Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Someday Never Comes 1

One summer, John brought the boys to Robert Singer's house--Bobby, John called him, when he wasn't calling him a cantankerous, too-nosy-for-his-own-good, bastard. They got along well enough, mostly because Bobby took no real notice of John's bitter, sarcastic attitude, having plenty of his own, and was in no way cowed by the man. John reluctantly respected that and that made Bobby a man he trusted—insomuch as he trusted anyone.

It was on a muggy July evening that John dragged himself out of the car that he'd driven for the last hundred miles under the muzzy, heavy weight of pain-killers and whisky, and as dangerous as it had been to drive like that, it was the only way his back and legs would let him. Black dog hunt gone bad, a partner who couldn't follow through but John was the one who'd paid the price. The thing had shredded his knee, flipped him to the ground and tried to take his heart out through his back. A few hours in the ER had gotten his back sewed up and his knee put together. And somewhere in Montana was a report on a Mark Farner having survived a bear attack….

Dean and his brother hung back behind John, caution had been driven right into their bones. John didn't have many safe places, but the boys would learn that this was one of them. Pastor Jim's, they knew well--were fairly frequent visitors out to Blue Earth. He's even left them in a bar, though leaving them with Ellen was about the same as leaving them with a lioness—Bill was a damn lucky man that Ellen decided to keep him. And now, he was about to leave them, more or less, in the hands of a stranger, this man, stocky and bearded and smelling vaguely of gasoline and mayonnaise.

Singer gave John a sour look and leaned around and fixed the boys with a gaze neither angry nor happy and Dean moved to stand in front of his brother, like he'd been taught. John reached back and laid his hand on the boy's head.
"So, what'll it be Singer? You gonna let my boys stay here for a while or…do I have to let them live in a car?"

"That's dirty pool and you know it, you jackass," Singer said and stepped aside to let them in. John grit his teeth until his jaw ached doing his best not to limp in front of the bastard. He heard said bastard mutter, "Asshole," as he hitched past him. He kept his eyes straight and clamped his lips tighter to keep a grin inside.

The boys were in bed, supposedly asleep before Dean sneaked out into the hallway and listened to his dad and the stranger talk. He wanted to have some kind of idea just who this bearded old man was his dad proposed to leave them with. Not eavesdropping, he would never sneak around on his dad—he was just gathering intel.

Their voices carried up the stairs like smoke up a chimney. His dad's had that low, slow burr in it that he got when he drank a lot of that turkey stuff and the other man's looped between loud and high, and deep and lowered. He heard Mr. Singer say, "You did what--?" and he didn't sound happy.

"I left the boys alone. Dean knew what he was supposed to do—and he fucked up." Dean bit his lip when he heard his dad—his eyes stung but he nodded. Dad was right.

"Dean did—wha—are you pissed because he was trying to be a kid for a god damn hour or so, or pissed because he was too god damn little to handle the shotgun you fuckin' ass!"

Dean slumped back against the wall, squeezed his hands into fists to stop them shaking. He knew it. He knew he'd screwed it up bad, he knew his dad didn't trust him any more…and he knew why they were here, now.

He trudged back to the room, feeling like he was walking through taffy. Sammy made a noise when Dean rolled into bed, sniffed and pushed away from Dean before his breathing went slow and whistle-ly like it did when he was sleeping hard. Dean stared up at the ceiling, lost in replaying his failure in his mind until he fell into sleep.

Sam was afraid of Bobby Singer. He tried to keep Dean between himself and the man as much as possible, even though Bobby tried to shrink himself a bit, and spoke to Sam in a low, smooth voice all the time. He tried to tempt Sam with cookies and odd little toys from who knows where but Sam wasn't having it. If he wasn't clinging to Dean than he was clinging to John, dogging his steps like a little scared puppy. Sam knew something was wrong, he just didn't know what. Dean sympathized--the grownups' world was sure a mystery to both of them.

Dean followed Sam around the house, drifting after him like a ghost. He didn't speak. Hadn't really spoken since the night he'd screwed up. Not like before, though…Dad thought Dean didn't have any memories of those long, long weeks where nothing came out of his mouth, but he did. He remembered that he couldn't make anything come out of his mouth, that he wanted to tell Dad how bad it hurt, how afraid he was and how lonely, and that he missed his mom so much, and oh, he missed hugs and pb&j with the crusts cut off and the glass of chocolate milk she poured him every day after he got back from daycare. He remembered those things. And he remembered Dad and Mom screaming at each other and Mom crying and…Dad leaving. He remembered Mom saying, you have to change or don't come back.

And he remembered the fire. He remembered all of it.

For a long time, for the entire time they slowly got used to being on their own, he'd kept his fear bottled up and pressed tight under his tongue, he'd thought maybe the fire happened because Mom was so unhappy and maybe she was unhappy because Dean wasn't making her happy so it was all his fault. He had tried though. He tried so hard.

Dean blinked hot tears back, so hot they burned his eyes, and swallowed hard. Right this moment, he wanted not to speak ever again. He wanted to roll up in a ball and lay under the bed until he grew as grey and dusty as the dust bunnies, until he rolled and blew in the wind and blew far, far way…but he couldn't. He wanted to do it, but he couldn't because Sammy needed him to be there. He was just a little kid and he needed someone to take care of him. Dean cracked his jaw, and licked his desert-dry lips. He forced words past his stiff tongue. "Hey, Sammy, you want some juice?"

Two little boys drifted in tandem in and out of his rooms, and if he hadn't actually seen them, he'd never know they were there. They were quiet, like, really damn quiet—scary quiet. Bobby didn't know much about kids but he knew this wasn't normal. He'd seen his sister's kids and his brother's kids, the little hairless apes, and he knew damn well that John's boys' bein' silent like that was an unnatural state. In his experience, kids were loud; they ran all the time, they screamed and laughed and broke shit and puked on and peed on themselves…as far as he could tell, little kids were almost always covered with slime and screaming to be fed.

John's boys…there was a different kettle of fish. He never heard them ask for a damn thing. He was sure there was a time or two when Sam was about to ask for something but Dean silenced him. On an occasion, Dean would hesitantly and hugely reluctantly ask for something--for Sam. Always for Sam. And really truly for Sam, because Bobby had spied to see if the tiny half glasses of juice or pieces of jelly bread were actually going to Sam, and not eaten in secret by Dean, and every single time Sam got it. Mostly eyed whatever it was sort of disappointedly but would thank Dean for whatever poor thing it was.

John fed them that way. Small portions of cheap, not especially appetizing food. Noodles, soup, peanut butter sandwiches, packaged stuff that was inexpensive and filling, if not interesting. They ate silently, cleaned up after themselves and Bobby felt like he might as well be living alone. John rebuffed his attempts at family dinners again and again until one evening he'd taken Bobby to the side and said "I don’t want the boys to get used to food they can't have on the road. I can't spoil them. They can't afford to want what they can't have." He was gruff, no-nonsense about it and waited for Bobby's agreement.

Bobby rocked back like John had punched him. Hell no way. That wasn't the way the Singer household worked. Screw Winchester and his crazy ass. "Tell you what, this is my house, and they get what I give them. If you don't like it, highway's a couple of miles out that way, buddy."

John was furious, sure, but what could he do? He couldn't drive worth a shit; he was stuck there until he healed so Bobby took great advantage of it. Once he got a foot in, it was all over.

"There's a way you can save money and eat real food too, right? So here Dean, put this cereal in the cart." He handed Dean a box of Cheerio's but Sam's eyes were glued to a box of Lucky Charms—or its knock-off anyway. He said not a word; stood silently leaning on Dean but steady staring at the box…Dean was staring up at Bobby, the Cheerio's still in his hands. Bobby sighed, took back the box and handed Dean the Lucky Charms…before they left the store, they had a bunch of bananas and a bag of oatmeal cookies in the cart as well.

Bobby enjoyed watching them eat meatloaf and potatoes like it was food of the gods. When he made macaroni and cheese, Sam actually looked him in the eye with a pale reflection of the hero-worship he gave his dad and Dean. And Dean…Dean gave him a narrow-eyed look that gave Bobby pause—he'd never seen a kid give a look quite like that, and damn if it didn't make him want to duck. The next day, Dean quietly, stubbornly, insisted that Bobby teach him how to make macaroni and cheese, too.

While John slept on the porch, tugged into dreams by vicoden and jack, Dean stood on a step stool next to Bobby, one of his late wife Karen's aprons tied double around his thin waist and nodded solemnly as Bobby showed him how to boil the noodles, and add the milk and butter and powdered cheese sauce. He taught him that when you had the opportunity add garlic and pepper, and chunks of block cheese and extra butter. Taught him how to use the timer, and how to measure and compared it to measuring out portions of salt and iron. From that, Dean came to see the practical applications of measuring, of fractions and math in general. Dean listened hard while he diced cheese with a butcher knife because Bobby believed that if you were old enough to hold a knife, you were old enough to learn how to use it properly. Dean appreciated that.

When Dean pushed a perfect bowl of golden mac&cheese across the table to Sam and mentioned off-handedly that he'd made it, Bobby watched Sam's eyes fix on Dean in awe and Dean glow under the regard. Dean leaned in towards Sam like a sunflower to the sun. Bobby watched those boys, hmm-ed to himself and cast a glance at John, passed out on the sitting room couch. He shook his head.

That man was making a world of trouble for all of them.

As soon as John could drive, they were gone again.

Bobby took Dean to one side, gave him a square of heavy card stock and told him to "hang onto this boy, it's my address. If you hunker down in one spot for a spell, you send me a note. And if you ever need anything—anything—you call me and let me know, hear?"
Dean took the card, pulled it through his fingers and watched Sam stagger to the car under the weight of a brand new blanket Bobby had bought him. "Yes, sir," he said, and his tone of voice was too knowing for a boy his age.

A winter went by and a spring, a summer, and then on a crisp autumn day, from the back of the yard, Bobby heard the low throaty growl of the Impala. He sighed, put down the knife he was dicing potatoes with and swept what he'd managed to chop into the pot of stew. He wiped his hands clean and walked around to the back where the yard entrance was.

"Bobby…" John said, both him and the boys standing stiffly in front of the car as if they were entirely uncertain of any kind of welcome.

"Well, come on in," Bobby huffed. "I just put some stew on to cook, double batch," he said. "Had a feeling it'd come in handy." The boys didn't move, or say a word, stood like little soldiers with their dad's hands on their shoulders. Bobby caught the slight squeeze John gave them both and watched their eyes brighten and little smiles break out when the man said, "Go on boys, go inside and wash up."

"Yes sir," they called out together and walked past Bobby. "Thank you sir," they both said and Sam whispered, "Hi, Uncle Bobby," as he passed.

Bobby blushed something fierce and just stopped himself from gawking—saw that Dean was blushing too, and that he kept his eyes averted. Bobby was pretty sure Dean had a lot to do with the 'Uncle Bobby'. Well, that was just fine. He thought he could get to like that.

The boys wandered over as much of the yard as they could when they weren't doing chores Bobby or John had assigned them. Bobby told them they were to do the washing up after dinner, and help with the cooking. At that rule, they'd cut eyes at each other and smiled faintly. Nodded with enthusiasm. John, a little less so, agreed with Bobby's rules. John had them training—every day, they ran, they trained in whatever form of self-defense their young bodies were ready for, and every night, they trooped off to their corner under the eaves, where they unrolled their sleeping bags on top of the mats on the floor, and treated it all like a great adventure. Still, he felt guilty that he had no real place for them….

Bobby watched them sometimes from the kitchen window when they trained and all he could see was this thing escalating, John's hunt growing bigger and bigger in their lives until there'd be nothing left but this—thing-- and he regretted it for them. He didn't even bother talking to John. Hell, he'd seen that look before on the faces of his boys back in Nam. Bobby swore, as long as those kids were with him, he'd make sure they had some kind of childhood. Every kid needed to run around screaming just for the hell of it, get dirty and splash through mud, find tadpoles and climb trees and hell—just fucking be, for no other reason except to be.

"I'm meeting up with Dell French and Caleb Branch, out in Colorado. There's a were out there—maybe a mated pair. You know what kind of bad news that is."

"Damn, that's rare as hell. And yeah, that's bad news, all right. Means they'll be playing games. Be all excitable….."

John nodded. "It's a few weeks work, that's for sure. I wanted to know if I could leave my boys with you—if not, Jim'll take 'em."

"Don’t be stupid," Bobby growled. "You know I'd take your boys anytime."

John held the thick glass up to the light. The thickness distorted the color of the scotch inside; the pale yellow looked like a wash of gold. He let the liquid tip one way and then the other—fixed Bobby with a mild look that fooled him not at all—it raised the hairs on the back of the man's neck. "Yeah. I know you would." John stood, and gulped what was left in the tumbler. 'Thanks. I'll be back, say three weeks—tops."

"Wait, you're leaving this minute? Damn it John, you just can't walk away in the middle of the night without a word. Those boys—they'll be—" Bobby searched for a word that would be adequate to describe how the boys would feel about being left in the middle of the night with no word from their dad. All he could come up with was, "upset. Those boys'll be so damn upset."

"They're past that," John said. "They know how to take care of themselves—besides, they got you, don't they?"

Bobby snorted and changed the subject, for his own peace of mind. "Who'd you get this intel about the weres from? There's been nothin' about it on the grapevine." Not much escaped his notice—Bobby was the check-in-point for dozens of hunters in the northwest.

"Steve Ward, you know. That guy out by Moscow, Idaho."

"That guy's an idiot."

John shrugged. "Dell vouches for him."

"Well, Dell's a god damn idiot."

"Yeah, well, four people have been torn to bits out there. We're close—we can't just stand by." John set the tumbler down, careful, final. He stood and neatly shoved his chair back under the table. Bobby leaned back and peered up at him.

"Watch your back, John. I'm not kidding; Dell's a grand-standin' idiot. Caleb's good. He's young and a bit excitable but he's a good kid. Still, he's awful young," Bobby repeated and shook his head.

"Yeah, but he's motivated. Like Dean. He's got reason to be out there."

Bobby watched John's back. The door to the spare room clicked shut and he sighed, like he seemed to do so often when Winchester was around, and topped up his glass. Caleb was too damn young and he had no idea why John was willing to ride with him and Dell. Sixteen years old…the guns the boy was expected to use were almost as big as him. And that thought led to an image of Dean aiming and firing nearly perfect shot after shot in a paper target, the Beretta John had bought for him early in the summer settled in his hands like it'd grown there…Bobby frowned. He'd have to stop trying to make a division between hunters and hunters' children in his mind—heck, maybe there was no such thing.

God damn, he wished for anything else but this life for Dean and Sammy. Hell, Caleb lost his whole family not three years ago—sure, that kid had a reason to be what he was. But Dean—Dean had been four when he lost his mother, and Sam a baby. Neither one of those kids really knew who she was anymore…and here came John Winchester ready to sacrifice their lives and call it protecting them, for a chance at revenge. Fucker.

In the morning Bobby had a stack of waffles and a pile of bacon waiting for the boys, with warm apple pie filling to pour over the top and chocolate milk in their glasses.

Sam took one look at the piles of food and only three plates and his face crumbled up. "Where's Dad's plate?"

Dean's eyes jerked towards Sam and then towards Bobby. He looked suspicious, bordering on angry. "What Sammy said."

"Well…" Bobby started, and Dean's shoulders dropped, his face fell. Sam reached out for Dean's hand and his little face went blank.

"He's gone. Okay," Dean said and pulled Sam closer to him. "Can we eat now?"

"Sure. Sure. Listen, yer dad said he'd be home in three weeks, maybe less. And hey, we can get pumpkins, and—and make pie, this is the time for apple pie makin'. Karen used to make—Karen was my wife, she used to make good pies and I taught myself to do the same, not as good as her, mind, but--" Bobby kept talking until the boys unfroze and seemed to forget that their father dropped them off at with a person who, despite calling him Uncle Bobby, they really didn't know. Well, fuck that, Bobby figured it was time they got to know him pretty damn well. "Tomorrow, first thing, we're gonna get started on our pie lessons, right boys? We'll have our own school."

"Right, Uncle Bobby," Sam piped up and Dean just smiled at him.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and put the two glasses of chocolate milk on the table. On impulse, he set another mug, a little less than half full of coffee next to Dean, tossed in a couple of tablespoons of sugar, and topped it off with milk, until it was almost white. He winked at Dean and Dean flat out grinned and Bobby thought it was a good thing to see.

Bobby felt curious eyes on him as he went up and down the aisles of the supermarket, trailed by a pair of silent boys, so close under his heel he was almost stepping on one or the other constantly. Every few feet he stopped, and explained to someone new, "Yeah, they're my nephews, yeah, my ah—sister's kids. Not Marge, Sheryl. You remember, the wild one." He smiled, and hoped to cryin' out loud no one ever found out Sheryl was happily ensconced in a commune in the assback of nowhere, busy knitting plant holders or what the hell ever you called that stuff and probably growing pot. He wished her happiness. The boys just stared up solemn-faced and mute. After a while, he started getting that look, that 'poor damaged little dears' look. He caught Dean's eyes and rolled his. Dean grinned.

"People are idiots," Bobby muttered and Dean nodded.

Chapter Text

Two weeks passed and on a rare, pleasantly warm October afternoon, they were sat comfortably on the side porch, soaking up sun and fresh air only slightly tinged with the smell of fuel. Bobby worked with Dean on the English lesson from one of the workbooks he'd bought for the boys because it didn't matter if school was simply a matter of when or whatever was convenient as per John Winchester, the boy had to learn something else besides how to clean a gun, or sharpen a knife or dress a god damn wound. Sam sat working diligently on his own assignment, his little face set in a pleased sort of concentration. Bobby wondered if he could talk John into letting the boys just stay with him, or Jim, through the school year. It was so plain to see that Sam loved learning and Dean neededit. Bobby watched Dean struggle through the paragraph he'd been given, and bit back a sigh. That boy needed to know he was more than just John's potential backup and Sam's baby-sitter. Bobby wished like hell he could give the kid some sort of sense of self-worth before shoving him back out on the road with John.

He was just about to collect up their work when the phone rang. He went into the kitchen to grab it, expecting that it was John finally calling with an update. He picked up, and for a long few minutes there was nothing but breathing on the line. "John?"

"Bobby, Bobby…I. Damn."

"Caleb? What the fuck's going on, son? Where's John, Dell?"

"Oh fuck, Bobby…Dell's…he's dead, he's. John shot him." The boy's voice broke, rose and fell like it hadn't since he was thirteen.

"Damn it, damn it, let me talk to John--"

Oh fuck…fuck…John's gone too. We. I mean he—the fucker took his head right off. John shot Dell, 'cause the werewolf was eating him, an'—an' then John shot the fuckin' were too, but…the mate, the goddamn mate backtracked, came up behind us--ripped John's head right off. Oh God, I fucked up, Bobby," Caleb wailed. "I fucked up, an' let it get behind us and now the boys don’t have no one and it's my fault—"

"Where the fuck are you, Caleb?"

"Wyoming, still here in Wyoming."

"Can you get back here—John's car okay to drive? You okay to drive?"

"Unh-hunh." The boy's breath hitched and caught and Bobby knew he was fighting hard to copy Bobby's seeming calm.

"All right. You get yourself out of there. Just—Caleb. Did you get the son-of a bitch?"

"Fucking blew a barn door in it, Bobby. Blew a hole you could walk through, right where its heart was. It's dead as shit and I put its ashes in a hole. It…" he laughed, a little wild and high. "They said it was a mountain lion done Dell and John in."

"They don't want to know the truth, son. Works in our favor sometimes. You come on in, y'hear? I'm sending a cleaner out to take care of John and Dell."

John Winchester had been a prickly, hard-ass sonofa-bitch, but Bobby'd heard through the grapevine, he'd been a good man to have at your back in the jungle, a good man to have at your back in a hunt, and he'd loved his wife and kids. He'd wanted revenge, more than that; he'd wanted other families to never have to suffer what he had. Bobby wiped his eyes. Damn shame he'd sacrificed his own family for it…Bobby took a deep, steadying breath, and walked out to the side porch.

Both the boys were staring at him, like they already knew. Bobby sat down on a step, staring out into the distance. "Boys—Dean, Sam—I don't know how—" He waved them close, and they sat next to him, Dean closest and Sam curled into Dean's side, his eyes wide and frightened. He curled an arm around them as best he could and looked down on Dean. Dean's lips trembled before he tightened them. He curled his small hand into a tight fist, and set it on Bobby's knee.

"Tell us," he said, and Bobby nodded, the sting of tears blocking out sight of the world for a hot second. help me out here, Karen—no way I can soft pedal this, not with these boys… He took a deep breath, and spit it out. "That was Caleb on the phone, boys. He called to tell us, your daddy's dead. He died a hero, don’t you doubt it."

Dean jerked, went pale as milk. He grabbed at Sam, who squeaked at Dean's sudden tight grip. He swayed in his seat and then, pulled himself upright and steady. He nodded, his freckles standing out like spatters of blood on linen, and silently pressed his face into the thick thatch of Sam's hair. For the first time that Bobby could remember, Dean actually looked like the eleven year old he was…

Sam, on the other hand wasn't nearly as quiet and resigned as Dean—quite the opposite, not that Bobby was surprised—

"You're lying!" Sam pushed Dean away. "No—my dad's not dead. You're wrong. You stop crying," he shouted at Dean. "Daddy's not dead!" and slugged him in the arm, kept punching until Dean moved away.

Sam refused to believe them; he refused Dean and Bobby's company. Bobby's heart broke for the both of them: Sam, for believing so stubbornly in John's invincibility, Dean, for being so totally abandoned by his little brother when he needed him so. Even so, Dean understood Sam in a way Bobby found hard to believe. It was extraordinary, he thought, that young boy understood how terrified Sam was and how much Sam needed him to be the strong one. Bobby saw Dean put his own terror aside; saw that there was always nothing but love in the boy's face. It didn't seem possible, but that was Dean.

All the rest of that day, Sam sat on the porch waiting, until the chill of the evening drove him inside and then, he curled himself in a ball and slept against the kitchen door. In the morning, he was out the porch again, his pet blanket wrapped around him, and his eyes narrowed at the horizon. Bobby sent food out for him with Dean, he sent breakfast, lunch, and finally dinner, before Sam ate a bit. He let Dean sit next to him after that, let him edge gradually closer, until he was leaning into Dean, drowsing as the sun set again. That night, Bobby heard him crying, on and off, for hours. He heard Dean assuring him over and over that he was safe, that he'd take care of Sam, that he'd never, ever, ever leave him, not ever….

Dean knew that what had happened was his fault. It was because he could never be good enough, and he'd robbed his dad of that confidence—the confidence that Dean had his back and he didn't need to worry. If Dad worried about them, it divided his concentration and that was dangerous. And that's why…that's why it happened. Because Dad had lost his trust in Dean. He kept his eye on Sam as Sam wandered around the porch and dirt driveway, trailing after Bobby's big Rottweiler. He kept it together, because Sam needed him. But inside he knew…he was a failure. Bobby knew, or he'd see it soon enough and send Dean away. When he did, he'd beg him to keep Sammy—it was safe here, and he needed to know that Sam was safe. When he was sure of that, than whatever happened to him just didn't matter.

Dean heard the slow footsteps coming up the stairs to the attic, and few seconds later he heard a knock at the storage room door, the place Sam and he had kind of taken to thinking of as their own whenever they stayed at Bobby's. He opened to find Bobby twisting a faded, old Napa cap in his hands, with a look that screamed he wanted to be talking about anything but what he said next.

"Dean, I wanted to tell you, Caleb called; he's bringing your dad's car home. I thought I better tell you and let you give Sam a head's up, before…you know."

Dean imagined that car pulling up and Sam thinking Dad was behind the wheel…"Let me go tell Sammy. We can wait for the car together."

They were sitting in the bed of a junked truck when the Impala finally rolled down the drive, sun flaring off the chrome that traced her sleek lines, her grill sneering forever at any monster that tried to get at her. They waited until the car rolled to a full stop, and then they jumped down and went to thank Caleb for bringing her home. Dean thought it was weird that the car looked no different…seemed like there should be some difference, some sign that…that their dad wasn't ever going to be driving her again.

Caleb stepped out the car and froze when he caught sight of them. He dropped his eyes when he caught Dean looking at him, and Dean couldn't have that. It wasn't Caleb's fault…he'd done it all right, had followed Dad's orders right to the last. That's what being a hunter was all about. Dean drew himself up tall as he could and pushed forward, held his hand out to Caleb and said, "My brother and I appreciate you bringing Dad's car back." Dean tilted his head back to look at Caleb, and after a bit of fidgeting, Caleb finally met Dean's eyes, took his hand. It wrapped around Dean's, swallowed up his small hand, and Dean wondered at how hot and rough it was, just like his dad's.

"Your dad was the bravest man I ever met. I hope that someday, I can be half as good as him, Dean. You and Sam, you gotta know that I would have died in his place if I could, no doubt about that."

Dean nodded, felt his eyes water up, and shame made his face burn, until he saw the tears running down Caleb's face. Sam wrapped himself even tighter around Dean's waist, getting between Caleb and Dean when Caleb reached out to wrap his arms around Dean. Dean rolled his eyes--even under the weight of sadness and guilt, Sam's acting up made him smile.

Caleb gave Sam an odd look before reaching out and ruffling his hair. "Take care of your brother, I gotta talk to Bobby," he said and headed into the house.

Sam stood in the drive, staring at the car, his pet blanket wrapped 'round and 'round him. It was quiet, so quiet Dean could hear himself breathing, hear his own heartbeat. He leaned against the Impala's chilly metal flank, pressed the heel of his hand against his chest and remembered…

Sleeping in the backseat, Mom and Dad's voices a gentle rumble coming from the front seat. If he opened his eyes, he could watch the stars run away from them in the rear window.

Driving around and around the neighborhood, baby Sammy in his arms, crying and kicking his little legs angrily, Dean and Dad both singing One toke Over The Line, trying to get Sammy to sleep or at least stop crying so hard.

Dean sitting in the front seat, eating an ice-cream cone and listening to Dad describe a baseball game he'd seen when he was Dean's age.

Sam, a light, warm, weight leaning against him, snoring a little and the rock and roll motion of the car trying to make him fall sleep too—"Dean."

He felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down. Sam was staring up at him. "Can we sit inside, please?" He raised his arms, and Dean huffed and puffed—struggled to lift Sam up and carry him into the car and not trip on his long legs, or step on the edge of his darn blanket and brain his brother and him both. It was a relief to get Sam into the car without knocking his brains out.

They curled up together in the back seat, Sam straddling Dean so he could lay flat against his chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, Sam's head tucked under Dean's chin. Dean pulled the blanket around them both, and pretended Dad was in the front and they were rolling down the road. Feeling snug, warm and above all, safe, with the scent of the only home they really knew all around them, they fell sound asleep.

It didn't take Bobby long to decide that no way in hell was he giving those boys up. He had a chance to give them something, a more stable life—some kind of normal, such as it was. He gave some thought to finding Mary's family, or anyone from John's and dropped it. He contacted a hunter friend instead, arranged for Sam and Dean to have impeccable papers—it wasn't really that hard to do. Dean and Samuel Singer were slated to start school after the winter break, having been sent to live with their uncle Bobby when it was found that their parents neglected them. That story would cover a lack of school transcripts, and a lot of background. Bobby told Dean the backstory and Dean hated the idea.

"Tell you what Dean, you can take that story and work it. See if it don't make things easier for ya. Chicks fall like a ton of bricks for a good sob story."

Dean could see the wisdom in that, gave Bobby a lop-sided grin while Sam rolled his eyes and made a face. Sam didn't care about chicks, or sob stories--Sam was just thrilled to be going to a real school, getting real school supplies, and a new, never been worn before, coat and boots. He was a little miffed that his blanket wasn't allowed to go with him but Dean convinced him it wasn't cool for a third grader to carry a blanket around—but not to worry, it'd be waiting for him every day after school.

It was late in the evening, Bobby sat at the kitchen table, a glass in front of him, another set across from him where the empty chair mocked him. Iron Butterfly played quietly in the background, and the air still stank like burning herbs under the smell of air freshener. "Feel like I'm fifteen again, damn it, hiding my weed…" he muttered. "You should have been here to toke up with me, you cantankerous sonofa bitch."

He heard the careful padding of small bare feet and a second later Dean was at his elbow. "Boy, what are you doing outa bed? You know what time it is?" Bobby groused, glancing over the table to make sure everything was put away.

Dean looked him in the eye, not the least bit shy or repentant. "Uncle Bobby, I been thinking so hard I can't get to sleep—the thing is, I don’t want to forget what Dad knew. I still want to learn all the things he knew. Do you think I could?"

Bobby sighed. He'd been planning on giving the boys as normal a life as he could. There was no way he wanted those boys neck deep the way John had been leading them to be. But Dean had a point…Bobby couldn't leave them defenseless. He'd just have to make a middle ground somehow. "Sure, Dean. We'll do it. We'll try, anyway."

Dean nodded, and handed Bobby a blood-stained journal, held shut by a thin strip of leather. Notes were poking out of the sides; the cover was cracked and bent…"Me and Sammy found this in the car. It was Dad's. We thought you should have it. Hold it for us, for a while?"

"I'd be proud to hang onto that for you boys. When you want it back, when you're ready for it, it's here."

Dean nodded, and went off back to bed, and Bobby cleaned up and shuffled off to his own bedroom.

Bobby sat paralyzed at the side of the bed, John's journal open on his lap.

Sam…John had notes about Sam in his journal. Vague, stumbling, mostly conjecture and not much fact, but still… all signs pointed to something Bobby had never heard of—that there seemed to be a possibility that Sam was infected—marked by the thing, the demon, that had killed his mother. In the journal, John spoke plenty about not telling the boy, and reading around the coded words the man liked to use made the hair on Bobby's neck stand right up. Because they seemed to indicate that John felt there might come a time he would have to prepare himself to put the boy down. Something deep inside Bobby burned, and he wished that John was here in front of him so's he could make him eat the damn book, page by fucking page. He'd always known Winchester was ten kinds of fucked-up crazy but this proved it. How a man who suspected his baby son might be in trouble wasn't concentrating every bit of his brain and heart on that—instead of revenge—

Bobby took a deep breath and put the book down. Well. John's plan was crap. He was gonna do some deep research, look into this shit—if it was possible for such a thing to be true, there'd be a record of it--somewhere. He scrubbed his face hard, and let that breath out in one long exhale. Until Karen, he'd have immediately said John was crazy as a shit house rat. . Nowadays…well. Nowadays he just couldn't take a damn thing for granted. If it turned out John was right, than the boy should know—in order to protect himself, he should know all of it. Sure, he was too young now, but as soon as he was old enough, he'd have to have every bit of information possible—Dean too. Maybe he should tell Dean first, explain to him what risk Sam was under because as God was his witness, between the two of them, there was no way Sam would ever have to suffer this…thing. Besides, Bobby had something on his side that John didn't. And that was some god damn common sense.

He put the thing in a lock box, and shoved it back under his bed. Got up to make sure the boys were all right.

He watched their little chests rise and fall. Dean looked content in his sleep…his dad's mission must have weighed heavily on his mind. The two of them were wrapped around each other like ivy, could hardly tell where one left off and the other began. He sighed. He was going to have to get real beds for them, not just sleeping bags and a nest of old quilts…real curtains too, instead of sheets tacked across the windows…he glanced around the junk-filled room, back to the little corner they'd cleared out for the boys. Might as well get rid of all the useless crap, he thought and make them a proper place to live. He smiled. Karen, she would have liked this a lot. She would have loved having these boys as hers, no doubt about that….

Bobby found that having two boys underfoot all day long, day in and day out, getting into stuff and ruining his peace and quiet, was just about the best thing that ever happened to his ass. They kept him on his toes, kept him out of the bottle and memories of Karen and…what had happened there. She had been the love of his life, and it was only now, that John's boys were his, that the old house was beginning to fill with light again.

The storage room became a proper room—there was plenty of space for two boys up there under the eaves. They had a lively couple of weekends emptying the weird detritus that had migrated up there. Two twin beds were moved into the brand new space, and the walls were painted a masculine blue, the narrow windows hung with white and yellow curtains. A pair of dressers had been unearthed in the pile of junk in one of his sheds, and they'd also found, from God knows where, a pair of lamps shaped liked cowboy boots that were ugly as sin but Sam had fallen instantly in love with them. Bobby would have been a little happier if Sam hadn't also opted for pink linens, but it was what he insisted on, and Dean explained that his Dad had forbid it but it was Sam's favorite color and yeah, it was embarrassing as hell but what the heck, he was just a little kid who didn't know any better so could he please have pink, and by the way, no way in hell did he want pink. Dean's choice was a bright red bed set featuring racing cars Bobby bought from the Wal-Mart and he was over the moon with joy about them.

Bobby was pleased, but also kind of heartsick, that it took so little to make those boys so happy.

Chapter Text

Someday Never Comes 3

"Well, boys, whatya think?" Bobby asked, and then winced. Okay, taking it out of its battered, dusty box from under the stairs, wrestling it into some kind of shape, it hadn't seemed that bad, but looking at it now, trying to imagine how the boys saw it, he felt…guilty and sad and kind of stupid. Until he looked down at the boys.

Sam and Dean both stared, openmouthed, as the twinkling colored lights went through their cycle, and the slightly dented star set on top of the sway backed tree reflected blue and red and green…"It's beautiful," Sam whispered and Dean nodded, squeezing Sam's hand and Bobby, he had to go in the kitchen and make some cocoa. Wipe his eyes. When he came back out with the cocoa, the boys had a small package sitting between them.

"We wanted to get you something for Christmas but we didn' have any money so we made you something instead—"

Sam got out in one breath and Dean watched Bobby like…well, like he was afraid Bobby was going to laugh at Sam, or shove him away and if he did, Dean was going to kill him and not in a metaphorical way....

Bobby nodded solemnly and took the surprisingly heavy package and opened it to find a rock with nuts and bolts glued to it in an artistic way, spelling 'Bobby'. He held it in his hand and felt his whole face going soft.

"It's a paperweight," Sam explained, "so you don't lose your bills and stuff when you're working. See, you do this," he said, and took it and set it on a couple of sheets of paper that were laying on the coffee table.

"I—I—this is the best damn gift I ever got—and practical, real practical. Clever too, the way you guys got my name on here." He wiped at his eyes and Sam beamed and Dean gave him a look that made Bobby want to cry like a little girl—hell, he'd never done anything in his whole life to warrant such a look. He figured, he better step up to the plate and do his best to earn it. "Thank you boys. I got something for you too. Hope you like it." He handed Sam a bag full of books—books that Dean had helped him pick out. Books Dean remembered being left behind at all the various motel and squats they'd moved on from. And a library card in Sam's name. Dean got a book about classic cars and a jacket, a little leather-look jacket with a sheepskin collar that Dean instantly feel in love with. There was candy, and new socks and mittens and the big surprise, a TV for the both of them---to share. "The first time you fight over it, it goes right in my room, got it?"

It was the best Christmas he'd had since Karen passed, and he had a feeling it was probably the only real Christmas the boys had had in years. He sighed as they raced off to their bedroom, to put their gifts away. He pondered going off to the bathroom, just to check if he still had all his manly parts, seeing as how he'd spent more time crying since those boys got here then he had in his whole life to date and that included Nam.

The day he stood at the end of the drive way and watched the school bus take his boys away, was one of the best, and worst days of his life. He was truly disgusted with himself for carrying on so. Not like they weren't coming back in a couple of hours. He yanked the brim of his cap lower, and scratched his nose. He definitely was not wiping his eyes.

"Pssst…Dean. Can I get in your bed?"

"No—you have your own bed now, pink sheets an' all, just like you wanted."
Sam grinned, a wide white smear of pure happiness. "I know! Uncle Bobby's the best, right? But it's lonely all the way over there…"

"Sam! There's a whole, what, desk between us? Come on, kid. You gotta get used to it sometimes," he wheedled, but Sam just crossed his little matchstick arms and heaved huge sighs, staring at his kneecaps until guilt made Dean shove over, "Oh, all right. Come on."

"Thanks Dean, your bed's more comfortable anyway."

"Yeah, yeah, just don't drool on me, okay? And don't put your feet in my face either."

Sammy giggled, "I'd never!" And the proceeded to step all over Dean's back. Dean smiled into his pillow and rolled flat to his stomach. Ten minutes tops, and Sam would be snoring his little head off.

In less than that, Sam was gone and Dean followed him shortly after.

"Dean, do you think Dad misses us? I miss him. I think about him a lot. But…remember that summer when we found that pond down the road from Uncle Bobby's, and we caught the frogs? And when we tied strings to the junebugs and flew them all over, and the dragonflies, remember them?" Dean remembered it all. He remembered hotdogs and chips and cokes on Bobby's back porch, and watching fireworks go off on the fourth, he remembered Bobby taking them all to the movies and them yelling at the screen…

"I miss Dad but I'm glad we got to do this stuff. And I know we'd never do it with Dad and…am I a bad person for being glad we can do this, that we can live with Uncle Bobby? Should I be crying for Dad, instead of loving my room and my books and…"

Dean put his arm around Sam and pulled him close. "It's okay to love that stuff Sam, it's fine—Dad would want us to be happy and most of all safe and Bobby, he's keeping us safe. Loving this doesn't mean you don’t love Dad. I love it too. Sammy, I'm glad we have a house. I'm glad we're here with Uncle Bobby, 'cause if we can’t have Dad, this is second good. Most important thing though, is we got each other, it can’t ever be the worst as long as we got each other."

Sam looked up at Dean in awe. "You're really smart, Dean."

"Ahh, not really, but I think about Dad a lot, try to figure him out, you know? Think like he'd think…"

"Sam!" What the hell was that kid up to now….

Sam slouched around the corner and peered into the kitchen at Bobby, his face folded into a frown, eyes too shiny. Bobby heaved a sigh. He knew what this was about, and he had his hands about full trying to deal with it. "For the last time boy, it's his girlfriend, and he ain't running away to get married. Keep your ass out here so he can have a bit of damn privacy, y'hear?"

"But why? Why does he need privacy? How come I can't stay in the room—it's mine too! I got books in there—"

"Because what I said, don’t you listen?" Sam at twelve was as much a handful as Sam at six…Bobby took a deep breath and struggled to hold in an exasperated sigh, because even the hint of temper was bound to set the boy off. Only God knew how much he loved that kid but some days he felt like kicking his narrow ass over the moon.

"He just wants to kiss her." Sam folded his arms across his chest and pouted even harder. "That's all those friends of his do, find some girl to slobber all over. Jerks."

"Yeah well, one day soon, you're gonna wanna do that too. Just wait, boy."

"Unh-uh! And he's got his hands in her pants, I saw that when I peeked in—"

"Fuck a duck--you--boy—" Bobby cursed, and swore he felt his blood pressure banging against the top of his skull. That damn Dean—the boy was going to be the death of him. He stomped over to the stairwell and yelled up the stair, "Dean! Get down here right now. It's—it's dinner time!." He whipped around and saw Sam's self-satisfied little smirk. "And you--set the table. You'll be doing the damn dishes tonight, too."

"That's not fair! I didn't do nothing!"

"Life's not fair. Think about that the next time you toss your brother under the bus because you're bein' a little shit."

Sam walked off muttering about Bobby's horrible parenting skills and Dean came slinking down the stairs, red-faced and rumpled, with a girl just as red-faced and rumpled as him. They slinked past and Bobby wrinkled his nose. Look like that talk was past due. Jesus.

After a tense, quiet dinner, Bobby took Dean to the side, both of them ignoring Sammy's Glare of Death, or the clunk-clunk coming from the sink that promised the need for new glasses.

They stepped out to the back porch and Bobby made Dean take a seat on the top step. Bobby grunted, snapped his trucker's cap out of his back pocket and made a production of putting it on. Dean watched him fidget and fidgeted himself, nerves making him worry at his lip. Finally Bobby took a deep breath and figured he might as well just jump the hell on in. "Okay, look here boy, you ain't getting no one pregnant. 'Cause then I'd hafta kill you, and you know this is a big damn yard, lots of places to put the body."

"Bobby! God! I'm not—I'm not." Dean went red as a beet and made a complicated hand move through the air that Bobby supposed he was to take as meaning the boy wasn't fucking the girl…

"Yeah, well, there's all kindsa fucked up diseases lurking out there too. And rubbers are good for all of them and it don't make that much difference in feeling no matter what other guys sa—"

"Bobby! I'm--" Dean dropped his head in his hands. "We're just—we're not having any kinda sex, all right? I mean, not sex like that—God. Can. Can I go now? I gotta go kill Sammy," he muttered darkly.

"You can't kill him 'til after the dishes are done. All right--I'm gonna believe that you listened to me, remember what I said about the raincoats—shut up. Now get out there and help your baby brother clean up."

Dean took off gratefully, slamming the screen door open, and threatening to gut Sam.

"Nobody but the MFIC gets to gut anyone, you all heard me? Lights out in thirty, damn it!" Bobby dropped back to the porch step, shaking his head. He looked upward and muttered, "Remind me again why it's a good thing tryin' to wrangle them idjits into adulthood?" He swore he heard his Karen say Don't be a fool Robert Singer, you wouldn’t want to be doing anything else.

He closed his eyes, head still tilted to the stars, and smiled. Yeah…that was the God's honest truth. He heard a crash and jumped, but kept his eyes closed. Yep. Whatever that was, was coming out of someone's allowance, for damn sure….

A few days later, Sam came sidling up to Bobby, inching around his desk and carefully not toppling the stacks of notes he had teetering on the edges and piled up on the floor. Bobby looked up, wondering if Sam wanted to join him in research but the boy's eyes were swimming and it didn't take a genius to know what was bothering him. Again. Bobby leaned over and moved the stack of books and parchments out of the overstuffed chair next to his. "Sit. What's up?"
"Uncle Bobby…I don't think Dean lo—likes me anymore. He won’t talk to me, he shoved me out of my bed—" at Bobby's skeptical look, Sam sighed. "Our bed. He says I gotta sleep in the other one but the other one's lumpy and cold. He says I gotta give him privacy but he's not private with those girls. I swear, I just hate him. He's a bas—jerk, and I *hate* him."

"Now Sam, no you don't. Won't be long before girls are as fascinating to you as to Dean."

"I don't think so. They're all—" hand wave he copied from Dean—"well…I guess there is one nice girl in one of my classes. She's very smart. And quiet, I like that. Dean's too loud and he teases me all the time. She doesn't tease. And she likes the same books I do."

"You'll find that lots of people like the same thing that you do—if you give them a chance, you know. Be more, I don't know, friendly. Patient. Not everyone can read your mind like Dean can. Don't make them stupid."

Sam nodded reluctantly. "Maybe." He kicked his heels gently against the chair legs and seemed deep in thought. Bobby had the feeling that Dean wasn't going to like the track Sam's mind was taking in the long run. Bobby was kinda curious himself as to what Sam was gonna come up with. In the five years the boys had been with him, Sam never failed to surprise him. And Dean…hard to believe the boy was sixteen. It was soon going to be time to talk to him about a whole lot of things, not just what not to do with girls.

Bobby had had the best intentions, he really did, he'd wanted the boys to know about John's worry…but Sam was happy, smart as a whip, full of confidence and growing like a weed. And Dean. Dean was so far from the fatalistic, little gray shadow of a boy who'd washed up on his door step years ago it was almost miraculous. He was…happy. Something Bobby had hoped he would be but he'd honestly never thought that'd happen in the life John chose for them…they'd never have had even a passing glance at normal.

Not that Bobby was about to let them wander around the world unprotected. They trained, no mistake—they trained. They learned Latin, which Dean wrestled with a bit and in the long run did okay with, but Sam? Sam sucked it up like a sponge, just loved research, seemed like for its own sake and that was something Bobby could appreciate and didn't mind fostering one bit. As for the physical stuff, Bobby considered it part of his promise to Dean that they train that way as well though Bobby called young Caleb in for that. Hell, Bobby had done all the five mile hikes with a full pack he'd ever intended to do a whole lifetime ago, not to mention he preferred the Harrison Ford approach to close combat—nothing like a Smith & Wesson to round the odds up, nice and even. Not that he was about to tell his boys that. In the meantime, he'd wait some--before Dean graduated for sure. Just a little longer so Sam could have something like normal for a bit longer….

"Dean-o!" Caleb called, and climbed out of the Mustang he'd parked next to the Impala, stepping around piles of grimy slush.

Sam frowned, kicked at the snow and made a face when it spattered his jeans. "Gah, I hate when he calls you that—Dean-o. What an asshole."

"Shutup, you little bitch. You just hate that he's cool and you're totally not." Dean poked Sam where he figured his stomach was under his puffy down coat. Sam slammed an elbow into Dean's side; thankfully his ribs were protected somewhat by his own down coat. Dean bit his cheek and fought down a quick flare of guilt. Sam had put on some weight since he hit twelve, kind of softening all over and was sensitive about it—he probably thought Dean was teasing him, but really, it was cute and besides, he'd grow out of it soon, some kids just—

"Hey, Earth to Dean. Where you at, man?" Caleb was right in front of him, banging his gloved hands together and jogging from foot to foot. "It's a little cold out here, dude—you gonna let me in?"

Dean blushed, waved him forward. "Hiya Caleb, just—I'm just thinking." He ignored Sam's huff and didn't need eyes in the back of his head to see him rolling his eyes—he could practically hear it. "Glad you're here, man."

"Wait until I put you through drills in the snow and then tell me how glad you are. Hey, is Bobby around? Couple of guys asked me to bring some stuff for him." He hefted a leather messenger bag higher on his shoulder, the strap crossing his chest and it must have been heavy, Dean thought, the way Caleb leaned against its weight.

"He's in the basement, working on this pet project of his. It's…awesome," Dean grinned. "Wait until you see."

Caleb set the bag down at the foot of the basement stairs and whistled, long and loud. Even Sam grinned at him, as Caleb drank in the impressive sight of Bobby's 'project'. "Damn, Bobby…what the heck is this?"

Bobby was standing in a room built into one corner of the basement. It looked like the shell of a boiler tank, maybe two, stood on end, welded and riveted together, then fitted with a door that looked like he'd snagged it from a submarine. The whole thing was made of solid iron and painted a gritty, dull, grey inside. "Well, this thing is…a panic room?" He shrugged and winked at Dean, gave Caleb a wry little smile.

"Effing hell, Bobby, what in the world happened that you think you need this?"

"Well, me and Dean and Sam, we got to talking one night and…this kind of happened."

"Hunh." Caleb looked it up and down. "Was like, a shitload of beer involved?"

Sam jumped up and laid a hand on the wall. "Look! We put salt in the paint, lots of it, you can even feel it a little, and we put all these runes on the walls and the floor and even the ceiling and look up there!" Sam was nearly hopping up and down and Dean bit his lip to smother a laugh. "That was Dean's idea."

Dean shrugged, unconsciously copying Bobby. It wasn't that big a deal---if he hadn't mentioned it first, no doubt Sam would have come up with the idea, but the fan Bobby installed to circulate air in the chamber just seemed like the perfect spot to rig a devil's trap. Nothing demonic was coming through that air vent and nothing that hated silver either, Bobby had welded bits into the devils' trap.

Sam looked over at Dean like the sun rose and set on him, and Dean blushed, even harder when Caleb grinned at him too. "Sam's right, Dean, that was smart. Don’t hide your light, kid, there's nothing wrong with being smart."

"I tell him that all the time," Sam huffed and then muttered, "not that he ever listens to me."

Chapter Text

Someday Never Comes 4

Bobby sent them out back to a spot he'd cleared out of the yard, hay bales with targets pinned to them made one side of the range, and a home-made obstacle course made the other. It was hot and dusty out there, the sun turning the cars around them into beacons. They learned to compensate for sudden blinding flares—Bobby said he'd done it on purpose but Dean figured he'd just been too lazy to shift the wrecks around…soon they fell into the familiar pattern of shoot, load, shoot, wait for Sammy to stop bitching about the heat and the dirt and how stupid it all was and shoot some more. Caleb walked over to Sam and said something quiet to him, and Sam nodded. He didn't even shrug Caleb's hand off his shoulder, and smiled a bit when Caleb patted him on the back and left him to pop off a few more shots. He flat out grinned when Caleb called time, and raced off to the house, done for the moment. Turning fourteen might have given him a few more inches height, and a better reach, but it hadn't made him like PT or target practice anymore than he used to.

Dean though, he liked it out there. He worked out by himself plenty of times but liked working out even better when Caleb trained with them, always eager to get praise from Caleb. Caleb was good at instructing--he was even handed with them both. He always found something good to say, and if he had to correct them, he did it in a way that made Dean want to work harder—even Sam would grudgingly accept praise from Caleb, and Dean noticed that Sam would work a little harder too, with Caleb around. Like he'd done today, shooting past the point he'd wanted to.

Dean had turned out to be a dead shot, took after Dad, Caleb said. Caleb said he was better than Dad but Dean doubted that. Still, it made him blush and fight a grin whenever Caleb said so. Sam was pretty hit-or-miss when it came to accuracy. It was the same with knives—Sam's first few throws were always pretty good but his accuracy dropped off fast and no amount of practice improved that drop-off. Caleb reminded Sam that he was young still, and not to worry about it too much, he was sure to improve as he got older. But the fact was, Sam was never going to have to go on a hunt and test that ability. Likely if Bobby had his way, neither Sam nor Dean would ever put these particular skills to the test.

Dean of course, had his own ideas, but he kept them to himself. Someday, he was going to go after the bitch that had ruined their lives and taken their mom away. Hell, it took their dad too, just as surely as if the monster had killed him personally, and no way was a Winchester going to walk away from that. Dean thought about it a lot, how it would go. He figured one of these days, when Caleb pulled out of the yard, he'd ride right out with him and finish what John Winchester started. He made plans, what he'd take, what he'd need, how he'd live, and kept it to himself because he knew Sam would probably kill him if he knew, hell, Bobby too.

Caleb broke into Dean's thoughts again, coming up behind him quiet as a cat. He leaned over Dean's shoulder, passing him off a Miller. He clacked the chilly bottle against Dean's and upended it. Dean grinned, rolled the icy wet bottle across his forehead and cheeks—mock-glared at Caleb. "Uncle Bobby know you cracked into his cooler?" He waved the bottle and Caleb laughed.

"Fuck yeah. You don’t steal a man's beer, Dean-o."

"You don't," Dean said and winked. He strolled over, joined Caleb where he leaned against his yellow Mustang. They parked there for a while, sipping beer, shoulder to shoulder and not saying much…Dean tried to keep his eyes off that upper story window and not think about anything except the thin, bitter taste of beer in his mouth.

Graduation was great—and weird. First because there was a part of him surprised to have done as well as he did, let alone graduate. His first couple of years in school had been…rocky, to say the least. Until he realized that it actually did matter, and that Bobby hadn't just been saddled with a couple of kids—he'd really wanted them. They'd really found a home with him.

And now, this. He was out of high school, maybe going to a local college in the fall—maybe. It was cool. Uncle Bobby kept coming up to him, patting his back, making like a guppy. Every time Dean had been sure the man was about to speak, he'd just shake his head and wander off--in general, acting like he had a screw loose.

Sam seemed a little puzzled too, but just shrugged—no more idea than Dean did what was up with Bobby. But later that evening, sitting at the diner and enjoying what Sam called Dean's victory dinner; in fact while Dean was shoveling in the first of two slices of the best damn peach pie ever, Bobby had given him a gift. Shoved a crappily wrapped box across the table toward him. Inside, Dean found a big ass Casio engraved with his graduation date. It was the kind cops wore: big, black, and blocky--he'd have to take a tire iron to the damn thing to fuck it up. A warm hand clapped his shoulder and fuck if Uncle Bobby wasn't about a spring breeze away from breaking into tears. Dean would never admit in a million years that he was feeling kinda that way himself.

Sam watched the two of them with a smile. Under the table his boney knee cap was a solid, warm, press against Dean's own. Dean pressed back. This day, it felt right, felt good. Grounding.

"I got something for you, too." Sam passed him a gift of his own. "Uncle Bobby helped me find it," he said.

Dean unwrapped a necklace, a little horned face on a leather thong. He liked it immediately, but made a face at Sam. "What's this?" he asked.

Sam reached across the table and before Dean could marvel at how long his arms had grown, he punched Dean in the chest. "Ass. Bobby said it's real old, the symbol of a protector—" Dean looked over at Bobby, and he nodded. Sam went on—"it's to remind you that no matter where you are, do the right thing. Not that you'd have trouble remembering to do that. And you know you love it," Sam said.

Dean grinned, dropped it over his neck. "Yeah, I do. Thanks, Sammy, I love it, serious."

Sam nodded. "You're welcome."

Bobby wanted to talk future with Dean but Dean held him off. He didn't want to think about the future—he'd just shed high school and while school was okay and all, he wanted to think about the summer and just…doing nothing for a bit. He had a few feelers in to local garages…maybe he'd break down and enroll in Kilian too, like Bobby'd been nagging him to do.

He also celebrated finally getting out of school another way--at the carnival that sprang up in the church's parking lot that June. Normally, he wouldn't have been caught dead there—carnivals stopped being a big deal when he was twelve—but things were different now. A tiny ass town like this didn't give back much in the way of entertainment and grownups usually had their eyes on the kids like they were going to erupt into werewolves at any second. But the carnival—well that was good, old-fashioned, clean fun and folks tended not to notice when you slipped away into the dark, or whether what you had in a giant plastic fun cup was coke or…not so much. At least that's what Sheila swore up and down was the case.

Sheila was pretty nice. Anyway, Dean had kind of talked himself into that opinion. She was easier to hang out with than most girls. She was cute: tall, nearly as tall as him, dark-haired, with pretty cat-eyes and a wide smile. She had a habit of tossing her head when she laughed and it made her long, dark pony tail dance over her shoulders. She listened to him talk about cars and sports and acted like it was interesting—she could hold her own in a conversation about them at any rate. They went to school dances together, and hung out around town, and here they were going to the church carnival together. He guessed that meant they were dating. Sort of. She seemed to think so, and it was less trouble to just go with it.

Which was why he ended up stuck at the top of an apparently non-functioning ferris wheel that was entirely too big for the penny ante operation this carnival was. Sheila had insisted it'd be cool, and he'd feel kind of scammed if she hadn't seemed to be just as nervous as he was desperately pretending he wasn't. She grabbed his arm and shrieked like mad when the damn thing creaked a bit before stopping again—but she let him quiet her with a kiss, mostly because it gave his mouth something to do besides screaming. Little soft pecks grazing her lips segued into long, sweet, slow, hot kisses that shot right to his dick. She just hummed in his mouth when he coaxed her hand from his shoulder to his crotch, rocked hard on his fingers when he snuck them between her legs. He'd done this, he knew how this went.

Sure, Shelia was really nice. This was really nice, and he liked her but there was something missing there…some spark. When she wasn't around, he didn't miss her and he knew that was screwed up, considering. Heck, he missed Caleb more than he missed Sheila. He missed Sammy more than her when Sam stepped out to the corner to hang out with his mean little crappy friends for a fucking hour….

Sheila chose that moment to pop the top button on his jeans and he was grateful that they were baggy—lots of room for her to slide her little fist inside. He might not miss her but he appreciated her being there on top of the ferris wheel with him at that moment. She had a sure grip, her hand smaller than his, a lot smaller than Sam's…he started a bit, such a clear picture of Sam grinning at him throwing him off his stride. It was weird and a little creepy that Sam should even cross his mind right then. Sam, he thought, Sam's hand--orgasm snuck up and punched him in the gut. He felt the burn as his face went red, his breath jerked out in spastic puffs, he had to ride out a sick, slick, roll in his gut before he could breathe again. He pushed it away and concentrated on getting Sheila off before the ferris wheel started its journey around to the ground.

Sheila was nice enough to ignore the all of a half minute it took him to get off….

The ferris wheel finally let its captives loose and they made a break through the impatient crowd. Dean was a little unsteady on his feet but feeling pretty good, Sheila leaning all over him and both of them grinning like goofs as they went. When Sam came running up a few seconds later, he was waving some scruffy stuffed—thing—and sporting his own grin, like a thousand suns lighting up his face, and aimed at straight at him, Dean felt an irrational rush of guilt, and kind of pushed Sheila off of him. Dean tried to ignore the quick flash of triumph in Sam's eyes. Made a fuss over Sam's marksmanship instead.

They walked back to the house together, just him and Sam, side by side on the side of the road. The heat had both of them slick with sweat, sticking their clothes to them in uncomfortable patches, in uncomfortable places. Sam's smell seemed to surround Dean, a mix of summer dust and chlorine, armpit and dried grass and a weird hint of vanilla cookies. It made him grin at Sam, pull him close and Sam lit up like a candle and leaned happily into him. Dean felt so good he didn't even stop Sam from slipping a hand into the back pocket of those baggy jeans. Dean pretended he didn't feel Sam's fingers slide and press against him and they both pretended that Dean wasn't half-hard all the way home.

Caleb was working a long job in Texas so Bobby had to take up the slack, which he did with not a lot of enthusiasm. With Bobby, there was a lot less PT and more working with knives, target practice—learning to work together. Dean thought they were starting to work really well together…not that he wanted Sammy doing what Caleb or other hunters did, but it was good to know his brother could protect himself if he had to.

pop-pop-pop

Puffs of hay flew into the air, the target pinned to the bales flapped a bit and settled. Sam had his gun pointed at the ground, safety on and turned a little away from the target, as Bobby strolled over to the mortally wounded hay bale. He held his hand up; thumb extended, and then spread out three fingers—Sam scored three bulls-eyes. "Good job, Sam," he called, "look at that, you're getting to be a regular sharp shooter.!"

"How 'bout that, Annie Oakley?" Dean whooped and avoided the foot headed towards his calf with a pleased laugh. He pounded Sam's shoulder, and then yanked him right into his chest. "See? Caleb was right—you needed to grow into it—dude, wait until he gets back. He's gonna be so proud of you."

Sam's smile dimmed a bit, and he shrugged. "Yeah. Whatever," he said. He cut his eyes toward Dean and asked, "You really care what Caleb thinks, don't you? It's real important hunh? Kinda like what Dad thought of you was important."

Dean dropped the arm that had curled around Sam's shoulder and took a step back. He looked away from Sam, ignored the tight feeling in his chest. He didn't remember all that much about his dad anymore, at least not the little things. It was all broad strokes and vague feelings now, except for the sure knowledge that he'd failed his dad in the worst way possible. He forced a scowl. "What're you talkin' about? What do you even remember about Dad—"

"I remember enough. I remember that you were always trying to get him to approve of you. You never grew out of that, hunh? Just transferred it to someone else like him."

"Fuck you, Sam," Dean sighed. Why can't you ever just…fuck it. Why can't…this…just be enough?"

Sam glared at him and stomped back to the house, Bobby watching him and giving Dean an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Ah, he's just PMSing," Dean growled. "The bitch," he muttered under his breath, and ignored the tired roll of his uncle's eyes. "Whatever."

That evening, Dean was washing up at the bathroom sink, ready to go out on what had become increasingly rarer dates since he and Sheila had parted ways. The door creaked open even wider, and Sam was there, slowly moving closer, almost tip-toeing, as if Dean couldn’t see him creeping in. He came to a stop at Dean's side, leaning against the counter with one elbow cocked. He was quiet, caught up in watching Dean pull the razor slowly over his chin, cutting wide, smooth swaths in the cream, mowing down barely visible stubble. Sam watched the performance with his mouth slightly parted, the pink tip of his tongue just visible. Dean swallowed, tried not to lose concentration but nicked himself when Sam licked his lip. Sam's thumb came up to press against the tiny wound. "I'm sorry," he murmured and Dean knew it was supposed to be several sorries for several things. He was awesome enough to forgive, because he was—

in the time it took to blink, Sam was pressed against his side, his eyes tilted and shining, his cheek close to Dean's. "Tsk. Cut yourself," Sam said and his voice was a curl of heat in his ear.

Dean shivered. Sam's eyes blinked slowly, like he was afraid of losing sight of Dean. He put the blood flecked tip of his thumb to his mouth and sucked it clean. Dean watched, couldn't look away as Sam curled his tongue all over the tip of his thumb, pushed it between his lips and with a soft pop, pulled it out shining with spit. Dean dropped his hand to the crotch of his jeans without thinking, sliding it across the cotton-soft denim—the touch jerked his brain back online. Sam smirked, his line of sight dropping to Dean's crotch, back to his eyes and Dean blushed so hard, so suddenly, he broke out in sweat. The little fuck had been doing it on purpose. He was always doing something….

Sam sighed, leaned back against the counter, and Dean couldn't stop his eyes tracing the healthy bulge tenting the front of his jeans. "Don't go out, Dean." he said but Dean took a step away, backed up against the bathroom wall, shaking his head.

"Gotta. Gotta.You need to—don't do that, Sammy." His head was spinning, trying to sort out a dozen conflicting, confusing feelings—"Why would you do that?"

Sam didn't speak. He just left as quietly as he'd entered. Dean sank against the wall, closed his eyes. This thing was spinning out of control and he didn't know what to do. Wasn't stupid enough to lay it all at Sam's feet either.…

The summer after Dean graduated, he was still at home, just…there. Kind of dragging his feet for some reason. He'd thought about school, applying somewhere out of state, but ended up picking up classes at the community college between working at the Goodyear dealer in town—the classes were mostly to keep Bobby off his ass, the job sucked but it was only temporary while he—tried to figure out what he really wanted.

That summer Sam turned fifteen, and was even more confusing than he'd been at fourteen, if possible. Sam kept bouncing between Dean being the greatest thing ever and Dean being the biggest jerkoff ever, like Dean lived to give him shit. Yeah, well. Fuck him if he couldn't take the occasional joke, Dean thought. Was his job as a brother, to keep him on his toes. He heard Sam banging around upstairs in the bathroom, could hear him slamming drawers and closets in their bedroom like he was upstairs with the kid, instead of standing alone in the kitchen. Thought about all those times he'd left the house, raring and eager to get out, tearing off on dates when Sam's eyes begged him not to go.

So he was getting a taste of what it'd felt like now that Sam was about to leave on his first semi-official 'date.' Kinda sucked, yeah, but he'd get over it. This was a good thing, and he wasn't about to fuck it up for Sam by being all weird and shit.

He parked himself out on the porch with a lukewarm can of Miller, his eyes on the driveway. Watched an old station wagon some kid's parent had the bad karma to be driving roll down the drive. The troop of kids inside the ugly thing fluttered and flopped around like little baby birds, and the screen door behind Dean cracked open and out flew a shower pink Sam. Dean watched the kid smooth back the damp, unruly wings of his hair into something like tame. A cute girl in the front seat smiled shyly at his brother and he smiled back. It was corny and sweet like a movie out of the fifties or something and Dean gagged for a second, kind of wanted to yell at her a little bit, but that would be mean and creepy and…pointless. The way Sam looked back at the girl made Dean want to go to bed, just pull the covers over his head and sleep until he was a human being again.

Just before he got in the car, Sam looked back towards the porch and gave Dean a smile that knifed through the little ball of 'sorry for himself' that he had clogging his chest. Dean spent the rest of the night trying to figure out just what kind of smile it was, telling himself that it wasn't anywhere near as vindictive as his memory was making it.

He fell asleep and dreamed that Sam wanted to go swimming. It was summer and they were wearing the cut-off jeans and converse knock-offs that was their summer uniform. Sam carried their towels and told Dean all about a delicious lunch he'd had—pie made out of cheese and eggs and did Dean think he could try to make it for them, and why didn't Bobby come swimming with them…they walked and walked and never did find the lake which was odd, it wasn't more than a mile or two from Bobby's, but they kept walking in circles and whenever Dean tried to point that out, Sam would start in about some other thing he'd eaten….

Dean woke up, sweating and sore all over, his muscles stiff and tense. The dream reminded him of days spent just like that. It'd been—nice, in a way. He yawned, rubbed his eyes and carefully stretched until his muscles felt less brittle. Thought how much he missed those days, when it was just him and Sam and all they thought about was cartoons and ice-cream and getting Uncle Bobby to take them to the movies.

When Sam came in later that night, he gave Dean's bed a wide berth, even though he had to know damn well Dean was awake and waiting for him. He undressed quietly in the dark, the sound of his breath and the ticking of their alarm clock the only sound. There was the shuffle of Sam's bare feet on the floor, and Dean tensed, waiting, but what came next was the creak of Sam's bedsprings and the feathery sound of him settling in his blankets . So he was curled up in his own bed. Good, Dean thought, he was glad of the space and not having to deal with Sam's smothering heat and having all of his blanket to himself. He lay in bed and waited for Sam's breathing to even out and deepen into the snuffly snoring that always sent Dean to sleep but it never seemed to come.

Chapter Text

Someday Never Comes 5

It wasn't hard to see that the 'something odd' that had always been there with those boys was exploding. Maybe it was them growing up, maybe it was the screwed up part of the legacy that fool Winchester left behind, practically stitching those boys together like they were Siamese twins and making sure they thought no one else in the world counted…damn it. No matter how he'd tried to encourage some space between them—no matter how they'd tried to put some space between each other—still they gravitated towards one another like moons and planets--no, like pool balls, bouncing and rebounding off each other, sometimes soft, sometimes hard, with all the hard feeling laid out in the open and those other feelings they thought they were hiding, deep down and festering away.

He dragged a loaded basket of wash out to the little room patched on the back of the kitchen, dropped it on top of the dryer and sighed. Bobby jammed a load of jeans and t-shirts into the washer, threw some powder in. What a screwed up mess. Had been from day one, like it was fucking—destined to be or some shit. He punched the buttons to start the wash a little harder than necessary. Stared at the softly chugging machine. At least this made sense. He grinned sourly.

So, here they were—Dean out of school, Sam in his second year of high school. They'd gone from boys to almost men in the blink of an eye. Time was rushing past him like a damn bullet train. Way past time to talk to Dean about Sam. Hell, he had no idea to go about that. He knew what was going to happen. Dean was gonna be spitting flaming nails for him keeping this shit about Sam to himself. Bobby hoped like hell that it wouldn't drive a wedge between the two of them—he had no idea what it would mean for Dean and Sam. Maybe…maybe this was the distance they needed between them. Because if Dean ever needed to…to....

"Fuck."If he couldn't think about it, how the hell was Dean supposed to? Kinda got why Winchester wanted to hold out on that info. No one liked to think their kid was in mortal danger just by breathing…"Fuck me.

He rubbed hands hard against his face, breathing in great gusts of air, blowing it out between his fingers. A huge part of him just wanted to keep on pretending everything was hunky-dory, and let them get the fuck on with their lives. Hell, his whole fucking household was faking that nothing was going on so damn well, maybe they'd fake it enough to make it take…

"God damn it…" He could hear Karen's voice in his head, asking him if he was crazy as well as a selfish ass. "I know, I know it's…I don't even know how to think about it, sweetheart, let alone talk about it. Soon, I promise, soon." Could a fragment of his mind snort in disbelief?

He sighed. Yeah. Shit, when them boys were sacked out tonight, he was digging out the cheech'n'chong and getting fucking royally toasted.

Dean was blowing through a set of symbols Bobby wanted them to memorize—sigils of protection, the current set mostly Persian origin. Dean never had trouble with the symbols; anything visual was a piece of cake for him, his brain was wired to take things like that in whole. Sam was great at Latin and was shaping up to be excellent concerning language in general but always had problems committing symbols to memory—he didn't see things the same way Dean did. It was a source of frustration for Sam and Bobby was understanding but he refused to give on that point because he knew how valuable knowing them might be to both the boys one day, so--"They might save your life—if I don’t get to you first," he snapped as Sam threw the book onto the table.

"Dean gets it, so why do I have to?"

It was kind of amazing, Bobby thought--there was a pitch that boy could hit that cut through his brain like a—like something sharp. And pointy. He folded his arms tight and tried not to shout. "Because Dean's gonna have a life of his own, boy—you think he's following you wherever you go?" Oh shit...here we go….

Sam's face screwed up in that way that meant he was fighting tears. "'Course not—I don’t wanna be looking over my shoulder and seeing Dean's fat, ugly face back there all the time."

A look of hurt flicked over Dean's face, a second later he was smirking at Sam and if Bobby hadn't been looking dead at him, he'd never have seen it. "Fuck you, Sammy."

"It's Sam—and fuck you back."

And that devolved into a long and graphic argument calling everything about each other into question including what species they were and then suddenly it was all Bobby's fault, he was making Sam do stupid stuff that had no meaning just because he wanted to throw his weight around and he'd never understand what real learning was all about and never get what Sam was all about and right about at that point, Bobby snapped. He slammed both fists down on the table and the whole thing jumped—leaped off the floor and came down with a bang. He took a deep, steadying breath and as calmly as he could said, "Boys, shut the fuck up both of you, 'cause I'm about a one short minute from burying the both of you in the yard. Dean, you make that kid memorize them damn sigils—don’t care how you do it, cut it into his skin if you have to. I'm going out for a walk. Try not to fucking kill each other 'til I get back."

Of course, with his customary complete lack of self-preservation, Sam tried to argue with him anyway—an argument that died when Bobby shot him a look that promised consequences so severe, Sam actually slapped his own hand over his mouth. Bobby smothered a little grin at that before remembering how pissed off he was. He shoved away from the table and stomped out to the yard, twisting his beat-up old Napa cap practically over his eyes. God damn it, John, you musta been a damn saint to have lived with that kid without breaking a foot off in his ass….

He ended up perched on Wes Bannard's battered old '72 Eldorado, the one the old fool wouldn't let loose of. He was just staring up at the star-spattered sky, feeling like a shit lousy parent and a loser. Every time he and Sam had words it just got heated and ugly and he felt like he was losing that boy and god damn it he loved him so much it almost made him sick. He hated how it felt like he was tearin' the boy to pieces. He swallowed hard, again and again, and the stars swam in the sky. "Sorry, I'm making a mess of this, sweetheart. Wish you was here to help." He imagined how disappointed Karen'd be in him right now….

He'd eased himself off the Eldorado's bumper and turned towards the house when suddenly a bony weight hit him painfully hard from behind. He had a moment to think the kid had a head like a cinderblock before a watery voice was spilling out its heart.

"Uncle Bobby, I'm sorry. I don’t mean half the things I say—l love you. Please don’t ever hate me."

Bobby got them turned around, then wrapped his arms around Sam's rangy frame. "Ya idjit. I couldn't ever hate you, ever. Sure, you're a pain in my ass but I love you, Sam, don’t you doubt that."

"I don’t even know why I get so stupid," Sam muttered into Bobby's chest.

"Nature, boy. S'nature's way of making sure you get out of the nest--by making it so shitty stayin' at home you wanna get out there into the world 'n build a family you like."

"That's not true," Sam laughed, wet and thick into Bobby's flannel shirt. "You know you’re the best. You and Dean."

"Yeah, about that…can't you lighten up on your brother some? He's trying his best but…it's different for him, y'know? He only knows John's way how to be, and that's clam up and soldier on 'less a body part's hanging from a string. That, and 'a handshake's as good as a hug maybe better'." That got an amused snort from Sam and he smiled a little.

"I know, I know, it's--he just--frustrates me! He won't look at me. He acts like I don’t exist. An' then I get so stupid mad, I give it right back to him."

"Sam…" Bobby's heart clenched, his gut looped.

"I get it, I'm not really an idiot Bobby, I know acting like that's stupid and wrong but…" he took a few steps away, wiped under his eyes and mumbled "I love my brother—he just doesn't love me."

That loop in his gut tightened. A wave of uneasiness spilled outward from his center. He was sure Sam didn't mean it like it sounded, at least consciously…but there it was. If those boys hadn't figured it out between the two of them yet, it wouldn't take long before they did.

"Sam, I'm telling you, it's not that hard. You just gotta—look at it. Try drawing them a coupla times and then maybe it'll stick in your head. These things are important—they could save your life one day."

"Don’t be ridiculous, that's what guys like Caleb do with their lives, not me. I'm going to college, and then, I'm gonna be a teacher. Or something. I don’t wanna be Bobby and I don’t want to be Caleb, okay? I don’t think he's the shit like you do."

"Sam…" Dean scratched his head frantically, whipping his hair into wild spikes. "Look. Let's not fight."

"Whatever. Hey, I bet you don't know these things as well as you claim, hotshot."

Dean laughed, and jumping on the peace offering, said, "Really? You challenging me, son?"

"Yep, dorkface. And just to make it harder…tell you what. You sit here, and let me try something, okay?" He manhandled Dean off his bed, across the floor and over to Sam's desk, shoved him into the chair and bent him over so suddenly, Dean's head almost hit the surface. He propped his elbows on the desktop and waited, ignoring the hot little flare that zipped through him when Sam's hand had wrapped around the back of his neck and pushed down, hard.

Sam's finger moved a quick swoop of a movement that started out between his shoulder blades and stopped there. Dean didn't even have to think--"Are you kidding? A chimp could get that. It's a sun symbol. "

"Or fire, or unity. Okay, what about this one?" Sam's hand rested, wide and warm, against Dean's shoulder blade and this time he made the mark lower, his fingernail catching on the smooth cotton of Dean's t-shirt. It was a similar movement, capped by Sam poking his finger into the center.

"Air, and are they all gonna be that easy?"

Sam grabbed him up by the back of his t-shirt, and pulled him away from the desk--he was getting tall enough to push Dean around some, and Dean was surprised just how strong Sam was. He reached under Dean's arms, crossed his hands over Dean's chest and fought him away from the desk. Sam's hands all over him and especially under his armpits made him giggle helplessly, at the same time, he felt a little warm tug hook in his gut—lower--he did his best to ignore. Sam's hands shifted and it forced another uneasy giggle from him.

Sam liked him giggling, Dean could tell, even though Sam pushed him pretty hard, so that he fell flat onto the bed on his face and even bounced a bit. That was pretty funny and Dean laughed aloud. The odd feeling flew and it was just him and his annoying little brother again.

"All right, smart ass," Sam crowed. "Let's see you get this one—wait, I got a better idea!" He grabbed a pen off Dean's desk. Pulled Dean's shirt off over his protests.

"Hell no, Sam, no way I'm letting you draw all over me like I'm a notebook." He flailed his arms around and Sam avoided them like a pro, laughing all the while. Kneeled on the bed, and jammed an elbow between Dean's shoulders. Wrote 'Dean is a dick' over the joint--that Dean had no trouble deciphering.

"Don’t be a pussy, dude, it'll wash off." Without warning, he threw a leg over Dean's hips, ended up straddling him. He said quietly, thoughtfully "Let me do one I'm having trouble with—oh crap. Now I gave you a hint."

"Hardly," Dean snorted into his crossed arms. "That's like—all of them." He was tense, pretending to be cool about it but he couldn't ignore just what it felt like to have Sam's fingers on his bare skin, the warmth of his thighs cradling Dean's. He couldn't ignore the irregular puffs of warm air on his back, the heat and firmness of Sam's ass parked right on the swell of his own.

"Fuck you," Sam said but it was distracted, he was already into what he was doing. He smoothed his hand across Dean's back. "So, guess this one." Drew an intricate pattern from the book, and Dean thought…of Sam's fingers, the warmth on his back, Sam's breath skating over his bare skin. Dean froze under Sam, trying to keep still, keep what he was feeling inside, it was just…Sam was holding him down. Pinning him to the bed, And all he could do was try to breathe as the pen slid over him--lift, drop again, slide over his skin. Sam's hand followed, the solid heat of him sank into Dean's body. His eyes were closed and he was dropping into a space made up of Sam's hand, Sam's breath, his smell, his heat…Dean breathed and his dick throbbed, trapped between his skin and his boxers and everything, the whole world.

Sam inhaled sharply and shifted, Dean's heart hammered and his dick twitched. He barely noticed that Sam had pulled away until the cool air made Dean break out in gooseflesh. He was so tuned in to Sam that when he nudged Dean's waist, he lifted his hips without thinking. Suddenly he was bare to his knees, Sam's knuckles moving down the bare skin of Dean's thighs.

No. "Sam—"

"Shhhh." He stroked Dean's back, traced the curve of his spine with a finger, and with his other hand, drew another design. "What is it? Tell me what this design is."

"Seal…protection—no, claiming--ah—"

"That's right…" Sam traced the path of his finger with his tongue, stopped between Dean's shoulder blades and nipped, once, twice, before tracing the knobs of his spine back down to the swell of his ass, teasing in between and confusing Dean so much that when he wanted to pull his legs tighter together, they opened wider. He caught Sam's little sound of satisfaction, felt his finger rock deeper between his cheeks, until the pad caught on the hard furl of muscle. Dean jerked like he'd been tasered.

Sam chuckled breathily and applied a little pressure, rocking, rocking, until Dean felt how soft and open it suddenly went, felt himself open up to Sam's finger like his body wanted to swallow him whole.

Sam groaned, and pushed his face between Dean's shoulders, sweat mingling, running together.

"Sam—Sam. Don't…shit, don't."

Sam pushed his finger in deeper, barely--just one tentative touch, stroking carefully around the softened muscle, not really pushing in deep, just kind of teasing Dean until Dean moaned so loud it embarrassed him.

"Symbols—study—god, stop—please—"

"Come on. Let me. No one's going to know, just you and me, just you and me," Sam muttered over and over, pulled his finger free and pushed himself between Dean's shaking thighs. Sam still had his clothes on, Dean thought wildly, that made it not so bad—it didn't matter he could feel how hot, how hard Sam was, how perfectly Sam's erection scrapped over his sensitized hole and if it wasn't for the layer of denim between them, they'd be actually, really, fucking. Dean swore it wasn't him begging for more, twisting to get more touch, not him….

Sam's mouth was wet and open over the back of Dean's neck, he was biting, almost gnawing into him, words leaked out and spilled over Dean's skin, "need you, want you, love you, mine, always—" burned into him like drops of molten lead. Dean gave it up, all thoughts of don’t and no, were flown, all he could think, could say, was Sam. More. Please.

Sam shuddered against his back and Dean felt sudden bloom of heat against him, heard Sam's breathy, shocked moans. When Dean came moments after, he knew there'd never been a choice but to follow Sam.

He was terrified, confused. He was horrified with himself; full of guilt and most horribly, full of wanting to do it again. He had to do something. Had to fix it or just push Sam away. Make him see how impossible—how wrong it was.

They practiced hand-to-hand for an hour, Sam and Dean alternating dropping each other onto the mats Caleb set up, until finally Sam called enough and headed into the house, to let Bobby know they were ready for dinner. Dean watched him walk away, blew his bangs out of his eyes with a nervous breath. Could feel Caleb watching him; feel his eyes like a weight on the back of his neck. "You ready, Winchester?"

Dean wanted to say no, no fucking way ever….

Caleb and Dean danced around the mat, looking for holds, sizing up potential weakness. There was something about Caleb's smile this day, something in his eyes that had always been there, Dean was beginning to realize, but today, it made Dean’s mouth dry. Made him reluctant to touch…Caleb rushed him and before Dean knew what hit him, he was on his back staring up at the sky—breathless. Caleb’s warm weight held him down, drove the air out of his lungs. Drove a spike of heat right into his dick and made him sweat. Caleb’s eyes looked like endless black pools. Dean couldn’t read him, wasn’t sure…Caleb shifted and Dean clamped down on his lip, struggling to keep a gasp in. He looked away from Caleb—and met Sam's shocked eyes over his shoulder…all he could do was close his own.

Caleb whispered, "Hey," and rolled off Dean. He jumped to his feet and held out his hand and Dean kept his eyes down as Caleb pulled him up. Didn't let his hand go right away. Dean froze, not sure what to do—knowing this was a possible solution, if he was reading this right, this might be a way….

Sam got it before Caleb did. Sam who was way too sharp for his own good. Who stared at Dean until Dean felt ants run under his skin, and he wished…he didn't know what he wished. Didn't matter, it was for both of them.

"Hey…there's an empty shed back behind the parts barn. If…you know. It's there." Dean watched the toe of his Converse dig divots in the dirt, flushed a dramatic shade of red before risking a look at Caleb. What he saw made his heart beat faster, thrilled as well as terrified…and determined to push it. He had to do it. He needed to do this for Sam….

Fire rose up in Caleb's eyes. He licked his lips, nodded. When Dean dared to look past Caleb, Sam was gone.

Bobby jerked out of a doze when the front door slammed shut, hard enough to make the prints on his bedroom wall jump. He heard feet pounding up the stairs, and Sam cursing like a Marine. He was torn between admiration and annoyance. The kid had a range, but he wasn't having that in his house—MFIC after all. The next minute he heard Sam scream like he'd been stabbed—jumped a foot, leapt off the bed and ran. "Damn it boy, what the fucking hell," he muttered and dashed up the boys' stairs, scared something was really was wrong with Sam, ready to take a strip outa his hide if he was just having a Sam attack.

He wanted to bust open the door but stopped with his hand hovering over the doorknob. The boy was crying—not just crying, he was crying like someone just died…"Sammy?"

"Go 'way! Leave me alone!"

"Sam—"

"Please!"

Bobby dropped his hand. This was something…bad. Sam sounded so desperate, so heart breakingly desperate that Bobby felt his chest clench, his eyes water in sympathy. His boy was hurting bad. He reached again for the knob, turned it but Sam called out, "Please Uncle Bobby, I need…just let me be, please?"

Bobby sighed, a long frustrated exhalation that left him light headed and sad. "Sam…come down later. I got hot chocolate." No one had to tell him what a broken heart sounded like. Hell, he didn't even want to know who broke Sam's heart like that. He walked back down the hallway and glanced out the window at the end of the hallway. His heart sank. Dean was standing by Caleb's old Mustang; head down. Caleb leaned close, spoke into Dean's ear and Dean shook his head. Caleb cupped the back of his neck for a second or two before his hand dropped. The whole scene looked…intimate. And revealing. Broken hearts all around, he thought, watching Caleb, all bowed back and head down, shove his stocky frame into that car of his.

It...was what it was. He shook his head. Sent a brief prayer to whoever would listen for Sam and Dean and the tangled, screwed up mess Winchester senior gifted his boys with. Prayed it wasn't all going to end up in screaming and bloodshed. "An' I wish I was kidding, sweetheart," he told his wife.

Dean watched Caleb drive away. Great, now he'd managed to fuck up two peoples lives—three. He listened to the sound of the Mustang tearing out of the yard. Squared his shoulders and headed towards the house like a man to the gallows. He'd done the right thing—he was sure of it. It might have cost him a friend, and cost him a brother—but it was for Sam he'd done it.

Sam was out with his friends—again. The boy hadn't really been home since that one day—always running with a big fake smile plastered across his mug, a "Don't worry, I'm fine," falling out of his mouth. Bobby would worry more if he didn't know the boy's friends, pretty good kids, all of them--still, Sam wasn't the only one acting like a pod person. The more Sam spent away from home, the more Dean smiled. He smiled so hard and empty it set Bobby's teeth on edge. This new thing, where Dean pretended like he wasn't moping all over the house and suffered Sam's dates like a martyr sucked ass. Bobby considered he'd been a damn fool thinking something like Sam getting a life of his own would fix this fucked up situation. His tentative offers of "some kind of…help" were shot down hard and cold each time he tried to open the subject with Dean. Mind, it wasn't like he tried real hard. After all, wasn't like he had a clue how the fuck to open that conversation....

Bobby sighed, cursed himself under his breath. First things first, he thought, and dug out John's journal. He grabbed that and a couple of beers and ended up on the couch next to Dean. Pushed a Bud towards him. "Hey." He placed John's journal on the table in front of him. "It's long past time we talk. It's time you take this thing and see what kind of man your dad really was. What kind of things he fought. And what happened to your family."

Dean reached out for the stained and age-yellowed journal, fingering the brittle edges of papers spilling from it. Stared at him, those big green eyes going impossibly wider, lashes sweeping down and up in confusion. "What's that mean, Bobby? I know what happened. I was there. I know."

"Yeah, well…"Bobby sighed. "There was lots you were too young to know back then. Now, it's important. And way past time you knew. What with, you know, Sam. You and. Unh…circumstances. And situations…ah." Bobby flushed and dropped his eyes , not wanting the boy to see that he knew more than he was letting on about the brothers…wishing he had some way to tell him that it wasn't going to change how everyone felt about each other. Much. First though, they had to deal with John's journal. After that…Bobby upended the can and took a long, breath-stealing, swallow.

Dean stared at him, flushed red, than paled. He swept the journal off the table and stood. "If you don't mind, I'm just gonna go—y'know--private."

Bobby nodded, and watched Dean practically run off to the back yard, probably that damn shed.

It was deep in the break of dawn before Dean came back to him, the book clutched in his hands. His eyes were blank—dark. Sorrow and fear had stolen the light out of them. "Explain to me what Dad meant about Sammy. What the fuck did he mean about Sammy—?"

Chapter Text

Somedy Never Comes 6

When Bobby finally found Dean, he was sprawled across the hood of the Impala, arms wide, feet propped up on the bumper. His eyes were fixed upward, the security light on the corner of the parts barn lit the damp trails on his cheeks. He'd been avoiding everyone the last few days—since he'd read the journal--Sam most especially, and Sam was making everyone pay for it. To say it was tense in the Singer household was like saying the Grand Canyon was a pretty big ditch.

"Boy…"

"Why us? Why are we cursed?" he asked, as if he and Bobby had been having a conversation about that very thing. Bobby kept quiet, waiting for Dean to go on. "First it was that shit with dad, now this—this thing hanging over our heads. How'm I gonna keep him safe, hunh? Tell me how the fuck I'm gonna do that?"

"Son, that's what all the trainings been about—not so you can run off and be hunters—there's whole lot of competent hunters out there. No, this has all been about Sam, making sure no supernatural thing can get the jump on him. He can do it—he's smart, he's tough, he has the knowledge to protect himself. Nothing else needs to change. You go to school like you should have and Sam's gonna go to some school somewhere and he'll be warned and armed—he'll be fine, mark my words."

Dean threw his hand up. "That's stupid, Uncle Bobby, damn! You know damn well Sam can't do it on his own. He needs help, he needs me."

"Dean…" Bobby remembered yelling at Sam, telling him Dean wasn't going to be with him the rest of his life and here it seemed Dean was volunteering to throw his whole life away for Sam. It came to him that this was the whole reason he'd dragged his heels telling Dean--subconsciously, he'd known what Dean's reaction was going to be.

Dean rolled to his side and caught Bobby's eyes. "You're feeling guilty—you think I'm about to lose everything. I get you wanted me to live my own life and Sam live his, but—I don’t care. I don’t care if I have to follow Sam the rest of his life. I feel like…I'm supposed to. It's what I want. Fuck…" he rolled his shoulders up off the car and came to rest with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. "How can I let him go off by himself?"

Bobby swallowed hard, said, "You never wanted to let him go at all. I'm not stupid, boy. I see. I can't say I understand it--now or ever--but I see it."

Dean startled like a shot fawn, his eyes skittered over Bobby's face and away. He'd gone the color of moonlight, freckles like charcoal spatters across his skin in the light of the moon. "I don't know what—"

"Save it for the idiots. This is me. I guess…if I was your birth flesh and blood I'd be kicking the daylights out of you right now, but I'm." He shook his head. "Shit, I don't know. I do know how your brother is. He's always thought you belonged to him. Not ever gonna be truly happy until he's stamped his mark all over you."

Dean slid off the hood of the car and landed hard, still not meeting Bobby's eyes. "I'm gonna go tell Sam what Dad knew. And we'll work it out from there, I hope."

Atlas had nothing on the pair of them, Bobby thought. His shoulders felt about to snap with the weight of all he carried. Still, Bobby felt that need to push it back—a little bit. "You—you gonna tell him all this right now? Why don’t you wait 'til morning, we can—I don’t know, talk about it over breakfast--"

Dean snorted. Gave Bobby a look that said don't be stupid. "You know a better time? How long should I wait? Until he's at school? Until he's about to get married to some poor civilian? Until he's settled somewhere with a family?"

Poor dumb shit, he didn't have a clue, Bobby thought. There wasn't anything Sam was going to do without Dean glued to his side. Dean did have a point about waiting to tell Sam. There'd never be a perfect time. Besides, Sam was tough, resilient—a soft voice at the back of his mind whispered and if Dean does it, then you won’t have to? Oh, Bobby. " Yeah. Okay. Guess you're right."

Dean nodded, closed his eyes. It almost looked like he was praying. He cast a quick look Bobby's way and then stomped off towards the house.

Bobby could hear the yelling—the screaming—from his perch in the yard, and not long after Sam bust out of the front door, alone. "Don't be here when I get back," he screamed. "I don't want you here! You're a freak and a liar—I hate you!"

He ran around to the side of the house, jumped into the car the two of them had been working on as a joint project, an '81 Trans Am—a car slated to be his when he was legal to drive. Which was not now, god damn it. Bobby shot to his feet and started running, yelling his fool head off and wondering where the hell was Dean. "Sam! Sam, get your ass outa that—"

He couldn't reach the boy before the car was screaming down the drive, gravel and dust flying. He ripped off his cap and threw it to the ground—the bill finally came loose in one long tear, bleeding blue and yellow thread. He stared at that ruined Napa cap like it was some kind of symbol of everything gone south in his life. His sides were heaving in frustration and flat-out fear for the boy. "Sam, Sam...fucking hell." He threw his head back to stare at the dark sky and said, " Now what?"

As if in answer to his question Dean appeared in the open doorway, his cheek looked like it was one throbbing pain—from the way he barely skimmed his fingertips over it, Bobby guessed it was just that. He shook his head, and went up to take a closer look.

"So—I told him," Dean shrugged, said, "and that happened."

"I should have made you wait. We shoulda done that together," Bobby snapped, pissed at himself.

Dean scraped his hands over his head, twisting his hair into long unruly spikes. "He'll be back" he muttered, as if speaking to himself. "He's not gonna leave me—us. He'll be back soon as he figures out he needs us right now."

Bobby pushed past him and went up to his room and let everything he'd been swallowing down come pouring out. He cried—not just a few tears barely wetting his eyes—he cried almost as hard as when he'd lost Karen.

Look what he'd done, how he ruined their lives. He was a god damn fool, and a terrible father, and he'd done those boys a terrible disservice—he should have sent them on to John's wife's family. He should have.

The next day, Bobby came down to the kitchen to make coffee and wait for Sam to come in-- and surprised Dean by the front door, his duffle bag in hand. He dropped it with a guilty look. "I'm…I was going to call you…I'm just gonna clear out for a couple of weeks. Until Sam calms down. Talked to Travis, he's heading out to Nebraska to check out some noise about a limos. Thought I'd tag along and maybe…head out to Mexico. Caleb's down there, he might want—"

"Boy, you're a stupid ass but I'm not getting in your way. At least have some breakfast before you go merrily on your way bein' a god damn idjit."

They'd just finished up coffee; Dean was rinsing his cup by the sink when they both heard the rumble of the Trans Am moving slow down the drive. "God damn it," Dean said and snatched up his bag, sprinted out the back door for the Impala. Bobby took his cup and sauntered over to the window, sipping as he leaned over the sink and watched. Yeah, if that fool had really wanted to break clean away, he wouldn'na stopped for breakfast. The coffee wasn't that good. Bobby took another sip. Well…it was a pretty good cup of coffee….

Sam came charging around the back, and stomped over to the Impala. Dean had just finished shoving his duffle in the back seat when Sam grabbed him right out of the Impala by his collar, dragged him past Bobby's astonished eyes into the house, he could hear doors slamming all through the place. He set down his cup and grabbed his car keys. It was oddly quiet, he thought, as he left the house. He turned right before he got in his car, just in time to see Sam in the upper story window, saw him reach up and slam the window shut. He stared up at that window for a while before he finally turned and got into his Chevelle. He was going into town, going to do a little grocery shopping. Might stop at the bar, have a couple two or a dozen shots and then stop in Wes's field on the way home and hit that cheech'n'chong a little. Was going to sit and figure out how much he could live with, knowing he still had four years of Sam at least living home. He'd either have to chase them off, or deal with it. And he preferred dealing with it. And dealing with it Dean's way, by pretending nothing was happening…yep, the situation definitely called for a little self-medication—and then, there were going to plans made for Sam's future. Not to mention them boys were getting some goddamn rules and heinous repercussions if anybody fu—scre—messed up.

"Ow, bitch—let go of me—" Dean shut up so he could concentrate on not falling up the stairs, and not letting Sam accidentally run his head into a wall.

Sam kicked open the bedroom door and yanked Dean inside before letting his collar go and Dean stumbled across the floor. His heel caught up in the rug and he fell ass-first on his bed. "Dude—" he tried to stand and Sam was right there, pushing him back down again. "Damn it, I'm fucking sick and tired of you throwing me around."

Sam blinked, grinned for a nanosecond before scowling again. "Shut the fuck up, asswipe", Sam hissed, "and just where did you think you were going?"

"You—you told me to leave," Dean sputtered, "besides, I was only gonna be gone a bit, until you got over—" Dean was shocked silent when Sam threw himself on top of him, his eyes blazing—he made a noise that a werewolf would be envious of and yanked his collar up again.

"With who?" Sam yelled. "No wait, don't tell me let me guess—Caleb, right?"

"Sam, wait—Sam—" Sam started to yell again and Dean jammed his hands over his ears and screamed like a kid having a tantrum. That stopped Sam cold—his eyes went round as hubcaps.

"Thank god. It's like you never Shut. Up." Sam stared at Dean, his jaw still dropped and in the silence, Dean said, "I love you. I mean like…I love you."

Sam flipped his hand dismissing what he said--like loving Sam was a given and so what—but Dean said it again, "I love you."

Sam's expression shifted from shock to confusion, and then slowly shifted again, opening, growing until it seemed he was lit up from inside and his smile…his smile was wide enough to maybe bridge that gap that had opened between them. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Dean rolled flat to his back and held his arms open. "So come here already."

Sam staggered forward, dropped onto the bed and pushed his face into Dean's neck.

"We have to talk, though," Dean said, "about this thing Dad wrote about. How we're going to live with it…and this thing with us. Which Bobby suspects…."

"Fuck suspect," Sam mumbled into his neck. "Dean, Bobby knows. But we'll talk about all that stuff later, just—let me have this first. Then we can figure out all the stuff you'll certainly want to angst and cry over like a little girl."

"Bitch!"

"Oh yeah? Well, you're a jerk," Sam said and put his mouth over Dean's, just a soft pressure of lip to lip, without any real thought or design—as if he was doing it just because he finally could. Slowly, chaste tentative kissing became a little more. Warmer. Slicker.

Sam worked his hands under Dean's shirt, and wiggled it off him, grinning as he did, and from there it was easy take Sam's off, and easy then to pop the button on his jeans, work them off his narrow hips, so slim, so smooth. Hair that would be thicker, coarser one day, fuzzed his legs, under his arms, and dusted his ass and Dean found he loved stroking it…he pressed his face against Sam's crotch and rubbed his lips in the hair, smelling, nipping—Sam bucked and squeaked and giggled and sighed and Dean loved it all—felt like a god at this. Touching the flat planes of Sam's chest, the small, dark nipples that pebbled instantly under Dean's thumbs, made Dean hard—blinding, achingly hard. He sat back on his heels and ignored Sam's disappointed moans. He marveled at what had been happening under that boy's clothes. "Damn Sam—I knew you got bigger and all but…damn." Sam's body. It looked a lot different spread out over his bed, felt different than it did when Sam was trying to grind his face into the kitchen tiles, or doing his best to make him tap out when they sparred. Dean shoved downwards, felt his dick drag up the length of Sam's muscled calf, drank in Sam's hiss of pleasure when he reached between his thighs and stroked over his balls, lower, until he hit against his hole and Sam jerked like Dean touched him with a live wire. "Like that, hunh?" Dean smirked.

"Fuck you. Yeah, I do, because it's you."

Dean blushed. Sure he got that—didn't he feel it too? Sam was everything, always had been, and now…he was this too. "Sammy—"

Sam grabbed a handful of Dean's hair pulled him down and whispered in his ear, "Dean, it's been past time for this. Don't be afraid." He wriggled and Dean gasped, how could his kid brother make him feel like this? What if…what if Sam found he didn't like this—or what if he wasn't as good, what if he didn't measure up to whomever Sam had been with before. Jealous, fuck, he was so jealous….

Sam was looking at him, his eyes so full of...affection, love. "I haven't, you know."

"What?"

"You're wondering if I've slept with other people. I haven't. Haven't done anything but…" he wrapped his hand around Dean's dick, squeezed. "My hand. That's all. Waiting for you. Idiot," he said when Dean grinned down at him. He threw his arms around Dean and kissed him, shutting down that train of thought nicely. Dean hummed his appreciation, thrilled that this was his and no one else's.

They pulled back and Sam tilted his hips up. "Come on; let's do this. I want you to."

Dean gulped, closed his eyes and squeezed the base of his dick. "Don’t or it will be the shortest first time anyone's ever had—I'm about a breath from coming all over you."

Sam groaned a little and his dick swept precome across his belly. "Dean –don't say stuff like that, please." Dean leered at Sam and drew his fingers through the slick on his belly, and popped the tips into his mouth.

"Okay…try and…relax…" He slipped one finger inside of him, rocking it back and forth, deeper into the tight, warm squeeze of Sam's body and when Sam could take it he added another, worked Sam open slowly as he could, tried to ignore the breathless little noises pouring out of him. Dean held him open with one hand, guided his dick in with the other and pushed, gently as he could. Sam groaned as if he was in pain, his face creased, reddened, he bit his lip—hard.

Dean gasped, just rocking right where he was, afraid to move and hurt Sam more. "Should I stop?"

Sam's eyes popped open. "What? No—no, don't you dare—"

Dean chuckled, light-headed, giddy, happy—he looked down at where they were joined, and looked up at Sam, face and voice full of awe. "Sam—look at us, oh god, look—"

"I'll come if I look," but Sam looked anyway, he looked at Dean, into his eyes, shuddered. "Dean," he moaned, and came. Dean's already shredded ability to hold off vanished like fog—the crazy, bubbling, popping feeling that had been growing bigger and bigger inside him went off like a flare. The way Sam was looking at him, the way he said his name…that was all it took. Orgasm slammed into him like a full body explosion and all he felt was Sam, around him, and in him, and he'd never felt anything as amazing, as wonderful, as Sam.

When Dean could drag his eyes open again, Sam was smiling up at him. He was beautiful like this, skin damp and shimmering, his eyes at half-mast and that wicked little smile curling the corners of his mouth. He pulled Dean down against his slick, sticky chest, smearing come between them. He opened his mouth over Dean's and moaned something into it, Dean shuddered like he'd come again and experienced a wild irrational flash of jealously…imagining Sam at some distant time, this hot and sweating and murmuring little things into someone else's mouth. It made him want to be sick…guilt threw him out of the mood. Sam noticed and grabbed his arms to keep him in place. "Don't Dean, don't you dare."

"No, Sammy, not about this--oh god, I'm so sorry, so fucking sorry. I didn't get it. I—sorry, Caleb, and—"

"Shhhh. It's okay. Well, it's not okay, you were an asshole and it hurt, a lot. But it's over, right?"

"God yes, you know that. I…made a terrible mistake. You’re not the only one I hurt, I know that—but I feel like shit that I only really care about hurting you."

Sam pulled him back down. Kissed him. "I forgive you, and it's over, we're done with it. Everything is going to be different now, you'll see."

Dean nodded, but knew like Sam just didn’t want to. It would never be all right, it would never be what Sam wanted. But this, tonight, he could give him and then—move on. Bobby would keep Sam safe and he'd do his part to protect Sam too….he draw the monsters off of Sam, give him the chance to have the kind of life he should, happy, safe, normal.

"Hey Dean…whatever self-sacrificing bullshit you're planning, forget it. You won't get a mile down the road before I'm on you." Sam rolled over so that he was half on the bed, and half on Dean. "There's only one way we leave here—together. I've always dreamed that when I go to college, you'd want to come with. But…whether we do it my way, or some other way, I really don’t care. As long as it’s us, together you know?

"It's going to be impossible here. You and me, I mean. Hell—it's going to be impossible anywhere."

"We'll work it out, or we don't, I don’t even care. I need you. And if what Dad wrote in the journal is true, I'll need you watching me."

"Sam, that shit was crazy and what Dad said was stupid. I'm not ki—doing that. I'm not."

"I don’t want you to, Dean. I'm not that self-sacrificing. I'm saying if you see something in me that's not—me, then you're the only one I can count on to do what's right."

Do what's right. Fuck.Dean lay back, fuming inside. Sam curled around him like a puppy, and he let go some of the ice that settled over him. Sam inside him, around him, his heat, his heartbeat, the way they fit like lock and key…okay, maybe he couldn't give that up. Maybe he didn't know for sure where to go from here. They'd figure it out. Between him, and Bobby, and Sam, they'd find a way. He was pretty sure they'd find a way to make it work.

Fin
9-25-2011