original by clex_monkie89
Remix Title: Sometimes, There's Just No Contest
Remix Author: flawedamythyst
Original Story: Five times Sam (almost) failed a school exam, and why.
Original Author: clex_monkie89
Rating: R
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Summary: Three times Dean made Sam (almost) fail a school exam, and why.
Warnings: Incest, slash.
Sammy whined about his stupid test the whole way out to Hillside Cemetery. "It's twenty percent of my final mark. I should be studying, not digging up corpses."
Dean gave up telling him that there were at least four graves to be dug up, and that there was no way he and Dad would be able dig them all up in one night without Sam's help. It seemed that since Sam had turned thirteen, all he did was whine and whine until Dean was ready to choke him with his damned study notes.
He pushed down the urge and instead stayed quiet, keeping his eyes on the tail lights of Dad's truck until Sam had shut up and started grumpily reading his notes. Dean let out a quiet exhale of relief and wondered how long it would be before Sam grew out of being such an annoying bitch.
Sam started muttering angrily again when they arrived at the cemetery and Dad pointed out which graves he wanted them to cover and then set off to find the others.
“Normal kids get to sleep the night before a test,” he bitched, once Dad was out of earshot.
“Normal kids don't get to help save lives,” Dean pointed out.
Sam scoffed as if that wasn't important then thankfully shut up, although Dean could tell from his expression that he was still pissed as hell, and probably saving up every bitter thought for a rant later.
Sam was attacking the ground with his spade as if it was responsible for him being there and scowling furiously when the spirit appeared, scorched black from the fire that had killed him, and holding a spade which he raised high as he charged. For a moment a vision of Sam with his skull crushed in flashed through Dean's head, then he jumped in front of Sam, pushing him to one side and taking the brunt of the blow on his shoulder.
The force of it drove him to his knees and the burst of pain made everything go hazy for a moment. The ghost glared and swung his spade sideways into Dean's chest, and he heard the crack as at least one of his ribs broke.
He vaguely heard Sam yelling somewhere in the distance, then the spirit disappeared in a flash of flame and a swirl of smoke. Dean tried to take a breath, but it felt like his lungs were burning. He was lying on the grass, and Sam was crouched beside him, saying something that looked important. Dean fixed his eyes on him, trying to reassure himself that Sam was okay, that he wasn't hurt, but the edges of his vision was going black and every breath felt like blades were stabbing into his side.
"...breathing, Dean, you'll be okay..." he dimly heard Sam say in a frightened voice, and then, "I'll get Dad." He started to stand up, and Dean felt panic rising up past the pain.
There was more than one spirit. The others were still out there somewhere, and if Dean couldn't see Sam, how would he know if he was in trouble? He reached out and clenched his fist in Sam's jacket. "Stay," he gasped out, past the pain. "Don't go."
Sam looked torn for a moment, glancing around the cemetery, then he fixed his eyes on Dean's face and settled back by his side. "Okay, okay," he said. "I'm not going anywhere." Dean relaxed, and felt himself spiral down into unconsciousness.
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He woke up in a hospital, with machines beeping by his bed. Sam was sitting on a chair next to him with his head and arms slumped on the bed, fast asleep. Dean felt such a rush of feeling at seeing him alive and unharmed that for a moment he couldn't breath.
When he did take a breath, it burned through his lungs and made him cough. Sam's eyes sprung open immediately and he looked so relieved to see Dean awake that Dean could tell something girly was going to come out of his mouth any second.
"What time is it?" he asked, trying to distract him.
Sam glanced at the wall above Dean's head. "Nearly nine," he said. "Jesus, Dean..."
"Breakfast time, then," Dean said, trying to keep his tone light despite the harsh rattle from his lungs that came with every breath. "Not sure I'm up for waffles, though."
Sam's eyes grew dark, and for a moment he looked ten years older, like a shadow of the man he was becoming. "Nine in the evening, Dean," he said. "You've been in surgery most of the day."
Dean blinked. "Oh," he said. His thoughts were sliding slowly through his mind, made sluggish by pain and what had to be a hefty whack of drugs. "How was the English test?" he asked after a moment, because it was the only thing his brain could come up with on short notice.
Sam stared at him with disbelief. "I didn't go," he said. "You were in surgery. Your lung was punctured!"
"Oh," said Dean again, surprised. The way Sam had been talking about the test earlier - yesterday - he'd have thought it would take an apocalypse to keep him away from it. Something warm unfolded in his chest, and he smiled at Sam, probably slightly stupidly, but he could always blame that on the drugs.
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The first time Sam kissed Dean, he was in High School and too young and Dean's brother but somehow Dean forgot all that long enough to open his mouth to Sam's tongue and grasp tightly at Sam's shirt.
When it all came rushing back to him in a wave of younger brother and what's wrong with me?, Dean pulled away with a choked noise. Sam stared at him with hot, desperate eyes, and it was almost enough to make Dean give in, push Sam back against the wall and just take everything he wanted.
Instead, he took an unsteady step back, away from temptation. “We can't,” he said, thickly, and Sam's face fell.
Dean got the hell out of there as quickly as he could, before Sam could say or do anything to change his mind. He jumped in his car and drove hard and fast until the sun was coming up and he'd run out of excuses not to turn back.
Sam never mentioned it, but he started looking at Dean with a pleading, lost look that Dean did his best to ignore. He could feel shame burning in his throat every time he thought about it, as if having his brother's tongue down it had branded him somehow. Guilt ate at him, making him feel weak all over, and he did everything he could to ignore Sam, including hiding the whole day in bed.
He woke up after dark to Dad's hand resting on his forehead. “Jesus, Dean, you're burning up. Why didn't you tell me you were sick?”
Huh, maybe it wasn't guilt then. He noticed Sam over Dad's shoulder, hovering in the doorway, and his stomach roiled with an oily sense of shame. Maybe it wasn't just guilt.
The doctor told them it was mono, and Dad grinned with something like relief and said, “Should have guessed, with the amount of girls you go round kissing.”
Not just girls, thought Dean, and couldn't stop himself from meeting Sam's eyes. Sam looked just as stricken as Dean felt.
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Dean spent the next few weeks either in bed, or slumped on the couch in front of the TV, barely able to concentrate on the plot of crappy daytime soaps. Every time his mind wandered, it returned to the look in Sam's eyes just after the kiss, and the way his lips had felt against Dean's. He was just too weak to keep the thoughts out, and more than once when he drifted off halfway through Passions, he dreamt of Sam, and doing much worse things to him than just kissing.
One afternoon he woke up to find Sam sitting in the armchair, watching him sleep. Dean blinked a couple of times in an attempt to gather his thoughts, and tried to swallow around the sandpaper in his throat.
“Dude, what?” he asked.
Sam looked away, down at his worn sneakers, then took a deep breath. “I've got a sore throat,” he confessed.
Dean felt himself grow cold, and then cursed himself, because of course he'd given it to Sammy. “You should tell Dad,” he said.
Sam stared at him as if he was insane. “Dean, I can't!” he hissed. “I'm not like you - I don't kiss every girl I meet, and Dad knows that. He's going to ask where I got it from!”
Dean rolled his eyes. “That's not the only way you get it, you know,” he croaked. Sam didn't look convinced, so Dean expanded. “It's like, poor hygiene and shit as well.”
Sam frowned, and looked back down at his sneakers for a moment. Dean could almost see the wheels turning. “Then, I could, like, lick Dad's plate, and he'd get it, and then he'd think I got it the same way.”
Dean stared at him for a moment. “Jesus, Sam! No!” he exclaimed, struggling to sit up despite the lethargy sapping his strength so that he could press his point home. “He's not going to guess! You can't give it to him - it's worse the older you are. Promise you won't.”
“Fine,” said Sam sulkily.
Dean glared at him. “Promise me.”
“I promise, okay?” snapped Sam. “But if he works it out...”
Dean snorted and lay back down with relief. “He's not going to. Normal people's minds don't jump automatically to incest, you know.”
There was a long pause, then Sam said in a quiet, defeated voice, “Guess I'm just a freak then.”
Dean tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. “Guess I'm one too,” he said hoarsely, then shut his eyes and turned his face away from Sam.
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The next day, Sam joined Dean on the couch, wrapped in his duvet and squashed up against the opposite end. There was a brief kicking match over leg room which both of them were too weak to really press, and then they drowsed through daytime TV together. The day after, Sam was too sick to leave his bed, his fever spiking high enough to make Dad's forehead crease with worry.
By the time Dean was well enough to totter around the kitchen making soup, Sam was still burning up in bed. Dad came in and started to dump ice from the freezer into a bucket.
“He's still way too hot,” he said. “I'm gonna give him an ice bath.”
Dean nodded and tried to force down the worry and the sick sense that this was all his fault. Dad clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder as he left the room.
“He's gonna be fine,” he said, and Dean tried to believe it.
Ten minutes later, Dad was yelling for him from the bathroom. Dean surprised himself by being well enough to run.
“He's got a rash,” said John, and Dean felt his stomach seize up with panic as he took in the red rash covering his brother's back.
“That's not mono,” he said blankly, and John shook his head.
“What causes a rash?” he asked. “It's not measles - meningitis? Shit.”
“I don't think meningitis rash looks like that,” said Dean, but he really had no idea.
John shook his head. “Call an ambulance.”
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It wasn't meningitis, it was scarlet fever.
“Not mono for Sammy,” Dean joked weakly, “Always has to be special.”
They took him straight into the Pediatric ICU, and Dean collapsed down into one of the chairs in the waiting area, trying to catch his breath while doctors and nurses gathered around Sam's bed, trying to bring his fever down.
Sam spent the next few weeks being moved between the pediatric unit and the ICU. Dean was completely recovered and knew the names of everyone who worked in both areas before Sam was well enough to ask him what the date was.
Dean had to think about it. “May twenty-sixth or seventh,” he said, and Sam sighed, sounding defeated.
“Guess I'm going to miss finals then,” he said, tiredly. “I was going to get a 4.0.” His eyes slid shut, and for a moment Dean was slightly incredulous that anyone could give a damn about schoolwork when they were so ill, then he remembered this was Sam, and that his geekiness was not to be underestimated.
The next day, for the first time in ages, Dean didn't go straight to the hospital in the morning. Sam's teacher was most sympathetic when she heard about just how ill Sam had been, and provided Dean with a pile of catch-up work.
“So long as he completes most of it,” she said, “he needn't worry about doing finals. He's a smart boy, after all.”
Sam was back in the ICU when Dean got back to the hospital. He sat down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting area that he was way too familiar with, and set the pile next to him. The piece on top was some math that Dean remembered from his own time as a freshman, and he picked it up to look at it more carefully, then glanced guiltily at the doors of the ICU, as if Sam could tell what he was doing.
It's a lot of work, he rationalised to himself, And he's sick. He won't mind me helping out. He borrowed a pen from a nurse, and settled in with the calculus.
He'd moved on to physics by the time Dad came in. Dad watched over his shoulder for a moment, then cleared his throat. “You're doing that wrong,” he said.
Dean glared at him. He hadn't realised until he'd started this assignment just how much high school science he'd forgotten in the last couple of years, or never bothered learning in the first place. “You think you can do better?” he scowled.
Dad thought about that for a moment. “Yeah, actually,” he said, and took the pen and paper out of Dean's hands.
Dean stared at him for a moment, then picked up the next assignment from the pile. English. Crap.
Dad ended up doing all the math, the science and the Spanish (turned out his flair with languages wasn't just confined to dead ones), leaving Dean to struggle with the subjects that he'd never really been good at in school, but which they were both certain he'd be able to handle better than Dad. He made several trips to the nearest library, until his brain was spinning with different opinions on the aftermath of the civil war, and whether Shylock was a villain or a victim. Dean decided that it didn't matter how fucked up his life had been; a bastard was still a bastard, and then spent a week trying to work out how to put that in Sammy-style language.
By the time Sam was well enough to help, most of it had been done already, although he made Dean let him read over the final drafts before Dean went to hand them in.
“This is really good,” he said, sounding surprised, as he put down the Shylock paper.
Dean shrugged uncomfortably. “I had a lot of spare time.”
Sammy kept his 4.0 GPA, and Dean stopped by the school for his transcripts as they headed out of town, three days after Sam was finally let out of hospital.
Two weeks later, Sam kissed Dean again. They were just inside their motel room, and Dean fought himself for a long moment, knowing he should push Sam away, but desperate to pull him closer.
“If we're freaks,” whispered Sam, so close to Dean's mouth that he could feel his exhaled air across his lips, “Let's at least be freaks together.”
Dean gave in with a quiet sigh, pulling his brother in close and kissing him soft and deep.
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Dean was carefully not thinking at all when, instead of just walking away when his quiet knock on Sam's door got no response, he pulled out his lockpicks instead. He'd been not thinking since he'd turned his car towards Palo Alto seven hours ago, and it seemed a bit late to start now.
When he crept inside the dark room, he was surprised to see Sam was in, apparently so deeply asleep that he hadn't even noticed Dean's entrance. Dean scowled at this evidence that Sam had let his training slip, and carefully shut the door behind him.
Sam's roommate's bed was empty, and Dean took his chance to look round the room before turning to Sam's sleeping form, unwilling to face him just yet for reasons he was carefully not thinking about. The blinds were broken, and the lights in the Quad outside illuminated enough of the room for Dean to see that Sam's half was disturbingly tidy, especially compared to the other side of the room.
Dean stepped close to a noticeboard, and squinted in the half-light to see the handful of photos pinned to it, framing the carefully colour-coded class schedule. Most of them were of faces Dean didn't recognise, smiling students sitting around in dorm rooms, or relaxing on a beach, but there was also an old one of Mom and Dad that Dean hadn't known Sam had taken with him, and one of him and Sam, sitting on Pastor Jim's porch swing, leaning in to each other slightly and grinning like fools.
Dean gritted his teeth and moved on, taking in the neat stack of textbooks on the desk, the pile of notes with the pen abandoned on them as if Sam had just given up and decided to go to bed. Dean suppressed a snort - studying on a Friday night, and going to bed early. At least Dean could be sure nothing was possessing his brother.
He finally let his attention rest on Sam. He was sprawled out across the bed, dark hair a mess across the pillow, and just seeing him there made Dean's knees feel like liquid. He sat down heavily on the bed, and tried to swallow down the mess of conflicting emotions rising up in his throat - anger and need and a strange sense of loss, as if he was mourning all the days that had passed since the last time he'd seen Sam.
The movement woke Sam, and Dean was relieved to see that his first action was to feel under his pillow, where he hopefully had some kind of weapon.
He turned over slightly, then his eyes widened. “Dean?” he asked incredulously.
Dean braced himself for anger that he'd turned up unannounced, or that he was here at all, but instead Sam sat up and put a hand on his shoulder as if needing to reassure himself that Dean was actually there.
“God, Dean,” he said, and Dean really didn't want to hear whatever was going to come out next, so instead he grabbed Sam and pulled him close, choking off his next words with his mouth, kissing Sam until any attempts to communicate more than desire were lost in the struggle to get clothes off.
He hadn't come to Stanford for this, but it was much better than punching Sam in the face, which is what he still felt like doing, or listening to Sam's girly attempt at communication, as if he could say anything that would make his betrayal of their family less true.
When Sam's roommate came in, Dean was shirtless and Sam was working desperately at his jeans while Dean ran his hands up Sam's chest, bunching the T-shirt he was sleeping in up around his armpits.
They both started when the door crept open, and the roommate froze in surprise. “Oh, uh, sorry,” he said.
Sam sighed, and let go of Dean's pants, sitting up. Dean felt like crying with frustration, thinking so close and wondered if he'll still be able to get a motel room this late, or whether he'd end up in the backseat of the Impala again.
“Hey, Steve,” said Sam. “Uh, could you maybe find somewhere else to sleep?”
Steve looked annoyed for a moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, I guess it's my turn,” he said tiredly.
Sam glanced over at Dean, then bit at his lip and looked back. “Actually, could you maybe stay away the whole weekend?”
“Oh, come on, Sam,” complained Steve, and Dean wanted to add his own protest. What makes you think I'm going to stay all weekend? But the truth was that he'd stay as long as he could, hoard as much of Sam's time for himself as he was allowed, and they both knew it.
“Please,” added Sam. “I haven't seen Dean in months.” Whose fault is that? thought Dean viciously, his anger rising again without the distraction of Sam's golden skin and hot mouth to keep it away.
Steve glanced over at his half of the room. “Well, I could go to my parents for the weekend,” he said slowly, “But I'm not sure I can afford the gas.”
Sam frowned, puzzled, and Dean sighed to himself, and bent down to grab his wallet from his jacket pocket.
“How much?” he asked, and only then did Sam's eyes light up in understanding.
Steve grinned happily. “Fifty bucks should cover it.”
Dean snorted to himself. “Where do they live? Alaska?” But he pulled out the money anyway and handed it over. “Don't come back before Monday,” he said.
“Wouldn't dream of it,” said Steve, pocketing the money. He grabbed a bag and threw a couple of things in it, seemingly at random. “Don't fuck on my bed,” he tossed over his shoulder, and then he was gone. Dean let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding in.
“Dean...” Sam started, but Dean interrupted him before he could get anything else out.
“Shut up.” He dropped his wallet on the floor next to his jacket. “I'm gonna fuck you now,” he added, and reached out to pull Sam's shirt off.
Sam sucked in a breath, and nodded. “Yeah, okay,” he said, and his hands went back to Dean's jeans, and just like that, it was like they'd never been interrupted.
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They fucked through the entire weekend. Every time Sam tried to say anything that sounded like Dean wasn't going to want to hear it, he grabbed hold of Sam's cock, or pushed him onto his back and started working his fingers into him. Sam got the message pretty quickly, or maybe he finally got clued up on the fact that there was nothing he could say that Dean wanted to hear, unless it was I'm giving up college and leaving with you.
When Steve came back on Monday afternoon, Sam and Dean were asleep, squashed together in Sam's single bed. They both woke up when he came in, and he stared at them for a moment.
“Have you guys done anything else since I left?” He didn't give them time to answer, not that either of them really had a reply, before speaking again, frowning. “Sam, didn't you have exams today?”
Sam flushed slightly as if caught out, but Dean had already known that - he'd known since Sam was thirteen what red circles around a day meant on Sam's academic calendar. Sam hadn't even mentioned it though, hadn't tried to pull away from Dean's hands this morning when they woke up. Dean had felt faint hope rise in him, and had fucked Sam as if he could change his mind about this whole college thing by doing it - fingers rubbing over all of Sam's sweet spots, thrusting deep and slow as if to say it could always be like this.
Sam sat up and pushed his hand through his hair. “I can retake them. The professor really likes me.” Steve didn't look like he believed that, but he let it go.
Dean already knew that Sam would say no, but he had to ask anyway, the words falling out of his mouth without any hope of him stopping them. “Or you could come with me.”
He stared hard down at the bedsheets rather than look at Sam, but he could feel Sam's look on him anyway.
“You know I can't,” said Sam, and Dean's anger suddenly came back full force, because he didn't know that, he didn't understand why Sam had done this to their family, and he really didn't want to be told all over again about how fucked up his life was in Sam's eyes.
“Yeah,” he said, swinging his legs out of bed and pulling his jeans on with a hard furious movement. “Guess I'll get out of your way then.”
“Dean,” hissed Sam, and Dean can tell he was getting angry as well. “Don't do this.”
“I'm, uh, going to see if Paul's in,” said Steve, backing out of the room, but neither of them paid him any attention.
“Do what?” snapped Dean, pulling the rest of his clothes on as fast as he could, “Get out of your way so you can go back to playing at being Joe College?”
“I'm not playing,” growled Sam. “This is what I want to do, Dean, why do you find it so hard to understand?”
Dean stood up and glared at Sam. “What's to understand? You chickened out on hunting and ran away from your family,” from me, “just so you could spend three years taking tests.”
Sam got out of bed then, still completely naked, and glowered at Dean. “I just wanted to be normal! I just wanted to do more than just take Dad's orders without asking for an explanation!” he spat out. “You might be happy to be Dad's dog, but I want more than that.”
Dean lashed out with all his anger - at Sam for being so damned stubborn, at himself for coming here in the first place, at Dad for driving Sam away - catching Sam a solid blow to the face. There was the crunch of cartilage, and blood gushed from Sam's nose.
He hesitated for a moment, caught between shit, I hurt Sammy and the bastard deserved it. Sam let out a low growl of pure rage and tackled Dean, crashing them both to the floor, then punched him as hard as he could. Dean fought back, so angry he couldn't concentrate on all the techniques Dad had spent years teaching him, just wanting to hurt Sam, pull him apart until he felt like Dean did.
They wrestled across the floor, crashing into Sam's desk and causing a cascade of his careful piles of notes. Sam smashed Dean's head hard against the floor until Dean managed to get his knee into Sam's gut and knock the breath out of him, sending him falling backwards off Dean.
“Get out,” Sam forced out between desperate breaths, staring at Dean with hatred, blood still dripping down his face.
Dean looked at him for a long moment, but there was nothing to say. He slammed the door behind him as he left.
Steve was just standing in a doorway further down the corridor, hovering with a wide-eyed look on his face, and Dean knew he'd heard everything. His eyes took in Dean's appearance, his battered face and ripped clothes, and his eyes narrowed.
Dean shot him a glare, daring him to start something. “You should probably get Sam to a hospital,” he spat out. “Or whatever it is you normal people do with a broken nose.” He swept past, getting the hell out of there as fast as he could.
In his car, doing thirty over the speed limit as he left Palo Alto in his dust, he vowed to himself that he was never going back there, not without a damned good reason. Let Sam have his normal, if he wanted it so much. Dean was done with trying to fit himself into the narrow spaces that were all Sam left for him.
Remix Author: flawedamythyst
Original Story: Five times Sam (almost) failed a school exam, and why.
Original Author: clex_monkie89
Rating: R
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Summary: Three times Dean made Sam (almost) fail a school exam, and why.
Warnings: Incest, slash.
Sammy whined about his stupid test the whole way out to Hillside Cemetery. "It's twenty percent of my final mark. I should be studying, not digging up corpses."
Dean gave up telling him that there were at least four graves to be dug up, and that there was no way he and Dad would be able dig them all up in one night without Sam's help. It seemed that since Sam had turned thirteen, all he did was whine and whine until Dean was ready to choke him with his damned study notes.
He pushed down the urge and instead stayed quiet, keeping his eyes on the tail lights of Dad's truck until Sam had shut up and started grumpily reading his notes. Dean let out a quiet exhale of relief and wondered how long it would be before Sam grew out of being such an annoying bitch.
Sam started muttering angrily again when they arrived at the cemetery and Dad pointed out which graves he wanted them to cover and then set off to find the others.
“Normal kids get to sleep the night before a test,” he bitched, once Dad was out of earshot.
“Normal kids don't get to help save lives,” Dean pointed out.
Sam scoffed as if that wasn't important then thankfully shut up, although Dean could tell from his expression that he was still pissed as hell, and probably saving up every bitter thought for a rant later.
Sam was attacking the ground with his spade as if it was responsible for him being there and scowling furiously when the spirit appeared, scorched black from the fire that had killed him, and holding a spade which he raised high as he charged. For a moment a vision of Sam with his skull crushed in flashed through Dean's head, then he jumped in front of Sam, pushing him to one side and taking the brunt of the blow on his shoulder.
The force of it drove him to his knees and the burst of pain made everything go hazy for a moment. The ghost glared and swung his spade sideways into Dean's chest, and he heard the crack as at least one of his ribs broke.
He vaguely heard Sam yelling somewhere in the distance, then the spirit disappeared in a flash of flame and a swirl of smoke. Dean tried to take a breath, but it felt like his lungs were burning. He was lying on the grass, and Sam was crouched beside him, saying something that looked important. Dean fixed his eyes on him, trying to reassure himself that Sam was okay, that he wasn't hurt, but the edges of his vision was going black and every breath felt like blades were stabbing into his side.
"...breathing, Dean, you'll be okay..." he dimly heard Sam say in a frightened voice, and then, "I'll get Dad." He started to stand up, and Dean felt panic rising up past the pain.
There was more than one spirit. The others were still out there somewhere, and if Dean couldn't see Sam, how would he know if he was in trouble? He reached out and clenched his fist in Sam's jacket. "Stay," he gasped out, past the pain. "Don't go."
Sam looked torn for a moment, glancing around the cemetery, then he fixed his eyes on Dean's face and settled back by his side. "Okay, okay," he said. "I'm not going anywhere." Dean relaxed, and felt himself spiral down into unconsciousness.
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He woke up in a hospital, with machines beeping by his bed. Sam was sitting on a chair next to him with his head and arms slumped on the bed, fast asleep. Dean felt such a rush of feeling at seeing him alive and unharmed that for a moment he couldn't breath.
When he did take a breath, it burned through his lungs and made him cough. Sam's eyes sprung open immediately and he looked so relieved to see Dean awake that Dean could tell something girly was going to come out of his mouth any second.
"What time is it?" he asked, trying to distract him.
Sam glanced at the wall above Dean's head. "Nearly nine," he said. "Jesus, Dean..."
"Breakfast time, then," Dean said, trying to keep his tone light despite the harsh rattle from his lungs that came with every breath. "Not sure I'm up for waffles, though."
Sam's eyes grew dark, and for a moment he looked ten years older, like a shadow of the man he was becoming. "Nine in the evening, Dean," he said. "You've been in surgery most of the day."
Dean blinked. "Oh," he said. His thoughts were sliding slowly through his mind, made sluggish by pain and what had to be a hefty whack of drugs. "How was the English test?" he asked after a moment, because it was the only thing his brain could come up with on short notice.
Sam stared at him with disbelief. "I didn't go," he said. "You were in surgery. Your lung was punctured!"
"Oh," said Dean again, surprised. The way Sam had been talking about the test earlier - yesterday - he'd have thought it would take an apocalypse to keep him away from it. Something warm unfolded in his chest, and he smiled at Sam, probably slightly stupidly, but he could always blame that on the drugs.
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The first time Sam kissed Dean, he was in High School and too young and Dean's brother but somehow Dean forgot all that long enough to open his mouth to Sam's tongue and grasp tightly at Sam's shirt.
When it all came rushing back to him in a wave of younger brother and what's wrong with me?, Dean pulled away with a choked noise. Sam stared at him with hot, desperate eyes, and it was almost enough to make Dean give in, push Sam back against the wall and just take everything he wanted.
Instead, he took an unsteady step back, away from temptation. “We can't,” he said, thickly, and Sam's face fell.
Dean got the hell out of there as quickly as he could, before Sam could say or do anything to change his mind. He jumped in his car and drove hard and fast until the sun was coming up and he'd run out of excuses not to turn back.
Sam never mentioned it, but he started looking at Dean with a pleading, lost look that Dean did his best to ignore. He could feel shame burning in his throat every time he thought about it, as if having his brother's tongue down it had branded him somehow. Guilt ate at him, making him feel weak all over, and he did everything he could to ignore Sam, including hiding the whole day in bed.
He woke up after dark to Dad's hand resting on his forehead. “Jesus, Dean, you're burning up. Why didn't you tell me you were sick?”
Huh, maybe it wasn't guilt then. He noticed Sam over Dad's shoulder, hovering in the doorway, and his stomach roiled with an oily sense of shame. Maybe it wasn't just guilt.
The doctor told them it was mono, and Dad grinned with something like relief and said, “Should have guessed, with the amount of girls you go round kissing.”
Not just girls, thought Dean, and couldn't stop himself from meeting Sam's eyes. Sam looked just as stricken as Dean felt.
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Dean spent the next few weeks either in bed, or slumped on the couch in front of the TV, barely able to concentrate on the plot of crappy daytime soaps. Every time his mind wandered, it returned to the look in Sam's eyes just after the kiss, and the way his lips had felt against Dean's. He was just too weak to keep the thoughts out, and more than once when he drifted off halfway through Passions, he dreamt of Sam, and doing much worse things to him than just kissing.
One afternoon he woke up to find Sam sitting in the armchair, watching him sleep. Dean blinked a couple of times in an attempt to gather his thoughts, and tried to swallow around the sandpaper in his throat.
“Dude, what?” he asked.
Sam looked away, down at his worn sneakers, then took a deep breath. “I've got a sore throat,” he confessed.
Dean felt himself grow cold, and then cursed himself, because of course he'd given it to Sammy. “You should tell Dad,” he said.
Sam stared at him as if he was insane. “Dean, I can't!” he hissed. “I'm not like you - I don't kiss every girl I meet, and Dad knows that. He's going to ask where I got it from!”
Dean rolled his eyes. “That's not the only way you get it, you know,” he croaked. Sam didn't look convinced, so Dean expanded. “It's like, poor hygiene and shit as well.”
Sam frowned, and looked back down at his sneakers for a moment. Dean could almost see the wheels turning. “Then, I could, like, lick Dad's plate, and he'd get it, and then he'd think I got it the same way.”
Dean stared at him for a moment. “Jesus, Sam! No!” he exclaimed, struggling to sit up despite the lethargy sapping his strength so that he could press his point home. “He's not going to guess! You can't give it to him - it's worse the older you are. Promise you won't.”
“Fine,” said Sam sulkily.
Dean glared at him. “Promise me.”
“I promise, okay?” snapped Sam. “But if he works it out...”
Dean snorted and lay back down with relief. “He's not going to. Normal people's minds don't jump automatically to incest, you know.”
There was a long pause, then Sam said in a quiet, defeated voice, “Guess I'm just a freak then.”
Dean tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. “Guess I'm one too,” he said hoarsely, then shut his eyes and turned his face away from Sam.
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The next day, Sam joined Dean on the couch, wrapped in his duvet and squashed up against the opposite end. There was a brief kicking match over leg room which both of them were too weak to really press, and then they drowsed through daytime TV together. The day after, Sam was too sick to leave his bed, his fever spiking high enough to make Dad's forehead crease with worry.
By the time Dean was well enough to totter around the kitchen making soup, Sam was still burning up in bed. Dad came in and started to dump ice from the freezer into a bucket.
“He's still way too hot,” he said. “I'm gonna give him an ice bath.”
Dean nodded and tried to force down the worry and the sick sense that this was all his fault. Dad clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder as he left the room.
“He's gonna be fine,” he said, and Dean tried to believe it.
Ten minutes later, Dad was yelling for him from the bathroom. Dean surprised himself by being well enough to run.
“He's got a rash,” said John, and Dean felt his stomach seize up with panic as he took in the red rash covering his brother's back.
“That's not mono,” he said blankly, and John shook his head.
“What causes a rash?” he asked. “It's not measles - meningitis? Shit.”
“I don't think meningitis rash looks like that,” said Dean, but he really had no idea.
John shook his head. “Call an ambulance.”
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It wasn't meningitis, it was scarlet fever.
“Not mono for Sammy,” Dean joked weakly, “Always has to be special.”
They took him straight into the Pediatric ICU, and Dean collapsed down into one of the chairs in the waiting area, trying to catch his breath while doctors and nurses gathered around Sam's bed, trying to bring his fever down.
Sam spent the next few weeks being moved between the pediatric unit and the ICU. Dean was completely recovered and knew the names of everyone who worked in both areas before Sam was well enough to ask him what the date was.
Dean had to think about it. “May twenty-sixth or seventh,” he said, and Sam sighed, sounding defeated.
“Guess I'm going to miss finals then,” he said, tiredly. “I was going to get a 4.0.” His eyes slid shut, and for a moment Dean was slightly incredulous that anyone could give a damn about schoolwork when they were so ill, then he remembered this was Sam, and that his geekiness was not to be underestimated.
The next day, for the first time in ages, Dean didn't go straight to the hospital in the morning. Sam's teacher was most sympathetic when she heard about just how ill Sam had been, and provided Dean with a pile of catch-up work.
“So long as he completes most of it,” she said, “he needn't worry about doing finals. He's a smart boy, after all.”
Sam was back in the ICU when Dean got back to the hospital. He sat down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting area that he was way too familiar with, and set the pile next to him. The piece on top was some math that Dean remembered from his own time as a freshman, and he picked it up to look at it more carefully, then glanced guiltily at the doors of the ICU, as if Sam could tell what he was doing.
It's a lot of work, he rationalised to himself, And he's sick. He won't mind me helping out. He borrowed a pen from a nurse, and settled in with the calculus.
He'd moved on to physics by the time Dad came in. Dad watched over his shoulder for a moment, then cleared his throat. “You're doing that wrong,” he said.
Dean glared at him. He hadn't realised until he'd started this assignment just how much high school science he'd forgotten in the last couple of years, or never bothered learning in the first place. “You think you can do better?” he scowled.
Dad thought about that for a moment. “Yeah, actually,” he said, and took the pen and paper out of Dean's hands.
Dean stared at him for a moment, then picked up the next assignment from the pile. English. Crap.
Dad ended up doing all the math, the science and the Spanish (turned out his flair with languages wasn't just confined to dead ones), leaving Dean to struggle with the subjects that he'd never really been good at in school, but which they were both certain he'd be able to handle better than Dad. He made several trips to the nearest library, until his brain was spinning with different opinions on the aftermath of the civil war, and whether Shylock was a villain or a victim. Dean decided that it didn't matter how fucked up his life had been; a bastard was still a bastard, and then spent a week trying to work out how to put that in Sammy-style language.
By the time Sam was well enough to help, most of it had been done already, although he made Dean let him read over the final drafts before Dean went to hand them in.
“This is really good,” he said, sounding surprised, as he put down the Shylock paper.
Dean shrugged uncomfortably. “I had a lot of spare time.”
Sammy kept his 4.0 GPA, and Dean stopped by the school for his transcripts as they headed out of town, three days after Sam was finally let out of hospital.
Two weeks later, Sam kissed Dean again. They were just inside their motel room, and Dean fought himself for a long moment, knowing he should push Sam away, but desperate to pull him closer.
“If we're freaks,” whispered Sam, so close to Dean's mouth that he could feel his exhaled air across his lips, “Let's at least be freaks together.”
Dean gave in with a quiet sigh, pulling his brother in close and kissing him soft and deep.
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Dean was carefully not thinking at all when, instead of just walking away when his quiet knock on Sam's door got no response, he pulled out his lockpicks instead. He'd been not thinking since he'd turned his car towards Palo Alto seven hours ago, and it seemed a bit late to start now.
When he crept inside the dark room, he was surprised to see Sam was in, apparently so deeply asleep that he hadn't even noticed Dean's entrance. Dean scowled at this evidence that Sam had let his training slip, and carefully shut the door behind him.
Sam's roommate's bed was empty, and Dean took his chance to look round the room before turning to Sam's sleeping form, unwilling to face him just yet for reasons he was carefully not thinking about. The blinds were broken, and the lights in the Quad outside illuminated enough of the room for Dean to see that Sam's half was disturbingly tidy, especially compared to the other side of the room.
Dean stepped close to a noticeboard, and squinted in the half-light to see the handful of photos pinned to it, framing the carefully colour-coded class schedule. Most of them were of faces Dean didn't recognise, smiling students sitting around in dorm rooms, or relaxing on a beach, but there was also an old one of Mom and Dad that Dean hadn't known Sam had taken with him, and one of him and Sam, sitting on Pastor Jim's porch swing, leaning in to each other slightly and grinning like fools.
Dean gritted his teeth and moved on, taking in the neat stack of textbooks on the desk, the pile of notes with the pen abandoned on them as if Sam had just given up and decided to go to bed. Dean suppressed a snort - studying on a Friday night, and going to bed early. At least Dean could be sure nothing was possessing his brother.
He finally let his attention rest on Sam. He was sprawled out across the bed, dark hair a mess across the pillow, and just seeing him there made Dean's knees feel like liquid. He sat down heavily on the bed, and tried to swallow down the mess of conflicting emotions rising up in his throat - anger and need and a strange sense of loss, as if he was mourning all the days that had passed since the last time he'd seen Sam.
The movement woke Sam, and Dean was relieved to see that his first action was to feel under his pillow, where he hopefully had some kind of weapon.
He turned over slightly, then his eyes widened. “Dean?” he asked incredulously.
Dean braced himself for anger that he'd turned up unannounced, or that he was here at all, but instead Sam sat up and put a hand on his shoulder as if needing to reassure himself that Dean was actually there.
“God, Dean,” he said, and Dean really didn't want to hear whatever was going to come out next, so instead he grabbed Sam and pulled him close, choking off his next words with his mouth, kissing Sam until any attempts to communicate more than desire were lost in the struggle to get clothes off.
He hadn't come to Stanford for this, but it was much better than punching Sam in the face, which is what he still felt like doing, or listening to Sam's girly attempt at communication, as if he could say anything that would make his betrayal of their family less true.
When Sam's roommate came in, Dean was shirtless and Sam was working desperately at his jeans while Dean ran his hands up Sam's chest, bunching the T-shirt he was sleeping in up around his armpits.
They both started when the door crept open, and the roommate froze in surprise. “Oh, uh, sorry,” he said.
Sam sighed, and let go of Dean's pants, sitting up. Dean felt like crying with frustration, thinking so close and wondered if he'll still be able to get a motel room this late, or whether he'd end up in the backseat of the Impala again.
“Hey, Steve,” said Sam. “Uh, could you maybe find somewhere else to sleep?”
Steve looked annoyed for a moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, I guess it's my turn,” he said tiredly.
Sam glanced over at Dean, then bit at his lip and looked back. “Actually, could you maybe stay away the whole weekend?”
“Oh, come on, Sam,” complained Steve, and Dean wanted to add his own protest. What makes you think I'm going to stay all weekend? But the truth was that he'd stay as long as he could, hoard as much of Sam's time for himself as he was allowed, and they both knew it.
“Please,” added Sam. “I haven't seen Dean in months.” Whose fault is that? thought Dean viciously, his anger rising again without the distraction of Sam's golden skin and hot mouth to keep it away.
Steve glanced over at his half of the room. “Well, I could go to my parents for the weekend,” he said slowly, “But I'm not sure I can afford the gas.”
Sam frowned, puzzled, and Dean sighed to himself, and bent down to grab his wallet from his jacket pocket.
“How much?” he asked, and only then did Sam's eyes light up in understanding.
Steve grinned happily. “Fifty bucks should cover it.”
Dean snorted to himself. “Where do they live? Alaska?” But he pulled out the money anyway and handed it over. “Don't come back before Monday,” he said.
“Wouldn't dream of it,” said Steve, pocketing the money. He grabbed a bag and threw a couple of things in it, seemingly at random. “Don't fuck on my bed,” he tossed over his shoulder, and then he was gone. Dean let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding in.
“Dean...” Sam started, but Dean interrupted him before he could get anything else out.
“Shut up.” He dropped his wallet on the floor next to his jacket. “I'm gonna fuck you now,” he added, and reached out to pull Sam's shirt off.
Sam sucked in a breath, and nodded. “Yeah, okay,” he said, and his hands went back to Dean's jeans, and just like that, it was like they'd never been interrupted.
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They fucked through the entire weekend. Every time Sam tried to say anything that sounded like Dean wasn't going to want to hear it, he grabbed hold of Sam's cock, or pushed him onto his back and started working his fingers into him. Sam got the message pretty quickly, or maybe he finally got clued up on the fact that there was nothing he could say that Dean wanted to hear, unless it was I'm giving up college and leaving with you.
When Steve came back on Monday afternoon, Sam and Dean were asleep, squashed together in Sam's single bed. They both woke up when he came in, and he stared at them for a moment.
“Have you guys done anything else since I left?” He didn't give them time to answer, not that either of them really had a reply, before speaking again, frowning. “Sam, didn't you have exams today?”
Sam flushed slightly as if caught out, but Dean had already known that - he'd known since Sam was thirteen what red circles around a day meant on Sam's academic calendar. Sam hadn't even mentioned it though, hadn't tried to pull away from Dean's hands this morning when they woke up. Dean had felt faint hope rise in him, and had fucked Sam as if he could change his mind about this whole college thing by doing it - fingers rubbing over all of Sam's sweet spots, thrusting deep and slow as if to say it could always be like this.
Sam sat up and pushed his hand through his hair. “I can retake them. The professor really likes me.” Steve didn't look like he believed that, but he let it go.
Dean already knew that Sam would say no, but he had to ask anyway, the words falling out of his mouth without any hope of him stopping them. “Or you could come with me.”
He stared hard down at the bedsheets rather than look at Sam, but he could feel Sam's look on him anyway.
“You know I can't,” said Sam, and Dean's anger suddenly came back full force, because he didn't know that, he didn't understand why Sam had done this to their family, and he really didn't want to be told all over again about how fucked up his life was in Sam's eyes.
“Yeah,” he said, swinging his legs out of bed and pulling his jeans on with a hard furious movement. “Guess I'll get out of your way then.”
“Dean,” hissed Sam, and Dean can tell he was getting angry as well. “Don't do this.”
“I'm, uh, going to see if Paul's in,” said Steve, backing out of the room, but neither of them paid him any attention.
“Do what?” snapped Dean, pulling the rest of his clothes on as fast as he could, “Get out of your way so you can go back to playing at being Joe College?”
“I'm not playing,” growled Sam. “This is what I want to do, Dean, why do you find it so hard to understand?”
Dean stood up and glared at Sam. “What's to understand? You chickened out on hunting and ran away from your family,” from me, “just so you could spend three years taking tests.”
Sam got out of bed then, still completely naked, and glowered at Dean. “I just wanted to be normal! I just wanted to do more than just take Dad's orders without asking for an explanation!” he spat out. “You might be happy to be Dad's dog, but I want more than that.”
Dean lashed out with all his anger - at Sam for being so damned stubborn, at himself for coming here in the first place, at Dad for driving Sam away - catching Sam a solid blow to the face. There was the crunch of cartilage, and blood gushed from Sam's nose.
He hesitated for a moment, caught between shit, I hurt Sammy and the bastard deserved it. Sam let out a low growl of pure rage and tackled Dean, crashing them both to the floor, then punched him as hard as he could. Dean fought back, so angry he couldn't concentrate on all the techniques Dad had spent years teaching him, just wanting to hurt Sam, pull him apart until he felt like Dean did.
They wrestled across the floor, crashing into Sam's desk and causing a cascade of his careful piles of notes. Sam smashed Dean's head hard against the floor until Dean managed to get his knee into Sam's gut and knock the breath out of him, sending him falling backwards off Dean.
“Get out,” Sam forced out between desperate breaths, staring at Dean with hatred, blood still dripping down his face.
Dean looked at him for a long moment, but there was nothing to say. He slammed the door behind him as he left.
Steve was just standing in a doorway further down the corridor, hovering with a wide-eyed look on his face, and Dean knew he'd heard everything. His eyes took in Dean's appearance, his battered face and ripped clothes, and his eyes narrowed.
Dean shot him a glare, daring him to start something. “You should probably get Sam to a hospital,” he spat out. “Or whatever it is you normal people do with a broken nose.” He swept past, getting the hell out of there as fast as he could.
In his car, doing thirty over the speed limit as he left Palo Alto in his dust, he vowed to himself that he was never going back there, not without a damned good reason. Let Sam have his normal, if he wanted it so much. Dean was done with trying to fit himself into the narrow spaces that were all Sam left for him.