Two fics!
Sam didn’t dare pause as he ran up the long winding stairs, ignoring the stitch in his side and his burning legs. He didn’t even have the breath to curse the witch who had a house with such a ridiculously tall tower attached and then had made it necessary for Sam to run up it. Rather redundant anyway, since Sam had already destroyed her altar and then her. Served her right for cursing his brother.
Finally, gasping, Sam reached the door guarding the room at the top of the stairs. It was locked, but a good solid kick broke the hasp and he muscled his way in. And there, on an elevated bier, lay Dean.
Sam’s breath caught in his throat. Dean wasn’t moving, eyes closed and face marble-pale, and from the doorway Sam couldn’t tell whether he was breathing or not. Oh God, was he too late? Sam rushed over and fell to his knees beside the bier, laying his hand on Dean’s chest, and for one terrifying moment he thought for sure he’d failed. Dean’s bare skin felt cool under his hand, unnaturally still.
Time froze, dragged out excruciatingly slow, until a faint thud reverberated under his questing fingers. Only then did Sam suddenly remember how to breathe, exhaling in a relieved rush as he felt the soft rustle of air escape from Dean’s mouth to brush at his face. Thank God, he was still alive. To keep him that way, Sam just had to break the spell.
Now that the terror had passed and his focus wasn’t so desperately fixed on his brother, Sam suddenly realized a few things. First of all, Dean was stripped down to his boxers. Sam glanced around looking for his clothes, and raised his eyebrows at the wardrobes lining the walls. They all seemed to be overflowing with fancy dresses, fine silks and taffeta and velvet in bright jewel colors, incongruous in this old musty house. The bier Dean lay sleeping on was draped in soft, expensive-looking cloth, and the pillow under his head was crushed velvet.
What the hell had this witch been up to? Sam fought the hysterical urge to giggle - the place looked like a bower. Which totally made Dean the Disney Princess.
Oh, this was too good an opportunity. Sam now had years worth of blackmail material on his macho brother. He almost wished he had showed up at the witch’s house a bit later, because he had the sneaking suspicion that she’d been about to dress up her new Sleeping Beauty before he interrupted.
That mental image broke his self-control and sent him into a fit of suppressed chuckles. Snorting, he took a deep breath to try and calm his mirth. Focus! He still had to break the curse before midnight, or else Dean would never wake up. After that, he’d have all the time in the world to mock his brother mercilessly for getting caught by a witch with a hankering for pretty transvestite princesses.
Cursing himself for forgetting his phone and its handy camera, Sam dug the piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. He’d ripped it out of the witch’s spellbook rather than haul the whole thing up the stairs. This page had the details of the spell, how to cast it and how to break it, but he’d only gotten as far as having to break it before midnight, which gave him a little less than twenty minutes, before sprinting up the stairs to find Dean.
Now he skimmed the parts he’d read before - eye of newt, toe of frog, yadda yadda yadda, eternal sleep, blah blah blah, only be broken before midnight same day, whatever, broken by a kiss, blah blah . . . .
Wait. What?!
Sam read it again, sure he was imagining it. Too many fairy tales. But just like so many things in their line of work, this fairy tale was true. Sleeping Beauty could only be woken with a kiss.
Rapidly he scanned the rest of the page, looking for any fine print. Not true love’s first kiss? Not the kiss of a soul mate? Not a kiss from a virgin princess? Or prince? Just a kiss, from anybody?
Sam made a face and checked his watch. Well, good news was that he could do it. Bad news was he had to do it. And in the next few minutes too, so not much time to get used to the idea. He had to kiss Dean. His brother, Dean, and who knew where those lips had been?
Sam steeled himself. Better to just do it quickly and get it over with, because then he could move on to his justly deserved right to rag on Dean for eternity for needing to be rescued. Dean Winchester, damsel in distress. He’d never let Dean live it down, as just punishment for making Sam have to kiss him.
Nervously he wetted his lips, then leaned over his brother. Dean looked so young and peaceful sound asleep, lines smoothed from his face. Sam just looked for a long moment, enjoying the altogether too rare sight, then took the plunge and softly placed his lips against Dean’s.
Instantly Dean’s eyes sprang open, and he sucked in a shocked breath through his nose. “Sam!” Startled, Sam jerked back at the same time Dean tried to jackknife up, and their foreheads slammed together. They both yelled out in pain, Sam tumbling back on the floor, Dean rolling off the opposite side of the bier to crash heavily to the floor.
For several long moments they lay there, breathing hard as equilibrium reestablished. Finally Sam broke the near-silence. “Dean, you okay?”
“Okay? Am I okay?” Dean’s head popped up over the bier, scowling darkly. “Dude, you kissed me!”
Sam shrugged, “So?”
Dean gaped, seemingly struck dumb at Sam’s nonchalance. “So?! So?!”
“It was the only way to break the spell, Your Highness,” Sam snarked as he got to his feet. “What was I supposed to do, let you die?”
“Still. You. Kissed. Me.”
“Yeah, I kissed you.” Sam exaggerated a shudder. “I’m scarred for life. Who knows where your mouth has been? What I sacrifice for you, my dear brother.”
“Shuddup,” Dean groused as he climbed stiffly to his feet. “Where are my clothes?”
Grinning, Sam waved grandly at the assorted dresses. “Take your pick, Princess. We’ve got to get you to the ball on time.”
“Oh hell no.” Dean grimaced, stepping gingerly as if the entire room was contaminated with something noxious. “I’ll walk out of here naked before I touch those. C’mon, I had my clothes when I came in here. What’d the bitch do with ‘em?”
“C’mon Dean. I think you’d look fetching in this one.” Sam tugged out a long sapphire blue dress and waggled it enticingly at his brother, grinning maniacally.
If looks could kill, Sam and that dress would be a small pile of ash on the floor right then. “Sam,” came the low warning growl.
Sam faked a pout. “Oh, you’re right. This wouldn’t fit. Pity. Guess we’ll have to find something in your size.”
“Hey! You callin’ me fat?”
“Of course not.” He rummaged a bit through the forest of gowns, then produced a hideous concoction of hot pink taffeta and ruffles.
“Don’t even think about it,” Dean snarled, kicking over boxes of shoes on the opposite side of the room. “No wonder people think you’re gay.” He shot Sam a poisonous glare. “You’re enjoying this a bit too much. Considering I almost died, and you kissed me.”
“Dude, will you get over it? It’s not like I did something you haven’t done before.”
“Totally different situation. Besides, I didn’t act like this afterwards.”
“Uh, yeah, you did. You teased me about my candy lips for a month afterwards. Not to mention nearly giving me a phobia for hanging plants.”
Dean found his clothes stuffed in the corner and busied himself with yanking them back on. “That was your own fault. Dad and I both warned you about the cursed mistletoe. You’re the one who chose not to believe me and got yourself tied up in it.”
“And you’re the one who got caught by a witch with a Disney fixation.”
That shut Dean up, at least for the time being, and it was with a grim silence he led the way down the stairs and out of the house, pausing only to kick vindictively at the remains of the witch on the parlor floor. Once back in the Impala, Sam looked over with a mischievous twinkle, but Dean glared at him and cracked up the Metallica as loud as he could stand it.
Sam laughed all the way back to the motel.
Fic: Siren's song
Rating: PG-13
Genre: angsty one-sided UST of the Wincest variety
Warnings: boy-kissing
Word count: ~1900
Summary: Sam's thinking about his life, his choices, and his brother, the night before he leaves for Stanford.
Nights in the Winchester’s current apartment were never very dark or very quiet. Sickly yellow ambience from streetlights slid through the cracks in the crooked blinds, scattering mottled spots around the room. The thin walls couldn’t block the constant noises from the street outside, the rumblings of cars and low voices of hookers and drug dealers working through the witching hours. The neighbors at least had calmed down; some nights the people the floor below left the TV blaring, or the couple down the hall had screaming fights that Sam would bet could be heard a block away. The AC chugged and whirred away, struggling to blow a semblance of cool air through the muggy sweat-dripped breath of Mississippi nights in August.
Sam had long ago grown used to less than ideal conditions to sleep in. Kind of a side effect of their life; either you caught sleep when and where you could, or suffer a nervous breakdown from sleep deprivation. But tonight, despite his near-legendary ability to doze off anywhere, sleep eluded him.
His hands folded under his chin as if in prayer, Sam sat on the edge of his bed and watched Dean sleep. It always amazed Sam that Dean was never truly still; even in sleep, there was always a twitch of movement, of alertness, as if at the slightest hint of danger Dean would be fully awake in an instant. Always on guard duty, always ready to protect his family.
It exhausted Sam just looking at him, sometimes. He hadn’t asked for this, for his brother to be his parent and his bodyguard and pit bull, all in one. He didn’t want this life, always on guard, always wondering if Dad would come home this time, wondering if his family would survive to see daylight. He wanted more. So much more. And he knew Dean deserved more.
Sam let one hand drift down to finger the thick envelope at his side. The soft crinkle of paper beneath his fingertips sounded like hope, like life, a future. Something besides darkness and crappy apartments and fake IDs and moving all over the country like gypsies. The Stanford website showed bright green lawns drenched in warm sunlight, smiling and happy students going to classes in old buildings rich with history, not hauntings. It looked like someplace Sam could breathe and not feel like life was suffocating him. It looked normal.
The pictures entranced him, and the papers he held promised him that life, that bright future. With just a few inches of ink on paper, Sam had his escape. Admission, a full ride scholarship, a place to live, and a bus ticket to get there. It was . . . almost perfect.
What would make it perfect was if he didn’t have to go alone.
Sam couldn’t stay, he just couldn’t. He couldn’t keep on with Dad’s quest for revenge against the thing that had killed his mother. He couldn’t keep living this way. Dad was hopeless, refused to see reason. What if they never found the thing? Would Dad just keep hunting until it killed him? Did he even care about his sons? Sometimes Sam thought John let himself become so consumed with vengeance for his dead wife that he forgot he had sons. He sure as hell hadn’t been a father in a long time.
But Dean . . . Dean had always been there for Sam. Dean was the first thing Sam remembered, his first memory that of being held by his big brother in the backseat of the Impala as he told Sammy stories. He’d been there for all the important firsts in Sam’s life, from first steps and first words to first girlfriend and more. He was everything.
Is it any wonder that Sam loved his brother more than he should?
In his defense, it wasn’t like Sam meant to, or hadn’t tried to stop. He’d known at fifteen that something was wrong with him, when he caught himself staring Dean’s bare chest after training and couldn’t stop the image in his head later that night lying in bed. He knew it wasn’t right to lust over his brother, and he tried to stop. He really did. But Dean was Sam’s everything, and neither would change that for the world.
It really didn’t help that Dean was brutally gorgeous, a fact that Dean exploited to no end. Sam had watched the revolving door of girlfriends for years, secretly despising each one. They only saw the surface Dean, the smoky green eyes and full lips twisted in a come-hither smirk, yet they got to touch a part of Dean Sam wasn’t allowed to access. Dean was Sam’s, dammit.
And that was why Sam now sat in a dim bedroom, watching his brother sleep on, oblivious.
He was torn, because while the papers called to him with their siren song of hope, his brother called to him on a much deeper level. He knew what he wanted. But like the song says, you can’t always get what you want. How could he choose between his future and his life?
Was Dean enough of a reason to stay? Could he give up his dreams to stay by his brother’s side, to keep the family together like Dean wanted? Could he stand to remain in the darkness, to submit to Dad, watch as Dean followed every order like a soldier and waste his own future?
Sam shuddered at the thought, hands clenching involuntarily around the envelope, making the sweat-damp paper twist. Carefully he smoothed it back out. No. No, he couldn’t stay. Dean alone wasn’t enough to keep him in the darkness. He wanted out of his dad’s freak show of a life. He wanted normal, or as close to it as he could get.
Stanford promised that, and Sam listened to that seductive draw, let it firm his determination. Tomorrow. The bus ticket was for tomorrow night. Then he’d be away from all this, leaving it all behind. The trouble was, he didn’t want to leave quite everything behind. There was something important he wanted to take with him, and that something was rolling over in the next bed, faint streetlight painting strips of gold across his face.
Could he do that? Could he ask Dean to come with him? Leave this life, leave the hunt, leave Dad to his revenge and walk in the sunlight instead? Sam knew Dean wasn’t stupid; he could take college classes if he wanted to. Or he could get a job, maybe as a mechanic like he did occasionally when they needed money. Dean could do anything he wanted and settle down in a real home. They could have someplace they could call home, not simply a motel room or an apartment where they crashed in between hunts.
Sam watched Dean’s chest rise and fall in a slow, even rhythm, unconsciously breathing in sync with his brother. Could Sam really have everything he wanted? Or would this be the last night they’d spend together?
Gingerly Sam rose from his creaky bed and padded over to Dean’s. Lowering himself carefully down to sit on the edge, he let his eyes trace Dean’s familiar features. His pale skin glowed in the weak light, long eyelashes casting dark fans of shadow across his cheeks. His lips, those full, tempting, should be illegal lips were slightly parted and wet in sleep, looking sinfully dark and plump.
Could he have this? Or would he have to leave Dean behind with everything else?
Sam had always been a curious child, never satisfied until he had the answer. Now that curiosity drew him slowly down, hand coming to rest delicately on Dean’s warm strong chest, almost sliding over to trace the small brown nipple but resisting. Those lips called to him, tugging him closer until his breath mixed with Dean’s soft sleep exhale, noses almost touching. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deep, letting Dean’s scent fill his lungs like a drug. He wanted.
For an eternal moment, their lips touched, and it was almost perfect. Dean’s lips were just as soft and pliable as they looked, satiny cushions that at the slightest contact sent shivers of warmth down Sam’s spine. Instantly addicting, it was almost everything he’d dreamed about. He wanted more, to make it perfect.
Abruptly he was shoved back away from Dean, and would have fallen if not for the hand suddenly fisted in his collar. He struggled briefly, mouth still tingling from the kiss, then stilled as cold steel caressed his throat. He looked down at Dean, warm feelings swamped by the cold rush of fear at the pitiless look in Dean’s eyes.
They simply stared at each other, then Dean withdrew the knife and let Sam go, exhaling roughly as he shoved the knife back under his pillow. “Goddamnit Sam, don’t scare me like that. I could’ve hurt you.”
Sam brushed at his throat, trying to force away the memory of that razor-sharp blade pressing against his skin. “Sorry.”
“What time’s it?” Dean sat up in bed, glanced at the clock and grimaced at the early hour. Running a hand through sleep-rumpled hair, he pinned his brother with a hard look. “What the hell were you doing?”
“Not sure,” Sam murmured, only daring to glance at Dean before looking away. A creeping mix of failure, frustration, and resignation filled him, and all he wanted to do now was curl back up in bed and wait out the rest of the night. But from the look in Dean’s eyes, Sam had to distract him now, or else he’d have to answer questions he unfortunately already knew the answers to. “When’s Dad coming home?”
“Tomorrow, probably early afternoon. Least that’s what he said when he called earlier.” Dean peered at Sam, but Sam hid in the now-welcome gloom and shuffled back to his own bed, careful not to let Dean see the envelope he’d stuffed back under the mattress.
“Sorry I woke you.” He flopped on the bed and turned so his back was to Dean, effectively cutting off any attempt at conversation. The room was silent for a long moment, then Dean sighed and his bed creaked as he settled back down. In no time Sam could hear the shift in breathing patterns that indicated Dean was asleep again.
Sam lay on his back, staring at the grime-streaked ceiling, one hand sneaking down to touch the edge of the envelope again. He had his answer. There would only be one bus ticket tomorrow. He couldn’t risk Dean hating him. He knew Dean wouldn’t understand why he had to leave, but would eventually forgive him. Hopefully.
But Dad . . . Dad would see this as desertion. No matter that Sam was right, no matter that anyone else who had a son that got into Stanford would be proud, Dad would only see this as a soldier going AWOL. They would fight, they always fought over everything and this was no exception, and then Sam would leave. Dad would order Dean to let him go, and Dean, ever the dutiful solider, would do it.
And when Sam boarded that bus tomorrow, he would try to forget the forbidden feeling of Dean’s lips against his, and how, just for a moment, he had felt complete.
Finally, gasping, Sam reached the door guarding the room at the top of the stairs. It was locked, but a good solid kick broke the hasp and he muscled his way in. And there, on an elevated bier, lay Dean.
Sam’s breath caught in his throat. Dean wasn’t moving, eyes closed and face marble-pale, and from the doorway Sam couldn’t tell whether he was breathing or not. Oh God, was he too late? Sam rushed over and fell to his knees beside the bier, laying his hand on Dean’s chest, and for one terrifying moment he thought for sure he’d failed. Dean’s bare skin felt cool under his hand, unnaturally still.
Time froze, dragged out excruciatingly slow, until a faint thud reverberated under his questing fingers. Only then did Sam suddenly remember how to breathe, exhaling in a relieved rush as he felt the soft rustle of air escape from Dean’s mouth to brush at his face. Thank God, he was still alive. To keep him that way, Sam just had to break the spell.
Now that the terror had passed and his focus wasn’t so desperately fixed on his brother, Sam suddenly realized a few things. First of all, Dean was stripped down to his boxers. Sam glanced around looking for his clothes, and raised his eyebrows at the wardrobes lining the walls. They all seemed to be overflowing with fancy dresses, fine silks and taffeta and velvet in bright jewel colors, incongruous in this old musty house. The bier Dean lay sleeping on was draped in soft, expensive-looking cloth, and the pillow under his head was crushed velvet.
What the hell had this witch been up to? Sam fought the hysterical urge to giggle - the place looked like a bower. Which totally made Dean the Disney Princess.
Oh, this was too good an opportunity. Sam now had years worth of blackmail material on his macho brother. He almost wished he had showed up at the witch’s house a bit later, because he had the sneaking suspicion that she’d been about to dress up her new Sleeping Beauty before he interrupted.
That mental image broke his self-control and sent him into a fit of suppressed chuckles. Snorting, he took a deep breath to try and calm his mirth. Focus! He still had to break the curse before midnight, or else Dean would never wake up. After that, he’d have all the time in the world to mock his brother mercilessly for getting caught by a witch with a hankering for pretty transvestite princesses.
Cursing himself for forgetting his phone and its handy camera, Sam dug the piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. He’d ripped it out of the witch’s spellbook rather than haul the whole thing up the stairs. This page had the details of the spell, how to cast it and how to break it, but he’d only gotten as far as having to break it before midnight, which gave him a little less than twenty minutes, before sprinting up the stairs to find Dean.
Now he skimmed the parts he’d read before - eye of newt, toe of frog, yadda yadda yadda, eternal sleep, blah blah blah, only be broken before midnight same day, whatever, broken by a kiss, blah blah . . . .
Wait. What?!
Sam read it again, sure he was imagining it. Too many fairy tales. But just like so many things in their line of work, this fairy tale was true. Sleeping Beauty could only be woken with a kiss.
Rapidly he scanned the rest of the page, looking for any fine print. Not true love’s first kiss? Not the kiss of a soul mate? Not a kiss from a virgin princess? Or prince? Just a kiss, from anybody?
Sam made a face and checked his watch. Well, good news was that he could do it. Bad news was he had to do it. And in the next few minutes too, so not much time to get used to the idea. He had to kiss Dean. His brother, Dean, and who knew where those lips had been?
Sam steeled himself. Better to just do it quickly and get it over with, because then he could move on to his justly deserved right to rag on Dean for eternity for needing to be rescued. Dean Winchester, damsel in distress. He’d never let Dean live it down, as just punishment for making Sam have to kiss him.
Nervously he wetted his lips, then leaned over his brother. Dean looked so young and peaceful sound asleep, lines smoothed from his face. Sam just looked for a long moment, enjoying the altogether too rare sight, then took the plunge and softly placed his lips against Dean’s.
Instantly Dean’s eyes sprang open, and he sucked in a shocked breath through his nose. “Sam!” Startled, Sam jerked back at the same time Dean tried to jackknife up, and their foreheads slammed together. They both yelled out in pain, Sam tumbling back on the floor, Dean rolling off the opposite side of the bier to crash heavily to the floor.
For several long moments they lay there, breathing hard as equilibrium reestablished. Finally Sam broke the near-silence. “Dean, you okay?”
“Okay? Am I okay?” Dean’s head popped up over the bier, scowling darkly. “Dude, you kissed me!”
Sam shrugged, “So?”
Dean gaped, seemingly struck dumb at Sam’s nonchalance. “So?! So?!”
“It was the only way to break the spell, Your Highness,” Sam snarked as he got to his feet. “What was I supposed to do, let you die?”
“Still. You. Kissed. Me.”
“Yeah, I kissed you.” Sam exaggerated a shudder. “I’m scarred for life. Who knows where your mouth has been? What I sacrifice for you, my dear brother.”
“Shuddup,” Dean groused as he climbed stiffly to his feet. “Where are my clothes?”
Grinning, Sam waved grandly at the assorted dresses. “Take your pick, Princess. We’ve got to get you to the ball on time.”
“Oh hell no.” Dean grimaced, stepping gingerly as if the entire room was contaminated with something noxious. “I’ll walk out of here naked before I touch those. C’mon, I had my clothes when I came in here. What’d the bitch do with ‘em?”
“C’mon Dean. I think you’d look fetching in this one.” Sam tugged out a long sapphire blue dress and waggled it enticingly at his brother, grinning maniacally.
If looks could kill, Sam and that dress would be a small pile of ash on the floor right then. “Sam,” came the low warning growl.
Sam faked a pout. “Oh, you’re right. This wouldn’t fit. Pity. Guess we’ll have to find something in your size.”
“Hey! You callin’ me fat?”
“Of course not.” He rummaged a bit through the forest of gowns, then produced a hideous concoction of hot pink taffeta and ruffles.
“Don’t even think about it,” Dean snarled, kicking over boxes of shoes on the opposite side of the room. “No wonder people think you’re gay.” He shot Sam a poisonous glare. “You’re enjoying this a bit too much. Considering I almost died, and you kissed me.”
“Dude, will you get over it? It’s not like I did something you haven’t done before.”
“Totally different situation. Besides, I didn’t act like this afterwards.”
“Uh, yeah, you did. You teased me about my candy lips for a month afterwards. Not to mention nearly giving me a phobia for hanging plants.”
Dean found his clothes stuffed in the corner and busied himself with yanking them back on. “That was your own fault. Dad and I both warned you about the cursed mistletoe. You’re the one who chose not to believe me and got yourself tied up in it.”
“And you’re the one who got caught by a witch with a Disney fixation.”
That shut Dean up, at least for the time being, and it was with a grim silence he led the way down the stairs and out of the house, pausing only to kick vindictively at the remains of the witch on the parlor floor. Once back in the Impala, Sam looked over with a mischievous twinkle, but Dean glared at him and cracked up the Metallica as loud as he could stand it.
Sam laughed all the way back to the motel.
Fic: Siren's song
Rating: PG-13
Genre: angsty one-sided UST of the Wincest variety
Warnings: boy-kissing
Word count: ~1900
Summary: Sam's thinking about his life, his choices, and his brother, the night before he leaves for Stanford.
Nights in the Winchester’s current apartment were never very dark or very quiet. Sickly yellow ambience from streetlights slid through the cracks in the crooked blinds, scattering mottled spots around the room. The thin walls couldn’t block the constant noises from the street outside, the rumblings of cars and low voices of hookers and drug dealers working through the witching hours. The neighbors at least had calmed down; some nights the people the floor below left the TV blaring, or the couple down the hall had screaming fights that Sam would bet could be heard a block away. The AC chugged and whirred away, struggling to blow a semblance of cool air through the muggy sweat-dripped breath of Mississippi nights in August.
Sam had long ago grown used to less than ideal conditions to sleep in. Kind of a side effect of their life; either you caught sleep when and where you could, or suffer a nervous breakdown from sleep deprivation. But tonight, despite his near-legendary ability to doze off anywhere, sleep eluded him.
His hands folded under his chin as if in prayer, Sam sat on the edge of his bed and watched Dean sleep. It always amazed Sam that Dean was never truly still; even in sleep, there was always a twitch of movement, of alertness, as if at the slightest hint of danger Dean would be fully awake in an instant. Always on guard duty, always ready to protect his family.
It exhausted Sam just looking at him, sometimes. He hadn’t asked for this, for his brother to be his parent and his bodyguard and pit bull, all in one. He didn’t want this life, always on guard, always wondering if Dad would come home this time, wondering if his family would survive to see daylight. He wanted more. So much more. And he knew Dean deserved more.
Sam let one hand drift down to finger the thick envelope at his side. The soft crinkle of paper beneath his fingertips sounded like hope, like life, a future. Something besides darkness and crappy apartments and fake IDs and moving all over the country like gypsies. The Stanford website showed bright green lawns drenched in warm sunlight, smiling and happy students going to classes in old buildings rich with history, not hauntings. It looked like someplace Sam could breathe and not feel like life was suffocating him. It looked normal.
The pictures entranced him, and the papers he held promised him that life, that bright future. With just a few inches of ink on paper, Sam had his escape. Admission, a full ride scholarship, a place to live, and a bus ticket to get there. It was . . . almost perfect.
What would make it perfect was if he didn’t have to go alone.
Sam couldn’t stay, he just couldn’t. He couldn’t keep on with Dad’s quest for revenge against the thing that had killed his mother. He couldn’t keep living this way. Dad was hopeless, refused to see reason. What if they never found the thing? Would Dad just keep hunting until it killed him? Did he even care about his sons? Sometimes Sam thought John let himself become so consumed with vengeance for his dead wife that he forgot he had sons. He sure as hell hadn’t been a father in a long time.
But Dean . . . Dean had always been there for Sam. Dean was the first thing Sam remembered, his first memory that of being held by his big brother in the backseat of the Impala as he told Sammy stories. He’d been there for all the important firsts in Sam’s life, from first steps and first words to first girlfriend and more. He was everything.
Is it any wonder that Sam loved his brother more than he should?
In his defense, it wasn’t like Sam meant to, or hadn’t tried to stop. He’d known at fifteen that something was wrong with him, when he caught himself staring Dean’s bare chest after training and couldn’t stop the image in his head later that night lying in bed. He knew it wasn’t right to lust over his brother, and he tried to stop. He really did. But Dean was Sam’s everything, and neither would change that for the world.
It really didn’t help that Dean was brutally gorgeous, a fact that Dean exploited to no end. Sam had watched the revolving door of girlfriends for years, secretly despising each one. They only saw the surface Dean, the smoky green eyes and full lips twisted in a come-hither smirk, yet they got to touch a part of Dean Sam wasn’t allowed to access. Dean was Sam’s, dammit.
And that was why Sam now sat in a dim bedroom, watching his brother sleep on, oblivious.
He was torn, because while the papers called to him with their siren song of hope, his brother called to him on a much deeper level. He knew what he wanted. But like the song says, you can’t always get what you want. How could he choose between his future and his life?
Was Dean enough of a reason to stay? Could he give up his dreams to stay by his brother’s side, to keep the family together like Dean wanted? Could he stand to remain in the darkness, to submit to Dad, watch as Dean followed every order like a soldier and waste his own future?
Sam shuddered at the thought, hands clenching involuntarily around the envelope, making the sweat-damp paper twist. Carefully he smoothed it back out. No. No, he couldn’t stay. Dean alone wasn’t enough to keep him in the darkness. He wanted out of his dad’s freak show of a life. He wanted normal, or as close to it as he could get.
Stanford promised that, and Sam listened to that seductive draw, let it firm his determination. Tomorrow. The bus ticket was for tomorrow night. Then he’d be away from all this, leaving it all behind. The trouble was, he didn’t want to leave quite everything behind. There was something important he wanted to take with him, and that something was rolling over in the next bed, faint streetlight painting strips of gold across his face.
Could he do that? Could he ask Dean to come with him? Leave this life, leave the hunt, leave Dad to his revenge and walk in the sunlight instead? Sam knew Dean wasn’t stupid; he could take college classes if he wanted to. Or he could get a job, maybe as a mechanic like he did occasionally when they needed money. Dean could do anything he wanted and settle down in a real home. They could have someplace they could call home, not simply a motel room or an apartment where they crashed in between hunts.
Sam watched Dean’s chest rise and fall in a slow, even rhythm, unconsciously breathing in sync with his brother. Could Sam really have everything he wanted? Or would this be the last night they’d spend together?
Gingerly Sam rose from his creaky bed and padded over to Dean’s. Lowering himself carefully down to sit on the edge, he let his eyes trace Dean’s familiar features. His pale skin glowed in the weak light, long eyelashes casting dark fans of shadow across his cheeks. His lips, those full, tempting, should be illegal lips were slightly parted and wet in sleep, looking sinfully dark and plump.
Could he have this? Or would he have to leave Dean behind with everything else?
Sam had always been a curious child, never satisfied until he had the answer. Now that curiosity drew him slowly down, hand coming to rest delicately on Dean’s warm strong chest, almost sliding over to trace the small brown nipple but resisting. Those lips called to him, tugging him closer until his breath mixed with Dean’s soft sleep exhale, noses almost touching. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deep, letting Dean’s scent fill his lungs like a drug. He wanted.
For an eternal moment, their lips touched, and it was almost perfect. Dean’s lips were just as soft and pliable as they looked, satiny cushions that at the slightest contact sent shivers of warmth down Sam’s spine. Instantly addicting, it was almost everything he’d dreamed about. He wanted more, to make it perfect.
Abruptly he was shoved back away from Dean, and would have fallen if not for the hand suddenly fisted in his collar. He struggled briefly, mouth still tingling from the kiss, then stilled as cold steel caressed his throat. He looked down at Dean, warm feelings swamped by the cold rush of fear at the pitiless look in Dean’s eyes.
They simply stared at each other, then Dean withdrew the knife and let Sam go, exhaling roughly as he shoved the knife back under his pillow. “Goddamnit Sam, don’t scare me like that. I could’ve hurt you.”
Sam brushed at his throat, trying to force away the memory of that razor-sharp blade pressing against his skin. “Sorry.”
“What time’s it?” Dean sat up in bed, glanced at the clock and grimaced at the early hour. Running a hand through sleep-rumpled hair, he pinned his brother with a hard look. “What the hell were you doing?”
“Not sure,” Sam murmured, only daring to glance at Dean before looking away. A creeping mix of failure, frustration, and resignation filled him, and all he wanted to do now was curl back up in bed and wait out the rest of the night. But from the look in Dean’s eyes, Sam had to distract him now, or else he’d have to answer questions he unfortunately already knew the answers to. “When’s Dad coming home?”
“Tomorrow, probably early afternoon. Least that’s what he said when he called earlier.” Dean peered at Sam, but Sam hid in the now-welcome gloom and shuffled back to his own bed, careful not to let Dean see the envelope he’d stuffed back under the mattress.
“Sorry I woke you.” He flopped on the bed and turned so his back was to Dean, effectively cutting off any attempt at conversation. The room was silent for a long moment, then Dean sighed and his bed creaked as he settled back down. In no time Sam could hear the shift in breathing patterns that indicated Dean was asleep again.
Sam lay on his back, staring at the grime-streaked ceiling, one hand sneaking down to touch the edge of the envelope again. He had his answer. There would only be one bus ticket tomorrow. He couldn’t risk Dean hating him. He knew Dean wouldn’t understand why he had to leave, but would eventually forgive him. Hopefully.
But Dad . . . Dad would see this as desertion. No matter that Sam was right, no matter that anyone else who had a son that got into Stanford would be proud, Dad would only see this as a soldier going AWOL. They would fight, they always fought over everything and this was no exception, and then Sam would leave. Dad would order Dean to let him go, and Dean, ever the dutiful solider, would do it.
And when Sam boarded that bus tomorrow, he would try to forget the forbidden feeling of Dean’s lips against his, and how, just for a moment, he had felt complete.