666 Casper Road - Sam/Dean - R (Pt. 1)
666 Casper Road
Sam/Dean | R | spoilers up to 5x03, just to be sure | angst, curtain fic | ca. 13,000 words | written for whenthewarsover
When hunts are hard to come by after the apocalypse, you have to take what you can get. An inconspicuous haunting leads Sam and Dean to Michigan, where all of a sudden, they find themselves house owners and cohabitants of a friendly ghost. If Sam had his way, they'd not only fix their new home during the upcoming renovations but also their relationship that has become so difficult.
Prompt: 13. Sam and Dean are on a simple haunting, since hunts are hard to come by these days, and they decide they love the house-- spirit and all (who offers to arrange to bequeath it to them if they let it stick around). So they fix it up and learn to coexist with the former inhabitant.
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"Find anything?" Sam doesn't know why he bothers asking anymore.
In the days since after storms of pitch-black clouds, rains of brimstone and fire, (not literally), hunts have been sparse and few between. On the rare occasion that there is a job, it's not unusual for others hunters to beat them to the case. The last times they teamed up with other hunters (other than Bobby) left a sour aftertaste in Sam's mouth; it reminded him too much of Gordon, Jo, Isaac, and Tamara. Someone always gets hurt or worse, so Sam would rather let somebody else have the ghost, werewolf, or vampire as long as he doesn't have to combine forces with anybody but Dean.
The body count of the apocalypse was sickeningly high.
After Lucifer was released from his prison, it didn't all quite play out like the angels had anticipated: bah-doom, here comes Dean, giving in to his destiny and saving the world as he does. Instead, it took months of acrimonious fighting, war strategy, consolidating allies, battle after battle, death after death until, finally, Lucifer and his army were defeated. The losses on both sides were enormous. In a way it was ironic that every little victory also meant a defeat that Sam witnessed more than once. Next to the hunters and unknowing people who got caught between the sides, the demons and angels rode innocent hosts, and they rode them hard. Often they took the persons' souls with them when they left the body.
Sam's pretty sure that some supernatural critters were taken out too since he has no other explanation for the lack of hunts. Maybe, the number of hunters didn't decrease much, whereas the number of targets did, de-equilibrating the hunter-prey ratio, but really, it's not as if Sam had analyzed any of this. When, in fact, he totally did, which is bad enough of a sign to show what they've come to - too much time to think, too few things to hunt.
That's why he clearly did not anticipate Dean to say, "Dunno. Maybe. Haunted house one state over."
"Really?" Sam doesn't believe it. He sounds a little too eager, even to his own ears.
Dean shrugs at him and says, "Yeah. There have been reports of ghost sightings in Michigan."
"Did anybody die?" Sam asks, a little more hopeful.
"No. Just people saying spooky things are going on there."
In the past this would have been the point where they shrugged it off and found themselves a different thing to kill. The fact that Sam almost gets excited over this, despite the lack of deaths should speak for itself. Dean doesn't seem to mind.
"Okay, let's pack up," Sam says, already stuffing three shirts into his duffel.
The house is located just outside of Ludington, a small, picturesque city right on the shores of Lake Michigan.
Despite the rundown appearance, there is something charming about the two-story building, Sam thinks as they head toward it. The front yard is overgrown with all kinds of bushes and vines, making it almost impossible to walk up the small path that leads to the porch. There are broken pieces of glass splattered around the few window frames that haven't been nailed up with wood that has become porous under the influence of years and weather. The porch creaks as they cross it and they make a beeline for the front door. Sam wouldn't be surprised if the old wood gave way underneath them and they broke a leg, arm, or their necks. It would be just their luck. Survive the goddamn apocalypse and then get yourself killed sneaking around a dilapidated house.
It must have been a while since someone has been here. The faded For Sale sign is dangling in the faint breeze coming from the lake, only held on by a fragile-looking, rust-clad iron chain. Sam's sure no one wants to buy this house in its current state. It has potential, for sure, if people bother to look past the obvious.
Before coming out here, Sam and Dean did their research. It didn't answer any of their questions, so they decided to see the old place. The previous owner, Lorraine O'Brian died in the house in 1987. She was 72 years old. After her passing was declared a natural death, she was cremated - no bones to salt and burn. She didn't leave any family behind either.
As they dug deeper into the town's records, it turned out that there was one death: a young boy died at the foot of the staircase but, according to the official reports, the police ruled it out as an accident in an old house. It's a sad sign that Sam hopes the police are wrong. There are stories about kids who sneaked into the old house on a dare and who claimed they saw a ghost, yet no one had ever been hurt or died, except for the one victim.
Something's not right here, but Sam and Dean are desperate enough for a hunt that they're willing to give it a try.
The old wood creaks underneath every step Sam takes. The front door isn't locked - even if it were, he's pretty sure it wouldn't take a very strong kick to force it open. A cloud of dust and dirty air engulfs them as they enter. Sam coughs. The inside of the house is just like the outside: rundown, neglected, dismal.
"Wonder what keeps a ghost in a hole like this," Dean says in between two coughs.
"If she's bound to something here, she's got no choice, Dean," Sam shrugs. "Besides, it's got potential, I guess."
Dean cocks an eyebrow at Sam, disbelief and my brother is crazy written all over his face. Things haven't been particularly easy for them, between them, ever since the events that lead to the apocalypse. Even though it's been months, Sam's still trying to fix it. Some days he wonders whether Dean was right and maybe they'll never be able to return to what they had before.
He pushes those thoughts away. They're on a job and he needs to focus. Checking that his shotgun is loaded properly, they search for the ghostly Lorraine next. They start with the first floor, not speaking as they do. They don't talk much these days. Not that they ever did, Sam thinks to himself. The fact that he's talking to himself inside his head is probably a pretty good indicator of what they've become. There is the steady whining of the EMF, interrupted by occasional grunts and hisses as they lead each other through the house: the living room, the kitchen, washrooms, storage rooms, bathrooms and bedrooms upstairs.
Sam doesn't know why they're trying to be quiet and why - when they do talk - they only whisper. The stupid floor gives them away anyway. At this point, he's sure that if there is a ghost here, it would've found them by now. He snorts at a particularly loud creaking sound. It earns him an annoyed expression from Dean and a hissed shh. But when Sam stomps his foot on the ground, wringing another sound, Dean grins and shakes his head.
"I don't think there's anything here," Sam says.
There's one last room at the end of the hallway but Sam's pretty much given up hope that this is a hunt. Half-heartedly, he pushes the double doors open, only to have one of them bounce off the hinge and fall onto the floor with a loud, flat noise.
"Don't shoot me! Don't shoot me please!"
Sam's heart skips a beat as he spots a figure, with long gray hair and ashy skin just a few feet away from him. She's holding up both of her hands in surrender; her old, marked face is terrified. It takes him a second to realize that this must be the ghost of Lorraine.
She's at the point of Dean's shotgun when Sam yells last minute, "Dean! Don't shoot!"
When Dean looks at him perplexed and asks, "What the hell, man?" Sam doesn't have an explanation. Across from them a ghost is standing - no, she's hiding behind the door of a closet now - obviously scared of them and definitely not dangerous. All of a sudden, he feels pity for her.
"Lorraine?" he asks. "Lorraine, you can come out. We're not going to hurt you."
Dean elbows him in the ribs so Sam glares at him and motions for him to take his shotgun down. Dean finally does. Sam simply wants to talk to her, maybe find out what ties her to the house. Lorraine looks scared as she comes out from her hiding place, which is funny if you keep in mind that she clearly has the advantage here. She doesn't seem to be aware of it though.
"Hi, I'm Sam and this is Dean," Sam says, trying to coax her a little closer. "We're not going to hurt you, okay? We just wanna talk."
"What do you want to talk about, young man?" she asks curiously. She squints at him and Sam knows he needs to come up with something quick.
He stammers, "Uh, what about… Mitchell Anderson-"
The boy who died. Accident or not, now for Sam to find out.
There's genuine sorrow on Lorraine's ghosty face. "Oh, that poor kid. I think I scared him and then he ran away. I told him to be careful around here because the house is getting old. And see, the stairs aren't the best anymore. Wait, let me show you, young man." She grabs Sam by the wrist, her grip tight and ice-cold through his flannel shirt. Sam's taken aback by the unexpected touch and Dean's alert immediately. Only when Sam shakes his head at him, indicating that he doesn't think this is dangerous - strange, yes - Dean doesn't blow Lorraine's head off with rock salt.
"This is where he fell," she explains as she takes Sam to the middle of the stairs. The wood is old and moldy, jarring as Sam tiptoes over it. Lorraine points to a missing step that looks as if someone broke through it. Accident then. Lorraine's telling the truth.
She looks hopeful for a second, "You're not, by chance, the repairmen I've been trying to call for years to get this fixed?"
Sam doesn't trust his ears. They've gone from a little weird to surreal, even for them. He hurries up the stairs and stands next to Dean, whispering to him, "Do you think she knows she's dead?"
Lorraine doesn't give Dean the chance to answer as she says, "I do, young man."
After a pause, she adds, "I guess that's why the repairman never came."
"Lorraine," Dean says in that no-bullshit-now tone, "you know you can't be here. You're dead. Your spirit isn't supposed to stay here once you die."
Sam wants to tell Dean not to be so hard on her. He's starting to like Lorraine and her gentle eyes, but of course, he knows that Dean's right. She's a ghost and needs to be put to rest.
There's an expression of panic on Lorraine's face, something Sam hasn't ever seen on a ghost's face. Pain. Anger. Vengefulness. Sadness; but never panic. Not like this. Her voice is shaking as she pleads, "But who's going to look after the house when I'm not here? I was born in this house! I lived here all my life! This is the house where my father and my grandfather were born. My great-grandfather built it with his own two hands! How could I possibly not be here?"
By the time she finishes, Lorraine is downright hysterical. Sam assumes that the only reason why she doesn't get down on her knees to beg is that she remembers her old, worn body that ached with each step she took. His feeling of pity, of compassion grows stronger.
Sam doesn't know what it's like to have a home. A home that doesn't have four wheels and is made of black metal, that is. He doesn't remember the house they had in Lawrence. He doesn't know how it feels to walk into a room and be filled with all those memories. How your mom smelled, how your dad helped you set up the model railway you got for Christmas, how you celebrated your fifth, tenth, fifteenth birthday, how you brought your first girlfriend home or how your room changed as you grew older. For Sam, Dean has always equaled home, even when they were apart. One of his most precious possessions at Stanford was an old, ratty shirt that Dean used to wear during training. It smelled so much like Dean that Sam hid it from Jess in fear of her accidentally washing a sweaty shirt that smelled like dude. The thought of being separated from Dean - again - kills him. Over and over again. Each and every time.
He understands Lorraine a little better now.
"I think she's attached to the house itself." Dean tears Sam out of his train of thoughts.
Sam rolls his eyes. "Brilliant deduction, Watson."
Dean's tone is sharp, huffish. "Sam, don't get all smartass on me."
Just as the potential develops for this disagreement to turn into a full-blown argument, Lorraine interrupts. "Sam, it was, correct? You don't seem to be scared of me. And neither seems your-" she hesitates, "partner. What- what if I give you the house? The two of you. You could live here and take care of the house with me. We could live here all together. You wouldn't notice me, I promise. You're two healthy young men, I'm sure you could bring back some of the old charm and glory of my birthplace."
Dean's answer is immediate and short. "No."
"Dean," Sam pleads. The hopeful expression on Lorraine's face fades into despair and it breaks his heart. The idea doesn't seem entirely devious to Sam, not after seeing the house and seeing beyond the dirt and things that need to be fixed, not now that he knows how Lorraine feels about it.
Lorraine doesn't seem to give up just yet. She comes closer to Sam and Dean and when she sees Dean tense, she decides to keep some distance. "Have you seen the property, Dean? It goes all the way down to the lake. It needs a bit of work but you could grow your own fruit and vegetables. The lake is very scenic in the summer, extremely romantic." She giggles. "Great for skinny-dipping too.
"The house is a little outside of town, I know, so you'd need a car to drive around, but it's great for two men with your lifestyle," she pauses and it takes Sam a moment to figure out what she means with your lifestyle.
Blushing, Lorraine suggests, "You could just pretend to be brothers while you live your life in peace out here."
Sam bursts out laughing. He's always been less peeved by being mistaken for gay lovers than Dean. Dean whacks him upside the head, making Sam laugh only harder. Then Dean hisses, "We are brothers."
"Oh. Think about it," Lorraine pleads.
Sam is still giggling when Dean grabs him by the upper arm and pulls him away. Dean's bristling with anger. "Pull yourself together, Sam!"
All these years and Dean still doesn't know how to deal with being mistaken for boyfriends. It irks Sam, especially after what they had. He bites his lip in order to not agitate Dean further. They're fighting enough as it is. There's no need to start something in front of Lorraine. Taking a deep breath, Sam asks, "What do you wanna do, Dean?"
"Salt and burn whatever we need to and move on." Dean's reply comes quick.
Sam snorts. "Yeah, right. Because it didn't take us forever to find this hunt. Dean, she's not hurting anybody. She's not evil."
"She's a ghost, Sam."
"A friendly one," Sam shrugs.
"What?" Dean stares at him wide-eyed.
"A friendly one," Sam repeats. "Dean, she's not a threat to anyone. She's more scared of people than people are scared of her. We could take her offer."
"Are you crazy?" Dean almost-shrieks, only that Dean obviously doesn't shriek. "We don't settle down."
Sam sighs. "Look man, I know that things have been tough."
As soon as he hints at their current situation, or lack of situation, Dean's face becomes stone cold. He's gritting his teeth, his jaw set firm. "I said no."
But Sam doesn't give up that quickly. "Let's at least think about it. Okay?"
"What? And give her time to escape?"
"Dean, you do realize that the only reason she's trapped in this is house is because she can't or doesn’t want to leave it, right? If we decide to kill her, she's gonna be here tomorrow," Sam reasons. "Please, let's think about it."
He knows he's got Dean as soon as Dean's eyebrows draw together and he sticks out his lower lip. Dean stabs a finger at Sam's chest. "Fine. But I'm gonna still gonna say no."
Sam grins.
Before they drive back to the motel, Sam drags Dean off to have a look at the garden and the rest of the land. It feels strangely couple-ish, inspecting the property. It's isolated and rundown, just like the house. It'll take a lot of work. Sam should be worried that he's imagining himself already how he's felling the dead trees, cutting down dry bushes to make space for new life.
He's tempted to take Dean's hand - even though neither Dean nor he were ever really into holding hands when things were still good between them, especially not in public - but walking down the small, overgrown path to the lake makes him miss feelings and situations that he usually doesn't allow himself to miss. It's a 15-minute walk until they reach the sandy shores of Lake Michigan, no houses, nothing nearby to be seen. Lorraine definitely is right. Perfect for swimming. Naked or not.
Sam sighs, knowing he has some serious convincing to do.
The subject doesn't come up again until later when they're back at the motel.
"Are we gonna discuss it?" Sam says, sitting down on the edge of Dean's bed.
Dean doesn't look up from the TV screen as he's flipping through the various channels. "Discuss what?"
Typical Dean. Sam knows that Dean knows exactly what he's talking about. He's not letting him get away with it. "The house, Dean."
"No, Sammy," Dean is quick to reply, voice no-nonsense. It doesn't matter what he's saying no to. The house or the fact that Sam wants to talk about it in the first place.
"Dean."
"No."
Sam sighs. He's been thinking about this. About how their lives have changed forever since the end of the apocalypse and how they wander desperately, trying to find something to hunt in order to not kill each other. Sam knows that Dean is just as frustrated as him. The thing is, Sam's been considering their options and more specifically, he's been considering Lorraine's offer.
It leads him to his next question. "Why are you stuck on killing her?"
"I just wanna move on and find something else to hunt. I don't wanna worry about a house," Dean says defiantly.
Sam snorts. "Yeah, because there are so many things to hunt, Dean."
Sam knows he's speaking the dreaded truth. It's something they both realize but it doesn't mean Dean's come to accept it. The true meaning of Dean's words hits Sam like a slap in the face: Dean's not concerned about the house and taking care of it. Sam knows him well enough to see right through his words. Dean's true issue is that he doesn't want to settle down. With Sam. The realization stings, albeit it's no surprise. Sam's aware that he made some major mistakes in the past and that his attempts to fix them have merely lead to a somewhat friendly coexistence and tolerance. Not more.
"We'll find something," Dean says. He doesn't sound convinced.
Sam uses the opportunity to try and show Dean the ugly truth. "It took us forever to find this hunt. And look, it's not even a real hunt."
The volume of Dean's voice increases and Sam's got a feeling this might develop into an argument. Great. "It would be if you weren't so stuck on saving Casper, the friendly neighborhood ghost!"
"Okay, let's search for another hunt."
When logical arguments don't work, Sam goes for another approach. Dean looks at him dumbfounded as Sam boots up the laptop. A few clicks and he's got the usual online newspapers open they check when searching for cases.
"Which one do you wanna start with?" he asks provocatively. "The one in Connecticut where - oh, that's not a hunt. What about the one in Texas, where - oops, again, not a hunt. Or, did you maybe wanna check Dad's journal?"
Sam's aware that the tone of his voice matches Dean's by the time he's finished. It's a clear sign that their frustration works both ways. He's just as annoyed that there's nothing to do and that they're driving through the country indiscriminately instead of doing something useful. When he started to realize that maybe, there wasn't anything new to hunt, Sam came to terms with the fact that it might be time for a new life.
"Got it, okay, Sammy. Stop being such an ass," Dean hisses at him.
That's when Sam can't hold back anymore. "What's so horrifying about the thought of fixing up this house and settling down? Why are you so fucking desperate to waste our time doing absolutely nothing, leading a miserable life in your fucking car while all we do is agonize about how can we possibly make our lives even more miserable? In case you haven't realized, Dean, we hardly ever talk to each other anymore. If you want to lead this life, give us at least more space than the car to get out of each other's way!"
Sam takes a deep breath. There's a huge lump in his throat. He wants to take back half of the things he said when he sees the angry expression on Dean's face, yet he's relieved to finally let it out. His voice softens as he says, "Dean, I know that things haven't been easy lately. But- but why don't you give us the opportunity to fix it? Did what we had mean so little to you that you don't want it back?"
There's an indescribable urge in Sam to kiss Dean. It's been so long since he kissed Dean, since he last touched him that Sam doesn't even remember anymore what Dean tastes like, feels like. The realization pains him. It's as if someone drove a dagger right into his chest, taking away his breath.
Dean looks pained too. He shakes his head and doesn't speak right away.
"How could you think that, Sammy?"
"Dean, if it's not that, then what is it? Why are you so against taking this offer?"
Dean's voice is shaking a little as he says, "I don't know. I just-"
"What, Dean?" Sam encourages.
"When we're driving around, even if we're without a real destination, I feel there's a purpose. And that there's something to take off our minds. Even if there's no real hunt, there's not this thing in the back of our minds, screaming Fix me, fix me!
"I'm just-" Dean pauses, "scared that if we settle down that you'll expect me to go back to how we were before all that angels and demons and apocalypse crap. And I don't know if I can give you that, Sam."
Sam feels nauseous, the urge to run to the bathroom and throw up overcoming him. Of course, he felt that this was Dean's reasoning behind his vehement no, but hearing him say it so clearly is ten times worse than Sam anticipated. While it stings and makes him feel like shit, there's also part of Sam that can understand all too well.
"I know, Dean," Sam says. "But don't you think that avoiding the issue like this is only going to make it worse in the long run? I'm not saying that we have to go back to where we were or that I'm expecting you to right away. I'm just thinking that it's not going to get any better. You know what happened the last time."
Dean doesn't answer right away. He looks at Sam for a few long, agonizing moments. Both know what not dealing with their issues lead to and while Sam doesn't expect a second apocalypse (and he knows that Dean doesn't either), they're also aware how these things never end too well for them.
Eventually, Dean nods.
They make a decision that night. To fix things, starting with Lorraine's home. By the end of the next day, they are magically the owners of the ruins of a house thanks to the long-lost last will of Lorraine O'Brian appearing. A miracle.
Sam hopes that this isn't the only thing to get fixed.
It's early spring when Sam and Dean start with the renovations. The days are getting longer and warmer, while the nights are still nippy. It goes a lot faster than Sam anticipated.
They start with the essentials: getting rid of some old furniture and other crap while repairing obvious security risks like the ramshackle stairs. Each thing they try to throw away, they discuss with Lorraine. Not because they want to but because they have to. She seems to have immense issues with letting go of keepsakes. While Sam understands that Lorraine has connections to these items - he really does - it doesn't mean that he thinks they should let an old futon with torn upholstery and springs poking out clutter up their new home. The weirdest thing is that he's discussing with a ghost in the first place.
They split up in order to speed up the renovation process. Dean was incredibly keen on the suggestion when Sam said he'd work on the first floor while Dean could take the ground floor. Even though they're both in the house at the same time, they barely see each other. While it's easier to dance around each other and relieve some of the tension between them in the larger space, it also makes fixing things harder.
Sam's getting impatient. He knows that he needs to give it time, give them time to let the wounds heal. But he misses Dean and he feels like he's been giving them an eternity already. It's not just the physical connection that he misses, the random touches, the kisses, the sex, but also the emotional ones - knowing that Dean's got his back and that Dean trusts him. He's fully aware that angsting over the issue isn't going to make things easier but he can't help it. Sam sighs.
Sam's knocking out an old, moldered window frame in one of the upstairs bedrooms when he hears Dean call his name from downstairs. He drops the hammer and runs down the stairs. Thank God they stabilized those first.
He grins at what he sees.
Dean's clutching an old radio to his chest while Lorraine tries to snatch it from him. It was probably over 30 years old when Lorraine died and Sam doubts it's still working. It's got to be one of these items that Lorraine wants to keep so desperately for sentimental reasons whereas Sam and Dean agree they have to go, but it seems like Dean needs a little help persuading Lorraine.
"Hey, hey, guys!" Sam interferes.
Dean looks at him with relief; there's even a little smile on his face. It makes the butterflies in Sam's belly dance; they don't smile at each that much anymore.
Sam has the better connection with Lorraine, there's no doubt about it. Things have been on the icy side since the last fight between Dean and Lorraine when Dean threatened to shoot her with rock salt. Dean's never been too fond of her to begin with so at this point they're mostly tolerating each other. This is why, most of the time, Lorraine hangs out with Sam and by hanging out, he means Lorraine supervises him while he works. Dean never complained about it.
"What's going on?" Sam asks, even though it's pretty obvious.
"Dean wants to throw away the radio!" Lorraine shrieks, her voice painful to Sam's ears.
Dean shrugs his shoulders and gazes down at the radio in his hands before he looks at Sam. Sam doesn't need to be convinced what to do with it. He huffs and then turns to Lorraine, "Look Lorraine, I know you care about all these things here," (he's careful not to call them useless junk or crap like Dean would) "but if we continue discussing which old, broken things we have to keep and what we can throw away, we're never gonna get this place done. And didn't you say you wanted the house to be cleaned up and nice and cozy again?"
He feels bad for tricking an old lady ghost, but Sam means what he said. If they ever want to get finished, they need to stop fighting over every thing and get Lorraine to trust them so they can do their work. Lorraine looks sad but she nods; it only makes Sam feel worse.
"Hey Sam, come help me over here," Dean says, pointing to a large, wooden countertop that looks too heavy and bulky to be carried by one person.
It's even heavier than it looks and by the time they managed to carry it from the old kitchen out to the backyard, sweat is trickling down Sam's back. He exhales and flexes his fists once they've dropped it to the ground next to other things they want to burn. Sam wipes a hand over his face on his way back to the house. He feels fingers tighten on his arm as he climbs up the stairs to the back porch. When he turns around, he finds Dean looking at him, exhausted but smiling.
"Want a beer?" Dean asks, and when Sam nods, he points to the steps and says, "I'm going to get them."
Dean doesn't spend much time with him voluntarily anymore, not since they've actually got space to avoid each other. Sitting down, Sam lets his thoughts wander to how he had hoped they'd get closer again, hoped somewhere in the distance of his mind that things would return to how they once were. He's not giving up on that fading hope, even though it's getting harder and harder to cling to it each day.
Dean returns with two piss-warm beers. It reminds Sam that they should check the wiring in the kitchen and maybe get the fridge to work. He doesn't complain about the beer's temperature as Dean sits down next to him. They don't speak and for once the silence doesn't feel tense or uncomfortable.
Sam's lost in thought, going through the things he needs to do next. So lost in thought that he jumps when Dean bumps his knee against Sam's. The touch is so brief that Sam easily could have imagined it. Only he knows he didn't; his skin feels like on fire.
"Sorry," Dean mumbles at Sam's reaction but Sam's quick to answer.
"It's okay."
Sam even goes so far and places a hand on Dean's knee. Dean doesn't squirm, doesn't tense and after a while, it's Sam who has to let go when the whispered voices in his head turn into loud screams, suggesting he slide his hand up a little further. He gives Dean's leg a squeeze and clings to his beer with both hands. He thinks he just saw Dean smirk from the corner of his eye, but when Sam blinks, that smirk is gone.
An icy shiver runs down Sam's spine that isn't to blame on the decreasing temperature. It's not that cold. Turning around, Sam finds Lorraine standing in the doorway, smiling at them before she disappears.
"Making headway up there?" Dean asks between two gulps.
Sam smiles at Dean's attempt to make conversation, appreciates it. He nods. "It's going okay. I think I'll be done with the bedroom windows tomorrow. The floors need a lot of work still. What about you?"
Dean runs a hand over his face. It's red and raw from all the manual work. "Done decluttering. Lorraine hoarded a lot of crap, believe me. I would've been done a lot faster if I didn't have to discuss every little thing I wanna throw out with her."
"I'll talk to her," Sam offers.
Dean nods his acknowledgement. "We should tear down the wall between the living room and that other room we don't know what to do with. Would make for a nice, big room. 'Sides it's nearly falling apart anyway."
"Mhm."
Dean grins and winks at Sam. "I haven't mentioned that to Lorraine yet. I didn't want to give her a heart attack."
Sam guffaws. "Well, at least she's already dead and you don't have to worry about reanimation."
Dean makes a disgusted face, doing that thing where he pulls up his upper lip. "Gross."
He shouldn't look so goddamn kissable right now.
They continue sitting outside for a while, discussing what to do next. They have more beer and as they sit; it almost feels like back in the day. It's easy, no tension, something to concentrate on, no pressure. Lorraine joins them at one point, telling them stories about the house and how she remembers it. Stories of how she grew up.
Sam doesn't think he needs validation on his decision to convince Dean to settle down. But if he did, he's pretty sure this is it.
One of the things Dad taught them is that if you have to (or want to, in their case) stay in a town longer than a few weeks, hustling and credit card fraud are out of question. Since Sam and Dean don't have access to huge saving accounts, the only logical consequence at one point is to find some kind of employment.
Dean gets a job as a construction worker, Sam as a bartender in a bar in town. It slows the renovations down because their conflicting work schedules only permit them to work on the house separately; Sam in the morning and Dean in the evening. Everything that needs to be done by two people has to wait until the weekend.
The physical labor on what is supposed to become their home continues to feel good; doing things with their hands, using their strengths, and seeing the change. Sam didn't think he had missed it, but it turns out, he did. It's a strangely satisfying feeling. Rewarding to see the house go from uninhabitable to almost inhabitable and knowing it's their hard labor. There's a lot of work ahead of them, so they still have to sleep at the motel, but falling into bed each night after an exhausting day makes him proud. Having achieved something. Something good. With his own two hands. He doesn't mind the countless splinters, the backaches, or the sore muscles.
He's surprised at how well Dean's holding up despite already working a physically strenuous job during the day.
They still rarely talk but Sam's not worried about it all that much anymore. Maybe he's too exhausted to agonize over it. Or maybe he realized that they're simply too exhausted to care and share. There's a lot of silence between them - not that Dean has ever been someone who talked much - but somehow, Sam feels as if some of the tension between them had vanished. Sometimes, things are awkward and weird but in a way, the silence has lost its sour aftertaste.
"Which room do you want?" Dean asks, looking at Sam.
Lorraine stands between them, her hands clamped over her mouth, her eyes big and happy with unshed tears. Sam and Dean had decided earlier that they'd restore her old bedroom, even though she probably doesn't even sleep and hence doesn't technically need it. But they wanted her to have a room, because in a way, this is still her home and they wanted to thank her. Besides they didn't throw away all of her stuff and it needs to go somewhere.
They've advanced so much with the renovations that it's time to make the bedrooms livable and move in. Dean's question shouldn't come as a surprise but it stings nonetheless. It hasn't been going too badly between them lately. In fact, it's gone pretty well; they been having a beer and talking about unimportant things, while sitting on the porch to enjoy the summer heat has become somewhat of a ritual between Sam and Dean, most of the time even initiated by Dean.
Sam's been a fool to allow himself to hope that Dean and he were ready to share a room and a bed again. He swallows past the tears and croaks, "Doesn't matter."
Dean looks at him with questioning eyes, but Sam doesn't give him the time to ask. Instead he quickly heads down to the living room to find himself something to do. Tearing down that living room wall seems like a really good idea right now.
Sam's just about to bring the sledgehammer down when he hears Dean from behind, "I'm really scared to ask, but- you okay?"
He drops the hammer and sighs. His shoulders slug down and he takes a moment before he whispers, "It's nothing."
But of course, Dean knows him better than that. He walks around Sam so that they're face to face. "Nothing, eh? You're almost crying over nothing. Please tell me you're not PMSing."
"Dean," Sam says, not looking Dean in the eye.
"Sam. I mean it. I'm asking."
And I'm not gonna ask again remains unspoken. It's now or never. Sam figures, he might as well just say it. "I just- I thought things were going okay between the two of us. I just hoped we could-"
"Sam."
Dean's tone is a mix of emotions that Sam can't pick apart. He puts a hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezes it briefly. When Sam finally looks at him again, Dean says, "Some things just take a lot of time."
Dean's gone again by the time Sam realizes what it really means.
Sam's waiting impatiently for Dean to come to the house; he can't quite call it home yet. He needs to head to the motel in order to shower and get ready for his evening shift at the bar in which he needs the car. Besides, he was only half-awake when Dean left for the construction site early this morning and Sam wants to say some kind of coherent hello to Dean at least.
He's aware that it makes them sound like boyfriends and he's also aware that they aren't. But things have started going more smoothly between them lately, tension has eased away further so he thinks he deserves this little moment to let himself dream.
And on a more selfish note, he got a lot done today - they're working on the floors of the bedrooms - and he wants to show Dean how dedicated he is. They had a fight two days ago where Dean told him that he doubted Sam's commitment to the renovations and that he felt like he was doing all the work. The accusation struck hard and Sam wants to prove that Dean's wrong.
"Hey Sam!" he hears Dean yell downstairs.
There's a huge grin on Sam's face as he runs down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. It's a sheer wonder he doesn't trip and break his neck. Dean gives him a funny look when they stand face to face but it makes Sam only grin even harder.
"So, how's it going?" Dean asks, cocking an eyebrow at Sam and giving him a suspicious look.
"Good. No, great!" Sam says. He doesn't give Dean the time to ask him whether he's crazy or drunk or stoned or all three. Instead, he grabs Dean by the sleeve of his shirt and pulls him along. "Gotta show you something."
He's buzzing with excitement. Dean's expression turns from puzzled to annoyed when Sam ignores his continuous questions about what's going on. They're outside the bedroom Sam's been working on like a maniac all day. When he thinks about the state of the floor, before and after, he's filled with incredible pride. The plan was to tear out the old wood, but Sam went even further: he also laid the new plank. Sure, it's not the biggest room in the house, yet, he knows it's a great achievement.
He waits at the doorstep and doesn't say anything. When he can't stop grinning, Dean rolls his eyes at him and finally peeks into the room. He looks at Sam, eyes wide and unbelieving, and then backs into the room.
"Did you do all of that today? By yourself?"
Sam grins and nods enthusiastically.
Dean purses his lips and looks into room again, taking his time to study everything. Finally, he says, "Good job, man. Good job."
There's a proud smile on Dean's face, his voice sounds sincere. He literally pats Sam on the back. And that kind of hurts.
At Sam's wince, Dean asks, "What's up? You okay?"
"Yeah, just a little sore."
Dean laughs and says something about how unfortunate it is that they haven't fixed the bathroom yet, otherwise Sam could soak in the hot tub. Their eyes meet and for a moment Dean holds Sam's gaze before he blushes and looks away. Sam's own cheeks begin to burn. He could have sworn there was something in Dean's eyes, in his look. Not just the pride and honest praise, but something more. Something that used to be there all the time when Dean looked at him before they went downhill, something that used to feel so familiar. It makes Sam's heart ache because he wants to, needs to see that again.
"I mean it, Sammy. Well done," Dean says as he inspects the floor.
Sam would love to skip his shift and work with Dean on the other bedroom floors and enjoy the moment, the ease, the - Sam's almost tempted to call it a spark - between them, but he knows he can't. With a heavy heart, he says goodbye to Dean.
"Gotta hurry. I'll be late."
One of the most memorable moments is the night they sleep in the house for the first time. All in all, it took them two months until they managed to transfer the house from an uninhabitable and dangerous state to what can be considered passable. There's still a lot of work to do, especially in the backyard - Sam's not thinking about it - but for now, the fact that they can move out of the motel and into the house merits a little celebration.
Sam grabs a few beers from the fridge and goes to search for Dean and Lorraine. He finds them by the lake, sitting in the warm sand. With a smile, Sam flops down next to Dean and hands him a beer. It's blissfully cool as Sam takes gulp after gulp. His muscles ache particularly bad today after carrying lots of heavy furniture but he doesn't mind because he feels good about everything they achieved so far. He lets himself fall back into the soft sand and groans unhappily when his body protests.
"Sore?" Lorraine asks. There's a sympathetic expression on her face at Sam's nod.
Dean pats Sam's thigh and laughs, "The fruits of hard labor, Sammy."
The touch sends bolts through Sam's body. He shouldn't react like a teenager whenever Dean touches him, especially if it's probably not even meant intimately, but Sam can't help it. It's quite pathetic. Especially when Dean's hand just stays where it is. Dean smiles and winks at Sam before he removes his hand and takes a drink from his beer.
"This is going to be so gorgeous, boys," Lorraine says with a smile on her face. She goes on about how the house used to be one of the most beautiful in Ludington before she got too old to take proper care of it and how she had no family to help her.
Sam doesn't listen though. Instead, he watches Dean collect the condensation from his beer bottle with his thumb and then lick at it absent-mindedly. Sam's mind wanders off to pictures of Dean sucking other things and that's all it takes for Sam's dick to take interest. When Sam and Dean's eyes meet - over Lorraine talking about how she'd teach children and teenagers the piano in her house, how inappropriate - Dean smirks, puts his beer down and sucks his thumb into his mouth. Dean holds Sam's gaze and even though he knows he probably should, Sam just can't look away. Especially not when Dean swirls his tongue around his thumb and leans in a little closer to Sam. So close that Sam can hear the very breathy moan, only meant for his ears. Sam's dick is growing even harder. And to top it all off, Dean places his hand on Sam's thigh again, immediately letting it travel to the inside where Sam is even more sensitive. Sam wishes he could move so that the hand was where he wants it to be, Dean touching him where Sam wants to be touched. He squirms but Dean doesn't react - doesn't remove his hand or move it further up.
The thing they had, the relationship (if you want to call it that), was long and intense enough for them to learn these kinds of signs too. The way Sam squirms, how his cheeks are hot, the way he bites his lip and literally sits on his hands in order not to jump at Dean or at least grab his hand and do stuff. Sam knows that Dean knows how to interpret them. Sam's hard and if he could, he'd push Dean back and lie down on top of him and grind their bodies against one another until they both get off.
A realization hits Sam like a freight train: Dean is flirting with him (or rather using sexual energy to drive him crazy) and according to Dean's smirk, he's also entirely aware of what he's doing to Sam and he's probably also aware that Sam knows that he's aware and yet, he doesn't stop. Sam's head hurts. Dean winks at him, turns to Lorraine (not taking away his hand), and asks, "So, Lorraine have you thought about a color for the living room walls yet?"
Lorraine falls into a long ramble how the walls used to have flowery wallpaper when she was young but she fears that's no longer considered modern and that she also has a feeling Sam and Dean might not like rose motifs on the wall. Dean keeps nodding, making comments and suggestions here and there. Sam really would love to contribute something and have his say, but all he can think about is how Dean's hand moves closer and closer to his dick and how Dean has scooted a little closer to him.
"Maybe someone could even fix my old piano," Lorraine says in excitement, only to have Dean nod at her and promise that he'll ask around at work to find out whether anybody knows anything about pianos and their restorations.
At this point, Sam's close to grabbing Dean's hand to make sure it stays where it is. If it moves any closer to his crotch, he's not sure he'll be able to control himself for very much longer. But he certainly doesn't want it to move away either.
He's just about to drop his hand on top of Dean's when Dean squeezes and strokes his thumb over Sam's thigh for the split of a second. The skin feels immediately cold when Dean lets go and gets up. He stretches and then he says, "Gotta call it a day. Night's over for me in a few hours."
Sam doesn't hesitate a second. He doesn't even think as he says, "I'm coming with you. I'm pretty beat up."
"Sure," Dean says and offers Sam a hand to help him up.
When Sam steals a glance to the side, he finds a mysterious smile on Lorraine's face. He doesn't dwell on it when she winks at him and makes motions with her hands and tells them to go ahead because she'll stay here to enjoy the beautiful night a little more.
They walk back in silence. If Sam wasn't convinced that Dean would call him a girl and definitely not appreciate the gesture, Sam would entwine his fingers with Dean's. So instead, he enjoys how their hands brush against each other occasionally as they head back. The evening turned out pretty well, a lot better than he had anticipated. There are still butterflies dancing in Sam's belly from Dean's flirting, the soft touches and unspoken promises. Sam shakes his head and snickers at himself because he's such a lovestruck teenager. This isn't like him. Yet, he doesn't mind the feeling at all.
They come to a halt in the hallway to their bedrooms. Their rooms are across from each other, the master bedroom at the end of the corridor. There's a brief, awkward moment of silence and in retrospect, Sam thinks his actions turned it into a total disaster. When Dean doesn't disappear into his bedroom right away but looks Sam in the eyes with intensity, Sam closes the distance and kisses him.
He presses his mouth to Dean's, lips dry and chapped. Somewhere in the back of Sam's mind it all feels achingly familiar. His arm comes around Dean's waist and with a quick pull, he aligns Dean's body flush with his. An incredible hunger grows inside Sam, the need and want are almost overwhelming him. He parts his lips and slips out his tongue, swiping it softly over Dean's bottom lip, nudging to demand entrance.
Only Dean doesn't let him.
Sam opens his mouth a little wider, grinds his hips against Dean but again, Dean doesn't seem to react. It takes Sam a second too long to realize that Dean isn't responding. The firm shove against his chest is the final clear indicator. Sam thinks he just might die of embarrassment.
"Sammy, no. I- I can't," Dean says. His voice shakes. "I can't do this."
Sam's so incredibly confused. He takes a step back from Dean and seeks his eyes, but Dean won't look at him. Sam's sure he didn't misinterpret Dean's signs. It doesn't make any sense. The hand on his thigh, the smiles, the seductive looks. He wasn't just imagining this.
That's when Sam realizes another thing, something that feels like a slap in the face.
"Are you just playing with me, Dean?"
He's hoping so much that Dean will grin any second and say he was joking when he said he couldn't do this. The knowledge that Dean isn't taking this seriously would hurt like crazy, but in the end, everything would be better than rejection.
Dean's quick to shake his head and whisper, "Sam, no."
It doesn't make Sam feel any better. He's starting to doubt whether maybe everything he thought had changed between Dean and him the last few weeks was just a fringe of imagination. Maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him, making him interpret the situation how he wanted to see it and not how it was. Maybe they weren't really fighting less, talking more again, smiling more, hanging out more, flirting, getting back to what they had. Maybe none of this was real.
Or maybe it was until Sam kissed Dean that made Dean change his mind again.
It doesn't make any sense at all. Sam runs a hand through his hair, trying to understand what's going on.
Dean looks at him and he looks miserable, confused, and pained. He lifts a hand and drops it again quickly. He opens his mouth as if he wanted to say something, licks his lips as if he was just getting ready to kiss Sam or savor the lingering taste. He leans in only to then take a step back.
Sam's head hurts. "You're sending some goddamn mixed signals here, Dean."
He doesn't just mean right now.
"I know. I'm sorry," Dean says. He still looks torn and unconvinced. Sam wants them to sit down and talk about this because maybe this is their only chance to make things like they were. But before Sam can make the suggestion, he already sees that chance slip through his fingers.
Dean clenches and unclenches his fists and says, "Goodnight, Sammy."
He's in his room before Sam can even process what just happened.
It's no surprise that what happened doesn't come up between Sam and Dean again. They continue working on the house, doing the old game of dancing around each other and it's driving Sam crazy.
He's painting the living room (Lorraine decided she wanted a fresh, bluish color), when Sam hears someone clear his throat next to him. When he looks to the side, he sees Lorraine sitting on top of a closed paint bucket. For a brief moment he wonders what would happen if she sat down in a puddle of paint. Would it even stick to her?
"Hi, Lorraine," Sam says. He puts the brush down and wipes away the sweat from his face. He should have gotten the fan from upstairs because the summer heat is killing him. He figures he deserves a break and a cool beer.
"Hello, Sam," Lorraine says and then she lets her gaze wander over the walls. "Looks great."
When Sam returns from the kitchen, Lorraine giggles and points at him. "You have blue paint on your face."
Sam breaks out into a grin and runs his hand over his face again but Lorraine doesn't stop laughing. It's probably a lost cause since the paint is already dry. Might as well finish and shower it off later. He sits down on a bucket next to Lorraine and looks at his work. He's about halfway done with the room, which isn't too bad considering the size of the room. In his mind, Sam already searches for something else to do. Everything to keep his mind off the kiss between Dean and him, everything that helps him not think about the rejection and how much it hurt.
Of course Lorraine picks up exactly this moment to bring it up. Sam wonders whether ghosts are able to read minds. He hopes not.
"So, are Dean and you-," Sam could've sworn that Lorraine just blushed, only that he doesn't think ghosts actually blush. "Are you boyfriends?"
Lorraine doesn't meet his gaze.
The question surprises Sam. Maybe they were a little too obvious in their flirting, yet she knows how Sam and Dean are connected. "What makes you think that? You know he's my brother, Lorraine."
She nods and looks at Sam with compassion. "I know. You just… looked so intimate the other night. And when he didn't invite you into his bedroom, you looked so sad, Sam."
Sadness is a feeling Sam can relate to extremely well right now. He swallows past the lump in his throat. "It's complicated."
"I don't see how," Lorraine reasons. "It's complicated is what you say when you don't want to explain. Either you are, or you are not."
Sam takes his time to answer. He looks at his fingernails and removes some of the dry paint stuck underneath it. He whispers, "We used to be."
Lorraine looks at him curiously, probably waiting for an explanation. But Sam can't stop thinking about the burning question on his mind, "Aren't you grossed out?"
This is the first time he's ever told anybody about his relationship with Dean who knows that Dean and he are brothers. Dean and Sam had come to terms with the nature of it and the taboo that surrounds them, had learned to live with it, but he knows that it's still wrong and illegal and he knows that he just can't expect others to accept it as if it were a normal relationship between two men.
Lorraine puts a hand on Sam's thigh, "Oh, believe me, Sam. I am plenty. But who am I to judge you? You and Dean have been so good to me. So, why do you say you used to be?"
Sam wants to confide in her so badly, wants to talk to someone about it to relieve some of the pain. But he can't. He can't talk about it because the more he thinks about it, the more he becomes aware how much he longs for Dean. How he misses touching and making out and bonding and just knowing that Dean's got his back. He knows that he fucked things up but he thought they were getting there, that he had managed to win Dean's trust back, his interest, and love.
It's like an addiction, a feeling Sam is sadly all too familiar with, but this time it's not blood. The kiss made him realize just how strong his addiction is and how it's threatening to tear him apart. He runs a hand over his face, collects the unshed tears in his eyes to prevent them from spilling over. He does not want to cry in front of Lorraine.
But the pain is more than Sam can take.
"I'll talk to him," Lorraine offers as she places an icy hand on Sam's thigh and gives him a supportive squeeze.
Before Sam can say, "No, Lorraine, no," she's already vanished to God knows where, leaving Sam with his stormy sea of feelings.
Part 2
Sam/Dean | R | spoilers up to 5x03, just to be sure | angst, curtain fic | ca. 13,000 words | written for whenthewarsover
When hunts are hard to come by after the apocalypse, you have to take what you can get. An inconspicuous haunting leads Sam and Dean to Michigan, where all of a sudden, they find themselves house owners and cohabitants of a friendly ghost. If Sam had his way, they'd not only fix their new home during the upcoming renovations but also their relationship that has become so difficult.
Prompt: 13. Sam and Dean are on a simple haunting, since hunts are hard to come by these days, and they decide they love the house-- spirit and all (who offers to arrange to bequeath it to them if they let it stick around). So they fix it up and learn to coexist with the former inhabitant.
No copyright infringement intended. Feedback/concrit is appreciated. Please enjoy!
"Find anything?" Sam doesn't know why he bothers asking anymore.
In the days since after storms of pitch-black clouds, rains of brimstone and fire, (not literally), hunts have been sparse and few between. On the rare occasion that there is a job, it's not unusual for others hunters to beat them to the case. The last times they teamed up with other hunters (other than Bobby) left a sour aftertaste in Sam's mouth; it reminded him too much of Gordon, Jo, Isaac, and Tamara. Someone always gets hurt or worse, so Sam would rather let somebody else have the ghost, werewolf, or vampire as long as he doesn't have to combine forces with anybody but Dean.
The body count of the apocalypse was sickeningly high.
After Lucifer was released from his prison, it didn't all quite play out like the angels had anticipated: bah-doom, here comes Dean, giving in to his destiny and saving the world as he does. Instead, it took months of acrimonious fighting, war strategy, consolidating allies, battle after battle, death after death until, finally, Lucifer and his army were defeated. The losses on both sides were enormous. In a way it was ironic that every little victory also meant a defeat that Sam witnessed more than once. Next to the hunters and unknowing people who got caught between the sides, the demons and angels rode innocent hosts, and they rode them hard. Often they took the persons' souls with them when they left the body.
Sam's pretty sure that some supernatural critters were taken out too since he has no other explanation for the lack of hunts. Maybe, the number of hunters didn't decrease much, whereas the number of targets did, de-equilibrating the hunter-prey ratio, but really, it's not as if Sam had analyzed any of this. When, in fact, he totally did, which is bad enough of a sign to show what they've come to - too much time to think, too few things to hunt.
That's why he clearly did not anticipate Dean to say, "Dunno. Maybe. Haunted house one state over."
"Really?" Sam doesn't believe it. He sounds a little too eager, even to his own ears.
Dean shrugs at him and says, "Yeah. There have been reports of ghost sightings in Michigan."
"Did anybody die?" Sam asks, a little more hopeful.
"No. Just people saying spooky things are going on there."
In the past this would have been the point where they shrugged it off and found themselves a different thing to kill. The fact that Sam almost gets excited over this, despite the lack of deaths should speak for itself. Dean doesn't seem to mind.
"Okay, let's pack up," Sam says, already stuffing three shirts into his duffel.
The house is located just outside of Ludington, a small, picturesque city right on the shores of Lake Michigan.
Despite the rundown appearance, there is something charming about the two-story building, Sam thinks as they head toward it. The front yard is overgrown with all kinds of bushes and vines, making it almost impossible to walk up the small path that leads to the porch. There are broken pieces of glass splattered around the few window frames that haven't been nailed up with wood that has become porous under the influence of years and weather. The porch creaks as they cross it and they make a beeline for the front door. Sam wouldn't be surprised if the old wood gave way underneath them and they broke a leg, arm, or their necks. It would be just their luck. Survive the goddamn apocalypse and then get yourself killed sneaking around a dilapidated house.
It must have been a while since someone has been here. The faded For Sale sign is dangling in the faint breeze coming from the lake, only held on by a fragile-looking, rust-clad iron chain. Sam's sure no one wants to buy this house in its current state. It has potential, for sure, if people bother to look past the obvious.
Before coming out here, Sam and Dean did their research. It didn't answer any of their questions, so they decided to see the old place. The previous owner, Lorraine O'Brian died in the house in 1987. She was 72 years old. After her passing was declared a natural death, she was cremated - no bones to salt and burn. She didn't leave any family behind either.
As they dug deeper into the town's records, it turned out that there was one death: a young boy died at the foot of the staircase but, according to the official reports, the police ruled it out as an accident in an old house. It's a sad sign that Sam hopes the police are wrong. There are stories about kids who sneaked into the old house on a dare and who claimed they saw a ghost, yet no one had ever been hurt or died, except for the one victim.
Something's not right here, but Sam and Dean are desperate enough for a hunt that they're willing to give it a try.
The old wood creaks underneath every step Sam takes. The front door isn't locked - even if it were, he's pretty sure it wouldn't take a very strong kick to force it open. A cloud of dust and dirty air engulfs them as they enter. Sam coughs. The inside of the house is just like the outside: rundown, neglected, dismal.
"Wonder what keeps a ghost in a hole like this," Dean says in between two coughs.
"If she's bound to something here, she's got no choice, Dean," Sam shrugs. "Besides, it's got potential, I guess."
Dean cocks an eyebrow at Sam, disbelief and my brother is crazy written all over his face. Things haven't been particularly easy for them, between them, ever since the events that lead to the apocalypse. Even though it's been months, Sam's still trying to fix it. Some days he wonders whether Dean was right and maybe they'll never be able to return to what they had before.
He pushes those thoughts away. They're on a job and he needs to focus. Checking that his shotgun is loaded properly, they search for the ghostly Lorraine next. They start with the first floor, not speaking as they do. They don't talk much these days. Not that they ever did, Sam thinks to himself. The fact that he's talking to himself inside his head is probably a pretty good indicator of what they've become. There is the steady whining of the EMF, interrupted by occasional grunts and hisses as they lead each other through the house: the living room, the kitchen, washrooms, storage rooms, bathrooms and bedrooms upstairs.
Sam doesn't know why they're trying to be quiet and why - when they do talk - they only whisper. The stupid floor gives them away anyway. At this point, he's sure that if there is a ghost here, it would've found them by now. He snorts at a particularly loud creaking sound. It earns him an annoyed expression from Dean and a hissed shh. But when Sam stomps his foot on the ground, wringing another sound, Dean grins and shakes his head.
"I don't think there's anything here," Sam says.
There's one last room at the end of the hallway but Sam's pretty much given up hope that this is a hunt. Half-heartedly, he pushes the double doors open, only to have one of them bounce off the hinge and fall onto the floor with a loud, flat noise.
"Don't shoot me! Don't shoot me please!"
Sam's heart skips a beat as he spots a figure, with long gray hair and ashy skin just a few feet away from him. She's holding up both of her hands in surrender; her old, marked face is terrified. It takes him a second to realize that this must be the ghost of Lorraine.
She's at the point of Dean's shotgun when Sam yells last minute, "Dean! Don't shoot!"
When Dean looks at him perplexed and asks, "What the hell, man?" Sam doesn't have an explanation. Across from them a ghost is standing - no, she's hiding behind the door of a closet now - obviously scared of them and definitely not dangerous. All of a sudden, he feels pity for her.
"Lorraine?" he asks. "Lorraine, you can come out. We're not going to hurt you."
Dean elbows him in the ribs so Sam glares at him and motions for him to take his shotgun down. Dean finally does. Sam simply wants to talk to her, maybe find out what ties her to the house. Lorraine looks scared as she comes out from her hiding place, which is funny if you keep in mind that she clearly has the advantage here. She doesn't seem to be aware of it though.
"Hi, I'm Sam and this is Dean," Sam says, trying to coax her a little closer. "We're not going to hurt you, okay? We just wanna talk."
"What do you want to talk about, young man?" she asks curiously. She squints at him and Sam knows he needs to come up with something quick.
He stammers, "Uh, what about… Mitchell Anderson-"
The boy who died. Accident or not, now for Sam to find out.
There's genuine sorrow on Lorraine's ghosty face. "Oh, that poor kid. I think I scared him and then he ran away. I told him to be careful around here because the house is getting old. And see, the stairs aren't the best anymore. Wait, let me show you, young man." She grabs Sam by the wrist, her grip tight and ice-cold through his flannel shirt. Sam's taken aback by the unexpected touch and Dean's alert immediately. Only when Sam shakes his head at him, indicating that he doesn't think this is dangerous - strange, yes - Dean doesn't blow Lorraine's head off with rock salt.
"This is where he fell," she explains as she takes Sam to the middle of the stairs. The wood is old and moldy, jarring as Sam tiptoes over it. Lorraine points to a missing step that looks as if someone broke through it. Accident then. Lorraine's telling the truth.
She looks hopeful for a second, "You're not, by chance, the repairmen I've been trying to call for years to get this fixed?"
Sam doesn't trust his ears. They've gone from a little weird to surreal, even for them. He hurries up the stairs and stands next to Dean, whispering to him, "Do you think she knows she's dead?"
Lorraine doesn't give Dean the chance to answer as she says, "I do, young man."
After a pause, she adds, "I guess that's why the repairman never came."
"Lorraine," Dean says in that no-bullshit-now tone, "you know you can't be here. You're dead. Your spirit isn't supposed to stay here once you die."
Sam wants to tell Dean not to be so hard on her. He's starting to like Lorraine and her gentle eyes, but of course, he knows that Dean's right. She's a ghost and needs to be put to rest.
There's an expression of panic on Lorraine's face, something Sam hasn't ever seen on a ghost's face. Pain. Anger. Vengefulness. Sadness; but never panic. Not like this. Her voice is shaking as she pleads, "But who's going to look after the house when I'm not here? I was born in this house! I lived here all my life! This is the house where my father and my grandfather were born. My great-grandfather built it with his own two hands! How could I possibly not be here?"
By the time she finishes, Lorraine is downright hysterical. Sam assumes that the only reason why she doesn't get down on her knees to beg is that she remembers her old, worn body that ached with each step she took. His feeling of pity, of compassion grows stronger.
Sam doesn't know what it's like to have a home. A home that doesn't have four wheels and is made of black metal, that is. He doesn't remember the house they had in Lawrence. He doesn't know how it feels to walk into a room and be filled with all those memories. How your mom smelled, how your dad helped you set up the model railway you got for Christmas, how you celebrated your fifth, tenth, fifteenth birthday, how you brought your first girlfriend home or how your room changed as you grew older. For Sam, Dean has always equaled home, even when they were apart. One of his most precious possessions at Stanford was an old, ratty shirt that Dean used to wear during training. It smelled so much like Dean that Sam hid it from Jess in fear of her accidentally washing a sweaty shirt that smelled like dude. The thought of being separated from Dean - again - kills him. Over and over again. Each and every time.
He understands Lorraine a little better now.
"I think she's attached to the house itself." Dean tears Sam out of his train of thoughts.
Sam rolls his eyes. "Brilliant deduction, Watson."
Dean's tone is sharp, huffish. "Sam, don't get all smartass on me."
Just as the potential develops for this disagreement to turn into a full-blown argument, Lorraine interrupts. "Sam, it was, correct? You don't seem to be scared of me. And neither seems your-" she hesitates, "partner. What- what if I give you the house? The two of you. You could live here and take care of the house with me. We could live here all together. You wouldn't notice me, I promise. You're two healthy young men, I'm sure you could bring back some of the old charm and glory of my birthplace."
Dean's answer is immediate and short. "No."
"Dean," Sam pleads. The hopeful expression on Lorraine's face fades into despair and it breaks his heart. The idea doesn't seem entirely devious to Sam, not after seeing the house and seeing beyond the dirt and things that need to be fixed, not now that he knows how Lorraine feels about it.
Lorraine doesn't seem to give up just yet. She comes closer to Sam and Dean and when she sees Dean tense, she decides to keep some distance. "Have you seen the property, Dean? It goes all the way down to the lake. It needs a bit of work but you could grow your own fruit and vegetables. The lake is very scenic in the summer, extremely romantic." She giggles. "Great for skinny-dipping too.
"The house is a little outside of town, I know, so you'd need a car to drive around, but it's great for two men with your lifestyle," she pauses and it takes Sam a moment to figure out what she means with your lifestyle.
Blushing, Lorraine suggests, "You could just pretend to be brothers while you live your life in peace out here."
Sam bursts out laughing. He's always been less peeved by being mistaken for gay lovers than Dean. Dean whacks him upside the head, making Sam laugh only harder. Then Dean hisses, "We are brothers."
"Oh. Think about it," Lorraine pleads.
Sam is still giggling when Dean grabs him by the upper arm and pulls him away. Dean's bristling with anger. "Pull yourself together, Sam!"
All these years and Dean still doesn't know how to deal with being mistaken for boyfriends. It irks Sam, especially after what they had. He bites his lip in order to not agitate Dean further. They're fighting enough as it is. There's no need to start something in front of Lorraine. Taking a deep breath, Sam asks, "What do you wanna do, Dean?"
"Salt and burn whatever we need to and move on." Dean's reply comes quick.
Sam snorts. "Yeah, right. Because it didn't take us forever to find this hunt. Dean, she's not hurting anybody. She's not evil."
"She's a ghost, Sam."
"A friendly one," Sam shrugs.
"What?" Dean stares at him wide-eyed.
"A friendly one," Sam repeats. "Dean, she's not a threat to anyone. She's more scared of people than people are scared of her. We could take her offer."
"Are you crazy?" Dean almost-shrieks, only that Dean obviously doesn't shriek. "We don't settle down."
Sam sighs. "Look man, I know that things have been tough."
As soon as he hints at their current situation, or lack of situation, Dean's face becomes stone cold. He's gritting his teeth, his jaw set firm. "I said no."
But Sam doesn't give up that quickly. "Let's at least think about it. Okay?"
"What? And give her time to escape?"
"Dean, you do realize that the only reason she's trapped in this is house is because she can't or doesn’t want to leave it, right? If we decide to kill her, she's gonna be here tomorrow," Sam reasons. "Please, let's think about it."
He knows he's got Dean as soon as Dean's eyebrows draw together and he sticks out his lower lip. Dean stabs a finger at Sam's chest. "Fine. But I'm gonna still gonna say no."
Sam grins.
Before they drive back to the motel, Sam drags Dean off to have a look at the garden and the rest of the land. It feels strangely couple-ish, inspecting the property. It's isolated and rundown, just like the house. It'll take a lot of work. Sam should be worried that he's imagining himself already how he's felling the dead trees, cutting down dry bushes to make space for new life.
He's tempted to take Dean's hand - even though neither Dean nor he were ever really into holding hands when things were still good between them, especially not in public - but walking down the small, overgrown path to the lake makes him miss feelings and situations that he usually doesn't allow himself to miss. It's a 15-minute walk until they reach the sandy shores of Lake Michigan, no houses, nothing nearby to be seen. Lorraine definitely is right. Perfect for swimming. Naked or not.
Sam sighs, knowing he has some serious convincing to do.
The subject doesn't come up again until later when they're back at the motel.
"Are we gonna discuss it?" Sam says, sitting down on the edge of Dean's bed.
Dean doesn't look up from the TV screen as he's flipping through the various channels. "Discuss what?"
Typical Dean. Sam knows that Dean knows exactly what he's talking about. He's not letting him get away with it. "The house, Dean."
"No, Sammy," Dean is quick to reply, voice no-nonsense. It doesn't matter what he's saying no to. The house or the fact that Sam wants to talk about it in the first place.
"Dean."
"No."
Sam sighs. He's been thinking about this. About how their lives have changed forever since the end of the apocalypse and how they wander desperately, trying to find something to hunt in order to not kill each other. Sam knows that Dean is just as frustrated as him. The thing is, Sam's been considering their options and more specifically, he's been considering Lorraine's offer.
It leads him to his next question. "Why are you stuck on killing her?"
"I just wanna move on and find something else to hunt. I don't wanna worry about a house," Dean says defiantly.
Sam snorts. "Yeah, because there are so many things to hunt, Dean."
Sam knows he's speaking the dreaded truth. It's something they both realize but it doesn't mean Dean's come to accept it. The true meaning of Dean's words hits Sam like a slap in the face: Dean's not concerned about the house and taking care of it. Sam knows him well enough to see right through his words. Dean's true issue is that he doesn't want to settle down. With Sam. The realization stings, albeit it's no surprise. Sam's aware that he made some major mistakes in the past and that his attempts to fix them have merely lead to a somewhat friendly coexistence and tolerance. Not more.
"We'll find something," Dean says. He doesn't sound convinced.
Sam uses the opportunity to try and show Dean the ugly truth. "It took us forever to find this hunt. And look, it's not even a real hunt."
The volume of Dean's voice increases and Sam's got a feeling this might develop into an argument. Great. "It would be if you weren't so stuck on saving Casper, the friendly neighborhood ghost!"
"Okay, let's search for another hunt."
When logical arguments don't work, Sam goes for another approach. Dean looks at him dumbfounded as Sam boots up the laptop. A few clicks and he's got the usual online newspapers open they check when searching for cases.
"Which one do you wanna start with?" he asks provocatively. "The one in Connecticut where - oh, that's not a hunt. What about the one in Texas, where - oops, again, not a hunt. Or, did you maybe wanna check Dad's journal?"
Sam's aware that the tone of his voice matches Dean's by the time he's finished. It's a clear sign that their frustration works both ways. He's just as annoyed that there's nothing to do and that they're driving through the country indiscriminately instead of doing something useful. When he started to realize that maybe, there wasn't anything new to hunt, Sam came to terms with the fact that it might be time for a new life.
"Got it, okay, Sammy. Stop being such an ass," Dean hisses at him.
That's when Sam can't hold back anymore. "What's so horrifying about the thought of fixing up this house and settling down? Why are you so fucking desperate to waste our time doing absolutely nothing, leading a miserable life in your fucking car while all we do is agonize about how can we possibly make our lives even more miserable? In case you haven't realized, Dean, we hardly ever talk to each other anymore. If you want to lead this life, give us at least more space than the car to get out of each other's way!"
Sam takes a deep breath. There's a huge lump in his throat. He wants to take back half of the things he said when he sees the angry expression on Dean's face, yet he's relieved to finally let it out. His voice softens as he says, "Dean, I know that things haven't been easy lately. But- but why don't you give us the opportunity to fix it? Did what we had mean so little to you that you don't want it back?"
There's an indescribable urge in Sam to kiss Dean. It's been so long since he kissed Dean, since he last touched him that Sam doesn't even remember anymore what Dean tastes like, feels like. The realization pains him. It's as if someone drove a dagger right into his chest, taking away his breath.
Dean looks pained too. He shakes his head and doesn't speak right away.
"How could you think that, Sammy?"
"Dean, if it's not that, then what is it? Why are you so against taking this offer?"
Dean's voice is shaking a little as he says, "I don't know. I just-"
"What, Dean?" Sam encourages.
"When we're driving around, even if we're without a real destination, I feel there's a purpose. And that there's something to take off our minds. Even if there's no real hunt, there's not this thing in the back of our minds, screaming Fix me, fix me!
"I'm just-" Dean pauses, "scared that if we settle down that you'll expect me to go back to how we were before all that angels and demons and apocalypse crap. And I don't know if I can give you that, Sam."
Sam feels nauseous, the urge to run to the bathroom and throw up overcoming him. Of course, he felt that this was Dean's reasoning behind his vehement no, but hearing him say it so clearly is ten times worse than Sam anticipated. While it stings and makes him feel like shit, there's also part of Sam that can understand all too well.
"I know, Dean," Sam says. "But don't you think that avoiding the issue like this is only going to make it worse in the long run? I'm not saying that we have to go back to where we were or that I'm expecting you to right away. I'm just thinking that it's not going to get any better. You know what happened the last time."
Dean doesn't answer right away. He looks at Sam for a few long, agonizing moments. Both know what not dealing with their issues lead to and while Sam doesn't expect a second apocalypse (and he knows that Dean doesn't either), they're also aware how these things never end too well for them.
Eventually, Dean nods.
They make a decision that night. To fix things, starting with Lorraine's home. By the end of the next day, they are magically the owners of the ruins of a house thanks to the long-lost last will of Lorraine O'Brian appearing. A miracle.
Sam hopes that this isn't the only thing to get fixed.
It's early spring when Sam and Dean start with the renovations. The days are getting longer and warmer, while the nights are still nippy. It goes a lot faster than Sam anticipated.
They start with the essentials: getting rid of some old furniture and other crap while repairing obvious security risks like the ramshackle stairs. Each thing they try to throw away, they discuss with Lorraine. Not because they want to but because they have to. She seems to have immense issues with letting go of keepsakes. While Sam understands that Lorraine has connections to these items - he really does - it doesn't mean that he thinks they should let an old futon with torn upholstery and springs poking out clutter up their new home. The weirdest thing is that he's discussing with a ghost in the first place.
They split up in order to speed up the renovation process. Dean was incredibly keen on the suggestion when Sam said he'd work on the first floor while Dean could take the ground floor. Even though they're both in the house at the same time, they barely see each other. While it's easier to dance around each other and relieve some of the tension between them in the larger space, it also makes fixing things harder.
Sam's getting impatient. He knows that he needs to give it time, give them time to let the wounds heal. But he misses Dean and he feels like he's been giving them an eternity already. It's not just the physical connection that he misses, the random touches, the kisses, the sex, but also the emotional ones - knowing that Dean's got his back and that Dean trusts him. He's fully aware that angsting over the issue isn't going to make things easier but he can't help it. Sam sighs.
Sam's knocking out an old, moldered window frame in one of the upstairs bedrooms when he hears Dean call his name from downstairs. He drops the hammer and runs down the stairs. Thank God they stabilized those first.
He grins at what he sees.
Dean's clutching an old radio to his chest while Lorraine tries to snatch it from him. It was probably over 30 years old when Lorraine died and Sam doubts it's still working. It's got to be one of these items that Lorraine wants to keep so desperately for sentimental reasons whereas Sam and Dean agree they have to go, but it seems like Dean needs a little help persuading Lorraine.
"Hey, hey, guys!" Sam interferes.
Dean looks at him with relief; there's even a little smile on his face. It makes the butterflies in Sam's belly dance; they don't smile at each that much anymore.
Sam has the better connection with Lorraine, there's no doubt about it. Things have been on the icy side since the last fight between Dean and Lorraine when Dean threatened to shoot her with rock salt. Dean's never been too fond of her to begin with so at this point they're mostly tolerating each other. This is why, most of the time, Lorraine hangs out with Sam and by hanging out, he means Lorraine supervises him while he works. Dean never complained about it.
"What's going on?" Sam asks, even though it's pretty obvious.
"Dean wants to throw away the radio!" Lorraine shrieks, her voice painful to Sam's ears.
Dean shrugs his shoulders and gazes down at the radio in his hands before he looks at Sam. Sam doesn't need to be convinced what to do with it. He huffs and then turns to Lorraine, "Look Lorraine, I know you care about all these things here," (he's careful not to call them useless junk or crap like Dean would) "but if we continue discussing which old, broken things we have to keep and what we can throw away, we're never gonna get this place done. And didn't you say you wanted the house to be cleaned up and nice and cozy again?"
He feels bad for tricking an old lady ghost, but Sam means what he said. If they ever want to get finished, they need to stop fighting over every thing and get Lorraine to trust them so they can do their work. Lorraine looks sad but she nods; it only makes Sam feel worse.
"Hey Sam, come help me over here," Dean says, pointing to a large, wooden countertop that looks too heavy and bulky to be carried by one person.
It's even heavier than it looks and by the time they managed to carry it from the old kitchen out to the backyard, sweat is trickling down Sam's back. He exhales and flexes his fists once they've dropped it to the ground next to other things they want to burn. Sam wipes a hand over his face on his way back to the house. He feels fingers tighten on his arm as he climbs up the stairs to the back porch. When he turns around, he finds Dean looking at him, exhausted but smiling.
"Want a beer?" Dean asks, and when Sam nods, he points to the steps and says, "I'm going to get them."
Dean doesn't spend much time with him voluntarily anymore, not since they've actually got space to avoid each other. Sitting down, Sam lets his thoughts wander to how he had hoped they'd get closer again, hoped somewhere in the distance of his mind that things would return to how they once were. He's not giving up on that fading hope, even though it's getting harder and harder to cling to it each day.
Dean returns with two piss-warm beers. It reminds Sam that they should check the wiring in the kitchen and maybe get the fridge to work. He doesn't complain about the beer's temperature as Dean sits down next to him. They don't speak and for once the silence doesn't feel tense or uncomfortable.
Sam's lost in thought, going through the things he needs to do next. So lost in thought that he jumps when Dean bumps his knee against Sam's. The touch is so brief that Sam easily could have imagined it. Only he knows he didn't; his skin feels like on fire.
"Sorry," Dean mumbles at Sam's reaction but Sam's quick to answer.
"It's okay."
Sam even goes so far and places a hand on Dean's knee. Dean doesn't squirm, doesn't tense and after a while, it's Sam who has to let go when the whispered voices in his head turn into loud screams, suggesting he slide his hand up a little further. He gives Dean's leg a squeeze and clings to his beer with both hands. He thinks he just saw Dean smirk from the corner of his eye, but when Sam blinks, that smirk is gone.
An icy shiver runs down Sam's spine that isn't to blame on the decreasing temperature. It's not that cold. Turning around, Sam finds Lorraine standing in the doorway, smiling at them before she disappears.
"Making headway up there?" Dean asks between two gulps.
Sam smiles at Dean's attempt to make conversation, appreciates it. He nods. "It's going okay. I think I'll be done with the bedroom windows tomorrow. The floors need a lot of work still. What about you?"
Dean runs a hand over his face. It's red and raw from all the manual work. "Done decluttering. Lorraine hoarded a lot of crap, believe me. I would've been done a lot faster if I didn't have to discuss every little thing I wanna throw out with her."
"I'll talk to her," Sam offers.
Dean nods his acknowledgement. "We should tear down the wall between the living room and that other room we don't know what to do with. Would make for a nice, big room. 'Sides it's nearly falling apart anyway."
"Mhm."
Dean grins and winks at Sam. "I haven't mentioned that to Lorraine yet. I didn't want to give her a heart attack."
Sam guffaws. "Well, at least she's already dead and you don't have to worry about reanimation."
Dean makes a disgusted face, doing that thing where he pulls up his upper lip. "Gross."
He shouldn't look so goddamn kissable right now.
They continue sitting outside for a while, discussing what to do next. They have more beer and as they sit; it almost feels like back in the day. It's easy, no tension, something to concentrate on, no pressure. Lorraine joins them at one point, telling them stories about the house and how she remembers it. Stories of how she grew up.
Sam doesn't think he needs validation on his decision to convince Dean to settle down. But if he did, he's pretty sure this is it.
One of the things Dad taught them is that if you have to (or want to, in their case) stay in a town longer than a few weeks, hustling and credit card fraud are out of question. Since Sam and Dean don't have access to huge saving accounts, the only logical consequence at one point is to find some kind of employment.
Dean gets a job as a construction worker, Sam as a bartender in a bar in town. It slows the renovations down because their conflicting work schedules only permit them to work on the house separately; Sam in the morning and Dean in the evening. Everything that needs to be done by two people has to wait until the weekend.
The physical labor on what is supposed to become their home continues to feel good; doing things with their hands, using their strengths, and seeing the change. Sam didn't think he had missed it, but it turns out, he did. It's a strangely satisfying feeling. Rewarding to see the house go from uninhabitable to almost inhabitable and knowing it's their hard labor. There's a lot of work ahead of them, so they still have to sleep at the motel, but falling into bed each night after an exhausting day makes him proud. Having achieved something. Something good. With his own two hands. He doesn't mind the countless splinters, the backaches, or the sore muscles.
He's surprised at how well Dean's holding up despite already working a physically strenuous job during the day.
They still rarely talk but Sam's not worried about it all that much anymore. Maybe he's too exhausted to agonize over it. Or maybe he realized that they're simply too exhausted to care and share. There's a lot of silence between them - not that Dean has ever been someone who talked much - but somehow, Sam feels as if some of the tension between them had vanished. Sometimes, things are awkward and weird but in a way, the silence has lost its sour aftertaste.
"Which room do you want?" Dean asks, looking at Sam.
Lorraine stands between them, her hands clamped over her mouth, her eyes big and happy with unshed tears. Sam and Dean had decided earlier that they'd restore her old bedroom, even though she probably doesn't even sleep and hence doesn't technically need it. But they wanted her to have a room, because in a way, this is still her home and they wanted to thank her. Besides they didn't throw away all of her stuff and it needs to go somewhere.
They've advanced so much with the renovations that it's time to make the bedrooms livable and move in. Dean's question shouldn't come as a surprise but it stings nonetheless. It hasn't been going too badly between them lately. In fact, it's gone pretty well; they been having a beer and talking about unimportant things, while sitting on the porch to enjoy the summer heat has become somewhat of a ritual between Sam and Dean, most of the time even initiated by Dean.
Sam's been a fool to allow himself to hope that Dean and he were ready to share a room and a bed again. He swallows past the tears and croaks, "Doesn't matter."
Dean looks at him with questioning eyes, but Sam doesn't give him the time to ask. Instead he quickly heads down to the living room to find himself something to do. Tearing down that living room wall seems like a really good idea right now.
Sam's just about to bring the sledgehammer down when he hears Dean from behind, "I'm really scared to ask, but- you okay?"
He drops the hammer and sighs. His shoulders slug down and he takes a moment before he whispers, "It's nothing."
But of course, Dean knows him better than that. He walks around Sam so that they're face to face. "Nothing, eh? You're almost crying over nothing. Please tell me you're not PMSing."
"Dean," Sam says, not looking Dean in the eye.
"Sam. I mean it. I'm asking."
And I'm not gonna ask again remains unspoken. It's now or never. Sam figures, he might as well just say it. "I just- I thought things were going okay between the two of us. I just hoped we could-"
"Sam."
Dean's tone is a mix of emotions that Sam can't pick apart. He puts a hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezes it briefly. When Sam finally looks at him again, Dean says, "Some things just take a lot of time."
Dean's gone again by the time Sam realizes what it really means.
Sam's waiting impatiently for Dean to come to the house; he can't quite call it home yet. He needs to head to the motel in order to shower and get ready for his evening shift at the bar in which he needs the car. Besides, he was only half-awake when Dean left for the construction site early this morning and Sam wants to say some kind of coherent hello to Dean at least.
He's aware that it makes them sound like boyfriends and he's also aware that they aren't. But things have started going more smoothly between them lately, tension has eased away further so he thinks he deserves this little moment to let himself dream.
And on a more selfish note, he got a lot done today - they're working on the floors of the bedrooms - and he wants to show Dean how dedicated he is. They had a fight two days ago where Dean told him that he doubted Sam's commitment to the renovations and that he felt like he was doing all the work. The accusation struck hard and Sam wants to prove that Dean's wrong.
"Hey Sam!" he hears Dean yell downstairs.
There's a huge grin on Sam's face as he runs down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. It's a sheer wonder he doesn't trip and break his neck. Dean gives him a funny look when they stand face to face but it makes Sam only grin even harder.
"So, how's it going?" Dean asks, cocking an eyebrow at Sam and giving him a suspicious look.
"Good. No, great!" Sam says. He doesn't give Dean the time to ask him whether he's crazy or drunk or stoned or all three. Instead, he grabs Dean by the sleeve of his shirt and pulls him along. "Gotta show you something."
He's buzzing with excitement. Dean's expression turns from puzzled to annoyed when Sam ignores his continuous questions about what's going on. They're outside the bedroom Sam's been working on like a maniac all day. When he thinks about the state of the floor, before and after, he's filled with incredible pride. The plan was to tear out the old wood, but Sam went even further: he also laid the new plank. Sure, it's not the biggest room in the house, yet, he knows it's a great achievement.
He waits at the doorstep and doesn't say anything. When he can't stop grinning, Dean rolls his eyes at him and finally peeks into the room. He looks at Sam, eyes wide and unbelieving, and then backs into the room.
"Did you do all of that today? By yourself?"
Sam grins and nods enthusiastically.
Dean purses his lips and looks into room again, taking his time to study everything. Finally, he says, "Good job, man. Good job."
There's a proud smile on Dean's face, his voice sounds sincere. He literally pats Sam on the back. And that kind of hurts.
At Sam's wince, Dean asks, "What's up? You okay?"
"Yeah, just a little sore."
Dean laughs and says something about how unfortunate it is that they haven't fixed the bathroom yet, otherwise Sam could soak in the hot tub. Their eyes meet and for a moment Dean holds Sam's gaze before he blushes and looks away. Sam's own cheeks begin to burn. He could have sworn there was something in Dean's eyes, in his look. Not just the pride and honest praise, but something more. Something that used to be there all the time when Dean looked at him before they went downhill, something that used to feel so familiar. It makes Sam's heart ache because he wants to, needs to see that again.
"I mean it, Sammy. Well done," Dean says as he inspects the floor.
Sam would love to skip his shift and work with Dean on the other bedroom floors and enjoy the moment, the ease, the - Sam's almost tempted to call it a spark - between them, but he knows he can't. With a heavy heart, he says goodbye to Dean.
"Gotta hurry. I'll be late."
One of the most memorable moments is the night they sleep in the house for the first time. All in all, it took them two months until they managed to transfer the house from an uninhabitable and dangerous state to what can be considered passable. There's still a lot of work to do, especially in the backyard - Sam's not thinking about it - but for now, the fact that they can move out of the motel and into the house merits a little celebration.
Sam grabs a few beers from the fridge and goes to search for Dean and Lorraine. He finds them by the lake, sitting in the warm sand. With a smile, Sam flops down next to Dean and hands him a beer. It's blissfully cool as Sam takes gulp after gulp. His muscles ache particularly bad today after carrying lots of heavy furniture but he doesn't mind because he feels good about everything they achieved so far. He lets himself fall back into the soft sand and groans unhappily when his body protests.
"Sore?" Lorraine asks. There's a sympathetic expression on her face at Sam's nod.
Dean pats Sam's thigh and laughs, "The fruits of hard labor, Sammy."
The touch sends bolts through Sam's body. He shouldn't react like a teenager whenever Dean touches him, especially if it's probably not even meant intimately, but Sam can't help it. It's quite pathetic. Especially when Dean's hand just stays where it is. Dean smiles and winks at Sam before he removes his hand and takes a drink from his beer.
"This is going to be so gorgeous, boys," Lorraine says with a smile on her face. She goes on about how the house used to be one of the most beautiful in Ludington before she got too old to take proper care of it and how she had no family to help her.
Sam doesn't listen though. Instead, he watches Dean collect the condensation from his beer bottle with his thumb and then lick at it absent-mindedly. Sam's mind wanders off to pictures of Dean sucking other things and that's all it takes for Sam's dick to take interest. When Sam and Dean's eyes meet - over Lorraine talking about how she'd teach children and teenagers the piano in her house, how inappropriate - Dean smirks, puts his beer down and sucks his thumb into his mouth. Dean holds Sam's gaze and even though he knows he probably should, Sam just can't look away. Especially not when Dean swirls his tongue around his thumb and leans in a little closer to Sam. So close that Sam can hear the very breathy moan, only meant for his ears. Sam's dick is growing even harder. And to top it all off, Dean places his hand on Sam's thigh again, immediately letting it travel to the inside where Sam is even more sensitive. Sam wishes he could move so that the hand was where he wants it to be, Dean touching him where Sam wants to be touched. He squirms but Dean doesn't react - doesn't remove his hand or move it further up.
The thing they had, the relationship (if you want to call it that), was long and intense enough for them to learn these kinds of signs too. The way Sam squirms, how his cheeks are hot, the way he bites his lip and literally sits on his hands in order not to jump at Dean or at least grab his hand and do stuff. Sam knows that Dean knows how to interpret them. Sam's hard and if he could, he'd push Dean back and lie down on top of him and grind their bodies against one another until they both get off.
A realization hits Sam like a freight train: Dean is flirting with him (or rather using sexual energy to drive him crazy) and according to Dean's smirk, he's also entirely aware of what he's doing to Sam and he's probably also aware that Sam knows that he's aware and yet, he doesn't stop. Sam's head hurts. Dean winks at him, turns to Lorraine (not taking away his hand), and asks, "So, Lorraine have you thought about a color for the living room walls yet?"
Lorraine falls into a long ramble how the walls used to have flowery wallpaper when she was young but she fears that's no longer considered modern and that she also has a feeling Sam and Dean might not like rose motifs on the wall. Dean keeps nodding, making comments and suggestions here and there. Sam really would love to contribute something and have his say, but all he can think about is how Dean's hand moves closer and closer to his dick and how Dean has scooted a little closer to him.
"Maybe someone could even fix my old piano," Lorraine says in excitement, only to have Dean nod at her and promise that he'll ask around at work to find out whether anybody knows anything about pianos and their restorations.
At this point, Sam's close to grabbing Dean's hand to make sure it stays where it is. If it moves any closer to his crotch, he's not sure he'll be able to control himself for very much longer. But he certainly doesn't want it to move away either.
He's just about to drop his hand on top of Dean's when Dean squeezes and strokes his thumb over Sam's thigh for the split of a second. The skin feels immediately cold when Dean lets go and gets up. He stretches and then he says, "Gotta call it a day. Night's over for me in a few hours."
Sam doesn't hesitate a second. He doesn't even think as he says, "I'm coming with you. I'm pretty beat up."
"Sure," Dean says and offers Sam a hand to help him up.
When Sam steals a glance to the side, he finds a mysterious smile on Lorraine's face. He doesn't dwell on it when she winks at him and makes motions with her hands and tells them to go ahead because she'll stay here to enjoy the beautiful night a little more.
They walk back in silence. If Sam wasn't convinced that Dean would call him a girl and definitely not appreciate the gesture, Sam would entwine his fingers with Dean's. So instead, he enjoys how their hands brush against each other occasionally as they head back. The evening turned out pretty well, a lot better than he had anticipated. There are still butterflies dancing in Sam's belly from Dean's flirting, the soft touches and unspoken promises. Sam shakes his head and snickers at himself because he's such a lovestruck teenager. This isn't like him. Yet, he doesn't mind the feeling at all.
They come to a halt in the hallway to their bedrooms. Their rooms are across from each other, the master bedroom at the end of the corridor. There's a brief, awkward moment of silence and in retrospect, Sam thinks his actions turned it into a total disaster. When Dean doesn't disappear into his bedroom right away but looks Sam in the eyes with intensity, Sam closes the distance and kisses him.
He presses his mouth to Dean's, lips dry and chapped. Somewhere in the back of Sam's mind it all feels achingly familiar. His arm comes around Dean's waist and with a quick pull, he aligns Dean's body flush with his. An incredible hunger grows inside Sam, the need and want are almost overwhelming him. He parts his lips and slips out his tongue, swiping it softly over Dean's bottom lip, nudging to demand entrance.
Only Dean doesn't let him.
Sam opens his mouth a little wider, grinds his hips against Dean but again, Dean doesn't seem to react. It takes Sam a second too long to realize that Dean isn't responding. The firm shove against his chest is the final clear indicator. Sam thinks he just might die of embarrassment.
"Sammy, no. I- I can't," Dean says. His voice shakes. "I can't do this."
Sam's so incredibly confused. He takes a step back from Dean and seeks his eyes, but Dean won't look at him. Sam's sure he didn't misinterpret Dean's signs. It doesn't make any sense. The hand on his thigh, the smiles, the seductive looks. He wasn't just imagining this.
That's when Sam realizes another thing, something that feels like a slap in the face.
"Are you just playing with me, Dean?"
He's hoping so much that Dean will grin any second and say he was joking when he said he couldn't do this. The knowledge that Dean isn't taking this seriously would hurt like crazy, but in the end, everything would be better than rejection.
Dean's quick to shake his head and whisper, "Sam, no."
It doesn't make Sam feel any better. He's starting to doubt whether maybe everything he thought had changed between Dean and him the last few weeks was just a fringe of imagination. Maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him, making him interpret the situation how he wanted to see it and not how it was. Maybe they weren't really fighting less, talking more again, smiling more, hanging out more, flirting, getting back to what they had. Maybe none of this was real.
Or maybe it was until Sam kissed Dean that made Dean change his mind again.
It doesn't make any sense at all. Sam runs a hand through his hair, trying to understand what's going on.
Dean looks at him and he looks miserable, confused, and pained. He lifts a hand and drops it again quickly. He opens his mouth as if he wanted to say something, licks his lips as if he was just getting ready to kiss Sam or savor the lingering taste. He leans in only to then take a step back.
Sam's head hurts. "You're sending some goddamn mixed signals here, Dean."
He doesn't just mean right now.
"I know. I'm sorry," Dean says. He still looks torn and unconvinced. Sam wants them to sit down and talk about this because maybe this is their only chance to make things like they were. But before Sam can make the suggestion, he already sees that chance slip through his fingers.
Dean clenches and unclenches his fists and says, "Goodnight, Sammy."
He's in his room before Sam can even process what just happened.
It's no surprise that what happened doesn't come up between Sam and Dean again. They continue working on the house, doing the old game of dancing around each other and it's driving Sam crazy.
He's painting the living room (Lorraine decided she wanted a fresh, bluish color), when Sam hears someone clear his throat next to him. When he looks to the side, he sees Lorraine sitting on top of a closed paint bucket. For a brief moment he wonders what would happen if she sat down in a puddle of paint. Would it even stick to her?
"Hi, Lorraine," Sam says. He puts the brush down and wipes away the sweat from his face. He should have gotten the fan from upstairs because the summer heat is killing him. He figures he deserves a break and a cool beer.
"Hello, Sam," Lorraine says and then she lets her gaze wander over the walls. "Looks great."
When Sam returns from the kitchen, Lorraine giggles and points at him. "You have blue paint on your face."
Sam breaks out into a grin and runs his hand over his face again but Lorraine doesn't stop laughing. It's probably a lost cause since the paint is already dry. Might as well finish and shower it off later. He sits down on a bucket next to Lorraine and looks at his work. He's about halfway done with the room, which isn't too bad considering the size of the room. In his mind, Sam already searches for something else to do. Everything to keep his mind off the kiss between Dean and him, everything that helps him not think about the rejection and how much it hurt.
Of course Lorraine picks up exactly this moment to bring it up. Sam wonders whether ghosts are able to read minds. He hopes not.
"So, are Dean and you-," Sam could've sworn that Lorraine just blushed, only that he doesn't think ghosts actually blush. "Are you boyfriends?"
Lorraine doesn't meet his gaze.
The question surprises Sam. Maybe they were a little too obvious in their flirting, yet she knows how Sam and Dean are connected. "What makes you think that? You know he's my brother, Lorraine."
She nods and looks at Sam with compassion. "I know. You just… looked so intimate the other night. And when he didn't invite you into his bedroom, you looked so sad, Sam."
Sadness is a feeling Sam can relate to extremely well right now. He swallows past the lump in his throat. "It's complicated."
"I don't see how," Lorraine reasons. "It's complicated is what you say when you don't want to explain. Either you are, or you are not."
Sam takes his time to answer. He looks at his fingernails and removes some of the dry paint stuck underneath it. He whispers, "We used to be."
Lorraine looks at him curiously, probably waiting for an explanation. But Sam can't stop thinking about the burning question on his mind, "Aren't you grossed out?"
This is the first time he's ever told anybody about his relationship with Dean who knows that Dean and he are brothers. Dean and Sam had come to terms with the nature of it and the taboo that surrounds them, had learned to live with it, but he knows that it's still wrong and illegal and he knows that he just can't expect others to accept it as if it were a normal relationship between two men.
Lorraine puts a hand on Sam's thigh, "Oh, believe me, Sam. I am plenty. But who am I to judge you? You and Dean have been so good to me. So, why do you say you used to be?"
Sam wants to confide in her so badly, wants to talk to someone about it to relieve some of the pain. But he can't. He can't talk about it because the more he thinks about it, the more he becomes aware how much he longs for Dean. How he misses touching and making out and bonding and just knowing that Dean's got his back. He knows that he fucked things up but he thought they were getting there, that he had managed to win Dean's trust back, his interest, and love.
It's like an addiction, a feeling Sam is sadly all too familiar with, but this time it's not blood. The kiss made him realize just how strong his addiction is and how it's threatening to tear him apart. He runs a hand over his face, collects the unshed tears in his eyes to prevent them from spilling over. He does not want to cry in front of Lorraine.
But the pain is more than Sam can take.
"I'll talk to him," Lorraine offers as she places an icy hand on Sam's thigh and gives him a supportive squeeze.
Before Sam can say, "No, Lorraine, no," she's already vanished to God knows where, leaving Sam with his stormy sea of feelings.
Part 2