World's Forgotten Boys, Chapter 6/? - (Sam/Dean - R)
Fic title: World's Forgotten Boys (link to the full verse)
Chapter 6/?
Pairing: Sam/Dean, other future pairings
Rating: R
Word Count: 8,381
Summary: Season 1 AU. Ross Christopher Winchester knows three things to be true: that his father, John, is a hero, that he's going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world, and that his two older brothers are in love with each other. An AU-version of Season 1 where The Winchester Boys mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still crispy-fried, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with one another...
Previous Chapters Chapter 1
Chapter 6
Sam turns twenty three and he doesn’t even realize it until he sees the date on the newspaper, May 2nd, 2006, he reads. The date barely registers, his eyes too busy scanning through the tales of local sporting victories, hospital fundraisers and school dance recitals in search of any suspicious details. When the date finally does register, he thinks, huh, okay, so I’m 23 now. The thought is pretty much a blank, and he shrugs, takes a long sip of his coffee and thinks about ordering a Panini.
They’re in Oregon, not far from Portland, Dean disappeared into the city early that morning, before Sam woke up, apparently to stock up on supplies at a sporting goods store owned by an old marine buddy of Dad’s, or so said the note lying on the nightstand. Ross wasn’t around either, but Sam knew straight away that he hadn’t gone with Dean because his hooking-up jeans were still rolled up in a ball in the corner of the motel room where he’d abandoned them three days ago, and Sam knew Ross - there was no way his youngest brother would’ve headed off into the city not looking his best.
Sam luxuriated in the feeling of having the room to himself for a few hours, having some honest to God time and space all to himself. After drifting in and out of sleep for what felt like a decadently long time, he climbed out of his own bed and into Dean’s. He pressed his face into the pillow and breathed in the scent of his brother, feeling his dick instantly harden, the damn thing hard-wired to this - this smell, this glorious, delicious Dean-ness. He flushed red, suddenly aware of what he was doing, what he’d been reduced to, he rolled over onto his back and stared up at the cobwebbed ceiling. His face and chest were burning with self-consciousness and embarrassment, his brain telling him that this was sick and twisted, but his hand was working independently of his brain, sliding slowly, sumptuously, down his body towards his hard, demanding cock. It didn’t take long for him to come, eyes tight shut and nose pressed into Dean’s pillow, images and memories of his brother floating through his mind as he jerked off, careful to spill all over his own body, letting his t-shirt mop it up, without ruining Dean’s sheets.
He took his time getting dressed, taking an epically long shower and jerking off again, this time imagining Dean in there with him, soapy and wet and slick. That time was even quicker.
“Hey, Sammy.” He jerks his head up, gaze narrowing in on Ross as he looms over the table, fingers drumming against the seat back opposite. “Whatcha doin’?” He slides into the chair, signaling for the waitress to come over.
“Having some quiet time,” Sam replies, pulling a face at him.
Ross rolls his eyes and watches the waitress cross the room towards them. “Whatever. Hey, sweetheart, I’ll have a triple shot americano, black please.”
Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes again as Ross watches the waitress’s ass as she walks away, Jesus; but his brother’s such a fucking poser.
“You find anything?” Ross nods towards the papers and the laptop.
“Maybe. I think there could be a poltergeist in Arkansas. We should check it out anyway.”
“Sweet. I’m fuckin’ dyin’ here without a case.”
“Hmm.” Sam doesn’t have a response to that, he’s surprised himself how weird and uncomfortable it is to have actual down time. He remembers days off as being precious before, back when he had studying and endless reading lists, not to mention the two part time jobs he used to work just to cover his off-campus rent. Now, though, it just drags.
Ross nods and gets up from his chair to go over and annoy the waitress while she fixes his coffee. Sam goes back to flicking through the small ads. He looks up as Ross crosses back towards him. He’s carrying his coffee in one hand and in the other he’s got a triple choc muffin, a fucking huge, triple choc muffin. He grins smugly and deposits the muffin down in front of Sam.
“For you.”
Sam raises his eyes to him in confusion. “Uh, what?”
“You didn’t think I’d forgot, didya?”
“What?”
“Dude. Your birthday. It’s today.”
Sam’s taken aback for a moment, speechless and in a weird sort of shock. Ross remembered his birthday? He was kinda put out that Dean didn’t say anything, though as he’d barely remembered himself, he wasn’t all that shocked, but that of the three of them, Ross would be the one to say anything - well, that’s definitely out of leftfield.
“I’ve only been, like, lookin’ for you all fuckin’ day,” says Ross, cocking his eyebrows in that smart-ass way that always reminds Sam of Dean, but that’s also so totally Ross, he shrugs, “Happy fuckin’ birthday, Sammy.”
“Uh, um, thanks?”
Ross rolls his eyes and gestures again. “Well, aintcha gonna eat it? Cause if you ain’t I’ll -“
“Hell, no way, man! This is my muffin. Get your own!” He looks up at Ross with a grin. “Seriously, thanks, Littlest Bro.”
“Oh God, you so don’t get to fuckin’ call me that, too.”
“Suck it up.”
It’s damn good muffin, and maybe it’s just Sam’s stomach protesting cause he’s actually pretty hungry, but it’s fucking perfect, gooey and chocolately and moist, and Sam knows he must be making something close to orgasm noises as he eats if the disturbed expression on Ross’s face is anything to go by. He breaks a piece off and holds it out to Ross who takes it greedily.
“So what’s it like to feel so fuckin’ old?” Ross asks after they’ve devoured the muffin in less than two minutes.
“Fuck off. You’re only nineteen months younger than me.”
“Yeah, and I’ll be nineteen months younger than you for the rest of my life. I’ll always be younger than you.”
“You’ll always be an annoying little shit.”
Ross laughs. “And you’ll always be a self-righteous asshat, so you know, whatever.”
Sam pulls a face, he can’t help himself, but for once, it’s not vicious, it’s not designed to hurt, it’s almost playful, it’s easy, familiar and weirdly comforting. Ross is the same annoying little shit he’s always been, but he’s also an inherent part of him, just as Dean’s an inherent part of him, they’re the Winchester boys, all three of them, one unit, one family. Ross is bratty and infuriating and can rub Sam up the wrong way like no other person in the entire world, but he’s also the person Sam spent more time with than any other before he left for Stanford, sharing schools, friends, the backseat of the Impala, books and clothes and toys, even looks - that goddamn resemblance - that had teachers, kids always asking, “So, are you two twins?”
God, he used to hate that, trying to keep his temper as he insisted, “No, we’re not twins! I’m nearly two years older than him!” while Ross, the little shit, would snigger like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. But Ross was lucky, like Dean, he grew into his body early, tall and mature looking (though God knows he was never mature acting), taller than Sam by the time he was twelve and Sam was fourteen, though, Sam’d made up for it later, outstripping both his brothers by three, four inches, to their joint disgust.
After Sam graduated high school, he can still remember the look on Ross’s face when he realized he’d have to face every new school experience on his own: bewilderment and even fear, well hidden under the Winchester bravado. He begged and pleaded with Dad to let him drop out: It’s not like we need it. Why do I have to be the only one in school? It’s not fair. I’m never gonna need any of this crap. Please, Dad…
“C’mon, we should go. The old guy might be back by now,” says Ross. He looks jittery; as though he’s trying to hide something, and it makes Sam hesitate, look at him. “What?” snaps Ross.
Sam grins slowly, knowingly, “You and Dean - you been cookin’ something up, haven’t you?” he says.
Ross sniffs, “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
Sam laughs out loud, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell him that you spilled. ‘Sides, we all know that you can’t keep a secret to save your life.”
Ross gives him a strange look, but doesn’t say anything, just gives a one-shouldered shrug as he gets up from the table, mouthing, “Whatever,” in that irritating way that has Sam reaching out to cuff him on the side of the head. Ross dodges easily, mocking smile returning to his face as he sing-songs, “Too slow, Sammy! Always too fuckin’ slow.”
“Fuck you,” Sam says cheerfully, and Ross half smiles, jostles him with his elbow as they make their way out the coffee shop.
As Sam suspected, Dean hasn’t forgotten his birthday. Instead, by the time Ross and Sam get back to the room, Dean’s already there, standing by the flimsy kitchenette table with an enormous shit-eating grin on his face. On the table are a couple of six packs, two bottles of vodka, a baggie full of weed and an enormous ice pink birthday cake.
“For the special birthday girl!” declares Dean.
“Awesome,” says Ross approvingly, slamming the door shut behind them, “pink, how fuckin’ appropriate.”
“Aw, honey, you remembered,” Sam greets him.
Dean and Ross snort, almost in unison, and Ross sets to, eagerly slicing up the cake with one of their silver knives. Normally, Dean would be riding his ass about using one of their hunting knives for something domestic, but he’s far too occupied in rolling their first joint. When Ross goes to the bathroom, Dean pours a healthy glug of vodka into Ross’s half-drunk bottle of Budweiser.
“Uh, Dean, what the fuck are you doing?” Sam asks.
Dean just raises an eyebrow at him and smirks.
“Dude, you’re gonna poison him!”
Dean scoffs at that. “Stop being so dramatic, Sam. Kid’s got a concrete stomach, I’m not gonna poison him. What kind of big brother do you think I am?”
“The kind who’s planning on getting his little brother so drunk he’ll pass out and possibly die?”
“He won’t die, this is Ross we’re talkin’ about,” says Dean with affected patience. “Anyway, I’m doin’ this for you. Littlest Bro’s gotta be out of it so you can enjoy your real birthday present.” He leers at Sam, and Sam remembers that Ross, when passed out, stays passed out, sleeping like the dead. All of which means…
“…Oh Jesus, Dean, we’re, like, the worst brothers ever! I can’t believe we’re gonna get him drunk just so we can have sex.”
“If you’re not on board with this, man -“
“Hey, hey, I never said that!” he protests quickly.
Dean just smirks at him, seeing right through him as usual, he slides a hand under the table, reaching to palm at Sam’s dick through his jeans.
“Dean!” he hisses when they hear the sound of the flush. He pushes Dean’s hand away and gets up from the table with an uncoordinated jerk, Dean still smirking evilly to himself by the time Ross reappears.
Sam watches Dean stealthily adding more and more vodka to Ross’s shots with a conflicted feeling in his chest. On the one hand, Ross is lapping it up, obviously well up for getting as wasted as it’s possible to get, so really, he kinda deserves it, and Ross being Ross, barely needs Dean’s assistance in getting drunk off his ass. And really, if Dean thinks it’s okay to spike Ross’s drinks then it must be okay, Dean would kill himself before he did anything to harm his youngest brother. And then of course, there’s the very big part of him which really, really wants to know what Dean’s got in mind for his real birthday present.
Eventually Ross gives in and slumps head first onto the table. Dean shakes his head with a low chuckle and gets Sam to help him carry Ross over to one of the twin beds.
“Are we just gonna,” Sam makes a rough gesture with his hands, “while he’s just lying here?”
“You know he sleeps like the dead,” says Dean. “He won’t wake for hours.” He drops his hand gently to Ross’s head, ruffling his hair with a fond expression on his face, Sam watches him, eyes narrowing in on the tender, almost delicate way Dean’s fingers card through the short, dark bristles of Ross’s hair. The movement of Dean’s fingers is mesmerizing, and it makes something well up hot and hard in his chest, a memory of Dean and Ross years ago, on the couch at Bobby’s, Ross’s head in Dean’s lap as they watch TV, Dean playing with the short, soft strands of Ross’s hair, Sam watching them from the corner armchair, pretending to read.
Sam reaches out, bracelets Dean’s wrist and forcibly tugs his hand away from Ross. Dean starts, eyes widening as he glances up into Sam’s face. They’re both silent for a moment, looking at each other, then suddenly, Dean blinks, moans out, “Christ, Sammy, feels like I’ve been waitin’ all fuckin’…”
He doesn’t get to finish that sentence because Sam claws at him, drags him from Ross’s bed and wrestles him down onto the other, fingers knotting in the thin fabric of Dean’s t-shirt, desperate to get at him any way he can. He feels like he’s been hard for the past week, sloppy jerk-off sessions in the shower (and Dean’s bed) barely putting a dent in the pent-up desire he can feel fizzing under his skin every time he looks at his brother. He devours Dean’s mouth with his own, tasting beer and pot and birthday cake while Dean pants and writhes beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair and tongue slicking over his lips.
“So, what’s my big present?” he gasps out when they finally break apart.
Dean’s smile goes wicked, and he licks his lips, eyes locked on Sam’s.
“Was thinkin’ I might let you fuck me.”
He stares at Dean, shocked, then he blinks, groans out, “Jesus, Dean, I can’t believe… Are you serious?”
“Course I’m serious.”
Sam exhales, he can feel Dean’s eyes on him, watching him closely, eyeing him with this little smirk at the corner of his mouth, eyelashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks, tongue running over his bottom lip. Sam feels the breath catch in his chest, he can’t remember ever wanting anyone this much. He swallows, trying to contain himself, curling his fingers around the hem of Dean’s shirt, whispers, “Dean -“
“What?”
“You know, we, uh, never really did that before. And when we did, it was always, well, the other way round, you fuckin’ me.”
“Yeah,” says Dean steadily, “I know that.”
He watches as Dean squirms around, sheets rucking up underneath his body as he shoves one hand into the pocket of his jeans to draw out a small tube. He drops it onto the mattress between them and Sam looks down at it, feeling a bolt of heat straight to his gut as he recognizes it as lube. He raises his eyes to Dean, huffing out a breath, a nervous, ragged laugh, while Dean’s smile widens, his expression soft and mocking and fond.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Dude, totally.” He leans forward, places one hand on the curve of Sam’s hip, tugs him closer. “Hey. C’mere,” he whispers.
Sam shifts, moving so their bodies are flush against each other, both of them on their sides, chests, hips, foreheads touching. They’re so close that Sam can feel the heat coming off Dean, seeping into his own body, their sweat intermingling, the sour smell of alcohol and pot soaking into his pores from Dean’s. He can feel the red flush of heat and lust as it spreads over Dean’s face, down his neck and chest, feel the slight trembling in Dean’s body as Dean’s hips jerk forward instinctively, rock hard cock pressing into Sam’s stomach. He puts his mouth to the curve of Dean’s throat, to the pink and red tinged skin, his tongue feels like it’s sizzling, Dean’s skin so warm, so hot, so gorgeous, he licks gently, slickly, tasting his brother’s sweat.
“Sammy,” Dean breathes, “Sam…”
Sam slides his palm down his brother’s back, over his sweat-drenched shirt, the thin fabric wrinkling, damp and gross; he splays his fingers over Dean’s ass and throws his leg over Dean’s hip, tangling their legs together, their groins flush up against each other, cocks so stupidly hard.
He cups Dean’s ass with his hand, fingers digging into that perfect, round curve, he thinks about it: sex, buttsex. It’s new. Despite everything they used to do together, sex - actual real sex - never really came into it. Three, maybe four times, he can count them on the fingers of one hand, and always him on the bottom, Dean on top, cause Dean was the older brother, the big brother, and you ain’t stickin’ that tent pole anywhere near my ass, dude… He smiles to himself, remembering, that tone in his brother’s voice - half-awestruck, half-salivating - Dean’s worshipping fingers and adoring hands all over him. God, Sammy, you drive me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?
“Whatcha smilin’ at?” Dean asks, his mouth pressing a line of kisses down Sam’s temple, over his sideburn and against his jaw.
“You, you’re so ridiculous,” he says.
Dean draws back to look at him, “Right back atcha, dude.”
Sam huffs out a laugh and nuzzles the side of Dean’s face, all stupid, drunk affection. Dean’s smiling; he can feel it, the curve of Dean’s mouth against his cheek, the puff-puff of Dean’s breath against his skin, the throb of Dean’s pulse against his fingertips. Why can’t it always be like this, he thinks, why can’t we always be together like this?
When he was younger, when things would get really bad, when he and Dad couldn’t even be in the same room without wanting to punch each other, when Ross would snarl at him and blame him for everything - for the tired, angry look on Dad’s face, for the tired, sad look on Dean’s face - he used to day-dream about this. About him and Dean. Just the two of them… somewhere, it didn’t matter where, anywhere but here. No overbearing, generalissimo father-figure, no bratty, omnipresent kid-brother. After they gave into everything, after Dean finally gave into him, it only got worse, his desire to be with Dean and only Dean, the need to have his big brother all to himself, a constant, beating refrain deep in his gut, a stronger echo of the ever-present sexual desire.
“I wish it could always be like this, you and me,” he whispers, his slow, foggy brain unable to stop the words from coming out.
Dean turns his head and looks at him for what feels like a long moment, a tight, heavy look in his eyes, “You know it can’t,” he says finally, and his voice sounds flat, as if he’s trying to tell himself something too.
“But, Dean,” he lifts his head, sighs in frustration, “I - just - when Dad… when it’s all over, when we get the thing that killed Jess and Mom, when Dad comes back and it’s all, you know. Afterwards. I was thinkin’ that you and me - we could - go off somewhere, just, us…” he trails off, feels his chest start to clench up, an absurd sadness take hold of him. He can feel the tears threatening, hot and prickly, burning behind his retinas, and he knows he’s just being stupid, saying dumb, hopeless shit, and it’s all just because he’s drunk, cause he’s smoked too much and cause today is his goddamn birthday, but he can’t stop it, can’t stop the words from spilling out: “It could be just you and me, like I used to - God, Dean, like I used to dream about… and we could go somewhere and we could do whatever you wanted…”
“What about Ross?” Dean interrupts sharply. He fumbles, trying to pull away from Sam, but Sam’s too quick for him, just tightens his hold, wrapping his arms around him from behind so they’re practically spooning, holding Dean in place.
“He’d be okay, Dean, he’d be with Dad. And they could hunt, it would be okay,” he says, trying to use his most persuasive tone of voice. He turns his head, eyes falling over the other bed, over Ross, dead to the world, carefully propped up on his side, so he don’t choke on his own vomit where they left him only ten, twenty minutes earlier. He looks curiously vulnerable, young and sweet - all adjectives that Sam would never, ever use to describe Ross, but that spring into his brain now. I never gave him a chance, he thinks, right from the start, when he first came to us, I didn’t give him a chance… The words flashing and beating into his brain like the eureka moment of a revelation. He blinks, tries to push it all away - the pointless, useless guilt - tries to concentrate on this, on Dean lying here in his arms, their bodies entwined, but he feels stupidly choked up, like he’s on the edge of a dumb crying jag.
“He’d be okay, he’d like having Dad to himself,” he repeats, trying to believe the words as they come out.
“Sam,” Dean interrupts, and his voice sounds weary, tense, the opposite of five minutes ago, “c’mon, man, you know it can’t be like that. Even if, hell, even if we do get that sonofabitch that got Mom and Jessica, then - what? We split up, you and me go one way, and Dad and Ross the other?” he twists in Sam’s embrace, turning so he can look down at him, the shadows from the overhead lights making his eyes unreadable, “I don’t know if I can do that. And I don’t know,” he hesitates, swallows, a muscle twitching at the edge of his jaw. “Dad - he, uh, I don’t know if he’d want to do that. These last coupla years since you left - it’s been different; he’s not here so much. Even with Ross…” He breaks off, shrugs.
“He was never here so much,” Sam murmurs.
Dean sighs, lowers his eyes, “Look, whatever. Why are we even talkin’ about this shit? I thought we were gonna have sex. Hell, man, I even bought fuckin’ lube from a drugstore, specially for tonight. I was freakin’ prepared for this.”
The corner of his mouth crooks, a smug, self-defensive quirk that’s all Dean, along with that cheesy-corny glint in his eyes, and Sam finds himself smiling, despite everything. Hell, this is normal for them: pushing aside everything - the endless fucking angst and endless fucking issues - to get to the good bits, to get to the them
“You’re such a hedonist,” he says finally.
“Tch, whatever, least I know how to have fun,” Dean retorts. “Look, if you want to spend your birthday bitchin’ and moanin’ about your life, instead of giving me a good, hard fuckin’ - “
“Hey, hey, I never said that!” Sam protests. “Here, c’mere!” He fists his fingers in the front of Dean’s shirt and pulls him into a kiss. It’s long and hard and bruising, and by the end of it, Dean’s panting into his mouth, breathless and trembling. Sam raises his eyebrows, his bring-it, bitch face and Dean grins, rolls them over so Sam’s underneath, Dean straddling him.
“You, uh, you sure about this?” Sam pants, his eyes lock onto the thick, gorgeous outline of his brother’s cock through his jeans, his entire body geared to the wonderful friction of Dean’s denim clad ass grinding down against his own stupidly hard cock.
“Won’t be the first time I’ve had a dick up my ass,” Dean answers nonchalantly. He looks down at Sam and his smile wavers when he sees the look of shock on Sam’s face, quickly morphing into that self-defensive, defiant shape, “C’mon, man, you could hardly expect me to wait for you?”
He feels his eyes widen, staring up at Dean in disbelief. “You mean - you’ve let other guys fuck you?”
“Course. You know me; try anything once, or more than once, if it’s good.”
He’s speechless for a moment, the sheer weight of what Dean is saying… and it shouldn’t be a big deal, because, he does know Dean, knows he would hardly have been celibate in those years they were apart. And it’s not like they were ever exclusive before, and he… well, he had Jess, he was going to marry Jess, he loved her, he was crazy about her in a way he’d only ever felt about Dean, he could hardly expect Dean to -
He can see now - see it all with perfect clarity - that he has two choices: he can say something, let the tight, hard ball of jealousy churning in his gut spew out, he can torture himself by thinking about Dean with those other guys, those other people getting to do things with his brother that he was never allowed, getting to be inside him when Sam was never given that privilege. Or, he could let it go, he could stop angsting and regretting every fucking thing, stop wanting to change his life, and start enjoying what he does have, what he loves: namely, Dean.
He takes a deep breath and says, “Oh, well, that’s good, cause you’re gonna have to show me what to do.”
Slowly, the tentative, defensive smile on Dean’s face breaks, then spreads, becoming wide and genuine. “Dude,” he says, “dude, you are gonna fuckin’ love this.”
He dreams about Jessica that night. She’s on the ceiling again and he’s on his bed hopelessly reaching for her as the flames start to lick around them, burning, scorching heat, sweat obscuring his vision and her voice in his head as her lips turn to ash.
Sam, why did you abandon me, Sam? Why didn’t you tell me?
He cries out, trying to tell her: I didn’t know, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize, I’m sorry...
Four months, Sam, you only waited four months before you crawled into bed with him. I was still warm, Sam, when you looked at him like that.
He can’t answer, his mouth won’t move, body locking into place, sheets wet and clammy around him, folding over him, wrapping him up like a shroud. Jess? Jess?
I always knew there was someone else. I could feel it when we made love, Sam, I could feel him there. Your brother, Sam.
He wakes up, and for a second he can’t move, paralyzed, limbs locked in place, glued to the wet, clammy sheets. He blinks; Dean’s leaning over him, body warm beside him where they both passed out.
“Sam?” Dean whispers.
He whimpers, he still can’t move, he wants to say his brother’s name, but the words are stuck behind the tight swell of panic in his chest, behind the stiff, frozen limbs.
“Hey, Sammy, it’s okay, it’s okay,” whispers Dean and he slides closer, hot, real body pressed against Sam’s side. “I’ve gotcha, it’s okay.”
Sam blinks and feels his muscles slowly start to unlock, body begin to unpeel from the sheets, fingers and toes moving again. He shivers, tense, wound-up muscles convulsing, and it hurts, the tightness, the stiffness hurts. He blinks, feels a warm, salty wetness start to slide down over his cheeks. He feels worn out, exhausted, body over-used and barely responsive to his petrified, foggy brain.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” says Dean softly.
He wants to say it out loud: no, it’s not, it’s not okay, Dean, you don’t know, you didn’t see. But Dean’s so close, so warm and so familiar that Sam just turns and presses his wet face into his brother’s shoulder. Dean twists and wraps him up, enshrines him in his arms, fingers digging into his horrible, stiff skin, kneading away gently at his locked-up shoulders and worn-out muscles.
“Hey, it’s okay, it’ll be okay,” Dean repeats.
His voice is low and mesmerizing, and Sam still can’t speak, his voice-box still unresponsive, still locked somewhere in that hideous dream reality of Jess above them, soft flakes of ash raining from the ceiling, scattering over them both, shrouding him and Dean.
“It’s okay, you know, I’ve read about this, I know about this. Nightmares and, uh, sleep paralysis. And it’s normal, man, don’t worry, it’s totally normal. I’ve gotcha, okay, and it’s all okay. After everything you’ve been through, dude. You don’t have to hide anything; you don’t have to pretend in front of me, Sammy.”
He moves his lips, tries to force the air out, tongue and lips and vocal chords grinding awake, slowly coming out of that stupor, “Dean,” he gasps, “Dean…”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s okay, I’m here,” promises Dean.
*******************************
Ross wakes up to a headache that’s worse than anything he remembers experiencing for a long time. Worse than that head injury in Witicha when the little spirit motherfucker whammied him against that goddamn tombstone. His brain feels foggy, rusty and not quite with it, and he imagines his brain cells, a grey, soggy mass of sponginess, soaked with alcohol and all that freaking pot they smoked last night, and it’s like he can feel the brain-cells, one by one, running out his ears, and onto the pillow. Man, he was fucking wasted last night.
He groans and thinks about rolling onto his back, but it’s too much effort. He can hear the steady drum-drum of water, and it seems to take his slow, murky brain a freaking week to recognize it as the shower, someone’s in the bathroom, taking a shower. Well, they better not steal all the goddamn hot water, at some point, he is gonna get up and when he does, the first thing he’s gonna do is take a piss and then have a shower, God, he’s fucking busting for a piss.
He blinks his eyes fully open and concentrates on taking in his surroundings. The curtains are still half-closed, and he’s dimly grateful for it, he’s way too hung-over to deal with full-on, natural sunlight at the moment. Slowly, he takes in the other bed; Dean’s lying on top of the sheets, naked except for his boxer shorts, sheets rucked up underneath him. He’s in his favorite sleeping position - on his front, with his hand tucked under the pillow, touching the knife or gun he always keeps under there, other arm dangling off the side of the bed. The soft, yellow light coming through the curtains is spilling over Dean, making him look like he’s a freaking marble statue, turning the hairs on his legs golden-brown, and making the damp curve of his back gleam like he’s been oiled up and not just like he’s really gross and sweaty. Dean’s face is turned towards Ross and Ross can see how his eyelashes are fluttering - he must be dreaming - how his mouth is half-parted, his lips red and sort of puffy, and his skin all flushed, probably all the freaking booze he hogged after Ross passed out.
Ross stares at him for a long time, he feels strange, a weird, niggling urge to get up, to steal over there, just those few feet between them, and touch him, run his fingers over the soft, downy hairs on his legs, or the gleaming damp skin of his arms and back. The urge is like a horrible knot in his stomach, a peculiar, prickly itch edging up his spine, he feels hot and feverish, and he’s suddenly aware of just how gross he is, lying here in his clothes from last night, the air around them too close, salty and sickly with the combined smells of too much sweat, cigarette smoke and booze.
He exhales difficultly, trying to calm, push away the weird, tangled-up feeling in his stomach, the mean, throbbing ache in his head. He feels confused, his brain still stupidly foggy, but the longer he lies there, staring at his oldest brother, at the curves and lines of his body, so effortless and powerful - the way Ross has always strived to look - the more this freaky, terrifying urge to touch him refuses to go away. It’s nothing new, he tells himself. When he was younger he was always fighting to be close to Dean and Dad, craving affection, stealing hugs, crawling into Dad’s lap when his father was soft and pliable, wanting to feel Dad’s big hands over him, warm and close and safe, smoothing over his hair and murmuring deep, comforting words into his skin. And when Dad wasn’t around, it was Dean he craved, Dean he needed. He’d curl up next to him on the couch while they watched TV, snuggle up against his body, press his face against Dean’s chest and breathe him in. It was normal, just a kid thing, just the way he was, and obviously, this - what he’s feeling right now - it’s the same urge, the same need for comfort and reassurance.
The door to the bathroom creaks open and he starts, feels his heart jump, like, almost literally miss a beat. He quickly closes his eyes, pushing away the sudden rush of embarrassment, though he totally doesn’t know why he’s feeling embarrassed, it’s only Sam - Sam who used to fuck Dean - he, he has nothing to be ashamed of, not when faced with Sam’s guilt, and Jesus, whatever, he’s not fucking ashamed. He feels his heart thump, pulse throb in his chest, and he becomes aware, after what feels like freaking years, that he hasn’t heard Sam move, that Sam must still be standing in the bathroom doorway. Slowly, carefully, he opens his eyes and sneaks a look at Sam. Sam is standing in the bathroom doorway, just like he suspected, a tiny-ass towel built for midgets, never mind ginormous nerds like Sam, knotted around his waist, barely covering anything, his hair plastered to his head and dripping big fat drops down his chest and face, but Sam doesn’t seem aware of that, he’s just staring, looking past Ross, over Ross, at the other bed. At Dean.
Ross gulps and watches his brother’s face, he doesn’t need to worry about being caught, Sam can’t see anything right now that isn’t Dean. His mouth is parted, as if on an “ohh”, his eyes wide and dark, his tongue licking over his lips, as if he can’t help it, he swallows and Ross can practically track the movement of Sam’s throat. If he was to take a picture right now, then he could sell it with the tagline: this is what sexual desire looks like…
A rush of nausea wells up in his gut and he presses his face back into the pillow, trying hard to choke it back, the breath catches in his throat and he coughs, disgusting, acid bile in his mouth.
Sam starts, stammers out, “Oh my God, Ross, you okay?”
He finishes coughing, swallows and raises his head to look at Sam. He’s blushing hugely, a red hot flush all over his face and chest, eyelashes fluttering nervously - total Sammy caught out right now mode.
“Only just,” he groans, “feel like fuckin’ shit.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Sam gulps. He comes forward, making this weird sort of sympathy face. “Yeah, you were pretty wasted, dude. Uh, if you want, I’ll get you some water and some Advil.”
“Ohhhh, God, yeah, anything.” He sinks back into the pillows, lets out a long breath, hearing Sam padding about the room, still wearing that tiny fucking towel.
Sam leans over him and deposits a glass and some pills on his nightstand, “There you go,” he says lamely.
Ross grunts out a thank you and struggles into a sitting position. He takes his pills and downs all the water as he watches Sam change.
“Hey, you know,” Sam turns to him and drops his towel, completely fucking naked now, and yeah, okay, so he’s kinda used to it, the three of them wander about naked in front of each other all the freaking time, but right now, after watching Sam perve on Dean for what felt like a fucking year, it’s just way too much. “Yesterday, it was pretty awesome, you know,” he’s got this small, private smile on his face. “I just wanna say thanks for it.” He hesitates, shrugs as he pulls on some boxers (thank God), his enormous brow furrowing as he glances across at Ross, “It just - woulda been nice if Dad’d called me.”
“Dude, Dad didn’t call for my birthday, or for Dean’s. What makes you think he’d’ve remembered yours?”
Sam shrugs again, presses his lips together, “Dunno. Just - I guess - it was stupid to expect him to remember, right? Not like he ever did much before.”
“Whatever,” Ross says. But the retort’s automatic, no real feeling there. He watches Sam pull an undershirt on over his head, watches him shake his hair in that shaggy dog way of his, sending water droplets flying - which… still so annoying. “I figure he’s, uh, you know, busy. Got more important shit to worry about that your freakin’ birthday.”
Sam says nothing for a moment, just looks up and sighs, like, way to be an enormous fucking martyr, bro. And yeah, okay, so maybe, maybe, Sammy might have a point. Dad used to forget their birthdays all the damn time, but this year - he forgot all three of them - that’s kinda a record. And although part of him is secretly pleased that Dad forgot about Sam as well as him and Dean, because, man, Dad just remembering Sam’s birthday would so not be fair, not when Sam was the one who fucking abandoned them, there’s another part of him that’s just getting more and more worried. Dad told them that he was on this thing’s trail, that it wasn’t safe for him to be with them, that he was getting closer, and yeah, fair enough, okay, he gets that, Dad’s right. But Dad wouldn’t have said any of that shit if he didn’t mean it, if he wasn’t pretty fucking sure, if this evil sonofabitch wasn’t really some huge-ass deal, and all that - knowing all that, knowing that Dad’s out there on his own, chasing it, while it’s probably chasing him back - well, it sure don’t make anything any fucking easier.
When he was ten, Dean and Sam bought him a camera for his birthday. It wasn't anything special, just a real cheap Kodak knock-off, but he didn't care, he loved it. He can still remember the fake-serious look on Dean's face when he handed it over: "Ten years old. Double figures now, dude."
They were concerned Dad wouldn't let him keep it; Dad had weird rules about photographs. At the time, Ross just figured Dad was making it up because he didn't like his picture being taken, he only found out about the federal kidnapping charges years later, the ones Dad had gotten slapped with cause of him, the ones that meant, even if they’d ever wanted to, they couldn’t stay in one place for very long.
But he was too excited at the time to not show Dad his present, the first decent one he’d gotten off Dean and Sammy in, like, ever. Dad seemed pleased for him, smiling and shaking his head, and exchanging looks with Dean like it was some big, private joke, like you’ll regret this, son, and where’d you and Sammy get the money from anyways? Dean just shrugged and said something about yard work, which even Ross knew was a lie, the neighborhood they lived in was too fucking poor for people to pay others to do their yard work, that’s if they even had a yard.
He loved taking pictures, having them developed was more of a problem because they never stayed in one place for long enough to send them away in those envelopes, and the one hour service places were too goddamn expensive. Occasionally, Dad would give in and let Ross waste $15 on getting his pictures developed, which Sammy and Dean always bitched about... until they got the pictures back and then the three of them would crowd around the table of some diner or some motel kitchen table to pour over them, plenty of ammunition for mocking each other's stupid-ass faces. You’re such a dweeb, Sammy… Yeah, well you’re a moron, dumbass… Chill out, bitches…
He took hundreds of pictures, though what the fuck happened to them all he can’t remember. He’s got two left which he keeps in his wallet: one of Dad, and another of himself and his brothers taken by Dad on the day he got the camera. Dad made them squeeze onto the crappy couch, “my three boys,” he said as he posed them with a big, proud smile, he and Sammy either side of Dean like freaking bookends. He’s grinning so hard in that picture that he looks possessed, though he doesn’t look as bad as Sam who was about to open his mouth to whine about something when Dad clicked the shutter and Sam got caught like that forever, mouth gaping open like a total dork. Dean just looks kinda sleazy; he used to do this lame, smirking thing with his mouth and eyebrows which he thought was the coolest thing ever, except… not.
The photo of Dad was one he took himself, sneakily, cause Dad really did hate having his picture taken. He can remember doing it, one of his clearest memories. They stopped for gas somewhere and the three of them went to the bathroom, Dad always used to make them do that whenever he stopped to gas up. Get out and go now, boys, I’m not stoppin’ again for at least 300 miles (he’d learned from bitter experience that Dad really wasn’t lying when he said that). He was carrying the camera, he was always carrying the thing in those days, like Jimmy freaking Olson, and he came out of the bathroom to see Dad leaning against the side of the car as he gassed up. He took the picture then, framing the shot just like he’d read in that magazine he’d found in some ER waiting room: Amateur Photographer or something like that. The sun was just coming up and it framed long shadows around Dad, bathing him in this sort of yellow glow. Everyone was impressed when they saw the final shot and it’s lived in his wallet ever since.
They stop at a picnic spot not far from the Utah-Colorado border, it’s full of families and Dean watches some enormous family of ugly Mormon-looking kids playing tag with a goofy smile on his face. He turns back to them and shakes his head.
“Man, that takes me back. You remember that year you got obsessed with freakin’ Ultimate Frisbee? Every damn time we stopped, you’d get that thing out and make us toss it around.” He looks at Sam, shakes his head again. “Man, of all the fuckin’ lame-ass sports to get into - you had to pick the lamest.”
For once, Sam doesn’t look pissed by Dean’s remarks, just shrugs and half-laughs, “Yeah, well, it coulda been worse, I coulda been school mascot.”
He turns to Ross with raised eyebrows, while Dean snorts out a huge laugh like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard in years, and leans over to whap Ross on the arm. Ross jerks his arm back at glares at him - glares at the both of them, assholes. And, whatever, being the school mascot was not totally lame, definitely not as lame as Ultimate Frisbee. And hell, anything that got you that close to that many cheerleaders - how could that ever be considered lame? Unless of course, you were a total gayface like Sammy and were scared of chicks. And fuck them - fuck both of them - cause it had fucking worked, he’d never have gotten anywhere near Alison Chambers, never mind banged her that one time after her prom date dumped her, if he hadn’t’ve been school mascot. And, whatever, it was that one freaking time and they were still banging on about it. Well, he can be the bigger person now, he’s not gonna retaliate. He presses his lips together and turns to look away, stare at the endless trees and picnic tables and creepy-blond Mormon kids.
Dean snorts again and takes a long drag on his cigarette, tilts his head back and attempts to blow smoke rings up into the air.
“Dude, you suck at that,” he says, pleased to see Dean’s face fall as he shoots him a hurt look, Dean’s totally the sort who can dish it but can’t take it. He takes a drag on his own cigarette, tilts his head back and blows his own smoke rings into the air. They’re pretty wonky, not that good at all, really, but they’re way fucking better than Dean’s lame-ass efforts. He smirks, raises his eyebrows in Dean’s direction while Dean rolls his eyes at him.
“You’re both pathetic,” says Sam, but his voice is all agreeable, all cool and easy-going. And, goddamn it, but it’s kinda freaking Ross out. What is with Sam? Why is he so laid-back and serene and fucking happy all of a sudden, when only months ago he was continually bitching and whining and crying into his pocket-handkerchief (okay, so he wasn’t really doing the last thing, but whatever, still totally valid).
He wanders off to the men’s room, leaves them to clear up the trash, Dean to have another cigarette before they get back into the car. The men’s room is surprisingly clean, there’s even a goddamn attendant, watching him carefully through narrowed eyes. Ross nods at him and goes on into one of the stalls. He sits on the seat to take a piss, thinking suddenly of the first time the four of them ever took a road trip together, a couple of days after Dad had snatched him from that foster home. Dad rounded them up, bundled him and Sammy into the backseat of the car, telling him, “Don’t worry, Ross, we’re going on a road-trip to Sammy and Dean’s Uncle Bobby’s place. We like to take trips sometimes, don’t we, boys?” Dean and Sammy nodded solemnly, muttering, “Yes, sir.” Dad tossed bedding into the backseat so he and Sammy could sleep while Dean climbed into the front with Dad, an enormous road atlas spread out across his knees; trying to follow the state highways with his tiny flashlight while Dad drove like a freaking demon was on his ass.
He can remember that, remember what it felt like to tangle his short, skinny legs with Sam’s in that stolen king-size duvet, remember the way Sammy glared at him when he realized he could no longer stretch out over the entire seat, that he’d have to share it now.
They stopped at a scary, dark rest-stop, just like this one, full of enormous, creepy pine trees that waved and shook and rustled in a way that made Ross clutch hard onto Dean’s hand, Sam tagging along behind them, kicking up dust and pine needles with his sneakers. The lights weren’t working in the men’s room, and Dean had to shine his flashlight while he and Sammy peed. They washed up and brushed their teeth afterwards, Dean standing over them; still with the flashlight so he could make sure they got behind their ears and brushed their teeth properly. Dad was waiting by the car for them when they finally trudged back, and he nodded at Dean and smiled at Ross, bending down to swing him up into his arms and give him a smacking kiss on his forehead. He lowered Ross into the back seat, ruffling his hair as Sammy slid in from the other side. He helped them tighten their seatbelts and pulled the stolen motel comforter around the two of them, “You go to sleep now, boys. We’ll be at Uncle Bobby’s by morning.”
He sighs, the memory of his father’s face, of that proud smile, of the way he’d say his name, Ross, my boy… suddenly so vivid. He swallows, pushes back the hot swell of God, I miss you, Dad…grief that’s nestled into his gut, he opens his wallet and slides out that old photo of Dad, the one he took so long ago. It’s kinda worn, creased and torn around the edges, but it’s still Dad, Dad staring off into the distance, looking younger than he remembers, deep in thought, probably thinking over some case, with that crease he’d get between his eyebrows when he was trying to figure things out. He stares down at it, feels his eyes start to blur over with tears.
This morning, he was staring out the window of the car and he was remembering a hunt he and Dean and Dad had been on a couple of years back, just after Sam left them - another poltergeist - and it occurred to him, all of a sudden, that he couldn’t remember how Dad had looked afterwards, couldn’t remember the expression Dad had gotten on his face when he finished the job, when they exorcised the poltergeist, that joyful, big-damn-hero smile of his that he’d always turn on him and Dean when they’d won... The memory was gone, wiped from his brain. He grazes his finger over Dad’s face, trying to commit it to memory, it’s stupid, he should be able to remember this - remember Dad - it hasn’t been that long, but his brain’s playing tricks on him, torturing him in a way that hurts the most.
He swipes the back of his hand over his face, smearing away the pathetic, useless tears, and slides the picture back into his wallet. He stands and flushes, dropping a $5 bill into the attendant’s tip plate as he makes his way back out into the sun, to where his brothers are waiting for him.
Next chapter
Chapter 6/?
Pairing: Sam/Dean, other future pairings
Rating: R
Word Count: 8,381
Summary: Season 1 AU. Ross Christopher Winchester knows three things to be true: that his father, John, is a hero, that he's going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world, and that his two older brothers are in love with each other. An AU-version of Season 1 where The Winchester Boys mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still crispy-fried, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with one another...
Previous Chapters Chapter 1
Chapter 6
Sam turns twenty three and he doesn’t even realize it until he sees the date on the newspaper, May 2nd, 2006, he reads. The date barely registers, his eyes too busy scanning through the tales of local sporting victories, hospital fundraisers and school dance recitals in search of any suspicious details. When the date finally does register, he thinks, huh, okay, so I’m 23 now. The thought is pretty much a blank, and he shrugs, takes a long sip of his coffee and thinks about ordering a Panini.
They’re in Oregon, not far from Portland, Dean disappeared into the city early that morning, before Sam woke up, apparently to stock up on supplies at a sporting goods store owned by an old marine buddy of Dad’s, or so said the note lying on the nightstand. Ross wasn’t around either, but Sam knew straight away that he hadn’t gone with Dean because his hooking-up jeans were still rolled up in a ball in the corner of the motel room where he’d abandoned them three days ago, and Sam knew Ross - there was no way his youngest brother would’ve headed off into the city not looking his best.
Sam luxuriated in the feeling of having the room to himself for a few hours, having some honest to God time and space all to himself. After drifting in and out of sleep for what felt like a decadently long time, he climbed out of his own bed and into Dean’s. He pressed his face into the pillow and breathed in the scent of his brother, feeling his dick instantly harden, the damn thing hard-wired to this - this smell, this glorious, delicious Dean-ness. He flushed red, suddenly aware of what he was doing, what he’d been reduced to, he rolled over onto his back and stared up at the cobwebbed ceiling. His face and chest were burning with self-consciousness and embarrassment, his brain telling him that this was sick and twisted, but his hand was working independently of his brain, sliding slowly, sumptuously, down his body towards his hard, demanding cock. It didn’t take long for him to come, eyes tight shut and nose pressed into Dean’s pillow, images and memories of his brother floating through his mind as he jerked off, careful to spill all over his own body, letting his t-shirt mop it up, without ruining Dean’s sheets.
He took his time getting dressed, taking an epically long shower and jerking off again, this time imagining Dean in there with him, soapy and wet and slick. That time was even quicker.
“Hey, Sammy.” He jerks his head up, gaze narrowing in on Ross as he looms over the table, fingers drumming against the seat back opposite. “Whatcha doin’?” He slides into the chair, signaling for the waitress to come over.
“Having some quiet time,” Sam replies, pulling a face at him.
Ross rolls his eyes and watches the waitress cross the room towards them. “Whatever. Hey, sweetheart, I’ll have a triple shot americano, black please.”
Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes again as Ross watches the waitress’s ass as she walks away, Jesus; but his brother’s such a fucking poser.
“You find anything?” Ross nods towards the papers and the laptop.
“Maybe. I think there could be a poltergeist in Arkansas. We should check it out anyway.”
“Sweet. I’m fuckin’ dyin’ here without a case.”
“Hmm.” Sam doesn’t have a response to that, he’s surprised himself how weird and uncomfortable it is to have actual down time. He remembers days off as being precious before, back when he had studying and endless reading lists, not to mention the two part time jobs he used to work just to cover his off-campus rent. Now, though, it just drags.
Ross nods and gets up from his chair to go over and annoy the waitress while she fixes his coffee. Sam goes back to flicking through the small ads. He looks up as Ross crosses back towards him. He’s carrying his coffee in one hand and in the other he’s got a triple choc muffin, a fucking huge, triple choc muffin. He grins smugly and deposits the muffin down in front of Sam.
“For you.”
Sam raises his eyes to him in confusion. “Uh, what?”
“You didn’t think I’d forgot, didya?”
“What?”
“Dude. Your birthday. It’s today.”
Sam’s taken aback for a moment, speechless and in a weird sort of shock. Ross remembered his birthday? He was kinda put out that Dean didn’t say anything, though as he’d barely remembered himself, he wasn’t all that shocked, but that of the three of them, Ross would be the one to say anything - well, that’s definitely out of leftfield.
“I’ve only been, like, lookin’ for you all fuckin’ day,” says Ross, cocking his eyebrows in that smart-ass way that always reminds Sam of Dean, but that’s also so totally Ross, he shrugs, “Happy fuckin’ birthday, Sammy.”
“Uh, um, thanks?”
Ross rolls his eyes and gestures again. “Well, aintcha gonna eat it? Cause if you ain’t I’ll -“
“Hell, no way, man! This is my muffin. Get your own!” He looks up at Ross with a grin. “Seriously, thanks, Littlest Bro.”
“Oh God, you so don’t get to fuckin’ call me that, too.”
“Suck it up.”
It’s damn good muffin, and maybe it’s just Sam’s stomach protesting cause he’s actually pretty hungry, but it’s fucking perfect, gooey and chocolately and moist, and Sam knows he must be making something close to orgasm noises as he eats if the disturbed expression on Ross’s face is anything to go by. He breaks a piece off and holds it out to Ross who takes it greedily.
“So what’s it like to feel so fuckin’ old?” Ross asks after they’ve devoured the muffin in less than two minutes.
“Fuck off. You’re only nineteen months younger than me.”
“Yeah, and I’ll be nineteen months younger than you for the rest of my life. I’ll always be younger than you.”
“You’ll always be an annoying little shit.”
Ross laughs. “And you’ll always be a self-righteous asshat, so you know, whatever.”
Sam pulls a face, he can’t help himself, but for once, it’s not vicious, it’s not designed to hurt, it’s almost playful, it’s easy, familiar and weirdly comforting. Ross is the same annoying little shit he’s always been, but he’s also an inherent part of him, just as Dean’s an inherent part of him, they’re the Winchester boys, all three of them, one unit, one family. Ross is bratty and infuriating and can rub Sam up the wrong way like no other person in the entire world, but he’s also the person Sam spent more time with than any other before he left for Stanford, sharing schools, friends, the backseat of the Impala, books and clothes and toys, even looks - that goddamn resemblance - that had teachers, kids always asking, “So, are you two twins?”
God, he used to hate that, trying to keep his temper as he insisted, “No, we’re not twins! I’m nearly two years older than him!” while Ross, the little shit, would snigger like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. But Ross was lucky, like Dean, he grew into his body early, tall and mature looking (though God knows he was never mature acting), taller than Sam by the time he was twelve and Sam was fourteen, though, Sam’d made up for it later, outstripping both his brothers by three, four inches, to their joint disgust.
After Sam graduated high school, he can still remember the look on Ross’s face when he realized he’d have to face every new school experience on his own: bewilderment and even fear, well hidden under the Winchester bravado. He begged and pleaded with Dad to let him drop out: It’s not like we need it. Why do I have to be the only one in school? It’s not fair. I’m never gonna need any of this crap. Please, Dad…
“C’mon, we should go. The old guy might be back by now,” says Ross. He looks jittery; as though he’s trying to hide something, and it makes Sam hesitate, look at him. “What?” snaps Ross.
Sam grins slowly, knowingly, “You and Dean - you been cookin’ something up, haven’t you?” he says.
Ross sniffs, “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
Sam laughs out loud, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell him that you spilled. ‘Sides, we all know that you can’t keep a secret to save your life.”
Ross gives him a strange look, but doesn’t say anything, just gives a one-shouldered shrug as he gets up from the table, mouthing, “Whatever,” in that irritating way that has Sam reaching out to cuff him on the side of the head. Ross dodges easily, mocking smile returning to his face as he sing-songs, “Too slow, Sammy! Always too fuckin’ slow.”
“Fuck you,” Sam says cheerfully, and Ross half smiles, jostles him with his elbow as they make their way out the coffee shop.
As Sam suspected, Dean hasn’t forgotten his birthday. Instead, by the time Ross and Sam get back to the room, Dean’s already there, standing by the flimsy kitchenette table with an enormous shit-eating grin on his face. On the table are a couple of six packs, two bottles of vodka, a baggie full of weed and an enormous ice pink birthday cake.
“For the special birthday girl!” declares Dean.
“Awesome,” says Ross approvingly, slamming the door shut behind them, “pink, how fuckin’ appropriate.”
“Aw, honey, you remembered,” Sam greets him.
Dean and Ross snort, almost in unison, and Ross sets to, eagerly slicing up the cake with one of their silver knives. Normally, Dean would be riding his ass about using one of their hunting knives for something domestic, but he’s far too occupied in rolling their first joint. When Ross goes to the bathroom, Dean pours a healthy glug of vodka into Ross’s half-drunk bottle of Budweiser.
“Uh, Dean, what the fuck are you doing?” Sam asks.
Dean just raises an eyebrow at him and smirks.
“Dude, you’re gonna poison him!”
Dean scoffs at that. “Stop being so dramatic, Sam. Kid’s got a concrete stomach, I’m not gonna poison him. What kind of big brother do you think I am?”
“The kind who’s planning on getting his little brother so drunk he’ll pass out and possibly die?”
“He won’t die, this is Ross we’re talkin’ about,” says Dean with affected patience. “Anyway, I’m doin’ this for you. Littlest Bro’s gotta be out of it so you can enjoy your real birthday present.” He leers at Sam, and Sam remembers that Ross, when passed out, stays passed out, sleeping like the dead. All of which means…
“…Oh Jesus, Dean, we’re, like, the worst brothers ever! I can’t believe we’re gonna get him drunk just so we can have sex.”
“If you’re not on board with this, man -“
“Hey, hey, I never said that!” he protests quickly.
Dean just smirks at him, seeing right through him as usual, he slides a hand under the table, reaching to palm at Sam’s dick through his jeans.
“Dean!” he hisses when they hear the sound of the flush. He pushes Dean’s hand away and gets up from the table with an uncoordinated jerk, Dean still smirking evilly to himself by the time Ross reappears.
Sam watches Dean stealthily adding more and more vodka to Ross’s shots with a conflicted feeling in his chest. On the one hand, Ross is lapping it up, obviously well up for getting as wasted as it’s possible to get, so really, he kinda deserves it, and Ross being Ross, barely needs Dean’s assistance in getting drunk off his ass. And really, if Dean thinks it’s okay to spike Ross’s drinks then it must be okay, Dean would kill himself before he did anything to harm his youngest brother. And then of course, there’s the very big part of him which really, really wants to know what Dean’s got in mind for his real birthday present.
Eventually Ross gives in and slumps head first onto the table. Dean shakes his head with a low chuckle and gets Sam to help him carry Ross over to one of the twin beds.
“Are we just gonna,” Sam makes a rough gesture with his hands, “while he’s just lying here?”
“You know he sleeps like the dead,” says Dean. “He won’t wake for hours.” He drops his hand gently to Ross’s head, ruffling his hair with a fond expression on his face, Sam watches him, eyes narrowing in on the tender, almost delicate way Dean’s fingers card through the short, dark bristles of Ross’s hair. The movement of Dean’s fingers is mesmerizing, and it makes something well up hot and hard in his chest, a memory of Dean and Ross years ago, on the couch at Bobby’s, Ross’s head in Dean’s lap as they watch TV, Dean playing with the short, soft strands of Ross’s hair, Sam watching them from the corner armchair, pretending to read.
Sam reaches out, bracelets Dean’s wrist and forcibly tugs his hand away from Ross. Dean starts, eyes widening as he glances up into Sam’s face. They’re both silent for a moment, looking at each other, then suddenly, Dean blinks, moans out, “Christ, Sammy, feels like I’ve been waitin’ all fuckin’…”
He doesn’t get to finish that sentence because Sam claws at him, drags him from Ross’s bed and wrestles him down onto the other, fingers knotting in the thin fabric of Dean’s t-shirt, desperate to get at him any way he can. He feels like he’s been hard for the past week, sloppy jerk-off sessions in the shower (and Dean’s bed) barely putting a dent in the pent-up desire he can feel fizzing under his skin every time he looks at his brother. He devours Dean’s mouth with his own, tasting beer and pot and birthday cake while Dean pants and writhes beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair and tongue slicking over his lips.
“So, what’s my big present?” he gasps out when they finally break apart.
Dean’s smile goes wicked, and he licks his lips, eyes locked on Sam’s.
“Was thinkin’ I might let you fuck me.”
He stares at Dean, shocked, then he blinks, groans out, “Jesus, Dean, I can’t believe… Are you serious?”
“Course I’m serious.”
Sam exhales, he can feel Dean’s eyes on him, watching him closely, eyeing him with this little smirk at the corner of his mouth, eyelashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks, tongue running over his bottom lip. Sam feels the breath catch in his chest, he can’t remember ever wanting anyone this much. He swallows, trying to contain himself, curling his fingers around the hem of Dean’s shirt, whispers, “Dean -“
“What?”
“You know, we, uh, never really did that before. And when we did, it was always, well, the other way round, you fuckin’ me.”
“Yeah,” says Dean steadily, “I know that.”
He watches as Dean squirms around, sheets rucking up underneath his body as he shoves one hand into the pocket of his jeans to draw out a small tube. He drops it onto the mattress between them and Sam looks down at it, feeling a bolt of heat straight to his gut as he recognizes it as lube. He raises his eyes to Dean, huffing out a breath, a nervous, ragged laugh, while Dean’s smile widens, his expression soft and mocking and fond.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Dude, totally.” He leans forward, places one hand on the curve of Sam’s hip, tugs him closer. “Hey. C’mere,” he whispers.
Sam shifts, moving so their bodies are flush against each other, both of them on their sides, chests, hips, foreheads touching. They’re so close that Sam can feel the heat coming off Dean, seeping into his own body, their sweat intermingling, the sour smell of alcohol and pot soaking into his pores from Dean’s. He can feel the red flush of heat and lust as it spreads over Dean’s face, down his neck and chest, feel the slight trembling in Dean’s body as Dean’s hips jerk forward instinctively, rock hard cock pressing into Sam’s stomach. He puts his mouth to the curve of Dean’s throat, to the pink and red tinged skin, his tongue feels like it’s sizzling, Dean’s skin so warm, so hot, so gorgeous, he licks gently, slickly, tasting his brother’s sweat.
“Sammy,” Dean breathes, “Sam…”
Sam slides his palm down his brother’s back, over his sweat-drenched shirt, the thin fabric wrinkling, damp and gross; he splays his fingers over Dean’s ass and throws his leg over Dean’s hip, tangling their legs together, their groins flush up against each other, cocks so stupidly hard.
He cups Dean’s ass with his hand, fingers digging into that perfect, round curve, he thinks about it: sex, buttsex. It’s new. Despite everything they used to do together, sex - actual real sex - never really came into it. Three, maybe four times, he can count them on the fingers of one hand, and always him on the bottom, Dean on top, cause Dean was the older brother, the big brother, and you ain’t stickin’ that tent pole anywhere near my ass, dude… He smiles to himself, remembering, that tone in his brother’s voice - half-awestruck, half-salivating - Dean’s worshipping fingers and adoring hands all over him. God, Sammy, you drive me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?
“Whatcha smilin’ at?” Dean asks, his mouth pressing a line of kisses down Sam’s temple, over his sideburn and against his jaw.
“You, you’re so ridiculous,” he says.
Dean draws back to look at him, “Right back atcha, dude.”
Sam huffs out a laugh and nuzzles the side of Dean’s face, all stupid, drunk affection. Dean’s smiling; he can feel it, the curve of Dean’s mouth against his cheek, the puff-puff of Dean’s breath against his skin, the throb of Dean’s pulse against his fingertips. Why can’t it always be like this, he thinks, why can’t we always be together like this?
When he was younger, when things would get really bad, when he and Dad couldn’t even be in the same room without wanting to punch each other, when Ross would snarl at him and blame him for everything - for the tired, angry look on Dad’s face, for the tired, sad look on Dean’s face - he used to day-dream about this. About him and Dean. Just the two of them… somewhere, it didn’t matter where, anywhere but here. No overbearing, generalissimo father-figure, no bratty, omnipresent kid-brother. After they gave into everything, after Dean finally gave into him, it only got worse, his desire to be with Dean and only Dean, the need to have his big brother all to himself, a constant, beating refrain deep in his gut, a stronger echo of the ever-present sexual desire.
“I wish it could always be like this, you and me,” he whispers, his slow, foggy brain unable to stop the words from coming out.
Dean turns his head and looks at him for what feels like a long moment, a tight, heavy look in his eyes, “You know it can’t,” he says finally, and his voice sounds flat, as if he’s trying to tell himself something too.
“But, Dean,” he lifts his head, sighs in frustration, “I - just - when Dad… when it’s all over, when we get the thing that killed Jess and Mom, when Dad comes back and it’s all, you know. Afterwards. I was thinkin’ that you and me - we could - go off somewhere, just, us…” he trails off, feels his chest start to clench up, an absurd sadness take hold of him. He can feel the tears threatening, hot and prickly, burning behind his retinas, and he knows he’s just being stupid, saying dumb, hopeless shit, and it’s all just because he’s drunk, cause he’s smoked too much and cause today is his goddamn birthday, but he can’t stop it, can’t stop the words from spilling out: “It could be just you and me, like I used to - God, Dean, like I used to dream about… and we could go somewhere and we could do whatever you wanted…”
“What about Ross?” Dean interrupts sharply. He fumbles, trying to pull away from Sam, but Sam’s too quick for him, just tightens his hold, wrapping his arms around him from behind so they’re practically spooning, holding Dean in place.
“He’d be okay, Dean, he’d be with Dad. And they could hunt, it would be okay,” he says, trying to use his most persuasive tone of voice. He turns his head, eyes falling over the other bed, over Ross, dead to the world, carefully propped up on his side, so he don’t choke on his own vomit where they left him only ten, twenty minutes earlier. He looks curiously vulnerable, young and sweet - all adjectives that Sam would never, ever use to describe Ross, but that spring into his brain now. I never gave him a chance, he thinks, right from the start, when he first came to us, I didn’t give him a chance… The words flashing and beating into his brain like the eureka moment of a revelation. He blinks, tries to push it all away - the pointless, useless guilt - tries to concentrate on this, on Dean lying here in his arms, their bodies entwined, but he feels stupidly choked up, like he’s on the edge of a dumb crying jag.
“He’d be okay, he’d like having Dad to himself,” he repeats, trying to believe the words as they come out.
“Sam,” Dean interrupts, and his voice sounds weary, tense, the opposite of five minutes ago, “c’mon, man, you know it can’t be like that. Even if, hell, even if we do get that sonofabitch that got Mom and Jessica, then - what? We split up, you and me go one way, and Dad and Ross the other?” he twists in Sam’s embrace, turning so he can look down at him, the shadows from the overhead lights making his eyes unreadable, “I don’t know if I can do that. And I don’t know,” he hesitates, swallows, a muscle twitching at the edge of his jaw. “Dad - he, uh, I don’t know if he’d want to do that. These last coupla years since you left - it’s been different; he’s not here so much. Even with Ross…” He breaks off, shrugs.
“He was never here so much,” Sam murmurs.
Dean sighs, lowers his eyes, “Look, whatever. Why are we even talkin’ about this shit? I thought we were gonna have sex. Hell, man, I even bought fuckin’ lube from a drugstore, specially for tonight. I was freakin’ prepared for this.”
The corner of his mouth crooks, a smug, self-defensive quirk that’s all Dean, along with that cheesy-corny glint in his eyes, and Sam finds himself smiling, despite everything. Hell, this is normal for them: pushing aside everything - the endless fucking angst and endless fucking issues - to get to the good bits, to get to the them
“You’re such a hedonist,” he says finally.
“Tch, whatever, least I know how to have fun,” Dean retorts. “Look, if you want to spend your birthday bitchin’ and moanin’ about your life, instead of giving me a good, hard fuckin’ - “
“Hey, hey, I never said that!” Sam protests. “Here, c’mere!” He fists his fingers in the front of Dean’s shirt and pulls him into a kiss. It’s long and hard and bruising, and by the end of it, Dean’s panting into his mouth, breathless and trembling. Sam raises his eyebrows, his bring-it, bitch face and Dean grins, rolls them over so Sam’s underneath, Dean straddling him.
“You, uh, you sure about this?” Sam pants, his eyes lock onto the thick, gorgeous outline of his brother’s cock through his jeans, his entire body geared to the wonderful friction of Dean’s denim clad ass grinding down against his own stupidly hard cock.
“Won’t be the first time I’ve had a dick up my ass,” Dean answers nonchalantly. He looks down at Sam and his smile wavers when he sees the look of shock on Sam’s face, quickly morphing into that self-defensive, defiant shape, “C’mon, man, you could hardly expect me to wait for you?”
He feels his eyes widen, staring up at Dean in disbelief. “You mean - you’ve let other guys fuck you?”
“Course. You know me; try anything once, or more than once, if it’s good.”
He’s speechless for a moment, the sheer weight of what Dean is saying… and it shouldn’t be a big deal, because, he does know Dean, knows he would hardly have been celibate in those years they were apart. And it’s not like they were ever exclusive before, and he… well, he had Jess, he was going to marry Jess, he loved her, he was crazy about her in a way he’d only ever felt about Dean, he could hardly expect Dean to -
He can see now - see it all with perfect clarity - that he has two choices: he can say something, let the tight, hard ball of jealousy churning in his gut spew out, he can torture himself by thinking about Dean with those other guys, those other people getting to do things with his brother that he was never allowed, getting to be inside him when Sam was never given that privilege. Or, he could let it go, he could stop angsting and regretting every fucking thing, stop wanting to change his life, and start enjoying what he does have, what he loves: namely, Dean.
He takes a deep breath and says, “Oh, well, that’s good, cause you’re gonna have to show me what to do.”
Slowly, the tentative, defensive smile on Dean’s face breaks, then spreads, becoming wide and genuine. “Dude,” he says, “dude, you are gonna fuckin’ love this.”
He dreams about Jessica that night. She’s on the ceiling again and he’s on his bed hopelessly reaching for her as the flames start to lick around them, burning, scorching heat, sweat obscuring his vision and her voice in his head as her lips turn to ash.
Sam, why did you abandon me, Sam? Why didn’t you tell me?
He cries out, trying to tell her: I didn’t know, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize, I’m sorry...
Four months, Sam, you only waited four months before you crawled into bed with him. I was still warm, Sam, when you looked at him like that.
He can’t answer, his mouth won’t move, body locking into place, sheets wet and clammy around him, folding over him, wrapping him up like a shroud. Jess? Jess?
I always knew there was someone else. I could feel it when we made love, Sam, I could feel him there. Your brother, Sam.
He wakes up, and for a second he can’t move, paralyzed, limbs locked in place, glued to the wet, clammy sheets. He blinks; Dean’s leaning over him, body warm beside him where they both passed out.
“Sam?” Dean whispers.
He whimpers, he still can’t move, he wants to say his brother’s name, but the words are stuck behind the tight swell of panic in his chest, behind the stiff, frozen limbs.
“Hey, Sammy, it’s okay, it’s okay,” whispers Dean and he slides closer, hot, real body pressed against Sam’s side. “I’ve gotcha, it’s okay.”
Sam blinks and feels his muscles slowly start to unlock, body begin to unpeel from the sheets, fingers and toes moving again. He shivers, tense, wound-up muscles convulsing, and it hurts, the tightness, the stiffness hurts. He blinks, feels a warm, salty wetness start to slide down over his cheeks. He feels worn out, exhausted, body over-used and barely responsive to his petrified, foggy brain.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” says Dean softly.
He wants to say it out loud: no, it’s not, it’s not okay, Dean, you don’t know, you didn’t see. But Dean’s so close, so warm and so familiar that Sam just turns and presses his wet face into his brother’s shoulder. Dean twists and wraps him up, enshrines him in his arms, fingers digging into his horrible, stiff skin, kneading away gently at his locked-up shoulders and worn-out muscles.
“Hey, it’s okay, it’ll be okay,” Dean repeats.
His voice is low and mesmerizing, and Sam still can’t speak, his voice-box still unresponsive, still locked somewhere in that hideous dream reality of Jess above them, soft flakes of ash raining from the ceiling, scattering over them both, shrouding him and Dean.
“It’s okay, you know, I’ve read about this, I know about this. Nightmares and, uh, sleep paralysis. And it’s normal, man, don’t worry, it’s totally normal. I’ve gotcha, okay, and it’s all okay. After everything you’ve been through, dude. You don’t have to hide anything; you don’t have to pretend in front of me, Sammy.”
He moves his lips, tries to force the air out, tongue and lips and vocal chords grinding awake, slowly coming out of that stupor, “Dean,” he gasps, “Dean…”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s okay, I’m here,” promises Dean.
*******************************
Ross wakes up to a headache that’s worse than anything he remembers experiencing for a long time. Worse than that head injury in Witicha when the little spirit motherfucker whammied him against that goddamn tombstone. His brain feels foggy, rusty and not quite with it, and he imagines his brain cells, a grey, soggy mass of sponginess, soaked with alcohol and all that freaking pot they smoked last night, and it’s like he can feel the brain-cells, one by one, running out his ears, and onto the pillow. Man, he was fucking wasted last night.
He groans and thinks about rolling onto his back, but it’s too much effort. He can hear the steady drum-drum of water, and it seems to take his slow, murky brain a freaking week to recognize it as the shower, someone’s in the bathroom, taking a shower. Well, they better not steal all the goddamn hot water, at some point, he is gonna get up and when he does, the first thing he’s gonna do is take a piss and then have a shower, God, he’s fucking busting for a piss.
He blinks his eyes fully open and concentrates on taking in his surroundings. The curtains are still half-closed, and he’s dimly grateful for it, he’s way too hung-over to deal with full-on, natural sunlight at the moment. Slowly, he takes in the other bed; Dean’s lying on top of the sheets, naked except for his boxer shorts, sheets rucked up underneath him. He’s in his favorite sleeping position - on his front, with his hand tucked under the pillow, touching the knife or gun he always keeps under there, other arm dangling off the side of the bed. The soft, yellow light coming through the curtains is spilling over Dean, making him look like he’s a freaking marble statue, turning the hairs on his legs golden-brown, and making the damp curve of his back gleam like he’s been oiled up and not just like he’s really gross and sweaty. Dean’s face is turned towards Ross and Ross can see how his eyelashes are fluttering - he must be dreaming - how his mouth is half-parted, his lips red and sort of puffy, and his skin all flushed, probably all the freaking booze he hogged after Ross passed out.
Ross stares at him for a long time, he feels strange, a weird, niggling urge to get up, to steal over there, just those few feet between them, and touch him, run his fingers over the soft, downy hairs on his legs, or the gleaming damp skin of his arms and back. The urge is like a horrible knot in his stomach, a peculiar, prickly itch edging up his spine, he feels hot and feverish, and he’s suddenly aware of just how gross he is, lying here in his clothes from last night, the air around them too close, salty and sickly with the combined smells of too much sweat, cigarette smoke and booze.
He exhales difficultly, trying to calm, push away the weird, tangled-up feeling in his stomach, the mean, throbbing ache in his head. He feels confused, his brain still stupidly foggy, but the longer he lies there, staring at his oldest brother, at the curves and lines of his body, so effortless and powerful - the way Ross has always strived to look - the more this freaky, terrifying urge to touch him refuses to go away. It’s nothing new, he tells himself. When he was younger he was always fighting to be close to Dean and Dad, craving affection, stealing hugs, crawling into Dad’s lap when his father was soft and pliable, wanting to feel Dad’s big hands over him, warm and close and safe, smoothing over his hair and murmuring deep, comforting words into his skin. And when Dad wasn’t around, it was Dean he craved, Dean he needed. He’d curl up next to him on the couch while they watched TV, snuggle up against his body, press his face against Dean’s chest and breathe him in. It was normal, just a kid thing, just the way he was, and obviously, this - what he’s feeling right now - it’s the same urge, the same need for comfort and reassurance.
The door to the bathroom creaks open and he starts, feels his heart jump, like, almost literally miss a beat. He quickly closes his eyes, pushing away the sudden rush of embarrassment, though he totally doesn’t know why he’s feeling embarrassed, it’s only Sam - Sam who used to fuck Dean - he, he has nothing to be ashamed of, not when faced with Sam’s guilt, and Jesus, whatever, he’s not fucking ashamed. He feels his heart thump, pulse throb in his chest, and he becomes aware, after what feels like freaking years, that he hasn’t heard Sam move, that Sam must still be standing in the bathroom doorway. Slowly, carefully, he opens his eyes and sneaks a look at Sam. Sam is standing in the bathroom doorway, just like he suspected, a tiny-ass towel built for midgets, never mind ginormous nerds like Sam, knotted around his waist, barely covering anything, his hair plastered to his head and dripping big fat drops down his chest and face, but Sam doesn’t seem aware of that, he’s just staring, looking past Ross, over Ross, at the other bed. At Dean.
Ross gulps and watches his brother’s face, he doesn’t need to worry about being caught, Sam can’t see anything right now that isn’t Dean. His mouth is parted, as if on an “ohh”, his eyes wide and dark, his tongue licking over his lips, as if he can’t help it, he swallows and Ross can practically track the movement of Sam’s throat. If he was to take a picture right now, then he could sell it with the tagline: this is what sexual desire looks like…
A rush of nausea wells up in his gut and he presses his face back into the pillow, trying hard to choke it back, the breath catches in his throat and he coughs, disgusting, acid bile in his mouth.
Sam starts, stammers out, “Oh my God, Ross, you okay?”
He finishes coughing, swallows and raises his head to look at Sam. He’s blushing hugely, a red hot flush all over his face and chest, eyelashes fluttering nervously - total Sammy caught out right now mode.
“Only just,” he groans, “feel like fuckin’ shit.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Sam gulps. He comes forward, making this weird sort of sympathy face. “Yeah, you were pretty wasted, dude. Uh, if you want, I’ll get you some water and some Advil.”
“Ohhhh, God, yeah, anything.” He sinks back into the pillows, lets out a long breath, hearing Sam padding about the room, still wearing that tiny fucking towel.
Sam leans over him and deposits a glass and some pills on his nightstand, “There you go,” he says lamely.
Ross grunts out a thank you and struggles into a sitting position. He takes his pills and downs all the water as he watches Sam change.
“Hey, you know,” Sam turns to him and drops his towel, completely fucking naked now, and yeah, okay, so he’s kinda used to it, the three of them wander about naked in front of each other all the freaking time, but right now, after watching Sam perve on Dean for what felt like a fucking year, it’s just way too much. “Yesterday, it was pretty awesome, you know,” he’s got this small, private smile on his face. “I just wanna say thanks for it.” He hesitates, shrugs as he pulls on some boxers (thank God), his enormous brow furrowing as he glances across at Ross, “It just - woulda been nice if Dad’d called me.”
“Dude, Dad didn’t call for my birthday, or for Dean’s. What makes you think he’d’ve remembered yours?”
Sam shrugs again, presses his lips together, “Dunno. Just - I guess - it was stupid to expect him to remember, right? Not like he ever did much before.”
“Whatever,” Ross says. But the retort’s automatic, no real feeling there. He watches Sam pull an undershirt on over his head, watches him shake his hair in that shaggy dog way of his, sending water droplets flying - which… still so annoying. “I figure he’s, uh, you know, busy. Got more important shit to worry about that your freakin’ birthday.”
Sam says nothing for a moment, just looks up and sighs, like, way to be an enormous fucking martyr, bro. And yeah, okay, so maybe, maybe, Sammy might have a point. Dad used to forget their birthdays all the damn time, but this year - he forgot all three of them - that’s kinda a record. And although part of him is secretly pleased that Dad forgot about Sam as well as him and Dean, because, man, Dad just remembering Sam’s birthday would so not be fair, not when Sam was the one who fucking abandoned them, there’s another part of him that’s just getting more and more worried. Dad told them that he was on this thing’s trail, that it wasn’t safe for him to be with them, that he was getting closer, and yeah, fair enough, okay, he gets that, Dad’s right. But Dad wouldn’t have said any of that shit if he didn’t mean it, if he wasn’t pretty fucking sure, if this evil sonofabitch wasn’t really some huge-ass deal, and all that - knowing all that, knowing that Dad’s out there on his own, chasing it, while it’s probably chasing him back - well, it sure don’t make anything any fucking easier.
When he was ten, Dean and Sam bought him a camera for his birthday. It wasn't anything special, just a real cheap Kodak knock-off, but he didn't care, he loved it. He can still remember the fake-serious look on Dean's face when he handed it over: "Ten years old. Double figures now, dude."
They were concerned Dad wouldn't let him keep it; Dad had weird rules about photographs. At the time, Ross just figured Dad was making it up because he didn't like his picture being taken, he only found out about the federal kidnapping charges years later, the ones Dad had gotten slapped with cause of him, the ones that meant, even if they’d ever wanted to, they couldn’t stay in one place for very long.
But he was too excited at the time to not show Dad his present, the first decent one he’d gotten off Dean and Sammy in, like, ever. Dad seemed pleased for him, smiling and shaking his head, and exchanging looks with Dean like it was some big, private joke, like you’ll regret this, son, and where’d you and Sammy get the money from anyways? Dean just shrugged and said something about yard work, which even Ross knew was a lie, the neighborhood they lived in was too fucking poor for people to pay others to do their yard work, that’s if they even had a yard.
He loved taking pictures, having them developed was more of a problem because they never stayed in one place for long enough to send them away in those envelopes, and the one hour service places were too goddamn expensive. Occasionally, Dad would give in and let Ross waste $15 on getting his pictures developed, which Sammy and Dean always bitched about... until they got the pictures back and then the three of them would crowd around the table of some diner or some motel kitchen table to pour over them, plenty of ammunition for mocking each other's stupid-ass faces. You’re such a dweeb, Sammy… Yeah, well you’re a moron, dumbass… Chill out, bitches…
He took hundreds of pictures, though what the fuck happened to them all he can’t remember. He’s got two left which he keeps in his wallet: one of Dad, and another of himself and his brothers taken by Dad on the day he got the camera. Dad made them squeeze onto the crappy couch, “my three boys,” he said as he posed them with a big, proud smile, he and Sammy either side of Dean like freaking bookends. He’s grinning so hard in that picture that he looks possessed, though he doesn’t look as bad as Sam who was about to open his mouth to whine about something when Dad clicked the shutter and Sam got caught like that forever, mouth gaping open like a total dork. Dean just looks kinda sleazy; he used to do this lame, smirking thing with his mouth and eyebrows which he thought was the coolest thing ever, except… not.
The photo of Dad was one he took himself, sneakily, cause Dad really did hate having his picture taken. He can remember doing it, one of his clearest memories. They stopped for gas somewhere and the three of them went to the bathroom, Dad always used to make them do that whenever he stopped to gas up. Get out and go now, boys, I’m not stoppin’ again for at least 300 miles (he’d learned from bitter experience that Dad really wasn’t lying when he said that). He was carrying the camera, he was always carrying the thing in those days, like Jimmy freaking Olson, and he came out of the bathroom to see Dad leaning against the side of the car as he gassed up. He took the picture then, framing the shot just like he’d read in that magazine he’d found in some ER waiting room: Amateur Photographer or something like that. The sun was just coming up and it framed long shadows around Dad, bathing him in this sort of yellow glow. Everyone was impressed when they saw the final shot and it’s lived in his wallet ever since.
They stop at a picnic spot not far from the Utah-Colorado border, it’s full of families and Dean watches some enormous family of ugly Mormon-looking kids playing tag with a goofy smile on his face. He turns back to them and shakes his head.
“Man, that takes me back. You remember that year you got obsessed with freakin’ Ultimate Frisbee? Every damn time we stopped, you’d get that thing out and make us toss it around.” He looks at Sam, shakes his head again. “Man, of all the fuckin’ lame-ass sports to get into - you had to pick the lamest.”
For once, Sam doesn’t look pissed by Dean’s remarks, just shrugs and half-laughs, “Yeah, well, it coulda been worse, I coulda been school mascot.”
He turns to Ross with raised eyebrows, while Dean snorts out a huge laugh like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard in years, and leans over to whap Ross on the arm. Ross jerks his arm back at glares at him - glares at the both of them, assholes. And, whatever, being the school mascot was not totally lame, definitely not as lame as Ultimate Frisbee. And hell, anything that got you that close to that many cheerleaders - how could that ever be considered lame? Unless of course, you were a total gayface like Sammy and were scared of chicks. And fuck them - fuck both of them - cause it had fucking worked, he’d never have gotten anywhere near Alison Chambers, never mind banged her that one time after her prom date dumped her, if he hadn’t’ve been school mascot. And, whatever, it was that one freaking time and they were still banging on about it. Well, he can be the bigger person now, he’s not gonna retaliate. He presses his lips together and turns to look away, stare at the endless trees and picnic tables and creepy-blond Mormon kids.
Dean snorts again and takes a long drag on his cigarette, tilts his head back and attempts to blow smoke rings up into the air.
“Dude, you suck at that,” he says, pleased to see Dean’s face fall as he shoots him a hurt look, Dean’s totally the sort who can dish it but can’t take it. He takes a drag on his own cigarette, tilts his head back and blows his own smoke rings into the air. They’re pretty wonky, not that good at all, really, but they’re way fucking better than Dean’s lame-ass efforts. He smirks, raises his eyebrows in Dean’s direction while Dean rolls his eyes at him.
“You’re both pathetic,” says Sam, but his voice is all agreeable, all cool and easy-going. And, goddamn it, but it’s kinda freaking Ross out. What is with Sam? Why is he so laid-back and serene and fucking happy all of a sudden, when only months ago he was continually bitching and whining and crying into his pocket-handkerchief (okay, so he wasn’t really doing the last thing, but whatever, still totally valid).
He wanders off to the men’s room, leaves them to clear up the trash, Dean to have another cigarette before they get back into the car. The men’s room is surprisingly clean, there’s even a goddamn attendant, watching him carefully through narrowed eyes. Ross nods at him and goes on into one of the stalls. He sits on the seat to take a piss, thinking suddenly of the first time the four of them ever took a road trip together, a couple of days after Dad had snatched him from that foster home. Dad rounded them up, bundled him and Sammy into the backseat of the car, telling him, “Don’t worry, Ross, we’re going on a road-trip to Sammy and Dean’s Uncle Bobby’s place. We like to take trips sometimes, don’t we, boys?” Dean and Sammy nodded solemnly, muttering, “Yes, sir.” Dad tossed bedding into the backseat so he and Sammy could sleep while Dean climbed into the front with Dad, an enormous road atlas spread out across his knees; trying to follow the state highways with his tiny flashlight while Dad drove like a freaking demon was on his ass.
He can remember that, remember what it felt like to tangle his short, skinny legs with Sam’s in that stolen king-size duvet, remember the way Sammy glared at him when he realized he could no longer stretch out over the entire seat, that he’d have to share it now.
They stopped at a scary, dark rest-stop, just like this one, full of enormous, creepy pine trees that waved and shook and rustled in a way that made Ross clutch hard onto Dean’s hand, Sam tagging along behind them, kicking up dust and pine needles with his sneakers. The lights weren’t working in the men’s room, and Dean had to shine his flashlight while he and Sammy peed. They washed up and brushed their teeth afterwards, Dean standing over them; still with the flashlight so he could make sure they got behind their ears and brushed their teeth properly. Dad was waiting by the car for them when they finally trudged back, and he nodded at Dean and smiled at Ross, bending down to swing him up into his arms and give him a smacking kiss on his forehead. He lowered Ross into the back seat, ruffling his hair as Sammy slid in from the other side. He helped them tighten their seatbelts and pulled the stolen motel comforter around the two of them, “You go to sleep now, boys. We’ll be at Uncle Bobby’s by morning.”
He sighs, the memory of his father’s face, of that proud smile, of the way he’d say his name, Ross, my boy… suddenly so vivid. He swallows, pushes back the hot swell of God, I miss you, Dad…grief that’s nestled into his gut, he opens his wallet and slides out that old photo of Dad, the one he took so long ago. It’s kinda worn, creased and torn around the edges, but it’s still Dad, Dad staring off into the distance, looking younger than he remembers, deep in thought, probably thinking over some case, with that crease he’d get between his eyebrows when he was trying to figure things out. He stares down at it, feels his eyes start to blur over with tears.
This morning, he was staring out the window of the car and he was remembering a hunt he and Dean and Dad had been on a couple of years back, just after Sam left them - another poltergeist - and it occurred to him, all of a sudden, that he couldn’t remember how Dad had looked afterwards, couldn’t remember the expression Dad had gotten on his face when he finished the job, when they exorcised the poltergeist, that joyful, big-damn-hero smile of his that he’d always turn on him and Dean when they’d won... The memory was gone, wiped from his brain. He grazes his finger over Dad’s face, trying to commit it to memory, it’s stupid, he should be able to remember this - remember Dad - it hasn’t been that long, but his brain’s playing tricks on him, torturing him in a way that hurts the most.
He swipes the back of his hand over his face, smearing away the pathetic, useless tears, and slides the picture back into his wallet. He stands and flushes, dropping a $5 bill into the attendant’s tip plate as he makes his way back out into the sun, to where his brothers are waiting for him.
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