MASTERPOST: The Third Way (Sam & Dean gen, PG-13)
Title: The Third Way
Rating: PG-13
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Word count: 3K
Background Ship(s): none
Warnings/Tags: POV:Dean, domestic Winchesters
Summary: Dean can’t figure out why everybody in their small town thinks he and Sam are a couple. Meanwhile, Sam’s angling for them to retire. No matter how much he wants things to stay the same, Dean knows that things will change one day. Maybe he owes it to Sam to open up about their future, no matter how it forces him to think about the past and the mistakes he’s made.
A/N: Many thanks to Jd for the helpful beta! Also thanks to my wonderful artists, Melitta4ever and out_of_nowhere. I don’t know what I did to score TWO such wonderful artists, but I’m so grateful to them both for picking my fic!
All hail to the mods of this year’s SPN Gencest Bang! Y’all rock!
Link to Fic: A03
Link to Art: tumblr |
//**//**//
“Why does everybody assume we’re gay?”
Dean’s carrying the groceries, Sam’s got the beer. They’ve just spent the afternoon in town shopping to fill their pantry, and Dean’s figured out that the winks and nudges he’s getting are not flirtatious.
The girl in the flower shop wanted to sell them roses.
“Oh come on,” she teased. “Everybody needs a little romance in their lives, even stuffy old married guys like you two.”
Sam hoists the beer box under his arm so he can pull out the keys to the Impala’s trunk.
“I don’t know. I guess you’re pretty butch. Maybe they think you’re overcompensating.”
Dean shakes his head, frowning. “You’ve said that before,” he notes. “I guess I get why they think we’re gay. But why do they think we’re a couple?”
“Uh - Ya got me.” Sam shrugs, setting the beer box into the trunk. “Maybe because we’re attached at the hip and always hang out together?”
“That’s because we’re brothers,” Dean says.
“Yeah, well, how many brothers do you know who live together, work together, hang out together, shop for beer and groceries together, and spend all their free time together?”
Dean stares. “Are you kidding me? Where do I start? There’s the Allman Brothers, the Everly Brothers, half the Beach boys - plus a cousin or two, Oasis, the Bee Gees, the Jonas Brothers...”
“Okay stop.” Sam puts up a hand. “How many brothers who aren’t entertainers?”
Dean thinks for a moment.
“That’s what I thought,” Sam nods. He grabs the groceries from Dean, sets the bags down next to the beer, and shuts the trunk.
“But lots of families go into business together,” Dean protests as he crosses around to the driver’s door. “If you look it up, I’ll bet there are dozens of family businesses right here in the middle of Kansas. There are signs on the highway coming into Wichita: Campbell and Sons, Deacon and Son, Miller Family Beer.”
“Maybe,” Sam shrugs as he slides into the passenger seat.
“Oh, we are looking it up, baby,” Dean promises as he jams the key into the ignition. The car roars to life, and Dean peels out, just to show the world who’s boss.
“It’s really not a big deal, Dean,” Sam says, rolling his eyes at Dean’s ostentatious display of manliness. “I mean, who cares if they think we’re a couple? It could definitely be worse.”
“The entire town of Lebanon thinks we’re fucking, Sam,” Dean growls. “How could it possibly be worse?”
“At least they’re not homophobic assholes,” Sam says carefully. “They’re all friendly people.”
“Friendly people who think we’re fucking!” Dean snaps.
“What’s the big deal, Dean?” Sam insists, frowning. “People have thought that before about us. Why are you letting it bend you out of shape now?”
Dean winces. The kid’s got a point. He’s not sure why it bothers him so much. It just does.
“Lebanon is our home, Sam,” he says. “These people are our neighbors. They should believe us when we tell them we’re brothers. Just brothers!”
“Right.” Sam nods. “But it doesn’t really matter if they don’t, does it? Since when do we care what people think of us? Huh? We’ve lived off the grid our whole lives, pretending to be something we’re not, deceiving people about who we really are. As a matter of fact, we’re lying to the good people of Lebanon right now: they think our last name is Campbell.”
Sam shakes his head with a little huff of breath.
“I’d think you’d be fine with people thinking anything they want to think about us, as long as it isn’t the truth.”
“The truth,” Dean says, “is that we are NOT a couple.”
“Right,” Sam agrees. “But if people don’t believe that, it doesn’t really matter. It’s not like our cover’s blown or anything. It’s not like they found out that we hunt monsters for a living.”
Dean frowns, confused but unwilling to let Sam see that he is.
“We do hunt monsters for a living,” he says carefully.
“Right.” Sam nods. “But it’s not like they know that. That’s what’s important, remember? Not whether or not they think we’re romantically involved with each other.”
Dean grunts out his agreement, but he’s not so sure. He thinks people should stop thinking he and Sam are romantically involved with each other, but he can’t figure out why it’s so important.
“It’s just wrong, that’s all,” he mutters. “We’re brothers. People should believe that.”
Sam shrugs. “Maybe they do.”
Dean frowns, glances at Sam, reading the slightly sheepish expression on his face, and makes a face of his own.
“Oh, gross!” he blurts. “That’s just sick, Sam!”
Sam shrugs again. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“What? What the hell are you talking about, Sam?”
Sam takes a breath. “Well, remember Chuck’s Supernatural novels? Some of those fans thought we were fucking, remember?“
How could Dean forget? Those creepy novels and their creepier fans were something he really wishes he could forget.
Except, not all of those fans were creepy. Those two guys who helped them solve the case at that Supernatural convention were pretty cool.
What were their names? Dave and Bob? Dan and Burt?
“Damian and Barnes?” Sam provides helpfully, obviously reading Dean’s mind, as usual.
Or maybe Dean was talking out loud the whole time. Yeah, probably that.
“Yeah, those guys,” Dean agrees. “They were okay.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “They were also a couple, Dean, remember?”
“Well, at least they weren’t brothers!” Dean counters, then wishes he could take it back when he sees the hurt look in Sam’s eyes. “What? What did I say?”
But Sam won’t look at him. He bites his lower lip, gives his head a little irritated shake, and stares out the window to his right, turning away from Dean in a way that reminds Dean of the way Sam used to pout when he didn’t get his way as a kid.
How is this like that in any way? What the hell does Sam want here?
When they get back to the bunker, Sam brings in the beer, then disappears into his room, closing the door firmly behind him.
What the hell?
Dean starts chopping vegetables for a veggie lasagne without even realizing he’s making Sam’s favorite dinner until it’s halfway done and the oven’s warming up.
What the hell is he doing? It’s like he’s making up for something when he doesn’t even know what it is he did.
It’s exactly like being married. Sam’s the thoughtful, sensitive wife, and Dean’s the brutish, stupid clod of a husband who puts his foot in it fifty times a day.
No wonder Sam’s mad at him. The reality of their relationship is staring Dean right in the face and all he can do is complain that other people recognize it for what it is better than he does.
The Winchesters are brothers who love each other more than ordinary brothers do, but they’re also soulmates who’ve literally gone to Hell for each other and now share their lives in every way but the one way that doesn’t really matter, in the scheme of things.
Not that sex doesn’t matter. Of course it does. Physical intimacy is an important part of any loving, committed relationship.
It just isn’t the most important part.
A little more than an hour goes by before Dean hears Sam’s door open, hears him come down the hall toward the library. When he pauses in the kitchen doorway, Dean looks up from his laptop.
Sam sniffs, a surprised frown creasing his brow.
“Are you baking veggie lasagne?”
Dean shrugs. “Felt like chopping vegetables,” he says, trying to sound off-hand instead of defensive.
Sam raises an eyebrow. A dimple appears.
“I bet you did,” he comments dryly as he crosses the room to the refrigerator to grab a beer. He wordlessly offers one to Dean and, just like that, they’re good again.
Sam scoots onto the bench across the table from Dean and raises his beer.
“To us.” Dean raises his beer, and they touch bottles briefly.
Sam nods, his grin broadening. “To us,” he agrees.
//**//**//
When a magic pearl brings John Winchester into their time from far in the past, the brothers get another chance to look hard at their lives and the choices they’ve made.
After John goes back to his time and all the tears have been shed, Sam joins Dean in the kitchen for a nightcap.
“So, did you mean what you said?” Sam looks apprehensive.
“About what?” Dean frowns.
“About you being happy that things are the way they are,” Sam says. “When Dad told you he wished you’d had a wife and kids by now, and you said-”
“I know what I said, Sam.”
“So, did you mean it? Or did you just say it to make Dad feel better?”
Dean takes a sip of his whiskey, deliberately not answering, trying hard not to roll his eyes.
“What do you think? Of course I meant it,” he answers. “Just like I meant what I said about not wanting to change the timeline. I’m happy with who I am. I’m happy with who you are, just like I said.”
Dean frowns. “Wait. Did you eavesdrop on my conversation with Dad? Cuz I don’t recall you being in the room when we had that conversation. You were in the kitchen with Mom.”
Sam smiles. “I had my own conversation with Dad,” he reveals. “He basically said the same thing to me.”
Dean’s eyes widen. “He said he wished you had a family?”
Sam scoffs. “No, Dean. He said he was sorry. He expressed regret for his part in the things that happened to us. He wished things could’ve been different.”
Dean’s eyebrow raises quizzically. “Do you?” he asks. “Wish things could’ve been different, I mean?”
Sam takes a deep breath. He turns his whiskey glass between his hands, staring down at it for so long that Dean begins to think he won’t answer.
“Sometimes,” he admits finally. “Sometimes I think about the people we’ve lost and I wish I could travel back in time and save them, you know? Make a different choice so they don’t die.”
Dean nods. He wishes that too, sometimes.
“But then I think about what you said earlier, about how we’d be different people if we hadn’t done things the way we did.”
Sam picks up his glass, stares into the amber liquid for a moment.
“I guess you were right,” he says thoughtfully. “I don’t know that guy, the one who didn’t jump into the Cage with Lucifer to save the world. I don’t know if I’d want to know him.”
Dean swallows thickly. He’s pretty sure he’ll never stop feeling guilty about not saving Sam from all the suffering and torture he endured in the Cage. If he had a way to go back in time to keep that from happening, he’s pretty sure he would. The world be damned.
He won’t say that, though. He’s pretty sure Sam knows anyway.
Sam takes a sip of his whiskey as Dean nods again, lifting his own glass.
“To us,” he says. “Just the way we are.”
“To us,” Sam agrees.
They touch glasses and drink.
//**//**//
When things get particularly bad, the Winchesters talk about retirement, but they both know they won’t. They’ll keep fighting until one or both of them goes down.
Not that they ever talk about it, except that one time Sam assured Dean that, if they died, they’d do it together. Dying together is the only option, as far as Dean’s concerned, since the alternative is completely unthinkable. Being separated from Sam is Dean’s greatest fear.
Not long after they defeat Chuck, Dean has a dream. It’s a nightmare, really. In the dream, they’re taking down a nest of vampires and the worst thing happens. Sam gets killed, just like he did that time in the cave in the alternate universe, before Lucifer brought him back.
Dean wakes up with Sam’s voice screaming his name echoing in his head and tears on his cheeks.
He doesn’t let it stop him, though. Hell, if his nightmares scared him off from hunting, Dean would’ve retired years ago. Besides. Sam has nightmares, too. Dean hears them sometimes, wakes up because Sam’s shouting his name. He lies still in the dark quiet of his room, heart pounding, breathing hard until he’s sure it was just another nightmare.
If Sam can have nightmares and keep going, keep on doing what they do, then Dean’s damned if he’ll quit. He needs to be a good big brother, set an example. Sam expects him to be tough, so he’ll be tough. Sam’s been through so much, Dean owes it to him to be as strong as he can be, not to give up.
Retiring is giving up.
Sam keeps a little keepsake box under his bed. Dean’s seen it, looked inside it because he couldn’t resist, even while feeling guilty as hell. He knows Sam hopes for retirement someday.
So let Sam be the one to bring it up when the time comes. Dean’s damned if he’ll agree, but maybe it’ll clear the air about this whole “it ends bloody or it ends sad” conundrum. They’re clearly not ready to retire, and Dean still hopes he’ll die before he gets old anyway, so it’s easier not to think about it.
Then Sam gets injured on a hunt.
“You’re not hunting alone, Dean,” he insists when it’s obvious he’ll be out of commission for a few weeks, at least.
They’ve only been home a week before Sam brings it up.
“You know how you used to say ‘it ends bloody or it ends sad’?”
Dean looks up from his laptop, watches as Sam adjusts himself on the chair opposite, stretches his injured leg out in front of him at an angle.
“What if one of us sustains a permanent injury? Isn’t that a third possibility?”
Dean lets out a sigh, glances down at Sam’s leg.
“Doc says it’s not permanent,” he mutters crossly. “You’ll be back to fighting werewolves and vamps in no time.”
Sam persists. “What if I’m not? Would you stop hunting if I couldn’t have your back? Or would you just find another partner? Keep going without me?”
Dean’s eyes snap up to Sam’s. He reads the self-pity and doubt there and he can’t stand it.
“You’re my partner, Sam. I got no plans to replace you. How can you think that?”
“I know you, Dean.” Sam shakes his head. “You can’t stop hunting. But it’s not safe to hunt alone.”
“Not hunting alone,” Dean insists. “We’ll wait this out. Wait for you to get better. We’ve done it before.”
Sam nods. “This time. This time, I’ll get better and we’ll go back to doing what we do. But eventually, one of us is gonna end up permanently benched. Or worse.”
He takes a deep breath before going on.
“I don’t wanna do this without you.”
Dean stares at Sam, reading the uncertainty in his eyes. Sam’s confessing his fear of losing Dean, but it’s more than that. He’s afraid of letting Dean down.
A memory of the moment in the church years ago when Sam said as much flashes into Dean’s mind.
Sam needs Dean’s reassurance, just like he did then, and Dean’s damned if he won’t give it to him.
“All right,” he says. “Listen to me, little brother.”
He reaches across the table to clasp Sam’s forearm, and Sam startles, his eyes opening wide.
“I have said this before, but I need you to hear me,” Dean says. “We’re free now, so whatever happens, we make our own choices, right?”
Sam nods.
“If something happens to me, I want you to live your life, Sammy,” Dean goes on, dipping his chin so he can give Sam his most reassuring half-smile, the one Sam likes best. “Find a girl, have kids, grandkids, grow old.”
Sam looks away, huffing out a breath. “Dean.”
“No, no, no, I need you to listen to me,” Dean insists. “If I die, I don’t want you to keep hunting without me, okay?”
He squeezes Sam’s arm, and Sam looks up, meeting Dean’s eyes again, and Dean can see that his pain is still fresh. Dean’s stubborn brother hasn’t forgotten, still can’t forgive himself.
“I know what I said all those years ago, after I got back from Purgatory,” Dean goes on, “and I was wrong, okay? You thought I was dead and tried to go on with your life. I shouldn’t have given you such a hard time about that.”
Sam takes a breath, lets it out slowly. He looks down at Dean’s hand on his arm, places his other hand over it, and squeezes.
“It’s okay,” Sam says softly. “It’s water under the bridge, like you said.”
Dean nods, reading Sam’s relief, and places his other hand on top of Sam’s.
Sam looks up, startled and wide-eyed, and Dean gives him another crooked grin.
“And about that other thing you said? Permanent injury? Maybe we’d figure out a way to semi-retire, you know?”
“Really?” Sam’s so hopeful it breaks Dean’s heart.
Okay, that’s enough. Dean sits back, pulling his hands free - yes, they were practically holding hands. What was he thinking? - and barks out a laugh to lighten the moment.
“Yeah, sure,” he says, none-too-convincingly. “We’ve got all the knowledge, the expertise, this place with all its books. We could advise other hunters. Be consultants.”
He spits out the last word like it’s something nasty-tasting, and Sam gives him the stink-eye, clearly not impressed.
“We’d have to leave the bunker, eventually,” Sam says.
It’s Dean’s turn to be shocked.
“What? Leave our home?”
“This isn’t our home, Dean,” Sam reminds him, for what feels like the fifty-thousandth time. “It’s where we work.”
“It’s as much of a home as anything we’ve ever had,” he insists.
“No, it’s not,” Sam argues, and Dean thinks about the Impala, all their years on the road.
“Too many stairs,” Sam says, patting his injured leg. “We can’t stay here with a permanent injury.”
“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, then,” Dean says, effectively ending the conversation because Sam can’t very well follow him into the kitchen.
“Way to avoid the subject, Dean!” Sam calls after him.
//**//**//
That night, Dean dreams that he and Sam are sitting side-by-side on the porch of a cabin, drinking beers and watching the sun set over a lake.
He’s got the distinct impression that they’re both older. Much older. Sam has a cane leaning against the chair next to his bum leg, the one that never fully healed after that injury years ago.
Dean’s got arthritis in his hands so he’s not cleaning his guns much these days.
It should be sad, this dream. Dean should wake up with tears on his cheeks, grateful he’s not old yet, hoping against hope that he dies with his boots on before this dream becomes a reality.
But it’s not sad. The feeling in the dream is more like contentment. He’s proud of everything they’ve accomplished, proud of all they’ve done, proud of who they are.
He leans over and touches his bottle to Sam’s, watching as Sam’s face breaks out in a dimpled smile. He has the distinct impression that Sam feels the same way.
When Dean opens his eyes, he hears Sam’s voice, as clear as if Sam was still sitting right next to him:
“Maybe there’s a third way, after all.”
fin