Fic: Blow out the candles I still hear them say (Wishes come true in this special way) Sam/Dean pg13
Been writing for 8 hours straight. I'm absolutely exhausted.
I wanted to finish this fic for Sam Winchester's birthday today but now it's past midnight here so technically I've failed. *hangs head* It's still May 2nd somewhere though. It's unbeta'd and, like I said, written in a hurry (except for the first seven pages which were old material) so I have no idea if it's any good at all. *bites nails* Oh well, here goes.
Title: Blow out the candles I still hear them say (Wishes come true in this special way)
Author: felisblanco
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Wee!cest but nothing explicit. [ETA. Seems I'm making people cry so warning for angst, I guess? Oops.]
Rating: PG-13, I guess
Word count: 7145 words
Summary: Sam is turning fifteen and Dean is going to Hell.
Author's Note: Title taken from the song Blow Out The Candles by Marty Robbins. Unbeta'd. Written for Sam Winchester's 24th birthday.
The year Sam turns fifteen is the year Dean stops drinking.
He's nineteen and two years shy of legal in most states but beer and whiskey have been a constant part of his life for a long time, just like driving has been his job more times than he can remember ever since he was twelve. You do what you have to do and sometimes, just sometimes, Dad’s in no state to drive, on account of blood-loss or exhaustion or just plain drunkenness. It’s only right that Dean helps out, that’s what good sons do.
But then sometimes, just sometimes, Dad needs a friend, a confidant, more than he needs a son. Preferably by bonding over a bottle.
The Christmas before his fifteenth birthday Dean figures it’s about time he steps into those shoes as well. Better him than some stranger. John gets loose lipped when he drinks too much, cursing demons and people’s blindness, and they can’t afford the attention. So when John makes to go to the bar on Christmas Eve Dean already has a bottle of JD and two glasses waiting at the wobbly kitchen table. His father stops dead, staring first at the offering and then up at his older son who gives him a bored look, daring John to turn him down.
He doesn’t.
Eight o’clock Christmas morning. It’s Dean’s first hangover, and he thinks he's dying. It's worse than the flu that laid him flat for over a week back in Montana and that was the sickest he's ever been as far as he can remember. When he rolls over to face Sam’s bed, the movement enough to overturn his stomach, Sam shoots him an angry look, knees pulled up almost to his ears, nose buried in the book about the Civil War that Dean had helped Dad pick out. Dean has a bag of sour straws hidden in his drawer that he’s going to give Sam later if he survives the next ten minutes.
"Oh. God. Sammy..." Dean groans, flailing awkwardly as he tries to decide whether to pass out again or run into the bathroom.
Sammy just snorts and flips the page, too angry to feel anything but contempt for his brother’s sorry state. "Serves you right. You're not even fifteen, Dean. You're not supposed to be drinking. I can't believe dad..."
"Sam, shut up. Fuck. Stop being such a prissy bitch and help me out here before I..." Uhuh.
“Dean?”
“Sa-!” He doubles over, vomiting all over the bedspread.
That gets Sam moving. "Dean! Aw! Not in here!"
When Dean finally emerges from the bathroom half an hour later, there's a glass of water and two painkillers on the night stand. The bed’s been stripped and the window cracked. Sam is dozing off in the other bed and from across the hall echoes the sound of their father snoring.
Dean swallows the pills with a mouthful of water and then stands still for a moment before crawling into his brother’s bed, stealing most of his blanket.
“Merry Christmas, Sam.”
Sam doesn’t answer but after a moment he turns over and shuffles closer until he’s pressed tight against Dean’s side, nose buried in his neck. They sleep until noon.
By one o'clock they're already on the road.
After that it almost becomes a ritual. After successful hunts Dean and John drink beer. After fruitless hunts they drink whiskey. Dean doesn't mind. He gets used to the taste of the strong liquor soon enough, beginning with small sips and moving on to larger ones as the night wears on and his father's words make less and less sense. The way he figures, the more he drinks the less John does. And the less John drinks the less chance of things turning bad.
Sam watches them from the doorway, looking small and out of place, like he's suddenly found himself the only child in a grown up's world. Which is more or less true.
Dean is growing up, faster than he should but not as fast as he feels he needs to. Dad needs him. To be a man, a hunter, a partner in the quest for mom’s killer. Sam needs him too but it's different. Sam needs a big brother but more importantly he needs a parent. Dean tries to be both but sometimes it's more than he can handle. Sometimes all he wants to be is just Dean. Not that it matters. He does what he has to do and that's it.
Dean isn't the only one growing up though. Shortly after Dean's seventeenth birthday Sam shoots up like a beanstalk. His hands and feet look overgrown on the lanky body but the increased training Dad puts them through each month soon has him packing muscles boys his age don't even know they have. Long spindly arms become wiry and his bony chest fills out. In many ways he's still clumsy, brain not quite catching up with his body, but in other ways he's incredibly graceful. Watching Sam spar is a bit like watching a newborn calf find its feet and break into a run. Dean finds himself watching his brother, wondering how long it will be before Sam outgrows him in other ways. How long it will be before Sam doesn’t need him anymore. He should be relieved but all he feels is emptiness.
Another Friday night and the bottom of the bottle is rapidly approaching. Dean's head feels heavy, his thoughts slow and confusing. He's long lost the thread in his father's ramblings. Something about ghosts and fate, or was it faith? He can't remember. The words come slowly, with pauses and hesitations that tell Dean that soon he can put Dad to bed. He’s tired and for some reason he feels incredibly lonely. Sam has stayed in their room all night, sulking. He's angry and Dean can't remember why. He hates when Sam's angry. An angry Sam looks at Dean like he's failed him in all the ways he promised himself he never would.
"Dean?"
He looks up, catching his father's blurred eyes. "Dad?"
"Time for bed, kiddo?"
He nods. "Okay. Yeah."
He helps John stand up and cross the floor and into his room where he falls on the bed, asleep before he even manages to undress. Dean pulls off Dad’s shoes before covering him with the thin blanket. Then he walks unsteadily into his and Sam's room, pausing hesitantly in the doorway.
The moon shines in through a split in the curtains. It paints silver streaks across Sam’s back where he lies curled up on his side, sheet twisted in his fist, covers tangled around his long legs. A sheen of sweat glitters on the small of his back. Dean walks over and gently detangles the cover from Sam’s gangly limbs and tugs it around him instead. He feels sick already, a headache forming behind his forehead and a tornado swooshing the alcohol around in his belly.
With a sigh he sits down on the bed and reaches out, stroking the mop of hair away from Sam’s eyes. He knows the anger will burn in Sam for the next couple of days but he also knows that come morning there will be a glass of water by his bedside and painkillers to dampen his headache.
“Why do you do it?”
The hurt voice startles him. Sam’s eyes are still closed but his lips are drawn up in a hard scowl and his curled fingers clench where they lie on the bed.
“What? Why do I do what, Sammy?”
“Drink so much. I don’t like it when you drink.”
Dean closes his eyes. They’ve been here before, more times than he can remember. He never really has an answer. Not one he wants to tell Sam anyway. “Sammy, man… you know. Dad, he…”
“You scare me.”
Dean pulls back. He suddenly feels cold. “What? Sammy, you know I would never hurt you.”
“I hate when he drinks. He’s loud and says stupid things. And… and sometimes he gets angry and mean. And now you’re drinking too. All the time.”
“Sam, he needs me to be… like him. An adult. And I am.” Dean sighs when Sam just buries his face in the pillow. “It’s… It’s better he drinks here than at some bar. Right? When he’s drunk he… says stuff. I’m trying to keep him safe. Keep us safe.”
“Do you like it?”
Dean blinks. He’s never really thought of that. He doesn’t like the taste. The beer is all right but the stronger stuff makes his throat burn. It does make him feel good in some ways. And worse in others. He’s not sure why Dad drinks since it doesn’t seem to make him feel any better at all. Just sad and drained of hope.
“It’s all right. I don’t mind.”
Sam looks up at that. The anger is gone, he just looks lost and confused. “I’m gonna be fifteen in two weeks.”
“I know.” Dean sighs, wondering what impossible thing Sam is going to ask for. He has some money saved up but it’s barely enough for a cake. “We’ll do something. Something fun. I promise.”
“You were fifteen when you started drinking with Dad.”
He’s tired and drunk and he just doesn’t get why Sam is looking at him like that. “I know, I was there. Can we talk tomorrow, I’m-”
“I don’t want to drink. It smells nasty and it makes you sick.” Sam swallows and looks away, tears in his eyes. “Can you talk to Dad and… and tell him? That I don’t want to?”
Dean just stares at him. And then he gets it. He’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. “God, Sammy. You don’t have to... No one expects you to-”
“It’s not that I’m a baby because I’m not,” Sam interrupts. “I just don’t want to and… and…”
“Sammy, it’s okay. Dad’s not gonna let you drink. I would never let you drink. You’re still a kid.”
“So were you!”
Yeah. But I want you to stay one. At least for a little longer. “It’s different, you know that. And I’ll kick your ass if you even touch booze before you’re... eighteen at least.
Sam rubs his hand over his face before looking up. “He won’t be mad?”
“No, Sammy. He won’t be mad.”
“Okay.” The voice is small, tainted with uncertainty. “I don’t want to hunt either.”
Dean frowns. “Dude, you already are. Small things but…”
Sam looks up, stubbornness tightening his still baby-soft face. “I don’t want to anymore.”
Dean isn’t sure how to react so he goes for mocking, raising his eyebrow and twisting his lips into a sneer. “Why? You scared?”
“Yes.”
There is no hesitation, just open honesty in Sam’s voice and terror in his eyes, and Dean feels his nausea intensify.
“Sammy…”
Sam looks away, clenching his jaw. “And I don’t want to use fake ID’s or steal people’s money or… or…”
“You don’t want to be like me.” He should be glad but it just hurts.
Sam shakes his head. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want you to be like him either.”
Here they go again. Dean reaches out to run comforting fingers through Sam’s shaggy hair but he jerks away and Dean sighs.
“He’s a hero.”
“He’s gonna die.” The voice is so small and laden with such fear it stabs Dean in his belly.
“Sam, no.”
“Yes, and then you’re gonna die and I don’t want you to die.” Sam’s breath hitches and he turns away, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t want you to die, Dean.”
“I’m not gonna die.”
“I have nightmares where you die. All the time.” The thin shoulders shake and when Dean lays his palm on Sam’s cheek it’s hot and wet.
“I’m not going to die, Sammy.”
“I just want us all to live somewhere. Together. And not hunt.”
Dean closes his eyes in exasperation. “That’s not gonna happen, Sam.”
“I hate him.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I hate you.”
The room falls into silence, Sam’s hitched breathing and Dean’s labored one echoing in the dark, the words hanging between them like a verbal slap. Then Sam turns around and buries his face in Dean’s lap, long arms wrapping themselves around his waist.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry, Dean. You know I don’t hate you, right?”
“It’s okay.” His voice is hoarser than he intended, his throat so tight it’s painful.
“No, it’s not. I don’t know why I said it.” Sam looks up at him with tear-filled eyes, lower lip trembling. “I love you, Dean. So much.”
He wants to push Sam away and run out of the room. Wants to finish what little was left in the bottle and then head out and find more. Instead he just blinks and repeats, “It’s okay.”
“You forgive me?”
“Yeah. Yeah. ‘Course I do, Sammy.”
He lets himself be pulled down on the bed, arms automatically going around Sammy as he snuggles closer, his brother’s hot breath bringing out drops of sweat on his neck.
“Maybe… maybe when I’m a bit older we could go away together. Some place. Just you and me, Dean.”
“Maybe.” He’s not really listening, his mind still black and empty.
“We could go to college and get jobs and maybe a dog.”
“Sure.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, Sammy. Just tired.” The headache suddenly hits him hard and he closes his eyes, his hands tightening into fists. “Just… sleep, okay?”
“Okay.” Sam sighs and nuzzles his nose into Dean’s neck. “Stay here?”
“Sure.”
They lie in silence and he thinks Sam has finally fallen asleep when he suddenly turns his head and when Dean opens his eyes, Sam is gazing at him, biting his lip.
"I meant it. Dean? I love you."
"Sammy..."
"We never say it. Why don't we ever say it? Simon's mom says it to him all the time."
"I'm not mom, Sammy."
"Did she ever... Did mom ever say it to you?"
Dean fights not to push Sam away and off the bed. Maybe it's the alcohol weakening him but he suddenly feels like crying. "Yeah. Yeah, she did."
"Did she ever say it to me?" Sam's voice is so small he seems four rather than fourteen.
"Of course she did. All the time, Sammy. She..." Dean swallows. His chest hurts. "She loved you very much."
Sam looks away, his voice hardly above a whisper. "I dont know if dad loves me at all."
"Sam..."
"Sometimes, when he's really drunk, he looks at me like like it's my fault she's dead." Sam curls in on himself, as if he expects Dean to confirm it, to say he thinks so too.
"No, Sam. Never." Dean tightens his hold around Sam's chest. He can feel his brother's heart beating frantically under his palm. "He does love you. Very much."
"And you?"
"And me what?"
"Do you love me?"
He stays silent for a long time before finally allowing himself to turn his head and look Sam straight in the eye. "Yes. I love you." He leans forward and kisses Sam softly on the cheek. "I love you more than anything in the whole damn world."
Sam's breath hitches and then he's turning his head, catching Dean's lips with his own, tasting of tears and gratitude. Dean freezes, not reacting until a warm tongue sneaks out and licks his lips. Then he grabs Sam by the neck and crushes their lips together, kissing Sam hard and desperate, shaking when he feels warm hands slide over his body. It isn't until he feels trembling fingers run up his thigh that he jerks back and pushes Sam away, staring at him in shock.
“Dean?”
He’s off the bed and stumbling into the bathroom, just barely managing to slam the toilet open before throwing up half a bottle’s worth of whiskey. When he hears Sam falling out of bed he stumbles over on his knees and closes the door, locking it before crawling back to the toilet, continuing his heaving.
“Dean? Open the door, Dean. Please. I’m sorry. Dean?”
He doesn’t answer. Can’t. His heart is thundering in his chest, so hard he’s sure it will burst any second. Even if he wanted to he knows he wouldn’t be able to get up off his knees. He thinks he might just die here. Wishes he did.
He can smell the alcohol on his breath, feel it buzzing in his veins. Making him sick and confused and so goddamn stupid he wants to bash his head into the wall. This never would have happened if he hadn’t been so damn drunk. What was he thinking, playing Sammy like that? Making him think… Because it must have been something he did, something he said, that made Sammy... God! Little Sammy, just starving for love, any kind of love, and so he thought he had to... And instead of setting him straight Dean had kissed him back and… God. But he’d tasted so sweet and soft and warm and…
Dean’s knuckles whiten on the edge of the toilet bowl as his stomach cramps up again.
What has he done? What the fuck has he done?
Sam has stopped his pleading but Dean can still hear him weeping softly on the other side of the thin door. He prays Dad won’t hear it while at the same time knowing that’s what he deserves. For John to come and beat the shit out of him. Killing him would be a mercy.
Finally everything goes silent and after what feels like an eternity Dean stumbles to his feet, rinsing his mouth with water from the sink before facing the door. In his mind it’s made of so much more than plywood. On the other side is the destruction of Sam’s childhood, of every chance he has of normal. Dean refuses to be the bullet that kills Sam’s innocence. He still has no idea what to do but somehow he will make this right again.
Unlocking the door as quietly as he can he cracks it open to find Sam curled up on the floor, fast asleep. His face is smeared with tears and snot, cheeks pale in contrast with the red and puffy eyes. He looks about ten years old and Dean’s stomach does another lurch.
The easy way would be to just leave Sam there for dad to find in the morning when Dean will be miles and miles away from here.
Dean has never been much for taking the easy way out of anything.
He kneels down beside Sam and shakes him gently by the arm. “Hey, Sam. Sammy, wake up.”
“Uh?” Sam blinks up at him with bleary eyes, disoriented and confused.
“Got to get you to bed, kiddo. C’mon.”
“Dean?” Sam lets himself be pulled up to his feet but when Dean tries to pull him along the hall he freezes and then he’s grabbing for Dean, tugging him closer. “Dean, I’m so sorry. Dean?”
“Not your fault, Sam. Ok?” He can hear Dad coughing in the other room and pushes Sam away and down the hall. “Bed. Now.”
“Are you mad?” Sam whispers frantically. “I’m so sorry, Dean. Please.”
“Sshh, keep quiet.”
Dean waits until they’ve crossed the threshold to their room and he’s closed the door before pushing Sam down on his bed. “Sammy, dude. C’mon. I’m wasted, man.” He shakes his head and gives Sam a false grin. “I thought you were a chick. You gotta get a haircut, little brother.”
Sam stares at him, blinking away the fear in his eyes, replacing it with hurt. “But…”
“Sammy, go to sleep.” Dean quickly shrugs off his jeans, then throws himself down on his own bed and yawns. “Fuck, I’m so tired. Just… shut up and go to sleep.”
He keeps his eyes closed, holding his breath as he listens for any sound from Sam. After a while he hears a shuffle and then the lights are turned off. He can hear Sam breathing on the other side, small hitches that make Dean’s eyes sting. After a while they slow down and everything goes silent. He’s beginning to think that Sam has fallen asleep when he hears him whisper, “I love you, Dean. I’m sorry. I just wanted to… I didn’t mean to make you sick. I just… Please don’t hate me.”
Dean doesn’t answer.
The next morning he pretends not to notice the way Sam keeps looking at him, all puppy eyes and fear. After trying to get Dean alone a dozen times and being blown off again and again, Sam finally gives up. He seems to disappear into his own thoughts and when John asks Dean what’s up, he shrugs and says he doesn’t know. That night he listens to Sam cry himself to sleep and the next morning they both act as if nothing happened.
A week later they vanquish a poltergeist, and when bruises and wounds have been cleaned and taken care of, Dean gives his dad an apologetic smile. He jerks his head toward Sam, who is sitting at the kitchen table, engrossed in his books. “Sammy needs some help with his homework. You don’t mind, right?”
Sammy hasn’t really needed Dean’s or anyone’s help with homework for a couple of years now, and they all know it. Dean tries to look annoyed but he has a feeling Dad can see right through him. He glances over at Sam whose surprised stare is suddenly replaced with such deep gratitude that it makes the disappointment on Dad’s face bleak in comparison.
“You sure? We could…” John pauses, then nods. “Alright. I’m going out. Don’t stay up too long.”
“We won’t.”
They share a look that has Dean swallowing and John’s eyes briefly going soft with sadness. Then he turns on his heel and heads out, closing the door quietly behind him.
Sam sits absolutely still, staring down at his books. Dean ignores him and goes over to the fridge, pulling out a couple of sodas. He puts one on the table in front of Sam and takes the other over to the couch where he sits down, reaching for the remote.
“Thank you.” Sam’s voice is quiet and he doesn’t look up.
“Whatever.” Dean finds an old Twilight Zone re-run and settles down, feet up on the small table. “Just… don’t tell him.”
Sam glances up finally. “I think he’ll figure it out. I mean, unless this is just a one time thing?”
Dean hadn’t really thought of next time but the hope in Sam’s voice makes up his mind. “He’ll deal.”
He stares at the TV, not really registering what’s going on onscreen, but instead lost in his own thoughts. He doesn’t even notice Sam getting up from his chair and walking over, not until Sam sits down beside him, leaning against his shoulder. Startled he jerks away, giving his brother a glare.
“Dude, what are you doing?”
“Watching the Twilight Zone.” Sam gives him a grin and snuggles closer. “I already finished my homework.”
“There’s plenty of space, man. Move over.”
Sam shakes his head. “No.”
“Sam, I mean it.” He shoves at his little brother but Sam just presses back stubbornly.
“Dean, stop being stupid. I’m not gonna kiss you again. Ok?” There’s hurt in his voice that makes Dean’s heart clench.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just stop with the snuggling, dude.”
“I’m not…” Sam gives an exasperated sigh. “We always sit like this, Dean. So if there’s nothing to talk about there’s no reason for anything to change. Right?” Definite hurt, badly hidden behind the sarcasm.
Dean hesitates. Sam’s right. He’s always been this clingy, crawling into Dean’s lap at every opportunity. In the car or on the couch in front of the TV or the times they’ve had to share a bed. Small and chubby and then taller and leaner. Arms and legs holding on to Dean like he’s Sam’s teddy bear or something, head resting on his shoulder or his chest, shaggy hair tickling Dean’s nose. Until now Dean hasn’t minded, in fact he’s so used to it, it hadn’t even registered how strange it is for boys their age to be that close. And now all he can think about is how wrong it is.
“Yeah? Maybe it’s time we changed. You’re not a baby anymore, Sam. So stop acting like one.”
Sam freezes and Dean holds his breath.
When Sam pulls away and then slowly stands up Dean wants nothing more than to pull him back down. He feels cold where Sam’s furnace-like heat had been plastered to him, his throat tight with the words he wants to say. Instead he glances coolly up at Sam, refusing to acknowledge the hurt he can plainly see in the downcast eyes.
Sam stands still, not looking at him and then he turns around and heads to their room, closing the door quietly behind him.
There’s a girl crying on the screen in front of him and Dean closes his eyes, breathing slowly out and then in, again and again until his head feels as light as his heart feels heavy. He can do this, he has to. It’s the only way.
He hadn’t realized how much physical contact they actually have on a regular basis. How much Sam touches him every day, how often he touches Sam back. Slaps on the back, hugs across shoulders, playful wrestling for the remote or the last piece of chicken. But now that they’ve come to this silent no-touching agreement, the loss of contact is almost painful. He feels cold and detached, unable to concentrate on anything except the touches that aren’t there anymore. Sam can be sitting next to him or walking by his side and it’s like there’s a wall between them, cold and silent. He keeps catching Sam glancing his way, his eyes filled with hurt and, as time progresses, anger and dejection. They hardly talk anymore, Dean’s attempt to keep things casual promptly shot down by Sam’s silence.
Dad finally pulls Dean aside and asks him what the hell is going on with them. Dean shrugs and blames it on puberty and Sam being an emo bitch.
“Well, sort it out. Fight if you have to, just stop with the goddamn brooding.” John rubs one hand over his face, looking worn and tired. “Fix this, Dean. You boys are driving me crazy with this shit.”
“Yes, sir.”
Except he doesn’t know how. Has no idea how to fix this without bringing them back to square one, meaning lips locked and Hell waiting. If he could just write it off as a one-time thing, blame it on himself being drunk out of his skull and Sam feeling vulnerable. But he can’t. Not when he can feel Sam watching him with that look of longing in his eyes. Not when he finds himself lying in bed, listening to Sam tossing and turning, and all he can think about is the taste of Sam’s mouth, the softness of his lips and the warm ghost of Sam’s breath across his skin.
Everything is fucked up and he doesn’t know how to make it better, make it the way it was before. The worst thing though, is that if he had the chance of erasing that kiss from his memory, he wouldn’t. Not in a million years. Not even if it meant Sam would smile at him again.
But he has to do something. Sam’s birthday is in two days and Dean can’t stand the thought of them spending it like this.
The next morning he drops Sam off at school and then drives the Impala into town. Luckily enough Barnes and Noble are having a spring sale and he has just enough for a new Latin dictionary and a gift card at Starbucks for ten of those froofy mocha lattes Sam likes so much.
He sticks it in an envelope with a card that has a picture of a yak chewing, its tongue hanging out of the corner of its mouth. He writes “And you smell like one too” crudely inside and then “Happy birthday, Sammy” below with neater letters. He hopes it will make Sam smile and not go into one of his sulky moods instead. You never really know with Sam these days.
Halfway back to the apartment he pulls over to the side of the road and adds “Love, Dean” in the corner. He feels awkward and almost wishes he hadn’t but he can still remember the insecurity in Sam’s voice, asking if Dean thought his parents loved him, if Dean loved him. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever given Sam a reason to doubt his love but still Sam had felt the need to ask. And that should never happen.
He comes home to Dad packing his bag, an eager look in his eyes. He hardly looks up, just points to some news clippings on the kitchen table and continues throwing things into the bag. “Louisiana. I’ll be a couple of days.”
Which means a week and a half. At least.
“It’s Sam’s birthday tomorrow.”
John pauses for a moment and then zips up the bag. When he turns to Dean there’s a hard look in his eyes, as if he’s bracing himself for the accusations coming. It’s obvious he’d forgotten. “It can’t be helped. He’ll understand.”
He won’t, but Dean knows better than to argue. Instead he nods solemnly and walks over to lean against the small kitchen counter, watching his dad get ready. “I got him a dictionary,” he finally says, feeling oddly smug when John stiffens. “A new Latin one.”
John looks up and this time the guilt is evident, even if he tries to hide it. “I’ll bring him something when I get back.”
No, you won’t, Dean thinks to himself, knowing it will be forgotten the minute the hunt is on. Out loud he says, “I’ll take him to MacDonalds or something.”
John nods and digs for his wallet, message received loud and clear. Dean takes the money offered and shoves it into his pocket, giving his dad a small smile. The man tries and really, that’s all they can ask for.
“You two speaking again?”
Dean drops his gaze. “I’m working on it.”
“Good. Whatever it is, Dean, he’s still your brother.”
That’s kinda the problem, Dean thinks as he watches his dad’s truck drive away. He’s my goddamn brother.
He goes to pick Sam up once school is over and they drive home in silence. Sam notices the truck gone the instance they park but he doesn’t say anything, just purses his lips and gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Normally Dean would bitch at him for treating his baby badly but he lets it slide this time.
Once they’re inside Sam goes straight into their room and shuts the door, leaving Dean to gaze after him with a heavy heart. He sits down on one of the kitchen chairs, resting his head in his hands. For the first time since that night two weeks ago he’s craving a drink, like a drowning man craves oxygen. Craves the burn of it running down his throat, the heat of it in his stomach, the numbness as it spreads through his body and finally to his head. But most of all he misses the way it made everything go away for a while. He could really use some of that oblivion right now.
But drinking means losing control, of both his thoughts and his actions. He silences the small voice that tells him that maybe that is just what he needs. To stop being so damn responsible and just… go for it. Give in. It’s what they both want, right? Not like it’s gonna hurt anyone. Just one kiss. What would it matter? C’mon, Dean, you know you want to.
“Are you ok?”
Dean stiffens. His face feels hot and he knows his eyes are rimmed red with the effort of not crying, so he keeps his head down, hidden in the palms of his hands. “’M fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Sam lays a warm hand on his forehead but Dean shrugs it away. “I’ve got a headache, that’s all.”
He hears Sam moving away and then the sound of water being run into a glass. The glass and two painkillers are put on the table in front of him and he grunts his thanks but doesn’t move.
“They don’t work unless you take them.”
Reluctantly he lifts his head and grabs the pills, shoving them into his mouth before flushing them down with a mouthful of water. He glances up and catches Sam’s eyes, wide with worry. Fuck.
“’M ok, Sam. Don’t you have homework to do or something?”
“It’s Friday,” Sam dismisses and takes the glass. “Seriously, Dean, you look terrible. Maybe you should lie down.”
“I’m…” He pauses and then gets slowly up. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Wake me up when you get hungry.”
“Ok. Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“When’s he coming back?”
Dean hesitates. “Couple of days.”
They both know what that means.
“Did he… Did he say anything?” What he means is ‘Did he leave anything for me?’
Dean swallows. “Dude, my head is killing me. Can we talk later?”
“Sure. Sorry.”
He shuffles into their room and lies down, closing his eyes. After a while he turns on his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. It takes him a moment to realize it smells like Sam. He raises his head, thinking maybe he’d laid down on the wrong bed but no. Which means that Sam had been in his bed earlier. Dean drops his head down again, breathing in deeply. God, everything is so fucked up.
He wakes up to Sam shaking him. It’s getting dark outside and he can hear the TV in the other room. He rolls over slowly until he’s laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Sam is sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him warily.
“How’s the head?”
“Peachy.” He groans and rubs his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Ten. You told me to wake you up if…”
“It’s cool, Sam.” He sits up slowly and Sam shifts back but they’re still just inches apart when Dean raises his head. “You hungry?”
“Yeah. But hey, if you still feel bad I could cook something…”
Dean grimaces. “Dude, seriously, no. Let’s not add food poisoning to the splitting headache, ok?”
“Haha, funny.” Sam smiles weakly and stands up, allowing Dean to swing his legs over the side. “I could run to the diner, get us something.”
“Not this late, you won’t. Not on your own.” He shivers, his body that was flushed from sleep now rapidly cooling. Rummaging through the drawers he pulls out a hoodie and puts it on, turning around to find Sam studying him worriedly. “I’m fine, Sam. Stop staring at me.”
“You don’t look so hot.”
“I always look hot,” he jokes, regretting it instantly when Sam blushes.
“Yeah, you do.”
“Sam…”
But Sam just turns around and goes out into the kitchen. “We could make soup,” he says flatly while rummaging through the cupboards.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll do it. You set the table.”
They eat grey mushroom soup that tastes like dishwater because they’d run out of milk. Dean promises to go grocery shopping the next day and Sam nods, swallowing only a few tablespoons worth before putting it down. Dean can‘t really blame him, he feels nauseous himself. They make popcorn instead and sit down in front of the TV with the last can of soda. Sam still sits on the other end of the couch but he feels somehow closer than before and when Dean looks over at him, Sam gives him a small smile. Dean smiles back and when their hands bump in the popcorn bowl they don’t flinch away but push the other around to try and get the bigger handful.
Sam falls asleep with his long legs curled up on the couch and when he turns in his sleep his feet end up tucked under Dean’s thigh. Dean doesn’t move them away.
At two in the morning Dean jerks awake to find himself slid to the side, head resting on Sam’s hip, arm wrapped around his brother’s bony knees. It’s warm and comforting and it takes all his effort to push himself up and to his feet. He shakes Sam awake and they stumble into their room, hardly keeping awake long enough to undress before they fall into bed.
Dean wakes up early and he lies watching his brother sleeping for a long time before quietly getting out of bed. He walks to the diner and buys Sam’s favourite kind of coffee along with chocolate chip muffins and a couple of donuts. Sam is still sleeping when he gets back and he shakes him gently awake.
“Hey, Sammy. Sleepyhead. Happy birthday.”
Sam groans and his eyes blink slowly awake. His hair is all tussled, his cheek has creases from the pillow and there’s yellow crust at the corners of his eyes. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever looked more beautiful.
“What time is it?”
“Eight. C’mon, I got you that sissy latte you like and a healthy sugar-filled breakfast.”
Sam smiles and slowly sits up. “Yeah? You get me anything else?”
“What, that’s not enough for you?” Dean shakes his head mockingly. “Kids these days, I swear…”
“Haha, Dean. Seriously, did you?”
Dean grins and reaches down to retrieve the gift-wrapped book from under his bed, hesitating slightly before handing it over. “Ok, first? Dad asked me to give you this.”
“He did?” Sam’s eyes light up and he rips off the paper. “Oh cool!” He flips through the pages happily before looking up at Dean. “I don’t think he’s ever given me a book before. It’s always something like weapons or clothes.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s a Latin dictionary, you geek. That’s almost a weapon. You could make up your own curses or something.”
“I guess,” Sam shrugs. “It’s different though.” He lifts the book to his face and inhales. “It even smells new,” he says with a smile before putting it down. “I love it.”
Dean grins. “Great.” He bites his lip before pulling the envelope out of his back pocket. It’s slightly bent since he’s been sitting on it. “I’m sorry, Sam. It’s not much but I ran kinda low.”
Sam just smiles at him and rips the envelope open. The picture on the card makes him grin, the words inside have him at first growling playfully at Dean but then he goes quiet and Dean suddenly remembers the embarrassing words he added at the bottom. Damn.
“I got you a gift card,” he blurts out quickly, as if Sam isn’t already holding it in his hand. “It’s valid in Starbucks all over so even if we move you can still use it.”
Sam looks up. His eyes are glittering and Dean swallows. He knew it was a mistake. Stupid, stupid mista-
Sam’s arms are around his neck, pulling him so tight the air is pressed out of him in a huff. He tries to pull back but Sam refuses to let him go and after a second’s pause Dean gives in, moving his own arms to wrap them around Sam’s waist.
“Thank you, Dean.”
“Hey, it’s just coffee, dude,” he quips but the words are muffled against Sam’s neck. Just as well since it hides his voice breaking.
Sam smells like warm sleep and last night’s popcorn and Dean wants nothing more than to breathe in that scent for the rest of his life. He’s aware that they’ve been hugging far longer than is appropriate but Sam shows no signs of letting go and Dean couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He can feel Sam’s rapid heartbeat against his lips where they rest on Sam’s neck and without thinking he presses them into the damp skin, sucking lightly. Sam’s breath catches and then he’s turning his head, nudging Dean’s cheek until he pulls far enough away that Sam can reach his lips with his own.
If anything Sam tastes even sweeter than Dean remembers. Which is ridiculous because they didn’t even brush their teeth last night, he thinks fleetingly. Sam’s lips are soft and warm and when his tongue slides against Dean’s he parts them without hesitation. It should feel strange, should feel so wrong but it doesn’t. It just feels incredibly good.
Sam moves his hands up to bury his fingers in Dean’s hair. They’re long enough to cradle the whole back of his head and it’s incredibly soothing. His own hands are on Sam’s back, having somehow slipped under his t-shirt and he can feel every breath expanding the ribs under his fingertips. He’s starting to feel slightly dizzy and when Sam finally pulls back Dean has to drop his head on Sam’s shoulder to keep from swaying.
“You… you ok? Dean?”
“Yeah. Yeah, Sammy.” He lifts his head and gives Sam a reassuring smile. “You’re one hell of a kisser, bro.”
Sam breathes out in relief as his cheeks flush and he ducks his head to hide his embarrassment. “Yeah?”
“Oh yeah.”
“So… You’re not mad?”
Dean takes a deep breath and then shakes his head. “No. I’m not mad.” He gives Sam a light kiss and then stands up. “C’mon, get up. Your coffee’s getting cold.”
“Ok.” Sam gets slowly out of bed, eyes still uncertain. “Dean, are we ok?”
“Yeah, Sam. We’re good.”
Dean throws Sam a smile and walks out, leaving his brother to get dressed. His smile drops as soon as he’s out of the room. God, they’re so far from ok. They’re fucked to Hell. No way they’ll ever get away with this. No fucking way.
But they do. For three years they get away with stolen kisses and fumbling hands in the dark. Three years of secret smiles and stolen moments, wherever and whenever they can. They’re the best and most terrifying years of Dean’s life.
And when they abruptly end on a rainy evening in June, with Sam getting on a bus for California, Dean, for the first time since that day, feels strangely warranted. Like his sins have finally caught up with him and this… this is his rightful punishment. He buys a bottle of Jack under the counter at the nearest bar and drinks it alone in the Impala. When he stumbles back to the motel room he finds his dad sitting by the kitchen table, nursing a bottle of his own. They stare at each other in silence and then Dean walks away without a word and crashes into bed.
When they kill a wendigo a week later Dean has the bottle and two glasses ready on the table when John gets out of the shower.
The next morning he can’t for the life of him remember which one of them started crying first.
fin
Damn, that took time to put up. *yawns*
I wanted to finish this fic for Sam Winchester's birthday today but now it's past midnight here so technically I've failed. *hangs head* It's still May 2nd somewhere though. It's unbeta'd and, like I said, written in a hurry (except for the first seven pages which were old material) so I have no idea if it's any good at all. *bites nails* Oh well, here goes.
Title: Blow out the candles I still hear them say (Wishes come true in this special way)
Author: felisblanco
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Wee!cest but nothing explicit. [ETA. Seems I'm making people cry so warning for angst, I guess? Oops.]
Rating: PG-13, I guess
Word count: 7145 words
Summary: Sam is turning fifteen and Dean is going to Hell.
Author's Note: Title taken from the song Blow Out The Candles by Marty Robbins. Unbeta'd. Written for Sam Winchester's 24th birthday.
The year Sam turns fifteen is the year Dean stops drinking.
He's nineteen and two years shy of legal in most states but beer and whiskey have been a constant part of his life for a long time, just like driving has been his job more times than he can remember ever since he was twelve. You do what you have to do and sometimes, just sometimes, Dad’s in no state to drive, on account of blood-loss or exhaustion or just plain drunkenness. It’s only right that Dean helps out, that’s what good sons do.
But then sometimes, just sometimes, Dad needs a friend, a confidant, more than he needs a son. Preferably by bonding over a bottle.
The Christmas before his fifteenth birthday Dean figures it’s about time he steps into those shoes as well. Better him than some stranger. John gets loose lipped when he drinks too much, cursing demons and people’s blindness, and they can’t afford the attention. So when John makes to go to the bar on Christmas Eve Dean already has a bottle of JD and two glasses waiting at the wobbly kitchen table. His father stops dead, staring first at the offering and then up at his older son who gives him a bored look, daring John to turn him down.
He doesn’t.
Eight o’clock Christmas morning. It’s Dean’s first hangover, and he thinks he's dying. It's worse than the flu that laid him flat for over a week back in Montana and that was the sickest he's ever been as far as he can remember. When he rolls over to face Sam’s bed, the movement enough to overturn his stomach, Sam shoots him an angry look, knees pulled up almost to his ears, nose buried in the book about the Civil War that Dean had helped Dad pick out. Dean has a bag of sour straws hidden in his drawer that he’s going to give Sam later if he survives the next ten minutes.
"Oh. God. Sammy..." Dean groans, flailing awkwardly as he tries to decide whether to pass out again or run into the bathroom.
Sammy just snorts and flips the page, too angry to feel anything but contempt for his brother’s sorry state. "Serves you right. You're not even fifteen, Dean. You're not supposed to be drinking. I can't believe dad..."
"Sam, shut up. Fuck. Stop being such a prissy bitch and help me out here before I..." Uhuh.
“Dean?”
“Sa-!” He doubles over, vomiting all over the bedspread.
That gets Sam moving. "Dean! Aw! Not in here!"
When Dean finally emerges from the bathroom half an hour later, there's a glass of water and two painkillers on the night stand. The bed’s been stripped and the window cracked. Sam is dozing off in the other bed and from across the hall echoes the sound of their father snoring.
Dean swallows the pills with a mouthful of water and then stands still for a moment before crawling into his brother’s bed, stealing most of his blanket.
“Merry Christmas, Sam.”
Sam doesn’t answer but after a moment he turns over and shuffles closer until he’s pressed tight against Dean’s side, nose buried in his neck. They sleep until noon.
By one o'clock they're already on the road.
After that it almost becomes a ritual. After successful hunts Dean and John drink beer. After fruitless hunts they drink whiskey. Dean doesn't mind. He gets used to the taste of the strong liquor soon enough, beginning with small sips and moving on to larger ones as the night wears on and his father's words make less and less sense. The way he figures, the more he drinks the less John does. And the less John drinks the less chance of things turning bad.
Sam watches them from the doorway, looking small and out of place, like he's suddenly found himself the only child in a grown up's world. Which is more or less true.
Dean is growing up, faster than he should but not as fast as he feels he needs to. Dad needs him. To be a man, a hunter, a partner in the quest for mom’s killer. Sam needs him too but it's different. Sam needs a big brother but more importantly he needs a parent. Dean tries to be both but sometimes it's more than he can handle. Sometimes all he wants to be is just Dean. Not that it matters. He does what he has to do and that's it.
Dean isn't the only one growing up though. Shortly after Dean's seventeenth birthday Sam shoots up like a beanstalk. His hands and feet look overgrown on the lanky body but the increased training Dad puts them through each month soon has him packing muscles boys his age don't even know they have. Long spindly arms become wiry and his bony chest fills out. In many ways he's still clumsy, brain not quite catching up with his body, but in other ways he's incredibly graceful. Watching Sam spar is a bit like watching a newborn calf find its feet and break into a run. Dean finds himself watching his brother, wondering how long it will be before Sam outgrows him in other ways. How long it will be before Sam doesn’t need him anymore. He should be relieved but all he feels is emptiness.
Another Friday night and the bottom of the bottle is rapidly approaching. Dean's head feels heavy, his thoughts slow and confusing. He's long lost the thread in his father's ramblings. Something about ghosts and fate, or was it faith? He can't remember. The words come slowly, with pauses and hesitations that tell Dean that soon he can put Dad to bed. He’s tired and for some reason he feels incredibly lonely. Sam has stayed in their room all night, sulking. He's angry and Dean can't remember why. He hates when Sam's angry. An angry Sam looks at Dean like he's failed him in all the ways he promised himself he never would.
"Dean?"
He looks up, catching his father's blurred eyes. "Dad?"
"Time for bed, kiddo?"
He nods. "Okay. Yeah."
He helps John stand up and cross the floor and into his room where he falls on the bed, asleep before he even manages to undress. Dean pulls off Dad’s shoes before covering him with the thin blanket. Then he walks unsteadily into his and Sam's room, pausing hesitantly in the doorway.
The moon shines in through a split in the curtains. It paints silver streaks across Sam’s back where he lies curled up on his side, sheet twisted in his fist, covers tangled around his long legs. A sheen of sweat glitters on the small of his back. Dean walks over and gently detangles the cover from Sam’s gangly limbs and tugs it around him instead. He feels sick already, a headache forming behind his forehead and a tornado swooshing the alcohol around in his belly.
With a sigh he sits down on the bed and reaches out, stroking the mop of hair away from Sam’s eyes. He knows the anger will burn in Sam for the next couple of days but he also knows that come morning there will be a glass of water by his bedside and painkillers to dampen his headache.
“Why do you do it?”
The hurt voice startles him. Sam’s eyes are still closed but his lips are drawn up in a hard scowl and his curled fingers clench where they lie on the bed.
“What? Why do I do what, Sammy?”
“Drink so much. I don’t like it when you drink.”
Dean closes his eyes. They’ve been here before, more times than he can remember. He never really has an answer. Not one he wants to tell Sam anyway. “Sammy, man… you know. Dad, he…”
“You scare me.”
Dean pulls back. He suddenly feels cold. “What? Sammy, you know I would never hurt you.”
“I hate when he drinks. He’s loud and says stupid things. And… and sometimes he gets angry and mean. And now you’re drinking too. All the time.”
“Sam, he needs me to be… like him. An adult. And I am.” Dean sighs when Sam just buries his face in the pillow. “It’s… It’s better he drinks here than at some bar. Right? When he’s drunk he… says stuff. I’m trying to keep him safe. Keep us safe.”
“Do you like it?”
Dean blinks. He’s never really thought of that. He doesn’t like the taste. The beer is all right but the stronger stuff makes his throat burn. It does make him feel good in some ways. And worse in others. He’s not sure why Dad drinks since it doesn’t seem to make him feel any better at all. Just sad and drained of hope.
“It’s all right. I don’t mind.”
Sam looks up at that. The anger is gone, he just looks lost and confused. “I’m gonna be fifteen in two weeks.”
“I know.” Dean sighs, wondering what impossible thing Sam is going to ask for. He has some money saved up but it’s barely enough for a cake. “We’ll do something. Something fun. I promise.”
“You were fifteen when you started drinking with Dad.”
He’s tired and drunk and he just doesn’t get why Sam is looking at him like that. “I know, I was there. Can we talk tomorrow, I’m-”
“I don’t want to drink. It smells nasty and it makes you sick.” Sam swallows and looks away, tears in his eyes. “Can you talk to Dad and… and tell him? That I don’t want to?”
Dean just stares at him. And then he gets it. He’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. “God, Sammy. You don’t have to... No one expects you to-”
“It’s not that I’m a baby because I’m not,” Sam interrupts. “I just don’t want to and… and…”
“Sammy, it’s okay. Dad’s not gonna let you drink. I would never let you drink. You’re still a kid.”
“So were you!”
Yeah. But I want you to stay one. At least for a little longer. “It’s different, you know that. And I’ll kick your ass if you even touch booze before you’re... eighteen at least.
Sam rubs his hand over his face before looking up. “He won’t be mad?”
“No, Sammy. He won’t be mad.”
“Okay.” The voice is small, tainted with uncertainty. “I don’t want to hunt either.”
Dean frowns. “Dude, you already are. Small things but…”
Sam looks up, stubbornness tightening his still baby-soft face. “I don’t want to anymore.”
Dean isn’t sure how to react so he goes for mocking, raising his eyebrow and twisting his lips into a sneer. “Why? You scared?”
“Yes.”
There is no hesitation, just open honesty in Sam’s voice and terror in his eyes, and Dean feels his nausea intensify.
“Sammy…”
Sam looks away, clenching his jaw. “And I don’t want to use fake ID’s or steal people’s money or… or…”
“You don’t want to be like me.” He should be glad but it just hurts.
Sam shakes his head. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want you to be like him either.”
Here they go again. Dean reaches out to run comforting fingers through Sam’s shaggy hair but he jerks away and Dean sighs.
“He’s a hero.”
“He’s gonna die.” The voice is so small and laden with such fear it stabs Dean in his belly.
“Sam, no.”
“Yes, and then you’re gonna die and I don’t want you to die.” Sam’s breath hitches and he turns away, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t want you to die, Dean.”
“I’m not gonna die.”
“I have nightmares where you die. All the time.” The thin shoulders shake and when Dean lays his palm on Sam’s cheek it’s hot and wet.
“I’m not going to die, Sammy.”
“I just want us all to live somewhere. Together. And not hunt.”
Dean closes his eyes in exasperation. “That’s not gonna happen, Sam.”
“I hate him.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I hate you.”
The room falls into silence, Sam’s hitched breathing and Dean’s labored one echoing in the dark, the words hanging between them like a verbal slap. Then Sam turns around and buries his face in Dean’s lap, long arms wrapping themselves around his waist.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry, Dean. You know I don’t hate you, right?”
“It’s okay.” His voice is hoarser than he intended, his throat so tight it’s painful.
“No, it’s not. I don’t know why I said it.” Sam looks up at him with tear-filled eyes, lower lip trembling. “I love you, Dean. So much.”
He wants to push Sam away and run out of the room. Wants to finish what little was left in the bottle and then head out and find more. Instead he just blinks and repeats, “It’s okay.”
“You forgive me?”
“Yeah. Yeah. ‘Course I do, Sammy.”
He lets himself be pulled down on the bed, arms automatically going around Sammy as he snuggles closer, his brother’s hot breath bringing out drops of sweat on his neck.
“Maybe… maybe when I’m a bit older we could go away together. Some place. Just you and me, Dean.”
“Maybe.” He’s not really listening, his mind still black and empty.
“We could go to college and get jobs and maybe a dog.”
“Sure.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, Sammy. Just tired.” The headache suddenly hits him hard and he closes his eyes, his hands tightening into fists. “Just… sleep, okay?”
“Okay.” Sam sighs and nuzzles his nose into Dean’s neck. “Stay here?”
“Sure.”
They lie in silence and he thinks Sam has finally fallen asleep when he suddenly turns his head and when Dean opens his eyes, Sam is gazing at him, biting his lip.
"I meant it. Dean? I love you."
"Sammy..."
"We never say it. Why don't we ever say it? Simon's mom says it to him all the time."
"I'm not mom, Sammy."
"Did she ever... Did mom ever say it to you?"
Dean fights not to push Sam away and off the bed. Maybe it's the alcohol weakening him but he suddenly feels like crying. "Yeah. Yeah, she did."
"Did she ever say it to me?" Sam's voice is so small he seems four rather than fourteen.
"Of course she did. All the time, Sammy. She..." Dean swallows. His chest hurts. "She loved you very much."
Sam looks away, his voice hardly above a whisper. "I dont know if dad loves me at all."
"Sam..."
"Sometimes, when he's really drunk, he looks at me like like it's my fault she's dead." Sam curls in on himself, as if he expects Dean to confirm it, to say he thinks so too.
"No, Sam. Never." Dean tightens his hold around Sam's chest. He can feel his brother's heart beating frantically under his palm. "He does love you. Very much."
"And you?"
"And me what?"
"Do you love me?"
He stays silent for a long time before finally allowing himself to turn his head and look Sam straight in the eye. "Yes. I love you." He leans forward and kisses Sam softly on the cheek. "I love you more than anything in the whole damn world."
Sam's breath hitches and then he's turning his head, catching Dean's lips with his own, tasting of tears and gratitude. Dean freezes, not reacting until a warm tongue sneaks out and licks his lips. Then he grabs Sam by the neck and crushes their lips together, kissing Sam hard and desperate, shaking when he feels warm hands slide over his body. It isn't until he feels trembling fingers run up his thigh that he jerks back and pushes Sam away, staring at him in shock.
“Dean?”
He’s off the bed and stumbling into the bathroom, just barely managing to slam the toilet open before throwing up half a bottle’s worth of whiskey. When he hears Sam falling out of bed he stumbles over on his knees and closes the door, locking it before crawling back to the toilet, continuing his heaving.
“Dean? Open the door, Dean. Please. I’m sorry. Dean?”
He doesn’t answer. Can’t. His heart is thundering in his chest, so hard he’s sure it will burst any second. Even if he wanted to he knows he wouldn’t be able to get up off his knees. He thinks he might just die here. Wishes he did.
He can smell the alcohol on his breath, feel it buzzing in his veins. Making him sick and confused and so goddamn stupid he wants to bash his head into the wall. This never would have happened if he hadn’t been so damn drunk. What was he thinking, playing Sammy like that? Making him think… Because it must have been something he did, something he said, that made Sammy... God! Little Sammy, just starving for love, any kind of love, and so he thought he had to... And instead of setting him straight Dean had kissed him back and… God. But he’d tasted so sweet and soft and warm and…
Dean’s knuckles whiten on the edge of the toilet bowl as his stomach cramps up again.
What has he done? What the fuck has he done?
Sam has stopped his pleading but Dean can still hear him weeping softly on the other side of the thin door. He prays Dad won’t hear it while at the same time knowing that’s what he deserves. For John to come and beat the shit out of him. Killing him would be a mercy.
Finally everything goes silent and after what feels like an eternity Dean stumbles to his feet, rinsing his mouth with water from the sink before facing the door. In his mind it’s made of so much more than plywood. On the other side is the destruction of Sam’s childhood, of every chance he has of normal. Dean refuses to be the bullet that kills Sam’s innocence. He still has no idea what to do but somehow he will make this right again.
Unlocking the door as quietly as he can he cracks it open to find Sam curled up on the floor, fast asleep. His face is smeared with tears and snot, cheeks pale in contrast with the red and puffy eyes. He looks about ten years old and Dean’s stomach does another lurch.
The easy way would be to just leave Sam there for dad to find in the morning when Dean will be miles and miles away from here.
Dean has never been much for taking the easy way out of anything.
He kneels down beside Sam and shakes him gently by the arm. “Hey, Sam. Sammy, wake up.”
“Uh?” Sam blinks up at him with bleary eyes, disoriented and confused.
“Got to get you to bed, kiddo. C’mon.”
“Dean?” Sam lets himself be pulled up to his feet but when Dean tries to pull him along the hall he freezes and then he’s grabbing for Dean, tugging him closer. “Dean, I’m so sorry. Dean?”
“Not your fault, Sam. Ok?” He can hear Dad coughing in the other room and pushes Sam away and down the hall. “Bed. Now.”
“Are you mad?” Sam whispers frantically. “I’m so sorry, Dean. Please.”
“Sshh, keep quiet.”
Dean waits until they’ve crossed the threshold to their room and he’s closed the door before pushing Sam down on his bed. “Sammy, dude. C’mon. I’m wasted, man.” He shakes his head and gives Sam a false grin. “I thought you were a chick. You gotta get a haircut, little brother.”
Sam stares at him, blinking away the fear in his eyes, replacing it with hurt. “But…”
“Sammy, go to sleep.” Dean quickly shrugs off his jeans, then throws himself down on his own bed and yawns. “Fuck, I’m so tired. Just… shut up and go to sleep.”
He keeps his eyes closed, holding his breath as he listens for any sound from Sam. After a while he hears a shuffle and then the lights are turned off. He can hear Sam breathing on the other side, small hitches that make Dean’s eyes sting. After a while they slow down and everything goes silent. He’s beginning to think that Sam has fallen asleep when he hears him whisper, “I love you, Dean. I’m sorry. I just wanted to… I didn’t mean to make you sick. I just… Please don’t hate me.”
Dean doesn’t answer.
The next morning he pretends not to notice the way Sam keeps looking at him, all puppy eyes and fear. After trying to get Dean alone a dozen times and being blown off again and again, Sam finally gives up. He seems to disappear into his own thoughts and when John asks Dean what’s up, he shrugs and says he doesn’t know. That night he listens to Sam cry himself to sleep and the next morning they both act as if nothing happened.
A week later they vanquish a poltergeist, and when bruises and wounds have been cleaned and taken care of, Dean gives his dad an apologetic smile. He jerks his head toward Sam, who is sitting at the kitchen table, engrossed in his books. “Sammy needs some help with his homework. You don’t mind, right?”
Sammy hasn’t really needed Dean’s or anyone’s help with homework for a couple of years now, and they all know it. Dean tries to look annoyed but he has a feeling Dad can see right through him. He glances over at Sam whose surprised stare is suddenly replaced with such deep gratitude that it makes the disappointment on Dad’s face bleak in comparison.
“You sure? We could…” John pauses, then nods. “Alright. I’m going out. Don’t stay up too long.”
“We won’t.”
They share a look that has Dean swallowing and John’s eyes briefly going soft with sadness. Then he turns on his heel and heads out, closing the door quietly behind him.
Sam sits absolutely still, staring down at his books. Dean ignores him and goes over to the fridge, pulling out a couple of sodas. He puts one on the table in front of Sam and takes the other over to the couch where he sits down, reaching for the remote.
“Thank you.” Sam’s voice is quiet and he doesn’t look up.
“Whatever.” Dean finds an old Twilight Zone re-run and settles down, feet up on the small table. “Just… don’t tell him.”
Sam glances up finally. “I think he’ll figure it out. I mean, unless this is just a one time thing?”
Dean hadn’t really thought of next time but the hope in Sam’s voice makes up his mind. “He’ll deal.”
He stares at the TV, not really registering what’s going on onscreen, but instead lost in his own thoughts. He doesn’t even notice Sam getting up from his chair and walking over, not until Sam sits down beside him, leaning against his shoulder. Startled he jerks away, giving his brother a glare.
“Dude, what are you doing?”
“Watching the Twilight Zone.” Sam gives him a grin and snuggles closer. “I already finished my homework.”
“There’s plenty of space, man. Move over.”
Sam shakes his head. “No.”
“Sam, I mean it.” He shoves at his little brother but Sam just presses back stubbornly.
“Dean, stop being stupid. I’m not gonna kiss you again. Ok?” There’s hurt in his voice that makes Dean’s heart clench.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just stop with the snuggling, dude.”
“I’m not…” Sam gives an exasperated sigh. “We always sit like this, Dean. So if there’s nothing to talk about there’s no reason for anything to change. Right?” Definite hurt, badly hidden behind the sarcasm.
Dean hesitates. Sam’s right. He’s always been this clingy, crawling into Dean’s lap at every opportunity. In the car or on the couch in front of the TV or the times they’ve had to share a bed. Small and chubby and then taller and leaner. Arms and legs holding on to Dean like he’s Sam’s teddy bear or something, head resting on his shoulder or his chest, shaggy hair tickling Dean’s nose. Until now Dean hasn’t minded, in fact he’s so used to it, it hadn’t even registered how strange it is for boys their age to be that close. And now all he can think about is how wrong it is.
“Yeah? Maybe it’s time we changed. You’re not a baby anymore, Sam. So stop acting like one.”
Sam freezes and Dean holds his breath.
When Sam pulls away and then slowly stands up Dean wants nothing more than to pull him back down. He feels cold where Sam’s furnace-like heat had been plastered to him, his throat tight with the words he wants to say. Instead he glances coolly up at Sam, refusing to acknowledge the hurt he can plainly see in the downcast eyes.
Sam stands still, not looking at him and then he turns around and heads to their room, closing the door quietly behind him.
There’s a girl crying on the screen in front of him and Dean closes his eyes, breathing slowly out and then in, again and again until his head feels as light as his heart feels heavy. He can do this, he has to. It’s the only way.
He hadn’t realized how much physical contact they actually have on a regular basis. How much Sam touches him every day, how often he touches Sam back. Slaps on the back, hugs across shoulders, playful wrestling for the remote or the last piece of chicken. But now that they’ve come to this silent no-touching agreement, the loss of contact is almost painful. He feels cold and detached, unable to concentrate on anything except the touches that aren’t there anymore. Sam can be sitting next to him or walking by his side and it’s like there’s a wall between them, cold and silent. He keeps catching Sam glancing his way, his eyes filled with hurt and, as time progresses, anger and dejection. They hardly talk anymore, Dean’s attempt to keep things casual promptly shot down by Sam’s silence.
Dad finally pulls Dean aside and asks him what the hell is going on with them. Dean shrugs and blames it on puberty and Sam being an emo bitch.
“Well, sort it out. Fight if you have to, just stop with the goddamn brooding.” John rubs one hand over his face, looking worn and tired. “Fix this, Dean. You boys are driving me crazy with this shit.”
“Yes, sir.”
Except he doesn’t know how. Has no idea how to fix this without bringing them back to square one, meaning lips locked and Hell waiting. If he could just write it off as a one-time thing, blame it on himself being drunk out of his skull and Sam feeling vulnerable. But he can’t. Not when he can feel Sam watching him with that look of longing in his eyes. Not when he finds himself lying in bed, listening to Sam tossing and turning, and all he can think about is the taste of Sam’s mouth, the softness of his lips and the warm ghost of Sam’s breath across his skin.
Everything is fucked up and he doesn’t know how to make it better, make it the way it was before. The worst thing though, is that if he had the chance of erasing that kiss from his memory, he wouldn’t. Not in a million years. Not even if it meant Sam would smile at him again.
But he has to do something. Sam’s birthday is in two days and Dean can’t stand the thought of them spending it like this.
The next morning he drops Sam off at school and then drives the Impala into town. Luckily enough Barnes and Noble are having a spring sale and he has just enough for a new Latin dictionary and a gift card at Starbucks for ten of those froofy mocha lattes Sam likes so much.
He sticks it in an envelope with a card that has a picture of a yak chewing, its tongue hanging out of the corner of its mouth. He writes “And you smell like one too” crudely inside and then “Happy birthday, Sammy” below with neater letters. He hopes it will make Sam smile and not go into one of his sulky moods instead. You never really know with Sam these days.
Halfway back to the apartment he pulls over to the side of the road and adds “Love, Dean” in the corner. He feels awkward and almost wishes he hadn’t but he can still remember the insecurity in Sam’s voice, asking if Dean thought his parents loved him, if Dean loved him. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever given Sam a reason to doubt his love but still Sam had felt the need to ask. And that should never happen.
He comes home to Dad packing his bag, an eager look in his eyes. He hardly looks up, just points to some news clippings on the kitchen table and continues throwing things into the bag. “Louisiana. I’ll be a couple of days.”
Which means a week and a half. At least.
“It’s Sam’s birthday tomorrow.”
John pauses for a moment and then zips up the bag. When he turns to Dean there’s a hard look in his eyes, as if he’s bracing himself for the accusations coming. It’s obvious he’d forgotten. “It can’t be helped. He’ll understand.”
He won’t, but Dean knows better than to argue. Instead he nods solemnly and walks over to lean against the small kitchen counter, watching his dad get ready. “I got him a dictionary,” he finally says, feeling oddly smug when John stiffens. “A new Latin one.”
John looks up and this time the guilt is evident, even if he tries to hide it. “I’ll bring him something when I get back.”
No, you won’t, Dean thinks to himself, knowing it will be forgotten the minute the hunt is on. Out loud he says, “I’ll take him to MacDonalds or something.”
John nods and digs for his wallet, message received loud and clear. Dean takes the money offered and shoves it into his pocket, giving his dad a small smile. The man tries and really, that’s all they can ask for.
“You two speaking again?”
Dean drops his gaze. “I’m working on it.”
“Good. Whatever it is, Dean, he’s still your brother.”
That’s kinda the problem, Dean thinks as he watches his dad’s truck drive away. He’s my goddamn brother.
He goes to pick Sam up once school is over and they drive home in silence. Sam notices the truck gone the instance they park but he doesn’t say anything, just purses his lips and gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Normally Dean would bitch at him for treating his baby badly but he lets it slide this time.
Once they’re inside Sam goes straight into their room and shuts the door, leaving Dean to gaze after him with a heavy heart. He sits down on one of the kitchen chairs, resting his head in his hands. For the first time since that night two weeks ago he’s craving a drink, like a drowning man craves oxygen. Craves the burn of it running down his throat, the heat of it in his stomach, the numbness as it spreads through his body and finally to his head. But most of all he misses the way it made everything go away for a while. He could really use some of that oblivion right now.
But drinking means losing control, of both his thoughts and his actions. He silences the small voice that tells him that maybe that is just what he needs. To stop being so damn responsible and just… go for it. Give in. It’s what they both want, right? Not like it’s gonna hurt anyone. Just one kiss. What would it matter? C’mon, Dean, you know you want to.
“Are you ok?”
Dean stiffens. His face feels hot and he knows his eyes are rimmed red with the effort of not crying, so he keeps his head down, hidden in the palms of his hands. “’M fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Sam lays a warm hand on his forehead but Dean shrugs it away. “I’ve got a headache, that’s all.”
He hears Sam moving away and then the sound of water being run into a glass. The glass and two painkillers are put on the table in front of him and he grunts his thanks but doesn’t move.
“They don’t work unless you take them.”
Reluctantly he lifts his head and grabs the pills, shoving them into his mouth before flushing them down with a mouthful of water. He glances up and catches Sam’s eyes, wide with worry. Fuck.
“’M ok, Sam. Don’t you have homework to do or something?”
“It’s Friday,” Sam dismisses and takes the glass. “Seriously, Dean, you look terrible. Maybe you should lie down.”
“I’m…” He pauses and then gets slowly up. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Wake me up when you get hungry.”
“Ok. Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“When’s he coming back?”
Dean hesitates. “Couple of days.”
They both know what that means.
“Did he… Did he say anything?” What he means is ‘Did he leave anything for me?’
Dean swallows. “Dude, my head is killing me. Can we talk later?”
“Sure. Sorry.”
He shuffles into their room and lies down, closing his eyes. After a while he turns on his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. It takes him a moment to realize it smells like Sam. He raises his head, thinking maybe he’d laid down on the wrong bed but no. Which means that Sam had been in his bed earlier. Dean drops his head down again, breathing in deeply. God, everything is so fucked up.
He wakes up to Sam shaking him. It’s getting dark outside and he can hear the TV in the other room. He rolls over slowly until he’s laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Sam is sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him warily.
“How’s the head?”
“Peachy.” He groans and rubs his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Ten. You told me to wake you up if…”
“It’s cool, Sam.” He sits up slowly and Sam shifts back but they’re still just inches apart when Dean raises his head. “You hungry?”
“Yeah. But hey, if you still feel bad I could cook something…”
Dean grimaces. “Dude, seriously, no. Let’s not add food poisoning to the splitting headache, ok?”
“Haha, funny.” Sam smiles weakly and stands up, allowing Dean to swing his legs over the side. “I could run to the diner, get us something.”
“Not this late, you won’t. Not on your own.” He shivers, his body that was flushed from sleep now rapidly cooling. Rummaging through the drawers he pulls out a hoodie and puts it on, turning around to find Sam studying him worriedly. “I’m fine, Sam. Stop staring at me.”
“You don’t look so hot.”
“I always look hot,” he jokes, regretting it instantly when Sam blushes.
“Yeah, you do.”
“Sam…”
But Sam just turns around and goes out into the kitchen. “We could make soup,” he says flatly while rummaging through the cupboards.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll do it. You set the table.”
They eat grey mushroom soup that tastes like dishwater because they’d run out of milk. Dean promises to go grocery shopping the next day and Sam nods, swallowing only a few tablespoons worth before putting it down. Dean can‘t really blame him, he feels nauseous himself. They make popcorn instead and sit down in front of the TV with the last can of soda. Sam still sits on the other end of the couch but he feels somehow closer than before and when Dean looks over at him, Sam gives him a small smile. Dean smiles back and when their hands bump in the popcorn bowl they don’t flinch away but push the other around to try and get the bigger handful.
Sam falls asleep with his long legs curled up on the couch and when he turns in his sleep his feet end up tucked under Dean’s thigh. Dean doesn’t move them away.
At two in the morning Dean jerks awake to find himself slid to the side, head resting on Sam’s hip, arm wrapped around his brother’s bony knees. It’s warm and comforting and it takes all his effort to push himself up and to his feet. He shakes Sam awake and they stumble into their room, hardly keeping awake long enough to undress before they fall into bed.
Dean wakes up early and he lies watching his brother sleeping for a long time before quietly getting out of bed. He walks to the diner and buys Sam’s favourite kind of coffee along with chocolate chip muffins and a couple of donuts. Sam is still sleeping when he gets back and he shakes him gently awake.
“Hey, Sammy. Sleepyhead. Happy birthday.”
Sam groans and his eyes blink slowly awake. His hair is all tussled, his cheek has creases from the pillow and there’s yellow crust at the corners of his eyes. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever looked more beautiful.
“What time is it?”
“Eight. C’mon, I got you that sissy latte you like and a healthy sugar-filled breakfast.”
Sam smiles and slowly sits up. “Yeah? You get me anything else?”
“What, that’s not enough for you?” Dean shakes his head mockingly. “Kids these days, I swear…”
“Haha, Dean. Seriously, did you?”
Dean grins and reaches down to retrieve the gift-wrapped book from under his bed, hesitating slightly before handing it over. “Ok, first? Dad asked me to give you this.”
“He did?” Sam’s eyes light up and he rips off the paper. “Oh cool!” He flips through the pages happily before looking up at Dean. “I don’t think he’s ever given me a book before. It’s always something like weapons or clothes.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s a Latin dictionary, you geek. That’s almost a weapon. You could make up your own curses or something.”
“I guess,” Sam shrugs. “It’s different though.” He lifts the book to his face and inhales. “It even smells new,” he says with a smile before putting it down. “I love it.”
Dean grins. “Great.” He bites his lip before pulling the envelope out of his back pocket. It’s slightly bent since he’s been sitting on it. “I’m sorry, Sam. It’s not much but I ran kinda low.”
Sam just smiles at him and rips the envelope open. The picture on the card makes him grin, the words inside have him at first growling playfully at Dean but then he goes quiet and Dean suddenly remembers the embarrassing words he added at the bottom. Damn.
“I got you a gift card,” he blurts out quickly, as if Sam isn’t already holding it in his hand. “It’s valid in Starbucks all over so even if we move you can still use it.”
Sam looks up. His eyes are glittering and Dean swallows. He knew it was a mistake. Stupid, stupid mista-
Sam’s arms are around his neck, pulling him so tight the air is pressed out of him in a huff. He tries to pull back but Sam refuses to let him go and after a second’s pause Dean gives in, moving his own arms to wrap them around Sam’s waist.
“Thank you, Dean.”
“Hey, it’s just coffee, dude,” he quips but the words are muffled against Sam’s neck. Just as well since it hides his voice breaking.
Sam smells like warm sleep and last night’s popcorn and Dean wants nothing more than to breathe in that scent for the rest of his life. He’s aware that they’ve been hugging far longer than is appropriate but Sam shows no signs of letting go and Dean couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He can feel Sam’s rapid heartbeat against his lips where they rest on Sam’s neck and without thinking he presses them into the damp skin, sucking lightly. Sam’s breath catches and then he’s turning his head, nudging Dean’s cheek until he pulls far enough away that Sam can reach his lips with his own.
If anything Sam tastes even sweeter than Dean remembers. Which is ridiculous because they didn’t even brush their teeth last night, he thinks fleetingly. Sam’s lips are soft and warm and when his tongue slides against Dean’s he parts them without hesitation. It should feel strange, should feel so wrong but it doesn’t. It just feels incredibly good.
Sam moves his hands up to bury his fingers in Dean’s hair. They’re long enough to cradle the whole back of his head and it’s incredibly soothing. His own hands are on Sam’s back, having somehow slipped under his t-shirt and he can feel every breath expanding the ribs under his fingertips. He’s starting to feel slightly dizzy and when Sam finally pulls back Dean has to drop his head on Sam’s shoulder to keep from swaying.
“You… you ok? Dean?”
“Yeah. Yeah, Sammy.” He lifts his head and gives Sam a reassuring smile. “You’re one hell of a kisser, bro.”
Sam breathes out in relief as his cheeks flush and he ducks his head to hide his embarrassment. “Yeah?”
“Oh yeah.”
“So… You’re not mad?”
Dean takes a deep breath and then shakes his head. “No. I’m not mad.” He gives Sam a light kiss and then stands up. “C’mon, get up. Your coffee’s getting cold.”
“Ok.” Sam gets slowly out of bed, eyes still uncertain. “Dean, are we ok?”
“Yeah, Sam. We’re good.”
Dean throws Sam a smile and walks out, leaving his brother to get dressed. His smile drops as soon as he’s out of the room. God, they’re so far from ok. They’re fucked to Hell. No way they’ll ever get away with this. No fucking way.
But they do. For three years they get away with stolen kisses and fumbling hands in the dark. Three years of secret smiles and stolen moments, wherever and whenever they can. They’re the best and most terrifying years of Dean’s life.
And when they abruptly end on a rainy evening in June, with Sam getting on a bus for California, Dean, for the first time since that day, feels strangely warranted. Like his sins have finally caught up with him and this… this is his rightful punishment. He buys a bottle of Jack under the counter at the nearest bar and drinks it alone in the Impala. When he stumbles back to the motel room he finds his dad sitting by the kitchen table, nursing a bottle of his own. They stare at each other in silence and then Dean walks away without a word and crashes into bed.
When they kill a wendigo a week later Dean has the bottle and two glasses ready on the table when John gets out of the shower.
The next morning he can’t for the life of him remember which one of them started crying first.
fin
Damn, that took time to put up. *yawns*