Fic: Close Your Eyes - Prologue - (Sam/Dean - NC17)
PROLOGUE
August 2005
Sam passed out into the Arrivals hall with his messenger bag banging against his hip, wheeling his suitcase behind him. He paused for a moment, blinking at the startlingly bright lights as he scanned the groups of people hanging by the entrance, his eyes finally landing on someone that looked like his brother. He edged forward to get a better view. The guy - Dean, he could see it was Dean now - was looking away from the gate, out of one of the enormous windows onto the tarmac below, at the runway lights glinting orange and red in the dark.
Sam shifted the bag from one shoulder to the other, took a breath and strode towards him.
“Dean?” he said.
Dean whirled around, almost doing a double take as he stared back at him. “Sammy. Man, you’re so tall. How’d you get so tall?”
“Yeah, uh, I don’t know. I just grew I guess. It’s - it’s good to see you.”
Dean nodded, not quite meeting Sam’s eyes. “Yeah, you too.”
“Though I wish,” he paused, swallowed. “I wish the circumstances were different. And I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Dean. About Dad.”
Dean didn’t say anything to that but bent over to take the suitcase from Sam’s hand. “C’mon, we should get moving. It’s a couple of hours drive back home.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Sam started saying, but Dean was turning away already, wheeling Sam’s suitcase deftly between the milling passengers.
He’d never been close to his brother. Their parents had broken up when Sam was eleven and Dean just turned sixteen. At that time, the four and a half year age gap had been too wide for them to genuinely enjoy each other’s company or spend any real time together. Dean had his friends and Sam had his friends and the two never intermingled. Ironically, on the day their parents had announced that their marriage was over, they had been hanging out together. Dean had just gotten his driver’s permit, and his friends hadn’t been around, and so Dean had driven his little brother around in Mom’s car, just because he could. They’d gone to the movies, the arcade, the mall, and Sam had loved it, relished having Dean all to himself for once.
Then they’d gotten home to see Mom and Dad sitting at the kitchen table with tight, white faces, their voices solemn and smiles fake.
“We’ve got something to tell you, boys.”
Mom had met someone else. Fallen in love, she said with tears in her eyes. I’m sorry, she said, but he’s moving to California, and I’m going with him, and you boys are coming with me. Dad had kept silent, let Mom do the talking, his eyes dark and unreadable, mouth clenched in a thin line, his brooding silence as epic and loud as Mom’s guilty tears.
“I’m not going to California,” Dean had announced. “I’m not leaving Dad.”
Dad’s face had cracked then, a small, genuine smile making the corners of his thin, brooding mouth crook up. It was a smile Sam could never remember being turned on him, one that only Dean seemed to inspire. But that didn’t matter anymore, because Sam was going to California with Mom, and Dean was staying in Kansas with Dad.
He hadn’t seen much of his brother or his father afterwards. Mom would call to speak with Dean on the phone, beg him to come visit, offer to send the air fare because Dean and Dad never seemed to have any money. Dean usually said no, too busy with school or work, living his life completely separate from their comfortable Californian existence.
He visited twice while Sam was in high school. The second time was for Christmas, which turned out to be the strangest and best Christmas Sam could remember. Dean had snuck out on Christmas Eve, gone to a bar and come back to the house, knocking softly on Sam’s window, stinking of beer when he finally stumbled in. He was drunk and rambling, talking about this chick who’d blown him in the men’s room. Dean was twenty and Sam was sixteen and Dean had dropped out of college, except it was a secret, he whispered to Sam. Dad had hurt his back in the spring and had just gotten worse since then. He’d been laid up and off work for months, so Dean had taken on extra shifts at the garage to make up the money.
“They flunked me,” he whispered to Sam. They were watching the TV in Sam’s room with the volume down real low. “You can’t tell Mom. She’ll be all disappointed, make that face. You know the one.” Sam looked at him and nodded. Dean grinned back at him, lazy and drunk and devil-may-care. “Yeah, and then she’d just call Dad and moan at him. And it’s not his fault. It was my decision. Anyway, college sucked. Working at the garage is much better. Cars are so cool, you know, the way they work, the way everything just runs together. It’s just - so cool.”
Sam nodded again. They watched the TV in silence then Dean suddenly blurted out, “D’you remember how it used to be? Before the break-up? When we were still brothers?”
“We are still brothers,” Sam said, shocked by Dean’s words.
“Really? You think. Don’t really seem that way,” Dean answered, the words slurring together.
He fell asleep only minutes later, sprawled across most of Sam’s bed. Sam watched him sleep, his long eyelashes fluttering, the light from the TV playing white and pretty over his face. His chest knotted up as he watched Dean breathe in and out and he felt sick and overwhelmingly sad.
He didn’t see Dean again for five and a half years. Until now.
**
Dean cooked spaghetti carbonara for dinner. Sam sat at the kitchen table and watched him.
“Don’t those eggs need cooking separately?” he asked as he watched Dean pour the mixture of bacon, raw eggs and cheese over the cooked pasta.
“Nah, the heat from the pasta will cook them,” Dean explained, not looking up from his ministrations. “You cook them separate and it ruins the dish, makes it too hard, like, rubbery.” He frowned and pulled out one spaghetti strand, sucking it into his mouth and biting off the long, slippery end. “Mmm, al dente. Just right.” He met Sam’s eyes with a smirk and turned to take a couple of deep pasta bowls from the cupboard by the stove.
“I still can’t believe you can cook,” Sam said as he watched Dean grind pepper viciously over the mixed up noodles.
“I kinda had to learn, you know,” he said. He gave another of those defensive, awkward shrugs Sam was becoming used to. “Anyway, I like it, it’s relaxing.”
“No, it’s really not. It’s scary and frustrating,” said Sam.
Dean laughed and brought the huge pan of pasta to the table, plonking it down next to the bowls. “Help yourself.”
Sam opened the wine he’d brought with him, surprised to see Dean helping himself to a glass. There was a part of his brain that still expected his brother to only drink beer, to dismiss wine as girly or pretentious, but Dean seemed to enjoy drinking it. The spaghetti was good, surprisingly good, and he helped himself to a couple of servings to Dean’s obvious delight, the wine bottle getting gradually lower and lower as they exchanged news, carefully steering clear of the huge elephant in the room. Every so often the phone in the den would ring and Sam would see his brother’s fingers clench around his fork or his wineglass, his eyelashes flicker and lips press together. Then the answering machine would ping, picking up the message. Sam was grateful Dean didn’t seem to have one of those machines that were so prevalent on TV, the ones where you could hear the person on the other end leaving a message. He didn’t think he could sit through the condolences.
They left the dishes in the sink and took the second bottle of wine through to the den. They sat on the floor as they’d always done as kids, the TV playing on low in the corner.
“I’m, uh. I’m sorry I wasn’t around,” Sam said.
“Why? You haven’t lived here for years. This isn’t your home anymore,” Dean answered matter-of-factly.
“No, I mean, he was my father too. I should’ve been there, not let you deal with everything on your own. Dean, you dropped out of college for him.”
“Dude, I never would’ve finished college anyway. Dad was just an excuse.” Dean’s fingers were playing with the cork, thumb absently picking at the rubbery wood. “That was my decision. And you - well, you got your own life, your own thing, travelling around Europe and all that. Anyway, you know how he was. He wouldn’t have wanted you to see him like that.”
Sam bowed his head, his chest clenching up with that familiar, guilty ache. Of course it had been okay for Dean to see their father like that. But not him, not Sammy. There had always been an extra barrier, an extra distance between him and Dad. And the thing was, the thing he hated admitting to himself: he was grateful for it. He was grateful that he’d been in Europe when it had all come to a head, grateful that he’d had a convenient excuse to not be there with Dean, sitting by his father’s deathbed as he slipped away. What the hell would he and Dad have said to each other? They’d struggled enough to find things to talk about when Dad was well and healthy, never mind when the poor guy was too sick to form sentences.
No, it was probably better this way. After all, Dean was the one Dad had loved best; Dean was the one who’d nursed him for so long. Dean deserved to be there for him.
“No,” he said quietly, “no, I guess not.”
“So, then,” Dean said, his voice equally soft. He raised his head, eyes meeting Sam’s. Sam swallowed, staring at the way Dean’s lashes fringed his face, the way they cast soft, spidery shadows over his high cheekbones. Dean looked older, his face harder, more chiselled, some of the old softness had seeped away, but he was still the best looking person Sam had ever met. It was something weird to think about his brother, but he’d always thought it. It seemed even more obvious now, like Dean had fully grown into his looks.
“I got something for you,” he said suddenly. He reached for his messenger bag, dragged it across the floor from where he’d dumped it by the couch. “Like, a souvenir. I picked it up in London.”
“You got me a present?” Dean sounded unreasonably excited, scrambling to a sitting position, his knee knocking against the empty bottle of wine and sending it to the rug with a dull plonk.
“Yeah, I saw it on this stall in Camden market. It’s supposed to be for protection, it’s supposed to be lucky. It’s probably bullshit, but I just wanted to get it for you.”
He took the wrapped package out of the pocket of his bag, feeling self-conscious and stupid as he held it out to Dean. Dean wasn’t going to like it and he wasn’t even sure why he’d even bought it in the first place. Objectively speaking, it was pretty ugly and kinda weird as necklaces or amulets or medallions went, but the instinct had been so strong when he’d clapped eyes on it, his brain immediately flashing to Dean.
He held his breath as Dean unwrapped the tissue paper and tossed it aside. It fluttered to the rug in a pinky-white cloud and Dean stared down at the charm resting in the middle of his palm. He raised his head, blinked at Sam.
“Thanks, Sam, I love it,” he said. His voice was a little hoarse, the expression in his eyes sad. “I.” He hesitated, licked his lips, pushed out a breath. “Jesus, dude. You didn’t have to.” He passed the cord over his head. The dull brass charm glinted against the faded black of his t-shirt, resting just between his pecs. “I didn’t get you anything,” he said finally. “I didn’t even think about it.”
Sam swallowed, his throat felt tight and he felt ludicrously close to crying. “You didn’t have to. It wasn’t. I mean, it was a souvenir.” He ducked his head, pushed his hand against his forehead, his fingers into his hair.
“We need more drink,” Dean muttered.
Sam watched his brother get to his feet and stagger off towards the kitchen.
“I think we got some whisky left! That okay with you?” he called out. “We drank all the beer and wine.” He emerged in the doorway, holding out a dusty looking bottle. “I think this was Dad’s. We should. We should definitely drink it. Don’t you think? I mean, he ain’t gonna reem my ass for finishing it.”
Sam wet his lips, nodded. “Uh, yeah, okay.”
“Right.” Dean nodded and reappeared with two glasses and the bottle. He plopped down onto the rug again, placed the glasses in front of them. He poured the liquor sloppily, lifted his glass and peered at the amber liquid. “We should probably have this with ice but I don’t think we got any.”
“It’s fine,” Sam said. He took a sip, shuddered as the harsh, foul tasting liquid slid down his throat. “Jesus, that’s disgusting.”
Dean snorted, his expression lighting up for a second. “Pussy,” he said, taking a swig himself and making a face as he swallowed in turn. Sam raised an eyebrow and Dean pushed out a breath. “Okay, you’re right, it is disgusting.” He took another swig, swilled it around his mouth before swallowing again. “Mom, she, uh, she told me about you and that guy. Bryan, wasn’t it?”
Sam hesitated, felt his stomach lurch, a prickle of sweat under his armpits. He swallowed, wet his lips again. He could feel Dean watching him and he felt suddenly sick. He stared forcefully at the rug, at the ball of tissue paper that had contained the amulet he’d given Dean.
“What did she say?” he said.
“It’s okay,” Dean said. “I ain’t gonna judge you, Sammy. I, uh.” He paused, and Sam heard him reach to refill his glass, the clink of the bottle against the side of his glass. “I’ve been with guys too, you know.”
“You’ve what?” He snapped his head up, blinked at his brother. Dean was replacing the screw cap on the bottle. “But you were with - what’s her name - Annette?”
“Dude, that was over ages ago.”
“But with guys. Are you serious? You’re gay?”
“No. No, not gay,” Dean said. He raised his glass, looked at Sam over it. His mouth was twisted into a wry sort of shape. “I don’t know what you’d call it, but I know I’m not entirely straight.” He paused, smirked slightly, arched an eyebrow. “I like dick way too much to be straight.”
Sam was staring at him, disbelieving. He felt like he was seeing a brand new Dean. Dean liked girls; Dean talked about girls all the time. Dean had had posters on his wall, Christy Turlington and Eva Herzagovena. Dean had liked that wonderbra ad so much they’d taken a different route to school for a month so he could drool over the billboard poster. Dean worked in a garage and liked drinking beer and playing poker and watching sports. Dean had been Dad’s perfect son. Dean couldn’t like guys.
He’d thought that Dean would never understand, that Dean would look down on him if he knew. Oh he was pretty sure that Dean would never say anything out loud. He wasn’t an asshole, he wasn’t that kind of guy, but he’d look at Sam differently. He knew that Dean loved him, just like he loved Dean. They were family after all, but they weren’t friends. They barely knew each other. They were strangers who happened to share some of the same DNA and the same last name. But maybe he’d underestimated his brother, maybe he’d gotten all that wrong. Obviously, they did have one thing common.
“Are you gay then?” Dean asked. His tone was warm, no hint of recrimination, but genuine interest.
“Yes,” Sam said.
Dean nodded thoughtfully. He took a sip on his drink, swallowed, then looked him fully in the face. “And you know that’s okay? It doesn’t matter to me. We’re family, Sam. That’s never gonna change.”
Sam nodded. He could feel tears gathering at the back of his eyes. He felt terrified of blinking, knowing that they could spill free and roll down his cheeks. He bowed his head, stared down at the intricate weave of the rug. His glass felt sticky and warm in his hand, his fingertips like they were glued to it. He thought suddenly of why he was here, that they were here to bury his father. He hadn’t cried once, not since Dean had given him the news. Dean must’ve cried. Dean had loved Dad more than anything.
“Sam,” Dean said, and he was shuffling forward on the rug. “Sammy.”
Sam lifted his head, his eyes were blurry with tears and Dean’s face was hovering really close to his own, the white rectangles of the TV screen reflected in Dean’s eyes. He cupped Dean’s cheek, his thumb against Dean’s soft sticky lips, and then he was leaning in close, thinking that Dean was beautiful, that Dean’s face was beautiful, that Dean was the best looking person he’d ever known, and he was leaning in and his lips were on Dean’s.
Dean didn’t pull away. He sucked in a breath and held it, held the pose like he was being photographed. He felt different to all the other guys Sam had touched. He felt better.
“Sam?” Dean said, the sibilant sound vibrated against Sam’s lips.
Sam flinched, jerked his head back. “I. I - I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”
Dean blinked at him, he looked bewildered. Shell-shocked, Sam thought. Dean raised his fingers to his lips, touched them, still staring at Sam.
“I’m gonna take a leak,” Sam stuttered and he stumbled to his feet and fled.
He went straight to the guest room. He collapsed on the bed, not even bothering to remove the suitcase from where Dean had dumped it earlier on top of the bed. He buried under the covers still fully clothed, turned his face into the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut. Every muscle was tense, fingers white-knuckled in the pillow-case. He waited for Dean to come up and confront him, demand to know what the hell he’d been thinking, what the hell was wrong with him.
Dean never came, and eventually, painfully, he fell asleep.
The next day, they pretended nothing had happened. He helped Dean clean the house, helped him bake quiches and cakes and vol-au-vants for the wake.
In the afternoon, they buried John Winchester.
The day after that, Dean drove Sam to the airport and he caught a plane back to California.
On to Chapter One