Supernatural: Strawberry Fields
Title: Strawberry Fields
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content (barebacking, voyeurism, masturbation, somnophilia), references to past underage with no age specified, some alcohol use and language
Word Count: 10,942
Author’s Note: Written for spn_j2_xmas. My recipient was jalu2, who asked for a fic where "For once they’re on a road trip. Just a road trip." Obviously I also plucked my title from one of your other prompts. I tried to work in as many of your likes as I could, including: Codependency; Stanford-era; relationships that began, were abruptly ended, and one character still harbours UST (*cough* Dean *cough*); motel rooms; IMPALA!; imperfect relationships; Christmas; pining!Dean; banter; schmoop; domesticity; sharing (beds...clothes...secrets...history); kissing; snuggling; porn; barebacking; possessiveness & marking; oral fixation; fingering; masturbation (mutual/voyeurism/exhibitionsim/solo); TRUST KINK (you could use absolutely any kink if the main focus is trust). That last one is how I snuck in shaving kink. O:) Anyway, I am VERY SORRY your gift is a day late, but I really hope you enjoy it nonetheless!!! Thank you also to the lovely and merciful mod bertEE and my ridiculously attractive last second beta, fiercelynormal.
Summary: Sam has hardly slept off his last exam when Dean knocks on his door. He's not surprised, though he probably should be. He spent last winter break alone, and all the evidence pointed to Sam never seeing his brother again. But he felt Dean coming, an invisible thread stretched too tight between them loosening with every mile.
Before he can question it, he's sitting shotgun, his feet propped on the dash, the too-loud songs of his childhood sung in his brother's off key voice filling his ears as the wind whips past. And they're driving off to all points nowhere, nothing to do but take in the sights and each other.
It starts on the morning of December 20, the day after Sam hands in his last final exam. He feels it as soon as he opens his eyes, a prickling at the base of his spine that starts out as a phantom itch. He decides to ignore it until it goes away, but it only gets stronger.
The feeling intensifies as soon as Brady is out the door. Waving Sam goodbye, asking if he's sure he doesn't want to come with. Sam thought about it. It's not like he has anything better to do here.
He can't say what the hell keeps him in Palo Alto instead. The last holdout in an empty dorm. Just like last year. Like last year wasn't miserable enough.
Sam doesn't know why he stays, but he knows that there's a whisper around him that says he needs to be here. He tries to laugh it off. Things like that don't happen here; Sam left all the weird feelings and creepy crawlies behind.
But, just in case, he stays. Just in case. He can’t simply ignore it. It feels like Dean.
_______________________________________________________________
Hunt in Ohio, that's what Dad tells him. It's not an excuse, really, just an update. After last year, neither of them is going to keep pretending. They only ever pretended for Sam, and doing it without him had been…
"Monsters don't stop killing people just because it's a holiday," John says, and Dean huffs a laugh.
"I hear that." He's sweating outside in Phoenix, wiping dirt off his hands. He just dug a grave for a nine year old girl who turned into a monster on the first night of Hanukkah, slaughtered her whole family, except for the cat. Dean arrived in time to save the cat.
Her body is still in his trunk, still wearing the white cotton pajama dress she got as a gift from Grandma. Dean found the card and the tags next to the open box. She must have changed at some point between opening gifts and tying her brother's intestines around his throat. "I'm wrapping up a job down here, but I can find something else. No worries."
"That's my boy," John tells him. Dean thinks about how much that used to mean to him as he drags the body out and dumps it. She falls in with her sweet little girl smile aimed up at Dean. "If I'm not in touch before then, you have a nice Christmas."
"Yes, sir," he answers, and the call has gone dead before he can wish his father the same.
It's only December 19th, actually. A Friday. The last day of finals at Stanford University, not that Dean keeps track of these things. Time for all the smart boys and girls to go home so they can hear their relatives coo proudly over them at the dinner table.
He doesn't let himself wonder what his is up to. Can't go that goddamn road when there's a fourth grader with her throat slashed half covered in dirt and it's on Dean to give her as decent a send-off as is possible, given the circumstances.
Once the body is salted and the fire starts up, Dean doesn't wait long to get on with the burial and back to the shithole motel of the day. He needs a shower and to not see a replay of tonight's horror show every time he closes his eyes.
Two hours later, he's lying awake in bed. He can't shut his brain down. There's wetness in the corners of his eyes that he can't hold back, but it doesn't really matter these days whether he cries or not. There's no one here to pretend to be strong for. No one to make fun of him.
That family had been gathered for something special, a holiday full of Hallmark moments and pictures to stick in albums for generations to come. It got them nothing, they all died bloody. But they were together. Somehow, that seems better. They were together. If she'd beat Dean and he'd died the same as the rest of them, no one would even know.
Dean doesn't register that he has his phone in his hand until he's staring at it, his thumb hovering over the send button. Sam's number is typed in, still muscle memory. All he has to do is press down, apply a little pressure, and he can hear his brother's voice. Remember what the hell it is he's fighting for.
Except Sam might not answer. If he calls and Sam won't pick up, that's-little dead girl, Dean can take, but that might just be the end of him. A confirmation that Sam hates him, so much he had to run away, so of course he won't pick up the phone.
He worries sometimes, after bad hunts like this or when he's too drunk to stop himself, that he'll never see Sam again. His last words won't have been his own, too hurt and stunned by the revelation that Sam wanted to leave to do anything but echo Dad's anger. He won't ever get to tell his boy that he's proud.
So he gets a crazy idea. And like the phone, Dean is acting it out before he even realizes he's thought it. He's on his feet, throwing his shit back into his duffel.
There's nothing that says he has to be alone. Dean can be harder to ignore than a phone call.
_______________________________________________________________
No one, not even Sam, could explain how he knows. There's nothing special about the knock, no reason in hell Sam should be expecting to see Dean-today or ever, really. But as soon as he hears it all the anxiousness that's been building inside him since he woke up just stops.
He throws the door open, wraps his brother in his arms before he can even really look long enough to be sure it is his brother, let alone to check for demonic possession or any of the other tests he knows he should be running. He certainly doesn't stop long enough to remember that the last time he saw Dean, Dean couldn't bear the sight of him.
That all rushes back on him when it's too late, when his face is tucked into the nook of Dean's neck, when he's just breathed in the scent of motor oil and leather and smoke, all better reassurance than holy water or silver that this is really his brother, standing right here where Sam can touch him.
He braces himself for a lecture about proper safety and vigilance, with a few jabs thrown in about how rusty he's getting. Or for Dean to push him away, explain that nothing has changed or been forgiven, he's just thought of a few more insults he needs to get off his chest.
Neither of those things happen. Dean moves slowly, but eventually his hands come up, wrap around Sam in return, pull him in just as hard. And he lingers, longer than Sam thinks he's ever let a hug linger, until finally he steps back, letting out a huffy little laugh.
"Dean?" Sam says. It comes out sounding like a question, and Sam hates that. Hates that seeing his brother falls closer to 'Christmas miracle' than 'things you can reasonably expect out of a holiday' on whatever spectrum is used to measure these things.
Dean smiles up at him; Sam can tell he's about to say something, but it’s like the whole world gets caught in his throat, suddenly he flinches and turns away, like he's only just realized where he is, who he's talking to, and he's having second thoughts.
It would be just like Dean, too, to drive all the way to California on an impulse and change his mind thirty seconds after he gets Sam's hopes up.
"Dean," he says again, hoping he can ground his brother, cut off whatever is going on in his head. "Hey."
"Hey," Dean parrots back at him. Then he lifts his face just enough in Sam's direction to meet his eyes, and Sam has never seen a look like that from his cocksure ass of a big brother before. "Is it okay that I'm here?"
The question catches Sam so far off guard that he barks out a laugh. "I'm not the one who never wanted to see you again, remember?"
"I remember everything," Dean replies, almost in a whisper.
Sam crosses his arms over his chest. "So why are you here then? You change your mind or do you just want to rub it in a little more that you and Dad don't need me to have a nice-?"
"Please," Dean says, cutting him off with such urgency Sam actually shuts up, his heart starts pumping faster, and he realizes that if Dean is here, something bad must have happened. Dean must be here to tell him something horrible has happened. "I don't wanna fight, Sammy. I can't-please. I don't want to fight with you."
"Is Dad okay? Is he-?"
Dean looks like he's been shaken up and split in half, but instinct still has him reaching out, a hand resting on Sam's shoulder and giving it a firm, comforting squeeze. "He's fine. Big hunt in Ohio. Doesn't expect to be finished with it until the New Year."
"Shouldn't you be with him?"
"I'm where I wanna be," Dean says, taking his hand off Sam and pasting on a big, bright, blindingly fake smile. "You gonna invite me in or what?"
"You need an invitation now?" Sam asks, quirking an eyebrow as he turns from the doorway to make a path for his brother. "Are you a vampire or something?"
"Vampires aren't real, dumbass," Dean says, shoving his way in. "Everybody knows that."
And just like that, it's them again. Easy as breathing.
_______________________________________________________________
"You're really serious about this, aren't you?" Sam's hair is down past his shoulders now, longer than Dean's ever seen it, and he keeps flipping his head to get it out of his eyes.
"I'm always serious," Dean answers, grinning. "About everything."
Sam snorts and smacks Dean's feet off of his cheap coffee table so he can take their place, impossibly long body folding up to sit on the low surface directly across from Dean.
"So you were serious last Christmas?" Sam asks, not even having the decency to look away. He holds Dean's gaze head-on and Dean knows, as much as he wants to change the subject, he's not getting Sam without giving a real answer. "When you left me that voicemail? I still have it saved. Listen to it sometimes, when I'm feeling really sorry for myself. That's the kind of Christmas you gave me, and now you want me to just drive into the sunset like everything is fine?"
There are so many things Dean wants to say to that. Like how Sam started it. Sam left Dean so alone and not just on one lousy holiday. Every goddamn day. Left him with Dad, and last Christmas had been the end of something Dean still hates himself for letting go of.
He used to think he was a good son, just like he thought he was a good brother. Those were the only things he had aside from hunting, and now he's lost them both. Because Sam would never have gone if Dean had been good to him, and a loyal son would never feel the anger Dean has tried so hard to push away.
He can't tell Sam the real reason he's not in Ohio. Won't give Sam the satisfaction of knowing that he hasn't hunted a single case with their father since he woke up last December 26th, John gone and the keys to the Impala sitting on the nightstand as if a gift was going to fill the void Sam created. From the age of ten, there was nothing in the world Dean wanted more than that car, and on the morning he woke up and it was finally his, all he could do was grip the key so tight his palms bled.
John had tried to make a night of last Christmas for Dean's sake, some kind of gesture that they were all they needed to be a family, which was the worst statement he could have made, but Dean knows he meant well. It had been, what, four months? Four months and some change since Sam had stomped off, and whatever family they had between them before, it collapsed just as surely as the rest of Dean's world. They'd forced it for four months, pretended not to notice it was empty, but it all came to a head with Christmas.
Try as hard as he did to pretend everything was alright, Dean couldn't look at his father without feeling resentment claw up inside of him. They'd gone through a bottle of bourbon each, laughing like hollow men at worn out old memories, until finally Dean was too wasted to stick to their unspoken rule that Sam never even be mentioned, let alone where Sam went and why.
He'd looked John in the eye and asked all the questions that had been making him doubt for the first time in his life. How could you give him that ultimatum? How could you drive him away like that? I did everything you told me to. How could you take him away from me? Dad should have known Sam better, should have known that was the worst way to get through to him. Dean knew the moment it was out of their father's mouth that it was gonna lose him his brother forever.
Dean blacked out on most of what happened after that. When he got to his bed, he called six times and Sam didn't answer once. Dean had been so drunk and so alone that he'd let himself be just as ugly to Sam as he had been to John. He doesn't remember exactly what he said in that voicemail, just that the gist of it was something like we don't need you to be happy or I don't even miss you, lies so vicious they should have stuck to the roof of his mouth, glued his lips shut forever. Instead they poured out just as smooth and easy as the whiskey had poured in.
Now, Sam is staring at him, looking for all the world like he was the wronged party, and Dean knows he was. There's no fucking reason a kid should feel guilty for going to college except that Sam tore Dean's heart out, tossed it in with his clothes, and took it with him.
"Sammy," Dean says, licking his lips and dropping his eyes to the floor. "You don't know what that night was like, okay? You know better than to believe I'd ever mean any of that."
Sam shakes his head. "You have no idea how lonely I already was by the time you started calling. You don't know how much I'd missed you every day but especially on that one, how much I wanted to hear your goddamn voice."
As if it hadn't been his choice. As if he ever would have spent an hour alone if loneliness had been his problem. Dean's fingers curl into a fist and then relax. "Then why didn't you answer the phone?"
"I was scared you'd ask me to come back," Sam admits, and then his voice nearly drops to a whisper. "I was worried I'd say yes."
"So say yes now," Dean urges him, leaning forward. "Hell, if you're so miserable, you don't have to stay here. You made your point, believe me. You don't have to be unhappy to-"
"You think that's what this is about?" Sam asks, standing and waving a hand around the room. "You think I'm just proving a point to Dad? Dean, for once in my life, I'm doing something that has nothing to do with Dad. I'm finally living my life for me. It's rough sometimes, I won't pretend it isn't. But I'm not staying out of stubbornness, and I'm not walking away."
"Fine," Dean answers. Sam rounds to look at him, his expression clearly shocked by how calm Dean's response to his anger is. Dean used to stand up taller when Sam got angry, yell louder, remind Sam who the boss was.
There's none of that now. Dean can't do those things. Sam has grown up, and Dean won't win this with bullying. He won't push for more than he can reasonably hope for. He'll fall on the floor and beg for anything Sam will give him if that's what it takes.
"I'm not asking you to walk away. Not forever. Just come with me for a while. Until school starts back up, and you can be back here bright and early in time for classes. Drive away with me for a little while, that's all I'm asking."
Sam's eyes narrow suspiciously. "And you want to drive where? You sure we won't just so happen to end up in Ohio?"
"No. I promise, Sam, no Dad. No hunt. Just us." Dean huffs a laugh. "I mean, Dad wouldn't even-"
"He still hates me," Sam says, his shoulders slumping a little. "He doesn't even know you're here, does he?"
"He doesn't know," Dean admits, standing to put a hand on Sam's shoulder, turn Sam so his brother is looking at him with those big, sad eyes Dean has buckled under a thousand times. "He doesn't hate you. Neither of us ever did or ever will hate you."
Sam snorts. "That's great, Dean. Come with apologies from Dad that we both know he wouldn't ever give himself."
"I'm not here to apologize for Dad. I'm not here for Dad at all."
Dean reaches out to brush his fingers lightly over Sam's neck. He feels Sam's throat work when he swallows too hard. He can't bring himself to say what he is here for. But Sam looks down at him like just this touch is enough to get every point across, and he's so fucking beautiful, so forgiving when he has so much right to hate Dean. Dean can't imagine how anyone, even a monster, could hurt their little brother the way that thing he'd killed yesterday had.
"You've never done anything without his say-so in your life," Sam says. "So convince me this is different. Give me a reason to believe you're not here to drag me back in."
Dean stares for a few long seconds, trying to select just the right words, paste them in the magic order. He was never good at that shit. Not like Sam, and not like he'll need to be for Sam to hear exactly what he wants to say.
So he does what he does know. Actions, not words. He fishes the Impala's keys out of his pocket and presses them into Sam's hand. "You drive. You pick the stops."
To his surprise, Sam grins at that, so wide his cheeks get dimpled and Dean hasn't seen that smile in over a year and a half; he can't even blink. "Does that mean I get to pick the music, too?"
_______________________________________________________________
"So what, you're a hippie now?"
Sam pauses in the middle of the path and lifts his head from his park guide. "Huh?"
"Well, first, there's the hair," Dean says, gesturing at his head, "and now this. Yosemite National Park: come hug our giant fucking trees for hours and walk until your legs fall off. You sure know how to have a good time."
Sam rolls his eyes and turns back to the map. "And you're the one always telling me I bitch too much."
"This tree," Dean says in his best hippie voice as he points to a sequoia to his right and then to one on his left, "looks just like that tree. We are all trees and we are all connected. See, dude? We are one tree. Tubular. Let's, like, totally get high and feel up each other's auras."
"Yeah, Dean," says Sam. "One year of college and I'm that guy. You so get me."
Dean catches up to Sam and reaches up, ruffling his hair in that way Sam has always hated and always loved. But mostly hated. "Seriously, though. What's up with the flowing locks?"
Sam shakes him away, can feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Nothing," he replies smoothly, and Dean just gives him a flat look.
"Not saying there's anything wrong with it," Dean replies, backing off. Like he realized he hit a nerve and doesn't want to risk making it worse. Which is so unlike the big brother Sam knows that it makes his stomach turn. "I just never realized you wanted it that long."
"I didn't," Sam says looking everywhere but at Dean. Fortunately, there's plenty to look at. "I mean, I don't. I just…" Sam coughs uncomfortably. "I just didn't trust anyone at school to cut it."
Dean laughs. "What, you mean-?"
"Yes," Sam snaps. "Just forget it, okay?"
But, of course, it's Dean. He never drops something once he's caught a scent. "No one's cut it since you left," he says. "No one's cut it but me."
"Yeah, I guess," Sam responds, as if it hadn't ever occurred to him. As if that's not the entire reason he's been walking around looking exactly as much like a hippie as Dean is teasing. "It's not a big deal, I'll find someone."
"I could," Dean offers, in a shy little voice Sam has never heard from him before. He lifts his head to look Sam in the eye and gives him a small smile. God, he almost looks like just the thought of cutting Sam's hair is exciting to him, and Sam feels the millionth stab of guilt today. Did he really leave Dean that alone? "If you want, I mean. When we get back to civilization. I could cut it just how you liked."
Sam smiles. "Yeah, Dean. That would be great."
"Really?" Dean asks, and then he plays it off. "Fine, yeah. Assuming you ever let me out of this freezing prison of redundant shit."
"You have to admit it's beautiful," Sam says, his attention back on the park around them. "Come on, we'll set up our tent soon and then your poor feet can get a rest."
"Camping. In December. In the mountains," Dean mutters under his breath. "Just to see some trees made out of rocks. Unbelievable."
"They're actually rocks made out of trees," Sam explains, just to watch Dean's eyes narrow. "I know what'll make it worth your while."
He stops and waits until Dean is next to him, and then he wraps an arm around Dean's shoulder. "Wait until the stars come out, Dean. You've never seen stars like this."
If he didn't know better, he'd think Dean curled in closer before pulling away.
_______________________________________________________________
He sets a chair directly in front of the sink and turns to look at Sam. "You'll be able to see the TV from here. It may take me a while."
Sam picks up the remote and brings it into the bathroom, passing it to Dean. "You're the one doing me a favor. You should choose what we watch."
"I'll be watching your luscious locks so I don't take an ear off," Dean replies. Sam stops to raise an eyebrow, and Dean shrugs. "What? They're hidden so far down under that mane I'm surprised you can hear. I can't make any promises they'll both still be intact when we're done."
Sam just huffs a laugh, doesn't even bother with a comeback. That was always his best strategy for winning arguments, leaving it at that as if he has nothing left to prove. It makes Dean's breath come that much easier seeing him do it again, and his hand trembles as he picks up the shears he's laid out.
Dean was afraid it would be awkward between them. That Sam would be someone completely new and Dean would have to get to know him. But it's worse than that. Beneath shaggier hair and a deeper tan and a smile that comes much more freely, Sam is just the same boy he lost and will have to lose again.
He coughs, trying to disrupt his own thoughts, and then Sam cuts off all thought pretty effectively by pulling his shirt off over his head.
Right. Haircuts. No shirts. Sam always hated the prickly little strands of hair. This is how they always did it. Dean had just forgotten. Has been doing such a good job not looking, but fuck if Sam hasn't gone and started filling out all those fragile, bony joints Dean used to simultaneously tease and worry over.
Sam looks behind him at the TV and then at Dean, clearly puzzled. "You doing alright there?"
"What? Yeah. I just." He clears his throat, points at Sam with the hand not holding the scissors. "Just forgot what a beanpole you are."
Sam looks down at himself, then crosses his arms over his chest self-consciously. "At least I'm not short."
"I'm not short just because I'm not shaped like one of those Yosemite trees you made me spend the last three days staring at." Dean smiles and pulls one of the hand towels off the metal shelf. "Come sit down."
Sam does. Obeys Dean better than he has since he crossed into teendom, taking the seat and leaning back, letting Dean wrap the towel around his shoulders. He closes his eyes almost in ecstasy and just waits. Waits for Dean to come at him with his sharp claws and start trimming away at him like this is still something they do every other Thursday.
They're mostly quiet throughout. The TV buzzes in the background, occasionally loud enough to hear. Dean only tunes in enough to realize that neither of them ever got around to picking something, so it's still set to the last channel watched, which is playing endless episodes of Seinfeld.
Every now and then, Sam laughs at a joke or Dean catches himself humming under his breath, but mostly he works and doesn't hear or see or think about anything except Sam under him, vulnerable, the year and a half of overgrowth falling away and his Sammy beginning to peek out.
When he finishes, he can't help carding his hands through Sam's hair, relishing the fact that it feels exactly like it used to, back when this was allowed. Sam makes a sound like a happy animal and nuzzles into his touch for a few moments before he blinks his eyes open.
And there he is. Not Stanford Sam. Just his baby brother, same cut he wore for years, even if his features are a little more grown up under it. It makes Dean feel seasick, the toss between how familiar he is and how much he's grown in one year, how different that's made him, and how Dean wasn't there to see or understand those changes. A year and a half ago, Dean could have counted the days he'd gone from morning to night without seeing Sam on two hands and still have had a few fingers left over.
"Dean?" Sam asks, laughing nervously. "You're kind of staring. Is it…it doesn't look terrible, right?"
"You can look," Dean tells him, wishing a stupid little sentence like that didn't just make his voice break.
Sam does, then he smiles so wide, Dean would think the room had been struck by lightning. He reaches up, curls his fingers in his own hair. "That's much better, isn't it?"
Dean nods, letting his fingers slide over the long expanse of back Sam has turned on him. "Yeah, Sammy. You look good."
In the mirror, Dean can see Sam shutting his eyes tight, letting out a long breath as Dean's touch runs up, past his shoulder. He skims over Sam's cheek, which is rough from three days in the woods worth of stubble, and laughs.
"Man, when you left you hardly needed to shave. Now look at you. Three days and you're Bigfoot."
"Mmm," Sam agrees. He opens his eyes, and Dean sees that Sam's expression has gone a little hazy. Like he's sleepy or turned on.
Yeah, Dean hasn't forgotten he's the kind of monster who knows his little brother's sex tells better than any girlfriend ever could.
"You could shave it for me," Sam says.
Dean decides the only hope he has of backing out of this is to pretend it's a joke. "Right, yeah. And then I can pick out your jammies for you and help you get dressed for bed. For old time's sake, right?"
Sam catches Dean's wrist and holds him so he can't skitter off and hide himself in take-out menus. "Old time's sake," Sam repeats, his lips curling in the corner. "Remember when you taught me how to shave?"
That does surprise a laugh out of Dean. "You were nine. Caught me doing it and covered your damn face in cream before I could stop you."
"Yeah, but you didn't try to stop me," Sam says with a smirk. "You went and got that stool from the kitchen, helped me learn how to hold the razor."
"Dad was pissed when he saw the mess we made. And how much time we'd wasted." Dean shakes his head. "You thought it was the coolest."
"And then you took all the blame. Said it was your idea, because you didn't want Dad to yell at me and make me cry."
Dean swallows and looks away. "You always did get me in trouble."
"I was so mad at you for lying about it, too. Remember?" Sam's smile only slips for a moment. "Guess I should have just said thank you."
"Guess so," Dean agrees.
He shrugs and turns away to put the hair scissors back in their pack, and when he looks again, Sam's standing at the sink, his cheeks white from a layer of shaving cream he's washing off his hands.
He picks up his razor and reaches out for Dean's palm, placing the cool plastic inside. Dean's fingers curl around the handle without hesitation, and Sam guides his hand up, rests the blade right against his Adam's apple.
"Go on, Dean," Sam says. "Clean up after me. You’re good at it."
"Wouldn't you feel safer if you did it yourse-?"
"Nothing makes me feel safer than knowing you're taking care of me," Sam replies. He waits until Dean gives in, dragging the razor down and then moving to Sam's cheek.
Dean is even quieter now than he was when he was cutting Sam's hair. Because that was old hat, second nature, something Dean could never forget, no matter how long it had been. But this is new and scary and crushingly intimate. One slip of his hand and Dean could cut his brother open. He's cut like that before, a hundred times, on purpose. But his hand is practiced and sure, and Sam's cheeks are close-shaved and smooth when Dean wipes the last of the cream away.
Sam touches his own cheek, then reaches out to stroke Dean's. "Me leaving…it wasn't because you did something wrong. It wasn't ever about not trusting you or not wanting you near me. I wish you'd believe that. I know you won't. But I wish you would."
Then he brings his other hand up and guides Dean forward slowly, until his lips are just hardly pressing against his brother's.
_______________________________________________________________
"How about the Grand Canyon?"
Dean looks up from his fries, one eyebrow quirking. "I thought you said we were going to Yellowstone? We've been driving north for nine hours."
"Oh, no, we are. Christmas in Yellowstone," Sam says, repeating the plan for what feels like the fiftieth time since they left California. "But we've still got plenty of time until New Years, and besides, school doesn't start again until the 12th. We could make our way down there. I know you've always wanted to go."
He watches Dean, picks up on the disinterest Dean is projecting, and knows better than he knows anything that his brother is just trying to mask excitement.
"Who says I want to go to the Grand Canyon?" He sighs and leans back on his side of the booth. "This national park geek journey is all on you, kid."
"When you were fifteen, Dad took us on that hunt in Arizona. They had one of those displays full of pamphlets in the motel lobby and you picked one about the Grand Canyon and read it over and over. You asked Dad if we could go for your next birthday."
"And he asked me if my birthday was more important than the people who would die while we were off shooting the breeze instead of hunting," Dean finishes.
Sam winces at the memory. He'd never seen Dean's face fall quite the way it had that day, but he hadn't spent a moment feeling sorry for himself. Fifteen years old, and already so gone on the mission that he threw his own birthday out and never mentioned it again. But he never skipped Sam's. Never let Sam's go unmarked.
"I can't stay until your birthday," Sam says, frowning. "I really will have to be in classes. But we can go see it now. Get a cake, celebrate a few weeks early."
Dean wets his lips and stares at his burger before taking a monumental bite out of it. "I don't care, Sammy," he says, his mouth full, the food he's chewing revoltingly on display. "Whatever you want. Don't go out of your way for me."
"And then we can hit Las Vegas. When have we ever had a bad time in Vegas?"
His brother grins and swallows too much at once. "Now you're talking."
Sam shakes his head, dropping his fork into his half-eaten salad. "Well, you've killed my appetite."
Of course, it's Dean, so he just takes another giant bite, chews for a few seconds before rolling out his tongue to show Sam another mountain of crushed beef.
"You're so gross," Sam tells him, kicking him under the table.
The waitress comes to ask if everything is alright with their meal, and Dean tells her, through his stuffed mouth, how wonderful everything is. Apparently, she's made of tougher stuff than Sam is, because she just laughs and pats him on the shoulder before asking Sam if there's anything else she can get for him.
"Just the check, please," Sam replies.
"I'll get this one," Dean says, reaching for his wallet and trying to snatch the paper away from the waitress before Sam can.
"No," Sam says. "I've told you already. I'm paying for this trip."
"Sam, come on. You actually earned that money." Dean flashes a card in the name of GILBERT RODEGHAST. "Gilbert's money is free!"
"Gilbert's money is stolen," Sam reminds him in a hushed tone. "Besides, I'm happy to pay for this. I'll just cut back on a few things at school, it's not a big deal."
"It is a big deal," Dean says grumpily to his fries. "You have to buy all those books and…you're on your own with it. You should be saving that money."
"I'll skip the next Harry Potter movie," Sam says, waving off his brother's concern. "It's my least favorite book, anyway."
"That's your money saving plan, nerd wonder?"
"Consider it a Christmas present," says Sam. "Since I…I mean, I didn't think I was going to see you."
The smile Dean gives him in return can only be described as weird. "Hey, how could you have? Didn't even plan it myself. Not like I got you anything, either."
_______________________________________________________________
Dean has two Christmas presents and a birthday gift wrapped in newspaper and hidden deep at the bottom of the Impala's trunk. They'd been accidents. He'd gone into a Walmart, passed the book wall at a Goodwill, bought things he thought Sam might like before he even remembered he didn't have a Sam anymore.
He'd never thrown them away, felt the nagging conviction that someday Sam would be back, and then he could give them to him. Now Sam is here, and it's actually Christmas, and Dean can't bring himself to dig them out. They're embarrassing, cheap little things a college boy is much too good for. Hell, Sam wouldn't even fit in the flannel shirt Dean bought him last December anymore, and he's probably read every book on the planet by now.
More than that, Sam would take one look and know. He would pretend not to get it, and that would be worse. Dean has spent the last eighteen months stuck in one mindset while Sam never even dreamed of getting him something.
So he shrugs when Sam asks if they should try to do presents, calls it a waste of time. Continues to walk past the newspaper sellers without reading even one headline and tells himself that's his gift to Sam, but even he knows it's an excuse. If Dean did look, if he did find a hunt, it wouldn't change anything. He would never choose it over these precious few days with his brother. He would let the people die, and he hates himself for that, but at least it's only theoretical as long as he doesn't actually let himself find a case.
Dad would never look him in the eye again if he knew how Dean was wasting these weeks.
They do make it to Yellowstone in time for Christmas. Most of the park is closed for the winter, and the rest of it is nearly deserted. They wind their way through what they can in one day, and, well. Dean bitches to save face, but the truth is, he's loving every moment of this just as much as Sam is.
It's different from anything they’ve done before. Dean has driven forty-eight states so many times he knows the highways better than any of the people he went to school with. He's gone past his fair share of wonders. But he never stopped like this to enjoy any of them. He never really had a chance to soak in the fact that sometimes the earth spits out beautiful things instead of ugly ones. There was always another hunt, another person to pull out of the frying pan. This just wasn't important enough.
Now it's late night, not even Christmas anymore. 3 a.m. on December 26. Last call at the one restaurant-slash-bar they could find open on the holiday.
They pulled off in a small town not far from the park called Chester, and somehow, Dean had managed to talk his brother into hustling. Now they’ve got $700 of someone else's Christmas money shoved into the glove compartment.
That's not a world record by any means, but it's more than decent for one night's take. Dean hasn't scored like that in months. It's not as easy to get the suckers to throw down without the concerned, sober brother stepping in to try to talk sense into him.
"My favorite was the geyser," Sam says, swaying into him heavily. They're both a little boozy, and Sam's steering has always been the first thing to go. For a guy as graceful as his brother is on hunts, a few beers and Sam might as well have a magnet in his stomach at the rate he bumps into Dean. "Except the smell."
"Rotten eggs," Dean says. Then, "Sulfur."
Sam nods, not supplying the obvious next step. "How about you? What was your favorite thing today?"
Dean pretends to think it over. Sam's face when the damn geyser had gone off, if he's being honest. But what has honesty ever gotten him? He inclines his head back at the bar they're walking away from. "The bartender's rack."
They reach the motel within minutes, and Sam's still ranting on about all the shit they saw, his expression animated and younger than it was even when he was a little kid. Dean slides them in with the card key, and Sam pauses in the doorway to tug on his jacket.
"The buffalo were so much bigger than I thought they would be," Sam says, grinning at Dean like whatever he says is law, like he could turn the sky green with a thought. "Weren't they huge, Dean? We should teach them how to hunt. You could ride one into battle."
Dean laughs, shaking his head. "What are you even on about, Sammy?"
"No, you're right. You'd never go to battle riding anything but the Impala."
"Well, she's mine now to ride where I wanna," Dean says, tossing the keys up in the air and catching them before stuffing them back in his pocket. "Were you surprised to see Dad gave her to me? I still can't believe that sometimes."
"She was always yours," Sam says. He lifts his eyes, and suddenly he doesn't look nearly as drunk as he had seconds ago. "She was always yours, Dean."
Dean fucking trips then. That's what it is, it's a stumble after so many years walking the line. So many years being good and resisting, but Sam is looking up at him with those shiny eyes and he's here, he's really here. He has been for days. Came just because Dean asked and isn't going away until he has to. Dean is an addict, and he stayed clean as long as he could, but goddamn, everyone slips up every now and then.
So he wraps a hand on Sam's cheek and pulls his brother in for a kiss. Not a demanding one, just a soft, reassuring little thing, like Sam had given him after the haircut. That's all it's supposed to be, but as soon as he tastes Sam, everything is out the window.
Sam pulls back when Dean tries to slip his tongue in past Sam's lips, and Dean feels panic starting up at the base of him and spreading. But Sam doesn't look angry or disgusted. God, Sam was never disgusted with this, not like Dean. Sam never hated himself for wanting, never understood why Dean fought so hard to tamp it down.
"But you said-"
"Forget what I fucking said," Dean tells him, pressing his whole body into Sam's.
Sam opens up to him. Sam takes him in and holds him there and molds to fit Dean, because this is what they were always supposed to be. Two pieces, one incredibly fucked up puzzle. Dean doesn't even hate himself for it this time. He gets so little of Sam these days, and suddenly he gets everything.
This is far from a first for them, but it feels new anyway. Sam doesn't kiss like he used to before Dean broke things off. He's the one pulling his big brother in with a steady hand, he's undoing buttons fast and practiced, and turning Dean's spine into liquid with a confident smile.
Sam shoves Dean's shirt off and starts to work his hands under the t-shirt he had underneath, until his fingers are ghosting over Dean's nipples, tweaking the sensitive one on the right just because Sam has always loved the way that makes Dean gasp.
He decides it's only polite to return the favor, so pretty soon Dean is yanking Sam's layers of clothes off over his head, sinking to his knees and setting his focus on the button of Sam's fly.
"How do you wanna?" Dean asks, stopping once he has Sam's jeans down around his thighs. Sam's dick is half-hard, starting to show through his boxers, and Dean coaxes it out through the opening, presses a kiss to the head of it and then licks a stripe down the side just to save face.
Sam moans and brings his hands to rest in Dean's hair. "Dean. Your mouth. Hasn't been a day I haven't missed it."
Dean likes that. Likes to hear that Sam thinks of him when he's not there, even if he's thinking of the wrong parts. So he rewards Sam by taking him all the way between his lips, jacking the base of Sam's cock until his brother is fully hard and starting to taste of salty precome whenever Dean licks his slit.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Sam is saying as he gives Dean more and more to work around with shallow little thrusts. He's not fucking Dean's mouth-knows Dean will take better care of him if left to his own devices-but he can't hold still, either. That always drove Dean crazy. Crazy, that's what Sam makes him.
He feels a big warm hand cradle his cheek and pulls back to look at Sam. Dean can't imagine what he looks like right now, with his mouth all swollen and drool dripping out and down his chin when Sam pulls his dick away.
"Don't want to finish like that," Sam tells him.
Dean turns his face to kiss the shaft of Sam's cock. "Tell me. Tell me what my little brother wants for Christmas."
Sam grabs his face and pulls him up to his feet. He puts his lips against Dean's ear and whispers, "Like before. Please, Dean. I want it just like before."
One more kiss and Dean would be a goner even if he had planned to try denying Sam anything. He separates himself from Sam just to reach down and open his jeans, and he cups Sam's ass to shove the boxers down with his free hand.
"On the bed, then. And spread out. You know how I like you."
Sam nods like the eager boy he used to be, snatches lotion off the motel nightstand and sits at the head of the bed, pressed up on all the pillows, his too-long legs opened wide to make room for Dean.
Eventually. For now, it's just a world of empty space for Dean to take his fill of Sam as he moistens his fingers and reaches back past his dick, pressing first his index finger in, then the middle one beside it.
Dean always loved a show. Used to get off on this so damn hard when he still felt wrong touching Sam, when Sam doing it for him was a godsend.
Now, though. It's been years since he got to touch Sam like this. Longer even than it's been since Sam left. He'd put a stop to this. Willingly. For their own good, he thought, he put a stop to this because he thought Sam would leave him one day if he didn't, and then Sam left anyway.
He practically pounces onto the mattress once he's naked, grabs Sam's wrist and pulls it away, drawing Sam's long fingers between his cock-swollen lips. Sam pants hard and arches his back, his stiff dick pushing into the air.
Dean keeps right on sucking Sam's fingers as he replaces them, pushing his thumb into Sam just to test him out. He's wet and warm and just relaxed enough. It'll be a perfect fit for Dean.
"Please," Sam whispers.
It's bad form, making your brother ask for something twice. And besides, it's Christmas.
Sam's fingers slide out of his mouth slowly, and Dean smiles, kisses Sam once as he fumbles around blindly for the lotion and uses most of what's left in the bottle to slick his cock up.
"Condom?" he offers.
Sam huffs. "Don't be stupid."
What he feels then is relief. He doesn't realize how badly he needs to feel Sam, all of Sam, to pour himself right into his brother, until Sam is laughing off the suggestion that they would ever do it any other way. Sam used to be a virgin. Sam used to have nothing to worry about, because Dean was careful and he'd never been with anyone but Dean.
Now they’re taking stupid risks and it doesn’t fucking matter. Maybe he's not Sam's only anymore, but he knows Sam would never let someone else fuck him raw.
He takes one of Sam's legs in each hand, pushing them up to his shoulders until Sam's ass is level with his dick. Then Sam is reaching between them, holding himself open and helping steer Dean right into him.
Dean breaches Sam steadily but he doesn't go slow. He doesn't have to baby Sam anymore. He gets balls deep in his brother before he even thinks of pulling back, and then he drives right in just as sharply the second time.
Sam is a champ and was from the first damn time they did this. His body tightens around Dean to make it feel so fucking good, but always loosens again when he needs space. He grips Dean's shoulder with one hand, those long fingers digging their fingerprints into his skin, and grunts when Dean fucks him.
"Jesus, so big," Sam's saying. "Thought I had to be remembering wrong."
"You watch your mouth, Sammy," Dean says, grinning and playful even as he's punching into Sam's sweet spot and his brother is closing his eyes in bliss. "My dick is the real deal, and don't you forget it."
"Won't-ah! Won't forget." Sam licks his lips. "Mmm, Dean. Fuck me."
"I know, Sam," Dean promises. He leans into Sam's space, kissing Sam's neck all the way up to his ear, sucking it between his lips before biting the shell of it. "I'm gonna take good care of you. Know how you like it. Wouldn't ever forget."
"Dean," Sam whimpers. "Dean."
"You can touch," Dean says, kissing Sam on the mouth before dropping Sam's legs, repositioning himself so he can watch. "Touch yourself."
Sam's hand is hardly on his cock before his balls are drawing in, his breathing becoming louder, his ass pushing up to meet Dean even more insistently. Sam comes with just a few pulls, and Dean makes it until Sam is licking his own come-soaked fist before his climax starts, like a spark on dynamite, and Dean is going off in seconds, exploding into his brother's tight ass.
He collapses onto Sam when he's done, and Sam takes him in his arms, pulling Dean in like a stuffed toy. "This is my favorite Christmas ever," Sam tells him. He yawns and Dean's not sure if he falls asleep first or if Dean does, but they stay like that, warm and curled together and sharing one too-small bed, until the sun wakes them up the next day.
_______________________________________________________________
Morning wood, Sam is used to. The hand wrapped around him, jerking him lazily, that's new.
"Dean?" he asks, throwing a hand over his eyes to block the sun out and letting his brother's hands fuck him slowly.
"Anyone else you know who says good morning quite as nice as I do?" Dean twists his hand on Sam's dick. "You sure got big this past year, huh? Remember your dick used to be a good size, but now my arm is sore from working it."
Sam feels his own goofy, content smile spread, and he doesn't even bother to hide it. He lets his hand drop away so he can open his eyes, see his brother lying half on top of him with his hand between Sam's legs.
"Kiss me," is all Sam says, and Dean does.
He comes soon after, the soft sound swallowed by his brother's plush lips. When Sam is spent, he pulls away and starts kissing his way down Dean's jaw, to his chest, his sights set on returning the blowjob Dean gave him last night. Sam loves sucking cock, and Dean's is perfect.
They never make it that far. Sam gets to the cut of Dean's hip and then he hears a soft, "Is that why you left?"
He sighs and lets his cheek rest on Dean's thigh, looking up at his brother in confusion. "Huh?"
"Last night, when I kissed you-did you leave because of what I said?"
Sam pulls back, sitting on his knees at the end of the bed and thinking the question over. "No. I mean, not really. Maybe. I don't know, Dean."
"How could you not know?" Dean looks away from him. "I thought I was doing the right thing."
"You dumped me," Sam reminds him. "You told me you didn't want me. That was the worst night of my life, Dean."
"Thought if I gave you an excuse, you could be normal. Didn’t think you'd go be normal without me if I gave you an out." Dean laughs, but it's not Dean's laugh. "I didn't think you would believe me."
Sam sighs, giving up on the blowjob for now and moving back up to rest his head on the crook of Dean's shoulder. "I don't know that I ever did, completely. But it made me realize that I…I needed to find out who I was for myself. I didn't leave because you didn't want to fuck me. But I do think it made me understand things I wouldn't have if we'd still-"
"I take it back," Dean says in a rush. "Is it too late? Can't I just take it back?"
He feels hot tears stinging at the corner of his eyes and hides his face even closer against his brother's skin. Dean sounds like a kid. Like a stupid, spoiled little kid and Sam knows he really is that lost. Sam broke him. He broke his big brother. "Dean, no. It doesn't work like that."
"Please. I didn't mean to make you go away. Please." Dean's arm wraps around him, and it's too tight, but Sam doesn't try to struggle against it. "Please, Sammy. I need you. I should have told you that instead. I didn't fucking mean it."
"When you pushed me away that night, I thought you were being cruel. I thought I would always hate you for it. But I'm thankful. If I hadn't realized what I did, I would have stayed, yeah, but I would have figured it out eventually. When it was too late. I would have been miserable forever."
Sam sits up on his elbows, looks Dean in the eye, and pretends Dean's eyes aren't wet as a courtesy to his brother. "I know you think I'm punishing you. That I did what I did because I hated you and Dad. Dean, it's just the opposite. I never could have gone to school-to Stanford, of all places-if you hadn't believed in me. You made something of me. I won't insult that by walking away."
"Fine," Dean replies. "Whatever."
Sam laughs. "Please don't pout."
"I'm not pouting." Dean insists. In a pouting kind of way.
He smiles fondly at his brother and brushes his fingers along the edge of Dean's face. "It doesn't have to be all or nothing just because that's how it is for Dad. We can still do things like this. Or you can come visit me at school. You don't have to drop me off next month and never see me again."
It must be the right thing to say, because Dean's pout turns just a little softer, and he pulls Sam back down into his arms.
_______________________________________________________________
They're only six hours away from the Grand Canyon when it all goes to shit. They've been moving slowly for the last few days-fucking around and fucking in general, stopping at roadside stands and every diner with pie on the menu. They go on detours. Why the fuck not, they think they have over a week left before they even need to point the car back to the West Coast.
His phone wakes him up at seven in the morning, which is long past the time he should have gotten up, going by Dad's rules. But apparently, Sam doesn't have classes in the morning, isn't used to waking up before ten a.m., and Dean has been happily living in Sam's time zone for almost ten days now.
"Hello," he says, softly as he disentangles himself from Sam so he can get to the bathroom and close the door before he wakes his brother up. Or worse yet, before Sam says something and John hears who Dean is with right now.
On the other end of the line, there's confused silence before Dean hears, "Did I wake you?"
"Uh," Dean answers. "Yes, sir. I…finished a salt and burn last night, real late. Only got to sleep a couple of hours ago."
That should be good enough, and luckily, it is. "Sorry to wake you then, son. But this is important. I've got a job lined up in Indiana, and I need you here in the next day to have my back."
"Indiana," Dean repeats, licking his lips as he searches for a lie, his eyes bouncing all over the room like he'll find a good one lying out on the floor. "Sir, I'm in Utah. There's probably someone closer who can help you get it done in time. Maybe Bobby-"
"Bobby was supposed to be on it with me, but he and I have had a disagreement. He's out. And he took the next best guy within five states to Maine on his own case. I need someone I know I can trust. The coordinates are-"
"But I can't," Dean says stupidly.
"I thought you said you'd just finished your case?" John replies.
Dean stumbles to his feet, looks down at the bed he just vacated. The little brother who is now wide awake, staring up at him with hurt in his eyes. Sam shakes his head. Dean shuts his eyes against it. "Dad, it's complicated."
"Nothing is complicated. Either you're in this fight or you're not, Dean," John tells him. "You will meet me in Bloomington on Thursday and that's final. Now take down these coordinates."
"Yes, sir," Dean says, reaching for the motel pad in the nightstand drawer, even as Sam tries to reach out to stop his hand. Dean waves him away. Someone could die. Dad could die. Dean can't just refuse this because he wants to, not even if Sam is asking. Not even if he's never wanted anything as much as he wants two more measly days.
He's spent the last week so happy imagining it. Selfish. He's been letting people die just to see some dimples cut into stone, canyons on Sam's cheeks.
When he's done writing, he drops the phone and the notepad, and Sam snatches it up immediately. "I knew it."
"Sam," Dean says, sinking into the bed across from his brother. The one neither of them has touched until now. "It's not as simple as-"
"It's exactly that simple," Sam replies. He shoves the covers aside and stands, walking toward the bathroom.
"What do you want me to do?" Dean asks the question to his brother's back, and Sam doesn't turn toward him.
"I want you to grow a spine," he replies. "Put your foot down for once in your goddamn life."
"There are people dying," Dean says. "I can't just ignore that because I want to, Sam. I'm not that kind of person."
"You're not a machine, either!" Sam yells, turning so fast that watching him makes Dean dizzy. "We aren’t machines. People are always fucking dying. They're always going to be. You stop this thing, there's another one you didn't stop. You're never going to kill them all, Dean. You're allowed to have a couple of weeks out of twenty-four years for yourself."
"That's exactly why I can't, Sam," says Dean. "There's so much evil out there and we've been-I can't be the kind of person who just lets it get worse."
"Oh, like I am?" Sam asks. "Is that what you mean? Is this the part where you tell me again how I've betrayed you? Betrayed the mission? How I'm selfish and terrible because I want to keep you for a few more days?"
Dean shakes his head. "You have something else. You're smart. You've got a future. I don't have anything else, Sam."
Sam crosses the room, sinks down next to Dean and touches his face. "You could have me. We can be happy. Just call Dad back and tell him no."
His laugh is so ugly, Dean doesn't even recognize it. "What ever happened to 'it doesn't have to be all or nothing'? You hate Dad for making you choose and now you're doing the same thing to me."
"Because you made a promise," Sam says, his voice getting all wet. "Dean you promised me. When I agreed to come with you, you promised me. No hunts, no Dad. Three little weeks, just us. It was your idea."
"Well, I didn't know this would happen."
Sam barks a laugh. "Yeah, you did. Hell, I did. This always happens. He yanks your leash around in every direction whenever he feels like it. I just thought maybe you'd care enough about me to-"
"You know I care about you," Dean says. "You know how much."
"I know," Sam admits, but then he bites his lip and shakes his head as he looks away. "It's just never going to be enough, is it? I'm always going to lose out to the job."
"Sammy," Dean says, putting his hand on Sam's shoulder and trying to get his brother to look at him.
Sam stands and grabs his bag off the floor, and Dean feels his heart drop. "I'm going back to Palo Alto."
"You can come on the hunt, Sam," Dean says. "We've still got plenty of time, we'll make it to the Canyon before school starts, even if we miss New Year's. I know you won't believe me, but Dad will be glad to see you, he will. He'll act all gruff, but he'll get over himself-"
"I don't do that anymore," Sam reminds him. He sighs and drops his duffel onto the bed, starts shoving his clothes into it. "That wasn't the deal."
"But we-I wanted this. Sam, please, I want it so bad."
Sam stops, looks him in the eye, gives him a deceptively sweet smile. "It's not too late. We can have it. But not if you go on that hunt."
"Sammy, please."
His brother shakes his head. It's been less than a minute, and he's already all packed up. "You can take the first shower. You'll need to hit the road pretty soon."
"At least let me take you back," Dean says.
Sam laughs at him. Sam laughs at him. "I don't want to get in the way more than I already have," says Sam. "You’re gonna have a hell of a time making it all the way to Indiana before Dad has a hernia."
"I can come back for you. Sam, it might only take a day or two, a few more with driving. Let me come back."
"No," Sam replies. His face collapses as he shakes his head, and Dean sees a stray tear slip down his cheek. "Don't come back. Don't ever come back. Don't come to my school. Don't knock on my door."
He doesn't even sound bitter. He doesn't sound angry. It's like it's not hurting him to tell his brother to stay away, when just hearing the words is killing Dean. "You hate me that much?"
"I don't hate you. I will never hate you." Sam's hand comes up, bunches in the fabric over his own heart, and he pulls at his shirt like he wants to peel his chest away with it. "I can't keep losing you to this. I can't do this again. Just. Please. At least if you're gonna break me, make it a clean break."
Dean watches Sam as he paces, and finally he picks up his bag. Then he grabs the sweatshirt he'd draped over a chair last night, when they were all smiles and shedding clothing "Forget the shower. I'm just gonna go. I need to go."
Dean reaches out to tug on Sam's hoodie as he passes by, and Sam stops to look at him. Dean knows this is his last chance. That if he doesn't tell Sam he will skip the hunt, he'll never see his brother again. So he swallows hard and does the only decent thing he can do.
"You kick ass at that stupid school, okay?"
Sam's face drops but he nods. "Yeah, Dean. I will."
"Can I?" he pulls on the shirt Sam's wearing, and Sam looks down.
It was Sam's favorite hoodie, back before Stanford. Warm and worn by the time Dean had plucked it off a hanger at Goodwill and brought it back to his brother. He'd left it behind in his rush to pack after that fight he'd had with Dad, and Dean had kept it close. Sam picked it right back up on this trip, started wearing it again as soon as he found it.
He knows it stopped smelling like Sam two months after he left. But he wore it away. He kept it and he cherished it. And now it'll smell like his brother again, and Sam is taking it anyway.
Sam looks down confused, then back at Dean. "It's mine."
"It's all I've got," Dean whispers.
For a long moment, Sam watches him, and Dean thinks he might walk out with it just out of spite. Then Sam unzips the brown hoodie, wads it up and tosses it to Dean. "Happy birthday, Dean," he says.
When the door closes, it sounds like just any old door. It's unremarkable and, Dean thinks, it probably shouldn't be worth crying over.
The End.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content (barebacking, voyeurism, masturbation, somnophilia), references to past underage with no age specified, some alcohol use and language
Word Count: 10,942
Author’s Note: Written for spn_j2_xmas. My recipient was jalu2, who asked for a fic where "For once they’re on a road trip. Just a road trip." Obviously I also plucked my title from one of your other prompts. I tried to work in as many of your likes as I could, including: Codependency; Stanford-era; relationships that began, were abruptly ended, and one character still harbours UST (*cough* Dean *cough*); motel rooms; IMPALA!; imperfect relationships; Christmas; pining!Dean; banter; schmoop; domesticity; sharing (beds...clothes...secrets...history); kissing; snuggling; porn; barebacking; possessiveness & marking; oral fixation; fingering; masturbation (mutual/voyeurism/exhibitionsim/solo); TRUST KINK (you could use absolutely any kink if the main focus is trust). That last one is how I snuck in shaving kink. O:) Anyway, I am VERY SORRY your gift is a day late, but I really hope you enjoy it nonetheless!!! Thank you also to the lovely and merciful mod bertEE and my ridiculously attractive last second beta, fiercelynormal.
Summary: Sam has hardly slept off his last exam when Dean knocks on his door. He's not surprised, though he probably should be. He spent last winter break alone, and all the evidence pointed to Sam never seeing his brother again. But he felt Dean coming, an invisible thread stretched too tight between them loosening with every mile.
Before he can question it, he's sitting shotgun, his feet propped on the dash, the too-loud songs of his childhood sung in his brother's off key voice filling his ears as the wind whips past. And they're driving off to all points nowhere, nothing to do but take in the sights and each other.
It starts on the morning of December 20, the day after Sam hands in his last final exam. He feels it as soon as he opens his eyes, a prickling at the base of his spine that starts out as a phantom itch. He decides to ignore it until it goes away, but it only gets stronger.
The feeling intensifies as soon as Brady is out the door. Waving Sam goodbye, asking if he's sure he doesn't want to come with. Sam thought about it. It's not like he has anything better to do here.
He can't say what the hell keeps him in Palo Alto instead. The last holdout in an empty dorm. Just like last year. Like last year wasn't miserable enough.
Sam doesn't know why he stays, but he knows that there's a whisper around him that says he needs to be here. He tries to laugh it off. Things like that don't happen here; Sam left all the weird feelings and creepy crawlies behind.
But, just in case, he stays. Just in case. He can’t simply ignore it. It feels like Dean.
_______________________________________________________________
Hunt in Ohio, that's what Dad tells him. It's not an excuse, really, just an update. After last year, neither of them is going to keep pretending. They only ever pretended for Sam, and doing it without him had been…
"Monsters don't stop killing people just because it's a holiday," John says, and Dean huffs a laugh.
"I hear that." He's sweating outside in Phoenix, wiping dirt off his hands. He just dug a grave for a nine year old girl who turned into a monster on the first night of Hanukkah, slaughtered her whole family, except for the cat. Dean arrived in time to save the cat.
Her body is still in his trunk, still wearing the white cotton pajama dress she got as a gift from Grandma. Dean found the card and the tags next to the open box. She must have changed at some point between opening gifts and tying her brother's intestines around his throat. "I'm wrapping up a job down here, but I can find something else. No worries."
"That's my boy," John tells him. Dean thinks about how much that used to mean to him as he drags the body out and dumps it. She falls in with her sweet little girl smile aimed up at Dean. "If I'm not in touch before then, you have a nice Christmas."
"Yes, sir," he answers, and the call has gone dead before he can wish his father the same.
It's only December 19th, actually. A Friday. The last day of finals at Stanford University, not that Dean keeps track of these things. Time for all the smart boys and girls to go home so they can hear their relatives coo proudly over them at the dinner table.
He doesn't let himself wonder what his is up to. Can't go that goddamn road when there's a fourth grader with her throat slashed half covered in dirt and it's on Dean to give her as decent a send-off as is possible, given the circumstances.
Once the body is salted and the fire starts up, Dean doesn't wait long to get on with the burial and back to the shithole motel of the day. He needs a shower and to not see a replay of tonight's horror show every time he closes his eyes.
Two hours later, he's lying awake in bed. He can't shut his brain down. There's wetness in the corners of his eyes that he can't hold back, but it doesn't really matter these days whether he cries or not. There's no one here to pretend to be strong for. No one to make fun of him.
That family had been gathered for something special, a holiday full of Hallmark moments and pictures to stick in albums for generations to come. It got them nothing, they all died bloody. But they were together. Somehow, that seems better. They were together. If she'd beat Dean and he'd died the same as the rest of them, no one would even know.
Dean doesn't register that he has his phone in his hand until he's staring at it, his thumb hovering over the send button. Sam's number is typed in, still muscle memory. All he has to do is press down, apply a little pressure, and he can hear his brother's voice. Remember what the hell it is he's fighting for.
Except Sam might not answer. If he calls and Sam won't pick up, that's-little dead girl, Dean can take, but that might just be the end of him. A confirmation that Sam hates him, so much he had to run away, so of course he won't pick up the phone.
He worries sometimes, after bad hunts like this or when he's too drunk to stop himself, that he'll never see Sam again. His last words won't have been his own, too hurt and stunned by the revelation that Sam wanted to leave to do anything but echo Dad's anger. He won't ever get to tell his boy that he's proud.
So he gets a crazy idea. And like the phone, Dean is acting it out before he even realizes he's thought it. He's on his feet, throwing his shit back into his duffel.
There's nothing that says he has to be alone. Dean can be harder to ignore than a phone call.
_______________________________________________________________
No one, not even Sam, could explain how he knows. There's nothing special about the knock, no reason in hell Sam should be expecting to see Dean-today or ever, really. But as soon as he hears it all the anxiousness that's been building inside him since he woke up just stops.
He throws the door open, wraps his brother in his arms before he can even really look long enough to be sure it is his brother, let alone to check for demonic possession or any of the other tests he knows he should be running. He certainly doesn't stop long enough to remember that the last time he saw Dean, Dean couldn't bear the sight of him.
That all rushes back on him when it's too late, when his face is tucked into the nook of Dean's neck, when he's just breathed in the scent of motor oil and leather and smoke, all better reassurance than holy water or silver that this is really his brother, standing right here where Sam can touch him.
He braces himself for a lecture about proper safety and vigilance, with a few jabs thrown in about how rusty he's getting. Or for Dean to push him away, explain that nothing has changed or been forgiven, he's just thought of a few more insults he needs to get off his chest.
Neither of those things happen. Dean moves slowly, but eventually his hands come up, wrap around Sam in return, pull him in just as hard. And he lingers, longer than Sam thinks he's ever let a hug linger, until finally he steps back, letting out a huffy little laugh.
"Dean?" Sam says. It comes out sounding like a question, and Sam hates that. Hates that seeing his brother falls closer to 'Christmas miracle' than 'things you can reasonably expect out of a holiday' on whatever spectrum is used to measure these things.
Dean smiles up at him; Sam can tell he's about to say something, but it’s like the whole world gets caught in his throat, suddenly he flinches and turns away, like he's only just realized where he is, who he's talking to, and he's having second thoughts.
It would be just like Dean, too, to drive all the way to California on an impulse and change his mind thirty seconds after he gets Sam's hopes up.
"Dean," he says again, hoping he can ground his brother, cut off whatever is going on in his head. "Hey."
"Hey," Dean parrots back at him. Then he lifts his face just enough in Sam's direction to meet his eyes, and Sam has never seen a look like that from his cocksure ass of a big brother before. "Is it okay that I'm here?"
The question catches Sam so far off guard that he barks out a laugh. "I'm not the one who never wanted to see you again, remember?"
"I remember everything," Dean replies, almost in a whisper.
Sam crosses his arms over his chest. "So why are you here then? You change your mind or do you just want to rub it in a little more that you and Dad don't need me to have a nice-?"
"Please," Dean says, cutting him off with such urgency Sam actually shuts up, his heart starts pumping faster, and he realizes that if Dean is here, something bad must have happened. Dean must be here to tell him something horrible has happened. "I don't wanna fight, Sammy. I can't-please. I don't want to fight with you."
"Is Dad okay? Is he-?"
Dean looks like he's been shaken up and split in half, but instinct still has him reaching out, a hand resting on Sam's shoulder and giving it a firm, comforting squeeze. "He's fine. Big hunt in Ohio. Doesn't expect to be finished with it until the New Year."
"Shouldn't you be with him?"
"I'm where I wanna be," Dean says, taking his hand off Sam and pasting on a big, bright, blindingly fake smile. "You gonna invite me in or what?"
"You need an invitation now?" Sam asks, quirking an eyebrow as he turns from the doorway to make a path for his brother. "Are you a vampire or something?"
"Vampires aren't real, dumbass," Dean says, shoving his way in. "Everybody knows that."
And just like that, it's them again. Easy as breathing.
_______________________________________________________________
"You're really serious about this, aren't you?" Sam's hair is down past his shoulders now, longer than Dean's ever seen it, and he keeps flipping his head to get it out of his eyes.
"I'm always serious," Dean answers, grinning. "About everything."
Sam snorts and smacks Dean's feet off of his cheap coffee table so he can take their place, impossibly long body folding up to sit on the low surface directly across from Dean.
"So you were serious last Christmas?" Sam asks, not even having the decency to look away. He holds Dean's gaze head-on and Dean knows, as much as he wants to change the subject, he's not getting Sam without giving a real answer. "When you left me that voicemail? I still have it saved. Listen to it sometimes, when I'm feeling really sorry for myself. That's the kind of Christmas you gave me, and now you want me to just drive into the sunset like everything is fine?"
There are so many things Dean wants to say to that. Like how Sam started it. Sam left Dean so alone and not just on one lousy holiday. Every goddamn day. Left him with Dad, and last Christmas had been the end of something Dean still hates himself for letting go of.
He used to think he was a good son, just like he thought he was a good brother. Those were the only things he had aside from hunting, and now he's lost them both. Because Sam would never have gone if Dean had been good to him, and a loyal son would never feel the anger Dean has tried so hard to push away.
He can't tell Sam the real reason he's not in Ohio. Won't give Sam the satisfaction of knowing that he hasn't hunted a single case with their father since he woke up last December 26th, John gone and the keys to the Impala sitting on the nightstand as if a gift was going to fill the void Sam created. From the age of ten, there was nothing in the world Dean wanted more than that car, and on the morning he woke up and it was finally his, all he could do was grip the key so tight his palms bled.
John had tried to make a night of last Christmas for Dean's sake, some kind of gesture that they were all they needed to be a family, which was the worst statement he could have made, but Dean knows he meant well. It had been, what, four months? Four months and some change since Sam had stomped off, and whatever family they had between them before, it collapsed just as surely as the rest of Dean's world. They'd forced it for four months, pretended not to notice it was empty, but it all came to a head with Christmas.
Try as hard as he did to pretend everything was alright, Dean couldn't look at his father without feeling resentment claw up inside of him. They'd gone through a bottle of bourbon each, laughing like hollow men at worn out old memories, until finally Dean was too wasted to stick to their unspoken rule that Sam never even be mentioned, let alone where Sam went and why.
He'd looked John in the eye and asked all the questions that had been making him doubt for the first time in his life. How could you give him that ultimatum? How could you drive him away like that? I did everything you told me to. How could you take him away from me? Dad should have known Sam better, should have known that was the worst way to get through to him. Dean knew the moment it was out of their father's mouth that it was gonna lose him his brother forever.
Dean blacked out on most of what happened after that. When he got to his bed, he called six times and Sam didn't answer once. Dean had been so drunk and so alone that he'd let himself be just as ugly to Sam as he had been to John. He doesn't remember exactly what he said in that voicemail, just that the gist of it was something like we don't need you to be happy or I don't even miss you, lies so vicious they should have stuck to the roof of his mouth, glued his lips shut forever. Instead they poured out just as smooth and easy as the whiskey had poured in.
Now, Sam is staring at him, looking for all the world like he was the wronged party, and Dean knows he was. There's no fucking reason a kid should feel guilty for going to college except that Sam tore Dean's heart out, tossed it in with his clothes, and took it with him.
"Sammy," Dean says, licking his lips and dropping his eyes to the floor. "You don't know what that night was like, okay? You know better than to believe I'd ever mean any of that."
Sam shakes his head. "You have no idea how lonely I already was by the time you started calling. You don't know how much I'd missed you every day but especially on that one, how much I wanted to hear your goddamn voice."
As if it hadn't been his choice. As if he ever would have spent an hour alone if loneliness had been his problem. Dean's fingers curl into a fist and then relax. "Then why didn't you answer the phone?"
"I was scared you'd ask me to come back," Sam admits, and then his voice nearly drops to a whisper. "I was worried I'd say yes."
"So say yes now," Dean urges him, leaning forward. "Hell, if you're so miserable, you don't have to stay here. You made your point, believe me. You don't have to be unhappy to-"
"You think that's what this is about?" Sam asks, standing and waving a hand around the room. "You think I'm just proving a point to Dad? Dean, for once in my life, I'm doing something that has nothing to do with Dad. I'm finally living my life for me. It's rough sometimes, I won't pretend it isn't. But I'm not staying out of stubbornness, and I'm not walking away."
"Fine," Dean answers. Sam rounds to look at him, his expression clearly shocked by how calm Dean's response to his anger is. Dean used to stand up taller when Sam got angry, yell louder, remind Sam who the boss was.
There's none of that now. Dean can't do those things. Sam has grown up, and Dean won't win this with bullying. He won't push for more than he can reasonably hope for. He'll fall on the floor and beg for anything Sam will give him if that's what it takes.
"I'm not asking you to walk away. Not forever. Just come with me for a while. Until school starts back up, and you can be back here bright and early in time for classes. Drive away with me for a little while, that's all I'm asking."
Sam's eyes narrow suspiciously. "And you want to drive where? You sure we won't just so happen to end up in Ohio?"
"No. I promise, Sam, no Dad. No hunt. Just us." Dean huffs a laugh. "I mean, Dad wouldn't even-"
"He still hates me," Sam says, his shoulders slumping a little. "He doesn't even know you're here, does he?"
"He doesn't know," Dean admits, standing to put a hand on Sam's shoulder, turn Sam so his brother is looking at him with those big, sad eyes Dean has buckled under a thousand times. "He doesn't hate you. Neither of us ever did or ever will hate you."
Sam snorts. "That's great, Dean. Come with apologies from Dad that we both know he wouldn't ever give himself."
"I'm not here to apologize for Dad. I'm not here for Dad at all."
Dean reaches out to brush his fingers lightly over Sam's neck. He feels Sam's throat work when he swallows too hard. He can't bring himself to say what he is here for. But Sam looks down at him like just this touch is enough to get every point across, and he's so fucking beautiful, so forgiving when he has so much right to hate Dean. Dean can't imagine how anyone, even a monster, could hurt their little brother the way that thing he'd killed yesterday had.
"You've never done anything without his say-so in your life," Sam says. "So convince me this is different. Give me a reason to believe you're not here to drag me back in."
Dean stares for a few long seconds, trying to select just the right words, paste them in the magic order. He was never good at that shit. Not like Sam, and not like he'll need to be for Sam to hear exactly what he wants to say.
So he does what he does know. Actions, not words. He fishes the Impala's keys out of his pocket and presses them into Sam's hand. "You drive. You pick the stops."
To his surprise, Sam grins at that, so wide his cheeks get dimpled and Dean hasn't seen that smile in over a year and a half; he can't even blink. "Does that mean I get to pick the music, too?"
_______________________________________________________________
"So what, you're a hippie now?"
Sam pauses in the middle of the path and lifts his head from his park guide. "Huh?"
"Well, first, there's the hair," Dean says, gesturing at his head, "and now this. Yosemite National Park: come hug our giant fucking trees for hours and walk until your legs fall off. You sure know how to have a good time."
Sam rolls his eyes and turns back to the map. "And you're the one always telling me I bitch too much."
"This tree," Dean says in his best hippie voice as he points to a sequoia to his right and then to one on his left, "looks just like that tree. We are all trees and we are all connected. See, dude? We are one tree. Tubular. Let's, like, totally get high and feel up each other's auras."
"Yeah, Dean," says Sam. "One year of college and I'm that guy. You so get me."
Dean catches up to Sam and reaches up, ruffling his hair in that way Sam has always hated and always loved. But mostly hated. "Seriously, though. What's up with the flowing locks?"
Sam shakes him away, can feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Nothing," he replies smoothly, and Dean just gives him a flat look.
"Not saying there's anything wrong with it," Dean replies, backing off. Like he realized he hit a nerve and doesn't want to risk making it worse. Which is so unlike the big brother Sam knows that it makes his stomach turn. "I just never realized you wanted it that long."
"I didn't," Sam says looking everywhere but at Dean. Fortunately, there's plenty to look at. "I mean, I don't. I just…" Sam coughs uncomfortably. "I just didn't trust anyone at school to cut it."
Dean laughs. "What, you mean-?"
"Yes," Sam snaps. "Just forget it, okay?"
But, of course, it's Dean. He never drops something once he's caught a scent. "No one's cut it since you left," he says. "No one's cut it but me."
"Yeah, I guess," Sam responds, as if it hadn't ever occurred to him. As if that's not the entire reason he's been walking around looking exactly as much like a hippie as Dean is teasing. "It's not a big deal, I'll find someone."
"I could," Dean offers, in a shy little voice Sam has never heard from him before. He lifts his head to look Sam in the eye and gives him a small smile. God, he almost looks like just the thought of cutting Sam's hair is exciting to him, and Sam feels the millionth stab of guilt today. Did he really leave Dean that alone? "If you want, I mean. When we get back to civilization. I could cut it just how you liked."
Sam smiles. "Yeah, Dean. That would be great."
"Really?" Dean asks, and then he plays it off. "Fine, yeah. Assuming you ever let me out of this freezing prison of redundant shit."
"You have to admit it's beautiful," Sam says, his attention back on the park around them. "Come on, we'll set up our tent soon and then your poor feet can get a rest."
"Camping. In December. In the mountains," Dean mutters under his breath. "Just to see some trees made out of rocks. Unbelievable."
"They're actually rocks made out of trees," Sam explains, just to watch Dean's eyes narrow. "I know what'll make it worth your while."
He stops and waits until Dean is next to him, and then he wraps an arm around Dean's shoulder. "Wait until the stars come out, Dean. You've never seen stars like this."
If he didn't know better, he'd think Dean curled in closer before pulling away.
_______________________________________________________________
He sets a chair directly in front of the sink and turns to look at Sam. "You'll be able to see the TV from here. It may take me a while."
Sam picks up the remote and brings it into the bathroom, passing it to Dean. "You're the one doing me a favor. You should choose what we watch."
"I'll be watching your luscious locks so I don't take an ear off," Dean replies. Sam stops to raise an eyebrow, and Dean shrugs. "What? They're hidden so far down under that mane I'm surprised you can hear. I can't make any promises they'll both still be intact when we're done."
Sam just huffs a laugh, doesn't even bother with a comeback. That was always his best strategy for winning arguments, leaving it at that as if he has nothing left to prove. It makes Dean's breath come that much easier seeing him do it again, and his hand trembles as he picks up the shears he's laid out.
Dean was afraid it would be awkward between them. That Sam would be someone completely new and Dean would have to get to know him. But it's worse than that. Beneath shaggier hair and a deeper tan and a smile that comes much more freely, Sam is just the same boy he lost and will have to lose again.
He coughs, trying to disrupt his own thoughts, and then Sam cuts off all thought pretty effectively by pulling his shirt off over his head.
Right. Haircuts. No shirts. Sam always hated the prickly little strands of hair. This is how they always did it. Dean had just forgotten. Has been doing such a good job not looking, but fuck if Sam hasn't gone and started filling out all those fragile, bony joints Dean used to simultaneously tease and worry over.
Sam looks behind him at the TV and then at Dean, clearly puzzled. "You doing alright there?"
"What? Yeah. I just." He clears his throat, points at Sam with the hand not holding the scissors. "Just forgot what a beanpole you are."
Sam looks down at himself, then crosses his arms over his chest self-consciously. "At least I'm not short."
"I'm not short just because I'm not shaped like one of those Yosemite trees you made me spend the last three days staring at." Dean smiles and pulls one of the hand towels off the metal shelf. "Come sit down."
Sam does. Obeys Dean better than he has since he crossed into teendom, taking the seat and leaning back, letting Dean wrap the towel around his shoulders. He closes his eyes almost in ecstasy and just waits. Waits for Dean to come at him with his sharp claws and start trimming away at him like this is still something they do every other Thursday.
They're mostly quiet throughout. The TV buzzes in the background, occasionally loud enough to hear. Dean only tunes in enough to realize that neither of them ever got around to picking something, so it's still set to the last channel watched, which is playing endless episodes of Seinfeld.
Every now and then, Sam laughs at a joke or Dean catches himself humming under his breath, but mostly he works and doesn't hear or see or think about anything except Sam under him, vulnerable, the year and a half of overgrowth falling away and his Sammy beginning to peek out.
When he finishes, he can't help carding his hands through Sam's hair, relishing the fact that it feels exactly like it used to, back when this was allowed. Sam makes a sound like a happy animal and nuzzles into his touch for a few moments before he blinks his eyes open.
And there he is. Not Stanford Sam. Just his baby brother, same cut he wore for years, even if his features are a little more grown up under it. It makes Dean feel seasick, the toss between how familiar he is and how much he's grown in one year, how different that's made him, and how Dean wasn't there to see or understand those changes. A year and a half ago, Dean could have counted the days he'd gone from morning to night without seeing Sam on two hands and still have had a few fingers left over.
"Dean?" Sam asks, laughing nervously. "You're kind of staring. Is it…it doesn't look terrible, right?"
"You can look," Dean tells him, wishing a stupid little sentence like that didn't just make his voice break.
Sam does, then he smiles so wide, Dean would think the room had been struck by lightning. He reaches up, curls his fingers in his own hair. "That's much better, isn't it?"
Dean nods, letting his fingers slide over the long expanse of back Sam has turned on him. "Yeah, Sammy. You look good."
In the mirror, Dean can see Sam shutting his eyes tight, letting out a long breath as Dean's touch runs up, past his shoulder. He skims over Sam's cheek, which is rough from three days in the woods worth of stubble, and laughs.
"Man, when you left you hardly needed to shave. Now look at you. Three days and you're Bigfoot."
"Mmm," Sam agrees. He opens his eyes, and Dean sees that Sam's expression has gone a little hazy. Like he's sleepy or turned on.
Yeah, Dean hasn't forgotten he's the kind of monster who knows his little brother's sex tells better than any girlfriend ever could.
"You could shave it for me," Sam says.
Dean decides the only hope he has of backing out of this is to pretend it's a joke. "Right, yeah. And then I can pick out your jammies for you and help you get dressed for bed. For old time's sake, right?"
Sam catches Dean's wrist and holds him so he can't skitter off and hide himself in take-out menus. "Old time's sake," Sam repeats, his lips curling in the corner. "Remember when you taught me how to shave?"
That does surprise a laugh out of Dean. "You were nine. Caught me doing it and covered your damn face in cream before I could stop you."
"Yeah, but you didn't try to stop me," Sam says with a smirk. "You went and got that stool from the kitchen, helped me learn how to hold the razor."
"Dad was pissed when he saw the mess we made. And how much time we'd wasted." Dean shakes his head. "You thought it was the coolest."
"And then you took all the blame. Said it was your idea, because you didn't want Dad to yell at me and make me cry."
Dean swallows and looks away. "You always did get me in trouble."
"I was so mad at you for lying about it, too. Remember?" Sam's smile only slips for a moment. "Guess I should have just said thank you."
"Guess so," Dean agrees.
He shrugs and turns away to put the hair scissors back in their pack, and when he looks again, Sam's standing at the sink, his cheeks white from a layer of shaving cream he's washing off his hands.
He picks up his razor and reaches out for Dean's palm, placing the cool plastic inside. Dean's fingers curl around the handle without hesitation, and Sam guides his hand up, rests the blade right against his Adam's apple.
"Go on, Dean," Sam says. "Clean up after me. You’re good at it."
"Wouldn't you feel safer if you did it yourse-?"
"Nothing makes me feel safer than knowing you're taking care of me," Sam replies. He waits until Dean gives in, dragging the razor down and then moving to Sam's cheek.
Dean is even quieter now than he was when he was cutting Sam's hair. Because that was old hat, second nature, something Dean could never forget, no matter how long it had been. But this is new and scary and crushingly intimate. One slip of his hand and Dean could cut his brother open. He's cut like that before, a hundred times, on purpose. But his hand is practiced and sure, and Sam's cheeks are close-shaved and smooth when Dean wipes the last of the cream away.
Sam touches his own cheek, then reaches out to stroke Dean's. "Me leaving…it wasn't because you did something wrong. It wasn't ever about not trusting you or not wanting you near me. I wish you'd believe that. I know you won't. But I wish you would."
Then he brings his other hand up and guides Dean forward slowly, until his lips are just hardly pressing against his brother's.
_______________________________________________________________
"How about the Grand Canyon?"
Dean looks up from his fries, one eyebrow quirking. "I thought you said we were going to Yellowstone? We've been driving north for nine hours."
"Oh, no, we are. Christmas in Yellowstone," Sam says, repeating the plan for what feels like the fiftieth time since they left California. "But we've still got plenty of time until New Years, and besides, school doesn't start again until the 12th. We could make our way down there. I know you've always wanted to go."
He watches Dean, picks up on the disinterest Dean is projecting, and knows better than he knows anything that his brother is just trying to mask excitement.
"Who says I want to go to the Grand Canyon?" He sighs and leans back on his side of the booth. "This national park geek journey is all on you, kid."
"When you were fifteen, Dad took us on that hunt in Arizona. They had one of those displays full of pamphlets in the motel lobby and you picked one about the Grand Canyon and read it over and over. You asked Dad if we could go for your next birthday."
"And he asked me if my birthday was more important than the people who would die while we were off shooting the breeze instead of hunting," Dean finishes.
Sam winces at the memory. He'd never seen Dean's face fall quite the way it had that day, but he hadn't spent a moment feeling sorry for himself. Fifteen years old, and already so gone on the mission that he threw his own birthday out and never mentioned it again. But he never skipped Sam's. Never let Sam's go unmarked.
"I can't stay until your birthday," Sam says, frowning. "I really will have to be in classes. But we can go see it now. Get a cake, celebrate a few weeks early."
Dean wets his lips and stares at his burger before taking a monumental bite out of it. "I don't care, Sammy," he says, his mouth full, the food he's chewing revoltingly on display. "Whatever you want. Don't go out of your way for me."
"And then we can hit Las Vegas. When have we ever had a bad time in Vegas?"
His brother grins and swallows too much at once. "Now you're talking."
Sam shakes his head, dropping his fork into his half-eaten salad. "Well, you've killed my appetite."
Of course, it's Dean, so he just takes another giant bite, chews for a few seconds before rolling out his tongue to show Sam another mountain of crushed beef.
"You're so gross," Sam tells him, kicking him under the table.
The waitress comes to ask if everything is alright with their meal, and Dean tells her, through his stuffed mouth, how wonderful everything is. Apparently, she's made of tougher stuff than Sam is, because she just laughs and pats him on the shoulder before asking Sam if there's anything else she can get for him.
"Just the check, please," Sam replies.
"I'll get this one," Dean says, reaching for his wallet and trying to snatch the paper away from the waitress before Sam can.
"No," Sam says. "I've told you already. I'm paying for this trip."
"Sam, come on. You actually earned that money." Dean flashes a card in the name of GILBERT RODEGHAST. "Gilbert's money is free!"
"Gilbert's money is stolen," Sam reminds him in a hushed tone. "Besides, I'm happy to pay for this. I'll just cut back on a few things at school, it's not a big deal."
"It is a big deal," Dean says grumpily to his fries. "You have to buy all those books and…you're on your own with it. You should be saving that money."
"I'll skip the next Harry Potter movie," Sam says, waving off his brother's concern. "It's my least favorite book, anyway."
"That's your money saving plan, nerd wonder?"
"Consider it a Christmas present," says Sam. "Since I…I mean, I didn't think I was going to see you."
The smile Dean gives him in return can only be described as weird. "Hey, how could you have? Didn't even plan it myself. Not like I got you anything, either."
_______________________________________________________________
Dean has two Christmas presents and a birthday gift wrapped in newspaper and hidden deep at the bottom of the Impala's trunk. They'd been accidents. He'd gone into a Walmart, passed the book wall at a Goodwill, bought things he thought Sam might like before he even remembered he didn't have a Sam anymore.
He'd never thrown them away, felt the nagging conviction that someday Sam would be back, and then he could give them to him. Now Sam is here, and it's actually Christmas, and Dean can't bring himself to dig them out. They're embarrassing, cheap little things a college boy is much too good for. Hell, Sam wouldn't even fit in the flannel shirt Dean bought him last December anymore, and he's probably read every book on the planet by now.
More than that, Sam would take one look and know. He would pretend not to get it, and that would be worse. Dean has spent the last eighteen months stuck in one mindset while Sam never even dreamed of getting him something.
So he shrugs when Sam asks if they should try to do presents, calls it a waste of time. Continues to walk past the newspaper sellers without reading even one headline and tells himself that's his gift to Sam, but even he knows it's an excuse. If Dean did look, if he did find a hunt, it wouldn't change anything. He would never choose it over these precious few days with his brother. He would let the people die, and he hates himself for that, but at least it's only theoretical as long as he doesn't actually let himself find a case.
Dad would never look him in the eye again if he knew how Dean was wasting these weeks.
They do make it to Yellowstone in time for Christmas. Most of the park is closed for the winter, and the rest of it is nearly deserted. They wind their way through what they can in one day, and, well. Dean bitches to save face, but the truth is, he's loving every moment of this just as much as Sam is.
It's different from anything they’ve done before. Dean has driven forty-eight states so many times he knows the highways better than any of the people he went to school with. He's gone past his fair share of wonders. But he never stopped like this to enjoy any of them. He never really had a chance to soak in the fact that sometimes the earth spits out beautiful things instead of ugly ones. There was always another hunt, another person to pull out of the frying pan. This just wasn't important enough.
Now it's late night, not even Christmas anymore. 3 a.m. on December 26. Last call at the one restaurant-slash-bar they could find open on the holiday.
They pulled off in a small town not far from the park called Chester, and somehow, Dean had managed to talk his brother into hustling. Now they’ve got $700 of someone else's Christmas money shoved into the glove compartment.
That's not a world record by any means, but it's more than decent for one night's take. Dean hasn't scored like that in months. It's not as easy to get the suckers to throw down without the concerned, sober brother stepping in to try to talk sense into him.
"My favorite was the geyser," Sam says, swaying into him heavily. They're both a little boozy, and Sam's steering has always been the first thing to go. For a guy as graceful as his brother is on hunts, a few beers and Sam might as well have a magnet in his stomach at the rate he bumps into Dean. "Except the smell."
"Rotten eggs," Dean says. Then, "Sulfur."
Sam nods, not supplying the obvious next step. "How about you? What was your favorite thing today?"
Dean pretends to think it over. Sam's face when the damn geyser had gone off, if he's being honest. But what has honesty ever gotten him? He inclines his head back at the bar they're walking away from. "The bartender's rack."
They reach the motel within minutes, and Sam's still ranting on about all the shit they saw, his expression animated and younger than it was even when he was a little kid. Dean slides them in with the card key, and Sam pauses in the doorway to tug on his jacket.
"The buffalo were so much bigger than I thought they would be," Sam says, grinning at Dean like whatever he says is law, like he could turn the sky green with a thought. "Weren't they huge, Dean? We should teach them how to hunt. You could ride one into battle."
Dean laughs, shaking his head. "What are you even on about, Sammy?"
"No, you're right. You'd never go to battle riding anything but the Impala."
"Well, she's mine now to ride where I wanna," Dean says, tossing the keys up in the air and catching them before stuffing them back in his pocket. "Were you surprised to see Dad gave her to me? I still can't believe that sometimes."
"She was always yours," Sam says. He lifts his eyes, and suddenly he doesn't look nearly as drunk as he had seconds ago. "She was always yours, Dean."
Dean fucking trips then. That's what it is, it's a stumble after so many years walking the line. So many years being good and resisting, but Sam is looking up at him with those shiny eyes and he's here, he's really here. He has been for days. Came just because Dean asked and isn't going away until he has to. Dean is an addict, and he stayed clean as long as he could, but goddamn, everyone slips up every now and then.
So he wraps a hand on Sam's cheek and pulls his brother in for a kiss. Not a demanding one, just a soft, reassuring little thing, like Sam had given him after the haircut. That's all it's supposed to be, but as soon as he tastes Sam, everything is out the window.
Sam pulls back when Dean tries to slip his tongue in past Sam's lips, and Dean feels panic starting up at the base of him and spreading. But Sam doesn't look angry or disgusted. God, Sam was never disgusted with this, not like Dean. Sam never hated himself for wanting, never understood why Dean fought so hard to tamp it down.
"But you said-"
"Forget what I fucking said," Dean tells him, pressing his whole body into Sam's.
Sam opens up to him. Sam takes him in and holds him there and molds to fit Dean, because this is what they were always supposed to be. Two pieces, one incredibly fucked up puzzle. Dean doesn't even hate himself for it this time. He gets so little of Sam these days, and suddenly he gets everything.
This is far from a first for them, but it feels new anyway. Sam doesn't kiss like he used to before Dean broke things off. He's the one pulling his big brother in with a steady hand, he's undoing buttons fast and practiced, and turning Dean's spine into liquid with a confident smile.
Sam shoves Dean's shirt off and starts to work his hands under the t-shirt he had underneath, until his fingers are ghosting over Dean's nipples, tweaking the sensitive one on the right just because Sam has always loved the way that makes Dean gasp.
He decides it's only polite to return the favor, so pretty soon Dean is yanking Sam's layers of clothes off over his head, sinking to his knees and setting his focus on the button of Sam's fly.
"How do you wanna?" Dean asks, stopping once he has Sam's jeans down around his thighs. Sam's dick is half-hard, starting to show through his boxers, and Dean coaxes it out through the opening, presses a kiss to the head of it and then licks a stripe down the side just to save face.
Sam moans and brings his hands to rest in Dean's hair. "Dean. Your mouth. Hasn't been a day I haven't missed it."
Dean likes that. Likes to hear that Sam thinks of him when he's not there, even if he's thinking of the wrong parts. So he rewards Sam by taking him all the way between his lips, jacking the base of Sam's cock until his brother is fully hard and starting to taste of salty precome whenever Dean licks his slit.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Sam is saying as he gives Dean more and more to work around with shallow little thrusts. He's not fucking Dean's mouth-knows Dean will take better care of him if left to his own devices-but he can't hold still, either. That always drove Dean crazy. Crazy, that's what Sam makes him.
He feels a big warm hand cradle his cheek and pulls back to look at Sam. Dean can't imagine what he looks like right now, with his mouth all swollen and drool dripping out and down his chin when Sam pulls his dick away.
"Don't want to finish like that," Sam tells him.
Dean turns his face to kiss the shaft of Sam's cock. "Tell me. Tell me what my little brother wants for Christmas."
Sam grabs his face and pulls him up to his feet. He puts his lips against Dean's ear and whispers, "Like before. Please, Dean. I want it just like before."
One more kiss and Dean would be a goner even if he had planned to try denying Sam anything. He separates himself from Sam just to reach down and open his jeans, and he cups Sam's ass to shove the boxers down with his free hand.
"On the bed, then. And spread out. You know how I like you."
Sam nods like the eager boy he used to be, snatches lotion off the motel nightstand and sits at the head of the bed, pressed up on all the pillows, his too-long legs opened wide to make room for Dean.
Eventually. For now, it's just a world of empty space for Dean to take his fill of Sam as he moistens his fingers and reaches back past his dick, pressing first his index finger in, then the middle one beside it.
Dean always loved a show. Used to get off on this so damn hard when he still felt wrong touching Sam, when Sam doing it for him was a godsend.
Now, though. It's been years since he got to touch Sam like this. Longer even than it's been since Sam left. He'd put a stop to this. Willingly. For their own good, he thought, he put a stop to this because he thought Sam would leave him one day if he didn't, and then Sam left anyway.
He practically pounces onto the mattress once he's naked, grabs Sam's wrist and pulls it away, drawing Sam's long fingers between his cock-swollen lips. Sam pants hard and arches his back, his stiff dick pushing into the air.
Dean keeps right on sucking Sam's fingers as he replaces them, pushing his thumb into Sam just to test him out. He's wet and warm and just relaxed enough. It'll be a perfect fit for Dean.
"Please," Sam whispers.
It's bad form, making your brother ask for something twice. And besides, it's Christmas.
Sam's fingers slide out of his mouth slowly, and Dean smiles, kisses Sam once as he fumbles around blindly for the lotion and uses most of what's left in the bottle to slick his cock up.
"Condom?" he offers.
Sam huffs. "Don't be stupid."
What he feels then is relief. He doesn't realize how badly he needs to feel Sam, all of Sam, to pour himself right into his brother, until Sam is laughing off the suggestion that they would ever do it any other way. Sam used to be a virgin. Sam used to have nothing to worry about, because Dean was careful and he'd never been with anyone but Dean.
Now they’re taking stupid risks and it doesn’t fucking matter. Maybe he's not Sam's only anymore, but he knows Sam would never let someone else fuck him raw.
He takes one of Sam's legs in each hand, pushing them up to his shoulders until Sam's ass is level with his dick. Then Sam is reaching between them, holding himself open and helping steer Dean right into him.
Dean breaches Sam steadily but he doesn't go slow. He doesn't have to baby Sam anymore. He gets balls deep in his brother before he even thinks of pulling back, and then he drives right in just as sharply the second time.
Sam is a champ and was from the first damn time they did this. His body tightens around Dean to make it feel so fucking good, but always loosens again when he needs space. He grips Dean's shoulder with one hand, those long fingers digging their fingerprints into his skin, and grunts when Dean fucks him.
"Jesus, so big," Sam's saying. "Thought I had to be remembering wrong."
"You watch your mouth, Sammy," Dean says, grinning and playful even as he's punching into Sam's sweet spot and his brother is closing his eyes in bliss. "My dick is the real deal, and don't you forget it."
"Won't-ah! Won't forget." Sam licks his lips. "Mmm, Dean. Fuck me."
"I know, Sam," Dean promises. He leans into Sam's space, kissing Sam's neck all the way up to his ear, sucking it between his lips before biting the shell of it. "I'm gonna take good care of you. Know how you like it. Wouldn't ever forget."
"Dean," Sam whimpers. "Dean."
"You can touch," Dean says, kissing Sam on the mouth before dropping Sam's legs, repositioning himself so he can watch. "Touch yourself."
Sam's hand is hardly on his cock before his balls are drawing in, his breathing becoming louder, his ass pushing up to meet Dean even more insistently. Sam comes with just a few pulls, and Dean makes it until Sam is licking his own come-soaked fist before his climax starts, like a spark on dynamite, and Dean is going off in seconds, exploding into his brother's tight ass.
He collapses onto Sam when he's done, and Sam takes him in his arms, pulling Dean in like a stuffed toy. "This is my favorite Christmas ever," Sam tells him. He yawns and Dean's not sure if he falls asleep first or if Dean does, but they stay like that, warm and curled together and sharing one too-small bed, until the sun wakes them up the next day.
_______________________________________________________________
Morning wood, Sam is used to. The hand wrapped around him, jerking him lazily, that's new.
"Dean?" he asks, throwing a hand over his eyes to block the sun out and letting his brother's hands fuck him slowly.
"Anyone else you know who says good morning quite as nice as I do?" Dean twists his hand on Sam's dick. "You sure got big this past year, huh? Remember your dick used to be a good size, but now my arm is sore from working it."
Sam feels his own goofy, content smile spread, and he doesn't even bother to hide it. He lets his hand drop away so he can open his eyes, see his brother lying half on top of him with his hand between Sam's legs.
"Kiss me," is all Sam says, and Dean does.
He comes soon after, the soft sound swallowed by his brother's plush lips. When Sam is spent, he pulls away and starts kissing his way down Dean's jaw, to his chest, his sights set on returning the blowjob Dean gave him last night. Sam loves sucking cock, and Dean's is perfect.
They never make it that far. Sam gets to the cut of Dean's hip and then he hears a soft, "Is that why you left?"
He sighs and lets his cheek rest on Dean's thigh, looking up at his brother in confusion. "Huh?"
"Last night, when I kissed you-did you leave because of what I said?"
Sam pulls back, sitting on his knees at the end of the bed and thinking the question over. "No. I mean, not really. Maybe. I don't know, Dean."
"How could you not know?" Dean looks away from him. "I thought I was doing the right thing."
"You dumped me," Sam reminds him. "You told me you didn't want me. That was the worst night of my life, Dean."
"Thought if I gave you an excuse, you could be normal. Didn’t think you'd go be normal without me if I gave you an out." Dean laughs, but it's not Dean's laugh. "I didn't think you would believe me."
Sam sighs, giving up on the blowjob for now and moving back up to rest his head on the crook of Dean's shoulder. "I don't know that I ever did, completely. But it made me realize that I…I needed to find out who I was for myself. I didn't leave because you didn't want to fuck me. But I do think it made me understand things I wouldn't have if we'd still-"
"I take it back," Dean says in a rush. "Is it too late? Can't I just take it back?"
He feels hot tears stinging at the corner of his eyes and hides his face even closer against his brother's skin. Dean sounds like a kid. Like a stupid, spoiled little kid and Sam knows he really is that lost. Sam broke him. He broke his big brother. "Dean, no. It doesn't work like that."
"Please. I didn't mean to make you go away. Please." Dean's arm wraps around him, and it's too tight, but Sam doesn't try to struggle against it. "Please, Sammy. I need you. I should have told you that instead. I didn't fucking mean it."
"When you pushed me away that night, I thought you were being cruel. I thought I would always hate you for it. But I'm thankful. If I hadn't realized what I did, I would have stayed, yeah, but I would have figured it out eventually. When it was too late. I would have been miserable forever."
Sam sits up on his elbows, looks Dean in the eye, and pretends Dean's eyes aren't wet as a courtesy to his brother. "I know you think I'm punishing you. That I did what I did because I hated you and Dad. Dean, it's just the opposite. I never could have gone to school-to Stanford, of all places-if you hadn't believed in me. You made something of me. I won't insult that by walking away."
"Fine," Dean replies. "Whatever."
Sam laughs. "Please don't pout."
"I'm not pouting." Dean insists. In a pouting kind of way.
He smiles fondly at his brother and brushes his fingers along the edge of Dean's face. "It doesn't have to be all or nothing just because that's how it is for Dad. We can still do things like this. Or you can come visit me at school. You don't have to drop me off next month and never see me again."
It must be the right thing to say, because Dean's pout turns just a little softer, and he pulls Sam back down into his arms.
_______________________________________________________________
They're only six hours away from the Grand Canyon when it all goes to shit. They've been moving slowly for the last few days-fucking around and fucking in general, stopping at roadside stands and every diner with pie on the menu. They go on detours. Why the fuck not, they think they have over a week left before they even need to point the car back to the West Coast.
His phone wakes him up at seven in the morning, which is long past the time he should have gotten up, going by Dad's rules. But apparently, Sam doesn't have classes in the morning, isn't used to waking up before ten a.m., and Dean has been happily living in Sam's time zone for almost ten days now.
"Hello," he says, softly as he disentangles himself from Sam so he can get to the bathroom and close the door before he wakes his brother up. Or worse yet, before Sam says something and John hears who Dean is with right now.
On the other end of the line, there's confused silence before Dean hears, "Did I wake you?"
"Uh," Dean answers. "Yes, sir. I…finished a salt and burn last night, real late. Only got to sleep a couple of hours ago."
That should be good enough, and luckily, it is. "Sorry to wake you then, son. But this is important. I've got a job lined up in Indiana, and I need you here in the next day to have my back."
"Indiana," Dean repeats, licking his lips as he searches for a lie, his eyes bouncing all over the room like he'll find a good one lying out on the floor. "Sir, I'm in Utah. There's probably someone closer who can help you get it done in time. Maybe Bobby-"
"Bobby was supposed to be on it with me, but he and I have had a disagreement. He's out. And he took the next best guy within five states to Maine on his own case. I need someone I know I can trust. The coordinates are-"
"But I can't," Dean says stupidly.
"I thought you said you'd just finished your case?" John replies.
Dean stumbles to his feet, looks down at the bed he just vacated. The little brother who is now wide awake, staring up at him with hurt in his eyes. Sam shakes his head. Dean shuts his eyes against it. "Dad, it's complicated."
"Nothing is complicated. Either you're in this fight or you're not, Dean," John tells him. "You will meet me in Bloomington on Thursday and that's final. Now take down these coordinates."
"Yes, sir," Dean says, reaching for the motel pad in the nightstand drawer, even as Sam tries to reach out to stop his hand. Dean waves him away. Someone could die. Dad could die. Dean can't just refuse this because he wants to, not even if Sam is asking. Not even if he's never wanted anything as much as he wants two more measly days.
He's spent the last week so happy imagining it. Selfish. He's been letting people die just to see some dimples cut into stone, canyons on Sam's cheeks.
When he's done writing, he drops the phone and the notepad, and Sam snatches it up immediately. "I knew it."
"Sam," Dean says, sinking into the bed across from his brother. The one neither of them has touched until now. "It's not as simple as-"
"It's exactly that simple," Sam replies. He shoves the covers aside and stands, walking toward the bathroom.
"What do you want me to do?" Dean asks the question to his brother's back, and Sam doesn't turn toward him.
"I want you to grow a spine," he replies. "Put your foot down for once in your goddamn life."
"There are people dying," Dean says. "I can't just ignore that because I want to, Sam. I'm not that kind of person."
"You're not a machine, either!" Sam yells, turning so fast that watching him makes Dean dizzy. "We aren’t machines. People are always fucking dying. They're always going to be. You stop this thing, there's another one you didn't stop. You're never going to kill them all, Dean. You're allowed to have a couple of weeks out of twenty-four years for yourself."
"That's exactly why I can't, Sam," says Dean. "There's so much evil out there and we've been-I can't be the kind of person who just lets it get worse."
"Oh, like I am?" Sam asks. "Is that what you mean? Is this the part where you tell me again how I've betrayed you? Betrayed the mission? How I'm selfish and terrible because I want to keep you for a few more days?"
Dean shakes his head. "You have something else. You're smart. You've got a future. I don't have anything else, Sam."
Sam crosses the room, sinks down next to Dean and touches his face. "You could have me. We can be happy. Just call Dad back and tell him no."
His laugh is so ugly, Dean doesn't even recognize it. "What ever happened to 'it doesn't have to be all or nothing'? You hate Dad for making you choose and now you're doing the same thing to me."
"Because you made a promise," Sam says, his voice getting all wet. "Dean you promised me. When I agreed to come with you, you promised me. No hunts, no Dad. Three little weeks, just us. It was your idea."
"Well, I didn't know this would happen."
Sam barks a laugh. "Yeah, you did. Hell, I did. This always happens. He yanks your leash around in every direction whenever he feels like it. I just thought maybe you'd care enough about me to-"
"You know I care about you," Dean says. "You know how much."
"I know," Sam admits, but then he bites his lip and shakes his head as he looks away. "It's just never going to be enough, is it? I'm always going to lose out to the job."
"Sammy," Dean says, putting his hand on Sam's shoulder and trying to get his brother to look at him.
Sam stands and grabs his bag off the floor, and Dean feels his heart drop. "I'm going back to Palo Alto."
"You can come on the hunt, Sam," Dean says. "We've still got plenty of time, we'll make it to the Canyon before school starts, even if we miss New Year's. I know you won't believe me, but Dad will be glad to see you, he will. He'll act all gruff, but he'll get over himself-"
"I don't do that anymore," Sam reminds him. He sighs and drops his duffel onto the bed, starts shoving his clothes into it. "That wasn't the deal."
"But we-I wanted this. Sam, please, I want it so bad."
Sam stops, looks him in the eye, gives him a deceptively sweet smile. "It's not too late. We can have it. But not if you go on that hunt."
"Sammy, please."
His brother shakes his head. It's been less than a minute, and he's already all packed up. "You can take the first shower. You'll need to hit the road pretty soon."
"At least let me take you back," Dean says.
Sam laughs at him. Sam laughs at him. "I don't want to get in the way more than I already have," says Sam. "You’re gonna have a hell of a time making it all the way to Indiana before Dad has a hernia."
"I can come back for you. Sam, it might only take a day or two, a few more with driving. Let me come back."
"No," Sam replies. His face collapses as he shakes his head, and Dean sees a stray tear slip down his cheek. "Don't come back. Don't ever come back. Don't come to my school. Don't knock on my door."
He doesn't even sound bitter. He doesn't sound angry. It's like it's not hurting him to tell his brother to stay away, when just hearing the words is killing Dean. "You hate me that much?"
"I don't hate you. I will never hate you." Sam's hand comes up, bunches in the fabric over his own heart, and he pulls at his shirt like he wants to peel his chest away with it. "I can't keep losing you to this. I can't do this again. Just. Please. At least if you're gonna break me, make it a clean break."
Dean watches Sam as he paces, and finally he picks up his bag. Then he grabs the sweatshirt he'd draped over a chair last night, when they were all smiles and shedding clothing "Forget the shower. I'm just gonna go. I need to go."
Dean reaches out to tug on Sam's hoodie as he passes by, and Sam stops to look at him. Dean knows this is his last chance. That if he doesn't tell Sam he will skip the hunt, he'll never see his brother again. So he swallows hard and does the only decent thing he can do.
"You kick ass at that stupid school, okay?"
Sam's face drops but he nods. "Yeah, Dean. I will."
"Can I?" he pulls on the shirt Sam's wearing, and Sam looks down.
It was Sam's favorite hoodie, back before Stanford. Warm and worn by the time Dean had plucked it off a hanger at Goodwill and brought it back to his brother. He'd left it behind in his rush to pack after that fight he'd had with Dad, and Dean had kept it close. Sam picked it right back up on this trip, started wearing it again as soon as he found it.
He knows it stopped smelling like Sam two months after he left. But he wore it away. He kept it and he cherished it. And now it'll smell like his brother again, and Sam is taking it anyway.
Sam looks down confused, then back at Dean. "It's mine."
"It's all I've got," Dean whispers.
For a long moment, Sam watches him, and Dean thinks he might walk out with it just out of spite. Then Sam unzips the brown hoodie, wads it up and tosses it to Dean. "Happy birthday, Dean," he says.
When the door closes, it sounds like just any old door. It's unremarkable and, Dean thinks, it probably shouldn't be worth crying over.
The End.