Fic: Say It's Possible (2/2)

[vicious_trade]

Title: Say It's Possible
Author: vicious_trade
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 10,400
Summary: Sam thought screwing around with Dean would be easy - he was finally getting what he wanted, and if Dean didn't feel the same way? Well, that didn't matter. He'd play his part and everything would be fine. Except Dean seems dead set on messing with his head, and Sam isn't so sure this was worth all the trouble, after all.

Warnings: Sap, Sam angsting up a storm, and cheesy speeches. You've been warned.

Notes: I'm only slightly ashamed to say that a lot of the inspiration for this came from Grey's Anatomy episodes. I'd been rewatching the first few seasons and wrote down a few of my favorite lines - so I present them to you with slightly less drama and mellow indie-rock. Please enjoy! This was really the kind of fic I imagined myself writing as a first piece, so I'm glad to finally have it complete.

The title is from a song by Terra Naomi.


Hacking into the database of the New Mexico county hospital is being made even more difficult by the current distractions. The fact that they’re in a crowded McDonald’s at peak lunch-hour is not the problem.

Sam can feel Dean staring at him from over the top of the laptop without even having to look. He lets out a deep sigh. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

Sam rolls his eyes and glances at his older brother, currently posing as the picture of innocence. “Looking at me like that.” He rubs at his forehead with two fingers, about ready to give up focusing at all when a couple of kids start shrieking over their Happy Meals.

Dean smirks. “Like what, Sammy?” he asks, and leans closer over the table, forearms sliding across the surface. “Like I’ve seen your ‘Ohhh-Bama’ face? Twice this morning?” There’s a glint in his eye, and he’s looking far too pleased with himself.

With a grimace, Sam shakes his head. “You’re sick.” He picks up his iced tea and chews on the straw, returning his attention to the screen of his computer.

Just as Dean reaches out a hand and closes the top.

Sam sits back in the booth, sighing again. “Dean, come on. I’m actually trying to work, here.”

“Dude, it’s a couple of sloppy blood-suckers,” Dean says with an eye roll. “We’re already on their trail. By nightfall tomorrow we’ll be chopping off heads and on the road before midnight.”

Sam is continually amazed at the way Dean can talk about vampires like he’s communicating the best practices on crossbreeding dahlias. “Whatever.” Sam focuses on putting the laptop carefully back into his messenger bag. “Wouldn’t kill us to go into this hunt with at least a little bit of preparation. It’s not like we’ve been working ourselves all that hard the last little while,” he says, an edge to his tone.

“So we’re taking it easy for once. I say we deserve it,” Dean replies, and throws a few minor cursory glances around the room before leaning in closer. “You really need to relax, Sammy.” He chuckles, warm breath tickling the flesh of Sam’s neck. “You certainly were relaxed earlier.”

Sam glares at his brother and pointedly at their current surroundings. “What are you doing?” he asks quietly.

Voice dropping, Dean blinks at him. “You need a definition?” he asks, and moves closer.

Sam plants his hand in the middle of Dean’s face and pushes.

“Ow!” Dean gripes, glaring across the table at him. “The hell, Sam? Noses weren’t meant to be inverted, you know.”

Ignoring his older brother, Sam throws the strap of his bag over his shoulder and wipes his hands on the last of the napkins left over from their lunch. “Come on. There’s a body at the morgue that was found exsanguinated last night. The coroner’s report doesn’t include bite marks, but I’m guessing they wrote them off as something else.”

Dean heaves the frustrated sigh of the cock-blocked. “How can someone as frequently laid as you get to be so uptight, Sam?” he asks rhetorically, sliding to the edge of the booth.

A blonde in tight jeans walks by their table, a sway to her hips and a look in Dean’s direction that leaves little to the imagination.

Sam rolls his eyes and pushes to his feet. “It’s a gift,” he mutters, and lets frustration roll off his back. It’s not easy, but he’s learning. He’s always been a fast learner.

They’re driving in the car a couple days later, Sam’s not even sure what state they’re in, but it’s flat and he hasn’t seen a road sign in what is becoming an alarming amount of time.

He’s got one knee slightly bent up against the dashboard, and an arm leaning against the window. Dean looks happy - too happy, almost, behind the wheel of the Impala, tapping out a beat and singing along to the song humming through the speakers.

He’s been on a Bad Company kick lately, and one of their songs is playing right now, although Sam isn’t familiar enough with it to know it by name. It’s a little slower than the music Sam is used to having forced on him, and he doesn’t hate it.

Which makes Dean’s next statement even more startling. “This should be our song.”

Tearing his gaze from the landscape zooming by the window, Sam fixes his brother’s profile with a look of utter bewilderment. “Excuse me?” He wonders if he should be buying more Q-tips, or maybe just get fucking shares in them, because Dean has been saying the most random shit lately, he feels like cleaning his ears multiple times on a daily basis would be beneficial.

Dean glances at him once, shifting in his seat. “What - you’ve never had a song with a girl before?” He asks scornfully, snorting. “Totally would have pegged you as that type, man. Probably would have picked something really sappy, with one guitar and a whole lot of whining.”

Sam huffs a sigh. “I didn’t say no, dumbass,” he says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “But that was when I was in a relationship.” He doesn’t specify who - Dean knows he means Jess. He just can’t say her name to Dean. Not anymore.

Silence. When Sam looks over, Dean has visibly bristled. “And what,” he begins slowly, straightening his posture like he’s uncomfortable. “You and I don’t count?” he takes his eyes off the road long enough to look at Sam for a moment or two, holding his gaze.

Sam nearly chokes on laughter. Dean looks alarmingly serious. “We’re brothers, Dean.” He says bluntly.

“Pretty sure Jeb wasn’t fucking George, Sam.”

Sputtering, Sam throws his hands up in the air. “I can’t believe this! I don’t know which is more alarming - the fact that we’re having this conversation at all, or that you just compared us to the Bush brothers.” He shakes himself, staring at Dean as his entire body revolts at the image in his head. “And why the hell am I George?!” He demands, eyes slamming closed.

Dean actually snorts. “Come on, you know he takes it up the ass.” Quiet descends then for a long moment. And then, just when Sam had been hoping that was the end of it, “So if we aren’t in a relationship then, what, you and I are in...?”

Sam stares out the window. “Sweden. It’s very neutral there. And extremely clean.”

Silence fills the car again, until it gets so heavy that Sam can’t take it anymore. He turns to find that his brother is still sitting rigidly on the leather seat, alternating between watching the road and watching Sam. “Dean, what?” He finally demands, feeling cornered and frustrated and really needing a break from the cramped confines of the vehicle.

Dean just shakes his head at him. “You are one weird kid, dude.” He turns up the volume and goes back to singing along to the song.

Sam doesn’t correct him - doesn’t say that Dean lost the right to call him a kid months ago. He just goes back to staring out at their surroundings and breathing deeply through his nose. Maybe, if he concentrates, he can try to figure out where the hell they are.

When they’re in Wisconsin, Sam has to drag Dean through the door of their motel room and kick it closed.

“Damn,” Dean pants once he’s half-slumped on the bed. “These were my good jeans, too.”

Sam ignores him, pushing his older brother’s blood-covered hands out of the way so he can see the wound. He tears at the fabric, shredding the aforementioned denim even further and exposing the five inch long gash. “This is deep, Dean.” His voice is shaking. He hates that.

Propping his upper body on his elbows, Dean shakes his head. “’S not so bad.”

Wiping sweat from his brow on the back of his sleeve, Sam scrambles for the first aid kit that he brought in from the car. “Put pressure on it,” he says before turning, preparing alcohol, gauze, and a needle.

“I know, Sam.”

“Then why aren’t you doing it?” Sam snaps, using a motel-brand hand towel to wipe away some of the blood. Dean is probably right. It’s not so bad. Couple of stitches and he’ll be good to go - if he could just get his hands steady enough to do proper sutures.

“Sam, stop.” One of his wrists gets snatched in a vice-like grip until he has to look up. Dean is staring at him worriedly, and that’s not quite right. “Would you calm down? What’s wrong with you? You hurt?” His eyebrows knit together, green eyes darting back and forth as he studies Sam’s face.

Glaring, Sam shakes his head. “No.” He focuses on pouring disinfectant onto a sterile pad. He winces at Dean’s hiss of pain, feeling his shoulders tense. “You made sure of that,” he grinds out, jaw set almost painfully.

A sigh. “Sam, don’t.”

“No!” His anger creeps up on him suddenly, taking them both by surprise. He breathes deeply, lowers his voice before he attempts to thread the needle and focus on Dean’s wound. “Unless you want me to puncture more holes in your leg right now, you’ll shut up. Okay, Dean?” he demands angrily.

Dean doesn’t look too happy, but he nods.

By the time he’s placing the last piece of medical tape to the bandage on Dean’s thigh, he can feel his mask slipping. Thankfully, Dean doesn’t try to stop him when he goes to the bathroom to wash up. He takes longer than he needs to, scrubbing Dean’s blood off his hands and trying to school his features into something more calm and composed before returning to his brother, but Dean is looking at him with his typical unyielding expression and it’s no use.

“Sam...”

Sam shakes his head. “No,” he tries, knowing the even tone he’s trying to maintain is temporary, at best. “You can’t...you don’t get to say anything. I had a clear shot at that thing, Dean, and you know it. You pushed me out of the way.” He wraps his arms around his upper body, feeling cold.

“Sam!” Dean repeats, voice rough this time. He reaches out and latches onto Sam’s hips, pulling him closer to the bed. When he looks down, Dean’s eyes have softened. “In case you haven’t figured it out already in the past few decades, Sammy? I’m always going to push you out of the way.” Matter-of-fact. No room for argument.

Not good enough. Sam feels his breathing quicken, his eyes start to burn, and thinks, Jesus Christ, please not now. But he knows he has to look at Dean when he says this, so pushing aside pride, rationale, and everything he thought he’d taught himself, he holds his big brother’s gaze. “No. No, just...you can’t anymore, okay?” he pleads, feeling his bottom lip tremble. “Okay?”

Dean looks at him for a long time. The resoluteness in his eyes falters slightly, and he reaches out to swipe the pad of his thumb across Sam’s cheekbone. “Okay,” he says, at the same time as shaking his head, no.

He’s being placated - pacified like some petulant child. It makes Sam’s blood boil, and dammit, he wants to punch the smile off of his stupid face. Instead he finds himself grabbing Dean’s jaw in both of his hands and kissing him until the pain in his chest is from air deprivation. And not just the gut-churning pain that comes with nearly losing something that feels this good.

When he wakes up in the morning, Dean is wrapped around his back so tightly, so perfectly, that Sam isn’t sure where his skin ends and Dean’s begins.

So he carefully lifts the arm that is wound around his chest, slides out from the leg draped over his, and slips silently from the bed. It’s not until after a run and a shower that he remembers the way things are supposed to be - and why they have to be that way.

It’s just a little bit harder, on this particular morning, to give a crap.

When they stop at a pancake house in Utah, Sam actually feels kind of bad about shrugging out of the arm Dean wraps around his waist as they walk from the parking lot to the doors.

It’s not like there had been anyone around. The place was mostly deserted at five in the morning, sun barely peeking above the hills. The air was crisp and the light soft, and they had just been laughing about some ridiculous highway sign that had made no sense at all.

It was a good morning. Then Dean had reached for him, and Sam had shied away. It was habit. Second nature now.

But Dean had glowered at him, slipping into a booth and hiding his face behind his menu the moment they sat down.

Sam almost felt bad - he tried his best to make up for it for the rest of the meal. He pointed things out in the paper that he thought Dean would find interesting. He offered most of his home fries. He kept the topics light, and about things that Dean, and only Dean, would find amusing. It worked, and slowly Dean’s bad mood burned away.

Then, when they were ready to get on the road and Sam was coming back from a bathroom break, he finds Dean leaning up against the counter, leering shamelessly at the waitress that had been bringing them coffee refills. She giggles, slapping him on the arm playfully.

As she’s leaning in close to whisper something in his ear, and Dean tilts his head to listen, a pleased smile curling his lips, Sam sets his teeth and walks quickly past.

If his elbow hits Dean accidentally on the way by, then...whoops.

It’s a few seconds later, as he’s sucking in a lungful of brisk, mind-clearing fall air, that Dean appears behind him. He doesn’t look too happy.

“So is that it, Sam?” he asks, arms spread wide. “This whole thing is over some stupid jealousy deal you’ve got goin’ on?” Dean shakes his head, squinting at Sam like he’s seeing him for the first time in fifteen years.

Sam feels himself stiffen. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean gets closer as Sam tries to walk away. “No, I think I do,” he insists, following until they’ve gotten to the car and there’s nowhere else to run. Now he folds his arms in front of his chest and faces Sam like some kind of disappointed parent. “This - the way you keep acting? Better not be because I look at a nice set of tits when they walk by, dude, because I’ll tell you right now, you’ll have to grow a set if you think I’m going to be able to stop anytime soon. I’m human, Sam.” He declares, sweeping a hand down the back of his head, down to his neck. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“No,” Sam says with a sigh, staring at the concrete. “That...this? It’s my fault.”

A pause. “Come again?” replies Dean, surprise evident in his voice.

Sam shrugs his shoulders. “I forgot myself in there for a moment. I don’t...it won’t happen again. I know better.” He puts his hands into his coat pockets, looking hopefully at his brother. “Can we go now?” he asks.

Dean is looking at him like he’s just spoken Nordic. “Uh, no. No, we can’t.” He says lightly. “Not until you tell me what in the name of Brangelina you’re talking about.” His features harden and he raises his eyebrows. Waiting.

Sam looks around helplessly. “Look, Dean, you don’t have to do this.”

Dean blinks. “Do what?”

Sam gestures at the space between them “This. Lie to me - whatever. We’ve been doing this for awhile now. It didn’t make much sense to me at first, but I get it. I’ve figured it out. I’m handling it.” He tries a tight smile, one that doesn’t meet his eyes, but there’s no point, really, because Dean is just scowling like he insulted Angus Young. “I know what I am for you, and I’m okay with it. You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

For a moment, it’s like the earth has stood still. Everything is silent, and Dean doesn’t even seem to breathe. But then he’s in motion, so fast it makes Sam’s head spin, slamming him up against the side of the Imapala. The breath rattles from his lungs.

“Dean...”

“Shut up,” Dean hisses, voice deadly. “You think...what, you’re just some piece of ass to me? That I use and then throw away?”

Sam squirms, flinching. The metal digs painfully into his back, Dean’s forearm pressing heavily across his shoulders.

Dean’s face contorts with rage. “You...” He growls, then drops his head, letting Sam go. He takes a step back, and several deep breaths, looking skyward.

Righting himself, Sam adjusts his jacket, watching his older brother wearily.

For a long time, Dean says and does nothing but study the clouds. Then he glances once at Sam, his face unreadable, before looking away again. “You’re such a fucking asshole, Sam,” he finally says, tiredly, his voice thin and expression worn, like he’s just run a marathon. He shakes his head, as if he’s being forced to do something awful. “Get in the car.”

Because he’s not stupid, Sam does.

Dean doesn’t talk to him for a few days. Besides a couple of mono-syllabic words and a few indecipherable grunts, Sam has to keep up the running commentary in his head if he doesn’t want the silence to drive him absolutely insane.

And that’s no problem - because his brain never seems to want to shut up.

But one morning he wakes to Dean sitting on the end of his bed, his broad, bare back all Sam can see. So he sits up against the headboard and lets himself stare at the miles of freckled, honey-smooth skin, until Dean actually starts speaking and scares the hell out of him.

“I don’t do long-winded speeches, Sam.” His voice isn’t angry, or even rough, as Sam had expected it would be after days of going unused. Instead its soft, controlled. Like Dean has been talking up a storm and Sam just hasn’t been around to hear it. “Didn’t think you needed one. But I don’t know how else to make you listen to me, so.” A shrug.

Dean shifts his body until he’s looking at him head on. His expression is thoughtful, eyes serious. “Look, I know I don’t always make it easy. I like women, Sam. That doesn’t go away just because you and I are - whatever. But you’ve gotta be kidding yourself if you think I’m ever gonna choose some cheap waitress over you, so cut that shit out right now.” He plants a hand on Sam’s thigh from beneath the scratchy motel comforter. “I’m here - I’m in this. And I wouldn’t have even guessed it from the start, but you’re the one that is a million miles in the other direction. So what I need to know is why, man?”

Sam stares at the hand on his leg as it starts a slow, steady stroking motion. After several seconds of courage-building, Sam lifts his head and looks into his brother’s eyes. The room is still dim, what with the curtains drawn and the lights off, but he can feel Dean studying him carefully, curiously.

It’s almost a full minute later that Dean’s expression darkens. Inhaling deeply through his nose, he shakes his head. “Jesus, Sam.” He chuckles humourlessly. “After everything we’ve seen - everything you’ve seen, your entire life. Shit people couldn’t even dream up, and we’ve faced it. The impossible. And then this...” He trails off, frowns. “How can you find it so hard to believe that I just might want this as badly as you do?”

Shocked into silence, Sam looks everywhere around the room except at Dean. He scrambles for words - he’s supposed to be better at this. But everything is turned around, because Dean has him all figured out, and is trying to turn every theory Sam has had from the very beginning on its head, spinning a web of confusion so thick and upside down that Sam can’t even see, doesn’t know which way is up or how to turn around. He can’t function like that, and it’s not fair...

“Hey,” Dean says, fingers on his chin.

When Sam looks up, Dean is right there, mouth warm and unresisting as it settles against his own. His morning stubble scrapes against his skin, scalding, tongue hot and relentless as it sweeps across his, wiping away any rational thought he had.

But he has to try. “Dean, I...”

Dean pushes him down onto the bed, hard weight settling over him and pressing, pushing, motionless. “Sam,” he whispers, and leans forward until Sam finds himself staring at the skin of Dean’s neck, feels Dean’s breath ruffle his hair and wonders how his brother can be so still. “Just...don’t talk, don’t think, don’t do anything. Not for the next twenty minutes.”

Sam wants to laugh, wants to tell Dean that he obviously doesn’t know him as well as he thinks he does. But then Dean does something with his hips that makes Sam feel like his lower body is on fire, and it’s impossible to think about anything other than God, yes after that.

They’re heading to a Laundromat in some small town in Iowa. They’ve got three duffel bags full of dirty clothes, some covered in a green slime Sam doesn’t even want to think about, it’s that disgusting.

“Man, people will watch anything these days,” Dean is muttering beside him on the sidewalk. “Baking a couple of cakes? Fascinating. Training your dog not to take a dump on the neighbour’s lawn? Get a camera. Turning a penis inside out? A penis, Sam!” He lets out a full-bodied shudder.

Sam smirks to himself. “You know, you weren’t exactly being held down, Dean.”

Dean levels him with a glare. “I couldn’t help it, man! That shit is like a car accident. You’re all set, but you still can’t look away.”

Laughing, Sam rounds the corner to their destination and nearly trips over the outstretched legs of a man sitting against the wall. “Oh, uhh...” Sam chews on his lower lip.

Dean, on the other hand, steps over the man’s dirty belongings and a sign begging for food with a look of indifference. “Come on, Sammy,” he says, reaching the Laundromat entrance, hand on the door.

Sam ignores him. With a small, warm smile at the dirt-lined face, Sam fishes into his pockets and finds the coins he knows he put there this morning. “Here,” he says, dropping a couple into the paper coffee cup at the man’s feet. “It’s not much, sorry,” he offers helplessly.

The man gives him a toothless grin. “Thank-you, son.”

Sam nods and smiles. “Have a good day.” He continues forward to find Dean staring at him incredulously, hand still on the door.

“Dude, he’s just going to buy booze with it.”

“So let him. Besides, you don’t know that.” Sam hisses, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they aren’t being overheard. Honestly, Dean can have all the tact of a rhinoceros sometimes.

Looking pissed, Dean spreads out his hands emptily. “Those were the only quarters we had, Sam!” he declares intolerantly, rolling his eyes skyward. “Great. I’ve only got enough for one load. And if you think all of your BFG clothes are going to fit in with mine, you’ve got another thing coming. I need clean underwear, Sam. I’m down to a pair of boxers that are about to get up and start walking on their own,” he finishes, face the picture of seriousness.

Sam waits out the rant before lowering his voice coolly. “So I’ll only do some of mine, it’s not a big deal.”

Dean doesn’t seem to want to let it go, but after levelling the man on ground with one last glare, Dean pulls on the door, holding it open for Sam to walk through first.

Shaking his head with a small smile, Sam walks into the empty store and finds a set of washers in the back. He takes a seat on one of the plastic chairs and gestures for Dean to take his pick.

After throwing in half of his clothes, then muttering to himself under his breath and adding half of Sam’s, Dean slouches down into the chair beside his. He’s quiet for a long time, probably still stewing over the two remaining bags of filthy, un-washed clothes, before he lets out a breathy sigh and throws an arm around Sam’s shoulders.

Looking up from the crossword he brought, Sam finds Dean looking at him, expression a mixture of mystification and affection. He shifts uncomfortably. “What?”

Dean sort of shakes his head. “You know, sometimes it’s actually painful to be around you.”

“Oh, and you’re just a ray of sunshine twenty-four seven?” Sam challenges, feeling his eyebrows climb into his hairline.

Narrowing his gaze, Dean snarls. “Watch it, junior.” He’s trying to act pissed, feelings hurt, but his legs are splayed in a way that one of his thighs is pressed against Sam’s from knee to hip. “I’ve got the keys. Could just leave your ass here to go snuggle up to your new friend. And let me tell you, it gets cold at night.”

Sam presses his lips together and gives his brother a pointed look before returning to his puzzle, shrugging out of Dean’s casual embrace.

“Okay, fine.” Dean sits up straighter in his chair, pushing his sleeve back to expose the watch on his wrist. “For the next thirty seconds you can have the floor. I can’t get mad, can’t threaten to pummel you, nothing.” He waits, then looks at Sam expectantly. “Go.”

For a moment Sam freezes. But then, opportunities like this don’t exactly come around every day, so...

He puts the paper down on his lap. “You’re arrogant. Cocky, you’ve got a God complex, I swear, Dean, sometimes you seem to think you’re the only person on the planet.” He keeps going even when his older brother’s face morphs from taken aback to outright offended. “You can be a macho, sexist pig when you want to be. Oh, and your morning breath? It smells like a Wendigo crawled down your throat and died, man.”

Now Dean looks totally insulted. “Hey, now, wait a minute...”

Sam holds up a hand. “Hold on, I’ve still got, like, twenty-three seconds left.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches and then he’s grabbing the back of Sam’s shirt, alternating between trying to push him off the chair and choke him with the fabric. Sam laughs, batting at Dean with his hands until they’re caught and Dean drags him closer. Weaves his fingers into the hair at the back of Sam’s head and pulls him in until they’re kissing, Dean’s grin a curved line against his lips.

Sam goes against everything he thought he knew, and just lets it happen, for once.

There’s this stretch of field along the side of the highway that Dean stops at, claiming the Impala is making some sort of rattling sound underneath the hood. Sam, although not the mechanic virtuoso that Dean is, knows a thing or two about cars at this point, and is pretty sure he didn’t hear anything.

But while Dean has been fiddling with a wrench for ten or so minutes, Sam gets to watch the sun set over top of the hills from his perch on a fencepost, and he can’t bring himself to mind. There’s soft music floating through the air from the car radio, and crickets are chirping in the tall grass.

Sam breathes in deeply, his eyes falling shut at the unmistakable feeling of peace. Dean might think that he’s quiet when he walks up from behind, leaning against the wooden railing just beside him, but he could have been completely silent and Sam would still know he was there.

“Dean, I need you to do me a favour.”

Even with his eyes closed, he knows that he startles Dean slightly when he speaks. “Okay,” Dean begins cautiously, like he knows it can’t be something good.

Sam opens his eyes and squints into the pink and orange sky. “Put me out of my misery.”

He feels Dean stiffen beside him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demands, his tone low and dark.

Calmly, Sam tries again. “I’m giving you an out, Dean,” he says plainly, even though it’s painful. “So you should take it.”

Dean sounds livid now, hurt. “Is this about the girl at the gas station? The one that gave us free candy bars?” He’s probably shaking his head, glaring at Sam’s profile like he could burn a hole right through it. “Jesus Christ, Sam. I thought we were done with this jealousy bullshit. You can’t get all morose and bitchy every time I look at a chick. I know for a fact that your eyeballs haven’t been removed, you notice them too.”

Sam looks down. “It’s not that.”

“Then what?” Dean snarls.

“I can’t stop it, Dean. I can tell myself that I’m strong enough to do it, but I can’t. You’re too...and it’s too far gone now, too real even when I thought I knew what was and what wasn’t.” He grips the post a little harder, feels splinters poke at the skin of his hands. “I won’t be able to go back to the way things were. Not now that I know how it could be, not if I had the choice. Maybe I could have before, but not now.”

The song changes to something more mellow, and a breeze blows through the tops of the pasture. “Man, you can be wrong, and then you can be wrong,” Dean mutters, and it’s amazing, but most of the anger seems to have left his voice. Even his words, as harsh as they are, are Dean-speak for reverence. “You don’t get to do that, Sammy. See, I get a choice now. I get to choose. And I choose you, you dumbass.”

Something lurches in his stomach. “Dean,” he starts, unsure.

Within seconds, Dean has scaled the fence and is jumping down to the opposite side, standing in front of Sam with a steadfast expression. “I might be cocky, Sam? I might be a dick or arrogant or whatever you want to call me. Hell, I might stare at every short skirt that walks by like it’s a walking turkey drumstick, for all I know. But you’re fucking annoying, too. You’re so stubborn, you’re like a damn dog with its bone when you’re stuck on something. You’re sappier than a girl about things - exhibit A. You’ve got this superiority thing that drives me so crazy I think about using our weapons on you sometimes.” His hands move from the fence to grip at Sam’s hips, tilting him forward. “But I fucking love you, Sam. What the hell is wrong with you that you can’t seem to let me?”

The air whistles between them, blowing a strand of Sam’s hair across his forehead and into his eyes. He swallows over the lump in his throat. Makes a split-second decision. “You can be wrong too, Dean.” He says quietly.

Dean pushes the hair out of his face, smiling up at him kind of mockingly. “Oh yeah?” He challenges, eyes sparking in the waning light.

“Yeah,” Sam nods, reaching out to splay a hand across Dean’s chest. “I am in this. I don’t know how not to be. At the end of the day, Dean, it’s always you. Even when you hurt me. Even when I hate you.”

Dean kind of laughs, a tight, relief-filled chuckle that cuts the silence and fills a place in Sam’s chest that had been feeling empty for a long time. “Guess we’d both better learn to be nicer, then,” he decides, planting one boot on the bottom rail of the fence and hitching himself up until they’re breathing the same air.

While the music from the car spills softly into the dusk, Sam closes his eyes and focuses on the feel of Dean’s palm on his neck, his taste on his tongue. With Dean, actions always speak louder than words. Tonight, both have brought forward some pretty compelling arguments.

And this? This was a theory Sam was willing to give a try.

Fin.