Never Be (Sam/Dean) NC-17 [Part One]

[rejeneration]

It’s the grade-B horror music that wakes him. He thinks he remembers this one, turning onto his hip, eyes still shut. Dude gets staked, ends up coming back as a vengeful tree or some shit. Hokey, but Sam had almost laughed himself sick in a motel room outside of Detroit, and Dean hadn’t had the heart to make him change the channel. Besides, Dean had suffered through a lot worse, Plan Nine for example, all out of duty to his little brother.

Head fitting into the curve of his hand, web of sleep still clinging, Dean props himself on his elbow. The bed’s a warm invitation, mattress softer than anything he’s felt in… ages. Real sheets, an honest-to-God comforter, all fabric-softener and faux, line-dried freshness. There’s no Magic Fingers, at least none that he can see through partially cracked lids, but outside of that, it’s damn near flawless. It’s like a really good dream, and it has to be, too, because he certainly didn’t fall asleep in front of a plasma screen. It’s the big things, like a Sony fifty inch, Dean would like to pride himself on remembering.

“Turn it off, and lay back down,” Sam murmurs, voice just a sluggish slide as he presses a remote into Dean’s hand. Dean thumbs the power switch and reduces the room to darkness, then drops the heavy plastic - tumble-thud - over the side of the bed.

A pillow under his head, his arm beneath, and it’s not the slow link of Sam’s hand around Dean’s back, fingers skimming up his bare spine, or Sam - naked for all intents and purposes - burrowing into Dean’s shoulder, mouth a hot, wet press of small, sleepy kisses that sends Dean bolt upright. No. It’s the lack of the fucking hardware, no knife under his forearm - where he knows he left it - and if that’s not the fucking strangest reaction in the history of ever, well he doesn’t know what is. Son of a bitch!

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Sam breathes, leans up to thread his fingers around Dean’s bicep, tries with massive hands to drag him back down.

“Sam, what the fuck?”

“It’s just a nightmare, Dean. Keep telling you not to fall asleep with the TV on. Come on, com’ere.” Sam’s all over him, arms and legs and how many of the fucking things’s this kid got, anyway, hands forming a tight circle around Dean’s waist, tucking him back against Sam’s chest. “Stay with me. You worked all day and I missed you.”

“Seriously, dude, get off’a me.” Dean digs his fingers into the twine of Sam’s, pries them apart and makes a hasty retreat, blindly scooping clothes off the floor as he goes. He’s halfway through the bedroom door, tugging drawers he’s positively sure aren’t his up his hips, when he decides he doesn’t much care whose underwear he’s got on and makes for the safety of a ring of light coming from the kitchen.

The Henley’s just over his head, static in his hair, jeans still partially undone when Sam wobbles out. “What’s wrong?” he asks again, all sleepy little boy, hands balled up as he rubs his eyes, and Christ, did his dick just twitch watching his little brother do that?

“Okay, good joke. Ha, ha,” Dean deadpans, lips forming a triumphant scowl. “When the fucking roofie wears off, you can tell me all about how you did it and then maybe why. Because a prank’s a prank, and as far as they go, this one ‘s pretty fuckin’ huge, Sammy, but the thing with the bed? A little much, don’t you think?” He arcs an eyebrow at his brother, backs up into some wooden barrier.

“Prank? What are you talking about?” Expressions scroll across Sam’s face like the falling pages of a flip book - confusion, concern, a brief foray into annoyance, until he finally settles on… is that hurt? What the hell? Sam’s always been dramatic, prone to exaggeration, but Dean’s never seen such an Oscar winning performance.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, whatever, dude,” Dean waves a dismissive hand, narrows his eyes down to slits, “but I swear to fucking God, if you spent all the reserve cash, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“Reserve cash?” Sam moves on to looking pissy, squints back at Dean with a half-nod. “Are we talking about the Christmas club here or…?”

“Christmas club?” They’re talking circles around one another and Dean’s starting to get a serious headache.

“Look, I dunno what your damage is, but next time, I’m cutting you off at two beers before bed. Now, either you come back in with me, or promise to keep it down out here. I have that deposition in the morning and I need to be out of here by eight.”

Sam turns tail, shags it back into the bedroom before Dean can even process. Dean's hands are braced against the island, wood cupped in tight fists, slick gloss of paper beneath, and Dean twists around to pull a stack of envelopes into his hands.

Dean Winchester
#53 Barker Avenue
Lawrence, KS
66044

What the fuck? Sam must have been planning this for months. But Lawrence? Why Lawrence?

There’s a bowl of fruit on the table, shitty diamond-green wallpaper on the walls, a guitar resting in a stand. The last thing he can remember is the D’jinn, a hand of blue fire bearing down…

It’s the picture in the frame, the one on the table near the door. His heart stops for a full twenty seconds as it registers, and the world winds down to the sound of his returning heartbeat, the rush of blood through his ears.

The wood is smooth beneath his fingers, slides free like it’s nothing, crush of glass barely an echo as he opens the door. The drive is on instinct: three quarters of a mile, four lights. Rights and lefts he barely remembers taking as he parks the Impala tight against the curb.

He’s knocking too loud, banging too hard, laying on the bell, but he doesn’t care. When the light clicks on, when Mary tugs open the door, when his mother - her face, beautiful, delicately etched with lines - stands before him, Dean thinks it’s possible - probable - he’s already dead.

“Dean?”

“Mom?” He’s doing everything he can to hold it together, desperation robbing his voice. When she asks what he’s doing, if he’s alright, he can’t even reply.

It’s obviously the D’jinn. Whether it’s granting wishes or killing him, he doesn’t know, but there she is, his mother, not the woman destroyed by fire, but a woman’s who’s lived a life. A life they never had.

“Come inside,” she says, pulling him into a hug, and he’s shaking, leans back to look at her.

“Unreal,” he whispers, kissing into her hair. Breathes in the smell of mother, a shotgun recoil of recognition to punch him in the gut. A nearly thirty-year-old memory of the only thing Dean’s ever been able to equate with safe and home. “Mom,” he exhales into her hair.

“Sam just called. He’s worried about you. Said you took off all of a sudden.”

“Sam?” Dean’s barely listening. Everything on autopilot - there are pictures on the shelves, fresh-cut flowers in a vase, his mother standing in front of him in god-damned pink terrycloth. He grabs her up again, a crushing grip.

“I’ll just call Sam. Tell him to come get you,” she manages, jarred breath, and he stops, pulling far enough away to look at her.

“No. Don’t do that,” Dean pleads, panic covering the shaky remainder of his voice.

“Honey, are you sure?” She’s looking at him as if he’s not certain this is exactly the place he’s supposed to be.

“Yeah, please, just… want to stay here tonight.” He gravitates towards the couch, falls into it like he might take refuge there, if only he could root himself deep enough. Over his mother’s shoulder, he catches sight of a picture of him and Dad, the two of them tossing a ball back and forth. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

Just beneath it, sandwiched between the L and the M of two old Britannica’s, Dad’s in a white pinstriped uniform, number sixty-six embroidered onto a patch on the sleeve. “Dad’s on a softball team?” Dean’s words, slow, astonished breath.

The look she gives him is partly withered, wry uncertainty captured in the slant of her eyes.

“Dad’s softball team… that’s funny to me,” he hesitates.

“He loved that stupid team,” she says, lingering memory as she looks over at the shelf. Neat rows of family history all lined up, and it strikes him then, the somberness in her voice, the downturn of her smile.

“Dad’s dead?” She tilts her head, expectant, and he knows he can’t stop. “And the thing that killed him was a -”

“A stroke. He died in his sleep. You know that.”

He doesn’t, not really, even if the conversation feels like it's operating under some known recollection, like déjà vu, he hadn’t. Part of him had hoped - with mother… father. But dad had died a normal death. Natural causes. Hadn’t sacrificed his life for Dean to live.

It’s not funny, but he laughs anyway, a soft chuckle borne from overwhelming relief. “That’s great. That’s great,” he reiterates over his mother’s sudden surprise, “that he went peacefully, I mean. Sure beats the alternative.”

She slips in next to him, hand brushing over the hollow of his cheek. “You’ve been drinking,” she offers, in a way that makes it seem like the only reasonable explanation for his behavior. Her eyes are heavy. Compassion like an observable weight.

“No, I haven’t.” It's a whisper, but there’s conviction there. He hopes it’s enough to make her understand, even if he knows it’s not. It’s too much. Everything he’s ever wanted in the span of an hour, too much to take in all at once - feels like every wish he’s never bothered to have.

She looks at him with sympathy, like she used to when he was nothing more than a frightened child. “It’s okay,” he says, his hand warm on the back of hers where it settles against his face. “You go to bed. I’m just gonna -”

“Get some rest, okay? I’ll be right upstairs if you need me.” She looks at him for a few moments, eyes appraising. “I love you,” she whispers, sleeve of her pink robe catching the scruff of his cheek. Her slippers scuffle over the exposed hardwood on her way toward the stairs.

“I love you, too,” he murmurs to her receding shadow, scanning every photo within eyeshot, easing onto his back. There’s a cotton throw spread over the swell of the couch, and he pulls it down around himself, tucks a pillow under his head. His mother’s footfalls echo above, finally coming to rest, then it’s just the sounds of the house settling. Every creek and groan pries him from the temptation of sleep. For one night, he refuses to rest, just to keep and hold and savor every bit of the home he’s never had.

+ || + || +

The light filters in, a soft, hallowed tint of gold, and the quiet movement in the kitchen wakes him. His mother is at the sink, coffee mug cradled in her hands, same pink bathrobe from the night before. He clears his throat and she spins around to face him. “Oh, sorry, honey. I was trying to let you sleep. How about some breakfast?”

Where food’s concerned, Dean doesn’t have to be asked twice, Fantasy Island or not. “Yeah,” he nods, moving to her side, pouring himself a cup of the best dark roast he's smelled in a long, long time.

Mary’s busy in the kitchen, pulls down a cast iron pan. It seems like it might be too heavy in her hands, but the second Dean makes a move to help, she tosses an almost stern look over her shoulder. It makes him wonder how long their dad’s been gone. She wears the strength of her independence like it’s nothing new. Like a woman who’s tired of being underestimated. Dean sits back to watch, admire, take in her grace.

She scrambles three eggs, layers bacon into the fluffy folds and scoops it all onto a waiting bed of toast. Before it’s quite ready, she steers him onto a chair, one hand solid on his shoulder, patting him twice so he’ll stay put. Finally, she plunks the plate down in front of him, the whole thing smelling like heaven, and Dean barely manages to stifle his groan of appreciation.

“Enjoy,” she says with a small smirk, coffee cup perched between her fingers. She watches him closely, the way he inhales the home-cooked offering, stuffs his cheeks full. It’s hot, perfect, better than anything he and Sam have had in months. Hell, maybe even years. “Sweetie,” she says, and there’s a sparkle in her eye, source undetermined, but it’s enough to have him smiling back at her, bacon and eggs puffing out his jaws. “I don’t mean to seem indelicate here, but… don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Somewhere to be?” It’s close to nine, so says the clock hanging over the door, a Tuesday, Dean thinks. Tuesday or Wednesday. And really, the day of the week seems so fucking irrelevant right now.

“Yeah, I mean, not that I’m not thrilled to have you hanging out here, all of a sudden, but, uh… shouldn’t you be at work?”

“Work, ah -“

“At the garage?” she continues, dropping her shoulders, sliding forward in her seat. “Sam told me you’ve been working on a GTO.”

A GTO. Shit! Mopars had never really been his thing, but Dean draws his thumb across his chin, glances out the window piecing together as feasible a story as he can, with what little information he has. “Uh, yeah, yeah.” Dean nods, taking in the green lawn expanding towards a white picket fence. Who’d have thought? “Sixty-four. Thing’s a mess,” he chuckles, nail scraping stubble. It’s a GT, he thinks, that much has gotta be true. “But uh, I had some research to do. Gotta spend some time looking for parts. She’s in pretty bad shape. Probably run down to the University, use one of the computers in the library.”

“Sure you don’t want to use the one in the den? I know it’s old -”

“Nah, thanks, though.” He can’t help but look at her. Take in the smile, the warm, maternal glow. Truth is, he could sit here for the rest of his life, soak this up, but if he doesn’t push into research mode soon, he’s not sure he’ll ever make himself move. “Probably do me some good to get out.” Dean shoots her his most convincing smile.

“Okay, but you’ll be back before dinner, right? Sam said we still had reservations at five-thirty.”

“Yeah. ‘Course. Five-thirty,” he repeats, vaguely wonders if he’ll still be around. “I’ll be back.” Dean takes his plate to the sink, gives it a quick rinse, then slides on his coat. Mary grins at him, still hanging on to her mug as he heads out the door.

+ || + || +

The library is exhausting. Fifty different resources, everything from the Koran to hundreds of different Christian texts, variations of Greco-Roman mythology in every one. He’d even managed to wig out a professor, some dude specializing in Pre-Islamic History. Not a banner day for Dean Winchester, and certainly not one to shed any light on the situation.

Dean sighs as he pushes the door open, rests against it, the warmth from inside radiating off his face. His eyes slide shut, temptation in the thought of climbing the stairs to find his old bedroom, bury himself in a bed for about a week.

The movement to his right doesn’t really register until it’s too late, hot breath at first, then a mouth eating over his, hungry, demanding, wide hand wrapping around the back of his neck to pull him into it. He gives the kiss ten seconds too long, ten mindless, blissful seconds he’ll refuse to think on later, before he stuffs a hand between their chests and shoves.

“Sam, what the fuck?” he asks, eyes flicking open in sudden panic. Sam seems undeterred, angles back into him, drops his forehead to Dean’s shoulder, mild scrape of teeth. “I could ask you the same. Missed you last night, all today. Why the hell did you leave?”

“Dude, c’mon.” His hands get caught up in Sam’s jacket, slip underneath to try and get him to back off. Sam groans low, body rocking left of center, gets Dean’s attention on the hard press of something near his fly - and that’s a whole ‘nother world of what-the-fuck.

“Kiss me,” Sam whispers, quiet and needy, breathing against his neck. Dean swallows thick when Sam’s mouth brushes light, hint of wet warmth just barely tracing skin.

“Ix-nay on the Issing-kay,” Dean grunts, pushing Sam away, ‘cause he’s pretty damn sure it doesn’t matter what kind of dream sequence he’s fallen into. Making out with his baby brother, definitely not okay. “Damn, mom’s gonna hear you.”

Sam makes a face, puts a few feet between them, but still manages to reach out a hand, like he’s looking for Dean to take it. “Since when has mom cared? Besides, she’s upstairs getting ready. You did remember the card, right?”

Dean’s so sideswiped by like, twenty words, he’s still blinking dumbly when Sam groans. “Dammit, Dean. We talked about this. You were supposed to get the birthday card; I was supposed to get the flowers. We agreed.”

“Birthday card?” That’s really all he’s got. Nothing intelligible and seriously, who could blame him? Mom didn’t care? Mom didn’t care if her two sons stood in the foyer groping at each other? Yeah, right.

But she’s standing at the top of the stairs, long, blue gown, some shiny fabric, her hair pulled back, and she’s gorgeous. The most beautiful woman he thinks he’s ever seen.

“You look beautiful,” Sam says, slipping his arms around her when she comes to a stop at the landing, soft kisses to both her cheeks. She blushes, patting him on the chest as he helps her with her wrap. “Here, these are for you.” There are a dozen red roses, baby’s breath, all wrapped in clear cellophane, a card peeking out of the top. Sam smirks as she oohs and ahhs, runs off to the kitchen to put them in water.

“You’re welcome,” he says, leaning lightly into Dean’s hip, hand settling over the crest of bone, fingers splaying almost possessively around the curve. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.” It’s not just the sound, pitched rich and sinful in a tone Dean’d never think Sam capable of, it’s his eyes, the crystalline green, the way they’re trained on him so fucking innocently.

A sudden shift and Sam slides away, turns around to re-greet Mary as she walks out of the kitchen. “So, looks like we’re just waiting on you to get dressed then, huh?” Sam shoots Dean a pointed glance. Dean - who’s still stuck at the door, staring stupidly from Sam to his mother, and back again. “Get going,” Sam prods, “pants are on the bed. And I ironed the shirt.”

Dean takes the stairs two at a time, tries not to concentrate on the uncomfortable knot twisting in his stomach, the irrepressible urge to… whatever. He dresses, nodding at himself in the mirror.

Twenty minutes later, one pass of his hand through his hair, and he’s still checking himself out, giving his profile a wide, devious smile.

“You know the story of Narcissus, right?” Sam smirks from behind him, leaning tall and elegant against the doorframe.

“Shut it, Sammy,” Dean grunts, both hands tugging at the tie, sliding it around to adjust it on his neck. Sam’s hands are strong when they take hold, Sam's body a solid column of heat at his back.

“Just looking out for you.” There’s a soft expression on Sam’s face, something Dean can’t quite read, Sam’s fingers deft over the knot.

Dean fidgets under the weight of Sam’s gaze - the fuck - he can’t even bring himself to think about whatever meaning’s supposed to be held in that expression. “There.” Sam finishes, screws the tie back into position, fingers lingering on the pulse in Dean’s neck, Sam’s mouth hovering there, too, his eyes gone dark. “Ready?”

“Ah, yeah. Let’s go.” Dean swallows, and when Sam turns on his heels, heads down, Dean takes a moment to steady himself. Quietly, he heaves the molecule of disappointment way back in his brain, promising himself he’ll never revisit the few seconds he wished Sam would have kissed him again.

+ || + || +

The restaurant’s frou-frou. Shit Dean can’t even pronounce lining both sides of a long menu, Sam laughing at him from behind one of his huge hands. Finally, after twenty minutes of slaughtered French, Sam orders for the table, Dean catching the soft blush creeping along Sam’s high cheekbones. It’s only then that he realizes he’s been staring - at Sam’s mouth, the way he speaks, perfectly formed words, the place his dimples dig into his cheeks. Sam, for everyone to see, lit up like a roman candle.

“All right, a toast,” Sam says, raising his glass. “To Mary. Happy birthday.”

“Dude,” Dean grumps, lashing out underneath the table to kick Sam square in the shin. Sam grimaces, leans down to rub at the spot that’s sure to bruise, effort to contain a shout creasing Sam’s brow. Dean barely hides the snicker behind a cough. “To mom,” he amends.

“To mom,” Sam wheezes, still brandishing the flute in the hand not busy soothing Dean’s kick. They clink their glasses, Mary sipping the champagne, giggling with the bubbles, soft pink ring of lipstick staining the crystal.

When the food arrives, Dean’s is some colossal combination of architecture and agriculture. And is that white asparagus? For fuck’s sake. If this is Sam’s idea of a joke, Dean’s gonna kick his scrawny ass all the way back to California. “This looks… awesome,” he smirks, breathy laugh rounding out the sarcasm.

Sam leans over, beef tip perched on the end of his fork and whispers guiltily, “What do you say, later, we get you a cheeseburger?” He smiles softly, sliding a few tips onto Dean’s plate.

“God, yes,” Dean groans, and it’s not quite forgiveness, but the beef’s so tender it almost melts in his mouth. Besides, Sam can still make it up to him at the drive-thru window of the nearest Wendy’s.

+ || + || +

“Well, I had a lovely birthday,” she says, one hand on each of their arms, and Dean feels like he might be able to ride this particular high into the middle of the next century. “Really, though, I’m exhausted. I think I’ll head up, read for a bit. I’d really like if you’d both stay, though, have some breakfast in the morning, maybe? You’ll stay, won't you?” She’s looking at Sam.

“Yeah, of course we will,” Sam reassures, pressing a kiss to her cheek. She hugs them both before she goes, the two of them saying ‘goodnight’ in unison.

“Well, that was fun,” Sam grins. Once she’s disappeared down the hall, Sam strikes out quick, and within seconds he’s got his fist around Dean’s tie, Dean’s body shoved up against the wall, all two-hundred plus pounds pinning him down. “Fuck, I’ve wanted to do this all night.” Sam’s mouth crushes down on Dean’s, hard and severe, startles a gasp straight out of the back of Dean’s throat. It gives Sam the opportunity to push his tongue inside, sliding it up along Dean’s teeth, wet against his own, and Dean’s back to shoving his way out of the situation again.

“God dammit Sammy.” Dean tries to wedge a little space between them with a staying hand.

“C’mon, man,” Sam murmurs, his mouth dragging a slow line across the tendon in Dean's neck. “Do I gotta beg? Where’s my ‘Sam, that’s it. C’mon, Sam, suck it. Ohh, yeah, just like that’?”

“Sam, just-“ Dean gives a push, slips out from beneath Sam’s weight, tripping over his own feet until he stumbles into the arm of the couch. “Jesus!”

“Is this about Mary?” Sam asks, obviously a little stunned.

“Mom, dude.” Despite the fact Sam’s kissed him, again, and he’s got a couple of bigger issues at hand, Dean really wants to brain his little brother. “Show some respect, huh?”

“What is with you? First it’s all, ‘Back off, Sam,’ at the apartment last night, then you disappear, and now it’s ‘mom’ this, ‘mom’ that. You’ve never cared one way or another before, so what gives?”

“Listen, Sammy-”

“And that’s another thing, since when did you start calling me Sammy?” Sam laughs, but it’s not exactly a happy sound. Sam rounds on Dean, takes a swipe at him, catching him by the waistband of his Dockers before hauling him back in.

“C’mon, the night we met, you dragged me back to your room. Couldn’t wait to get me on my knees with your dick stuffed down my throat. You remember that, don’t you?” Sam’s words are low, intimate, a wicked hiss from between his teeth. “Your senior prom. God, seven years and you’ve never been shy about it.”

Dean stands shell-shocked, Sam’s arm slipped tight around his waist, thumb skimming the curve of his hip through layers of cotton. “Rachel Nave. I’ll never forget the look on her face when you two walked in on Peter and me. Christ, I thought she’d never stop screaming. But you pulled me outta there before she could tear into me for defiling her little brother. My hero.” Sam smiles against his neck, the warmth from his breath hovering between them, and Dean feels paralyzed.

“Seven years?” It sticks in Dean’s throat, makes him swallow dry. “We’ve been-“ he can’t even finish it. It works like algebra in his head, equations adding up, dividing down. He doesn’t have any of the answers, but he’s not sure he’d be ready for them if he had ‘em.

Sam’s mouth opens, hot against his skin, smooth pressure of his lips sucking against Dean’s pulse, and everything feels like it’s spinning. “Sam,” Dean whispers, feeble attempt to gain a little ground. “Please, stop.”

Sam snaps up, look of concern. “What’s wrong?” This time, with Sam’s hands on his face, the caress isn’t anything more than worry. “What is it, Dean?”

“I just - I think I - I’m tired, Sam. Just tired’s all. Long day. Do you think maybe we could?” Dean waves a hand in front of himself, hoping it’ll cover his inability to say anything at all.

“Yeah, sure, ‘course. Let’s just go on up to bed.”

That night, as Sam snakes his arm around Dean's middle, pulls until his ass grooves into the grade of Sam’s body, Dean tries very, very hard not to freak right the fuck out.

+ || + || +

Morning finds Sam gone. When Dean staggers down the stairs, there’s a note waiting for him on the table. No hearts - thank God - no glitter pen, either, just a clean sheet of legal paper telling him Sam will see him at home in time for supper.

Mary smiles at him, dusting off her gardening gloves on her smock. She has a smear of dirt above her right eye. “You know,” she says with a special affection, “a mother always wants happiness for her children, and even though Sam was kind of a surprise for us, I don’t think your father or I could have imagined anyone better for you.” She’s got a soft, wispy grin, holds the faint reflection of a love Dean remembers from a lifetime ago, witnessed from a child's eyes.

“Mom?” Dean bites into his lip, reserve held in the tense set of his shoulders. Last night… he hadn’t wanted to push, hadn’t wanted to stretch the envelope of whatever comfort fell between his confession of fatigue and Sam’s willingness to simply let them be. And he’s operating on instinct again, no other way to explain it, but it’s evidenced in the photos, the ones on the mantel, on the shelves, pictures of him and Sam as adults, but none as kids. He should have noticed it sooner. Maybe he did. “Why’d you stop after me?”

Her hands lace around a ceramic mug, bone-fine handle curled under her finger. She looks up at him, pained expression, tears she has to blink away. He wonders if maybe he shouldn’t have asked, but as quick as it comes, it goes, a soft smile replacing her sadness. “We tried, but… you were our only miracle. Sometimes you have to realize your blessings and just stop asking for more. You’re all we ever needed.” The cup sits in a ring of sloshed tea, her hand bowed around Dean’s cheek, warmth still emanating from her palm.

Inside his head, it’s all making sense now. No fires, no deaths. Sam's, his… whatever… Dean’s not sure he can fill in the massive blank. He breathes a small sigh, covers his mother’s hand with his own, eyes falling shut. Sam’s never in jeopardy, his life, his future, his fate, none of it hanging in the balance. If this is all just a dream, a wish, Dean’s willed Sam into a position he’s so not ready to examine up-close.

Mary’s fingers wind around his jaw, tucking gently, lovingly in place. “What’s wrong, honey?”

Opening his eyes, Dean swallows hard. “You don’t… you don’t think wishes could really come true, do you?”

“What?” She looks confused, a delayed and slightly surprised shake of her head.

“Forget it,” he murmurs, pulling her close. She smells like she did the night before, when he’d hugged his mother for the first time in twenty-six years, baby powder and lily-of-the-valley. “’M jus’ happy you’re here.”

+ || + || +

Sam walks in the door, quarter to six, two plastic bags in his left hand, briefcase in the other. The suit looks damn sharp on him, charcoal grey, almost indistinguishable pinstripe, and where the hell are the Fab Five when Dean’s gone so obviously gay for men’s couture?

Dean’s at the kitchen sink, scrubbing the grease from under his nails. “Hey,” he says over his shoulder, water finally tipping into a range hot enough to actually clean.

“Hey,” Sam returns, shutting the door with his shoulder and dropping both bags onto the coffee table. “Got you the Moo Shu. Would've gotten you the General’s Chicken, but I know how you hate all that pepper.” The quick flash of smile cements it. For all that’s changed, there’s plenty that’s stayed the same.

“Thanks,” Dean smirks, flicking his wet fingers at Sam. “Go get cleaned up.” The gesture earns him a huffed, “Dude,” as Sam ducks and grimaces, shielding the Oxford with his briefcase, heading towards the bathroom. When he finally reappears, he’s slightly flushed, flaunting a smirk of his own. “God, you’re sick, Sam,” Dean taunts, not even sure why he’s acknowledging it.

“Hey, you won’t take care of it, one of us has to.” The leer on Sam’s face is so dirty Dean actually blushes, makes him fuckin’ proud. They eat elbow to elbow in relative peace, the TV playing a rerun of WKRP in Cincinnati. Dean manages an entire episode without mention of Lonnie Anderson’s tits. He’s pretty sure Sam owes him for that one.

+ || + || +

Sam gives him space over the next few days, almost as if he knows. It’s strange at first, Sam not wanting to discuss it to death, but the only touches are from Sam’s hands on his hips, arms to pull him close at night, and as suffocating as it was the first time, Dean finally resigns himself to it. There’s something familiar in Sam’s grip, recognizable and foreign all at once. It leaves Dean bristling, feeling like an intruder in the fake life he’s trying to piece his way out of.

Dean spends his fourth day in a row working on the GTO. It's not actually a ’64, but a ’69, not like it makes that big a frickin’ difference, thing’s still giving him more problems than Sam in his mid-teens. It’s no longer a matter of parts and the way they’re fit together - or don’t. This is all about patience, a game Dean’s never much liked, so instead of slamming the cylinder to the cold, cement floor, he wheels himself out from underneath the carriage, grease-rag in hand.

Sam’s standing at the garage door, leaning against the wall, tongue pressed against his upper lip. “You ready?” he asks, but there’s heat underlining the tone, a bubbling intensity that Dean wasn’t prepared for, and the sound of it penetrates. Feeling and force all rolled into the foundation, freight-train of power slamming home.

“Yeah,” Dean nods, scrubbing his hands across tattered denim. The pit of uneasiness amps up another notch when Dean catches Sam’s expression; the one that says just out of eye-shot, Sam’s going to take him down, Dean’s face shoved remorselessly into the ground as Sam works his belt and zipper open. Thing is, as much as his head’s saying ‘no’, Dean’s cock gives an interested twitch, stomach pitching in a strange, disconcerted wave from the desire he’s trying to suppress.

The drive home is apprehensive - both of them wound tight, over-sensitive. It’s not until they’re through the front door, Sam hanging up his jacket on the knob of the coat-closet, that Dean watches Sam circle his shoulders, physical motion visible out of the corner of his eye. Sam’s muscles’re bunched so tight, Dean thinks he might damage the seams holding him inside the shirt.

Dean presses a hand to the middle of Sam’s back, feels him draw in a quick, shuddering breath. For the first time, unprompted, Dean’s mouth falls close to Sam’s neck, hint of his breath playing in the groove of collarbone there, reverberating back so he can feel it. “What do you want for dinner?” he asks, quiet and low, innocence playing on his face, features effected and unnatural. He’s really not thinking about how much he wants to touch his tongue to Sam’s skin just to see how he tastes.

The earnestness drags through. Despite the hard breath, and Sam’s hands skimming up Dean’s waist, they’re both hesitating, unbalanced together in a momentary breach. “Whatever,” Sam breathes, gaze centered on Dean’s mouth, the slip of his tongue over his lips.

“How ‘bout,” Dean offers, but swallows again, rabbit-quick jerk of his throat, “how ‘bout-”

“Dean,” Sam murmurs, having backed him into a corner by proximity, subtle, chess-style movements Dean hadn’t even been aware of. Sam tilts his head, stares him down with a mixture of desperation and intent.

He doesn’t know how he got here, from under the car tinkering with the manifold, to underneath Sam, his lips tingling in anticipation, body taut and aching. Dean presses his thumb to Sam’s jaw, watches the soft shutter of baby-fine lashes against his cheek. Jesus, when did his brother become so god-damn beautiful? Skating his hand down Sam’s chest, he lays it over the throb of heartbeat, rests it there, then valiantly, painfully, pries himself away. “Pizza,” he coughs, sucking in the heated air.

Sam slumps back against the wall, eyes still shut, breath stuttering out in… disappointment. It’s evident, and Dean bites down on the guilt like it’s something sour. “Yeah, I’ll go.”

“Naw. I got this one,” Dean says, keys already jangling in his hand. Thing is, he’s not being noble, he’s being a selfish prick. Not exactly running from the scene, but he’s definitely taking the easy out. Leaving Sam to jerk off again, probably more confused than ever, and if they don’t work this out soon, things aren’t going to end well.

+ || + || +

Randy’s a nice enough guy, but Dean develops a healthier respect for him when he hands Dean his first paycheck. Dean’s still kinda stuck staring at the zeros when Randy claps him on the back and asks him how things are going with the car. Dean’s almost figured it out. A few more specialty parts on order and it should be good as new. Nothin’ like his baby, but as roadworthy as the thing can be.

Randy’s impressed, never thought they’d get it up and runnin’ again, say’s he’s got an unusual project he could use Dean’s expertise on. Sizeable paycheck burning a hole in his pocket, pride from a job well-done, and Dean’s kind of in the mood to celebrate when he gets home.

Sam laughs, full-body chuckle, and Dean eyes him happily, crinkles setting in at his temples as he says, “C’mon, Sammy, we should definitely go out. Drinks are on me.”

Sam’s been in court all day, and Dean knows he’s exhausted, but he goes in to get cleaned up anyway. He reappears in the hall about thirty minutes later, dressed in some amazing navy material - shirt stretched immodestly over every muscle, so unlike Sam, and Dean’s gotta suffocate the urge to make a crack. Take some of the pressure off exactly how hot he is.

“For Christ’s sake," he covers. "You’ve been in there for a half hour, princess. You waitin’ for someone to tell you how pretty you are? Let’s go already!” He elbows Sam in the ribs, Sam’s eyes piercing straight through him.

“Lead the way,” Sam smirks, and together, they head out.

Part Two