My Lungs Ache Filled With Water - PART 2
Masterpost / Part 1 / Part 2
Dean isn’t big on loving people. He generally likes them, sure. From a distance. He just wasn’t raised for it, having friends and knowing neighbors, and knowing the names of the waitresses or settling down in a house with a porch swing and a white picket fence. He loves his father, and all the memories of his mother. And he thinks he got pretty close to it with Cassie, before he started dreaming of Sam again and just couldn’t anymore.
It’s different, though, with Sam. This thing is bigger and stronger than anything Dean’s ever felt, destructive and incredible. He hasn’t seen Sam in six years now and his absence is still like a phantom limb. That’s the thing about losing something so big. The ache never fucking goes away. And you live regretting all the shit you ever did and all the times you were stupid enough to say no.
If Dean could go back, he’d take everything. He would let Sam give him anything he wanted. Worse than missing Sam, worse than being in love with your little brother, is knowing you would consume him if given another chance. Dean’s selfish and greedy. He would take Sam apart and wouldn’t think twice. He would breathe in Sam and never do anything else--if only he was offered again.
*
Dean always thought that, somehow, Dad would go down with the Thing That Killed Mom. He tried not to think about it, never spoke of it out loud like Sam used to. Sam yelled and raged and hinted, because Sam never knew how to keep his anger to himself. They both knew that it could happen, that Dad could go down taking the son of a bitch who took Mom.
But Dean used to think that maybe, just maybe, if it happened, he’d have Sam.
When it happened, Dean was pinned against a wall and Dad was fighting against the Yellow Eyed son of a bitch inside him. It didn’t last long. One minute, the demon was talking about going after darling little Sammy and trying to rip Dean apart, and the next minute, John was swallowing a bullet from the Colt and dying on the floor of an old cabin.
*
Dean turns twenty seven on a chilly Tuesday in San Francisco.
Dean hates big cities, where no one pays attention to the scary crap happening to anyone else, because scary crap happens all the time. Where it’s too easy for murderers and ghosts to blend in the dark with all other monsters. Where research takes longer and places are harder to break into.
His back aches from being thrown around by an angry spirit, and he’s thinking about getting as far away from this city as possible. It doesn’t help that the city is filled with vegans either. It’s unnatural and makes Dean crave bacon cheeseburgers and chili fries, and a steak so rare that a good vet could bring it back to life.
He’s walking around, looking for a place that serves coffee and burgers, cursing how far he’ll have to walk to get back to the Impala when he sees Sam. It’s far away enough that, if it were anyone else, Dean’d have to squint to recognize him, but it’s Sam, and Dean would know him anywhere.
His heart tries to leap out of his chest, because that’s Sammy. He’s a lot taller and a lot broader, but he still has that same boy band hair, and he’s just walking down the street like he’s not the thing Dean’s wanted most to see in the world.
“Sam!”
Sam keeps walking, friggin’ long legs, and Dean runs after him as fast as he can, his banged up knees squeaking hard and burning, but that’s Sam and Dean’s legs would have to give out for him to stop running.
“Sam!” He yells again and this time Sam stops. He freezes in the middle of the sidewalk, and even from a distance, Dean can see his shoulders going tense and his back snapping straight. “Sam!”
Sam turns around and holy shit, holy fucking shit that’s Sam. Dean stops a few feet from him, legs burning and heart pounding, and he doesn’t know what to do anymore. He'd spent the last six years looking for Sam and now that he's found him, he doesn’t even know what to do first. He wants to hug Sam, and punch his face in and kiss him breathless, but all he can do is stare and stare, because it’s Sammy.
“Dean.” Sam says, smiling, his voice the same as it was when he was seventeen, his face no longer baby soft and skinny, but he’s still the same and his dimples are still the same, and Dean tries really hard not to start crying like a little bitch right then and there. “Oh my God, Dean!” Sam hugs him then, longs limbs and the same octopus arms and tight squeeze that always made Dean ridiculously happy.
“Holy shit, Sammy.” Dean squeezes back. Sam smells like sweat and soap, and the familiarity of it hits Dean like a blow to the stomach. He feels like his knees are gonna give under him and he’ll bring them both down, but he can’t, just can’t yet, stop hugging.
“Dean, I-“ Sam starts shaking then, hiccupping dry sobs in the middle of the street, face buried on Dean’s neck. Of course Sam would be the first to cry. Of course. Dean smiles against Sam’s hair.
“Found ya, Sammy,” he whispers and Sam laughs a wet laugh that echoes inside Dean’s chest.
*
After Dad died, Dean gave him a hunter’s burial. He poured all the salt he had on stock and a gallon of gasoline and set him on fire. He drove for days after, until his eyes were dry and he had empty bottles of Jack riding shotgun. He drove until he couldn’t anymore.
On the fourth night, he parked the Impala in the middle of nowhere and thought long and hard about doing a Thelma and Louise with his baby. Just him and the Impala over the edge of a cliff. He thought long and hard about apples and trees and maybe swallowing a bullet himself.
He drank every last drop of booze he had, but still didn’t black out, not even for a while. He was drunk out of his fucking mind and his father was dead and the demon was dead and there was nothing to keep Dean going. ‘Cause Dean was never really good at being alone and he always did the stupidest shit when he had nothing else to do.
That was the first and only time Dean saw Sam outside of a dream ever since Sam left.
It was a hallucination, hazy against the first rays of sunlight, unsubstantial, and Sam looked young, fourteen maybe, with too-long hair and ugly shirt. He was on the backseat, chin resting on his knee, a ridiculously giant book by his side. He looked unbelievably sad, staring at the empty bottle on Dean’s lap, that hurt expression he always had when Dean drank too much while Dad was on a hunting trip.
“What about me?” The Sam hallucination whispered, and he sounded petulant and young, and like he was about to cry, “I’m still alive, Dean. You know I’m alive.”
Dean had to get out to throw up then, knees hitting the dirt and hands scrambling to keep him from going face first on the ground, stomach hurting and lungs contracting painfully.
When he got back inside, mouth sour and face wet, he was alone again.
*
Sam’s apartment is small. Smaller than some places they’d lived in when they were kids. But it’s bright and full of sunlight, with mismatched furniture and framed movie posters. It’s very much Sam, books piled everywhere and so ridiculously normal that it makes Dean’s blood burn with something he couldn’t name.
He’s taking off his jacket and trying to figure out how he feels about being here when he sees a cat. The fugliest, fattest yellow cat Dean has ever seen in his life, sleeping in a patch of sunlight by the couch.
Sam puts his keys in a glass bowl on the table by the couch; he looks awkward, like he doesn’t know what to do or what to say to Dean now that the weepy part is done. “This is where I live.” He says, scratching the back of his head.
“Dude,” Dean says, pointing to the ugly cat, “You have a cat. A really ugly cat, holy shit.”
Sam laughs a genuine laugh. “Yeah, that’s Potato.”
“Potato?” Dean gives Sam his jacket and sits on the couch. The cat - Potato? - looks up at Dean with that disdainful look mastered by all cats before rolling over to expose her belly to the sun.
“Well. She looked like an old potato when she was a kitten. The name stuck.” Sam takes off his own jacket and puts it on the chair where Dean’s coat lay, before disappearing into what Dean thinks might be the kitchen. He comes back with two beers and hands one to Dean, before sitting at the other end of the couch.
“You have a cat,” Dean says again, just to kill the silence. Sam looks good here, comfortable in a way Dean can’t remember seeing before. He looks like the grown up Dean fakes being. It makes him want to disappear. He thinks he might be all right now, knowing Sam is doing well. He looks at Sam’s face and knows for sure he won’t be able to let go now. Maybe ever. “A cat,” he repeats.
“Yes, Dean.” Sam frowned. “Are you still scared of cats? Potato is not like Mrs. Hino’s cat, you know. I’m sure she won’t try to scratch your face.”
“There’s so much wrong with what you just said.” The beer is just cold enough to numb the tips of his fingers, so he takes a long pull, hoping it will cool his blood down. “I’m not scared of cats. That cat didn’t try to scratch my face, it wanted to claw my eyes out!” Sam laughs again and it makes Dean smile. “And-I don’t know. I always figured you’d have one of those shaggy dogs to match your shaggy self.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but he looks amused. “I guess I found Potato first.”
Dean’s happy to see Sam. He’s actually genuinely happy. And completely freaked out. It’s hard to breathe inside Sam’s apartment. Everything smells like him. Like the way the room they shared used to smell when they spent more than a month in the same place. It’s constricting and it makes Dean think of all the times he had Sam sleeping on the next bed, of all the times he could’ve had Sam if he wasn’t such a fucking coward.
They finish their beers in the loudest silence Dean has ever witnessed. He’s trying to start a conversation that won’t make everything more awkward when Sam clears his throat and says, very quietly, “Dad’s dead, isn’t he?”
Dean sucks in a shaky breath, thinks that Sam will always be the bravest of either of them, and nods. “Yeah.” He clears his throat, “He went down taking the Yellow-Eyed son of a bitch.”
“Yellow-Eyed?”
“The-he was a demon. The one who killed mom,” Dean says and Sam is staring at him now. He seems to be stuck between horror and sadness, a weird contrast with Dean’s constant rage. “Yellow Eyes. He was planning something big-but Dad-“ he stops, can’t say the fucking words.
“Dad killed himself killing it,” Sam says, and it’s not a question, it’s a statement, like Sam knew and just needed Dean to confirm. Dean’s about to question him on his certainty, but Sam starts to cry. Big, silent tears that make him look so much like the little kid he used to be that Dean has to look away. He grabs their bottles and goes into the kitchen, where he pretends not to hear Sam’s ragged breathing and grabs two more bottles. He opens one and drinks half of it before feeling brave enough to return to the living room.
Sam comes in then, his face red but dry now, and grabs the other bottle from Dean’s hand.
“I’m gonna make us some sandwiches.” Sam says, voice too calm. “I’m hungry.”
“Yeah, ok.”
*
Dean never realized how much he mothered Sam until he was gone. It was in the smallest of things. Like leaving him the last pudding cup. Like stealing a book about some recently- revealed-to-the-public-eye historic event that Dean didn’t care about butmade Sam wet his pants with excitement. Like wondering if Sam’s coat was still good when they were going north in the winter. Like making him sandwiches when he was upset until Sam started associating them with comfort food.
It still made him queasy sometimes to think about how much he wanted to be part of Sam’s life. How much he wanted to make Sam happy and how much he just wanted Sam. Everything and anything Sam had to give. How much he wanted to be spread open for Sam until Sam was so deep inside him, neither of them could ever escape again.
Dean always finds new ways of being fucked up.
*
The kitchen smells like grease and bacon by the time Dean’s finished his second BLT. They ate in silence at the tiny kitchen table, while Potato tried to steal pieces of bacon from Sam’s plate. Potato’s sort of hilarious, and as soon as all the food is gone, she hops off the table and goes to the living room, like her quest for bacon was a waste of time and it was all beneath her. Dean wonders if all cats are this pompous or if it’s something about living with Sam.
“How did you find me?” Sam says then, wiping his hand with a paper napkin.
“I-didn’t. I came here on a hunt. I was looking for a place to eat when I saw you just… walking down the street.” He laughs, and it sounds hollow even to his own ears. “I didn’t think I’d ever find you, to be honest. ‘Cause, you know--we did teach you how to hide. We just-just never thought you’d use it against me-us.”
“I didn’t run away from you, Dean, I-“ Sam rubs a hand over his face, sighing. “We both know I had to go or things would be-and anyway, I never wanted to be a hunter. I hated that life.”
Dean hears everything Sam isn’t saying. He hears the truth behind it and it makes it harder to breathe right. There’s no more danger of things being anything now. Not after so much time has passed. “Were you here this whole time?”
“Yeah. I figured you guys would think I was the furthest place away I could find, so I stayed here.” He sighs again. “And then I got a job and a life and I never left.”
“All this time.”
“Yeah.”
*
There’s a hoodie hanging by the door in the bathroom. It’s obviously too small for Sam. Dean stares at it while he brushes his teeth, and tries very hard not to think about who owns it, and what sort of relationship they have with Sam. He fails.
*
Dean spends the night on the couch. He doesn’t sleep, too wired to be able to rest. There are too many things left unsaid, and he knows he won’t be able to mention them. Avoidance is the best way to go. Around 2am, Potato hops on his chest, curls into a ball and sleeps.
Around 4am, Sam comes out of his bedroom.
He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping either, and Dean knows Sam’s about to spill something. Sam always liked to have serious conversations during moments Dean should have been sleeping. He sits on the coffee table with a guilty expression and Troll Doll hair that Dean wants to mock.
“I knew Dad was dead,” Sam says and Dean wants to bolt off the couch, but he has a feeling he would get his face clawed off, so he just stares at Sam. “I had these dreams…” Sam starts explaining and Dean… Dean fucking knew, all right?
He knew Sam was one of that Yellow-Eyed bastard’s kids. He knew because Sam was the right age and had the right background and the demon loved mentioning Sam, to see Dean squirm and threaten and to see Dad go into a rage. He thought, for a long time, that Sam had already been killed. Had already gone through whatever fucked up trial Yellow Eyes was doing and had lost.
Dad was the one who said, one day when they were both drunk and pissed off, that if Sam were dead, the demon wouldn’t stop bragging, would drag Sam’s body around for them to see. It was the last time Dad talked about Sam being somewhere out there, alive.
“…and I saw Dad shooting himself.” Sam finishes, eyes full of unshed tears. “That’s how I knew what he did. That was the last dream I had.”
“He never found you? The demon?” Dean asks mostly because he doesn’t know what else to say.
“No, but I know he was looking for me. I think he thought the visions were gifts.” Sam looks at the amulet for a minute. “It just gave me migraines and it pissed me off.”
Dean snorts. “I don’t think demons understand the concept of gifts.”
Sam rolls his eyes.
“You knew, didn’t you?” Sam asks after a beat, “You knew the demon wanted me for something?”
“We thought that, maybe,” Dean lies. He doesn’t want to give Sam the truth because he knew that that Sam would blame himself for Dad swallowing a bullet. Some days Dean can’t help but blame himself and he knows that it was all the demon’s fault. “But we never really figured out what it wanted.”
Sam nods, looking relieved and a little freaked. Dean considers the possibility of hugging him then. Of grabbing Sam and never letting go, of burying his face in Sam’s neck until everything feels less shitty.
Sam nods again and goes back to his room. Dean spends the rest of the night thinking about the hoodie in the bathroom and if its owner ever gets to taste the curve of Sam’s neck.
*
Dean never gave Sam The Talk, never taught Sam how to jerk off and never did anything beyond buying him lotion and tissues. It was the unspoken rule of two teenagers being forced to share small rooms. But Dean was obsessed with it for a while, with the idea of Sam jerking off. It was enough to make him come sometimes. Imagining Sam sitting in front of him, hands slippery with lotion, red dick hard and leaking, the way Sam would grunt and sigh instead of moaning, or maybe he would moan and curse.
After Sam confessed, it got worse, because now Dean had the image of Sam moaning his name, cursing quietly for Dean to touch him. Sometimes, when Sam was in the shower, Dean had to turn up the radio or the TV volume to force himself not to listen. He already knew then that any noise would be enough to wake up something ugly in himself.
That morning, Dean turns on the TV as soon as Sam closes the bathroom door and runs to the kitchen to fight with Sam’s robot of a coffee maker. He curses himself the whole twenty minutes it takes for Sam to shower for all the images of this new Sam his brain provides.
*
Dean sleeps on Sam’s couch for almost two weeks. They don’t really talk about the big things after that. Dean feels like he’s constantly walking on eggshells around Sam. He doesn’t want to disturb Sam’s life, doesn’t want to give Sam more reasons to disappear, to run again, but he’s desperate to get under Sam’s skin. To make Sam remember all the things he liked about Dean; he’s desperate to be needed again. It’s what he’s been waiting for and he doesn’t know how to get it.
So he sleeps on Sam’s couch and jokes with him. He buys Potato a toy with bells and feathers that's loud and annoying enough for Sam to give the most epic of bitchfaces. He goes grocery shopping and makes grilled banana and peanut butter sandwiches that make Sam grin. Sam tells him then that he tried to make it like Dean does, but he never managed and never understood what Dean’s secret was. And it’s fucking stupid, but it makes Dean think that this could be reason enough for Sam to keep him around. It’s the hope of the desperate and Dean clings to it like a motherfucker.
“It’s peanut butter, banana and butter, Sam. How can you get it wrong?” He teases around a mouthful of his perfectly sane PB&J.
“Not just me! Not even diner cooks get it right!” Sam says, making a face at the flecks of food that fall from Dean’s mouth. “You’re disgusting.”
“I make every meal interesting.”
Sam narrows his eyes, “I bet you put crack on these.”
“I ain’t telling.”
*
It’s sort of surprising how much Dean wants to be here. He always thought he’d want to get Sam on the road with him, to get Sam hunting with him, to spend hours inside the Impala with Sam reading at his side and talking about the most boring, weird crap he learns from stolen library books. And he does, he wants that too. But he wants this more. He wants to do whatever the fuck Sam’s doing, he wants to wake up spitting out cat hair with Potato wrapped around his neck and purring, he wants six years of information, six years of constant company to make up for. He wants to know when Sam stopped being too skinny and gangly and became a giant, so sure of his own body.
He wants to set fire to that fucking hoodie and wants to bash in the face of its owner. He wants to know who texts Sam every couple of hours. He wants to know who owns the tiny hipster sunglasses that have been sitting on the coffee table ever since Dean got here. He wants to take all of Sam’s clothes and inspect his new body. He wants to fuck Sam and get fucked by him. He wants to learn all that Sam knows about sex now. He wants to feed his addiction and he wants Sam’s longsuffering sighs at Dean’s overprotection.
Still, he feels like he’s intruding on Sam’s life. There’s no room for a hunter in a normal apple pie life. He tries telling himself that he would be happy anywhere. He would be fine just watching Sam from afar. Just knowing that Sam is alive and fine. Just watching Sam breathing and living would be enough.
It’s a lie.
*
Bobby calls him on a Tuesday. There have been mysterious deaths in Price, Utah, and Bobby thinks it’s a couple of vampires. Few hunters still know what to do with vampires, and the guy who apparently specializes in fangy bastards broke both legs taking down a whole nest in Montana.
It’s a fifteen hour drive and Dean thinks about just saying no. He can’t, though. He calls Sam and tells him about the hunt.
Sam is silent after Dean explains, only the sound of his breathing reassuring him that Sam didn’t hang up.“Vampires, seriously?” he asks eventually.
“Yeah. They're not sparkly - don’t get your hopes up.”
“Shut up,” Sam sighs. “If you come back with both your legs broken, I’m letting Potato use your face as a scratch post,” Sam says carefully. And it’s another statement full of things unsaid. Sam wants him to come back.
“That cat loves me; she would never destroy the moneymaker, bitch.” Dean says, and Sam snorts.
“Jerk.” And he hangs up.
Dean grins for the next fifteen hours. He’s coming back.
*
Vamps always try too hard. The couple Dean finds like the leather and latex outfits with too much hair gel and fake British accents. It’s like they want to embarrass the vampire community. Dean suffers from a lot of secondhand embarrassment the couple of days it takes to find and catch them. Dean does everyone a favor and beheads them.
He ends up with a big scratch on his left knee from where he fell on the pavement, a hole in his only good slacks.
He also gets thoroughly fucked by the bartender of the club the vamps used to find their victims. They do it in the employees-only bathroom and the guy fucks Dean with deep, hard thrusts and thankfully avoids the dirty talk some bartenders seem to enjoy.
It’s a good night, and for some reason, Dean guiltily makes sure there are no sex bruises before he drives back to Sam.
*
By May they have a pattern.
Dean sleeps on Sam’s couch sometimes for two weeks straight, sometimes for a night or two. They go out, sometimes, to whatever non-hipster vegan place Sam finds and get drunk. Some nights they stay in and eat take out and watch some truly awesome crap TV that has Sam groaning and rolling his eyes the whole time. It’s sort of awesome. But they still don’t talk about anything important, and Dean is almost fine with it.
He finds out that the owner of the hoodie and the hipster sunglasses and the grey scarf Dean finds under the couch cushions is a guy called Max. Dean never sees him, but he knows enough. He knows that Max and Sam have known each other for a while, that Max works at the bookstore with Sam and that they fuck sometimes. Dean wants to know how much exactly is sometimes and he wants to know what this guy looks like.
He also can’t help but feel like he won a race. Because if Sam never bothered to introduce them, it’s because Max is not important enough.
But by the end of the month, Dean finds out that Max is not the only person Sam’s fucking. And he’s back to being stupid with jealousy again.
*
On the second week of June, Dean has a dream of fucking Sam again. They are on the couch and it’s pouring rain in the living room. Dean can feel the cold water running on his back and dripping from the tip of his nose, and the heat from Sam’s legs wrapped around his waist. He’s looking down at Sam, who's completely dry and staring up at Dean with big eyes as Dean thrusts inside him, a slow pace that has Sam gasping and coming between them.
He wakes up hard, legs feeling like jell-o and breathing so hard it makes his throat hurt.
He leaves the next day and comes back at the end of July, scraped and bruised, but feeling like he can be around Sam again.
Sam never asks and Dean never says anything.
*
When Sam was four, Pastor Jim gave him a doll. A plush army man with big button eyes and a sewed on smile. Sam called it Berg, and kept it on the bed they shared. Dean didn’t want to say it, but he was honestly scared by it. It was creepy and crooked, and the only reason it hadn’t been thrown away yet was because Sam loved it.
“Hey, Sam,” Dean asked one day, after training. They were sweating buckets and Sam was still breathing hard, hair plastered to his forehead and sweat rolling down his neck. It was screwing with Dean’s self control. “Remember Berg?”
Sam laughed, head tossed back, throat bared. “Oh, God. Yeah! You hated him.”
“It was creepy as hell.” Dean smiled. “Whatever happened to it?”
Sam’s smiled faded a little. He looked down before answering, “Well, I couldn’t keep it. You hated him.”
*
Sam has a hickey. It’s partially hidden by the collar of his shirt, but it's bright red against Sam’s neck, and it attracts Dean’s eyes like a motherfucking shooting target. The worst thing is that it’s obvious Sam’s trying to pretend it’s not there, trying to hide it from Dean and Dean can’t really do shit about it. What’s he supposed to do? Yell at Sam for moving on? It’s been six goddamn years! Sam has the right to move on.
Except it’s sort of breaking Dean’s stupid asshole heart.
Sam is cutting his perfect organic tomatoes for the salad Dean will not eat, and all Dean can do is stand there stirring the chili and try not to stare at Sam’s hickey.
“Stop,” Sam whispers. “Stop it.”
“What? It’s not done yet,” Dean says, because the chili is not the right texture yet. “It still needs a coupla-“
“Stop staring at me, Dean.” He says it louder now, scraping the seeds off the tomato, his face flushed.
“Well, Sammy, if you don’t want people to see it, you shouldn’t let them mark you.” He tries for a joke, but Sam’s face gets redder, and he scowls.
“When you get more than a one night stand out of it, you don’t need to hide the evidence.” Sam’s voice is hard now, nostrils flaring. “You forget that some people try for relationships.”
“So that’s what you’re doing?” Dean tries not to show he’s jealous, but by the way Sam is looking like he’s about to stab him, he thinks he’s failing at it. It’s not his right to be jealous, they both know it. “You’re in a relationship with this guy? And the other people you‘re fucking too?”
Sam gathers the tomato slices, mouth set in a line, and washes the cutting board and the knife. He looks pissed, and Dean lowers the heat, because he knows Sam’s going to pitch a fit any moment now.
“Sammy, listen…”
“Shut up, Dean.” He says. “Just shut up!”
Dean does. He stirs the chili and watches as Sam finishes the salad, and thinks about the sixteen year old Sam and how awesome he used to be at throwing knives.
“You are such a dick!” Sam says, suddenly, putting down the salad bowl on the table with a lot more force than necessary. “You want to joke about this now?”
“You want me to apologize?” Dean says, not taking his eyes off the pan, ridiculously afraid of where this conversation might be going. “I’m sorry for staring at your freaking mauled neck.”
“It’s none of your goddamn business!” Sam is pissed now. Truly pissed and Dean wants to be too. Better pissed than jealous, but he’s not managing that. “You know-Just, don’t. This is not. This.” Sam takes a deep breath and Dean finally looks at him. He looks mostly hurt. “We both know this is a conversation we don’t want to have. We avoid this territory for a reason. Stop pretending otherwise.”
Dean turns off the heat, but continues stirring, just to have something to do with his hands. He keeps thinking about this guy he’s never met, the one who Sam is in a relationship with. He wonders again if he looks at all like Dean, and has a perverted sense of accomplishment in the possibility of this guy being just a substitute for him.
“I just. Sammy.” Dean steps away from the pan and sits on the closest chair, before looking at Sam, who’s standing by the sink with clutched fists at his side and a closed off expression. “You’re in a relationship with this guy?”
“No.” Sam says after a beat and Dean’s heart starts beating in laughable hope. “No, I’m not in a relationship with Max, Dean.”
Dean nods because he doesn’t know what else to say. He wants to get up and kiss Sam, he wants to fuck him against the kitchen counter and he wants to suck him off until he’s choking on the taste of Sam’s come.
“You left,” he says instead, surprising himself and by the hurt look Sam gives him, surprising Sam too. “I was in the middle of nowhere when I remembered and when I got back to the apartment, you weren’t there.”
“Dean. Jesus, Dean. I had to leave, I-“
“I used to help change your diapers.” Dean stares at the table now. He thinks, wildly, that this is it, this is the moment where he fucks up or fixes everything. “I changed one or two, but I usually made a mess with the friggin’ powder and spent hours after sneezing.”
“Dean…”
“I packed your lunch bag. I helped you with your homework. I fucking stitched you up and gave you pea soup when you were sick, because you hated the smell of tomato when you had a cold and you never liked chicken soup.” He can hear Sam’s loud breathing and Potato playing with the bell thing in the living room. And he has to take careful breaths just to keep the oxygen flowing. “I helped raise you, Sammy!”
Sam was the hardest kid Dean had ever met in his life. One moment, he was happy and laughing, and charming everyone around him with puppy eyes and dimples, and the next he would be sullen and angry, yelling and hurling words like they were knives. Dean loved every part of him.
“And I spent most of your pissy, awesome teenage years in love with you.” Dean feels like he’s shaking, but his hands are steady on the table. Sam is breathing louder now, and Dean doesn’t even have to look at him to know he’s angry. “I helped raise you and I was in love with you.”
“What? Dean, I-“
“You were sixteen and offering me everything! Just like that. And I couldn’t. You--” He rubs a hand over his face and closes his eyes. “For a long time, all I could think was ‘I’m going to ruin that kid’s life’ because I wanted you. I wanted you to be mine. I was obsessed with you. And you were so-willing. I was so freaked, Sammy.” He stops talking then, hoping for Sam to shut him up, to start talking too. But Sam doesn’t say anything and Dean can’t look at him yet.
“And then you got drunk and made it sound like it was a sacrifice,” Sam says and Dean’s not even surprised by his bitter tone. “Get out.”
“Sammy, c’mon, just-“
“Dean, get the fuck out, or I swear I’ll shoot you.”
He was expecting it. It’s ridiculous to pretend something’s not going to break you just because you’re expecting it, but it doesn’t stop you from hoping.
He leaves with his leather jacket, his keys and with something like lead in his lungs.
*
Dean parks the car two blocks away from Sam’s building. He doesn’t try to hide it, doesn’t pretend not to be there. He sleeps in the car and stares at Sam whenever he gets a chance.
Three days later, Bobby calls him about a hunt nearby. Dean goes.
*
Child ghosts are the worst. They are very talented at the art of killing and generally being creepers. It might have to do with kids’ unlimited imagination, or maybe their skill of repeating what adults do.
Missy Adams’s ghost is really into throwing people through large glass windows when those people are trying to dig up their remains to burn.
Dean gets a big cut on his arm and a smaller one on his hip. It hurts like a bitch and they’re bleeding a lot, but Dean does the best circle of salt he can on the basement floor, around where he thinks Missy was buried, and starts digging. His shirt is sticking to his arm and it’ll be a bitch to take it off later, but Missy’s ghost is screaming and trying to get at him.
“Dude, shut up!” He tells her, “You threw me through the window! You don’t get any points for being a kid.”
She does, though. Because he finds her remains, her bones covered in dirt and what’s left of her clothes is covered in glass shards and shredded. It’ll never be easy having to burn the remains of a little kid, especially one as small as her.
“Sorry,” he says, and sets her on fire.
*
Dad killed the ghost of a boy named Sam once. It was a few months after their Sam left and Dean was the one supposed to set the ghost’s remains - forgotten inside a fake pirate chest, still full with wooden toys and fake swords - on fire. But as soon as it showed up, Dean froze. It looked too much like their Sam when he was four - the curls and the chubby face, and the big eyes - that Dean just couldn’t do it.
Dad had to pull him away before pouring the salt and the lighter fluid in the chest and setting it on fire. That was the only time Dad ever looked freaked out after a successful hunt.
They never talked about it. And for a month after it happened, they didn’t do anything but look for Sam. They were both too scared of the possibility of Sam being dead, and too worried to talk about it.
*
It’s 1am when Dean parks the car, as close as he can from Sam’s building. He feels like shit and he could use a shower and a few days of sleep on a real, somewhat comfortable, bed but he’s going to catch a few hours of sleep and maybe catch sight of Sam going to work in the morning. He thinks this will end up being like a drug, something he has to do all the time, so his hands will stop shaking, so he can breathe properly. He’s always had a problem with controlling this thing for Sam; six years apart made no difference. Sam being angry with him makes no difference.
It’s Sam and he’ll take what he can get.
He takes off his outer shirt and rips a long, almost clean, piece to wrap around his arm. It’s still bleeding, even though his hip has already stopped. He takes a shot from the flask in the glove compartment and lies down. Even so far from the center of town, San Francisco manages to be noisy. It’s still not as bad as New York, and not as awesome as Vegas.
He’s almost asleep when someone knocks on the window.
“Dean!” Sam says and Dean sits up. He’s about to make up an explanation when Sam says, “What the fuck! You’re bleeding!”
He opens the window. “Little kids make awful ghosts, Sam. Little kids and pirate chests.”
Sam just stares at him, like he’s at a loss for words, before shaking his head. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, and turns around going back across the street, stalking in the direction of the building’s entrance. That’s when Dean realizes that Sam’s in pajamas.
*
The first time Dean and Dad left for a hunting trip longer than a week without Sam, Sam had just turned twelve. He spent most of his time wondering how Sam was doing and what he was doing, and tried very hard not to show it. He ended up calling twice more than he promised and both times, Sam did the bratty sigh and said he was fine.
When they got back, Sam was sitting on the floor in his pajamas, a plate of rice and red beans on his lap, watching some black and white movie. Sam had smiled at Dean, and helped them bring their bags inside, even heating up more canned beans for them after.
Still, Dean only relaxed after Dad went to take a shower and Sam hugged him hard and quickly, saying, “I’m glad you’re not hurt.”
Sam never really got the hang of pretending not to care about Dean.
*
Sam’s stitches are still perfect. But instead of trying to distract Dean from the pain like he used to do when he was a kid, he’s quiet and doesn’t talk back when Dean tries to strike up a conversation. He just stitches with minty green floss, the coolness of the mint almost distracting Dean from the sting of the needle.
When he’s done, Sam trashes the bloody gauze and tissues before washing his hands. He hands Dean a couple of pills, probably painkillers, Dean hopes. His lips are set in a thin line and he looks like he’s trying hard not to yell at Dean when he says, “You should take my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No, Sam. I’m fine. I’ll take the couch.”
“Dean.”
“Seriously, I’m fine. Just give me a pillow and I’m good.” He tries for a smile, but it only makes Sam look angrier.
Dean turns around and goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water for the pills and almost steps on Potato, who is lying right in the middle of the kitchen. “You are really inconvenient,” he tells her, and gets some water to gulp down with the pills.
When he heads back to the living room, Sam is setting a pillow and a few blankets on the couch, still looking angry, shoulders tense, and moving around like he wants to rip the sheets to shreds.
“I can do that,” he says, but Sam ignores him. “Sam.”
“You’ll rip your stitches,” Sam says, his voice tight. Dean doesn’t say anything else and watches Sam pulling a bright green pillowcase over the pillow, right as Potato saunters into the living room, climbing the TV rack and the sitting on top of the TV.
Sam finishes, and instead of going to his room in silence as Dean expects, he throws his hands in the air, frustrated, and says “Seriously? How long are you going to do that for?”
What the fuck? “What? What am I doing?”
“Hunting! You said you’d be done once the demon was dead. You and dad said you’d be done!”
“Dude!” Dean wants to throw something at Sam. “It’s my job, Sam!”
“Seriously? Your job? You could do anything, Dean.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m a special snowflake with a GED.”
“You!” Sam yells, then taking a deep breath, looks ready to throw punches. “You could pick apart any electronic you could find and put it back together. You’re good with cars. You were better at math than I was! And you skipped half the classes! And I was a mathlete!”
“Sam. That’s not… I like hunting. I like saving people! Hunting and-these last few years, all I’ve done is hunt and…” he trails off. He spent these years looking for Sam. And still, after so much effort, he managed to find Sam by accidentally stumbling into him. “I hunt. That’s all I’ve done all my life.”
“All you’ve done is hunt and what? Fuck everyone you could find?” Sam’s tone is vicious, but he looks hurt. And Dean feels stupid and helpless. He never reacted well when Sam was hurt, he can’t really expect Sam to be any different. “Drink until you passed out?”
“And look for you,” Dean blurts out and instantly regrets it, because Sam looks at him like he’s been slapped.
“Don’t, Dean.” Sam grits out, turning and heading to his bedroom. “Get some sleep.”
"I know I'm too late, Sammy," Dean says, words hurting his throat and Sam freezes in the hallway. “I can see you’re better off without me. I just… I think I spent too much time without you around and I can’t. I can’t stay away yet, Sammy. I thought I’d never see you again.”
“What?” Sam asks, turning back and staring at Dean.
“I was sure you were dead.” He rubs his hands on his face, feeling exhausted. “I know you don’t want me in your life. I screwed up too much, I know, ok? I just-need to be around you for a while. Then I’ll leave you alone again, I promise,” he lies, and he tries very hard not to make it obvious that he plans on stalking Sam for the rest of his fucking life.“It’s-six years is a long time, Sam.”
“We’re gonna have this conversation now? It’s three am.” Sam looks incredulous, frozen on the spot like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Dean doesn’t say anything. “Fine.” Sam says, “I know six years is long time, Dean. You’re not the only one who spent these last six years missing someone.”
“Sam-”
“No, you know what? Fuck you!” Sam walks back until he’s a few feet away from the couch, and now he looks angry again. Dean’s awesome at making Sam angry. “I want you around. I want you to stay here, I want-fuck you! I spent so many years trying to-I thought I was sick! You let me think I was sick. And I couldn’t stop.” He runs a hand through his hair, and he’s walking circles around the coffee table, Potato staring at him from her spot on top of the TV. “I tried, I tried because I thought--” he sighs, “I thought I could try to find you once I was over it. And I couldn’t! And all this time! What? All this time you were just as sick as I am? All this time you wanted me too?”
“Yes!” Dean gets up too fast, his stitches pulling and bleeding, but he doesn’t give a damn. “Yes, ok? I do. I want you and I’ve wanted you since-fuck, Sammy. Since you were a kid! Since you were fourteen!”
“What?”
“Yeah! That’s when it started for me,” he laughs a little. “You were fourteen, Sam!” Sam looks shocked. “Yeah, I know. Fucked up. You were fourteen and I was already hiding in the fucking bathroom, jerking off to you, to your friggin’ sweaty shirts. I spent a lot of time, a lot of time, trying to keep it hidden! You have no idea! And you just offered it one day. Just put it on the table like it was ok. What did you expect me to do? Did you expect me to say ‘Why, yes, Sam! You’re sixteen now and you want me too; who cares that you’re my younger brother? Who cares that the things I want are fucked up? Let’s make out!’ Like it was perfectly normal!”
“Yes, Dean!” Sam shouts back, looking more pissed than before. “Yes! You should’ve said all those things! Yes, it was fucked up! Yes, we’re brothers. But you weren’t the only one wanting things.” He smiles, but it’s not an amused smile. “You had my shirts? I had your fucking underwear, Dean! I watched you getting blown by a guy behind the gas station, and I wished I was the one with your dick in my mouth. You-“ he stops, sags a little and sighs. “You weren’t the only one, Dean, and you let me think I was.”
“I know. I know I did. I’m sorry; I’m so fucking sorry, Sam.”
“I’m not trying to--I don’t want you out of my life, Dean. I just want to-I don’t know.” He sits on the coffee table, elbows on knees and burying his hands in his hair. “I’m trying to get over the fact that I’m not as sick and twisted as I thought I was.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Sammy. There never was. I just didn’t know how say it without spilling everything else.” Dean sits back on the couch and Potato chooses that moment to leap from the TV and run to Dean’s lap. “Your cat is really ugly, dude,” he says, petting her.
“I know.” Sam laughs a little.
They sit there in silence for a long time, Sam with his head in his hands; Potato’s purring the only sound in the living room.
“You know what’s the most ridiculous thing, though?” Sam says after a while, standing up again and facing Dean. “You think there’s nothing wrong with me, but you still think there’s something wrong with you.”
Dean had hoped this conversation would never get here. There’s a long list of things that are wrong with Dean and he really doesn’t want to start naming them.
“Sam,” he tries, “Let’s not, ok?”
“Dean, you always took all the blame for everything for yourself.” Dean sighs as loud as he can, but Sam just goes on. “And you didn’t force me to fall for you, I did that by myself. And you-”
“I was supposed to take care of you, ok? That was my job. Where do you think wanting to fuck you enters the list? Before or after fixing your lunch? Maybe after teaching you how to sharpen knives, I should’ve taught you how to give a blowjob. How is that ok?” His voice sounds cold and flat even to his own ears, but Sam just looks at him like he can see what Dean is feeling, and Dean fucking hates it. Hates how Sam could always take him apart and look inside. Makes it even harder to breathe.
“I don’t know. The same way it was ok for me to want you to bend me over after breakfast, maybe?” Sam blushes, cheeks and ears going bright red. “If it was ok for me to want my big brother, it was ok for him to want me too.” He stops and smiles a horrible sad smile, before continuing, “That night? That night you kissed me? I thought you did it to make me happy. Because you always did the stupidest things to make me happy. And when you said you needed liquid courage I thought you would sacrifice your own sanity to make your freaky little brother happy. So I had to leave, Dean.”
“It wasn’t-“
“I know that now. I didn’t then. And I had to leave because I would’ve taken. I think-I would gladly pretend you weren’t miserable just to have you.”
Dean feels like he’s hyperventilating, lungs constricting and aching. “Sammy…” He trails off, can’t seem to make his mind work. He tries to find the right words to say all that he wants, all that he feels and felt and how terrible everything is inside him. The words don’t come, though. Sam sighs.
“Get some sleep. I have class in the morning.”
*
Dean paces the apartment the whole day. He takes a shower and changes his bandages and feeds Potato and paces. He stares at his flask and thinks about going out and getting shitfaced. And then he thinks about Sam’s face when Dean gets drunk. And how shitty and fucked up it would be to get drunk every time he needs courage to tell Sam all that Sam needs to hear. He doesn’t drink, he just plays with Potato and stares at the TV until his stomach is burning with hunger.
There’s a small bakery a few blocks from Sam’s place, so Dean goes there and buys two dozen glazed donuts and eats half of them in the car. He sits there with sticky sugary fingers and thinks long and hard about what he’s going to do with himself once Sam comes home and tells him to leave and this time never come back.
He doesn’t think it will happen, not really. Not this time.
But Sam was always too good at surprising Dean.
*
Dean doesn’t say anything when Sam comes in. He gets up from the couch and waits. Sam’s shoulders are tense and his mouth is a hard line. “Do you still want this?” he asks Dean, putting his bag on the floor by the door, his face is blank and he’s not looking at him. It makes him nervous and awkward and he hates it, because Sam is not giving anything away. “Because, I gotta tell you, Dean. I’m pissed at you. And right now, the only thing stopping me from kicking your ass is that I don’t want to stitch you up again.” He stops, crosses his arms like he’s not sure what he wants to do anymore. “Do you still want me?”
“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is breaking, and he thinks, briefly, that his heart is about to beat right out of his chest. “Yes, Sammy.”
Sam looks at him then. He still looks pissed, still looks like he wants to throw something at Dean, but there’s hope and a shit ton of uncertainty there too, like he doesn’t know if he can trust Dean on this. Fuck.
“I do, Sammy,” he says, forcing himself to sound sure and not as scared shitless as he actually feels. “I-no one else. Not ever.”
Sam snorts at that. “Yeah, sure.”
“I’m not saying I was celibate, Jesus! I’m-I couldn’t like. I didn’t.” He sighs, frustrated. This is the friggin’ opportunity he’s been waiting for and all he can do is stammer and shake. The problem is, of course, that as much as he wanted a second opportunity to say it all, he never really managed to explain it, not even to himself. He’s in love with Sam, it’s true. He’s been in love with Sam as long as he can remember it, but it’s more. It’s something gigantic and horrible, it’s obsessive and sick and Dean constantly feels like he’s close to drowning, like there’s a weight on his chest, a thing between his lungs, forcing him to survive in shallow breaths. It’s spending six years feeling like the world is wrong, and no amount of booze and sex or hunting fixes it. Sam is stuck inside his chest, he’s just too big. He takes a deep breath and says, “They were never you, Sam.”
He’s expecting Sam to argue more, yell maybe. He’s expecting Sam to look at him with those disappointed eyes he used when Dean sided with their Dad.
But Sam did always love surprising the hell out of Dean.
Sam smiles. He walks forward until he’s so close Dean can smell the coffee on his breath. Dean opens his mouth, and he knows he’s about to say something really stupid, because that’s what he does when he’s face to face with something he wants, but Sam says, “No. Shut up,” and kisses him.
It’s just like and completely different from the last time they kissed. Sam kisses him like they are dying and Dean kisses back because he feels like they are. He’s overwhelmed and it’s awesome. Sam seems to be everywhere at once, hands pulling at Dean’s shirts until he feels like the seams are ripping and scratching at every piece of skin he can find.
“I tried, but-fuck, they were never you either,” Sam gasps between kisses.
“This is so fucked up.” Dean laughs, and stops kissing just long enough to take off his own shirt before Sam rip it off. “We are so fucked up, Sammy.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam scrapes his teeth on Dean’s neck, sending awesome shivers down Dean’s back before giving him what will turn out to be an impressive hickey later. “Evidence,” Sam whispers, and starts pushing Dean until they hit the wall.
Sam’s face is smooth and clean shaven, but his mouth still feels like a brand on Dean’s body. His hands are big and calloused and Sam runs them all over Dean’s torso while his mouth follows with hard bites and licks. “Sam-fuck!”
“I thought about this a lot,” Sam says against Dean’s navel, kneeling on the floor and unbuckling Dean’s belt. “I used to jerk off thinking about you fucking my mouth.” His voice is muffled against Dean’s crotch, where Sam keeps rubbing his cheek against the jeans, against Dean’s half-hard dick. “I wanted you to come in my mouth, I wanted to taste it so, so bad, Dean. You have no idea.” Sam unzips him then, pulls down his pants and underwear in one movement.
“Jesus, Sam!”
Sam’s hands are hot where he’s touching Dean’s thigh, scratching and rubbing until Dean feels shivery. “That’s why I need this. I just-“ He bites at the softest part of Dean’s thigh hard enough to make them both hiss before licking a long stripe from the root to the head of Dean’s dick. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he says and swallows it down to the root. The surprise of the heat is enough to make Dean slap his hands on the wall at his sides.
It’s sloppy and wet. Sam sucks him like a starving man, nails constantly grazing Dean’s legs and, fuck, fucking himself on Dean’s dick like he can’t get enough. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, Sam!” Dean has imagined this, played and replayed scenarios in his head until his dick was chafed. But somehow Sam is better. Sam has his eyes closed and spit running down his chin, and he swallows around the head like he wants it deeper and it’s making Dean stupid with it.
Sam pulls off, licking his lips. “Grab my hair, Dean,” he says, rubbing the head on his lips, spreading pre-come and spit until it looks like a wet mess. “C’mon, Dean. Please, just-please!” Dean does, grabs two handfuls, and uses it to hold Sam’s face and fuck it. Sam groans, loud and strong, the vibrations getting Dean closer to coming, and keeps trying to get Dean to do it harder, deeper, to use his mouth. And Dean can’t look at him anymore, can’t see Sam’s lips red and bruised trying to keep up with Dean’s movement, face blissed out. He closes his eyes.
He tries to pull away twice, to give Sam more room to breathe in more than short shallow breaths, but Sam doesn’t let him. He keeps shoving his face forward until Dean’s trapped and never too far from Sam’s throat.
He hears the sound of a zipper before registering that Sam’s hands are not touching him anymore. Sam starts groaning then, his groans louder than Dean’s and he doesn’t even have to look down to know that Sam’s jerking off, a loud and fast pace that fills the room. Sam whimpers, rubbing his tongue on the underside of Dean’s dick and comes all over Dean’s boots. It’s the hottest thing Dean’s ever seen.
“Sam, oh, oh fuck-Sammy, gonna come.” Sam whimpers again and his hands are back, sticky with come, holding Dean against the wall, fucking his own mouth on Dean’s dick. He’s even sloppier now, an angry pace and hard suction, and Dean comes. He comes with his hands buried in Sam’s hair and his dick in Sam’s throat, until his knees are shaking and his mouth is hanging open, sucking in hard breaths.
He lets go of Sam’s hair when Sam pulls away, licking every last drop of Dean’s come and sitting on his heels. He's a mess. Wild hair and fucked mouth, face flushed and sweaty. It’s much better than Dean ever imagined.
He slumps against the wall grinning, and Sam grins back.
*
They fuck again, this time in the shower, both of them naked against the wall. Sam fucks into Dean with fast thrusts that are so good, they makes it hard to breathe; coming inside Dean and fingering him until Dean comes almost painfully hard.
Dean takes his time later, with Sam spread on the bed, miles and miles of wet tanned skin, licking and biting him everywhere his mouth can reach, and fucking him open with his tongue until Sam’s spurting pre-come practically nonstop. Sam’s hot and tight and he wraps his legs around Dean’s waist and tells Dean about all the filthy stuff he always wanted Dean to do to him, while Dean fucks him with a torturously slow pace.
By the end of the night, they are both messy with come and lube, and Dean actually feels ridiculously happy.
*
“Ok, so tell me,” Sam says, biting into a grilled banana and peanut butter sandwich.
“No.” Dean says, scraping the cheese of his non-disgusting sandwich off the grill. “Not tellin’.”
“Dude, come on!” Sam is shirtless, his hair is a wild monster and his mouth is surrounded by angry red marks that Dean’s stubble put there. He’s sex bruised and looks like a perfect candidate for a good walk of shame. It’s the best thing Dean has ever seen. “I don’t understand! I was here the whole time! How-“
“Just give up, Sam.” Dean can’t help but smile, sitting across from Sam at the kitchen table. “I’m not saying.”
“What the hell! It’s just a sandwich! I know all the ingredients! How can yours be so much better?”
“I don’t know, Sam. I’m just that awesome.”
“Do you do something to the banana?” Sam asks and Dean barks out a laugh. “Not like that, Dean!”
Dean just laughs more, Sam smiles and shakes his head, looking vaguely scandalized. It occurs to Dean that he knows now what Sam tastes like, what noises he makes when he comes, what it’s like to open Sam up with his tongue and his fingers and his dick. He knows now what it’s like to have Sam’s dick inside him, and what it’s like to have Sam holding him down on a bed. He knows what it’s like to kiss away the taste of his own come on Sam’s tongue. And he feels like he can finally breathe.
“I’m not going to ask you to stop hunting,” Sam says after a while, licking peanut butter from his lip before Dean does the sappy thing of leaning across the table to steal the taste away. Dean doesn’t even like peanut butter and banana.
“What?” Dean asks, distracted.
“I’m not going to ask you to stop hunting,” Sam says again, “and you won’t ask me to drop out of school.”
“Ok,” Dean bites into his sandwich and tries not to wince at Sam’s calm tone. “I’m not quitting, Sam.”
“And you’ll never stay away longer than two weeks,” Sam goes on, and this time, he puts the sandwich down. “You’ll call me if you-no. You’ll call me every other day while you’re hunting.” Dean nods, because now he thinks he’s allowed to hope. “And I’ll help you research if I can, and you’ll never lie to me about what you’re hunting, ok?”
“Ok. I can do that,” Dean says, and Sam nods.
“And you’ll call me if you need help.”
Dean shakes his head. “I’ve got Bobby’s number on speed dial. I’m not going to get you to bust me out of anything.” Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Dean holds up a hand. “No. You’re not getting into this just to get yourself hurt. No, Sam.” Sam sighs, but Dean ignores him. “I want you to stop walking around unarmed; at least take a friggin’ Bowie with you if you don’t want a gun. Knives were always your thing. And we’re gonna protect this place. Not just the devil’s trap under the rug. We’re gonna carve or draw or paint every symbol we can without losing your deposit.”
“Painting, yes. Carving, no.”
“Awesome.” Dean bites into his sandwich and continues talking with his mouth full, just to see Sam make a face. “And I won’t lie about what I’m hunting. But, Sam, I won’t always tell you.”
“Dean-“
“Sam, some stuff-just, no, man. Some stuff, you know. It’s too ugly. You see it or you don’t. No talking about that shit.”
“Yeah, I-I know. Right.” Sam scrubs a hand through his face and hair, before nodding. “Just… try to come home in one piece, please. Dean, I--”
“I know.”
Sam gets up to fill his mug and Dean feels free to stare at the scratches on his back. So Dean is one of those people. He can’t honestly say he’s surprised.
“I kinda-“ Sam starts, once he’s back in his chair. “I feel like an astronaut’s wife or something.”
“I’ll always come home.” Dean blows him a kiss. “You’re my boo, babe.”
Sam makes a face. “I thought the car was your baby.”
“No need to be jealous.”
Sam smiles his bright dimpled smile, the one that always made Dean crazy, and Dean feels like he’s won something huge.
“Seriously, though.” Sam says, still smiling. “Is it something with the butter?”
Dean shakes his head. “Sam, just accept my awesomeness. Even sandwiches know it.”
“But-“
Dean does the sappy thing, then, and leans over the table to kiss Sam, who tastes like coffee and horrible banana and peanut butter stuff, but Dean can’t stop once he starts it. Sam kisses back, nails scraping over the hair on the back of Dean’s neck and it’s the best fucking thing ever.
There’s still a lot for them to fix, and a lot to talk about. But Dean feels, suddenly and for the first time in years, like he can finally breathe.
The End