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“You…what?” Dean asks, the beer frozen half-way to his mouth.
Sam flushes ice-cold down to his toes, the exact feeling of hearing a gun cock behind you, the exact feeling of catching a glimpse of something dark and large lunging at you head-on.
He stops dead.
“Nothing.” He says, mouth numb, face numb, fingers numb. His own bottle tilts precariously, and Sam jerks, trying to keep it from spilling over his jeans. He lunges to his feet, trying to play it off, but the adrenaline pulsing through his bloodstream makes it impossible.
All of his nerves kick on at once, heart rate accelerating, palms breaking out in a cold sweat, breath coming in short, ragged inhales. It reminds Sam of being in the Cage, of being agonizingly aware of every single autonomic function, horrifically trapped in his body with nowhere to go.
The night around them is warm—uncomfortably warm, now—the buzz of cicadas in trees lining either side of this abandoned highway. It can barely be called a highway, more a two-lane state road that oozes between the hills and forests like vasculature—one long, thin vein.
They’ve pulled the Impala off to the side of the road, four hours from the last town with a motel but three from the next, cracking beers to celebrate the case they just finished now that they’re far enough away from any pursuant police forces.
There are gravel banks on either side of the road, where they’re parked now, leaning against the trunk of the Impala while the stars stare back. The only lights on their tableau are the Impala’s headlights, pointed away from them and down the empty road. It casts Sam’s shadow wide on the pavement, twisted and monstrous as he faces away from Dean, stomach churning.
The case had been rough—a kid had almost died, claw marks down her leg instead of her chest as Sam had pulled her away. Her older brother had collapsed as soon as Sam had placed her in his arms, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing. Sam and Dean had both had to look away, and later took a lot of joy in ripping the monster apart.
It had gotten them sentimental, three beers and a successful hunt.
Of course he was hysterical, Dean had grumbled, looking away from Sam at the sky. ’s his little sister. I woulda’ lost my mind if it was you, you kiddin’?
No you wouldn’t have, Sam had laughed, rolling his eyes. You would’ve gone Die Hard and killed the thing before the day was over.
Dean had puffed up proudly, You’re damn right I would’ve.
And then…
And then Sam had opened his stupid fucking mouth.
Maybe it was the warmth of the night, a pleasant breeze on the back of Sam’s neck, maybe it was beer he’d already had, maybe it was the way Dean had looked at him out of the corner of his eye, laughing but attentive, like even the idea of Sam taken had made him edgy, nervous. Maybe it was the way Dean had stood over the brother and sister protectively, a guardian to their grief and love and with such a look in his eyes that Sam had to turn away, a little breathless. Maybe it was the clap of Dean’s hand on his neck as they walked away. Maybe it was the fact that things have been good—really damn good, too damn good, just Sam’s big brother and the open road and a home base.
And Sam had said—
Dean shifts suddenly, he must, because the car’s suspension creaks as Dean moves. Sam can hear the crunch of gravel underneath his feet, underneath the roar of his blood in his ears. A hand brushing the back of Sam’s shirt.
“Sam—“ Dean starts, but Sam jerks away from him, stumbling a step away.
“Forget it, please,” he begs, all of nine years old again and on his knees in scratchy motel carpet, begging God to please let his family come back alive.
What the fuck? Why would he fucking just come out and say it? After all these years? What the fuck?
Sam blindly searches the road in front of them, finding shapes outlined in the dark. It’s all farmland behind them, rows and rows of corn or soy or wheat, and Sam wants to walk and walk and walk until it swallows him whole.
“‘Forget it’?” Dean repeats incredulously. “Sammy, I can’t ‘forget it.’” Another hand, on his shoulder this time, cold even through Sam’s flannel from the glass of his beer. Sam tenses. Dean’s voice softens when he speaks next, cajoling and gentle. “C’mon, what did you mean?”
And for some reason, this pisses Sam right the fuck off. What does Sam mean? God, what could he have meant by that? Dean is either a goddamn fucking idiot—which he is not—or he’s going to make Sam say it. He wants the rotten, disgusting confirmation from Sam’s lips. He wants to wring it out of Sam like pulling guts from a wound, rope after rope.
He’s being cruel.
Sam whirls on him. He smacks Dean’s hand off, and Dean’s eyes go wide, mouth parting, hand still frozen mid-air.
“You know what I meant,” Sam spits, so humiliatingly close to tears that it aches. Dean just stands there, beer in front of his stomach like a shield, hand raised like he’s taking an oath. Sam’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat. He can’t look at him, suddenly, and his eyes drop to the ground, to Dean’s boots. “You always know.”
You’ve always known. Sam wants to correct. You always know what I mean, what I’m trying to say, what I want before I want it. You’ve always known I’ve been like this. Fucked up. Wrong. Evil. Just to the left of anything good.
Sam hasn’t had to explain himself to Dean in years. And he’s not going to start now. Not with this. There isn’t one.
Something shifts, Dean’s posture straightening. Sam looks up, and just catches something cracking open in Dean’s gaze. His mouth snaps shut. He swallows. He knows.
His hand drops, dangling at his side.
“Oh.“ Dean says, voice small. Sam’s legs shake, and his stomach spasms, mouth filling with saliva. Oh god, he’s going to puke. Sam covers his mouth with the back of his hand, looking up and away, trying to get a hold on it.
Dean must read the look on his face differently, though, because suddenly both of his hands are on Sam’s shoulders, the hold of his left hand awkward because he’s still holding that damn beer bottle. He forces Sam to look at him, shaking his shoulders a bit, ducking his head so their gazes catch.
“No, wait, c’mon, Sammy, that isn’t—that isn’t a ‘no.’” Dean’s tone is soothing, but Sam’s throat spams around nothing.
“That isn’t a—what?”
“It means, I’ve got it,” Dean reassures, a soft smile on his mouth, like he’s fifteen and telling Sam he’ll take him out to the movies after they move again, a weak consolation against something too fucked up to fix.
“You’ve got it?” Sam repeats again, dumbly. Dean is nodding now, almost to himself, shoulders relaxing.
“I’ll take care of it.” Dean’s hand moves, a warm weight against the back of Sam’s neck, shockingly warm against his clammy sweat. He squeezes once, and backs away. Dean’s lost in his own thoughts, and Sam can’t keep up.
Something with sharp talons seizes his heart as soon as the words process.
“W—You—Dean,” Sam straightens, pulse in his temples. “What the fuck does that mean, ‘you’ll take care of it’? What are you gonna—“
This must be a step too far, though, because Dean’s shoulders tense, whole body drawing up at being challenged.
“It means give me a fucking minute!” Dean snaps, teeth bared. He swipes a hand through his hair, nails sharp on his scalp, brows furrowed. He exhales sharply. “I’ll fix it!”
I’ll fix it. Sam laughs incredulously. Unless Dean plans on putting a bullet in his head—deserved, deserved, deserved—this isn’t a situation his brother can fix. Sam’s rot goes all the way to the bottom.
“There’s—there’s nothing to fix, Dean!” Sam spreads his arms wide, gives Dean a good look at the man who’s been predating on him for years. This body has wanted you for decades. This mind has loved you for decades. You were protecting this when you should’ve killed it. “I’m fucked up. A sick freak—hell, you’ve said it enough times. There is no fixing me, there never has been.”
Dean looks at him sharply, brows furrowed, mouth slightly agape. Horrified. Disgusted. Angry. Sad.
Just like that, all the wind leaves Sam’s sails, and he slumps. He’s still holding his stupid fucking beer bottle, limp in his left hand. His insides feel shivery and quaking, like he has the flu, his joints swollen and aching. He’s so tired. He’s suddenly so, so tired.
Why the fuck is he mad at Dean? Sam is the one who has trespassed here, who has come right out and said it. Dean is the one who should be angry. Should be fucking furious. Maybe that’s what he meant when he said I’ll fix it. When he said I’ll take care of it.
Maybe he thinks he can talk Sam out of it, that he can therapize Sam with The Lost Boys and shared pizza and hard cider into loving him normal again. Maybe he plans on putting a bullet in him. Maybe he plans on sending Sam away, Get Thee To A Nunnery, until Sam can purge this from under his skin.
Dean still looks so small, so confused, that Sam gets his legs moving again.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Dean, okay? I can—I’ll…” He sounds like a whining child, and he cringes. He gives Dean a wide berth as he steps past him, towards the trunk. “If you take me to the next gas station, I can find my own way from there.”
He opens it one-handed, shaking, as he fumbles for his duffle bag. He’ll carry it in his lap so he doesn’t take up any of Dean’s time when they get there—fuck, he can tuck and roll, he thinks hysterically, because why would Dean want to spend a millisecond more in his company than he has to.
Sam starts running logistics in his brain, a sigh of relief against the screaming, wailing of his nerves, of the child in his head that he’s never been able to kill, no matter how many times he’s tried.
“Give me twenty-four hours and I can be out of the Bunker. It’ll be like I never existed, okay, I swear—“
A shatter of glass, and Sam turns, surprised, to find Dean in his space, hands going for his neck. Sam jerks, startled, but doesn’t fight back, lets his arms hang open. The pain he’s expecting never comes, instead warm hands against the sides of Sam’s open flannel, drawing into fists as Dean hauls him closer.
He’s so close that Sam can count his freckles, that he can feel the hot spill of Dean’s beer-laden breath against his cheeks, in his own open mouth.
“Fuck you,” Dean seethes, shaking Sam’s shirt—and therefore Sam—back and forth sharply. “Don’t you ever—!”
His voice cracks, sharp, and Dean presses his lips together tightly. He’s not angry, Sam realizes with a jolt. Dean’s eyes are wild, staring at Sam like he’s never seen him before. He’s terrified. He’s fucking terrified.
Something glittering catches Sam’s eye over Dean’s shoulder: his shattered beer bottle, dark glass and brown beer splattered over gravel, right where he was standing. It wouldn’t have shattered if he’d dropped it. Did he throw it down?
Dean isn’t looking at him anymore, head bowed between them. His hands are shaking in Sam’s shirt. Slowly, his hands unclench, and wrenches them away from Sam.
“The hell are you threatening me for, huh?” Dean mutters, clearing his throat and stepping away. He wipes a hand over his mouth. “‘zzn’t called for.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam repeats uselessly, feeling sad and small and suddenly, so, so lonely. “I won’t mention it ever again, I swear.”
Dean turns and looks at Sam like he’s speaking another language, brows furrowed and mouth slightly open. Horrified, maybe.
“You know I wouldn’t’ve ever done anything, right?” Sam begs. “Never. I—I could never do anything like that. You were never s’posed to know.” Sam turns and paces a step away, stumping from the car, hands tearing through his hair. “So fucking stupid; it was the case, messed with my head, I shouldn’t’ve—“
When Sam turns around, Dean is exactly the same distance away, as if he shadowed Sam’s steps, not letting him get farther away than a couple of feet. Does Dean think he’s that dangerous? That deranged? On such a hairpin trigger that letting Sam or his hands out of his sight means danger?
“Fuck,” Sam whimpers. “Thirty goddamn years, and this—”
Dean’s face morphs. Sam slaps a hand over his mouth. They look at each other in horrified silence, the cicadas whirring like the lens of a security camera, closer, closer, closer in on the look of goddamn heartbreak on Dean’s face.
“Y—You were eight?” In all of Sam’s stupid, selfish life, he has never heard Dean sound so fucking anguished. His eyes are wet, brows furrowed, and he breathes, a single, devastated, “Sammy.”
Sam turns and hurls his beer bottle into the woods so hard that his shoulder pops. He stands, heaving, until he hears it shatter a few yards away—its arc abruptly cut off by a tree. That’s how Sam feels. Sailing, sailing, sailing, shattered.
A stupid fucking skunk on the side of the road, a trail of entrails that abruptly ends at his bloated corpse. And he’d dragged himself the whole way.
Sam hunches over, hands on his shaking knees as he tries to get air into his lungs. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. He’s going to turn around, and Dean is going to be Lucifer, and Sam is going to wake up with a gasp, and Dean is going to be snoring in the next bed. Sam can already picture his reflection in the motel mirror—sickly yellow from the strip fluorescent, skin damp from splashing water on it, Dean’s t-shirt and pushed-back hair and dark circles under his eyes.
“I had no idea.” Dean says, disbelievingly. Sam closes his eyes tightly. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
Why didn’t Sam tell him sooner? He needed his big brother, that’s why. Selfish, self-absorbed Sammy.
He hadn’t realized Dean didn’t understand how long. It would’ve been better if Sam had just let him believe it was something recent. That Sam came back from the Cage wrong, or Chuck had written him wrong, or his wires got crossed.
But now Dean knows Sam has been this fucked the whole time. Since birth.
That an eight-year-old Sam had looked at a twelve-year-old Dean with more than hero worship, with a need that ate him alive, bite after bite.
“I’m…” Sam sobs. “I’m so sorry.”
The world is silent except for the cicadas in the trees, and Sam’s own heaving breaths. His eyes are slammed shut tightly, still bent almost double as he tries to get air into his lungs.
“I swear, I’ll fix it.” Dean’s voice again. Quiet and determined. “Give me like…A month. Can you give me a month?”
Sam straightens, turns. “What?”
“Three weeks.”
“What are you talking about?”
Dean looks agitated now—if Sam didn’t know better, panicked—like Sam is walking away with the deal of a lifetime. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, cross over his chest, uncross again. He scratches at his arm.
“Fuck it,” He blurts. “I can get it done in two. I’ll catch up, don’t worry. Two weeks, Sammy, ’s all I’m asking.”
Sam’s brow furrows.
“You’ll—“ It hits him, like a blow to his head. I’ll catch up. Dean is going to— “No, no, no, no, Dean, you’re not—“
Dean is taking a step forward, and Sam stumbles a step back. That’s all I’m asking. Sam’s head spins. Dean is trying—what, to barter himself more time to…fall in love? want to fuck? Sam?
But not even that—trying to barter less time, trying to make sure Sam won’t—what—leave?
“Oh God,” Sam groans miserably, his stomach seizing. Of course this would happen. Of course, Dean would do anything to keep Sam, even if it means matching him blow-for-blow. Even if it means fucking himself up beyond recognition, twisting himself up in the same knots Sam was born in.
Dean smiles, and fuck, if it doesn’t look lighter than he’s been all night. He seems to have reached some kind of conclusion, some kind of inner peace that Sam can’t even begin to fathom.
He holds his hands up placatingly, like Sam is an animal about to bolt.
“I’m not gonna leave you alone in this, Sammy, don’t worry.”
Sam mewls, covering his face with his hands. Oh god. Dean’s going to do this. Or he’s going to at least convince himself that he can, and Sam is going to be caught in it in six months or next week or tomorrow morning when Dean realizes that this is fucking crazy and that Sam is worse than any damn thing they’ve ever hunted.
God, Sam wishes Dean had just punched him to death the second he’d opened his mouth instead of making Sam wait for it. He’s dooming Sam to a slow, agonizing parting, of Dean struggling to touch Sam, of Dean awkwardly putting his hand on Sam’s thigh or fumbling through sex he can’t get hard for. Of heavy, terrible silences that get longer and longer and longer until Dean looks at him and doesn’t recognize him.
“Please, stop.” Sam begs.
Because Dean will resent him for it. Dean will realize that Sam is in love with every goddamn moment, licking crumbs of affection from Dean’s palm like a street dog.
Dean’ll resent him, and then he’ll hate him, and he is going to leave. Or worse, he’s going to stay, and Sam will have to live with it.
Dean has gotten closer in the moments between Sam’s thoughts, a few quick strides until they’re close enough to touch. Dean lifts his hands, and they shake slightly when they rest on either side of Sam’s neck, hauling him in.
Sam thinks—with nothing but a bolt of pure panic—that Dean is going to kiss him, and Sam is forever going to know what it’s like to kiss Dean, whether Dean wants it again or not. But he doesn’t, just makes Sam step closer to him, still, so they’re touching.
“I’m with ya’ all the way, little brother,” Dean says, soft, soft, soft. His hands and eyes are warm, as he looks up into Sam’s face. “Isn’t that right?”
Dean is facing the car, so the light shines on his face, turning him gently golden, like a thumbprint of a memory that has no place in the darkness of the night around him.
“I don’t want you to—to force yourself to fall in love with me,” Sam rasps, shaking his head. The words sound so trite, so twee. Fall in love with me, like this is a Hallmark movie where Dean’s just a childhood friend instead of a flesh-and-blood brother. Love is too small a word, too simple of a word. One doesn’t love something necessary to their function; he doesn’t love oxygen or his brain or Vitamin K. Dean is…Dean. Of course Sam is in love with him. Of course he’s a-lot-of-other-things-in with him, too.
He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He’s afraid if he grabs Dean now, he’ll never let him go.
Dean’s smile tilts a little, becomes teasing.
“Aw, you love me, Sammy?” Dean goads—a reflex—voice drawling, and Sam tenses all over. He stiffens in Dean’s hold, and Dean’s face immediately changes, hands tightening on his neck, fingers petting over his ligaments in apology. “It ain’t forcin’ it. It’s me, bein’ your brother.”
Dean’s voice is still drawling, but softer now, a little Kansas twang that he’d never been able to beat out of himself, even when meaner kids tried to do it for him. He slips up when he’s scared, or angry, or really, stupidly happy.
Normally, it calms Sam down, even when Dean is angry, but now it just makes him sad. He looks down into the face of his big brother, the person that knows Sam inside and out better than anyone, as his eyes gleam in the faint light of the Impala’s headlights.
Dean’s hands have stopped shaking. His palms smooth up Sam’s neck, until he’s holding the back of it gently, thumbs right underneath Sam’s jaw, like he’s been touching him like this all his life. Like this is just something they do, breathe in each other’s air and flick their eyes over each other’s faces hungrily. And Sam thinks, Oh Fuck. He might actually do this. He might want this. Or he’ll want to want it, and with Dean, that’s close enough.
Sam tightens his fists at his sides. Don’t touch. Don’t touch.
“Wish you’d told me, baby boy. You shouldn’t’a been alone in this. I coulda’ met you sooner.” Dean’s voice is a low rumble, eyes roving over Sam’s eyebrows, his nose, his mouth. The curve of his mouth is gentle, and Sam is reminded of a million times where Dean looks him over for injuries. Show Me Where It Hurts, Sammy. But his hands have never been this soft. “Where you go, I follow. It’s always been like that.”
Sam just…breaks. He slams his eyes shut, and he knows his face must crumple or turn red or any of the other embarrassing, childish things his body does to cry, and his next exhale gets caught in this throat, wet and burning. Sam brings up his hands to hide his face, to turn Dean away, but Dean wrestles him tighter, whispers a little Sammy just as Sam’s voice breaks on another I’m Sorry.
“C’mere,” Dean says, a little gruffness back in his voice now that Sam has come apart.
Only one of them is allowed to be incapacitated at a time—it’s always been like that. Even when they burned Dad, Sam isn’t sure Dean cried until Sam had stopped. And when Sam had pulled himself together, he spent a few days trying to get Dean to talk about it, because he knew Dean would need that release, and they couldn’t both have it.
If Sam were smarter, he would’ve burst into tears the first time Dean had frozen with a beer bottle half-way to his mouth so Dean would close his mouth and take control and they could have avoided this whole conversation.
Dean’s arms wind around his back, and Sam tucks his forehead into the place where Dean’s shoulder meets his neck. Dean is too-hot against him, sweating through his damn shirt—they both are—but Sam already feels like his insides have melted into one, amorphous blob.
He’s staring down at Dean’s chest, only his forehead tucked into Dean’s neck, and Sam watches as his fingers lace themselves into the front of Dean’s jacket, into tight, greedy, greedy fists. Sam blinks, and a single, hot tear escapes his eye, plinking gently onto the fabric.
“It isn’t—This isn’t something you want, Dean.” Sam says, thickly. “I’ll stay either way, I promise. This isn’t something you can will yourself to have. It’s fucking agony, Dean, I hate it.” His throat closes, and Sam has to swallow before he can speak again. It feels like being strangled, with all of his rage and guilt and shame and longing.
“I’d basically be forcing you into loving me. It’s. It’s rape.” The word lands heavy, a weight around their ankles. Because it is. Sam would rather die. He’s already irrevocably tainted the only good thing in his life, he can’t—he won’t—add this to it, too. “Even if you delude yourself into wanting me now, you’ll wake up in a month or two and realize you’ve fucked yourself up over this. If that happened, I’d—“
“Don’t.”
His tone brooks no argument, the one word firm and loud and unmovable. Sam almost jumps, Dean’s voice is directly next to Sam’s ear, the thin skin of his throat vibrating Sam’s pinna. Sam closes his eyes.
“Dean, I’m serious.” He exhales.
Dean pulls away, suddenly, and in spite of it all, Sam has to bite back the noise of loss that rises in his throat. His hands are still balled in Dean’s jacket, and Sam can’t quite work up the courage to let go. He knew he couldn’t.
“As a fucking heart attack.” Dean swears, soberly. His brow furrows, and his mouth presses into a thin line. Dean’s gaze falls from Sam’s, and he looks down at his feet.
For some reason, it reminds Sam of Dean as a teenager, growing stumblingly into the charisma that he’d carry for the rest of his life. Sam had watched this transformation in real time with bated breath and sweaty palms and the realization that whatever would come out on the other side would wreck him. But now, Dean looks like he’s fifteen years old again, working up the courage to talk to a pretty girl. So strung out on the hunt, the night, and Dean’s skin on his, Sam almost laughs.
Dean looks up at exactly the wrong time, and must catch an edge of Sam’s nonsensical smile, because he nudges Sam with a boot, and rolls his eyes. It’s the most normal anything has felt since Sam’s guts have spooled between them. Dean’s smile fades though, and he clears his throat. He looks up at Sam, and Sam is struck dumb by the look in his eyes. Dean lifts one hand, then drops it again. He takes a step forward, and puts a hand on Sam’s left wrist, where his fist is still bundled uselessly in Dean’s jacket.
“You have been it for me, Sammy.” Dean says, in the same hushed tones of a prayer. “For a long goddamn time. Since you were born. This ain’t different, this is just…more.”
Dean’s fingers, rough with calluses, squeeze tighter around Sam’s wrist.
“It’s just us.”
It has never been like that, ever! I need you to see that. I'm beggin' you.
Something—some…realization—that’s been sitting in the back of Sam’s mind, buried by years and screaming matches and last breaths and love, clicks into place.
Sam blinks.
Dean’s not in love with Sam. But fuck, what was the first thing that Dean had said? That’s not a ‘no’? Like Dean has been doing all of his life, he’s convinced Sam of something that Sam had thought impossible. Not that Dean is in love with him, because he’s not. But that…somewhere in Dean, he…could.
And not because Sam asked him to, but because Dean is built that way. Because they’re built that way. Built broken maybe; definitely built wrong. But built of the same parts.
Not going where the other is incapable of following. Because then they’d be going alone. And Winchesters don’t run that way.
Dean must see something on Sam’s face, because he bursts into a grin, big brother machismo and sarcastic son-of-a-gun attitude. And fuck, Sam’s so in love with him it hurts. It has always hurt.
“I’ve got this, little brother, trust me.” Dean says, like he did when Sam was twelve and about to start a hunt, when Dean was twenty and about to walk into a GED testing center, when Sam was seventeen and Dean was holding his guts in with a hoodie.
And just like every single time before this, Sam believes him. Sam leans into him, swaying into Dean like he’s the center of the fucking universe because he is, he is, he is. Dean’s hand in his hair. “Just wait for me, okay?”