This thing of ours (Sam/Dean, pg13, 14336 words, au)
Posting and running due to fact I was supposed to be out of the door ten minutes ago and I was midway completely rewriting this. Ever just want something done? Will be back to tidy up any errors and to crosspost hopefully tomorrowish. ♥
This thing of ours
(Sam/Dean, pg13, 14336 words, au)
The Pilot - if the Winchester family business were organised crime rather than hunting the supernatural.
On Wednesday, in Sam’s lecture, the professor stands up and talks about the nastiest, most untouchable crime family currently at work in the US: the Winchesters. Sam doesn’t react aside from the faint clenching of his jaw. None of the students turn in their seats to look at him, the professor’s gaze doesn’t search him out. Sam hasn’t been a Winchester for four years, not since he walked out on the family business and all the brutal, fucked-up shit that went with it.
Sam doesn’t react to the professor showing the class a grainy shot from ten years ago of Sam’s father. Not much is known about John Winchester because he keeps very much hands-off. All the evil is done in his name, but not by him, not that can be directly linked back to him. And when the professor makes an offhand remark regarding the next generation of the Winchesters - the older son with a criminal record only encompassing a few minor misdemeanours, and the younger son who’s not been seen for some years and is presumed dead - Sam manages to keep his breathing level and quiet.
It’s an omen. Sam believes in signs. There are no coincidences in life. Maybe it’s come from John’s perpetual grim paranoia. Maybe it’s part of the supposed softness, weakness, that made it impossible for Sam to be the son John wanted him to be. Whatever it is, when Sam gets home and sees the big black Impala parked outside his apartment he’s not at all surprised.
Jess tilts her face up to him, alarmed by the sudden tightening of his arm around her shoulders. Sam’s stopped dead and it takes him a moment to get a grip of how to handle the situation.
It figures that John would send Dean. Growing up in luxury bought with blood and broken bones and brains splattered over walls, forever waiting for the news that John wasn’t ever coming home again or for the piece of evidence to turn up that John’s lawyers couldn’t wave away, there was only ever one thing Sam could rely upon: Dean. Dean who is beautiful and tender and full of laughter and who beat a man senseless right in front of Sam when Sam was only sixteen.
The night Dean came home, drunk and shaking, and put a bloodstained hand on Sam’s cheek, Sam knew he had to leave.
“Hey, sweetheart,” says Sam, “do me a favour and go round Becky’s for a while, yeah?”
“Why?" Jess says. "Baby, what’s wrong?”
Sam shakes his head and doesn’t say anything for a long while. It’s hard to stop looking at the Impala. He remembers long, lazy evenings spent curled up in the backseat of the car, doing his homework in the hazy amber glow of the streetlight, waiting for Dean to get back with take-out they’d eat with greasy fingers and no knives or forks. Then they’d play some stupid game of cards Dean had learnt from Uncle Bobby or Caleb or one of the other guys, which only had a few rules, all of which were broken at will.
Dean learnt a lot from the guys, more than he was supposed to, and he whispered the secrets of hustling pool or scoring pussy or making a guy twice the size of you back off into Sam’s ear after dark. His voice had been thick with furtive glee but Sam hadn’t usually remembered much more than the way Dean’s fingers had curled about his when he showed him how to make a fist.
When they were younger, John had liked them far away from the action, safe and hidden in the Impala. And then he’d started grooming Dean for business and Dean had become John’s son before Sam’s brother. He’d stopped wearing jeans and t-shirts and John had had him fitted for suits. He’d been allowed to sit at the table with the guys while Sam was ushered off with the rest of the kids by the assorted wives and girlfriends. Nobody ruffled Dean’s hair anymore or asked him about school, like they did Sam. John would lay his hand on Dean’s shoulder, look him in the eye and give him a single nod, and Dean’s spine would snap straight, jaw tightening with determination.
That night Sam realised he had to leave, the bloody mark Dean had inadvertently left scrubbed clean and the skin left raw, he’d crept out of his bed to watch through the stair railings as Dean stood amongst all the guys and got a standing fucking ovation. Been cheered and clapped on the back and John had fucking beamed at him. Dean had been so proud. Sam had gone back to bed and not spoken to Dean at all the next day and never ever asked what Dean had done that night to finally earn his place in the business.
Sam kisses Jess on the cheek before she goes and then climbs the stairs to his apartment. The door is ajar but the apartment is dark. Dean’s sitting by the window, a study in stark white and dead black, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He must have watched Sam’s approach, must have seen Jess. Anger curls in Sam’s belly because Dean even laying eyes on Jess gets too close.
Dean glances over his shoulder at him, guarded warmth in his eyes. He stands up and spreads his arms like he expects Sam to walk straight into them. The suit he’s wearing is obviously wickedly expensive and fits him perfectly. The Winchesters have gone up in the world. His tie is moss green and matches his eyes. His hair is close-cropped and the lingering feminine softness to his features has all but disappeared. There’s a different kind of beauty to him now and Sam wonders exactly when it changed, glad that he wasn’t there to see it. Seduction is never honest.
Sam doesn’t move and Dean’s arms drop.
“Hey, buddy,” says Dean. He puts the whiskey down and glances back out of the window. “Pretty girl. Your girlfriend?”
“Cut the act,” says Sam, dropping his bag and jacket onto the couch and crossing his arms over his chest. “I bet I haven’t done a single thing since I left that you and Dad haven’t known about. What do you want?”
“Yeah, I’ve missed you too,” says Dean. And he grins with it but Sam doesn’t think he imagines the hurt there. Damn it, it was never about walking out on Dean, never Dean he wanted to lose but that was exactly why he had to leave: because he couldn’t stand by and watch John turn Dean into the same cold, violent creature that he was. “Okay, straight to business if that’s how you want it. Dad’s missing.”
It’s really not anything that Sam cares too much about. He shrugs and raises an eyebrow at Dean in a clear yeah, and? A muscle twitches in the column of Dean’s throat, just above the neat white collar of his shirt.
“He’s missing, Sam. I think he’s in trouble.”
Dean looks taken aback at Sam’s sharp bark of laughter.
“Or maybe he’s finally got what he deserves, Dean. Plenty of people out there got him to thank for their fucked-up lives. Maybe he finally pushed someone too far. You ever think of that?”
Dean goes pale and shakes his head. His hands clench into fists at his sides and then relax. He rolls his shoulders and straightens his neck like he’s easing out a crick. Sam can’t help but be mesmerised by the play of powerful muscle under smooth, tanned skin. Acidly, he wonders if that’s why Dean's doing it and roughly brushes past him into the kitchen. He sets about making himself a cup of coffee, not offering Dean one and really not caring if it seems rude.
“Don’t talk about Dad like that. He’s still your father.”
“Some father,” Sam shoots back, feeling as petulant and put-upon as he did as a thirteen year old.
“Listen, Sammy, I didn’t come here to argue with you or lecture you. I came here because I need your help. If you won’t help him, at least help me.”
It’s a low blow because Dean knows - Dean knows - that Sam is helpless to tell him no. He can’t not help him. Because the world Dean lives in, the world Sam left, there’s every chance that if Sam turns him away now the next time he’ll see Dean will be in a body bag. He can’t risk him like that. Not Dean. This feeling of terror and impending loss is drove Sam away, because it was eating away inside him every time he looked at Dean.
He sags against the stove, watching the steam rise from his cup of coffee. Finally he turns back at Dean, looks him in the eye and says, “Dean, don’t do this to me.”
“Someone’s turned on us, Sammy. They’ve turned and now Dad’s gone missing and I don’t know who I can trust because they’re all looking at me like I’m Today’s Special. They’re tryin’ to take away everything Dad’s worked for, Sammy.” He closes the distance between them and takes Sam’s wrists in his hands, thumbs resting on the quickening thump of Sam’s pulse. “Tryin’ to take away what’s ours. What belongs to you and me, Sammy.”
“I don’t want it,” Sam murmurs. Then he leans in to put his lips against Dean’s.
It’s a chaste kiss. They were always only ever chaste kisses. He’s my baby brother, something wrong with me kissing him? Dean had demanded the one time anyone had ever called them on it. Sam had ducked his head to hide his burning cheeks but Dean had been entirely unembarrassed. Anyway, John had been in the room and no one was going to accuse a crime boss’s sons of incest - even as a joke - when he’s sitting right there.
Dean’s lips are full and soft, parted slightly and, not for the first time, Sam thinks about letting his tongue trace the curve of them. Sam’s hands hang limply at his sides, fingers fluttering weakly. They want to settle on Dean’s cheeks and draw him in closer but that’s not how they do this. One time, Sam did put his hand on Dean’s face when they kissed and his other hand on Dean’s hip and he’d got blindingly hard so quickly he could scarcely breathe. Even Dean had stepped away from it looking dazed and overwhelmed.
Mouth still on Dean’s, Sam opens his eyes and sees that Dean’s are shut, long lashes resting on his faintly flushed cheeks. He feels that sick, quivering want in his belly and he turns his face away, effectively breaking the kiss.
Jess has probably never given anyone a sleepless night in her life. Never held a gun, never broken anyone’s bone. Sweet and beautiful and innocent in all the ways Dean hasn’t been for years and never will be again.
Dean rubs his thumb over his lips and keeps his own face averted. He reaches into his pants pocket and tosses Sam his cell. It’s a different model to the one Sam last saw him with but he knows the number will be the same. He trusts Dean not to have broken that connection between them just in case Sam ever needed him. Sam has needed him, several times over the fours years apart, but he’s always been too stubborn to make that call.
“Last text from Dad,” says Dean, watching Sam scroll to the relevant message. “I got that from him a week ago. Nothing since. No one’s seen him.”
“Where were you?”
“Was taking care of some business out west,” says Dean. At Sam’s incredulous look, he offers him a pointed smirk. “Dude, I’m twenty-six.”
The message is co-ordinates, that much is immediately clear. Sam looks up at Dean.
“What’s there?”
“Far as I can tell, just one of Dad’s properties. Little place by the sea.” As Sam goes on looking at him, Dean just shrugs. “I don’t know what’s so important there. But I’d appreciate having you with me when I check it out. I’m kinda lackin’ in the geekboy credentials. C’mon, man, I can’t do this without you.”
“Yes, you can.”
For the first time since they kissed, Dean looks straight back at Sam. His smile is rueful, a little vulnerable.
“Yeah, well… I don’t want to.”
All the fight goes out of Sam. He should have known that he’d never be able to win this one. Only once has he been able to tell Dean no. It was when it really mattered and Sam was set on walking out that door but he’d figured, having done that, it’d be easier to tell Dean no a second time. It’s not. Now, he’s worn down to concessions and compromise.
“Two days. You get me back here for Monday, all right?”
“What happens Monday?” says Dean.
“I’ve got an interview,” says Sam. He sees the question in Dean’s eyes before he can even speak it. “For a place here. To study Law.”
There’s a flicker of Dean’s smirk, the slightest drawing in of breath - almost imperceptible, but Sam knows Dean too well not to notice them. It takes only a second but Dean recovers himself and his lips twitch.
“Ooh, a man in the DA’s office! That’d be pretty handy!”
“Don’t think for a minute I’d let you or Dad use me,” Sam snaps at him. He’s further enraged by the achingly familiar sound of Dean’s laughter, the genuine amusement in it. He pushes past him into his and Jess’s bedroom, finding a bag to throw a few of his things into. Having Dean lean in the doorway to watch, long legs in the too well cut pants crossed at the ankles, leaves Sam feeling exposed, like he’s given too much of his new life away just by letting Dean see his bedroom. He tries to remind himself that Dean had ample opportunity to poke around when he broke in before Sam got home - and would have taken full advantage of that - but it doesn’t make him feel much better.
“You’re not telling me you’d go hard on me if I was the defendant, though, right? Sammy! That’s cold!”
Sam snags the bag shut and swings it onto his shoulder. He ushers Dean out of the bedroom and closes the door firmly behind himself. His cellphone isn’t where he left it and he glances about for it, patting at his pockets, until he realises that Dean’s holding it out towards him.
“You’re gonna need to call Jess before you go, right?” he says.
The casual use of her name almost makes Sam want to call the whole thing off completely. Stopping still for a second, he gathers his composure. When he walked away from the Winchester family business, he knew it wasn’t a clean break. It was for him but he knew there’d been no way in hell that John and Dean wouldn’t be keeping a very close eye on everything he got up to. He didn’t escape, he was allowed to leave because he pissed John off enough.
“I’ll wait for you in the Impala,” says Dean, leaving Sam to speak to Jess in private.
:::
The coordinates bring them three hours along the coast, to a beach house that Sam has never seen before. The large hulking darkness of the Impala seems incongruous against the landscape of pale sand and the neat white boards of the house.
Dawn is just creeping in and Dean yawns hugely as he parks up. The sky is soft, duck-egg blue and the sea is a calm line of grey and white along the horizon.
After spending so long in close quarters with Dean - Dean right beside him and all wrapped up in the home-like smell of the Impala’s leather - Sam is only too ready to get out, stretch his legs and get some distance between him and his brother. If Dean notices the way Sam immediately strays away in order to gaze up at the last blinks of the fading stars, he doesn’t say anything.
He glances about, hand drifting beneath the back of his jacket, to the gun that Sam knows will be tucked into the waistband of his pants. Dean’s been regularly carrying a gun since he was sixteen, been using one when necessary even before that. His first one was a crappy little Beretta that he scrounged off Caleb, the kind streetpunks use to hold up 7-11s. Caleb had also given him a fat-bladed hunting knife that Dean used to keep stuck under his pillow, handle jutting out defiantly until John caught him doing it and teased him mercilessly about being careful he didn’t slice his ear off in his sleep. Then, as if to make up for being a jerk, John had presented Dean with an elegant silver Colt. Told him that was his gun from now on. Dean had other guns but the Colt was the gun Sam most associated with him.
He still remembers the first time he touched the Colt. He’d taken it, almost reverently, from the drawer Dean kept it in and been surprised at the weight of it. He’d held it and imagined it in Dean’s hands. Hand curled around the butt, finger resting confidently on the trigger. It felt awkward in Sam’s grasp. And then Dean’s arms had come around his shoulders, hands settling on his as he showed him the right way to hold it. Like this, Sammy, Dean had murmured, breath a soft rush against Sam’s ear. Got to get a firm grip so the recoil don’t shake your arm. Not too tight though. Yeah, just like that.
Sam had been fourteen, cradled against his brother’s chest, their hands entwined about the Colt.
No one’s in sight around the beach house and Dean heads towards the door, hesitates a second and then taps a code in on the security panel. The door beeps once, twice and then Dean is able to open it.
“How did you know the code?” says Sam, long-legged stride bringing him quickly up behind Dean. “I thought you said this… this place was…”
Dean flashes Sam a look over his shoulder as he draws his gun, keeping it raised as they move into the house.
“Dad and me, we got this code for when he doesn’t mind me getting into places. Now, keep close, Sammy, and stay behind me.”
Clear morning light fills the house and illuminates swirling motes of dust. There’s a sterile formality to the house, as though it’s more of a show-home than somewhere anybody’s ever lived but that’s John all over, Sam thinks with some bitterness. John likes things well ordered. Leaving Sam waiting by the door, Dean scopes out the rest of the house. After a second, he bounds back down the stairs with his gun lowered and that gives Sam the all clear. Dean takes his jacket off and flings it down on the cream leather couch. Sam doesn’t know how Dean's stayed such a slob at heart when he's so set on being Daddy’s good little soldier.
Dean lets out a breath. With Dean standing in the light like he is, Sam can’t help but make out the shadowy lines of Dean’s chest beneath the thin white fabric of his shirt. The expression on Sam’s face must show because Dean opens his mouth to say something and takes a step towards Sam.
“So, what are we looking for?” Sam says, cutting over anything Dean could have said. He turns away, ignoring the sudden sag of Dean’s shoulders, and peers out of the window towards the lazy roll of the sea.
There’s a hesitation and then Dean shrugs.
“God only knows. You know how the old guy likes his riddles and shit.”
It wouldn’t be the first time John had expected Dean and Sam to follow orders given through only the most cryptic means. One reason John was so very untouchable, Sam suspects, is that he is paranoid to the bone. He doesn’t trust anyone he doesn’t share blood with and that’s a very short list, with Dean at the top and Sam at the bottom. Since he left, Sam suspects the list might have gotten a little shorter.
Dean unbuttons his shirt at the wrists and rolls the sleeves up his forearms.
“All right, you know Dad’s rules: never hide anything in something that can be removed. Walls and floors, buddy, walls and floors.”
:::
By evening, Dean’s put a couple of holes in the dry-walling, Sam’s pulled up half the floor and they’ve found exactly jack-shit. Dean drives out and brings back a dinner of pizza and soda. For some reason, maybe some leftover instinct of not pissing his dad off, Sam’s tried to tidy up the worst of the mess. It still looks a little like a wrecking crew’s been through but it’s definitely better than it was.
With the drapes left open, Sam can still see the sea through the dusk light as he picks at his fries. A quick call to Jess and he assures her that everything’s all right, he’ll be back on Monday as planned. Dean disappeared somewhere in the middle of Sam talking to Jess and Sam finds him sprawled out on the king-size bed in the master bedroom. His eyes are open though and they track straight to him as Sam enters.
“So not the house then,” says Sam. “Guess we’ll have to look into town tomorrow, see if Dad’s left something for us there. There any guys working this place?”
Dean nods but doesn’t elaborate.
“You know them?” Sam prods.
Another nod. Sam doesn’t prod again but moves through the doorway of the room to sit by Dean, where his knees are hooked over the end of the bed, thighs an indecent v.
“Guess you’re happy at Stanford,” Dean says finally. “Got yourself a girl, place of your own. Friends. Doing good with your classes. Guess you’re glad you left. That’s good. Don’t want you regretting stuff. Waste of time, regretting stuff.”
It hangs awkward between them and before Sam can respond to it, Dean sits upright and claps him, hard, on the shoulder.
“God, I stink. I call first shower.”
Hiding in the shower is about right for Dean. By the time he comes out, forty minutes later with droplets of water in his hair and wearing one of John’s bathrobes, he’s completely back to himself, all trace of wistfulness replaced with his customary nonchalance. Sam’s still waiting for him on the end of the bed. He knows Dean well enough to have known to wait. After the fights Sam used to have with John, where Dean had to be present just to keep John or Sam from murdering each other, Dean’s preferred method of calming down was getting laid. If he couldn’t get laid, he’d have an excessively long shower.
Dean used to get through about three relationships a month and numerous one-night stands. He liked his girls dark-haired and confident, liked a woman who wasn’t afraid to call him a jackass. Of course, that never did bode too well for a relationship and Dean would usually end up throwing ‘em over for some minor, inconsequential thing like not being ready on time when he called round to pick them up for dinner. Girls got in the way of Dean being available for whatever John needed him for. The ones who lasted longest were the ones who recognised that Dean did not belong to them and never would.
If Dean weren’t cancelling dates in order to go out on business with John, then he was cancelling them in order to take Sam out to the cinema. There’d been a period of about four months when Sam had orchestrated Dean into dumping eleven girls in a row just to see if he could. The victory had been short-lived because guilt had set in not long after. Deep down, even then, Sam knew that Dean shouldn’t belong to John and him.
A thought strikes Sam and he glances over to where Dean is in front of the mirror, sliding a comb through his damp hair.
“You still single then?”
Dean shoots Sam’s reflection an incredulous look then, seeing Sam’s serious expression, turns around to face him.
“Yeah, Sammy. Still single. Ain’t exactly looking either.”
It shouldn’t send a pleased flush through Sam, shouldn’t but it does. He lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding and swipes a tongue over his lips. Shamelessly, Sam watches Dean discard the robe and pull on pyjama bottoms, drawing them up over his thighs and over the tight, high curve of his ass. When they were growing up the boundaries were so few and far apart that it’s nothing new to see Dean naked. In fact, it’s an old guilty pleasure. Sam never did anything more than look and Dean never caught his eye while he did. It’s kind of terrifying how quickly they’ve fallen back into old patterns.
“Why’d you come for me, Dean?”
“Told you.”
Sam stands up and moves to Dean, still taking a subtle joy in towering over his big brother. Reluctantly, Dean looks up at him. Looking, for a second in the muted glow of the light seeping through from the bathroom, like the brother Sam remembers. Soft and pretty, loving. Not one of the boys, with a filthy mouth and a temper so short it takes nothing but a look that lasts a little too long to set it off.
“Why?”
“Dad’s gone missing. You think I’m gonna let my baby brother walk around unprotected? No way. I want you close by, where I can… y’know, keep you from gettin’ your head shot off.”
Tentatively, Sam closes his arms around Dean, drawing him in against his chest. Dean’s bare skin is smooth and warm beneath Sam’s hands and he rests his forehead on Sam’s shoulder. His mouth is open against the worn-thin fabric of Sam’s t-shirt and Sam can feel the damp heat of his breath. Briefly, Dean’s palms come up to settle on Sam’s back, then Dean hooks his thumbs under Sam’s arms and pulls him back a step.
“Anything you wanna tell me now, Sam? Save me findin’ out later?”
He’s grinning but his eyes are searching Sam’s face for something. Sam spreads his hands in open confusion.
“Like what?”
“Like, I dunno. Anyone you’ve been talking to you know you shouldn’t. Anything you’ve said you shouldn’t.” A significant pause. “Any agreements you’ve made.”
The bottom drops out of Sam’s stomach. He thinks it over carefully and thoroughly, sure that he must have misunderstood what Dean’s just asked him but there’s no other explanation for it. That’s what Dean’s asking him.
“Agreements like being an informant and passing on details about my brother and father to the FBI, you mean.”
Colour floods Dean’s cheeks and he rolls his eyes but he doesn’t look back at Sam. His jaw clenches like he means to see this one through.
“C’mon, man, you’re John Winchester’s son, for crying out loud, and you wanna study Law! I gotta look at the angles on this! Dad and me, we’ve kept tabs on you, sure, but we can’t watch you 24 hours a day. Who knows who’s been talking to you, putting ideas in your head? Makin’ you think that screwing over your whole family is a way to get your career going.”
“You think I’d do that?” says Sam in a carefully measured voice.
“You did it before,” Dean shoots back, way too calm for this conversation. “You walked out.”
“Yeah, Dean, I walked out. I didn’t want to ruin people’s lives. I didn’t want to extort money out of them. I didn’t want them to live in fear that I might take a dislike to them for no reason in particular and decide to beat their head in with a baseball bat. But I didn’t inform on you and Dad!”
His breath comes in hard, sharp pants and he can’t help feeling like he’s the one who’s just been betrayed. Of all the things Dean should believe him capable of, turning informant is not one of them. There is no scum lower than an informant. The word itself is filthy and Sam’s heard it hissed about guys who’ve disappeared off the face of the planet. Everyone shrugs and looks bemused when people ask where they’ve gone but later, Sam’ll hear that single word and he’ll know they’re not ever coming back. And he’s been glad of it himself because he’s been brought up knowing that there’s a million ways you can screw a guy over but you don’t ever go that low.
Dean meets his gaze levelly.
“I had to ask, Sammy. It’s been four years,” he says, as if Sam should understand.
“I’m your brother!” Sam snarls in frustration and hurt, jabbing himself in the chest to make the point.
“Didn’t mean all that much when you walked out on me.”
“Oh God, you’re pathetic! What were you gonna do if I said yes, Dean? Were you gonna take me out back and put a bullet between my eyes? That how it works?” Dean flinches and Sam presses in ruthlessly, sensing the first glimmer of weakness. “What then? Toss my body in the sea? Or… no. No, you were gonna wait until I’d helped you figure out what had happened to Dad, right? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, never throw away something that you can still use, all those catchy little rules of Dad’s, yeah?”
“I wouldn’t have…” Dean says quietly. “Wouldn’t…”
“You came to me, Dean,” Sam says, just as quietly. He still can’t quite catch his breath but it’s slowly getting easier as the fury drains out of him, leaving him exhausted. “You came to me. Jesus… this is so fucked. What the hell’s happened to you, man?”
Brows drawing together in a confused frown, Dean just stares back at him. Sam shakes his head and backs away, out of the room altogether.
:::
When Sam goes for a shower the next morning, the clue they’ve been looking for is staring him right in the face. Sam tilts his head at it, blinks and then opens the bathroom door and calls for Dean.
Dean is already showered and dressed, munching contentedly on a piece of toast as he comes into the bathroom.
“C’mon, man, hurry up,” he says through a mouthful. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”
It’s subtle and quick but Sam still catches the slight lowering of Dean’s gaze to where Sam’s towel is wrapped low about his hips. Then he follows the direction Sam’s pointing in and stares at the wall. Up the side of the doorframe, drawn in pencil, are a few marks with a name and number beside them. The names are only ever Dean’s or Sam’s but the numbers change as they get higher. Sam recognises the neat, square writing as John’s.
“Height chart,” says Dean after a moment.
“We were never kids here, Dean.”
A moment passes between them and then Dean rubs the back of his neck and flicks a glance at Sam, amused and tired.
“Good work, Sammy. There’s our clue. Now tell me what the hell that’s s’posed to mean.”
“Uh…” says Sam, his pride wilting away entirely. He sighs heavily.
Dean claps him on the shoulder and goes back to his toast.
:::
“Account number,” Dean suggests on the drive into town.
“Not enough numbers,” Sam says, still staring at his notepad where he’s scrawled the numbers down. They’re nagging at him but he can’t work out the format.
“Phone number?”
“Still not enough numbers.”
The day is warm and the breeze is fresh with sea salt. The town is pretty big but still pleasant and welcoming. Dean’s having a hard time keeping his mind on the road and on the numbers they’ve found what with all the pretty girls wearing not much at all they’re driving by. Sam doesn’t comment on Dean’s frequent sleazy gawking. He’s kind of used to it.
“Secret safe pass code?” Dean says.
Sam shoots him an unimpressed look and can’t help saying, “Surely Dad would have used the special secret Dean-and-Dad code for that? Besides, let’s say it’s that. Where the hell is this secret safe?”
“All right, all right!”
“Just let me think about it,” says Sam. “It’ll come to me. In the meantime, where are we going?”
Behind the sunglasses Dean’s wearing, it’s hard to make out the look in his eyes. Sam’s never approved of Dean wearing sunglasses around him, even if he’s never commented on it. Still, Sam prefers it when Dean wears sunglasses around other people because he really didn’t approve of other people being able to look Dean in the eyes. Over the years, Sam knows Dean’s got pretty good at keeping his gaze blank - he has to have done to survive as John’s lieutenant - but even so, sometimes there’s too much given away in Dean’s eyes. Without those big green eyes on show, Dean looks a hell of a lot tougher. Sunglasses on mean Dean’s on business.
“Talk with some guys. See what they know.” At Sam’s long silence, Dean lifts one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “If Dad’s got property down here, the local guys might’ve seen him. He might have said something to them that we can use.”
“Just drop me off at the library. I wanna do some research.”
“Sam, c’mon. Stick with me here.”
Sam turns about in the musty, leather embrace of his seat and shoots Dean an irritable look.
“Look, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Dad saw to that. And I absolutely promise you that if I want to make contact with my FBI handler that I’ll find a way somehow so keeping me with you really isn’t necessary.”
Dean goes quiet. The normally generous curve of his lips has gone clenched and thin. His stubble is the colour of brown sugar in the sunlight. They’ve come into the central bustle of the town now and the traffic’s heavier, more people on the streets.
“Cut the crap, Sam. I’m not asking you to pick your best buddy for life outta these guys. Just come in with me.”
They pass almost right through town, coming to stop outside a strip joint at the edge, by the side of the main road out. A pink neon light in the shape of a pair of breasts flashes on and off, glowing feebly in the daylight. Parking lot gravel crunching beneath the tires of the Impala, Dean parks up and climbs out, tilting his face back to survey the place properly. He gives their surroundings a quick once over and then nods at Sam to get out.
They walk together towards the club even though Dean keeps trying to get a couple of steps ahead. At first, Sam figures it’s some weird attempt to make it look like Sam’s subordinate to Dean. Then he gets it and knows Dean is still intent on catching any bullet that might be heading their way before it gets Sam. John drummed it into both of their heads and when Sam was old enough to figure out why, he kicked up almighty hell about it. Dean and John hadn’t acted like there was anything wrong with it. John had assured Sam that it was simply because he trusted Dean to spot a gun before Sam did - and Sam still isn’t clear if John was teasing him then or not. And Dean had shrugged and said he was the older brother and he went in front, end of story.
Pushing the door open, Dean lets the clear light from outside filter into the smoky gloom of the club. There’s a girl in high heels and nothing else dancing half-heartedly on a small stage. Dean gives her an appreciative grin and then heads to the bar, where the few patrons are sitting in a cluster on stools. They turn to watch Sam and Dean’s approach and then one of the guy’s face splits into a smile. He pushes off the stool and holds his arms out.
“Well, I’ll be fucked! Dean! Jesus fuck, kid, you’ve grown! Last I saw you, you weren’t even up to my shoulder! Now look at you! Bet you’re a fucking heartbreaker, right? Face of an angel, this one, right?”
“Hey, Mikey!” says Dean, stepping into the embrace. There’s a lot of very manly back-clapping and Sam hangs back.
Mikey’s a big guy in his late forties with a broad, flat nose and hair that’s greying at the temples. His t-shirt stretches over an ample beer-gut. He catches Dean’s elbow and gestures towards the other guys sitting around the bar.
“This here’s Johnny Winchester’s kid! His old man’s genuine class,” says Mikey. “Don’t find that kinda class in the sloppy-ass fuckers tryin’ to run things these days.”
“Got a lot of respect for John Winchester,” another guy says, younger and clearer-eyed. He shakes Dean’s hand and pulls him towards the bar. “Let me get you a drink. I’m Gordon. Met your dad a few years back. Not many like John Winchester.”
Dean takes the condensation-damp bottle of beer Gordon presses into his hand then reaches round to gesture Sam forward. With no small measure of reluctance, Sam moves to Dean’s side, into the circle of them.
“Let me introduce you to my brother,” says Dean. “This here’s Sam. He’s on break from college. Full-ride at Stanford.”
There’s a chorus of dutifully impressed noises from the guys but Sam’s head snaps towards Dean, sure he hasn’t imagined the note of pride in Dean’s voice. Sam manages a few polite smiles but hangs close to Dean.
“So, Dean, what brings you out here?” says Gordon.
Dean raises his bottle to him and takes a chug before answering.
“Just some family business.”
“You need any help,” says Mikey, “any help at all, you just let me know. Anything to help out an old friend, you know that, right? Christ, but how long since I saw your Dad? What’s the guy doin’ now?”
Dean gives a lazy shrug, leaning onto the bar, apparently perfectly at ease. Unlike Sam who feels itchy and trapped and too hot.
“You know Dad. God moves in mysterious fucking ways, am I right?”
Mikey guffaws with laughter and claps Dean on the back again. Sam thinks it’ll be a miracle if Dean gets out of this without his spine black and blue with bruises. Another guy leans in to catch Dean’s attention. Sam’s been watching him for a while. This guy’s been studying the two of them with far too much interest. He’s got a well-chewed cigarette hanging from his chapped lips. Pushing closer, Sam brushes against Dean in mute warning.
“So… Dean,” the guy says. “What’s that short for?”
The conversation dies down and Dean raises an eyebrow at the guy. Some basic instinct for danger turns the atmosphere crisp. Then the guy lets out a bellowing laugh and claps his hand over his chest.
“Fuck me! Jeez, it’s a guy! Mouth on that thing, thought it was a female!”
“You what?” says Dean, calm and displeased. “I look like a fucking girl to you? You think I should be up on stage with her, flashing my tits and pussy at you, do you? Fuck you.”
Mikey starts to raise his hands to intervene but it’s too late. Dean flips his bottle round to grip it by the neck then smacks the guy round the face with it even as he’s opening his mouth to answer. The sound of the glass slamming into the guy’s cheekbone makes a dull, loud thump. Not even close to finished, Dean smashes his bottle on the bar and, still holding it by the neck, rides the guy down to the floor and drives the wicked-sharp end of the glass into his shoulder. There’s a clatter as the stools go down with the collision of their bodies and then a shriek as Dean twists the bottleneck.
Sam grits his teeth and doesn’t make a move to pull Dean off. Distantly, he’s aware of everything John taught them, about how to gain respect, how to keep it. How to demonstrate that you’re not to be fucked around before it even reaches the stage that someone might think of trying. No one else looks like they’re gonna go to the guy’s rescue.
When the guy’s snarled cursing subsides to pathetic whimpering, Dean punches the guy a few times for good measure then takes the hand Gordon offers him and gets to his feet. He’s slightly out of breath, the broken bottle still in his hand, and he glances down at the guy one last time, kicking him swiftly in the ribs, before setting the bottle down on the bar. Wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, Dean pulls a fifty from his wallet and sets it down on the bar.
“Sorry ‘bout the mess,” he says to the bartender.
The silence drags on, punctuated only by the guy’s hitched sobbing as the stain of blood seeps from his shoulder to his chest. Then Mikey claps Dean on the back again and jerks his head at one of the others.
“Get this sack of shit out of here,” he says, gesturing to the guy on the floor. Then, to Dean, “You gotta accept my apologies. Dan’s mouth runs faster than a goddamn leaky faucet.”
“Been asking to get the crap kicked outta him for a while,” Gordon agrees, moving in on Dean’s other side.
The girl starts dancing again and the bartender puts a new bottle of beer down in front of Dean. Looks like Dean’s in. The broken bottle is removed by the bartender but not before Sam can see the dark lines of blood running down the glass. Sam takes a shuddering breath and clears his throat.
“Hey, Dean, think I’m gonna check out town. Good to meet you all though.”
He can see Dean’s desire to protest in the set of his face but he won’t push it. He doesn’t dare because he knows Sam won’t surrender. Sam’ll undo the whole exercise by acting a pissy little bitch and refusing to do as his big brother tells him. Sam knows it but he turns away and heads for the door before Dean can overcome his good sense and tell him to stay anyway.
Outside, the air is refreshingly cool and clear. Sam can smell the sea. Abruptly, his stomach rolls over and he ends up retching in the parking lot.
part ii
This thing of ours
(Sam/Dean, pg13, 14336 words, au)
The Pilot - if the Winchester family business were organised crime rather than hunting the supernatural.
On Wednesday, in Sam’s lecture, the professor stands up and talks about the nastiest, most untouchable crime family currently at work in the US: the Winchesters. Sam doesn’t react aside from the faint clenching of his jaw. None of the students turn in their seats to look at him, the professor’s gaze doesn’t search him out. Sam hasn’t been a Winchester for four years, not since he walked out on the family business and all the brutal, fucked-up shit that went with it.
Sam doesn’t react to the professor showing the class a grainy shot from ten years ago of Sam’s father. Not much is known about John Winchester because he keeps very much hands-off. All the evil is done in his name, but not by him, not that can be directly linked back to him. And when the professor makes an offhand remark regarding the next generation of the Winchesters - the older son with a criminal record only encompassing a few minor misdemeanours, and the younger son who’s not been seen for some years and is presumed dead - Sam manages to keep his breathing level and quiet.
It’s an omen. Sam believes in signs. There are no coincidences in life. Maybe it’s come from John’s perpetual grim paranoia. Maybe it’s part of the supposed softness, weakness, that made it impossible for Sam to be the son John wanted him to be. Whatever it is, when Sam gets home and sees the big black Impala parked outside his apartment he’s not at all surprised.
Jess tilts her face up to him, alarmed by the sudden tightening of his arm around her shoulders. Sam’s stopped dead and it takes him a moment to get a grip of how to handle the situation.
It figures that John would send Dean. Growing up in luxury bought with blood and broken bones and brains splattered over walls, forever waiting for the news that John wasn’t ever coming home again or for the piece of evidence to turn up that John’s lawyers couldn’t wave away, there was only ever one thing Sam could rely upon: Dean. Dean who is beautiful and tender and full of laughter and who beat a man senseless right in front of Sam when Sam was only sixteen.
The night Dean came home, drunk and shaking, and put a bloodstained hand on Sam’s cheek, Sam knew he had to leave.
“Hey, sweetheart,” says Sam, “do me a favour and go round Becky’s for a while, yeah?”
“Why?" Jess says. "Baby, what’s wrong?”
Sam shakes his head and doesn’t say anything for a long while. It’s hard to stop looking at the Impala. He remembers long, lazy evenings spent curled up in the backseat of the car, doing his homework in the hazy amber glow of the streetlight, waiting for Dean to get back with take-out they’d eat with greasy fingers and no knives or forks. Then they’d play some stupid game of cards Dean had learnt from Uncle Bobby or Caleb or one of the other guys, which only had a few rules, all of which were broken at will.
Dean learnt a lot from the guys, more than he was supposed to, and he whispered the secrets of hustling pool or scoring pussy or making a guy twice the size of you back off into Sam’s ear after dark. His voice had been thick with furtive glee but Sam hadn’t usually remembered much more than the way Dean’s fingers had curled about his when he showed him how to make a fist.
When they were younger, John had liked them far away from the action, safe and hidden in the Impala. And then he’d started grooming Dean for business and Dean had become John’s son before Sam’s brother. He’d stopped wearing jeans and t-shirts and John had had him fitted for suits. He’d been allowed to sit at the table with the guys while Sam was ushered off with the rest of the kids by the assorted wives and girlfriends. Nobody ruffled Dean’s hair anymore or asked him about school, like they did Sam. John would lay his hand on Dean’s shoulder, look him in the eye and give him a single nod, and Dean’s spine would snap straight, jaw tightening with determination.
That night Sam realised he had to leave, the bloody mark Dean had inadvertently left scrubbed clean and the skin left raw, he’d crept out of his bed to watch through the stair railings as Dean stood amongst all the guys and got a standing fucking ovation. Been cheered and clapped on the back and John had fucking beamed at him. Dean had been so proud. Sam had gone back to bed and not spoken to Dean at all the next day and never ever asked what Dean had done that night to finally earn his place in the business.
Sam kisses Jess on the cheek before she goes and then climbs the stairs to his apartment. The door is ajar but the apartment is dark. Dean’s sitting by the window, a study in stark white and dead black, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He must have watched Sam’s approach, must have seen Jess. Anger curls in Sam’s belly because Dean even laying eyes on Jess gets too close.
Dean glances over his shoulder at him, guarded warmth in his eyes. He stands up and spreads his arms like he expects Sam to walk straight into them. The suit he’s wearing is obviously wickedly expensive and fits him perfectly. The Winchesters have gone up in the world. His tie is moss green and matches his eyes. His hair is close-cropped and the lingering feminine softness to his features has all but disappeared. There’s a different kind of beauty to him now and Sam wonders exactly when it changed, glad that he wasn’t there to see it. Seduction is never honest.
Sam doesn’t move and Dean’s arms drop.
“Hey, buddy,” says Dean. He puts the whiskey down and glances back out of the window. “Pretty girl. Your girlfriend?”
“Cut the act,” says Sam, dropping his bag and jacket onto the couch and crossing his arms over his chest. “I bet I haven’t done a single thing since I left that you and Dad haven’t known about. What do you want?”
“Yeah, I’ve missed you too,” says Dean. And he grins with it but Sam doesn’t think he imagines the hurt there. Damn it, it was never about walking out on Dean, never Dean he wanted to lose but that was exactly why he had to leave: because he couldn’t stand by and watch John turn Dean into the same cold, violent creature that he was. “Okay, straight to business if that’s how you want it. Dad’s missing.”
It’s really not anything that Sam cares too much about. He shrugs and raises an eyebrow at Dean in a clear yeah, and? A muscle twitches in the column of Dean’s throat, just above the neat white collar of his shirt.
“He’s missing, Sam. I think he’s in trouble.”
Dean looks taken aback at Sam’s sharp bark of laughter.
“Or maybe he’s finally got what he deserves, Dean. Plenty of people out there got him to thank for their fucked-up lives. Maybe he finally pushed someone too far. You ever think of that?”
Dean goes pale and shakes his head. His hands clench into fists at his sides and then relax. He rolls his shoulders and straightens his neck like he’s easing out a crick. Sam can’t help but be mesmerised by the play of powerful muscle under smooth, tanned skin. Acidly, he wonders if that’s why Dean's doing it and roughly brushes past him into the kitchen. He sets about making himself a cup of coffee, not offering Dean one and really not caring if it seems rude.
“Don’t talk about Dad like that. He’s still your father.”
“Some father,” Sam shoots back, feeling as petulant and put-upon as he did as a thirteen year old.
“Listen, Sammy, I didn’t come here to argue with you or lecture you. I came here because I need your help. If you won’t help him, at least help me.”
It’s a low blow because Dean knows - Dean knows - that Sam is helpless to tell him no. He can’t not help him. Because the world Dean lives in, the world Sam left, there’s every chance that if Sam turns him away now the next time he’ll see Dean will be in a body bag. He can’t risk him like that. Not Dean. This feeling of terror and impending loss is drove Sam away, because it was eating away inside him every time he looked at Dean.
He sags against the stove, watching the steam rise from his cup of coffee. Finally he turns back at Dean, looks him in the eye and says, “Dean, don’t do this to me.”
“Someone’s turned on us, Sammy. They’ve turned and now Dad’s gone missing and I don’t know who I can trust because they’re all looking at me like I’m Today’s Special. They’re tryin’ to take away everything Dad’s worked for, Sammy.” He closes the distance between them and takes Sam’s wrists in his hands, thumbs resting on the quickening thump of Sam’s pulse. “Tryin’ to take away what’s ours. What belongs to you and me, Sammy.”
“I don’t want it,” Sam murmurs. Then he leans in to put his lips against Dean’s.
It’s a chaste kiss. They were always only ever chaste kisses. He’s my baby brother, something wrong with me kissing him? Dean had demanded the one time anyone had ever called them on it. Sam had ducked his head to hide his burning cheeks but Dean had been entirely unembarrassed. Anyway, John had been in the room and no one was going to accuse a crime boss’s sons of incest - even as a joke - when he’s sitting right there.
Dean’s lips are full and soft, parted slightly and, not for the first time, Sam thinks about letting his tongue trace the curve of them. Sam’s hands hang limply at his sides, fingers fluttering weakly. They want to settle on Dean’s cheeks and draw him in closer but that’s not how they do this. One time, Sam did put his hand on Dean’s face when they kissed and his other hand on Dean’s hip and he’d got blindingly hard so quickly he could scarcely breathe. Even Dean had stepped away from it looking dazed and overwhelmed.
Mouth still on Dean’s, Sam opens his eyes and sees that Dean’s are shut, long lashes resting on his faintly flushed cheeks. He feels that sick, quivering want in his belly and he turns his face away, effectively breaking the kiss.
Jess has probably never given anyone a sleepless night in her life. Never held a gun, never broken anyone’s bone. Sweet and beautiful and innocent in all the ways Dean hasn’t been for years and never will be again.
Dean rubs his thumb over his lips and keeps his own face averted. He reaches into his pants pocket and tosses Sam his cell. It’s a different model to the one Sam last saw him with but he knows the number will be the same. He trusts Dean not to have broken that connection between them just in case Sam ever needed him. Sam has needed him, several times over the fours years apart, but he’s always been too stubborn to make that call.
“Last text from Dad,” says Dean, watching Sam scroll to the relevant message. “I got that from him a week ago. Nothing since. No one’s seen him.”
“Where were you?”
“Was taking care of some business out west,” says Dean. At Sam’s incredulous look, he offers him a pointed smirk. “Dude, I’m twenty-six.”
The message is co-ordinates, that much is immediately clear. Sam looks up at Dean.
“What’s there?”
“Far as I can tell, just one of Dad’s properties. Little place by the sea.” As Sam goes on looking at him, Dean just shrugs. “I don’t know what’s so important there. But I’d appreciate having you with me when I check it out. I’m kinda lackin’ in the geekboy credentials. C’mon, man, I can’t do this without you.”
“Yes, you can.”
For the first time since they kissed, Dean looks straight back at Sam. His smile is rueful, a little vulnerable.
“Yeah, well… I don’t want to.”
All the fight goes out of Sam. He should have known that he’d never be able to win this one. Only once has he been able to tell Dean no. It was when it really mattered and Sam was set on walking out that door but he’d figured, having done that, it’d be easier to tell Dean no a second time. It’s not. Now, he’s worn down to concessions and compromise.
“Two days. You get me back here for Monday, all right?”
“What happens Monday?” says Dean.
“I’ve got an interview,” says Sam. He sees the question in Dean’s eyes before he can even speak it. “For a place here. To study Law.”
There’s a flicker of Dean’s smirk, the slightest drawing in of breath - almost imperceptible, but Sam knows Dean too well not to notice them. It takes only a second but Dean recovers himself and his lips twitch.
“Ooh, a man in the DA’s office! That’d be pretty handy!”
“Don’t think for a minute I’d let you or Dad use me,” Sam snaps at him. He’s further enraged by the achingly familiar sound of Dean’s laughter, the genuine amusement in it. He pushes past him into his and Jess’s bedroom, finding a bag to throw a few of his things into. Having Dean lean in the doorway to watch, long legs in the too well cut pants crossed at the ankles, leaves Sam feeling exposed, like he’s given too much of his new life away just by letting Dean see his bedroom. He tries to remind himself that Dean had ample opportunity to poke around when he broke in before Sam got home - and would have taken full advantage of that - but it doesn’t make him feel much better.
“You’re not telling me you’d go hard on me if I was the defendant, though, right? Sammy! That’s cold!”
Sam snags the bag shut and swings it onto his shoulder. He ushers Dean out of the bedroom and closes the door firmly behind himself. His cellphone isn’t where he left it and he glances about for it, patting at his pockets, until he realises that Dean’s holding it out towards him.
“You’re gonna need to call Jess before you go, right?” he says.
The casual use of her name almost makes Sam want to call the whole thing off completely. Stopping still for a second, he gathers his composure. When he walked away from the Winchester family business, he knew it wasn’t a clean break. It was for him but he knew there’d been no way in hell that John and Dean wouldn’t be keeping a very close eye on everything he got up to. He didn’t escape, he was allowed to leave because he pissed John off enough.
“I’ll wait for you in the Impala,” says Dean, leaving Sam to speak to Jess in private.
:::
The coordinates bring them three hours along the coast, to a beach house that Sam has never seen before. The large hulking darkness of the Impala seems incongruous against the landscape of pale sand and the neat white boards of the house.
Dawn is just creeping in and Dean yawns hugely as he parks up. The sky is soft, duck-egg blue and the sea is a calm line of grey and white along the horizon.
After spending so long in close quarters with Dean - Dean right beside him and all wrapped up in the home-like smell of the Impala’s leather - Sam is only too ready to get out, stretch his legs and get some distance between him and his brother. If Dean notices the way Sam immediately strays away in order to gaze up at the last blinks of the fading stars, he doesn’t say anything.
He glances about, hand drifting beneath the back of his jacket, to the gun that Sam knows will be tucked into the waistband of his pants. Dean’s been regularly carrying a gun since he was sixteen, been using one when necessary even before that. His first one was a crappy little Beretta that he scrounged off Caleb, the kind streetpunks use to hold up 7-11s. Caleb had also given him a fat-bladed hunting knife that Dean used to keep stuck under his pillow, handle jutting out defiantly until John caught him doing it and teased him mercilessly about being careful he didn’t slice his ear off in his sleep. Then, as if to make up for being a jerk, John had presented Dean with an elegant silver Colt. Told him that was his gun from now on. Dean had other guns but the Colt was the gun Sam most associated with him.
He still remembers the first time he touched the Colt. He’d taken it, almost reverently, from the drawer Dean kept it in and been surprised at the weight of it. He’d held it and imagined it in Dean’s hands. Hand curled around the butt, finger resting confidently on the trigger. It felt awkward in Sam’s grasp. And then Dean’s arms had come around his shoulders, hands settling on his as he showed him the right way to hold it. Like this, Sammy, Dean had murmured, breath a soft rush against Sam’s ear. Got to get a firm grip so the recoil don’t shake your arm. Not too tight though. Yeah, just like that.
Sam had been fourteen, cradled against his brother’s chest, their hands entwined about the Colt.
No one’s in sight around the beach house and Dean heads towards the door, hesitates a second and then taps a code in on the security panel. The door beeps once, twice and then Dean is able to open it.
“How did you know the code?” says Sam, long-legged stride bringing him quickly up behind Dean. “I thought you said this… this place was…”
Dean flashes Sam a look over his shoulder as he draws his gun, keeping it raised as they move into the house.
“Dad and me, we got this code for when he doesn’t mind me getting into places. Now, keep close, Sammy, and stay behind me.”
Clear morning light fills the house and illuminates swirling motes of dust. There’s a sterile formality to the house, as though it’s more of a show-home than somewhere anybody’s ever lived but that’s John all over, Sam thinks with some bitterness. John likes things well ordered. Leaving Sam waiting by the door, Dean scopes out the rest of the house. After a second, he bounds back down the stairs with his gun lowered and that gives Sam the all clear. Dean takes his jacket off and flings it down on the cream leather couch. Sam doesn’t know how Dean's stayed such a slob at heart when he's so set on being Daddy’s good little soldier.
Dean lets out a breath. With Dean standing in the light like he is, Sam can’t help but make out the shadowy lines of Dean’s chest beneath the thin white fabric of his shirt. The expression on Sam’s face must show because Dean opens his mouth to say something and takes a step towards Sam.
“So, what are we looking for?” Sam says, cutting over anything Dean could have said. He turns away, ignoring the sudden sag of Dean’s shoulders, and peers out of the window towards the lazy roll of the sea.
There’s a hesitation and then Dean shrugs.
“God only knows. You know how the old guy likes his riddles and shit.”
It wouldn’t be the first time John had expected Dean and Sam to follow orders given through only the most cryptic means. One reason John was so very untouchable, Sam suspects, is that he is paranoid to the bone. He doesn’t trust anyone he doesn’t share blood with and that’s a very short list, with Dean at the top and Sam at the bottom. Since he left, Sam suspects the list might have gotten a little shorter.
Dean unbuttons his shirt at the wrists and rolls the sleeves up his forearms.
“All right, you know Dad’s rules: never hide anything in something that can be removed. Walls and floors, buddy, walls and floors.”
:::
By evening, Dean’s put a couple of holes in the dry-walling, Sam’s pulled up half the floor and they’ve found exactly jack-shit. Dean drives out and brings back a dinner of pizza and soda. For some reason, maybe some leftover instinct of not pissing his dad off, Sam’s tried to tidy up the worst of the mess. It still looks a little like a wrecking crew’s been through but it’s definitely better than it was.
With the drapes left open, Sam can still see the sea through the dusk light as he picks at his fries. A quick call to Jess and he assures her that everything’s all right, he’ll be back on Monday as planned. Dean disappeared somewhere in the middle of Sam talking to Jess and Sam finds him sprawled out on the king-size bed in the master bedroom. His eyes are open though and they track straight to him as Sam enters.
“So not the house then,” says Sam. “Guess we’ll have to look into town tomorrow, see if Dad’s left something for us there. There any guys working this place?”
Dean nods but doesn’t elaborate.
“You know them?” Sam prods.
Another nod. Sam doesn’t prod again but moves through the doorway of the room to sit by Dean, where his knees are hooked over the end of the bed, thighs an indecent v.
“Guess you’re happy at Stanford,” Dean says finally. “Got yourself a girl, place of your own. Friends. Doing good with your classes. Guess you’re glad you left. That’s good. Don’t want you regretting stuff. Waste of time, regretting stuff.”
It hangs awkward between them and before Sam can respond to it, Dean sits upright and claps him, hard, on the shoulder.
“God, I stink. I call first shower.”
Hiding in the shower is about right for Dean. By the time he comes out, forty minutes later with droplets of water in his hair and wearing one of John’s bathrobes, he’s completely back to himself, all trace of wistfulness replaced with his customary nonchalance. Sam’s still waiting for him on the end of the bed. He knows Dean well enough to have known to wait. After the fights Sam used to have with John, where Dean had to be present just to keep John or Sam from murdering each other, Dean’s preferred method of calming down was getting laid. If he couldn’t get laid, he’d have an excessively long shower.
Dean used to get through about three relationships a month and numerous one-night stands. He liked his girls dark-haired and confident, liked a woman who wasn’t afraid to call him a jackass. Of course, that never did bode too well for a relationship and Dean would usually end up throwing ‘em over for some minor, inconsequential thing like not being ready on time when he called round to pick them up for dinner. Girls got in the way of Dean being available for whatever John needed him for. The ones who lasted longest were the ones who recognised that Dean did not belong to them and never would.
If Dean weren’t cancelling dates in order to go out on business with John, then he was cancelling them in order to take Sam out to the cinema. There’d been a period of about four months when Sam had orchestrated Dean into dumping eleven girls in a row just to see if he could. The victory had been short-lived because guilt had set in not long after. Deep down, even then, Sam knew that Dean shouldn’t belong to John and him.
A thought strikes Sam and he glances over to where Dean is in front of the mirror, sliding a comb through his damp hair.
“You still single then?”
Dean shoots Sam’s reflection an incredulous look then, seeing Sam’s serious expression, turns around to face him.
“Yeah, Sammy. Still single. Ain’t exactly looking either.”
It shouldn’t send a pleased flush through Sam, shouldn’t but it does. He lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding and swipes a tongue over his lips. Shamelessly, Sam watches Dean discard the robe and pull on pyjama bottoms, drawing them up over his thighs and over the tight, high curve of his ass. When they were growing up the boundaries were so few and far apart that it’s nothing new to see Dean naked. In fact, it’s an old guilty pleasure. Sam never did anything more than look and Dean never caught his eye while he did. It’s kind of terrifying how quickly they’ve fallen back into old patterns.
“Why’d you come for me, Dean?”
“Told you.”
Sam stands up and moves to Dean, still taking a subtle joy in towering over his big brother. Reluctantly, Dean looks up at him. Looking, for a second in the muted glow of the light seeping through from the bathroom, like the brother Sam remembers. Soft and pretty, loving. Not one of the boys, with a filthy mouth and a temper so short it takes nothing but a look that lasts a little too long to set it off.
“Why?”
“Dad’s gone missing. You think I’m gonna let my baby brother walk around unprotected? No way. I want you close by, where I can… y’know, keep you from gettin’ your head shot off.”
Tentatively, Sam closes his arms around Dean, drawing him in against his chest. Dean’s bare skin is smooth and warm beneath Sam’s hands and he rests his forehead on Sam’s shoulder. His mouth is open against the worn-thin fabric of Sam’s t-shirt and Sam can feel the damp heat of his breath. Briefly, Dean’s palms come up to settle on Sam’s back, then Dean hooks his thumbs under Sam’s arms and pulls him back a step.
“Anything you wanna tell me now, Sam? Save me findin’ out later?”
He’s grinning but his eyes are searching Sam’s face for something. Sam spreads his hands in open confusion.
“Like what?”
“Like, I dunno. Anyone you’ve been talking to you know you shouldn’t. Anything you’ve said you shouldn’t.” A significant pause. “Any agreements you’ve made.”
The bottom drops out of Sam’s stomach. He thinks it over carefully and thoroughly, sure that he must have misunderstood what Dean’s just asked him but there’s no other explanation for it. That’s what Dean’s asking him.
“Agreements like being an informant and passing on details about my brother and father to the FBI, you mean.”
Colour floods Dean’s cheeks and he rolls his eyes but he doesn’t look back at Sam. His jaw clenches like he means to see this one through.
“C’mon, man, you’re John Winchester’s son, for crying out loud, and you wanna study Law! I gotta look at the angles on this! Dad and me, we’ve kept tabs on you, sure, but we can’t watch you 24 hours a day. Who knows who’s been talking to you, putting ideas in your head? Makin’ you think that screwing over your whole family is a way to get your career going.”
“You think I’d do that?” says Sam in a carefully measured voice.
“You did it before,” Dean shoots back, way too calm for this conversation. “You walked out.”
“Yeah, Dean, I walked out. I didn’t want to ruin people’s lives. I didn’t want to extort money out of them. I didn’t want them to live in fear that I might take a dislike to them for no reason in particular and decide to beat their head in with a baseball bat. But I didn’t inform on you and Dad!”
His breath comes in hard, sharp pants and he can’t help feeling like he’s the one who’s just been betrayed. Of all the things Dean should believe him capable of, turning informant is not one of them. There is no scum lower than an informant. The word itself is filthy and Sam’s heard it hissed about guys who’ve disappeared off the face of the planet. Everyone shrugs and looks bemused when people ask where they’ve gone but later, Sam’ll hear that single word and he’ll know they’re not ever coming back. And he’s been glad of it himself because he’s been brought up knowing that there’s a million ways you can screw a guy over but you don’t ever go that low.
Dean meets his gaze levelly.
“I had to ask, Sammy. It’s been four years,” he says, as if Sam should understand.
“I’m your brother!” Sam snarls in frustration and hurt, jabbing himself in the chest to make the point.
“Didn’t mean all that much when you walked out on me.”
“Oh God, you’re pathetic! What were you gonna do if I said yes, Dean? Were you gonna take me out back and put a bullet between my eyes? That how it works?” Dean flinches and Sam presses in ruthlessly, sensing the first glimmer of weakness. “What then? Toss my body in the sea? Or… no. No, you were gonna wait until I’d helped you figure out what had happened to Dad, right? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, never throw away something that you can still use, all those catchy little rules of Dad’s, yeah?”
“I wouldn’t have…” Dean says quietly. “Wouldn’t…”
“You came to me, Dean,” Sam says, just as quietly. He still can’t quite catch his breath but it’s slowly getting easier as the fury drains out of him, leaving him exhausted. “You came to me. Jesus… this is so fucked. What the hell’s happened to you, man?”
Brows drawing together in a confused frown, Dean just stares back at him. Sam shakes his head and backs away, out of the room altogether.
:::
When Sam goes for a shower the next morning, the clue they’ve been looking for is staring him right in the face. Sam tilts his head at it, blinks and then opens the bathroom door and calls for Dean.
Dean is already showered and dressed, munching contentedly on a piece of toast as he comes into the bathroom.
“C’mon, man, hurry up,” he says through a mouthful. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”
It’s subtle and quick but Sam still catches the slight lowering of Dean’s gaze to where Sam’s towel is wrapped low about his hips. Then he follows the direction Sam’s pointing in and stares at the wall. Up the side of the doorframe, drawn in pencil, are a few marks with a name and number beside them. The names are only ever Dean’s or Sam’s but the numbers change as they get higher. Sam recognises the neat, square writing as John’s.
“Height chart,” says Dean after a moment.
“We were never kids here, Dean.”
A moment passes between them and then Dean rubs the back of his neck and flicks a glance at Sam, amused and tired.
“Good work, Sammy. There’s our clue. Now tell me what the hell that’s s’posed to mean.”
“Uh…” says Sam, his pride wilting away entirely. He sighs heavily.
Dean claps him on the shoulder and goes back to his toast.
:::
“Account number,” Dean suggests on the drive into town.
“Not enough numbers,” Sam says, still staring at his notepad where he’s scrawled the numbers down. They’re nagging at him but he can’t work out the format.
“Phone number?”
“Still not enough numbers.”
The day is warm and the breeze is fresh with sea salt. The town is pretty big but still pleasant and welcoming. Dean’s having a hard time keeping his mind on the road and on the numbers they’ve found what with all the pretty girls wearing not much at all they’re driving by. Sam doesn’t comment on Dean’s frequent sleazy gawking. He’s kind of used to it.
“Secret safe pass code?” Dean says.
Sam shoots him an unimpressed look and can’t help saying, “Surely Dad would have used the special secret Dean-and-Dad code for that? Besides, let’s say it’s that. Where the hell is this secret safe?”
“All right, all right!”
“Just let me think about it,” says Sam. “It’ll come to me. In the meantime, where are we going?”
Behind the sunglasses Dean’s wearing, it’s hard to make out the look in his eyes. Sam’s never approved of Dean wearing sunglasses around him, even if he’s never commented on it. Still, Sam prefers it when Dean wears sunglasses around other people because he really didn’t approve of other people being able to look Dean in the eyes. Over the years, Sam knows Dean’s got pretty good at keeping his gaze blank - he has to have done to survive as John’s lieutenant - but even so, sometimes there’s too much given away in Dean’s eyes. Without those big green eyes on show, Dean looks a hell of a lot tougher. Sunglasses on mean Dean’s on business.
“Talk with some guys. See what they know.” At Sam’s long silence, Dean lifts one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “If Dad’s got property down here, the local guys might’ve seen him. He might have said something to them that we can use.”
“Just drop me off at the library. I wanna do some research.”
“Sam, c’mon. Stick with me here.”
Sam turns about in the musty, leather embrace of his seat and shoots Dean an irritable look.
“Look, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Dad saw to that. And I absolutely promise you that if I want to make contact with my FBI handler that I’ll find a way somehow so keeping me with you really isn’t necessary.”
Dean goes quiet. The normally generous curve of his lips has gone clenched and thin. His stubble is the colour of brown sugar in the sunlight. They’ve come into the central bustle of the town now and the traffic’s heavier, more people on the streets.
“Cut the crap, Sam. I’m not asking you to pick your best buddy for life outta these guys. Just come in with me.”
They pass almost right through town, coming to stop outside a strip joint at the edge, by the side of the main road out. A pink neon light in the shape of a pair of breasts flashes on and off, glowing feebly in the daylight. Parking lot gravel crunching beneath the tires of the Impala, Dean parks up and climbs out, tilting his face back to survey the place properly. He gives their surroundings a quick once over and then nods at Sam to get out.
They walk together towards the club even though Dean keeps trying to get a couple of steps ahead. At first, Sam figures it’s some weird attempt to make it look like Sam’s subordinate to Dean. Then he gets it and knows Dean is still intent on catching any bullet that might be heading their way before it gets Sam. John drummed it into both of their heads and when Sam was old enough to figure out why, he kicked up almighty hell about it. Dean and John hadn’t acted like there was anything wrong with it. John had assured Sam that it was simply because he trusted Dean to spot a gun before Sam did - and Sam still isn’t clear if John was teasing him then or not. And Dean had shrugged and said he was the older brother and he went in front, end of story.
Pushing the door open, Dean lets the clear light from outside filter into the smoky gloom of the club. There’s a girl in high heels and nothing else dancing half-heartedly on a small stage. Dean gives her an appreciative grin and then heads to the bar, where the few patrons are sitting in a cluster on stools. They turn to watch Sam and Dean’s approach and then one of the guy’s face splits into a smile. He pushes off the stool and holds his arms out.
“Well, I’ll be fucked! Dean! Jesus fuck, kid, you’ve grown! Last I saw you, you weren’t even up to my shoulder! Now look at you! Bet you’re a fucking heartbreaker, right? Face of an angel, this one, right?”
“Hey, Mikey!” says Dean, stepping into the embrace. There’s a lot of very manly back-clapping and Sam hangs back.
Mikey’s a big guy in his late forties with a broad, flat nose and hair that’s greying at the temples. His t-shirt stretches over an ample beer-gut. He catches Dean’s elbow and gestures towards the other guys sitting around the bar.
“This here’s Johnny Winchester’s kid! His old man’s genuine class,” says Mikey. “Don’t find that kinda class in the sloppy-ass fuckers tryin’ to run things these days.”
“Got a lot of respect for John Winchester,” another guy says, younger and clearer-eyed. He shakes Dean’s hand and pulls him towards the bar. “Let me get you a drink. I’m Gordon. Met your dad a few years back. Not many like John Winchester.”
Dean takes the condensation-damp bottle of beer Gordon presses into his hand then reaches round to gesture Sam forward. With no small measure of reluctance, Sam moves to Dean’s side, into the circle of them.
“Let me introduce you to my brother,” says Dean. “This here’s Sam. He’s on break from college. Full-ride at Stanford.”
There’s a chorus of dutifully impressed noises from the guys but Sam’s head snaps towards Dean, sure he hasn’t imagined the note of pride in Dean’s voice. Sam manages a few polite smiles but hangs close to Dean.
“So, Dean, what brings you out here?” says Gordon.
Dean raises his bottle to him and takes a chug before answering.
“Just some family business.”
“You need any help,” says Mikey, “any help at all, you just let me know. Anything to help out an old friend, you know that, right? Christ, but how long since I saw your Dad? What’s the guy doin’ now?”
Dean gives a lazy shrug, leaning onto the bar, apparently perfectly at ease. Unlike Sam who feels itchy and trapped and too hot.
“You know Dad. God moves in mysterious fucking ways, am I right?”
Mikey guffaws with laughter and claps Dean on the back again. Sam thinks it’ll be a miracle if Dean gets out of this without his spine black and blue with bruises. Another guy leans in to catch Dean’s attention. Sam’s been watching him for a while. This guy’s been studying the two of them with far too much interest. He’s got a well-chewed cigarette hanging from his chapped lips. Pushing closer, Sam brushes against Dean in mute warning.
“So… Dean,” the guy says. “What’s that short for?”
The conversation dies down and Dean raises an eyebrow at the guy. Some basic instinct for danger turns the atmosphere crisp. Then the guy lets out a bellowing laugh and claps his hand over his chest.
“Fuck me! Jeez, it’s a guy! Mouth on that thing, thought it was a female!”
“You what?” says Dean, calm and displeased. “I look like a fucking girl to you? You think I should be up on stage with her, flashing my tits and pussy at you, do you? Fuck you.”
Mikey starts to raise his hands to intervene but it’s too late. Dean flips his bottle round to grip it by the neck then smacks the guy round the face with it even as he’s opening his mouth to answer. The sound of the glass slamming into the guy’s cheekbone makes a dull, loud thump. Not even close to finished, Dean smashes his bottle on the bar and, still holding it by the neck, rides the guy down to the floor and drives the wicked-sharp end of the glass into his shoulder. There’s a clatter as the stools go down with the collision of their bodies and then a shriek as Dean twists the bottleneck.
Sam grits his teeth and doesn’t make a move to pull Dean off. Distantly, he’s aware of everything John taught them, about how to gain respect, how to keep it. How to demonstrate that you’re not to be fucked around before it even reaches the stage that someone might think of trying. No one else looks like they’re gonna go to the guy’s rescue.
When the guy’s snarled cursing subsides to pathetic whimpering, Dean punches the guy a few times for good measure then takes the hand Gordon offers him and gets to his feet. He’s slightly out of breath, the broken bottle still in his hand, and he glances down at the guy one last time, kicking him swiftly in the ribs, before setting the bottle down on the bar. Wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, Dean pulls a fifty from his wallet and sets it down on the bar.
“Sorry ‘bout the mess,” he says to the bartender.
The silence drags on, punctuated only by the guy’s hitched sobbing as the stain of blood seeps from his shoulder to his chest. Then Mikey claps Dean on the back again and jerks his head at one of the others.
“Get this sack of shit out of here,” he says, gesturing to the guy on the floor. Then, to Dean, “You gotta accept my apologies. Dan’s mouth runs faster than a goddamn leaky faucet.”
“Been asking to get the crap kicked outta him for a while,” Gordon agrees, moving in on Dean’s other side.
The girl starts dancing again and the bartender puts a new bottle of beer down in front of Dean. Looks like Dean’s in. The broken bottle is removed by the bartender but not before Sam can see the dark lines of blood running down the glass. Sam takes a shuddering breath and clears his throat.
“Hey, Dean, think I’m gonna check out town. Good to meet you all though.”
He can see Dean’s desire to protest in the set of his face but he won’t push it. He doesn’t dare because he knows Sam won’t surrender. Sam’ll undo the whole exercise by acting a pissy little bitch and refusing to do as his big brother tells him. Sam knows it but he turns away and heads for the door before Dean can overcome his good sense and tell him to stay anyway.
Outside, the air is refreshingly cool and clear. Sam can smell the sea. Abruptly, his stomach rolls over and he ends up retching in the parking lot.
part ii