Two-Headed Boy: Eleven

[melungeoned]

He’s just been waiting.

That’s all this is, Sam being gone. Dean just feels like he’s constantly waiting for something, for something to change, for something to happen. Like, any second, Sam’s going to walk through the door or call or come out of the bathroom, damp with his pajamas on. Waiting is kind of a fucked-up, hopeful emotion, because it sorta implies that he feels like Sam is actually going to come back.

It hadn’t taken long for Dean to realize that they aren’t really a family anymore, him’n Dad. They’re more like war buddies, or like a loveless, emotionally abusive marriage or something. They talk but they don’t talk about anything, they spend hours upon hours together in the car with neither of them saying a word. Not that weird awkward quiet when there are things to say, but just sort of blank, fathomless quiet. The kind that feels like falling after awhile. It’s kind of insane to be lonely sitting next to somebody almost twenty-four hours a day, but Dean is.

Sam is what made them a family. Sam is what gave them, him and Dad both, someone to think about, to focus on outside of themselves. Sam gave Dean a purpose, a reason for getting up in the morning that was simple and honest. And Sam being there gave Dad a reason to harp on Dean, let him get some of his pent-up anger out when Dean screwed this or that up.

Now they both live in their own minds, scarily self-sufficient and quiet. They sleep in the car, more often than not. And they definitely don’t linger anywhere anymore. Sam had been in school back then, so they had a reason to stay put, to sink tentative roots in somewhere. Dean starts to slowly realize that he’s always wanted a home, always craved it. Always indulged so much when they stayed anywhere. And he misses it. Misses the boy who made them a family and who gave them a reason to have a home at all.

--

Last month, Dad bought a truck off some guy he still knows in Lawrence, parked it in the lot at the motel and walked into the room, tossing the keys to the Impala at Dean with absolutely no ceremony.

And that’s how Dean got Baby.

They travel apart now, taking to cases on opposite ends of the country, cell phone conversations keeping them in contact, giving Dean some direction when he feels completely lost as to what to do next. This isolation is more pronounced, more definitive now, but at least it’s self-imposed. The car has never felt so big or so empty.

--

There’s a misunderstanding during a hunt in Cleveland, and Dean winds up getting shot by a man with a possessed daughter. Thankfully the dad’s a piss-poor shot, so it just hits Dean’s arm, sinks right down into the meat of it and bleeds like a bitch. He knocks the guy out, drenches Emily Rose in holy water and finishes the exorcism through gritted teeth, his hand clutched around his bicep, blood seeping out between his fingers.

Needless to say, he bleeds all over the upholstery in the fucking car.

He gets patched up at the hospital downtown to avoid bleeding out, but he’s back on the road before dawn, the painkillers wearing off rapidly, leaving him with a pain so vivid that it takes his breath away. If he can just get to Sioux Falls, just get to Bobby’s, he can hide out and lick his wounds and get better. And hopefully be miles away from anybody who wants to fill him with bullets while he does.

I-80 West is a road he’s been on so many times he could possibly drive it in his sleep. It’s freezing this late in December, just two days before Christmas, and the heat is acting up in the car. Dean just tugs his jacket tighter around him and keeps going. The sun is pulling down, setting in a moody bed of clouds and pushing colors up into the sky, stubbornly ignoring the threats of snow coming in on the radio. It’ll be a couple feet easy here in southern Minnesota by morning.

He stops for gas when he’s on E in Albert Lea, grabbing a couple of Mountain Dews and corndogs before heading to the register. He dumps it all on the counter and pulls his wallet out of his backpocket, wincing at the sharp pinch of the bullet hole in his arm.

“Twenty-five on pump four,” he gruffs, not looking up at the bored teenager ringing him up. He hands his card over and slumps against the counter, sighing as he scratches at his three-day old beard.

“Uh, it says it’s declined,” the kid informs him, passing the card back over, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Dean just blinks at him.

“Declined?”

“Uh, yeah.” Tired eyes look from the credit card reader and back at Dean. “Got another one?”

Dean looks back in his empty wallet before quickly pocketing it. “No, no, I, uh.” He clears his throat and starts digging through his pockets, finding a five dollar bill which is a tiny relief.

“Just give me the drinks and corn dogs, I guess.”

The kid looks dubious.

“But don’t you need gas?”

Dean levels him with an unamused stare.

“Yeah. You gonna pay for it, Beavis?”

The kid glares at Dean, punches a few buttons on the register, and snatches the five from his hand. He all but throws Dean’s change at him and Dean grabs the dogs and the drinks and stomps back out to the car.

Well, fuck.

He sits in the car, eating and drinking his first meal of the day. He calls Bobby after the first corndog. Gets the answering machine.

This is Singer. Won’t be home until Christmas Eve. Helpin’ Santa load his sleigh. Dean rolls his eyes.

Hangs up.

“Fuck!”

Calls Dad. No answer. Leaves a message. Eats the second corn dog dejectedly. He pulls back onto the road with a weird sort of determination even though the sun has set and the snow has just started to fall.

The car sputters out her last breath right outside of Blue Earth, and Dean can’t help but sigh. He eases her onto the side of the road and kills the engine, the world falling utterly silent around him.

It’s truly night by now, and the moon is waning but still mostly full, revealing the expanse of snow-covered land and trees all around the interstate. Bobby won’t be home until tomorrow, and Dad’s not answering. Dean’s hurt with no money and no gas. There’s nothing to do but wait.

Sure, he could abandon the car and trek back to Blue Earth, try to find somebody with enough holiday spirit to let the bearded, bloodied guy with the haunted eyes sleep on their couch for the night. But he’s not an idiot.

Well, he’s realistic, anyway.

He calls Bobby back to leave a message.

“Bobby, I’m outta gas and stuck on the side of the road west of Blue Earth. Card got declined and it’s snowin’. I just. I could really use some help here, man. Call me as soon as you get this.”

He climbs out of the car to piss, the door creaking closed behind him. He does his thing, zips up, and almost turns to get back in the car before something out in the nearby field catches his eye. No way.

He looks down where he’s standing. Mile marker 116. This is it.

He looks back up and squints, his breath leaving his body in ghost white puffs. That’s it, no doubt about it. In spite of it all, in spite of everything, Dean smiles.

Sam’s tree.

It’s stupid. Really stupid. Sam had fallen in love with some random old tree on the way to Bobby’s one day when they were younger. Sam had been maybe eight, and he’d pushed his soft nose against the glass in the backseat and gasped.

“Look! Dean, lookit!”

He’d pointed and Dean had turned from his station in the passenger seat next to Dad, tired and not in the mood to play any kind of road games at the moment.

“What? Scraggly ass trees?”

“That tree!” Sam had been adamant and so Dean had taken the time to actually look. They went by it quickly, but Dean had seen one that was different than all the others, one that was dead and caught mid-fall by a tree just beside it. It was old and sad and leaning and Sam’s face was bright with happiness. Dean had looked from the tree back to his little brother, eyebrows lifting.

“Sammy, you’re so damn weird.” He’d reached back and scrubbed a hand through Sam’s hair to soften his words, and Sam had just given him a snaggle-toothed grin and settled back into his nest of blankets in the back seat, dog-eared copy of THE BFG cradled in his warm little hands.

And every time they’d driven I-80 going to Bobby’s, Sam would spot the tree without fail. He’d point and sigh and smile, like it was an old friend. Dean found himself looking forward to seeing it, just to see that much unbridled happiness on Sam’s face.

Sam’d been asleep once and missed it. He cried the whole next day until Bobby, tired of hearing about it, had bundled ten-year-old Sam into his old Chevelle and driven to Blue Earth and back, just so Sam could see it.

Sam’s tree.

There it is. A little more sunken than Dean remembers it being, but it’s snow-covered, given a bright white outline that makes it unmistakable in the moonlight and the streetlight.

And here he is.

He looks back at the car, staring at it suspiciously. This feels like a trick, like a plan or something. Like the car’d run out of gas right here on purpose, to get Dean to see this, to feel this. To miss Sam something awful, even more than usual. On the day before Christmas Eve.

Dean gives the tree one last look before climbing back in the car.

He gathers towels and shirts from the backseat and fashions himself a pillow. He stretches out on the bench seat, the vinyl squeaking and grunting under his movements. The moon is crystal clear up there, left alone by the snow clouds. The snow is falling harder and smaller, settling in to stay.

His arm is throbbing now, the pain washing over him so much that he lets out a whimper when he finally turns over onto his side to try and sleep. There’s a fine shimmer of sweat on his forehead, on his upper lip even though it’s cold enough in the car that he can see his breath.

He aches for comfort, for any comfort at all. For a blanket, soft and well-washed and tucked around him. For a pain pill to take the edge off the pain and let him fall into a deep sleep. For someone to answer the phone, to offer him help. For a hand in his hair, for a voice to fill in the mawing silence, for warmth against his skin.

He aches for Sam.

The sleep he falls into is comfortless and tense and fitful, only stopping with sound of his phone ringing a couple of hours before dawn.

Bobby finds him, miracle of miracles, gives him a hundred bucks cash and a couple of gallons of gas. He passes him a credit card with a quirked eyebrow, telling him to only use it when he absolutely has to.

He almost follows Bobby back to Sioux Falls but just as he starts to climb back in the car, the sky brightening to a lighter blue with the hint of sunrise, he stops.

“Bobby!”

Bobby turns back around from where he’d been heading to his own car, his eyes tired, beard scruffy. He raises his eyebrows at Dean.

“I’m, uh. I’ve got somewhere I’ve gotta go. I’ll head back to your place around New Years, okay?”

Bobby just stares at him for a minute before lifting his shoulder in a shrug. “Whatever you say, boy. Just don’t get yourself shot again between now and then.”

Dean manages a smile and a wave before he gets back in his car, blowing out a breath of relief when she starts up.

--

It takes over twenty-four hours to get to Palo Alto, and Dean doesn’t know how he does it without sleeping. Maybe it’s the thought of Sam, of seeing his face, hearing his laugh over how stupid Dean is for getting shot during a pretty easy hunt. Whatever it is, it works.

He pulls into Palo Alto around 7:30 on Christmas morning, right when the sun is starting to rise. He’s weak with not having eaten a decent meal in a few days and exhaustion and the fucking ache in his arm, but he’s finally here. He makes his way to campus and to the dorms where Sam had been living last year. He knows Sam’s roommate has a red Civic, but he doesn’t see it. There are maybe five cars in the entire parking lot, only a few less than he’d seen on the streets. The entire town is deserted this early in the morning on the holiday break, and Dean’s a little grateful for it.

His hands are shaking by the time he parks, his face pale, gaunt. He shuts the car off and stares up at the dorms, feeling for all the world like he’s looking for a needle in a haystack.

Sleep takes him before he has a single other thought.

--

Sam kind of hates Christmas mornings. There’s always a thrum of anticipation in the air, like something magic could have happened overnight, a sensation beat into him by hours upon hours of Christmas movies. But it never happens, not ever. Not anymore.

He stays in bed, the covers pooled around his waist, and he closes his eyes and pretends.

Pretends he’s a kid again, maybe twelve, maybe up in that cabin with Dean in Indiana. Trapped by winter with his brother with nothing to do. He realizes now that it’s probably the happiest he’s ever been, not sharing Dean’s attention with anybody else, no chance of it. And the snow had been so beautiful, such a sure-fire way to get them to stop moving.

His stale-aired, empty dorm room looks and feels nothing like that cabin when he opens his eyes. He sighs into the quiet, forcing himself to shove his covers away, to get up. Maybe he can just read today, nap in between chapters.

Fucking Christmas.

He stretches, arms high over his head, back arching before he slumps back down into his natural stance. He steps up to the tiny window between the beds, looking out just in case a freak accident happened and it snowed. Or even rained. Something besides sunshine and slightly cool air that doesn’t signify winter at all.

Nothing. Not even a fucking cloud. The sun is well on it’s way up from the horizon, shining merrily like it has no idea that it’s just fucking everything up. Sam glares at it.

He starts to turn away from the window, contemplating breakfast and where he can find it when something catches his eye and he stops. Completely shuts down.

No.

He’s frozen in place, facing his bed, head down as his chest heaves softly. He can’t look again, can’t. Doesn’t want to be wrong. Doesn’t want it to not be true. He closes his eyes, jaw tensing, willing himself to stop entertaining even the idea that he just saw the Impala, just get over it now now now, before it completely rips you apart.

“Stop,” he whispers to himself, a plea.

But his steel-trap of a memory shuffles back up, provides him with a photograph of what he’d only glimpsed. There it is, lower left hand corner, almost out of his line of vision. Black Chevy Impala. Sixty-seven, Coke bottle style body. It’s unmistakable.

He almost falls in his hurry to twist back around, to throw himself at the window, hands catching on the windowsill. He stares with a frightening intensity out his window, craning his neck to see out to the left, several rooms away.

He sees a pale figure in the drivers seat, like he’s slumped over and resting his head against the wheel. In the quiet of the morning, he swears he can hear the sound of his own heart shattering.

Dean.

--

Dean’s head snaps up at the sound of an insistent pounding next to his left ear. He blinks around like a blind baby rat, a little dizzy from keeping his head on the wheel while he slept and goddamnit, his neck is killing him.

“Dean!”

It sounds like the voice is underwater, or like he’s underwater and the voice is yelling at him from the surface. Whatever. The pounding starts up again, giving Dean an excellent guide as to where the voice is actually coming from, and he ends up just staring when he looks to his left.

Sammy is beating on the window so hard that if Dean felt anything but relief, he’d be warning him to cool it, but. Sam’s inexplicably shirtless, his hair longer than Dean’s ever seen it and it’s sticking up all over the damn place and there are tears streaking his cheeks and he looks just about as frantic as the feeling that’s building up in Dean’s chest so fast that he can’t draw a breath.

“Sam.” It seems impossible. It seems impossible even though Dean was the one who brought himself here in the first place. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe the wound was actually worse than he thought and he’d died over the course of the night, and this is his first stop in Heaven.

Sam would be his first stop in Heaven.

“Open the door!”

God, Sam is seriously brilliant. Yes.

Dean tugs the lock on the door up and before he can even pull his hand away, Sam is ripping the door open and reaching in for him, so much bigger than Dean remembers him being and he’s dragging Dean against himself, clutching him in his arms, his rank morning breath gasping against Dean’s face and he’s sniffling like a little kid and--

“Ow, ow, Sammy, wait, please. God, just hold on, fuck.”

Sam pulls back, tears leaving streaks on his face, and his eyebrows drawn together in concern. “What? Dean, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“Got shot,” he manages through gritted teeth, a hand coming up to cradle his bicep. He closes his eyes and sags back against the car. “Just stings a little.”

“Jesus. God, okay, c’mon. My room’s right over there.” Dean doesn’t look where Sam is pointing, just follows the careful hands on his body and lets himself be led away from the car. He walks and walks and goes up and through and around and there’s a door opening and then he’s being pushed down onto a bed.

He stays sitting up which is hard, but he’s rewarded when Sam oh-so carefully helps him pull his jacket off. He grinds his teeth together so hard he’s afraid they’re gonna shatter but he manages not to make any sounds. He’s sweating again and out of breath and he looks up to see Sam standing over him, hovering like a worried mother.

“I want to get your shirt off, Dean. I need to see it.”

He could tell him that it’s just on his arm, that he doesn’t need his shirt off, but the shirt’s filthy by now, bloody and sticking to his body, and he suddenly can’t be out of it fast enough. He helps Sam twist and tug it until it’s off and he falls back on the bed then, letting out a groan as he trembles there.

He closes his eyes when he feels Sam’s long, gentle fingers dance around the wound, around the irritated stitches. Sam hisses in sympathy, hand now stroking over Dean’s arm.

“You have any painkillers?”

Dean shakes his head, trying to will a smile onto his face but he’s sure it just comes off as a grimace.

“Nah. I scrammed as soon as they patched me up.”

“Okay. Look, hold on just a minute, okay? Let me see what I can find.”

Dean’s sure he nods but he doesn’t say anything. He relaxes back into the bed and cracks an eye open when he feels a nudge at his foot. Sam is standing over him with a banana and a granola energy bar thing and a bottle of water. Dean blinks at him.

“Eat,” Sam orders, leaning over to set the items beside Dean on the bed. “I know it’s not ideal, but you need to eat something. We’ll get some real food later.”

Dean grabs the bottle of water and works at twisting it open, not even pretending that he’s gonna eat the rabbit food. He tips it back and spills a little water on his neck but he drinks down a healthy amount of it, enough to meet Sam’s approval because he smiles while Dean gulps.

“Just rest for a minute,” Sam says, his voice soothing, low. Dean feels a hand sliding through his greasy hair, and he feels the sting of tears behind his closed eyes. This. This is exactly everything he wanted.

--

Sam wants to wake him up, but he can’t bring himself to yet. He’s scrounged up a first aid kit and some painkillers from the RA’s room (he may be a civilian now but he still knows how to pick a damn lock), and he wants Dean to be awake before he starts poking at him.

Dean looks so ragged and thin, but it’s probably just the lack of sun on his skin and the whiskery, mountain man beard on Dean’s face. It’s actually disturbingly attractive on him, but it’s unfamiliar and reminds Sam a little too much of Dad. He’s still so, so beautiful, freckles very evident on his sickly pale skin, his eyebrows drawn together in pain even while he sleeps.

Sam can’t get over it. Him.

His breath hitches, and he makes sure to keep it quiet even though he knows he can’t stop the tears from sliding down his face. This is too much, it’s too perfect. It’s so good it hurts, having Dean right here. Dean came to him. Trusted him when he was hurt. He looks older, more gaunt, chased, somehow. Sam stands up and roots the box of salt from under his bed and lines the door and the window, just to be sure.

“Dean,” he tries, his voice so soft, too soft, probably revealing every single bit of love coursing through his body right now. Dean doesn’t respond, doesn’t move. He’s got a few new scars on his body, and he’s leaner than before, but his stomach is still tight, nipples dusky and pink, a faint, golden trail of hair leading from his belly button down into his jeans. Sam stares at that hair, at the way it seems to glimmer a little in the sun from the window. He wants to touch it, to rub it with his fingers before pushing his hand down into his jeans and finding what the happy trail leads to. He wants to lick at it, kiss it until Dean makes him stop.

“Dean.” He sounds more pleading now, because, well, he is. Having Dean awake will at least distract him from all of his illegal thoughts, give him something else to focus on. He runs the backs of fingers over Dean’s forearm, watching in fascination as his nipples tighten even more, as goosebumps fly along after his hand. Sam licks his lips, chews on the bottom one.

He looks up to see Dean watching him, his eyes sleepy but clear, seeing. Sam flushes deeply and looks away again, clears his throat.

“Hey. Sorry. I, um.” He leans over then and grabs up the ziplock bag of first-aid stuff, complete with a contraband little baggie of painkillers. “I’m gonna clean that, okay?”

Dean nods, eyes still on Sam, still watching him. Sam doesn’t dare look back up. He focuses instead on Dean’s arm, leaning in close to inspect the wound, to frown at the stitches. They look ever so slightly pinched, and Sam wants to call and yell at the probably tired nurse who did them.

“It doesn’t look infected, just a little irritated.” He’s still speaking softly, like Dean’s dozing, but he doesn’t want to break the quiet spell that’s fallen over the room since Dean drifted off. He grabs the washcloth he has in a bowl of warm water and squeezes the excess out, bringing it newborn-careful to Dean’s arm, his body tensing when Dean’s does.

“I need to shower. And to fuckin’ shave,” Dean says, his voice sounding scratchy, bruised. He scritches at his beard, and Sam can’t help but look up, smirk at the wrinkle of Dean’s nose, at how annoyed he is at being so hairy.

“I don’t know. I think it looks pretty good.” He tries to keep his voice light, inconsequential, but his eyes linger a little longer than they need to before he goes back to business. Dean grunts, an annoyed sound, and Sam feels giddy. Almost starstruck. Dean’s here. Under his hands. Dean.

“Been driving since yesterday morning.” These words are a little softer, almost like Dean’s not sure he wants Sam to hear them. Sam’s heart skips but he stays on task, drying his arm a little and pouring some hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton pad and pressing it to the wound. Dean arches up off the bed then, growling soft in his throat. Sam maybe shivers.

“Why? Why didn’t you stop?”

Dean goes quiet, eyes trained on some spot behind Sam’s head while Sam works. He dabs a little petroleum jelly on before he starts to wrap it in gauze. Dean still hasn’t answered by the time Sam tacks on some medical tape and pronounces Dean done, so Sam lets it go. He knows how Dean works. Knows that he’ll answer him in his own time.

He cleans up his mess and Dean grunts as he shifts around on the bed. Sam jumps into action then, digging around for the pain pill.

“Here, take this. I don’t know what it is exactly, but it’s from when a kid almost chopped his finger off cutting limes for margaritas on Cinco de Mayo.” He drops the pill in Dean’s hand and watches as he smirks and then swallows it down dry.

“You maybe wanna help me out of my boots? I don’t think I could sit up right now if Yasmine Bleeth walked in naked .” Dean tries to lift one of his legs but Sam is down there before he can move anymore, untying and loosening both of them before pulling his shoes off, taking his socks off as an afterthought. He barely touches Dean’s foot and Dean is hissing, his body tightening up and Sam looks up in alarm.

“Sorry, it’s just, uh. Been driving, you know? I feel like I got hit by a fucking Mack truck.”

Sam nods, stares down at the feet draped across his lap. He makes a brave, selfless decision. “Hey, get your jeans off? It’ll be more comfortable. I can find you some pjs, if you want.”

He’s afraid Dean’s gonna call him on it, going to tease him about Sam just wanting to get him naked, and Sam has no idea how he would even start to defend himself. But Dean just gazes at him again, stares for a few beats before he reaches down and flips the button of his jeans open, using his fingers to edge the zipper down. Sam watches him intently, watches dirty fingers edging down the zipper, watches Dean’s stomach draw in, gets caught up staring at the goosebumps trailing up Dean’s ribs.

Dean nudges his jeans down his hips, helped when Sam finally gets with the program and starts to pull the legs down. They finally get them off his body, leaving him in a snug pair of boxer briefs very similar to the ones Sam had first gotten Dean at Wal-Mart so many years ago. His face heats up at the thought.

He indulges for just a second, takes in the pale down of hair on Dean’s legs, the boyish knobs of his knees, the rounded weight of Dean’s dick and balls under cotton. It’s so close--he’s so close--he could just reach out and rub and squeeze, but.

But.

He tugs Dean’s feet up into his lap again, sitting back against the wall at the foot of the bed. He cups one of Dean’s feet in his hands, stares at the tops of them, at the indentations left by Dean’s tight boots, the sparse hairs under his big toenails, the bruised little toe that Sam kind of wants to kiss.

Christ, he needs to snap out of this.

He starts to rub at the arch of Dean’s foot, his hands big and firm and insistent, and Dean gasps, body locking up at the sudden attention to sore muscles. Sam shushes him with soft noises and keeps rubbing, and Dean slowly relaxes back against the bed, an arm thrown up over his eyes to hide his face.

Sam rubs until Dean’s feet are relaxed under his hands, and he works his way up his legs, digging in hard at stubborn, strong calf muscles, eyes focused desperately when he starts in on Dean’s thighs.

“Sammy, Jesus,” Dean breathes, his stomach clenched tight while Sam works the tension out of his tired legs. The muscles loosen up slowly, and Sam is maybe breathing a little too hard by the time he gets to Dean’s upper thighs.

“Turn over, let me work on your back for a little bit.” His voice is a bit gruff, a little strained but he manages to get the entire sentence out without blushing, so that’s something. Dean hesitates, lazy with the massage and the pain pill slowly making its way through his system, so it takes a few beats for him to agree. He flops over onto his stomach and sighs into the pillow. “Keep your arms down to the side, okay?”

Dean grunts and Sam smiles as he shifts on the bed, kneeling next to Dean in an amazingly tiny amount of space so he can reach his shoulders without straddling him.

Not that he’s ever imagined straddling Dean.

He closes his eyes as he starts to rub Dean’s shoulders and neck, focusing on what Dean’s body is telling him and trying so hard not to think about Dean’s warm skin, the galaxy of freckles he’s touching, the thick cords of muscle he’s got under his hands. They’re both breathing pretty hard now, Dean with painful relief and Sam with exertion and maybe arousal.

“You still with me, Dean?”

Dean groans into the pillow and Sam grins.

“This massage come with a happy ending?”

Sam is so, so glad that Dean can’t see his face right now because Dean’s caught him completely, completely by surprise. They’re both quiet for a bit, clearly waiting on Sam to respond, and Sam is blushing like a schoolgirl and making damn sure not to change the pressure of his hands on Dean’s shoulders. He runs a hand down Dean’s side and digs his fingers in, tickling him ruthlessly and making Dean bark out the most emasculating sound that Sam has to laugh. Dean jerks on the bed and lifts his head to glare back at Sam, his eyes already heavy, pupils blown.

“I hate you.”

“Why? Because you sound adorable when you get tickled?” Sam threatens with his fingers again just to feel Dean tense, but he’s a merciful tormentor, so he goes back to the massage. Dean growls a little but it eases out into a moan when Sam works his way down Dean’s back, baring down with his weight as he presses his hands in on either side of Dean’s spine, popping his back all the way back up to the nape of his neck.

Dean sobs then, a real sob and he melts completely into the bed, body shaking lightly all over. Sam keeps a warm, spread palm on his back and he watches him, watches the pain ease out of Dean’s body, leaving him in a pretty euphoric, painless state.

“You good?” He keeps his voice soft as he rubs his hand across Dean’s back, keeping the pressure steady but light. Dean makes what can barely be called a sound, and Sam can tell that he’s mostly asleep. He leans up with all of the courage in his body and presses a kiss to the nape of Dean’s neck, his lips soft and trembling. Reverent.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, his eyes slipping closed to savor him just for a second, his forehead pressed to the top of Dean’s spine just to hear his heartbeat, to feel the rhythm of his breathing, to smell his skin. Dean’s breath deepens and slows, and Sam kisses him again, one more time, right against the top notch of his spine. “Big brother.”

He pulls the blanket up over Dean’s body and stands up as quiet as he can, going the couple of feet away to sit on Andrew’s bed, pulling his long legs up to his chest and watching Dean sleep, like if he takes his eyes off of him, if he tries to go to sleep himself, Dean will just disappear.

--

Dean wakes up in increments. The first thing he realizes is that he’s not cold. Nice. He snuggles down into incredibly familiar-smelling blankets and grunts happily as he accepts the warmth and the covers.

The second thing he realizes is that there’s another person in the room. There’s nothing particular he can point to as proof of it, but he knows. He waits a few beats, trying to see if maybe he can just fall back asleep. His eyelashes flutter and catch on the blanket before he opens his eyes Damnit. Definitely awake.

He tugs the blanket down and realizes that it’s late afternoon, wherever he is. The light is low and golden out the little window above his head. He stretches, long and lazy as a cat, toes straining and touching the footboard, arms up high over his head and--

Shit.

He hisses, jerking his arms back down with a frown. His left bicep hurts like a bitch. Why--

Oh.

Oh.

He remembers. Being shot, the nauseating sterility of the hospital, alone, no money no gas Sam’s tree, alone. Cold, cold, cold. Alone.

Sam.

He turns his head, his beard scratching against the blanket. Sam isn’t in the other bed in the room, the tiny twin that matches the one he’s currently in. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning back on the nightstand between the beds, legs stretched out in front of him, chin touching his chest.

Asleep.

He’s as close to Dean as he can get without being in the actual bed with him, and his hand is resting on the bed next to Dean’s arm, fingers just barely curled on the grey sheet. Like he couldn’t even stand to be even three feet away, in that bed over there. Like it was just too far.

Dean’s chest tightens in what can only ever be called love, and he’s drugged and unguarded enough right now to admit it.

He swallows hard, blinking some of the tired out of his eyes as he finally takes in his surroundings. The walls are white, institution white, and the beds have matching grey and blue bedding on them, a single, sad pillow each. There’s a desk with a computer at the foot of the other bed, and a tiny counter behind it holds an itty bitty microwave, a little sink, and about ten coffee mugs and cans of Dr. Pepper. The mini-fridge completes the dollhouse look of the whole thing, and Dean can’t help but smile at the thought of Sam, his overgrown, long baby brother, living inside of this tiny room for more than five minutes.

There are some family pictures over on the other side of the room: one of a family of four with matching, white smiles, another of a couple of kids playing on the beach, one at a birthday party that clearly happened in the 80s. And a Grateful Dead poster. Dean smirks. College boys.

Sam’s side is tidy, nothing out, nothing cluttered. There are two posters on the wall, both small and not as colorful as tie-dye and dancing bears: one for Pearl Jam and the other for Radiohead. No family pictures, nothing sentimental, nothing unguarded. All clean and unassuming and not caring to draw anybody’s eye for more than a few seconds.

That’s Sammy.

He looks down at the bed he’s in, and it all just kind of hits him. Smacks him in the face like an avalanche that he hadn’t even been aware was approaching. He’s in Sam’s room at Stanford. A place so fucking mythical in his own mind, in his masochistic daydreams and torments. Sam had just let him in, led him inside and let him pass out. Given him a place to feel safe and be guarded for a few hours. Let him rest. All without being asked. Without really knowing what Dean had gone through, what had driven him across thousands of miles and hours upon frozen hours to get here, to be here.

And now that he’s here, he’s supposed to find it in him to leave sometime, isn’t he? Can’t just stay here, sleep on the desk or something, right? He’s going to have to say goodbye to Sammy again, to climb in his car and drive away from him, something that he’s always hated with every single fiber of his being, something that has always gone against all of his instincts.

He clutches at the blankets, trying to make himself heavier, like somebody’s just gonna come in and rip him right out of the bed, out of the room, away from his baby brother. Tears sting at his eyes, and he’s so pissed at himself because he did this. He did it to himself.

“Goddamnit,” he whispers, breath hitching softly.

“Dean?”

Dean jerks at the sound of Sam’s voice so close even though he knows exactly where he is. He doesn’t look over at him, doesn’t let him see the wide vulnerable of his eyes, doesn’t let him see the emotion in them that he just can’t put away yet.

Dean grunts a response, scrubbing his hands over his face, heels of them digging into his eyes, pads of his fingers scratch-scratching over his damn beard.

“Why you on the floor, Sammy?”

Sam is just as quiet as Dean had been at that question, and Dean finally looks over at him, curiosity getting the better of him. Sam is looking down, the faintest pink on his cheeks. Of course Sam still blushes. And shrugs like a little kid.

“Dunno. Just kind of did it in my sleep.”

Dean watches as Sam stands up, as he stretches his ever-growing body, flashing a flat stomach, a strip of elastic under his pajama pants, and a faint trail of soft brown hair that disappears into it. He looks away.

Sam clears his throat as Dean sits up, the blankets falling away from him. Dean checks over his wound by running his fingers over it, and he grits his teeth at how fucking tender it is. It feels better though, isn’t worryingly warm to the touch. The other bed squeaks when Sam sits down on it, and Dean looks over to watch Sam stare at his hands.

Welp. This got awkward fast.

“Why are you here, Dean?”

The question hangs in the air between them, won’t let either of them go until it’s answered. Dean sighs and heaves himself up to lean back against the headboard and tuck into the corner of the wall, facing Sam. He wants a shirt because he hates having heart-to-hearts without clothes on, but now doesn’t seem to be a good time to ask for one. It’s Dean’s turn to little boy-shrug.

“Just seemed like the place to go, I guess.”

Sam’s eyes shoot up at that, quick and feline, and Dean can’t help but meet them. And then immediately look away. He can see Sam’s jaw tense out of the corner of his eyes as he stares at the Dead poster. No way that kid went to that concert. It was on New Year’s Eve in 1969.

“So, what? You’re leaving now? Heading back out? Meeting up with Dad?” The word “Dad” hits like a punch, full of hurt and anger and wavering with the unresolved pain between Dad and Sam. Between all three of them. It sends an ache all through Dean’s body, making his arm throb. That night. That night in Denver. Sam leaving. I don’t need you anymore, Dean. It’s been the epicenter of Dean’s nightmares for a year and a half.

“I thought maybe I’d.” Dean pauses, his voice unsure, his whole plan unraveling like ribbons all around him. “Maybe I’d stay for a couple of days. Hang out. Just you’n me.”

Dean’s eyes burn on the picture of the two little kids at the beach on the wall behind Sam, two boys, neither of them looking at the camera. One is building a sandcastle and the other is staring off at the sea right beside him. It could be him and Sam, in another life. It should have been him and Sam. Dean blinks rapidly, refusing to let the tears build. He feels fucking maudlin and he hasn’t even had any alcohol.

He looks back down and Sam is watching him, staring at him like Dean just offered him a kitten.

“Really?”

Dean raises his eyebrows, wondering how he managed to say the magic words to make Sam look like he’s twelve again, wondering exactly what they are so he can keep them and say them again later, tomorrow, next week, forever.

Another shrug though, nonchalant.

“Yeah. Can’t do anything with this bullet hole in me anyway, right? Might as well stay here and bug you for a little bit. I-I mean. If that’s okay with you and all.”

Sam blinks, head shaking a little like he doesn’t quite understand. “If it’s okay with--yeah. I mean, yeah, of course. Of course it’s okay, Dean, Jesus. You know you. I mean. You can always.”

There’s that flush again, and Sam clearing his throat, short and grownup.

“You can always come here. No matter what.”

Dean lets out a little laugh, the kind that’s just a breath that means Dean wants to grin but it’d be too genuine if he did.

“You’ll live to regret that offer.”

Their eyes meet again and Sam is serious this time, shaking his head.

“No. I won’t. I mean it, Dean.”

“Thanks.” Dean says it so quietly that it would have been impossible to hear if the rest of the world wasn’t utterly silent for them at that moment. “For. For everything.”

He motions around him, at the room, the bed, his arm. At Sam. And Sam smiles because he gets it. Of course he gets it. How did Dean ever manage to lie to himself and think that this would ever go away between them? That Sam would turn into a different person out here and not be his little boy anymore?

“So, uh. You hungry? There’s not a lot open on Christmas, but there’s an In-n-Out Burger across the street that’s open today. Want me to go get a bunch of burgers and fries and heart attacks and bring ‘em back?”

Dean is nodding and squirming on the bed, his stomach twisting and gurgling like a separate entity. He’d eaten the bare minimum on the way over to California: a donut, a bag of salt and vinegar chips, a whole bag of chocolate pretzels. And now he’s fucking starving.

Sam laughs, probably at Dean’s enthusiasm for food, and stands up. He shoves his pants down and roots around in the small closet Dean hadn’t noticed before, pulling on a pair of jeans and a hoodie. Dean just watches him, leans back on the bed and watches the way Sam’s fingers work over the brass button of his jeans, the way his long arms snake through the sleeves of the hoodie, the impossible wildness of his hair when he pops up through the neckhole and fixes the hood. He looks so good. Looks like Sammy, like he always has, but better. Bigger and more sure of himself, more confident in his movements, more direct in his words than he has been in a long time, maybe ever.

“You look good,” he finally says, the words coming out almost hoarse, awkward. Sam looks over and finds Dean watching him, raises his eyebrows. His smile is a smirk and it’s kind of adorable. Bastard.

“Thanks,” Sam huffs in a laugh, letting the smirk grow into a grin. “So do you, mountain man.”

Dean groans, reaching up to self-consciously tug at his beard. “Shuddup.”

Sam’s got a pair of running shoes on now, and he’s stuffing a wallet and phone into his pocket. When he looks back at Dean, his eyes are almost shy.

“You can shower while I’m gone, if you want. My clothes are in that closet, and my toiletry bag is under the bed. Use whatever you want. I’ll be back, okay?”

“Alright, man. Thanks.” This feels so weird, so formal. Sam playing the host, offering Dean things, doing everything for them. Dean should be the one taking care of them, at least going to get the food. Oh! “Oh, Sammy. Take the car, arrite?”

He looks around and spies the keys on the nightstand next to him. He reaches over and grabs them and tosses them to Sam who catches them with an unreadable look on his face. Dean watches him stare down at the keys, waits him out and tries to read the expression on his face. It hits him suddenly, and his whole body aches again.

“You miss her, don’t you?”

Sam glances up for that, caught. The keys rattle in his hand when he curls his finger into a keyring, and he clears his throat softly.

“Of course. I mean.” He doesn’t say anything more, and Dean doesn’t really need him to. There’s no way to talk about her, about that car, without getting emotional. And they definitely aren’t going to do this in the light of day, when Dean doesn’t have whiskey or darkness to aid him.

“She’s got gas in her. Go ahead. She misses you, too.” He smirks at Sam, hoping it’s casual enough. Sam returns it gratefully, giving a single nod before he turns for the door.

“Oh! Dean.” He turns around halfway outside, one foot already in the hall. Dean raises his eyebrows in reply. “Don’t get your arm wet.”

Dean rolls his eyes, lips pursing in amusement.

“Yes, mama.”

Sam glares but it’s followed by a blinding grin.

“Back in a minute, asshole.”

Dean finally lets out the breath he feels like he’s been holding since he woke up when Sam closes the door behind him.

--

Sam knocks on his own door before opening it again, giving Dean a chance to scramble to get dressed or at least let Sam know he’s not. He steps in after a few beats, bags and cups balanced in his arms. Dean is sitting on his bed again, but this time he’s a little damp, pink from the shower and clean-shaven. He’s wearing one of Sam’s generic Stanford t-shirts and a pair of pajama pants that almost fit him. Sam can’t keep his smile in.

“Where did the scraggly guy go that I left in here? Did he take my shit and leave?”

Sam turns his back on Dean to close his door and to compose himself a little. Because Dean is sitting on his bed in his clothes, and while that’s not weird as his brother, it’s a little bit of a wet dream for Sam, the most fucked-up, terrible brother of all time.

“Don’t I look pretty?” Dean gives him his biggest shit-eating grin when Sam turns around again and starts unloading his arms. “Oh, by the way, you need a new razor.”

Sam snorts, dimple peeking out as he tries to hold in a smile. “Got some food, buttmunch. Figured about four burgers would do.”

Dean is already up and digging around through the bags, shoveling a few fries in his mouth and cradling one of the drinks with a straw poking out of it. He snatches up the bag of burgers and raises his eyebrows at Sam. “Sounds awesome. You get anything for yourself?”

Their smirks match exactly and Dean half-heartedly ducks when Sam goes to smack the back of his head. “Want some ketchup?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Dean carries his bundle back to the bed, digging a burger out and not hesitating to unwrap it and take a huge bite. He takes a deep breath as he chews, leaning back against the wall in a slump. He sighs before swallowing, his eyes falling closed. “God, that’s good.”

“You’re just easy. Move over.” Sam’s heart is stuttering, chest aching just for the sound of Dean’s voice resonating in this room, for his unspeakable scent all over everything, changing the shape and color and sound of this space forever. This room will never be quiet ever again, not entirely. It will always have Dean here, the echo of him, like the memory of a bell ringing.

Sam doesn’t eat, isn’t hungry. He reaches for his laptop and opens it up, pushing a few buttons and the screen fills with the very beginning of Return of the Jedi. Dean shifts excitedly beside him, hurrying to swallow again so he can talk.

“Really? We gonna watch it?” Dean sounds like a little boy, like Sam is his baby-sitter and whatever Sam says, goes. Sam leans back against the wall, not touching Dean because he doesn’t want to hit his hurt arm, but they’re close. Comfortable. Sam doesn’t reply, just lulls his head over to grin at Dean, their eyes catching for a few seconds and a warmth passes between them, settling in soft over them like sunlight.

Sam pushes play.

--

Halfway through the movie, the leftovers are tucked in the tiny fridge, the trash cleared, and Dean is drooling on Sam’s pillow. Sam has abandoned any pretense of watching the movie and is instead staring at Dean, at the lazy sprawl of him on his bed. It’s worrying him a bit that Dean is sleeping so much, but fuck knows when the last time he’d slept in a bed was.

The sun’s about to set on Christmas Day, and it takes a lot for Sam to clear his throat a little, to start moving around loudly enough to wake Dean. Otherwise he’ll be up all night. Sam knows his brother.

“Brgn,” Dean announces, burrowing down into the pillow, a stubborn pout on his face. “No.”

“Dean, it’s getting late.”

“Exactly, man. Lemme sleep. So mean to me.”

Sam smiles, a hand drifting up to rest on Dean’s tight calf that’s draped over his lap. He pulls out the big guns.

“So, you’re just gonna spend your whole time here with me asleep?”

It takes two full beats for Dean’s bright eyes to snap open, and they find Sam immediately. Sam smiles at him, fingers rubbing at Dean’s leg a little more deliberately now. Dean’s always been a bit more open to affection, to touches, in these delicate moments before and after sleep.

“You can sleep, too?” It’s a mumble but a hopeful one, and Sam huffs out a laugh, rolling his eyes. He gives Dean’s thigh a slap, closing the laptop and then hefts himself up out of bed, letting Dean’s legs flop back down onto the mattress without his lap to pillow them.

“It’s cool, man. You can sleep. I’m gonna read a little bit. Need to get ahead for next semester anyway.” Sam cracks his neck on his way over to the desk, flipping on the light there, letting the small glow warm the otherwise darkened room. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him still, and so he tries to look as sexy as he can while he settles down into the chair and tugs out his pile of books.

They’re both quiet for a few minutes while Sam selects a book and cracks it open, settling back in the chair to start reading. He thinks that maybe Dean’s fallen back asleep, he’s quiet for so long, but then he hears him sigh. Sam smiles.

“So,” Dean begins, his voice almost uncertain. “So, what do you wanna do, if I wake up?”

Sam lifts his eyes, finds Dean in the shadows of the bed.

“You mean you’re not awake right now?”

Dean’s glare is more felt than seen.

“I mean like, get up, drag my sweet ass outta bed, the whole nine.”

Sam shrugs, stubbornly not thinking about Dean’s ass or anything under those covers over there.

“Dunno.”

A thoughtful pause.

“What would you do if I wasn’t here?”

Sam looks around, glances at the window showing the dusk outside, at the room around them. “Prolly just this.”

“Read?”

“Mm-hmm.” Sam looks back down at his book, knowing now that he’s not going to read it, but it’s a good prop, if they’re going to talk. The book and the shadows. It’ll let them say more than they would otherwise, more than they would if they were face-to-face, with no distractions. It’s why they always talk more when Dean’s driving, or when they’re on the phone. No eye contact, something else to focus on. Anything that makes it easier for Dean.

“Still a geek boy, I see. That’s good, that’s good.” Dean sighs again and shifts on the bed, turning to stretch out on his back, his heels resting on the footboard. “Man, I don’t know how you fit in this bed. It’s ridiculous.”

Sam grins at the words in front of him. “I curl up real good.”

Dean falls quiet again, absorbs that, it seems.

“You gotta girlfriend?”

He doesn’t know why, but just the question makes Sam’s heart race. He licks his lips, stares intently at the book now.

“Nah.”

“A, um. A boyfriend?” This question is a little more loaded, more hesitant. Full of an underlying disapproval. It makes Sam’s face flush.

“No. Haven’t really dated anybody very much.”

There’s an exhalation of what can only be named relief from Sam’s bed, and it’s enough to make Sam glance up, try to see Dean. He still can’t.

“Why not? You’re.” There’s a tiny hint of movement, and Sam can see Dean motioning at him, implying that Sam’s attractive enough, why not? “Yanno. Not hideous anymore.”

It’s typical brother ribbing, guy buffering, but it still tugs at Sam, prickles at him. Hurts him a little. Because he never learned to have a thick skin against Dean.

“Not really interested. Had a few hook-ups and stuff like that, but.” Another shrug, Sam’s hand tightening in its grip on the book. He looks back down. “What about you? Banging your way across the lower forty-eight?”

“Something like that.” It’s all Dean offers, which is a little weird. There’s usually a story attached, some anecdote, some fish tale about a girl somewhere. It unsettles Sam a little.

“So why aren’t you and Dad hunting together? Why do you have the Impala?”

Dean’s so quiet that Sam thinks he’s pissed off, and he finally looks up from him book completely, closing it around his finger-turned-bookmark and leaning forward at the desk, straining to see his brother in the dark. His blood runs cold suddenly, a shock of fear spreading ice through his veins. God, surely nothing’s happened to Dad. Please, no. “Dean?”

“He’s, uh. I don’t know. Somewhere else. We hunt apart most of the time now. Got him a truck from an old buddy in Lawrence and just split, gave me the keys.”

Sam just blinks.

“So, you’re.” There’s a lump at the base of his throat, an ache in him that doesn’t let him take a full breath. “So, you’re just. By yourself now?”

“Mm.” It’s a grunt of an affirmative, and Sam sits back in the chair, eyes glazed over, staring off. Dean by himself. Dean, who needs somebody to depend on him, who needs somebody in the passenger seat, or in the driver’s seat. Dean who needs somebody there, even if they’re not talking. Somebody to anchor him down so he doesn’t just drift away. He’s alone now.

“Dean, that’s so dangerous,” Sam finds himself saying, safe, rational words coming out of nowhere when he needs them most. “You can’t just hunt by yourself. What if something happens? What if you need to rest, and. And. What if you need somebody?”

“Don’t need anybody.” Dean’s tone is flat, a vocal shrug. Matter-of-fact and lying. Sam knows that Dean can see him perfectly, the only thing in the tiny light in the room. That he’s got a spotlight on him, and if Dean’s looking, he knows how upset Sam is. “And if I do, I can call Dad or Bobby.”

“But you got hurt.”

“And I’m okay now. Got patched up and got here. I’m fine.”

“The heat’s not working in the Impala, you know. It wouldn’t really kick in when I drove it earlier.”

“Yeah, I know.”

There was snow on the car, clinging in small places, when Dean arrived this morning. Which means that Dean drove across the northern part of the country to get here. Through the coldest parts at the coldest time of the year, with no heat. It’s enough to make Sam cry, and he doesn’t know why exactly. Maybe he’s too soft now, too long off the road, away from the life.

Or maybe he just can’t stand the thought of Dean being cold and alone.

“You hungry again?” Sam’s voice crackles like an old radio, and he clears his throat to get rid of it. He closes his book and stands up, heading to the fridge to distract himself. To keep himself from burrowing down against his brother and keeping him here. “There’s still some--”

“Missed you.”

It’s just two words, but they absolutely slay Sam. He stands where he is, his back to Dean, and lets the words tremble in the air, soft and fragile between them. He closes his eyes and is shocked to hear a hiccup of a sound leave his body, to feel tears slip down his cheeks. Why. Goddamnit, why can Dean always do this to him? Why can he always just slip right in and rip Sam apart from the inside with absolutely no effort? Why does it always hurt so much more when it’s Dean?

He turns to face him slowly, not bothering to wipe his cheeks off, letting Dean see the slick shimmer of tears on his skin in the lamplight. He lets their presence answer for him. He sniffles, a pathetically young sound, wipes his nose and face on his sleeve like he’s little.

“I don’t wanna sleep in the other bed tonight. Dean, I don’t want to not be next to you.”

The room feels smaller around them, like it’s closing in, all the things they’re not saying crowding around them, pushing them together, stealing all the air. Sam stays standing near the foot of the bed, his shoulders drawn in, arms wrapped around himself. If everybody he knows here could see him now. See Sam who they think is so responsible, so together and balanced, if only they could see the way he falls apart for his brother.

Dean pushes the covers back and climbs out of the bed, his bare feet so stupidly beautiful on the scratchy carpet. He wraps his arms around Sam’s waist when he gets close enough, doesn’t lift his arms because one hurts to move. Sam curls down over him, wanting so badly to be little again, to just be able to push his face up and into Dean’s neck where he used to hide, where it always felt safe.

He noses down anyway, hunching over so he can get back there again, tuck right into the warm clean home of Dean’s neck, his forehead against his jaw, mouth against his pulse, nose right in the softness of his hair right behind his ear.

They stay just like that, just there, for God knows how long. Sam’s body aches from the position, and he knows that Dean’s arm hurts, but they just can’t seem to let go. Sam just breathes him in, absorbs all the heat from Dean’s spread palms on his back, listens to the sound of his nose snuffling around in Sam’s messy hair.

“We’ll figure it out, Sammy. We’ll make it work.”

They pull back in tiny increments, and Sam knows that this is when he’s supposed to kiss Dean. When the stars want him to, when they lined right up and gave him this moment to do what he’s supposed to do. He stands up to his full height again, his eyes closed, not wanting to see any fear on Dean’s face, any hesitation, any wariness. He presses their foreheads together, feels their noses rub together. He runs his hands over Dean’s waist, over his flanks and his ribs, around to his back. He swallows and his throat clicks dry and it’s so loud in here, between them.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he says suddenly, out of nowhere, like the words were just put in his mouth. He doesn’t know why he chooses then to say them, but he does. And they both know what he means. Both picture a rainy day in Colorado, feel that same ripping pull all over again when Sam just left. When he told Dean that he didn’t need him. “I’m sorry.”

They’re pressed so close that Sam can’t help but feel Dean’s reaction to it, feel the way his heart speeds up against his own chest, but hear the way he sucks in a sharp breath. Sam just tightens his hold on Dean, pulls him back in close, closer. Doesn’t let him pull away.

“Sammy, we can’t talk about,” Dean manages, but his voice is so raked raw, shaking. He doesn’t even finish the sentence, and it makes tears burn in Sam’s eyes again. “Please. Please, let’s just. Let’s just not. Okay?”

Sam nods because Dean sounds so hurt, so desperate, so broken open in a way he never does. He nods because he can’t bear the thought of Dean leaving because of this, running away from how much it hurts, from how scared he is of whatever is building up fortress-strong around them, keeping them together.

Dean pulls away first, stepping back and taking a huge breath that he lets out in a whoosh as he scrubs his hands over his face hard. Sam just watches him, just fucking obsesses over him and wants to marry him and give Dean every broken piece of himself and take all of Dean in return. He wants and he wants and it’s like he’s a kid again, all emotions and newness and the unbelievable angst of really feeling for the first time. He tugs his sleeves down over his hands and uses them to wipe his eyes.

“How ‘bout we take both the mattresses off and put them together on the floor?”

It takes Sam a minute to hear what Dean said, to really wrap his brain around it. Oh. Right.

Sam looks at both beds and the space between them, letting his big brain do all the moving for them and he shakes his head. “Won’t fit. There’s not enough room between the frames.”

“Hm.” Dean is okay again, for the moment, now that he has a task, something to do. Sam walks over and turns on the lamp between the beds, giving them a little more light to work with. Dean snaps his fingers. “Okay, I got it. We tip your bed frame on its side, along the wall. That’ll clear the floor enough for two mattress. Especially these midget-sized things.”

Dean is moving before Sam can even agree because Dean knows it’ll work. They take the mattresses off both beds and lean them against the closet door before they count to three and heave up the bed frame, tipping it on its side and shoving it against the wall as far as it’ll go, clearing a bit more floor space. There’s a few books under Sam’s bed, a couple of pairs of shoes, a lost CD, and a lidless shoebox. Dean crouches down to gather it all up and he blinks when he sees something black in a large Ziploc bag stuffed into the box.

“What’s this?”

Sam is busy dragging the mattresses back over, and he frowns when he comes back to find Dean looking at some of his stuff. His heart rate picks up for no real reason and he kneels down next to Dean, peering down at--

“Nothing.”

He tries to grab the box, or at least the Ziploc bag out of it, but Dean snatches the plastic bag out and cradles it to his chest, determined to get to the bottom of it because of how fantastically Sam reacted. He waggles his eyebrows at Sam.

“What is it? Batman cape? Lingerie? Portable sex swing?”

“Dean, no! Jesus, it’s. It’s just.”

Dean starts to open the bag up and Sam gasps, reaching out to snatch it from him. He hugs it to his chest protectively, looking down at where he has it gripped tight in his strong hands.

“Just. Don’t.”

Dean’s quiet for a minute, looking between Sam and the bundle in his arms, before his face smooths out with realization.

“It’s that shirt, isn’t it? The.” He pauses, the bad lighting hiding the blush but Sam knows it’s there. “The one I sent you.”

Sam doesn’t respond, but they both know it now. They stare at the sealed plastic bag holding Sam’s shirt, the one that had smelled so thoroughly like Dean and still does because Sam refuses to take it out of the bag, refuses to let that smell completely die.

“I just. I just keep it in here,” Sam offers as a pathetic explanation, resting a flat palm over the surface of it. “So. So I don’t lose it.”

“Lose what, Sam?”

Dean is close again, near but not threatening. Sam closes his eyes because he can smell Dean, not the second-hand scent that’s forcefully trapped in the cotton shirt in his arms but Dean’s living, real smell. Sweat and heartbeat and warmth and life. Inches from him. Sam feels like even his bones are shaking.

“Your smell.” It’s so soft, a hush of words. An admission of sorts that he can’t open his eyes for. Nothing stirs for several moments, several heartbeats, and then Dean’s even closer, tugging the shirt out of Sam’s grasp and pulling Sam closer to him.

“Hey. ‘m right here, Sammy. Right here. C’mere.” Dean pushes his knee into the closest mattress and leans back onto it, pulling Sam with him. Sam follows him, sinks down onto the bed, not caring if there are pillows or blankets in the right place. Not caring that there are two lights on or that it’s barely past seven in the evening.

They’re on their sides, facing each other on the shoved-together beds, and Dean’s the one who pulls Sam even closer, starts to tangle their legs up, starts to get skin against skin. Sam is breathing with his lips parted, panting softly when Dean’s leg lifts and wraps around Sam’s, their bare toes brushing, soft and intimate.

Dean guides Sam back to his neck, lets him tuck right in where he belongs, the place he’s made a home of. Sam breathes him in, the sound rushing like waves between them, and he’s not afraid to let Dean hear it. Not now. He closes his eyes again and exhales hot against Dean’s skin, his fingers sliding over to grip Dean’s shirt, to hold onto him with a fierceness borne of knowing how easy it is to have something taken away. His lips slip wet and lax over Dean’s neck, tasting clean sweat and he breathes him in again, a tiny, desperate sound catching in his throat.

Dean just holds him there, cards his fingers through Sam’s hair and buries his nose right into it, like always. Like always. They’re like always, like no time has passed, like no one has ever come between them.

Sleep doesn’t ease their grip on each other, doesn’t pull Sam away from his warm haven, doesn’t put an inch between their bodies. Neither knows when they fall asleep because it all feels like a dream, slow and honeyed and so good it can’t last.



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