Big Bang '10 - One Hundred Percent Reason to Remember [iv. 20% Strength]
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The sun beats down on the asphalt, and even the clouds can’t keep it from being as hot as humanly possible in July in Oklahoma. Sam has a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, about ten dollars in his wallet, and his thumb out as he walks down the highway. He’d managed to get this far down from Kansas, taking rides where he could get them. Mostly with creepy old men, and he really doesn’t mind it that much. Expects it, really, because he is hitchhiking after all.
But still.
His shoes are about worn through, and pretty soon he’s going to find a way to either buy some or steal some. His feet feel like they’re on fire. Sweat runs down the back of his neck, makes a steady trail down his spine and his hair (which he’s going to have to cut at some point, because it is too long to be out in the sun all day) is soaked with sweat.
He’s pretty sure he also stinks to high heaven, but he has yet to find one of those fancy truck stops with the showers in the back and/or a high school gym he can con his way into. It’s on his agenda, right after getting a lift to the nearest bus station.
Sam plans to head out to California, find some work in the great American west somewhere. But it’s the getting there that’s the problem; he doesn’t want to end up on the wrong side of the law if he doesn’t have to, and… well, his father’s militant training didn’t include instructions on hotwiring a car.
So he’s stuck like this until he can get it changed.
Oddly enough, he is at peace with that. Long ago, he’d discovered that anywhere would probably be better than being at home with his father, and he was just finding out he was right. Sure, the conditions weren’t ideal, but it was something.
And there was no place to go but up, right? Hitchhiking on the highway, that was pretty low on the totem pole.
He was even getting used to the hunger, constantly gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He’d learned to block it out, to listen to the whiz of cars passing and the other sounds of the outdoors and feel the wind and the heat on his face before the hunger. It’d be inconvenient later, but right now it was saving him from going crazy.
Another group of cars passes, and he sticks his thumb out yet again. He doesn’t expect anyone to pull over, but he had to try, had to hope that there was someone, at least, who either doesn’t watch late night specials on picking up strangers or is savvy enough with a gun to know that Sam wouldn’t get very far if he tried anything.
Whichever came first; Sam really wasn’t picky.
It stays like that, slow on the highway for the next few hours. Strangely enough, he’d begun to recognize that these types of things had shifts like everything else. Didn’t seem like that would be important, but it was important enough. Finally, just as dusk is settling in and Sam is sussing out a safe bush to sleep behind, a group of cars passes and he sticks out his thumb like usual.
But this time, a semi pulls off ahead along the road, engine roaring as the other car sounds fade over the hill. The cab is sleek, black, and the trailer has no company name stamped across it. Sam’s willing to bet an independent, then. The trucker honks his horn, deafening, and Sam runs to catch up to the passenger door.
Dean is not in the habit of picking up passengers. In fact, he normally avoids them like the plague; he prefers to be alone when he’s hauling long hours and in his experience, the only thing passengers do is complain.
Which doesn’t really explain why he pulls off for this kid.
He knows this part of the country probably too well, could navigate it with his eyes closed. There isn’t anywhere to stop for another few hours, and the sun is steadily setting. This kid is going to be out here for the night - considering the state of him, it’s probably not the first time, but that’s beside the point. Contrary to popular belief, Dean does have compassion for a fellow human being. He’s going to be driving for hours yet, but there’s no reason why this kid can’t come along.
Again given the state of him, he’s not likely to complain. Of course, Dean could be wrong, but as much as he likes being alone when he’s driving nights, it does get lonely some times.
So he turns down the Ozzy blaring from his speakers and watches the kid get taller and taller in the side mirror.
The passenger-side door pops open, and even from his side Dean can see the various wrappers and bottles slide out and hit the asphalt. Apparently he forgot to clean his cab out last time he stopped. Huh. Even ankle-deep in garbage, the kid has reason to be thankful, though - he was willing to bet that his cab looked more inviting than whatever patch of ground the kid’d been considering sleeping on.
Before he climbs up, the kid picks up the trash that’d fallen out, places it almost reverently back where it was before the door opened. Dean only just resists the urge to role his eyes.
“Where you headed?” Dean asks, when his new passenger finally gets himself up into the cab and shuts the door behind him. Wherever it is, Dean sincerely hopes it has a shower - he knows he doesn’t exactly smell like roses, but the kid sure looks like he could use it.
“Anywhere that has a bus station,” is his reply, which isn’t really helpful. How is Dean supposed to know where the nearest bus station is? “Thanks, by the way.”
“Don’t mention it.” Dean guides the rig back onto the highway and hits the gas to get his speed back. The cab is airtight; inside, they can hardly hear the roar of the wind as the truck carves its way through the air. But it makes it eerily silent; he itches to turn the radio back up, already regretting his impulsive decision to pick up a 'hiker.
It’s another few miles until he finally breaks and has to say something to curb the awkward silence. He doesn’t want to press, but there has to be something; going all night with just the sound of their breathing is going to be hell if that’s how it goes. “So, you got a name?”
The kid stirs, shifting his feet around in the trash in the foot well. “Sam. You?”
Oh, this is going great.
“Dean,” Dean almost sighs. “So, Sam. Where’s the bus taking you?” By now, the sun’s gone. In the middle of the night in Oklahoma, the road is only lit by the moon and the headlights; even if Dean wanted to be polite and actually look at Sam as he’s speaking to him, there’s no way there’d be anything to see. Besides, the plains come alive at night. It isn’t that running over an animal would do much damage to the rig, and it’s unlikely that any animal would be trying to cross a major highway even at night, but it’s the principle.
“California.” Sam leaves it at that. Dean wants to ask what’s so important in California, but Sam’s voice is low, tired. From experience, Dean knows that these seats aren’t the most comfortable place to sleep.
“There’s a sleeper in the back if you want. I’ll let you know when we get somewhere.”
Sam can hardly believe his luck. He’s had rides with truckers before, but not usually ones so generous. And he was going to sleep in something close to a real bed for the first time in a long time.
Of course, he can’t help thinking there’s a catch. From the brief glance he’d had of his host before the sun had set, he’d guess this guy, Dean, was more of the savvy-with-a-gun type than the didn’t-watch-late-night-specials type.
Not that Sam’s going to try anything, but it’s good to know where he stands.
He throws his duffel back onto the mattress ahead of himself, thanks Dean and climbs back. He’s never been allowed inside a cab’s sleeper before (Sam hadn’t dare slept when he was riding with the other truckers), but he imagines that this one is pretty nice as far as sleepers go. It’s more like an apartment back here than an extension of the cab; everything anyone could ever need is situated in the small space.
When he settles back into the mattress, he turns so he can watch the sky out the windshield past the front seats. The stars are tiny pinpricks even from here, and Sam guesses there’s more than a few miles before they hit anything that resembles a truck stop.
And, in fact, he wakes up again before they hit anything at all. The scenery hasn’t changed all that much, just a different stretch of plains and highway than the one they’ve just left behind. Sam climbs back into the passenger seat but leaves his duffel back on the mattress. Perhaps sleep has left him with a false sense of security.
“Should be a truck stop in about fifteen miles. I’m gonna stop there for the night, I think.”
Sam nods, realizes he can’t be seen, and says, “Okay.” He worries briefly about where he’s going to stay, but these places are bound to have benches and stuff. He can find somewhere if he absolutely has to.
More silence, and Sam isn’t sure he should break it; mostly, drivers like their silence and their privacy. He’s just taking up space.
Surprisingly, it’s Dean who speaks first. “Uh, the place we’re gonna stop… it’s got good amenities, but it’s still pretty rough. So long on the road without anyone to talk to makes people mean, you know?” Dean clears his throat. “If you still want to find somewhere with a station, we can hit a city tomorrow. But maybe you should let me do the talking in here.”
Sam doesn’t know what to make of that. What kind of place are they stopping, anyway? He hasn’t been to many truck stops, true, but from his experience they’re mostly filled with older, tired-eyed men who stay hunched over their coffee mugs and only speak to each other if they can’t help it. Even so, Dean is bound to have more experience (even though he honestly doesn’t look much older than Sam himself is, how’d that happen?), and he hasn’t been anything but generous so far.
“Sure,” Sam says, shrugging. Again, he realizes he can’t be seen, but it’s more for his own benefit. “Think they’ll have showers?”
“Should, yeah.”
“Great.” If Dean wants to take the lead, Sam’s okay with it. The only thing he wants out of the deal is some quality time with about a year’s supply of hot water. He’s almost forgotten what his skin feels like when it isn’t covered with dried sweat, dirt and grime.
The glow from the stadium lamps come into view miles before the truck stop itself does. Sam wonders what time it is; most of the rigs are parked, but the interiors are dark. There are two other trucks at the diesel pumps, drivers nowhere in sight. The awning over the diesel pumps has the Shell logo mounted on it, but the building that sits across the parking lot has a more modest sign: Harvelle’s.
Sam thinks it sounds more like a bar than a truck stop, but as long as it has a shower he doesn’t really care what it’s called. The lights on inside are nearly blinding after so long with only the rig’s headlights and the stars; he blinks until his eyes adjust, and by the time he can see again, Dean’s parked the truck next to a fancy Peterbilt with a JB Hunt trailer.
“Remember what I said?” Dean asks as he kills the engine. Even if it was barely audible inside the cab, it’s eerily quiet without the steady rumble. Sam grabs his duffel off the sleeper’s mattress.
“Yeah,” he says as he carefully avoids the pile of trash in the floorboard and drops to the asphalt. His legs immediately want to cramp up on him - walking all day and then sitting for however long obviously doesn’t agree with him. Sam makes a small noise of discomfort as he tries to rub the knots out of his muscles. When he looks up, Dean’s already standing up by the truck’s grill, backlit by the beacon that is the truck stop. He’s thrown a bulky leather jacket on, and it makes him look like someone you wouldn’t want to cross.
Sam suddenly feels underdressed.
Dean’s been to Harvelle’s several time before. It always seems that he gets to this stretch of highway just before the road gets blurry and he forces himself to sleep.
There’s nearly always trouble.
Tonight it’s going to be in the form of the man in the corner. He watches and Dean and Sam enter through the restaurant-side doors; Dean returns the favor, watches him just as closely and only tears his eyes away to check on Sam.
Under the bright lights, Sam looks young, younger than Dean thought at first. He’s got to be barely legal. Sam’s tall, taller than Dean, and just starting to bulk up past the whipcord muscle that makes him look less threatening than it should.
He’s well-built, and Dean isn’t the only one noticing.
Dean pays for as much hot water as Sam could want at the counter and shows him where the showers are, a hallway situated between the restaurant and general store. There are bathrooms on one side of the hallway and two shower rooms on the other, and they’ve jammed a tiny booth into the back corner.
The purpose of the booth has never been entirely clear, but Dean’s thankful for it just then. Once he gets Sam set in the shower room, he gets himself a cup of coffee and returns there.
It isn’t that he feels obligated to protect Sam; he picked him up, yeah, but if he’s used to trusting truckers he’s got to know what he’s getting himself into. They aren’t generally a bad bunch but, like any group, there’s the occasional lonely wacko who doesn’t understand the concept of personal space. Regardless of whether Sam knows that or not, he’s still just a kid.
And because Dean has some sort of protective streak, he’s going to make sure Sam gets where he’s going safely. If that means California… well, he’s been meaning to get out there for a while now. He’ll drop the load he’s carrying in Reno and take Sam where he needs to go.
The hallway’s only light is a dim, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling in the exact center. It isn’t nearly as bright as the rest of the place. Someone standing at the mouth of the hallway casts a long shadow, and when Dean looks up he recognizes the man from the corner with the wandering eyes. He pauses when he notices Dean standing guard and smiles, sharp and predatory.
He keeps coming, and by the time he gets to the men’s room door, Dean is on his feet. He stares, hard, and the man stares right back as he reaches for the handle and pushes the door open.
It’s a horrible cover-up for his intention. If Dean was just a little less tired, he’d have welcomed the fight. As it is, he stays standing until the man emerges; with one last challenging glance, he retreats back into the restaurant.
Dean watches until he’s out of sight and sits back down, more alert than before. Moments later, one of the waitresses pokes her head around the corner and, seeing it clear except for him, starts down. Dean knows her, in a way; they sort of had a thing once. She’s blonde, petite, and doesn’t look old enough to be serving the alcohol on the menu.
“Watch out for that guy,” she says as she leans back against the wall and pulls a cigarette from one of her pockets. She lights up, takes a puff and closes her eyes as she exhales the smoke. “You don’t wanna get on Gordon’s bad side.”
“I think I can take care of him,” he replies. “You supposed to be smoking in here?” Her name is something short, meant to be cute but for the life of him he can’t remember it. Jill, maybe?
Maybe-Jill grins. “What my mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” She takes another few puffs of her cigarette in silent, eyes closed, enjoying her break. In the silence, Dean hears the water kick off in the shower room. At the same time, a voice echoes back to them, “Johanna Beth, you better not be smoking down there!”
And that’s it, it’s Jo. She huffs, takes one last puff and drops the butt to the floor, stubs it out with the toe of her book. “Duty calls,” she sighs, exhales. “I’d keep an eye on your boy if I were you.” Then she’s gone, leaving behind the thick smell of tobacco and words that don’t quite register just then, don’t have the chance because next moment Sam steps into the hallway.
His clothes are clean and he looks tired, content. “Thanks,” is the first thing he says, and for a second Dean’s sure he means Gordon.
“Oh,” he says, once he catches up. “No problem. ‘Fraid we’re gonna have to sleep in the truck, though.”
“S’fine. Better than what I expected.” Sam slings his duffel over his shoulder. “Should I sit here while you…?”
Dean would love a hot shower, but he doesn’t like the look of the customers tonight. He can wait for Albuquerque; he’s sure they can make it by tomorrow night. “Nah. I just want sleep. You clean up nice, though.” It’s mean to be teasing, but he realizes after he says it that he means it.
“Seat reclines a bit,” Dean explains. Sam was kind of hoping to go another few hours on the sleeper, but Dean’s been driving all day so it makes more sense. As if he’s said it out loud, Dean adds, “Usually I’d sleep up here and give you the sleeper, but I’ve gone longer than I probably should’ve.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Sam settles back into the seat and tries to get comfortable. Dean closes his door and opens a separate one that Sam realizes leads into the sleeper. He rustles around for a while, logging his hours in his logbook; ten minutes later the cab falls silent and dark, and despite the fact that the seat isn’t all that comfortable, Sam falls asleep almost instantly.
Sam wakes to the sound of the engine firing in the pallid predawn light. It’s almost unnatural after so much silence, and he realizes hazily that it sounds different than a car engine. The sound echoes around under the large hood. It’s almost eerie.
“Sorry,” Dean apologizes when he notices Sam is awake. “There’s stuff in the back if you’re hungry, but I’m not gonna stop for breakfast until we hit the next diner, at least.”
Sam’s mouth is dry but he’s used to being hungry by now. Plus, Dean’s already paid for him a shower and given him a place to sleep. He doesn’t want to impose.
He slips in and out of sleep for another half hour, then returns the seat to its original position and watches out the window for a while.
“You said you were headed to California, right?”
“Palo Alto,” Sam answers, distracted.
“Huh. You don’t say.”
Sam blinks and looks over. “Why?”
“I’ve got to drop this trailer in Reno before Friday, but my next pick-up is in Palo Alto. Not sure how fast the bus could get you there, but I could get you there before the week’s out.”
Either Sam is extremely stupid or extremely lucky, or maybe one of those proves the other by the fact that he isn’t able to tell. He considers. At this point, he doesn’t have enough money to ride even the city bus for a day, not to mention a bus ticket. He wasn’t sure where he was planning to get money, but if he could ride with Dean it would eliminate the need for it.
Of course, he’d have to come up with the money at the end of the road, but whether Dean is good with a gun or not, Palo Alto is a fair-sized place. It’d be easy to get lost there.
“Yeah, I mean. If you don’t mind paying my way ‘til we get there. My Aunt lives out that way, and I’ll be able to get the money from her to pay you.”
Dean shrugs. “I’m not worried about you paying me just now. Job pays well and I got nothing to spend it on. You’re just giving me an excuse to use it.”
“It’s just you?” Sam doesn’t mean to pry, but he wants to change the subject and it’s pretty unusual. Don’t these guys usually have families and such to go home to?
“Just me. My dad got me started in this when I was young. He-“ Dean clears his throat. “He died about a year back, so now it’s just me.”
“And you never considered doing anything else?”
Dean laughs, and there’s a not-quite bitter edge to it. “It becomes a lifestyle after a while. I think I’d go crazy if I tried living in one place for too long.”
And that’s how it starts. The miles fly by as they talk. Sam figures as long as they’re crossing the country, they might as well be friendly with each other. Talking about his family helps take the sting of leaving away, and Dean hasn’t had someone to talk to in far too long - the radio remains clicked off because it might interrupt their conversation if it was on.
Sam appreciates that.
Brunch is Ihop just outside of Vega and dinner puts them within striking distance of Albuquerque. Dean is rather proud of himself. But it wasn’t such a bad drive, especially with Sam for company.
The day passes fairly quickly , not measured by miles or cities as usual but the flow of their conversations, broken only by the few stops they make and the naps Sam takes. Dean's almost forgotten how to do this, how to fill the air with something other than an endless array of classic rock songs; almost forgotten how effortless it is when there's a person filling that space instead of silence.
Somewhere between Shamrock and Tucumcari, he realizes that he’s actually going to miss Sam when he’s gone. He doesn’t complain, loves to listen to Dean talk about everything and nothing, and he seems to have a sixth sense for when Dean’s done talking because he almost always fills the silence. And then it’s Dean’s turn to listen, and he really doesn’t mind.
Plus, Sam is beautiful. It isn’t a very productive thing to realize, and Dean half-wishes he’d picked a less-attractive hitchhiker to latch onto. He usually doesn’t have many inclinations in that direction - there are too many pretty women who romanticize his life and are all too willing to show him just how much. But Sam is different.
Not that he’s going to do anything about it. It’d be too cruel to take advantage like that. Sam is young, younger than Dean was when he was Sam’s age; he thinks he has the experience to make him world-weary, but he doesn’t. Not yet, anyway. Sam isn’t naïve, but he doesn’t know enough of the world to be mistrusting.
His willingness to hitch a ride with any random person who’d pick him up on the highway was proof enough of that.
It's only a few hours after dark when Albuquerque rests on the horizon, illuminating the black of the New Mexico sky. A deep, humble exhaustion has settled into his bones, and it's times like these that make him wish he didn't dislike motels so much. An actual bed and a shower that was actually part of a bathroom would do him some good, would do them both some good.
One look at Sam dozing in the passenger seat almost convinces him that the rig will be okay for one night.
It's not a money issue - he'd been telling Sam the trust, he had more money saved than he knew what to do with. Dean just didn't like the truck being out of sight, especially when he was being paid to haul a load for a company. It wasn't his merchandise to lose; his first run out on his own had taught him that. He'd taken a room for the night despite his Dad's warnings, and all it got him was a shitload of stolen furniture he had to reimburse the company for and his cab picked clean.
And the ass-chewing that followed. It wasn't a pleasant thing. But maybe tonight he'll take the front seat and let Sam have the sleeper.
The Flying J in Albuquerque is best; doesn't tolerate the shady characters anymore than the other chain stops do. Usually Dean wouldn't mind the cheaper, family-owned places - he can hold his own well enough. With Sam tagging along, though? It was like painting a giant bulls-eye on the kid's back. Flying J it was.
Despite being more expensive (or perhaps because of it), the showers at the J were more than decent enough. Dean was confident that no one would bother Sam, so he bought him a cup of coffee and led him to one of the booths in the restaurant as Dean himself took a turn at the shower.
The place was well-known enough that someone'd have to be either extremely cocky or extremely stupid to try anything.
After his shower, Dean stepped back out into the restaurant and scanned the booths, finding Sam exactly where he left him. Only he isn't alone, and it takes Dean maybe five complete seconds to realize who it is.
He'd definitely peg the Gordon guy Jo had warned him about as the extremely stupid type.
He sees red, or maybe green - something that makes his chest knot up with worry and something else that Dean doesn't care to identify, ever. One look at Sam confirms that something is wrong; he's uncomfortable, looking everywhere except at Gordon, who's taken it upon himself to sit across from him. The moment his eyes fall on Dean, Dean's protective streak - usually dormant but in specific circumstances - kicks into overdrive.
As Dean approaches, Gordon looks up, probably tracking Sam's gaze. He doesn't look surprised, but he leers, sizing Dean up for a threat. A half-second passes where Dean has to dig his fingernails into his own palms to stop himself from taking violent action right there, and then Gordon gives him the same grin as the night before; sharp,dangerous. He doesn't take Dean for much of a challenge.
Dean feels the cold metal of the gun's barrel on the small of his back like a brand, and hopes for violence.
Sam would like to think that he doesn't need rescuing, but when Dean slides into the booth next to him, glaring openly at the man who'd invited himself into Sam's company, the feeling flooding him is too much like relief to prove anything. He does need rescuing, and if he has to have his ability to take care of himself challenged he'd really like to have Dean at his back.
It's sort of satisfying, and it's childish enough that Sam wants to kill the thought before it has a chance to spread.
Dean drops his bag onto the floor at Sam's feet (out of the way, Sam notices, in case he has to stand up) and throws his arm along the plastic back of the booth like it's nothing. There's something in that Sam's deliberately not reading into. It's only cautionary, he tells himself.
Gordon is the first to speak, and his quiet, measured words make Sam's skin crawl. “Dean Winchester. I've heard about you, but I can't help thinking the legends might have gotten a few things wrong.” He says the word 'legend' like it's something to mock, a gross overstatement that's only meant to harm.
“Is that so?” Dean asks, and it's almost casual but for the steel belying the words.
“Mm. I was just telling your boy here about what it's like to shotgun with someone who actually knows what he's doing.”
Those weren't exactly the words he used. Sam feels the blush creeping from the back of his neck as Dean watches him like he's trying to see right through to something beyond.
“How about this?” Dean asks, carefully bringing the arm perilously close to Sam's shoulders back down to the table. He leans forward, braces himself on his elbows. When he speaks, his voice is dark, liquid, violence promised in every syllable. “You even think about laying a hand on my boy and I'll rearrange your face.”
If it was anyone else saying the words, they wouldn't sound so convincing. If it was anybody else saying the words, Sam might have been able to overlook it. As it is, he repeats it over and over in his head, what Dean called him, and each time it gets worse, gets more twisted.
The rest of the conversation is background noise, because Sam's brain is working harder than it has in weeks at trying to come up with a conclusion.
They were fighting over him, for lack of a better term; it didn't sound any better in his head than it would of if he'd spoken out loud. Gordon had painted a pretty clear picture of what he wanted from Sam, and up until this point Sam could have confidently said that Dean defended him because they were traveling companions, friends even. If nothing else, they were friendly.
But he wasn't property to be haggled over and sold to the highest bidder. He didn't belong to anyone, didn't owe--
He did. He owed Dean for the ride to California, and even if he was told he wasn't expected to pay now... people didn't do anything for free, not anymore. Besides, it's not like Sam could magically come up with the money to pay for the ride between here and California.
So he was expected the pay the way Gordon would have expected him to pay. Only makes sense, even over the swell of nausea rising in Sam's stomach. No one is as nice as Dean, not anymore, not unless they wanted something.
He'd seen the way Dean looked at him when they stopped, the way Dean watched him, eyes burning into Sam's back as he spent the rest of his money on what refreshments Dean didn't carry in the cab. Sam had thought it was his imagination, wishful thinking if absolutely nothing else. But now it made sense, all of it.
Eventually, Gordon left. Sam didn't see him go, but Dean retreated to the other side of the table in his absence. They only sat for a few more minutes in the restaurant, but it was enough to cement Sam's plan in his mind. Wasn't enough, maybe, to get up enough courage to do what he had to do, but he could get past that when he absolutely had to.
The walk back to the truck was silent. Dean watched him from the corner of his eye the way Sam watched Dean from the corner of his.
The red edges haven't faded from his vision when they get back to the truck. He goes straight for his sleeper without remembering that Sam was supposed to sleep there tonight. Sam is quiet, but he could be tired, maybe shaken from whatever Gordon was telling him before Dean came into the picture.
He doesn't want to know, he really doesn't.
The light clicks off immediately; he'll log tomorrow and it'll be just as accurate. Living the life so long develops patterns, and Dean's learned to memorize his start times, end times, and calculate the number of miles traveled. It wasn't a problem.
If he couldn't punch someone, he'd settle for sleep. And he's just about there when there's the sound of Sam moving around, stepping back behind the seats. Wrappers crinkle under his feet; he kicks aluminum cans out of his way and generally makes himself known. Whether on purpose or not, Dean's not at liberty to say. He keeps still and watches Sam with one eye in the dark.
But Sam doesn't go for the fridge or the microwave or anything else. He heads straight for the sleeper, tipping the mattress when he settles on the edge and watches Dean like a child would watch a parent he was afraid to wake.
Dean props himself on his elbows, squinting into the darkness to see Sam's face. He wishes he hadn't pulled the blackout screen over the windshield; there are a few centimeters on either side of the screen that let in just enough light to see Sam's silhouette.
“Hey,” he says when Sam hasn't spoken, just sits there. It's barely more than a whisper but it echoes in the cab.
But then the springs shift and Sam moves, sliding against the dark. Dean can feel his heat against him in a line of static; when Sam comes to a rest, he's pressed against Dean's side.
“Hey,” Sam replies. His voice is inches from Dean's face, off to the left but so close he can feel the hot puff of Sam's breath. There's exactly have a second to consider this before Sam moves into his space in the dark, face pressed close as he kisses Dean.
It isn't clumsy, not exactly; Sam doesn't have the experience that Dean does, but that doesn't mean he's bad at it, all pressure and the slide of lips, quick like they're going to get caught any moment.
Dean realizes like a punch to the gut that he should be stopping this. It's not like he's opposed, but he's supposed to be protecting Sam, even if it's from himself. This isn't helping.
Sam doesn't realize what he's doing, can't if he's doing this.
It takes a lot of willpower to make himself push Sam away, to plant a hand on Sam's chest and shove until Sam overbalances enough to have to break contact. He recovers quickly, quicker than Dean expects, and then Sam's back on him.
Dean almost can't this time. Sam feels too good against him, licking his way into Dean's mouth with slow, almost tentative swipes of his tongue. It's calculated and it takes what feels like every last bit of Dean's resolve to pull himself away.
“Hey,” he says again, but his voice is husky, kiss-rough, promising something more.
When Sam finally breaks his silence, his voice is just as wrecked as Dean's, just as hopeless. “Want you,” he says, and it sounds a bit like he's forcing it; not that it isn't true, but that he's hesitant to voice it. Scared of the thing suddenly thickening the air between them. “Please, please.”
It's the begging that undoes him, that makes him actually consider their situation. Sam's all heat and pressure where they touch and it's an odd sensation to feel and not see. Dean reaches out, fingertips skating Sam's jaw, and grips his face with a foreign gentleness that comes from a shadowy place deep inside.
“Damnit, Sam,” he breathes, “Don't know what you do to me, do you?” After a beat, he adds, “Are you sure?” just because he has to know, can't not ask when they're at such a vital turning point.
Sam nods, and Dean only knows because he can feel it, can feel Sam moving in his grip. Dean runs his thumb over Sam's chin, finds his mouth and strokes over the seam of Sam's lips for a moment; after the first few passes, Sam opens for him and Dean's thumb sinks inside the wet heat of his mouth.
The sound that claws its way out of Dean's throat is strangled. He won't own up to it later, can't even let himself acknowledge how fucked he is. He's too young to feel like a dirty old man. Hell, he's probably not that much older than Sam is, but the way Sam is makes him feel that much older. In terms of life experience, there are decades between them.
But all of that, even when it's heavy on his mind, doesn't stop him from wanting so badly he can't stop himself. Sam's tongue swirls around the pad of his thumb, and Dean wishes for the thousandth time that there was light in the cab so he could see Sam's obscene mouth around his finger, see the lust dark in his eyes, see how much he wants Dean.
Reluctantly, he pulls his hands away; his thumb slips from Sam's mouth with a slick sound. Next moment, Sam is on him again, kissing him with a renewed sense of urgency. Dean knows he should ask again before he can't stop himself, but it doesn't quite come out when he tries.
“Are... can I see you?”
It's whisper-sweet, almost sticky on Dean's tongue. Somewhere in the past few seconds he's decided that if they're doing this, they're going to do it right. Sam shifts around, blankets himself over Dean with an unexpected ease. He reaches over, fumbling in the dark for the switch on the lamp; something falls off the small pull-out table and skitters to the ground, and Dean huffs out an embarrassingly breathy half-laugh, lowers himself flat on the mattress and reaches blindly for Sam.
His fingers brush shoulder, down over bicep, elbow, forearm, until Dean's looping his fingers loosely around Sam's wrist where he's still fumbling on the nightstand. Next moment, he twines his fingers with Sam's and stretches them both to where the switch should be.
Sam's hand falls away when Dean fiddles with getting the lamp on, and when the light finally comes on he's momentarily blinded by it. Sam grips his bicep reflexively, and for a moment that's all there is.
When Dean opens his eyes, adjusted to the bright, Sam's watching him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown so wide only a thin ring of crystalline hazel is still visible.
Their faces are close, noses almost brushing and Sam's hand still closed around Dean's arm. Sam's eyes are lit with something Dean might call surprise and Dean's pretty sure he himself looks like a starry-eyed idiot in return.
A long time ago, Dean might have thought he could have a life like the drivers he met, with a wife and three kids at home, calls every night and fewer loads to run. Or perhaps, like some, he'd take his wife with him. Not a glorious life for a woman, he realizes, but whomever she was, she'd have to love this life. This life is part of Dean; a pretty large part, his whole life, and if she were to love him she'd have to accept that.
Now he held no illusions. He knew it wasn't going to be like that for him, knew his love life was going to consist of fractured fantasies, lot lizards and quick, hot fucks in the bathroom of whatever stop he decided to rest at.
Sam isn't any of those things. And he can't treat Sam like he is, because Sam is different. He desperately wants Sam to be different.
When Dean kisses him, flat on his back with both hands twisted in Sam's hair, there's no purpose, no real heat in the swirl of his tongue. It is sweet, and slow, more than a little soft. It's one of those life-affirming kisses that people sing about - not in any music Dean listens to, of course, but he remembers bubblegum pop from the days in low spots before he replaced the truck's tape deck.
And Sam goes with it, even when Dean is half-afraid he won't. When California comes, day after tomorrow at the very latest, this is going to hurt like hell. Dean will take care of it with the road, and each mile that rolls by will make it sting less.
That's what he tells himself by way of apology, and stops thinking altogether when Sam nips at him, nicks Dean's lip in a sharp rush of pain and then sucks at the cut, soothes over it with his tongue and feather-light, ridiculous kisses.
Tomorrow there will be a bruise, and when he kisses Sam awake in the morning, it will hurt.
There's something that Dean won't name settling in his limbs, something fierce and protective and it fucking aches. Sam shouldn't have to take charge here, not if Dean's playing the resident dirty old man.
He has to stop himself from thinking, has to literally halt his thought process to nothing but Sam. He pushes him away, gentle, and presses himself as close to the edge of the mattress as he can without falling. Perched on his hip, he whispers to Sam, “Lie down,” and watches him move after a brief, confused pause.
There are too many clothes in the equation right now, too much skin that isn't bare, so before Sam gets settled against the pillows, Dean pulls at the hem of his t-shirt, rucks it up and finally off with Sam's help.
He's a beautiful sight, stretched half-naked on Dean's bed. He's still young enough to have corded muscle rather than the bulk he'll grow into; his shoulders are crazy-broad and his bangs fall forward to shade his eyes.
Dean wonders, briefly, self-deprecatingly, if this would be happening if Sam were less attractive.
He tears his eyes from Sam's exposed skin, plants little kisses to the tip of Sam's nose, the corners of Sam's mouth, the skin of his throat and the tips of his collarbone. He tastes like outside, faint traces of the soap he used in the shower at Harvelle's, like everything that makes sense in Dean's life and a great deal that doesn't.
In the very distant corners of his mind, he knows this kid is fucking him up, knows that soon, not having this is going to rip him apart.
His tongue on Sam's skin, mouthing and whirling over the sweep of his ribs, the taut skin of his belly and lower, inscribes apologies to Sam, to himself, and admonitions because although he doesn't mean to, every glance Sam throws him, every sound that vibrates through his body, makes him love the kid a little more.
God help him.
It is morning, and there is a warm body cradled in his arms. It takes a second for Dean to register this, another for him to panic, because if there's someone here with him, where's Sam? He doesn't remember drinking last night -
And then he remembers, and Sam shifts in his embrace, rubs deliciously against him and Dean's dick gives a happy, interested twitch.
He cracks one eye open - the cab is still dim, light breaking in all around the blackout screen not nearly enough to make the seats and crammed furniture in the sleeper more than hulking, black figures. Next to him, Sam's face is lax, relaxed with sleep, lips parted lightly.
Dean's smile cracks the cut in his lip open, and he tastes old blood. The spot is tender when he tongues it, raw from use, and he doesn't care enough not to kiss Sam.
It's a slow, languid kiss; Sam's only now beginning to stir, to respond beneath him.
And then Sam's eyes snap open. He goes suddenly, absolutely still, tense, and when Dean pulls back, Sam lets all the air out of his lungs.
Sam pushes, still half-asleep, clumsy. But he's pushing Dean away, and Dean puts as much distance between them as he can. “What...?”
When Sam looks at him, his eyes are blazing even through the sleep-haze. “I think I've paid enough for the lift,” he says, voice cold, and he crawls off the mattress. It hits Dean like a kick to the gut, pieces falling into place like the tumblers in a lock.
Sam's gathering his clothes, tossing his shirt over his head and pulling his jeans up with a quick, violent jerk. Dean sits there, gaping, and the only thing he can do is say “Sam” and “No” until Sam turns to him, glares, and grabs his backpack out of the front seat.
The truck's door slamming shut is a heavy, final sound.
Sam stumbles a little when his feet hit the asphalt. Maybe he was a little overeager in getting away, but he doubts anyone could blame him after everything that's happened.
He still has a hard time believing that Dean would do something like that, that Dean would expect it of him. Bitterly, he thinks he should have known that no one would be that nice, that giving without wanting something in return. And after everything, Gordon was right.
Maybe that's what pisses Sam off the most. Maybe it's the pain that shoots up his spine every time he moves, or the sharp, periodic throb from the bruise Dean left on his neck. There's a matching one on his hip, and he almost forgets until his jeans rub the wrong way.
It makes him want to punch something.
Avoiding the real issue works just fine for him, lets him focus on his situation. He has no money. He has no way to get anywhere, because he could hitch another ride, but that'd put him back in the same situation he'd just left, and probably with someone a lot less attractive than Dean.
Damnit, he's fucked, and in more than the obvious way.
There's a bus station a few blocks away; he remembers seeing it, abstractly, on their way in. It didn't register at the time, but he knows it must be close. Sam doesn't have a clear idea of what he'll do when he gets there, but he has no choice. He starts walking.
Dean stares at the door for a minute, as though the weight of his gaze alone will bring Sam back. It might be a few minutes, might be an hour, but eventually he looks away, looks around at the cab and starts to scoot his way to the edge of the bed. The sheets are still warm where Sam slept in them. He clenches his jaw and pulls on his clothes, tries to ignore the raw, sharp pain in his chest.
He's halfway through visualizing his plan, the plan he now has to default to because Sam is gone. Sam thought that... how could Sam think that? How could Sam think that he ever...?
Maybe it was Dean's fault. Maybe Sam caught him looking, maybe he was sending the wrong vibes, maybe...
Gordon.
Dean hasn't actually considered killing another human before. He's never been mad enough at someone to warrant that sort of wish. But instead of surprise at himself, he's flooded with cold, hard rage.
He moves around in the limited space, throwing on clothes and muttering to himself, dark words of hatred, promises of how thoroughly he's going to fuck Gordon up - and he almost trips over something on the floor.
Frustrated, he glares down at it. It's a small, brown wallet, and not something he's ever seen before. For a moment, all of his anger drains away, and he picks it up, flips it open.
Sam's face smiles up at him from the plastic of his ID - Kansas, but that's the last thing Dean notices. He looks at Sam's picture for a moment, then skims the information printed on it, only feeling slightly like an intruder.
He skims over address, height, and birthdate -- and then stops, suddenly. Dean calculates, quick as he can, and nearly drops Sam's wallet in his haste to close it again, as though covering up the proof will destroy the evidence of what he's done.
Sam isn't as old as Dean thought. Sam is just shy of legal, still fucking jail bait as far as the U.S. Government is concerned. Why is no one looking for him? What kind of father lets his 17-year-old son wander out into the world with a clear conscious?
There's no excuse, not now. There's no reason that Dean can give, even that Sam hates him, or that Sam thinks he's some sort of dirty old man (which, Dean realizes, he now is); no reason to not go looking for him. Because Sam is young, and alone, and without his wallet he has no proof of who he is.
Or any money.
Cautiously, he opens the billfold.
There's about ten dollars in ones and change there, not enough to... shit, not enough to pay for anything that he'll need. Dean hopes Sam has money in his pocket, but he knows he's not fooling himself. Sam is broke. And alone, and underage, and completely naïve to the ways of the world.
Dean stands there for a moment, frozen, before he hastily tucks Sam's wallet into his pocket alongside his own, laces up his boots and stumbles out into the sunshine.
The only person in the stop that's seen Sam is a tired-eyed waitress, who points up the street and says, “Tall kid, right? Headed that way not half an hour ago.”
And Dean feels like he could kiss her, but it would take too much time away from him, so he just bolts out the door and starts running.
Sam stands outside the station for a whole minute before he walks inside; the air conditioning is a blessing from the gods compared to the heat that is Albuquerque in the summer. The woman at the high counter looks at him expectantly, and he reaches automatically into his pocket for his wallet.
And finds it missing.
He swears and dodges back outside with the woman's disapproving look.
Dean doesn't even stop to catch his breath, too desperate that he'll be too late, that Sam has somehow found money or earned it somehow (the thought makes him sick) and bought a ticket, and that a bus has taken him away and Dean will never find him.
But as he gets closer, he sees Sam's shape huddled in front of the station, looking pissed and hot and sweaty, and Dean wants nothing more than to hug him (no matter how fucking girly it is, Christ this kid is going to kill him). He doesn't, but it's a close thing.
He doesn't stop running until he's standing right in front of Sam, and then he doubles over with it. Dean keeps himself pretty fit, hates to fit the stereotype, but running in the breath-stealing heat is something different entirely. He endures the weight of Sam's eyes, the uncertain glare that fades the more Dean doesn't speak.
When he's caught his breath, he says, “Wait,” like that isn't what Sam's been doing, and leans against the building. “You... Sam. Why would you ever think that I...?”
Sam's eyes narrow, defensive, and Dean dares himself to hope just a bit. “Why else? Nothing is free, Dean. Nobody does so many generous things without wanting something in return.”
“Gordon tell you that?” Dean asks, and snorts. “Hate to tell you, kid, but Gordon is seriously screwed in the head. He'll be worse by the time I'm done with him.”
He pauses for a moment, looks directly at Sam and says, “I don't know what I did to convince you that that's what I wanted. I'm not entirely sure what made you think Gordon had it right, of all people, but I...” Dean clears his throat. “I couldn't do that to you. To anybody, but you least of all.”
Sam looks like he doesn't know what to say, and Dean doesn't know whether to read that as a good thing or not. It takes a moment of Sam opening and closing his mouth, preparing to speak, before he gets the words out.
“I'm not gay,” is the first thing he says, and it sounds compulsive. “I can't be.”
There's enough self-loathing behind those words to make Dean empathize on instinct. He's not even sure if it's the right thing to say, if it's going to make Sam hate him more or less, if anything he could think to say will make a difference when Sam is... Sam, and he seems so small in comparison. “There's nothing wrong with it.”
The look Sam throws him pierces right through. “There is. You don't...” His sigh is heavy. “You know what? I don't think I actually believed that you would want that from me. I think I wanted to believe it because it was easier than admitting to myself that I'm just as fucked as dad always said.”
At this, Sam sits on the filthy concrete, like standing with the weight on his shoulders is too much. He looks up at Dean, expecting, and Dean complies, watching Sam with wary eyes. It's only when Dean's seated, knees nearly brushing Sam's and only not quite because he's still afraid Sam will bolt, that he asks, “What?”
As soon as he asks, he realizes he already knows the answer.
He doesn't even give Sam a chance to answer before he says, “That's why you're here? Because your dad didn't like that you were...?”
Sam shakes his head, looking morose, and if it was socially acceptable to assume a fetal position when over 6 feet tall and male, Dean has a feeling Sam would be doing it right now. “Not exactly. I had a... I had this friend. He was gay. Not with me,” Sam laughs, nervously, “but still. Small towns, you know?”
Dean wishes he didn't know where this was going.
“They, uh. They caught him out, one night. And he wasn't do anything, he was just walking, and. By the time they got him to the hospital, he'd lost too much blood.” Sam takes a breath, clears his throat and doesn't know what to do with his hands. “Dad thought that the same'd happen to me. He thought - well, he was a Marine, and you know how that goes, right?”
Again, Dean wishes he didn't. He's momentarily grateful that the only thing his dad was strict about was making runs on time, keeping the trucks running in perfect condition and not putting much store by material things. Dean'd only had a leaning in that direction a couple of times, but his dad didn't much care who he fucked as long as it kept his mind clear to get his job done.
Sam's voice pulls Dean out of his thoughts. “And I tried to tell him that it wasn't a bad thing, that it only mattered to close-minded assholes, and he took that to mean that I was... like that. He said I could be a fag if I wanted, but I wasn't going to do it under his roof. I don't know if it was because I'd considered it or because I was so mad at him, but... I left.”
Dean looks down at his hands, because he knows that if he looks at Sam now he'll want to kiss him, and that's sort of detrimental to their cause, here. “So, your aunt in Palo Alto...?”
“Doesn't exist.”
“Ah .”
Silence for a while, and they don't look at each other.
“I wasn't supposed to like it,” Sam says, quiet, and Dean startles at the suddenness of it. And under normal circumstances, he'd be making cracks about how he's just that good, that no one could resist. It's a testament to how much Sam suddenly means to him that he doesn't.
“But you did.” It isn't a question because it doesn't have to be. Dean remembers the sounds Sam made, his arousal and the way he bucked and cursed and tightened around Dean.
The noise Sam makes now is supposed to be a laugh, even if it doesn't come out that way. “I did. And I wish... I wish things were different, and that I could, but. I can't.”
Dean looks at him, ducks his head to make Sam meet his eyes. “I don't know if I'm the right person to tell you this, but. You can. You know you can.” Dean stands up, brushes off his jeans. “Now, if you still want to go... wherever, I can get you a ticket. Purely out of generosity,” he adds, not quite smiling to himself. “But if you change your mind? I've been looking for a copilot for a while.”
He lowers his eyes, doesn't watch Sam because all of his bravado suddenly leaves him. “Job's yours if you want it. I won't force you into anything.”
And it's going to kill him, watching Sam every day and not being able to touch now that he can't even illusion himself about what it'd be like. But Sam's friendship is more to him than that, and he can deal with it.
There's another long, uncomfortable pause, and Dean's about to say something overused like “I understand if you don't want to” when Sam stands. He takes a step forward, close enough to touch, and when Dean looks up despite himself, something in Sam's eyes has broken, warmth spilled forth from it, and for about the thousandth time, Dean doesn't trust himself to hope.
“I think I'd like that,” Sam says, breathless, and leans forward the extra inch to kiss Dean. It makes his lip throb, but the elated feeling that's throbbing deeper inside eclipses it.
It feels like hours later when they've pulled away, sweaty and too-hot and both too happy to care. On the way back to the truck, Dean rests a hand on the back of Sam's neck, ignores the way Sam's damp hair curls over his fingers.
“You don't have to worry,” he says, and Sam looks up from the sidewalk to look at him, questioningly. Dean grins at him. “As long as I'm around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you.”
Castiel knows that Uriel had manipulated some aspects of this scenario to make it impossible for it to play out, and now that it's played out anyway, he can hear Uriel's protestations long before they start.
"This one can't count," Uriel says. "Sam was a minor, he was... impressionable. He only wanted to be himself, and Dean was the independent adult. Besides, that isn't love." He spits the word out like it personally offends him.
"Isn't it?"
"It's... hero worship! No, Castiel, this one can't count."
Castiel makes the sunny sidewalk of Albuquerque disappear, replaces it with a palpable, black darkness that begs for creation. "The details are irrelevent. Fashion the next one, if you think the outcome will be any different."
So Uriel does.
Next
Previous
The sun beats down on the asphalt, and even the clouds can’t keep it from being as hot as humanly possible in July in Oklahoma. Sam has a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, about ten dollars in his wallet, and his thumb out as he walks down the highway. He’d managed to get this far down from Kansas, taking rides where he could get them. Mostly with creepy old men, and he really doesn’t mind it that much. Expects it, really, because he is hitchhiking after all.
But still.
His shoes are about worn through, and pretty soon he’s going to find a way to either buy some or steal some. His feet feel like they’re on fire. Sweat runs down the back of his neck, makes a steady trail down his spine and his hair (which he’s going to have to cut at some point, because it is too long to be out in the sun all day) is soaked with sweat.
He’s pretty sure he also stinks to high heaven, but he has yet to find one of those fancy truck stops with the showers in the back and/or a high school gym he can con his way into. It’s on his agenda, right after getting a lift to the nearest bus station.
Sam plans to head out to California, find some work in the great American west somewhere. But it’s the getting there that’s the problem; he doesn’t want to end up on the wrong side of the law if he doesn’t have to, and… well, his father’s militant training didn’t include instructions on hotwiring a car.
So he’s stuck like this until he can get it changed.
Oddly enough, he is at peace with that. Long ago, he’d discovered that anywhere would probably be better than being at home with his father, and he was just finding out he was right. Sure, the conditions weren’t ideal, but it was something.
And there was no place to go but up, right? Hitchhiking on the highway, that was pretty low on the totem pole.
He was even getting used to the hunger, constantly gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He’d learned to block it out, to listen to the whiz of cars passing and the other sounds of the outdoors and feel the wind and the heat on his face before the hunger. It’d be inconvenient later, but right now it was saving him from going crazy.
Another group of cars passes, and he sticks his thumb out yet again. He doesn’t expect anyone to pull over, but he had to try, had to hope that there was someone, at least, who either doesn’t watch late night specials on picking up strangers or is savvy enough with a gun to know that Sam wouldn’t get very far if he tried anything.
Whichever came first; Sam really wasn’t picky.
It stays like that, slow on the highway for the next few hours. Strangely enough, he’d begun to recognize that these types of things had shifts like everything else. Didn’t seem like that would be important, but it was important enough. Finally, just as dusk is settling in and Sam is sussing out a safe bush to sleep behind, a group of cars passes and he sticks out his thumb like usual.
But this time, a semi pulls off ahead along the road, engine roaring as the other car sounds fade over the hill. The cab is sleek, black, and the trailer has no company name stamped across it. Sam’s willing to bet an independent, then. The trucker honks his horn, deafening, and Sam runs to catch up to the passenger door.
Dean is not in the habit of picking up passengers. In fact, he normally avoids them like the plague; he prefers to be alone when he’s hauling long hours and in his experience, the only thing passengers do is complain.
Which doesn’t really explain why he pulls off for this kid.
He knows this part of the country probably too well, could navigate it with his eyes closed. There isn’t anywhere to stop for another few hours, and the sun is steadily setting. This kid is going to be out here for the night - considering the state of him, it’s probably not the first time, but that’s beside the point. Contrary to popular belief, Dean does have compassion for a fellow human being. He’s going to be driving for hours yet, but there’s no reason why this kid can’t come along.
Again given the state of him, he’s not likely to complain. Of course, Dean could be wrong, but as much as he likes being alone when he’s driving nights, it does get lonely some times.
So he turns down the Ozzy blaring from his speakers and watches the kid get taller and taller in the side mirror.
The passenger-side door pops open, and even from his side Dean can see the various wrappers and bottles slide out and hit the asphalt. Apparently he forgot to clean his cab out last time he stopped. Huh. Even ankle-deep in garbage, the kid has reason to be thankful, though - he was willing to bet that his cab looked more inviting than whatever patch of ground the kid’d been considering sleeping on.
Before he climbs up, the kid picks up the trash that’d fallen out, places it almost reverently back where it was before the door opened. Dean only just resists the urge to role his eyes.
“Where you headed?” Dean asks, when his new passenger finally gets himself up into the cab and shuts the door behind him. Wherever it is, Dean sincerely hopes it has a shower - he knows he doesn’t exactly smell like roses, but the kid sure looks like he could use it.
“Anywhere that has a bus station,” is his reply, which isn’t really helpful. How is Dean supposed to know where the nearest bus station is? “Thanks, by the way.”
“Don’t mention it.” Dean guides the rig back onto the highway and hits the gas to get his speed back. The cab is airtight; inside, they can hardly hear the roar of the wind as the truck carves its way through the air. But it makes it eerily silent; he itches to turn the radio back up, already regretting his impulsive decision to pick up a 'hiker.
It’s another few miles until he finally breaks and has to say something to curb the awkward silence. He doesn’t want to press, but there has to be something; going all night with just the sound of their breathing is going to be hell if that’s how it goes. “So, you got a name?”
The kid stirs, shifting his feet around in the trash in the foot well. “Sam. You?”
Oh, this is going great.
“Dean,” Dean almost sighs. “So, Sam. Where’s the bus taking you?” By now, the sun’s gone. In the middle of the night in Oklahoma, the road is only lit by the moon and the headlights; even if Dean wanted to be polite and actually look at Sam as he’s speaking to him, there’s no way there’d be anything to see. Besides, the plains come alive at night. It isn’t that running over an animal would do much damage to the rig, and it’s unlikely that any animal would be trying to cross a major highway even at night, but it’s the principle.
“California.” Sam leaves it at that. Dean wants to ask what’s so important in California, but Sam’s voice is low, tired. From experience, Dean knows that these seats aren’t the most comfortable place to sleep.
“There’s a sleeper in the back if you want. I’ll let you know when we get somewhere.”
Sam can hardly believe his luck. He’s had rides with truckers before, but not usually ones so generous. And he was going to sleep in something close to a real bed for the first time in a long time.
Of course, he can’t help thinking there’s a catch. From the brief glance he’d had of his host before the sun had set, he’d guess this guy, Dean, was more of the savvy-with-a-gun type than the didn’t-watch-late-night-specials type.
Not that Sam’s going to try anything, but it’s good to know where he stands.
He throws his duffel back onto the mattress ahead of himself, thanks Dean and climbs back. He’s never been allowed inside a cab’s sleeper before (Sam hadn’t dare slept when he was riding with the other truckers), but he imagines that this one is pretty nice as far as sleepers go. It’s more like an apartment back here than an extension of the cab; everything anyone could ever need is situated in the small space.
When he settles back into the mattress, he turns so he can watch the sky out the windshield past the front seats. The stars are tiny pinpricks even from here, and Sam guesses there’s more than a few miles before they hit anything that resembles a truck stop.
And, in fact, he wakes up again before they hit anything at all. The scenery hasn’t changed all that much, just a different stretch of plains and highway than the one they’ve just left behind. Sam climbs back into the passenger seat but leaves his duffel back on the mattress. Perhaps sleep has left him with a false sense of security.
“Should be a truck stop in about fifteen miles. I’m gonna stop there for the night, I think.”
Sam nods, realizes he can’t be seen, and says, “Okay.” He worries briefly about where he’s going to stay, but these places are bound to have benches and stuff. He can find somewhere if he absolutely has to.
More silence, and Sam isn’t sure he should break it; mostly, drivers like their silence and their privacy. He’s just taking up space.
Surprisingly, it’s Dean who speaks first. “Uh, the place we’re gonna stop… it’s got good amenities, but it’s still pretty rough. So long on the road without anyone to talk to makes people mean, you know?” Dean clears his throat. “If you still want to find somewhere with a station, we can hit a city tomorrow. But maybe you should let me do the talking in here.”
Sam doesn’t know what to make of that. What kind of place are they stopping, anyway? He hasn’t been to many truck stops, true, but from his experience they’re mostly filled with older, tired-eyed men who stay hunched over their coffee mugs and only speak to each other if they can’t help it. Even so, Dean is bound to have more experience (even though he honestly doesn’t look much older than Sam himself is, how’d that happen?), and he hasn’t been anything but generous so far.
“Sure,” Sam says, shrugging. Again, he realizes he can’t be seen, but it’s more for his own benefit. “Think they’ll have showers?”
“Should, yeah.”
“Great.” If Dean wants to take the lead, Sam’s okay with it. The only thing he wants out of the deal is some quality time with about a year’s supply of hot water. He’s almost forgotten what his skin feels like when it isn’t covered with dried sweat, dirt and grime.
The glow from the stadium lamps come into view miles before the truck stop itself does. Sam wonders what time it is; most of the rigs are parked, but the interiors are dark. There are two other trucks at the diesel pumps, drivers nowhere in sight. The awning over the diesel pumps has the Shell logo mounted on it, but the building that sits across the parking lot has a more modest sign: Harvelle’s.
Sam thinks it sounds more like a bar than a truck stop, but as long as it has a shower he doesn’t really care what it’s called. The lights on inside are nearly blinding after so long with only the rig’s headlights and the stars; he blinks until his eyes adjust, and by the time he can see again, Dean’s parked the truck next to a fancy Peterbilt with a JB Hunt trailer.
“Remember what I said?” Dean asks as he kills the engine. Even if it was barely audible inside the cab, it’s eerily quiet without the steady rumble. Sam grabs his duffel off the sleeper’s mattress.
“Yeah,” he says as he carefully avoids the pile of trash in the floorboard and drops to the asphalt. His legs immediately want to cramp up on him - walking all day and then sitting for however long obviously doesn’t agree with him. Sam makes a small noise of discomfort as he tries to rub the knots out of his muscles. When he looks up, Dean’s already standing up by the truck’s grill, backlit by the beacon that is the truck stop. He’s thrown a bulky leather jacket on, and it makes him look like someone you wouldn’t want to cross.
Sam suddenly feels underdressed.
Dean’s been to Harvelle’s several time before. It always seems that he gets to this stretch of highway just before the road gets blurry and he forces himself to sleep.
There’s nearly always trouble.
Tonight it’s going to be in the form of the man in the corner. He watches and Dean and Sam enter through the restaurant-side doors; Dean returns the favor, watches him just as closely and only tears his eyes away to check on Sam.
Under the bright lights, Sam looks young, younger than Dean thought at first. He’s got to be barely legal. Sam’s tall, taller than Dean, and just starting to bulk up past the whipcord muscle that makes him look less threatening than it should.
He’s well-built, and Dean isn’t the only one noticing.
Dean pays for as much hot water as Sam could want at the counter and shows him where the showers are, a hallway situated between the restaurant and general store. There are bathrooms on one side of the hallway and two shower rooms on the other, and they’ve jammed a tiny booth into the back corner.
The purpose of the booth has never been entirely clear, but Dean’s thankful for it just then. Once he gets Sam set in the shower room, he gets himself a cup of coffee and returns there.
It isn’t that he feels obligated to protect Sam; he picked him up, yeah, but if he’s used to trusting truckers he’s got to know what he’s getting himself into. They aren’t generally a bad bunch but, like any group, there’s the occasional lonely wacko who doesn’t understand the concept of personal space. Regardless of whether Sam knows that or not, he’s still just a kid.
And because Dean has some sort of protective streak, he’s going to make sure Sam gets where he’s going safely. If that means California… well, he’s been meaning to get out there for a while now. He’ll drop the load he’s carrying in Reno and take Sam where he needs to go.
The hallway’s only light is a dim, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling in the exact center. It isn’t nearly as bright as the rest of the place. Someone standing at the mouth of the hallway casts a long shadow, and when Dean looks up he recognizes the man from the corner with the wandering eyes. He pauses when he notices Dean standing guard and smiles, sharp and predatory.
He keeps coming, and by the time he gets to the men’s room door, Dean is on his feet. He stares, hard, and the man stares right back as he reaches for the handle and pushes the door open.
It’s a horrible cover-up for his intention. If Dean was just a little less tired, he’d have welcomed the fight. As it is, he stays standing until the man emerges; with one last challenging glance, he retreats back into the restaurant.
Dean watches until he’s out of sight and sits back down, more alert than before. Moments later, one of the waitresses pokes her head around the corner and, seeing it clear except for him, starts down. Dean knows her, in a way; they sort of had a thing once. She’s blonde, petite, and doesn’t look old enough to be serving the alcohol on the menu.
“Watch out for that guy,” she says as she leans back against the wall and pulls a cigarette from one of her pockets. She lights up, takes a puff and closes her eyes as she exhales the smoke. “You don’t wanna get on Gordon’s bad side.”
“I think I can take care of him,” he replies. “You supposed to be smoking in here?” Her name is something short, meant to be cute but for the life of him he can’t remember it. Jill, maybe?
Maybe-Jill grins. “What my mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” She takes another few puffs of her cigarette in silent, eyes closed, enjoying her break. In the silence, Dean hears the water kick off in the shower room. At the same time, a voice echoes back to them, “Johanna Beth, you better not be smoking down there!”
And that’s it, it’s Jo. She huffs, takes one last puff and drops the butt to the floor, stubs it out with the toe of her book. “Duty calls,” she sighs, exhales. “I’d keep an eye on your boy if I were you.” Then she’s gone, leaving behind the thick smell of tobacco and words that don’t quite register just then, don’t have the chance because next moment Sam steps into the hallway.
His clothes are clean and he looks tired, content. “Thanks,” is the first thing he says, and for a second Dean’s sure he means Gordon.
“Oh,” he says, once he catches up. “No problem. ‘Fraid we’re gonna have to sleep in the truck, though.”
“S’fine. Better than what I expected.” Sam slings his duffel over his shoulder. “Should I sit here while you…?”
Dean would love a hot shower, but he doesn’t like the look of the customers tonight. He can wait for Albuquerque; he’s sure they can make it by tomorrow night. “Nah. I just want sleep. You clean up nice, though.” It’s mean to be teasing, but he realizes after he says it that he means it.
“Seat reclines a bit,” Dean explains. Sam was kind of hoping to go another few hours on the sleeper, but Dean’s been driving all day so it makes more sense. As if he’s said it out loud, Dean adds, “Usually I’d sleep up here and give you the sleeper, but I’ve gone longer than I probably should’ve.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Sam settles back into the seat and tries to get comfortable. Dean closes his door and opens a separate one that Sam realizes leads into the sleeper. He rustles around for a while, logging his hours in his logbook; ten minutes later the cab falls silent and dark, and despite the fact that the seat isn’t all that comfortable, Sam falls asleep almost instantly.
Sam wakes to the sound of the engine firing in the pallid predawn light. It’s almost unnatural after so much silence, and he realizes hazily that it sounds different than a car engine. The sound echoes around under the large hood. It’s almost eerie.
“Sorry,” Dean apologizes when he notices Sam is awake. “There’s stuff in the back if you’re hungry, but I’m not gonna stop for breakfast until we hit the next diner, at least.”
Sam’s mouth is dry but he’s used to being hungry by now. Plus, Dean’s already paid for him a shower and given him a place to sleep. He doesn’t want to impose.
He slips in and out of sleep for another half hour, then returns the seat to its original position and watches out the window for a while.
“You said you were headed to California, right?”
“Palo Alto,” Sam answers, distracted.
“Huh. You don’t say.”
Sam blinks and looks over. “Why?”
“I’ve got to drop this trailer in Reno before Friday, but my next pick-up is in Palo Alto. Not sure how fast the bus could get you there, but I could get you there before the week’s out.”
Either Sam is extremely stupid or extremely lucky, or maybe one of those proves the other by the fact that he isn’t able to tell. He considers. At this point, he doesn’t have enough money to ride even the city bus for a day, not to mention a bus ticket. He wasn’t sure where he was planning to get money, but if he could ride with Dean it would eliminate the need for it.
Of course, he’d have to come up with the money at the end of the road, but whether Dean is good with a gun or not, Palo Alto is a fair-sized place. It’d be easy to get lost there.
“Yeah, I mean. If you don’t mind paying my way ‘til we get there. My Aunt lives out that way, and I’ll be able to get the money from her to pay you.”
Dean shrugs. “I’m not worried about you paying me just now. Job pays well and I got nothing to spend it on. You’re just giving me an excuse to use it.”
“It’s just you?” Sam doesn’t mean to pry, but he wants to change the subject and it’s pretty unusual. Don’t these guys usually have families and such to go home to?
“Just me. My dad got me started in this when I was young. He-“ Dean clears his throat. “He died about a year back, so now it’s just me.”
“And you never considered doing anything else?”
Dean laughs, and there’s a not-quite bitter edge to it. “It becomes a lifestyle after a while. I think I’d go crazy if I tried living in one place for too long.”
And that’s how it starts. The miles fly by as they talk. Sam figures as long as they’re crossing the country, they might as well be friendly with each other. Talking about his family helps take the sting of leaving away, and Dean hasn’t had someone to talk to in far too long - the radio remains clicked off because it might interrupt their conversation if it was on.
Sam appreciates that.
Brunch is Ihop just outside of Vega and dinner puts them within striking distance of Albuquerque. Dean is rather proud of himself. But it wasn’t such a bad drive, especially with Sam for company.
The day passes fairly quickly , not measured by miles or cities as usual but the flow of their conversations, broken only by the few stops they make and the naps Sam takes. Dean's almost forgotten how to do this, how to fill the air with something other than an endless array of classic rock songs; almost forgotten how effortless it is when there's a person filling that space instead of silence.
Somewhere between Shamrock and Tucumcari, he realizes that he’s actually going to miss Sam when he’s gone. He doesn’t complain, loves to listen to Dean talk about everything and nothing, and he seems to have a sixth sense for when Dean’s done talking because he almost always fills the silence. And then it’s Dean’s turn to listen, and he really doesn’t mind.
Plus, Sam is beautiful. It isn’t a very productive thing to realize, and Dean half-wishes he’d picked a less-attractive hitchhiker to latch onto. He usually doesn’t have many inclinations in that direction - there are too many pretty women who romanticize his life and are all too willing to show him just how much. But Sam is different.
Not that he’s going to do anything about it. It’d be too cruel to take advantage like that. Sam is young, younger than Dean was when he was Sam’s age; he thinks he has the experience to make him world-weary, but he doesn’t. Not yet, anyway. Sam isn’t naïve, but he doesn’t know enough of the world to be mistrusting.
His willingness to hitch a ride with any random person who’d pick him up on the highway was proof enough of that.
It's only a few hours after dark when Albuquerque rests on the horizon, illuminating the black of the New Mexico sky. A deep, humble exhaustion has settled into his bones, and it's times like these that make him wish he didn't dislike motels so much. An actual bed and a shower that was actually part of a bathroom would do him some good, would do them both some good.
One look at Sam dozing in the passenger seat almost convinces him that the rig will be okay for one night.
It's not a money issue - he'd been telling Sam the trust, he had more money saved than he knew what to do with. Dean just didn't like the truck being out of sight, especially when he was being paid to haul a load for a company. It wasn't his merchandise to lose; his first run out on his own had taught him that. He'd taken a room for the night despite his Dad's warnings, and all it got him was a shitload of stolen furniture he had to reimburse the company for and his cab picked clean.
And the ass-chewing that followed. It wasn't a pleasant thing. But maybe tonight he'll take the front seat and let Sam have the sleeper.
The Flying J in Albuquerque is best; doesn't tolerate the shady characters anymore than the other chain stops do. Usually Dean wouldn't mind the cheaper, family-owned places - he can hold his own well enough. With Sam tagging along, though? It was like painting a giant bulls-eye on the kid's back. Flying J it was.
Despite being more expensive (or perhaps because of it), the showers at the J were more than decent enough. Dean was confident that no one would bother Sam, so he bought him a cup of coffee and led him to one of the booths in the restaurant as Dean himself took a turn at the shower.
The place was well-known enough that someone'd have to be either extremely cocky or extremely stupid to try anything.
After his shower, Dean stepped back out into the restaurant and scanned the booths, finding Sam exactly where he left him. Only he isn't alone, and it takes Dean maybe five complete seconds to realize who it is.
He'd definitely peg the Gordon guy Jo had warned him about as the extremely stupid type.
He sees red, or maybe green - something that makes his chest knot up with worry and something else that Dean doesn't care to identify, ever. One look at Sam confirms that something is wrong; he's uncomfortable, looking everywhere except at Gordon, who's taken it upon himself to sit across from him. The moment his eyes fall on Dean, Dean's protective streak - usually dormant but in specific circumstances - kicks into overdrive.
As Dean approaches, Gordon looks up, probably tracking Sam's gaze. He doesn't look surprised, but he leers, sizing Dean up for a threat. A half-second passes where Dean has to dig his fingernails into his own palms to stop himself from taking violent action right there, and then Gordon gives him the same grin as the night before; sharp,dangerous. He doesn't take Dean for much of a challenge.
Dean feels the cold metal of the gun's barrel on the small of his back like a brand, and hopes for violence.
Sam would like to think that he doesn't need rescuing, but when Dean slides into the booth next to him, glaring openly at the man who'd invited himself into Sam's company, the feeling flooding him is too much like relief to prove anything. He does need rescuing, and if he has to have his ability to take care of himself challenged he'd really like to have Dean at his back.
It's sort of satisfying, and it's childish enough that Sam wants to kill the thought before it has a chance to spread.
Dean drops his bag onto the floor at Sam's feet (out of the way, Sam notices, in case he has to stand up) and throws his arm along the plastic back of the booth like it's nothing. There's something in that Sam's deliberately not reading into. It's only cautionary, he tells himself.
Gordon is the first to speak, and his quiet, measured words make Sam's skin crawl. “Dean Winchester. I've heard about you, but I can't help thinking the legends might have gotten a few things wrong.” He says the word 'legend' like it's something to mock, a gross overstatement that's only meant to harm.
“Is that so?” Dean asks, and it's almost casual but for the steel belying the words.
“Mm. I was just telling your boy here about what it's like to shotgun with someone who actually knows what he's doing.”
Those weren't exactly the words he used. Sam feels the blush creeping from the back of his neck as Dean watches him like he's trying to see right through to something beyond.
“How about this?” Dean asks, carefully bringing the arm perilously close to Sam's shoulders back down to the table. He leans forward, braces himself on his elbows. When he speaks, his voice is dark, liquid, violence promised in every syllable. “You even think about laying a hand on my boy and I'll rearrange your face.”
If it was anyone else saying the words, they wouldn't sound so convincing. If it was anybody else saying the words, Sam might have been able to overlook it. As it is, he repeats it over and over in his head, what Dean called him, and each time it gets worse, gets more twisted.
The rest of the conversation is background noise, because Sam's brain is working harder than it has in weeks at trying to come up with a conclusion.
They were fighting over him, for lack of a better term; it didn't sound any better in his head than it would of if he'd spoken out loud. Gordon had painted a pretty clear picture of what he wanted from Sam, and up until this point Sam could have confidently said that Dean defended him because they were traveling companions, friends even. If nothing else, they were friendly.
But he wasn't property to be haggled over and sold to the highest bidder. He didn't belong to anyone, didn't owe--
He did. He owed Dean for the ride to California, and even if he was told he wasn't expected to pay now... people didn't do anything for free, not anymore. Besides, it's not like Sam could magically come up with the money to pay for the ride between here and California.
So he was expected the pay the way Gordon would have expected him to pay. Only makes sense, even over the swell of nausea rising in Sam's stomach. No one is as nice as Dean, not anymore, not unless they wanted something.
He'd seen the way Dean looked at him when they stopped, the way Dean watched him, eyes burning into Sam's back as he spent the rest of his money on what refreshments Dean didn't carry in the cab. Sam had thought it was his imagination, wishful thinking if absolutely nothing else. But now it made sense, all of it.
Eventually, Gordon left. Sam didn't see him go, but Dean retreated to the other side of the table in his absence. They only sat for a few more minutes in the restaurant, but it was enough to cement Sam's plan in his mind. Wasn't enough, maybe, to get up enough courage to do what he had to do, but he could get past that when he absolutely had to.
The walk back to the truck was silent. Dean watched him from the corner of his eye the way Sam watched Dean from the corner of his.
The red edges haven't faded from his vision when they get back to the truck. He goes straight for his sleeper without remembering that Sam was supposed to sleep there tonight. Sam is quiet, but he could be tired, maybe shaken from whatever Gordon was telling him before Dean came into the picture.
He doesn't want to know, he really doesn't.
The light clicks off immediately; he'll log tomorrow and it'll be just as accurate. Living the life so long develops patterns, and Dean's learned to memorize his start times, end times, and calculate the number of miles traveled. It wasn't a problem.
If he couldn't punch someone, he'd settle for sleep. And he's just about there when there's the sound of Sam moving around, stepping back behind the seats. Wrappers crinkle under his feet; he kicks aluminum cans out of his way and generally makes himself known. Whether on purpose or not, Dean's not at liberty to say. He keeps still and watches Sam with one eye in the dark.
But Sam doesn't go for the fridge or the microwave or anything else. He heads straight for the sleeper, tipping the mattress when he settles on the edge and watches Dean like a child would watch a parent he was afraid to wake.
Dean props himself on his elbows, squinting into the darkness to see Sam's face. He wishes he hadn't pulled the blackout screen over the windshield; there are a few centimeters on either side of the screen that let in just enough light to see Sam's silhouette.
“Hey,” he says when Sam hasn't spoken, just sits there. It's barely more than a whisper but it echoes in the cab.
But then the springs shift and Sam moves, sliding against the dark. Dean can feel his heat against him in a line of static; when Sam comes to a rest, he's pressed against Dean's side.
“Hey,” Sam replies. His voice is inches from Dean's face, off to the left but so close he can feel the hot puff of Sam's breath. There's exactly have a second to consider this before Sam moves into his space in the dark, face pressed close as he kisses Dean.
It isn't clumsy, not exactly; Sam doesn't have the experience that Dean does, but that doesn't mean he's bad at it, all pressure and the slide of lips, quick like they're going to get caught any moment.
Dean realizes like a punch to the gut that he should be stopping this. It's not like he's opposed, but he's supposed to be protecting Sam, even if it's from himself. This isn't helping.
Sam doesn't realize what he's doing, can't if he's doing this.
It takes a lot of willpower to make himself push Sam away, to plant a hand on Sam's chest and shove until Sam overbalances enough to have to break contact. He recovers quickly, quicker than Dean expects, and then Sam's back on him.
Dean almost can't this time. Sam feels too good against him, licking his way into Dean's mouth with slow, almost tentative swipes of his tongue. It's calculated and it takes what feels like every last bit of Dean's resolve to pull himself away.
“Hey,” he says again, but his voice is husky, kiss-rough, promising something more.
When Sam finally breaks his silence, his voice is just as wrecked as Dean's, just as hopeless. “Want you,” he says, and it sounds a bit like he's forcing it; not that it isn't true, but that he's hesitant to voice it. Scared of the thing suddenly thickening the air between them. “Please, please.”
It's the begging that undoes him, that makes him actually consider their situation. Sam's all heat and pressure where they touch and it's an odd sensation to feel and not see. Dean reaches out, fingertips skating Sam's jaw, and grips his face with a foreign gentleness that comes from a shadowy place deep inside.
“Damnit, Sam,” he breathes, “Don't know what you do to me, do you?” After a beat, he adds, “Are you sure?” just because he has to know, can't not ask when they're at such a vital turning point.
Sam nods, and Dean only knows because he can feel it, can feel Sam moving in his grip. Dean runs his thumb over Sam's chin, finds his mouth and strokes over the seam of Sam's lips for a moment; after the first few passes, Sam opens for him and Dean's thumb sinks inside the wet heat of his mouth.
The sound that claws its way out of Dean's throat is strangled. He won't own up to it later, can't even let himself acknowledge how fucked he is. He's too young to feel like a dirty old man. Hell, he's probably not that much older than Sam is, but the way Sam is makes him feel that much older. In terms of life experience, there are decades between them.
But all of that, even when it's heavy on his mind, doesn't stop him from wanting so badly he can't stop himself. Sam's tongue swirls around the pad of his thumb, and Dean wishes for the thousandth time that there was light in the cab so he could see Sam's obscene mouth around his finger, see the lust dark in his eyes, see how much he wants Dean.
Reluctantly, he pulls his hands away; his thumb slips from Sam's mouth with a slick sound. Next moment, Sam is on him again, kissing him with a renewed sense of urgency. Dean knows he should ask again before he can't stop himself, but it doesn't quite come out when he tries.
“Are... can I see you?”
It's whisper-sweet, almost sticky on Dean's tongue. Somewhere in the past few seconds he's decided that if they're doing this, they're going to do it right. Sam shifts around, blankets himself over Dean with an unexpected ease. He reaches over, fumbling in the dark for the switch on the lamp; something falls off the small pull-out table and skitters to the ground, and Dean huffs out an embarrassingly breathy half-laugh, lowers himself flat on the mattress and reaches blindly for Sam.
His fingers brush shoulder, down over bicep, elbow, forearm, until Dean's looping his fingers loosely around Sam's wrist where he's still fumbling on the nightstand. Next moment, he twines his fingers with Sam's and stretches them both to where the switch should be.
Sam's hand falls away when Dean fiddles with getting the lamp on, and when the light finally comes on he's momentarily blinded by it. Sam grips his bicep reflexively, and for a moment that's all there is.
When Dean opens his eyes, adjusted to the bright, Sam's watching him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown so wide only a thin ring of crystalline hazel is still visible.
Their faces are close, noses almost brushing and Sam's hand still closed around Dean's arm. Sam's eyes are lit with something Dean might call surprise and Dean's pretty sure he himself looks like a starry-eyed idiot in return.
A long time ago, Dean might have thought he could have a life like the drivers he met, with a wife and three kids at home, calls every night and fewer loads to run. Or perhaps, like some, he'd take his wife with him. Not a glorious life for a woman, he realizes, but whomever she was, she'd have to love this life. This life is part of Dean; a pretty large part, his whole life, and if she were to love him she'd have to accept that.
Now he held no illusions. He knew it wasn't going to be like that for him, knew his love life was going to consist of fractured fantasies, lot lizards and quick, hot fucks in the bathroom of whatever stop he decided to rest at.
Sam isn't any of those things. And he can't treat Sam like he is, because Sam is different. He desperately wants Sam to be different.
When Dean kisses him, flat on his back with both hands twisted in Sam's hair, there's no purpose, no real heat in the swirl of his tongue. It is sweet, and slow, more than a little soft. It's one of those life-affirming kisses that people sing about - not in any music Dean listens to, of course, but he remembers bubblegum pop from the days in low spots before he replaced the truck's tape deck.
And Sam goes with it, even when Dean is half-afraid he won't. When California comes, day after tomorrow at the very latest, this is going to hurt like hell. Dean will take care of it with the road, and each mile that rolls by will make it sting less.
That's what he tells himself by way of apology, and stops thinking altogether when Sam nips at him, nicks Dean's lip in a sharp rush of pain and then sucks at the cut, soothes over it with his tongue and feather-light, ridiculous kisses.
Tomorrow there will be a bruise, and when he kisses Sam awake in the morning, it will hurt.
There's something that Dean won't name settling in his limbs, something fierce and protective and it fucking aches. Sam shouldn't have to take charge here, not if Dean's playing the resident dirty old man.
He has to stop himself from thinking, has to literally halt his thought process to nothing but Sam. He pushes him away, gentle, and presses himself as close to the edge of the mattress as he can without falling. Perched on his hip, he whispers to Sam, “Lie down,” and watches him move after a brief, confused pause.
There are too many clothes in the equation right now, too much skin that isn't bare, so before Sam gets settled against the pillows, Dean pulls at the hem of his t-shirt, rucks it up and finally off with Sam's help.
He's a beautiful sight, stretched half-naked on Dean's bed. He's still young enough to have corded muscle rather than the bulk he'll grow into; his shoulders are crazy-broad and his bangs fall forward to shade his eyes.
Dean wonders, briefly, self-deprecatingly, if this would be happening if Sam were less attractive.
He tears his eyes from Sam's exposed skin, plants little kisses to the tip of Sam's nose, the corners of Sam's mouth, the skin of his throat and the tips of his collarbone. He tastes like outside, faint traces of the soap he used in the shower at Harvelle's, like everything that makes sense in Dean's life and a great deal that doesn't.
In the very distant corners of his mind, he knows this kid is fucking him up, knows that soon, not having this is going to rip him apart.
His tongue on Sam's skin, mouthing and whirling over the sweep of his ribs, the taut skin of his belly and lower, inscribes apologies to Sam, to himself, and admonitions because although he doesn't mean to, every glance Sam throws him, every sound that vibrates through his body, makes him love the kid a little more.
God help him.
It is morning, and there is a warm body cradled in his arms. It takes a second for Dean to register this, another for him to panic, because if there's someone here with him, where's Sam? He doesn't remember drinking last night -
And then he remembers, and Sam shifts in his embrace, rubs deliciously against him and Dean's dick gives a happy, interested twitch.
He cracks one eye open - the cab is still dim, light breaking in all around the blackout screen not nearly enough to make the seats and crammed furniture in the sleeper more than hulking, black figures. Next to him, Sam's face is lax, relaxed with sleep, lips parted lightly.
Dean's smile cracks the cut in his lip open, and he tastes old blood. The spot is tender when he tongues it, raw from use, and he doesn't care enough not to kiss Sam.
It's a slow, languid kiss; Sam's only now beginning to stir, to respond beneath him.
And then Sam's eyes snap open. He goes suddenly, absolutely still, tense, and when Dean pulls back, Sam lets all the air out of his lungs.
Sam pushes, still half-asleep, clumsy. But he's pushing Dean away, and Dean puts as much distance between them as he can. “What...?”
When Sam looks at him, his eyes are blazing even through the sleep-haze. “I think I've paid enough for the lift,” he says, voice cold, and he crawls off the mattress. It hits Dean like a kick to the gut, pieces falling into place like the tumblers in a lock.
Sam's gathering his clothes, tossing his shirt over his head and pulling his jeans up with a quick, violent jerk. Dean sits there, gaping, and the only thing he can do is say “Sam” and “No” until Sam turns to him, glares, and grabs his backpack out of the front seat.
The truck's door slamming shut is a heavy, final sound.
Sam stumbles a little when his feet hit the asphalt. Maybe he was a little overeager in getting away, but he doubts anyone could blame him after everything that's happened.
He still has a hard time believing that Dean would do something like that, that Dean would expect it of him. Bitterly, he thinks he should have known that no one would be that nice, that giving without wanting something in return. And after everything, Gordon was right.
Maybe that's what pisses Sam off the most. Maybe it's the pain that shoots up his spine every time he moves, or the sharp, periodic throb from the bruise Dean left on his neck. There's a matching one on his hip, and he almost forgets until his jeans rub the wrong way.
It makes him want to punch something.
Avoiding the real issue works just fine for him, lets him focus on his situation. He has no money. He has no way to get anywhere, because he could hitch another ride, but that'd put him back in the same situation he'd just left, and probably with someone a lot less attractive than Dean.
Damnit, he's fucked, and in more than the obvious way.
There's a bus station a few blocks away; he remembers seeing it, abstractly, on their way in. It didn't register at the time, but he knows it must be close. Sam doesn't have a clear idea of what he'll do when he gets there, but he has no choice. He starts walking.
Dean stares at the door for a minute, as though the weight of his gaze alone will bring Sam back. It might be a few minutes, might be an hour, but eventually he looks away, looks around at the cab and starts to scoot his way to the edge of the bed. The sheets are still warm where Sam slept in them. He clenches his jaw and pulls on his clothes, tries to ignore the raw, sharp pain in his chest.
He's halfway through visualizing his plan, the plan he now has to default to because Sam is gone. Sam thought that... how could Sam think that? How could Sam think that he ever...?
Maybe it was Dean's fault. Maybe Sam caught him looking, maybe he was sending the wrong vibes, maybe...
Gordon.
Dean hasn't actually considered killing another human before. He's never been mad enough at someone to warrant that sort of wish. But instead of surprise at himself, he's flooded with cold, hard rage.
He moves around in the limited space, throwing on clothes and muttering to himself, dark words of hatred, promises of how thoroughly he's going to fuck Gordon up - and he almost trips over something on the floor.
Frustrated, he glares down at it. It's a small, brown wallet, and not something he's ever seen before. For a moment, all of his anger drains away, and he picks it up, flips it open.
Sam's face smiles up at him from the plastic of his ID - Kansas, but that's the last thing Dean notices. He looks at Sam's picture for a moment, then skims the information printed on it, only feeling slightly like an intruder.
He skims over address, height, and birthdate -- and then stops, suddenly. Dean calculates, quick as he can, and nearly drops Sam's wallet in his haste to close it again, as though covering up the proof will destroy the evidence of what he's done.
Sam isn't as old as Dean thought. Sam is just shy of legal, still fucking jail bait as far as the U.S. Government is concerned. Why is no one looking for him? What kind of father lets his 17-year-old son wander out into the world with a clear conscious?
There's no excuse, not now. There's no reason that Dean can give, even that Sam hates him, or that Sam thinks he's some sort of dirty old man (which, Dean realizes, he now is); no reason to not go looking for him. Because Sam is young, and alone, and without his wallet he has no proof of who he is.
Or any money.
Cautiously, he opens the billfold.
There's about ten dollars in ones and change there, not enough to... shit, not enough to pay for anything that he'll need. Dean hopes Sam has money in his pocket, but he knows he's not fooling himself. Sam is broke. And alone, and underage, and completely naïve to the ways of the world.
Dean stands there for a moment, frozen, before he hastily tucks Sam's wallet into his pocket alongside his own, laces up his boots and stumbles out into the sunshine.
The only person in the stop that's seen Sam is a tired-eyed waitress, who points up the street and says, “Tall kid, right? Headed that way not half an hour ago.”
And Dean feels like he could kiss her, but it would take too much time away from him, so he just bolts out the door and starts running.
Sam stands outside the station for a whole minute before he walks inside; the air conditioning is a blessing from the gods compared to the heat that is Albuquerque in the summer. The woman at the high counter looks at him expectantly, and he reaches automatically into his pocket for his wallet.
And finds it missing.
He swears and dodges back outside with the woman's disapproving look.
Dean doesn't even stop to catch his breath, too desperate that he'll be too late, that Sam has somehow found money or earned it somehow (the thought makes him sick) and bought a ticket, and that a bus has taken him away and Dean will never find him.
But as he gets closer, he sees Sam's shape huddled in front of the station, looking pissed and hot and sweaty, and Dean wants nothing more than to hug him (no matter how fucking girly it is, Christ this kid is going to kill him). He doesn't, but it's a close thing.
He doesn't stop running until he's standing right in front of Sam, and then he doubles over with it. Dean keeps himself pretty fit, hates to fit the stereotype, but running in the breath-stealing heat is something different entirely. He endures the weight of Sam's eyes, the uncertain glare that fades the more Dean doesn't speak.
When he's caught his breath, he says, “Wait,” like that isn't what Sam's been doing, and leans against the building. “You... Sam. Why would you ever think that I...?”
Sam's eyes narrow, defensive, and Dean dares himself to hope just a bit. “Why else? Nothing is free, Dean. Nobody does so many generous things without wanting something in return.”
“Gordon tell you that?” Dean asks, and snorts. “Hate to tell you, kid, but Gordon is seriously screwed in the head. He'll be worse by the time I'm done with him.”
He pauses for a moment, looks directly at Sam and says, “I don't know what I did to convince you that that's what I wanted. I'm not entirely sure what made you think Gordon had it right, of all people, but I...” Dean clears his throat. “I couldn't do that to you. To anybody, but you least of all.”
Sam looks like he doesn't know what to say, and Dean doesn't know whether to read that as a good thing or not. It takes a moment of Sam opening and closing his mouth, preparing to speak, before he gets the words out.
“I'm not gay,” is the first thing he says, and it sounds compulsive. “I can't be.”
There's enough self-loathing behind those words to make Dean empathize on instinct. He's not even sure if it's the right thing to say, if it's going to make Sam hate him more or less, if anything he could think to say will make a difference when Sam is... Sam, and he seems so small in comparison. “There's nothing wrong with it.”
The look Sam throws him pierces right through. “There is. You don't...” His sigh is heavy. “You know what? I don't think I actually believed that you would want that from me. I think I wanted to believe it because it was easier than admitting to myself that I'm just as fucked as dad always said.”
At this, Sam sits on the filthy concrete, like standing with the weight on his shoulders is too much. He looks up at Dean, expecting, and Dean complies, watching Sam with wary eyes. It's only when Dean's seated, knees nearly brushing Sam's and only not quite because he's still afraid Sam will bolt, that he asks, “What?”
As soon as he asks, he realizes he already knows the answer.
He doesn't even give Sam a chance to answer before he says, “That's why you're here? Because your dad didn't like that you were...?”
Sam shakes his head, looking morose, and if it was socially acceptable to assume a fetal position when over 6 feet tall and male, Dean has a feeling Sam would be doing it right now. “Not exactly. I had a... I had this friend. He was gay. Not with me,” Sam laughs, nervously, “but still. Small towns, you know?”
Dean wishes he didn't know where this was going.
“They, uh. They caught him out, one night. And he wasn't do anything, he was just walking, and. By the time they got him to the hospital, he'd lost too much blood.” Sam takes a breath, clears his throat and doesn't know what to do with his hands. “Dad thought that the same'd happen to me. He thought - well, he was a Marine, and you know how that goes, right?”
Again, Dean wishes he didn't. He's momentarily grateful that the only thing his dad was strict about was making runs on time, keeping the trucks running in perfect condition and not putting much store by material things. Dean'd only had a leaning in that direction a couple of times, but his dad didn't much care who he fucked as long as it kept his mind clear to get his job done.
Sam's voice pulls Dean out of his thoughts. “And I tried to tell him that it wasn't a bad thing, that it only mattered to close-minded assholes, and he took that to mean that I was... like that. He said I could be a fag if I wanted, but I wasn't going to do it under his roof. I don't know if it was because I'd considered it or because I was so mad at him, but... I left.”
Dean looks down at his hands, because he knows that if he looks at Sam now he'll want to kiss him, and that's sort of detrimental to their cause, here. “So, your aunt in Palo Alto...?”
“Doesn't exist.”
“Ah .”
Silence for a while, and they don't look at each other.
“I wasn't supposed to like it,” Sam says, quiet, and Dean startles at the suddenness of it. And under normal circumstances, he'd be making cracks about how he's just that good, that no one could resist. It's a testament to how much Sam suddenly means to him that he doesn't.
“But you did.” It isn't a question because it doesn't have to be. Dean remembers the sounds Sam made, his arousal and the way he bucked and cursed and tightened around Dean.
The noise Sam makes now is supposed to be a laugh, even if it doesn't come out that way. “I did. And I wish... I wish things were different, and that I could, but. I can't.”
Dean looks at him, ducks his head to make Sam meet his eyes. “I don't know if I'm the right person to tell you this, but. You can. You know you can.” Dean stands up, brushes off his jeans. “Now, if you still want to go... wherever, I can get you a ticket. Purely out of generosity,” he adds, not quite smiling to himself. “But if you change your mind? I've been looking for a copilot for a while.”
He lowers his eyes, doesn't watch Sam because all of his bravado suddenly leaves him. “Job's yours if you want it. I won't force you into anything.”
And it's going to kill him, watching Sam every day and not being able to touch now that he can't even illusion himself about what it'd be like. But Sam's friendship is more to him than that, and he can deal with it.
There's another long, uncomfortable pause, and Dean's about to say something overused like “I understand if you don't want to” when Sam stands. He takes a step forward, close enough to touch, and when Dean looks up despite himself, something in Sam's eyes has broken, warmth spilled forth from it, and for about the thousandth time, Dean doesn't trust himself to hope.
“I think I'd like that,” Sam says, breathless, and leans forward the extra inch to kiss Dean. It makes his lip throb, but the elated feeling that's throbbing deeper inside eclipses it.
It feels like hours later when they've pulled away, sweaty and too-hot and both too happy to care. On the way back to the truck, Dean rests a hand on the back of Sam's neck, ignores the way Sam's damp hair curls over his fingers.
“You don't have to worry,” he says, and Sam looks up from the sidewalk to look at him, questioningly. Dean grins at him. “As long as I'm around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you.”
Castiel knows that Uriel had manipulated some aspects of this scenario to make it impossible for it to play out, and now that it's played out anyway, he can hear Uriel's protestations long before they start.
"This one can't count," Uriel says. "Sam was a minor, he was... impressionable. He only wanted to be himself, and Dean was the independent adult. Besides, that isn't love." He spits the word out like it personally offends him.
"Isn't it?"
"It's... hero worship! No, Castiel, this one can't count."
Castiel makes the sunny sidewalk of Albuquerque disappear, replaces it with a palpable, black darkness that begs for creation. "The details are irrelevent. Fashion the next one, if you think the outcome will be any different."
So Uriel does.
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