(no subject)
Parallax
by whereupon
Sam/Dean. Season one, R, 4,420 words.
He could make this a dream, maybe.
Sam isn't actually asleep in the shotgun seat; he just knows that most of the time Dean's less likely to listen to music quite so loudly if he thinks Sam's sleeping, and sometimes Sam takes advantage of that. It's not like he has a lot of other options, really, since Dean's usual response to will you turn that down, please is to turn up the volume and feign deafness for the next hour.
Though considering how loud the music usually is, he might not actually be feigning. Sam wonders, sometimes, but since Dean never fails to hear him mutter jerk or control freak or asshole, and usually retaliates in a way that is completely and utterly out of proportion and often involves attempting to inflict physical pain (and failing, but whatever, the fact that he even tried is what counts, and it's funny how Dean forgets all about being all nice and brotherly and concerned about Sam's welfare during those moments), he's not overly concerned.
Since he's not asleep, he's very much aware that the car's slowing down, that it's easing over to the side of the road, and normally it wouldn't be any big thing; Dean's gotta piss or stretch his legs or just do something that isn't drive for a few minutes (because he'd rather stop and lose time than let Sam drive, most of the time; he is such a control freak. And he's almost-wrecked the car more times than Sam has, anyway, at least as far as Sam lets him think), and that's all. But this time, Dean doesn't get out of the car, and it's not that Sam's actually worried or anything, it's just that sometimes Dean does really stupid things, and the idea that he might be staring at Sam and plotting is deeply unsettling. So Sam yawns, and stretches, and opens his eyes.
The sun's just as high as it was when he closed his eyes an hour ago; it cuts sharply through the windshield, singes across the dash. The rest of the world hasn't changed, either; it's still that dusty road, that scrubbed brown wasteland, small resilient trees clawing across the flat burnt cut of land, and the angle of the sun tinging blood orange the mountains at horizonfall. It's either hell or Arizona, Sam decides, and it's probably Arizona.
"I can tell when you're faking, you know," Dean says. It's hot enough that he's shed his flannel; his amulet glints against the faded black of his shirt and his face gleens damply. He's got the window open, his elbow resting on the window ledge, and he's got that smirk stolen from that other Dean, that other boy with a crooked smile and a taste for fast cars.
Dean tries so hard to be cool sometimes, to live up to that bad-boy hero ideal, and it works, most of the time, just as long as no one looks too closely. Sam, on the other hand, knows all of Dean's weaknesses, all of his flaws, and has nevertheless thought of him as a hero all along, though he's been too old to admit it for the past, like, twelve years, at least.
"It's not my fault I have to fake," Sam says, because it's the first thing that comes to mind, and maybe he was a little asleep, because he probably should have thought that one through better. But Dean grins, unexpected and open, and Sam thinks that whatever Dean might say next, that was totally worth the potential humiliation.
"It's not my fault you're never satisfied," Dean says, and though his eyes are light, Sam won't say, sure, keep telling yourself that, if only because he knows Dean would take it to heart. He always does, always hears the things Sam never means for him to, the things Sam never means to matter, the things Sam wishes he could take back the instant after he says them, and, Sam thinks, those are the things he remembers.
Dean really does do the stupidest things sometimes.
But it's far too hot for Sam to say as much, now; without the roar of wind that comes from driving, the air is stifling, oppressive. It's not at all a good time for a discussion, nor is Sam in the mood for one, so instead he changes the subject. "Why'd you pull over?" he asks, even though he thinks he might already know, even though he doesn't think Dean will admit it if he's right. This last hunt was rough, though not more than a lot of them are. But it was a woman, century-old frontier ghost, murdered doxy with a babe in her arms and the man who'd pulled the trigger had been mayor of the town, at the time and for years after. Justice would have been a bullet in his head, but it was long too late for that, and that wasn't their job, anyway; instead what passed for justice was burning brittle bones beneath that cruel desert sun and the way the smoke curled lucifugous across Dean's eyes.
"Needed to stretch my legs," Dean says. "Why, there somewhere you gotta be?"
"Well, there's the hunt we're headed to, for one thing," Sam says, prickly because he'd been right: Dean wouldn't admit it.
"Didn't know you'd get so worked up about a freakin' kelpie," Dean says. "But it makes sense, you always did want a pony. Don't most girls grow out of that stage?"
"Funny," Sam says. "Seriously, you calling me a girl is the most original thing I've heard all day. Thank you."
"You're just pissed 'cause it's true," Dean says, and Sam immediately wants to hit him. Dean does that to him sometimes; he'll say something or do something or just look at Sam and out of nowhere Sam will want to punch him, because sometimes Dean is the most annoying person in the entire world. And sometimes it's not even deliberate, which is even worse, because surely Sam can't hate him for being too dumb to realize he's being an absolute fucking asshole.
Of course, even then Dean's the most important person in the world, and sometimes he's also the best person Sam knows, pulling children from fires, putting himself between Sam and whatever they happen to hunting (which, okay, Sam also hates him for doing), flashlit when he pulls the trigger, coming back to the room with two cups of coffee and having gotten Sam's exactly right, even though Sam didn't ask and honestly couldn't have blamed him if he'd forgotten the specifics.
Most of the time Dean's somewhere on the spectrum between, though, which is good because Sam's not sure whether it would be better if he always wanted to murder Dean or if he always wanted to give Dean whatever he wants, which most of the time is Sam's undivided attention; both options seem untenable.
So, yeah, most of the time, Dean's just, you know, Dean. Which Sam can deal with. Except for when he can't, like right now, because Dean is smirking at his own stupid joke, and Sam swears to himself that the next time Dean even looks like he might be thinking about insinuating that Sam possesses double exes, he's going to get out of the goddamn car and just leave him there.
Which, granted, might be problematic if the car happens to be moving at that point, but he'll deal with that when he comes to it.
"So stretch your legs already," Sam says, a little meanly but mostly just frustrated. If Dean's not going to tell him why he actually stopped, why for one moment he couldn't stand be driving, couldn't trust himself to not kill both of them as he was distracted momentarily by the weight of what they left behind, by what it might mean about darkness and futility and fights that cannot be won, then he can at least have the good grace to keep up the guise.
"I'm working on it," Dean says, and he turns to look out the open window. He pops the door handle a moment later, swings up and out of the car, and Sam instantly thinks that with Dean's luck, with their luck, he'll step on a rattlesnake and that would serve him right, except for how it would be Sam who had to drag him back to the car and drive them to something approximating civilization and put up with his bitching the whole way back, all while praying himself that Dean would be fine, Dean wouldn't die of some weird never-before-seen complication, Dean wouldn't die in the shotgun seat beneath that unbearable sky with venom twisted 'round his heart.
That seems a very likely possibility, suddenly, knowing his brother as Sam does, and in the end there's no real option other than to get out of the car and go after him. Dean still does stupid things when Sam's around, possibly even more then than at any other time, but at least Sam will be able to warn him ahead of time, and/or to be able to explain to the doctors how exactly it happened.
Dean's a few feet away, thumbs hitched in his belt loops and his gaze directed at the horizon like he's looking for smoke or the glint of enemy artillery, but he looks up when Sam slams the car door shut. He doesn't say anything, only glances at Sam and then looks away, and Sam is more disappointed by that than he ought to be. He's out here for Dean, after all; Dean could at least act like that matters, like Sam matters, like the fact that Sam's pissed at him but still cares enough to make sure he doesn't die a horrible viperine death is significant or is at least worth more than a cursory glance.
Sam takes a step towards him and then thinks better of it; he's not going to be the one to give in this time, not when Dean started it, not when it's all Dean's fault, when Dean refuses to yield, to give him anything at all. Instead he leans against the hood; the metal's warm through his jeans, sunburnt and engine-hot, but not yet uncomfortably so. He crosses his arms over his chest and wishes he had his sunglasses. He could go get them, of course, but it's not like he's going to be out here very long; it wouldn't be worth the effort.
"What're you waiting for," he says finally, curiosity beneath a veneer of boredom, when Dean doesn't move, doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything more to acknowledge his presence. They could very well die of heatstroke out here, or dehydration. Dean should know better than to wear black in this weather.
"Uh, nothing," Dean says, leveling Sam with that gunslinger stance and strafing stare, that look like Sam's just said the stupidest thing imaginable. At once Sam is fourteen and out of place in his new honors class because the last school's curriculum didn't include The Tempest; eighteen in frayed jeans, with his sleeves rolled up as though that will hide the fact they're too short, introducing himself to a class of the moneyed elite; twenty-two and shaking because he couldn't make himself pull the trigger and that almost got Dean killed. "Stretching my legs, like I said. You got some kinda amnesia I should worry about?"
"It doesn't matter how hard you try, you're still not gonna be taller than me," Sam says.
Dean's mouth quirks. "I don't wanna burst your bubble, but not everybody's dream's to be an enormous freak of nature."
"So it's just you, then."
"That's funny," Dean says. "And original."
"I get it from you," Sam says. He shifts his weight against the car and then gives up, pushes himself to his feet. His boots leave scuff marks in the dust and he wonders how it got there; the air's still enough that wind seems impossible, though maybe it gusts alive at night, slicing down from the mountains. All sorts of things prowl the desert after dark, some more dangerous than others. "We got any water left?"
"Yeah, check the backseat," Dean says, and sure enough, there's a lone bottle of water beneath his discarded hoodie and Dean's flannel and the crumpled map he was using to navigate until Dean told him it was unnecessary, there's only one road, flat highway line, and nowhere to turn off for miles, not even you could get us lost here, dude. The water's warm, of course, but better than nothing. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and recaps the bottle; he tilts it in Dean's direction and throws it neatly when Dean nods. Dean drinks slowly, sauntering in his direction, and leans in beside him to toss the bottle back into the car. Before he straightens, Sam sees that the back of his neck is smudged red with heat. And then Dean turns, his eyes sharp in keen glare like he knows Sam was staring, was feeling at once vaguely self-congratulatory for knowing Dean would get hurt (sunburn totally counts) and guilty because it might kind of be his fault that Dean got out of the car in the first place.
For a moment, Dean's trapped between Sam and the opened car door, and Sam seizes the opportunity, stretches an arm out, fingers brushing the metal of the doorframe, temporarily confining Dean to a triangle of desert road, bound by the Impala and Sam. Which in some ways, Sam thinks, is only a literal manifestation of the concepts that bind Dean's life and in doing so, define him, but it's far too hot for metaphor and psychoanalysis.
"Why'd you pull over?" he asks again, reckless and daring at this proximity and with the knowledge that his brother has nowhere to go, will not be able to evade the question without damaging his pride, and maybe Dean's the fish and this is the barrel, but more likely, Sam just knows not to turn down an opportunity when it practically throws itself at him. From this close, he can see Dean's shoulders tense minutely at the question, even as Dean raises his eyebrows, ever the defiant cavalier.
"Seriously, Sam, I'm starting to wonder about that amnesia thing. That, or you're really trying to piss me off."
"It's not exactly hard to do," Sam says.
"Only for you," Dean says. "That's 'cause you got practice."
"Look, it's okay," Sam says. "What happened with Mabel Flannery, we did our best. There's nothing else anybody coulda done."
"Uh, what?" Dean says.
"If you're, you know, thinking about what happened," Sam says. "I'd understand. I mean, I do understand. If you wanna talk about it."
"Good to know," Dean says. "I'll keep that in mind in case I ever go batshit insane and mistake you for Oprah. Now will you get the hell outta my way before I hurt you?"
"Like you could," Sam says, which serves only to make Dean try, and since Sam, being so well acquainted with all the various forms of insanity that are his brother, wasn't expecting anything less, it's not hard to pin him back against the opened door, to catch hold of Dean's wrists and still him until he subsides. If this were anything real, or at least anything serious, they'd both be on their knees with blood in their mouths, but because it isn't, Dean merely glares at him. It occurs to Sam that he's basically wrestling with his brother on the side of the road in the middle of this desert swelter, and they're both far too mature, or at least old, to be doing this. And see, that's what Dean does to him; it's like logic and reason and rationale completely cease to exist, or at least to matter, in Dean's orbit and wake.
"Okay, I know you got inappropriate boundary issues, but it's way too hot to do this right now," Dean says, calmly, like he's the voice of reason here. There's a first time for everything, of course, but it'll take much more than this for Dean to be reasonable. Sam knows he only said it because he lost, and because he knew Sam was thinking it and wanted to say it first.
"You tried to hit me first," Sam reminds him.
"You asked for it," Dean says. "You dared me."
Sam shrugs. He has a point, but, "Still counts."
"Whatever," Dean says. He swallows, and he doesn't quite meet Sam's eyes. "Let me go and we'll call it a draw."
"Or you could just admit that I won," Sam says.
"Never gonna happen."
"I can stand here all day," Sam says.
Dean shrugs; the motion drags through Sam's fingers and he feels it like an aftershock, the keel of the world resettling. "You're gonna get bored eventually," Dean says.
"Of watching you suffer?" Sam says. "Unlikely."
"You're a cruel bastard, you know," Dean says approvingly, and Sam grins.
"Learned from the best."
"Damn straight." And Dean's grinning at him and Sam's grinning back, or maybe vice versa, and he lets go of Dean's wrists and leans in, because he's going to shove Dean back one last time before running for the shotgun seat (because the car's base, the car's sanctuary, unless they start something in the car, in which case it's the rest of the world that doesn't count), because Dean might be older but Sam's bigger and that's gotta count for something, and that's when Dean kisses him.
Sam's not entirely sure what's happening; he thinks that Dean might have tripped, though on what, Sam has no idea. Maybe over his own feet. And then maybe he fell, and landed just right, or just wrong, that could happen, and then, like the sudden crush of dawn, like eureka, lightning, star-formed strontium and nuclear flashdown, Sam knows exactly what is happening, and he cannot think. His brain shuts down, cratered, genius termination, skittering dendrite signals crashing out into dark, and he steps back, but Dean's already pulling away, shirt twisted, eyes huge, skin pale beneath the borrowed flush of sun, cornered against the sweeping black of the car. Sam stares at him and feels obscurely guilty for doing -- something. For making him look so scared, at least.
"Uh," Sam says, which is actually pretty eloquent considering the circumstances.
"Fuck," Dean says, and Sam wonders distantly if he's going to hyperventilate. If he stopped breathing and passed out, Sam would have to give him CPR, and right now that seems funny in a way that he thinks might kill him. "Jesus fuck, I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Sam says automatically, though he's not sure that it is. He's not even sure what it is. He's still stuck on the fact that Dean just kissed him, holy God, what the hell. Maybe Dean has heatstroke. That wouldn't come close to explaining it, but it would be kind of reassuring anyway.
"Get in the goddamn car, okay," Dean says, not looking at him, not looking at him so deliberately that it's as if looking at Sam, catching any glimpse of Sam, would be unbearable, the worst thing in the world. He pushes past Sam, heading for the driver's side, and a moment later, Sam moves.
Sam expects Dean to drive quickly, dangerously, frantic or vaguely suicidal or desperate at least, but instead he's almost calm, like he's trying to stay hidden, unnoticed. Like he doesn't want to give Sam any reason to talk to him, doesn't want to draw any attention to himself. Dean's gaze is on the road, his fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel, and the sunlight now seems a searing admonition, the bright white light of alien abductions and hospital hallways, of horrible truths and scorched coffee and waiting to find out if the world will end next door on the operating table.
This time in the shotgun seat, Sam is deadly awake, his hands rigid at his sides. He thinks about closing his eyes; he could make this a dream, maybe. Pretend it didn't happen. Never talk about it again. Let his brother remember it, let Dean keep it to himself, card it away with all of those other memories he does not share with Sam, the ones that keep him awake at night and leave him slumping over his coffee the next morning, the ones that shadow bruises like blossoms beneath his eyes.
That would be easy, Sam lies to himself. It might be the easiest thing he's ever done. Of course, it would also be like committing seppuku in slow motion every day for the rest of his life, but all he'd have to do right now is close his eyes.
He swallows, and he remembers Pennsylvania, the monster in the woods ("It's not a minotaur," he'd said stubbornly; "It's got the head of a freakin' bull, Sam, what the hell else are we gonna call it," Dean had replied.) and the harvest festival the next day; he remembers Dean half-drunk on local-brewed cider, his arm thrown across Sam's shoulders, and he remembers his own wide smile, no guilt at all that day, only elation at their success, at the day, at his brother beside him in the booth, saying, Sam, Sammy, you are such a geek, c'mon and later falling asleep with his face against Sam's arm and one leg tangled behind Sam's own.
He wonders what else he missed. Dallas, Lawrence, Port Huron; lines back and forth across the country, on forgotten double-laned backroads and snarling highways seething with metal, in motel rooms and morgues, cemeteries and diners, and Dean beside him always, Dean jostling him and waking him from nightmares, his grin like a scythe and his eyes a stay of execution; how long has he been in love with Sam, and how has Sam not noticed?
"It's okay," Sam says, the first thing either of them have said in at least fifteen minutes.
"Don't," Dean says without looking at him. "Just, just don't, okay?"
Sam licks his lips. "Dean. It's okay."
"It never happened," Dean says. "It was heatstroke."
"You or me?" Sam says, curious, though he's pretty sure it's not really relevant to the issue at hand.
"Me. You. Both of us," Dean says. "What the hell, Sam, what the fuck does it matter, okay." He looks terrified, and Sam, cast as unexpected Minos, makes his decision.
And maybe it's cheating, because it's not so much a decision as what he's always done. He trusts Dean.
"It's okay," Sam says again, because it is, because it has to be, and then he has to reach over and rest his hand on Dean's thigh to make him believe it, because his brother never listens to the right words, only to the ones Sam doesn't mean, and that's when they almost spin out on the side of the road, but that doesn't seem to matter right now, gravel spraying and brakes squealing until Dean cuts the engine. Sam takes a deep breath, and he has the semi-crazed revelation that maybe it's like learning to breathe underwater; either you figure it out in time or it doesn't matter so much anymore, and when Dean kisses him, he opens his mouth into it. His hand spans across the back of his brother's neck and Dean's palms traverse the line of his jaw, Dean's got one knee on the seat, between Sam's legs, and Sam isn't afraid anymore, because he thinks this is at once the happiest and the most vulnerable he's ever seen his brother, and he is too busy being awestruck at the idea that it is because of him.
Dean pauses, and pulls back, and swallows. "You're not," he says, and his voice is rough; he has to start again. "You're not just, just doing this because--"
"If you finish that sentence, I'll kill you," Sam says, because Dean never takes for granted the things that he should, and Dean's laugh is stuttering, and Sam cannot think that this is a bad idea when Dean looks at him like that. So he gets a hand in Dean's shirt and pulls him close, reels him in and kisses him, and when Dean's knee brushes the front of his jeans, he thinks he might die, and how strange would that be, when only this morning he'd never have thought he'd die like this, that he'd be vulnerable to anything like it. But Dean's always been his weak spot, his vulnerability, defying rationalization, so maybe it's not a surprise after all, and when Dean works his hand down into Sam's boxers, Sam has to bite his tongue, and when Dean lowers his head, Sam thinks his heart might actually stop beating.
And Dean grins up at him, luciferous slice of his eyes, and Sam is undone by his brother as he always has been, and when he can once more hear beyond his own breath, his own heartbeat, he blinks.
"Holy shit," he says, and Dean wipes the back of his hand across his face, smirks.
"Thanks," he says. "Now shut the hell up, okay, and hey, maybe now you'll be able to actually sleep the rest of the way and I won't hafta worry about offending your delicate sense of hearing."
Slumped against the shotgun window, Sam can only stare at him. "You know how many miles are between here and there, right? How long it's gonna take? No way I'm gonna put up with your music that long."
"It won't take 'that long,'" Dean says, and Sam can hear the air quotes. "Speed limits are for other people, Sammy. I don't wanna keep you from your My Little Pony fantasy," and Sam shrugs, zips up his jeans. He wonders how long it will take for this weird feeling of calm to fade. He wonders what will happen when it does.
"Your loss," he says, and he turns from Dean's widened eyes, from what might be Dean's delayed outrage, shock and horror at the missed opportunity; there are miles of empty highway left, and when Dean wakes him later by throwing a ketchup packet at his forehead and then kissing him beneath the streetlight under which they are parked, his breath against Sam's mouth like hosanna, Sam does not know how long it will take to travel them, but he knows that they'll make it eventually, and he knows how they'll mark the path, how they'll light the way.
--
end
by whereupon
Sam/Dean. Season one, R, 4,420 words.
He could make this a dream, maybe.
Sam isn't actually asleep in the shotgun seat; he just knows that most of the time Dean's less likely to listen to music quite so loudly if he thinks Sam's sleeping, and sometimes Sam takes advantage of that. It's not like he has a lot of other options, really, since Dean's usual response to will you turn that down, please is to turn up the volume and feign deafness for the next hour.
Though considering how loud the music usually is, he might not actually be feigning. Sam wonders, sometimes, but since Dean never fails to hear him mutter jerk or control freak or asshole, and usually retaliates in a way that is completely and utterly out of proportion and often involves attempting to inflict physical pain (and failing, but whatever, the fact that he even tried is what counts, and it's funny how Dean forgets all about being all nice and brotherly and concerned about Sam's welfare during those moments), he's not overly concerned.
Since he's not asleep, he's very much aware that the car's slowing down, that it's easing over to the side of the road, and normally it wouldn't be any big thing; Dean's gotta piss or stretch his legs or just do something that isn't drive for a few minutes (because he'd rather stop and lose time than let Sam drive, most of the time; he is such a control freak. And he's almost-wrecked the car more times than Sam has, anyway, at least as far as Sam lets him think), and that's all. But this time, Dean doesn't get out of the car, and it's not that Sam's actually worried or anything, it's just that sometimes Dean does really stupid things, and the idea that he might be staring at Sam and plotting is deeply unsettling. So Sam yawns, and stretches, and opens his eyes.
The sun's just as high as it was when he closed his eyes an hour ago; it cuts sharply through the windshield, singes across the dash. The rest of the world hasn't changed, either; it's still that dusty road, that scrubbed brown wasteland, small resilient trees clawing across the flat burnt cut of land, and the angle of the sun tinging blood orange the mountains at horizonfall. It's either hell or Arizona, Sam decides, and it's probably Arizona.
"I can tell when you're faking, you know," Dean says. It's hot enough that he's shed his flannel; his amulet glints against the faded black of his shirt and his face gleens damply. He's got the window open, his elbow resting on the window ledge, and he's got that smirk stolen from that other Dean, that other boy with a crooked smile and a taste for fast cars.
Dean tries so hard to be cool sometimes, to live up to that bad-boy hero ideal, and it works, most of the time, just as long as no one looks too closely. Sam, on the other hand, knows all of Dean's weaknesses, all of his flaws, and has nevertheless thought of him as a hero all along, though he's been too old to admit it for the past, like, twelve years, at least.
"It's not my fault I have to fake," Sam says, because it's the first thing that comes to mind, and maybe he was a little asleep, because he probably should have thought that one through better. But Dean grins, unexpected and open, and Sam thinks that whatever Dean might say next, that was totally worth the potential humiliation.
"It's not my fault you're never satisfied," Dean says, and though his eyes are light, Sam won't say, sure, keep telling yourself that, if only because he knows Dean would take it to heart. He always does, always hears the things Sam never means for him to, the things Sam never means to matter, the things Sam wishes he could take back the instant after he says them, and, Sam thinks, those are the things he remembers.
Dean really does do the stupidest things sometimes.
But it's far too hot for Sam to say as much, now; without the roar of wind that comes from driving, the air is stifling, oppressive. It's not at all a good time for a discussion, nor is Sam in the mood for one, so instead he changes the subject. "Why'd you pull over?" he asks, even though he thinks he might already know, even though he doesn't think Dean will admit it if he's right. This last hunt was rough, though not more than a lot of them are. But it was a woman, century-old frontier ghost, murdered doxy with a babe in her arms and the man who'd pulled the trigger had been mayor of the town, at the time and for years after. Justice would have been a bullet in his head, but it was long too late for that, and that wasn't their job, anyway; instead what passed for justice was burning brittle bones beneath that cruel desert sun and the way the smoke curled lucifugous across Dean's eyes.
"Needed to stretch my legs," Dean says. "Why, there somewhere you gotta be?"
"Well, there's the hunt we're headed to, for one thing," Sam says, prickly because he'd been right: Dean wouldn't admit it.
"Didn't know you'd get so worked up about a freakin' kelpie," Dean says. "But it makes sense, you always did want a pony. Don't most girls grow out of that stage?"
"Funny," Sam says. "Seriously, you calling me a girl is the most original thing I've heard all day. Thank you."
"You're just pissed 'cause it's true," Dean says, and Sam immediately wants to hit him. Dean does that to him sometimes; he'll say something or do something or just look at Sam and out of nowhere Sam will want to punch him, because sometimes Dean is the most annoying person in the entire world. And sometimes it's not even deliberate, which is even worse, because surely Sam can't hate him for being too dumb to realize he's being an absolute fucking asshole.
Of course, even then Dean's the most important person in the world, and sometimes he's also the best person Sam knows, pulling children from fires, putting himself between Sam and whatever they happen to hunting (which, okay, Sam also hates him for doing), flashlit when he pulls the trigger, coming back to the room with two cups of coffee and having gotten Sam's exactly right, even though Sam didn't ask and honestly couldn't have blamed him if he'd forgotten the specifics.
Most of the time Dean's somewhere on the spectrum between, though, which is good because Sam's not sure whether it would be better if he always wanted to murder Dean or if he always wanted to give Dean whatever he wants, which most of the time is Sam's undivided attention; both options seem untenable.
So, yeah, most of the time, Dean's just, you know, Dean. Which Sam can deal with. Except for when he can't, like right now, because Dean is smirking at his own stupid joke, and Sam swears to himself that the next time Dean even looks like he might be thinking about insinuating that Sam possesses double exes, he's going to get out of the goddamn car and just leave him there.
Which, granted, might be problematic if the car happens to be moving at that point, but he'll deal with that when he comes to it.
"So stretch your legs already," Sam says, a little meanly but mostly just frustrated. If Dean's not going to tell him why he actually stopped, why for one moment he couldn't stand be driving, couldn't trust himself to not kill both of them as he was distracted momentarily by the weight of what they left behind, by what it might mean about darkness and futility and fights that cannot be won, then he can at least have the good grace to keep up the guise.
"I'm working on it," Dean says, and he turns to look out the open window. He pops the door handle a moment later, swings up and out of the car, and Sam instantly thinks that with Dean's luck, with their luck, he'll step on a rattlesnake and that would serve him right, except for how it would be Sam who had to drag him back to the car and drive them to something approximating civilization and put up with his bitching the whole way back, all while praying himself that Dean would be fine, Dean wouldn't die of some weird never-before-seen complication, Dean wouldn't die in the shotgun seat beneath that unbearable sky with venom twisted 'round his heart.
That seems a very likely possibility, suddenly, knowing his brother as Sam does, and in the end there's no real option other than to get out of the car and go after him. Dean still does stupid things when Sam's around, possibly even more then than at any other time, but at least Sam will be able to warn him ahead of time, and/or to be able to explain to the doctors how exactly it happened.
Dean's a few feet away, thumbs hitched in his belt loops and his gaze directed at the horizon like he's looking for smoke or the glint of enemy artillery, but he looks up when Sam slams the car door shut. He doesn't say anything, only glances at Sam and then looks away, and Sam is more disappointed by that than he ought to be. He's out here for Dean, after all; Dean could at least act like that matters, like Sam matters, like the fact that Sam's pissed at him but still cares enough to make sure he doesn't die a horrible viperine death is significant or is at least worth more than a cursory glance.
Sam takes a step towards him and then thinks better of it; he's not going to be the one to give in this time, not when Dean started it, not when it's all Dean's fault, when Dean refuses to yield, to give him anything at all. Instead he leans against the hood; the metal's warm through his jeans, sunburnt and engine-hot, but not yet uncomfortably so. He crosses his arms over his chest and wishes he had his sunglasses. He could go get them, of course, but it's not like he's going to be out here very long; it wouldn't be worth the effort.
"What're you waiting for," he says finally, curiosity beneath a veneer of boredom, when Dean doesn't move, doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything more to acknowledge his presence. They could very well die of heatstroke out here, or dehydration. Dean should know better than to wear black in this weather.
"Uh, nothing," Dean says, leveling Sam with that gunslinger stance and strafing stare, that look like Sam's just said the stupidest thing imaginable. At once Sam is fourteen and out of place in his new honors class because the last school's curriculum didn't include The Tempest; eighteen in frayed jeans, with his sleeves rolled up as though that will hide the fact they're too short, introducing himself to a class of the moneyed elite; twenty-two and shaking because he couldn't make himself pull the trigger and that almost got Dean killed. "Stretching my legs, like I said. You got some kinda amnesia I should worry about?"
"It doesn't matter how hard you try, you're still not gonna be taller than me," Sam says.
Dean's mouth quirks. "I don't wanna burst your bubble, but not everybody's dream's to be an enormous freak of nature."
"So it's just you, then."
"That's funny," Dean says. "And original."
"I get it from you," Sam says. He shifts his weight against the car and then gives up, pushes himself to his feet. His boots leave scuff marks in the dust and he wonders how it got there; the air's still enough that wind seems impossible, though maybe it gusts alive at night, slicing down from the mountains. All sorts of things prowl the desert after dark, some more dangerous than others. "We got any water left?"
"Yeah, check the backseat," Dean says, and sure enough, there's a lone bottle of water beneath his discarded hoodie and Dean's flannel and the crumpled map he was using to navigate until Dean told him it was unnecessary, there's only one road, flat highway line, and nowhere to turn off for miles, not even you could get us lost here, dude. The water's warm, of course, but better than nothing. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and recaps the bottle; he tilts it in Dean's direction and throws it neatly when Dean nods. Dean drinks slowly, sauntering in his direction, and leans in beside him to toss the bottle back into the car. Before he straightens, Sam sees that the back of his neck is smudged red with heat. And then Dean turns, his eyes sharp in keen glare like he knows Sam was staring, was feeling at once vaguely self-congratulatory for knowing Dean would get hurt (sunburn totally counts) and guilty because it might kind of be his fault that Dean got out of the car in the first place.
For a moment, Dean's trapped between Sam and the opened car door, and Sam seizes the opportunity, stretches an arm out, fingers brushing the metal of the doorframe, temporarily confining Dean to a triangle of desert road, bound by the Impala and Sam. Which in some ways, Sam thinks, is only a literal manifestation of the concepts that bind Dean's life and in doing so, define him, but it's far too hot for metaphor and psychoanalysis.
"Why'd you pull over?" he asks again, reckless and daring at this proximity and with the knowledge that his brother has nowhere to go, will not be able to evade the question without damaging his pride, and maybe Dean's the fish and this is the barrel, but more likely, Sam just knows not to turn down an opportunity when it practically throws itself at him. From this close, he can see Dean's shoulders tense minutely at the question, even as Dean raises his eyebrows, ever the defiant cavalier.
"Seriously, Sam, I'm starting to wonder about that amnesia thing. That, or you're really trying to piss me off."
"It's not exactly hard to do," Sam says.
"Only for you," Dean says. "That's 'cause you got practice."
"Look, it's okay," Sam says. "What happened with Mabel Flannery, we did our best. There's nothing else anybody coulda done."
"Uh, what?" Dean says.
"If you're, you know, thinking about what happened," Sam says. "I'd understand. I mean, I do understand. If you wanna talk about it."
"Good to know," Dean says. "I'll keep that in mind in case I ever go batshit insane and mistake you for Oprah. Now will you get the hell outta my way before I hurt you?"
"Like you could," Sam says, which serves only to make Dean try, and since Sam, being so well acquainted with all the various forms of insanity that are his brother, wasn't expecting anything less, it's not hard to pin him back against the opened door, to catch hold of Dean's wrists and still him until he subsides. If this were anything real, or at least anything serious, they'd both be on their knees with blood in their mouths, but because it isn't, Dean merely glares at him. It occurs to Sam that he's basically wrestling with his brother on the side of the road in the middle of this desert swelter, and they're both far too mature, or at least old, to be doing this. And see, that's what Dean does to him; it's like logic and reason and rationale completely cease to exist, or at least to matter, in Dean's orbit and wake.
"Okay, I know you got inappropriate boundary issues, but it's way too hot to do this right now," Dean says, calmly, like he's the voice of reason here. There's a first time for everything, of course, but it'll take much more than this for Dean to be reasonable. Sam knows he only said it because he lost, and because he knew Sam was thinking it and wanted to say it first.
"You tried to hit me first," Sam reminds him.
"You asked for it," Dean says. "You dared me."
Sam shrugs. He has a point, but, "Still counts."
"Whatever," Dean says. He swallows, and he doesn't quite meet Sam's eyes. "Let me go and we'll call it a draw."
"Or you could just admit that I won," Sam says.
"Never gonna happen."
"I can stand here all day," Sam says.
Dean shrugs; the motion drags through Sam's fingers and he feels it like an aftershock, the keel of the world resettling. "You're gonna get bored eventually," Dean says.
"Of watching you suffer?" Sam says. "Unlikely."
"You're a cruel bastard, you know," Dean says approvingly, and Sam grins.
"Learned from the best."
"Damn straight." And Dean's grinning at him and Sam's grinning back, or maybe vice versa, and he lets go of Dean's wrists and leans in, because he's going to shove Dean back one last time before running for the shotgun seat (because the car's base, the car's sanctuary, unless they start something in the car, in which case it's the rest of the world that doesn't count), because Dean might be older but Sam's bigger and that's gotta count for something, and that's when Dean kisses him.
Sam's not entirely sure what's happening; he thinks that Dean might have tripped, though on what, Sam has no idea. Maybe over his own feet. And then maybe he fell, and landed just right, or just wrong, that could happen, and then, like the sudden crush of dawn, like eureka, lightning, star-formed strontium and nuclear flashdown, Sam knows exactly what is happening, and he cannot think. His brain shuts down, cratered, genius termination, skittering dendrite signals crashing out into dark, and he steps back, but Dean's already pulling away, shirt twisted, eyes huge, skin pale beneath the borrowed flush of sun, cornered against the sweeping black of the car. Sam stares at him and feels obscurely guilty for doing -- something. For making him look so scared, at least.
"Uh," Sam says, which is actually pretty eloquent considering the circumstances.
"Fuck," Dean says, and Sam wonders distantly if he's going to hyperventilate. If he stopped breathing and passed out, Sam would have to give him CPR, and right now that seems funny in a way that he thinks might kill him. "Jesus fuck, I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Sam says automatically, though he's not sure that it is. He's not even sure what it is. He's still stuck on the fact that Dean just kissed him, holy God, what the hell. Maybe Dean has heatstroke. That wouldn't come close to explaining it, but it would be kind of reassuring anyway.
"Get in the goddamn car, okay," Dean says, not looking at him, not looking at him so deliberately that it's as if looking at Sam, catching any glimpse of Sam, would be unbearable, the worst thing in the world. He pushes past Sam, heading for the driver's side, and a moment later, Sam moves.
Sam expects Dean to drive quickly, dangerously, frantic or vaguely suicidal or desperate at least, but instead he's almost calm, like he's trying to stay hidden, unnoticed. Like he doesn't want to give Sam any reason to talk to him, doesn't want to draw any attention to himself. Dean's gaze is on the road, his fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel, and the sunlight now seems a searing admonition, the bright white light of alien abductions and hospital hallways, of horrible truths and scorched coffee and waiting to find out if the world will end next door on the operating table.
This time in the shotgun seat, Sam is deadly awake, his hands rigid at his sides. He thinks about closing his eyes; he could make this a dream, maybe. Pretend it didn't happen. Never talk about it again. Let his brother remember it, let Dean keep it to himself, card it away with all of those other memories he does not share with Sam, the ones that keep him awake at night and leave him slumping over his coffee the next morning, the ones that shadow bruises like blossoms beneath his eyes.
That would be easy, Sam lies to himself. It might be the easiest thing he's ever done. Of course, it would also be like committing seppuku in slow motion every day for the rest of his life, but all he'd have to do right now is close his eyes.
He swallows, and he remembers Pennsylvania, the monster in the woods ("It's not a minotaur," he'd said stubbornly; "It's got the head of a freakin' bull, Sam, what the hell else are we gonna call it," Dean had replied.) and the harvest festival the next day; he remembers Dean half-drunk on local-brewed cider, his arm thrown across Sam's shoulders, and he remembers his own wide smile, no guilt at all that day, only elation at their success, at the day, at his brother beside him in the booth, saying, Sam, Sammy, you are such a geek, c'mon and later falling asleep with his face against Sam's arm and one leg tangled behind Sam's own.
He wonders what else he missed. Dallas, Lawrence, Port Huron; lines back and forth across the country, on forgotten double-laned backroads and snarling highways seething with metal, in motel rooms and morgues, cemeteries and diners, and Dean beside him always, Dean jostling him and waking him from nightmares, his grin like a scythe and his eyes a stay of execution; how long has he been in love with Sam, and how has Sam not noticed?
"It's okay," Sam says, the first thing either of them have said in at least fifteen minutes.
"Don't," Dean says without looking at him. "Just, just don't, okay?"
Sam licks his lips. "Dean. It's okay."
"It never happened," Dean says. "It was heatstroke."
"You or me?" Sam says, curious, though he's pretty sure it's not really relevant to the issue at hand.
"Me. You. Both of us," Dean says. "What the hell, Sam, what the fuck does it matter, okay." He looks terrified, and Sam, cast as unexpected Minos, makes his decision.
And maybe it's cheating, because it's not so much a decision as what he's always done. He trusts Dean.
"It's okay," Sam says again, because it is, because it has to be, and then he has to reach over and rest his hand on Dean's thigh to make him believe it, because his brother never listens to the right words, only to the ones Sam doesn't mean, and that's when they almost spin out on the side of the road, but that doesn't seem to matter right now, gravel spraying and brakes squealing until Dean cuts the engine. Sam takes a deep breath, and he has the semi-crazed revelation that maybe it's like learning to breathe underwater; either you figure it out in time or it doesn't matter so much anymore, and when Dean kisses him, he opens his mouth into it. His hand spans across the back of his brother's neck and Dean's palms traverse the line of his jaw, Dean's got one knee on the seat, between Sam's legs, and Sam isn't afraid anymore, because he thinks this is at once the happiest and the most vulnerable he's ever seen his brother, and he is too busy being awestruck at the idea that it is because of him.
Dean pauses, and pulls back, and swallows. "You're not," he says, and his voice is rough; he has to start again. "You're not just, just doing this because--"
"If you finish that sentence, I'll kill you," Sam says, because Dean never takes for granted the things that he should, and Dean's laugh is stuttering, and Sam cannot think that this is a bad idea when Dean looks at him like that. So he gets a hand in Dean's shirt and pulls him close, reels him in and kisses him, and when Dean's knee brushes the front of his jeans, he thinks he might die, and how strange would that be, when only this morning he'd never have thought he'd die like this, that he'd be vulnerable to anything like it. But Dean's always been his weak spot, his vulnerability, defying rationalization, so maybe it's not a surprise after all, and when Dean works his hand down into Sam's boxers, Sam has to bite his tongue, and when Dean lowers his head, Sam thinks his heart might actually stop beating.
And Dean grins up at him, luciferous slice of his eyes, and Sam is undone by his brother as he always has been, and when he can once more hear beyond his own breath, his own heartbeat, he blinks.
"Holy shit," he says, and Dean wipes the back of his hand across his face, smirks.
"Thanks," he says. "Now shut the hell up, okay, and hey, maybe now you'll be able to actually sleep the rest of the way and I won't hafta worry about offending your delicate sense of hearing."
Slumped against the shotgun window, Sam can only stare at him. "You know how many miles are between here and there, right? How long it's gonna take? No way I'm gonna put up with your music that long."
"It won't take 'that long,'" Dean says, and Sam can hear the air quotes. "Speed limits are for other people, Sammy. I don't wanna keep you from your My Little Pony fantasy," and Sam shrugs, zips up his jeans. He wonders how long it will take for this weird feeling of calm to fade. He wonders what will happen when it does.
"Your loss," he says, and he turns from Dean's widened eyes, from what might be Dean's delayed outrage, shock and horror at the missed opportunity; there are miles of empty highway left, and when Dean wakes him later by throwing a ketchup packet at his forehead and then kissing him beneath the streetlight under which they are parked, his breath against Sam's mouth like hosanna, Sam does not know how long it will take to travel them, but he knows that they'll make it eventually, and he knows how they'll mark the path, how they'll light the way.
--
end