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When Sam is born, John props Dean’s elbow up on a pillow, carefully places the tiny wrinkled bundle into Dean’s arms, and tells Dean, “This is Sam. He’s your brother. You gotta watch out for him.” Dean looks at his brother’s big clear eyes looking back at him and feels Sam’s tiny hand wrap around his finger and falls head over heels in love.
When Sam is four years old, he decides he wants to be a princess when he grows up and that Dean will be his prince and no matter how many times Dean tells him that’s stupid because “Boys can’t be princesses, Sammy,” Sam pouts until Dean gives in and pretends that Sam’s filthy, falling-apart sneaker is a beautiful glass slipper and carefully slides it onto Sam’s dirty foot while Sam beams at him.
When Sam is six and half years old, Dean steals a candy bar from Martin’s Gas and Grocery. It’s a Hershey’s chocolate bar, and Sam stuffs half of it in his mouth at once, then breaks off a corner and offers it to Dean with a, “You wan’ thome, Bean?” because he can’t say his “s’s” or his “d’s” and Dean takes it from him with a lump in his throat and warmth in his chest and the heavy knowledge that he would steal anything from anyone just to get that smile on Sammy’s face.
Five days later, Sam wakes up on Christmas morning to find a tree set up in the corner of their motel room, a small pile of presents stacked underneath, and Dean grinning like a maniac. Sam runs over to the tree to find a present with “Sammy” written across it in Dean’s handwriting. He tears it open to find a small set of green plastic soldiers and looks up at Dean with awe. “Ith thith for me, Bean?” Dean nods with a big smile and says, “Merry Christmas, Sam-ugh!” as Sam tackles him for a hug.
When Sam is ten years and nine months old, he walks in on Dean kissing their next-door neighbor, Leah, and Sam learns what it means to feel pure, unadulterated hatred for another human being. He refuses to talk to Dean for three days before Dean finally breaks Sam’s stony silence by loudly proclaiming that he and Leah broke up because she doesn’t appreciate Star Wars the way any normal human being would and he really needs Sam to watch “The Empire Strikes Back” with him so Dean can remember what normal feels like. Sam reluctantly agrees, and before the end of the movie, he and Dean are lying on the couch, so intertwined that it feels like they share the same body.
When Sam turns fourteen years, one month and three weeks old, he wakes up in Bobby’s upstairs spare bedroom with sticky underwear and a vivid recollection of dream Dean slowly sliding his full mouth down Sam’s dick. Real Dean is lying on his side in the bed next to Sam’s and is staring at Sam with heat in his eyes. “You were talking,” Dean says. Sam can feel his face turn bright red, but he doesn’t look away from Dean. “You said my name,” Dean says, insistently this time. “Yeah,” says Sam, and then slowly slides his hand under the covers into his underwear, gets his fingers good and covered, and sucks each finger off while looking directly at Dean.
Dean gets off the bed carefully, watching Sam like a hawk. He walks slow, measured steps to Sam’s bed and then sinks down onto his knees next to Sam. He gently pulls Sam’s fingers out of Sam’s mouth and brings Sam’s hand up to his own. And Sam watches as his older brother methodically cleans every bit of come off Sam’s fingers.
When Sam is sixteen years, eight months, two weeks, and five days old, he gets a brusque call from John telling him to head north to Bagley and meet up with him and Dean. When he gets off the bus, Dean is leaning casually against the shiny black Impala, looking like every wet dream Sam’s ever had, and Sam realizes he is wildly, desperately in love with his older brother.
Not an hour later, he’s in the back seat of the Impala and the leather seats are sticking to his ass and he’s so goddamn sweaty and his legs are propped up on the headrests of the seats and Dean is in between his legs, fucking Sam so sweetly that Sam can barely stop himself from crying.
When Dean comes, he whispers, “Sammy,” into Sam’s wet hair, and Sam comes so hard that some of it gets into his eye and he has to awkwardly squint as Dean laughs at him and does absolutely nothing to help.
When Sam finally gets cleaned up, he and Dean go sit (Sam somewhat gingerly) on the hood of the car. Dean points out a falling star to Sam and says, “Make a wish, Sammy.” Sam closes his eyes and thinks very hard about how he wants to remember this moment forever. When he opens his eyes, Dean is watching him fondly. “Did you make it a good one?” Dean asks him. Sam smiles back at Dean, letting every single feeling shine through in his face. “Yeah. I think I did.”
When Sam is seventeen years, four months, three weeks, two days, and four hours old, his father walks in on him and Dean. Sam is mostly naked, Dean only half so, but Dean is balls deep inside Sam. They don’t notice John standing there in shock until he starts screaming bloody murder and punches Dean in the back of the head.
Dean goes sprawling on the floor, desperately trying to pull his pants up with one hand, scrabbling backwards out of the reach of John. John’s face is twisted into a mask of pure hatred as he stalks towards Dean, “You fucking piece of shit,” hands reaching down, closing around Dean’s throat.
Sam screams and jumps on John’s back. John shakes him off, but it’s enough of a distraction that Dean manages to get away and roll to his feet. John turns towards Sam, and backhands him so hard that Sam’s vision blacks out.
“Don't touch him,” Dean’s voice is shaking but his hands are steady on the gun he’s pointing at John. John sneers. “You wouldn’t fucking dare.” He starts towards Dean again.
Dean fires.
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Dean starts up the engine. Sam dives in the passenger door, slams it shut. Dean’s hair is plastered to his head, rain still running down his face. He looks broken and beautiful and perfect and Sam will die if he can’t touch him.
Dean throws the Impala into reverse, spins into the street.
“We gotta go, Sammy. Somewhere he can’t stop us,” Dean is babbling. Sam tucks himself into Dean’s side as close as he can, clutches the old brown coat, drifts his fingers into Dean’s lap.
He feels wild and reckless and crazy in love, like there’s nothing that can stop them now. He looks up at Dean’s face, Dean’s wonderful, beautiful, perfect face, the same face that comforted him as a child and kissed him as a teenager. Dean glances down at Sam and he has the same hysterical smile on his face as Sam can feel on his own.
“We’re gonna go Bonnie and Clyde on this motherfucker!” Dean hollers. Sam smiles up at him. There’s a flash of headlights across Dean’s face, and Sam can see the faint freckles on his cheeks, that deep moss green of his eyes, the bump in his nose. Sam loves him so fucking much that he aches with it.
Sam leans up for a kiss, and Dean meets him halfway when Sam is blinded by light. Dean jerks away from Sam, sharply wrenches the wheel, and Sam hears the sickening crunch of metal and an agonized scream.
When Sam is seventeen years, four months, three weeks, two days, and five hours old, he comes to in a crushed Impala. His fingers are wet. So is his face. He touches it gingerly, feels sharp pain echo through his body. Dean. He tries to turn and look at Dean but is forced still by the fierce agony that courses through him. He reaches out instead. “Dean,” he manages. He hears a wet cough next to him, where Dean is still pressed along Sam’s body. “Sorry, Sammy,” Dean rasps. Sam touches Dean, and Dean is wet too. “Dean,” Sam says again.
Another cough, this one sounding more like a gurgle. “Sam,” Dean manages. Sam can feel a sob building in his chest. “Dean, don’t. Don’t, Dean. Dean, we’re gonna get help. Dean, please.”
“Sammy,” Dean says again, fainter this time. Sam can feel Dean’s chest go up with a horrible rattle.
Then, there’s nothing but silence.
When Sam is seventeen years, four months, three weeks, and five days old, he watches his brother’s body go up in flames. He’s bone-tired and he hurts and all he wants to do is hurl his body on to Dean’s and let the fire burn him away too. John is standing a healthy distance from Sam, his face drawn and a clean white bandage wrapped around his upper arm. He has spoken to Sam twice since the accident, once to tell him that he was burning Dean’s body today, and about ten minutes ago when he told Sam to stand back as he was lighting the pyre.
The sad remains of the Winchester family stand there as Dean’s body turns into ash. Three hours in, John goes without another word to Sam. Sam is left there, watching the only person he ever truly loved disintegrate into a smoldering heap.
When Sam is eighteen years, two months, and one week old, he tries to kill himself for the second time in as many months. He closes his eyes and walks onto Interstate 90 right outside of Sioux Falls, and it’s only the quick reflexes of the driver of the pickup truck that prevents him from being splattered into a million different pieces. The man blares his horn as he whips around Sam, and Sam once again is left alone and awfully alive.
When Sam is twenty years and eleven months old, he finally calls his father. John answers the phone with a curt hello, and goes silent for a good thirty seconds after Sam says, “Hi, Dad.” John eventually says, “What do you want,” and Sam has to explain that he’s in jail after getting into a fight with a mean cowboy down in Vidor, Texas, that Bobby isn’t answering Sam’s calls anymore, and could John please post bail for him.
John hangs up the phone without saying anything else, but an hour later, Sam is released from the Orange County Jail with a paper that says he has a court date in a week and a terse instruction not to have any contact with a Mr. Floyd Donovan until his court case is over.
When Sam is twenty-two years old, he gets into a fight at a dive bar in Missouri Valley, Iowa. He’s had about five too many whiskeys and he’s winning too much at pool and he mouths off to the wrong guy at the wrong time. The guy is enormous, and after the third time Sam’s snarked off to him, he starts swinging for the fences. Sam’s last thought before the giant fist hits his head is that Bobby is probably right about Sam looking for a fight.
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When Sam wakes up, he’s blind. Or least there’s a white, brilliant light shining directly into his eyes. For a split second, he’s back in a black Impala, seeing headlights barreling towards him, hearing Dean’s panicked shout, before his eyes adjust and he realizes he’s in a hospital room.
Makes sense, considering the massive beat-down he was receiving at the hands of the Mountain look alike when he lost consciousness. He sits up gingerly and assesses the situation. The hospital room is divided, a sheet separating Sam from the other side of the room. Considering how quickly he lost the fight, he doesn’t really have that many bruises and bumps. No broken bones, from what he can tell. He is shockingly not in a hospital gown, but rather still wearing the clothes that he was wearing that night at the bar, so he must not have been in the room for very long.
Sam climbs out of bed as quietly as he can and tiptoes toward the door. He nearly ruins his escape attempt when he is startled by talking behind the curtain on the other side of the room. A deep voice is introducing someone to their new brother. Sam dives for the door handle and falls out into the hallway. He is definitely not up to dealing with a family celebrating the birth of a child.
Once he’s out in the hall, he quickly walks toward a red Exit sign, avoiding eye contact with the orderly he passes. He slips out the door as quietly as he can.
The wind hits Sam in the face as he walks through the parking lot, scanning for a car, any car that he can jack quickly. He picks out a bland gray sedan that looks like it’s seen better days, and is carefully jimmying the lock when he hears the rumble of an approaching vehicle. He steps back and does his best to look nonchalant. He casually glances at the car driving past him and promptly does a double-take.
There, zipping past him in the hospital parking lot of Nowhere, Midwest, is an older, black Impala, the spitting image of the car that Sam grew up in, fell in love in, felt himself die in. Sam straightens up and stares after the car as it speeds off. Maybe this is some sort of sign. Some symbol from Dean from the afterlife.
Or maybe it’s fucking nothing and he’s just seeing things because he has a concussion. He shakes himself. “For fuck’s sake, Sam, pull yourself together,” he mutters, and gets back to the work of procuring himself a car.
When he gets on the road, he doesn’t immediately have a destination in mind. His head still hurts, and he probably needs to ditch the car at some point. He’s close enough to Bobby’s to make a pit stop, although Sam’s not altogether sure he’s welcome there anymore. More importantly, though, Bobby will have a car that Sam can grab even if Bobby runs him off with a shotgun. Decision made, he points the car towards South Dakota, thinking the entire way about the thrill he felt hearing the rumble of an Impala.
Bobby’s house is quiet and dark when Sam pulls up his driveway a couple hours later. Being that it’s still broad daylight, Bobby is either out or sitting in the darkness just waiting for Sam to attempt to enter before he ambushes him with a shot of rock salt. Sam knocks three times just to make sure nobody’s answering, then tries the door. The door slowly swings open. Sam steps inside cautiously-the house is quiet and dark and it feels…almost abandoned. Like nobody else has been there for days.
“Bobby?” Sam tries. There’s no answer, just the soft sound of Sam’s breathing. Sam walks carefully through the house, checking the kitchen, the basement, the office, even poking his head into the room where he and Dean used to stay, stifling every moan they would wring out of each other. In every room, he checks for signs of a scuffle or a fight or any other tragic event.
But other than a messy bed in his and Dean’s old room, there’s nothing. Just Bobby’s house, dark, empty, abandoned.
There has to be a reasonable explanation. Maybe Bobby just forgot to lock up –that paranoid, overprepared old freak? his brain sneers- maybe he just ran out for groceries or ammo or something else. Maybe he’s outside, lost in the junkyard, working on some new weapon or a beater of a car-
Sam walks outside onto the porch. “Bobby!” he shouts out into the junkyard. The echo floats back to him.
There’s nobody here. Nobody but Sam.
All alone.
He can feel his breathing start to pick up. He crouches over, puts his head between his knees. Sam’s been alone before. He’s been alone for five years. He can figure this out.
When Sam feels himself start to calm down, he pulls out his phone. One by one, he tries every number he has for Bobby. Some of them go to voicemail, some of them are disconnected, a couple Sam can hear ringing inside the empty house. Bobby doesn’t answer a single one.
Okay, time for Plan B. Sam groans to himself. He doesn’t want to make this phone call, but there’s only one other person he knows that might have even a minor clue about where Bobby is. It’s time to call John Winchester.
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Sam paces back and forth on Bobby’s front porch, John’s main number pulled up on his phone. The last time he talked to John was a stilted plea from a jail cell in Texas. The time before that was at Dean’s funeral pyre, amidst the smoke and that awful smell that was Dean’s broken body slowly burning up. He forcefully brushes the tears away. He can’t. He can’t get sidetracked by the grief. Not today.
Before he loses his nerve, Sam hits send.
“Sammy?” John answers. Sam loses his ability to speak for a minute.
“Sammy, is that you?” John asks.
“Yeah, Dad, it’s me.”
There’s silence for a moment, then John clears his throat, “How’s it going, son?”
Sam can feel the tears pressing at the back of his throat. He tries to swallow it down the best he can. “Not good. Bobby’s missing. I’m at his place and it’s not locked up and nobody’s here. Do you know where he is?”
“Bobby is going to be working a case up in Oregon for a bit, so you need to come meet up with us,” John says. “I could use your research skills.”
“What?” Sam says, caught off guard. “You want my help?”
“Of course,” John says. “We’re up in Bagley. There’s a bus that comes through every couple of days. Take the next one up, and I’ll see you then.”
“I don’t think that’s such a great idea-“ Sam cuts off. John has hung up. He stares at his cell phone in bemusement. What the actual fuck just happened?
Sam rubs his forehead. Maybe he’s experiencing auditory hallucinations from the hit to his head. Because there is no way that John Winchester, his incredibly estranged father, just casually ordered Sam to help him on a case.
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Sam drives through the town slowly. It’s been five days since the bizarre phone call with John, and Sam’s initial plans to ignore it and John’s orders left him with a gnawing sense of unease. After several false starts, Sam had decided to head up to Minnesota, if only to throw holy water on John and call it a day.
It looks like every small-town, America, that Sam lived in as a kid. Bouncing from town to town, school to school, broken-down hotel to abandoned house, had left Sam with a bland impression of a typical small town vibe. Combo grocery/gas station on the corner, a diner that served greasy food and had questionable hygiene, too many churches, and that staple of every small town: a dollar store.
Sam pulls into the gas station to fill up. The bus station is right next door, and there’s a bus that clearly just arrived idling next to it. Around the corner is a small parking lot, and as Sam watches, a long black Impala glides into it.
Sam’s heart skips a beat. Even now, after all this time, he still has a moment of pure joy, like Dean is going to unfold his long, lanky body out of the driver’s seat and say, “Heya, Sammy.” He scoffs at himself and turns away.
He finishes filling up with gas and walks into the station to pay and buy a Hershey’s chocolate bar. Martin’s Gas and Grocery is quiet, and the bored clerk doesn’t even look at Sam as he pays.
Sam walks out and sees the Impala again, still idling in the parking lot, clearly waiting for someone or something. The figure inside could be mistaken for Dean if Sam didn’t know any better.
As Sam watches, the man in the car shakes his head, and slowly backs the car out. As he slows down for the four-way stop next to the station, he glances Sam’s way. Sam watches in complete disbelief as Dean’s shocked face stares back at him before Dean punches the gas and speeds away.
Sam nearly trips on himself in his effort to get into his car. He forces the key into the ignition and starts the engine, stepping on the gas as soon as he can get the car into gear. The tires scream as Sam swerves out of the gas station, desperate to catch up with the black car that is rapidly disappearing into the distance.
Sam desperately tries to run through possibilities; maybe a shapeshifter? Can a shapeshifter take the appearance of a dead person? Sam can’t remember. His hands are clenched around the steering wheel, his foot pressed completely to the floor. He has to catch up with the Impala. He has to. Dean was in it. Or at least something that looked like Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean. His face completely clear of blood and full of life and shock. There was shock. He-or it- wasn’t expecting to see Sam either, but he recognized Sam. But he didn’t stop. Why wouldn’t he stop?
The Impala is getting further and further into the distance. Sam isn’t going to be able to catch up with it. Sam swears and punches the dash. He’s not ever going to let Dean disappear again. If Dean exists, Sam is going to be right next to him.
After four hours of driving without seeing the Impala, Sam finally pulls off at a run-down motel. He gets a room and hunkers down to figure out how to find Dean. First things first, he needs to figure out if anybody knows Dean is alive. This time, he presses send without hesitation.
“Sammy?” John answers.
“Yeah, Dad, it’s me.”
“Sammy, is that you?” John asks. Sam pauses for a second.
“Yeah. Can you hear me?”
There’s silence for a moment, then John clears his throat, “How’s it going, son?”
“Dad, I saw Dean.” Sam says. “I think he’s alive. Or something is wearing his skin, but, Dad. I saw Dean.”
“Bobby is going to be working a case up in Oregon for a bit, so you need to come meet up with us,” John says. “I could use your research skills.”
“What?” Sam says. “Did you hear me? Dad, I saw Dean!”
“Of course,” John says. “We’re up in Bagley. There’s a bus that comes through every couple of days. Take the next one up, and I’ll see you then.” Then there’s a distinct click, and Sam is left with a dial tone buzzing in his ears.
He pulls his phone back and stares at it. That…didn’t make any sense. He hits send again.
“Sammy?” John answers.
Sam doesn’t say anything.
“Sammy, is that you?” John asks.
Sam keeps quiet. John goes on, “How’s it going, son?”
Sam waits. Sure enough, “Bobby is going to be working a case up in Oregon for a bit, so you need to come meet up with us,” John says. “I could use your research skills.”
Sam hangs up. That isn’t John.
He throws his phone on the opposite bed and sits down. So. He has a not dead Dean who runs away from him and a John who isn’t John and a Bobby that’s apparently still missing and no idea where to find any of them. He opens up his laptop. Time to get to work.
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Sam wakes up gradually. His face is stuck to a piece of paper and there’s hair in his face. He spits it out, rolls over, and then sits straight up. There, in the corner of his motel room-which was completely empty last night when Sam finally fell asleep- is a small Christmas tree surrounded by presents.
He stares at the tree. The tiny lights are reflecting off the ornaments, and the star on top of the tree is slightly tilted. It doesn’t seem to be an illusion, which means either Sam is extraordinarily unobservant and missed it entirely in his panic last night or someone broke in and left a Christmas tree.
The door is still locked when Sam checks it. Same with the window. Sam turns and stares at the tree. He walks over and picks up one of the presents. It’s addressed to “Sammy” in a childish scrawl… Just like the ones Dean used to leave for him when they were younger. Sam rips open the wrapping paper. Sure enough, it’s a set of tiny green toy soldiers-exactly like the one that Dean bought/stole for Sam sixteen years earlier.
Sam’s still turning over the set in his hands, trying to figure out exactly what is going on, when there’s a knock at the door. Sam makes a pitstop at the table to pick up his gun, then slowly cracks open the door.
Dean stands there, hands stuffed in that too-big leather jacket. The Impala is parked several spaces down.
Sam swings the door open all the way and grabs Dean by the jacket. He pulls Dean into his chest, wraps his arms around him and hangs on for dear life. There’s no way he’s letting Dean go again.
“Sammy?” Dean asks. His voice is muffled by Sam’s neck.
“Yeah?” Sam sniffles. He’s trying to swallow around the lump in his throat, but just feeling solid Dean in his arms again is more than he can take.
Dean tries to pull back and Sam reluctantly lets him. Dean reaches up and turns Sam’s face from side to side.
“You got bigger,” Dean says shakily.
Sam laughs through his tears. “You look exactly the same.”
Dean just watches him, that same soft, broken-open expression on his face that he used to have whenever he would look at Sam. “Guess you grew up without me.”
“Guess I did,” Sam says, and pulls Dean in. He kisses Dean, feeling that swoop in his stomach, those butterflies he hasn’t felt in years.
Dean still kisses the same way, whole-heartedly and so awfully tender that Sam feels like Dean thinks he’s made of glass every time. Sam pushes it, pushes Dean, shoves him up against the wall of the motel room. He slides his hands under the coat, under the two shirts Dean has on, up against Dean’s skin. He pushes the shirts up. Dean helps him, slides off his top layers and then pulls on Sam’s shirt.
“C’mon, off,” Dean says. Then, immediately, “Damn, Sammy. You definitely grew up.”
Sam can feel himself blushing, but takes the opportunity to unzip Dean’s pants. Dean steps out of them, and finally, finally Sam is looking at his beautiful, naked, should-be-dead brother. He steers Dean over to the bed, and follows him down, running his hands up and down Dean’s sides.
There’s no way this should actually be happening. Sam saw Dean die. He saw Dean die, he felt Dean’s last breath, he had Dean’s blood all over his hands.
And yet. Here Dean is, living, breathing, arching into Sam’s hands and mouth as he does his absolute best to drive Dean wild.
Sam takes his time opening Dean up. Slowly, methodically, until Dean is writhing on the bed and begging “Sam, just do it. Sam, just put it in. Sammy, please,” and Sam can’t deny him anymore. He slides into Dean, and Dean’s breath hitches. His cock jumps, and Sam gives a little extra thrust, trying to get as far into Dean as he possibly can. Dean says, “Oh,” and his eyes go wide and then-he comes. Sam’s barely gotten inside of him, and Dean’s already coming. Sam can feel his self-control slipping away. He pulls back and thrusts back in, and Dean says, “Oh,” again, soft and embarrassed and turning bright red as his cock keeps jumping with every thrust Sam makes. Sam buries his face into Dean’s shoulder, nuzzling his neck as he loses control. He can feel Dean’s ass clutching him, working him, seducing him into coming.
Dean throws his arms around Sam, and whispers, “Missed you, Sammy,” into Sam’s ear, and Sam loses it. He might come for seconds or years; Sam has no way of knowing. When he returns to himself, he’s slumped over Dean, and Dean is slowly stroking his back and humming Bob Dylan off-key.
Sam lifts himself off Dean and falls to the side. Dean turns to look at him. They smile at each other for a minute, then Sam says, “You’re not a shapeshifter, are you?” Dean laughs. “No. I don’t think so. You?”
“No,” Sam says. “But I honestly have no idea what’s going on. I saw you die, Dean. I held you in my arms. What happened?”
Dean shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. I woke up in this same motel room what feels like years ago. I’ve been looking for you ever since.”
“You ran away from me,” Sam says. He tries to keep the hurt out of his voice.
“Sorry,” Dean says. He reaches out and touches Sam’s face again. “You don’t look exactly like the Sam I remember, and I just thought I had to have been hallucinating. I’ve been looking for so long, and then you finally show up but you don’t look exactly like the Sam I remember, and I guess I just panicked.” He buries his fingers in Sam’s hair. “Still got the same stupid haircut though.”
Sam slides his leg in between Dean’s. “You know I’m not letting you go again. You’re stuck with me. Forever.”
Dean grins at Sam, joy beaming out of his face, “I’d like to see someone try to stop us.”
Sam grins back. Dean’s here, and they’re going to figure this out together.
Just the way it should be.
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When Sam is twenty-two years old, he dies. He gets into it with a Mountain look-alike, and when Bobby hears about it, he shakes his head, and says, “That boy always was itching for a fight.” He cracks his head open on the edge of the bar counter when the other guy gets a particularly good hit in, and he never regains consciousness. He dies on a bar floor in southern Iowa.
John buries his ashes next to Dean’s. It’s what he would have wanted, he thinks. Maybe they’re together. Maybe they’re sharing heaven, all wrapped around each other, forever unable to exist without the other.
Maybe they’re happy now.