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Dean's pretty banged up, but he's ok. The thing in the old laborotory – some kind of siren-spirit, a wisp or some shit – was a master of illusions, got you all turned around in no time, seeing shit that wasn't there and missing things that were. Try to find your way out with one of those around, you'll stumble further and further into the maze they've created, all the time thinking you're heading out, until they lead you into a swamp or off a cliff or some shit.
But Dean knew all that going in, he'd read the folklore, knew that although he couldn't trust his eyes or ears, he could trust the ground under his feet, could trust his memory. So he counted his steps, memorised the path to the exit knowing his life depended on it, and when his world started turning to shifting chaos in front of his eyes, he walked steadfastly back towards the doors, even when his eyes told him he was walking further into the labryinth, even when he could see walls or stairs or pure darkness in front of him.
When the thing realised that Dean was slowly but surely heading for the rotted old doors, it got angry. When the whole corridor started to spin wildly, so Dean would find himself on the wall, then the ceiling, then staring down a shaft with no end and things from his worst nightmares reaching up for him, he closed his eyes altogether, concentrated on breathing. In. Out. One step. Another.
He didn't stop when he heard the monsters howling and skittering closer, didn't turn when he heard his father ordering him desperately to stop, it's a trap, didn't flinch when he heard Sammy's scream behind him, his choking pleas for help. Just walked on, knowing that the worse the hallucinations, the more closely the thing was following him.
He stumbled a few times, fell. Walked into things he didn't remember being there, split his lip on a doorframe. But he made it out, pushed through the old, crumbling doors into the fresh air, opened his eyes and did what he had to do.
Yeah, those things are dangerous alright. But they sure as hell don't like fire.
So Dean's pretty banged up, bruised and bloody, but nothing serious. He pulls out his phone, mashes speedial. There's only one number he ever calls.
'Dean.'
'Dad. It's done.'
There's a pause. Dean hopes it's because John's smiling.
'Well done, son. Twenty minutes.'
John Winchester cuts the call.
Dean lost track of time in there; it's still dark but the moon's set, which must mean he was in there a couple of hours, a least. This far from anywhere, the emergency services shouldn't be here for at least thirty minutes, but still. Time to get going. He knows the escape route, stays away from the highway until he's well away from the burning building, drags his aching body towards the truckstop where John's picking him up.
He's thrumming with adrenaline, shaky with leftover terror and the heady exhilaration that comes with a sucessful hunt. He's trying not to be too childishly proud that this one, he did on his own. He's exhausted.
The Impala growls sinuously into the parking lot twenty minutes later, flashes of neon lights on gloss and chrome. Dean remembers, in snatches, the door swinging open, his father's quick smile from the front as he crawls into the back seat, Sammy's wide, worried eyes shining in the dim light, the comforting smell of leather and home. Then, nothing.
* * * * *
Dean wakes to the familiar, rythmic, ratcheting noise that means his father's working on a car. He opens his eyes and just lies perfectly still for a moment, on his back in the back seat, stares at the ceiling of the impala, gets his bearings. There's blue sky above him and birds somewhere in the distance, and from the angle of the sun and the fresh, dewy smell of the grass he figures it's morning. He can hear soft wind in trees, the shivering, whispery sound of long grass, wheat or barley, and the clank of metal as his father moves something. Dean grins, stretches out his aching back and legs. He knows exactly where they are.
The impala graveyard, as Sam calls it, is so far from anywhere that it's hours even to a highway. Dean's not sure who owns the land but he guesses John must have cut a deal with them a long time ago; anyway, it's so well hidden that they've never been bothered here, not once. It's where John keeps all the wrecks he's accumulated over the years for parts – all kinds of vehicles, operational and otherwise. Underground, completely invisible to anyone who might chance by, is the fuel stash, the ammunition dump, and a few other things that John's never talked about. There's also a bunker, reinforced in every way John knows about, with survival supplies for a year. Dean's never asked exactly what kind of scenario John was imagining they'd need that for. Figures he'll know, if it happens.
Dean pops the car door, rolls out, stretches as tall as he can and lets out a satisfied sigh. John's in jeans and a t-shirt, crouching by one impala-shell while he works on the wheelbrace. Sweat's beginning to form a dark V where the shirt's sticking to his broad back.
'Morning, Dad' says Dean. John just grunts, but it's a satisfied grunt, and Dean smiles.
Sam's reclining on the hood of another derelict impala, back against the windscreen, head back, basking in the morning sun. He's wearing his denim miniskirt, long, smoothly muscled brown legs stretched out in front of him, big, bare feet dangling over the front bumper. His only other piece of clothing, a denim vest, is hanging open, baring his flat stomach and hard, boyish chest.
'Hey Sammy, didn't you get the memo about double-denim? 90's are over, man. Not even Hetfield's doing that shit any more.'
Sam opens his eyes, his face lighting up into a smile, and extends a long middle finger in Dean's direction.
'Screw you' he says lazily. “You love it.'
Dean lets his eyes wander up and down his brother's sprawled body, grinning impishly.
'I sure do, Sammy.'
That's another thing Dean likes about this place. Sam doesn't dress like this if there's a chance anyone else will see him. This is just for family.
Dean wanders over to the car and hitches one leg up onto the dull and rusting hood. 'Shift over.'
'Fuck you, get your own.'
'Fuck you, there's plenty of room, let me up.' Dean shoves at Sam until he rolls over, and Dean slides in next to him. The metal's warm from the morning sun, the glass hot against his elbows.
'Mmmm, s'all warm,' he murmurs blissfully.
'Jerk.'
'Bitch.'
They lie there contentedly, watching their father work.
'Dad,' says Sam suddenly, pushing soft hair out of his eyes, 'If you took all the parts from this one, and all the parts from that one, could you make one that works?'
'No' says John shortly.
Dean flicks Sam a warning glance, and then says cheerfully 'How'd the hunt go last night, Dad?'
'Good' says John, straightening up and wiping his hands on a rag. 'Your boy here didn't do too bad.'
Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam – that's a ringing endorsement, from John – and Sam smiles at the ground, bashful and a little flushed.
Today is a good day.
****
Afternoon. Dean's back in the back seat of the impala, breathing in the familiar roar of the engine and the summer heat, the smells; dust and hot tar from the road, cooler, pine-scented air from the hazy mountains, leather in the sun. His legs are sprawled across the bench seat and he's resting his head up against the open windowframe, savoring the breeze across his face. He can hear Sammy's voice, talking softly in the front seat, reciting folklore, checking off characteristics, hear John's sharp hums of approval, his fingers drumming the steering wheel.
Dean opens his eyes and watches his brother talk, the hesitant movements of his hands, the dust motes settling on his golden shoulder, the way the slanting afternoon sun picks out the fine, pale hairs on his upper thighs, the shift in his calf muscles when he rolls his ankle. Eighteen years old, thinks Dean. Eighteen years old and smarter 'n' I'll ever be. Smarter, better, and so goddamn beautiful.
He knows John will take Sammy tonight. Send Dean out for beer, or food, probably, lay Sam out on the bed, strip him of his clothes and fuck him, face down on the motel room bed, one hand tangled in in his son's hair, teeth biting into his shoulder, fucking him into the bed deep and hard and dirty. Dean's watched, through a window or a keyhole, not many times but enough to know how it goes.
It's not the same as when he fucks Dean. John likes Dean on his knees, in front of him, or on his hands and knees on the floor, or up against the wall, hips slamming into the paintwork with every thrust. Dean's never figured out why it's different. It's not something you ask about.
Dean doesn't mind it, not really. Yeah, he knows, he knows it's not normal, he knows it's probably wrong. But it's not so bad. It doesn't hurt any more, and sometimes he even enjoys it, and ain't that a headfuck, but you can't think too much about that kind of shit, and John's actually pretty good at what he does. It's not a punishment, he's not out to hurt them....it's just....
Dean doesn't really know what it is, but, well, hell, he loves his dad, and if that's what he needs from him, Dean can give it to him. So he does what he's told, does the best he can, tries to make it good for him, and doesn't think about it too much.
Sammy, though....Dean shifts uneasily in his seat. He's not sure Sammy's ok with it, not really. He seems pretty happy, most of the time, and he never protests, never complains, just lies there and takes it silently, face blank. John seems to like that, though, even more than Dean's fumbling attempts at participation. Dean knows there's nothing he can do, but sometimes, when he can't stop himself from thinking about it any more, he wishes. He looks up into the blackness and wishes they could go back.
Back to when Sammy was just a kid, and Dean could still protect him.
He tried to protect his brother. He really did. When he saw the look in John's eyes – that slow, appraising, appreciative look, sweeping up Sammy's body, taking in the newly formed muscle, his unexpected height, the latent power in his awkward limbs – he felt cold horror well up in his belly, panic flaring in his chest, his mind screaming no, no, he's only thirteen, please, Dad, not yet but he knew it was no use. He knew that look, knew what it meant, and Sam had surprised them both with his sudden growth spurt, the abrupt drop in his voice, the way the childish contours of his body suddenly became hard and defined, in the space of a few months.
Dean tried everything he could think of. He made Sam wear the biggest, baggiest clothes he could find. He never let him out of his sight, except at school. He got in fights, he injured himself, he scoured the papers and the internet for hunts, anything to distract his father from Sam's existance.
It didn't work.
John paid Sam more attention than ever, made more and more reasons to send Dean away, found ways to separate them at night. Dean started making Sammy lock himself in the bathroom at night, and took his campaign to distract his father to a whole new level. He put himself in front of John at every opportunity, presented himself on a plate whenever he saw that hungry look in his father's eyes. Did things he never thought he could do.
It didn't work.
And then came the night. A week before Sammy's fourteenth birthday.
'Dean! Godamnitt boy, you do as I tell you and go put some gas in the car!' John's shouting from the kitchen, no compromise in his voice. Dean's had Sam faking various illnesses, colds, stomach aches, diarrhea, for the last month or so, but it can't hold up much longer.
'Ok Dad, just let me finish showing Sam this card game!' Dean calls back, voice as casual as he can make it. Then he turns to Sammy, who's watching him with wide eyes, and whispers, low and urgent.
'Sammy, I need you to listen to me, ok? No, shut up and listen. When I go out there, there's gonna be some shouting, ok? Now you don't listen to anything you hear out there, alright? Just don't listen to anything.The minute I go out of this room, you climb out that window, ok? No, it's ok, you'll be ok, just do what I say, alright? Just climb out that window and then run round the front to the car, alright? Do you understand?'
'DEAN!' roars John from the kitchen.
'Dean,' says Sam.
'You understand what you have to do, Sammy?'
'Dean, I'm not doing it.'
'Sammy,' Dean knuckles his forehead, eyes screwed shut with frustration. 'I can't explain to you why you have to do this. Just trust me, ok? It's important.'
'Dean!' Sam hisses it at him, and Dean stops, taken aback by the determined set to Sam's mouth, the resolution in his eyes.
'Dean' continues Sam, 'I know. I know, ok? And I can't hide in here forever.'
Dean feels something inside him crumple, something he didn't even know was still there. How long has his little brother known? How long has he understood what their father does to him at night? How long has he been dreading his turn?
'Sammy, no,' he whispers.
'It's alright, Dean. If you can handle it, so can I.'
Dean feels like screaming no, no that's not the point, I'm supposed to handle this so you don't have to, and in that moment he feels, for the first time, that he really could kill his father, just watch him bleed out and die, just to stop this from happening.
'Sammy' he's whispering, fast and broken, 'no, you don't have to do this. We can leave, Sammy, we can go somewhere on our own, just us, I'll come with you, I'll look after you, we can just...'
There's a flash of what could be hope in Sam's eyes for a second, and then it's gone, and he's shaking his head slowly.
'No' he says flatly. 'He'd find us, you know he would. He...he loves us, Dean, he wouldn't just let us fend for ourselves out there. And, uh...we're all he's got. He's already lost Mom. He couldn't handle losing us as well.'
There are tears trying to prick the back of Dean's eyes now, but Sam's face is smooth, grey, resigned.
'Sammy, please,' whispers Dean brokenly, but Sam just gets up, and walks to the door.
'It'll be ok, Dean,' he says, trying for a smile. “Honestly. I'll be fine. Now go, or I'll tell Dad you're smoking in here.'
Dean walks out of the door, out of the motel room, doesn't look back. He drives the impala to the gas station, listening to the Black album as loud as it'll go. He doesn't think about what's happening, what's happening right now, tries to ignore the icy weight of failure in his lungs. Doesn't think about his mom, and what she'd think of them now.
When he's got the gas, he goes to a bar, drinks scotch until the pain in his chest dulls, just a little. He gets in a fight with the bartender, who tries to throw him out when he notices he's underage, and lets the guy punch him for a while before laying him out.
He doesn't feel a thing.
When he gets back, it's all dark. John's snoring softly, curled up on the sofa in the living room. Dean lets himself in, slips into the room he and Sam share, climbs stiffly into bed. Lies there in the dark, listening to Sam's breathing.
'Sam' he whispers. 'I know you're awake.'
'Yup.' Sam's whisper's so quiet he can barely hear it over the soft swish of traffic outside.
'You ok?' Stupid question, Dean, of course he's not fucking ok.
'Yeah, I'm fine' says Sam. There's no hitch in his voice, no telltale sniff or shaky sob. He's not crying. 'It was fine.'
'I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so fucking sorry.'
'Dean, I told you. If you can handle it, so can I. I'm pretty sure..' his voice begins to crack a little, just a tiny shake, but Dean can hear it, 'I'm pretty sure the two of us can handle anything, Dean.'
Dean's given up the battle against tears now, warm, silent floods rolling down his temples and soaking the pillow under his head.
'Sammy' he bites out, his voice only wavering slightly, 'Yeah, we can, Sammy, anything. You and me. I won't let anything hurt you, Sammy. As long as we stick together. As long as we stick together, always, you and me. We can take anything. I'm. I'm never gonna leave you. Not ever, ok?'
There's silence. Dean closes his eyes and tries to control his breathing. Then he feels Sam reach out, the light brush of his fingers, reaching for his hand in the dark. Dean slips his hand, too callused and scarred for a boy of seventeen, into Sam's, which is already as long and broad as his, but softer, long tapered fingers wrapping delicately round Dean's blunt ones.
'Never' says Sam. 'I love you, Dean.'
'I love you, Sammy.'
That was the last time. They haven't talked about it since then, not ever. It's just a part of life. And life hasn't been so bad.
Dean sighs, opens his eyes, pushes the memories to the back of his mind. Too late now. Sam's fallen silent in the front seat, head slightly bent, hair falling in his eyes as he does something on his phone. Dean watches the shift of long muscles in his brother's arm, a sudden wave of emotion welling up in his chest, a mixture of love and pride and guilt and lust and mine.
Because there are some things that John doesn't know.
Dean knows that John's going to fuck Sammy tonight, but John doesn't know what Dean knows.
John doesn't know that Dean can make Sam hard just with a look, a twist and flex of his broad shoulders, a slow lick of his lips. He doesn't know that Sammy loves it when Dean bites his way down his neck and chest to his hard, pink little nipples, and licks and sucks them until he's shaking, moaning oh god, Dean, and shit, please, fingers digging into the hard muscle of Dean's back and head thrown back. He doesn't know that Dean loves to lay his brother out on his back and taste him from head to toe, loves to lick his way up his beautiful, delicious cock and lap at the head until Sammy's gasping and begging him, hips jerking upwards in involuntary, stuttering movements, and then swallow him down as deep as he can and let him fuck his mouth until he comes, hot and salty down Dean's throat.
John doesn't know that Dean loves to fuck Sammy with his tongue, with his fingers, that he knows just how to curl them to make Sam scream and grit his teeth and growl out fuck you, oh fuck, Dean, fuck, fuck, doesn't know that Sammy likes to wrap his legs round Dean's waist as Dean slides inside him, watch him with lidded eyes and a hungry smile on his face as Dean moans and shudders with the tight, hot, goodness of it. John doesn't know how Dean fucks Sam, torturously slow, at first, grinning down as he watches his brother slowly lose it, slowly come apart, doesn't pick up the pace until Sam's whimpering and pleading with him, begging fuck me, please, Dean, please just fuck me, oh, god, oh, FUCK I love you, Dean, I love you.
John doesn't know that Sam isn't his. Sam belongs to Dean, and always will.
Dean watches Sam breathing, lets himself feast his eyes for a couple more minutes, thinking this is it. This is home, this is happiness, right here and now.
But sometimes, not often, but sometimes, Dean lets himself think that one day, maybe, it'll just be him and Sam. Sometimes he lets himself imagine what that would be like, just him and Sammy and the impala, driving, hunting, just the two of them. And when he does, he thinks it might just be kind of perfect.
Sam looks up, clears his throat, looks at John and then away again.
'So, uhm' Sam says 'I want to go to college.'
He doesn't look back at Dean.
Dean stays perfectly still, perfectly motionless, as he feels everything, the dust, the road, the summer heat, all of it, silently begin to crack, dissolve, to fall apart. Watches it all splinter, and fall away into darkness.
Fin