(no subject)
Part Three
"We'll be at Bobby's in a few hours-six at most. We can stop halfway through, get some grub. Missouri's sandwiches are great and all, but I'm seriously ready for hot food. That sound okay? Yeah...oh, and you'll like Uncle Bobby. His place is kinda crazy, but he's okay. He's family, just as much as Missouri, you'll see. Bobby's treated me like his own son all these years. Man, I'll never forget how scared I was back when he got me out of that craphole I was about to fall in...."
"Yeah," Sam muttered. "I can imagine just how scared you were." Too scared to ever come after him, Sam thought, and was shocked at just how hurt he felt about having been left behind. Just a few weeks ago, he'd never even considered a brother would be something he'd want, but now, it was all he could think of. Just yesterday he'd been nothing but grateful for Dean, but now his emotions were swinging all over the place. Since he'd started remembering bits of his past, Sam wondered more and more whether the reason he'd been left behind was not so much for his safety, but as a way of avoiding difficulties. After all, two screwed-up kids might not have been more than an old bachelor wanted to be responsible for-and maybe Dean was glad to get rid of a burden he'd been stuck with since...always, apparently.
The audible edge of bitterness to Sam's comment brought the conversation to a stop, and both he and Dean were quiet for a long while. Sam had resigned himself to driving into Sioux Falls in an uncomfortable silence, so he was startled when Dean spoke again.
"I, unh, know you don't remember much at all about him, so how about I fill in some background about Bobby?"
Dean drove the conversation firmly away from that subject, and Sam was surprised to find he was able to let it go. Surprised too, to hear that once upon a time he'd apparently had been very fond of Bobby Singer.
Dean told Sam stories about life with Bobby after being separated from Sam; what it had been like growing up in a salvage yard surrounded by rusted out piles of cars, playing with junkyard dogs, hanging out in the woods sun-up to sunset-a basically solitary life that Dean seemed to have been quite happy in. Dean also told stories about earlier times, when he and Sam both had visited with Bobby. Well, Dean said visited, but Sam got the sense it was more like they were dumped on Bobby.
"So, Bobby takes us out to this park; he's carrying a burlap sack, an' I'm wondering what kind of monster-killing stuff was in it, and you were having a lively conversation with Mr. Blub, a really hideous little stuffed-"
"A dog. A stuffed dog, with long ears...you put the ear back on for me…" Sam saw a faint image of a blobby stuffed dog in his mind's eye.
"A couple of times, dude-you loved the stuffings out of that poor dog. Anyway, the sack held a bat and a ball and a mitt. We played baseball at that park, even you, running after the ball as fast as your little legs could carry you." Dean was smiling, a dreamy, soft smile Sam knew meant he was looking at the road ahead, but also looking into the past. "Dad never knew. I was supposed to be doing target practice, but Bobby...he wanted us to be just kids for once, you know? 'Like regular snot-nosed little jerks'."
Sam sat quietly. Something about this memory, this story Dean was telling, felt huge. He remembered that dog. He'd loved it. A little spot of warmth bloomed in his chest at the thought of it. Raggedy, floppy, bald in places with lumpy stitches around both ears. And he of sort of remembered running after a baseball. Had wondered, on occasion, what it was about baseball he liked since Dad had no interest in sports at all, and Mom...he snorted at the idea of his mom playing any kind of sport.
Maybe... Dean was what he liked about baseball….
Sam remembered sitting on a porch, and Dean sitting next to him, feeding him ice-cream even though he was old enough to hold the spoon himself...oh, of course, it wasn't his ice-cream, it had been Dean's.
He sneaked a glance at Dean, who caught him.
"What, something wrong?"
Sam's heart did a funny little squeeze-hop as he looked at this man who'd once upon a time cared for him so much, and judging by his actions, had never forgotten how much he'd cared..."No, I'm just...a little hungry. Can we stop somewhere to eat?"
"Of course. There'll be places coming up soon."
Not long after, they pulled up to one of Dean's ubiquitous diners. The sign over the door read Dad's, spelled out in red neon. It looked worn, a little old...just the kind of place, Sam was learning, his brother favored. He swore age just meant experience, and that meant the best food.
Inside, however, it was all brand-spanking new-relentlessly retro-styled with posters relevant to the '50s on the walls, interspersed with bits and bobs like vinyl records and Bakelite phones, letterman jackets and saddle shoes, and brand-new red vinyl booths in neat rows; shiny decor masquerading as aged heirlooms.
Dean came to a total stop on the black and white checked floor. Sam could feel the horror coming off him in waves. "What the complete fuckin' hell is this shit?"
"C'mon, man," Sam gave him a little shove. "It's a diner, and I'm really kinda hungry."
"This is not a diner, it's some kind of-of hipster hangout," Dean growled, and Sam almost hurt himself trying not to laugh out loud.
Dean reluctantly snagged a table for them, and Sam found the way to the bathroom. There was an uncomfortable moment when some guy coming out ran into Sam as he was going in. The guy gave him the once-over with a gaze so loaded with lust, Sam felt like he'd been dipped in slime and rolled in filth. He dropped his head and shoved past, firmly shutting the guy out.
When Sam made his way back to their table, he caught his brother staring at him, blushed until he realized that no, Dean was not looking at him; Dean was apparently checking out someone over his shoulder. For chrissakes, it was that sleaze-ball from the bathroom. Dean was giving the jerk an oily, little smile. A look that seemed, well shit, it was flirtatious. Sam didn't think he liked that at all.
They ordered lunch, a chicken parm sandwich for Dean, Sam jumping in to order himself a salad. Dean had been teasing Sam on and on about his food choices; rabbit food, barely keep a gnat alive on that, he said, but there was that undertone of concern in his voice, and he ordered Sam a milkshake when the waitress came back to refill Sam's water. "Just drink it, okay? I promise, it's good."
Sam put his fork down. Locking eyes with Dean, Sam tried to explain his somewhat strained relationship with food. Told Dean that in all the time he was at school-almost four years-he'd never really changed the eating habits his parents had instilled in him growing up. Dean frowned, and sure, Sam knew what he was seeing: a too tall, too skinny guy, and was probably imagining Sam had all kinds of issues with food. Not true at all. He was just...picky about what he ate.
He chased bits of his salad around the plate while telling Dean how Jess used to try and tempt him too, with greasy, bloody burgers, and nearly raw steaks, smothered with onions and mushrooms, swimming in pink juice. She claimed all that protein would build him up, add muscle to his pencil-thin frame, build up his strength. He never could eat that stuff, though. He was just too used to greens and small, measured portions to really like the larger servings she tried to force on him. He'd always felt weird after eating that stuff. It was just too much.
Sometimes though-with Jess gently encouraging the idea-Sam wondered whether food had been another way for his parents to control him. Jess had hinted at it often enough. For someone who'd never met his parents, she'd been really invested in getting him to rebel against them. The thought made him smile a little...she'd made it her mission to make Sam realize he wasn't bound by all their rules anymore.
Dean hummed inquiringly, mouth full of burger, and Sam shrugged, took a bite of his salad. "So, yeah, it's a work in progress. Kind of...opening myself to new ideas and possibilities. Like this delicious milkshake." He smiled, expecting Dean to smile too, or make some smart-ass little comment that Sam would pretend to be annoyed by-
But instead, Dean ignored him, sliding out of the booth and excusing himself from the table as he moved.
Instead of pretending to be annoyed, Sam was actually annoyed-That was rude. He'd thought they were having a moment. Where the hell was Dean going?
And there was the answer. Sam stared open-mouthed as Dean tapped Asshole Bathroom Guy's table as he went past. The guy grinned, waiting a couple of not very subtle minutes before getting up and following Dean.
Sam was flabbergasted. Was Dean...was he hooking up with that guy? Was Dean gay? Was he actually going to-to-with some-right now-
Sam was-he was right here.
How the hell could Dean throw this hookup in Sam's face? Ignore him like this? And that thought was followed by a great roaring wave of justified anger. He slid out of the booth with every intention of tearing Dean's rude ass a new one. Sam followed Dean and his new friend around the corner of the building, and came out into an alley where Dean-
"Oh my fucking god!" Sam yelped.
Dean wasn't fucking with the guy-he was murdering the guy. He was stabbing him, over and over, and the guy was, the guy was-
Sam turned and ran like the Devil was after him. All his imagining about Dean, all his fantasies, exploded in one horrible moment of stark reality. Sam had started believing Dean wasn't anything like the Mazurs had said he was, but they'd been right all the fuck along.
Dean was a monster. A no-holds-barred killer.
Sam ran right past the Chevelle-there was nothing in it he needed. He tore off towards the highway, leaping over the center divider and heading for the opposite side of the road. There was a weedy field, and past that what looked like woods, and if he could just make it there….
He had a horribly detailed flashback to the last time he'd run, when Dean took him down with so little effort at the motel. Fear lent him a burst of speed. Dean was fucking fast, but Sam had a head start and oh god, Dean was a killer-he'd shared a bed with a killer.
Sam made it across the field, and dove into the strip of woods that bordered it. He risked a glance behind him. No Dean, thank god. Dean. Who'd turned out to be a beautiful horror. Sam's insides shimmied with an intense wave of sorrow.
He stumbled to a stop against a big, vine-draped tree. Crouching, flinging leaves and dirt aside, he found a hole near the base big enough to crouch in, and scrunched himself inside, twisted up like a pretzel. Once settled in, half-covered by dirt and dead leaves, he gave in. He cried silently, devastated. He'd really wanted Dean to be good, wanted it with all his heart because he'd wanted Dean-beyond brother, beyond friend. And maybe that's why this was happening to him, this...punishment for his sick craving….
swish-swish-swish-Sam froze. Something was coming through the downed leaves, and coming fast. He listened hard, shivering and sweating as the swishing grew louder, closer-
A squirrel dashed past, twisting on itself to sprint up a tree. Sam dug teeth into his lower lip, squelching an insane impulse to laugh. He watched it run out on a branch and then leap out into space, directly onto another branch that seemed an impossibly wide distance away.
"Sammy!"
Sam flinched; he scuttled out of the hole, desperation making him try and run for it again, but of course Dean was faster. He knocked Sam down, knocked the air right out of him then sprawled full length on top of Sam to keep him down.
Sam had to accept it-Dean was always going to be faster, tougher, deadlier. Sam closed his eyes, sobbed in despair. He was going to die here, in the ass-back of some farmer's field, killed by someone he'd thought loved him. Someday, someone would find his body and oh, god, he'd started to care for Dean, so fucking much. More than care, because he was an idiot, and apparently weak and incapable of resisting a pretty face. Fucked up enough to not give damn that it was his brother….
"Sammy, Sammy, you gotta stop running," Dean whispered against Sam's cheek. "It's not what you think, promise. I told you; monsters, Sam, they're everywhere."
Sam sobbed harder, his breath hitching with fear. He'd gotten that memo, yes.
"He was a shifter, Sam. Wasn't human. Saw his eyes flash-he'd taken someone already, guy in the parking lot, dead in his car. Shifter, Sammy, not a human. I'm not a killer, not like that…"
Dean murmured over and over in his ear, until Sam could finally breathe again, and then, he slid gladly into darkness, because it was nicer to be there than to be here, with his beautiful brother, the murderer.
Sam came to being dragged/walked to the car. His arm was looped around Dean's neck, and Dean's arm was wound tightly around his waist, supporting him. Sam peered around, and saw that they'd pushed past the line of trees and through to the other side. They were stopped at a short strip of cultivated field, amber with the dried stubble of some plant-beans, he thought numbly. They waded through the stalks, leaving a trail as they headed towards where the car sat parked in the thick of them. Sam stumbled, whimpering, keening, as they shuffled along. He didn't know what was going to happen; now that he'd had proof Dean was a killer, he couldn't bottle up his fear. No matter what he promised, Dean was going to kill him; he had to now that Sam knew the truth.
Dean put him in the car, hesitated, and then, the cuffs that had disappeared after the first motel were snapped around his wrists. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I know it's just gonna make your panic attacks worse, but it's for the best, really. I know you don't believe me, but when we get to Bobby's, there'll be proof."
Dean locked a thin chain, what looked like a dog lead, to the cuffs, and fastened the end of the chain to something under the dashboard. "I get you don't trust me now, I don't blame you, but I swear on all that is holy, Sam, you never have to be afraid of me."
Sam choked out a laugh, and let his head drop to the window. Dean could lie all he wanted to; Sam knew what hopeless felt like now. "Don't," he said. "Just...don't." He waited for the fear to overwhelm him, but he was just wrung out, and when sleep crept up on him, fatigued as he was, he surrendered gladly.
`
~o0o~
Bobby Singer was waiting outside when they got there, there being Singer's Auto Salvage of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. It was a big place, massively ugly. Grey skies, gray landscape, rusted hulks everywhere, dried out weeds surrounding a massive house slowly fading from blue to gray...Sam couldn't imagine a more oppressive, depressing place. Yet, Dean was grinning from ear to ear, practically radiating 'home-coming.'
Sam tried not to yank on the chain when they came to a stop. He glanced at Dean. He'd been sneaking looks at Dean since waking up, mad at himself that he couldn't resist doing so. It was disgusting that Dean was so beautiful it physically hurt-no other damn way to describe the bastard. Sam dropped his eyes, hated himself for being so fucking weak that he actually wanted to believe Dean when he said the murdered guy wasn't human. That he wanted to forgive the fucking indignity of being chained up like a stray dog, just because his jailer was hot as the sun and Sam wanted to throw himself against that heat. He desperately wanted to believe that Dean wasn't going to kill him, that he hadn't brought Sam here to make him disappear with his uncle's help... Weak he screamed at himself. You're a weak, disgusting, pathetic excuse for a human being.
"Unc," Dean called out, getting out of the car and leaving Sam chained inside like a stray mutt, the sonofabitch. Dean jogged up to his uncle, leaning in to wrap him up in a hug. It was clear Dean regarded Bobby as a father.
Bobby was not too much shorter than Dean, a grizzled old guy with a squint and a beard, and gray-streaked brown hair peeking out from under a greasy ball cap. It was easy to see where Dean had picked up his fashion sense-the both of them were dressed like lumberjacks.
Dean stepped back from the hug, jerked a thumb towards Sam and spoke to Bobby, both of them turned slightly so Sam couldn't see their faces. Oh. So he couldn't read their lips...like that was a possibility. He stared anyway, and hoped they were worried that he could.
Dean came strolling back to the car, frowning. He slid back inside. "I'm gonna take the chain off, and we're going to walk back into the house. Don't go running off again, because there are big, cranky, old Rotties out in the yard, and Biz and Rummy don't like strangers."
Rotties…oh, rottweilers. Sam slid out of the car slowly, whole body shaking, despite him trying to hide it. He had no intentions of sprinting across an acre of tetanus just waiting to happen, let alone trying to dodge probably vicious junkyard dogs, not to mention Dean and his uncle. Besides, running so far had done nothing for him, except to get him hurt, trussed up like a turkey, and make Dean think he was easy prey.
Dean walked around to the back of the car, opening the trunk. He yanked and pulled, heaved something bulky out of the trunk. It dropped to the ground, looking disturbingly like..."A body! Dead guy!" Sam yowled, and threw himself back against the car.
"Sam, Sam, look at me, hey-" He snapped his fingers at Sam until he finally forced his focus on Dean. "It's not a person. I told you already, it is not a person." Dean knelt, pulling the tarp away from the face.
Liar-it definitely was a damn person; it was the guy from the diner, the one Dean murdered. Except, something was off. The
face was...had Dean disfigured him?
One of the ears was only hanging by a narrow strip of skin. The face looked crooked; it was collapsed in the center, and as Sam watched, a seam opened along one cheekbone, the skin bubbling and liquefying as the split widened. The mouth dropped open, making Sam jump, and teeth fell out, making a quiet, little rattle as they hit the tarp. An eye rolled out of the socket. "Fuck!" Sam screamed and danced away from the rapidly dissolving-thing.
"Yeah," Dean said, and gripped Sam's shoulders, pulling him back against his solid, warm, real chest, his grip tight. "The body falls apart when it dies. Like there's nothing holding the cells together once its life force is gone. I'm surprised it's breaking down this fast, though. They usually last a day or two before they turn into a pile of pus and rotting skin. Normally, I'd just leave it under something and let it rot into nothing, but we didn't have much time to get outta there, and besides, I wanted ya to see what it was I ganked. That, y'know, you understand that I'm not some kinda whacked-out serial killer."
"You were telling the truth. You're not a murderer. Oh, thank god, you're not a killer." Sam kind of collapsed against Dean.
"I'm still a killer-just not of humans."
"Yeah," Sam breathed, and almost fell, the relief was that goddamn overwhelming.
Dean freed him of the cuffs before walking back to the Chevelle's trunk. He pulled out a shovel and plastic bottle. Sam watched, wide-eyed, as Dean grabbed the ends of the tarp and dragged the disintegrating corpse off to a patch of dirt in a semi-circle of crushed cars. Sam followed, watching as Dean dug a shallow trench, and then shoved the rotting corpse-thing inside. He drenched it with gasoline, and lit it up. Sam stared, open-mouthed, as his brother roasted the thing, a satisfied look of a job well done on his face. Dean looked over, smiling-"Oh! Sorry, Sam, sorry..."
He wiped his hands quickly, before grabbing Sam's aching wrists, working on rubbing the feeling back into them. Dean's smile shifting from satisfied to sad, eyes full of guilt. Sam took deep even breaths, trying to work his way through the seesaw of emotion being with Dean brought on.
Bobby Singer strolled up, ah-hemed; after a second or two, Sam realized that Dean still held his wrists. Dean seemed to get it at the same time, and slowly let Sam's wrists go. Singer fixed that squint on Sam, looking him over from head to toe, before smiling wryly. "Well, damn, look at you, boy. You grew up good, Sam. You're a sight for sore eyes, that's a fact." He reached out to shake Sam's hand, holding it for a second before muttering, "Screw it," and reeling Sam into a tight hug. "Goddamn, it's good to see ya."
Sam stiffened, before forcing himself to relax, in what to him, was a strangers grip. He could tell though, even without knowing the man this was too emotional a moment for him, and he was going to cut it short in a minute, and sure enough, the man did just that.
"Been too long, son, too long." Singer's voice was rough with suppressed feelings, and the squint got more pronounced the redder his eyes got. It was...Sam wasn't sure what it was. A nice moment? A reunion? He smiled and nodded, because it looked like Dean and Bobby were both so happy and it just seemed the smart thing to do.
"Well, c'mon, boys, you're probably hungry after the drive, though I'll bet 'Souri sentcha on with Thanksgiving dinner, right?"
Dean laughed. "She 'bout did, Unc, but we worked our way through it pretty good, right, Sam?"
"Unh, yeah...the sandwiches were good…" his attention wandered as he stared around at the piles of - of everything. Cars and car parts and cranes and machines he didn't recognize were everywhere he looked. He'd wondered, from time to time, whatever happened to old cars, and now he knew, they came to Singer Salvage to disintegrate.
He followed his brother and Singer up the stairs, into a house whose insides were about as dreary as its outsides. Again, Dean glowed, happy as if they'd stepped into a five-star hotel. This was Dean's home, and he was really happy here, Sam could tell. Sam had grown up in a tastefully decorated house, with parents who had a successful business, but at this moment, he was so jealous of Dean and his casual happiness he almost wanted to punch him.
As Sam watched Dean, it as obvious that he'd had the kind of love that Sam had longed for as a child. That wasn't really fair though, was it? He reminded himself that his parents hadn't been bad people, they'd just been...not what Dean had, obviously. Singer-Bobby-smiled so fucking fondly at Dean whenever Dean wasn't looking, and Dean looked at Bobby like he hung the moon.
Sam swallowed hard. His parents were fine. They'd cared. They kept him clothed and, and fed. They had cared. There just hadn't been this...warmth, this easy sense of belonging and caring that Sam saw playing out in front of him.
That's why you ran as soon as you could? the mocking voice in the back of his head asked.
"Sam," Dean called, thankfully breaking Sam's train of thought. He walked through the wide arch between the living room and the kitchen, thinking that the place could use a good dusting. A spring, summer, fall, and winter cleaning.
Dean grabbed him, making him bend down enough that he could throw an arm around his neck. He shook Sam until he snorted out a laugh. He let go, and scooped a bunch of plates off the counter. "Grab the rest of that stuff and set up the table, dude. Unc's made pulled pork because he's just that fucking amazing." Sam followed Dean as he set plates and utensils on a table that had gone out of fashion in the seventies.
"Yer damn right I am," Bobby said, not even glancing their way as he whisked something together that had a spicy, vinegary smell, set the bowl of it on the table. "Dig in, I ain't your waiter," he said.
Sam helped himself, piling meat high on a bun, sprinkling some of the vinegar mixture over it. Dean was making noises that made Sam blush just a bit. The goofy part of his mind poked Sam, suggesting that he find a way to make Dean make those sounds himself. "Oh my god," Sam muttered, "Shut up," he told himself.
"Everything okay?" Dean asked, his tongue snaking out to lick up a bit of sauce trapped in the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, yeah, everything is great. Hey, thanks so much for this, Mr. Singer--"
"Bobby," both his dining companions said, and Sam nodded.
"Yes sir, Bobby...your food's amazing. I've never had pulled pork this good." Or ever really, but that was besides the point. It really was so damn good, he mostly didn't care it was a meal for strict carnivores. He'd never been a huge consumer of meat, but this stuff just melted in his mouth.
Bobby's eyes narrowed, but Sam was pretty sure it was from pleasure. There was the hint of a smile lurking in that beard. "Thanks, son," he said. "It's one of yer brother's favorite dishes, so I like to make it when he comes home."
They ate well, washing the pork down with a bitter but tasty local beer. Sam listened as Bobby and Dean chatted about people they knew and jobs they'd done recently, Bobby complained about a couple of idjit hunters coming in to bother him in the next couple of days.
Dean said to Bobby, with a nod of his head towards Sam, "So, remember that hunt we talked about on the phone? I'm gonna take Sam with me, and he's going to need a little basic instruction, Unc. Whatever training'll take before we head out again."
"What? The shtriga hunt?" Bobby asked, eyebrows climbing up under the bill of his cap. "Yer bent on takin' that one on, are ya? I thought you and Sam might take some time, y'know, get to know each other again."
Dean shook his head, and Bobby growled. "Stubborn-ass Winchesters...basic instruction, my ass. Well. If you're planning on that, then Sam must know the story of it."
"Well...not all of it."
"Well, what the hell are ya waiting for, then? Better tell the boy the whole story, damn it, before you drag him after ya like a lost puppy."
"Yeah, okay…" Dean ran a hand down his face, and heaved a sigh that was full of weariness. Sam bit his lip, waiting. He had a feeling that what was coming was going to be hard on the both of them.
"Care to step outside with me?" Dean asked, a wry half-grin curling his lip. He pushed away from the table, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair. Sam shook his head no when Dean tipped his chin towards Sam's jacket-the evening was still warm enough for Sam.
~o0o~
Sam followed him outside, skirting crates of parts stacked haphazardly around the porch and on each step. The dogs sleeping there jerked upright, but settled when they saw Dean. Sam's instinct was to call them over for a bit of petting, but he doubted Dean would appreciate it.
Dean led him out to what looked like a giant carport. The safety lights in and around it were just starting to come on, the beams reflecting off its metal roof. Sam followed Dean around some workbenches that were piled high with cans and more parts and bins leaking more mysterious bits and pieces. He led Sam towards the rear of the awning; stepping around hulking machines, they made their way towards a table that was tucked between a couple of battered file cabinets and an ancient, pea-green fridge.
Dean pulled out a metal folding chair for Sam, then settled himself against a workbench, crossing his feet at the ankles. He sighed, and reaching in his jacket, fished out his old lighter. He flicked it, open and shut, open and shut, before finally speaking.
"Sam...do you remember anything else about that night now ‘Souri's woken your memory up? I mean, something else besides what your...your parents told you."
Sam watched Dean's knuckles turn white with how strongly he gripped the old lighter. "We talked about this already," Sam sighed. "It's not going to change what I saw, Dean. I was asleep. You came into my room. You had a gun. You were yelling at me, shot at me. Dad burst into the room and yelled at you, then you turned the gun on him and shot him. He died."
Sam's voice shook, and tears filled his eyes-he was shocked at the intensity of his emotions for an incident that had long ago gone faint, that felt like it'd happened to someone else. Whatever Missouri had done to him-waking his memories, according to Dean-his remembrance now was stronger, clearer. Speaking of memory, something did come into his mind, clearing as it came….
"Wait. You, ah...I think I remember you saying something, and then the door bursting open, and...I remember lights, and police, and you screaming. They took you away, and then, took me too." And that was that, Sam thought. That was the sum total of it...but that little voice in the back of his mind prodded him. But didn't you see more? Wasn't there something else? Something wrong with Dad's eye? Eyes...
Dean's voice broke into Sam's train of though and the voice faded. "Think harder, Sam. Was there something else you might have seen, or heard?"
Sam squinted at Dean, annoyed that he wouldn't let it go. Think, think...nothing, there was nothing else...except...twigs? "Twigs? Long, black twigs, um, scratching the window? But it wasn't windy."
"Yeah. Good. Stuff's coming back, hunh? Yeah, those twigs you saw were fingers, the fingers of a thing called a shtriga. Just listen to me, 'kay?"
Sam swallowed the question he'd been about to ask. Shtriga? Okay. No problem, he would listen. Why not, when today he'd seen Dean kill a...a shifter.
Shifter, shtriga, demon. Monsters are real. They're out there. Okay.
"I did come into your room," Dean sighed. "Yeah. I was armed, true. And I was about to shoot the shtriga when outta nowhere, Dad burst in the room. He knocked me aside, and I went flying-then tried to shoot the shtriga himself. But he made a shit shot and missed it. He didn't trust a little kid to take the shot because he wasn't Dad. And then he missed, because he wasn't Dad. He had yellow eyes. That's how I knew-"
"-it wasn't Dad, the same way it wasn't Jess." Sam froze, his heart slamming into his ribs. "Fucked up eyes, like Jess," he muttered but he was focused on a scene that had taken place sixteen years ago, and was now playing in front of his eyes, as clear as if it was yesterday.
Sam!" he heard, and he rolled over in bed.
The window was cracked open and he was mad Dean left it so. It was cold, he was so cold he ached-his skin was full of pins and needles. Something was moving, something thin, and black, against the window-
He flailed out of the sheets all wrapped around him until he was sitting up, mad at Dean for just standing there watching-until he saw the shotgun in Dean's hand, pointed straight at him. He blinked. Just like that, he knew-something bad was behind him, he thought, and he had to get out of the way so Dean could shoot it. Sam dived flat on the bed, clearing the way for Dean's shot.
But the door crashed open and Dad was there, and Dean...Dean flew away, like something threw him and Dad was shooting, but it was-WRONG. Dad's eyes were yellow, bright, like fire and Sam realized he'd seen that yellow cast to them before in his dreams-
Dean was screaming, 'you're not him, you sonofabitch,' and Dad laughed. It sounded...scary. Mean. Wrong.
'You little bastard, he almost died, because you couldn't do the one stupid job you had. Almost screwed everything up, you useless shit bag!'
Sam saw Dean flinch, then stiffen. Dean pulled the trigger.
Dad dropped, there was blood all over his middle, and clouds of black smoke flew out of his mouth and when it was gone, Dad reached a hand out for Dean.
'You did it, son...did the job, just like...taught you,' he coughed...'Good man. Look after Sam. My boys...love you…"
Dean was crying and crying like he just couldn't stop and Dad got all...he looked dead. Like rotten meat all gross deader-than-dead dead.
Then the sirens, the lights, and Dean screaming reaching out for Sam, Sam crying so hard, trying to get to where it was safe, get to Dean.
Then the nice lady who made him feel like throwing up was there and he fell asleep, and after all he could remember was…
Dean tried to kill him. Dean killed his Dad….
Now he was in Bobby's place with Dean, his brother. Safe. Together, at last. He stretched out his arms, clawing at Dean's jacket, fighting to get him closer. "Dean!"
Dean swept him up, wrapped him up in the tightest hug, and Sam felt like finally, finally, he was home.
That didn't mean that things suddenly went smoothly and every day was ice-cream sundae. After the revelations, Sam found himself trapped in an emotional whirlwind. He was ants-under-his-skin restless, but exhausted. Too anxious to sleep, but too tired to force himself into doing something productive. With no motivation to move, he spent a lot of days in bed, and when he did manage to sleep, he relived the true events of the shooting over and over in his dreams.
Waking life got worse as his memories got clearer-sudden flashes of the life he'd forgotten would rise up to blindside him, sometimes so intense that he'd stumbled off the porch once; he'd landed face-down in the dust because he'd been caught up in a memory of eating some fruity, too-sweet cereal. And then he'd craved it so hard, Bobby had ordered Dean into town to buy him boxes of it. Ridiculous. Another time, he'd zoned out completely, standing in the kitchen like a mannequin, until Bobby led him out and propped him up on the couch.
Dean and Bobby acted like Sam drowning in a typhoon of broken-curse recovered memories was perfectly normal and dealt with it like Sam was going through a really crappy flu or something; their patience just made Sam feel worse about it all.
He felt worse again when Dean took to shadowing him everywhere like a sheepdog. Even Bobby's dogs seemed to sense there was something off, and followed him as well. He was exhausted, crowded, lost in memories washing over him when he least expected them.
He ended up in Bobby's library one evening, having been chased out of bed by another storm of memories.
"Well, hey. Can't sleep? It happens...go 'head, pull up a chair." Bobby closed the book he was reading, set it atop the others piled on his desk. "Or maybe ya got somethin' on your mind, son?"
"Bobby...do you know what happened to me? My memories?"
"I'm bettin' the real question is why you." Bobby stopped and sighed. "But as for what happened, I'm certain it was a witch, and that she threw a spell on ya. Missouri broke it when she did tha counter-spell. Otherwise, it probably woulda faded with time."
"Time! It's been sixteen years. When was I going to get them back, on my deathbed?" Sam snapped.
Bobby didn't take offense to Sam snapping at him; he just shrugged and said, "Maybe. Maybe sooner. But ya came on the deepest memory kinda quick, so I'm thinking the spell must have been thinnin' already. Witches can be deadly powerful things. Some are quiet, low-level beings, kinda helpful when they wanta be-heck, most tend ta be neutral on the whole supernatural power-trip thing. But yeah, some want more then they should have. Will do anyone for it, make a bargain with anything for it. I think this one made a pact with demons-or specific demon, should say. This 'nice lady' you recalled, she was more'n likely the spell-caster."
"What happens to me now?" Sam asked, and Bobby shrugged again, but this time, Sam could see a little smile hiding in his beard.
"Now, you let those memories come back to you. And you let Dean treat you like his baby brother. It'll be good for the both of ya. Can't say I've ever seen the boy look quite so happy."
"Happy? He looks like he's one step from having kittens! He follows me around, looking like any second I'm about to explode-I'm just waiting for him to start tasting my food for me-"
Bobby laughed. "Yep. That boy's happier than a pig in shit. We got you back, he's got his job back, and now he can finally put his bệte noire to rest."
"Bệte noire? French?" Hearing a scruffy-bearded, old rough-neck casually spout French was weird, about as weird as talking about witchcraft like it was no big thing.
"Certainement. Speak it, among a few other languages. I ain't just a pretty face."
Sam laughed. No, he wasn't. Bobby was a lot more than that.
~o0o~
"Okay, little brother. Today we start training for your first hunt; gotta say, it's definitely not the type of thing I would have picked for a first time. We usually start newbs out on salt'n'burns, brand new poltergeists...the simple stuff. But this is what it is, and I need to know you can protect yourself at least somewhat."
Sam stared at Dean, wondering if that was supposed to be in any way comforting. Dean grinned brightly back, like he was reading Sam's mind, and punched him on the shoulder. "You got this, trust me."
He followed Dean out to the back end of the junkyard, where he'd set up a few targets. "I'm going to teach you how to handle a gun, okay? You're smart, you've got good reflexes; I'm sure you'll have it down no problem before we head out." Sam looked down at the gun in his hand...a Glock something. All Sam knew about guns came from TV and mystery novels...what the fuck, the weirdness that was his life just kept ramping up.
Dean went on, telling Sam he'd also have to know a few very basic knife moves, and he'd need to at least know how to swing a machete or an ax. Sam figured Dean was just talking to hear himself talk because what the hell did you need to know about swinging an axe, just wind up and let loose, right? Wait...axes? "Do we need axes on this job? Are we going after rabid Ents or something?"
"You probably think I don't know what you're talking about, but I do. Now, shut up, Nerd Boy, and concentrate on me-"
As far as the first day of training went, Sam certainly didn't mind having Dean's undivided attention, even if he was a dick and kept yelling at him for stupid stuff like forgetting to put the safety on the gun. Which was empty, so what was the big deal? Not like he'd forget to do it if the damn thing was loaded ferchrisakes he wasn't an idiot. Then there was the time Dean almost stroked out when Sam had scratched the side of his nose with his fancy ass, ivory-handled Colt. The freakin' gun had been empty that time too, for fuck's sake. Besides, it was dusty out in the yard, and with the constant dry breeze, the moisture got sucked out of his skin pretty quickly...Dean was just a drama queen.
On day three of Dean hounding him-Sam rolled his eyes-training him-his brother finally called a break.
Bobby came out to the yard, told them to wrap up practice because company was coming in. Company turned out to be a trio of hunters, looking like they'd been rode hard and put away wet. And filthy.
They thundered up the porch steps into Bobby's kitchen, drinking his beer and joking about the taste of it, jabbing at each other, pelting each other and Dean with some really juvenile and unfunny jokes. Sam couldn't fathom what the heck Dean saw in their company; laughing his stupid head off with a bunch of guys who looked like they'd escaped from the set of a Kevin Smith movie.
They said they'd just come off a long hunt involving something called a kerit. According to one of them(who looked rather like a bear himself) it was a bear-like thing that ate brains and stalked its prey for the fun of it, like a serial killer-another monster for Sam to add to his list. Sam noticed how stiff Bobby's face went when he heard what type of monster they'd hunted. He hustled the hunters into his study. Before the door closed on them, Sam heard Dean say, "But they don't hunt this part of the world--".
Sam also noticed that neither Dean nor Bobby had introduced him, and none of the hunters had done more but give him an assessing look before turning away.
He parked himself in front of the TV and resolutely did not feel rejected. He watched a very informative program about insect mimicry. Half-way through the show, Dean, Bobby, and the other hunters came back out of the study. They huddled together in the foyer, muttering in low tones. Sam craned his neck, trying to hear what was said, but only caught something about ash and storms, which from Dean's reaction, seemed to be a big deal. One of the hunters, a tall, brown-skinned guy with a ton of short braids, squeezed Dean's shoulder as he leaned in to talk to him. Sam watched through narrowed eyes. That touch went on way too long, in his opinion.
Dean walked out with the hunters when they headed back towards their trucks, tossing a "Seeya in a minute," to Sam on his way out. Sam glared after them, watching the way Braids was practically walking on Dean's heels.
Sam smacked himself when they were out of eyesight. "None of your business what he does; don't be an asshole," he mumbled. Clicking off the TV, he figured he'd do Bobby a favor, pick up some. Keep busy.
He swept the floor clean of of the clots of mud and grit the hunters had tracked in, cleared up the beer bottles left behind. He dumped the bottles in the mudroom bin, and sat himself coincidentally close to the kitchen window and waited, his eyes on Bobby when he came back in the house...alone. He waved at Sam as he swept past, straight back to his study.
Sam frowned as he made a big pot of coffee, and drank it. All twelve cups of it. Alone.
He was still at the kitchen table, a half mug of cold coffee in front of him, when Dean finally strolled in, more than an hour after he walked out. He leaned against the back of Sam's chair, looping an arm around his neck, and ignoring Sam's lean away from him...he smelled like cigarettes, and outdoors...and nothing else.
"They ran into demons on the road, too." Dean said, leaning over further to grab Sam's cup from him, grimacing when he got a mouthful of the cold brew. "Man...the weird is getting weirder. When we were kids, you'd get a demon-possession twice, maybe three times a year, and that was high back then. Now..." Dean shook his head. "C'mon, we got enough light to get a little more practice in."
He had a spring to his step, turned back to Sam with a smile; the pink tip of his tongue peeking between his teeth, and god, Sam wanted to trip him; maybe fuck him, show him....
He shook his head and sighed. His business is none of yours, he doesn't belong to you... except in the way that siblings belonged to each other. Sam shrugged, went out into the yard where his brother was waiting for him with a big, bright smile and a set of gleaming knives.
~o0o~
After Sam had actually managed to hit the target, in fact, had killed it several times, Dean called a stop to re-hydrate. He had Sam bring them beers from the creaky old fridge near the file cabinets; pushed himself back on the fairly intact hood of a weird looking old car, a Rambler, that had probably last seen the road when their Dad was a little kid. Dean cracked open his beer and settled back with a sigh. Sam watched his arms bunch and relax under the sweat-damp t-shirt Dean wore, felt his cells strain towards Dean, wanting desperately to trace the black loops of Latin peeking out from under his sleeve...Sam shook himself and pushed his mind resolutely towards things other than how hot Dean was.
"So, this is what you guys, you hunters, do?" Sam asked. "Train, drink, and kill things?"
"Well, I don't like to brag; I mean, not everyone's job is as glamorous, but basically, yeah."
"And credit card fraud? Running out on your bills? Sticking other people with having to pay for your shit, that's part of it too?"
"Yeah, Sammy, it is," Dean said. He set the can down carefully between his knees, and gave Sam that look he was coming to recognize-he'd pissed Dean off. "And breaking my leg last summer on a werewolf job, and being skewered by a ghost, shot by a shifter, bitten by a ghoul and man, you have to clean those fuckin' bites out right quick because ghouls are filthy...I've been dragged under water by a nyxie, fought off a pack of fucking disgusting gremlins-not in the least fuckin' cute like movies want you to think-almost became an incubator for mothman eggs…"
Sam gaped at his brother, who he could have lost in a dozen different ways and never known-Jesus, the fucking casual way Dean recounted all these near disasters-his breath caught, his throat went desert-dry.
"….and that's not counting all the times I've had brushes with the law so close it'd make you sweat blood. Yeah, I fucking thieve, but I pay for it, and all that just to protect a buncha civilians who'd shoot me in the face at a moment's notice. You know how much reward we get for it? Zip." He snatched up the can, finished it off and chucked it at a rusted-out truck.
"Sometimes, yeah, you're lucky, you get something for it," he muttered. "Sometimes, people are grateful even though their lives've been ripped out from under. Those people help, or offer some comfort...I'm grateful as hell for those who do." He blushed a dark red, and wiped at the corners of his mouth...Sam felt a sharp stab of jealousy, for the people who got to comfort his brother in whatever way they did, and a deep contempt for anyone who didn't take that comfort, or were stupid enough not to offer it. They were idiots. His brother was more than likely the only genuine hero they'd meet in this lifetime. Well, now that job was his, he was going to be the comfort Dean sought, not clueless hunters-civilians, he meant.
"Thank you so much for not forgetting me," he murmured, and petted Dean's knee.
"You already thanked me for that, Sammy. I'm not sure if I deserve it."
"You do. I know you do; you kept me safe then, you'll keep me safe now."
"I will, Sam. I'll do anything I can to protect you, give anything. I aim to pay you back for the love and safety I took away from you."
"Hey, you did what you had to to save me-no, to save us." He snagged more beers out of the mini-fridge "Here." They clacked can against can, and Sam said, "To family. To love."
"Um...yeah," Dean said, "to...to that." He looked wide-eyed at Sam over the edge of the can, and Sam wondered why he'd chosen that particular word. He kinda wished he'd left it at family, what with Dean's reaction to it. Then he saw how Dean's eyes were lit up like sparklers, and how he smiled, cheeks gone a little pink with pleasure. Sam laid his hand on Dean's knee again, and he looked up at Sam and slowly, hesitantly, covered Sam's hand with his. For a long moment they just sat there, watching the play of fading light on the wrecks. Sam thought it was kind of...stupidly romantic, in a way. A Dean sort of way….
After a while, Sam stretched out on the Rambler's hood with Dean, scooting around until his head ended pressed against Dean's shoulder. He waited a second, waiting to see if Dean was going to shove him off, but he just chuckled, a sound that eased his way inside Sam, soft, comforting, as familiar as an old nursery
Sam closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of his brother...leather, smoke, the sweat trapped in the creases of his skin. Sam turned his head, his eyes locked on the pulse beating under the soft skin of Dean's throat. He tried to keep them open, but his lids felt so heavy. There was heat settling between his legs, a kind of thick, lazy arousal; nothing urgent about it, it just...felt good. It was a good, peaceful, kind of moment, something he'd never had before with anyone, not even Jess in those first, early days that they were together.
It was deeply satisfying; he wanted it to spin out forever, the feeling of Dean's heat meshing with his. He dreamed of Dean's skin against his skin, and in his dream, Dean moved towards him, his hand gliding from Sam's knee to his thigh, moving slightly higher. Sam's breath hitched quietly in his chest. It felt so real-Dean's hand inched a little higher and Sam exhaled softly. Ah, not a dream. He lay still, faking sleep, desperate for Dean not to realize he was awake. Sam thought he'd cry if Dean stopped doing...what he was doing.
Knuckles skimmed over his dick, tracing the curve as it thickened, lengthened, trapped against the inside seam of his worn jeans. Sam bit the inside of his cheek. It felt good, heading for better, but suddenly everything changed. He blinked up at the sky, now glistening with stars, the safety lights blinking on. His eyelids felt a little tacky, like he'd fallen asleep with his face pressed into his pillow.
"Hey, Sammy, you awake?" Dean whispered, tapping Sam's knee.
Shit. He wanted to cry. He'd been asleep the whole time, dreaming about his brother? But Dean's cheeks were flushed, and he avoided Sam's eyes. He gave him a sideways smile, glanced at Sam's crotch at the same moment Sam glanced over at his. He was sure Dean was in the same condition he was. Sam rubbed at his eyes, and blew out a little breath, trying to steady himself. It had definitely not been a dream, but had still been dreamlike.
"Gonna grab a smoke before I head inside." Dean gave a quick squeeze to Sam's knee before sliding off the car, heading into the darken stacks of wrecks.
Sam was disappointed. Dean was so quick to walk away. He wanted to ask, he wondered if it was possible, that Dean might be leaning towards him, the way he was leaning towards Dean.
Dean didn't look back, he just swaggered off, bow-legs lending that sexy roll to his stride. Sam nodded. It was okay. It wasn't really the time, not with so much on both their minds. Plus, he needed time to figure out just how to ask if...well, fuck, if his brother was willing, or able, to overlook thousands of years of incest taboo.
How did he even broach the topic, let alone present arguments as to why it made sense for the two of them...Sam covered his mouth, trying to silence a horrified bleat of laughter. Sense...sure. Still. When this-this case, the shtriga-was sorted out, he was going to come back to this; at least figure out what this was. If it was anything at all or just Sam having twisted his own feelings into something wrong.
continued in part three B
"We'll be at Bobby's in a few hours-six at most. We can stop halfway through, get some grub. Missouri's sandwiches are great and all, but I'm seriously ready for hot food. That sound okay? Yeah...oh, and you'll like Uncle Bobby. His place is kinda crazy, but he's okay. He's family, just as much as Missouri, you'll see. Bobby's treated me like his own son all these years. Man, I'll never forget how scared I was back when he got me out of that craphole I was about to fall in...."
"Yeah," Sam muttered. "I can imagine just how scared you were." Too scared to ever come after him, Sam thought, and was shocked at just how hurt he felt about having been left behind. Just a few weeks ago, he'd never even considered a brother would be something he'd want, but now, it was all he could think of. Just yesterday he'd been nothing but grateful for Dean, but now his emotions were swinging all over the place. Since he'd started remembering bits of his past, Sam wondered more and more whether the reason he'd been left behind was not so much for his safety, but as a way of avoiding difficulties. After all, two screwed-up kids might not have been more than an old bachelor wanted to be responsible for-and maybe Dean was glad to get rid of a burden he'd been stuck with since...always, apparently.
The audible edge of bitterness to Sam's comment brought the conversation to a stop, and both he and Dean were quiet for a long while. Sam had resigned himself to driving into Sioux Falls in an uncomfortable silence, so he was startled when Dean spoke again.
"I, unh, know you don't remember much at all about him, so how about I fill in some background about Bobby?"
Dean drove the conversation firmly away from that subject, and Sam was surprised to find he was able to let it go. Surprised too, to hear that once upon a time he'd apparently had been very fond of Bobby Singer.
Dean told Sam stories about life with Bobby after being separated from Sam; what it had been like growing up in a salvage yard surrounded by rusted out piles of cars, playing with junkyard dogs, hanging out in the woods sun-up to sunset-a basically solitary life that Dean seemed to have been quite happy in. Dean also told stories about earlier times, when he and Sam both had visited with Bobby. Well, Dean said visited, but Sam got the sense it was more like they were dumped on Bobby.
"So, Bobby takes us out to this park; he's carrying a burlap sack, an' I'm wondering what kind of monster-killing stuff was in it, and you were having a lively conversation with Mr. Blub, a really hideous little stuffed-"
"A dog. A stuffed dog, with long ears...you put the ear back on for me…" Sam saw a faint image of a blobby stuffed dog in his mind's eye.
"A couple of times, dude-you loved the stuffings out of that poor dog. Anyway, the sack held a bat and a ball and a mitt. We played baseball at that park, even you, running after the ball as fast as your little legs could carry you." Dean was smiling, a dreamy, soft smile Sam knew meant he was looking at the road ahead, but also looking into the past. "Dad never knew. I was supposed to be doing target practice, but Bobby...he wanted us to be just kids for once, you know? 'Like regular snot-nosed little jerks'."
Sam sat quietly. Something about this memory, this story Dean was telling, felt huge. He remembered that dog. He'd loved it. A little spot of warmth bloomed in his chest at the thought of it. Raggedy, floppy, bald in places with lumpy stitches around both ears. And he of sort of remembered running after a baseball. Had wondered, on occasion, what it was about baseball he liked since Dad had no interest in sports at all, and Mom...he snorted at the idea of his mom playing any kind of sport.
Maybe... Dean was what he liked about baseball….
Sam remembered sitting on a porch, and Dean sitting next to him, feeding him ice-cream even though he was old enough to hold the spoon himself...oh, of course, it wasn't his ice-cream, it had been Dean's.
He sneaked a glance at Dean, who caught him.
"What, something wrong?"
Sam's heart did a funny little squeeze-hop as he looked at this man who'd once upon a time cared for him so much, and judging by his actions, had never forgotten how much he'd cared..."No, I'm just...a little hungry. Can we stop somewhere to eat?"
"Of course. There'll be places coming up soon."
Not long after, they pulled up to one of Dean's ubiquitous diners. The sign over the door read Dad's, spelled out in red neon. It looked worn, a little old...just the kind of place, Sam was learning, his brother favored. He swore age just meant experience, and that meant the best food.
Inside, however, it was all brand-spanking new-relentlessly retro-styled with posters relevant to the '50s on the walls, interspersed with bits and bobs like vinyl records and Bakelite phones, letterman jackets and saddle shoes, and brand-new red vinyl booths in neat rows; shiny decor masquerading as aged heirlooms.
Dean came to a total stop on the black and white checked floor. Sam could feel the horror coming off him in waves. "What the complete fuckin' hell is this shit?"
"C'mon, man," Sam gave him a little shove. "It's a diner, and I'm really kinda hungry."
"This is not a diner, it's some kind of-of hipster hangout," Dean growled, and Sam almost hurt himself trying not to laugh out loud.
Dean reluctantly snagged a table for them, and Sam found the way to the bathroom. There was an uncomfortable moment when some guy coming out ran into Sam as he was going in. The guy gave him the once-over with a gaze so loaded with lust, Sam felt like he'd been dipped in slime and rolled in filth. He dropped his head and shoved past, firmly shutting the guy out.
When Sam made his way back to their table, he caught his brother staring at him, blushed until he realized that no, Dean was not looking at him; Dean was apparently checking out someone over his shoulder. For chrissakes, it was that sleaze-ball from the bathroom. Dean was giving the jerk an oily, little smile. A look that seemed, well shit, it was flirtatious. Sam didn't think he liked that at all.
They ordered lunch, a chicken parm sandwich for Dean, Sam jumping in to order himself a salad. Dean had been teasing Sam on and on about his food choices; rabbit food, barely keep a gnat alive on that, he said, but there was that undertone of concern in his voice, and he ordered Sam a milkshake when the waitress came back to refill Sam's water. "Just drink it, okay? I promise, it's good."
Sam put his fork down. Locking eyes with Dean, Sam tried to explain his somewhat strained relationship with food. Told Dean that in all the time he was at school-almost four years-he'd never really changed the eating habits his parents had instilled in him growing up. Dean frowned, and sure, Sam knew what he was seeing: a too tall, too skinny guy, and was probably imagining Sam had all kinds of issues with food. Not true at all. He was just...picky about what he ate.
He chased bits of his salad around the plate while telling Dean how Jess used to try and tempt him too, with greasy, bloody burgers, and nearly raw steaks, smothered with onions and mushrooms, swimming in pink juice. She claimed all that protein would build him up, add muscle to his pencil-thin frame, build up his strength. He never could eat that stuff, though. He was just too used to greens and small, measured portions to really like the larger servings she tried to force on him. He'd always felt weird after eating that stuff. It was just too much.
Sometimes though-with Jess gently encouraging the idea-Sam wondered whether food had been another way for his parents to control him. Jess had hinted at it often enough. For someone who'd never met his parents, she'd been really invested in getting him to rebel against them. The thought made him smile a little...she'd made it her mission to make Sam realize he wasn't bound by all their rules anymore.
Dean hummed inquiringly, mouth full of burger, and Sam shrugged, took a bite of his salad. "So, yeah, it's a work in progress. Kind of...opening myself to new ideas and possibilities. Like this delicious milkshake." He smiled, expecting Dean to smile too, or make some smart-ass little comment that Sam would pretend to be annoyed by-
But instead, Dean ignored him, sliding out of the booth and excusing himself from the table as he moved.
Instead of pretending to be annoyed, Sam was actually annoyed-That was rude. He'd thought they were having a moment. Where the hell was Dean going?
And there was the answer. Sam stared open-mouthed as Dean tapped Asshole Bathroom Guy's table as he went past. The guy grinned, waiting a couple of not very subtle minutes before getting up and following Dean.
Sam was flabbergasted. Was Dean...was he hooking up with that guy? Was Dean gay? Was he actually going to-to-with some-right now-
Sam was-he was right here.
How the hell could Dean throw this hookup in Sam's face? Ignore him like this? And that thought was followed by a great roaring wave of justified anger. He slid out of the booth with every intention of tearing Dean's rude ass a new one. Sam followed Dean and his new friend around the corner of the building, and came out into an alley where Dean-
"Oh my fucking god!" Sam yelped.
Dean wasn't fucking with the guy-he was murdering the guy. He was stabbing him, over and over, and the guy was, the guy was-
Sam turned and ran like the Devil was after him. All his imagining about Dean, all his fantasies, exploded in one horrible moment of stark reality. Sam had started believing Dean wasn't anything like the Mazurs had said he was, but they'd been right all the fuck along.
Dean was a monster. A no-holds-barred killer.
Sam ran right past the Chevelle-there was nothing in it he needed. He tore off towards the highway, leaping over the center divider and heading for the opposite side of the road. There was a weedy field, and past that what looked like woods, and if he could just make it there….
He had a horribly detailed flashback to the last time he'd run, when Dean took him down with so little effort at the motel. Fear lent him a burst of speed. Dean was fucking fast, but Sam had a head start and oh god, Dean was a killer-he'd shared a bed with a killer.
Sam made it across the field, and dove into the strip of woods that bordered it. He risked a glance behind him. No Dean, thank god. Dean. Who'd turned out to be a beautiful horror. Sam's insides shimmied with an intense wave of sorrow.
He stumbled to a stop against a big, vine-draped tree. Crouching, flinging leaves and dirt aside, he found a hole near the base big enough to crouch in, and scrunched himself inside, twisted up like a pretzel. Once settled in, half-covered by dirt and dead leaves, he gave in. He cried silently, devastated. He'd really wanted Dean to be good, wanted it with all his heart because he'd wanted Dean-beyond brother, beyond friend. And maybe that's why this was happening to him, this...punishment for his sick craving….
swish-swish-swish-Sam froze. Something was coming through the downed leaves, and coming fast. He listened hard, shivering and sweating as the swishing grew louder, closer-
A squirrel dashed past, twisting on itself to sprint up a tree. Sam dug teeth into his lower lip, squelching an insane impulse to laugh. He watched it run out on a branch and then leap out into space, directly onto another branch that seemed an impossibly wide distance away.
"Sammy!"
Sam flinched; he scuttled out of the hole, desperation making him try and run for it again, but of course Dean was faster. He knocked Sam down, knocked the air right out of him then sprawled full length on top of Sam to keep him down.
Sam had to accept it-Dean was always going to be faster, tougher, deadlier. Sam closed his eyes, sobbed in despair. He was going to die here, in the ass-back of some farmer's field, killed by someone he'd thought loved him. Someday, someone would find his body and oh, god, he'd started to care for Dean, so fucking much. More than care, because he was an idiot, and apparently weak and incapable of resisting a pretty face. Fucked up enough to not give damn that it was his brother….
"Sammy, Sammy, you gotta stop running," Dean whispered against Sam's cheek. "It's not what you think, promise. I told you; monsters, Sam, they're everywhere."
Sam sobbed harder, his breath hitching with fear. He'd gotten that memo, yes.
"He was a shifter, Sam. Wasn't human. Saw his eyes flash-he'd taken someone already, guy in the parking lot, dead in his car. Shifter, Sammy, not a human. I'm not a killer, not like that…"
Dean murmured over and over in his ear, until Sam could finally breathe again, and then, he slid gladly into darkness, because it was nicer to be there than to be here, with his beautiful brother, the murderer.
Sam came to being dragged/walked to the car. His arm was looped around Dean's neck, and Dean's arm was wound tightly around his waist, supporting him. Sam peered around, and saw that they'd pushed past the line of trees and through to the other side. They were stopped at a short strip of cultivated field, amber with the dried stubble of some plant-beans, he thought numbly. They waded through the stalks, leaving a trail as they headed towards where the car sat parked in the thick of them. Sam stumbled, whimpering, keening, as they shuffled along. He didn't know what was going to happen; now that he'd had proof Dean was a killer, he couldn't bottle up his fear. No matter what he promised, Dean was going to kill him; he had to now that Sam knew the truth.
Dean put him in the car, hesitated, and then, the cuffs that had disappeared after the first motel were snapped around his wrists. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I know it's just gonna make your panic attacks worse, but it's for the best, really. I know you don't believe me, but when we get to Bobby's, there'll be proof."
Dean locked a thin chain, what looked like a dog lead, to the cuffs, and fastened the end of the chain to something under the dashboard. "I get you don't trust me now, I don't blame you, but I swear on all that is holy, Sam, you never have to be afraid of me."
Sam choked out a laugh, and let his head drop to the window. Dean could lie all he wanted to; Sam knew what hopeless felt like now. "Don't," he said. "Just...don't." He waited for the fear to overwhelm him, but he was just wrung out, and when sleep crept up on him, fatigued as he was, he surrendered gladly.
`
~o0o~
Bobby Singer was waiting outside when they got there, there being Singer's Auto Salvage of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. It was a big place, massively ugly. Grey skies, gray landscape, rusted hulks everywhere, dried out weeds surrounding a massive house slowly fading from blue to gray...Sam couldn't imagine a more oppressive, depressing place. Yet, Dean was grinning from ear to ear, practically radiating 'home-coming.'
Sam tried not to yank on the chain when they came to a stop. He glanced at Dean. He'd been sneaking looks at Dean since waking up, mad at himself that he couldn't resist doing so. It was disgusting that Dean was so beautiful it physically hurt-no other damn way to describe the bastard. Sam dropped his eyes, hated himself for being so fucking weak that he actually wanted to believe Dean when he said the murdered guy wasn't human. That he wanted to forgive the fucking indignity of being chained up like a stray dog, just because his jailer was hot as the sun and Sam wanted to throw himself against that heat. He desperately wanted to believe that Dean wasn't going to kill him, that he hadn't brought Sam here to make him disappear with his uncle's help... Weak he screamed at himself. You're a weak, disgusting, pathetic excuse for a human being.
"Unc," Dean called out, getting out of the car and leaving Sam chained inside like a stray mutt, the sonofabitch. Dean jogged up to his uncle, leaning in to wrap him up in a hug. It was clear Dean regarded Bobby as a father.
Bobby was not too much shorter than Dean, a grizzled old guy with a squint and a beard, and gray-streaked brown hair peeking out from under a greasy ball cap. It was easy to see where Dean had picked up his fashion sense-the both of them were dressed like lumberjacks.
Dean stepped back from the hug, jerked a thumb towards Sam and spoke to Bobby, both of them turned slightly so Sam couldn't see their faces. Oh. So he couldn't read their lips...like that was a possibility. He stared anyway, and hoped they were worried that he could.
Dean came strolling back to the car, frowning. He slid back inside. "I'm gonna take the chain off, and we're going to walk back into the house. Don't go running off again, because there are big, cranky, old Rotties out in the yard, and Biz and Rummy don't like strangers."
Rotties…oh, rottweilers. Sam slid out of the car slowly, whole body shaking, despite him trying to hide it. He had no intentions of sprinting across an acre of tetanus just waiting to happen, let alone trying to dodge probably vicious junkyard dogs, not to mention Dean and his uncle. Besides, running so far had done nothing for him, except to get him hurt, trussed up like a turkey, and make Dean think he was easy prey.
Dean walked around to the back of the car, opening the trunk. He yanked and pulled, heaved something bulky out of the trunk. It dropped to the ground, looking disturbingly like..."A body! Dead guy!" Sam yowled, and threw himself back against the car.
"Sam, Sam, look at me, hey-" He snapped his fingers at Sam until he finally forced his focus on Dean. "It's not a person. I told you already, it is not a person." Dean knelt, pulling the tarp away from the face.
Liar-it definitely was a damn person; it was the guy from the diner, the one Dean murdered. Except, something was off. The
face was...had Dean disfigured him?
One of the ears was only hanging by a narrow strip of skin. The face looked crooked; it was collapsed in the center, and as Sam watched, a seam opened along one cheekbone, the skin bubbling and liquefying as the split widened. The mouth dropped open, making Sam jump, and teeth fell out, making a quiet, little rattle as they hit the tarp. An eye rolled out of the socket. "Fuck!" Sam screamed and danced away from the rapidly dissolving-thing.
"Yeah," Dean said, and gripped Sam's shoulders, pulling him back against his solid, warm, real chest, his grip tight. "The body falls apart when it dies. Like there's nothing holding the cells together once its life force is gone. I'm surprised it's breaking down this fast, though. They usually last a day or two before they turn into a pile of pus and rotting skin. Normally, I'd just leave it under something and let it rot into nothing, but we didn't have much time to get outta there, and besides, I wanted ya to see what it was I ganked. That, y'know, you understand that I'm not some kinda whacked-out serial killer."
"You were telling the truth. You're not a murderer. Oh, thank god, you're not a killer." Sam kind of collapsed against Dean.
"I'm still a killer-just not of humans."
"Yeah," Sam breathed, and almost fell, the relief was that goddamn overwhelming.
Dean freed him of the cuffs before walking back to the Chevelle's trunk. He pulled out a shovel and plastic bottle. Sam watched, wide-eyed, as Dean grabbed the ends of the tarp and dragged the disintegrating corpse off to a patch of dirt in a semi-circle of crushed cars. Sam followed, watching as Dean dug a shallow trench, and then shoved the rotting corpse-thing inside. He drenched it with gasoline, and lit it up. Sam stared, open-mouthed, as his brother roasted the thing, a satisfied look of a job well done on his face. Dean looked over, smiling-"Oh! Sorry, Sam, sorry..."
He wiped his hands quickly, before grabbing Sam's aching wrists, working on rubbing the feeling back into them. Dean's smile shifting from satisfied to sad, eyes full of guilt. Sam took deep even breaths, trying to work his way through the seesaw of emotion being with Dean brought on.
Bobby Singer strolled up, ah-hemed; after a second or two, Sam realized that Dean still held his wrists. Dean seemed to get it at the same time, and slowly let Sam's wrists go. Singer fixed that squint on Sam, looking him over from head to toe, before smiling wryly. "Well, damn, look at you, boy. You grew up good, Sam. You're a sight for sore eyes, that's a fact." He reached out to shake Sam's hand, holding it for a second before muttering, "Screw it," and reeling Sam into a tight hug. "Goddamn, it's good to see ya."
Sam stiffened, before forcing himself to relax, in what to him, was a strangers grip. He could tell though, even without knowing the man this was too emotional a moment for him, and he was going to cut it short in a minute, and sure enough, the man did just that.
"Been too long, son, too long." Singer's voice was rough with suppressed feelings, and the squint got more pronounced the redder his eyes got. It was...Sam wasn't sure what it was. A nice moment? A reunion? He smiled and nodded, because it looked like Dean and Bobby were both so happy and it just seemed the smart thing to do.
"Well, c'mon, boys, you're probably hungry after the drive, though I'll bet 'Souri sentcha on with Thanksgiving dinner, right?"
Dean laughed. "She 'bout did, Unc, but we worked our way through it pretty good, right, Sam?"
"Unh, yeah...the sandwiches were good…" his attention wandered as he stared around at the piles of - of everything. Cars and car parts and cranes and machines he didn't recognize were everywhere he looked. He'd wondered, from time to time, whatever happened to old cars, and now he knew, they came to Singer Salvage to disintegrate.
He followed his brother and Singer up the stairs, into a house whose insides were about as dreary as its outsides. Again, Dean glowed, happy as if they'd stepped into a five-star hotel. This was Dean's home, and he was really happy here, Sam could tell. Sam had grown up in a tastefully decorated house, with parents who had a successful business, but at this moment, he was so jealous of Dean and his casual happiness he almost wanted to punch him.
As Sam watched Dean, it as obvious that he'd had the kind of love that Sam had longed for as a child. That wasn't really fair though, was it? He reminded himself that his parents hadn't been bad people, they'd just been...not what Dean had, obviously. Singer-Bobby-smiled so fucking fondly at Dean whenever Dean wasn't looking, and Dean looked at Bobby like he hung the moon.
Sam swallowed hard. His parents were fine. They'd cared. They kept him clothed and, and fed. They had cared. There just hadn't been this...warmth, this easy sense of belonging and caring that Sam saw playing out in front of him.
That's why you ran as soon as you could? the mocking voice in the back of his head asked.
"Sam," Dean called, thankfully breaking Sam's train of thought. He walked through the wide arch between the living room and the kitchen, thinking that the place could use a good dusting. A spring, summer, fall, and winter cleaning.
Dean grabbed him, making him bend down enough that he could throw an arm around his neck. He shook Sam until he snorted out a laugh. He let go, and scooped a bunch of plates off the counter. "Grab the rest of that stuff and set up the table, dude. Unc's made pulled pork because he's just that fucking amazing." Sam followed Dean as he set plates and utensils on a table that had gone out of fashion in the seventies.
"Yer damn right I am," Bobby said, not even glancing their way as he whisked something together that had a spicy, vinegary smell, set the bowl of it on the table. "Dig in, I ain't your waiter," he said.
Sam helped himself, piling meat high on a bun, sprinkling some of the vinegar mixture over it. Dean was making noises that made Sam blush just a bit. The goofy part of his mind poked Sam, suggesting that he find a way to make Dean make those sounds himself. "Oh my god," Sam muttered, "Shut up," he told himself.
"Everything okay?" Dean asked, his tongue snaking out to lick up a bit of sauce trapped in the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, yeah, everything is great. Hey, thanks so much for this, Mr. Singer--"
"Bobby," both his dining companions said, and Sam nodded.
"Yes sir, Bobby...your food's amazing. I've never had pulled pork this good." Or ever really, but that was besides the point. It really was so damn good, he mostly didn't care it was a meal for strict carnivores. He'd never been a huge consumer of meat, but this stuff just melted in his mouth.
Bobby's eyes narrowed, but Sam was pretty sure it was from pleasure. There was the hint of a smile lurking in that beard. "Thanks, son," he said. "It's one of yer brother's favorite dishes, so I like to make it when he comes home."
They ate well, washing the pork down with a bitter but tasty local beer. Sam listened as Bobby and Dean chatted about people they knew and jobs they'd done recently, Bobby complained about a couple of idjit hunters coming in to bother him in the next couple of days.
Dean said to Bobby, with a nod of his head towards Sam, "So, remember that hunt we talked about on the phone? I'm gonna take Sam with me, and he's going to need a little basic instruction, Unc. Whatever training'll take before we head out again."
"What? The shtriga hunt?" Bobby asked, eyebrows climbing up under the bill of his cap. "Yer bent on takin' that one on, are ya? I thought you and Sam might take some time, y'know, get to know each other again."
Dean shook his head, and Bobby growled. "Stubborn-ass Winchesters...basic instruction, my ass. Well. If you're planning on that, then Sam must know the story of it."
"Well...not all of it."
"Well, what the hell are ya waiting for, then? Better tell the boy the whole story, damn it, before you drag him after ya like a lost puppy."
"Yeah, okay…" Dean ran a hand down his face, and heaved a sigh that was full of weariness. Sam bit his lip, waiting. He had a feeling that what was coming was going to be hard on the both of them.
"Care to step outside with me?" Dean asked, a wry half-grin curling his lip. He pushed away from the table, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair. Sam shook his head no when Dean tipped his chin towards Sam's jacket-the evening was still warm enough for Sam.
~o0o~
Sam followed him outside, skirting crates of parts stacked haphazardly around the porch and on each step. The dogs sleeping there jerked upright, but settled when they saw Dean. Sam's instinct was to call them over for a bit of petting, but he doubted Dean would appreciate it.
Dean led him out to what looked like a giant carport. The safety lights in and around it were just starting to come on, the beams reflecting off its metal roof. Sam followed Dean around some workbenches that were piled high with cans and more parts and bins leaking more mysterious bits and pieces. He led Sam towards the rear of the awning; stepping around hulking machines, they made their way towards a table that was tucked between a couple of battered file cabinets and an ancient, pea-green fridge.
Dean pulled out a metal folding chair for Sam, then settled himself against a workbench, crossing his feet at the ankles. He sighed, and reaching in his jacket, fished out his old lighter. He flicked it, open and shut, open and shut, before finally speaking.
"Sam...do you remember anything else about that night now ‘Souri's woken your memory up? I mean, something else besides what your...your parents told you."
Sam watched Dean's knuckles turn white with how strongly he gripped the old lighter. "We talked about this already," Sam sighed. "It's not going to change what I saw, Dean. I was asleep. You came into my room. You had a gun. You were yelling at me, shot at me. Dad burst into the room and yelled at you, then you turned the gun on him and shot him. He died."
Sam's voice shook, and tears filled his eyes-he was shocked at the intensity of his emotions for an incident that had long ago gone faint, that felt like it'd happened to someone else. Whatever Missouri had done to him-waking his memories, according to Dean-his remembrance now was stronger, clearer. Speaking of memory, something did come into his mind, clearing as it came….
"Wait. You, ah...I think I remember you saying something, and then the door bursting open, and...I remember lights, and police, and you screaming. They took you away, and then, took me too." And that was that, Sam thought. That was the sum total of it...but that little voice in the back of his mind prodded him. But didn't you see more? Wasn't there something else? Something wrong with Dad's eye? Eyes...
Dean's voice broke into Sam's train of though and the voice faded. "Think harder, Sam. Was there something else you might have seen, or heard?"
Sam squinted at Dean, annoyed that he wouldn't let it go. Think, think...nothing, there was nothing else...except...twigs? "Twigs? Long, black twigs, um, scratching the window? But it wasn't windy."
"Yeah. Good. Stuff's coming back, hunh? Yeah, those twigs you saw were fingers, the fingers of a thing called a shtriga. Just listen to me, 'kay?"
Sam swallowed the question he'd been about to ask. Shtriga? Okay. No problem, he would listen. Why not, when today he'd seen Dean kill a...a shifter.
Shifter, shtriga, demon. Monsters are real. They're out there. Okay.
"I did come into your room," Dean sighed. "Yeah. I was armed, true. And I was about to shoot the shtriga when outta nowhere, Dad burst in the room. He knocked me aside, and I went flying-then tried to shoot the shtriga himself. But he made a shit shot and missed it. He didn't trust a little kid to take the shot because he wasn't Dad. And then he missed, because he wasn't Dad. He had yellow eyes. That's how I knew-"
"-it wasn't Dad, the same way it wasn't Jess." Sam froze, his heart slamming into his ribs. "Fucked up eyes, like Jess," he muttered but he was focused on a scene that had taken place sixteen years ago, and was now playing in front of his eyes, as clear as if it was yesterday.
Sam!" he heard, and he rolled over in bed.
The window was cracked open and he was mad Dean left it so. It was cold, he was so cold he ached-his skin was full of pins and needles. Something was moving, something thin, and black, against the window-
He flailed out of the sheets all wrapped around him until he was sitting up, mad at Dean for just standing there watching-until he saw the shotgun in Dean's hand, pointed straight at him. He blinked. Just like that, he knew-something bad was behind him, he thought, and he had to get out of the way so Dean could shoot it. Sam dived flat on the bed, clearing the way for Dean's shot.
But the door crashed open and Dad was there, and Dean...Dean flew away, like something threw him and Dad was shooting, but it was-WRONG. Dad's eyes were yellow, bright, like fire and Sam realized he'd seen that yellow cast to them before in his dreams-
Dean was screaming, 'you're not him, you sonofabitch,' and Dad laughed. It sounded...scary. Mean. Wrong.
'You little bastard, he almost died, because you couldn't do the one stupid job you had. Almost screwed everything up, you useless shit bag!'
Sam saw Dean flinch, then stiffen. Dean pulled the trigger.
Dad dropped, there was blood all over his middle, and clouds of black smoke flew out of his mouth and when it was gone, Dad reached a hand out for Dean.
'You did it, son...did the job, just like...taught you,' he coughed...'Good man. Look after Sam. My boys...love you…"
Dean was crying and crying like he just couldn't stop and Dad got all...he looked dead. Like rotten meat all gross deader-than-dead dead.
Then the sirens, the lights, and Dean screaming reaching out for Sam, Sam crying so hard, trying to get to where it was safe, get to Dean.
Then the nice lady who made him feel like throwing up was there and he fell asleep, and after all he could remember was…
Dean tried to kill him. Dean killed his Dad….
Now he was in Bobby's place with Dean, his brother. Safe. Together, at last. He stretched out his arms, clawing at Dean's jacket, fighting to get him closer. "Dean!"
Dean swept him up, wrapped him up in the tightest hug, and Sam felt like finally, finally, he was home.
That didn't mean that things suddenly went smoothly and every day was ice-cream sundae. After the revelations, Sam found himself trapped in an emotional whirlwind. He was ants-under-his-skin restless, but exhausted. Too anxious to sleep, but too tired to force himself into doing something productive. With no motivation to move, he spent a lot of days in bed, and when he did manage to sleep, he relived the true events of the shooting over and over in his dreams.
Waking life got worse as his memories got clearer-sudden flashes of the life he'd forgotten would rise up to blindside him, sometimes so intense that he'd stumbled off the porch once; he'd landed face-down in the dust because he'd been caught up in a memory of eating some fruity, too-sweet cereal. And then he'd craved it so hard, Bobby had ordered Dean into town to buy him boxes of it. Ridiculous. Another time, he'd zoned out completely, standing in the kitchen like a mannequin, until Bobby led him out and propped him up on the couch.
Dean and Bobby acted like Sam drowning in a typhoon of broken-curse recovered memories was perfectly normal and dealt with it like Sam was going through a really crappy flu or something; their patience just made Sam feel worse about it all.
He felt worse again when Dean took to shadowing him everywhere like a sheepdog. Even Bobby's dogs seemed to sense there was something off, and followed him as well. He was exhausted, crowded, lost in memories washing over him when he least expected them.
He ended up in Bobby's library one evening, having been chased out of bed by another storm of memories.
"Well, hey. Can't sleep? It happens...go 'head, pull up a chair." Bobby closed the book he was reading, set it atop the others piled on his desk. "Or maybe ya got somethin' on your mind, son?"
"Bobby...do you know what happened to me? My memories?"
"I'm bettin' the real question is why you." Bobby stopped and sighed. "But as for what happened, I'm certain it was a witch, and that she threw a spell on ya. Missouri broke it when she did tha counter-spell. Otherwise, it probably woulda faded with time."
"Time! It's been sixteen years. When was I going to get them back, on my deathbed?" Sam snapped.
Bobby didn't take offense to Sam snapping at him; he just shrugged and said, "Maybe. Maybe sooner. But ya came on the deepest memory kinda quick, so I'm thinking the spell must have been thinnin' already. Witches can be deadly powerful things. Some are quiet, low-level beings, kinda helpful when they wanta be-heck, most tend ta be neutral on the whole supernatural power-trip thing. But yeah, some want more then they should have. Will do anyone for it, make a bargain with anything for it. I think this one made a pact with demons-or specific demon, should say. This 'nice lady' you recalled, she was more'n likely the spell-caster."
"What happens to me now?" Sam asked, and Bobby shrugged again, but this time, Sam could see a little smile hiding in his beard.
"Now, you let those memories come back to you. And you let Dean treat you like his baby brother. It'll be good for the both of ya. Can't say I've ever seen the boy look quite so happy."
"Happy? He looks like he's one step from having kittens! He follows me around, looking like any second I'm about to explode-I'm just waiting for him to start tasting my food for me-"
Bobby laughed. "Yep. That boy's happier than a pig in shit. We got you back, he's got his job back, and now he can finally put his bệte noire to rest."
"Bệte noire? French?" Hearing a scruffy-bearded, old rough-neck casually spout French was weird, about as weird as talking about witchcraft like it was no big thing.
"Certainement. Speak it, among a few other languages. I ain't just a pretty face."
Sam laughed. No, he wasn't. Bobby was a lot more than that.
~o0o~
"Okay, little brother. Today we start training for your first hunt; gotta say, it's definitely not the type of thing I would have picked for a first time. We usually start newbs out on salt'n'burns, brand new poltergeists...the simple stuff. But this is what it is, and I need to know you can protect yourself at least somewhat."
Sam stared at Dean, wondering if that was supposed to be in any way comforting. Dean grinned brightly back, like he was reading Sam's mind, and punched him on the shoulder. "You got this, trust me."
He followed Dean out to the back end of the junkyard, where he'd set up a few targets. "I'm going to teach you how to handle a gun, okay? You're smart, you've got good reflexes; I'm sure you'll have it down no problem before we head out." Sam looked down at the gun in his hand...a Glock something. All Sam knew about guns came from TV and mystery novels...what the fuck, the weirdness that was his life just kept ramping up.
Dean went on, telling Sam he'd also have to know a few very basic knife moves, and he'd need to at least know how to swing a machete or an ax. Sam figured Dean was just talking to hear himself talk because what the hell did you need to know about swinging an axe, just wind up and let loose, right? Wait...axes? "Do we need axes on this job? Are we going after rabid Ents or something?"
"You probably think I don't know what you're talking about, but I do. Now, shut up, Nerd Boy, and concentrate on me-"
As far as the first day of training went, Sam certainly didn't mind having Dean's undivided attention, even if he was a dick and kept yelling at him for stupid stuff like forgetting to put the safety on the gun. Which was empty, so what was the big deal? Not like he'd forget to do it if the damn thing was loaded ferchrisakes he wasn't an idiot. Then there was the time Dean almost stroked out when Sam had scratched the side of his nose with his fancy ass, ivory-handled Colt. The freakin' gun had been empty that time too, for fuck's sake. Besides, it was dusty out in the yard, and with the constant dry breeze, the moisture got sucked out of his skin pretty quickly...Dean was just a drama queen.
On day three of Dean hounding him-Sam rolled his eyes-training him-his brother finally called a break.
Bobby came out to the yard, told them to wrap up practice because company was coming in. Company turned out to be a trio of hunters, looking like they'd been rode hard and put away wet. And filthy.
They thundered up the porch steps into Bobby's kitchen, drinking his beer and joking about the taste of it, jabbing at each other, pelting each other and Dean with some really juvenile and unfunny jokes. Sam couldn't fathom what the heck Dean saw in their company; laughing his stupid head off with a bunch of guys who looked like they'd escaped from the set of a Kevin Smith movie.
They said they'd just come off a long hunt involving something called a kerit. According to one of them(who looked rather like a bear himself) it was a bear-like thing that ate brains and stalked its prey for the fun of it, like a serial killer-another monster for Sam to add to his list. Sam noticed how stiff Bobby's face went when he heard what type of monster they'd hunted. He hustled the hunters into his study. Before the door closed on them, Sam heard Dean say, "But they don't hunt this part of the world--".
Sam also noticed that neither Dean nor Bobby had introduced him, and none of the hunters had done more but give him an assessing look before turning away.
He parked himself in front of the TV and resolutely did not feel rejected. He watched a very informative program about insect mimicry. Half-way through the show, Dean, Bobby, and the other hunters came back out of the study. They huddled together in the foyer, muttering in low tones. Sam craned his neck, trying to hear what was said, but only caught something about ash and storms, which from Dean's reaction, seemed to be a big deal. One of the hunters, a tall, brown-skinned guy with a ton of short braids, squeezed Dean's shoulder as he leaned in to talk to him. Sam watched through narrowed eyes. That touch went on way too long, in his opinion.
Dean walked out with the hunters when they headed back towards their trucks, tossing a "Seeya in a minute," to Sam on his way out. Sam glared after them, watching the way Braids was practically walking on Dean's heels.
Sam smacked himself when they were out of eyesight. "None of your business what he does; don't be an asshole," he mumbled. Clicking off the TV, he figured he'd do Bobby a favor, pick up some. Keep busy.
He swept the floor clean of of the clots of mud and grit the hunters had tracked in, cleared up the beer bottles left behind. He dumped the bottles in the mudroom bin, and sat himself coincidentally close to the kitchen window and waited, his eyes on Bobby when he came back in the house...alone. He waved at Sam as he swept past, straight back to his study.
Sam frowned as he made a big pot of coffee, and drank it. All twelve cups of it. Alone.
He was still at the kitchen table, a half mug of cold coffee in front of him, when Dean finally strolled in, more than an hour after he walked out. He leaned against the back of Sam's chair, looping an arm around his neck, and ignoring Sam's lean away from him...he smelled like cigarettes, and outdoors...and nothing else.
"They ran into demons on the road, too." Dean said, leaning over further to grab Sam's cup from him, grimacing when he got a mouthful of the cold brew. "Man...the weird is getting weirder. When we were kids, you'd get a demon-possession twice, maybe three times a year, and that was high back then. Now..." Dean shook his head. "C'mon, we got enough light to get a little more practice in."
He had a spring to his step, turned back to Sam with a smile; the pink tip of his tongue peeking between his teeth, and god, Sam wanted to trip him; maybe fuck him, show him....
He shook his head and sighed. His business is none of yours, he doesn't belong to you... except in the way that siblings belonged to each other. Sam shrugged, went out into the yard where his brother was waiting for him with a big, bright smile and a set of gleaming knives.
~o0o~
After Sam had actually managed to hit the target, in fact, had killed it several times, Dean called a stop to re-hydrate. He had Sam bring them beers from the creaky old fridge near the file cabinets; pushed himself back on the fairly intact hood of a weird looking old car, a Rambler, that had probably last seen the road when their Dad was a little kid. Dean cracked open his beer and settled back with a sigh. Sam watched his arms bunch and relax under the sweat-damp t-shirt Dean wore, felt his cells strain towards Dean, wanting desperately to trace the black loops of Latin peeking out from under his sleeve...Sam shook himself and pushed his mind resolutely towards things other than how hot Dean was.
"So, this is what you guys, you hunters, do?" Sam asked. "Train, drink, and kill things?"
"Well, I don't like to brag; I mean, not everyone's job is as glamorous, but basically, yeah."
"And credit card fraud? Running out on your bills? Sticking other people with having to pay for your shit, that's part of it too?"
"Yeah, Sammy, it is," Dean said. He set the can down carefully between his knees, and gave Sam that look he was coming to recognize-he'd pissed Dean off. "And breaking my leg last summer on a werewolf job, and being skewered by a ghost, shot by a shifter, bitten by a ghoul and man, you have to clean those fuckin' bites out right quick because ghouls are filthy...I've been dragged under water by a nyxie, fought off a pack of fucking disgusting gremlins-not in the least fuckin' cute like movies want you to think-almost became an incubator for mothman eggs…"
Sam gaped at his brother, who he could have lost in a dozen different ways and never known-Jesus, the fucking casual way Dean recounted all these near disasters-his breath caught, his throat went desert-dry.
"….and that's not counting all the times I've had brushes with the law so close it'd make you sweat blood. Yeah, I fucking thieve, but I pay for it, and all that just to protect a buncha civilians who'd shoot me in the face at a moment's notice. You know how much reward we get for it? Zip." He snatched up the can, finished it off and chucked it at a rusted-out truck.
"Sometimes, yeah, you're lucky, you get something for it," he muttered. "Sometimes, people are grateful even though their lives've been ripped out from under. Those people help, or offer some comfort...I'm grateful as hell for those who do." He blushed a dark red, and wiped at the corners of his mouth...Sam felt a sharp stab of jealousy, for the people who got to comfort his brother in whatever way they did, and a deep contempt for anyone who didn't take that comfort, or were stupid enough not to offer it. They were idiots. His brother was more than likely the only genuine hero they'd meet in this lifetime. Well, now that job was his, he was going to be the comfort Dean sought, not clueless hunters-civilians, he meant.
"Thank you so much for not forgetting me," he murmured, and petted Dean's knee.
"You already thanked me for that, Sammy. I'm not sure if I deserve it."
"You do. I know you do; you kept me safe then, you'll keep me safe now."
"I will, Sam. I'll do anything I can to protect you, give anything. I aim to pay you back for the love and safety I took away from you."
"Hey, you did what you had to to save me-no, to save us." He snagged more beers out of the mini-fridge "Here." They clacked can against can, and Sam said, "To family. To love."
"Um...yeah," Dean said, "to...to that." He looked wide-eyed at Sam over the edge of the can, and Sam wondered why he'd chosen that particular word. He kinda wished he'd left it at family, what with Dean's reaction to it. Then he saw how Dean's eyes were lit up like sparklers, and how he smiled, cheeks gone a little pink with pleasure. Sam laid his hand on Dean's knee again, and he looked up at Sam and slowly, hesitantly, covered Sam's hand with his. For a long moment they just sat there, watching the play of fading light on the wrecks. Sam thought it was kind of...stupidly romantic, in a way. A Dean sort of way….
After a while, Sam stretched out on the Rambler's hood with Dean, scooting around until his head ended pressed against Dean's shoulder. He waited a second, waiting to see if Dean was going to shove him off, but he just chuckled, a sound that eased his way inside Sam, soft, comforting, as familiar as an old nursery
Sam closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of his brother...leather, smoke, the sweat trapped in the creases of his skin. Sam turned his head, his eyes locked on the pulse beating under the soft skin of Dean's throat. He tried to keep them open, but his lids felt so heavy. There was heat settling between his legs, a kind of thick, lazy arousal; nothing urgent about it, it just...felt good. It was a good, peaceful, kind of moment, something he'd never had before with anyone, not even Jess in those first, early days that they were together.
It was deeply satisfying; he wanted it to spin out forever, the feeling of Dean's heat meshing with his. He dreamed of Dean's skin against his skin, and in his dream, Dean moved towards him, his hand gliding from Sam's knee to his thigh, moving slightly higher. Sam's breath hitched quietly in his chest. It felt so real-Dean's hand inched a little higher and Sam exhaled softly. Ah, not a dream. He lay still, faking sleep, desperate for Dean not to realize he was awake. Sam thought he'd cry if Dean stopped doing...what he was doing.
Knuckles skimmed over his dick, tracing the curve as it thickened, lengthened, trapped against the inside seam of his worn jeans. Sam bit the inside of his cheek. It felt good, heading for better, but suddenly everything changed. He blinked up at the sky, now glistening with stars, the safety lights blinking on. His eyelids felt a little tacky, like he'd fallen asleep with his face pressed into his pillow.
"Hey, Sammy, you awake?" Dean whispered, tapping Sam's knee.
Shit. He wanted to cry. He'd been asleep the whole time, dreaming about his brother? But Dean's cheeks were flushed, and he avoided Sam's eyes. He gave him a sideways smile, glanced at Sam's crotch at the same moment Sam glanced over at his. He was sure Dean was in the same condition he was. Sam rubbed at his eyes, and blew out a little breath, trying to steady himself. It had definitely not been a dream, but had still been dreamlike.
"Gonna grab a smoke before I head inside." Dean gave a quick squeeze to Sam's knee before sliding off the car, heading into the darken stacks of wrecks.
Sam was disappointed. Dean was so quick to walk away. He wanted to ask, he wondered if it was possible, that Dean might be leaning towards him, the way he was leaning towards Dean.
Dean didn't look back, he just swaggered off, bow-legs lending that sexy roll to his stride. Sam nodded. It was okay. It wasn't really the time, not with so much on both their minds. Plus, he needed time to figure out just how to ask if...well, fuck, if his brother was willing, or able, to overlook thousands of years of incest taboo.
How did he even broach the topic, let alone present arguments as to why it made sense for the two of them...Sam covered his mouth, trying to silence a horrified bleat of laughter. Sense...sure. Still. When this-this case, the shtriga-was sorted out, he was going to come back to this; at least figure out what this was. If it was anything at all or just Sam having twisted his own feelings into something wrong.
continued in part three B