MASTERPOST: No Direction Home - (Sam/Dean, R)

[amypond45]

Title: No Direction Home
Author: amypond45
Artist: midnightsilvers
Words: 16k
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings/Tags: Amnesia, AU for Season 1, post-Pilot, mutual pining, angst with eventual happy ending
Summary: Dean is overwhelmed with guilt when Jessica dies at the end of the pilot, sure that it’s his fault. He leaves Sam and runs, eventually finding a witch who agrees to alleviate his suffering by removing his memories. But what Dean doesn’t count on is losing his memories of Sam, and when a handsome young man starts haunting his dreams, Dean’s life changes forever.

Story Links: LiveJournal | A03
Art Link: A03

A/N: Title is from “Like a Rolling Stone” by Bob Dylan. This story was inspired by a prompt by jdl71, who also provided a very helpful beta. I was incredibly lucky to get picked by midnightsilvers, who provided glorious art for this story - be sure to visit their art post to leave kudos and comments! Last but never least, thank you to the amazing mods of this year’s DeanWinchesterBigBang. It’s been quite a ride!

//**//**//

“On your right!”

Dean turns just in time as a load of lumber swings by at the end of the tall crane.

It’s his third construction job in a month. After the hurricane, there were plenty of jobs in Louisiana and the Carolinas, so Dean’s been busy. With FEMA funds, local companies have been hiring without paying much attention to previous experience or union membership. The pay’s good, the work’s hard but steady, and Dean’s flush and getting flusher.

He hasn’t hunted anything in three months, ever since Dad died on that job down in New Mexico. Dean wasn’t even there, just got the call from Cole Hudson to come get his father’s body. The drive down, retrieving John’s corpse, burning it in an empty field, driving North out of the area after confirming that the monster responsible was dead, is all a blur. Dean doesn’t remember much about how he got to Louisiana from wherever he went in Colorado after his father’s funeral. He knows he was a miserable wreck. He has flashes of drinking his sorrows away in a couple of bars, but nothing specific.

There was a woman, that much he knows. Long, dark hair and dark, hooded eyes, promising to take his pain away. Dean has the distinct impression he was helping her with something, so whatever she did in return was payment, and the transaction was not sexual. Or, at least, not only sexual. He’s pretty sure the sex was gratis, since Dean Winchester never paid for sex as a matter of principle.

The fact that he doesn’t remember exactly what she did doesn’t bother him. He guesses that the memory loss and overall lack of concern over it was part of the deal. It probably had to do with his dad, with how messed up it made him that he wasn’t there when John died, that he couldn’t stop whatever killed him. He was drinking himself to death with grief and guilt, so the beautiful dark-haired lady fixed him. That’s all he needs to know.

Now, three months later, John’s death is a dull ache in his chest, as if it happened years ago. Dean’s already made peace with it. John’s death was a logical conclusion to a life lived obsessively seeking vengeance for the thing that killed his wife. John died doing what he was good at, taking down evil, saving a couple of potential victims in the process. It’s a good death.

The fact that Dean isn’t hunting anymore feels right, too. The work John Winchester did is done, even if he didn’t find and kill the thing that destroyed his family. Dean feels no obligation to continue his father’s work, which might bother him if he thinks about it too deeply, so he doesn’t. John’s quest was his own. His quest died with the quester.

Dean’s determined to pay homage to his father by going on with his life as far from the lifestyle that killed him as possible. Although he’s certain John would’ve wanted him to continue hunting if he hadn’t been killed in the line of duty, now that he has, Dean’s just as certain that John would want him to put away his hunting boots and do his best to settle into a normal life.

So, despite the strange little niggling whispers of doubt that nag at the back of his mind on occasion, that’s what Dean does.

And so far it’s a good life. When the construction jobs cool off, Dean finds work in a local garage, works there for a couple of months until he feels the itch that tells him it’s time to move on. He keeps moving on every two to three months, just like he did when he was a kid growing up on the road with his dad. Putting down roots can be dangerous. Giving the monsters a chance to catch up with you can mean a bloody, early death.

Being a drifter constantly looking for work has its own dangers, of course, but nothing like the risk of being abducted or picked up by Child Protective Services back when he was a kid. For the better part of a year, Dean lives a normal, nomadic life picking up odd jobs wherever he goes, moving on before too many people get too close to him.

It’s a good life.

//**//**//

It’s mid-winter, just a week before Dean’s twenty-eighth birthday, when Cole Hudson calls him to tell him somebody’s looking for him.

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know him,” he says brusquely. If it was anyone else, he wouldn’t have even picked up, but Cole was there when his dad died.

“Sam? Your brother? He’s been asking for you everywhere.”

Something stabs at the back of Dean’s brain, a memory that he should be able to recall like it was something important.

But then it’s gone and Dean’s left with nothing but a dull headache where the memory should be.

“I don’t know any Sam,” he insists, although something pulses inside his chest. “I don’t have a brother.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Cole says. “Your dad talked about him all the time. Went to some fancy college out West, I think.”

Dean shakes his head. “You’re mixing me up with somebody else.”

“Ha, I don’t think so!” Cole laughs. “I heard tell you two were inseparable when you were kids. Downright feral about it, too.”

“You’re getting old, Hudson,” Dean tells him. “Your memories are playing tricks on you. I’m telling you, it was always just me and my dad. No brother.”

“Huh.” Dean can hear Cole scratch his jaw, a sound like two sheets of sandpaper rubbing together. “Well anyway, message delivered, I guess. Do what you want with it.”

What Dean did, after the call, was to ditch the phone. He’d only held onto it because Cole was John Winchester’s hunting buddy, the last person to see him alive. But that time in Dean’s life is over, and it’s best to put it behind him.

Especially if somebody is still looking for him. Somebody named Sam.

Dean leaves town the next morning, careful to leave no forwarding address or number, just like always.

//**//**//

The dreams start about a week later, on his birthday.

Dean’s standing in the parking lot of one of the nameless motels he’s been staying in over the past year. It’s night, the pavement is wet with recent rainfall, and a streetlamp casts a yellow light. A man stands under the streetlamp, his hair damp, sticking to his forehead. When he sees Dean, his eyes light up with recognition.

“Dean?”

Dean swears he’s never seen the man before, that he’s a complete stranger, but there’s something about him that makes Dean freeze and stare back helplessly.

The man takes a step, frowning. “Dean, where are you? I’ve been looking for you everywhere, man. It’s like you dropped off the map or something.”

The planes and angles of the man’s face sharpen in the light from the streetlamp, casting shadows under his brow, making his eyes gleam.

He’s beautiful, but uncanny somehow, like something not fully human. He’s young, younger than Dean, probably in his early twenties, tall and striking in a way that makes Dean’s heart clench.

“Sam?” Dean guesses wildly.

Relief softens the man’s features, causing dimples to pop as he smiles. “Yeah,” he gasps. “It’s me. Thank God. For a second there I thought you didn’t know me.”

“I don’t know you,” Dean answers truthfully. “Somebody told me you were looking for me, that’s all.”

The man’s face falls. His soft lips part and his eyes widen. His disappointment and confusion are so vivid Dean almost wishes he could take his words back.

“Cole Hudson,” Sam breathes, almost a whisper.

Dean nods. “How do you know Cole?”

Sam blinks. “He’s an old friend of Dad’s,” he says. “Dean, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Asking everybody in the hunter community if they knew where you were. When Trey Nelson told me about Dad, said Cole was the last person to see him alive, I went straight to the man himself.”

Sam lifts his arms, then lets them fall in a gesture of helpless disbelief that goes straight to Dean’s heart.

“You don’t answer any of your phones, Dean,” he says. “I’ve been tracking you all over the country but I’m always one step behind you. This was a last-ditch effort.”

“This?” Dean frowns. He glances around, sees the sky beginning to lighten. It’ll be dawn soon.

“African dream root,” Sam says, like that explains everything. “I found some hair on your pillow in the last motel you stayed in and I made this stuff so I can visit you in your dreams. You gotta let me catch up with you, man. I need you!”

Dean scoffs. “You don’t need me,” he says. “You don’t even know me.”

“You’re wrong, Dean,” Sam insists. “I know you better than anyone. I don’t know what you’ve done to make yourself forget, or why you’ve done it. But I know you, and I think you need me as much as I need you.”

“If this is just a dream, then I’m gonna wake up now,” Dean says.

“No!” Sam puts up a hand as if to stop him, but he’s already fading.

Dean’s eyes blink open. He’s in bed in a motel in western Washington state, right where he fell asleep. It’s very early morning, judging from the wan light coming in around the curtains.

He lets himself lie still for another moment, thinking about the beautiful dream man, wondering why he thinks of him as “beautiful.” He doesn’t swing that way. But there’s something about that man. Or kid, really. He’s just a kid, barely grown into manhood, wanting and needing Dean with a powerful, all-consuming desire that transcends sex or even love. That kid looked at Dean like he was his whole world.

The way a baby looks at its mother.

Dean shakes his head to clear it, climbs out of bed to pee and shower before hitting the road again, determined to put another couple of hundred miles between him and the strange dream.

But when the strange man shows up in his dreams again that night, Dean isn’t as surprised as he thinks he should be. His first reaction to seeing the kid standing there in the parking lot, dry this time and in total shadow because he’s standing next to a car instead of the streetlamp, is the thrill of recognition. The kid’s back. Dean’s glad to see him.

Then he scowls.

“Are you tracking me?”

“Of course!” the kid says, spreading his big hands out, palms up. “You’re all I have, Dean. Jessica’s gone. Dad’s gone. I need you, man. Please just tell me where you are!”

Something hitches in Dean’s chest, but he ignores it. As adorable and attractive and just plain enticing this boy is, he’s a stranger. Dean’s never seen him before the previous night in his dream.

“Dude, if you’re a hunter, and I’m guessing you are, then you know I’m not giving you my location. That would be stupid, and I am not stupid, despite what you may have heard.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I know you’re not stupid, Dean. That’s just - That’s not what I think. For a million reasons.”

“Okay,” Dean says hesitantly, fighting his own urge to give the kid his address and phone number for reasons he doesn’t understand.

“But I do think something got to you,” Sam says, voice soft and cajoling, and Dean should suspect something evil just based on the tone of Sam’s voice, but somehow he doesn’t.

Because it’s this kid with his big doe-eyes and his muscles that used to be little kid arms and legs. Because it’s Sam, his brain screams unhelpfully.

Cole told him he has a brother, but he still doesn’t believe it. How could he forget something like that?

“Dean, let me help you,” Sam begs, and Dean almost caves.

Almost.

“No, I’m fine,” he says brusquely, not meeting the kid’s pretty, slanted eyes. “I don’t know who you are, but you need to leave me alone.”

And just like that, Sam’s gone and Dean wakes up.

He lies in bed for a while, recalling the wistful look on the kid’s face, wondering if he’s real or just a figment of Dean’s imagination.

When he leaves the motel, he can’t help glancing around, wondering if the boy’s watching him. It doesn’t creep him out as much as it should, considering the idea that the dream might be real, that “Sam” might actually be following him.

It makes his heart race. His hands on the steering wheel shake and sweat as he thinks about the kid’s handsome face, his long, lean body, shoulders hunched in his shabby brown hoodie.

All day, as he drives, putting another two hundred miles between him and last night’s dream, Dean thinks about Sam. For the first time in nearly a year, he wonders if he did something to his own memories, if that beautiful dark-haired woman back in Colorado helped him to erase more than just his grief over his father’s death.

Maybe he should head back to Colorado, try to find her, get her to tell him what she did to him.

The thing is, he can’t help feeling that whatever she did, he asked for it. The spell that vanquished his grief, and possibly some of his memories as well, was a reward for services rendered. He helped that woman with something she needed, and whatever she did to him in return was done at his request.

That night, he collapses into bed with a powerful feeling of anticipation, hoping to see Sam again.

He recognizes the parking lot this time. It’s the motel where he slept two nights ago.

“Hey, Sam,” he greets the kid, who stands slouched with his hands in the front pockets of his baggy jeans, such a sight for sore eyes Dean wants to hug him.

The boy’s eyes light up. “You remember me?”

Dean shakes his head. “Only from my dreams,” he admits, wishing he could lie when the kid’s face falls in disappointment.

“You were here, weren’t you?” Sam says. “I’m getting close.”

“Maybe,” Dean says carefully. “Why are you following me?”

Sam frowns. “I told you. You’re my brother.”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t think so. But I think we knew each other, before. So tell me something I would believe.”

Sam huffs out a frustrated breath. “I’m a hunter.”

“I guessed that before,” Dean reminds him. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“We’re brothers, Dean,” Sam says. “We grew up together, on the road with Dad, moving around all the time. We went to school all over the country: Templeton Elementary in Tigard, Oregon. North Park Elementary in Broken Bow, Nebraska. Glenwood Middle School in Chatham, Illinois. Truman High School in Fairfax, Indiana. You can check the school rosters if you don’t believe me. We enrolled at all those schools, Dean, usually with you filling out the paperwork and signing for Dad, since he wasn’t around much.”

Dean grins. “I remember filling out paperwork for Dad, that’s for sure. But I don’t remember any of the school names. Truman High, maybe.”

“You can look them up,” Sam says. “They’re real. I can give you other names of schools we went to if you want. We didn’t always register under our real names, but we always registered as brothers.”

“Okay, if we’re brothers, where’s our mom?” Dean challenges, still not believing, but curious to see how far Sam will take this charade.

Sam’s eyes drop. “You don’t like to talk about her,” he says quietly.

Ice water floods Dean’s veins. The kid knows. Dean never tells anyone what happened that night. How can this kid know that?

“You’re lying,” Dean accuses gruffly. “Nobody knows about Mom. I never told anybody, and Dad wouldn’t. So whatever you think, you’re wrong.”

Sam lifts his pretty eyes to Dean. They’re full of sorrow now, the saddest eyes Dean’s ever seen. They wrench something loose in his chest, something that makes Dean want to reach out and pull this kid into his arms and never let go.

Dean clenches his fists at his sides so hard he’s sure he’s leaving marks.

“Same thing happened to my girlfriend,” Sam says, so softly Dean has to strain to hear him. “Jessica. Same way Mom died. So I have to find it. I can’t stop till I do. And I need your help, Dean. Please.”

The kid’s soft lips tremble. His cheeks are flushed with emotion and his eyes glisten with tears. Dean has to physically restrain himself from reaching out and offering comfort. Or something.

“That’s impossible,” Dean says, keeping his voice gruff and growly, so he doesn’t choke up. “Dad was pretty sure whatever killed Mom was some kind of demon. Demons are incredibly rare, as you know, since you’re a hunter.”

Sam nods. “There were omens, the month or so before Jessica died. Cattle mutilations, freak storms, crop failures. Signs of demon activity. I’ve done the research.”

“This is crazy.” Dean shakes his head, more confused than ever. “If you want my help hunting down whatever killed your girlfriend, this is sure a weird way to go about it.”

“So you’ll help me?” Sam’s face lights up. He looks hopeful and relieved. He pulls his hands free of his pockets, raises his arms a little as if he wants to hug Dean, but Dean stays where he is, fighting the urge to give in. He’s somehow sure it would feel incredibly good to embrace Sam.

“It’s a case,” Dean says with a shrug. “Weirdly connected to my family and the thing my dad was hunting. Yeah, I’ll help you.”

Sam’s face relaxes into the biggest dimpled smile Dean’s ever seen. Dean wants to do whatever he can to keep Sam smiling like that because it feels like basking in pure sunshine, despite the dark parking lot of the dream landscape.

“But you gotta stop with the whole brothers thing,” Dean adds. “I’m not your brother. I don’t know much, but I know that.”

Sam’s face falls so fast it’s almost comical. He drops his arms, seems to hunch in on himself as he looks away from Dean, chewing on his bottom lip.

“Okay,” he agrees finally. “I won’t mention it again.”

Dean nods, fighting down the urge to say something - anything - to make Sam smile again.

“Alright, I’ll hang out here at the motel till you get here,” Dean says. “I’m guessing you’ve already figured out where I am.”

Sam nods, still not looking at him, blinking and frowning like a kicked puppy.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I have,” he agrees.

“Okay.” Dean nods. “See you soon.”

--//**//**//--

He wakes up with a start when Sam disappears, heart pounding. He’s not sure why he gave in and agreed to meet with Sam in real time. Now that he’s awake, he’s not even sure the dream was real. Maybe Sam won’t show up, even if Dean stays in town for a couple of days, giving him plenty of time to find him.

He decides he’ll give it a week. If Sam doesn’t show up in that time, Dean will cover his tracks as best he can and head out again. His natural wanderlust won’t let him stay longer than that anyway, especially with a hunter on his tail.

This whole thing smacks of weirdness, and not just because Sam’s girlfriend and Dean’s mom died the same way. Not just because Sam claims to be his brother.

What’s really weird is the way Dean feels about Sam. It’s beyond simple attraction. Adjacent to it, but also deeper. Dean feels a connection to Sam that confuses the hell out of him. Scares him.

Dean’s got butterflies in his belly just thinking about Sam. Anticipating their meeting in real life makes his palms sweat. Over breakfast in the diner, he’s sure his heart’s pounding loud enough for everyone to hear.

He decides to change the spark plugs on the car after breakfast just to give himself something to do. The urge to flee is almost overwhelming. He has to force himself to focus on his work, to ignore the wildly powerful impulse to get in the car and drive.

Between the desire to run and the sense of expectancy he feels over the thought of meeting Sam, Dean’s instincts are out of whack. He doesn’t hear Sam coming until an unusually tall shadow falls across the car from behind him.

“Hey.”

Dean straightens up so fast he hits his head on the car hood. He drops the spark plug he was holding, suddenly clumsy and awkward and terrified out of his mind for no good reason.



“Hey!” He turns, blinking up at the tall man with the sun hallowing his head, his heart trying to leap out of his chest.

Fuck this, he tells himself. Sam’s just a guy. Dean’s reaction is way out of line. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was bespelled.

“You okay?” Sam’s voice is gentle, soothing, higher than he remembers from the dream. His face is in shadow, for which Dean is grateful. He doesn’t think he could handle the beauty of Sam’s sunshine smile on top of the terrifying reality of his presence, at least not until he’s had a moment to collect himself.

Dean rubs his head. “Yeah. I’m fine. Hi.” He wipes the grease from his hand and sticks it out in greeting. “I’m Dean. But you already know that.” He chuckles nervously. “This is so weird.”

Sam clasps Dean’s hand between both of his huge paws, holding it in a grip like a vise, like he’ll never let it go.

Dean lets Sam hold his hand for way longer than necessary because Sam seems to need it and, for some reason, Dean feels compelled to give Sam what he needs.

“I can’t believe I finally found you,” Sam breathes.

Dean looks down at their clasped hands, and Sam seems to realize he’s been holding on for too long.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, releasing Dean’s hand with obvious reluctance. “I don’t mean to freak you out. I know you don’t remember me. It’s just that I’ve been looking for you for over a year now and I’m just a little overwhelmed.”

”You’re overwhelmed,” Dean says with another nervous chuckle. “I’m just meeting a guy I’ve only ever seen in my dreams before now. I didn’t believe you were real, man.”

Sam shifts his feet and tilts his head, so that the sun’s directly in Dean’s eyes, and Dean turns away, back towards the open hood of the car.

“Everything okay with her?” Sam asks, gesturing at the car. His voice sounds pinched, like he’s holding back strong feelings.

“Yeah, she’s fine,” Dean says. “I’m a little obsessive about her, that’s all. But I guess you knew that.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “I did.”

Dean slams the hood, waves a hand toward the diner he just left two hours before.

“You got here fast,” he comments, just to have something to say.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “I didn’t sleep. After the dream, I mean.”

“Huh.” Dean shifts from foot to foot, fighting the butterflies in his belly, his overall nervousness in Sam’s presence. “You wanna get some lunch?”

Sam lets out a long breath. “Yeah. Sounds great.”

He follows Dean across the parking lot to the diner and Dean tries to ignore how good it feels to have the kid at his back. He’s so close, Dean can feel his heat. Sam moves perfectly in sync with him, like they’ve had a lot of practice moving together, and Dean doesn’t think too hard about what that might mean. He’s just not ready.

“So, how did it happen?” Dean asks after they order. Sitting across the table from Sam, knees knocking awkwardly under the table, Dean struggles to look at anything but Sam’s beautiful face and finally gives up, squinting because Sam’s face is like the literal sun. Looking at him physically hurts.

“How did what happen?” Sam stares blankly at him, eyes wide.

“Your girlfriend,” Dean reminds him. “The case you asked for my help with. How did she die?”

Sam flinches as if he’s been hit. “You were there,” he says softly. “You dragged me out of the fire. I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t saved my life that night.”

Dean clenches his jaw. “Let’s get one thing straight, Sam. I am not your brother. So when you talk about me doing things I don’t remember because I’m not him, I’m going to ask you to correct yourself, because I wasn’t there. Or if I was, I don’t remember. Same thing. It wasn’t me.”

Sam blinks. “Okay. So my brother pulled me out of the fire that night.”

Dean nods. “Okay. Good for him. So what happened?”

Sam takes a deep breath. “You - I mean, my brother and I were on a case. A woman in white. Woman named Constance Welch believed her husband was cheating on her, so she killed her children, then herself. Came back as a vengeful spirit, haunted the highway near the bridge she jumped off. Went after men who were unfaithful.”

Dean nods. “Okay, and I take it you and your brother put her down.”

Sam nods. “She went after me.”

“You were being unfaithful to your girlfriend?” Dean suggests.

Sam looks away, cheeks flushed. “Not exactly.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, but before he can ask Sam to clarify, the waitress arrives with their meal.

He catches Sam’s eye as the waitress leaves and Sam blushes and ducks his head.

“So then what happened?” He changes the subject because Sam’s infidelity feels personal, like it involves Dean directly somehow, and that’s just too much to think about.

Sam draws in a breath. He takes a moment to push his salad around his plate before answering.

“My brother dropped me off at my apartment after the hunt,” Sam says. “It was dark. I let myself in, found a note from Jess and a plate of homemade cookies on the table. The shower was running, so I dumped my bag and collapsed on the bed with my eyes closed just to wait it out till she came out of the bathroom and I could get my own shower.”

He takes a bite of his salad, chews slowly, keeping his eyes down. His jaw clenches as he eats.

“You were planning to confess,” Dean suggests.

Sam looks up, eyes wide with shock, like he’s been caught out.

“Confess?”

Dean shrugs. “Your infidelity?”

“I wasn’t unfaithful to her,” Sam insists.

“But you were thinking about it,” Dean presses because it seems obvious. Sam was in love with somebody else and he didn’t tell his girlfriend. Emotional infidelity, then.

Dean would be jealous if he wasn’t imagining that the person Sam was in love with was Dean, which makes zero sense, so he tries to forget it as soon as he thinks it.

Sam blushes and looks away again. “Maybe,” he agrees. “But I wasn’t gonna act on it. Ever.”

“And then she died and you felt responsible,” Dean suggests, because that’s obvious, too. Sam wears his heart on his sleeve, and in his pretty, expressive eyes, and it’s almost too much to bear. Dean can’t stop staring to save his life.

Sam’s eyes film over. “Not just that,” he insists, agony written all over his face. “I had dreams before she died. I knew it was gonna happen and I didn’t do anything to save her.”

A wave of protectiveness rises in Dean. He doesn’t even know Sam, but he can’t imagine this kid doing anything deliberately mean or bad.

“It’s not your fault,” he says with conviction. “You couldn’t have stopped it. Whatever did this to your girlfriend, it’s on them, not you.”

Sam sucks in a quick breath. “Wish I could believe that.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Sam takes another breath, closing his eyes against the pain of the memory. “I was just lying there on the bed, eyes closed, and something dripped onto my forehead. When I opened my eyes, there she was, pinned to the ceiling, her belly sliced open like a melon, blood everywhere. Then the whole ceiling burst into flames.”

Ice water floods Dean’s veins again. His mind takes him back to the night of the fire in his house when he was a child, but the memory is faded, unclear. He remembers the terror, remembers his father telling him to run outside as fast as he could, remembers holding something in his arms, something heavy and wiggling. Awkward. He was terrified he’d drop it.

“Dean?” Sam’s looking at him, frowning a little, eyes wide with hope. “Do you remember something?”

Dean shakes his head to clear it. “Just that night when my mom died,” he says. “I was carrying something when I ran out of the house. Probably a puppy or something.”

Sam gazes at him with dawning comprehension.

“You were carrying me,” he says, voice low and reverent. “Just like you did - like my brother did - carrying me out of that fire last year.”

Dean frowns. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t there when your girlfriend died. You weren’t there when my mom died. This is just some freaky coincidence.”

Sam stares at him for another moment, hope slowly replaced by resignation.

“Okay,” he agrees finally. “Anyway, that’s what happened.”

“Did you or your brother see anything before it happened? Any clues to what might have caused it?”

Sam shrugs, looking away again, into the memory. “Nothing that I can think of. I remember being surprised he was there so fast. How did he know? He dropped me off and drove away, yet before the fire got to me he was there, dragging me out.”

“Maybe your brother’s a psychic,” Dean suggests with a chuckle.

Sam looks up, eyes wide. “Maybe,” he agrees thoughtfully, then he drops his gaze to his food again. “Doesn’t matter.”

“So do you have any leads?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “One. My brother disappeared that night. I’ve been searching for him ever since.”

“You think there’s a connection?”

Sam lifts his eyes, stares hard at Dean for a moment before answering. “Yeah, I do.”

“I give up. What is it?”

Sam drops his fork, leans back in his seat, and shakes his head.

“You know, I can’t keep doing this,” he says. “It’s exhausting.”

“Doing what?” Dean asks innocently. He knows he’s being a dick, but he’s curious about how Sam will react when he keeps playing dumb.

Sam takes a deep breath, then leans forward, locking gazes with Dean, making Dean shiver.

“Something happened to you, maybe that night, maybe later,” Sam says, low and intense. “You are my case. I have been searching for you since that night. And I know you. You were spooked or freaked out about Jessica’s death, about the coincidence of it, or whatever, and you took off. Then you ran into some voodoo priestess who took away your memories so you wouldn’t have to deal with it. Only whatever she did, she also took away your memories of me, which I cannot believe you intended. I can’t believe that you would deliberately ditch me. Me.”

Sam’s words send another shiver up Dean’s spine. His instincts tell him this beautiful kid is being truthful, that what he’s saying makes perfect sense. But when Dean probes his brain for memories to corroborate Sam’s, there’s nothing there. Not even a faded memory, like the one he has of the night his mom died. There’s just nothing.

Nothing except the inexplicable feelings he has for Sam.

“You and I were partners,” Dean suggests slowly. “I get that. I’m sorry I’ve forgotten the details, but I can sense the - the connection or whatever.”

Dean keeps his eyes on his now-empty plate, but he can feel Sam staring at him. When he glances up, Sam’s expression is helpless, open, desperate.

“Not brothers, though,” Dean goes on. “There’s just no way.”

“Why not?”

Because I’m in love with you! a little voice in Dean’s voice shouts. Because you’re everything to me, and the way I feel about you is NOT brotherly.

That’s impossible. Dean’s not even a little gay.

At least, not that he remembers.

Just then, the waitress arrives to clear their plates.

“Any dessert for you boys?”

Dean can’t prevent the blush that rises to his chest and cheeks. He can feel his ears burn.

“Just coffee,” he tells her. “Black.” Sam shakes his head no.

Dean waits until she leaves to say, “My dad kept some notes in his journal about the thing that killed my mom. Maybe we should start there.”

Sam nods. “I know. I’ve seen those notes. But I think the thing may have gone to ground by now.”

Dean ignores the first part of Sam’s statement.

“What makes you think it’s gone to ground?”

Sam shrugs. “Whatever it was doing in the fall of ‘05 didn’t work out for it,” he says. “So it decided to move on.”

“How can you know that?”

“Research,” Sam says. “I figured you and Dad were on its trail, so my best hope of finding you was to try to track it down. But the thing is, after Jessica’s death, there wasn’t much to go on. It’s not like the thing kept killing, or kept killing women by burning them on the ceiling, at least.”

Dean flinches. “What about omens? Cattle mutilations? Weird weather patterns?”

Sam shakes his head. “After what happened during the week before Jessica died, nothing. I was hoping, if I ever caught up with you, that you and Dad might have more intel.”

“I’m still not convinced it was a demon, despite what Dad thought,” Dean says. “Like I said before, demons are so rare. Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree with this.”

Sam looks skeptical but nods. “Believe me, man, I would rather it be anything but the same thing that killed Mom. I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s a direct parallel.”

“Right.” Dean smiles distractedly at the waitress as she brings his coffee. “It’s a terrible thing to have in common, that’s for sure.”

Sam bites his lip. “Right.” He looks down at his water glass, turning it slowly between his big hands. Dean watches Sam’s wet fingers and shudders. There’s no way he’s letting this man out of his sight. Or out of his life.

“Hey, I’m guessing we’ve hunted together before,” Dean says before stopping to think about what he’s about to say. “What do you say we team up again? Even if we don’t have any leads on the thing that killed our loved ones, we can hunt other things, right? I mean, we both know how to handle ourselves when it comes to poltergeists and vengeful spirits, right? How about we work together? We might even catch a lead on whatever killed your girlfriend.”

Sam looks up, the lost, hurt look back in his pretty multi-colored eyes.

“If I agree to come with you, will you let me try to figure out what happened to you?” he asks hopefully.

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Nothing happened to me, man,” he lies. “I’m fine.”

Sam bites his lip, looks out the window, and Dean can see he’s trying to hide his feelings. His beautiful eyes have filmed over again.

“Okay, listen,” Dean says quickly, willing to say anything to make Sam smile again. “Let me think about it. Let’s work together for a few days, see how that goes, then we’ll see what’s what. Maybe you can try to figure out how I lost my memories. I would like to remember you, to be honest. It might help make sense of - It might help make some things make sense.”

Sam nods, obviously relieved. He sniffles, wipes his nose with his sleeve. Dean hands him a napkin without thinking, ignoring Sam’s refusal.

“You’re leaking,” he notes as Sam irritably grabs the napkin and presses it against first one eye, then the other.

“It’s just stress,” Sam insists, voice choked. “Lack of sleep.”

His shoulders shake, and Dean’s done.

“Let’s get out of here,” he suggests, pulling some bills from his wallet as he scoots out of the booth. He almost reaches for Sam to help him up but stops himself. He barely knows this kid, he reminds himself. As much as he wants to pull Sam into his arms and never let him go, he can’t. He hasn’t earned the right.

He leads the way out the door as soon as Sam starts to follow. He crosses the parking lot with Sam at his heels and, just like before, it feels so right Dean shoves it down deep with all his other inexplicable feelings for Sam.

Dean slides behind the wheel of the Impala almost in perfect sync with Sam sliding into the passenger seat and if that doesn’t send alarm bells off Dean doesn’t know what could. It’s not bad alarm bells, more like “this is so familiar you should remember this” signals, which makes the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stand up.

Having Sam in the car feels so right it’s almost spooky. Unnatural.

“I guess we used this car when we worked together, huh?” he mutters weakly, forcing himself to concentrate on pulling the car out of the parking lot and onto the main road without causing an accident.

He can feel Sam looking at him and even that feels familiar.

“You could say that,” Sam agrees while not actually agreeing at all.

Right. Sam’s still so sure they’re brothers.

Which means, maybe, that Dean’s the only one of the two who feels like he feels. Sam’s feelings for Dean must be all about being brothers. Which means he’s not even a little attracted to Dean at all, not to mention all those deeper, stronger, impossible-to-describe feelings that Dean has for Sam.

“So what do you say we hit the library?” Dean suggests. “We can check out the local newspapers, see if anything looks like it might be our kind of thing.”

Sam chuckles, low and dark. Dean’s dick hardens at the sound as if it’s programmed to respond to Sam that way when they’re in the car like this, so close Dean could slide his hand across the seat and onto Sam’s leg, no problem.

“What?”

Sam shakes his head. “Just - you and libraries. Like oil and water.”

Dean chuckles. “Sounds like you do know me,” he says, flashing a crooked grin in Sam’s direction.

He doesn’t miss the blush that rises in Sam’s cheeks, turning his nose pink. It’s adorable.

//**//**//

They find a probable vengeful spirit two towns over, put it down without much effort after interviewing a couple of witnesses. They easily find out where the body’s buried, dig it up, salt and burn it. Easy peasy.

When they drive to their motel room for showers and beers, Dean is again overwhelmed by a sense of rightness. Instead of his usual antsy restlessness, he feels content, almost at peace except for the butterflies in his belly whenever he looks at Sam.

In the car’s dark, confined space, he feels Sam studying him, looking away quickly when Dean glances over, so he does what he can to ease the tension.

“We make a pretty good team,” he comments, which makes Sam start. “What?”

“That’s what you said that night,” Sam says.

Irritation prickles up the back of Dean’s neck. He frowns.

“Hey, dude, you gotta let that go,” he says. “I don’t remember, remember?”

“And you don’t want to remember,” Sam says, nodding. “I get that. I really do.”

He sounds disappointed, though. Frustrated.

“I’m just trying to move on the only way I know how,” Dean insists.

Sam huffs out a breath. “That sounds like the spell talking. You - the real you - would want to remember. He’d want to remember us.”

Dean steals a quick glance at Sam’s perfect profile. His soft lips are parted, making him seem even younger than before. He’s pouting, which is so adorable Dean has to look away.

“Well, based on how well we work together - how well we just worked together - I can see what natural partners we are. What natural partners we were. That’s pretty much all I need to know, man.”

He feels Sam’s eyes on him again, doesn’t even need to glance over to imagine the hurt look in them. Dean knows there’s something he’s missing, that Sam wants something more from Dean than mere teamwork. Something more that’s part of their past together.

“What?” Dean pushes, curious.

“I just wish you’d let me look into whatever happened to you,” Sam acknowledges, turning his hurt gaze out the windshield in front of them.

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah, it matters,” Sam insists. “You’ve forgotten your whole life, man.” You forgot me, he doesn’t say, but Dean hears it anyway.

Dean shrugs. “I remember the important stuff,” he insists. “And I know you were part of my life, man. I can sense it, even if I don’t remember. You were important to me. Isn’t that enough?”

Sam’s staring again, and Dean doesn’t need to look to feel that kicked-puppy gaze of his.

“You - the real you - would want to know, man,” Sam says again. “You hate being manipulated.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what this is,” Dean insists. “This is something I asked for. It’s something I wanted. I’m sure of it. I have to trust that, man. I’m asking you to trust it, too.”

Sam huffs out a frustrated breath, turns away to stare out the window again.

Dean loves this kid so much it hurts. He knows that with every breath in his body, wants it to be enough, wills Sam to understand.

Earlier, when the vengeful spirit threw Sam across the room into a wall, causing all the picture frames to come crashing down, shattering their glass all over the floor, Dean’s protective instinct kicked into overdrive. He’s certain he would do anything to keep Sam safe. Kill, maim, torture, whatever it took. Dean would die to save Sam. In their line of work, he might have to.

The thought of leaving Sam out alone in the world without him makes Dean see red. There’s no way his wiped memories included Sam, not deliberately. That part must’ve been an accident.

Dean would never intentionally forget Sam. Dean’s need to protect Sam would never have allowed that.

So in a way, he’s okay with Sam digging into the past. Dean’s not going to forbid him from trying to dredge it up at least. Truth be told, Dean’s conviction that he and Sam have known each other very well makes Dean curious and more than a little cautious. Sam’s so young. Dean’s pretty sure his moral compass wouldn’t have allowed him to start anything with an underage boy, so his feelings for Sam must be something he’s been keeping under wraps.

Or so he guesses.

When Sam comes out of the shower that night, clad only in a towel, Dean keeps his eyes on the TV, doesn’t even glance up as Sam bends over his duffel to find clean clothes.

Dean’s under the covers, wearing only his boxers, the way he usually sleeps, but he can sense Sam hesitate before pulling on a t-shirt and sweatpants.

Huh. Dean’s pretty sure Sam usually sleeps in the nude, although he can’t say how he knows that. He’s pretty sure Sam sleeps hot, like a furnace, and kicks off the covers, exposing his long, lean body to the cool room air sometime halfway through the night.

At least, that’s the sense memory that flashes through Dean’s brain as Sam plops down on his own bed on top of the blankets.

“You gonna sleep like that?” Dean asks.

Sam glances at him as he opens his laptop. “Like what?”

Dean shrugs. “Nothin’.”

It’s really none of his business how Sam sleeps.

Sam stares at him, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s about to argue, but then he blessedly lets it go.

After a couple of minutes, though, Sam looks up.

“Are you having flashbacks?”

Dean casually flips the channel on the TV, refusing to look over at Sam and his perfectly toned arms.

“What? No. Why would you think that?”

Maybe neither of them ever acted on their feelings. That makes sense. That explains why Sam’s being so coy, because he’s obviously interested, Dean can tell.

“You always used to sleep in a t-shirt,” Sam observes.

Dean’s shocked. “No, I didn’t,” he protests. “I never did.”

“Pretty sure,” Sam says. “When we were kids and we had to share a bed, you definitely covered up.”

Dean thinks about that for a moment, then asks, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Dude, I was not sleeping with you when you were a kid,” Dean insists. “I wouldn’t.”

Sam's cheeks and nose flush red. “Sharing a bed,” he repeats. “We’re brothers.”

“So you say,” Dean says, hearing the teasing note in his own voice. Sam’s too easy, like low-hanging fruit. “Brothers or not, I wouldn’t. I’d rather sleep on the floor.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Sam says, sounding for all the world like the pissy little brother he’s pretending to be. “You’d kick me out of the bed before you’d do that.”

No, he wouldn’t, Dean thinks. He’d let the kid wrap his arms and legs around Dean in his sleep, shove his face into Dean’s armpit, drool and snore all over him as if Dean was a giant teddy bear. Dean would let Sam feel as safe and protected as Dean could make him feel, even if it meant tolerating Sam rutting into his hip in his sleep.

And Dean would never do a thing about it.

“Pretty sure I never kicked you out of the bed, Sam,” Dean says, with maybe a little too much fondness. He keeps his eyes on the TV, deliberately doesn’t look at Sam, even though he can feel the kid’s eyes on him.

Finally, Sam huffs out a breath. “No, you never did,” he agrees quietly.

And just like that, Dean knows he’s right. He and Sam have had something going on since forever, maybe since Sam was still underage, but they’ve never acted on it. Dean would protect the kid with his life, and Sam depends on Dean to be his moral compass, his guiding light.

Of course, they’re both consenting adults now. Nothing morally wrong with acting on their feelings. Except for Sam’s conviction that their relationship is purely “brotherly,” there’s nothing to keep them sleeping in separate beds. Is there?

It takes real effort to turn off the TV and snuggle down in his lonely bed with his back turned to Sam, but he does it. He’ll be damned if he makes the first move.

“Good night, Sam.”

Sam lets out a long sigh. “Good night, Dean.”

Dean’s out before Sam closes his laptop and turns out the light, but he imagines Sam watching him thoughtfully for a while, just because he can.

//**//**//

During their next case, a poltergeist wraps a lamp cord around Sam’s neck and tries to choke him to death.

Dean reacts instinctively, banishing the poltergeist while saving Sam at the same time, although there’s no doubt in his mind which is the priority.

“Okay, okay, I’ve got you,” he mutters nonsensically as he unwinds the cord from Sam’s neck. Sam slumps against him, all but unconscious, and Dean holds him, fingers pressed to Sam’s neck to check his pulse before sliding around the base of his skull to cradle his head against Dean’s shoulder. “I’ve got you, Sammy. You’re okay.”

Sam lets out a pained sound, then coughs as he comes to and realizes where he is.

For another moment, Sam stays where he is, kneeling on the floor with Dean. His hands come up to Dean’s back, finding his shoulders, and he clings, pressing his face into Dean’s shirt, open-mouthed like a little bird.

“Dean.”

“Yeah, buddy, I’m here. You’re gonna be fine.”

“Missed you so much, man,” Sam croaks. His hands squeeze Dean’s shoulders reflexively. His mouth moves against Dean’s shirt.

“I know. I know, Sam. It’s okay.” Dean slides his hand through Sam’s hair, soothing. Sam’s warm body, pressed against his, feels unbearably good. Right.

“Don’t leave me,” Sam croaks, his voice hoarse and whispery. “Please don’t.”

“Not going anywhere,” Dean assures him, stroking Sam’s broad back with his free hand. “Staying just as long as you need me, baby boy.”

Sam shudders. His mouth works against Dean’s shirt, sucking or kissing or maybe just breathing Dean in, Dean’s not sure.

Dean thinks maybe he should pull Sam back, get a good look at him, just to be sure he’s really conscious. But then Sam turns his head, shuffling closer against Dean’s body, and Dean stays where he is.

Sam’s mouth presses against the bare skin of Dean’s neck, sending shivers up his spine, and Dean allows that, too. He gasps as Sam’s tongue flicks out, tasting him. Dean’s eyes flutter closed, and now he can feel Sam everywhere, his mouth working on Dean’s neck, his hands kneading Dean’s shoulders through his shirt. Dean dropped his jacket somewhere, he realizes, so his shirt and undershirt and Sam’s similar layers are the only things between their bodies. It’s intimate, the adrenaline from their near-death struggles with the poltergeist making them both hyper-sensitized and emotional.

Dean knows he should pull away first. He’s the older one, the one in charge. Sam depends on him to take the lead.

But Sam’s mouth on his skin, sucking and licking and fucking feeding on him like a baby bird, is just too much. He puts both hands on Sam’s head, pulling him off just enough so that Dean can kiss his cheek, his temple, the side of his head.

“It’s okay, Sammy, it’s okay,” he murmurs, trying to steady himself, like the universe isn’t tilting on its axis and turning Dean’s insides to mush right now. Like he has even a semblance of common sense left when it comes to this beautiful boy, this boy who could’ve died today and left him forever.

Sam tilts his face up at just the moment Dean’s about to plant another kiss on the side of his head, and their lips meet. It’s not a proper kiss: Sam’s mouth is still open, so Dean just catches the corner with his kiss, but Sam turns into it, hands cradling Dean’s head and holding him where Sam wants him so that he can do it again, this time with more intent and purpose.

Sam kisses like a drowning man, desperate and gasping, like Dean is his life raft. He clutches everywhere, big hands in Dean’s hair, on his shoulders again, down his back to his ass. Dean does his best to keep up, then starts to worry that Sam’s lost enough oxygen. Kid’s maybe a little brain-damaged.

“Sammy, okay, okay, that’s enough,” he gasps, breaking free against every instinct to keep kissing, to take Sam apart right there on the dingy floor of this stupid no-longer-haunted house. “You need air. Maybe a hospital.”

“No hospital,” Sam croaks, fighting to get his mouth back on Dean’s.

Dean turns his head away. “Nuh-uh. No way. I need to get you back to the hotel, make sure you’re okay.”

He chuckles as he manhandles Sam to his feet, staggers toward the door with Sam leaning heavily on him, one arm slung across his shoulders.

“Dean!” Sam whines, but complies, staggering drunkenly without trying to kiss Dean again.

“I’m not making out with somebody who’s half-asphyxiated,” Dean mutters. “You get a shower, rest up first. Then we’ll see what’s what.”

Dean knows exactly what’s what. Sam might be a little high, but his feelings are real. Dean’s been catching glimpses of them since they first met. And Sam’s obviously been feeling those feelings for quite some time.

And now that Sam’s taken the first step, even if it was done half-drunk on lack of oxygen and adrenaline, Dean’s not letting it go.

Over the next couple of hours, as they clean up and head back to the motel for showers, Dean’s whole body thrums with anticipation.

PART TWO