A Life Most Ordinary, Chapter Six

[sonofabiscuit77]

CHAPTER SIX

I know I’ll never lose affection; for people and things that went before,
I know I’ll often stop and think about them; in my life, I love you more...
In My Life - The Beatles

Back to Chapter Five

They went for a long “nature walk” the next day through the woods. According to Sam, there were a lot of trees, flowers and insects which the boys should view and note down and maybe even take pictures of, because with Sam, activities should always have an educational slant. Unfortunately, there was no time to appreciate the wonders of nature as they got caught in a horrendous storm after half a mile, the temperature dropping about ten degrees in the space of five minutes, and as none of them were wearing anything more than shorts and t-shirts, they got more drenched than cheerleaders washing cars for pep week. Simon started to cry as the rain pelted down furiously while Jonah stared forlornly through the massed trees, looking like a street urchin from Oliver! - a movie Dean was way too familiar with, thanks to Jonah’s obsession with musical theatre.

Sam gathered Simon up into his arms, cradling him against his chest, Simon’s small legs wrapped around his waist and sad little face pressed into the crook of his neck. Dean caught hold of Jonah’s hand, and together the four of them headed back the way they’d come, through the thick wet trees, and out into the open, trailing and falling and stumbling through the churned up mud around the driveway like they were running through a freaking mud bath.

In the end, they all crowded into the big shower stall together. It was nothing like Dean’s fantasies on that first night, when he’d imagined showering with Sam: seeing Sam’s hair turn black, his body shine and glisten, his cock grow big and fat and red as Dean ran his hands over every inch of his body. This scenario was about as different from that fantasy as it was possible to be. Jonah was shivering theatrically as Dean finally climbed in after him, teeth chattering and face upturned plaintively towards the falling hot water. Sam dumped Simon, equally naked and shivering, under the other faucet and quickly stripped off his own soaked clothes, pulling the sliding glass door shut behind him and exhaling heavily as he joined them.

Jonah and Simon soon cheered up, excited by the novelty and adventure of sharing a shower with their parents, hell, by the novelty of a shower that actually worked and gave out good strong hot water. Dean shook the water out of his eyes and glanced down at Simon, Simon seemed to be staring at his father’s dick with open fascination, and it occurred to Dean that although Simon had seen both him and Sam naked plenty of times before, (there was no shyness in the Winchester household), he had never seen both him and Sam quite so upfront and personal at the same time in such an intimate space. Simon’s little face was wide-eyed as he looked from Dean’s to Sam’s and then down at his own small boyish prick, immediately turning back to stare at Sam’s junk with mesmerized fascination. Dean suppressed a snigger, instead catching Sam’s eyes over the boys’ heads and jerking his head towards where Simon was staring, Sam’s eyebrow quirked up and he smirked back at Dean in amusement.

There wasn’t much room in the shower stall for two kids, one grown man and one Sasquatch, so Dean finished up quickly, leaving Sam to wash and clean the kids to his own standards, and then take his usual hour on his own hair and beauty regime. Dean pulled on a robe and padded into the kitchen to make grilled cheese sandwiches. He stood over the stove, staring out the window into the tumultuous rain. They wouldn’t be able to go outside again today and that was for damn sure, and with the shitty TV reception, he wasn’t quite sure what they were going to do with the rest of the day, though the terrifying prospect of Monopoly was definitely looming.

He swore as the pan started to smoke, grilled cheese burning at the edges. He flipped the sandwich over quickly and pressed down with the spatula, hearing the satisfying sizzle and smelling the fantastic greasy aroma of melting cheese. It would be nothing less than a tragedy if these sandwiches ended up burnt, they only had a finite amount of forbidden white bread and even less forbidden American cheese in the fridge, and there was no way Sam would let him buy any more. No, this was going to be his only grilled-cheese sandwich for a long while, so he was damn well going to enjoy it.

He flipped the finished sandwich onto a plate and dropped the next one into the pan, his mind starting to wonder again. If he was going to be honest with himself, then he really didn’t want this vacation to be over, not just because duh, vacation but because he really didn’t want to go home. He was so freaking tired of their life in Kansas, of his crappy job with its crappy pay and non-existent prospects, of every fucker in town knowing who he was and how his mother had died and how his father had been a total nutbag.

So, maybe they should do something about it? Hell, maybe they should pull up their roots and move away? Why the fuck not? What was stopping them from going somewhere where nobody knew them, where nobody knew about Mom or Dad, or that he and Sam were brothers? The thought was tantalizing, making the hairs on the back of his neck prick up and his insides feel warm as he imagined the four of them getting into the car and just driving, getting away from everything, from all the shit that had dogged him for years. Man, that would be so good. Sure, it would be hard to leave Bobby and Jeannie and Jess behind, but just the thought of the freedom they could have, the anonymity. Maybe he could join another police force, finally make detective, away from the specter of Mom’s murder and the sheriff and the entire freaking town’s preconceptions about his own mental state.

Of course, in reality, there would be a helluva lot to think about if they ever did move: selling their place and buying a new one, getting new jobs, finding schools for both Jonah and Simon, the support network that they’d need for Simon. But Sam would totally love getting into that; writing lists and researching shit were two of his favorite pastimes, the big freak.

To his dismay, they did end up playing Monopoly all afternoon. It didn’t help that Jonah was obsessed with the game and that Sam loved all board and strategy games to a degree that was disturbing. Jonah had inherited this passion of Sam’s along with Sammy’s freakishly competitive streak, cheering out loud every time one of them (usually Dean) landed on one of his properties and forked over a big wedge of cash. After about an hour, Simon got bored of his usual role of banker and wandered off to the couch to read Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Dean eyed him enviously, wishing he could creep away and find something else to do, seriously, anything would be preferable to this interminable game. Instead, he started to pilfer some money from the now unguarded bank, adding it surreptitiously to his dwindling stash.

“Dad! I saw you take that $50!” Jonah cried aloud, voice raised in moral outrage. “Stop cheating!”

Sam pursed his lips, “Dean -”

“Sam,” he mimicked.

Jonah picked up the little metal racecar that was Dean’s token (of course) and placed it on the JAIL square, declaring: “There! You should stay in jail for at least three goes. And maybe he should give up some of his properties, don’t you think, Uncle Sammy?” He widened his eyes hopefully at Sam, and Dean resisted the urge to snort, he knew his son had his eye on the Pennsylvania Railroad card he held. He only needed that one to own all four railroads; the kid was a damn shark.

“No, it’s okay,” said Sam, directing Dean an indulgent look, “he’s already losing enough.”

Dean sighed and glared out the window at the still falling rain. He was doomed.

**********************************************************

The boys spent the next day with their new friends. Apparently, the girls had mentioned a trip to the zoo, and after much to-and-fro, Dean had reluctantly given into Jonah’s pleading puppy-dog eyes, on the condition that he made sure to interpret everything Simon said to Mark or Kate, as neither of them understood any ASL.

He felt guilty for putting that responsibility onto Jonah. He knew firsthand what it was like to have the responsibility for your kid brother dumped on you at an early age, but Jonah had seemed proud and had promised faithfully to look after Simon. Dean knew he didn’t really have anything to worry about; Jonah and Simon fought and squabbled like any other brothers, but deep down, Jonah was fiercely protective of Simon, and Simon adored Jonah. Besides, the two girls seemed to be great kids and Mark and Kate were the kind of sincere, responsible, grown-up sort of parents that he’d always wanted to be, so his boys were in safe hands.

He and Sam went running after they’d waved goodbye to Mark and Kate’s enormous SUV. Sam was normally a morning runner, leaving the house at ridiculous o’clock, before the sun had even risen in the winter. Dean was a lot less dedicated, and certainly not dedicated enough to haul his ass out of bed when Sam did. He preferred to run at night, shaking off the shittiness of the day as he pounded the dark streets, coming home to a hot shower and his bed.

“You wanna race?” Sam asked, shooting him a challenging look from over his shoulder.

“Yeah. S’long as you’re prepared to lose,” he shot back.

Sam laughed out loud in genuine amusement, and tossed Dean one of those superior eyebrow looks of his. “See in you in five!” he called out, speeding up and disappearing into the thickening trees ahead.

Dean swore under his breath and set off after him, increasing his own pace to a sprint, as he tried to keep up. It wasn’t fair; Sam was four inches taller than him which translated to four inches extra in leg length and way longer strides; he was going to get his ass handed to him and that was for damn sure. He increased his speed even more, hearing his breath come fast and his heart hammering crazily against his ribs, blood thumping in his head as his feet pounded against the soft ground.

He couldn’t see Sam now; the track was winding, twisting and turning through the thick, dense trees, reminding him of that awesome beginning scene of Silence of the Lambs. He came sprinting into a clearing and he jerked to a halt, bending at the waist to catch his breath. Shit, he hadn’t run that fast or that far in a long, long time; 30-yard touchline dashes were more what he was used to. He raised his head, peering through the thickets of trees encircling him. Where the fuck had Sam got to? He couldn’t be that far ahead.

“Dean!”

He jumped as someone - Sam - grabbed him from behind and pulled him into a crushing embrace, hot mouth pressing down against the back of his neck, thick, sinewy arms winding around his middle, holding him tight. He froze, heart-rate speeding up again as he felt his brother’s tongue paint a stripe over the nub of his spine, fluttering kisses along his neck and shoulders until his teeth sank into the meat of his shoulder, sucking greedily.

Dean groaned and ground his ass back against Sam’s hard, hot body. He could feel his brother’s thickening cock pressed up against the curve of his ass and he shivered, the adrenalin from the run still pumping crazily in his veins, the blood still thumping against his skull. He twisted in Sam’s embrace and reached up with both hands to yank Sam’s head down into a long, passionate kiss. Sam moaned out something that sounded like Dean’s name and pulled him in closer, one hand on his ass and the other on the back of his neck. Stumbling and grinding against each other, they sank down into the mud, their mouths not leaving each other for a millisecond.

Sam pulled away, panting for breath, his eyes dark and hazy as they met Dean’s: “Are we, are we doing this - here? What if people -“

“I don’t fuckin’ care,” Dean growled, and pulled him back into a kiss.

Their legs and feet were getting caked in mud, the ground still so soft and squelchy from the rain yesterday. Sam cradled the back of his head with one hand and pushed him down to the ground, following up immediately with more bitten-off, snarling kisses. Their legs were entangled, and Sam’s other hand was worming into Dean’s shorts, grabbing for his eager, desperate cock and wrapping tightly around it. Dean groaned loudly and arched up, the mud giving way under his feet as he tried for purchase, needing, God, so desperately needing. Sam breathed out his name and jerked his fist up and down Dean’s cock, not pausing as his mouth devoured Dean’s.

“Sam, Sam,” he murmured, “let me - do you - together - we gotta - together -”

Sam moaned something incoherent and snatched up Dean’s hand, pressing it against the place where his own cock was tenting the fabric of his shorts. Taking it as a yes, Dean slid his fingers under the waistband, finding and giving Sam’s cock a hard squeeze. Sam shuddered, his eyelashes fluttering against the hollows of his cheek, his mouth spreading into a serene, blissful smile as his lips shaped Dean’s name. Dean reached up, cradled Sam’s skull and pulled him down into another kiss, as he started to jack Sam’s cock in earnest.

There were only the sounds of their tight, panted breathing, the slick-slock noises as they jerked each other off, the sloppy smacking sound of their needy kisses. Dean arched up and in one smooth move, rolled them over until Sam was the one underneath, the one half-sinking into the churned up leaves and mud. He could feel himself getting closer, and he could tell from the half-pained, half-incredulous look on Sam’s face that he was too.

“Wait, Sammy, hold on, wait for me,” he whispered urgently, and Sam’s eyelashes fluttered, his feverish, glittering gaze meeting Dean’s as he nodded.

They got there together, the two of them crying out within a second of each other, tears springing to Sam’s eyes as he clutched helplessly at the sleeve of Dean’s t-shirt, jerking his fist over the head of Dean’s cock as Dean followed him over the precipice, the two of them hurtling down a slope, tangled up together and never willing to let go.

He collapsed on top of Sam when it was all over, panting for breath, and slowly becoming aware of the spooge in his shorts and that the rest of his body was caked in thick, squelchy mud.

They made a ridiculous sight as they walked back towards the cabin, both of them looking as if they’d just taken part in a mud wrestling competition, and walking as if they’d just come in their pants, which of course, they totally had. Their clothes were a dead loss, t-shirts soppy and gray with mud, shorts spattered with jizz stains, leaves stuck to their bare legs and in their hair.

They were just leaving the edge of the forest, taking the trail back towards the cabin when they ran into Lydia and George, a middle-aged couple staying at a cabin down the road from theirs. They were dressed in serious hiking gear: water-proof pants, those weird-ass walking sticks that looked like ski equipment and sturdy hiking boots. For a moment, all four stared at each other in mute disbelief, Lydia and George doing a long, slow double-take as they took in every detail of their disheveled, flushed, post-coital appearances, not to mention the unmistakable white stains on their shorts.

“Hello,” said Sam politely.

Dean bit his lip, valiantly resisting the urge to laugh out loud. It really was too fucking ridiculous. Lydia was blushing purple as if she’d figured out exactly what they were doing in the forest to get into that state, and George was just staring at a point into the distance, trying to pretend that the whole scene wasn’t actually happening.

“We were just - we went for a run,” Sam continued, and Dean had to give his brother serious credit for even bothering. “Unfortunately, we, uh, slipped, fell over. It’s very muddy,” he added pointlessly.

“That’s, um, yes, with the rain yesterday,” said Lydia in a faint, strangled voice.

“Yeah,” laughed Sam weakly, directing a please help me look at Dean.

Dean cleared his throat. “Well, I guess we should be going, gotta get cleaned up. Catch you later!”

“Shit!” groaned Sam when they were out of earshot, “You think they realized -“

“Yup. Most definitely.”

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry about it; we’re probably just fulfilling their expectations as to how homosexuals behave. Totally depraved.”

Sam glared at him. “That’s not funny, Dean. Not all gay couples behave like - like -“

“Like us? God, I hope not. C’mon, Sammy, you gotta see the funny side. We just gave them the thrill of their lives!”

They climbed into the shower together when they got back, finally getting to fulfill Dean’s fantasy, though the experience was somewhat ruined by having to unclog the drain every couple of minutes when it got too full of mud and leaves. Finally, after most of the mud had washed away, Sam sank to his knees and took Dean’s cock into his mouth, giving him his second mind-blowing orgasm of the day. He followed Sam into the bedroom, feeling sated and content, and got onto the bed with him, both of them still in their towels, leaving their warm, pink bodies to slowly dry off.

Dean closed his eyes and snuggled down into his pillow. Sam was half-sprawled over him, his long, clever fingers tracing over the dips and lines of Dean’s abs and stomach, playing with his belly button, and brushing over the soft trail of hair that led down to his crotch. He was getting used to having Sam’s hands all over him when they were in private. Sam seemed to want to touch him all the time, the endless attention was sometimes too much to handle, but on other occasions, like now, it was just kinda nice, comforting.

“Hey, so I’ve been thinking,” he said.

Sam made a sleepy, content sort of a noise that was obviously his cue to continue.

He took a breath and decided, fuck it, spit it out already. “I think we should move.”

Sam raised his head, a puzzled line between his eyebrows: “What do you mean?”

“Move,” he answered. “You know, like, leave Corn, leave Kansas. Go live somewhere else completely different.”

“Are you serious?”

“Totally.”

Sam licked his lips and shifted his position until he was sitting up. Dean watched him rearrange his pillows, anxiety fluttering in his belly; he’d expected Sam to be as excited as he was by the prospect of leaving Kansas, going away somewhere completely different and starting a new life. But if Sam wasn’t genuinely into the idea then that was it - he’d have to forget about it; he could never force Sam to do anything he wasn’t one hundred percent behind.

“So, what do you think?” he prompted.

“There’d be a lot to think about,” Sam answered hesitantly. “Moving to a different state isn’t easy. And we’d have to sell the house.”

Of course, Sam would always consider the practical implications first, that was just his way, Dean knew that, he counted on that - on Sam being the one who could deal with all that shit.

“Yeah, yeah, course, but, forget about that for a minute. I want to know how you feel about it, about moving somewhere else. About starting a life somewhere completely different?”

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitched and the weight immediately lifted from Dean’s chest, the nervous, prickly feeling ebbing away as Sam smiled at him, “I’d feel very happy about that.”

“Oh, good. I was worried you might not be so -”

“Are you kidding? Dean, I’ve wanted to move away for years, you know that!”

“Oh, right, yeah, sure. California. I guess I kinda ruined that dream for you, didn’t I?”

Sam frowned, confused. “What? No you didn’t. I was the one who decided not to go.”

“But you stayed ‘cause of me.” Sam turned his head away again, which was answer enough. Dean bit his lip, said quietly, “I used to think about California too, you know.”

“What?” Sam raised his eyes to him again, and blinked.

“Yeah. Back before shit got serious with Reiko, just after Dad died, when Jonah was a baby. I thought about us just up and leaving, the three of us I mean - you and me and Jonah. I thought about you going to Stanford, and me going with you and the three of us getting this apartment off campus somewhere, and I could get a job, maybe join the police or work in a garage, whatever, and you could go to school, and help me raise Jonah, and… Fuck, I don’t know, man, it was just a pipe dream. I just - I wanted to get away back then, after Dad died. I wanted to get away from that place.”

Sam looked at him for a long moment, his eyes wide and solemn. “For what it’s worth, I would’ve said yes. I would’ve gone with you in a heartbeat.”

He thought back to those days he hadn’t thought about in years, about how that desire that had gripped him to just get away from his life, to take Jonah and follow Sam and disappear, to not be Dean Winchester anymore, with his dead Dad and his murdered Mom and his crappy little job as a small-town cop.

Christ, nothing ever really did change.

“But, Dean, look at it this way. If we’d left back then, you wouldn’t’ve married Reiko and we wouldn’t have Simon. So, maybe some things really do work out for the best.” Sam nudged him with one big, meaty shoulder, and Dean felt his mouth curl up into a rueful smile. Hell, Sammy did have a point (as always) - however much of an enormous fuck-up his relationships with both Cora and Reiko had been, they were worth every awkward, bitter moment - and more - when he thought about his boys.

“But we can go now - nothing to stop us now. Soon as we get back. I’m gonna start looking into it. Figuring out what we gotta do,” Sam continued.

“Okay,” he nodded, “okay, yes, awesome.” It was exactly what he’d been counting on: Sam doing the heavy-lifting as he always did, figuring things out and arranging their lives and keeping them together, keeping him together, keeping him going.

“And you know, man, if we went some place where people didn’t know us from Adam, they wouldn’t have to know we were brothers.”

Dean blushed, he ducked his head, “Yeah, yeah, I, uh, I was thinking about that.”

“Yeah?”

“But, Sammy, we gotta -“ he hesitated, blew out a long breath, “the kids -“

The happy expression on Sam’s face immediately faded; he pressed his lips together, nodded, “Yeah, of course.”

Dean gulped, that uneasy queasy tension taking hold of his insides again. He knew he’d been deliberately avoiding thinking about Simon and Jonah ever since he and Sam had started this - God - this relationship, telling himself that they had time, that both boys were still young and innocent, that there would be plenty of time to tell them later when they were more grown up, when they could understand better.

But he knew he was just kidding himself. Jonah was already a lot more mature than he liked to accept. Thanks to Sam, the boy knew all about the facts of life, about heterosexual and homosexual sex, and he’d be ten next year. Dean could remember himself at ten, feeling itchy and hot and confused when he looked at girls, realizing that his dick was not just for pissing - he’d had to figure it all out on his lonesome, ‘cause it wasn’t like Dad had been any use. He was determined that Jonah wasn’t going to be as alone as he’d been. Jonah would have them, but that meant that they had to be straight with him, starting with the truth about their own relationship.

“I -” he hesitated, licked his lips and sighed painfully. “Fuck, man, I can’t - I can’t think about this. It’s just… We’re gonna scar them for life. They’ll end up hating us. Both of them will.”

Sam sighed in turn, “Maybe. But all teenagers hate their parents at some point in their lives, for loads of reasons, a lot of them total bullshit. But we should give them the benefit of the doubt. Jonah and Simon love you more than anything, Dean; you’re the only person who’s always been there for them. So, we just gotta hope that that’s enough, that they’ll understand. After all, I don’t know - things haven’t really changed all that much, as far as they’re concerned. I think it would be far harder for them to accept either one of us leaving or getting involved with another person - I think that would be far more detrimental to their wellbeing than the idea that we’re together. This way they know they’re always going to get the stability of two parents.”

“Two parents that are related to each other,” Dean interjected darkly.

“Two parents that love each other,” insisted Sam. “That love each other and love both children more than anything, that will always be there for them and for each other, that won’t ever leave. Plenty of kids never get that. We didn’t.”

“I guess,” he sighed, slumping back into the pillows.

“Hey,” Sam leaned over him, hand coming up to cradle Dean’s face, long finger tracing tenderly over the curve of his eyebrow. “It’ll be alright. We’ll be alright. We’ll figure this out, you and me. We can do anything.”

Dean felt the breath catch in his chest, insides twisting at the look on Sam’s face, the belief in his voice. He was so tempted to give into it, to believe in what Sam was saying - the immutability of them - but this was so much more than that, this was his kids’ future. Would Jonah and Simon ever be able to understand, or forgive them? He honestly didn’t know - would he be able to forgive in their place? Maybe they could tell them that Sam wasn’t actually his brother, that Sam was - God - adopted or something like that? Create some story that would explain -

No, they couldn’t do that. He couldn’t lie to his kids. He just had to hope that Jonah and Simon loved them enough to see past it.

“Here,” he said suddenly, and before he really knew what he was doing, he was pulling the silver ring (the one he’d worn on the fourth finger of his right hand ever since Dad had given it to him) off of his finger and was holding it out to Sam. “Take it; I want you to have it.”

“What?” Sam blinked at him, looking from the ring lying in the palm of Dean’s hand, like the One Ring in those old promos for the Lord of the Rings movies, back up to Dean’s face. “Dean - what are you?”

“Put it on. Here,” he directed. He reached for Sam’s right hand and clumsily pushed the ring onto his fourth finger. It slid down it easily, fitting perfectly. Huh, he’d kinda expected it wouldn’t fit, Sam’s hands being so freaking enormous, but then Dad had hardly been a small-handed man.

“Dean,” Sam said and his tone was bemused, but also indulgent, and also something else. Dean risked a glance at his brother’s face; saw the shine to his eyes that signaled held-back tears. Sam was always so damn emotional. “Dean, you can’t - this was Dad’s wedding ring, he gave this to you on his deathbed.”

“Yeah, and I want you to have it. I’m giving it to you.”

He’d always worn it, just as Dad had always worn it, faithful to the memory of their Mom, their family. Sure, he’d had his own wedding rings too - one from Reiko and one from Jess - but this silver ring, this gift from Dad had always been a part of his body in a way that those rings never had. It was fitting that he would give it to Sam, that it would come to mean the same thing for him and Sam as it had done for Dad and Mom. It was weird and it was creepy, but it fit. He loved Sam, as a brother, and as something else - as Dad had loved Mom - and whatever happened in the future, whatever he decided to do, Sam needed to know that.

******************************************************************

He didn’t feel sad on the journey back to Kansas, the usual post-vacation blues not really hitting him. Things were going to change. At long last, he was going to do what he should’ve done a long time ago: finally put the past behind him - not just Mom and Dad and their shitty desperate childhood - but his own fuck-ups, his failed marriages and non-existent career, and maybe even the nightmares, all that psychological baggage that had always held him back.

Sure, he knew that just moving to a different state wasn’t going to immediately solve all his problems, after all, you took them with you - or so the cliché went. But what mattered was that they had a plan. They could have a future - all four of them - and somewhere new, somewhere where no one knew them, they could start over.

He sighed as he merged onto the 35. They were only an hour from home now, and it was already full-dark, the boys (finally) fast asleep in the backseat. He glanced sideways at his brother; Sam had also gone to sleep, his eyes closed and mouth slack, drooling probably. Dean watched him for as long as he safely could, eyes flicking from the quiet blacktop to Sam’s face. It seemed ridiculously remiss of him to have never noticed before just how fucking beautiful his brother really was. Sure, he’d always gotten that Sam was hot; he’d had plenty of admirers over the years for Dean to get that memo, fucking Troy at the Deaf and Gay Club, David of course, all those guys at that bar, even Jess back in high school. But Sam was way more than just another hot guy, he had the sort of body made for the pages of GQ or Men’s Health, so powerful and strong, without an ounce of fat anywhere, able to overpower Dean so easily if he wanted, just like last night.

Dean swallowed, face flushing as his mind flew back to the previous night. He still couldn’t - fuck - he still couldn’t quite believe that they’d done that, that Sam had done that to him and that he’d let him.

“I’ve wanted to do this to you for ages,” Sam had said with that burning, feverish look in his eyes.

So Sam had rolled him onto his front, kissed his way down his back, tonguing the knobs of his spine and sucking at the taut firm skin over his shoulder blades and sides, until he’d gotten to the dip of his back just above the swell of his ass.

“This bit, this bit here. This bit is one of my favorite parts of your body, Dean. It’s so perfect, so delicious. When I used to jerk off, I used to think about this bit, about my cock riding your ass, about coming all over your back, and I used to come so fucking hard.” Dean’d swallowed, felt his own cock press down painfully into the mattress at Sam’s words. Sam had stopped talking, busy layering kisses over his ass cheeks, and then he’d swept his tongue over Dean’s ass crack and Dean had jumped like he’d been kicked in the chest.

“Holy, fucking shit!” he’d gasped out, and Sam had chuckled evilly, the sound reverberating against his ass, sending shockwaves up his spine.

Sam hadn’t stopped, he’d licked all around Dean’s asshole, pressed his tongue inside and kissed and slobbered until Dean could feel the wetness of his brother’s saliva dripping down his ass, slicking up his thighs, and still Sam hadn’t stopped. Dean had started to shake, feeling so close, so exposed, so opened up, so fucking on fire, and then Sam had pushed his tongue fully inside, and he was losing his breath, clawing at the mattress, the rumpled sheets, and whimpering like a hopeless animal.

Nothing had ever felt this good before, and as he’d ground his cock helplessly into the mattress, desperate for purchase, for some tiny, fractional friction, he’d wished that he could see it, that he could watch what Sam was doing to him, see his brother’s tongue vanishing into his asshole. He’d lost it only seconds later, pumping out his release into the already stained sheets as his fingers reached behind and caught Sam’s hand in a death-grip.

Sam had rolled him over, lips and chin shiny with saliva, eyes alight with glee and arousal. “You like that?” he’d asked, and Dean had laughed, shaky and disbelieving and completely fucking done.

He shifted in the driver’s seat, aware that he was now fully hard, his cock pressing uncomfortably against the seam of his jeans. He grinned to himself and stretched out a hand to squeeze Sam’s thigh, the muscle hard and tight and strong under his fingers. Sam muttered something sleepily under his breath, raising his big hand lazily to bat Dean’s away.

The boys awoke as he pulled up outside their house, blinking dazedly around them, rubbing their eyes with their fists and tumbling out the car with scrunched-up, unhappy faces.

I want to go on vacation again, Simon said, big fat tears fringing sad tired eyes.

Next year, sweetheart, Dean told him, brushing the hot tangle of dark curls back from his stricken face.

He took them both up to their bedroom, helping them peel out of their travel-ruffled clothes and climb into their cold beds. There’d be a lot of work to do tomorrow: laundry and homework, household chores and groceries, and he had to be back at work for the nightshift. He went to the window to draw the curtains and peered down into the front driveway, seeing Sam unloading the straining trunk, passing through the front door with laden arms. He dropped the curtains back in place, leaned over the beds to kiss both boys goodnight, and left the room.

He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, trying to wash the road dirt away. He left the bathroom and came slowly down the stairs, pausing by the old picture of Mom and Dad taken outside the house in Lawrence, their happy, hopeful faces smiling back at him. He dragged his eyes away and onto the next photo: him and Sammy, at nine and five, posing on the hood of the Impala, grinning stupidly for Dad’s camera, and beside it: Jonah and Simon, taken a couple of years ago, the two of them also posed on the hood of the Impala, Jonah’s arm slung around Simon’s small shoulders in the same pose. He stared at both pictures for what felt like a long time, then he turned on his heels and climbed back up the stairs.

Both boys looked to be asleep already when he pushed their bedroom door open again. He stood on the threshold of the room, watching their chests rise and fall, listening to the sound of their breathing, remembering years ago when Jonah was a baby, standing over his crib, listening to his quiet, snuffly breaths, so terrified that any moment, it would just stop.

“Dad, why are you watching us?”

He jumped, gaze flying to Jonah who was blinking sleepily and staring up at him with bleary, confused eyes. “It’s creepy,” Jonah added in a sleep-slurred, accusing tone.

Dean swallowed and drew closer, perching on the edge of Jonah’s bed. “Sorry,” he said.

“S’alright,” said Jonah magnanimously, twisting over onto his side and burrowing down into his comforter.

He leaned in and gently smoothed a hand over his rumpled hair. Jonah exhaled a soft, purring sort of a breath and snuggled harder into his pillow. Dean kissed his cheek, getting to his feet to do the same for Simon before he left the room once more.

He descended the stairs slowly, this time deliberately not looking at the photographs that lined the hallway and the landing. He could hear Sam in the kitchen, cupboards opening and shutting, the shuffling pad-pad of his footsteps.

“Hey,” he greeted him.

Sam looked up from where he was bending over to replace the cleaning supplies he’d brought with them. “Hey. They both asleep?”

“Yup.”

“You want a beer?”

“God, yes.”

Sam waved a hand towards the fridge. “In there, we had some left.”

Dean fetched them both a couple of beers, twisting off the caps, handing one off to Sam.

“Cheers,” Sam leaned in, clinked the necks together. “What shall we drink to: the future?”

His expression was so hopeful that it made something in Dean’s throat catch; he forced out a smile, nodded grimly. “Uh, yeah. Okay.”

He took a long pull, then lowered the bottle and exhaled heavily.

“Sammy, I gotta - there’s something I gotta say, man.”

Sam watched him for what felt like a long time, taking a couple of pulls on his beer, all the while studying Dean carefully with that characteristic, measured gaze. “You’re breaking up with me,” he said quietly.

“I - what? That’s, uh, that’s crazy.”

“No, it’s not. And I’m right, aren’t I?”

Dean swallowed, bowed his head, unable to meet his brother’s eyes for a moment, “Sam -”

“It’s okay; you don’t need to say it. It’s because of the boys, isn’t it?”

Dean raised his head, meeting Sam’s eyes, shiny with unshed tears. He nodded dumbly, “Yeah.”

Sam exhaled heavily, nodding his head like a bobble-headed doll. Dean watched him walk over towards the sink, curl his fingers around the edge of the work-surface, those big hands that had been all over Dean’s body, that had traced the lines of his muscles and adored every inch of him.

“We were just kidding ourselves,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, “it was a fantasy. What if anyone found out? What if Child Protection Services - they’d take them away from us!”

“Maybe not.”

“Yeah, but are you willing to risk it?”

He watched his brother’s shoulders fall, his back slump as he took in Dean’s words.

“No,” Sam finally muttered, the word barely audible as it passed his lips.

Dean swallowed and approached Sam slowly, placing his beer on the draining board, remembering that night all those months back when he’d done exactly this, when Sam had confessed everything to him - how he really felt, how he’d been feeling all those years, the love and desire Sam’d hidden from him for so long. God, he’d been so terrified that this would ruin everything, that saying no would drive Sam away and break up their family. And he’d been frightened - he could admit this now - terrified of just how good and not wrong it had felt to kiss Sam, when any normal brother would be freaking the fuck out.

But they weren’t normal brothers, they never had been, and that was the entire goddamn point.

His hand was hovering over Sam’s shoulder and he lowered it hesitantly, feeling Sam tense under the contact. Sam’s breath hitched and he twisted around, bowing his head until his forehead rested on Dean’s shoulder, his mouth wet against Dean’s collar, their bodies so close their chests were grazing. Dean splayed his fingers over the back of his brother’s head and carded his fingers gently through his thick hair.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Sam made a choking sound and brought his arms up around Dean’s back, pulling him in so tightly it felt like he was trying to meld them together, trying to sink all of himself into Dean.

Dean stroked his hand up and down his brother’s back, remembering all those occasions when he’d comforted him, all those times Sammy had come home from school with dirty tear tracks on his chubby cheeks ‘cause some kid had said something about his mom or made fun of his dad, how they’d lain together on the couch and watched cartoons and munched candy until Sammy was okay again.

Sam pulled away from him, his head still bowed and face hidden, his back half-turned. Dean’s hands dropped to his sides and dangled uselessly by his hips; he reached for his beer, needing to be doing something with his hands. There was nothing he could say to Sam now that would make it better, he’d made his decision: he’d sacrificed his brother’s and his own happiness for his kids. But that was right, that was how it should be, nothing was more important than his boys.

He watched Sam sink to the kitchen table, drop his head into his hands, face hidden by his fingers and swathes of messy, brown hair.

“Sam?” he said tentatively. “You okay? Speak to me, man.”

Sam raised his head wearily; his eyes were bloodshot, shiny with tears, face ugly and stricken. “Dean, what am I gonna do? I can’t - I don’t wanna leave you, and I can’t - fuck, I can’t stay here and not be with you. I can’t do that now I know, Dean. What am I gonna do? Tell me what to do.”

Oh God. He couldn’t answer that. He was the one who always looked to Sam for answers.

He gulped, passed the back of his hand over his lips. “I don’t know. God, Sam. You gotta see - I can’t lose them. I can’t - shit, Sammy, how would we ever explain this to them?”

Sam’s mouth twisted. “I was working on a speech for that.”

Dean snorted and shook his head, the weight of fondness and affection in his chest making his insides hurt. Of course Sam was working on a speech for that, and knowing Sam, it would be an awesome speech, it would explain everything - explain them - their fucked-up feelings for each other - and perhaps, maybe, in an alternate universe, Jonah and Simon would listen and they’d understand, they’d get it and they’d forgive them. But that was an alternate universe, that wasn’t here and now, and here and now, he couldn’t take that chance.

He sat down at the table, opposite from Sam, his usual place. He slid his hand across the table, curled his fingers around Sam’s forearm, squeezing gently. Sam moved his own hand, placed it over Dean’s, entwining their fingers so Dean’s hand was caught between Sam’s arm and Sam’s hand, a prison of Sam-skin. It felt good, solid and warm and safe.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Sam said quietly.

“Then don’t - just, don’t,” Dean breathed, his stomach queasy with relief. “I don’t want you to leave. You know - that’s the last thing I want. But, Sam, we can’t be together like a couple - we can’t risk it. So, maybe, I don’t know - maybe I should stop being selfish -“

“What do you mean?”

He swallowed, forcing the hateful words out: “Maybe you should leave, like, find someone else, have your own family -”

“I don’t want another boyfriend, or another family! You guys are my family!” Sam shot back, his tone hard and insistent, eyes blazing defiantly, the old Sammy tenacity returning. “You’re not gonna force me away for my own good, Dean! That’s so fucking patronizing!”

Dean huffed out a strangled laugh, unable to prevent his lips from curling up into a rueful smile; this was his Sam, his gorgeous stubborn tough little brother.

Sam took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. He jerked his hand from Dean’s grasp, raised it to his face, dragged the back of it across his mouth before letting it slump to the table. He ducked his head as he swallowed, the momentary defiance leaving him and his shoulders slumping once again, defeated. Dean stared in dismay, his throat and chest aching hopelessly, and the skin of his hand tingled where Sam had touched him.

Eventually Sam raised his head, met his gaze head-on: “Well, I guess I should give you your ring back,” he stated flatly.

“What? No! No, it’s yours. I meant everything I said when I gave it to you. You know that.” He could hear the wheedling, pleading tone to his voice, and he hated himself for it.

He licked his lips; he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t know the words and anyway, Sam was drawing away from him, getting up from the table, his eyes shuttered over, face a blank, horrible mask. He watched, a helpless and useless thing, as Sam collected their empty bottles and threw them into the recycling, the loud shattering of glass making him flinch.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Sam announced.

“Okay,” he said, because what else could he say?

He sat in silence at the kitchen table for a few minutes after Sam had left the room, hearing Sam’s heavy footfalls on the stairs, the click and snick of the bathroom room, the clang of the ancient hot water pipes. In the background, the old refrigerator was buzzing quietly to itself. Sam had left it to defrost while they were away - the damn thing was so freaking old that it needed to be defrosted every couple of months - and there was a small puddle of water by the door that Sam must’ve missed when he cleared up earlier.

He got up from the table, taking a rag from the cupboard under the sink and kneeling to mop up the puddle. It wouldn’t do to leave it, one of the boys could slip tomorrow, bang his head against the corner of the refrigerator, end up concussed or worse, and then where would they be? All because he was too lazy to mop up a damn puddle.

He wrung out the cold gooey water in the sink, tossing the used rag back in the cupboard. He straightened up, catching his reflection in the dark window above the sink; he looked strange, old, he thought, but aside from that, no different from usual, nothing to tell that he’d just made the hardest decision of his entire life, that he’d just condemned himself to a half-life, that he’d just broken his little brother’s heart.

He swallowed and turned away from his reflection, his throat ached, as raw as a five mile run on an ice-cold day. Maybe they could figure something out. There was always some other way - hadn’t TV and movies taught them that? And he and Sam were smart - well, Sam was - resourceful too. Maybe they could come to some arrangement. Maybe they could -

God, what? Creep around behind Jonah and Simon’s backs like an adulterous couple having a sordid affair? And what would happen if they were found out? ‘Cause people always found out. His boys were smart; surely they would figure out one day that the relationship between their father and their uncle was not normal, that what their father and his brother shared was something sordid, something dirty, something wrong - and then - then they’d turn against him and Sam, they’d hate them, because however much he tried to rationalize it in his head, however much he loved Sam and Sam loved him back, deep down he knew it was wrong.

He opened the high cupboard and took down the whiskey bottle, poured himself a glass. He drained it quickly, barely tasting it, then poured himself another.

If anyone ever found out -

They could take the kids.

He could remember what it was like to live in fear of Child Protective Services, remember how it felt to be taken away from his family home, separated from his Dad and put in care, stuck in a home with twenty other kids, all the time terrified that he’d never see Dad again, that they’d take baby Sammy away. He would never, never let that happen to Jonah or Simon.

He silently refilled his glass and padded into the big den. He stood in the middle of the room for a moment, feeling absurdly disoriented, taking in his surroundings as if he were in someone else’s home: the family photographs on the walls, Simon and Jonah’s muddy sneakers by the door, Sam’s flannel shirt slung over the back of the couch, Sam’s coffee mug on the coffee table next to the stack of unopened bills, all the clothes and toys and books and clutter - so much freaking crap - taking up every square foot of space, tangible evidence of them - his family - the four of them.

Maybe they could do this, he thought suddenly, a wild hopeful euphoria overtaking him, maybe he and Sam could go back to the life they’d had before Sam’s big revelation? Pretend like the past few months hadn’t happened; pretend that they didn’t have all these twisted, incestuous feelings for each other. After all, they were brothers, family, and nothing was more important than family.

“Dean?”

He jumped and spun around. Sam was standing in the doorway, wearing a towel around his hips, another loose in his hands, water rolling down his naked chest, and that was - fuck - Sam couldn’t do that anymore, tease him like that - it wasn’t fair.

“Dude, put some freaking clothes on,” he muttered.

Sam made an amused sound at the back of his throat and came forward to slouch into the armchair - Dad’s armchair - exhaling heavily. “I’ve been thinking, and I just wanna say that I’m sorry for before. I was -“ he made a face, bitter and self-deprecating, “- being selfish, I guess. I just - God, Dean - I’ve wanted this - you - for so long that sometimes that’s all I can see. But you’re right, we have to put Jonah and Simon first, I couldn’t - fuck - I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to them because of us - because of my fucked-up feelings for you.” His mouth twisted unhappily and he slumped backwards into an exhausted sprawl, wet hair against the back of the chair, turning the beige upholstery a dark brown.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Dean said slowly, “it wasn’t just you that wanted it.”

He stared down at his glass, the deep amber color of the whiskey. They sat in silence for a while, Sam making no move to dry himself off, just staring blankly in front of him.

“So, uh, what about moving?” Sam asked finally, “you still want to move?”

“Yeah.” He sighed then raised his head, eyes meeting Sam’s; he smiled faintly, a crooked, wry twist of his lips. “I want out of this place, Sammy, I’ve had enough. I want to start again, somewhere else.”

“Too many ghosts,” Sam whispered, and God, wasn’t that the goddamn truth.

Dean shivered. “Yeah, way too many ghosts.”

They both were silent again for a while, then Sam sighed, got to his feet, raising the towel in his hands to scrub it haphazardly through his dripping hair. “I guess I should hit the sack. So should you. It’s been a long day and you’ve been driving all day, you should get some sleep.” His tone was chiding, the faintly parental note disguising familiar concern.

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes locked on his glass, not trusting himself to look at Sam, see the expression on his face.

“We can talk about it tomorrow - about what needs to be done,” Sam added.

“Okay,” he agreed.

He followed Sam up the stairs, trying not to fixate on the play of muscles under Sam’s smooth tanned skin, his long, long legs and firm, shapely ass. It wasn’t his place to look anymore; he’d given up that right.

On the landing, he hesitated outside his bedroom door, watching Sam pause outside his, feeling absurdly like they were in the final act of some Shakespearian tragedy.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, and his voice sounded strange in his ears, scratchy and unfamiliar.

“Night, Dean,” Sam said softly. “You know, it’s all gonna be okay. We’ll figure things out. You and me, man, we can do anything.”

There was such belief in his words, so much conviction that Dean could only nod and stutter out, “Yeah, yeah. Uh, night, Sammy.” He blinked, held his breath as he watched Sam disappear into his own room, the sound of the Sam’s bedroom door closing resonating in his mind like a book slamming shut. He exhaled slowly, and entered his own room.

On to Epilogue