Part Five: You Only Feel It When It’s Lost
Dean prays to Castiel at least twice a week, mostly at Sam’s request. By the end of the first month, Dean’s pretty sure that’s a dead end. He wonders if the universe he used to live in still exists, if he’s disappeared or been replaced there by another version of himself. Maybe Castiel doesn’t even know he’s gone. There doesn’t seem to be any sign that anybody’s looking for them, that’s certain.
At night, they climb into separate beds, go to sleep with their backs turned to each other.
Dean tries not to imagine what it would be like to sleep together. Just sleep, Sam spooned in his arms, his chest pressed to Sam’s broad back. Sweaty, Dean decides. Hot. He knows from the times he and Sam have huddled together for warmth, Dean fighting down the boner that threatens to spring up. Sam’s an armful. He kicks in his sleep.
Some nights, Dean lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, long after Sam’s asleep. He tries to recall a single time that his Sam initiated physical intimacy, but can’t think of one to save his life. He’s certain that Sam loved him, but they just never expressed it that way. Even hugs only happened when one of them was just back from the dead, or had put himself in terrible danger and the other one was sure he’d almost lost him.
Could it be that Sam was repressing a desire of his own for physical intimacy with his brother?
If he was, that desire was buried deep, where Dean had never seen nor felt a sign of it.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. That Sam is gone, quite possibly forever, and this one wants a Dean who is just as gone.
End of story.
Doesn’t stop Dean from thinking about it, though.
//**//**//
Sam makes another list, more hunts he remembers that happened after the car crash and Dad’s death. They visit Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Peoria, Illinois, and Lafayette, Indiana, all real places in this universe but completely unfamiliar. Similarly, Baltimore, Maryland, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and San Francisco, California are all real, but not at all familiar. Street names have changed. Addresses don’t exist here or have completely different buildings sitting at them since long before the Winchesters were last here.
Cornwall, Connecticut, where the brothers hunted what they thought was a voodoo priestess and where Sam saved a little girl from drowning, doesn’t exist. Neither does Rivergrove, Oregon, where Sam first learned he was immune to the Croatoan virus. Cold Oak, North Dakota, is also non-existent.
“Can’t say I’m sorry about that one,” Dean notes grimly. “That place sucked.”
Sam nods, just as grim. “No disagreement there.”
At the end of their third month traipsing around the country and finding bupkis, Dean calls it quits.
“I think we should just admit defeat, Sam,” he says as they get back into the car after yet another stop at another old hunting site that was once inhabited by people they saved.
Like every such site before it, this one is just a place, inhabited by people who’ve been there a long time and have no idea what they’re talking about or who they are.
It’s discouraging.
Sam’s getting more depressed, and Dean can’t take any more of that. It’s not healthy.
“We’re running out of former hunting grounds, man, and we sure ain’t finding any new ones.”
Sam shakes his head. “I can’t give up,” he says. “I can’t. He would feel like I was letting him down.”
Dean doesn’t have to ask who “he” is. He knows. He gets it. But the fact is, he’s already adjusting to having this Sam in his life. Truth be told, he doesn’t even miss the other one. This one has all the mannerisms, all the memories -- at least the ones that matter -- to make him feel as much like Dean’s brother as he possibly could be while not actually, technically, being his brother. Dean’s already decided to take the win and move on. Having a Sam -- not just any Sam, but this one -- has given Dean what he needs to keep going in this weird, unnaturally normal world.
Does he miss his Sam, the way Sam seems to miss his Dean?
Maybe. Sometimes Dean’s not even sure. Living with this Sam isn’t like trying to live with that soulless version of Sam from years ago, or dealing with the hallucinations of Hell that were killing him, or trying to figure out a way to make Sam love him again after Dean did the unthinkable and shoved an angel into him without his consent or knowledge.
This guy might not be his brother, but Dean’s starting to think that this Sam is as close to being Dean’s brother as Dean’s likely to find, at least in this lifetime.
“I think he would understand, Sam,” Dean assures him. “I think if you stop looking for him, he’d be okay with that.”
“How do you know? What do you know about us?” Sam’s frustration makes him sound young, helpless, like when he was a teenager and Dad was making them move again just when Sam was doing well at his new school. “You’re not him. You can’t understand.”
“Maybe not,” Dean agrees, trying not to let Sam’s words slice into his heart. “But you’re not my Sam, either, and I can accept that. I hope you can, too, if that’s how it has to be. Better we’re together in this weird universe without magic, than alone. Right?”
When he finds Sam in the bathroom one night, sitting on the floor in front of a spell circle, chanting in Latin, Dean almost reaches out for him, almost puts a hand on the back of his neck. Sam’s grown gaunt, too thin, his cheekbones and shoulder blades poking through his skin like sharp knives. There are dark circles under his eyes.
“I know you miss him, man, but this isn’t the way,” Dean says softly.
Sam jumps, drops the spell bowl. It clatters on the tiles.
“Thought you were asleep,” he mutters as he puts out the candles, tries to pick up the powdery gunk that spilled from the bowl.
He shakes off Dean’s offer of help, goes back to bed without further coaxing.
Dean lies awake until he hears Sam’s even breathing, then lies awake a little longer to be sure Sam isn’t faking it.
He knows he can’t force Sam to accept this strange new world as his home, but Dean can’t help wishing he would.
//**//**
Dean’s tried hard over the months to keep his hands off Sam.
Once, during that first couple of weeks, Sam had admitted that the whole “when did we first kiss?” question was because Sam thought Dean was his Dean.
“You kept touching me,” Sam explained. “You let me hold your hand in the car. I just assumed it was you. Him.”
“I’m sorry,” is all Dean could think to say at the time.
Now, he’s had over three months to think about the whole physical intimacy thing, and he’s facing the fact that it doesn’t sound so awful after all.
If Sam and his brother had seen their way to finding some comfort in their fucked up lives by snuggling once in a while, who is Dean to judge?
Not to mention, Dean’s always loved Sam too much. Always wanted more than he felt entitled to. How is it so wrong if Sam and his Dean found a way to express their love in a physical way in addition to the way Dean and his Sam have always expressed (or more often, not expressed) their love for each other?
Dean’s been repressing not-brotherly feelings for his brother for so long he doesn’t even know how he would begin to give himself permission to tell Sam -- his Sam -- how he feels.
It makes him sad to think that he could never be honest with his Sam. His Sam disappeared into oblivion or another universe without ever knowing the messed-up depths of Dean’s feelings for him.
Now, sitting in the car as the darkness closes around them after another day of failing to find what they’ve been looking for, Dean’s feeling a little reckless. So sue him.
“You know, Sammy, just so you know. If we never figure this out, I’m fine with that. I’m fine with never finding my Sam.” He shrugs. “I guess I have been since that first day.”
“You -- you can let him go?” Sam asks hesitantly. “Just like that?”
Dean shifts uncomfortably. “Well, he’s you, isn’t he? You’re still here. I guess I’ve just adjusted my thinking. If you’re the only Sam I’ll ever have, at least I have you.”
Sam shakes his head. “All those times I tried to get you to let me go, it didn’t go well.”
“Yeah, but this is different.” Dean clenches his jaw. Thinking about Sam leaving always makes him angry. Terrified. “You’re still here. You’re not dying or dead. You’re here. A slightly different you, maybe, but mostly the same. Most of the same memories, most of the same shit lived through and survived, mostly the same history of sticking up for each other and having each other’s backs. You’re you, in all the ways that matter. And I’m good with that.”
Sam draws a breath, lets it out slowly. “It’s not the same for me,” he says, low and unhappy. “You’re not him.”
Out of sheer instinct, Dean slides his arm across the back of the bench seat, tangles his fingers in Sam’s hair, rubs the warm skin on the back of Sam’s neck.
“Maybe I could be,” he says quietly. “More like him, I mean.”
Sam jerks free of his touch. “Stop it.”
Dean draws his hand away, returns it to the steering wheel, burying his feelings of disappointment and rejection down deep.
“Look, Sam, just because my Sam and me never did all that physical stuff, doesn’t mean I didn’t want to. I’m pretty sure it was him not wanting it that stopped us from going there. Just so you know.”
He can feel Sam staring at him in the dark, waits it out with his heart pounding, ready for Sam to yell at him, reject him, tell him to go to hell. Stop the car and let him out right here, goddamn it, in the middle of nowhere. Leave for good.
“Just let it go, alright?” Sam says finally. He sounds tired. “You don’t have to try to be him. I’m not going anywhere.”
Dean lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“It’s just us, Sam. Can’t you see that? Everything’s the same as it’s always been. I mean, maybe things were a little different for you, but I promise you, man. Just because I haven’t been kissing you or whatever for all these years, don’t mean I don’t feel just the same about you. Don’t mean my feelings aren’t just as strong.”
“I know.” Sam sighs. “Just let it go. It’s okay.”
Only, now the cat’s out of the bag. Now Sam knows. Dean’s confessed to having not-brotherly feelings, and there’s no taking it back.
Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything, but that ship sailed. He can’t keep repressing now. Especially knowing now that in another universe, somewhere, Sam felt the same way.
//**//**//
“Time to hustle some pool.”
Dean’s just put down his last twenty, including tip, for a hearty breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. They’ve been squatting in empty houses for the past week, but now they don’t have any more food money. Plus, Baby needs gas.
Sam rolls his eyes.
“Or we find a job,” he suggests. “Weather’s getting warmer. There must be farming or construction work somewhere. Maybe house painting or repairs.”
“Hustling pool’s more fun,” Dean says. “Come on, Sammy. It’ll be just like old times.”
They pick a good-sized bar, one with lots of people. They play together at first, letting other players see what a newbie Sam is. Dean pretends to patronize him, letting him have extra points every time he gets a ball in a pocket. Dean pretends to be drunk, loses deliberately so on-lookers can see that neither brother is much of a player.
When they’ve drawn a small crowd, Dean claps Sam on the back and pulls out a wad of bills, hoping nobody notices they’re all fives and ones.
“Anybody wanna play my brother? Cuz he might be new to the game, but he’s got me for a coach and I think he’s ready.”
Sam makes a face. “Dean, I don’t know.”
A burly dude in a backward baseball cap steps forward.
“Seems a shame to beat such a new player,” he says. “But I’ll play you.”
Dean grins, stumbles a little. Sam catches his elbow.
“I don’t know, Dean, you’ve had a little too much to drink. Doesn’t seem quite fair.” Sam’s voice is low, but not too quiet for the others to hear. Dean shivers.
“Nah, I can do it,” Dean insists, pulling his arm away, trying to ignore the lingering heat of Sam’s touch. To the dude he says, “You’re on.”
He sets his wad of bills down, keeps it when the guy loses. Barely.
“Wow, man, I’d hate to play against you when you’re sober,” the dude says.
“You wanna go again?” Dean offers. “Twenty bucks?”
Dean and the dude play several rounds, Dean losing about half the time, just to keep the stakes interesting.
Then Dean says, “Thirty bucks says my little brother can beat you.”
He’s aware of the little crowd they’ve drawn, watches Sam deliberately lose to the dude. Then another guy steps forward.
“Two hundred,” he says, putting down the money on the edge of the pool table.
Dean whistles. “We don’t have that kind of money.”
“It’s okay,” the guy says. “If I win, you can just give me what you have.”
The Winchesters exchange glances. Sam knows what to do.
When he loses, the guy can’t believe it.
“Beginner’s luck,” Sam shrugs.
“Let’s go again,” the guy says. “All or nothing.” He pulls out a wad of hundred-dollar bills, overconfident.
Sam makes quick work of the game without being too obvious that he’s a better pool player than anyone in the room. The guy looks frustrated but not dangerous. He was so sure he could beat Sam.
Nobody beats Sam when he’s paying attention, not even Dean, although he’d never tell Sam that.
“Come on,” he murmurs, hooking a hand into Sam’s elbow. “Let’s get out of here.”
Sam falls into step beside and just a little behind him and they leave the bar before anybody knows what hit them. Out in the parking lot Dean can’t help the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest. A screen door opens behind them and Dean slaps Sam on the chest, tamps down on his giggling. They take off, moving quickly and quietly down the block and around the corner to where they left the car, darkness masking their escape.
Dean’s euphoria overwhelms him then. He pushes Sam up against the car, grabs the lapels of his canvas jacket, and kisses him. He has to rise up on his tip-toes to reach Sam’s mouth, and for a moment Sam lets him. For a moment, Sam kisses back. Just for a moment, Dean can feel Sam leaning into it, tilting his head down so that Dean can reach his mouth. He didn’t need to do that, Dean reminds himself. He could’ve pulled away, tilting his head back out of Dean’s reach.
In the end, Dean’s the one who pulls away. He’s too pumped up with adrenaline over what they just did, as well as what just happened, which was as much a spontaneous expression of Dean’s sheer joy, his pride in Sam’s talent as a pool player and hustler, as anything.
As he steps back, another laugh bubbles out of his chest.
“You still got it, little brother,” he says, and he means the pool hustle, but Sam’s looking at him with fondness in his eyes and Dean never wants him to stop. “That was awesome!”
As he slips behind the wheel, Dean starts the car with a roar, pulls out with a satisfying screech of Baby’s tires.
Sam counts the wadded-up bills he stashed in his pocket as they left the bar. There’s nearly a thousand dollars, all told, plus all the small bills they started with.
“We can stay in a motel tonight,” Dean crows. “Hot showers, here we come!”
They stop for beer and pizza, then crowd into the room furthest from the office at the Manor Inn Motel. Dean dumps their duffels on the bed closest to the door and heads to the bathroom for a much-anticipated shower.
He deliberately doesn’t think about how soft Sam’s lips felt, how willingly he leaned down, the tiny, desperate sigh he gave as Dean pushed his tongue against Sam’s lips, just for a moment.
Dean’s not about to bring that kiss up, ever again, but when he exits the bathroom in a pillow of steam, clad only in a towel, Sam’s just sitting there on the end of the closest bed, staring at him, a slightly pained expression on his face. He’s been thinking about it, Dean can tell.
“Hey,” Dean says, going for nonchalance as he crosses the room to retrieve clean boxers from his duffel. They need a day at the laundromat. “Ain’t no big thing, Sammy.”
He drops the towel, pulls on the boxers without turning around, knows Sam’s watching him, getting a good look at his ass.
“It’s cheating,” Sam says softly. “Just like with Jessica.”
Dean half turns, pulling a clean t-shirt over his head.
“He’s gone, Sammy,” Dean says. “The longer he’s gone, the less likely he’ll ever be back.”
Sam ducks his head, stares at the floor between his feet. He’s still fully dressed, smells a little rank and unwashed, and Dean’s never wanted him so bad.
“Our first kiss was just like that,” Sam says, voice so soft Dean has to lean forward to hear him. “We were at this poolhouse bar and he’d just won. I wouldn’t play so I stayed outside. When he came out, he pushed me up against the car, just like you did.”
“Yeah?” Dean coaxes. “How’d it make you feel?”
Sam takes a deep breath, keeping his eyes on the dirty carpet.
“Relieved,” he says. “I was starting to think it’d never happen.”
Dean crosses around the end of the bed, kneels down on the carpet, which crunches under his bare knees. He puts his hands on Sam’s thighs, hunkers down low so he’s in Sam’s line of sight.
Sam doesn’t start. He doesn’t jerk away. After a moment, he lifts his eyes to Dean’s.
“I’m not your brother, Sam,” Dean reminds him. “But I’m here. And I may have never told my brother how I feel, but that don’t mean I didn’t feel it.”
Sam nods, swallows. His lips part. Dean licks his own lips because he can’t help himself, can’t help watching Sam’s lips for a moment before returning his gaze to Sam’s pretty eyes, soft with little brother helplessness and uncertainty.
“Okay.” Dean pats Sam’s leg, pushes himself to standing, and backs off, just a little. “Time for a shower. You reek.”
When Sam comes out of the shower, Dean’s already dozing in the bed that isn’t piled high with duffels and dirty laundry, curled onto his side under the blankets. Sam shuts off the bathroom light, pads softly across the room in the light from the streetlight through the window. Dean hears the familiar sound of Sam rustling around for clothes in his duffel, then pulling on the sweat pants and t-shirt he usually wears to bed.
But instead of clearing off and climbing into the other bed, Dean feels his own mattress dip as Sam climbs into Dean’s bed, settles on his back close enough that Dean can feel his heat.
Dean stirs, just to let Sam know he’s awake, and turns toward him. “Sammy?”
“Is this okay?” Sam’s voice is almost a whisper, a little hoarse with emotion.
Dean fights down a surge of hope, clears his throat. “Yeah, of course it’s okay.”
After a long moment of Sam not saying anything more, Dean starts to drift back to sleep, almost missing Sam’s hoarse whisper.
“I miss him.”
Dean rolls onto his back, so that their shoulders are pressed together, and blinks his eyes open in the near-darkness.
“I know you do, Sammy. I know you do.” He turns his head, gazes at Sam’s profile for a moment before adding, “You’ve got me, you know. Lousy consolation prize, maybe, but.” He shrugs against Sam’s shoulder.
Sam huffs out a half-laugh, turns his head to look at Dean. His face is in shadow, but Dean can almost hear him smiling.
“You’re kinder than he is, you know that? More patient. He would hate this whole scenario. He’d be blaming me for not being his Sam.”
Sam’s hand reaches across to touch Dean’s face, tracing his cheekbone and lips with his fingertips, and Dean shivers.
Dean shrugs. “I just don’t see the difference. To me, you’re Sam. I mean, maybe I’m just not as sensitive as you or whatever, but for me, everything matches up. You’re pretty much exactly like my brother. So sue me if it’s a little too easy to just pretend that you are him.”
Sam draws his hand back, and Dean misses his touch immediately.
“Do you think we traded places with them?” Sam asks, swallowing hard. “Do you think they’re together, your Sam and my Dean?”
Dean shudders. The thought of his Sam with a Dean who blames him for something he can’t control feels too much like mistakes Dean’s made in the past. He thinks about Ruby, the demon blood, Sam’s psychic powers, Sam when he was soulless, how he blamed Sam for all of it. He thinks about how angry he felt at Sam when he was a demon, when he was under the influence of the Mark of Cain. How guilty he felt about Ellen and Jo, Rufus, Bobby, Kevin, all the people who died for the Winchesters or got killed because of them. He thinks about how he blamed Sam for Charlie’s death.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Maybe. But what I do know is, we’re here. Together. For better or worse. It’s up to us what we do in this reality, for however long it lasts.”
“You sound like Dad,” Sam says, but Dean sees his teeth shine in the darkness. He’s smiling. “And that sounds a lot like your last night on Earth speech, the one you use to get somebody to sleep with you.”
“Is it working?”
Sam turns onto his side, scoots closer and somehow makes himself impossibly small as he snuggles up under Dean’s arm, his shaggy head on Dean’s shoulder. He slides his huge, muscled arm across Dean’s waist, tucks up under Dean’s chin so that he’s cuddling Dean like he’s a giant teddy bear.
“Could be,” he breathes against Dean’s chest. One of his legs slides over Dean’s, heavy and solid, pinning him to the mattress with just enough force to make Dean’s dick perk up in his boxers.
Dean dips his face down and presses a kiss into Sam’s soft, damp hair.
“Whatever you need, Sammy,” Dean murmurs.
Sam’s arm tightens around Dean. He presses his open mouth against Dean’s chest, over his nipple.
Dean gasps as Sam bites down, clamping his teeth around Dean’s nipple through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and suckles like a baby. It feels so good Dean thinks he might come, just from this. He’s painfully hard, bucks up against Sam’s mouth without an ounce of control, just needing more. Sam bites, then laves the tender nipple with his tongue, then goes back to his rhythmic suckling, squeezing Dean’s other pec reflexively with his big, strong hand.
Somehow, Dean’s hand ends up in Sam’s hair, kneading his scalp, carding his fingers through the soft strands, encouraging the unbearably pleasurable suckling. Dean’s almost out of his mind. It would be weird if it wasn’t so hot. Dean’s nipples have always been sensitive, he loves it when his partners suck and play with them, even bite them. But what Sam’s doing is beyond anything Dean’s ever experienced. It’s like he’s pushing some button Dean never knew he had.
“Yeah, that’s it, Sammy,” he babbles. “Take whatever you need, baby. That’s it.”
When Sam’s hand slides down under the blanket to clutch his cock through his boxers, and Dean cries out, bucks up, and comes hard as Sam bites down again.
Dean’s dimly aware of Sam rolling away from him, onto his back again. His chest and groin are wet but he can’t move, can’t get up to clean himself off to save his life. He lies like a limp, damp rag until his breathing and his heart finally go back to normal, till he becomes aware of Sam jerking off on the bed next to him.
“Hey, you, uh, need a hand with that?”
Dean has some vague idea how to give a hand job, even though giving one to his brother isn’t something he’s ever done before. He’ll try anything once, or maybe more than once if this is some new thing in their relationship.
But he figures it’s at least the polite thing to do, especially after the mind-blowing orgasm he just had.
“Nah, I got it,” Sam says, voice tight and hitched. Then his hand stills and he lets out a gasping sigh that starts high in his throat as he comes.
It’s the sexiest sound Dean’s ever heard.
He thinks he’s probably heard Sam come before. They slept in the same rooms as teenagers, not to mention for years after Dean picked Sam up from Stanford. Jerking off with the other one sleeping on the other bed, or even in the same bed, definitely happened more than once.
But the intimacy of this -- doing this with Dean listening and aware and after just being given the best if weirdest orgasm of his adult life -- that’s something new.
Dean lets his hand fall down on the bed between them, lets it lie there, just in case Sam needs to touch him, but he doesn’t.
Sam reaches over to the box of tissues on the nightstand, wipes himself off, drops a pile of clean tissues on Dean. Nobody likes dried, sticky pubes.
Dean does his best to wipe up, then gives up on his boxers altogether because they’re soaked. He sits up to push them off, drops them onto the floor next to the bed, followed by his damp t-shirt. He hides his disappointment when Sam rolls over onto his side, away from Dean, and immediately starts taking those long, deep breaths with the little snore at the end that means he’s asleep.
Dean lies awake on his back, staring at the ceiling, naked, for at least an hour. He listens to Sam’s even breathing, wonders if this thing between them will continue, or if Sam will pull back into himself again tomorrow morning.
It occurs to him that Sam knows exactly how to push his buttons, but he hasn’t got a clue how to push Sam’s. Well, he’s got some idea, in a general way, but nothing specific. Whereas Sam’s been figuring Dean out for years, learning his most intimate secrets, things about Dean that Dean doesn’t even acknowledge to himself.
Sam already knows what turns Dean on. That thought blows Dean’s mind. Makes him a little sad.
Which brings him back to the question of whether this thing between them can possibly continue. After all, what Sam did tonight was clearly a response to how much he misses that other Dean, his brother.
The thought of Sam and his Dean doing that on multiple occasions makes Dean think about what he could do to turn Sam on like that. How could he reduce Sam to a whimpering, pleading mess?
Dean’s dick perks up at the very idea of getting the chance to find out. Maybe Sam likes to top, to hold Dean down with his huge hands as he fucks into him, hard and hot and unrelenting.
Or maybe Sam needs Dean to top, to open him up with his tongue and his fingers until Sam’s begging for it, clutching the sheets reflexively as he tosses and moans and jerks his hips up, needing his big brother’s cock to fill him up and pound into him until he cries.
Either way, Dean’s so ready to give Sam anything he needs to get him to want Dean the way Dean wants him. Anything.
But of course he can’t give him the one thing Sam wants more than anything else. More than Dean. More than he could ever want Dean. Sam wants his brother, and Dean’s a piss-poor substitute at best. Always will be, even if they’re stuck here forever.
Dean lies awake and ignores his throbbing cock for what feels like most of the night, longing for something he may never have, something he never even knew he wanted until recently.
At least he knows how it feels to have Sam in his arms, practically lying on top of him, as he sucks Dean’s nipple through his t-shirt. At least he knows how it feels when Sam squeezes his pec, his waist, his dick. He knows how it feels to lie next to Sam as he jerks himself off.
If that’s all he’ll ever get, at least he’s had that.
PART SIX
At night, they climb into separate beds, go to sleep with their backs turned to each other.
Dean tries not to imagine what it would be like to sleep together. Just sleep, Sam spooned in his arms, his chest pressed to Sam’s broad back. Sweaty, Dean decides. Hot. He knows from the times he and Sam have huddled together for warmth, Dean fighting down the boner that threatens to spring up. Sam’s an armful. He kicks in his sleep.
Some nights, Dean lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, long after Sam’s asleep. He tries to recall a single time that his Sam initiated physical intimacy, but can’t think of one to save his life. He’s certain that Sam loved him, but they just never expressed it that way. Even hugs only happened when one of them was just back from the dead, or had put himself in terrible danger and the other one was sure he’d almost lost him.
Could it be that Sam was repressing a desire of his own for physical intimacy with his brother?
If he was, that desire was buried deep, where Dean had never seen nor felt a sign of it.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. That Sam is gone, quite possibly forever, and this one wants a Dean who is just as gone.
End of story.
Doesn’t stop Dean from thinking about it, though.
//**//**//
Sam makes another list, more hunts he remembers that happened after the car crash and Dad’s death. They visit Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Peoria, Illinois, and Lafayette, Indiana, all real places in this universe but completely unfamiliar. Similarly, Baltimore, Maryland, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and San Francisco, California are all real, but not at all familiar. Street names have changed. Addresses don’t exist here or have completely different buildings sitting at them since long before the Winchesters were last here.
Cornwall, Connecticut, where the brothers hunted what they thought was a voodoo priestess and where Sam saved a little girl from drowning, doesn’t exist. Neither does Rivergrove, Oregon, where Sam first learned he was immune to the Croatoan virus. Cold Oak, North Dakota, is also non-existent.
“Can’t say I’m sorry about that one,” Dean notes grimly. “That place sucked.”
Sam nods, just as grim. “No disagreement there.”
At the end of their third month traipsing around the country and finding bupkis, Dean calls it quits.
“I think we should just admit defeat, Sam,” he says as they get back into the car after yet another stop at another old hunting site that was once inhabited by people they saved.
Like every such site before it, this one is just a place, inhabited by people who’ve been there a long time and have no idea what they’re talking about or who they are.
It’s discouraging.
Sam’s getting more depressed, and Dean can’t take any more of that. It’s not healthy.
“We’re running out of former hunting grounds, man, and we sure ain’t finding any new ones.”
Sam shakes his head. “I can’t give up,” he says. “I can’t. He would feel like I was letting him down.”
Dean doesn’t have to ask who “he” is. He knows. He gets it. But the fact is, he’s already adjusting to having this Sam in his life. Truth be told, he doesn’t even miss the other one. This one has all the mannerisms, all the memories -- at least the ones that matter -- to make him feel as much like Dean’s brother as he possibly could be while not actually, technically, being his brother. Dean’s already decided to take the win and move on. Having a Sam -- not just any Sam, but this one -- has given Dean what he needs to keep going in this weird, unnaturally normal world.
Does he miss his Sam, the way Sam seems to miss his Dean?
Maybe. Sometimes Dean’s not even sure. Living with this Sam isn’t like trying to live with that soulless version of Sam from years ago, or dealing with the hallucinations of Hell that were killing him, or trying to figure out a way to make Sam love him again after Dean did the unthinkable and shoved an angel into him without his consent or knowledge.
This guy might not be his brother, but Dean’s starting to think that this Sam is as close to being Dean’s brother as Dean’s likely to find, at least in this lifetime.
“I think he would understand, Sam,” Dean assures him. “I think if you stop looking for him, he’d be okay with that.”
“How do you know? What do you know about us?” Sam’s frustration makes him sound young, helpless, like when he was a teenager and Dad was making them move again just when Sam was doing well at his new school. “You’re not him. You can’t understand.”
“Maybe not,” Dean agrees, trying not to let Sam’s words slice into his heart. “But you’re not my Sam, either, and I can accept that. I hope you can, too, if that’s how it has to be. Better we’re together in this weird universe without magic, than alone. Right?”
When he finds Sam in the bathroom one night, sitting on the floor in front of a spell circle, chanting in Latin, Dean almost reaches out for him, almost puts a hand on the back of his neck. Sam’s grown gaunt, too thin, his cheekbones and shoulder blades poking through his skin like sharp knives. There are dark circles under his eyes.
“I know you miss him, man, but this isn’t the way,” Dean says softly.
Sam jumps, drops the spell bowl. It clatters on the tiles.
“Thought you were asleep,” he mutters as he puts out the candles, tries to pick up the powdery gunk that spilled from the bowl.
He shakes off Dean’s offer of help, goes back to bed without further coaxing.
Dean lies awake until he hears Sam’s even breathing, then lies awake a little longer to be sure Sam isn’t faking it.
He knows he can’t force Sam to accept this strange new world as his home, but Dean can’t help wishing he would.
//**//**
Dean’s tried hard over the months to keep his hands off Sam.
Once, during that first couple of weeks, Sam had admitted that the whole “when did we first kiss?” question was because Sam thought Dean was his Dean.
“You kept touching me,” Sam explained. “You let me hold your hand in the car. I just assumed it was you. Him.”
“I’m sorry,” is all Dean could think to say at the time.
Now, he’s had over three months to think about the whole physical intimacy thing, and he’s facing the fact that it doesn’t sound so awful after all.
If Sam and his brother had seen their way to finding some comfort in their fucked up lives by snuggling once in a while, who is Dean to judge?
Not to mention, Dean’s always loved Sam too much. Always wanted more than he felt entitled to. How is it so wrong if Sam and his Dean found a way to express their love in a physical way in addition to the way Dean and his Sam have always expressed (or more often, not expressed) their love for each other?
Dean’s been repressing not-brotherly feelings for his brother for so long he doesn’t even know how he would begin to give himself permission to tell Sam -- his Sam -- how he feels.
It makes him sad to think that he could never be honest with his Sam. His Sam disappeared into oblivion or another universe without ever knowing the messed-up depths of Dean’s feelings for him.
Now, sitting in the car as the darkness closes around them after another day of failing to find what they’ve been looking for, Dean’s feeling a little reckless. So sue him.
“You know, Sammy, just so you know. If we never figure this out, I’m fine with that. I’m fine with never finding my Sam.” He shrugs. “I guess I have been since that first day.”
“You -- you can let him go?” Sam asks hesitantly. “Just like that?”
Dean shifts uncomfortably. “Well, he’s you, isn’t he? You’re still here. I guess I’ve just adjusted my thinking. If you’re the only Sam I’ll ever have, at least I have you.”
Sam shakes his head. “All those times I tried to get you to let me go, it didn’t go well.”
“Yeah, but this is different.” Dean clenches his jaw. Thinking about Sam leaving always makes him angry. Terrified. “You’re still here. You’re not dying or dead. You’re here. A slightly different you, maybe, but mostly the same. Most of the same memories, most of the same shit lived through and survived, mostly the same history of sticking up for each other and having each other’s backs. You’re you, in all the ways that matter. And I’m good with that.”
Sam draws a breath, lets it out slowly. “It’s not the same for me,” he says, low and unhappy. “You’re not him.”
Out of sheer instinct, Dean slides his arm across the back of the bench seat, tangles his fingers in Sam’s hair, rubs the warm skin on the back of Sam’s neck.
“Maybe I could be,” he says quietly. “More like him, I mean.”
Sam jerks free of his touch. “Stop it.”
Dean draws his hand away, returns it to the steering wheel, burying his feelings of disappointment and rejection down deep.
“Look, Sam, just because my Sam and me never did all that physical stuff, doesn’t mean I didn’t want to. I’m pretty sure it was him not wanting it that stopped us from going there. Just so you know.”
He can feel Sam staring at him in the dark, waits it out with his heart pounding, ready for Sam to yell at him, reject him, tell him to go to hell. Stop the car and let him out right here, goddamn it, in the middle of nowhere. Leave for good.
“Just let it go, alright?” Sam says finally. He sounds tired. “You don’t have to try to be him. I’m not going anywhere.”
Dean lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“It’s just us, Sam. Can’t you see that? Everything’s the same as it’s always been. I mean, maybe things were a little different for you, but I promise you, man. Just because I haven’t been kissing you or whatever for all these years, don’t mean I don’t feel just the same about you. Don’t mean my feelings aren’t just as strong.”
“I know.” Sam sighs. “Just let it go. It’s okay.”
Only, now the cat’s out of the bag. Now Sam knows. Dean’s confessed to having not-brotherly feelings, and there’s no taking it back.
Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything, but that ship sailed. He can’t keep repressing now. Especially knowing now that in another universe, somewhere, Sam felt the same way.
//**//**//
“Time to hustle some pool.”
Dean’s just put down his last twenty, including tip, for a hearty breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. They’ve been squatting in empty houses for the past week, but now they don’t have any more food money. Plus, Baby needs gas.
Sam rolls his eyes.
“Or we find a job,” he suggests. “Weather’s getting warmer. There must be farming or construction work somewhere. Maybe house painting or repairs.”
“Hustling pool’s more fun,” Dean says. “Come on, Sammy. It’ll be just like old times.”
They pick a good-sized bar, one with lots of people. They play together at first, letting other players see what a newbie Sam is. Dean pretends to patronize him, letting him have extra points every time he gets a ball in a pocket. Dean pretends to be drunk, loses deliberately so on-lookers can see that neither brother is much of a player.
When they’ve drawn a small crowd, Dean claps Sam on the back and pulls out a wad of bills, hoping nobody notices they’re all fives and ones.
“Anybody wanna play my brother? Cuz he might be new to the game, but he’s got me for a coach and I think he’s ready.”
Sam makes a face. “Dean, I don’t know.”
A burly dude in a backward baseball cap steps forward.
“Seems a shame to beat such a new player,” he says. “But I’ll play you.”
Dean grins, stumbles a little. Sam catches his elbow.
“I don’t know, Dean, you’ve had a little too much to drink. Doesn’t seem quite fair.” Sam’s voice is low, but not too quiet for the others to hear. Dean shivers.
“Nah, I can do it,” Dean insists, pulling his arm away, trying to ignore the lingering heat of Sam’s touch. To the dude he says, “You’re on.”
He sets his wad of bills down, keeps it when the guy loses. Barely.
“Wow, man, I’d hate to play against you when you’re sober,” the dude says.
“You wanna go again?” Dean offers. “Twenty bucks?”
Dean and the dude play several rounds, Dean losing about half the time, just to keep the stakes interesting.
Then Dean says, “Thirty bucks says my little brother can beat you.”
He’s aware of the little crowd they’ve drawn, watches Sam deliberately lose to the dude. Then another guy steps forward.
“Two hundred,” he says, putting down the money on the edge of the pool table.
Dean whistles. “We don’t have that kind of money.”
“It’s okay,” the guy says. “If I win, you can just give me what you have.”
The Winchesters exchange glances. Sam knows what to do.
When he loses, the guy can’t believe it.
“Beginner’s luck,” Sam shrugs.
“Let’s go again,” the guy says. “All or nothing.” He pulls out a wad of hundred-dollar bills, overconfident.
Sam makes quick work of the game without being too obvious that he’s a better pool player than anyone in the room. The guy looks frustrated but not dangerous. He was so sure he could beat Sam.
Nobody beats Sam when he’s paying attention, not even Dean, although he’d never tell Sam that.
“Come on,” he murmurs, hooking a hand into Sam’s elbow. “Let’s get out of here.”
Sam falls into step beside and just a little behind him and they leave the bar before anybody knows what hit them. Out in the parking lot Dean can’t help the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest. A screen door opens behind them and Dean slaps Sam on the chest, tamps down on his giggling. They take off, moving quickly and quietly down the block and around the corner to where they left the car, darkness masking their escape.
Dean’s euphoria overwhelms him then. He pushes Sam up against the car, grabs the lapels of his canvas jacket, and kisses him. He has to rise up on his tip-toes to reach Sam’s mouth, and for a moment Sam lets him. For a moment, Sam kisses back. Just for a moment, Dean can feel Sam leaning into it, tilting his head down so that Dean can reach his mouth. He didn’t need to do that, Dean reminds himself. He could’ve pulled away, tilting his head back out of Dean’s reach.
In the end, Dean’s the one who pulls away. He’s too pumped up with adrenaline over what they just did, as well as what just happened, which was as much a spontaneous expression of Dean’s sheer joy, his pride in Sam’s talent as a pool player and hustler, as anything.
As he steps back, another laugh bubbles out of his chest.
“You still got it, little brother,” he says, and he means the pool hustle, but Sam’s looking at him with fondness in his eyes and Dean never wants him to stop. “That was awesome!”
As he slips behind the wheel, Dean starts the car with a roar, pulls out with a satisfying screech of Baby’s tires.
Sam counts the wadded-up bills he stashed in his pocket as they left the bar. There’s nearly a thousand dollars, all told, plus all the small bills they started with.
“We can stay in a motel tonight,” Dean crows. “Hot showers, here we come!”
They stop for beer and pizza, then crowd into the room furthest from the office at the Manor Inn Motel. Dean dumps their duffels on the bed closest to the door and heads to the bathroom for a much-anticipated shower.
He deliberately doesn’t think about how soft Sam’s lips felt, how willingly he leaned down, the tiny, desperate sigh he gave as Dean pushed his tongue against Sam’s lips, just for a moment.
Dean’s not about to bring that kiss up, ever again, but when he exits the bathroom in a pillow of steam, clad only in a towel, Sam’s just sitting there on the end of the closest bed, staring at him, a slightly pained expression on his face. He’s been thinking about it, Dean can tell.
“Hey,” Dean says, going for nonchalance as he crosses the room to retrieve clean boxers from his duffel. They need a day at the laundromat. “Ain’t no big thing, Sammy.”
He drops the towel, pulls on the boxers without turning around, knows Sam’s watching him, getting a good look at his ass.
“It’s cheating,” Sam says softly. “Just like with Jessica.”
Dean half turns, pulling a clean t-shirt over his head.
“He’s gone, Sammy,” Dean says. “The longer he’s gone, the less likely he’ll ever be back.”
Sam ducks his head, stares at the floor between his feet. He’s still fully dressed, smells a little rank and unwashed, and Dean’s never wanted him so bad.
“Our first kiss was just like that,” Sam says, voice so soft Dean has to lean forward to hear him. “We were at this poolhouse bar and he’d just won. I wouldn’t play so I stayed outside. When he came out, he pushed me up against the car, just like you did.”
“Yeah?” Dean coaxes. “How’d it make you feel?”
Sam takes a deep breath, keeping his eyes on the dirty carpet.
“Relieved,” he says. “I was starting to think it’d never happen.”
Dean crosses around the end of the bed, kneels down on the carpet, which crunches under his bare knees. He puts his hands on Sam’s thighs, hunkers down low so he’s in Sam’s line of sight.
Sam doesn’t start. He doesn’t jerk away. After a moment, he lifts his eyes to Dean’s.
“I’m not your brother, Sam,” Dean reminds him. “But I’m here. And I may have never told my brother how I feel, but that don’t mean I didn’t feel it.”
Sam nods, swallows. His lips part. Dean licks his own lips because he can’t help himself, can’t help watching Sam’s lips for a moment before returning his gaze to Sam’s pretty eyes, soft with little brother helplessness and uncertainty.
“Okay.” Dean pats Sam’s leg, pushes himself to standing, and backs off, just a little. “Time for a shower. You reek.”
When Sam comes out of the shower, Dean’s already dozing in the bed that isn’t piled high with duffels and dirty laundry, curled onto his side under the blankets. Sam shuts off the bathroom light, pads softly across the room in the light from the streetlight through the window. Dean hears the familiar sound of Sam rustling around for clothes in his duffel, then pulling on the sweat pants and t-shirt he usually wears to bed.
But instead of clearing off and climbing into the other bed, Dean feels his own mattress dip as Sam climbs into Dean’s bed, settles on his back close enough that Dean can feel his heat.
Dean stirs, just to let Sam know he’s awake, and turns toward him. “Sammy?”
“Is this okay?” Sam’s voice is almost a whisper, a little hoarse with emotion.
Dean fights down a surge of hope, clears his throat. “Yeah, of course it’s okay.”
After a long moment of Sam not saying anything more, Dean starts to drift back to sleep, almost missing Sam’s hoarse whisper.
“I miss him.”
Dean rolls onto his back, so that their shoulders are pressed together, and blinks his eyes open in the near-darkness.
“I know you do, Sammy. I know you do.” He turns his head, gazes at Sam’s profile for a moment before adding, “You’ve got me, you know. Lousy consolation prize, maybe, but.” He shrugs against Sam’s shoulder.
Sam huffs out a half-laugh, turns his head to look at Dean. His face is in shadow, but Dean can almost hear him smiling.
“You’re kinder than he is, you know that? More patient. He would hate this whole scenario. He’d be blaming me for not being his Sam.”
Sam’s hand reaches across to touch Dean’s face, tracing his cheekbone and lips with his fingertips, and Dean shivers.
Dean shrugs. “I just don’t see the difference. To me, you’re Sam. I mean, maybe I’m just not as sensitive as you or whatever, but for me, everything matches up. You’re pretty much exactly like my brother. So sue me if it’s a little too easy to just pretend that you are him.”
Sam draws his hand back, and Dean misses his touch immediately.
“Do you think we traded places with them?” Sam asks, swallowing hard. “Do you think they’re together, your Sam and my Dean?”
Dean shudders. The thought of his Sam with a Dean who blames him for something he can’t control feels too much like mistakes Dean’s made in the past. He thinks about Ruby, the demon blood, Sam’s psychic powers, Sam when he was soulless, how he blamed Sam for all of it. He thinks about how angry he felt at Sam when he was a demon, when he was under the influence of the Mark of Cain. How guilty he felt about Ellen and Jo, Rufus, Bobby, Kevin, all the people who died for the Winchesters or got killed because of them. He thinks about how he blamed Sam for Charlie’s death.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Maybe. But what I do know is, we’re here. Together. For better or worse. It’s up to us what we do in this reality, for however long it lasts.”
“You sound like Dad,” Sam says, but Dean sees his teeth shine in the darkness. He’s smiling. “And that sounds a lot like your last night on Earth speech, the one you use to get somebody to sleep with you.”
“Is it working?”
Sam turns onto his side, scoots closer and somehow makes himself impossibly small as he snuggles up under Dean’s arm, his shaggy head on Dean’s shoulder. He slides his huge, muscled arm across Dean’s waist, tucks up under Dean’s chin so that he’s cuddling Dean like he’s a giant teddy bear.
“Could be,” he breathes against Dean’s chest. One of his legs slides over Dean’s, heavy and solid, pinning him to the mattress with just enough force to make Dean’s dick perk up in his boxers.
Dean dips his face down and presses a kiss into Sam’s soft, damp hair.
“Whatever you need, Sammy,” Dean murmurs.
Sam’s arm tightens around Dean. He presses his open mouth against Dean’s chest, over his nipple.
Dean gasps as Sam bites down, clamping his teeth around Dean’s nipple through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and suckles like a baby. It feels so good Dean thinks he might come, just from this. He’s painfully hard, bucks up against Sam’s mouth without an ounce of control, just needing more. Sam bites, then laves the tender nipple with his tongue, then goes back to his rhythmic suckling, squeezing Dean’s other pec reflexively with his big, strong hand.
Somehow, Dean’s hand ends up in Sam’s hair, kneading his scalp, carding his fingers through the soft strands, encouraging the unbearably pleasurable suckling. Dean’s almost out of his mind. It would be weird if it wasn’t so hot. Dean’s nipples have always been sensitive, he loves it when his partners suck and play with them, even bite them. But what Sam’s doing is beyond anything Dean’s ever experienced. It’s like he’s pushing some button Dean never knew he had.
“Yeah, that’s it, Sammy,” he babbles. “Take whatever you need, baby. That’s it.”
When Sam’s hand slides down under the blanket to clutch his cock through his boxers, and Dean cries out, bucks up, and comes hard as Sam bites down again.
Dean’s dimly aware of Sam rolling away from him, onto his back again. His chest and groin are wet but he can’t move, can’t get up to clean himself off to save his life. He lies like a limp, damp rag until his breathing and his heart finally go back to normal, till he becomes aware of Sam jerking off on the bed next to him.
“Hey, you, uh, need a hand with that?”
Dean has some vague idea how to give a hand job, even though giving one to his brother isn’t something he’s ever done before. He’ll try anything once, or maybe more than once if this is some new thing in their relationship.
But he figures it’s at least the polite thing to do, especially after the mind-blowing orgasm he just had.
“Nah, I got it,” Sam says, voice tight and hitched. Then his hand stills and he lets out a gasping sigh that starts high in his throat as he comes.
It’s the sexiest sound Dean’s ever heard.
He thinks he’s probably heard Sam come before. They slept in the same rooms as teenagers, not to mention for years after Dean picked Sam up from Stanford. Jerking off with the other one sleeping on the other bed, or even in the same bed, definitely happened more than once.
But the intimacy of this -- doing this with Dean listening and aware and after just being given the best if weirdest orgasm of his adult life -- that’s something new.
Dean lets his hand fall down on the bed between them, lets it lie there, just in case Sam needs to touch him, but he doesn’t.
Sam reaches over to the box of tissues on the nightstand, wipes himself off, drops a pile of clean tissues on Dean. Nobody likes dried, sticky pubes.
Dean does his best to wipe up, then gives up on his boxers altogether because they’re soaked. He sits up to push them off, drops them onto the floor next to the bed, followed by his damp t-shirt. He hides his disappointment when Sam rolls over onto his side, away from Dean, and immediately starts taking those long, deep breaths with the little snore at the end that means he’s asleep.
Dean lies awake on his back, staring at the ceiling, naked, for at least an hour. He listens to Sam’s even breathing, wonders if this thing between them will continue, or if Sam will pull back into himself again tomorrow morning.
It occurs to him that Sam knows exactly how to push his buttons, but he hasn’t got a clue how to push Sam’s. Well, he’s got some idea, in a general way, but nothing specific. Whereas Sam’s been figuring Dean out for years, learning his most intimate secrets, things about Dean that Dean doesn’t even acknowledge to himself.
Sam already knows what turns Dean on. That thought blows Dean’s mind. Makes him a little sad.
Which brings him back to the question of whether this thing between them can possibly continue. After all, what Sam did tonight was clearly a response to how much he misses that other Dean, his brother.
The thought of Sam and his Dean doing that on multiple occasions makes Dean think about what he could do to turn Sam on like that. How could he reduce Sam to a whimpering, pleading mess?
Dean’s dick perks up at the very idea of getting the chance to find out. Maybe Sam likes to top, to hold Dean down with his huge hands as he fucks into him, hard and hot and unrelenting.
Or maybe Sam needs Dean to top, to open him up with his tongue and his fingers until Sam’s begging for it, clutching the sheets reflexively as he tosses and moans and jerks his hips up, needing his big brother’s cock to fill him up and pound into him until he cries.
Either way, Dean’s so ready to give Sam anything he needs to get him to want Dean the way Dean wants him. Anything.
But of course he can’t give him the one thing Sam wants more than anything else. More than Dean. More than he could ever want Dean. Sam wants his brother, and Dean’s a piss-poor substitute at best. Always will be, even if they’re stuck here forever.
Dean lies awake and ignores his throbbing cock for what feels like most of the night, longing for something he may never have, something he never even knew he wanted until recently.
At least he knows how it feels to have Sam in his arms, practically lying on top of him, as he sucks Dean’s nipple through his t-shirt. At least he knows how it feels when Sam squeezes his pec, his waist, his dick. He knows how it feels to lie next to Sam as he jerks himself off.
If that’s all he’ll ever get, at least he’s had that.
PART SIX