Fic: Even Heroes Bleed
Title: Even Heroes Bleed
Author: joans23
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Words: ± 8,000
Warnings: Underage (Sam is 14)
Summary: Sam's been hiding his feelings from his brother, but he's not the only one keeping secrets.
Notes: This is the superhero!Dean story that's been eating my brain for a while now. It turned out quite differently from what I originally envisioned, just don't ask me how-where-why. The biggest thanks ever to my most gratious betas, blincolin and kkgee. Thank you so much for sharing your talent and time - I can never tell you how very much it means to me! *hugs* Written mostly during mini_nanowrimo, and finished in time for spn_t00bs. Title and cut from Five for Fighting.
Sam jerks awake.
He lies still for a moment, listening. The sounds of the city are familiar: the never-ending rush of traffic, the catcalls to the whores on the corner, a bang that could be either a car backfiring or a gunshot. It's not Dad just getting in - he got home hours ago, in time for dinner for once. Sam's heart stutters, terror clogging his throat like he was snatched from the clutches of a nightmare.
Dean.
Even though it's been two years since they moved Dean's bed to the room across the hall, Sam still wakes up like this sometimes. The empty space where Dean's breathing used to be threatening to swallow him whole. He knows it's silly, but he won't be able to get back to sleep until he's checked.
Sam throws back the covers, wincing when his bare feet hit the cold floor. He shuffles across to Dean's room as quietly as he can. The door is closed; something else Sam's had to get used to. Closing his hand around the knob, he wonders whether he should knock - according to Dean a new bedroom means new rules. They never used to have rules before. But it's late and he just wants to make sure Dean's okay.
The he hinges squeak as the door opens a crack. Sam's muscles lock and he closes his eyes. He clings to the childhood belief that if he can't see, he can't be seen either. But there's no angry shout, and no foreign objects fly across the room to hit Sam in the face. He opens his eyes.
Dean's bed is empty.
The window is open; the constant wind billows out the curtains. It takes Sam too many steps to reach it, and he curses his too-short legs. Dad keeps telling him he'll start growing one of these days, that he'll shoot up till he's as tall as him and Dean, but so far it hasn't happened.
Sam leans on the windowsill and peers out into the night, but there's no trace of his brother. He looks at Dean's bed, as if he could bring him back by force of will alone. There's another loud blast - definitely a gunshot this time.
"Dean," Sam whispers. His knees give in, dumping him onto the floor.
He draws his legs up against his chest, curling up into a tight ball and waits.
╠═╣
Sam's alarm wakes him the next morning. He's disorientated for a moment, back in his bed with the covers tucked in tightly around him. Sam struggles with them, fighting to get free as the events of the previous night to catch up with him. He bursts into Dean's room, not giving a damn about knocking first.
Dean's just stretching over to silence his own alarm. He hits it hard, the bell giving another little helpless beep before quitting for good. Sam watches him stretch his arms up and then reach down to scratch at the faint trail of hair on his exposed stomach. Something tightens low in Sam's belly and he backs away.
"Sammy." Dean's tongue is still thick with sleep. He's peeking at Sam through one half opened lid.
Sam stops, mouth working.
"Dean. I, uh ..." Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off with a chuckle as he swings his legs down.
"How many times I gotta tell you it's normal waking up with it like that? Ain't nothing I can do about it."
Sam gapes at him, his cheeks catching fire.
"You're a friggin' jerk," he says.
Dean laughs harder. He picks up the shirt hanging over the back of the chair behind his desk and sniffs at it. Grabbing clean jeans and underwear from the closet, he ruffles Sam's hair as he passes him on his way to the bathroom.
"Hurry up and we'll make pancakes for breakfast," Dean shoots over his shoulder.
Sam listens to the shower start up. The pipes emit their usual high-pitched whine until the warm water kicks in, and he wonders if the previous night was all just a figment of his imagination.
Dean opens his chemistry textbook when they sit down to eat at the little Formica table in the kitchen. It takes him ten minutes to turn one page, so Sam knows he's only pretending to study. He shushes Sam whenever he opens his mouth to speak. Sam settles for watching Dean instead. His collarbones stick up sharply through his shirt, and the thicker cords of the muscles in his arms standing out in sharp contrast. There are dark circles under Dean's eyes and the knife and fork in his hands shake a little when he slices through the stack for another bite. For the amount of time he spends staring at his brother, Sam curses himself for not noticing the changes earlier.
Dean drives them to school, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Sam clutches his book bag to his chest and watches the plumes of Dean's breath as he softly sings along to the radio. He stops in front of the steps for Sam to hop out before he goes looking for a parking space. Sam stalls, suddenly afraid if he gets out of the car, Dean will drive off without him and he'll never see his brother again.
"I need money for homeroom. They're taking up collections for the library," he says.
"Jesus, Sam, why didn't you say anything earlier? I only got," Dean pauses as he digs a hand into the front pocket of his jeans. Sam looks for as long as it's safe before hiding behind his bangs. "Three dollars."
"That's fine," Sam says, taking the crumpled bills from Dean, folding his fingers around their warmth.
"Hurry up this afternoon, okay? We still have to go the store and I wanna wash the car."
"You taking Brittany out tomorrow night?" Sam asks, keeping up the charade, like he didn't see his brother kissing Jimmy Novak out behind the Tasty Freeze last summer.
"No, Cheryl. And yeah, with Dad gone next weekend, it's kinda my last chance."
It's Dad's annual trip back to a town Sam doesn't remember, to visit the grave of the mother he doesn't remember either.
"'Kay."
Sam pushes open the door and a gust of wind rips it from his hand.
"Sam!" Dean yells, but Sam's already slamming it shut again. He tightens the drawstrings of his hoodie around his face as he takes the steps two at a time.
Dean drops by during lunch break to ruffle his hair and steal his milk, the same as always. Sam's tells him to lay off. It drives him nuts, Dean still treating him like a baby. Dean laughs when he says he doesn't need his big brother to look out for him anymore. They both know he won't ever stop.
After school, they pick up groceries from Mrs. Harvelle's corner store. Sam picks through the selection of frozen dinners while Dean loads up the rest of their cart. Her daughter is hiding around the corner, the flash of her blond pigtails catching Sam's eye every time she peeks out to make cow eyes at Dean. Dean flirts with her, flirts with her mother - so shamelessly it makes Sam want to gag.
Back at the apartment Dean helps Sam to haul everything upstairs, but leaves him on his own to pack it away. He goes outside and tunes the car radio to some station playing classic rock, turning the volume almost all the way up. A couple of the other tenants lean out of their windows to shout down at him, but Dean ignores them and strips down to his t-shirt despite the cold.
Sam slips into Dean's bedroom, standing a few steps back from the window. He watches Dean dump a few buckets of water over the car. Dean is careless, getting himself wet. His soaked shirt sticks to his chest, showing off every muscle. Each time he bends down to dip the sponge into the bucket of soapy water, it pulls up to reveal the frayed elastic of his underwear and a thin strip of skin low on his back.
Sam jumps when Dean's phone suddenly starts ringing behind him. It's charging on Dean's bedside table. Sam looks down at Dean and imagines the trouble he'd be in if Dean caught him in here. He remembers Dean's empty bed.
He answers it.
"Hello?" Sam says.
"Who is this?" the man on the other side asks. His voice is deep and rough. Sam's hand is shaking.
"Sam," he replies softly. The call is disconnected on the other side.
Sam drops the phone onto the table and runs to his room, sliding in behind his desk and opening the first book he can find. His heart is pounding as he listens, waiting for Dean to come thundering in.
Dean's phone starts ringing again and Sam's head whips around. He returns to Dean's room and looks down through the window. Dean is still busy, working with his head hung low as he crouches down next to the left front wheel. The phone won't stop ringing and Sam approaches it warily, sees the unknown caller ID flashing on the screen.
"Hello?"
"Where's Dean?" the same rumbling voice asks him.
"O-outside. He's washing the car."
"I need to talk to him. It's important."
"O-okay," Sam says, hating his inabilty to stop stammering. "I'll take the phone down to him."
Sam locks the door behind him, makes his way down the stairs with Dean's phone clutched in a sweaty hand, pressing the speaker against his chest. He wonders if the mystery man is listening to the hammering of his heart. His knees jar with every step, his free hand sliding along the railing as he goes down the stairs too fast.
Dean looks up in surprise when he bursts through the door, his eyes narrowing when Sam thrusts the phone at him. Holding it against his ear, he turns away and listens quietly except for a few wordless grunts. When the call ends, he snaps it shut and turns back to Sam. His jaw is clenched so tightly Sam can almost hear his teeth grinding together.
"Never, ever, touch my phone again," he says, dangerously calm. Sam is a little slow to react, and Dean steps forward, fisting his hand in Sam's jacket until Sam's forced up onto his toes. "Do you understand me, Sam?"
Sam nods frantically, afraid of his brother for the first time in his life.
Dean releases him, dismissing Sam with a jerk of his head. Sam can feel tears burning in his eyes, but he swallows them back.
"Is this about where you go at night?"
"What?" Dean asks, eyes wild. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Are you ... Is it drugs, Dean?"
Dean's eyes widen before he can help it and it's all the answer Sam needs. He can deny it all he wants now, Sam already knows the truth. Dean sees it too. They know each other too well.
"Go do your homework, Sam."
Dean doesn't bother picking up the discarded sponge. He kicks over the bucket of soap instead and little suds run over the ground to soak through Sam's sneakers. He's not trying to pick a fight, he just can't seem to move. Dean raises a fist and feigns a lunge in Sam's direction, breaking Sam out of his paralysis. He runs up the stairs, even faster than he came down them before. He runs straight through into his room and falls down face first onto his bed. As warm tears soak into his pillow, he runs through all the stuff he heard at school during those boring drug lectures, tries to remember what he's supposed to do. He doesn't want Dean to die.
Sam dries his tears when he hears Dean come in. He refuses to get up, lies listening to the rumbling of his stomach until he falls asleep. When he wakes up in the midnight hours, Dean's bed is empty again. Sam wants to scream and cry. He want to go out after Dean, drag him back home. He wants to go wake Dad and make him do something.
It's no use; John's asleep on the couch, hand still curled around half a bottle of whiskey.
Sam goes back to bed and tries not to wonder what Dean's doing.
Sam checks the night after and the night after that, all week long. Every time, Dean's bed is empty.
╠═╣
Dad packs the car on Wednesday and Sam starts panicking. Usually he doesn't mind Dad's trip, but this time it's different. Dean is quiet and moody, but in the end it's still just the two of them and they've got to stick together.
Sam's never been crazy about their usual Halloween tradition, but now he hopes they keep it. Growing up Sam wasn't allowed to wear a silly constume and go trick or treating; they had to stay inside while Dad was gone. Instead Dean would rent a scary movie and they'd spend the night camped out on the couch, making themselves sick on candy while Sam pretended to be more scared than he really was and Dean pretended he wasn't at all.
Friday morning they stand together on the curb, watching and waiting as Dad checks under the hood one last time before hitting the road. Dean has his arm slung over Sam's shoulders, Sam supposes to reassure Dad he'll look after him.
Sam leans into Dean and feels him stiffen.
"I won't tell Dad, but please ... don't leave me alone while he's gone, okay?" Sam whispers and Dean squeezes his shoulder. When he looks up, Dean nods and Sam waves goodbye to his father.
They stop in the way home from school that afternoon to stock up on candy and Dean rents the newest Alien installment and a bumper edition of cartoons from the kiddies section for Saturday morning.
It feels just like old times and Sam can almost forget the Dean sitting next to him is not the brother he thought he knew.
Sam wakes up alone on the couch a few hours later, static on the TV and Dean gone. A dull thump comes from the back of the apartment and Sam makes it to the hallway in time to see Dean disappear into the bathroom, the door softly clicking shut behind him. He walks over on shaky legs and presses his ear up against it. He can hear water running, but nothing else.
"Dean," he whispers.
Nothing.
"Dean!" he yells.
Still nothing.
Sam pushes the door open. He stops, hand still curled around the knob, a scream choking the breath out of him.
There's so much blood.
It's pooled on the floor, streaked on the wall, a gruesome hand print on the mirror over the basin.
Dean's sitting on the edge of the bath, pressing a towel into his lap so hard his knuckles glow white under the fluorescent light. Dad's old leather jacket, the one Sam could have sworn they donated to goodwill a few years ago along with all his baby clothes, is lying crumpled in the corner. A small arsenal of weapons lay scattered around it, knives of every size and shape imaginable and even a sawed off shotgun. Sam can guess why Dean saved the jacket. Dean's T-shit is ripped to shreds and his jeans, an old pair already faded and tattered, are ruined beyond repair.
He looks up at Sam's intrusion, pale and shivering.
"I'm ... call Dad," Sam stammers as he backs away.
"No, Sammy, don't," Dean says, grimacing as he presses down even harder against his leg. "Please." A whisper.
"What do I do?"
"The ... Oh, God. The sewing kit in the linen closet. Some of Dad's whiskey. Hurry, Sam."
Sam turns and runs, nearly slips on the blood. Dean's blood, some part of his brain that's somehow still operating reminds. Like he could forget. For a dizzying second, Sam thinks the sewing kit isn't there, the devil holding his hand over it in spite. He blinks, spilling new tears down his cheeks and it's back in its usual spot. The booze is easier, a few options to choose from and he grabs the nearest one.
Dean is on his knees when Sam gets back to the bathroom, trying to wipe up the blood with his free hand. There's a gun tucked into the back of his jeans, the pearlescent handle cutting into the small of his back.
"Leave that, for fuck's sake. I'll take care of it. Just." Sam pauses to help Dean up and sits him down on the closed toilet seat. "Sit still."
Dean unscrews the bottle while Sam opens the kit and sifts through its contents for the sharp little pair of scissors to cut away Dean's bloody jeans. Dean's hand and the towel make it hard for him to see what he's doing and he's afraid he's gonna stab Dean in the leg when he tries to cut.
"Rip it," Dean grates out and Sam drops the scissors. He hooks his fingers through the existing hole. Dean's skin is icy beneath his fingertips. He yanks and it tears away easily. Sam grins up at Dean at his small victory, and Dean bares his teeth at him and nods.
Sam's smile evaporates when he reaches back into the kit and sees the blood on his hands. He wipes them on his sweatpants and picks up the needle. It's still threaded with the bright red Dean used to sew back one of the buttons on Sam's favourite jacket last week.
Dean takes a swig from the bottle, gasping at the burn as it goes down. He takes one more and drops the towel and pours a quarter of the amber liquid over his thigh. Dean hisses and curses, barely manages to hold onto the bottle as Sam presses a fresh towel against the wound. The tips of his fingers brush against Dean's crotch and Sam's dick twitches in his shorts. He drops his hand, cheeks flaming, but Dean's got bigger things to worry about than noticing his little brother acting like a freak. He motions for Sam to hold out his hands and bathes them in the alcohol as well.
"You ready?" he asks and Sam nods, moves into position with the needle poised.
When Dean moves the towel, Sam gets his first good look at the damage to his brother's leg. Sam's not a doctor, hell, he's barely fourteen, but growing up in Cicero he's seen his fair share of knife wounds. Whatever sliced Dean up, it wasn't any blade Sam had ever seen. His skin's been sliced into ribbons, some cuts shallower than others, a few really deep.
"Dean, what?"
"Not know, Sam. Just do it."
Sam nods, but he's crying again and he can't see. Dean presses a palm again his cheek, wipes his thumb under Sam's eye.
"It's gonna be okay. You're doing great."
The needle is thin and flimsy and Sam has to push really hard for it to go through Dean's skin. Dean's hand falls away as he sags back against the toilet tank. Sam tries to keep count of the stitches he needs to put his brother back together again, but keeps losing track. He wipes his hands when they get too slippery and pours over more whiskey when too much fresh blood seeps through.
Dean is barely conscious by the time Sam finishes wrapping a bandage over the crisscross of his stitches. He helps Dean to his bedroom, Dean leaning on him heavily as he drags his injured leg behind him. They strip Dean out of everything but his boxers, and get him settled under the covers. Dean doesn't fight Sam when he takes the gun and drops it on top of the pile of clothes, carefully pinching the heavy weight between his thumb and forefinger. He makes Sam return to the bathroom for a broad knife to tuck underneath his pillow though. He's muttering under his breath, delirious from pain and blood loss when Sam gets back. Sam forces three of the headache tablets Dad keeps in the bathroom cabinet into Dean, afraid to give him any more than that. He waits until Dean passes out before gathering up the ragged remains of his clothing.
After a quick trip to the kitchen for a garbage bag, a bucket of warm water and the mop, Sam enters the bathroom again. He dumps the bloody towels into the bag with Dean's clothes, wiping down the jacket and putting it to one side. He mops up the blood, wipes everything down twice with disinfectant and puts out fresh towels. Looking the room over one last time to make sure he didn't miss anything, Sam finally flicks off the light and goes back to Dean. He stows the bag under his bed, he'll worry about getting rid of it later, and stuffs the weapons wrapped in the jacket into the corner of Dean's closet.
Dean's still out when Sam drags a chair next to his bed. He's exhausted, but he can't close his eyes, can't look away from Dean. Sam listens to him breathe, so afraid he might stop. Dean sleeps through most of Saturday and Sunday. Sam forces a few sips of water and more pills into him whenever he wakes up. Sam only manages to catch a few minutes of sleep at a time, unable to stop jerking awake with Dean's name on his lips.
Sam is woken up Monday morning by the shrill alarm of Dean's cellphone. He's laying on the floor in front of Dean's bed, his muscles stiff and sore. Dean is still sleeping, so he heads to the kitchen for some coffee. Sam is startled by his father sitting at the kitchen table, already sipping from a cup as he reads the morning paper.
"Dad," Sam says, his voice an embarrassing little squeak. "What time did you get in?"
"Late," John answers, like it's not unusual for him to only be gone two days.
Sam tries to act nonchalant as he shuffles past to pop some bread into the toaster and pour a glass of OJ.
"Is Dean not getting up today?"
Sam feels his father's gaze boring into his back and turns around to face him. There is a challenge in his eyes, but Sam thinks if he saw Sam sleeping on the floor of Dean's room, he would have said something. So he plays it cool and shrugs.
"He's still sleeping. I think he might be getting sick."
"I hope you're not making up excuses to help him play hookie. I told him last week, I don't care if he's almost done with school, he will attend every class. If I get another call about him skipping, you'll both feel it."
Dean getting into trouble for cutting class is news to Sam, but his father mistakes his look of surprise for guilt. He tosses down the paper as he pushes his chair away from the table hard. Sam jumps to stop him with a hand on his arm.
"He's really sick, Dad, he has a fever." Well, at least Sam isn't lying about that. It started yesterday afternoon and has steadily been getting worse. "I'll stop by the drug store on the way home from school and get him some NyQuil."
For a second it looks like Dad won't believe him, but he relaxes in his seat nevertheless.
"You better hurry so I can give you a ride to school."
"Thanks, Dad," Sam says and hurries out, a piece of toast shoved into his mouth.
Sam dresses quickly, and slips into Dean's room after he's brushed his teeth. He wakes Dean, and makes him take more pills and drink some water. Dean's shivering, so Sam has to hold the glass to his brother's lips.
"Dad's back," he whispers and Dean's eyes go wide. He tries to get up and Sam has to work hard to push him back against the bed.
"It's okay. I told him you're sick, and he believed me. But I have to go to school."
"Thanks, Sam," Dean says as he pulls the covers up to his chin, eyelids already drooping again.
John hands Sam a small stack of bills when he drops him off, which Sam accepts gratefully. He tries to pay attention in class, but gives up halfway through second period. He briefly considers cutting, but there's a reason Sam's never done anything like that before - he can't risk them calling his dad. So he explains that Dean's home alone, sick as a dog and asks for a pass. For a moment, it looks like his Miss Talbot isn't going to buy it, and Sam has to employ the poor little orphan look before his teacher caves and writes him the slip.
At the drug store, Sam loads a basket with bandages, Neosporin and the strongest pain medication he can get over the counter. The cashier gives him a funny look even as she takes his money. Sam gives her a wide grin and tells her he's helping his father restock the first aid kit at work. He's stammering and sweating and wishing he was a smooth talker like Dean. He'd have the woman patting at her greying hair, too busy enjoying the fluttering in her stomach to notice what he's slipping into his back pocket. She lets him leave without raising alarm and he runs all the way home.
Not wanting to wake Dean, he slips into the apartment as quietly as he can. Dean's door is left only slightly ajar when Sam's sure he it was wide open before. Sam pushes it open with trepidation, almost sure he's going to find Dean's bed empty again, his injury be damned.
His mouth goes dry when he sees a strange black man sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on Dean's injured thigh. Though his back is still turned towards Sam, he stiffens the moment Sam steps forward. Sam wishes he kept one of Dean's knives. The man swivels towards him, the shock of wide white teeth glowing in stark relief with his dark face as he smiles at Sam.
Or maybe the gun, Sam amends his wish.
"Hey, Sammy," he says, his smokey voice curling around the diminution of Sam's name. Sam's hands curl into fists at his sides. He's still touching Dean.
"The name is Sam. Who are you?"
"Sam," Dean says, "this is Gordon. He got me some antibiotics."
"Stole them, you mean."
"What else was I supposed to do?" Gordon asks him.
"That's very nice of you after you almost let him bleed to death," Sam says, spitting out some of the rage taking up every available space inside his head not occupied with worry over his brother.
"Sam," Dean says again, weakly, and Gordon ignores him, bends down to squeeze Dean's shoulder. Dean covers Gordon's hand with one of his own and looks up at the man hovering over him with something that has Sam averting his gaze. He exits through Dean's window, swinging out onto the ledge without another word.
Dean won't look at him, even after Sam takes Gordon's place on the bed.
"What's going on, Dean?" Sam asks.
"It's nothing, Sam, don't worry about it."
"Don't worry... Come on, Dean. You could have died and I..." Sam trails off as he slides down onto his knees, resting his head on Dean's chest. "I can't lose you."
"Sammy," Dean whispers, "it's okay." He pets Sam's head awkwardly, then lets it rest there as Sam stays still, listening to the beating of Dean's heart. "I'm not going anywhere." He starts running his fingers through Sam's hair, his fingernails gently scraping over his scalp.
Sam doesn't think, he pushes up onto his elbows and leans in and kisses Dean on the mouth.
Pulling back, he waits for the 'What the fuck, Sam', waits for the disgust to rise in his brothers eyes, waits for him to push Sam away for good. Dean only stares at him, eyes wide and breath rushing out through his open mouth.
"Sor..." Sam starts, and then Dean's kissing him. It's hard and frantic and the fever of Dean's mouth burns right through Sam. His hands curl around Sam's arms, urging him up, pulling him down on top of him.
Dean breaks away with a sharp cry when Sam's weight settles on his injured leg. Sam scrambles off and lifts the covers to check on the wound. There doesn't appear to be any fresh bleeding, but Sam figures he should change the bandage anyway. He retrieves the bag he abandoned in the doorway.
Settling on his knees in front of the bed, he bundles the covers in under Dean's knee to elevate his leg and unwinds the soiled bandage carefully. Dean doesn't move as Sam works, cleaning around the cut with diluted hydrogen peroxide and applying fresh Neosporin. Sam focuses on his task, determined not to freak out.
"I'm sorry," Dean finally says as Sam winds a new bandage around his leg.
Sam's hands still. Sorry for the kiss? For ruining the moment? For the lying and sneaking around and whatever he did to land him here in this bed?
As always, Dean knows exactly what he's thinking. He smiles as he shakes his head and places a hand over Sam's.
"Are you gonna tell me now?" Sam asks as he finishes up.
"I can't, Sam." Sam opens his mouth to argue, but Dean interrupts. "I know you don't want to hear it, but it's for the best. It's scary and dangerous and I don't want you to have any part of it. I need you to be safe."
There's no way Sam's letting it go that easily. He's still worried and he doesn't trust this Gordon character at all. But the pallor of Dean's cheeks and dark circles under his eyes puts a damper on his fervour.
Sam lies down next to Dean, careful of his wound, careful of this new thing between them. He's keeps himself as stiff and still as possible, until Dean pulls him close. He relaxes against the comforting warmth of his brother, burying his head under Dean's chin and snaking an arm around his waist.
"Do you," Dean says, stops to swallow and continues softly, "want to talk about the other thing?"
Sam knows how tough it must be for Dean to offer, that he's doing it anyway, because it's something he thinks Sam wants.
"No," Sam says, "just tell me it's going to be okay."
"It's going to be okay," Dean lies and Sam closes his eyes.
╠═╣
Sam wakes up to Dean's soft groaning.
"Dean," he asks, sitting up and shaking Dean's shoulder. "Are you okay?"
Dean opens his eyes slowly, smiles when he sees Sam and leans up to kiss him.
"Fine," Dean says, falling back against the pillow. "But do you think you could get me some water? And maybe one of those pills you got yesterday?"
"Sure," Sam says, eagerly scooting down the bed and hurrying to the kitchen.
"And maybe a sandwich?" Dean calls after him.
Sam rolls his eyes at Dean, but smiles as he's slathering mayonnaise onto a couple of slices of bread in the kitchen. It's still Dean, his annoying big brother and maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.
Dean recovers quickly, thanks in particular to the antibiotics Gordon supplied, Sam grudgingly admits. Still claiming flu, he manages two more days at home in bed. Sam burns to stay with him, but Dean makes him go to school. He doesn't want Sam to get into trouble and he knows how much Sam loves it.
Sam rushes home as soon as he can though. He arrives breathless, blood pounding in his ears, afraid Dean's changed his mind, afraid he's gone no matter how solemnly he promised to stay put. Dean's there though, every afternoon, turning his face up for Sam's kiss, sliding over to the edge so Sam can slip into bed next to him. It's new and exciting and familiar and safe. It's warm under the covers, trails of burning kisses traced over faces and necks and chests. Dean won't let him do much more. He firmly takes Sam's hand when it strays below his waist, twisting their fingers together and folding their hands over his heart instead. Dean is healing and so are they.
Dean goes back to school, goes back to treating Sam like his annoying little brother while they're behind the institutional walls. The way his eyes seek out Sam's though, the hot promise in every look and casual touch has Sam abandoning his half eaten lunches for an emergency stop in the bathroom to take care of embarrassingly frequent erections. Sam swears he's half hard all the time now, in a constant state of arousal at the thought of Dean and nothing else but Dean.
They're fooling around on Dean's bed a week later, their father called over to Bobby's for a few days to help out with a tricky repair job for a difficult client. The fingers of one of Dean's hands tease over the bulge in Sam's pants while the other captures Sam's hands over his head, pressing them down into the mattress. Dean's lips are trailing down Sam's throat, swallowing up the little sounds of pleasurable frustration he makes before they can escape through his gasping lips.
Dean's phone rings and they both freeze, knowing. They both knew it was coming. Sam sits up when Dean answers. He only says a few short words, a couple of yeses, a couple of nos, before hanging up.
"Who was that?" Sam asks, the challenge clear.
"Wrong number."
"Don't lie to me, Dean. After all of this, don't you dare fucking lie to me."
"Don't swear."
"Fuck that. I'm not a kid and I'm not an idiot."
Dean doesn't say anything and Sam storms off to his own room, the slam of the door echoing through the sudden silence of the apartment. He falls down on his bed, fists balled at his sides as he waits and listens. As he suspected, it's not long before he hears Dean moving around in his room. In his mind's eye Sam sees Dean digging out that worn jacket, shrugging his shoulders into it and popping the collar. Concealed beneath it the myriad of weapons strapped to his body. He hears the click of the window opening only because he's listening for it.
"You're not going," Sam tells Dean as he barrels through the door.
"I have to. Gordon needs me."
"No way in hell, Dean," Sam says, moving between Dean and the window. "You're still hurt."
Dean gets this look in his eyes, feral and dangerous, one Sam's never seen directed towards him before. He steps into Sam's space, looming over him.
"Don't make me do this, Sam."
"Do what? Hit me? Hurt me, because Gordon needs you?"
"It's more than that," Dean says, the fight going out of him when Sam calls his bluff. "Please, Sam, let me go. It's important."
"Okay," Sam says after a moment, "but on one condition."
"What?"
"When you get back you're telling me everything."
Dean opens his mouth to argue, but Sam steps closer, standing up on his toes to kiss his brother once, quick, on the lips.
"It's different now. I need to know if you're not gonna come back." Sam drops his head forward, resting his forehead against Dean's shoulder. "Please, Dean."
Dean wraps a hand around his neck and drops a kiss down on top of his head.
"Okay, Sammy. Okay."
Sam lifts his face and Dean kisses him again, mirroring the same dry press of Sam's lips from before.
When Dean moves away, Sam opens the window for him, holding the curtains to the side as he steps through.
"Don't wait up for me. You've got school tomorrow."
"But..."
"I'll come wake you when I get back. Promise."
Sam watches him scale down the building and disappear down the alley. He lowers the window, leaving it half an inch from the ledge. He sits on Dean's bed for awhile before snaking his hand under Dean's pillow. It's still a shock as his palm grazes over the hilt, even though he knew it was there. Lifting it out carefully, testing the weight and balance in his hand, Sam makes a couple of test thrusts before going to his room and stowing it under his own pillow.
He crawls beneath the covers without changing into his pajamas, settling on his stomach and sliding his hand around the hilt of the knife. Sam imagines it in Dean's hand and draws what scant comfort he can from it.
Sam dozes off, exactly as Dean instructed, and he wakes up when Dean comes back in through the window. Dean's limping, the heavy drag of his left leg exaggerated by exhaustion. There's no urgency to his movements though, so Sam doesn't think he aggravated his injury. He keeps still, feigning sleep as he listens to Dean move around. Probably hiding his weapons and changing out of his strange uniform.
Dean is good on his word, sitting down next to Sam on his bed and gently shaking his shoulder a moment later.
"Hey Sam, you awake?"
Sam turns over and gasps when he sees Dean. He lifts a hand to the livid bruise on his cheek and Dean shifts back with a hiss.
"It's okay. Hey dude, move over."
Sam makes a space for him and Dean gets into the bed, moving Sam until he's spooned in behind him. Dean's feet are freezing and Sam lifts his leg, lets Dean warm them between his knees.
"Dean..."
"Not in the dark. Please? In the morning, I promise."
"'Kay," Sam says, snuggling against Dean. He can feel Dean's cock, still soft, nestling snug against his ass. Sam wiggles, trying to get some kind of friction going, but Dean stills him with a firm hand on his hip.
"Sleep," Dean commands and unwillingly, Sam settles down. He listens to Dean's breath, drawing out and evening until it drags him down into slumber too.
Sam wakes up before Dean, or so he thinks. He's running his fingers down the arm Dean's got slung around him when Dean tightens his hold, pulling Sam back against him tightly.
"The first thing you have to know is monsters are real," Dean says, his voice a deep rumble against Sam's shoulder. Sam starts, but Dean holds onto him and keeps talking. "It started one night about three years ago..."
Dean stops and waits for Sam to nod before he continues. He tells Sam how he saw his first ghost by accident and how trying to stop it hurting more people, he met Gordon. Sam feels his hair stand on end as Dean explains how Gordon started training him, teaching him all about the things that went bump in the night and how to kill them. Sam's got a bad feeling about that man. A hunter. Dean calls him a hunter.
Dean talks about salt and iron and protective circles and suddenly Sam can forget about Gordon long enough to really process what Dean's telling him.
"Seriously," Sam asks, sitting up and interrupting for the first time. "You secretly hunt ghosts? That is so cool!"
"Yeah, Sam," Dean says, chuckling. "Among other things."
"Like what? I want to know about all of it." Sam's eyes are alive with excitement and hero worship.
"Like vampires. You have to cut their heads off, which means getting close enough to waste it without ending up as a tasty snack." Dean's still trying to brag, show his little brother he's fearless in the face of all that danger, but Sam can feel the mood shifting, dampening his excitement.
"What else," he coaxes nonetheless.
"Well, last week, when I got this," Dean says, motioning to the cut on his leg, "it was a werewolf."
"Did you get it?"
"I got it. I had it cornered, but it threw me through a window. It's how I got cut up. Gordon was circling around the block, too far away to help and the fucking thing kept coming for me. I had to get it before it took a bite out of me or I'd be on my way to become the exact same thing. I finally managed to get on top of it. Silver bullets. That's what kills them and I put a hole in its chest. In her chest."
"Her?"
She went back to her human form as she was dying." Dean's voice breaks. "She was just a girl, Sam. A girl. One scratch and it could have been me. She was scared and she cried. I held her as she died."
"Where is she now?"
"I don't know. Gordon got rid of the body. I never even knew her name."
Dean drops his face in his hands at the last, sobs racking his shoulders. Sam twists around until he's facing Dean. When Dean tries to get up, Sam tugs him down until Dean lets go and curls up into Sam, letting Sam hold him to his chest as he cries for the lost girl. Sam rubs a hand down his back, murmuring nonsense in his ear as Dean takes comfort from him.
"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean says when he's all cried out, wiping away the snot dripping from his nose. "I shouldn't need to cry on my kid brother's shoulder about this."
"Are you kidding? You save people." Sam holds onto Dean and rolls them over until he's hovering over Dean. "Let me take care of you."
Sam cups a hand to Dean's face, kissing into his neck until Dean sinks back against the bed. Dean turns his head, gives Sam more room and Sam sucks a bruise along the underside of his jaw. Sam fumbles with Dean's belt, his fingers struck dumb by nerves. He wants this, wants to taste Dean so badly, but he's never done this before. He doesn't want to embarrass himself in front of his big brother.
Dean's still soft when Sam takes him into his mouth, taken by surprise. Sam loves it, loves feeling Dean grow hard and long on his tongue, loves that it's him doing this to Dean. Sam licks up and down the length of Dean's cock, holds it in a loose fist when he moves down to teasingly lick around his balls. Dean tangles his fingers in Sam's hair when he digs the tip of his tongue into the slit, gasps when Sam swirls it around the head as he eagerly laps up the precome steadily pumping out of Dean. He pulls Sam's head back, looks into Sam's eyes when he comes all over Sam's face, Sam's fist stroking him through it. Sam doesn't blink, runs his tongue over his lips, chasing after it as he pushes his other hand down the front of his pants.
He barely manages to touch himself before he's shooting off, coming wet and sticky in his pants.
"Dean," Sam breathes, sagging forward to rest his forehead against his brother's bare stomach.
Dean's muscles lock, Sam's soft pillow disappearing under the sudden appearance of rigid flesh. He feels Dean's hands pawing at his shoulders and realises with a shock Dean's trying to push him off.
"Dean?" Sam asks, but Dean's scrambling backwards, straightening his clothes as he gets up off the bed.
"Jesus, Sam, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have ... this wasn't supposed to happen."
"Why? I wanted it to. Want it all the time. Don't you?"
"No, fuck. I lost control." Dean swallows audibly. "This is why I should never have..."
"Don't," Sam stops him. "Don't say that."
"Why not, Sam? This is wrong. Fucked up. And now I've told you, put you in danger on top of everything else." Dean's steadily moving towards the window and bends down to open it just as Sam figures out what he's doing.
"Dean, don't leave me. Please. I won't. I won't touch you again if that's what you want, but don't go out there again. Please."
Sam is crying, begging incoherently with his hands reaching out to Dean, but Dean is disappearing into the night.
╠═╣
Sam is woken up the next morning by his father shaking his shoulder.
"Where's your brother?" he asks when Sam opens his eyes.
"I..." Sam starts, his mind racing for a believable alibi.
"The truth, Sam."
"I don't know," Sam is forced to admit. "Dad, I'm scared."
"It's alright. We'll find him. Where does he usually go?"
"Downtown, somewhere, I think. I'm not sure."
"Let's go."
Sam walks down half a step behind his father, feeling so much younger than his fourteen years. He slides into the passenger seat of the truck, John already gunning the engine. They drive around for hours, up and down dirty, narrow alleys that have Sam's heart pounding in his chest. Dean isn't anywhere and they head home around dusk, John's jaw set in grim anger.
Dean's sitting on the curb, a black eye bleeding into the bruise high on his cheek. He follows John and Sam upstairs wordlessly and waits for his father in the living room as Sam gets directed to his bedroom. Sam sits on the edge of his bed, listening to the deceptively calm rumble of their deep voices seeping through the closed door. They talk for a long time and then Sam hears the front door slam. There's a quiet knock against his door before Dean eases it open, peeking in at him.
"Can I come in?"
Sam gets up and walks over to stand in front of his window, his back turned to Dean. He hears his door swinging open the rest of the way and knows Dean is standing there, hovering in the doorway.
"Were you with him?"
"Yes."
Fucker. Doesn't even try to deny it. Sam almost wishes he would lie to him.
"Did you let him fuck you?"
"Sam."
"Yes or no, Dean."
"No."
"But you wanted him to."
"Yes."
Sam does turn around then, storms at Dean and pounds at his chest with tightly clenched fists.
"Why? Why would you do that?"
"Sam," Dean says, grabbing hold of his wrists and holding them immobile. "Because this is wrong."
Sam uses the hold Dean has on him to bear up and kiss his brother. It starts as a hard press of his lips against Dean's, and ends with Dean releasing him with a groan, dropping his hands to Sam's hips and pulling him closer. Sam opens his mouth and Dean is there, pressing his tongue against Sam's, letting him taste the copper of blood and the bitter of coffee.
"Does that feel wrong?" Sam asks.
"No ... yes ... God, Sam, I don't know if I can do this."
"You can. We can," Sam says and kisses Dean again. "Wait," he says, pulling away after a minute. "What did you tell Dad?"
"About where I was? The truth. He's mad as hell, but I think he believes me at least."
"About vampires and ghosts?"
"Yeah," Dean says, laughing. "Can you believe it?"
"Are you gonna teach us how to kill them now too?"
"Sam..."
"Don't you dare. I know you're going to say I'm too young and won't let me come with you now, but I want to be ready for when I can." Sam folds a hand round the back of Dean's neck and pulls him forward until their foreheads are touching, their breath mingling hot in the too close space between them. "From now on nobody's gonna watch your back but me, okay?"
~End.
Author: joans23
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Words: ± 8,000
Warnings: Underage (Sam is 14)
Summary: Sam's been hiding his feelings from his brother, but he's not the only one keeping secrets.
Notes: This is the superhero!Dean story that's been eating my brain for a while now. It turned out quite differently from what I originally envisioned, just don't ask me how-where-why. The biggest thanks ever to my most gratious betas, blincolin and kkgee. Thank you so much for sharing your talent and time - I can never tell you how very much it means to me! *hugs* Written mostly during mini_nanowrimo, and finished in time for spn_t00bs. Title and cut from Five for Fighting.
Sam jerks awake.
He lies still for a moment, listening. The sounds of the city are familiar: the never-ending rush of traffic, the catcalls to the whores on the corner, a bang that could be either a car backfiring or a gunshot. It's not Dad just getting in - he got home hours ago, in time for dinner for once. Sam's heart stutters, terror clogging his throat like he was snatched from the clutches of a nightmare.
Dean.
Even though it's been two years since they moved Dean's bed to the room across the hall, Sam still wakes up like this sometimes. The empty space where Dean's breathing used to be threatening to swallow him whole. He knows it's silly, but he won't be able to get back to sleep until he's checked.
Sam throws back the covers, wincing when his bare feet hit the cold floor. He shuffles across to Dean's room as quietly as he can. The door is closed; something else Sam's had to get used to. Closing his hand around the knob, he wonders whether he should knock - according to Dean a new bedroom means new rules. They never used to have rules before. But it's late and he just wants to make sure Dean's okay.
The he hinges squeak as the door opens a crack. Sam's muscles lock and he closes his eyes. He clings to the childhood belief that if he can't see, he can't be seen either. But there's no angry shout, and no foreign objects fly across the room to hit Sam in the face. He opens his eyes.
Dean's bed is empty.
The window is open; the constant wind billows out the curtains. It takes Sam too many steps to reach it, and he curses his too-short legs. Dad keeps telling him he'll start growing one of these days, that he'll shoot up till he's as tall as him and Dean, but so far it hasn't happened.
Sam leans on the windowsill and peers out into the night, but there's no trace of his brother. He looks at Dean's bed, as if he could bring him back by force of will alone. There's another loud blast - definitely a gunshot this time.
"Dean," Sam whispers. His knees give in, dumping him onto the floor.
He draws his legs up against his chest, curling up into a tight ball and waits.
╠═╣
Sam's alarm wakes him the next morning. He's disorientated for a moment, back in his bed with the covers tucked in tightly around him. Sam struggles with them, fighting to get free as the events of the previous night to catch up with him. He bursts into Dean's room, not giving a damn about knocking first.
Dean's just stretching over to silence his own alarm. He hits it hard, the bell giving another little helpless beep before quitting for good. Sam watches him stretch his arms up and then reach down to scratch at the faint trail of hair on his exposed stomach. Something tightens low in Sam's belly and he backs away.
"Sammy." Dean's tongue is still thick with sleep. He's peeking at Sam through one half opened lid.
Sam stops, mouth working.
"Dean. I, uh ..." Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off with a chuckle as he swings his legs down.
"How many times I gotta tell you it's normal waking up with it like that? Ain't nothing I can do about it."
Sam gapes at him, his cheeks catching fire.
"You're a friggin' jerk," he says.
Dean laughs harder. He picks up the shirt hanging over the back of the chair behind his desk and sniffs at it. Grabbing clean jeans and underwear from the closet, he ruffles Sam's hair as he passes him on his way to the bathroom.
"Hurry up and we'll make pancakes for breakfast," Dean shoots over his shoulder.
Sam listens to the shower start up. The pipes emit their usual high-pitched whine until the warm water kicks in, and he wonders if the previous night was all just a figment of his imagination.
Dean opens his chemistry textbook when they sit down to eat at the little Formica table in the kitchen. It takes him ten minutes to turn one page, so Sam knows he's only pretending to study. He shushes Sam whenever he opens his mouth to speak. Sam settles for watching Dean instead. His collarbones stick up sharply through his shirt, and the thicker cords of the muscles in his arms standing out in sharp contrast. There are dark circles under Dean's eyes and the knife and fork in his hands shake a little when he slices through the stack for another bite. For the amount of time he spends staring at his brother, Sam curses himself for not noticing the changes earlier.
Dean drives them to school, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Sam clutches his book bag to his chest and watches the plumes of Dean's breath as he softly sings along to the radio. He stops in front of the steps for Sam to hop out before he goes looking for a parking space. Sam stalls, suddenly afraid if he gets out of the car, Dean will drive off without him and he'll never see his brother again.
"I need money for homeroom. They're taking up collections for the library," he says.
"Jesus, Sam, why didn't you say anything earlier? I only got," Dean pauses as he digs a hand into the front pocket of his jeans. Sam looks for as long as it's safe before hiding behind his bangs. "Three dollars."
"That's fine," Sam says, taking the crumpled bills from Dean, folding his fingers around their warmth.
"Hurry up this afternoon, okay? We still have to go the store and I wanna wash the car."
"You taking Brittany out tomorrow night?" Sam asks, keeping up the charade, like he didn't see his brother kissing Jimmy Novak out behind the Tasty Freeze last summer.
"No, Cheryl. And yeah, with Dad gone next weekend, it's kinda my last chance."
It's Dad's annual trip back to a town Sam doesn't remember, to visit the grave of the mother he doesn't remember either.
"'Kay."
Sam pushes open the door and a gust of wind rips it from his hand.
"Sam!" Dean yells, but Sam's already slamming it shut again. He tightens the drawstrings of his hoodie around his face as he takes the steps two at a time.
Dean drops by during lunch break to ruffle his hair and steal his milk, the same as always. Sam's tells him to lay off. It drives him nuts, Dean still treating him like a baby. Dean laughs when he says he doesn't need his big brother to look out for him anymore. They both know he won't ever stop.
After school, they pick up groceries from Mrs. Harvelle's corner store. Sam picks through the selection of frozen dinners while Dean loads up the rest of their cart. Her daughter is hiding around the corner, the flash of her blond pigtails catching Sam's eye every time she peeks out to make cow eyes at Dean. Dean flirts with her, flirts with her mother - so shamelessly it makes Sam want to gag.
Back at the apartment Dean helps Sam to haul everything upstairs, but leaves him on his own to pack it away. He goes outside and tunes the car radio to some station playing classic rock, turning the volume almost all the way up. A couple of the other tenants lean out of their windows to shout down at him, but Dean ignores them and strips down to his t-shirt despite the cold.
Sam slips into Dean's bedroom, standing a few steps back from the window. He watches Dean dump a few buckets of water over the car. Dean is careless, getting himself wet. His soaked shirt sticks to his chest, showing off every muscle. Each time he bends down to dip the sponge into the bucket of soapy water, it pulls up to reveal the frayed elastic of his underwear and a thin strip of skin low on his back.
Sam jumps when Dean's phone suddenly starts ringing behind him. It's charging on Dean's bedside table. Sam looks down at Dean and imagines the trouble he'd be in if Dean caught him in here. He remembers Dean's empty bed.
He answers it.
"Hello?" Sam says.
"Who is this?" the man on the other side asks. His voice is deep and rough. Sam's hand is shaking.
"Sam," he replies softly. The call is disconnected on the other side.
Sam drops the phone onto the table and runs to his room, sliding in behind his desk and opening the first book he can find. His heart is pounding as he listens, waiting for Dean to come thundering in.
Dean's phone starts ringing again and Sam's head whips around. He returns to Dean's room and looks down through the window. Dean is still busy, working with his head hung low as he crouches down next to the left front wheel. The phone won't stop ringing and Sam approaches it warily, sees the unknown caller ID flashing on the screen.
"Hello?"
"Where's Dean?" the same rumbling voice asks him.
"O-outside. He's washing the car."
"I need to talk to him. It's important."
"O-okay," Sam says, hating his inabilty to stop stammering. "I'll take the phone down to him."
Sam locks the door behind him, makes his way down the stairs with Dean's phone clutched in a sweaty hand, pressing the speaker against his chest. He wonders if the mystery man is listening to the hammering of his heart. His knees jar with every step, his free hand sliding along the railing as he goes down the stairs too fast.
Dean looks up in surprise when he bursts through the door, his eyes narrowing when Sam thrusts the phone at him. Holding it against his ear, he turns away and listens quietly except for a few wordless grunts. When the call ends, he snaps it shut and turns back to Sam. His jaw is clenched so tightly Sam can almost hear his teeth grinding together.
"Never, ever, touch my phone again," he says, dangerously calm. Sam is a little slow to react, and Dean steps forward, fisting his hand in Sam's jacket until Sam's forced up onto his toes. "Do you understand me, Sam?"
Sam nods frantically, afraid of his brother for the first time in his life.
Dean releases him, dismissing Sam with a jerk of his head. Sam can feel tears burning in his eyes, but he swallows them back.
"Is this about where you go at night?"
"What?" Dean asks, eyes wild. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Are you ... Is it drugs, Dean?"
Dean's eyes widen before he can help it and it's all the answer Sam needs. He can deny it all he wants now, Sam already knows the truth. Dean sees it too. They know each other too well.
"Go do your homework, Sam."
Dean doesn't bother picking up the discarded sponge. He kicks over the bucket of soap instead and little suds run over the ground to soak through Sam's sneakers. He's not trying to pick a fight, he just can't seem to move. Dean raises a fist and feigns a lunge in Sam's direction, breaking Sam out of his paralysis. He runs up the stairs, even faster than he came down them before. He runs straight through into his room and falls down face first onto his bed. As warm tears soak into his pillow, he runs through all the stuff he heard at school during those boring drug lectures, tries to remember what he's supposed to do. He doesn't want Dean to die.
Sam dries his tears when he hears Dean come in. He refuses to get up, lies listening to the rumbling of his stomach until he falls asleep. When he wakes up in the midnight hours, Dean's bed is empty again. Sam wants to scream and cry. He want to go out after Dean, drag him back home. He wants to go wake Dad and make him do something.
It's no use; John's asleep on the couch, hand still curled around half a bottle of whiskey.
Sam goes back to bed and tries not to wonder what Dean's doing.
Sam checks the night after and the night after that, all week long. Every time, Dean's bed is empty.
╠═╣
Dad packs the car on Wednesday and Sam starts panicking. Usually he doesn't mind Dad's trip, but this time it's different. Dean is quiet and moody, but in the end it's still just the two of them and they've got to stick together.
Sam's never been crazy about their usual Halloween tradition, but now he hopes they keep it. Growing up Sam wasn't allowed to wear a silly constume and go trick or treating; they had to stay inside while Dad was gone. Instead Dean would rent a scary movie and they'd spend the night camped out on the couch, making themselves sick on candy while Sam pretended to be more scared than he really was and Dean pretended he wasn't at all.
Friday morning they stand together on the curb, watching and waiting as Dad checks under the hood one last time before hitting the road. Dean has his arm slung over Sam's shoulders, Sam supposes to reassure Dad he'll look after him.
Sam leans into Dean and feels him stiffen.
"I won't tell Dad, but please ... don't leave me alone while he's gone, okay?" Sam whispers and Dean squeezes his shoulder. When he looks up, Dean nods and Sam waves goodbye to his father.
They stop in the way home from school that afternoon to stock up on candy and Dean rents the newest Alien installment and a bumper edition of cartoons from the kiddies section for Saturday morning.
It feels just like old times and Sam can almost forget the Dean sitting next to him is not the brother he thought he knew.
Sam wakes up alone on the couch a few hours later, static on the TV and Dean gone. A dull thump comes from the back of the apartment and Sam makes it to the hallway in time to see Dean disappear into the bathroom, the door softly clicking shut behind him. He walks over on shaky legs and presses his ear up against it. He can hear water running, but nothing else.
"Dean," he whispers.
Nothing.
"Dean!" he yells.
Still nothing.
Sam pushes the door open. He stops, hand still curled around the knob, a scream choking the breath out of him.
There's so much blood.
It's pooled on the floor, streaked on the wall, a gruesome hand print on the mirror over the basin.
Dean's sitting on the edge of the bath, pressing a towel into his lap so hard his knuckles glow white under the fluorescent light. Dad's old leather jacket, the one Sam could have sworn they donated to goodwill a few years ago along with all his baby clothes, is lying crumpled in the corner. A small arsenal of weapons lay scattered around it, knives of every size and shape imaginable and even a sawed off shotgun. Sam can guess why Dean saved the jacket. Dean's T-shit is ripped to shreds and his jeans, an old pair already faded and tattered, are ruined beyond repair.
He looks up at Sam's intrusion, pale and shivering.
"I'm ... call Dad," Sam stammers as he backs away.
"No, Sammy, don't," Dean says, grimacing as he presses down even harder against his leg. "Please." A whisper.
"What do I do?"
"The ... Oh, God. The sewing kit in the linen closet. Some of Dad's whiskey. Hurry, Sam."
Sam turns and runs, nearly slips on the blood. Dean's blood, some part of his brain that's somehow still operating reminds. Like he could forget. For a dizzying second, Sam thinks the sewing kit isn't there, the devil holding his hand over it in spite. He blinks, spilling new tears down his cheeks and it's back in its usual spot. The booze is easier, a few options to choose from and he grabs the nearest one.
Dean is on his knees when Sam gets back to the bathroom, trying to wipe up the blood with his free hand. There's a gun tucked into the back of his jeans, the pearlescent handle cutting into the small of his back.
"Leave that, for fuck's sake. I'll take care of it. Just." Sam pauses to help Dean up and sits him down on the closed toilet seat. "Sit still."
Dean unscrews the bottle while Sam opens the kit and sifts through its contents for the sharp little pair of scissors to cut away Dean's bloody jeans. Dean's hand and the towel make it hard for him to see what he's doing and he's afraid he's gonna stab Dean in the leg when he tries to cut.
"Rip it," Dean grates out and Sam drops the scissors. He hooks his fingers through the existing hole. Dean's skin is icy beneath his fingertips. He yanks and it tears away easily. Sam grins up at Dean at his small victory, and Dean bares his teeth at him and nods.
Sam's smile evaporates when he reaches back into the kit and sees the blood on his hands. He wipes them on his sweatpants and picks up the needle. It's still threaded with the bright red Dean used to sew back one of the buttons on Sam's favourite jacket last week.
Dean takes a swig from the bottle, gasping at the burn as it goes down. He takes one more and drops the towel and pours a quarter of the amber liquid over his thigh. Dean hisses and curses, barely manages to hold onto the bottle as Sam presses a fresh towel against the wound. The tips of his fingers brush against Dean's crotch and Sam's dick twitches in his shorts. He drops his hand, cheeks flaming, but Dean's got bigger things to worry about than noticing his little brother acting like a freak. He motions for Sam to hold out his hands and bathes them in the alcohol as well.
"You ready?" he asks and Sam nods, moves into position with the needle poised.
When Dean moves the towel, Sam gets his first good look at the damage to his brother's leg. Sam's not a doctor, hell, he's barely fourteen, but growing up in Cicero he's seen his fair share of knife wounds. Whatever sliced Dean up, it wasn't any blade Sam had ever seen. His skin's been sliced into ribbons, some cuts shallower than others, a few really deep.
"Dean, what?"
"Not know, Sam. Just do it."
Sam nods, but he's crying again and he can't see. Dean presses a palm again his cheek, wipes his thumb under Sam's eye.
"It's gonna be okay. You're doing great."
The needle is thin and flimsy and Sam has to push really hard for it to go through Dean's skin. Dean's hand falls away as he sags back against the toilet tank. Sam tries to keep count of the stitches he needs to put his brother back together again, but keeps losing track. He wipes his hands when they get too slippery and pours over more whiskey when too much fresh blood seeps through.
Dean is barely conscious by the time Sam finishes wrapping a bandage over the crisscross of his stitches. He helps Dean to his bedroom, Dean leaning on him heavily as he drags his injured leg behind him. They strip Dean out of everything but his boxers, and get him settled under the covers. Dean doesn't fight Sam when he takes the gun and drops it on top of the pile of clothes, carefully pinching the heavy weight between his thumb and forefinger. He makes Sam return to the bathroom for a broad knife to tuck underneath his pillow though. He's muttering under his breath, delirious from pain and blood loss when Sam gets back. Sam forces three of the headache tablets Dad keeps in the bathroom cabinet into Dean, afraid to give him any more than that. He waits until Dean passes out before gathering up the ragged remains of his clothing.
After a quick trip to the kitchen for a garbage bag, a bucket of warm water and the mop, Sam enters the bathroom again. He dumps the bloody towels into the bag with Dean's clothes, wiping down the jacket and putting it to one side. He mops up the blood, wipes everything down twice with disinfectant and puts out fresh towels. Looking the room over one last time to make sure he didn't miss anything, Sam finally flicks off the light and goes back to Dean. He stows the bag under his bed, he'll worry about getting rid of it later, and stuffs the weapons wrapped in the jacket into the corner of Dean's closet.
Dean's still out when Sam drags a chair next to his bed. He's exhausted, but he can't close his eyes, can't look away from Dean. Sam listens to him breathe, so afraid he might stop. Dean sleeps through most of Saturday and Sunday. Sam forces a few sips of water and more pills into him whenever he wakes up. Sam only manages to catch a few minutes of sleep at a time, unable to stop jerking awake with Dean's name on his lips.
Sam is woken up Monday morning by the shrill alarm of Dean's cellphone. He's laying on the floor in front of Dean's bed, his muscles stiff and sore. Dean is still sleeping, so he heads to the kitchen for some coffee. Sam is startled by his father sitting at the kitchen table, already sipping from a cup as he reads the morning paper.
"Dad," Sam says, his voice an embarrassing little squeak. "What time did you get in?"
"Late," John answers, like it's not unusual for him to only be gone two days.
Sam tries to act nonchalant as he shuffles past to pop some bread into the toaster and pour a glass of OJ.
"Is Dean not getting up today?"
Sam feels his father's gaze boring into his back and turns around to face him. There is a challenge in his eyes, but Sam thinks if he saw Sam sleeping on the floor of Dean's room, he would have said something. So he plays it cool and shrugs.
"He's still sleeping. I think he might be getting sick."
"I hope you're not making up excuses to help him play hookie. I told him last week, I don't care if he's almost done with school, he will attend every class. If I get another call about him skipping, you'll both feel it."
Dean getting into trouble for cutting class is news to Sam, but his father mistakes his look of surprise for guilt. He tosses down the paper as he pushes his chair away from the table hard. Sam jumps to stop him with a hand on his arm.
"He's really sick, Dad, he has a fever." Well, at least Sam isn't lying about that. It started yesterday afternoon and has steadily been getting worse. "I'll stop by the drug store on the way home from school and get him some NyQuil."
For a second it looks like Dad won't believe him, but he relaxes in his seat nevertheless.
"You better hurry so I can give you a ride to school."
"Thanks, Dad," Sam says and hurries out, a piece of toast shoved into his mouth.
Sam dresses quickly, and slips into Dean's room after he's brushed his teeth. He wakes Dean, and makes him take more pills and drink some water. Dean's shivering, so Sam has to hold the glass to his brother's lips.
"Dad's back," he whispers and Dean's eyes go wide. He tries to get up and Sam has to work hard to push him back against the bed.
"It's okay. I told him you're sick, and he believed me. But I have to go to school."
"Thanks, Sam," Dean says as he pulls the covers up to his chin, eyelids already drooping again.
John hands Sam a small stack of bills when he drops him off, which Sam accepts gratefully. He tries to pay attention in class, but gives up halfway through second period. He briefly considers cutting, but there's a reason Sam's never done anything like that before - he can't risk them calling his dad. So he explains that Dean's home alone, sick as a dog and asks for a pass. For a moment, it looks like his Miss Talbot isn't going to buy it, and Sam has to employ the poor little orphan look before his teacher caves and writes him the slip.
At the drug store, Sam loads a basket with bandages, Neosporin and the strongest pain medication he can get over the counter. The cashier gives him a funny look even as she takes his money. Sam gives her a wide grin and tells her he's helping his father restock the first aid kit at work. He's stammering and sweating and wishing he was a smooth talker like Dean. He'd have the woman patting at her greying hair, too busy enjoying the fluttering in her stomach to notice what he's slipping into his back pocket. She lets him leave without raising alarm and he runs all the way home.
Not wanting to wake Dean, he slips into the apartment as quietly as he can. Dean's door is left only slightly ajar when Sam's sure he it was wide open before. Sam pushes it open with trepidation, almost sure he's going to find Dean's bed empty again, his injury be damned.
His mouth goes dry when he sees a strange black man sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on Dean's injured thigh. Though his back is still turned towards Sam, he stiffens the moment Sam steps forward. Sam wishes he kept one of Dean's knives. The man swivels towards him, the shock of wide white teeth glowing in stark relief with his dark face as he smiles at Sam.
Or maybe the gun, Sam amends his wish.
"Hey, Sammy," he says, his smokey voice curling around the diminution of Sam's name. Sam's hands curl into fists at his sides. He's still touching Dean.
"The name is Sam. Who are you?"
"Sam," Dean says, "this is Gordon. He got me some antibiotics."
"Stole them, you mean."
"What else was I supposed to do?" Gordon asks him.
"That's very nice of you after you almost let him bleed to death," Sam says, spitting out some of the rage taking up every available space inside his head not occupied with worry over his brother.
"Sam," Dean says again, weakly, and Gordon ignores him, bends down to squeeze Dean's shoulder. Dean covers Gordon's hand with one of his own and looks up at the man hovering over him with something that has Sam averting his gaze. He exits through Dean's window, swinging out onto the ledge without another word.
Dean won't look at him, even after Sam takes Gordon's place on the bed.
"What's going on, Dean?" Sam asks.
"It's nothing, Sam, don't worry about it."
"Don't worry... Come on, Dean. You could have died and I..." Sam trails off as he slides down onto his knees, resting his head on Dean's chest. "I can't lose you."
"Sammy," Dean whispers, "it's okay." He pets Sam's head awkwardly, then lets it rest there as Sam stays still, listening to the beating of Dean's heart. "I'm not going anywhere." He starts running his fingers through Sam's hair, his fingernails gently scraping over his scalp.
Sam doesn't think, he pushes up onto his elbows and leans in and kisses Dean on the mouth.
Pulling back, he waits for the 'What the fuck, Sam', waits for the disgust to rise in his brothers eyes, waits for him to push Sam away for good. Dean only stares at him, eyes wide and breath rushing out through his open mouth.
"Sor..." Sam starts, and then Dean's kissing him. It's hard and frantic and the fever of Dean's mouth burns right through Sam. His hands curl around Sam's arms, urging him up, pulling him down on top of him.
Dean breaks away with a sharp cry when Sam's weight settles on his injured leg. Sam scrambles off and lifts the covers to check on the wound. There doesn't appear to be any fresh bleeding, but Sam figures he should change the bandage anyway. He retrieves the bag he abandoned in the doorway.
Settling on his knees in front of the bed, he bundles the covers in under Dean's knee to elevate his leg and unwinds the soiled bandage carefully. Dean doesn't move as Sam works, cleaning around the cut with diluted hydrogen peroxide and applying fresh Neosporin. Sam focuses on his task, determined not to freak out.
"I'm sorry," Dean finally says as Sam winds a new bandage around his leg.
Sam's hands still. Sorry for the kiss? For ruining the moment? For the lying and sneaking around and whatever he did to land him here in this bed?
As always, Dean knows exactly what he's thinking. He smiles as he shakes his head and places a hand over Sam's.
"Are you gonna tell me now?" Sam asks as he finishes up.
"I can't, Sam." Sam opens his mouth to argue, but Dean interrupts. "I know you don't want to hear it, but it's for the best. It's scary and dangerous and I don't want you to have any part of it. I need you to be safe."
There's no way Sam's letting it go that easily. He's still worried and he doesn't trust this Gordon character at all. But the pallor of Dean's cheeks and dark circles under his eyes puts a damper on his fervour.
Sam lies down next to Dean, careful of his wound, careful of this new thing between them. He's keeps himself as stiff and still as possible, until Dean pulls him close. He relaxes against the comforting warmth of his brother, burying his head under Dean's chin and snaking an arm around his waist.
"Do you," Dean says, stops to swallow and continues softly, "want to talk about the other thing?"
Sam knows how tough it must be for Dean to offer, that he's doing it anyway, because it's something he thinks Sam wants.
"No," Sam says, "just tell me it's going to be okay."
"It's going to be okay," Dean lies and Sam closes his eyes.
╠═╣
Sam wakes up to Dean's soft groaning.
"Dean," he asks, sitting up and shaking Dean's shoulder. "Are you okay?"
Dean opens his eyes slowly, smiles when he sees Sam and leans up to kiss him.
"Fine," Dean says, falling back against the pillow. "But do you think you could get me some water? And maybe one of those pills you got yesterday?"
"Sure," Sam says, eagerly scooting down the bed and hurrying to the kitchen.
"And maybe a sandwich?" Dean calls after him.
Sam rolls his eyes at Dean, but smiles as he's slathering mayonnaise onto a couple of slices of bread in the kitchen. It's still Dean, his annoying big brother and maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.
Dean recovers quickly, thanks in particular to the antibiotics Gordon supplied, Sam grudgingly admits. Still claiming flu, he manages two more days at home in bed. Sam burns to stay with him, but Dean makes him go to school. He doesn't want Sam to get into trouble and he knows how much Sam loves it.
Sam rushes home as soon as he can though. He arrives breathless, blood pounding in his ears, afraid Dean's changed his mind, afraid he's gone no matter how solemnly he promised to stay put. Dean's there though, every afternoon, turning his face up for Sam's kiss, sliding over to the edge so Sam can slip into bed next to him. It's new and exciting and familiar and safe. It's warm under the covers, trails of burning kisses traced over faces and necks and chests. Dean won't let him do much more. He firmly takes Sam's hand when it strays below his waist, twisting their fingers together and folding their hands over his heart instead. Dean is healing and so are they.
Dean goes back to school, goes back to treating Sam like his annoying little brother while they're behind the institutional walls. The way his eyes seek out Sam's though, the hot promise in every look and casual touch has Sam abandoning his half eaten lunches for an emergency stop in the bathroom to take care of embarrassingly frequent erections. Sam swears he's half hard all the time now, in a constant state of arousal at the thought of Dean and nothing else but Dean.
They're fooling around on Dean's bed a week later, their father called over to Bobby's for a few days to help out with a tricky repair job for a difficult client. The fingers of one of Dean's hands tease over the bulge in Sam's pants while the other captures Sam's hands over his head, pressing them down into the mattress. Dean's lips are trailing down Sam's throat, swallowing up the little sounds of pleasurable frustration he makes before they can escape through his gasping lips.
Dean's phone rings and they both freeze, knowing. They both knew it was coming. Sam sits up when Dean answers. He only says a few short words, a couple of yeses, a couple of nos, before hanging up.
"Who was that?" Sam asks, the challenge clear.
"Wrong number."
"Don't lie to me, Dean. After all of this, don't you dare fucking lie to me."
"Don't swear."
"Fuck that. I'm not a kid and I'm not an idiot."
Dean doesn't say anything and Sam storms off to his own room, the slam of the door echoing through the sudden silence of the apartment. He falls down on his bed, fists balled at his sides as he waits and listens. As he suspected, it's not long before he hears Dean moving around in his room. In his mind's eye Sam sees Dean digging out that worn jacket, shrugging his shoulders into it and popping the collar. Concealed beneath it the myriad of weapons strapped to his body. He hears the click of the window opening only because he's listening for it.
"You're not going," Sam tells Dean as he barrels through the door.
"I have to. Gordon needs me."
"No way in hell, Dean," Sam says, moving between Dean and the window. "You're still hurt."
Dean gets this look in his eyes, feral and dangerous, one Sam's never seen directed towards him before. He steps into Sam's space, looming over him.
"Don't make me do this, Sam."
"Do what? Hit me? Hurt me, because Gordon needs you?"
"It's more than that," Dean says, the fight going out of him when Sam calls his bluff. "Please, Sam, let me go. It's important."
"Okay," Sam says after a moment, "but on one condition."
"What?"
"When you get back you're telling me everything."
Dean opens his mouth to argue, but Sam steps closer, standing up on his toes to kiss his brother once, quick, on the lips.
"It's different now. I need to know if you're not gonna come back." Sam drops his head forward, resting his forehead against Dean's shoulder. "Please, Dean."
Dean wraps a hand around his neck and drops a kiss down on top of his head.
"Okay, Sammy. Okay."
Sam lifts his face and Dean kisses him again, mirroring the same dry press of Sam's lips from before.
When Dean moves away, Sam opens the window for him, holding the curtains to the side as he steps through.
"Don't wait up for me. You've got school tomorrow."
"But..."
"I'll come wake you when I get back. Promise."
Sam watches him scale down the building and disappear down the alley. He lowers the window, leaving it half an inch from the ledge. He sits on Dean's bed for awhile before snaking his hand under Dean's pillow. It's still a shock as his palm grazes over the hilt, even though he knew it was there. Lifting it out carefully, testing the weight and balance in his hand, Sam makes a couple of test thrusts before going to his room and stowing it under his own pillow.
He crawls beneath the covers without changing into his pajamas, settling on his stomach and sliding his hand around the hilt of the knife. Sam imagines it in Dean's hand and draws what scant comfort he can from it.
Sam dozes off, exactly as Dean instructed, and he wakes up when Dean comes back in through the window. Dean's limping, the heavy drag of his left leg exaggerated by exhaustion. There's no urgency to his movements though, so Sam doesn't think he aggravated his injury. He keeps still, feigning sleep as he listens to Dean move around. Probably hiding his weapons and changing out of his strange uniform.
Dean is good on his word, sitting down next to Sam on his bed and gently shaking his shoulder a moment later.
"Hey Sam, you awake?"
Sam turns over and gasps when he sees Dean. He lifts a hand to the livid bruise on his cheek and Dean shifts back with a hiss.
"It's okay. Hey dude, move over."
Sam makes a space for him and Dean gets into the bed, moving Sam until he's spooned in behind him. Dean's feet are freezing and Sam lifts his leg, lets Dean warm them between his knees.
"Dean..."
"Not in the dark. Please? In the morning, I promise."
"'Kay," Sam says, snuggling against Dean. He can feel Dean's cock, still soft, nestling snug against his ass. Sam wiggles, trying to get some kind of friction going, but Dean stills him with a firm hand on his hip.
"Sleep," Dean commands and unwillingly, Sam settles down. He listens to Dean's breath, drawing out and evening until it drags him down into slumber too.
Sam wakes up before Dean, or so he thinks. He's running his fingers down the arm Dean's got slung around him when Dean tightens his hold, pulling Sam back against him tightly.
"The first thing you have to know is monsters are real," Dean says, his voice a deep rumble against Sam's shoulder. Sam starts, but Dean holds onto him and keeps talking. "It started one night about three years ago..."
Dean stops and waits for Sam to nod before he continues. He tells Sam how he saw his first ghost by accident and how trying to stop it hurting more people, he met Gordon. Sam feels his hair stand on end as Dean explains how Gordon started training him, teaching him all about the things that went bump in the night and how to kill them. Sam's got a bad feeling about that man. A hunter. Dean calls him a hunter.
Dean talks about salt and iron and protective circles and suddenly Sam can forget about Gordon long enough to really process what Dean's telling him.
"Seriously," Sam asks, sitting up and interrupting for the first time. "You secretly hunt ghosts? That is so cool!"
"Yeah, Sam," Dean says, chuckling. "Among other things."
"Like what? I want to know about all of it." Sam's eyes are alive with excitement and hero worship.
"Like vampires. You have to cut their heads off, which means getting close enough to waste it without ending up as a tasty snack." Dean's still trying to brag, show his little brother he's fearless in the face of all that danger, but Sam can feel the mood shifting, dampening his excitement.
"What else," he coaxes nonetheless.
"Well, last week, when I got this," Dean says, motioning to the cut on his leg, "it was a werewolf."
"Did you get it?"
"I got it. I had it cornered, but it threw me through a window. It's how I got cut up. Gordon was circling around the block, too far away to help and the fucking thing kept coming for me. I had to get it before it took a bite out of me or I'd be on my way to become the exact same thing. I finally managed to get on top of it. Silver bullets. That's what kills them and I put a hole in its chest. In her chest."
"Her?"
She went back to her human form as she was dying." Dean's voice breaks. "She was just a girl, Sam. A girl. One scratch and it could have been me. She was scared and she cried. I held her as she died."
"Where is she now?"
"I don't know. Gordon got rid of the body. I never even knew her name."
Dean drops his face in his hands at the last, sobs racking his shoulders. Sam twists around until he's facing Dean. When Dean tries to get up, Sam tugs him down until Dean lets go and curls up into Sam, letting Sam hold him to his chest as he cries for the lost girl. Sam rubs a hand down his back, murmuring nonsense in his ear as Dean takes comfort from him.
"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean says when he's all cried out, wiping away the snot dripping from his nose. "I shouldn't need to cry on my kid brother's shoulder about this."
"Are you kidding? You save people." Sam holds onto Dean and rolls them over until he's hovering over Dean. "Let me take care of you."
Sam cups a hand to Dean's face, kissing into his neck until Dean sinks back against the bed. Dean turns his head, gives Sam more room and Sam sucks a bruise along the underside of his jaw. Sam fumbles with Dean's belt, his fingers struck dumb by nerves. He wants this, wants to taste Dean so badly, but he's never done this before. He doesn't want to embarrass himself in front of his big brother.
Dean's still soft when Sam takes him into his mouth, taken by surprise. Sam loves it, loves feeling Dean grow hard and long on his tongue, loves that it's him doing this to Dean. Sam licks up and down the length of Dean's cock, holds it in a loose fist when he moves down to teasingly lick around his balls. Dean tangles his fingers in Sam's hair when he digs the tip of his tongue into the slit, gasps when Sam swirls it around the head as he eagerly laps up the precome steadily pumping out of Dean. He pulls Sam's head back, looks into Sam's eyes when he comes all over Sam's face, Sam's fist stroking him through it. Sam doesn't blink, runs his tongue over his lips, chasing after it as he pushes his other hand down the front of his pants.
He barely manages to touch himself before he's shooting off, coming wet and sticky in his pants.
"Dean," Sam breathes, sagging forward to rest his forehead against his brother's bare stomach.
Dean's muscles lock, Sam's soft pillow disappearing under the sudden appearance of rigid flesh. He feels Dean's hands pawing at his shoulders and realises with a shock Dean's trying to push him off.
"Dean?" Sam asks, but Dean's scrambling backwards, straightening his clothes as he gets up off the bed.
"Jesus, Sam, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have ... this wasn't supposed to happen."
"Why? I wanted it to. Want it all the time. Don't you?"
"No, fuck. I lost control." Dean swallows audibly. "This is why I should never have..."
"Don't," Sam stops him. "Don't say that."
"Why not, Sam? This is wrong. Fucked up. And now I've told you, put you in danger on top of everything else." Dean's steadily moving towards the window and bends down to open it just as Sam figures out what he's doing.
"Dean, don't leave me. Please. I won't. I won't touch you again if that's what you want, but don't go out there again. Please."
Sam is crying, begging incoherently with his hands reaching out to Dean, but Dean is disappearing into the night.
╠═╣
Sam is woken up the next morning by his father shaking his shoulder.
"Where's your brother?" he asks when Sam opens his eyes.
"I..." Sam starts, his mind racing for a believable alibi.
"The truth, Sam."
"I don't know," Sam is forced to admit. "Dad, I'm scared."
"It's alright. We'll find him. Where does he usually go?"
"Downtown, somewhere, I think. I'm not sure."
"Let's go."
Sam walks down half a step behind his father, feeling so much younger than his fourteen years. He slides into the passenger seat of the truck, John already gunning the engine. They drive around for hours, up and down dirty, narrow alleys that have Sam's heart pounding in his chest. Dean isn't anywhere and they head home around dusk, John's jaw set in grim anger.
Dean's sitting on the curb, a black eye bleeding into the bruise high on his cheek. He follows John and Sam upstairs wordlessly and waits for his father in the living room as Sam gets directed to his bedroom. Sam sits on the edge of his bed, listening to the deceptively calm rumble of their deep voices seeping through the closed door. They talk for a long time and then Sam hears the front door slam. There's a quiet knock against his door before Dean eases it open, peeking in at him.
"Can I come in?"
Sam gets up and walks over to stand in front of his window, his back turned to Dean. He hears his door swinging open the rest of the way and knows Dean is standing there, hovering in the doorway.
"Were you with him?"
"Yes."
Fucker. Doesn't even try to deny it. Sam almost wishes he would lie to him.
"Did you let him fuck you?"
"Sam."
"Yes or no, Dean."
"No."
"But you wanted him to."
"Yes."
Sam does turn around then, storms at Dean and pounds at his chest with tightly clenched fists.
"Why? Why would you do that?"
"Sam," Dean says, grabbing hold of his wrists and holding them immobile. "Because this is wrong."
Sam uses the hold Dean has on him to bear up and kiss his brother. It starts as a hard press of his lips against Dean's, and ends with Dean releasing him with a groan, dropping his hands to Sam's hips and pulling him closer. Sam opens his mouth and Dean is there, pressing his tongue against Sam's, letting him taste the copper of blood and the bitter of coffee.
"Does that feel wrong?" Sam asks.
"No ... yes ... God, Sam, I don't know if I can do this."
"You can. We can," Sam says and kisses Dean again. "Wait," he says, pulling away after a minute. "What did you tell Dad?"
"About where I was? The truth. He's mad as hell, but I think he believes me at least."
"About vampires and ghosts?"
"Yeah," Dean says, laughing. "Can you believe it?"
"Are you gonna teach us how to kill them now too?"
"Sam..."
"Don't you dare. I know you're going to say I'm too young and won't let me come with you now, but I want to be ready for when I can." Sam folds a hand round the back of Dean's neck and pulls him forward until their foreheads are touching, their breath mingling hot in the too close space between them. "From now on nobody's gonna watch your back but me, okay?"
~End.