fic: Edges (3/3)
MASTER POST | PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | ART POST
If there's one thing to be said for Dean, it's that he's never had a problem fitting in.
"Two kegs in the corner, the harder stuff on the counter," he yells to Sam over the music, cataloging the scene the moment they arrive at the party. "Bunch of hot co-eds. This is the life, Sammy."
Sam only just stops himself from telling Dean that if he wants college parties, he can just stay in Palo Alto.
"Get me a beer, would you?" Dean yells, and then immediately strikes up a conversation with a girl leaning against the wall next to them.
As he pushes through the crowd of people, Sam's never felt more out of place around his fellow students. He keeps an eye out for a guy dressed as a tree, wishing that instead he and Dean were just here to get drunk. It's been a long time since he's been able to let himself go around Dean. Not when he came to Stanford with just his duffle bag and road dirt under his nails, not when he was the only kid without parents or guardians moving him into his dorm. This is his old life, invading his new one. He spent his senior year of high school trying to get away, and then his freshman year of college trying to feel good about his decision.
But they're here to find a potential victim before he's murdered. He does another survey of the kitchen and living room as he pushes back through the crowd with a red cup in each hand. Everyone seems to be wearing school colors, guys and girls talking loudly over the music with streaks of red paint on their faces, no tree in sight.
When he reaches Dean again he sees that he's talking to a big guy in a football jersey, the letter S large on his chest.
"Here, I can show you," Dean's saying, and pops the top off a beer with his lighter. He hands the lighter to the guy. "Ok, your turn."
"Like this?" It takes a few tries, but the guy manages to pop the top.
"Oh hey, by the way," Dean says to the football player, taking the beer from Sam. "I've heard the team's really great. And the tree mascot is hilarious. You don't happen to have seen it at the party, have you?"
"Uh," the guy says, handing back the lighter. "I think so?"
Dean throws an arm around Sam's shoulders. "It's just, Sammy here would love a picture."
Sam stares at Dean, and then looks back to the football guy. "Yeah," he says. "I'm a...big fan. I guess."
"Ok," the guy says. "Yeah, Fred's around here somewhere."
He wanders off.
"Thanks, Dean," Sam says. "An autograph from my favorite tree. That's so considerate of you."
"It's no problem," Dean smirks. He goes to lean casually against the wall but recoils as soon as his shoulder touches the wallpaper.
"You ok?" Sam's instantly on guard, trying to figure out how the wall's connected to Larson.
Dean touches the wall gingerly with his fingertips, though, and then shakes his head. "The wall's entirely sticky. Something seriously wrong happened here."
"That your professional hunter opinion?" asks Sam.
"Yes, it is."
"Maybe someone threw up on it."
"Ew, fuck you Sam."
"What? I didn't do it!"
Dean shudders. "I need another drink."
Sam idles by the sticky spot, watching Dean shuffle around girls in short skirts. There's a guy in the corner tuning a guitar while some other people pass out cupcakes. Sam gets a creeping feeling on the back of his neck, and when he turns, he sees Brady's standing by the door. He catches Sam's eye, nodding hesitantly.
Brady's looking down at his phone while the new Britney Spears blasts over speakers when Sam comes close.
"How's it going?" Sam yells and Brady looks up with a smile that's almost bashful.
"Good," Brady yells back. "What's up?"
"Just hanging out," Sam lies. He may have a beer in one hand, but he also has a canister of salt in his pocket and a travel-sized squirt bottle of lighter fluid in his pants. But Brady doesn't need to know that. "Where's everyone else?"
"I'm not sure," Brady says. "But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. I came here to apologize."
"Apologize?"
"For earlier, I mean. Laying that all on you. I see now that we've had really different expectations, I should have talked to you before blowing up like that."
Sam shakes his head. "It's not you, man. I've had kind of a weird history with relationships-" His first kiss had been with Amy Pond, monster, and his first and only love, his brother. "-so that totally went over my head."
"Yeah?" Brady looks relieved, and Sam grins at him.
"Yeah," he says, and feels bad when he catches himself feeling relieved for different reasons, glad to be off the hook. He may not have huge romantic feelings for Brady, but Brady's one of Sam's first friends here. One of his best friends. Even if things are weird right now, he's always been a solid guy, and Sam's been a jerk about this.
Then Brady says, inexplicably, "You know, I've done a lot of thinking over the past few weeks, and some circumstances have changed. For the better," he says, and then wets his lips. "But very big things."
"Brady?" Sam prompts. He wonders if this is a breakup speech of some kind.
"I just wanted to let you know that you're important to me," Brady says, and gives Sam a look so intense that Sam takes a half step back, stumbling over someone's abandoned shoe. He wonders suddenly if this is going the other way, if Brady is going to try to kiss him in front of all these people, in front of Dean.
"You're important to me, too," Sam says carefully. "You're a good friend, man."
"I'd like to keep you in my life," Brady agrees, and then, to Sam's confusion, "There's a lot I still have to do with you."
"Right," Sam says.
Then Brady turns to go, putting his hand on the doorknob.
"You're heading out?" Sam asks.
When Brady turns back, he looks like someone other than himself for a second, more self-assured, maybe. His blue eyes seem darker in the low light, but when Sam blinks the impression is gone and he shakes his head. He's been seeing things lately.
"Yes," Brady says, stroking something in his pocket. "I need to go make a call."
"Is that a bowl?" Sam asks.
"No." Then he disappears out the door, leaving Sam alone next to the couple making out on the stairs. Sam shakes his head and slowly steps around people to get back to Dean.
"So, Sam here," Dean's says to Jennifer and a girl in a cheerleader uniform. "Used to be totally afraid of the dark. Scary stories and all that. Totally freaked out."
It's just like Dean to flirt with girls at Sam's expense. Sam is unimpressed.
"Once he even cried," Dean tells them.
"Hey!" Sam says. "Did not!"
Dean puts his hands up. "I'm just saying, man. I saw tears in your eyes-"
"Dean, shut up," Sam moans, and tells the girls, "He's lying."
"You knew each other when you were that young?" Jennifer asks. "I had no idea."
This dampens the mood. "Yep," Dean says shortly.
Sam jumps in. "We've known each other forever," he tells them, and the girls laugh. He carefully avoids Dean's eye.
"We go all the way back," Dean confirms.
"Sam is a great guy," Jennifer says.
Dean nods. "Yeah, he's a smart kid." He thumps Sam hard on the chest, too hard. "A real heart of gold."
"You guys are too cute," she says, and says, tone wistful, "I wish my ex-boyfriend and I were as close as you two are. I mean, were. Ah, sorry."
Dean freezes by his side. It's an imperceptible moment that only Sam catches. You wouldn't know they were in a crowded room, the way it feels like they're alone now, the noise dying out as Sam thinks clearly that this is the time. The time it all goes to hell.
The cheerleader, looking at them like this is the most romantic story, asks Dean, "How long were you together, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Yeah," Dean says, turning to Sam. "How long were we together, can you remember?"
Sam's face is hot. "Dean," he says.
"Yes, Sam?" His voice has taken on a meaner edge.
"Dean," Sam says again, and jerks his head to the back door. "Let's talk."
"I'm having such a good conversation, though," he says. When Sam begins walking away, Dean turns back to wink at the cheerleader. "To be continued," he promises, before Sam grabs him by the back of the jacket.
As Dean follows him through the sea of people, Sam wishes he was any one of them right now, instead of a loser kid from nowhere who has to explain to his brother why everyone thinks they're involved.
"Outside," he says, and shoves Dean out the back sliding glass door.
Dean goes easily, stepping lightly into the dark backyard. "You like taking control, huh? Is that how you liked it when we were, you know-"
"Dean, don't," Sam says. His voice sounds weak in the chill air, pleading. "Just shut the fuck up about it. You don't know what you're talking about."
There are a few people looking at their phones a ways away and a guy peeing against the fence by the far bushes. But other than that, it's just him and Dean alone with Sam's big lie.
"Feel free to let me know, any time," Dean laughs, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back against the stucco wall. Sam is glad he can't quite make out the look in Dean's eyes. It's bad enough he knows he put it there.
"Dean. Just stop, ok?" he says. "Stop acting like this is a..."
"Like it's a what?"
"Like it's a joke," Sam glares.
Dean sounds suddenly outraged. "If you hadn't noticed, Sam, it is a joke. Or is there a reason that everyone thinks we're boyfriends?"
Sam cringes. It sounds even worse when Dean says it that way.
"Oh sorry, did I hurt your feelings?"
Sam knows it's his fault, he won't deny it. But it's Dean's fault for showing up without so much as a word, landing them here in the backyard of someone else's house. Sam's secret is spilled out between them in the dark, visible if Dean looks for it, and he feels suddenly very scared.
"You know what?" Sam says, hearing a snarl in his voice. He wonders if he's about to say something unforgivable. "Why are you even here, Dean? I don't know why you drove a thousand miles-"
"Dude, I told you why I was here!" Dean shouts it, but his tone sounds helpless, almost. "What part of 'I'm here on a hunt' doesn't mean 'I am here on a hunt'?"
That stings. Up until now, Sam realizes, he's held on to the hope - a tiny, embarrassing hope - that Dean was in some way lying to him, lying to himself. That even though he'd come to Stanford to stop what could turn into a string of murders, maybe he was happy that it brought him close enough to see Sam. He'd seemed happy.
Now, Sam thinks, things are ruined.
"There were plenty of other hunts," he yells back, but it's like he's hearing his voice from a distance. "You're not even supposed to be here. This is my life, you can't just come in an act like you belong in it."
Dean sounds freaked when he says, "Like hell I can't." When two people come outside for a smoke, Dean lowers his voice. "You can't say that. We belong together."
Sam takes a step away. "You're so full of shit. Once you're done here, you're just going to pick up and leave. That's what you said. You can't have it both ways."
"What the hell are you talking about? You don't think it was hard for me, too?" He's surprised when Dean rolls his eyes, still acting like it's some big joke. "News flash, Sam. You're not the victim here. You're the hot-headed kid who decided what he wanted to do was leave. And I'm having a hard time with it, but I've supported you. Never stopped you from going, never told you to come home." Dean leans back, head to the wall of the house. "I've been giving you space. Then, I hear someone's dead, at the college that you go to. No fucking way I'm going to let that happen to you, too. No fucking way, Sam."
"Dean-"
Dean rubs at his mouth, then steps into Sam's space. "I'll never let anything happen to you, Sammy," he says. "Nothing."
For a crazy moment Sam thinks he's going to do something...something he can't take back. But instead Dean asks, "Well?"
"Well what?" Sam manages.
Dean makes an incomprehensible gesture with his arm. "Well, you going to just stand there gaping like a fish or you going to say something?"
Dean has shoved Sam out of the way of claws and falling timber, a hundred monsters, and once broke into a hospital in the middle of the night to sleep in a chair next to the bed just so he'd be there when Sam woke up. Sam wonders how he'd thought anything had changed.
Dean may be a total jerk half the time, but Sam sees it now. That Dean came for him - not to spend time with Sam, because that's not what he thinks Sam wants, but he came to protect him.
"God I hate you sometimes," Sam says under his breath, and then grabs Dean into a fierce hug. This is his brother. His brother, the idiot. The idiot who is still taking care of him the only way he thinks Sam will allow.
Dean returns the hug instantly, sliding his arms around Sam, fingers pressing into his back. "Yeah," he says, his voice hoarse. He feels solid and warm pressed up against Sam like this, his breath hot against Sam's neck. "Right back at you."
Touching Dean is an addiction Sam thought time and distance had effectively broken. But, once an addict, he thinks with a wry sort of resignation. He's taken back to long summers spent grappling out behind old motels, practicing judo-style moves that may one day serve to save their lives. Sam's hands grasping at Dean's belt. Dean's thighs around his neck. But never this. He's never allowed himself to touch Dean like this, not for seconds that turn to a minute. It's a quiet moment that feels far from the crash of conversation indoors.
"Sam?" Dean says, like it's a question.
"What?" Sam asks, and dares to turn his face an inch, until Dean's cheek is rough under his mouth. He hopes maybe Dean won't notice.
Then Dean says, "I think we have company," and Sam jumps away.
He wheels around, expecting to see one of his school friends has caught him in the act of surreptitious gay hugging and/or ostensibly cheating on Brady, but Dean grabs his arm, and whispers, "Dude, stop freaking out. How off your game are you?" And gives an exaggerate jerk of his chin toward the bushes at the edge of the yard. Sam looks.
The bushes are rustling.
Dean sends him a look like he can't believe what an idiot Sam is, and gives a directive, pointing at the bushes with two fingers. Sam nods and reaches for the salt canister in his jacket. It's his roommate's. He makes a mental note to replace it.
The noise of each of their footfalls is loud as they creep across the grass, louder than Sam's ragged breath. Dean has his flashlight trained on the bushes, which shake violently, intermittently, shadows stretching out huge around them in the light of the beam.
Sam grips the salt canister, ready to let it fly at the first glimpse of anything remotely ghostly. He wonders if it's occurred to Dean yet that if Larson's spirit is out here rather than lying dormant in the costume as they'd suspected, then the Fred kid they were looking for is probably already dead.
At Dean's nod, Sam leaps into the bush, flinging the salt in a wide arc.
An otherworldly shriek rips through the night air.
In fact, two otherworldly shrieks, Sam notices, as he tries to free himself from the branches he landed in, and not in a spirit-screaming-in-agony-before-it-disappears kind of way. It's more like-
Dean shoves in next to him, parting the bushes.
On a dirt patch between the plants, the goofy tree mascot is sitting next to a girl in a college sweater. And the tree is holding a joint.
"Oh," Sam says.
"What the hell?" the mascot who must be Fred says, his face just visible through a cutout circle between the tree's painted eyes. He squints against the light of the flashlight.
"You're in trouble, kid," Dean says, gruffly, and Fred struggles to his feet awkwardly due to the costume's restrictive armholes.
"Run, Maria!" he shouts, giving her a shove. "Save yourself!"
Maria takes off at a sprint, jumping the bushes easily and almost knocking Sam over in the process. She's gone around the side of the house in seconds.
They turn back to Fred, who's staring at them, wide eyed. "I swear this isn't what it looks like," he babbles, stubbing out the joint on a rock. "Please don't arrest me. It's just oregano."
"Sure," Dean says, and then, gesturing with his flashlight, "Take it off."
Fred pauses. "Excuse me?"
"Campus police. Take it off," Dean repeats slowly. "Just the costume. You can keep your chones on."
"Wait. Why do you want the-"
"You're no longer fit to wear it, ok? Your recent behavior's made you a poor example for your fellow nerds, what with the oregano smoking and flirting with chicks." He jerks his thumb at Sam. "This kid here's the new mascot. You don't see him flirting with chicks, do you?"
"What?" Sam says.
"What?" Fred asks. "But I need the extra credit-"
But he throws up his hands again when Dean barks, "I said strip!"
"All right, all right." Fred pulls the tree costume off with a lot of twisting and grunting. "Here," he finally says, and shoves it against Sam's chest as he passes. "Enjoy. That thing's too sweaty anyway."
He scampers away, sending them a last, dark look before ducking inside.
Sam grins as they watch him go. "Wow, Dean."
"Shut up, Sam." Dean looks around the dark backyard. "So question is, why's Fred still alive?"
"Well, Larson already had his kill for the year, right? And it isn't the night of the Big Game."
Dean nods. "Makes sense."
"We gonna burn it here?"
"Might as well."
Sam shrugs. "Cool."
He drops the costume to the grass, where it sits in a pathetic lump of papier mache and felt. He reaches into his pants and pulls out the lighter fluid, and squirts it. Then, he pours some salt on top, and takes a step back.
"Light her up?" Dean asks at Sam's nod. He pauses with the lighter in his palm.
"What's the holdup?"
"You wanna do it?" Dean asks. "Not every day you can say you burned a school symbol."
Sam is unreasonably touched.
"Thanks," he says, smiling even though Dean probably can't see his face. "And Dean?"
"Yeah, Sam?"
"I'm really glad you're here."
"Oh, Jesus," Dean mutters, but Sam feels fingers on elbow a moment later, Dean touching him lightly at the back of the arm.
Which is when the grass crunches beneath Sam's shoes. He looks down to see each blade has been frosted, gleaming an icy blue in the moonlight, and when he opens his mouth to say something, the air is frozen and harsh on his lungs. It all comes back to him. The temperature plummeting, the feeling of dread.
"Uh, Dean?" His bangs whip against his face at a sudden breeze.
"Unexpected frost?" Dean says hopefully, raising his flashlight to shine it at the still bushes and then back to the mascot costume. "I think not."
"Dean," Sam says, voice rising. "Light it!"
"Eat fire," Dean yells, flipping his lighter open and trying to ignite it.
"Dude, come on!" Sam says again, as the temperature takes another dip.
Dean flicks the lighter frantically, a note of panic creeping into his voice. "I'm trying!"
All at once, Sam realizes that they might be in over their heads. He's used to Dad's gruff instructions, Dad shouting at Sam to get out of the way, shouting for Dean to light the motherfucker's bones. He's used to standing with Dean over the crackling remains of whatever son of a bitch John has set his sight on, grinning at Dean over the flames until Dad joined them. Hunts were never easy, but they've always made it out alive. He'd expected this one to be easy, an in-and-out operation, no bruises.
Doesn't go down that way this time. Dean's flicking the lighter one second and flying through the air another.
"Dean!"
Sam sees him land in the bushes with a quiet crash, but he's too busy feeling blindly for the lighter in the grass to see if Dean's still conscious. Moments later, he has the brief impression of icy hands snaking around his throat, and then he's thrown back against the fence. His head hits wood.
He blacks out for what must be only seconds and refocuses and finds himself looking directly into the bloody eyes of Larson's spirit.
He tries to shout, but Larson's hand flies up to grip his throat. His fingers drag like rope against Sam's skin, splintering into his throat, a memory of the rope Larson used to hang himself. The sharp pain in Sam's lungs grows and grows as he tries to draw in a breath.
"What are you doing?" Larson's spirit rasps, Sam's nose filling with an overwhelming stench of blood and decay.
He tries to struggle free but can't get leverage. His toes only just drag the grass. When he tries to say Dean's name he can only manage a wheeze of breath.
"I tried to be good," the spirit says, in a voice that's like wind whistling in the night. "I tried."
The fence's rough wood is scraping up Sam's shoulder blades, and his thoughts are going swimmy, his vision going splotchy. Larson's face shimmers once out of existence and then reappears, more solid this time. A dribble of blood seeps from the crack of his purple mouth as he moans, "I'm a failure. I'm not good enough."
Sam wonders distantly if this is how he's going to die, here in this backyard. He and Dean have only just been reunited.
As his vision flickers, he thinks that it's not good enough. They haven't had enough time.
And then he's dropped painfully to the ground, his knees jarring.
"Got it with the barbecue iron," Dean says, a black figure towering over him.
Sam is on his back, the endless stars spinning in a lazy circle overhead.
"Earth to Sam," Dean says.
Sam gets to his elbows in the cold grass. "Gotta find the lighter," he coughs, feeling around for it. His fingers sting with small cuts, and ice crunches under his knees.
"Bingo!" Dean says a ways away, just as Larson reappears next to him. "Sam!"
He tosses the lighter and Sam catches it mid-air, rolling from his knees to where the tree costume is slumped in the darkness. He flicks the lighter open with shaking fingers and manages a flame that's impossibly small.
"Sam!" Dean bellows. "Do it! Do it now!"
Sam puts the flame to fabric gently, and the fire roars into life, catching quick.
The spirit shrieks and Sam's nearly blinded by the otherworldly light. He rolls away, throwing an arm over his face. And when the noise dies down he realizes he's curled up in a ball beside the merrily burning flames, the lighter digging into his palm.
"You done yet?" Dean asks next to him. Sam unfolds, and Dean leans back on his elbows, the fire reflecting off his eyes and his bright smile.
"Shut up," Sam says, pocketing the lighter, and sitting up on his knees in the melting grass. He stares into the flames. They did this, he thinks hazily.
"Taken down by a cheerleader," Dean mutters.
Sam frowns at him. "You do know what a mascot is, right? And for your information, being a cheerleader actually takes a lot of training and dedication. They could probably kick your ass."
Dean ignores him and tosses a stick into the flames. "Embarrassing," he says.
They sit there for what feels like a long while, decompressing, until there's a noise from the back door opening followed by the sound of two people laughing.
Dean jumps to his feet and offers Sam an arm up. Sam takes it, even though he's sore all over.
"Let's get the fuck out of here before they notice us."
"Too late," Sam says. He's surprised they managed the whole fight without anyone seeing.
The guys are looking blearily from the fire back to Sam and Dean. Sam hopes they're too drunk to make sense of what they're seeing.
"Dude, I didn't know there was a bonfire!" says one of the guys.
"Or- wait, there's not a bonfire. Is that supposed to be burning?"
"What are you guys doing?" the first calls to them.
Sam tries to come up with a good answer.
"Roasting marshmallows?" Dean tries.
"Hey, is that the mascot outfit?"
"Was the mascot outfit," Dean says, backing away.
Sam sighs. "He's only joking."
"Who the hell are you? You don't go to Stanford, do you?"
Dean doesn't make it any better when he shrugs and says, unconvincingly, "What? I totally go here."
"He's wearing blue," Sam points out. "That's right, you caught us. We're from Berkeley."
His excuse works, although why Berkeley kids would be trying to sabotage Stanford football a week after the Big Game, he does not know. One thing he does know, however, is that it's time to get out of there.
"Dean! Come on!" He takes off at a sprint, ducking down the side of the house, hoping Maria had the right idea.
The guys race after them, paying no notice to the frozen grass, shouting, "Hey! Berkeley kids!"
Sam jumps the side gate and hears Dean do the same a second later. There are muffled shouts as the guys try to open the latch, but then Sam and Dean are racing across the driveway, knocking into a group of people playing beer pong on the front lawn.
The guys shout in surprise and jump away as Sam shoves past. Red cups splash on the grass unnoticed as the crowd roars to life.
"Hey! What the hell?"
"Get ‘em!" one of the guys chasing them yells. "Cal kids!"
Thankfully Dean had parked right out front. Sam swings into the passenger side and is still yanking the door shut when Dean revs the engine, screeching away from the curb.
"Go bears!" Sam shouts out the window, pumping his fist to the smell of burning rubber as they zip past the angry mob. Dean floors it.
Five short minutes later, Dean swerves up to the curb outside of the apartment. Sam tumbles out of the car, and makes it halfway up the steps before even thinking about it, exhilaration beating in his chest.
He'd forgotten this part. The getaway. Forced himself to forget all the good things about the job. Years of knees knocking the back of the passenger side, stretching out winded and elated in the space that was growing rapidly too small. Wheels spinning, engine gunning, and gravel spraying out behind them as the car bumps out of the forest, out of the graveyard, on their way back to the motel or clear out of town.
Dean jogs up the stairs after him and comes to lean against the door jam, face pinked with victory, a flush on his neck when Sam jostles into him. The smell of smoke is familiar in his hair, as it is in Sam's. Twin flames, Sam thinks, as he jerks keys from his pocket.
"Whoo," Dean breathes once they're inside, slapping his knee.
Sam says, "Talk about making like a tree," and Dean laughs too hard at the bad joke. Sam leans back against the door to catch his breath, trying to remember the last time he'd heard an actual laugh come from his brother. "I'm surprised we didn't get pulled over driving like that."
"Yeah, imagine explaining your face to the cops."
"Excuse me?"
"There's smoke-" Dean says, looking Sam's face over and wiping at his own face to indicate. "Like half your face is covered in it."
Sam rubs at his cheek with his jacket for a minute, aware of Dean watching, then tips his chin up for Dean to see. "All good?"
"Yeah," Dean says. "You look good, Sam."
"Huh?" Sam stops at the tone, sleeve paused at his cheek.
Dean steps toward him. "In my shirt. You think I didn't notice?"
Sam looks down at his chest guiltily, and rubs a hand down the shirt front. "It was just there on my dresser."
He's surprised when Dean smooths a hand over his shoulder, but doesn't stop him. He feels a shiver build on the back of his arms, and shakes with it when Dean slides the hand down to grip Sam's bicep tight.
Dean has a guarded look in his eyes, a look that tells Sam he's trying to sneak something by him. But Dean can't pull anything without him knowing. Sam hesitates, swallows, before gently flexing, letting Dean feel his arm work.
Deans breathes out, and Sam's not sure what's happening here. One minute they're on a post-hunt high, and the next they're here, in this moment that's so tense it feels like it could snap.
Dean seems to be waiting, but Sam can't any longer. He moves forward until they're toe to toe, and ducks his head, burying his face in Dean's neck.
"Oh," Dean says, a small sound as Sam inhales deeply.
There it is, a familiar something under the strong smell of fire. It's a scent that makes Sam's toes curl, that sends a hot shock right through him at the memory of Dean. It's a woody cinnamon of the deodorant Dean's been buying since he was sixteen, a note of orange against the warmth of his skin.
A long shudder seems to roll through Dean, and Sam is emboldened by it, opening his mouth against the hot skin of Dean's throat.
Then Dean's pulls him off by the back of his jacket and pressing him back until Sam hits the door frame. He half-expects to be punched, wouldn't blame Dean at all for it. There's an uncertain crook to Dean's mouth an inch from Sam's own that makes him think it could go either way.
Then Dean wets his lips and Sam watches from up close. Though they've never been here before, he feels a curl of anticipation in his stomach. He knows what's going to happen.
Both of them simultaneously go for the face grab.
It...doesn't go well. Sam pulls his hands back instantly, feeling caught in the act like he's been burned. Dean laughs uncomfortably and steps away.
Before Dean can escape completely, Sam snaps out a hand, catching him by the shoulder. One wrong move, he thinks. One second of self-reflection, and they could be ruined.
Dean stares at him, an unreadable look, and Sam can only stand there with his fingers digging into Dean's shoulder for so long. He feels stupid about this, trying not to think about the greater context to this, of how he's hidden his desire from the light of day forever and it's somehow come to this moment. He tries to focus just on the feeling of Dean's heart beating through his skin, thinking it's now or never.
He closes his eyes like he's making a wish, and presses his mouth to Dean's blindly, hard and quick.
"Sam-" Dean starts, and his dumbfounded expression leaves Sam feeling cautiously optimistic.
Sam cuts him off. "I gotta show you how it's done?" he asks with bravado he doesn't feel.
Dean's eyes widen, his expression incredulous. "Fuck you, Sam," he says, and drags Sam down for an instant replay.
Sam swoons at the softness of Dean's mouth under his own, and is surprised by the tenderness of Dean's hands rubbing up his ribs. He scrapes his hand back through Dean's short hair, and Dean kisses him until he can't think straight. They're the worst, he thinks. He and Dean are always pulling some shit that's going to get them in trouble later.
Then Dean turns his face away, breathing harshly on Sam's ear.
"Please," Sam says, wondering if this is what it feels like to go crazy.
"What the fuck do you want from me?" Dean asks, and Sam's not sure what he's asking either, but he needs so badly for Dean to say yes.
He stares at Dean's mouth until Dean shakes his head, deciding on something.
"Ok, Sam," Dean says, sounding like he's instead saying, you asked for it, and walks Sam backward into the living room, masterfully avoiding the coffee table and pulling Sam next to him on the couch where all his stuff is piled. The way Dean looks determined is heartbreakingly familiar, like he's got it in his head to do this thing, and by god he's going to try his best.
He takes his time now, putting a hand to Sam's face and leaning in slowly for another kiss. He stops just short of Sam's mouth though, at a loud sound, something like a buzz. It takes a long couple seconds for Sam to realize the noise is a cell phone ringing, clattering against the floor.
"Tell me that's a good kind of vibration," Sam says, and laughs kind of hysterically.
Dean gives him a look. "Who even are you?" he says, before leaning down to fish the phone out from where it's fallen under the couch.
As he watches Dean's t-shirt ride up, Sam has a sudden, flash of panic. He realizes who must be calling.
He shakes his head, reaching out. "Just ignore it."
Dean holds the phone out of reach and flips it open to check the number. "You've got to be kidding me," he says under his breath. He shoves at Sam's knee, pressed up against his. "Sam, get off me."
"Dad?" Sam asks.
Dean raises his eyebrows at him in answer, pointedly waiting until Sam moves to sit gingerly at the farthest end of the couch, face burning, and only then does Dean hit talk.
"Yeah," he says into the phone, and clears his throat. "Yes, sir."
If he holds his breath, Sam can hear their dad's reply grumbling out of the earpiece. He feels sick again, this time worse than before as the real horror of the situation threatens to become clear if he lets himself think about what they've just done.
"Boise," Dean confirms over the phone.
Looking at his brother at the other end of the couch, posture rigid and knuckles white where his fingers are curled around the phone, suddenly Sam wants nothing more than for things to be normal. Their kind of normal. He wants Dean seated next to him at a table in some non-descript diner in some other state, their dad across from them, telling them where they're going to go, what he's going to teach them to do, who they're going to save.
Home, some nebulous non-place. Just Sam and Dean, and their dad and road tales of glory. Except it's a universe not far from this one, where the tiles fell out differently so that Sam had never wanted to leave and had never broken any hearts.
Dean says into the phone now, "I can make it, it's no problem."
And when he hangs up, he and Sam sit there and sit there. Dean starts peeling the label off a beer bottle from earlier, and Sam rubs the palm of his right hand relentlessly over his thigh, wondering what in the entire world he could say or do to make this right.
But as soon as he goes to try, Dean slaps a hand over his mouth. When Sam turns to him, wide-eyed, Dean shakes his head.
"Don't," he says.
Sam's never had any illusions, but he wishes he did now. He wants to press out the worry lines from Dean's face and stop the nervous jiggle of his knee. Stay, he wants to say.
Instead, he reaches down and unzips his jeans.
"Sam-" Dean says, sounding completely scandalized.
Sam feels immediately better. If there's one thing that feels normal, it's fucking with Dean. In the non-sexual way, at least.
He raises his eyebrows back at Dean, perversely glad Dean's hand is still over his mouth and he can't speak. His hand hovers over the V of his open jeans, and he's not sure what he's going to do now.
When Dean makes no move to stop him, Sam tips his head back on the couch and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't need to have his eyes open to know his brother's watching, and not being able to see Dean gives him a terrible courage.
This is so fucked up, Dean might whisper as he eases closer, as Sam slips his hand into his jeans and slowly begin to touch himself through his boxer briefs. This is so fucked up.
The warm puff of Dean's close breath makes him feel daring, and he spreads his knees to give himself room, allowing himself a shiver of anticipation when he runs his hand down the whole line of his dick and squeezes.
He jolts when a finger presses his lips, and it's like Dean's shushing him, swearing him to secrecy, never tell a soul. For one wild moment, Sam thinks maybe his roommate has chosen this moment to come back to the apartment after his long absence, but then Dean forces the finger in between his lips and Sam relaxes, wetting Dean's finger with his tongue while he palms himself, a heat warming his entire body.
When Dean's other hand joins his, the rough tips of Dean's fingers are tentative, brushing Sam's on the way to palming him through the thin cotton. Sam's dick swells into it, and he curses around the finger between his teeth.
Wordlessly, Dean presses Sam onto his back, kneeling between Sam's legs, hovering over him. Sam wonders if Dean's ever fucked a guy, wonders if he's going to try and fuck Sam like a girl. He wonders what kind of person does that to their own brother, and then the thoughts go out the window as Dean kisses him there, his elbows sunk into the cushions on either side of Sam's head. It's good. Sam rakes under his t-shirt, up his back, with blunt nails and feels Dean shudder.
One of Dean's wide hands grips him hard by the back of his thigh, and he yanks Sam's briefs down with the other so he can jack Sam with nothing in the way, Sam's dick slipping in the circle of his fist for the first time.
"This ain't a one-man show," Dean grunts above him after he's driven Sam halfway to desperation, and his face goes red when Sam looks at him. Dean's face has always shown too much, given him away, and for some reason it's this uncertainty there that gets Sam harder than anything, makes him sure he and Dean are on the same page.
"Fine," Sam says, shoving his hand down under the waistband of Dean's boxers and taking him in hand. He smirks when Dean makes a strangled noise.
Dean picks up the rhythm quickly, though, wiping the smirk off Sam's face. "Just lying back, huh?" he says in Sam's ear, rutting against Sam's hand, his stomach. "Letting me take care of you?" And the thought is so wrong Sam almost comes in Dean's fist right then.
"Old habits die hard," he gasps, and Dean groans.
"That's not funny, dude."
I know, Sam thinks.
And a couple minutes later, when Sam's lying winded on his back with his shirt rucked up, he wonders which of them is going to freak out the most. His thighs are sore from where Dean had sunk his fingers in, and he has Dean's come smeared over the inseam of his jeans. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Dean yawns when he sits up, his hair sticking out at wrong angles. His mouth is very red, Sam notes, and imagines kissing him again to start things all over again. Instead, he watches Dean tuck himself back into his jeans, and then darts his eyes away when Dean catches him.
"When are you going?" he asks.
There's no question of whether he's going to go. Sam knows how it is.
"Jeez, Sammy. Just bang ‘em and leave ‘em, is that the way you play it?" Dean tries to make it light hearted, but he's not convincing anyone.
"No," Sam says. He sits up too quickly and then pushes the heel of his hand to his temple, waiting out the head rush.
"So, uh, I gotta go," Dean says. "Nowish."
Sam looks up, in time to catch Dean's wince.
Dean gestures randomly. "If I'm gonna get to Boise to meet dad, I mean. Before this hunt goes down. Sort of time pressured. Otherwise, I'd-"
"Dean," Sam says. "Spare me the speech."
He hunches in on himself. Neither of them are good at saying anything. Sam feels with absolute conviction that they should reserve their mouths for blowjobs alone.
His dick jerks in his pants at the thought, and he rushes to do up the button, fumbling the zipper.
"You've only gotten dressed five thousand times," Dean tells him, watching Sam try to get himself together.
"Shut up," he says, wishing Dean would get it over with and just leave, so Sam can crawl into bed and stay there.
When he looks, Dean's giving him a resigned sort of smile. "You're really not coming, huh?"
Sam sets his jaw, and stands up. He's taller than Dean. He knows Dean already knows his answer, just as he knows what Dean's thinking, that Sam can do good out there.
But Sam's also doing good here. Sam shakes his head, slowly. He can't go with him. It's like that night all over again, except painful in a different way, like messing with a wound that's trying to heal. Why hadn't Dean tried to stop him back then? Sam wonders again. It's why Dean isn't going to stop him now.
Then the answer comes to him. It's like light has been shed across everything, why Dean let Sam walk away and won't try to drag him back.
Dean's proud of him. He can see it on Dean's face, the longer he looks at him, how Dean's respecting his decision. And when Dean nods and says, "Ok," Sam feels a hot sort of sensation build up behind his eyes.
"Truth or Dare," he says, taking a deep breath, decided.
Dean gives him a searching look. "Aren't we too old for this shit?"
"I'm serious," Sam says impatiently. "Truth or dare?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says. "Dare."
Sam thinks about his younger self, how he's always had a list of embarrassing ways to get back at Dean. He thinks about what he has to ask now, and knows his younger self wouldn't understand.
"I dare you to call me," he says, because it's been a year of checking his missed calls, hoping it's Dean. He realizes he wants it more than anything. "I dare you to call when you can admit it."
"Admit what?"
Sam fixes Dean with a serious look. "That you want me to come home."
"Sam," Dean sighs. He steps away and starts shoving things into his bag, hair still stuck up sideways. "I didn't choose truth. And besides, why would I ask you that? It's your life, man. If I've learned one thing since you-" he stops, and clears his throat before continuing, "In the past year, I mean. If there's anything I've learned, it's that."
"You gonna take the dare or what?" says Sam. He knows Dean will. Dean has his honor, after all, and the very idea of ducking a dare between them is sacrilege.
"Am I going to-" Dean scoffs. "Of course I am."
"Good," Sam says fiercely, and Dean finishes packing in silence. For now, Sam knows, there's nothing more to say.
After a minute or so, the couch looks just like it had before he slept on it, before they had sex. After Dean hoists his bag up on one shoulder and looks Sam over, one last look for the road, and says, "Hey, Sam?"
"Yeah?"
Dean smiles. "I dare you to pick up."
As Dean passes on his way to the door, Sam wants to reach out, do something to wind the thread between them taut, to push into Dean's grooves until they're the same person, a two headed monster. But all he gets is Dean's hand to his heart, once, like a promise.
"See you around, Sammy," Dean says, and then lets himself out.
Sam will not hear from his brother for two years. But later that day, standing in his kitchen alone and with a final envelope on the table, the postman just gone, he'll feel hopeful. He'll think of his brother speeding out across the wide country, half empty soda bottles kicking around the footwell and wheat waving as far as the eye can see. There and then gone.