets quiet, and Sam gets stuck in a car for ten hours with both of them like that.

When they go back to the motel, to the predictable quiet, he lays in one of the beds and stares up at the ceiling and thinks, or maybe prays but he’s not sure what the difference is, to God and to His angels. If my mom’s up there, tell her Dad and Dean miss her. But not me. Tell her I have Dean, and I think that that’s enough.

…

“Wait, what?”

“Uh... you’re about to tell me that’s weird, right?”

Jess bursts out laughing. Sam has got to be the biggest, weirdest dork in existence. The things he thinks everyone knows and the things he has no clue about, he’s like a person turned inside out someday. “Of course it’s weird!” She’s still laughing, shaking her head. “Ten times.”

“It’s not that many.” Oh, he’s defensive. He’s got that awkward curl to his voice again.

“It’s fine, Sam.” She cups his hand on the table. “I just can’t imagine moving that many times just to stay in the same city. It’s not like you’re moving farther from campus, right? Palo Alto’s not that big. What do you do with all your stuff?”

He shrugs, not quite looking at her, still uncomfortable. “Nothing really. I don’t have much stuff. I rent furnished places.”

She thinks about his place, the one he’s been staying at for the last couple months, and then the one he was at before that. She’d almost forgotten he was staying somewhere else when they were first introduced. She could've put it together, how often he moves, but never really thought about it. He manages to make no big deal out of some things, to the extent where they slip right in and don’t stand out till she stops to think about them.

“So why keep moving?”

He shifts in his seat. “I just... get antsy.”

“So that’s why you never lived in the dorms?”

He looks at her and he’s relaxing at little, she can tell. She likes to think she knows him by now. “Nah. That’s because the dorms are wayyyyy more than I could afford. My entrance scholarship only covered my tuition, not everything else.”

“There’s bursaries.”

“I know, I’ve applied. Got some too. Got a full ride for next year, actually.”

That’s incredible and she tells him so. He works harder than anyone she’s ever met, between his scholarships and all the stuff he’s applied for to help cover his fees and living costs, and then the straight As he has to maintain for all that – not an easy feat in a school this competitive and she would know – and then working at least one job pretty much all the time and somehow still staying fit. He barely has time for himself but still makes time for her, and for the New York Times Crossword every week. She honestly doesn’t know how he manages, except maybe for the frightening amount of caffeine he seems to be able to consume.

“So okay, does all this mean you don’t want to move in? You think you’d feel too... cramped or antsy or whatever?” She won’t take it personally, she won’t take it personally, she won’t take it personally -

“Jess.” He grips her hand, leans forward. His sudden smile, the warm, delighted look in his eyes – it takes her breath away. “I would love to move in with you. I’d love to... make a home with you.”

Yeah, there goes her breath, definitely. Sam Winchester is one of a kind.

…

Sam takes a bus from Minnesota to California. He should’ve waited till they were a few states closer before he let his dad find the letter. Not that he’d planned that part. Not that his dad ever had cause to look through his stuff. The one time the guy decides to be nice and do the laundry (and okay, it was all a little gross with the gunk from their last hunt and he doesn’t think Dad was being kind so much as he was disgusted when he found a piece of flesh still clinging to Sam’s jacket), it just so happens to be when Sam’s pocket has his Stanford college acceptance letter tucked safe and sound inside.

He replays it in his head the whole way, over and over across state lines and crossings.

What is this?

That tone of voice, unlike he’d ever heard it. His back straightening on its own, hands shaking.

I think you know.

And then the explosion, and the sharp, jagged words, like cut glass. Sam closes his eyes against the landscape flashing by, as if that will somehow block out the memory. The things Dad said, the things he said. The way Dean stayed silent. Always in No Man’s Land, never on Sam’s side. As if that wasn’t Dad’s side by default. There is no Switzerland when it comes to family.

He’s going to California. Not like he wanted, not with a blessing, with a promise to visit, with the intent to stay at Bobby’s in the summers and to research for them when they called, now with access to one of the world’s best libraries. Not like he’d pictured when he let himself imagine something good, something hopeful, with them as a family and him with a future that still had them in it.

But he’s going anyway. Because Dad said that if he walks out the door that he’s not welcome back, so now he has no other choice.

…

There’s a not insignificant part of Sam that’s terrified that his Dad will somehow see it on his face, see the evidence on their hands as if they were red with it. He’s going to act funny, Dad’s going to ask, Dean’s going to tell him, and it’s all going to fall apart.

“Any trouble?” is what Dad actually asks.

“No sir,” is what Dean replies, easy and uncomplicated. “Motel’s paid up.”

“Alright. I’m gonna shower ‘n then we can hit the road. Sam, help your brother pack.”

Sam does, no other greeting forthcoming but none, apparently, needed. He bites his tongue and drags their shit out to the car and lets his skin thrum with it, the feeling like he’s getting away with something, the need not to make it weird.

Three nights ago, he leaned over and kissed Dean full on the lips. He hasn’t - he hasn’t done that since he was thirteen. Since he was stoned and stupid and almost convinced it was a dream. And now it’s three years later and Dean’s mouth opened under his just as easily this time, tongue tasting like beer and hands warm on Sam’s sides when he crawled into his lap. This time Dean didn’t stop him, didn’t even slow him. This time Dean kissed his neck and opened their pants and Sam gasped and rocked against him, just as good as it was with Nicky even though there was no hole except the fist Dean made of his hand, slick with their precum.

Sam’s not sure if he’d ever felt so bare and vulnerable, and he wasn’t even naked. After all the shit they said, after the need to get back to a fucking normal footing, and then that – tipped right over the edge and through that so-called wall of Dean’s, straight on to blissful oblivion as Dean didn’t even let Sam up for air when he came, one hand holding the back of his head so he couldn’t escape from the kiss, tongue down his throat as he moaned and shuddered against Dean.

Three days ago, and three days of more of the same since then. Of Dean dutifully Not Talking About It, but not complaining, not stopping Sam’s awkward attempts to touch, letting him reach over across the couch, explore with his hands. He catches Sam’s wrist whenever he gets too close to Dean’s dick, insists on touching Sam, as if he’s not allowed to enjoy this until Sam does. He catches Sam by the jaw when he tries to slither down between his knees, and Sam takes the hint, keeps initiating and lets Dean guide him to what he’s ready for.

But now Dad’s back and Dean’s stiff and gruff and Sam’s sure Dad’s gonna take one look at the bite mark he stupidly left on Dean’s neck and just know. Know who left it there, know what happened, know it all.

By some miracle, he doesn’t. He just drives them south and tells them he got a call from Caleb, who got a call from Martin Creaser, who got a call from some guys Sam’s never met, about a possible ghoul situation.

…

If he’s honest, Dean kind of hates September.

For most of June and all of July and August, he gets Sam by his side. Sam stops complaining about moving and they kick off across the countryside and it’s warm – girls in short skirts and swimming pools open at motels and all sorts of long days and longer nights.

In September, leaves start falling and Sam hoists up his backback in whatever town they inevitably land and Dean drops him off. Or in this case, Sam walks, because at sixteen he’s too old to be drive to school by his older brother, apparently.

They’ve been in town two days. Sam got himself registered yesterday, classes picked out. Dad’s taken up residence at the library. Dean’s hit the pavement, looking for a part-time gig at an autoshop or a food joint. The latter is hiring, thankless work as usual but Dean doesn’t care, likes bars enough and it’s not hard, cutting lemons and cleaning dishes.

Sam comes home with a hickey on the third day of school and Dean does a double-take. Dad doesn’t blink. Sam shrugs at him behind Dad’s back with a kind of sly smile and the next day he’s out late. Dean’s getting ready for work when Sam finally texts to say he won’t be home for dinner.

No shit, genius. Dinner was an hour ago.

“That your brother?”

“Yeah,” Dean concedes. Dad’s sharpening the machetes, lore spread out around him. “Think he’s with some chick.”

Dad grunts, pauses. Dean grabs his wallet and the keys. “I’m driving to work. That alright?”

“Sure Dean.” There’s more coming. Dean waits for it, eyeing the clock. Not late yet. “Sam - he alright?”

The question pulls him up short. Something like dread curls up in his chest, momentarily frozen stiff. “What’d you mean?”

“I mean - is he alright, Dean?”

His throat clicks. The clock ticks.

“He’s fine, Dad.”

Dad nods. Looks like he could use a shave, and Dean reminds himself to gather up shit from Dad’s duffle next time he's patching flannels.

“Getting on with girls?”

Does he know? No, he can’t. If he did, this conversation would be going different. “He - yeah. He um,” Dean coughs, “he lost his v-card. Couple months back. Girls seem to like him well enough.”

Dad nods and there’s a way his shoulders relax a bit that sets Dean at ease. He’s been watching Dad his whole life, can’t read him like he can Sam but he knows his moods. Something’s worrying him and Dean’s helping assuage it.

He doesn’t dare tell Dad about the other thing, about Sam’s spiral.

“He was – you know how pissed he was this time last year. Asked you to spar, back about New Mexico?”

Dad grunts in acknowledgement.

“Yeah he’s still – y'know. Still Sam. I told him I’d try to keep us in one place for the term again. That helped last year.”

His dad finally looks up at him, catches his eye, reproachful. “We’re out of here when we’re done with this case, son.”

His throat feels tight. He’s gonna be late for work. Not that he can say that to Dad, not like it’s allowed to matter. In his mind’s eye, he sees Sam staring at the ceiling, talking about things that scare Dean more than monsters.

“He feels... lonely. I think.” Sam would kill him for saying it. The look Dad gives him is unimpressed.

“He’s got you.”

But Dean’s not enough. He doesn’t know what Sam needs, if he can give him enough.

“You’re right. And he’s alright, Dad. He’s fine. I’ve got him.”

Dad nods, satisfied. It takes Dean most of his shift to realize that’s all he really wanted to hear – that Dean was handling it. He breaks the dish he’s cleaning, cuts his hand and has to wrap it, takes a second to cool down in the freezer and can’t figure out why his heart won’t stop racing, why he feels like he’s drowning, running, can’t breathe.

He’s handling it. He always does.

…

On the road with Dad after he kicked Dean out, Sam missed his PSAT date. That term he missed a lot of shit, dragged halfway up the countryside away from his brother, on hunts with Dad and stuck under his thumb, moving with him instead of left in one place on his own devices. The May sittings for the SATs flew right past with Sam in Sioux Falls finally allowed to see Dean, and then the June ones flew past while Sam was getting his ankle sprained on a ghost haunting.

It’s now or fucking never.

He spends the entire month of August in libraries, reading prep books, doing everything he can. He tackles it like a case, goes through more Redbull than can be healthy, feels like he’s memorized the damn test by the time the school year starts and they roll into Colorado and settle in for the month.

Dean drives him, one of the few times Dad lets them spend time alone that month, any of the months since Sam turned seventeen. He has his test scores sent to five universities; Stanford is at the top of that list. His hands shake when he writes it, feeling like it shouldn’t be this easy, like there’s got to be some tricks that he’s missing, like maybe he’s fucking up horribly and just doesn’t know it.

Something itches in his veins. There’s a hunger he can’t identify. For the next week after writing, he wakes up in the middle of the night thinking about the questions, the answers, like his brain won’t let him sleep anymore, as if he was ever all that good at it. He keeps seeing shit in his dreams, just beyond the edges of the exam – sees people burning, screaming as he refocuses on the test, sees black-eyed demons gutting innocent families. He hears a voice whisper just before he jolts awake each time “now where do you think you’re going, Sammy? Don't you know you’re our favorite?” and each time he swears he smells sulfur for a few seconds after he wakes.

…

They’ve been at Pastor Jim’s for a week. It’s fucking snowing, Dad took the Impala with him to god-knows-where, said something about visiting Caleb and just took off on a lead he won’t tell Dean about. He’s gonna be back as soon as a few days then off to somewhere else and Sam’s missed a ton of school. Dean’s already grinding his teeth thinking about the argument that’s gonna cause between Sam and Dad.

Except they’ve moved once already this term, after wrapping up the ghoul thing in the next state over (and why they couldn’t have just lived in that state is beyond Dean, but if he had to wager a guess it would be Dad not wanting to move them too close to other hunters until he knows them, and since Walt and Roy turned out to be dicks, that was a good call). This is the second time moving in almost as many months, and Sam’s yet to blow up about it. The anger seems like its wrapped around him like a vice, the way he’s throwing himself at shit, but it’s all calm and focused and directed anger. Dean’s waiting for the eruption on that volcano.

Sam’s still reading through his textbooks, stole them from his last school, trying to stuff his brain with information even though he’ll be signing up for a new school soon if he can, if not then in January, just in time to write his final exams for the term.

“Suppertime, boys.”

Jim’s alright. Dean feels a little squirm in his stomach when the man looks at him sometimes, like he knows all about all Dean’s sins, but he crushes it down. The guy gives them free food and a place to crash in exchange for some chores, not to mention he’s got a massive arsenal downstairs that he lets them catalogue and practice with. If he’s a little judgy, well, he’s a Pastor so Dean shouldn’t be surprised.

“How are your studies, Sam?”

Sam looks up from his salad, a piece of spinach dangling on his lip, almost deer-in-the-headlights and Dean snorts. But then his face lights up and he talks for five minutes straight, barely stopping to breathe, about the classes he’s taken over the last year and some of the stupid shit he’s learned – really, when’s he gonna need to know organic chemistry? - and how there are bits of lore sprinkled in Shakespeare and isn’t it neat how popular culture always edges on the truth without really exploring it?

The Pastor just smiles serenely and nods the whole while until he stops, and when Sam realizes he’s been rambling he gets a kind of closed off, embarrassed look on his face and goes back to his salad.

Dean picks up before the Pastor can, “should tell him about Oklahoma. Sammy here’s all into the extra-curriculars. Play was boring as hell but his teacher or the director or whatever she’s called, she said Sam basically ran the whole tech crew for it.”

“You talked to my teacher?” Sam’s eyes are incredulous on him. Dean shrugs, pushes the greens around on his plate, wondering if he can put gravy on salad.

“Told you I’d go to the play, showtunes ‘n all. ‘Sides, that teacher was hot, and you took forever getting out of backstage so we could go.”

When he dares to look up again, Sam’s smile is disarming – open and grateful in a way that almost takes Dean’s breath away, Sam hasn’t looked that happy in so long. When the Pastor catches Dean’s eye, he’s smiling too, like Dean did something right.

He looks back down to his plate and tries to ignore how warm and happy his chest feels, it’s so ridiculous.

The Pastor gets a call after dinner, heads out to comfort a family who’s loved one is in the hospital, won’t be back so don’t wait up. Sam and Dean clean up, shovel the new fresh powder that’s dusting the steps, make their way back to the dwelling they’re staying at, the spare room Jim offers their family when they’re in town.

Sam stops outside, staring up into the dark sky, flakes falling around them. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets. Fucking winter.

“You comin’ or what?”

Sam’s lips twitch but he keeps looking up. “It’s nice – the snow. We mostly spend winter on a coast or in the south.”

“That’s because it’s fucking freezing up here.”

“Not as bad as Bobby’s.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“It’s kinda pretty, don’t you think?”

“I think the girl from last week was ‘kinda pretty’. I think this snow is getting to your brains, little brother.”

Sam laughs, face falling back down to earth, ring of snow in his hair. “She was more than just kinda pretty.”

Dean smirks a little and shrugs one shoulder. It was another time he’d wanted to sink himself into someone, not enough to just play handjobs and make-outs. He’s let... he’s let Sam blow him again, just once a month ago, terrified of himself even as he fisted his hands in Sam’s hair, sloppy on vodka and happy he finally had Sam to himself after all that shit with the ghouls and being holed up with Dad for so long.

So this girl last week, that was kinda the same. He’d been thinking madness again, thinking about Sam on his knees. And he knows the wall he pretended to build crumbled the day Sam kissed him and Dean let him, but there’s still lines and Dean’s trying hard to follow some of them. A big one is not reaching out for Sam when there’s other options. A bigger one is never asking, just letting it happen. That way he knows Sam wants it, that Dean isn’t doing this to him, that he’s not -

“Was she good?” Sam asks, still easy. Dean glances around, for a second wonders what would happen if Jim caught them talking about this, out in the open. His stomach squirms again, a kind of badwrong next to the warmright.

“Yeah. Sure you heard her.”

Sammy, sitting outside waiting for Dean to be done. He’d had a complete bitchface over it but hadn’t said anything, and the look he’s giving Dean now is pretty far from pissed.

“You know you...” Sam licks his lips, “I told you before you can keep the girls, I don’t care if you like them – but you don’t have to get it somewhere else.”

Dean can’t look at him, all a sudden. His neck feels warm and he turns around. “Lines, Sammy.”

Sam catches up as he gets to the entrance, pulls out the spare key Jim gave them.

“I mean it. We’ve crossed all the others, why not that one?”

He almost drops the key. He didn’t think Sam meant – does Sam want - ?

“Dean?”

He shoves the key in the lock, kicks his muddy boots off like Jim makes them. Beer, beer, beer – no beer. Dammit, Jim. Dean goes for the whiskey.

“Dean!”

The shot steadies his nerves. He never – god, he never let himself think. Not about that.

“Seriously, what’s with you?”

“My little brother just offered to let me fuck him, that’s what’s with me!” he snaps back. His chest is rising in sharp, heaving breaths.

Whatever Sam sees on his face, he doesn’t flinch. He swallows instead. Dean’s eyes track his Adam’s apple.

“Are we still pretending we’re not – Dean, I sucked your dick a month ago, even if you haven’t let me do it again since. I lost my virginity with you watching - you touched me. How the hell is fucking me any different?”

There it is – Sam's hidden vulgarity. Dean wants to find a way to turn this around, to call him a princess, a girl, a brat. Anything to get them back onto territory that feels firm under his feet. But he can’t. He can’t because Sam’s talking about Dean fucking him and now it’s all he can see – Sam under him, Sam clawing at his back, his dick finding its way inside heat he knows will feel so nice and tight and good beyond belief, taking another one of Sam’s firsts and ruining him for anyone else.

“You want that?” his voice is raspy. Sam’s eyes go wide.

“Dean...” he licks his lips again, looks a little nervous. Dean tries to reign it in. “Yeah. Do you?”

Fuck. He crosses the floor, grabs Sam’s jacket and slams their lips together.

It’s the end of November, it’s fucking cold, they’re all alone and Dad and Jim and everyone else in the world are anywhere but with them. He’s all Sam’s got. Sam’s all he’s ever had. It shouldn’t make him this desperate and screwed up and he shouldn’t chase this fucking madness but he’s never leaving Sam behind so does it even matter?

Sam wants it. That’s what matters.

They shuck their jackets, kissing. Sam’s hands are everywhere. He’s a better kisser than he was a couple months ago, multitasks better, pulls Dean in with more confidence. There’s a fucked up flare of pride there, knowing he taught Sam that. Baby brother next to baby doll. He’s so messed in the head. But Sam wants it, maybe needs it.

He pushes them into the room. There’s two twins and he pushes Sam between them, against the wall, and Sam pulls out of his shirt. Dean reciprocates. This is – this is different than their usual. This is territory that’s more than a quick, fumbled rut, than a gesture meant to soothe, to ease Sam’s stress over and remind him he’s not alone.

Dean can’t stand analyzing it. He gets his hands on Sam’s ass, something he hasn’t dared touch, grips both cheeks. He can’t help how much he wants it. He breathes in Sam’s air, kisses him again, keeps gripping. Sam’s rocking against him.

“You sure?” he whispers next time he pulls back. He gives Sam’s ass a squeeze to make his point clear. Sam swallows, nods. Fuck, he’s gonna feel so good. He’s so pretty. Dean kisses him again, his jaw, then his neck, and sneaks one hand under the waistline of his pants. They’re always loose enough to fit a gun along the seat so Dean can fit his hand in, under his boxers, gripping his bare flesh. His pointer finger presses close to where he wants it and Sam whimpers.

“Dean.”

His other hand moves around, starts working on Sam’s belt. His baby brother lets him, spreads his legs a bit, holds Dean’s shoulders. His cheeks flush, his eyes are closed, he’s panting. Sam’s nervous but beautiful like this. Too young for Dean, too pure. Dean’s gonna corrupt him, already has, but that has to be okay. It has to, they’re all they’ve got.

“I got you,” Dean says. Sam swallows and nods, and his pants slide down a second later. He kicks out of them, taking his socks with. Dean moves in again, flush against him, both hands under in his boxers now, pulling at his asscheeks. “It’ll feel good,” he promises.

Sam nods against him, dick hard where it’s pressed against Dean’s hip. “Yeah,” his voice sounds stuttered. “Okay.”

Fuck, he can’t wait. He takes his hands out and pulls Sam over to his own bed, plans to smell it later when he’s trying to sleep, and grabs out the small bottle of KY he’s been hiding in the bottom of his duffle. Sam eyes it dubiously.

“Gotta get you nice and slick for me, Sammy. Trust me.”

He’s pretty sure Sam’s cheeks are red not just in excitement. “Should I…” he motions toward rolling over. Dean wants to see his face, but it’ll be easier that way, and hella hot. He nods.

“Naked first.”

He’s seen Sam naked more times than he can count, especially recently. He’s normally not shy about it. But he looks shy when he slides out of his boxers and rolls over. He’s tense, and Dean gets it, but there’s no way Sam’s gonna do this without being nervous first so he doesn’t let that deter him. Instead, he settles behind Sam, between his legs.

“Prop up a bit.”

Sam does. Dean wonders how the hell he could’ve been such a seductive minx all year, bold and pushing this, and now that he’s actually getting what he’s apparently been gagging for, he’s suddenly skittish. It makes him smile and he leans down to kiss Sam’s shoulder.

“Relax, baby. Said I got you.”

Sam does. Dean’s smile is private and satisfied, the way he always is when Sam listens to him.

He uses one hand to spread Sam, and the other gets a slick finger right where he needs it. Sam makes a noise in his throat. Dean circles it, presses a few times, testing, watching Sam squirm a bit, and then he pushes it inside.

Sam lets out a breath through his mouth, gasped. Dean swallows hard. He’s tight, so tight. And fucking hot. Was this how he felt inside when Rhonda got her finger up in there? It’s hotter than a girl, he’d put money on it. Tighter than Rhonda was, even her ass, that’s for damn sure. Tight enough that Sam’s gonna give him a finger cramp if he doesn’t loosen up, but just feeling that pressure around one digit is enough to make his dick ache.

“Doing good, Sammy.”

Sam grips the sheets and Dean glances up, makes sure he’s okay, but Sam arches a bit, spreads his legs a bit more. His mouth waters.

“That’s it, baby. Relax, yeah?”

Sam exhales and Dean feels him loosen just a bit. Bingo. He grins and starts teasing with his second finger, manages to get it inside after a minute. Sam makes a noise, finally. It’s a kind of whine in his throat.

“That okay?”

“Yeah.”

Dean’s not totally convinced but keeps thrusting anyway, just shallow. Sam rolls with it. It feels like it takes forever, loosening him this way. Long enough that even Sam’s getting impatient.

“Gonna take all night?” his voice is strained.

“You’re tight as hell, baby brother.”

Sam moans a little in his throat.

“There?”

He shakes his head. “Call me that again?”

Damn. Dean’s dick twitches, a renewed interest after the slow prep had him flagging. And this – this is a little fucked, even for him, for this, but even so he leans down over Sammy. “Baby brother?”

Sam makes a hrggnn noise in his throat, and his ass actually convulses around Dean’s fingers. He swallows, scissoring, pushing in deeper.

“Like that, Sammy? When I call you my baby?”

Sam nods into his arms, legs spread wider, ass pushing back onto his fingers. Oh, they’re getting somewhere. There’s a heat in Dean’s stomach too, one he’s not sure he wants to examine.

“You want your big brother to fuck you?”

“Dean!”

Oh yeah, that’s a problem. They shouldn’t be getting off to that. He’ll deal with that later though, when his dick isn’t throbbing and Sam’s ass isn’t waiting.

He pushes in a third finger, sudden but he’s taking his opportunity. Sam groans and it’s not totally in pain, not totally in pleasure. Dean’s throat is dry. Three fingers, fuck he’s got three in Sammy. They thrust shallow but he’s pretty sure –

“Gonna fuck you now, Sammy. You ready?”

“Please – please, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes roll back. Sammy begging, he’s pretty sure it’s his biggest kink. Dean takes his free hand off where it’s been soothing Sam’s side, reaching for a condom. Sam hisses when he pulls his fingers out. His hole is slick and just a little stretched and all too pretty. He pushes up on his knees just enough for Dean, and he holds Sam’s hip and his own dick and guides himself in.

It’s not easy. Sam’s tight. Tight, but slick as hell, and just as hot. Dean has to clench his teeth not to cum just on the in-thrust, disbelieving how good it feels. Sam’s making little noises in his throat, ass tensing and relaxing around him. It feels amazing.

“Good?”

“Mm,” Sam’s voice is strained. Dean forces his eyes open and Sam’s gripping the sheets like a lifeline.

“Hurt?”

Sam shakes his head, then exhales. “Just – big. I can – ” he swallows. Dean only halfway believes him. “You can move.”

He shouldn’t, not yet, but he can’t help himself. Dean rocks his hips, and Sam makes a noise, so he does it again, and again, and again.

He’s moaning loud before long, pushing in probably too deep, too fast, but Sam doesn’t complain. He rocks back tentatively, makes desperate noises that egg Dean on, and it’s one of Dean’s shortest performances in a long damn time because Sam’s just too sweet of a vice around his dick. He can’t hold off.

“Oh Sammy, baby, fuck, I’m gonna cum in you.”

Sam moans, loudest yet, and Dean rocks into him and his world goes white. It’s possibly the best orgasm of his life, whole body pleasure that just takes him over. By the time he’s done, he’s panting and boneless, bent over Sam and still shuddering.

“Sammy.”

“Yeah.” He sounds dopey and happy. Dean grins.

“Gotta get you off.”

Sam doesn’t disagree. Dean pulls out carefully, watching his hole as his dick recedes from it. It’s amazing how much it can swallow, greedy, how it twitches as soon as it’s empty. He ditches the condom and gets Sam to roll over, lays on one elbow. He gets his fingers back in Sam, two of them, and mostly holds them in there, gives him something to clench around, rocking just gently. Sam’s groaning, pushing himself onto them, and it’s the prettiest thing Dean’s ever seen. He gets his other hand around Sam’s cock and when he gets brave enough to lick along it, Sam blows like a firecracker, arching up and throwing his ass hard onto Dean’s fingers, dick pulsing in Dean’s hand.

He’s beautiful. Dean aches just looking at him and loves the feeling.

They clean up after, dispose of all incriminating evidence then hit the couch in the livingroom for a movie once they’ve got pajamas on. Sam passes out halfway on him and Dean doesn’t have the heart to move him and eventually passes out under him, one hand around Sammy, the other on the remote after hitting the mute button.

He wakes up around 5am, disoriented, and his head snaps up when he hears a noise by the door. He relaxes immediately when his eyes land on his dad and Jim. He can tell Dad’s trying to be quiet from the look on his face when their eyes meet, but then his dad’s look turns fond. Dean smiles at him through the dim light, the TV still on and casting images around the room.

His dad moves into the bathroom, Jim slips into the kitchen and pours himself some water. Dean glances down the hall at the spare room and tenses. There’s one bed that’s mussed up, Dean’s, and it’s gonna smell like sex. There’s no reason for dad to suspect, to think it’s anything but one of Dean’s habitual hook ups, but he can’t chance it.

He shakes Sam just a little, enough to rouse him, and his dopey, sleepy look makes Dean pause long enough to smile at him. Sam frowns and looks just like he did at 4 years old when he was sleepy, which should be weird for Dean but mostly just makes him warm and happy.

Still, he gets Sam up and props him, sleepy and whining, down the hall and into the mussed bed. Sam makes grabby hands at him to join but Dean shakes his head.

“Dad’s back,” he whispers, hoping it won’t carry down the hall and through the bathroom door. Not that it’s anything he’s not supposed to say.

Sam’s more alert then, looks around and takes proper stock of his surroundings, the bed he’s been dropped in. “He…”

“We’re good.”

Sam sighs, settles into bed. “You taking the couch?”

“Yeah.”

He nods, and Dean moves back over to the couch after grabbing up a pillow from next to Sam, a blanket from the closet. Dad’s out of the bathroom a minute later, Jim takes his place, and Dean settles down on the couch. No one asks anyone else any questions over breakfast.

…

John likes the solitude of cabins. They’ve been staying in this one for over a month. There were three jobs in the state, one he took care of on the way and two he’s been working with the boys. They’re halfway through the second, which is a bit of a hike – an hour’s drive to the town it’s happening in – but he can’t convince himself to give up the cabin. It’s private, and he’s got the boys with him, and away from cities and towns and noise, it’s sometimes nice to spend time with them.

They’re taking it in stride. Sam also takes over an hour to get to school (in the other direction) but isn’t complaining about the daily drive. Dean hasn’t said anything about the shit weather that’s slowed them down on the werewolves they’ve been hunting, despite how much he hates cold weather and slush.

And why the hell is March slushy no matter where they go? He swears this time next year he’s gonna find a case in Texas.

Still, the time in the cabin’s been good for them all. They’re busy, but it’s a steady, local kind of busy, and it’s giving him time to assess. Sam killed his first witch three months ago. He’ll be eighteen in a couple months. In some ways, he’s calmer than before, more focused than ever. John refuses to contemplate what’s helping with that. But in other ways… there’s a nervous energy that seems like it’s settled around him, and John can’t put his finger on exactly what it is.

“College credit?”

“For this class I did last term, yeah. Remember I did half distance? Those classes get college credit at some places.”

“And you’re taking more?”

Sam shrugs over his homework. “I can do the work at my own pace, on the road. It’s an easy A.”

Something about that’s been bugging him for a while.

“And you need As because…?”

“What’s with the third degree?”

“Tone, Sam.”

He sighs and sets down his pen. “The advance credit wouldn’t matter for any really good college or anything, Dad. It’s useful to do all these classes through distance. I skipped out on as much science as I could except bio so I have a lot of credits worth of extra crap I can fill up with options. Taking a university classics class that teaches me lore is more useful than sitting in a typing class or more phys ed.”

John shakes off the itch between his shoulders. Sam’s always been studious, but if the kid were going to college, he’d have applied already, and John’s seen nor heard any whispers of that.

“Can’t argue that,” he finally agrees.

“I’m going to shower.”

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose when Sam leaves the room. He’s not sure what he did wrong this time, but he’s tired of being the bad guy. Dean glances up from the TV.

“He’s just got cabin-fever. We’ve been tracking this pack for two weeks and still got shit.”

He grunts but doesn’t comment. If he did, he’d say something untoward, and they don’t need to go there. He’s doing a great job of repressing it, no need to rock that boat.

Except that stops being an option when Sam comes out of the shower. He does so in just a towel, pretty normal for the kid who’s all elbows, but even not looking, John can’t help but see him out of the corner of his eye and do a double take as Sam marches toward his room.

“Sam.”

“Just a sec!”

“No just a sec, come here. Now.” It’s an order. Dean turns on the couch to look at him. Sam marches over, obedient but stiff, unsure. His hair is dripping down onto his shoulders, drops running down his (goddammit, still fucking underage and if that doesn’t make him sick some days) body, and he’s holding his towel at his waist like a lifeline.

None of that really registers in any important way. What does is the marks: a huge bruise – a hickey, without a doubt – along his ribs on one side. A smaller mark along the other. A mark on his clavicle, the inside of one hip.

“What the fuck is all that?”

He doesn’t miss the tense frission that goes up Sam’s body before he answers. “They’re from a girl. She works at the gas station.”

John narrows his eyes. Sam’s expression gets steelier.

“She’s got a hickey on her neck you can spot if you’re looking, if you don’t believe me. She’s a biter. We went out last night.”

John glances at Dean. Sam had better be telling the goddamned truth. Dean’s chewing the inside of his cheek and looks ashamed, but not the wrong kind of ashamed, not guilty and sick, just concerned. He looks back at Sam, about to dismiss him, but the little shit has to push his luck, every single time.

“You really think Dean would be stupid enough to leave a mark?”

“Get those out of my sight.”

Sam does an about-face, heads straight for the cabin’s other room, the one he shares with Dean. John catches sight of another bruise on his back. He gets up and heads toward the liquor cabinet, ignoring Dean and the way he’s got his head stuffed into a Mad magazine, noise of the TV drowning them out.

The whiskey is cheap but effective. It’s hours before he comes up with the word for how he feels, but when he finds it, he wonders if there’s any hope left for his old soul. Complicit. That’s the word. He’s goddamn complicit.

…

How to be normal

The search term is embarrassing. Sam plans to clear the browser history. He’s been at Stanford for a month and he’s more convinced than ever before – and he’d been pretty convinced before – that he’s a total freak.

Everyone else seems to know everything. There’s offices to help but no one else seems to need them. The lady at the bank looked at him like he was crazy when he said he’d never had a chequeing account, or any account. He grits his teeth when he signs his real name on the form, signs his real name on the ID he gets. He’s grown too used to fakes. And he laughs when she mentions a co-signer for a student loan. Who knew that was a thing? The roommate he found (and that’s new, and different, and honestly uncomfortable and he can’t wait to move but he signed a lease for six whole months and it sets his teeth on edge) had looked him over in confusion when Sam mentioned that he hasn’t had a real kitchen since he was twelve.

Normal people have kitchens. Normal people have parents who can co-sign on loans. Normal people have bank accounts and mailing addresses. Normal people have so many rules he never learned, and so few of the ones he did. Every conversation involves at least one landmine until he slowly learns to dodge.

Sam can shoot silver into a werewolf, build an EMF from a radio and knows every police scanner call sign, can take the head off a ghoul and not throw up at the way the neck needs to be hacked at before it’ll come off, can hustle pool and convince hard bikers that he’s Bambi while he scams them. It turns out that not a single one of those skills is useful in the ‘real world’. He can make enough cash to keep food on the table and a roof over his head but how many bars in the Bay Area is he going to hit before he stops being anonymous enough to get away with it?

He gets a part time job, lies through his teeth at each step of the interview and a smile on his face, and now they want a social. He has to figure out how to get a social. Why the hell hasn’t he got a social?

The doctor... that had been something. Three months in, Sam gets sick enough to go, and when asked the last time he had a check-up, he honestly can’t say. “Childhood, I guess? Mostly I go to a hospital when I get injured too bad to for my brother to stitch me up.”

“Stitch... up?”

Sam had shut up fast and never gone back to that clinic.

“How’d you get that scar?” Is one he gets a lot, from anyone who sees him without a shirt, pointing to one or the other of his nastier ones. He now has an illustrious childhood of climbed trees and forts and falling out of them to account for the deeper cuts of flesh he’s lost. The scarring on his knuckles worries a couple who notice and he doesn’t know what to say about it, every lie he’s got sounds thin. “I did boxing in high school” comes the closest to setting them at ease, even though it doesn’t account for the scars in the slightest. People believe what they want to, that’s one thing he knows at least.

How to be normal. The internet is full of advice for socially awkward nerds. He’s a nerd, he’s socially awkward, but those aren’t his issues. He can make small talk, or at least he’s getting better at it. He can charm people, women. He’s charmed a guy or two, hasn’t gone home with any yet. None of those are the issue.

The issue is how people look at him when something slips. How they take a step back when he feels himself get angry. How no one knows as much about the occult as he seems to and no one calls it ‘lore’ and no one else had their first beer at the age of eleven and no one else thinks it’s totally trivial to have run away at the age of eight and lived alone in a different city – hell, a different state – for two whole weeks. (“How was there no national search party?” Sam has no idea how to answer and doesn’t bring it up again. The list of things not to say is getting longer.) How his sense of humor is dark, too dark, and his few budding friends have all asked if he’s ‘okay’ after one too many jokes about blowing his brains out or finding something to kick the shit out of. Maybe that last one wasn’t really a joke but Dean would have laughed, would’ve understood.

Dean... Dean was Sam’s normal. But that’s gone, so he grits his teeth and reads each link carefully, searching for anything he can use as camouflage to get through the next few years.

…

It creeps up on him in October, quiet enough he can deny it. It insists in November, when the days are short and the nights are dark and long because they’re holed up in Oregon. He hates November; they all do. Dad and Dean for memories, Sam for having to deal with them both.

They moved once already this term, mid-semester, he’s got exams but no one cares, and for once Sam doesn’t object. He made some acquaintances, had a cute girl to make out with him over their study notes in the afternoons, had considered signing up for the basketball team because the coach kept insisting now that Sam’s pretty much the tallest in his grade.

He doesn’t object to moving because he doesn’t really care. It’s hard to care too much about most things and that should freak him out too but it doesn’t. He’s alive on a hunt, thinks maybe this is what Dean feels some days, just in the moment and in the danger and in with a sense of satisfaction when he got to slice the heads off some ghouls.

But even with that, with sneaking around with Dean, with the stolen kisses and blowjobs and Dean’s defenses all caved in now, all affection when Sam wants it, he still feels so fucking hollow. He still itches unclean under his skin. He still feels so fucking trapped.

He hasn’t thought about college since the summer, since he argued with Dean about it, since he told him the truth. He hasn’t prepped for the spring PSAT he plans to write or gone back over his study program. He hasn’t looked up schools. He’s just basked in Dean, in uncomplicated orgasms. He’s just lied to himself.

He thought it would go away. Sincerely, truly, assumed (hoped, needed to believe) that if he and Dean were on the same page and he didn’t feel so messed up about this lust, this thing between them, then he’d stop feeling so out of place. There were so many ways they were different than the rest of the world but that – that one was maybe the biggest, the most twisted up even if it felt good, even if he loved his older brother and Dean loved him and nothing they were doing was hurting the other.

He’d pinned so much hope on that being the crux of it all, on this feeling dissipating with Dean’s kisses. The fact that it didn’t is almost enough to swallow him whole, on his bad days.

He’s not gonna do anything about it. Not really. He picks fights with Dad because he can, punishes himself with his exercise regimen, drowns himself in as much of Dean as Dean will give him. None of that’s any different for him, he doesn’t plan to count it.

When his adrenaline isn’t high, when he’s not running, not fighting, when he’s not on Dean’s lap with Dean’s teeth at his throat – he starts to worry, to pick at his own insides, starts to feel it loom and he crushes the feeling back. Dean fucks him, finally, after the second move of the term and it helps for a little while, the way it makes him sore in places he’s never felt, the way it drowns everything else out.

His report card is sent to Bobby’s in December. Dad dropped them off for Christmas, split town like he always does, but it means that Sam’s around when his report card comes in. Dean makes a joke about pinning it to the fridge like a proud mama, ruffles Sam’s hair as he skims over the As. There’s a question in his gaze.

“Don’t worry, Dean,” he says softly, folds it back up, tucks it into the folder with all the others. “I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s a lie, but he's telling it to himself as much as he is to Dean, and it gets his brother’s shoulders to relax, gets him to smile with something close to gratitude. Sam’s stomach twists and his brain conjures up his study timetable, his SAT prep left by the wayside. In January, at his next school, he makes an appointment with the counsellor to ask how much he needs to score to get out of his shithole life.

…

He’s careful. Jess is never always sure of what, exactly, but Sam’s movements are sometimes so practiced and thought-through and he puts in effort to make it seem like they’re not. It’s not something she used to notice, but they’ve been dating for a year now and she’s learning more and more about him.

He checks the doors and windows before bed each night. She doesn’t find that strange, even if it’s a little compulsive. He’s not into weapons, he told her once, but watches him slip a gun under his pillow after a week of living together and her heart almost stops in her throat.

“What are you doing with that?”

He starts then goes incredibly still with his back to her. Her voice was shriller than she’d planned. After a moment, he straightens and carefully, slowly turns, hands empty. His expression isn’t angry, or scary, or whatever level of aggro she realizes she was afraid to find. It’s apologetic.

“I... haven’t been sleeping well.”

Like that explains anything. He winces and continues.

“I thought it was the bed at first but I’ve slept in hundreds of beds and I can pass out on the cold ground. And I know it’s not sleeping next to you, I always sleep better when you’re next to me. It’s...” he sighs and looks at his hands. She tries to parse all that Sam-speak. Hundreds of beds – an exaggeration, or another tidbit about his life that he barely talks about, accidentally dropped like a breadcrumb? Cold hard ground – he's mentioned camping before, and how much he hates it.

“I didn’t know you own a gun.”

He sits on the edge of the bed and pats the spot next to him. Hesitantly, she moves to join him. He puts his hand under the pillow and pulls out the handgun. He rolls it in his hands.

“It’s a Taurus. My dad gave it to me.”

Her heart beats a little faster. Freaked out? Yes. Excited to hear more about Sam’s past? Also yes.

“You... know how to shoot it?”

“Yeah. There’s a range at my Dad’s friend Bobby’s place. Dad taught me and Dean to shoot when we were growing up.”

She nods and he hands it over. She takes it. The metal is smooth beneath her fingers, not as cool as she expected. She’s held a hunting rifle once, but never a handgun.

“Is it loaded?”

“Not much point in having an unloaded gun under your pillow.”

She catches the laugh in her throat and holds it back. He’s putting her at ease and she doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to be easy with this. “You know the statistics, about - ”

“I know. More likely to be used on yourself, by accident, etcetera. Can... can I tell you a secret?” his voice is tentative and she swallows, holds the gun tighter in both hands, looks him in the eye and nods. “I’ve had it since I was ten.”

“Oh.” Her hand reaches out and smooths against his cheek without her permission. She holds his gaze. “Oh Sam. That’s...”

“Messed up?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m starting to get that. But I won’t be a statistic, Jess. I know how to handle myself around firearms.”

She smiles and it feels a little watery. “Let’s make a deal? You put this on your nightstand tonight, not under your pillow. And tomorrow night, in your nightstand. And then in a week, or a month, in a lockbox under the bed, then in the closet.”

“I...”

“I want you to feel safe here, Sam. Safe with me. But I can’t feel safe with a gun in my bed. This is my compromise.”

He laughs, looks down. “Yeah. Okay.” He takes the gun from her hand and puts it on the nightstand.

“Ten?” she asks again, voice aiming for lighter.

“Can’t say my dad never got me anything.”

Her laugh is strangled. “And your brother has one?”

“Yeah. Mother of pearl on the grip, his is prettier.” There’s a quirk to his lips, something there he’ll never explain, she knows.

“Why... would you ever need something like that? At ten?”

He shakes his head. “I told Dad I was scared of the monster under my bed. That’s his idea of a solution.”

She hugs him then. It catches him by surprise, takes him a minute to hug back, but what he just said.... her own Mr. Inside-Out, grown up in a way where up was down and down was up, where his dad gave a child a gun but won’t even call now to see if Sam’s alive. She doesn’t quite get it, how he turned out so damn good despite all that. She’s grateful to whoever, however it happened, but she doesn’t understand in the slightest.

…

Dean hasn’t touched Sam since Jess died. He’s touched him, but not touched him.

He almost did before she died, but that’s a different story. He knew she existed and he almost leaned down over his brother’s prone form and planted one on him in the dark of his apartment anyway, before they’d both stood up. Even after he met her, when he knew Sam couldn’t wait to get back to her, to his apple-pie life, he still almost pulled the car over and put his hand and his mouth on Sam and claimed him back as his own.

Because Sam is his. It’s been written on his flesh and in his blood and in every ‘first’ his baby brother ever had. It’s fucked up and as far from normal as anyone can get and Dean knows that Sam doesn’t want that, doesn’t want it anymore and doesn’t want to be anything but a good, loyal boyfriend to his smoking hot girl, but he feels a flash of satisfaction in him anyway, any time he thinks about it. Sam was his before he was hers or anyone’s, and every girl that goes after is gonna get a thinner slice of that pie.

The only reason he hadn’t done it is because... if he’s honest, which he generally tries not to be but there’s no avoiding this one, he wasn’t sure if Sam would push him off, reject him. The Woman in White targeted Sam, targets men who are disloyal, and it almost made him hope. But Sam’s never rejected him before, never said no, never pushed him away. Dean’s not sure he can handle it if he does, if he picks Jess over him like he picked college over family. So he doesn’t pull over, doesn’t stop on the way to getting Sam back to his life, and tries not to let his chest ache over missed opportunities.

Except now she’s dead, and Sam hasn’t looked at a girl since it happened. Dean gets it, he does. Grief, it’s a fucked up thing, it messes a person up. Dean hadn’t gone out and gotten laid for two months after Sam left for Stanford, and that’s a record for his dick not being into it. But Sam, he’s putting that record to shame. It’s been months, and not just two. Sam’s getting angrier, more not less, and it’s obvious he’s not exactly coping. The migraines and visions and nightmares all aren’t helping but it’s obvious the dude is pent up. Dean doesn’t even think Sam’s been jerking it but he’s too afraid to ask.

“Sleep alright?” he asks routinely. He didn’t wake up listening to Sam scream or thrash in the night so he’s hoping the answer’s a yes.

“Not really.”

Great. Dean sighs and heads out to get coffee. Sam’s in the shower when he returns, comes out dripping wet and gorgeous as ever. Dean bites the inside of his cheek but the comment comes out anyway,

“Are you waxing your chest?”

Sam stops, drops into a glare that looks most of the way to a pout, grabs out a shirt. Holy shit, he is.

“Dude.”

“Shut up.”

“Dude.”

“Never mind, Dean.”

“Why so smooth?”

“I just like it, okay?”

It’s kind of like Christmas came early. Sam waxes his chest. “You pick that up in college?”

“Where else?”

Right, right. Dean won’t be deterred by that tone of voice. God, Sam’s ass is a peach in those jeans. He’s putting on muscle again, things fit more snug than they did a few months back. “All the pretty boys and girls bat their eyelashes at your smooth, hairless chest, you animal?”

His tone is teasing, so teasing, almost snickering. He gets a sock in the face. Okay, he maybe deserved that. He chucks it back, too easy for Sam to catch. Sam crosses his arms.

“Is it such a big deal?”

“Just not sure who you’re trying to impress.”

And oh – oh, Sam looks away too fast. Dean’s heart rate skips up. He swallows around the lump in his throat.

He can’t start this. That’s not how it works. And he shouldn’t start this because they never should have ever done it in the first place. Sam wants to be ‘normal’ and Dean wants to not be a predator to his own little brother. Neither of them want to disappoint... someone. Dad, the ghost of Jess, of Mom, whoever. They have a million reasons not to. They haven’t looked at each other that way in years.

“Have we found a case yet?” Sam changes the subject. Dean swallows his disappointment.

…

“Holy shit. Brady wasn’t kidding.”

“Hm?” Sam’s got this confused scrunch between his eyebrows and it’s adorable. It’s sinful how he can look that cute and also that...

“Hot,” Jess says, still holding his shirt in her hands. “How are you so hot under all those layers? I thought you were supposed to be a nerd.” She reaches out and touches that perfect, marble chest. It has some hair on it and she smiles, runs her hand down and looks up at him. God he’s tall.

“Thanks?”

“Seriously, how much do you work out?”

“A... normal amount?” He seriously looks confused. Jess can’t help but grin.

“Oh Sammy,” she pulls him down for a kiss. His shirt is long forgotten on the floor. “There’s nothing normal about how good you look.”

He lifts her up – freaking lifts her like nothing because apparently he’s secretly He-Man under all those hoodies – and deposits her on the bed and yeah, okay, that’s more fun than talking. So much for the shy sweetheart Brady had introduced her to. Sam might have as many layers to him as he wears, if his confidence and control in bed is anything to judge by.

She makes a mental note to bake Brady some cookies then stops bothering to think at all.

…

Jess dies and the world falls apart.

Jess dies and the world comes together.

Jess dies and Sam was by Dean’s side an hour before and an hour later.

Jess dies and Sam wonders if this is his punishment for ever thinking he could love anyone like he loves Dean.

He loved her, he did. He knows that she deserved better.

…

They’ve been searching for Dad for so long, and now when they find him, he wants to leave? Sam can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt, can’t pretend he doesn’t think his old man is an asshole. Yellow-Eyes killed Jessica, this isn’t just his fight anymore. Sam’s lost just as much.

But Dad’s standing by the side of his truck, telling him it’s for the best, that it’s safer this way, that he’ll call them in when it’s time. Sam hates it, hates that it’s convincing him. Hates that Dean doesn’t even try to make Dad stay.

“You boys,” his dad seems to hesitate right before leaving, glancing back at the apartment where they’d left Demon Meg with the devas, calculating how much time they have. When he continues he addresses Sam, not Dean. “That thing between you, what was there before you left, is that still going on?”

Sam’s back stiffens. He's not gonna lie, not to Dad, not anymore. If he has an issue with it, he shouldn’t have taken off and left Dean in his dust, shouldn’t have left either of them.

“Yes.” Sam’s voice is terse. His Dad’s expression is unreadable.

“Okay.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Can’t give you my blessing.” After a moment, his dad can’t meet his gaze anymore, turns back toward his truck. “Can’t pretend it was a battle I was ever gonna win. You’re grown now anyway. You boys look out for each other.”

“Yes sir,” they say in unison.

Dad’s gone, then, driving off. Sam wonders if admitting defeat isn’t that much different than a blessing, at least from John Winchester. Either way, he’ll take it.

…

Something clicks into place when Jess lays eyes on Dean. It’s hard to say what clicks, exactly, or maybe she just isn’t ready to acknowledge that she knows what, but there’s something.

She can see it in the way he moves, that careful stalk back in his steps, like a predator. She never noticed that it was gone, that it was there in the first place, not till now, but he slips back into it smooth and easy as soon as the lights go on and his brother is standing next to him.

How did she miss the way he moves before? How is it so different one second to the next?

Dean hits on her – hard, obvious, obnoxious. Sam’s not the macho type but she’s seen him jealous before. She’s seen him mad, seen him scary just behind whatever he has inside that holds him back from his anger. She’s seen him in a bar fight and it was short lived, Jess’s would-be harasser put in his place with a broken nose and an arm twisted behind his back at an odd angle, Sam’s eyes some creepy kind of a calm when he bit out the word ‘apologize’.

It scared her at the time, a conversation about excessive force in order, a promise not to do it again received. For a moment, she waits for the blow, tenses to watch them fight, but it never comes.

Because Sam doesn’t seem more than casually annoyed, mildly amused when Dean looks her up and down. Sam doesn’t even seem more than offhandedly put off when Dean drags him, law school interview or no interview, out on a search for their drunken, useless asshole of a father. Sam doesn’t act even slightly bothered by the fact that his brother literally broke into their house in the middle of the night, couldn’t phone them like a normal person, couldn’t wait till six am, couldn’t freaking knock.

She follows his lead. She pretends that it’s okay. She pretends that ‘hunting trip’ isn’t so obviously code for something they won’t tell her and pretends that Sam’s secrets don’t cause her pain.

Her mother used to tell her Sam sounded like he was raised by wolves, the tidbits Jess passed on to her over the phone. Jess had been annoyed, but looking at Dean, at the wild cast to his eyes, she thinks her mother must have known something she didn’t. Dean’s a wolf, and if he’s unhinged it’s in a way Sam clearly recognizes. He’s in charge and Sam falls in line like it’s a foregone conclusion that Dean must be listened to, obeyed.

Sam doesn’t sleep with a gun under his pillow anymore; it’s tucked away safe in the closet and it’s been there for eight months. It slips from where it’s gathering dust into his bag. She doesn’t comment. Instead, she watches Dean. She watches how his eyes don’t leave Sam except to trace her frame, and even then she gets the impression it’s put on, like he’s itching for a reaction. Maybe that’s why Sam doesn’t give him one.

“Be careful.”

Sam smiles at her, promises to be back soon. He leaves inside a car that sounds too loud and looks too old and makes no sense, not really. It’s discordant with her Sam, with a person who cares about the environment, who listens to the latest music, who orders soy in his lattes.

Somehow, someway, she feels like she just lost something. She’s had Sam for years; Dean’s had him for a lifetime. She asked him to stay; Dean asked him to go. Sam slipped into the skin of a former self, or maybe never really left it, and maybe the Sam she knew was the false skin he wore. Either way, he drives away, and she feels like she just lost him.

…

“Why’d you tell him that?”

Meg and the deavas are a hundred miles in the rearview. So is Dad. They haven’t stopped, won’t find a motel for another hundred miles or more. Haven’t showered off the sweat stink of fear or even assessed injuries.

Somehow, despite that and unbidden, it’s still the first thing out of Dean’s mouth since they peeled out of there.

“Tell him what?”

Dean glances sidelong at Sam riding shotgun. As if he doesn’t know.

“You wanted me to lie?” Sam’s voice is tight.

Lie? Sam hadn’t told the truth. “We haven’t touched since you were a teenager, Sammy.”

It’s quiet, pregnant with unspoken thoughts. He glances again at Sammy, rain kicking up on the windshield. His brother is staring ahead, face tight with something pensive.

“Is that what it takes?” he asks finally, quiet against the sound of water on the windshield, the roof. “Touching?”

Dean takes the next exit. It’ll take them south, maybe into the eye of this storm but it’s a road he knows. Most roads are at this point.

“If that’s not the line, what is?” Dean’s voice is shakier than he’d like. Sam’s reply is quick, wry.

“If there’s any lines they’re in the sand, Dean. Thought you knew that by now. Spent half our years not touching and it didn’t change a thing.”

His throat feels like it’s closing up. His hands are gonna start shaking on the wheel. There’s a secondary highway and he flips the blinker, heads that way. He’ll figure out where they are when it’s light out, when the rain stops. Sam’s looking at him, he can feel his gaze like a burn on the side of his face.

“But you... you left. You wanted to be... normal.”

“Did you think – Dean... that had nothing to do with this. You know that, don’t you? Nothing you did, or didn’t do, was ever gonna fix what I was feeling. About – about the life, I mean. I needed to leave. I didn’t mean to leave you behind, I - ” there’s a shift, but Dean doesn’t dare look the side to see how Sam’s moved. He sounds like he’s rubbed a hand down his face, he can hear the sigh. Then, “I wanted to go before the first time you touched me. Or, I touched you, I guess. And I thought – I thought for a second that that might stop me from wanting out, but it didn’t. It just made me want to take you with me even more, maybe. But you picked No Man’s Land and Dad said not to come back and I didn’t get to keep you. I thought that’s how you wanted it. Because I left, and you’d move on, and maybe you’d stop wanting it and maybe you never really did, maybe I just put that on you.” 

“So you still…” his throat feels like sandpaper. His heart fucking aches.

Sam’s so quiet he almost misses it. “Always.”

Fuck. He pulls over rough into a turnout. Baby’s tires sound harsh on the dirt and gravel but for once he doesn’t wince. He’s out of his seat, launching himself at Sam like a dying man.

They taste metallic like blood, both of them. His tongue runs over Sam’s lip where there’s a cut and he worries it, prodding, sucking. His fists are so tight in Sam’s shirts they’re shaking and Sam’s still inhaling into it, still in his seat, trapped between Dean and the bench and turned awkward and tight. Dean doesn’t care. Doesn’t care that he's crushing Sam into the leather, that he's trying to turn and reach Dean, just helps push his back against the door as soon as he shifts, holds his whole face in his hands when his hands can stand unclenching from his shirt and he can no longer bear not touching skin. Sam’s kissing him back open-mouthed and accepting, making space for Dean, spreading his legs and opening up and letting him slot himself right back where he belongs.

It’s cold outside but the defrost is on. Dean reaches a hand back even as Sam shuffles under him, down, flips it over to heat without having to look for the dial. Let the windows fog. Sam’s laid back against the bench, knees framing Dean, and Dean’s pressing his hands up and under all those layers, unpeeling the onion that is Sam so he can get at the core, feel his skin and make sure he’s real, he’s still breathing, he’s here and alive under Dean and they’re in one piece.

Sam works at his belt. Neither of them have the wherewithal to get their pants and boots all the way off. Dean’s shirts are shucked and it’s the best he can accomplish, rocking against Sam. He sucks a dark bruise against his brother’s neck and he makes the prettiest noises, gasping for Dean, whimpering when Dean’s thumb runs over the head of his cock.

“Missed you.”

“Dean,” his voice is shot, whining, rumbling.

“Need you.”

Sam bucks up into his hand, pulls Dean in blindly for a sloppy kiss. He snakes a hand between them and it joins Dean's, slips around them both. It’s calloused and rough and Dean groans, pre-come slicking them both.

“Mine, Sammy. Mine.”

“Always.”

He pulls Sam’s stupid mop of hair and looks down at his pretty face arched back for Dean, the cut on his lip dribbling just a little, mouth open and shiny wet. He rocks his hips hard into Sam’s big warm hand, familiar and foreign.

He’s it for Dean. He always has been.

They tumbling over the edge together, Sam letting go to hold tight to Dean, hands shaking until they land on his skin like he needs Dean to steady him. He murmurs into his brother’s hair, sweet fucking nothings, stupid split-open sentiments he can’t hold in.

They breathe slowly as they come down, deeply, and the air tastes sweet. Dean feels high on the honey of life, of being alive, of Sam.

“I’ve always been yours, Dean.”

He swallows, runs his fingers down the side of Sam’s face.

“I always wanted it, Sam. I did this to you, you know that right?”

A chuckle, a sigh. That little rueful pull at Sam’s lips, too old for his face. “That so? I don’t care. I wanted you since before you ever kissed me. Since I knew what want was, and maybe before that. Doesn’t need to be – it's not just sex. It’s you. It’s being brothers and all the other shit layered in, tangled up like a knot that’s never coming loose.” And then the smile drops, hesitant for just a second. “You feel it too, right?”

Dean butts his forehead against Sam’s.

“If by it... you mean that feeling like my fingers’re gonna burn off if I don’t get to touch you? Want you even if it’s twisted and know if anything ever hurt you, I’d rip it to shreds and not even think about it? Don’t care what it is, I’d go to hell and back for you.”

“Yeah,” there’s still a smile in Sam’s voice, “that. We should clean up. Drive until sunrise.”

Dean hums and settles back, basks in it for another moment. “Until sunset.” Until forever. With Sam at his side, in whatever way he has him, Dean’ll drive until forever.

…

Epilogue

There’s a letter, handed to them by Bobby after Dad dies, unopened and waiting for them, ‘just in case’. They think about burning it with his corpse, Sam plans on it, but it disappears mysteriously. Years later, he’ll find it in Dean’s box of mementos, next to old photographs. Years after that, a decade after it was written, they’ll argue over whether to share it with their reincarnated mother, along with the rest of Dad’s possessions and musings, his journal. Dean will be terrified. Sam will abscond with the scrap of paper before Dean can burn it. Their mother will see it, and cry, and not understand, and when she does she’ll trip past pale into stone faced and sick, then leave their bunker until she’s ready to face them and what they became when they had no one else in the world but each other.

But when they first find it, most of what they do is stare, and then for a moment hold tight to each other before stepping back, pouring one out, and promising each other they’ve got the other, them against the world. Just like Dad wanted.