Fic: Bitter Harvest 2/5
Back to Part 1
Sam saw the impact of his statement cross Dean's face. First there was the surprise, the shock, of Sam's deduction. It was quickly replaced by resignation. Probably seventy-five to eighty percent of hunters ended up on that path because of personal loss. Look at their own dad ― ex-Marine, mechanic, family man, until the death of his wife pushed him into the life. Bobby. Gordon. Elkins. Rufus. Jo. Countless others. The danger in the dark revealed through the death of a loved one, the resultant need to act, to do something, to seek revenge and fight back, to protect the ones who didn't know.
And now Michael had joined that list. Back then, Sam had hoped the brush with the shtriga wouldn't change Michael's destiny that much. Apparently, it was not how things had worked out.
They talked about nothing in particular as they finished their whiskey, letting the words and memory of Asher simply lie there quietly. When they were done, Michael rose to go. He was just a few rooms down from the Winchesters, so he shook their hands again, bade them goodnight, and left. Dean closed the door behind him, leaning heavily against it with one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other. Sam could see the fatigue in the lines of Dean's body, but also the defeat. They'd saved Asher only to lose him in the end. Sam knew how a loss like that took the fight out of Dean. Saving people ― especially kids ― was Dean's raison d'être, and he never took a loss well, much less the loss of a child.
"Dean ― we couldn't have known. We did everything we could, and Asher had a lot more years because of it. C'mon, Dean, don't blame yourself. We can't be everywhere all the time." Sam walked over to his brother, gripped his shoulder. "Dude, it's not your fault. It's not."
Dean rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat. "Yeah, yeah, you're right. You're right. I just ― shit, he was still a kid, Sammy. Just a teenager. It's not right, y'know?" He walked over to one of the beds and plopped down. "And now Michael's a fucking hunter. Jesus, what is he, twenty-two? What the fuck is that? He's a fucking baby himself."
Sam laughed harshly. "Dean, I was twenty-two when I got back in the life. And both of us grew up in it. We never even had 'normal'. Do I wish he'd stayed off this path? Sure. But he's grown up enough to pick his own road now, and he's picked this. It's his right." He sat down on the other bed, finally giving in to his tiredness. "Fuck, I'm beat. You want the bathroom first?"
Dean heaved himself off of the bed with a groan. "Sure, just gonna pee and brush." He walked into the bathroom and shut the door, which was too flimsy to muffle the cascade of his bedtime voiding. Inured to the deficiencies of motel bathrooms, Sam barely blinked.
With a deep sigh, Sam let his weariness slide him from merely thoughtful into downright moody, brooding himself over Asher's sad, short story after telling Dean not to. He quickly changed out of his clothes into soft track pants and a T-shirt, wanting to avoid any more awkward unclothed moments with Dean. Spending all of his time with his brother was a lot easier if certain issues were never brought into the light. He puttered about repacking his duffel, pulling out clean clothes for the morning, then scooted into the bathroom when Dean came out. He took his time flossing, brushing, washing his face, and peeing, wanting to give Dean enough time to change and get into bed.
Turning off the light, he cracked the door and saw Dean under the covers, only his spiky hair visible on the pillow. Sam crossed to his own bed, turned out the light, and slid under his covers. They had actually allowed the maid in that morning, so the sheets were faintly starched, cool and crisp, and they felt good against his skin. The thought of having someone curled up with him, their warm skin and breath against his body, drifted through his drowsy mind, and it filled him with an ache, a yearning, that he dared not fully admit, lest it consume him. Instead, he turned over and began to do breathing exercises in his mind. In a few minutes, he was asleep.
# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @
Dean heard when Sammy dropped off. He'd spent far too many nights only a couple of feet away from his brother not to know Sammy's sleep breathing pattern versus his awake one. And that didn't even count the nights they'd spent wrapped around each other, breathing on each other's skin. It had been a long time since those nights.
Dean rolled onto his back, restless and with his thoughts roiling. He squinched up his eyes in an effort to quell the pictures rolling through his tired brain. Bad enough he'd had an incestuous relationship with his baby brother. Bad enough they hadn't been able to keep their hands off each other, fucking everywhere they hunted, like a damn sex tour across America. It was wrong for society, but it had been right for them. It made them stronger, made their rough life a little easier, because they had each other. He had loved Sammy so much; still did if truth were told, even though now he had to hide it. He knew Sam didn't think of Dean like that anymore; if Dean suggested otherwise, he was pretty sure Sam's fist would smash him in the face, after going through the breakup Dean had forced on him years ago.
Dean made the brutal decision that they had to stop being lovers and go back to just being brothers. It was Dean who pushed Sam's distraught hands away, who left for a week to make sure the separation took. It had taken everything Dean had, every ounce of strength and determination and resolve, to turn away from Sammy's tear-streaked face, his pleading eyes and choked words, and walk out the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something big and dark fall to the floor behind him, and he grimly kept on walking. If he had turned back then, it would all have been for nothing, because he would have run to his lover, his baby brother, and he would have held him, kissed him, promised him that it was okay and those words were all lies. I didn't mean it ― I love you, Sammy, always will, so sorry, baby, so so so sorry. And he wouldn't do that. He couldn't. The break had to be made if Sam was to have any chance of a better life. Of surviving.
It was the angels sending him to the past that convinced Dean to end it. He'd seen his mother make the deal that started the whole ugly spiral: her deal that led to John's deal that finally led to Dean's own deal. Everyone in his family trading their lives and souls for their loved ones. Sammy was Dean's loved one in every way possible ― his brother, his lover, his best friend, his hunting partner. Seeing his family devastated by the path of destruction Azazel and Lucifer caused, and realizing that their love was a tool of that devastation? Dean decided that they'd be better off ending it and reduce their weakness, their vulnerability. The best way for that to happen was to cut the bond between him and Sammy. They couldn't stop being brothers, and they needed to remain partners, so they had to stop being lovers. And it didn't matter how agonizing that split was, how much Dean's soul cried out for Sam's, how badly his body craved his brother's tall, muscular form. It had to end.
Dean rolled over again, punching the pillow and kicking at the sheets. Goddammit, he just wanted to get some sleep! Seeing Michael had stirred up all these thoughts and feelings from the past again. He'd felt a real kinship to Michael and Asher, back then. Michael had been so fierce, taking care of his younger brother during the shtriga hunt. Michael had seen through the Winchesters back then too. Dean could picture the teenager clear as anything, standing behind the motel front desk and registering a room for them. Michael had looked at Dean, then at Sam, then back at Dean, and asked "King or two queens?"
"Two queens."
Michael had rolled his eyes and muttered what Dean swore to this day sounded like "Yeah, I bet."
Dean had looked at him in disbelief. "What'd you say?" This kid looked too young to be that snarky!
"Nice car!" Michael said, flashing an innocent smile. Dean looked at him suspiciously, but then turned away, key in hand.
Yeah, that little exchange had surprised and amused Dean. And now Michael was all grown up and a hunter himself. It dawned on him that they'd never asked Michael what he was doing there, but they were meeting for breakfast, so it could wait until then.
Dean felt a little more relaxed now, so he turned over one last time, cocooned into his blanket, concentrated on Sam's steady breathing, and fell asleep.
# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @
Michael got up early the next morning, despite the late night, and he hurried through his morning routine so he could meet up with the Winchesters for breakfast at the diner a block down from the motel. The diner was a homey place, with lace curtains and little flower-filled glass vases on the tables, Sam and Dean were already sitting in a booth, colorfully upholstered in turquoise pleather, when Michael came through the door, the bell overhead ringing loudly with his entrance. They were sitting across from each other, so Michael slid in next to Dean. "Coffee?" asked the waitress, a pleasant smile on her softly wrinkled face. She had a figure just rounding with middle age and wore the typical cheap diner waitress dress, this version in pale pink with a white collar and a white apron tied around her waist. Her plastic nametag had "Hetty" written on it in black marker.
"Yeah, Hetty, coffee all around please," Dean said, giving her a wide grin. The other two men nodded eager assent to her coffee query. She blushed faintly at the focused attention of three good-looking men.
"You guys know what you want, or do you need a minute?" she went on, glancing at each of them in turn.
"Two over easy, sausage and bacon, hash browns, rye toast," said Dean. "And make that bacon crisp, sweetheart."
Sam and Michael placed their orders as well. "You got it, boys. Pleasure to see young men with such good appetites. Coffee'll be right up." She saluted them with a smile, and went to put in the orders and pour the coffee.
"Damn, I'm so hungry," Dean grumbled, rubbing his face. He groaned, then dove for a coffee cup when Doris returned with them.
Sam laughed. "Dude, you say that like it's unusual. You're always hungry." He grabbed his own cup, humming with pleasure as he sipped the hot liquid.
Michael watched them with an amused look on his face. "You guys really know each other inside and out, huh? Is it the brother thing, or the years hunting together?" He took the remaining cup and blew on it, not wanting to scorch his tongue and suffer the rest of the day.
Sam and Dean exchanged glances. Michael saw something deeply unhappy pass between them with that look, but Dean's tone was light-hearted when he replied. "Probably both," he said casually, while Sam looked darkly at his coffee cup. "We grew up on the road together, so we were always in each other's pocket. Pretty much the same thing now, 'cept for when I get lucky, then Sammy gets lost." He winked at Michael before slurping more coffee and smacking his lips.
Michael's eyes went to Sam, curious as to his viewpoint, but he was shocked to see an expression of pain flit across Sam's handsome face. Apparently that light-hearted attitude of Dean's wasn't completely shared by his brother. But . . . what caused that pained look? Clearly there were deep emotions in play that Michael didn't understand right now, and he wondered what was really going on in the brothers' relationship.
The food arrived, and Michael's curiosity was buried under a stack of fluffy pancakes served with a little pitcher of warm maple syrup on the side. All three men ate heartily, conversation temporarily curtailed by the business of ingesting hot food. Sam snuck a piece of bacon off Dean's plate and Dean pretended to ignore it, although Michael saw the corner of his mouth twitch in a quickly stifled smile.
Finally sticky mouths and hands were wiped, the waitress cleared the demolished plates, and fresh coffee was poured. The three hunters sat companionably for several minutes, savoring the delicious breakfast and coffee.
"So, Michael, given our respective occupations, I'm curious what you're doing here. Anything in particular bring you to Burwell, Nebraska?" Dean asked lazily, drizzling coffee droplets around the table with his spoon.
Sam bumped his arm, frowning in the direction of his hand. Dean sighed heavily and put his spoon down, wiping the drops up with a napkin. Michael hid a snicker under his hand, but then regarded Sam with a straight face when he continued Dean's train of thought. "Yeah, of course it could be coincidence, and it's great to have run into you, but we were wondering if you're here on a hunt."
Michael felt the weight of the life settle back onto his shoulders. The previous night and this morning both had been a break he hadn't realized he needed ― a chance to really relax, and even more ― to enjoy company. Company that he didn't have to hide anything from, company that understood the burden and danger of hunting. People that he could have a drink with, smile and laugh with, and not feel like a fraud. Or a criminal. But it was always going to be transient.
"No, I just wrapped up a hunt nearby. Pissed-off ogre, taking its own damage on innocents." He took a deep drink of coffee, cradling the warm mug in his hands. "So, do a lot of hunters pair up, or are you two a minority?"
"It depends on the hunt and the hunters," Sam answered. "Some hunters prefer to work in groups or pairs. Some are lone wolves, don't want anything to do with anyone else. Of course, Dean and I," he gestured to his brother, "we've always worked together. Our skills complement each other, and we know how important it is to have someone at your back in the field. There's only been a couple of times that we've -" Sam broke off abruptly and Michael saw that pained expression cross his face again.
"Only been a couple a times we've hunted apart, like when Sammy here was in college," Dean took up the narrative. "Then I was . . . imprisoned far away for a few months, and Sammy was on his own. A year or so after I . . . got released, we split up for about a week. That's it. Rest of it has been the dynamic duo all the way. Now, we've worked with other hunters along the way ― 'specially Bobby Singer, a couple of others ― but we always work together."
"Wow, you were in prison? Shit! How did that happen?" Michael couldn't help exclaiming; he was shocked by Dean's matter-of-fact statement about prison.
"Hunters always run the risk of getting arrested ― we do too much illegal crap not to be. Fake I.D.'s, impersonating officials, desecrating corpses, arson, all that shit. We've been arrested a fuckload of times. Prison, though ― well, maybe more on that another time, but it was a special situation. Once in a lifetime, I hope." Dean sighed and downed half of his coffee. Sam studiously looked out the window, jaw set firmly.
Michael wondered about the last occasion, the week they'd spent apart ― neither man had offered any details on that, not like the other two times they'd hunted apart. If one had been college and the other had been prison, what the hell had been so heavy that it warranted that particular week's split? Looked like no one was going to talk about that right now.
Dean coughed gently. "So, yeah . . . just been traveling around, you know how it goes. Him, me, and the Impala."
Michael smiled and nodded. It was really nice to feel someone was alongside you, in your corner. If last night and today were showing him anything, it was that the isolation of his life was as draining as the hunting itself. Maybe he needed to look for a hunting partner.
# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @
They split up after breakfast, Sam and Dean to address their laundry and shopping needs and Michael to run some errands. After finishing his to-do list, Michael headed back over to the Winchesters' room around four. They were back as well, clean laundry stacked on the dresser, shopping bags nestled beneath it. Dean was lounging on the bed with a beer in his hand. "Bought cold ones, they're in the fridge," he said as he gestured toward it. Sam came out of the bathroom and grabbed two, popping the tops and handing one to Michael. He took the cold bottle, slugging a good swallow down. "Hits the spot, doesn't it?" Sam grinned at him before taking another long drink himself.
"Sure does!" Michael sighed with pleasure.
Dean nodded. "Yeah, I'm one hundred percent down with that." He finished off his beer. "Now ― we eating in or out tonight?"
# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @
They opted for eating out and ended up back at the bar, ordering burgers and fries for Dean and Michael and a Caesar salad with chicken for Sam. He also filched fries from the pile on Dean's plate; Sam never admitted it to anyone, but he liked stealing food from Dean's plate. Dean's fries always seemed to taste better. He was feeling pretty good; he and Dean were getting along without the low-lying tension that often colored their time together, and then there was Michael. Michael had grown up to be a really good guy, and Sam was really enjoying spending time with him; he had an easy manner about him, with a laid-back sense of humor. The younger man meshed well with the often-wary Winchesters, and he was damn easy on the eyes as well. He'd grown up tall ― not as tall as Sam, looked to be an inch less than Dean ― with thick, dark blond hair, a wide mouth, and creamy skin that should be illegal on a guy. Sam idly wondered which way Michael swung, and resolved to watch him tonight, see if he could figure it out without asking. He wasn't interested in the guy that way ― Dean still owned his heart ― but he was just curious. Attractive is as attractive does.
The food was simple but tasty, and the beer was flowing freely. Michael didn't try keep up with the Winchesters' consumption and looked to just have a nice buzz on. Dean was definitely feeling his alcohol, sitting relaxed and loose, and Sam found himself again and again staring at his brother. Dean's guard was down and the jokes and quips were flying, keeping the other two men laughing, and Sam was unable to look away from Dean's bright green eyes and the white teeth flashing in his lush-lipped, laughing mouth. Gradually, Dean quieted down a little as his eyes began roving around the bar, letting Sam and Michael carry more of the conversation. Sam's jaw tensed and his smile faded as he watched Dean walk off with a swagger to the men's room. Michael picked up on the change in mood, looking questioningly at Sam.
"What's up? Is something going down here?" asked Michael quietly.
Sam shook his head. "It's a hunt all right, but not that kind of hunt," he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Dean's decided to get laid tonight, so he's looking at the available crop of potential fuckbunnies." He heard Michael snort out some beer. "Dude, I don't think of women that way, but Dean does on occasion, and he's not the only one like that. So, what's up is that he's horny and looking to score." He picked up his beer and thumped it down in annoyance when it turned out to be empty. He looked around and raised his hand for the waitress. "You want another?"
"Uh, no, I think I've had enough. Um, where's he gonna take her, whoever 'her' turns out to be?"
"Back to her place, if she has one. Otherwise, our room. Sometimes it's the Impala." Sam took a good slug of his fresh beer, his mouth tense as it left the bottle.
"Your room! But ― you'll be there! How ― I mean, what will you do?"
Sam rolled his eyes. The boy meant well, but shit, Sam forgot how young he still was. There was nothing new going on here; Sam had long ago learned to accommodate Dean's active sex life. The one that no longer involved him. "Stay in the bar. Go somewhere else. Sleep in the Impala."
"Damn. I mean, I guess I get it ― just because you hunt together doesn't mean you guys don't wanna get some action sometimes, and you do kinda live on top of each other. It just seems . . . kinda cold for him to kick you out." Michael picked at the label of his mostly empty beer. "You need a place tonight, you can stay with me. I got two beds in my room."
Sam looked at Michael, touched by his consideration. "Thanks, dude, appreciate it. It comes to that, I'll take you up on it." The further from that room I can be, the better. Like the next state.
Michael shrugged. "Sure. Of course ― no big."
They sat in silence as Dean walked back across the floor, stopping to talk to a girl sitting at a table who was smiling at him. She laughed flirtatiously at his words, her eyes riveted to Dean's as she toyed with a curly tendril of blonde hair. Dean put a hand on the back of her chair, leaning in with a smile and a wink. And there you go, ladies and gentlemen, thought Sam. Another notch-to-be on the belt of Dean Winchester.
Her name was Dawn, Dean said as he introduced her to Sam and Michael, and she looked thrilled to be hooking up with Dean, if one were to judge by the amount of laughter and flirting going on. Her generous, bra-free tits bounced with every giggle, hard nipples pushing against her thin, tight top. After just a few minutes of watching this, Michael had begged off for the night, heading back to his room but making sure to tell Sam his room number. As unhappy as Sam was about the evening's course of events, he couldn't help smile at Michael's discomfiture at the blatant interplay between Dean and Dawn. It certainly lent some credence to Michael's possibly walking on the rainbow side of the road.
After Michael left, Dean and Dawn moved to the tiny dance floor. Sam watched Dean fixedly, in fact he couldn't make himself stop watching while he danced so smoothly with Dawn, his hips grinding into hers. His head was bent, first to the side of her head (Sam could just imagine the amorous words he was murmuring into her ear in that rich, husky voice) and then to her face as he kissed her. Sam saw her eyes close ― he knew exactly what kind of bliss Dean's kisses generated ― and her hands curled tightly around his larger ones as she gave herself up to the pleasure of his lush mouth. Sam masochistically kept watching, ignoring his aching heart, stinging eyes, and churning gut. His dick chubbed up in his jeans, ignoring Sam's dismay as it reacted to the seductive performance Dean was putting on. The pain was familiar ― he'd seen this play out so many times before, what did one more matter? He knew how the scenario went ― a couple of dances, a couple of drinks, and then the besotted girl leaving with a Dean who was rarin' to go. Off to the motel room, or her place like he'd told Michael, and then off with their clothes.
Sam's breathing grew harsher, but he couldn't stop watching the couple entwined on the dance floor, couldn't stop replaying his mental footage of them naked and wrapped around each other. The girl herself didn't matter, she could be anyone; it was Dean that he was focused on, that pale skin frosted with freckles, and the big, smooth muscles underneath it. He vividly recalled how Dean's legs fit around Sam's waist, how his body felt so hard and strong beneath Sam's larger one, how he growled or moaned as he and Sam rhythmically moved together. But instead of Sam, it was this girl ― petite and curvy, with long hair and make-up who probably squeaked when she came. It wasn't right, it just wasn't right, goddammit.
He didn't feel his beer glass break under his grip, but the sting of the cuts broke his reverie. Beer spilled across the table and down his left leg, and his left hand held jagged pieces of glass. He dropped them onto the table, shaking his hand, mentally cursing at himself. The waitress came over with a towel, making distressed noises and asking if he needed to go to the emergency room as she mopped up the beer and the blood. Sam shook his head, curtly refusing the ER possibility ― the cuts weren't too bad, nothing he couldn't stitch up himself. He just needed to get out of there as fast as possible. Before Dean noticed any fuss. If he even noticed, that is, seeing that he was pretty well occupied with Dawn over there. Dawn with the big, perky boobs and the round ass and a soft, pink pussy between her legs that Dean could fuck, since he only fucked girls nowadays. No more men, no sirree, no cocks or tight holes for Dean anymore ― just pink, slick folds and round, bouncy tits. Sam couldn't figure out if that was better or worse.
Sam's eyes clouded with tears from the pain in his hand as well as his heart. He choked a thanks to the helpful waitress, throwing some money on her tray as he headed for the door. He had to get out of there before anything else happened. Like ripping that chick out of Dean's arms, away from his lips, and grabbing Dean himself. That wasn't going to happen ― he and Dean were just brothers, and it had been that way for too long. The tears were falling now, salty trickles down his cheeks as hoarse sobs tore from his throat. He half-ran down the street, heading for the motel. He thought about Michael's earlier offer of a bed and decided to take him up it. He didn't want to take the remotest chance of running into Dean and that girl back at their room. Sam couldn't deal with a face-to-face encounter like that right now.
Or ever.
Michael was rather surprised to hear Sam banging on his motel room door at one a.m., but he let him in readily. "Hey ― so, I know it's late but can I take you up on your offer, man? Sack out here?" Sam asked, running a big hand through his disheveled hair. He didn't say anything about the obvious tear tracks on his face, so Michael pretended not to see them.
"Yeah, sure, of course. Mi casa and all, even if it's not really mi casa," Michael tried to answer lightly. Sam apparently didn't notice his effort at amusement, instead alternating between glowering at the floor and gazing fixedly out the window. Michael wondered what had him so upset. He gestured to the other bed and said, "Take a load off." As Sam moved toward the bed, Michael saw the bloody towel wrapped around his hand. "Dude! What happened? Here, sit down and let me take a look at it, okay?"
Sam plopped down on the bed and mumbled, "S'fine. No big. Broke a glass." He sniffed and combed his hair back again. Michael realized how his hair had gotten so disheveled.
"No, seriously, Sam ― I gotta look at it. What if you have some glass still in there? Or you need stitches? C'mon, you don't want to fuck up your hand for good. I'm just grabbing my first aid kit, okay?" He darted in the bathroom and grabbed his kit and a towel. What the fuck is going on here? he wondered. This was not just an average case of drunken blues. This was a strong man deep in some serious emotional pain. What happened at the bar after Michael left?
Settling down next to Sam on the bed, Michael opened the kit and then gently picked up Sam's hand. He unwrapped the towel and hissed as he saw the cuts from the glass. Sam sat still as Michael cleaned his hand and then carefully checked for any remaining glass slivers or shards. He stitched up the two largest cuts, put butterfly strips on a couple more, and then wound gauze around his palm. "There you go. No glass left, and you're all stitched and bandaged. Just keep an eye on it for infection, okay? Although I probably don't need to tell you about wound care," Michael said with a wry laugh.
Sam looked blankly at the bandage wrapped around his hand. "I broke the glass. I was just sitting there holding it and then it broke. I guess I squeezed it too hard." His breath hitched. "I was watching him dance with that girl, and then all I could think about was how he's going to fuck her. He only fucks girls now, you know, and it just ― I just ― I got so mad." He raised his eyes and looked at Michael for the first time, eyelashes wet around red-rimmed eyes. "But I'm not really mad, you know? I just want ― I want it to be the way it was. I want him to want me again. I want to be the one that he's with all the time, like it used to be."
Tears suddenly rolled down his face, following the lines in his cheeks that Michael knew hid his dimples. His multi-colored eyes glistened as the tears kept welling up and spilling over. "I still love him, but I have to wall it off all the time. Can't let it out anymore, gotta keep it locked away. S'what Dean said he wanted. Sometimes I can't though ― pretending's so hard, jus' wanna let it out. Especially on nights like this when I have to watch him pick up some fuckin' random girl and waltz off into the night. I know what he's doing. I remember how incredible sex is with him. It's never been like that with anyone else, ever." Sam looked at Michael, his mouth loose and chin quivering. "I'm the one who should be in bed with him. Not those stupid girls who don't even know who he really is. Me. I'm the one who loves him."
Michael sat frozen, stunned by Sam's grief-laden outpouring. All that supposition all those years ago, and boom ― here it was. Not some dirty joke, but a man's heart laid out right in front of him. A broken heart.
He took a split second to remember that these were brothers and this was incest they were talking about. Wasn't this wrong, taboo? Shouldn't he be repulsed? Hadn't Dean done the right thing by ending it? Surely it was better for them to be brothers and nothing more.
Michael admitted to himself that there were big issues involved here that needed further thought. What mattered most at the moment, though, was the man sitting in front of him, awash in pain. Sam and Dean were among the best people he knew, and if being lovers was what they wanted or needed, then it wasn't his place to judge. No one else was hurt by their relationship, no matter how close they'd become. Except right now Sam was hurting big-time, sitting here half drunk out of his mind, face wet with tears he seemed unaware of. What the hell had gone wrong?
"Sam," Michael asked quietly. "Why isn't Dean ― what happened between you two? Why aren't you together anymore?"
Sam whuffled a damp sigh. "Jesus, I don't even know. Dean just came in one day and said we were done. We weren't going to be . . . partners like that anymore. Just brothers and hunters. Then he left for a week. I don't know where he went. I guess he wanted to make a point of it, us being different now. When he came back ― that was how things were afterward." He started unlacing his boots. "Thanks for the first aid and the bed, man. I'm so fuckin' tired." He kicked his boots off and crawled up on the bed. He was snoring within minutes, long limbs slung across the bed.
Michael sat and watched him for a while. He studied the lines and tension on Sam's face, watching it smooth out as he fell into a deeper sleep. Damn, Sam was not that old, but he looked like he carried twenty extra years on him. Is that going to happen to me? Michael wondered. Is it just being a hunter, or is it whatever happened between them? What made Dean change their dynamic like that? Is it affecting Dean the way it is Sam?
Finally he got up and performed his nighttime routine, coming back out of the bathroom to slip on some pajama pants and a T-shirt. Sam had turned to the wall and curled up, so Michael left him there but draped a blanket over his big body. He crawled under his own blanket and lay staring at Sam's back before he made himself turn away so he too could sleep.
On to Part 3
Sam saw the impact of his statement cross Dean's face. First there was the surprise, the shock, of Sam's deduction. It was quickly replaced by resignation. Probably seventy-five to eighty percent of hunters ended up on that path because of personal loss. Look at their own dad ― ex-Marine, mechanic, family man, until the death of his wife pushed him into the life. Bobby. Gordon. Elkins. Rufus. Jo. Countless others. The danger in the dark revealed through the death of a loved one, the resultant need to act, to do something, to seek revenge and fight back, to protect the ones who didn't know.
And now Michael had joined that list. Back then, Sam had hoped the brush with the shtriga wouldn't change Michael's destiny that much. Apparently, it was not how things had worked out.
They talked about nothing in particular as they finished their whiskey, letting the words and memory of Asher simply lie there quietly. When they were done, Michael rose to go. He was just a few rooms down from the Winchesters, so he shook their hands again, bade them goodnight, and left. Dean closed the door behind him, leaning heavily against it with one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other. Sam could see the fatigue in the lines of Dean's body, but also the defeat. They'd saved Asher only to lose him in the end. Sam knew how a loss like that took the fight out of Dean. Saving people ― especially kids ― was Dean's raison d'être, and he never took a loss well, much less the loss of a child.
"Dean ― we couldn't have known. We did everything we could, and Asher had a lot more years because of it. C'mon, Dean, don't blame yourself. We can't be everywhere all the time." Sam walked over to his brother, gripped his shoulder. "Dude, it's not your fault. It's not."
Dean rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat. "Yeah, yeah, you're right. You're right. I just ― shit, he was still a kid, Sammy. Just a teenager. It's not right, y'know?" He walked over to one of the beds and plopped down. "And now Michael's a fucking hunter. Jesus, what is he, twenty-two? What the fuck is that? He's a fucking baby himself."
Sam laughed harshly. "Dean, I was twenty-two when I got back in the life. And both of us grew up in it. We never even had 'normal'. Do I wish he'd stayed off this path? Sure. But he's grown up enough to pick his own road now, and he's picked this. It's his right." He sat down on the other bed, finally giving in to his tiredness. "Fuck, I'm beat. You want the bathroom first?"
Dean heaved himself off of the bed with a groan. "Sure, just gonna pee and brush." He walked into the bathroom and shut the door, which was too flimsy to muffle the cascade of his bedtime voiding. Inured to the deficiencies of motel bathrooms, Sam barely blinked.
With a deep sigh, Sam let his weariness slide him from merely thoughtful into downright moody, brooding himself over Asher's sad, short story after telling Dean not to. He quickly changed out of his clothes into soft track pants and a T-shirt, wanting to avoid any more awkward unclothed moments with Dean. Spending all of his time with his brother was a lot easier if certain issues were never brought into the light. He puttered about repacking his duffel, pulling out clean clothes for the morning, then scooted into the bathroom when Dean came out. He took his time flossing, brushing, washing his face, and peeing, wanting to give Dean enough time to change and get into bed.
Turning off the light, he cracked the door and saw Dean under the covers, only his spiky hair visible on the pillow. Sam crossed to his own bed, turned out the light, and slid under his covers. They had actually allowed the maid in that morning, so the sheets were faintly starched, cool and crisp, and they felt good against his skin. The thought of having someone curled up with him, their warm skin and breath against his body, drifted through his drowsy mind, and it filled him with an ache, a yearning, that he dared not fully admit, lest it consume him. Instead, he turned over and began to do breathing exercises in his mind. In a few minutes, he was asleep.
# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @
Dean heard when Sammy dropped off. He'd spent far too many nights only a couple of feet away from his brother not to know Sammy's sleep breathing pattern versus his awake one. And that didn't even count the nights they'd spent wrapped around each other, breathing on each other's skin. It had been a long time since those nights.
Dean rolled onto his back, restless and with his thoughts roiling. He squinched up his eyes in an effort to quell the pictures rolling through his tired brain. Bad enough he'd had an incestuous relationship with his baby brother. Bad enough they hadn't been able to keep their hands off each other, fucking everywhere they hunted, like a damn sex tour across America. It was wrong for society, but it had been right for them. It made them stronger, made their rough life a little easier, because they had each other. He had loved Sammy so much; still did if truth were told, even though now he had to hide it. He knew Sam didn't think of Dean like that anymore; if Dean suggested otherwise, he was pretty sure Sam's fist would smash him in the face, after going through the breakup Dean had forced on him years ago.
Dean made the brutal decision that they had to stop being lovers and go back to just being brothers. It was Dean who pushed Sam's distraught hands away, who left for a week to make sure the separation took. It had taken everything Dean had, every ounce of strength and determination and resolve, to turn away from Sammy's tear-streaked face, his pleading eyes and choked words, and walk out the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something big and dark fall to the floor behind him, and he grimly kept on walking. If he had turned back then, it would all have been for nothing, because he would have run to his lover, his baby brother, and he would have held him, kissed him, promised him that it was okay and those words were all lies. I didn't mean it ― I love you, Sammy, always will, so sorry, baby, so so so sorry. And he wouldn't do that. He couldn't. The break had to be made if Sam was to have any chance of a better life. Of surviving.
It was the angels sending him to the past that convinced Dean to end it. He'd seen his mother make the deal that started the whole ugly spiral: her deal that led to John's deal that finally led to Dean's own deal. Everyone in his family trading their lives and souls for their loved ones. Sammy was Dean's loved one in every way possible ― his brother, his lover, his best friend, his hunting partner. Seeing his family devastated by the path of destruction Azazel and Lucifer caused, and realizing that their love was a tool of that devastation? Dean decided that they'd be better off ending it and reduce their weakness, their vulnerability. The best way for that to happen was to cut the bond between him and Sammy. They couldn't stop being brothers, and they needed to remain partners, so they had to stop being lovers. And it didn't matter how agonizing that split was, how much Dean's soul cried out for Sam's, how badly his body craved his brother's tall, muscular form. It had to end.
Dean rolled over again, punching the pillow and kicking at the sheets. Goddammit, he just wanted to get some sleep! Seeing Michael had stirred up all these thoughts and feelings from the past again. He'd felt a real kinship to Michael and Asher, back then. Michael had been so fierce, taking care of his younger brother during the shtriga hunt. Michael had seen through the Winchesters back then too. Dean could picture the teenager clear as anything, standing behind the motel front desk and registering a room for them. Michael had looked at Dean, then at Sam, then back at Dean, and asked "King or two queens?"
"Two queens."
Michael had rolled his eyes and muttered what Dean swore to this day sounded like "Yeah, I bet."
Dean had looked at him in disbelief. "What'd you say?" This kid looked too young to be that snarky!
"Nice car!" Michael said, flashing an innocent smile. Dean looked at him suspiciously, but then turned away, key in hand.
Yeah, that little exchange had surprised and amused Dean. And now Michael was all grown up and a hunter himself. It dawned on him that they'd never asked Michael what he was doing there, but they were meeting for breakfast, so it could wait until then.
Dean felt a little more relaxed now, so he turned over one last time, cocooned into his blanket, concentrated on Sam's steady breathing, and fell asleep.
# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @
Michael got up early the next morning, despite the late night, and he hurried through his morning routine so he could meet up with the Winchesters for breakfast at the diner a block down from the motel. The diner was a homey place, with lace curtains and little flower-filled glass vases on the tables, Sam and Dean were already sitting in a booth, colorfully upholstered in turquoise pleather, when Michael came through the door, the bell overhead ringing loudly with his entrance. They were sitting across from each other, so Michael slid in next to Dean. "Coffee?" asked the waitress, a pleasant smile on her softly wrinkled face. She had a figure just rounding with middle age and wore the typical cheap diner waitress dress, this version in pale pink with a white collar and a white apron tied around her waist. Her plastic nametag had "Hetty" written on it in black marker.
"Yeah, Hetty, coffee all around please," Dean said, giving her a wide grin. The other two men nodded eager assent to her coffee query. She blushed faintly at the focused attention of three good-looking men.
"You guys know what you want, or do you need a minute?" she went on, glancing at each of them in turn.
"Two over easy, sausage and bacon, hash browns, rye toast," said Dean. "And make that bacon crisp, sweetheart."
Sam and Michael placed their orders as well. "You got it, boys. Pleasure to see young men with such good appetites. Coffee'll be right up." She saluted them with a smile, and went to put in the orders and pour the coffee.
"Damn, I'm so hungry," Dean grumbled, rubbing his face. He groaned, then dove for a coffee cup when Doris returned with them.
Sam laughed. "Dude, you say that like it's unusual. You're always hungry." He grabbed his own cup, humming with pleasure as he sipped the hot liquid.
Michael watched them with an amused look on his face. "You guys really know each other inside and out, huh? Is it the brother thing, or the years hunting together?" He took the remaining cup and blew on it, not wanting to scorch his tongue and suffer the rest of the day.
Sam and Dean exchanged glances. Michael saw something deeply unhappy pass between them with that look, but Dean's tone was light-hearted when he replied. "Probably both," he said casually, while Sam looked darkly at his coffee cup. "We grew up on the road together, so we were always in each other's pocket. Pretty much the same thing now, 'cept for when I get lucky, then Sammy gets lost." He winked at Michael before slurping more coffee and smacking his lips.
Michael's eyes went to Sam, curious as to his viewpoint, but he was shocked to see an expression of pain flit across Sam's handsome face. Apparently that light-hearted attitude of Dean's wasn't completely shared by his brother. But . . . what caused that pained look? Clearly there were deep emotions in play that Michael didn't understand right now, and he wondered what was really going on in the brothers' relationship.
The food arrived, and Michael's curiosity was buried under a stack of fluffy pancakes served with a little pitcher of warm maple syrup on the side. All three men ate heartily, conversation temporarily curtailed by the business of ingesting hot food. Sam snuck a piece of bacon off Dean's plate and Dean pretended to ignore it, although Michael saw the corner of his mouth twitch in a quickly stifled smile.
Finally sticky mouths and hands were wiped, the waitress cleared the demolished plates, and fresh coffee was poured. The three hunters sat companionably for several minutes, savoring the delicious breakfast and coffee.
"So, Michael, given our respective occupations, I'm curious what you're doing here. Anything in particular bring you to Burwell, Nebraska?" Dean asked lazily, drizzling coffee droplets around the table with his spoon.
Sam bumped his arm, frowning in the direction of his hand. Dean sighed heavily and put his spoon down, wiping the drops up with a napkin. Michael hid a snicker under his hand, but then regarded Sam with a straight face when he continued Dean's train of thought. "Yeah, of course it could be coincidence, and it's great to have run into you, but we were wondering if you're here on a hunt."
Michael felt the weight of the life settle back onto his shoulders. The previous night and this morning both had been a break he hadn't realized he needed ― a chance to really relax, and even more ― to enjoy company. Company that he didn't have to hide anything from, company that understood the burden and danger of hunting. People that he could have a drink with, smile and laugh with, and not feel like a fraud. Or a criminal. But it was always going to be transient.
"No, I just wrapped up a hunt nearby. Pissed-off ogre, taking its own damage on innocents." He took a deep drink of coffee, cradling the warm mug in his hands. "So, do a lot of hunters pair up, or are you two a minority?"
"It depends on the hunt and the hunters," Sam answered. "Some hunters prefer to work in groups or pairs. Some are lone wolves, don't want anything to do with anyone else. Of course, Dean and I," he gestured to his brother, "we've always worked together. Our skills complement each other, and we know how important it is to have someone at your back in the field. There's only been a couple of times that we've -" Sam broke off abruptly and Michael saw that pained expression cross his face again.
"Only been a couple a times we've hunted apart, like when Sammy here was in college," Dean took up the narrative. "Then I was . . . imprisoned far away for a few months, and Sammy was on his own. A year or so after I . . . got released, we split up for about a week. That's it. Rest of it has been the dynamic duo all the way. Now, we've worked with other hunters along the way ― 'specially Bobby Singer, a couple of others ― but we always work together."
"Wow, you were in prison? Shit! How did that happen?" Michael couldn't help exclaiming; he was shocked by Dean's matter-of-fact statement about prison.
"Hunters always run the risk of getting arrested ― we do too much illegal crap not to be. Fake I.D.'s, impersonating officials, desecrating corpses, arson, all that shit. We've been arrested a fuckload of times. Prison, though ― well, maybe more on that another time, but it was a special situation. Once in a lifetime, I hope." Dean sighed and downed half of his coffee. Sam studiously looked out the window, jaw set firmly.
Michael wondered about the last occasion, the week they'd spent apart ― neither man had offered any details on that, not like the other two times they'd hunted apart. If one had been college and the other had been prison, what the hell had been so heavy that it warranted that particular week's split? Looked like no one was going to talk about that right now.
Dean coughed gently. "So, yeah . . . just been traveling around, you know how it goes. Him, me, and the Impala."
Michael smiled and nodded. It was really nice to feel someone was alongside you, in your corner. If last night and today were showing him anything, it was that the isolation of his life was as draining as the hunting itself. Maybe he needed to look for a hunting partner.
# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @
They split up after breakfast, Sam and Dean to address their laundry and shopping needs and Michael to run some errands. After finishing his to-do list, Michael headed back over to the Winchesters' room around four. They were back as well, clean laundry stacked on the dresser, shopping bags nestled beneath it. Dean was lounging on the bed with a beer in his hand. "Bought cold ones, they're in the fridge," he said as he gestured toward it. Sam came out of the bathroom and grabbed two, popping the tops and handing one to Michael. He took the cold bottle, slugging a good swallow down. "Hits the spot, doesn't it?" Sam grinned at him before taking another long drink himself.
"Sure does!" Michael sighed with pleasure.
Dean nodded. "Yeah, I'm one hundred percent down with that." He finished off his beer. "Now ― we eating in or out tonight?"
# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @
They opted for eating out and ended up back at the bar, ordering burgers and fries for Dean and Michael and a Caesar salad with chicken for Sam. He also filched fries from the pile on Dean's plate; Sam never admitted it to anyone, but he liked stealing food from Dean's plate. Dean's fries always seemed to taste better. He was feeling pretty good; he and Dean were getting along without the low-lying tension that often colored their time together, and then there was Michael. Michael had grown up to be a really good guy, and Sam was really enjoying spending time with him; he had an easy manner about him, with a laid-back sense of humor. The younger man meshed well with the often-wary Winchesters, and he was damn easy on the eyes as well. He'd grown up tall ― not as tall as Sam, looked to be an inch less than Dean ― with thick, dark blond hair, a wide mouth, and creamy skin that should be illegal on a guy. Sam idly wondered which way Michael swung, and resolved to watch him tonight, see if he could figure it out without asking. He wasn't interested in the guy that way ― Dean still owned his heart ― but he was just curious. Attractive is as attractive does.
The food was simple but tasty, and the beer was flowing freely. Michael didn't try keep up with the Winchesters' consumption and looked to just have a nice buzz on. Dean was definitely feeling his alcohol, sitting relaxed and loose, and Sam found himself again and again staring at his brother. Dean's guard was down and the jokes and quips were flying, keeping the other two men laughing, and Sam was unable to look away from Dean's bright green eyes and the white teeth flashing in his lush-lipped, laughing mouth. Gradually, Dean quieted down a little as his eyes began roving around the bar, letting Sam and Michael carry more of the conversation. Sam's jaw tensed and his smile faded as he watched Dean walk off with a swagger to the men's room. Michael picked up on the change in mood, looking questioningly at Sam.
"What's up? Is something going down here?" asked Michael quietly.
Sam shook his head. "It's a hunt all right, but not that kind of hunt," he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Dean's decided to get laid tonight, so he's looking at the available crop of potential fuckbunnies." He heard Michael snort out some beer. "Dude, I don't think of women that way, but Dean does on occasion, and he's not the only one like that. So, what's up is that he's horny and looking to score." He picked up his beer and thumped it down in annoyance when it turned out to be empty. He looked around and raised his hand for the waitress. "You want another?"
"Uh, no, I think I've had enough. Um, where's he gonna take her, whoever 'her' turns out to be?"
"Back to her place, if she has one. Otherwise, our room. Sometimes it's the Impala." Sam took a good slug of his fresh beer, his mouth tense as it left the bottle.
"Your room! But ― you'll be there! How ― I mean, what will you do?"
Sam rolled his eyes. The boy meant well, but shit, Sam forgot how young he still was. There was nothing new going on here; Sam had long ago learned to accommodate Dean's active sex life. The one that no longer involved him. "Stay in the bar. Go somewhere else. Sleep in the Impala."
"Damn. I mean, I guess I get it ― just because you hunt together doesn't mean you guys don't wanna get some action sometimes, and you do kinda live on top of each other. It just seems . . . kinda cold for him to kick you out." Michael picked at the label of his mostly empty beer. "You need a place tonight, you can stay with me. I got two beds in my room."
Sam looked at Michael, touched by his consideration. "Thanks, dude, appreciate it. It comes to that, I'll take you up on it." The further from that room I can be, the better. Like the next state.
Michael shrugged. "Sure. Of course ― no big."
They sat in silence as Dean walked back across the floor, stopping to talk to a girl sitting at a table who was smiling at him. She laughed flirtatiously at his words, her eyes riveted to Dean's as she toyed with a curly tendril of blonde hair. Dean put a hand on the back of her chair, leaning in with a smile and a wink. And there you go, ladies and gentlemen, thought Sam. Another notch-to-be on the belt of Dean Winchester.
Her name was Dawn, Dean said as he introduced her to Sam and Michael, and she looked thrilled to be hooking up with Dean, if one were to judge by the amount of laughter and flirting going on. Her generous, bra-free tits bounced with every giggle, hard nipples pushing against her thin, tight top. After just a few minutes of watching this, Michael had begged off for the night, heading back to his room but making sure to tell Sam his room number. As unhappy as Sam was about the evening's course of events, he couldn't help smile at Michael's discomfiture at the blatant interplay between Dean and Dawn. It certainly lent some credence to Michael's possibly walking on the rainbow side of the road.
After Michael left, Dean and Dawn moved to the tiny dance floor. Sam watched Dean fixedly, in fact he couldn't make himself stop watching while he danced so smoothly with Dawn, his hips grinding into hers. His head was bent, first to the side of her head (Sam could just imagine the amorous words he was murmuring into her ear in that rich, husky voice) and then to her face as he kissed her. Sam saw her eyes close ― he knew exactly what kind of bliss Dean's kisses generated ― and her hands curled tightly around his larger ones as she gave herself up to the pleasure of his lush mouth. Sam masochistically kept watching, ignoring his aching heart, stinging eyes, and churning gut. His dick chubbed up in his jeans, ignoring Sam's dismay as it reacted to the seductive performance Dean was putting on. The pain was familiar ― he'd seen this play out so many times before, what did one more matter? He knew how the scenario went ― a couple of dances, a couple of drinks, and then the besotted girl leaving with a Dean who was rarin' to go. Off to the motel room, or her place like he'd told Michael, and then off with their clothes.
Sam's breathing grew harsher, but he couldn't stop watching the couple entwined on the dance floor, couldn't stop replaying his mental footage of them naked and wrapped around each other. The girl herself didn't matter, she could be anyone; it was Dean that he was focused on, that pale skin frosted with freckles, and the big, smooth muscles underneath it. He vividly recalled how Dean's legs fit around Sam's waist, how his body felt so hard and strong beneath Sam's larger one, how he growled or moaned as he and Sam rhythmically moved together. But instead of Sam, it was this girl ― petite and curvy, with long hair and make-up who probably squeaked when she came. It wasn't right, it just wasn't right, goddammit.
He didn't feel his beer glass break under his grip, but the sting of the cuts broke his reverie. Beer spilled across the table and down his left leg, and his left hand held jagged pieces of glass. He dropped them onto the table, shaking his hand, mentally cursing at himself. The waitress came over with a towel, making distressed noises and asking if he needed to go to the emergency room as she mopped up the beer and the blood. Sam shook his head, curtly refusing the ER possibility ― the cuts weren't too bad, nothing he couldn't stitch up himself. He just needed to get out of there as fast as possible. Before Dean noticed any fuss. If he even noticed, that is, seeing that he was pretty well occupied with Dawn over there. Dawn with the big, perky boobs and the round ass and a soft, pink pussy between her legs that Dean could fuck, since he only fucked girls nowadays. No more men, no sirree, no cocks or tight holes for Dean anymore ― just pink, slick folds and round, bouncy tits. Sam couldn't figure out if that was better or worse.
Sam's eyes clouded with tears from the pain in his hand as well as his heart. He choked a thanks to the helpful waitress, throwing some money on her tray as he headed for the door. He had to get out of there before anything else happened. Like ripping that chick out of Dean's arms, away from his lips, and grabbing Dean himself. That wasn't going to happen ― he and Dean were just brothers, and it had been that way for too long. The tears were falling now, salty trickles down his cheeks as hoarse sobs tore from his throat. He half-ran down the street, heading for the motel. He thought about Michael's earlier offer of a bed and decided to take him up it. He didn't want to take the remotest chance of running into Dean and that girl back at their room. Sam couldn't deal with a face-to-face encounter like that right now.
Or ever.
Michael was rather surprised to hear Sam banging on his motel room door at one a.m., but he let him in readily. "Hey ― so, I know it's late but can I take you up on your offer, man? Sack out here?" Sam asked, running a big hand through his disheveled hair. He didn't say anything about the obvious tear tracks on his face, so Michael pretended not to see them.
"Yeah, sure, of course. Mi casa and all, even if it's not really mi casa," Michael tried to answer lightly. Sam apparently didn't notice his effort at amusement, instead alternating between glowering at the floor and gazing fixedly out the window. Michael wondered what had him so upset. He gestured to the other bed and said, "Take a load off." As Sam moved toward the bed, Michael saw the bloody towel wrapped around his hand. "Dude! What happened? Here, sit down and let me take a look at it, okay?"
Sam plopped down on the bed and mumbled, "S'fine. No big. Broke a glass." He sniffed and combed his hair back again. Michael realized how his hair had gotten so disheveled.
"No, seriously, Sam ― I gotta look at it. What if you have some glass still in there? Or you need stitches? C'mon, you don't want to fuck up your hand for good. I'm just grabbing my first aid kit, okay?" He darted in the bathroom and grabbed his kit and a towel. What the fuck is going on here? he wondered. This was not just an average case of drunken blues. This was a strong man deep in some serious emotional pain. What happened at the bar after Michael left?
Settling down next to Sam on the bed, Michael opened the kit and then gently picked up Sam's hand. He unwrapped the towel and hissed as he saw the cuts from the glass. Sam sat still as Michael cleaned his hand and then carefully checked for any remaining glass slivers or shards. He stitched up the two largest cuts, put butterfly strips on a couple more, and then wound gauze around his palm. "There you go. No glass left, and you're all stitched and bandaged. Just keep an eye on it for infection, okay? Although I probably don't need to tell you about wound care," Michael said with a wry laugh.
Sam looked blankly at the bandage wrapped around his hand. "I broke the glass. I was just sitting there holding it and then it broke. I guess I squeezed it too hard." His breath hitched. "I was watching him dance with that girl, and then all I could think about was how he's going to fuck her. He only fucks girls now, you know, and it just ― I just ― I got so mad." He raised his eyes and looked at Michael for the first time, eyelashes wet around red-rimmed eyes. "But I'm not really mad, you know? I just want ― I want it to be the way it was. I want him to want me again. I want to be the one that he's with all the time, like it used to be."
Tears suddenly rolled down his face, following the lines in his cheeks that Michael knew hid his dimples. His multi-colored eyes glistened as the tears kept welling up and spilling over. "I still love him, but I have to wall it off all the time. Can't let it out anymore, gotta keep it locked away. S'what Dean said he wanted. Sometimes I can't though ― pretending's so hard, jus' wanna let it out. Especially on nights like this when I have to watch him pick up some fuckin' random girl and waltz off into the night. I know what he's doing. I remember how incredible sex is with him. It's never been like that with anyone else, ever." Sam looked at Michael, his mouth loose and chin quivering. "I'm the one who should be in bed with him. Not those stupid girls who don't even know who he really is. Me. I'm the one who loves him."
Michael sat frozen, stunned by Sam's grief-laden outpouring. All that supposition all those years ago, and boom ― here it was. Not some dirty joke, but a man's heart laid out right in front of him. A broken heart.
He took a split second to remember that these were brothers and this was incest they were talking about. Wasn't this wrong, taboo? Shouldn't he be repulsed? Hadn't Dean done the right thing by ending it? Surely it was better for them to be brothers and nothing more.
Michael admitted to himself that there were big issues involved here that needed further thought. What mattered most at the moment, though, was the man sitting in front of him, awash in pain. Sam and Dean were among the best people he knew, and if being lovers was what they wanted or needed, then it wasn't his place to judge. No one else was hurt by their relationship, no matter how close they'd become. Except right now Sam was hurting big-time, sitting here half drunk out of his mind, face wet with tears he seemed unaware of. What the hell had gone wrong?
"Sam," Michael asked quietly. "Why isn't Dean ― what happened between you two? Why aren't you together anymore?"
Sam whuffled a damp sigh. "Jesus, I don't even know. Dean just came in one day and said we were done. We weren't going to be . . . partners like that anymore. Just brothers and hunters. Then he left for a week. I don't know where he went. I guess he wanted to make a point of it, us being different now. When he came back ― that was how things were afterward." He started unlacing his boots. "Thanks for the first aid and the bed, man. I'm so fuckin' tired." He kicked his boots off and crawled up on the bed. He was snoring within minutes, long limbs slung across the bed.
Michael sat and watched him for a while. He studied the lines and tension on Sam's face, watching it smooth out as he fell into a deeper sleep. Damn, Sam was not that old, but he looked like he carried twenty extra years on him. Is that going to happen to me? Michael wondered. Is it just being a hunter, or is it whatever happened between them? What made Dean change their dynamic like that? Is it affecting Dean the way it is Sam?
Finally he got up and performed his nighttime routine, coming back out of the bathroom to slip on some pajama pants and a T-shirt. Sam had turned to the wall and curled up, so Michael left him there but draped a blanket over his big body. He crawled under his own blanket and lay staring at Sam's back before he made himself turn away so he too could sleep.
On to Part 3