(no subject)
“It was Charlie, was it not?” Dr. Okoro inquires after Dean breaks off.
Dean unclenches his fists from the tops of his knees. “Yeah. Chuck Patton.”
“You do not like him?” she muses.
“Not that I don’t like him,” Dean shrugs. “I just,” wish he were dead, “don’t appreciate him as much as Sam does.” His tone holds a note of finality that says he won’t speak more on the subject of Charlie Douchebag Patton.
“Hm.” Dr. Okoro nods, scribbles something down on her pad. “May I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.” Dean leans back into the sofa and kicks his feet up again, shifting until he’s comfortable.
“How many relationships have you been in?”
Dean glances over at her, eyes sharp. “Define ‘relationship.’”
“Alright.” She thinks on it a moment, propping her chin again in her palm and her elbow on her knee, foot bobbing. “Longer than three months.”
Dean scoffs. “Never. Closest would be Cassie Robinson, I guess. We dated for a month, maybe.”
Dr. Okoro nods. “What attracted you to Cassie?”
“The sex was good.” Dean shrugs. “I don’t know, she was fun and she could drive. She was into journalism and stuff. She was cool.”
“Why do you think it did not work out?”
“Eh,” Dean shrugs again, shifts to burrow deeper into the creamy leather of the sofa. “She said we didn’t have a connection outside of sex. Apparently we didn’t talk enough. Lack of communication, she said. That and we didn’t go on dates really unless there was a big, naked promise for the night. But, whatever, it wasn’t like I was ashamed to be seen with her in public or anything. Just…”
“Just?” Dr. Okoro prompts.
“I dunno.” He shifts more perceptibly this time, discomfort coiling tight in his muscles so that no position is relaxed. “I’ll go out with friends, have a good time, but…” He pauses, frustrated, and tries to choose his words. “I just- if I want to hang out with someone I have Sam. I don’t have to go out and find people to go get food with me ‘cause I can walk down the damn hall and tell Sam to put his shoes on. I don’t need to ask friends from work or some chick to go see a movie with me, or hang out at a bar, or whatever.”
Dr.Okoro’s bangles clang and jangle as she writes something else down and Dean feels like he gave the wrong answer for some reason.
“So, you’re saying that your relationship failed because you prefer spending time with your brother than with someone else?”
“What? No.” Dean protests. “Just, I don’t see why I should go out of my way to make friends when I’ve already got one.”
“Alright, alright,” she concedes, noting Dean’s defensive tone. “What about Sam, do you think? Does he need other people to go out with?”
Dean grinds his teeth.
-
Summer comes and goes, Sam gets some color back in his cheeks and slowly, very slowly, things resettle. John doesn’t take the locks off the medicine cabinets or reinstall the plugs in the bathtubs after he ripped them out, but everyone regains a routine.
Dean and John both work at the garage from seven in the morning until around four in the afternoon. Mary assists at the daycare when she’s not busy teaching preschoolers their colors. Sam goes to school from six until four, goes to therapy twice a week, and generally spends most of his time avoiding people from school by studying up and researching colleges across the country.
There are facts of life that Dean lives with from day to day: seven o’ clock is too damn early to be awake and functioning at a higher level, little old ladies will inevitably hit on the mechanic replacing their brakes shamelessly, and Sam wants to fuck him.
It wasn’t perfect, but it worked for them.
And then Sam had to go and fuck it up.
Dean knows when he walks in the back door and toes off his muddy boots that something’s different, something’s off, because Sam’s got both of their parents sat down on the couch and there’s a boy with a mess of copper bronze hair and bright, toffee colored eyes. He smiles hesitantly when Dean comes up short in the doorway and Dean feels a brush of recognition in the back of his mind, like he should know who the hell this kid standing next to his brother is.
“What’s going on?” Dean asks.
“Sam has something to tell us,” Mary explains slowly, hands wringing together in her lap.
Sam fidgets nervously, eyes darting around like he’s about to bolt. The kid reaches out and puts a hand on the back of his neck and Sam settles.
Dean’s eyebrows make a break for his hairline.
“Mom, Dad,” Sam says, doesn’t look at Dean, “This is Charlie, my…” he pauses, sets his chin, and then dives right for it, “My boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Mary says after a few moments of silence.
If that wasn’t the reaction Sam was expecting, he doesn’t look surprised.
Dean feels like the rug’s been pulled out from under his feet and he’s all pin-wheeling arms and staggering back steps trying to regain his upright and correct position in the universe.
Maybe he shouldn’t feel as blindsided as he does because, technically, he already knew this little nugget of information about his brother. Sam can look at a boy and think ‘I want that.’ Yes. Cool. Awesome. That doesn’t mean he gets to go out and get a fucking boyfriend. Sam doesn’t know this kid. More importantly, this kid doesn’t know Sam. The gall of this boy, thinking that he has any right to keep his hand on the back of Sam’s neck, to stand there in the middle of their family room and give cool, unwavering support like it’s his job or something.
Dean looks to John desperately, because if anyone is going to put a stop to this absolute fucking ridiculousness, it’s going to be him.
However, John just stands, as tall and intimidating as he’s been all his life and Charlie swallows and backs up a bit towards Sam when John steps forward towards him. He barely conceals a flinch when John extends a hand.
It takes a few seconds of Charlie staring at the hand like it’s going to bite him and John staring at Charlie like he’s mentally deficient before Charlie seems to realize that he’s supposed to shake the hand offered.
“Oh,” he says, high and breathy, and scrambles to shake John’s hand enthusiastically.
“Nice to meet you, son.” John’s voice is a low rumble, dark like thunder clouds. Charlie winces when John grips his hand tight, a squeeze that’s a sharp warning and a dark threat all in one. John lets go first and Charlie cradles his own hand gently against his chest.
“Yes, sir, you too,” Charlie stammers and Dean wants to punch him because no one who lets John scent his fear is good enough for Sam. The fact that they’ve never met anyone that wasn’t at least a little afraid of John Winchester notwithstanding.
Sam shoots his father a pointed look and John steps back towards the couch. Mary, apparently realizing that she’s been staring and not speaking for a few solid minutes, hops up with a smile that’s a little too bright not to be a little manic and takes Charlie’s hand as well before smothering him in a hug.
“Great to meet you,” she says warmly.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mrs. Winchester,” Charlie smiles, all polite southern boy manners.
“Call me Mary, dear.” She pulls back and smiles at him, a little less crazed in the eyes this time around.
He smiles sheepishly back at her.
Dean’s still staring at Sam when everyone seems to simultaneously realize that he hasn’t said a word about any of this yet. Suddenly all eyes are on Dean.
“Uh,” Dean stutters. “Uh. Hey, Charlie. I’ve seen you around the high school, right? You’re a grade above Sam.”
“Yeah, I’m a Junior.” Charlie nods. “I was on swim team with Sam.”
Dean squints hard at him and realizes that if you slapped a white cap on him and stripped him down to a red speedo, Dean recognizes him from swim meets. He remembers him helping pull Sam out of the water and shouting congratulations. He frowns when he realizes that he knows what this boy’s torso looks like when it’s wet with pool water and pressed against Sam’s in a victory embrace.
“Dean,” Sam intones.
“Right, right, yeah,” Dean clears his throat. “Great to meet ya’, Chuck.” He doesn’t make a move to extend his hand and Charlie shifts on his feet.
“Are you staying for dinner, Charlie?” Mary asks and Dean shoots her a reproving glare.
“Nah, my mom’s expecting me home soon,” Charlie responds bashfully and scuffs his shoe against the floor. “I just wanted to be here when Sam told you for moral support and stuff, I guess.” He glances over at Sam and shoots him a soft, sweet smile.
Dean wants to gag.
Sam’s smile is a little forced when he glances at Dean, but the hardness fades out when he turns to usher Charlie towards the front hall.
Dean cuts out the back door before either Mary or John can say anything and circles around the house, socks squishing into the mud and wet moss on the side yard, and gets to the front just in time to see Charlie press his lips to Sam’s forehead and tell him “You did so good in there, Sam. I’m so proud of you.”
Sam beams and Charlie swats him back into the house affectionately.
It’s obvious from the strangled gasp that clambers out of Charlie’s throat when he turns around that he wasn’t expecting to see Dean leaning against the passenger’s side door of his car.
“Jesus Christ!” He slaps a hand over his chest. “You scared the hell outta me!”
“Listen, Chuck,” Dean snips because he just straight does not give a single fuck if Charlie is actually having some intense coronary distress or not. “I’d like to think I’m a calm, rational sort of person, but I’m gonna be a little forward with you right now. You hurt my brother? I’ll kill you.”
Charlie goes to laugh the comment off nervously before he catches the cold, hard steel of Dean’s eyes and then he’s swallowing hard. “Uh, yeah, yeah, of course, man. I’d never- no way. I like Sam.” He stammers out quickly. “I like Sam a lot.”
Dean narrows his eyes at him.
“I don’t know what you’re so worried about,” Charlie shoots him a smile that probably has most people going soft in the knees. “I’d never actually intentionally hurt Sam. I know he’s had it kind of rough over the past year or so,” Dean’s knuckles tense, “but I’m not trying to take advantage of him, honest!” he says earnestly before glancing at the ground with a small, wistful smile. “Actually, I’ve had a big ol’ crush on him for a while now.”
If he thinks he’s endearing himself to Dean, he’s sorely mistaken.
Dean steps away, lets Charlie get to his car. He doesn’t wave back when Charlie raises his hand on the way down the street, but he does glare after him for the longest time before turning and walking back up to the front door. Muddy sock prints follow him all the way up.
Sam’s loitering by the door when he steps in and bends over to peel off his dirty socks.
“What?” Dean grouses, catching the edge of Sam staring at him with an odd look on his face in the peripherals of his vision.
“Nothing,” Sam drawls slowly. “I just… Nothing.”
John steps out into the front hall and he and Dean watch Sam hoof it up the stairs.
John snorts softly under his breath. “I give it a week.”
He’s off by about two years.
-
Maybe it irritates Dean more than it should; gets under his skin and festers, itching constantly in the back of his mind.
Sam has a boyfriend.
Sam’s boyfriend is a fucking pussy, but even omitting that fact, Sam has a boyfriend.
Sam has a boyfriend and Dean doesn’t know what that means. Is Sam … ‘better’? Is Sam ‘cured’? Does he look at Dean and not think ‘Damn, I wanna get with that’ anymore? Is he-normal?
The thought clings to the back of Dean’s tongue, makes his mouth taste funny in a way that’s got him licking his lips and smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in continual irritation.
If Sam’s not pining for a slice of Dean-pie, why haven’t things gone back to the way they were before, then? Why doesn’t Sam come to him when he has problems or when he needs help? Why don’t they talk anymore? Why can’t Dean sit on the couch and flip on The Magnificent Seven with one arm thrown up over the back edge of the sofa and expect Sam to fill in that space and curl into his side anymore?
If Sam’s really over this thing, why aren’t they themselves yet?
Dean doesn’t so much as ‘brood’ on these questions while doing yard work as much as he ‘rakes aggressively while pondering his relationship with his brother.’
“You got a grudge against my rake?” John rumbles throatily from beside him, voice colored with amusement.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean huffs and tightens his hands around the rough, uneven wood of the old rake. His fingers are bare and stiff as the autumn wind bites at his knuckles, so he can’t feel the blisters that he’s working into his palms when he digs back into the task of clearing every damn leaf out of the backyard.
Sam’s not Dean-sexual. Dean knows this, Dean understands this rationally.
He doesn’t know why this is bugging his so much.
Sam has a boyfriend.
Sam has a boyfriend that doesn’t even look like Dean, and what the shit is that all about? If Sam has it so bad for him that he’s willing to jump the gun on the whole living thing just to get away from it, shouldn’t he be pining for people that look like his brother?
What if Sam was just gay this entire time? What if he was just seeing Dean as a dude and thinking ‘hot damn’ instead of as his brother?
Dean’s a hot piece of ass, he’s aware. Sam used to run himself ragged worrying about his appearance, fretting over every detail of his body and complaining about being too chubby one day to too gangly the next, but Dean’s never had that problem. He’s got a jawline carved out of fucking granite, okay. His eyelids are attractive. From the bow in his legs to the freckles on his shoulders, Dean Winchester is inferno-hot. Never once in his damn life has he been insecure about his looks because, even if he couldn’t see it himself, people are pretty much lining up down the block to constantly remind him that he is one fine male specimen. He’s got his momma’s eyes and his daddy’s jawline and it’s a good combination. People want him. People want to be him. It’s not so much as a flattery anymore as it is a fact of his damn life.
He’s a good-looking motherfucker.
So what if Sam was just latching onto that- the attractive male-ness of him, rather than the attractive male brother-ness of him? What if he just wants Dean’s body and not Dean?
What if Sam almost killed himself for absolutely nothing?
“Fuck!” Dean shouts as the skin on his palm breaks and throws the rake violently down into the mulch.
“Hey, hey,” John’s beside him again, prying his hands out of the cave he’s burrowing into his stomach with them. “Let me see.”
Dean makes a hissing disgruntled sound through clenched teeth and uncurls his hand so his father can inspect the torn blisters and ruptured skin. Blood and salty serum pool in the cup of his palm, spilling out from between his fingers and dripping down from his knuckles.
John makes a sympathetic noise. “Yeah, alright. You go inside and I’ll wrap up out here. Have Sam dump some peroxide on it for you and wrap it up.”
And with that Dean is dismissed from duty to go back in the house.
The warmth of the foyer stings his wind-burnt cheeks and the tips of his ears the second he walks in and stomps the flecks of moss and dead leaves off his boots and makes towards the medicine cabinet, intent to make due by himself.
Sam’s sitting on the couch, calculus homework balanced on one knee and he’s doing that thing where he balances his pen in the dip between his thumb and forefinger before twirling it in some choreography that Dean thinks is too complicated to follow but Sam obviously finds mindless, because he’s not paying attention to his pen or his homework; he’s watching The Empire Strikes Back raptly.
Dean comes to a stop in the middle of the kitchen, blood drip-drip-dripping onto the clean tiles, and watches over Sam’s shoulder. Han and Leia walk together through the Hoth base, strides wide and aggressive as they spat, denying and accusing affections.
Dean remembers the first time he and Sam watched the movie together, sprawled on the couch with Dean’s feet in Sam’s lap and a big bowl of popcorn wedged between his knees. This is the part where Dean’s supposed to chime in with a joke: “Han’s gonna have to keep going Hand Solo if he can’t get it together”, so damn reliable with the same old line he first made when he was twelve and had to explain it to his eight-year-old brother that he’s practically a part of the movie watching experience anymore.
The moment comes and Dean can feel the words bubbling in his throat, feels like he’s missing a cue in life by not telling the same old joke.
Sam waits the moment of the movie out, laughs lightly under his breath even though nothing funny happened on screen.
Dean swallows and shifts on his feet, red bands striping up his arm to his elbow before dripping down, plopping with distinctive little splats. Maybe Sam hears in the pitter-patter of little blood drops or maybe after fifteen years he’s got some sort of Dean-sense that tingles when his older brother is about, but Sam turns then, sees Dean looming on the edge of his earth.
“What happened?” Sam’s up off the couch like a shot, homework scattering across the floor as he rushes to cradle Dean’s hands in his own. “Christ, c’mon.” He tugs Dean over to the sink, hits the handle with his elbow and drags their hands under the water.
Dean watches Sam’s face as Sam frowns and cleans the gash in his palm, scrubbing it over firmly and effectively with his own thumbs. Sam’s eyes flick over the work he’s doing, brow creased in the center, teeth sunk deep into his lower lips as he concentrates. He’s so close that Dean can smell him, knows that he’s been stealing Dean’s aftershave because he’s still so new to the shaving game and doesn’t have his own. Dean doesn’t mean to feel smug that there’s a distinct Dean-barrier between Sam and the ever encroaching smell of Charlie on everything that Sam owns.
Sam’s hands are steady in their ministrations, the pads of his thumbs digging into the thick coagulant, scrubbing until there’s just tender, torn flesh and Dean hisses.
“Sorry,” Sam mutters more on reflex than actual sincerity as he shuts the water off and drags Dean over to the cabinet, scrounges up the fat Band-Aids that nobody ever uses because there are a billion of the normal sized ones that can do the job just fine if you layer them, and fishes out some iodine. “Back to the sink,” Sam instructs and Dean realizes for the first time how stupid it is that Sam dragged him over to the cabinet with him in the first place, but Sam’s hand is still firm and solid around Dean’s, his fingers streaked with Dean’s blood now too.
There’s something oddly intimate about that, Dean thinks. Having somebody else’s blood on your hands.
He lets Sam walk him back to the sink, content to take a back seat on this one so he can watch Sam bare his teeth in sympathy when he douses Dean’s palm with the foul-smelling iodine. “Yeah, I know,” he clucks when Dean grunts as the antiseptic flushes him out.
The iodine splatters loudly against the clean porcelain and it stains both of their hands a bright, sickly yellow that Sam pats away with a washcloth. Dean’s still glad that Sam skipped the hydrogen peroxide in favor of the iodine because at least iodine doesn’t fizz and crackle.
“Table,” Sam commands, tugging Dean by the hand to sit in one of the four stiff wooden chairs set up around the casual kitchen table before he takes the seat across from him, the legs of the chair squealing and clattering against the tiles as he yanks the seat back from under the table and swivels it on one leg to open the chair up to access Dean. Their knees bracket each other when Sam sits.
“Crap, forgot the Neosporin. One sec,” Sam excuses himself quickly, putting Dean’s dishtowel-wrapped hand down gingerly on the paisley tablecloth before jogging back to the cabinet and rooting through the only first aid kit they keep unlocked in the house. Dean watches the flex and roll of Sam’s shoulders as he relocates rolls of Ace bandages and gauze and feels the dull throb of his heart beat in his hand. Sam stows everything away again and flicks the cabinet shut casually and the crucifix tacked to the wall above the oven so that little, pinned up Jesus can oversee Mary’s kitchen jumps slightly with the reverberations.
Sam returns, triumphant, their knees knock together when he sits down and for a moment Sam’s hand stutters in unscrewing the cap of the antibiotic cream. He tumbles and recovers quickly, clearing his throat and glancing up at Dean from under his bangs to see if he caught the moment.
Dean feigns innocence.
Instead of squeezing the clear-ish paste into Dean’s palm Sam gathers some up on the pads of his fingers and pats it down onto the rip in Dean’s skin. His face screws up in concentration and Dean starts to wonder again what Sam was thinking when their knees hit together.
The adhesive on the thin paper encasing the Band-Aid makes an acute tearing sound when Sam rips it open with Neosporin-tacky fingers. He smooths it over Dean’s hand gently and for some reason Dean’s reminded of when he had Ellie Hinders straddling his hips when he was sprawled on top of her pale blue duvet, beady-eyed stuffed rabbits looking on as he stripped her of her shirt and she returned the favor. She’d traced a line of licks and pets down his sternum, over his ribs, over his stomach, down, down, down with gentle touches that were almost reverent in nature. More like she was worshipping than seducing.
“There we go,” Sam smiles proudly as he sits back to inspect his handiwork, still cradling Dean’s hand delicately in his.
He looks up and catches the edge of Dean’s lost expression and, God help him, Dean needs to know if Sam’s in this for Dean or if he’s in this for Dean’s perky ass.
He’s already going to hell, if the place actually exists, so fuck it.
Dean bites his lip. Pornographically. Teeth-scraping, tongue-swiping, capillary-bursting bites it. The type of teeth-scraping, tongue-swiping, capillary-bursting lip biting that’s gotten him into many a skirt over the years, gets girls swooning and panties dropping. It’s his standard for attracting, the first step in a dance that’s mostly improvisation and posturing that’s time-tried and held true, and if it doesn’t work on Sam then they’re in the clear. If this doesn’t work then Sam’s just a dumb shit and Dean’s going to kick his ass. If this doesn’t work things get to go back to the way they used to be.
Sam’s hands stall out in their rapturous petting of Dean’s and his eyes track the motion of Dean’s teeth sinking into the swell of his lower lip. The tips of his ears turn red, but it’s not until he looks up and meets Dean’s eyes that his entire face flushes out down to his collarbones.
They stare at each other, and maybe Sam’s looking into Dean but Dean’s trying to look back and all he can see is the fear in Sam’s eyes, that he’s fucking terrified. He’s not looking at Dean’s bounce-a-quarter-off-me ass, or his made-for-sin lips, or his jaw of god damn steel. He’s not looking at any piece of Dean. He’s looking at Dean.
A short sharp squawk from Carrie Fisher breaks the delicacy of the moment. They both turn sharply in their seats just in time to see Leia snap something derisive at Han, pause for a moment of shrewd decision making before lunging forward and kissing Luke square on the mouth.
Sam drops Dean’s hand like he’s been scalded and nearly topples his chair when he stands up.
“Uh,” Sam stammers, hands held out from his body like he had touched something corrosive and disgusting and didn’t want to risk smearing it all over his clothes. “I have to- I’ve gotta-” His eyes flicks from Dean to the wall behind him, the crucifix on the wall. He bolts.
Dean sits, absolutely dumbfounded with revelation.
Part Five