Two-Headed Boy: Twelve
When Sam wakes up, he’s alone.
He doesn’t have a moment of confusion, of disorientation, of forgetting. He knows where he is and when it is and who he went to sleep with, who he still smells in the sheets beside him.
And Dean’s gone.
Sam hauls himself up, eyes still bleary with sleep as he yanks the dorm room door open and rushes into the hallway, heading for the stairs.
Maybe he hasn’t left yet. Maybe.
It’s morning, he knows that much, but he’s not sure what time. He tries to think as he races down the stairs to get to the lobby, tries to remember where the sun was in the window in his room. Probably around nine. Maybe.
He practically bursts into the lobby, and suddenly this feels too much like that night when the package had been at his front door, chasing after the reminder of Dean.
He feels sick with worry, with fear. His eyes are burning with tears because it’s too fucking early for this, and he’s still vulnerable enough with sleep that he doesn’t have any of his normal walls up.
He hears two voices at the front doors of the lobby, and he actually gasps with hope. He rounds the corner and sees them and practically sink to the ground with relief.
There’s Dean with a girl hovering in the open doorway, letting in the cool morning air. Sam stops and watches, trying to calm his heaving breaths so they don’t hear him.
The girl laughs, high and flirtatious, and Sam has to lean back against the wall, his eyes falling closed as his heart sinks. It’s so familiar, all of this, familiar in the absolute worst way. But at least he’s here. At least he hadn’t just left.
“--totally can, if you want. You can bring your brother, too. What’s his name again?”
He recognizes her voice even though he refuses to look and see who she is. Doesn’t care, doesn’t want to know who is about to take away his precious time with Dean. Doesn’t want to hate anyone unnecessarily. There are plenty of girls across America who have Sam’s hatred as it is.
“Sam. Uh, Sam Winchester.” Dean sounds uncharacteristically hesitant with this girl, like he hadn’t wanted to give Sam’s real name. It’s strange enough that Sam opens his eyes and leans around the corner, taking in the sight of them again, how natural it looks to see Dean talking to a pretty girl.
Spencer. That’s Spencer Dalton. A friend of Brady’s. Fuck.
“Oh! Sam’s your brother? Really?” She sounds excited, surprised. Even gives a breathy laugh. “Wow, your parents must be smoking hot. Sam is. Is…” She actually sounds dreamy, like Sam might be the brother she’s daydreaming about. When Dean’s standing right there. Sam’s eyebrows shoot up under his messy hair. Well, this is weird.
He moves back to his hiding place.
Dean laughs, short and almost unamused. “Yeah. He is. Listen, uh. I’m gonna get back up there. Breakfast’s gonna get cold and all.”
There’s a rustle of a plastic bag and then the clunky sound of the door closing. Spencer laughs again, the door opening once more.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Well, I’m off for my run. We’re all meeting over at The Rose and Crown tonight around nine. Sam knows where it is. So. You guys can come, if you want.”
“I’ll talk to him. Hey, uh. Nice to meet you.”
Sam can hear Spencer’s grin.
“You, too, Dean.”
Sam turns and flies back up the stairs before Dean can even start to walk toward him, using his long legs to push him back up to his room where he flops back down on the bed, his heart racing as he tries to pretend he’s asleep.
He feels nine again.
Dean comes back in as quietly as he can, the door whispering shut behind him. Sam feels Dean’s eyes on him, feels the way he pauses and looks. Would give his life to know what he’s thinking about.
“Good morning, sunshine!”
Sam whines even though he’s already awake, burrows down into the blankets even more. They’ve played this game for most of their lives. He waits and nearly grins when he feels Dean kick lightly at his feet.
“C’mon, man. Eggs get all gross when they get cold.”
Sam is too happy about Dean getting him breakfast to pretend to be annoyed anymore. He opens his eyes and sits up, the yawn escaping his mouth genuine as he watches Dean pull out container after styrofoam container. The smell of bacon fills the room and Sam’s stomach growls.
“You got me breakfast in bed?”
Dean only snorts as he pulls out a couple of cartons of orange juice and then yanks out the desk chair to plop down into it.
“Not in bed. Get yer ass over here, princess.” The squeak of styrofoam and of plastic silverware being opened and then Dean is moaning, eyes falling closed as he eats his omelet.
Sam climbs out of their little camp on the floor and shuffles over, lips bitten raw from his attempts to keep from grinning. He sits at the foot of Andrew’s bed to reach the desk from the other side, and he grins when he pulls the other container closer and opens it to find pancakes with fresh blueberries with a side of scrambled eggs and bacon.
He looks up through his lashes to find Dean watching him with a strange, small smile on his face. Sam returns it shyly, busying himself with opening his silverware. He opens one of the little cups of syrup and smothers his food with it, eggs and all. Dean huffs out a little sound that has Sam looking back up at him, eyebrows quirked in question.
“Heathen,” Dean accuses with the barest hints of a grin. Sam just beams at him and picks up a piece of syrupy bacon, chomping into it with relish. Dean shakes his head and grabs the other container of syrup, pouring its contents all over his omelet.
Sam gasps, scandalized.
“Dude! Gross!”
Dean blinks at him innocently, cutting into his food without looking and stuffing a huge bite of sausage and onion omelet dripping with syrup into his mouth. Sam pretends to gag.
Dean shoves an orange juice toward him.
“Shut up and drink your juice, kid.”
He snatches a few of Sam’s blueberries and they don’t stop smiling until well after every trace of food is gone.
--
“So, I ran into a friend of yours on the way back in this morning.”
It’s the first thing either of them have said in about an hour. They’re both draped over the bed with as much distance as the two shoved-together mattresses will allow between them, Lethal Weapon 2 playing from Sam’s laptop. Sam reaches up and turns the volume down before turning his gaze to Dean. He’s been waiting for this all day.
“Hm?”
“Spencer or something? Great tits, brown eyes, thinks you’re hot?”
Sam snorts, the little zing of pride he feels covered up by the comment about Spencer’s breasts. They really are spectacular though.
“Yeah, Spencer. She hit on you?”
Dean shrugs, staring at the computer screen and not at Sam. “Told her I was your brother. She invited us out tonight. Said there were a few people still here that were hanging out later. She made it sound like you went sometimes. Thought you might wanna go.”
Sam ignores the ache that sets up across his ribs, the disappointment he already feels for having to share Dean with anybody else. He glances over at his brother and finds himself at a loss for the look on Dean’s face.
“Why? Do you want to go?”
Dean gives a grunt and a movement of his shoulders and Sam looks away again.
“Dunno. Just thought maybe you’d wanna get out of here. Realize there’s other people out there even though it’s winter break.”
Sam looks over again and watches Dean, doesn’t even bother trying to hide it. Maybe Dean’s just feeling cabin fever. Maybe sick of just having Sam to talk to. Maybe he just wants to meet some of Sam’s friends and doesn’t want to come out and say so. Sam nearly smiles for that.
“We can go. Just for an hour or so, okay? You aren’t up to a hundred percent yet, alright?”
Dean sighs and flops over onto his back, such an unguarded, unexpected thing to do that Sam can’t help but grin.
“Don’t make excuses for the fact that you’re a hermit, Sammy. You just wanna be shut up in this room forever with just me. Just be honest with yourself.” Dean has a smug grin on his face as he closes his eyes and a hand that’s resting on his own tummy, shirt tugged up a little. Sam looks him over, from his pinky to his infuriatingly beautiful smirk and nearly sighs.
“You caught me.”
Dean cracks an eye open and his smile grows even bigger.
“Knew it.”
--
By nine-thirty, Dean is dressed in his own jacket and jeans and one of Sam’s shirts. Sam is wearing a sweater that Dean hasn’t stopped teasing him about since he pulled it on and the boots he’s worn since he was seventeen. The walk to The Rose & Crown is a short one, and they’re both unusually quiet on the way.
Sam looks over at his brother and finds his eyes wandering, taking in everything around him, all the signs and restaurants and the few people they pass.
“So, this is where you live, huh?”
Sam’s smile disappears at the tone of Dean’s voice, the strain in it. The separation the words put between them. He wants to do something stupid like reach for Dean’s hand, like guide him against the wall of the closed dry cleaner’s they’re passing right now and kiss him. He shoves his hands in his pockets and digs his nails into his palms.
“Where I go to school,” he corrects, but it’s one and the same and they both know it. Dean grunts a reply and falls quiet again, walking a step closer to Sam so that their shoulders brush every couple of steps.
Sam opens the door to the pub and tries to motion Dean in but Dean shakes his head, nodding for Sam to go in first. Sam nearly sighs but remembers Dean’s weird thing about following him into places, wanting to be behind him so he can see what’s in front of Sam and know first what’s behind him.
He steps into the pub and gets swept up by the scent of cigarettes and beer and cheap cologne. He can feel Dean at his back, silent and warm and every single thing important in Sam’s life. He spies Spencer and Max and Elliott and he takes a deep breath, letting his eyes close for a single second to poise himself before he steps forward, lifting his hand in greeting, offering the biggest smile he can find.
“Sam! I didn’t know you were here for winter break. Why didn’t you tell us?” Spencer hops up from her barstool, all bouncing cleavage and lip gloss and she wraps an arm around Sam’s neck and kisses his cheek, pressing her soft warmth all along his side. He nearly blushes but he just wraps an arm around her waist on instinct, reaching up to give Elliott a high-five shake in greeting and a little wave to Max.
“Sorry, just needed to recharge after exams. Just kind of slept for a few days before Dean showed up to snap me out of it. Guys, this is my brother, Dean. Dean, this is Elliott and Max. And you’ve already met Spencer.”
Elliott gives Dean a friendly smile as they shake hands and Max flashes her prettiest smile that Dean returns with a mischievous one of his own. Spencer lets go of Sam long enough to press all up in Dean’s space, meeting his eyes close and intimate like they’ve known each other for a long time and in very compromising ways and she leans up, pressing a kiss right to the corner of Dean’s mouth.
“Thanks for talking Sammy into coming. Really didn’t think he’d be up for it.”
It takes everything in Sam not to glare at Spencer, to yank her off his brother and steal the nickname right off her tongue and just march right back out of here, where he doesn’t have to share Dean with anybody else for just a little while longer, where he doesn’t have to just wait and watch for Dean to pick which girl he’s gonna end up with tonight.
Dean just smiles and takes a step back, glancing at Sam with raised eyebrows before he sinks down into the empty barstool next to Elliott, motioning the bartender over.
“So you’re all old enough to drink, huh? Weird for college kids.” Dean flashes his ID to the bartender who smirks at Dean before going to fetch his drink. The three of them laugh a little uncomfortably and Sam just sits back and smiles, enjoying watching Dean make his friends squirm.
“Yeah. More or less,” Elliott offers, clearing his throat shortly right before the bartender comes back over with Dean’s beer and a shot of whiskey. Dean lifts his shot and salutes Elliott before throwing it back, reaching for his beer as soon as he swallows. Sam watches Dean, watches his throat in the dark pub, hoping that nobody’s watching him because he really just can’t help himself. He leans over and asks the bartender for a Sprite, ignoring the snort that Dean makes when he does.
“So, Dean, why are you out here visiting Sam? Don’t you guys go home for Christmas?” Maxine leans back against the bar and recrosses her legs, trying to look as inviting for Dean as she can. Sam watches Dean glance over and appreciate the view but he goes right back to his beer, to watching the pool game going on across the room. Sam can see Dean’s mind working, trying to find the dumbest pool player, the weakest one. The one with the most money.
“Nah. Our old man’s not much for Christmas anyway. And he’s out traveling with our uncle for a couple weeks, so me’n Sammy’re on our own. Thought I’d come crash out here. Get the full college vibe for a little bit.” It all trips off Dean’s tongue so easily, half-truths and vague words coming as fluidly as they always have, and Sam can’t help but admire it.
“What do you do, man?” Elliott is turned toward Dean and Spencer has taken her seat again, all four of them angled toward Dean, hanging on his every word, even Sam. It’s what’s always bothered him the most, he thinks, about being in public with Dean. That he’s just like everyone else about Dean, just as smitten and infatuated as every other idiot they encounter. And he hates being just anybody else when it comes to his brother.
“Mechanic, mostly. Between jobs right now though. Trying to figure out where I wanna be, you know?” Dean takes a long drink of his beer, his eyes flicking around nervously now, not quite sure what to do with all of this attention on him at once.
“It’s just so great to meet somebody in Sam’s family. He acts like he was raised by wolves. Doesn’t tell us anything.” Spencer grins at Sam, reaching over to run a hand over his chest, over the soft knit of his sweater. Sam clears his throat and leans away from the touch as casually as he can, nervous about Dean seeing Spencer being like this with him. She’s always flirted with him, always pursued him so blatantly that it makes him uncomfortable. God, what if Dean thinks he’s slept with her?
“It keeps me mysterious.” Sam grins and grabs his Sprite and takes a big gulp, ignoring the straw in it. Spencer smacks his chest and leans back, grabbing her own technically illegal beer.
“Well, it works. Mysterious is sexy.”
“You hittin’ on my baby brother right in front of me? You’ve got balls, woman.” Dean’s grin is movie star bright and just as fake, the neck of his beer tipped at Spencer before he finishes the whole thing off. He signals for a refresher and Sam sinks deeper into his seat, nervous about Dean drinking too much, about him saying too much, about his friends scaring Dean off. About not being able to keep his eyes off his brother enough to be around normal people with him. It’s been awhile.
“Are you really the overprotective type? Sam’s like six and a half feet tall and he’s got a bodyguard? Fuck, that is so cute. Can I keep you both?” Spencer leans into Max as they both giggle and Elliott rolls his eyes appropriately, giving Dean a pitying smile and finishing off his own beer.
Dean throws back his new shot of whiskey and snatches up his beer, his smile a little looser now. He throws his free arm around Sam’s neck and Sam can’t help the way he leans into it, can’t help but savor the heat of his brother’s body and the clear possessiveness of the move. “Been lookin’ out for him since he was in diapers. Not gonna stop no matter how big he gets.”
“Even from nice, available, interested girls?” Spencer tips her head to the side and tries to look innocent, her highlighted hair falling over one side of her face as she pouts at Dean. A smile plays at Dean’s lips from behind the mouth of his bottle.
“Especially from them.”
They all laugh and Sam relaxes again, easing back into Dean’s hold on him that doesn’t leave, doesn’t even try to. He glances over at Dean, at the curve of his profile, the long tips of his eyelashes, his moving throat as he swallows. He wants to be buried against that throat just like he was last night, wants to smell Dean’s sweat and taste his skin just right there, feel the scratch of Dean’s beard on his lips. Dean looks over at him and it’s so sudden that Sam doesn’t have time to bury it all, to keep it all hidden from Dean the way he wants to.
Dean meets Sam’s eyes and holds them, just a few beats before he’s gulping down the rest of his beer.
“Sam, I’ve gotta catch my flight out, remember?” Dean grimaces in beautifully feigned regret as he puts his second empty bottle on the bar and stands up to tug out his wallet. Sam grabs his own faster and thrusts a twenty in the bartender’s hand to pay for Dean’s drinks and his own. Spencer whines and stands up, grabbing at Dean’s wrist so childishly that Sam wants to throttle her.
“You’ve gotta go? You just got here!” She reaches for Sam, trying to reason with him, too, not realizing that she’s not getting anywhere with either of them with her lost little girl act. Sam gives her a smile and extracts himself as politely as possible. He stands up beside Dean, tipping his head to nod at his friends.
“He’s right, we’ve gotta get him to the airport. But thanks for letting us hang out for a minute, guys. I’ll see you all soon, okay?”
“Yeah, it was nice meetin’ you guys. Friends of Sam’n all.” Dean gives his biggest smile to Elliott and the smallest to Spencer. Spencer kisses Dean’s cheek again before Dean can back away.
“Sam, I’ll come by in a couple of days, okay? Maybe we can hang out!” Spencer grins at Sam, pushing up onto her tiptoes in a hopeful bounce. Sam smiles at her, patient and practiced.
“Sure, Spence. Uh, night, guys. Don’t have too much fun.”
They head out with Dean behind Sam like always, and Dean lets out a loud exhale the second they hit fresh air again.
“Sorry, man. I just had to get out of there. Thought I was gonna deck her if she didn’t climb off your dick, chick or not.”
Sam’s cheeks heat up at Dean mentioning his dick and his hands go right back to his pockets. “No, it’s fine. Sorry about her. She’s a little. Eager, I guess.”
“She always like that with you?”
They shuffle along down street slowly, like they don’t have anywhere in particular to be. And they don’t, really. Cars drift past and people edge around them and they walk close, arms brushing. Sam is so suddenly content that he aches with it.
“I guess so. Always tries to get me to ask her out, always finds me at parties and stuff. Climbed into my bed on Halloween and tried to make out with me. Not used to hearing no. You know the type.”
Dean huffs out a laugh that’s anything but amused. He stops suddenly and glances both ways down the street before jogging to cross it. Sam follows him in a hurry, not sure where they’re going but he’s always going to follow. Dean opens the door to the liquor store and Sam smiles when he steps in after him. Of course.
“Jealous that she wasn’t all over you?” He means it as a joke, of course, as just something to say while Dean scans the tequila aisle, but Dean’s frown makes him regret saying it.
“No. Just ready to kick her ass if I needed to.” He grabs some 100% agave tequila before rounding the corner toward the whiskey. “Or at least, you know. Put her in her place. Verbally.”
He grabs some Maker’s Mark and they head to the checkout. They don’t exchange words with the bored girl behind the counter, and Dean rummages through the bin of tiny bottles near the register. He pulls out some strawberry vodka and grins at Sam.
“Want somma this, baby girl?”
Sam blushes deep and elbows Dean hard, forcing a scowl onto his face. Dean drops three of the tiny strawberry vodkas onto the counter and Sam sighs loud enough for Dean to hear it, just so Dean can hear it. It’s just what they do.
--
Sam does indeed drink the three little vodkas, along with a swig of the Maker’s Mark and a respectable amount of the tequila. Dean’s drinking the whiskey like it’s water, his body and mouth loose where he’s sprawled on the makeshift bed. Sam’s sitting up next to him, back against the nightstand because he doesn’t trust himself, not with alcohol and Dean’s body and his own lack of discipline when around the combination.
“I’m supposed to be at Bobby’s, you know it? He came and saved me’n everything. Blew him off ‘cause.” Dean stops, licks his lips clean of whiskey, staring with bright, glassy eyes across the room. He finally blinks, comes back into himself, looking down at the bottle he’s clutching. “I don’t know why. Just. Just knew I wanted to be here.”
Sam is quiet for a minute, alcohol making him rambly and rash just like it does Dean, but this feels important. “Saved you from what?”
Dean shrugs, frowns. Takes another drink, half the bottle gone. Dean’s always been able to drink people under the table, Dad and Bobby included. Sam stopped a little bit ago because he’s smarter than they are.
“Ran out of money so I ran out of gas. Spent the night outside of Blue Earth in the car. Blizzard was comin’ in, and I just eased her over to the side of the road and got in the backseat. Dad wasn’t answerin’ and Bobby wasn’t either and I just felt so fuckin’, like.” Dean’s gone, far away, quiet for a few moments. Sam just watches him. Always, always watches him.
“Alone. You know? And the damnedest thing happens. Get out of the car to take a piss and guess what I see?”
Sam hums a reply, a question. Shuffles a little to get closer. Dean’s slumped on the bed now, head on the pillow, eyes on the ceiling. Still wearing his boots. Sam reaches over to trail a finger over Dean’s jacket sleeve.
“Your goddamn tree. You remember? That random tree you were obsessed with?”
Sam frowns, tries to remember in his quite inebriated state. His tree? What--
“Oh. Oh, shit. Yeah, I forgot about that. Wow. I haven’t seen it in years.” He grins at the thought, of the silly tree his young self felt randomly in love with. He looks down at Dean, drinks him in. Lets his finger trail down to the back of Dean’s hand bravely. So, so brave. Dean’s hand twitches, a tiny movement, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Still there. I saw it. Car died right next to it. Like. Like she wanted me to. To see it, I guess. Spent the night right next to it.” Dean goes quiet again but he pulls himself out of it, seems to wake up a little. He sits up enough to drink a little more before settling in again. “Anyway. Bobby found me. Guess it got you on my mind though, because I ended up here.”
“I’m glad you did.” Sam sets the tequila aside and moves finally to get down closer to Dean, to share a pillow with him, their hair tangling. He traces the full moon of Dean’s thumbnail with the pad of his own thumb. “Because I was lonely for you, too.”
“We sound like a crappy teen drama, Sammy-wammy.” Dean tips his head up and grins at Sam, so close. Too close. Sam bumps Dean’s forehead with his own and smiles at him.
“Then shouldn’t you be kissing me right about now?”
“You gonna let me feel your tits under your bra if I do?”
“Let you feel my anything under my anything.”
Dean hums and waggles his eyebrows enough for Sam to feel it. “So you’re the girl who seems all good and sweet but is actually a freak in bed?”
Sam nods a little, his forefinger and thumb rubbing at Dean’s thumb now, slow and suggestive and hungry. “Got me figured out.”
“So who does that make me?”
“Hm?”
“In our shitty teen soap opera. Who does that make me?” Their noses graze now and Dean’s breath is bitter and sharp and burning hot over Sam’s face. It feels like they’re dancing, like they’re flirting in steps, in a practiced, sweet slowness.
“You’re the bad boy with the heart of gold that I’ve been in love with forever.” It’s the truest thing Sam has ever said, the most freeing. He feels Dean grin and he slips his fingers forward, their palms lining up, fingers lacing together at a slightly awkward angle.
“You gotta give me time to figure it out, Sammy. Let me get my wild days behind me, sow my oats and everything. I’ll be worth the wait. Plus, all the unresolved sexual tension is gonna drive the ratings through the roof.”
“What if I just want you to fuck me right now?”
Dean hesitates for just a second, body going tense and he finally stirs, sits up and leans back against the nightstand where Sam was earlier. He grabs the whiskey again and drinks down two healthy gulps, enough to make Sam’s throat burn in sympathy.
“Teen dramas don’t work like that, Sammy. We need some candles and some acoustic guitar music and you need a lot more mascara.” Dean’s grin is drunken and lazy and Sam stays right where he is, sewing his heart back up in the tiny window of time he’s being allowed.
“And a condom.”
“Eh, fuck condoms. Let me just knock you up. Season finale cliffhanger.” Dean takes another swig and tips the bottle at Sam with a wink.
Sam almost cringes at how fucking quick his dick fattens up at what Dean says. He snatches the whiskey out of Dean’s hands to take a few drinks himself. Hands it back with a shiver and a wrinkle of his nose.
“We never finished Spaceballs earlier.”
“Oh, shit. You’re right. Make it happen!” Dean motions at Sam’s computer on the nightstand, curling back down onto the bed again. Sam grabs his laptop and opens it up, tapping in his password and waiting for the DVD inside to whir to life again before he presses play. He takes his place again sitting up, letting Dean curl up on his side next to him. They watch the rest of the movie in relative silence, Dean giggling like a fucking child at nearly every scene and Sam smiling the whole time, trying so hard to stop replaying what just happened between them on repeat in his mind.
It doesn’t work.
Dean wakes up before dawn. It’s pale blue and shadows in the room, and a little chilly. He looks down at the warmth wrapped around his chest.
Sam’s cheek is pressed right over Dean’s heart, his lashes still and soft on his cheeks. He’s wrapped around Dean like he has for most of his life: completely and suffocatingly. Dean smiles.
He reaches down to trail his fingers over Sam’s bare arm, his big hoodie apparently lost during the night. Dean’s still a little drunk and this feels so good, like the morning after amazing sex, after intense eye contact and a few orgasms and falling asleep together because why not?
Sam feels that good.
Dean strokes through Sam’s hair that’s getting greasy, a little smelly. He pushes it back from Sam’s face, tries to tuck it behind his ear. Cranes his head down to bury his nose in it, grease and all.
Perfect.
His hand is now dangerously low on Sam’s spine, slipping down over the arch of it, right over the velvet soft skin that almost feels like a girl’s body. God, do all guys feel like this? Do they feel this good?
Dean closes his eyes and breathes Sam in, fingers tracing in light, continuous circles on the small of Sam’s back. Sam shifts against him, pushing in closer, tucking more under Dean’s chin. His leg slips up and rubs right over Dean’s dick that is thick and hungry like it is most mornings.
Fuck.
Dean pushes his hips up because he’s a guy, because it feels good, and fuck, Sammy feels so good. Perfect weight on his dick, fucking perfect soft skin, smelling just like home.
Dean swallows, the sound so loud in the silent room.
God, he’s gotta stop. Can’t do this. This ain’t even right when it’s not his baby brother.
Sam moves again, just a little, leg hitching up higher across Dean’s body.
“Fuck,” Dean breathes, his head digging back hard on the pillow.
He hasn’t felt like this since he was a fucking teenager. Back when he’d wake up and Sam was draped across him like Dean was his bed, his pillow, his fucking boyfriend. Back when Dean would get hard just from hearing a guitar lick. He’d gotten up every single time then, jumped out of bed and jacked off in the bathroom, like a good brother.
He pushes his hips up, grinding up into the meat of Sam’s inner thigh. He chews on his bottom lip to keep the moan in.
Fuck, he’s not being a good brother right now.
He could just grab Sam’s thigh, grab him right behind his knee and just fuck up against that thigh, right into the crease of Sam’s leg. Fuck yeah. Sam would let him. He would let him, right? Just rub his leg down and kiss across Dean’s chest, suck his nipple through his shirt, suck bruises on his neck and whimper in his ear, say please, Dean and so hard, Dean, gonna come on me?
Dean is breathing hard through his nose now, hips working in miniscule, tight little circles, his dick getting just enough sweet friction to drive him fucking crazy. He runs his free hand over Sam’s back, right across his shoulder blades, and he just holds onto him. Holds Sam right where he is. His free hand is stroking lower and lower on his back, tips of his fingers slipping under his pajama pants. Oh, fuck. The soft swell of Sam’s ass, right between his cheeks. Rubbing over his tailbone. God, he thought he knew Sam, knew all of Sam. He realizes then that he’s never touched this part of him. His little tailbone. His fucking peach of an ass.
Gotta stop. God, Dean, fucking stop.
He digs kisses into Sam’s hair, his breath rushing hot across Sam’s scalp and Sam is still snoring, light and dreamy and oblivious to Dean falling apart under him.
He rubs his finger up and down over Sammy’s tailbone, at the top of his crack, Dean’s balls drawing up tight, his entire body trembling when he finally, blessedly comes. He rides the wave of it as quiet as he can, soaring silently under Sam’s lax body, sucking on the dirty strands of Sam’s hair caught in his mouth.
He finally relaxes, falls back into his own body, lets his eyes flutter open. Still before dawn, Sam still sleeping on like a baby. Like his sweet baby brother.
Fuck.
He climbs out from under Sam, letting his heavy, long boy body fall down alone against the mattress. Dean stands over him, legs still shaking from orgasm.
He’s gotta get out of here. Has to leave. Now.
He rips Sam’s clothes off his own body, teeth gritted in barely-contained fury at himself. Disgusting. He’s horrible and a complete fucking bastard and he just violated his own fucking brother while he fucking slept.
He wipes himself down with the pajama pants, wipes his dick clean of the smear of come. Stuffs the pants in the little trashcan by the desk. Pulls his own clothes on: dirty jeans, stinky, bloody shirt, jacket, boots. He’ll figure it out. Get to Bobby’s and get his shit together and figure stuff out. A plan. Okay.
He grabs his keys and quiets their sound by shoving them in his pocket. He looks back over at the bed and sees Sam, still unmoving, still thinking that Dean’s here, that he’s gonna stay. That they’re going to get to have each other for a little while longer.
He closes his eyes to the tears that immediately build. Presses his fingers into them and takes a deep breath that he lets out in a rush.
He’s going to walk out the door and get in the car and drive away and be alone again. Even if he gets to Bobby’s. Even if he takes another job with Dad. Even if he finds a girl on the way to anywhere. It’s not the same. It’s never, ever the same as this and it never has been, and he’s about to leave.
He opens his eyes again, ignoring the few tears that escape, and he sets his jaw. He has to do this. Has to. Let Sam hate him, be mad at him, whatever. Just let Sam get on with the life he wanted. The one that isn’t complicated, that has a focus and a goal and possibilities.
He doesn’t need Dean anymore, no matter what he might think. No matter how much Dean might need otherwise. No matter if Dean shuts down without Sam there to need him.
He takes a few steps closer to the makeshift bed they made on the floor, his boots heavy-soft on the hardwood floor. He kneels down, bones creaking like an old man. He doesn’t touch Sam’s hair again, even though he wants to. Doesn’t touch his back even though he wants to.
Doesn’t just climb right back into bed with him and let Sam curl up around him. Doesn’t just hold Sam and say fuck every single other thing in this world but you, boy.
Even though he wants to.
He leans down and kisses the high point of Sam’s cheekbone, moves a little further in to kiss his beauty mark.
Wants to kiss his mouth. No, he needs to fucking kiss his sweet little mouth.
He closes his eyes again, a tear falling from his eye and splattering on Sam’s face, slipping down his cheek. His lips hover over Sam’s mouth, ghosts over it just like that night back in Colorado. The one he’s wished he could re-do at least one thousand times.
And where would they be right now, if he had done something different. If he’d kissed him. Where would they be?
He can’t even imagine.
And he doesn’t kiss him now.
He pulls back, eyes slipping open to take in the sight of him one more time. Just one more time.
Then he gets up. Grabs Sam’s discarded Stanford hoodie and stands up. Leaves without looking back because he can’t look back.
Because there are a lot of things Dean Winchester can take, a lot he can do with a brave face, with more courage than most men can even fathom. But walking out of this room without it ripping his heart straight out of his chest isn’t one of them.
He pulls his jacket and shirt off once he’s in the car. Tugs Sam’s hoodie down over his head, lets the smell of his little brother fill the car, making it smell good again, familiar again. Letting Dean pretend at least for a little while longer.
He doesn’t remember the drive to Sioux Falls.
Sam wakes up to a room that’s too warm and smells stale, like neglect and semen. He grunts as he stretches and lets his eyes slit open, taking in the position of the light from the window. Probably about nine again. He glances over beside him and isn’t surprised to see the bed empty and rumpled beside him.
Trust Dean to always be awake at the crack of dawn, bullet wound and vacation be damned.
He sighs and flips over onto his stomach, snatching Dean’s pillow away and wrapping his arms around it, just because he can. He wonders if Dean’ll bring food from the same place this time, or if he’ll take the easy route and get some cereal and milk from the store.
He falls asleep dreaming about Apple Jacks and Dean’s milk-damp mouth.
--
When he wakes up again, it’s definitely past eleven in the morning, and the room is still empty by the time Sam opens his eyes again. He frowns, his head pounding because he slept too fucking long.
He sits up and realizes he’s bare-chested and shivering. He reaches blindly for his hoodie and glances over when his fingers don’t find it. Gone.
“What the fuck?” The words sound expansive in the quiet room, the quiet building. He forces himself to his feet, his full bladder begging him for relief. His hunter’s eyes slip on seamlessly, and he takes note of everything around him: the two lamps from last night still on, his missing hoodie, Dean’s clothes gone, boots gone, keys gone. Pajama pants in the trash can. Nothing in the room has moved for hours except Sam.
He shakes his head as he makes his way around, coming to inevitable conclusions. Maybe he went to eat breakfast somewhere. Maybe he’s getting groceries. Maybe he ran into Spencer again and they’re in her dorm room, having loud, sweaty sex. His stomach turns at the thought but it’s better than. Than.
“No,” he whispers, just once, resolute. Not possible. Dean wouldn’t just leave. Not after the way he showed up. After the fucking rollercoaster of need and loneliness and bone-deep relief they’ve gone through since Christmas. He wouldn’t just leave. He couldn’t.
Dean’s not the one who leaves. He’s not the heartless bastard in this relationship.
Sam leaves his room and trudges half-naked down the hall, his bare feet freezing on the linoleum floor of the hallways. He’s shivering by the time he gets outside, squinting in the cheerful morning sun. He feels so young all of a sudden, so lost, like he’s been misplaced in a department store. And Dean will find him soon. He always does.
The Impala’s gone.
The trip back to the room is a blur, and Sam’s hands are shaking by the time he finds his phone and scrolls down to Dean’s number.
Straight to voicemail.
“Dean, uh,” he fumbles out, his throat clenching up tight. He drags a hand through his tangled hair and tries to ignore the burning behind his eyelids as he closes his eyes. “Just woke up. Sorry for sleeping forever. Uh. Just, um. Just wondering where you are. If you’re lost or somethin’. Palo Alto can be a little confusing sometimes. Yogurt shop on every corner and all. Just, um. Just call me. Okay? I can get you back here. I can--”
He stops, his stomach twisting up painfully. It hits him then, pummels him like a mountain. The truth. Dean’s gone. He left. He tries to open his mouth again but he can’t get any words out. Can’t even find a way to end this message. He hangs up the phone and stares down at it, stunned.
This is his fault. Somehow. He’s freaked Dean out. He knows it. Can scent in the air of the room like a fucking bloodhound. The panic, the fear. Maybe Dean figured it out. Maybe Sam did something in his sleep, groped him, didn’t let go, wrapped up tighter than usual around Dean. Maybe he said something. Acted out some graphic sex dream against Dean’s body.
Maybe it was just their weird, beautiful almost-pornographic flirting last night, that Dean had been a part of just as much as Sam. Maybe it had just been too much. So much that he couldn’t handle facing Sam again in the morning.
And Dean just took off, just like that. The way any rational person would, if they found out their brother had the hots for them. Just get the fuck out and let time and distance take care of the rest.
He stumbles to the bathroom to piss and makes his way back to the room, not bothering to lock the door. It’s weird, this new low. It’s completely foreign to Sam because he’s so far from any home he’s ever kept for himself, anybody he really knows or who knows him.
Just a few hours ago, Dean had been here. Had been wrapped around Sam like someone might dare to try and take Sam from him while they slept, like anybody possibly could. The room still smelled vaguely like him, like Dean’s sweat and his morning breath and the secret smell of his armpits. Sam reaches out and grabs hold of the desk chair, the breath leaving his body. He wants to bottle it all up, zip it up in that bag with the shirt, hold and keep and preserve forever.
Dean’s gone. He’s gone.
His hand slides across the desk, grazing the edge of the book he’d been reading a couple of nights ago and then touches on something plastic. He grips it, pulls it closer. Picks it up. The first-aid kit. He’s rifling through it, pulling out the bag of pills before he even registers what he’s doing. Small handful, three or four. Swallows them down with nothing but the spit in his mouth and coughs, almost hacks them back up.
Doesn’t know why he takes them. Couldn’t explain why if anybody ever cared to ask. Because he doesn’t have any cigarettes, maybe. Because he’s too old for that anyway, right? Longs for the burn of it anyway, the obliteration of fire on his skin in a perfect circle. Wants his brother under him, on top of him. Inside of him. Wants to suck the spit from his mouth and lay his fists into Dean’s body until he feels something break.
Wants to use the entire arsenal in the trunk of the Impala on himself. Anything to make this go away. This deadly, impossible pain that he can’t ignore.
He’s back on the bed without knowing how he got there. Sprawled across both mattresses, across this temporary bed that has only ever held him and his brother. He stares at the ceiling until his eyes feel too heavy and they have to close.
He floats and floats and then he’s fourteen and Dean is soaking wet in just his underwear after they’ve gone for an impromptu swim in a river and Sam actually creams himself right there, staring at his brother’s crotch, at the weight of his balls in wet cotton, the visible ridge under the head of his dick. So good. Everything about Dean is so good.
He’s eight and he’s burning himself on the eye of the stove trying to make Dean chicken noodle soup when Dean has a cold. Dean rubs some toothpaste on the burn after kissing it better and curls Sam up in his lap as he eats the soup and neither of them care when Sam gets a cold, too. They share everything.
He’s twelve and watching through the window of the motel while Dean gets his dick sucked in the Impala in the parking lot. The girl is bobbing up and down from the passenger’s seat and Dean’s head is tipped back, eyes closed like he’s dreaming. He looks so serene, like nothing could be better than this. Sam spends the next six months sucking on things: on popsicles, whole pickles, bananas, anything to practice. Just in case Dean ever lets him.
He’s sixteen and Dad almost bleeds out in the car on the way to the hospital. There’s too much blood and Sam and Dean both know it. Dean is crying freely, his hands shaking on the steering wheel as he guns for the hospital, glancing back over his shoulder every few seconds, barking out panicked, breathless orders at Sam who is holding a flannel shirt to Dad’s neck, who has his father’s blood all over his hands, who just absorbs Dean’s harsh words, just takes them in and stays quiet for Dad, for Dean, for all of them. Dad makes it and neither of them know how and Sam has blood under his nails for a week and Dean doesn’t sleep for longer.
He’s five and it’s the first day of school and he nearly passes out from crying so hard when Dad drops him off, just leaves him in a room full of strangers. He doesn’t cry for his dad. Just scream’s Dean’s name, just clings to the door handle and sobs his brother’s name until he can’t breathe from crying so hard, so loud, so long. Until the entire class is quiet, owl-eyed and watching Sam fall apart. He cries himself exhausted and stumbles through the rest of the day. He pukes up his lunch, PB&J and fruit cocktail, all of it coming right back up, syrupy sweet and all over the carpet of poor Miss Judith’s room, Dean’s name only a whisper on his lips now.
He’s eleven and the only person he wants to ask to the Winter Wonderland dance is his brother.
He’s eighteen and he has a dream that Dean is Mom and Sam’s nursing from him, an ageless thing with his mouth attached to Dean’s nipple, drinking down the honey sweetness Dean’s body makes for him. Just for him.
He’s nineteen and there are voices around him, some raised, some afraid, some calm. Somebody’s moving him, jostling him and ignoring his protest to just leave him alone because he’s so tired. He falls back asleep because that’s where he wants to be. That’s where Dean is.
--
He wakes up in a white room feeling more drained than he can ever recall. He tries to move but it hurts, a sharp pain shooting up his left arm. He winces and looks down, eyes traveling numbly from the IV on the back of his hand all the way up to the plastic bag on the hook holding a clear liquid.
How the fuck did he get here?
“Mr. Winchester?”
Sam’s head jerks so fast it makes him dizzy when he spies the woman in the doorway. Early forties, warm brown skin, hesitant but kind smile. Sam settles back in the bed with a sigh.
“Hi.”
“Hello. I’m Dr. Sahni. How are you feeling?”
Sam shrugs, throat closing up around any words that feel like venturing out. He looks away and towards the window covered by blinds, blocking out most of the light and any of the view. He wonders what day it is.
“Do you remember how you got here, Sam?”
“I’m guessing it has something to do with the pills I took.” He sounds angrier than he means to, more sarcastic and childish but he can’t take it back now. He just grits his teeth, sets his jaw and stares even harder outside.
“That is correct.” The door to his room closes and Dr. Sahni gets closer, hovering at the foot of Sam’s bed. “Do you might if I sit?” She gestures to the chair near Sam’s bed.
He shrugs again, glancing over at her as she settles into the chair, a pen hovering over the clipboard she’s holding.
“You were admitted here three days ago. You didn’t take enough pills to overdose, but you did take enough to knock you out for awhile. You hadn’t gotten out of bed in nearly three and a half days, from what we can gather. You were severely dehydrated, Sam.”
He still says nothing, just watches a bird land on the windowsill and find that there’s nothing there for it only to fly off again. There’s nowhere he wants to be less than right here, right now.
“If your friend Spencer had not found you, there’s no telling where you would be right now.”
He bites down on telling her that Spencer is not a friend, is nothing to him because he doesn’t have friends. He can’t even find it in himself to feel thankful for being saved. He’s not really feeling a whole lot right now and it’s terrifying and comforting in equal amounts. It’s familiar, at least. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting it out in slow, even measures.
“Well, just wanted you to know that you’re on suicide watch right now, Sam. You’re going to be kept in here for a couple more days to recover completely and also to make sure you’re not a danger to yourself or anyone else.” Dr. Sahni stands up and clicks her pen closed. Sam keeps his eyes closed tight, like she’ll go away if he does.
It’s so quiet that Sam wonders if she really did leave, but then she speaks again, her voice coming from the doorway. “Whatever drove you to this, whatever made you decide that it’s not worth it anymore, you need to let it go, Sam. Nothing is worth what you just put your body through. You have so much going for you. Don’t let anyone else destroy all that you’ve worked for.”
The door opens and closes again and he knows when he’s alone again. He opens his eyes and realizes for the first time that there are tear tracks down his cheeks. He growls in frustration and wipes at them hard, ignoring the pull of the IV tube. He’s giving it a couple of hours and then he’s bailing. He’s John Winchester’s son and therefore a fucking expert in ditching hospitals and all of their nosy questions. What he does isn’t any of their fucking business. They don’t give a shit about him. None of them do.
The truth of Dr. Sahni's words needles at him, digs in under his skin. He almost died and he knows it. He can feel it thrumming low in his body, trembling weakness in his bones. And if he had, how long would it have taken anybody to find out? Dean, Dad, Bobby? Months, probably. He’d be rotting in the ground, worm food and decaying before they even heard.
He can’t do this anymore. Can’t keep doing this. Banking it all on Dean, betting the house on Dean coming to him and staying. Dean sinking down into his body and making a home there. It’s not going to happen.
It’s not. Going. To happen.
“It’s not going to happen,” Sam says to the quiet, his voice shaking and tearful and bloodied raw but it’s finally out there. The truth is finally out there, in his own words. And there’s no turning back now. He’s gotta let him go.
He’s got to let Dean go.
Cut him out with surgical precision and sew it closed and move on. It’s all he can do. It’s the only thing he can do and survive at the same time.
He sinks back down into the warmth of clean sleep but his body is already working away, detaching all the millions of tiny threads that have sewn him up with Dean his entire life, doing the very last thing he ever thought he would.
Moving on from Dean.
next.
He doesn’t have a moment of confusion, of disorientation, of forgetting. He knows where he is and when it is and who he went to sleep with, who he still smells in the sheets beside him.
And Dean’s gone.
Sam hauls himself up, eyes still bleary with sleep as he yanks the dorm room door open and rushes into the hallway, heading for the stairs.
Maybe he hasn’t left yet. Maybe.
It’s morning, he knows that much, but he’s not sure what time. He tries to think as he races down the stairs to get to the lobby, tries to remember where the sun was in the window in his room. Probably around nine. Maybe.
He practically bursts into the lobby, and suddenly this feels too much like that night when the package had been at his front door, chasing after the reminder of Dean.
He feels sick with worry, with fear. His eyes are burning with tears because it’s too fucking early for this, and he’s still vulnerable enough with sleep that he doesn’t have any of his normal walls up.
He hears two voices at the front doors of the lobby, and he actually gasps with hope. He rounds the corner and sees them and practically sink to the ground with relief.
There’s Dean with a girl hovering in the open doorway, letting in the cool morning air. Sam stops and watches, trying to calm his heaving breaths so they don’t hear him.
The girl laughs, high and flirtatious, and Sam has to lean back against the wall, his eyes falling closed as his heart sinks. It’s so familiar, all of this, familiar in the absolute worst way. But at least he’s here. At least he hadn’t just left.
“--totally can, if you want. You can bring your brother, too. What’s his name again?”
He recognizes her voice even though he refuses to look and see who she is. Doesn’t care, doesn’t want to know who is about to take away his precious time with Dean. Doesn’t want to hate anyone unnecessarily. There are plenty of girls across America who have Sam’s hatred as it is.
“Sam. Uh, Sam Winchester.” Dean sounds uncharacteristically hesitant with this girl, like he hadn’t wanted to give Sam’s real name. It’s strange enough that Sam opens his eyes and leans around the corner, taking in the sight of them again, how natural it looks to see Dean talking to a pretty girl.
Spencer. That’s Spencer Dalton. A friend of Brady’s. Fuck.
“Oh! Sam’s your brother? Really?” She sounds excited, surprised. Even gives a breathy laugh. “Wow, your parents must be smoking hot. Sam is. Is…” She actually sounds dreamy, like Sam might be the brother she’s daydreaming about. When Dean’s standing right there. Sam’s eyebrows shoot up under his messy hair. Well, this is weird.
He moves back to his hiding place.
Dean laughs, short and almost unamused. “Yeah. He is. Listen, uh. I’m gonna get back up there. Breakfast’s gonna get cold and all.”
There’s a rustle of a plastic bag and then the clunky sound of the door closing. Spencer laughs again, the door opening once more.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Well, I’m off for my run. We’re all meeting over at The Rose and Crown tonight around nine. Sam knows where it is. So. You guys can come, if you want.”
“I’ll talk to him. Hey, uh. Nice to meet you.”
Sam can hear Spencer’s grin.
“You, too, Dean.”
Sam turns and flies back up the stairs before Dean can even start to walk toward him, using his long legs to push him back up to his room where he flops back down on the bed, his heart racing as he tries to pretend he’s asleep.
He feels nine again.
Dean comes back in as quietly as he can, the door whispering shut behind him. Sam feels Dean’s eyes on him, feels the way he pauses and looks. Would give his life to know what he’s thinking about.
“Good morning, sunshine!”
Sam whines even though he’s already awake, burrows down into the blankets even more. They’ve played this game for most of their lives. He waits and nearly grins when he feels Dean kick lightly at his feet.
“C’mon, man. Eggs get all gross when they get cold.”
Sam is too happy about Dean getting him breakfast to pretend to be annoyed anymore. He opens his eyes and sits up, the yawn escaping his mouth genuine as he watches Dean pull out container after styrofoam container. The smell of bacon fills the room and Sam’s stomach growls.
“You got me breakfast in bed?”
Dean only snorts as he pulls out a couple of cartons of orange juice and then yanks out the desk chair to plop down into it.
“Not in bed. Get yer ass over here, princess.” The squeak of styrofoam and of plastic silverware being opened and then Dean is moaning, eyes falling closed as he eats his omelet.
Sam climbs out of their little camp on the floor and shuffles over, lips bitten raw from his attempts to keep from grinning. He sits at the foot of Andrew’s bed to reach the desk from the other side, and he grins when he pulls the other container closer and opens it to find pancakes with fresh blueberries with a side of scrambled eggs and bacon.
He looks up through his lashes to find Dean watching him with a strange, small smile on his face. Sam returns it shyly, busying himself with opening his silverware. He opens one of the little cups of syrup and smothers his food with it, eggs and all. Dean huffs out a little sound that has Sam looking back up at him, eyebrows quirked in question.
“Heathen,” Dean accuses with the barest hints of a grin. Sam just beams at him and picks up a piece of syrupy bacon, chomping into it with relish. Dean shakes his head and grabs the other container of syrup, pouring its contents all over his omelet.
Sam gasps, scandalized.
“Dude! Gross!”
Dean blinks at him innocently, cutting into his food without looking and stuffing a huge bite of sausage and onion omelet dripping with syrup into his mouth. Sam pretends to gag.
Dean shoves an orange juice toward him.
“Shut up and drink your juice, kid.”
He snatches a few of Sam’s blueberries and they don’t stop smiling until well after every trace of food is gone.
--
“So, I ran into a friend of yours on the way back in this morning.”
It’s the first thing either of them have said in about an hour. They’re both draped over the bed with as much distance as the two shoved-together mattresses will allow between them, Lethal Weapon 2 playing from Sam’s laptop. Sam reaches up and turns the volume down before turning his gaze to Dean. He’s been waiting for this all day.
“Hm?”
“Spencer or something? Great tits, brown eyes, thinks you’re hot?”
Sam snorts, the little zing of pride he feels covered up by the comment about Spencer’s breasts. They really are spectacular though.
“Yeah, Spencer. She hit on you?”
Dean shrugs, staring at the computer screen and not at Sam. “Told her I was your brother. She invited us out tonight. Said there were a few people still here that were hanging out later. She made it sound like you went sometimes. Thought you might wanna go.”
Sam ignores the ache that sets up across his ribs, the disappointment he already feels for having to share Dean with anybody else. He glances over at his brother and finds himself at a loss for the look on Dean’s face.
“Why? Do you want to go?”
Dean gives a grunt and a movement of his shoulders and Sam looks away again.
“Dunno. Just thought maybe you’d wanna get out of here. Realize there’s other people out there even though it’s winter break.”
Sam looks over again and watches Dean, doesn’t even bother trying to hide it. Maybe Dean’s just feeling cabin fever. Maybe sick of just having Sam to talk to. Maybe he just wants to meet some of Sam’s friends and doesn’t want to come out and say so. Sam nearly smiles for that.
“We can go. Just for an hour or so, okay? You aren’t up to a hundred percent yet, alright?”
Dean sighs and flops over onto his back, such an unguarded, unexpected thing to do that Sam can’t help but grin.
“Don’t make excuses for the fact that you’re a hermit, Sammy. You just wanna be shut up in this room forever with just me. Just be honest with yourself.” Dean has a smug grin on his face as he closes his eyes and a hand that’s resting on his own tummy, shirt tugged up a little. Sam looks him over, from his pinky to his infuriatingly beautiful smirk and nearly sighs.
“You caught me.”
Dean cracks an eye open and his smile grows even bigger.
“Knew it.”
--
By nine-thirty, Dean is dressed in his own jacket and jeans and one of Sam’s shirts. Sam is wearing a sweater that Dean hasn’t stopped teasing him about since he pulled it on and the boots he’s worn since he was seventeen. The walk to The Rose & Crown is a short one, and they’re both unusually quiet on the way.
Sam looks over at his brother and finds his eyes wandering, taking in everything around him, all the signs and restaurants and the few people they pass.
“So, this is where you live, huh?”
Sam’s smile disappears at the tone of Dean’s voice, the strain in it. The separation the words put between them. He wants to do something stupid like reach for Dean’s hand, like guide him against the wall of the closed dry cleaner’s they’re passing right now and kiss him. He shoves his hands in his pockets and digs his nails into his palms.
“Where I go to school,” he corrects, but it’s one and the same and they both know it. Dean grunts a reply and falls quiet again, walking a step closer to Sam so that their shoulders brush every couple of steps.
Sam opens the door to the pub and tries to motion Dean in but Dean shakes his head, nodding for Sam to go in first. Sam nearly sighs but remembers Dean’s weird thing about following him into places, wanting to be behind him so he can see what’s in front of Sam and know first what’s behind him.
He steps into the pub and gets swept up by the scent of cigarettes and beer and cheap cologne. He can feel Dean at his back, silent and warm and every single thing important in Sam’s life. He spies Spencer and Max and Elliott and he takes a deep breath, letting his eyes close for a single second to poise himself before he steps forward, lifting his hand in greeting, offering the biggest smile he can find.
“Sam! I didn’t know you were here for winter break. Why didn’t you tell us?” Spencer hops up from her barstool, all bouncing cleavage and lip gloss and she wraps an arm around Sam’s neck and kisses his cheek, pressing her soft warmth all along his side. He nearly blushes but he just wraps an arm around her waist on instinct, reaching up to give Elliott a high-five shake in greeting and a little wave to Max.
“Sorry, just needed to recharge after exams. Just kind of slept for a few days before Dean showed up to snap me out of it. Guys, this is my brother, Dean. Dean, this is Elliott and Max. And you’ve already met Spencer.”
Elliott gives Dean a friendly smile as they shake hands and Max flashes her prettiest smile that Dean returns with a mischievous one of his own. Spencer lets go of Sam long enough to press all up in Dean’s space, meeting his eyes close and intimate like they’ve known each other for a long time and in very compromising ways and she leans up, pressing a kiss right to the corner of Dean’s mouth.
“Thanks for talking Sammy into coming. Really didn’t think he’d be up for it.”
It takes everything in Sam not to glare at Spencer, to yank her off his brother and steal the nickname right off her tongue and just march right back out of here, where he doesn’t have to share Dean with anybody else for just a little while longer, where he doesn’t have to just wait and watch for Dean to pick which girl he’s gonna end up with tonight.
Dean just smiles and takes a step back, glancing at Sam with raised eyebrows before he sinks down into the empty barstool next to Elliott, motioning the bartender over.
“So you’re all old enough to drink, huh? Weird for college kids.” Dean flashes his ID to the bartender who smirks at Dean before going to fetch his drink. The three of them laugh a little uncomfortably and Sam just sits back and smiles, enjoying watching Dean make his friends squirm.
“Yeah. More or less,” Elliott offers, clearing his throat shortly right before the bartender comes back over with Dean’s beer and a shot of whiskey. Dean lifts his shot and salutes Elliott before throwing it back, reaching for his beer as soon as he swallows. Sam watches Dean, watches his throat in the dark pub, hoping that nobody’s watching him because he really just can’t help himself. He leans over and asks the bartender for a Sprite, ignoring the snort that Dean makes when he does.
“So, Dean, why are you out here visiting Sam? Don’t you guys go home for Christmas?” Maxine leans back against the bar and recrosses her legs, trying to look as inviting for Dean as she can. Sam watches Dean glance over and appreciate the view but he goes right back to his beer, to watching the pool game going on across the room. Sam can see Dean’s mind working, trying to find the dumbest pool player, the weakest one. The one with the most money.
“Nah. Our old man’s not much for Christmas anyway. And he’s out traveling with our uncle for a couple weeks, so me’n Sammy’re on our own. Thought I’d come crash out here. Get the full college vibe for a little bit.” It all trips off Dean’s tongue so easily, half-truths and vague words coming as fluidly as they always have, and Sam can’t help but admire it.
“What do you do, man?” Elliott is turned toward Dean and Spencer has taken her seat again, all four of them angled toward Dean, hanging on his every word, even Sam. It’s what’s always bothered him the most, he thinks, about being in public with Dean. That he’s just like everyone else about Dean, just as smitten and infatuated as every other idiot they encounter. And he hates being just anybody else when it comes to his brother.
“Mechanic, mostly. Between jobs right now though. Trying to figure out where I wanna be, you know?” Dean takes a long drink of his beer, his eyes flicking around nervously now, not quite sure what to do with all of this attention on him at once.
“It’s just so great to meet somebody in Sam’s family. He acts like he was raised by wolves. Doesn’t tell us anything.” Spencer grins at Sam, reaching over to run a hand over his chest, over the soft knit of his sweater. Sam clears his throat and leans away from the touch as casually as he can, nervous about Dean seeing Spencer being like this with him. She’s always flirted with him, always pursued him so blatantly that it makes him uncomfortable. God, what if Dean thinks he’s slept with her?
“It keeps me mysterious.” Sam grins and grabs his Sprite and takes a big gulp, ignoring the straw in it. Spencer smacks his chest and leans back, grabbing her own technically illegal beer.
“Well, it works. Mysterious is sexy.”
“You hittin’ on my baby brother right in front of me? You’ve got balls, woman.” Dean’s grin is movie star bright and just as fake, the neck of his beer tipped at Spencer before he finishes the whole thing off. He signals for a refresher and Sam sinks deeper into his seat, nervous about Dean drinking too much, about him saying too much, about his friends scaring Dean off. About not being able to keep his eyes off his brother enough to be around normal people with him. It’s been awhile.
“Are you really the overprotective type? Sam’s like six and a half feet tall and he’s got a bodyguard? Fuck, that is so cute. Can I keep you both?” Spencer leans into Max as they both giggle and Elliott rolls his eyes appropriately, giving Dean a pitying smile and finishing off his own beer.
Dean throws back his new shot of whiskey and snatches up his beer, his smile a little looser now. He throws his free arm around Sam’s neck and Sam can’t help the way he leans into it, can’t help but savor the heat of his brother’s body and the clear possessiveness of the move. “Been lookin’ out for him since he was in diapers. Not gonna stop no matter how big he gets.”
“Even from nice, available, interested girls?” Spencer tips her head to the side and tries to look innocent, her highlighted hair falling over one side of her face as she pouts at Dean. A smile plays at Dean’s lips from behind the mouth of his bottle.
“Especially from them.”
They all laugh and Sam relaxes again, easing back into Dean’s hold on him that doesn’t leave, doesn’t even try to. He glances over at Dean, at the curve of his profile, the long tips of his eyelashes, his moving throat as he swallows. He wants to be buried against that throat just like he was last night, wants to smell Dean’s sweat and taste his skin just right there, feel the scratch of Dean’s beard on his lips. Dean looks over at him and it’s so sudden that Sam doesn’t have time to bury it all, to keep it all hidden from Dean the way he wants to.
Dean meets Sam’s eyes and holds them, just a few beats before he’s gulping down the rest of his beer.
“Sam, I’ve gotta catch my flight out, remember?” Dean grimaces in beautifully feigned regret as he puts his second empty bottle on the bar and stands up to tug out his wallet. Sam grabs his own faster and thrusts a twenty in the bartender’s hand to pay for Dean’s drinks and his own. Spencer whines and stands up, grabbing at Dean’s wrist so childishly that Sam wants to throttle her.
“You’ve gotta go? You just got here!” She reaches for Sam, trying to reason with him, too, not realizing that she’s not getting anywhere with either of them with her lost little girl act. Sam gives her a smile and extracts himself as politely as possible. He stands up beside Dean, tipping his head to nod at his friends.
“He’s right, we’ve gotta get him to the airport. But thanks for letting us hang out for a minute, guys. I’ll see you all soon, okay?”
“Yeah, it was nice meetin’ you guys. Friends of Sam’n all.” Dean gives his biggest smile to Elliott and the smallest to Spencer. Spencer kisses Dean’s cheek again before Dean can back away.
“Sam, I’ll come by in a couple of days, okay? Maybe we can hang out!” Spencer grins at Sam, pushing up onto her tiptoes in a hopeful bounce. Sam smiles at her, patient and practiced.
“Sure, Spence. Uh, night, guys. Don’t have too much fun.”
They head out with Dean behind Sam like always, and Dean lets out a loud exhale the second they hit fresh air again.
“Sorry, man. I just had to get out of there. Thought I was gonna deck her if she didn’t climb off your dick, chick or not.”
Sam’s cheeks heat up at Dean mentioning his dick and his hands go right back to his pockets. “No, it’s fine. Sorry about her. She’s a little. Eager, I guess.”
“She always like that with you?”
They shuffle along down street slowly, like they don’t have anywhere in particular to be. And they don’t, really. Cars drift past and people edge around them and they walk close, arms brushing. Sam is so suddenly content that he aches with it.
“I guess so. Always tries to get me to ask her out, always finds me at parties and stuff. Climbed into my bed on Halloween and tried to make out with me. Not used to hearing no. You know the type.”
Dean huffs out a laugh that’s anything but amused. He stops suddenly and glances both ways down the street before jogging to cross it. Sam follows him in a hurry, not sure where they’re going but he’s always going to follow. Dean opens the door to the liquor store and Sam smiles when he steps in after him. Of course.
“Jealous that she wasn’t all over you?” He means it as a joke, of course, as just something to say while Dean scans the tequila aisle, but Dean’s frown makes him regret saying it.
“No. Just ready to kick her ass if I needed to.” He grabs some 100% agave tequila before rounding the corner toward the whiskey. “Or at least, you know. Put her in her place. Verbally.”
He grabs some Maker’s Mark and they head to the checkout. They don’t exchange words with the bored girl behind the counter, and Dean rummages through the bin of tiny bottles near the register. He pulls out some strawberry vodka and grins at Sam.
“Want somma this, baby girl?”
Sam blushes deep and elbows Dean hard, forcing a scowl onto his face. Dean drops three of the tiny strawberry vodkas onto the counter and Sam sighs loud enough for Dean to hear it, just so Dean can hear it. It’s just what they do.
--
Sam does indeed drink the three little vodkas, along with a swig of the Maker’s Mark and a respectable amount of the tequila. Dean’s drinking the whiskey like it’s water, his body and mouth loose where he’s sprawled on the makeshift bed. Sam’s sitting up next to him, back against the nightstand because he doesn’t trust himself, not with alcohol and Dean’s body and his own lack of discipline when around the combination.
“I’m supposed to be at Bobby’s, you know it? He came and saved me’n everything. Blew him off ‘cause.” Dean stops, licks his lips clean of whiskey, staring with bright, glassy eyes across the room. He finally blinks, comes back into himself, looking down at the bottle he’s clutching. “I don’t know why. Just. Just knew I wanted to be here.”
Sam is quiet for a minute, alcohol making him rambly and rash just like it does Dean, but this feels important. “Saved you from what?”
Dean shrugs, frowns. Takes another drink, half the bottle gone. Dean’s always been able to drink people under the table, Dad and Bobby included. Sam stopped a little bit ago because he’s smarter than they are.
“Ran out of money so I ran out of gas. Spent the night outside of Blue Earth in the car. Blizzard was comin’ in, and I just eased her over to the side of the road and got in the backseat. Dad wasn’t answerin’ and Bobby wasn’t either and I just felt so fuckin’, like.” Dean’s gone, far away, quiet for a few moments. Sam just watches him. Always, always watches him.
“Alone. You know? And the damnedest thing happens. Get out of the car to take a piss and guess what I see?”
Sam hums a reply, a question. Shuffles a little to get closer. Dean’s slumped on the bed now, head on the pillow, eyes on the ceiling. Still wearing his boots. Sam reaches over to trail a finger over Dean’s jacket sleeve.
“Your goddamn tree. You remember? That random tree you were obsessed with?”
Sam frowns, tries to remember in his quite inebriated state. His tree? What--
“Oh. Oh, shit. Yeah, I forgot about that. Wow. I haven’t seen it in years.” He grins at the thought, of the silly tree his young self felt randomly in love with. He looks down at Dean, drinks him in. Lets his finger trail down to the back of Dean’s hand bravely. So, so brave. Dean’s hand twitches, a tiny movement, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Still there. I saw it. Car died right next to it. Like. Like she wanted me to. To see it, I guess. Spent the night right next to it.” Dean goes quiet again but he pulls himself out of it, seems to wake up a little. He sits up enough to drink a little more before settling in again. “Anyway. Bobby found me. Guess it got you on my mind though, because I ended up here.”
“I’m glad you did.” Sam sets the tequila aside and moves finally to get down closer to Dean, to share a pillow with him, their hair tangling. He traces the full moon of Dean’s thumbnail with the pad of his own thumb. “Because I was lonely for you, too.”
“We sound like a crappy teen drama, Sammy-wammy.” Dean tips his head up and grins at Sam, so close. Too close. Sam bumps Dean’s forehead with his own and smiles at him.
“Then shouldn’t you be kissing me right about now?”
“You gonna let me feel your tits under your bra if I do?”
“Let you feel my anything under my anything.”
Dean hums and waggles his eyebrows enough for Sam to feel it. “So you’re the girl who seems all good and sweet but is actually a freak in bed?”
Sam nods a little, his forefinger and thumb rubbing at Dean’s thumb now, slow and suggestive and hungry. “Got me figured out.”
“So who does that make me?”
“Hm?”
“In our shitty teen soap opera. Who does that make me?” Their noses graze now and Dean’s breath is bitter and sharp and burning hot over Sam’s face. It feels like they’re dancing, like they’re flirting in steps, in a practiced, sweet slowness.
“You’re the bad boy with the heart of gold that I’ve been in love with forever.” It’s the truest thing Sam has ever said, the most freeing. He feels Dean grin and he slips his fingers forward, their palms lining up, fingers lacing together at a slightly awkward angle.
“You gotta give me time to figure it out, Sammy. Let me get my wild days behind me, sow my oats and everything. I’ll be worth the wait. Plus, all the unresolved sexual tension is gonna drive the ratings through the roof.”
“What if I just want you to fuck me right now?”
Dean hesitates for just a second, body going tense and he finally stirs, sits up and leans back against the nightstand where Sam was earlier. He grabs the whiskey again and drinks down two healthy gulps, enough to make Sam’s throat burn in sympathy.
“Teen dramas don’t work like that, Sammy. We need some candles and some acoustic guitar music and you need a lot more mascara.” Dean’s grin is drunken and lazy and Sam stays right where he is, sewing his heart back up in the tiny window of time he’s being allowed.
“And a condom.”
“Eh, fuck condoms. Let me just knock you up. Season finale cliffhanger.” Dean takes another swig and tips the bottle at Sam with a wink.
Sam almost cringes at how fucking quick his dick fattens up at what Dean says. He snatches the whiskey out of Dean’s hands to take a few drinks himself. Hands it back with a shiver and a wrinkle of his nose.
“We never finished Spaceballs earlier.”
“Oh, shit. You’re right. Make it happen!” Dean motions at Sam’s computer on the nightstand, curling back down onto the bed again. Sam grabs his laptop and opens it up, tapping in his password and waiting for the DVD inside to whir to life again before he presses play. He takes his place again sitting up, letting Dean curl up on his side next to him. They watch the rest of the movie in relative silence, Dean giggling like a fucking child at nearly every scene and Sam smiling the whole time, trying so hard to stop replaying what just happened between them on repeat in his mind.
It doesn’t work.
Dean wakes up before dawn. It’s pale blue and shadows in the room, and a little chilly. He looks down at the warmth wrapped around his chest.
Sam’s cheek is pressed right over Dean’s heart, his lashes still and soft on his cheeks. He’s wrapped around Dean like he has for most of his life: completely and suffocatingly. Dean smiles.
He reaches down to trail his fingers over Sam’s bare arm, his big hoodie apparently lost during the night. Dean’s still a little drunk and this feels so good, like the morning after amazing sex, after intense eye contact and a few orgasms and falling asleep together because why not?
Sam feels that good.
Dean strokes through Sam’s hair that’s getting greasy, a little smelly. He pushes it back from Sam’s face, tries to tuck it behind his ear. Cranes his head down to bury his nose in it, grease and all.
Perfect.
His hand is now dangerously low on Sam’s spine, slipping down over the arch of it, right over the velvet soft skin that almost feels like a girl’s body. God, do all guys feel like this? Do they feel this good?
Dean closes his eyes and breathes Sam in, fingers tracing in light, continuous circles on the small of Sam’s back. Sam shifts against him, pushing in closer, tucking more under Dean’s chin. His leg slips up and rubs right over Dean’s dick that is thick and hungry like it is most mornings.
Fuck.
Dean pushes his hips up because he’s a guy, because it feels good, and fuck, Sammy feels so good. Perfect weight on his dick, fucking perfect soft skin, smelling just like home.
Dean swallows, the sound so loud in the silent room.
God, he’s gotta stop. Can’t do this. This ain’t even right when it’s not his baby brother.
Sam moves again, just a little, leg hitching up higher across Dean’s body.
“Fuck,” Dean breathes, his head digging back hard on the pillow.
He hasn’t felt like this since he was a fucking teenager. Back when he’d wake up and Sam was draped across him like Dean was his bed, his pillow, his fucking boyfriend. Back when Dean would get hard just from hearing a guitar lick. He’d gotten up every single time then, jumped out of bed and jacked off in the bathroom, like a good brother.
He pushes his hips up, grinding up into the meat of Sam’s inner thigh. He chews on his bottom lip to keep the moan in.
Fuck, he’s not being a good brother right now.
He could just grab Sam’s thigh, grab him right behind his knee and just fuck up against that thigh, right into the crease of Sam’s leg. Fuck yeah. Sam would let him. He would let him, right? Just rub his leg down and kiss across Dean’s chest, suck his nipple through his shirt, suck bruises on his neck and whimper in his ear, say please, Dean and so hard, Dean, gonna come on me?
Dean is breathing hard through his nose now, hips working in miniscule, tight little circles, his dick getting just enough sweet friction to drive him fucking crazy. He runs his free hand over Sam’s back, right across his shoulder blades, and he just holds onto him. Holds Sam right where he is. His free hand is stroking lower and lower on his back, tips of his fingers slipping under his pajama pants. Oh, fuck. The soft swell of Sam’s ass, right between his cheeks. Rubbing over his tailbone. God, he thought he knew Sam, knew all of Sam. He realizes then that he’s never touched this part of him. His little tailbone. His fucking peach of an ass.
Gotta stop. God, Dean, fucking stop.
He digs kisses into Sam’s hair, his breath rushing hot across Sam’s scalp and Sam is still snoring, light and dreamy and oblivious to Dean falling apart under him.
He rubs his finger up and down over Sammy’s tailbone, at the top of his crack, Dean’s balls drawing up tight, his entire body trembling when he finally, blessedly comes. He rides the wave of it as quiet as he can, soaring silently under Sam’s lax body, sucking on the dirty strands of Sam’s hair caught in his mouth.
He finally relaxes, falls back into his own body, lets his eyes flutter open. Still before dawn, Sam still sleeping on like a baby. Like his sweet baby brother.
Fuck.
He climbs out from under Sam, letting his heavy, long boy body fall down alone against the mattress. Dean stands over him, legs still shaking from orgasm.
He’s gotta get out of here. Has to leave. Now.
He rips Sam’s clothes off his own body, teeth gritted in barely-contained fury at himself. Disgusting. He’s horrible and a complete fucking bastard and he just violated his own fucking brother while he fucking slept.
He wipes himself down with the pajama pants, wipes his dick clean of the smear of come. Stuffs the pants in the little trashcan by the desk. Pulls his own clothes on: dirty jeans, stinky, bloody shirt, jacket, boots. He’ll figure it out. Get to Bobby’s and get his shit together and figure stuff out. A plan. Okay.
He grabs his keys and quiets their sound by shoving them in his pocket. He looks back over at the bed and sees Sam, still unmoving, still thinking that Dean’s here, that he’s gonna stay. That they’re going to get to have each other for a little while longer.
He closes his eyes to the tears that immediately build. Presses his fingers into them and takes a deep breath that he lets out in a rush.
He’s going to walk out the door and get in the car and drive away and be alone again. Even if he gets to Bobby’s. Even if he takes another job with Dad. Even if he finds a girl on the way to anywhere. It’s not the same. It’s never, ever the same as this and it never has been, and he’s about to leave.
He opens his eyes again, ignoring the few tears that escape, and he sets his jaw. He has to do this. Has to. Let Sam hate him, be mad at him, whatever. Just let Sam get on with the life he wanted. The one that isn’t complicated, that has a focus and a goal and possibilities.
He doesn’t need Dean anymore, no matter what he might think. No matter how much Dean might need otherwise. No matter if Dean shuts down without Sam there to need him.
He takes a few steps closer to the makeshift bed they made on the floor, his boots heavy-soft on the hardwood floor. He kneels down, bones creaking like an old man. He doesn’t touch Sam’s hair again, even though he wants to. Doesn’t touch his back even though he wants to.
Doesn’t just climb right back into bed with him and let Sam curl up around him. Doesn’t just hold Sam and say fuck every single other thing in this world but you, boy.
Even though he wants to.
He leans down and kisses the high point of Sam’s cheekbone, moves a little further in to kiss his beauty mark.
Wants to kiss his mouth. No, he needs to fucking kiss his sweet little mouth.
He closes his eyes again, a tear falling from his eye and splattering on Sam’s face, slipping down his cheek. His lips hover over Sam’s mouth, ghosts over it just like that night back in Colorado. The one he’s wished he could re-do at least one thousand times.
And where would they be right now, if he had done something different. If he’d kissed him. Where would they be?
He can’t even imagine.
And he doesn’t kiss him now.
He pulls back, eyes slipping open to take in the sight of him one more time. Just one more time.
Then he gets up. Grabs Sam’s discarded Stanford hoodie and stands up. Leaves without looking back because he can’t look back.
Because there are a lot of things Dean Winchester can take, a lot he can do with a brave face, with more courage than most men can even fathom. But walking out of this room without it ripping his heart straight out of his chest isn’t one of them.
He pulls his jacket and shirt off once he’s in the car. Tugs Sam’s hoodie down over his head, lets the smell of his little brother fill the car, making it smell good again, familiar again. Letting Dean pretend at least for a little while longer.
He doesn’t remember the drive to Sioux Falls.
Sam wakes up to a room that’s too warm and smells stale, like neglect and semen. He grunts as he stretches and lets his eyes slit open, taking in the position of the light from the window. Probably about nine again. He glances over beside him and isn’t surprised to see the bed empty and rumpled beside him.
Trust Dean to always be awake at the crack of dawn, bullet wound and vacation be damned.
He sighs and flips over onto his stomach, snatching Dean’s pillow away and wrapping his arms around it, just because he can. He wonders if Dean’ll bring food from the same place this time, or if he’ll take the easy route and get some cereal and milk from the store.
He falls asleep dreaming about Apple Jacks and Dean’s milk-damp mouth.
--
When he wakes up again, it’s definitely past eleven in the morning, and the room is still empty by the time Sam opens his eyes again. He frowns, his head pounding because he slept too fucking long.
He sits up and realizes he’s bare-chested and shivering. He reaches blindly for his hoodie and glances over when his fingers don’t find it. Gone.
“What the fuck?” The words sound expansive in the quiet room, the quiet building. He forces himself to his feet, his full bladder begging him for relief. His hunter’s eyes slip on seamlessly, and he takes note of everything around him: the two lamps from last night still on, his missing hoodie, Dean’s clothes gone, boots gone, keys gone. Pajama pants in the trash can. Nothing in the room has moved for hours except Sam.
He shakes his head as he makes his way around, coming to inevitable conclusions. Maybe he went to eat breakfast somewhere. Maybe he’s getting groceries. Maybe he ran into Spencer again and they’re in her dorm room, having loud, sweaty sex. His stomach turns at the thought but it’s better than. Than.
“No,” he whispers, just once, resolute. Not possible. Dean wouldn’t just leave. Not after the way he showed up. After the fucking rollercoaster of need and loneliness and bone-deep relief they’ve gone through since Christmas. He wouldn’t just leave. He couldn’t.
Dean’s not the one who leaves. He’s not the heartless bastard in this relationship.
Sam leaves his room and trudges half-naked down the hall, his bare feet freezing on the linoleum floor of the hallways. He’s shivering by the time he gets outside, squinting in the cheerful morning sun. He feels so young all of a sudden, so lost, like he’s been misplaced in a department store. And Dean will find him soon. He always does.
The Impala’s gone.
The trip back to the room is a blur, and Sam’s hands are shaking by the time he finds his phone and scrolls down to Dean’s number.
Straight to voicemail.
“Dean, uh,” he fumbles out, his throat clenching up tight. He drags a hand through his tangled hair and tries to ignore the burning behind his eyelids as he closes his eyes. “Just woke up. Sorry for sleeping forever. Uh. Just, um. Just wondering where you are. If you’re lost or somethin’. Palo Alto can be a little confusing sometimes. Yogurt shop on every corner and all. Just, um. Just call me. Okay? I can get you back here. I can--”
He stops, his stomach twisting up painfully. It hits him then, pummels him like a mountain. The truth. Dean’s gone. He left. He tries to open his mouth again but he can’t get any words out. Can’t even find a way to end this message. He hangs up the phone and stares down at it, stunned.
This is his fault. Somehow. He’s freaked Dean out. He knows it. Can scent in the air of the room like a fucking bloodhound. The panic, the fear. Maybe Dean figured it out. Maybe Sam did something in his sleep, groped him, didn’t let go, wrapped up tighter than usual around Dean. Maybe he said something. Acted out some graphic sex dream against Dean’s body.
Maybe it was just their weird, beautiful almost-pornographic flirting last night, that Dean had been a part of just as much as Sam. Maybe it had just been too much. So much that he couldn’t handle facing Sam again in the morning.
And Dean just took off, just like that. The way any rational person would, if they found out their brother had the hots for them. Just get the fuck out and let time and distance take care of the rest.
He stumbles to the bathroom to piss and makes his way back to the room, not bothering to lock the door. It’s weird, this new low. It’s completely foreign to Sam because he’s so far from any home he’s ever kept for himself, anybody he really knows or who knows him.
Just a few hours ago, Dean had been here. Had been wrapped around Sam like someone might dare to try and take Sam from him while they slept, like anybody possibly could. The room still smelled vaguely like him, like Dean’s sweat and his morning breath and the secret smell of his armpits. Sam reaches out and grabs hold of the desk chair, the breath leaving his body. He wants to bottle it all up, zip it up in that bag with the shirt, hold and keep and preserve forever.
Dean’s gone. He’s gone.
His hand slides across the desk, grazing the edge of the book he’d been reading a couple of nights ago and then touches on something plastic. He grips it, pulls it closer. Picks it up. The first-aid kit. He’s rifling through it, pulling out the bag of pills before he even registers what he’s doing. Small handful, three or four. Swallows them down with nothing but the spit in his mouth and coughs, almost hacks them back up.
Doesn’t know why he takes them. Couldn’t explain why if anybody ever cared to ask. Because he doesn’t have any cigarettes, maybe. Because he’s too old for that anyway, right? Longs for the burn of it anyway, the obliteration of fire on his skin in a perfect circle. Wants his brother under him, on top of him. Inside of him. Wants to suck the spit from his mouth and lay his fists into Dean’s body until he feels something break.
Wants to use the entire arsenal in the trunk of the Impala on himself. Anything to make this go away. This deadly, impossible pain that he can’t ignore.
He’s back on the bed without knowing how he got there. Sprawled across both mattresses, across this temporary bed that has only ever held him and his brother. He stares at the ceiling until his eyes feel too heavy and they have to close.
He floats and floats and then he’s fourteen and Dean is soaking wet in just his underwear after they’ve gone for an impromptu swim in a river and Sam actually creams himself right there, staring at his brother’s crotch, at the weight of his balls in wet cotton, the visible ridge under the head of his dick. So good. Everything about Dean is so good.
He’s eight and he’s burning himself on the eye of the stove trying to make Dean chicken noodle soup when Dean has a cold. Dean rubs some toothpaste on the burn after kissing it better and curls Sam up in his lap as he eats the soup and neither of them care when Sam gets a cold, too. They share everything.
He’s twelve and watching through the window of the motel while Dean gets his dick sucked in the Impala in the parking lot. The girl is bobbing up and down from the passenger’s seat and Dean’s head is tipped back, eyes closed like he’s dreaming. He looks so serene, like nothing could be better than this. Sam spends the next six months sucking on things: on popsicles, whole pickles, bananas, anything to practice. Just in case Dean ever lets him.
He’s sixteen and Dad almost bleeds out in the car on the way to the hospital. There’s too much blood and Sam and Dean both know it. Dean is crying freely, his hands shaking on the steering wheel as he guns for the hospital, glancing back over his shoulder every few seconds, barking out panicked, breathless orders at Sam who is holding a flannel shirt to Dad’s neck, who has his father’s blood all over his hands, who just absorbs Dean’s harsh words, just takes them in and stays quiet for Dad, for Dean, for all of them. Dad makes it and neither of them know how and Sam has blood under his nails for a week and Dean doesn’t sleep for longer.
He’s five and it’s the first day of school and he nearly passes out from crying so hard when Dad drops him off, just leaves him in a room full of strangers. He doesn’t cry for his dad. Just scream’s Dean’s name, just clings to the door handle and sobs his brother’s name until he can’t breathe from crying so hard, so loud, so long. Until the entire class is quiet, owl-eyed and watching Sam fall apart. He cries himself exhausted and stumbles through the rest of the day. He pukes up his lunch, PB&J and fruit cocktail, all of it coming right back up, syrupy sweet and all over the carpet of poor Miss Judith’s room, Dean’s name only a whisper on his lips now.
He’s eleven and the only person he wants to ask to the Winter Wonderland dance is his brother.
He’s eighteen and he has a dream that Dean is Mom and Sam’s nursing from him, an ageless thing with his mouth attached to Dean’s nipple, drinking down the honey sweetness Dean’s body makes for him. Just for him.
He’s nineteen and there are voices around him, some raised, some afraid, some calm. Somebody’s moving him, jostling him and ignoring his protest to just leave him alone because he’s so tired. He falls back asleep because that’s where he wants to be. That’s where Dean is.
--
He wakes up in a white room feeling more drained than he can ever recall. He tries to move but it hurts, a sharp pain shooting up his left arm. He winces and looks down, eyes traveling numbly from the IV on the back of his hand all the way up to the plastic bag on the hook holding a clear liquid.
How the fuck did he get here?
“Mr. Winchester?”
Sam’s head jerks so fast it makes him dizzy when he spies the woman in the doorway. Early forties, warm brown skin, hesitant but kind smile. Sam settles back in the bed with a sigh.
“Hi.”
“Hello. I’m Dr. Sahni. How are you feeling?”
Sam shrugs, throat closing up around any words that feel like venturing out. He looks away and towards the window covered by blinds, blocking out most of the light and any of the view. He wonders what day it is.
“Do you remember how you got here, Sam?”
“I’m guessing it has something to do with the pills I took.” He sounds angrier than he means to, more sarcastic and childish but he can’t take it back now. He just grits his teeth, sets his jaw and stares even harder outside.
“That is correct.” The door to his room closes and Dr. Sahni gets closer, hovering at the foot of Sam’s bed. “Do you might if I sit?” She gestures to the chair near Sam’s bed.
He shrugs again, glancing over at her as she settles into the chair, a pen hovering over the clipboard she’s holding.
“You were admitted here three days ago. You didn’t take enough pills to overdose, but you did take enough to knock you out for awhile. You hadn’t gotten out of bed in nearly three and a half days, from what we can gather. You were severely dehydrated, Sam.”
He still says nothing, just watches a bird land on the windowsill and find that there’s nothing there for it only to fly off again. There’s nowhere he wants to be less than right here, right now.
“If your friend Spencer had not found you, there’s no telling where you would be right now.”
He bites down on telling her that Spencer is not a friend, is nothing to him because he doesn’t have friends. He can’t even find it in himself to feel thankful for being saved. He’s not really feeling a whole lot right now and it’s terrifying and comforting in equal amounts. It’s familiar, at least. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting it out in slow, even measures.
“Well, just wanted you to know that you’re on suicide watch right now, Sam. You’re going to be kept in here for a couple more days to recover completely and also to make sure you’re not a danger to yourself or anyone else.” Dr. Sahni stands up and clicks her pen closed. Sam keeps his eyes closed tight, like she’ll go away if he does.
It’s so quiet that Sam wonders if she really did leave, but then she speaks again, her voice coming from the doorway. “Whatever drove you to this, whatever made you decide that it’s not worth it anymore, you need to let it go, Sam. Nothing is worth what you just put your body through. You have so much going for you. Don’t let anyone else destroy all that you’ve worked for.”
The door opens and closes again and he knows when he’s alone again. He opens his eyes and realizes for the first time that there are tear tracks down his cheeks. He growls in frustration and wipes at them hard, ignoring the pull of the IV tube. He’s giving it a couple of hours and then he’s bailing. He’s John Winchester’s son and therefore a fucking expert in ditching hospitals and all of their nosy questions. What he does isn’t any of their fucking business. They don’t give a shit about him. None of them do.
The truth of Dr. Sahni's words needles at him, digs in under his skin. He almost died and he knows it. He can feel it thrumming low in his body, trembling weakness in his bones. And if he had, how long would it have taken anybody to find out? Dean, Dad, Bobby? Months, probably. He’d be rotting in the ground, worm food and decaying before they even heard.
He can’t do this anymore. Can’t keep doing this. Banking it all on Dean, betting the house on Dean coming to him and staying. Dean sinking down into his body and making a home there. It’s not going to happen.
It’s not. Going. To happen.
“It’s not going to happen,” Sam says to the quiet, his voice shaking and tearful and bloodied raw but it’s finally out there. The truth is finally out there, in his own words. And there’s no turning back now. He’s gotta let him go.
He’s got to let Dean go.
Cut him out with surgical precision and sew it closed and move on. It’s all he can do. It’s the only thing he can do and survive at the same time.
He sinks back down into the warmth of clean sleep but his body is already working away, detaching all the millions of tiny threads that have sewn him up with Dean his entire life, doing the very last thing he ever thought he would.
Moving on from Dean.
next.