(no subject)
Sam’s phone rings when he’s walking back home from school.
These days, Sam doesn’t dread anything quite as much as his phone ringing when Dad and Dean are out on a hunt. Seeing Dean’s number flashing on the screen isn’t really comforting, because it could be Dad using Dean’s phone. It could be Dad using the phone to tell Sam that something horrible’s happened to his brother.
“Dean?” Sam always answers with Dean's name, the word itself soothing him, even if the news is going to be less than good.
“Hey, Sammy.” Dean sounds cheerful, and Sam finds himself relaxing a little.
“It’s Sam,” he corrects automatically, but he’s smiling. He probably looks ridiculous, standing there on the sidewalk and smiling into his phone, but he stopped caring about stuff like that years ago.
“Yeah, whatever,” Dean says, and Sam can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “You home yet?”
‘Home’ these days is a cheap rental with exactly two rooms and a kitchen that barely has space for both of them to stand side by side without knocking elbows with each other, but Sam likes the fact that it isn’t a motel room. They’ve been there for the last few months, ever since Sam transferred schools in the middle of the school year because Dad wanted to set up base here.
“Reaching in five. How was the hunt?”
“Same old. Be back by dinner. I’ll get some food on the way. Any requests?”
Sam shrugs, even though Dean can’t see him. “Whatever you want. As long as it’s not too greasy.”
“Gotcha. See ya soon, Sammy.” He hangs up before Sam can correct him again. Sam puts the phone back in his pocket, too relieved to be annoyed.
--
Sam is sixteen, and he’s realized two things in the last couple of years.
The first is that he’s doomed to live a life that he won’t choose for himself. Where other kids at school worry about term papers and whom to go to the prom with, Sam worries about whether his father and brother will make it back from every hunt.
‘Worry’ is too mild a word for it. It’s a constant, crippling anxiety that makes him chew his nails down until there’s only skin left to bite. Most of it is focused on Dean rather than Dad, since their father isn’t a permanent fixture in his life the way Dean is. For sixteen years, Dean’s been the pseudo-parent in Sam’s life, almost always the one to give him lunch money and buy him his school things and forge Dad’s signature where it’s needed. The one who walked Sam to school before he could start driving. The one Sam cried for when left with strangers on his first day of kindergarten. The one who keeps Sam company when no one else is around, the one who’s there in unfamiliar places with unfamiliar people every time Dad moves them to a new town and drops them off at a rental house or motel before tearing off after the newest lead.
Sometimes, the anxiety gets so bad that it’s a physical sensation in Sam’s body: the constant need to throw up, the tightness in his chest and stomach, as though rubber bands are being stretched inside him. It doesn’t ease up until he hears the sound of the Impala again.
There was that one time, when Sam was twelve, when the rumble of the car’s engine had lied. He’d run out of the motel room, ignoring Dad’s orders to always stay within the salt lines when he was alone at night, and found Dad alone in the Impala. Dean was lost, Dad said. He’d lost Dean on the hunt.
The concept of Dean being lost to them was so enormous that it took Sam days to understand that Dean wasn’t coming back anytime soon.
--
When they got Dean back, Sam’s paranoia increased a hundredfold every time his family left on a hunt.
He was fourteen when he first felt the second thing that was to become a hallmark of his existence in the next two years.
It was almost like déjà vu, at first. He’d heard the sound of the Impala’s engine, only to run out and find just one person in the car. This time, though, it was Dean. He was already out of the car by the time Sam reached the door, his fingers wrapped around the doorframe as his head jerked up at the sound of Sam’s running feet.
At first, Sam’s instinct was to throw himself at Dean, as he’d done during the times he was younger when he’d been especially worried at Dad and Dean’s long absences. That night, they’d been over half a day late. No calls, not even a hurried voicemail. Sam caught himself before he made it all the way to his brother, though. He wasn’t as little as he used to be, although the top of his head still didn’t quite reach Dean’s shoulder when they stood side by side.
“Hey, Sammy.” Dean said it like he’d been on a grocery run.
Then he took a step away from the car and crumpled at Sam’s feet, his jacket falling open to reveal a dark stain on his left side.
For a few minutes, it had been Sam’s worst nightmare come true. He’d tried dragging Dean into the motel room, but his brother was six feet tall and nearly a full-grown adult and Sam, small and skinny, could barely get Dean’s head and shoulders off the ground. Dean was absolutely still, not even a groan or a noisy breath to indicate that there was still life in him.
Sam was almost sobbing as he dialed his father’s number. Almost, because the luxury of tears wasn’t for Winchesters, and especially not at a time when action rather than emotion was needed. The call had gone straight to voicemail and Sam had known for the first time in his life what actual heartbreak felt like. Dean was going to die, maybe he was already dead, here in the parking lot of a motel in the middle of the night, a motel that Sam couldn’t even remember the name of. Dean was dead, here on the cold concrete of the parking lot with his head cradled in Sam’s lap, and he hadn't even been able to shut the door of the Impala behind him.
Dean opened his eyes just as Sam was shoving the phone blindly back into his pocket, the whole world wet with his tears. “Hey,” he said again, voice like a flutter of butterfly wings, reaching up for Sam. His hand went behind Sam’s neck, drew his head down until Sam’s ear was close enough to Dean’s mouth for him to hear what Dean was saying. “Sorry, kiddo. Sorry. I’m okay. So sorry, Sammy.”
Sam got to his feet and Dean followed, holding on to the car for support to pull himself to his feet, resting his elbows on the hood for a moment, looking as though he was going to collapse again. “Sorry,” he said again. “Damn venom keeps making me black out.” He sounded a lot like Dad, and Sam could hear it over the angry, anxious thrum of his own heartbeat. He sounded like he could go through anything and get back on his feet, like having the poison of a malevolent supernatural creature in his blood was a minor annoyance. He kept apologizing all the way inside, as though saying he was sorry was an intrinsic part of his survival mechanism at the moment, and Sam was annoyed both at him and for him.
They managed to get inside the house without Dean passing out again, although he leaned heavily on Sam the whole way, almost doubled over, his arm a dead weight around Sam’s shoulders and his body smelling of his warm blood and something else, something black, that had Sam wanting to retch.
Inside, Dean slid off Sam on to the floor, gesturing to his duffel. “Left pocket. Syringe.”
Sam dug the item out of Dean’s back and flew back to him. “What should I do now? Dean? Dean!” He had to shake his brother’s shoulders before Dean opened his eyes again. “Dean, please. Please, I don’t... please stay awake.”
Dean’s eyes slid shut again, but he patted his thigh, fingers fluttering, and Sam jammed the needle into Dean’s flesh and pressed the plunger.
Then he sat there beside Dean, his hand pushed under Dean’s limp one, their fingers curled together, until Dean squeezed back a few minutes later.
Sam’s world titled slowly back into position as Dean came awake, sitting on the floor and swallowing a few gulps of whiskey. When he was able to talk, Dean joked that the snake that had bitten him was like the basilisk from Harry Potter, except that this one had two heads and apparently preferred to eat humans rather than anything else. Neither Dad nor Dean had noticed that Dean had been bitten too until Dean had realized it on the way back alone, Dad having headed off following another lead.
It took a few more minutes before Dean declared himself fit enough for a cleanup. Too exhausted for a shower, he’d stripped off his ruined jacket and shirts and wiped himself down with a washcloth, dunking his head under the faucet at the sink to clean his hair.
The bite itself was a small set of holes in Dean’s forearm, most of the blood the result of a gash in his side where Dean had hurt himself on a sharp protruding rock while diving to the ground. “Doesn’t need stitches,” he said, examining himself in the bathroom mirror. Sam wasn’t so sure, but Dean would only allow him to dress and bandage the wound, sitting at the edge of his bed and on the verge of collapsing into exhausted sleep.
“Take such good care of me,” he said, his voice a little slurred. His hand came up to cup the side of Sam’s face. There was a little fresh blood on the underside of his thumb, and when Dean thumbed away tears that Sam hadn't realized were still trickling from his eyes, the blood smeared under Sam’s eye like war paint.
“Such a good boy for me,” Dean said, unable to stay upright anymore, almost falling into Sam, their foreheads pushed together. His hand dropped to his side and Sam helped him lie back and covered him up with a blanket, Dean’s words still running through him like a current.
Such a good boy for me.
Under the bone-deep fear of almost having lost his brother, deeper even than the ever-present terror that he would lose Dean the next time, a little spark of something had been ignited by Dean’s words, something that would take Sam time to even start to acknowledge.
The second thing he realized about himself, allowing it to slowly take shape over the course of the next two years, was that praise from Dean elicited very different reactions from him now than they had when Sam was younger.
--
At sixteen, Sam’s still shorter than Dean. It’s annoying now, yet another reason to take a dig at his brother and piss him off.
The Impala pretty much belongs to Dean now. Dad hadn't officially given it to Dean; he’d just come back in a truck one day and left the car with the boys when he drove out of town.
Sometimes Sam has imaginary conversations in his head with Dean, to make up for the ones they can never seem to have anymore. The Dean-in-his-head knows exactly how Sam feels about him, and it’s much easier to talk to him than to his real brother.
The real Dean, the one outside Sam's head who’s larger than life and fills up all of Sam's vision when he's around, is so bright that it sometimes hurts to look at him. He’s still Sam's brother, still the one Sam loves more than anyone else, still annoying and beautiful, and Sam doesn’t know when he started using that word in his head to describe his brother.
Sam lets the small things hurt so he doesn’t have to think about the big ones. He's extra-vicious when they train, kicking at Dean where it hurts, and Dean almost always gives him this half-surprised, half-proud look when Sam gets in a good punch or an effective headlock.
Everything Sam's got, he's got from Dean: the ability to fight, to hunt, to be protective of his brother, to hurt his brother like no one else can.
He loves Dean. He loves Dean, but the very thing that's kept them together is now driving them apart, and Sam's the only one who knows why.
--
The truth is, he touches the things they hunt more than he touches anyone else these days. He knows Dean doesn’t want to take him along on hunts, would rather leave him safe in motel rooms-as though anywhere were safe-and go alone. As though Sam is dead weight bound to his ankle and dragging him down. This knowledge gets into Sam's head and hurts constantly, a never-ending rhythm of he’d be so much better off without you, his pain-in-the-ass little brother.
--
It’s easily their worst fight in at least six months.
On the outside, nothing’s really changed. They’re in their shabby rental as usual, the exception being that Dad isn’t around this time. Dad’s absences are becoming more routine anyway, the rule now rather than the exception.
It should’ve been a night for celebration. They’ve just successfully completed a hunt, not less than an hour ago. Sam is still flushed with adrenaline from the fight, his own blood still warm on his skin. (A scratch on the arm from a wayward claw, nothing serious.) But then Dean says something on the way back home about Sam's battle technique and Sam snaps, lashing out at Dean with words that are meant to hurt. Later, he can’t really recall what he’d said, but he can remember very clearly the sharp pain on Dean's face, the way he retreats into himself instead of lashing right back at Sam.
It gets so bad that they don’t speak at all for the next couple of days. Dean works his job at the town mechanic’s and comes home late, smelling of engine oil and sometimes whiskey. He never acts drunk, but he’s quieter than usual on the days that Sam can make out that he’s been to a bar. Sam doesn’t get close enough to him to check if he smells of sex. If he didn’t, it would make Sam feel a ridiculous amount of relief that he has no right to feel. If he did, it would break Sam’s heart in a way that it has no right to break. Sam would rather not know.
One night, Sam’s working on a term paper on Great Expectations-they haven’t spoken much to each other for days now, except for functional things that have to be said-when it becomes obvious that Dean is going to go out on a hunt. He’s got his back to Sam and he’s checking his weapons and stuffing holy oil and other essentials into the side pockets of his bag.
“Be back when I’m done,” he says, hoisting his bag over his shoulder and turning to the door, still not looking at Sam. “Not sure exactly what this thing is. Could take a while.”
"Wait," Sam says, the fear that had welled up in him at the sight of Dean getting his bag ready swelling up into full-blown panic. "Dean, wait. Please."
Dean turns around, half-impatient, half-concerned. "What?"
"I. I'm scared, Dean."
Dean's expression softens a bit. "Stay inside the salt lines. You'll be fine, Sammy."
"No, Dean. I'm scared you won't. Won't come back."
Dean looks confused for a second, as though he can't fathom why Sam would be scared for him. "I'm good, Sam. I've done this a hundred times."
The spreading ache inside Sam only worsens. "You said it yourself. You’re not sure what this thing is. And every time. Dean, every time you go out to hunt something, I. It gets worse. I. I think I'll die of anxiety if I just have to wait here not knowing if you're okay."
"You could've come along for a salt and burn, Sam. But I don't know what to expect with this one."
"All the more reason you'll need backup," Sam says.
"I hate it when you get logical, Spock. Fine, come with me. But you stay in the car unless I say you can come out, and you do exactly as I ask you to. Deal?"
Sam nods, some of the tightness in his chest dissipating.
Dean reaches over to ruffle his hair, a quick drag of his fingers over the crown of Sam's head. "And we're gonna talk about this anxiety thing."
--
It goes off spectacularly well.
At least Sam thinks it does. He figures out while sitting in the car that there are two ghosts, not just one, and tears into the house just in time to pump rock salt through the second one before it gets his brother.
They bicker all the way back to the motel, but Sam thinks it was worth it.
His conviction is tested when Dean confronts him after they've showered and made coffee (Dean's with a shot of whiskey).
"You disobeyed me." He sounds so much like Dad in that moment. You disobeyed a direct order, Sam."
“Wasn’t aware you were the boss of me,” Sam shoots back, perfectly aware that it’s very far from the truth.
“I am the boss of you, you little dick. Dad left me in charge and that means you do as I fucking say.”
“Don’t recall Dad saying you could curse at me.”
“Don’t recall Dad saying you could ignore my orders.”
“I saved your hide back there, you jerk.”
“I could’ve handled it just fine, you bitch.”
“Don't call me that,” Sam says, furious. “You don’t get to call me that when you act like Dad and try to rule my fucking life.”
“So I can call you a bitch if I’m not trying to rule your fucking life?” Dean says, straight-faced.
Sam stares at him for a moment. It takes him a minute to get that Dean’s joking. Here they are, just having escaped with their lives yet again, not to mention the animosity that’s silently been growing between them for the last several weeks, and Dean’s joking.
Sam keeps staring at him, bewildered, as Dean starts to laugh. “Oh, Sammy. Your face.” He throws himself on the bed, face to the ceiling, and keeps laughing. “Am I allowed to call you ‘Sammy,’ Sammy?”
“You’re a complete jerk, you know that?”
“Yep.”
“A total asshole.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“I fucking hate you.”
“I know you do.” Dean doesn’t open his eyes, but he stops laughing, the grin wiped clean off his face like it was never there. “Get some pizza or something if you’re hungry. Money’s in my wallet.” He turns over with his back to Sam, conversation over.
I didn’t mean that, Sam thinks. Dean, you have to know I didn’t mean that. But it’s too late to say anything now, to take back his words, the room still echoing with the horrible sound of them as though it were Sam and not Dean who’d spoken last.
He hides in the bathroom for a while, slumped against the cold floor, wondering how it’s possible to almost constantly be with someone else and be as lonely as he is. Sometimes he wonders if Dean is just as lonely. He doesn’t seem to be going on dates at all at the moment, but then they aren’t together all day when Sam’s at school, and maybe. Maybe Dean’s seeing someone at work, or fucking someone during the day. Having sex every day when Sam’s not around, when his annoying little brother isn’t there to be a third wheel. Bringing someone back to this room, their room, having sex on his bed, on Sam’s bed.
Sam scrubs furiously at his eyes when he realizes they’ve been wet for a while now. He isn’t going to be upset over something that he can’t control. His fucking jerk of a big brother, one word from whom can light Sam up from the inside, can tear Sam up so badly that the invisible wound takes weeks to heal sometimes. Sam tells himself that those wounds don’t hurt as bad as the ones from fangs or claws, that the invisible pain in his insides is a luxury, is nothing compared to the very tangible battle wounds that they get on the job. That Dean gets, mostly, because he rarely allows Sam to be put in a position where he can get hurt.
It’s strange how Sam’s quiet tears leave him even more exhausted than angry sobbing can. He splashes some water on his face and opens the door, expecting Dean to be asleep.
He isn’t. He’s sitting at the edge of his bed, a bottle of cold water in his hands that he must have gotten out of the fridge. He holds out the half-empty bottle to Sam, his gaze lingering on Sam’s red eyes.
Sam takes the bottle, acting on auto-pilot. He sinks down on to the bed next to Dean, trying to ignore the thrill of putting his mouth where Dean’s just was. He doesn’t know if the mouth of the bottle is wet from the water or from Dean’s mouth. Probably both. He puts his lips carefully around the rim of the bottle and drinks, not stopping until the bottle is empty.
Dean takes the bottle from his hand, not touching him, and replaces the cap before tossing it on the night table and lying back down, swinging his legs around Sam’s body so that he can stretch out. Sam can see from the corner of his eye that Dean’s eyes are open, his arms crossed behind his head.
“I didn’t mean that.” He looks down at his hands. The anxiety is just a low throb somewhere deep down at the moment, biding its time; it’ll flare up the next time Dean goes hunting without Sam. Right now what he’s feeling most strongly is pure misery. He forces himself to turn toward Dean, suddenly desperate to make his brother believe him. “Dean. I didn’t.”
“I know.” Dean straightens up a bit, reaches out to rub his hand along Sam’s spine. “I know, kid.”
Sam closes his eyes, his body thrumming with nervous energy as Dean’s hand curls around the nape of his neck, his thumb rubbing under Sam’s hair. “Dean.”
“I know,” Dean says again. “C’mere.” He pulls Sam close until his head is on Dean’s shoulder. Sam lets himself curl up next to Dean, their bodies pressed together in a long line. They haven’t done this in a long time.
Dean’s hand moves away from Sam’s neck, and Sam feels the loss keenly until Dean’s fingers thread through his hair. He relaxes against Dean’s chest, putting a hesitant arm around Dean’s waist. He’s not sure yet if he’s earned this.
But Dean seems to approve, letting out a low hum as he pets Sam’s hair, shifting a little closer to him. “It happens, Sam. We’re always in each other’s way. You’re sixteen, and you have no privacy. Maybe we should think about getting a different place, hmm? One where you can have a bedroom of your own. Give you some space.”
“Maybe,” Sam says, his voice muffled against Dean’s neck. He knows it’ll never work. Dean doesn’t really earn enough to afford a bigger place, even with the money Sam makes with his part-time after-school jobs. And even if they could somehow scrounge up the funds to get a bigger place, they don’t know how long they’ll be in this town, when Dad will turn up to drag them away, off to a new place yet again.
“Sam. I mean it.”
Sam shakes his head as much as his cramped position allows. He’s pretty much pinned down next to Dean’s side, but he doesn’t want to move. “I don’t. I don’t need that, Dean.”
“Then what? What do you need, Sam?” Dean’s voice is soft, non-confrontational, as though he’s genuinely asking, and not just trying to rile Sam up. “I. I can make up a bed on the couch and let you have the bedroom to yourself if. If you...”
“Dean. I’m okay with sharing.”
Dean sighs, his breath fluttering in Sam’s hair. He doesn’t say anything else for a long time, and Sam’s almost asleep when he hears Dean’s last words, spoken almost only to himself. “I wish you could have a better life, Sammy.”
--
They wake up tangled together. The blankets are tucked in around them, covering them up to their chins, and Dean’s body is warm beside Sam’s in their makeshift cocoon.
Sam remembers his near-breakdown the night before, the conversation in the dark, Dean’s fingers in his hair. The memory fills him with something suspiciously like pride, despite that harsh thing he’d said to Dean, the thing he didn’t mean. He doesn’t want to remember his words in the light of day, the way Dean’s body had gone rigid and closed off with hurt. He spends his life in fear that Dean will get hurt, and last night he’d been the one to hurt Dean.
“Morning, sunshine,” Dean says around a huge yawn, pulling his arms free of the blanket to stretch them above his head. “I gotta go to work. Want me to give you a ride somewhere?”
It takes Sam a moment to remember that it’s Saturday. He doesn’t have to go to school, but Dean works the whole day on Saturdays. No one else at the garage comes in, so Dean gets paid overtime.
“Nah, I’m good.”
“No plans?”
Sam shrugs, watching as Dean climbs out of bed. “Go over to Audrey’s later. Do homework.”
“Homework, huh? That a euphemism for something else?”
“You have a one-track mind, Dean.” Sam jumps out of bed and beats Dean to the bathroom.
--
Audrey is Sam’s closest friend from school. He calls her Hepburn and she’s called him Hemingway ever since they read A Farewell to Arms a few weeks ago and he fell in love with the book. He can’t tell her that it had him from the title. Just the thought of giving up arms, of living a regular life in which he has nothing more to worry about than bills and mortgages and maybe vaccinations for his dog is so compelling that Sam fantasizes about the idea for hours sometimes.
That day, they take their books out into the backyard of Audrey’s house. It’s too nice a day to stay indoors, and the grass in the back lawn is springy and comfortable. They lie on their backs in the sun while they’re taking a break from work, tall glasses of iced lemonade sitting on the ground beside them.
“Sam?” Audrey says, sounding comfortably sleepy, her dark shoulder-length hair, very much like Sam’s, fanned out beneath her head.
“Mm?”
“Are you gay?”
Sam turns to face her. “Why would you ask me that?”
She turns too so that their positions are mirrored, reaching out to push a strand of hair out of his face. “Do you mind my asking?”
“No.”
“I think I am,” she says, and Sam’s anxiousness disappears when the reason for her question becomes apparent. “That’s why I asked. I thought you. That maybe you.”
Sam lets out a long breath. “I don’t know.” He tangles his hand with hers. “How did you know?”
“I’m not sure either. But, I. Uh. I think I’m in love with Dana. You know her? Blonde, gorgeous? Her dad owns the garage on fourth?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen her around. My brother works there. The garage.” He smiles at her, squeezes her hand. “Good choice. She seems awesome.”
Audrey sits up, hugging her knees. “I don’t think she even knows I exist.”
Sam puts his arm around her shoulders, not really sure what to say.
“How did you. I mean, what makes you think you might like guys? Is, is there someone?”
“Uh, yeah. I think so.”
“You think so?” she says, her tone gentle, teasing.
Sam grins back. “Yeah, I. I’m not sure if it’s like that, you know? I just really like him, and I like it when he’s nice to me. I just. I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean.”
They sit quietly for a few minutes, sipping their lemonade, and Sam has the silent realization that a small weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He’d been pretty sure Audrey didn’t like him like that, but having confirmation of it has made him a lot more secure in her company.
They’re just finishing up when his phone buzzes. “Hey,” Dean says when Sam answers. “I’m heading home. Want me to pick you up? If you’re done.”
He blinks for a moment, suspicious about the lack of innuendo in Dean’s tone. “Uh, sure. We’re done.”
“Be there in five,” Dean says, and hangs up.
“That him?” Audrey asks. She’s smiling.
“What? No. It. That was my brother.”
“Oh. He picking you up?”
“Yeah.”
“Sam, will you go to the prom with me?”
Sam blinks at her. “What?” he says again. “I thought you. You said you were-”
“Not. Not like that, Sam. I just. I don’t want to go with any other guy and give him the wrong idea, you know? Since we both like people we can’t go with, I thought, I thought we could just go together.”
“I’m not sure I can go, Hepburn. We-my dad might be back by then and maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Okay, well, if you can go, let me know? It’s no biggie.”
“You really wanna go, huh?”
She shrugs. “I know it’s mostly for the cheerleaders and the jocks and all that. I just thought it might be fun to go with someone I actually like, and maybe snark at everything.”
Sam grins. “I’ll try to make it. Promise.”
The Impala’s horn blares then, and Sam gathers up his stuff and slings his bag over his shoulder.
Audrey comes up to the car with him, bending to say hi to Dean through the passenger window.
“Hey,” Dean says easily, leaning across to shake her hand. “Audrey, right? I’m Dean. I was just gonna take Sammy for a bite at the diner. You wanna come with?”
“Not this time, but thanks,” Audrey says with a smile. “My parents will be home soon and tonight’s family night, apparently.” She rolls her eyes and tucks her hair behind her ear.
“All right,” Dean says easily, giving her a wave. “Some other time, then.”
As the car pulls away, Dean looks over with a smirk. “So that’s your little girlfriend? She’s cute.”
“I told you it’s not like that.” Sam ruins the effect of the statement by adding, “She asked me to the prom.”
“How is it not like that if she asked you on a date?”
“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“That you’re going out with her? Pretty sure people are going to see you at the prom, princess. Unless you were planning on wearing your invisibility cloak.”
“Asshole. I meant don’t tell anyone what I’m going to tell you. She, uh. She thinks she’s gay. And she wants to go with me because she came out to me.”
To Sam’s absolute surprise, Dean doesn’t make any inappropriate lesbian jokes. In fact, he stays silent for the next couple of minutes, until they pull into the diner’s parking lot. Then he turns to Sam, his expression more serious than Sam’s seen in a while.
“So, she wants to go with you because she’s a lesbian and she doesn’t want some horny teenage dude’s hands all over her at the dance.”
“Thanks for the gross mental image, but yeah. That’s about it.”
“So what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Why do you want to go with a lesbian and ruin your chances of getting laid on prom night?”
“Dean!”
“Dude, come on. Everyone gets laid on prom night.”
“I am so not having this conversation with you.” Sam gets out of the car and heads into the diner.
Dean doesn’t let it go. “Look,” he says the moment he slides into the seat across from Sam. “I know you’re a virgin and all, but-”
“Dean!” Sam says in a furious whisper, looking around. “Would you keep it down? Someone could hear you!”
“Okay, okay, jeez. Sorry.”
“I swear to god, Dean, if you say another word I’m walking back home right now.”
Dean mimes zipping his mouth shut, and they actually have a relatively quiet and peaceful meal for once.
--
Dean goes out on Sunday afternoon and returns in the early evening with a rented tux.
Sam just stares at it for a moment, completely at a loss for words. It had been worrying him that he didn’t have anything to wear, that he might have to take up several extras hours of tutoring and odd jobs to be able to afford a tux, not the best thing to have to do so close to his exams.
“Dean, you. You didn’t have to do this. I don’t even know if I can go. What if, you know. Dad.”
“You wanna go to your prom, Sammy, then you should go. If Dad makes a fuss, I’ll handle it.” Dean nods at the suit. “Go on, try it on.”
He disappears into the bathroom for a shower and Sam changes quickly. He’s examining himself critically in the mirror when Dean emerges in a cloud of steam, wearing the soft, worn-in sweats that he wears to bed.
“Wow, Sammy. Gonna knock ’em dead.”
“You think so?” Sam peers at Dean through his bangs, hoping he isn’t smirking.
“You clean up real nice, kid,” Dean says, grinning proudly.
Sam flushes at the sincerity of Dean’s tone, the praise going straight through him like a warm shot of alcohol.
--
As it turns out, Sam does get to go to his junior prom. Except Dean isn’t there.
Dad calls on the morning of the prom to give Dean info about their next job, and Sam can tell from the look on Dean’s face that what Dad’s saying isn’t exactly great news.
“Another job?” he asks when Dean hangs up, dreading the answer.
Dean nods. “Couple of towns over. Gotta leave right away. You gonna be okay by yourself for a couple days?”
“I’m going with you.”
“Sammy, you have the prom today.”
“Fuck the stupid prom, Dean. You think I care about that when you’re just going to drive off into some sort of horrible danger?”
“I’ll be fine, Sam. I’m always fine. ’Sides, Dad’s going to be there.”
“Oh. You sure?”
“Yeah, kiddo. He’ll have my back.”
“What is it? What are you going to hunt?”
“Poltergeist, I think. He didn’t really share too many specifics.”
“Call me, okay? Call me when you’re done?”
Dean nods. “Yeah, I’ll call. I was gonna let you have the car tonight, but...”
“Take the car, Dean. I’ll be fine.”
Dean sighs. “Sorry, Sammy. Come to the garage with me, okay? I’ll ask Dave if he can spare some wheels.”
Dean is as good as his word. They stop by the garage-Dean’s asked for the day off, even though not working on a Saturday means losing good money, and Sam, for the millionth time, feels a twinge of irritation at their father-and Dean fixes him up with a ’76 Chevy.
“Not the Impala, but she’ll do,” he says with a grin, tossing Sam the keys. “Told the boss you’ll have her back by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thanks, Dean.” Dean’s looking at him a little nervously, as though Sam might not think the car’s good enough for his big date, and Sam makes a show of admiring the sleek navy blue car. “It’s awesome.”
Dean’s face relaxes into a genuine smile, and Sam has to fight back the sudden urge to hug him.
“Oh,” Dean says, reaching into his bag. “Almost forgot.” He hands Sam a thin file.
“What’s this?”
“Knew you were busy with that science project, so I signed you up for the PSATs. And made an appointment with you with the school counselor on Monday.”
“The counselor?”
“You gotta talk to someone, Sam.”
“About what?” Sam asks blankly.
“That anxiety stuff you mentioned.”
“Dean.”
“Come on, Sam. This isn’t optional.”
“You can’t just make these decisions for me,” Sam snaps. “You’re not my father.”
Surprised hurt flares on Dean’s face for a second before he tamps it down. “Fine. I’ll get your father to speak to the school. You’re going to that appointment.”
“And tell them what? That I’m fucked up because my family hunts supernatural things? Huh? Is that what you want me to say?”
“Jesus, Sam. Just make something up. Say your dad’s commissioned or something.”
“So, you want me to lie? Real good idea, lying to a counselor.”
Dean stares at him for a moment, and then tosses his bag into the shotgun seat of the Impala. “Whatever. Have fun at the prom.”
--
Sam’s favorite book by far is The Lord of the Rings. He finds something to like about pretty much every book he reads, but no book has stuck in his mind the way that one has. At sixteen, he’s already read the whole of it thrice, and some parts of it more often.
When he was a few years younger, Dean had declared that he was finally ready to move on from The Hobbit and bought him a copy of the huge book, complete with John Howe’s illustrations, from a second-hand bookshop. Sam had instantly fallen in love.
He remembers reading it for the first time. One musty night, he and Dean had sneaked out and driven the Impala into a field, lying back on the hood with root beers and watching the stars.
“I think I’m Gollum,” Sam said. His head was on Dean’s shoulder, and he was content and sleepy.
“Hm?”
“Gollum. From the book. I’m most like him.” He rolled his head a bit to glance up at Dean. “Who are you most like?”
“Arwen,” Dean said promptly, and Sam dissolved into giggles. “What? She’s only in it for like two pages, but she totally kicks ass.”
“Dean. Be serious.”
“Okay, then. You’re totally Frodo, kid.”
“Really? You think so?”
“’Course. Small and hairy and all that.” Dean ruffled Sam’s hair, as though to prove his point.
Sam didn’t bother to point out that hobbits had hairy toes, not hairy... hair. If that made any sense. He was too content to dwell on it. He snuggled closer, incredibly proud at the thought that Dean considered him the hero of the book. “And you’re Aragorn,” he said firmly.
As he’s grown older, Sam’s started to relate places he goes to with places in Middle Earth. He can’t decide if he likes Rivendell or Lothlórien better, so his favorite libraries usually become one of the two. The places they hunt things are always Mordor, and Mordor is always the worst in his head when he’s left behind alone. The Impala is, of course, the Shire. The place he calls home, the most important person in the world at the wheel.
Prom night feels like Mordor with Dean away on a hunt. It shouldn’t, because Dad’s with Dean, he must have Dean’s back, but it does. Happy people are all around them, laughing and dancing and surreptitiously spiking the punch, and the noise is beginning to pound inside Sam's head.
"You seem distracted," Audrey says, linking her arm with Sam's as they lean against a wall, sipping from their glasses of punch. "Worried about something?"
"Not really," Sam says, but Audrey gives him a skeptical look, and he sighs. "My brother. He's, uh. Gone out of town."
"On business?"
"Yeah. To help out my dad."
"What does he do?"
"He's. Kind of a freelancer. Sales and stuff. You know. Family business."
"So why are you worried?" She presses gently, concern in her eyes now. He supposes he looks kind of manic.
"Well. He. Uh. He's gonna be working. Like, really long hours. And then he's gonna be tired and driving for hours and I just. I worry."
"I won't tell you not to worry." She squeezes his arm. "But Dean looks like the strong type, you know? I think he'll be okay."
"Yeah?" Sam can't help but smile at her. Sometimes it takes someone who knows nothing at all about your life to give you a little perspective, he thinks as they head over to the punch bowl for refills. Of course Dean's going to be okay. He's been okay every single time he's gone hunting with Dad, so this time shouldn't be any different. The odds are in their favor, really.
The thought lessens the anxiety inside him a little, although he knows he won't stop listening for the buzz of his phone until Dean calls. He knows all too well that a hunt, any hunt, means injuries. Sometimes they're life-threatening and sometimes they're just scratches, but they're always there. Sometimes he wants to scream aloud at how unfair it is. Why should it be his brother who gets hurt to save other people? Why can't it be someone else, someone who doesn't have anyone waiting for them, loving them, worrying themselves to the point of nausea?
Sometimes he wishes really fucking hard that he wasn't trapped in this prison of worry, in this bottomless pit of love that is the entire history of his life, overwhelmingly defined by his love for his brother.
--
Dean doesn't call.
When they leave the prom they're both very slightly tipsy from all the spiked punch. They walk back together from the school, leaving the car in the parking lot. Sam kisses Audrey on the cheek and says good night to her parents.
By the time he walks out of their driveway and into the darkness of the street his anxiety is back full force, eating at his insides. He tries Dean's number. He was always going to try Dean's number the moment he said goodbye to Audrey, and somewhere inside he already knew that Dean wouldn't answer.
Dean had said that he would call. And if he hasn't called, it means that something stopped him from calling.
Three hours later he's crying, tears wetting his pillow as he buries his face in it to keep from howling in rage and fear.
He tries to compose himself as best he can before calling again. He leaves a message this time. "Dean. Come on. I'm begging you, man. Just. Please. Give me a sign that you're okay. That you're alive. I. I'll do anything. Just. Just don't punish me like this. Dean, please. Please."
Just before he falls into exhausted sleep around four in the morning, he finds himself praying. Sam prays more often than he’ll ever admit to Dad or Dean, who are both pretty likely to scoff at the idea. But Sam’s brain insists that if there’ s so much evil in the world, then there must be some good to balance it out. He doesn’t know if anyone’s listening, but he’s pretty sure it can’t hurt to try.
I’m sorry, he thinks. If you’re listening, I’m sorry I mostly only pray when I want something. But I need help. Please, I need help. Just bring him back safe and I’ll do anything. Anything. I’ll do whatever he wants. I’ll go to that stupid counseling session. Just please bring him back safe. I’m begging you. Please.
--
He dreams of things he’ll never admit even to himself, and wakes to the sound of someone moving around in the bedroom.
“Dean?”
“Hey, Sam. Sorry if I woke you.” Dean looks up briefly from his phone, which is pressed to his ear. His expression changes. “You left me a message?”
Sam can’t really do much except sit up and drink his fill of looking at Dean. He seems intact, if a little tired. He vaguely remembers leaving a panicked message on Dean’s voicemail, but not much beyond that.
Dean drops the phone on his bed and comes to him. “Oh, Sam. My battery died and I couldn’t charge my phone because I was driving back. Didn’t want to leave you alone for longer than I had to. I’m so sorry, Sammy.”
Sam just nods, hoping they’re going to avoid talking about his voicemail, but Dean says “I’m sorry” and touches Sam’s face lightly, and that’s it. In the next second Sam’s wrapped tightly around him, shaking with bone-deep relief, his face pressed as close as possible to Dean’s neck. “I was really scared,” he says, his voice muffled against Dean’s skin. “Dean. I... just please don’t do that to me again.”
“I won’t. I’m sorry, Sammy, I... I won’t, I promise.”
Sam pulls away after a long minute, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Are you okay? Is Dad okay?”
“Yeah. It was just a routine thing.”
Sam nods in acknowledgement. “The car’s in the parking lot,” he says. “At school. I’ll get it tomorrow.”
Dean blinks, as though taking a moment to understand what Sam’s talking about. “How was the prom?” he asks finally.
Sam shrugs. He can’t really say it sucked because I was thinking of you every moment, wondering if you were safe.
Dean watches him closely for a moment, and then pats Sam’s shoulder. “I need to sleep for a bit. Don't worry, okay? I’m fine.”
Sam nods, and just watches as Dean lies down on his bed, still dressed in his jeans and t-shirt, and closes his eyes. Thank you, he thinks. Thank you. When Dean’s breathing evens out, Sam sits down at the foot of his bed and removes his brother’s shoes, leaving his socks on because it’s a little cold.
For a moment during his wild anxiety when he couldn’t reach Dean, he’d wondered if Dean was being punished because of Sam’s strange obsession with him, if this was karma’s way of ensuring that Sam’s weird desires never saw the light of day.
The logical part of him knows that it’s unlikely to be true, but he can’t silence the voice in his head that tells him that if there are forces of good, they probably want to punish evil. And whatever Sam’s feelings for his brother are, they definitely aren’t good.
Maybe, he thinks-daring to voice the thought to himself, and not for the first time-maybe Dean would be better off without him. Maybe he’d be safer without the weird invisible shadow of Sam’s wrongness following him everywhere.
Part 2
These days, Sam doesn’t dread anything quite as much as his phone ringing when Dad and Dean are out on a hunt. Seeing Dean’s number flashing on the screen isn’t really comforting, because it could be Dad using Dean’s phone. It could be Dad using the phone to tell Sam that something horrible’s happened to his brother.
“Dean?” Sam always answers with Dean's name, the word itself soothing him, even if the news is going to be less than good.
“Hey, Sammy.” Dean sounds cheerful, and Sam finds himself relaxing a little.
“It’s Sam,” he corrects automatically, but he’s smiling. He probably looks ridiculous, standing there on the sidewalk and smiling into his phone, but he stopped caring about stuff like that years ago.
“Yeah, whatever,” Dean says, and Sam can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “You home yet?”
‘Home’ these days is a cheap rental with exactly two rooms and a kitchen that barely has space for both of them to stand side by side without knocking elbows with each other, but Sam likes the fact that it isn’t a motel room. They’ve been there for the last few months, ever since Sam transferred schools in the middle of the school year because Dad wanted to set up base here.
“Reaching in five. How was the hunt?”
“Same old. Be back by dinner. I’ll get some food on the way. Any requests?”
Sam shrugs, even though Dean can’t see him. “Whatever you want. As long as it’s not too greasy.”
“Gotcha. See ya soon, Sammy.” He hangs up before Sam can correct him again. Sam puts the phone back in his pocket, too relieved to be annoyed.
--
Sam is sixteen, and he’s realized two things in the last couple of years.
The first is that he’s doomed to live a life that he won’t choose for himself. Where other kids at school worry about term papers and whom to go to the prom with, Sam worries about whether his father and brother will make it back from every hunt.
‘Worry’ is too mild a word for it. It’s a constant, crippling anxiety that makes him chew his nails down until there’s only skin left to bite. Most of it is focused on Dean rather than Dad, since their father isn’t a permanent fixture in his life the way Dean is. For sixteen years, Dean’s been the pseudo-parent in Sam’s life, almost always the one to give him lunch money and buy him his school things and forge Dad’s signature where it’s needed. The one who walked Sam to school before he could start driving. The one Sam cried for when left with strangers on his first day of kindergarten. The one who keeps Sam company when no one else is around, the one who’s there in unfamiliar places with unfamiliar people every time Dad moves them to a new town and drops them off at a rental house or motel before tearing off after the newest lead.
Sometimes, the anxiety gets so bad that it’s a physical sensation in Sam’s body: the constant need to throw up, the tightness in his chest and stomach, as though rubber bands are being stretched inside him. It doesn’t ease up until he hears the sound of the Impala again.
There was that one time, when Sam was twelve, when the rumble of the car’s engine had lied. He’d run out of the motel room, ignoring Dad’s orders to always stay within the salt lines when he was alone at night, and found Dad alone in the Impala. Dean was lost, Dad said. He’d lost Dean on the hunt.
The concept of Dean being lost to them was so enormous that it took Sam days to understand that Dean wasn’t coming back anytime soon.
--
When they got Dean back, Sam’s paranoia increased a hundredfold every time his family left on a hunt.
He was fourteen when he first felt the second thing that was to become a hallmark of his existence in the next two years.
It was almost like déjà vu, at first. He’d heard the sound of the Impala’s engine, only to run out and find just one person in the car. This time, though, it was Dean. He was already out of the car by the time Sam reached the door, his fingers wrapped around the doorframe as his head jerked up at the sound of Sam’s running feet.
At first, Sam’s instinct was to throw himself at Dean, as he’d done during the times he was younger when he’d been especially worried at Dad and Dean’s long absences. That night, they’d been over half a day late. No calls, not even a hurried voicemail. Sam caught himself before he made it all the way to his brother, though. He wasn’t as little as he used to be, although the top of his head still didn’t quite reach Dean’s shoulder when they stood side by side.
“Hey, Sammy.” Dean said it like he’d been on a grocery run.
Then he took a step away from the car and crumpled at Sam’s feet, his jacket falling open to reveal a dark stain on his left side.
For a few minutes, it had been Sam’s worst nightmare come true. He’d tried dragging Dean into the motel room, but his brother was six feet tall and nearly a full-grown adult and Sam, small and skinny, could barely get Dean’s head and shoulders off the ground. Dean was absolutely still, not even a groan or a noisy breath to indicate that there was still life in him.
Sam was almost sobbing as he dialed his father’s number. Almost, because the luxury of tears wasn’t for Winchesters, and especially not at a time when action rather than emotion was needed. The call had gone straight to voicemail and Sam had known for the first time in his life what actual heartbreak felt like. Dean was going to die, maybe he was already dead, here in the parking lot of a motel in the middle of the night, a motel that Sam couldn’t even remember the name of. Dean was dead, here on the cold concrete of the parking lot with his head cradled in Sam’s lap, and he hadn't even been able to shut the door of the Impala behind him.
Dean opened his eyes just as Sam was shoving the phone blindly back into his pocket, the whole world wet with his tears. “Hey,” he said again, voice like a flutter of butterfly wings, reaching up for Sam. His hand went behind Sam’s neck, drew his head down until Sam’s ear was close enough to Dean’s mouth for him to hear what Dean was saying. “Sorry, kiddo. Sorry. I’m okay. So sorry, Sammy.”
Sam got to his feet and Dean followed, holding on to the car for support to pull himself to his feet, resting his elbows on the hood for a moment, looking as though he was going to collapse again. “Sorry,” he said again. “Damn venom keeps making me black out.” He sounded a lot like Dad, and Sam could hear it over the angry, anxious thrum of his own heartbeat. He sounded like he could go through anything and get back on his feet, like having the poison of a malevolent supernatural creature in his blood was a minor annoyance. He kept apologizing all the way inside, as though saying he was sorry was an intrinsic part of his survival mechanism at the moment, and Sam was annoyed both at him and for him.
They managed to get inside the house without Dean passing out again, although he leaned heavily on Sam the whole way, almost doubled over, his arm a dead weight around Sam’s shoulders and his body smelling of his warm blood and something else, something black, that had Sam wanting to retch.
Inside, Dean slid off Sam on to the floor, gesturing to his duffel. “Left pocket. Syringe.”
Sam dug the item out of Dean’s back and flew back to him. “What should I do now? Dean? Dean!” He had to shake his brother’s shoulders before Dean opened his eyes again. “Dean, please. Please, I don’t... please stay awake.”
Dean’s eyes slid shut again, but he patted his thigh, fingers fluttering, and Sam jammed the needle into Dean’s flesh and pressed the plunger.
Then he sat there beside Dean, his hand pushed under Dean’s limp one, their fingers curled together, until Dean squeezed back a few minutes later.
Sam’s world titled slowly back into position as Dean came awake, sitting on the floor and swallowing a few gulps of whiskey. When he was able to talk, Dean joked that the snake that had bitten him was like the basilisk from Harry Potter, except that this one had two heads and apparently preferred to eat humans rather than anything else. Neither Dad nor Dean had noticed that Dean had been bitten too until Dean had realized it on the way back alone, Dad having headed off following another lead.
It took a few more minutes before Dean declared himself fit enough for a cleanup. Too exhausted for a shower, he’d stripped off his ruined jacket and shirts and wiped himself down with a washcloth, dunking his head under the faucet at the sink to clean his hair.
The bite itself was a small set of holes in Dean’s forearm, most of the blood the result of a gash in his side where Dean had hurt himself on a sharp protruding rock while diving to the ground. “Doesn’t need stitches,” he said, examining himself in the bathroom mirror. Sam wasn’t so sure, but Dean would only allow him to dress and bandage the wound, sitting at the edge of his bed and on the verge of collapsing into exhausted sleep.
“Take such good care of me,” he said, his voice a little slurred. His hand came up to cup the side of Sam’s face. There was a little fresh blood on the underside of his thumb, and when Dean thumbed away tears that Sam hadn't realized were still trickling from his eyes, the blood smeared under Sam’s eye like war paint.
“Such a good boy for me,” Dean said, unable to stay upright anymore, almost falling into Sam, their foreheads pushed together. His hand dropped to his side and Sam helped him lie back and covered him up with a blanket, Dean’s words still running through him like a current.
Such a good boy for me.
Under the bone-deep fear of almost having lost his brother, deeper even than the ever-present terror that he would lose Dean the next time, a little spark of something had been ignited by Dean’s words, something that would take Sam time to even start to acknowledge.
The second thing he realized about himself, allowing it to slowly take shape over the course of the next two years, was that praise from Dean elicited very different reactions from him now than they had when Sam was younger.
--
At sixteen, Sam’s still shorter than Dean. It’s annoying now, yet another reason to take a dig at his brother and piss him off.
The Impala pretty much belongs to Dean now. Dad hadn't officially given it to Dean; he’d just come back in a truck one day and left the car with the boys when he drove out of town.
Sometimes Sam has imaginary conversations in his head with Dean, to make up for the ones they can never seem to have anymore. The Dean-in-his-head knows exactly how Sam feels about him, and it’s much easier to talk to him than to his real brother.
The real Dean, the one outside Sam's head who’s larger than life and fills up all of Sam's vision when he's around, is so bright that it sometimes hurts to look at him. He’s still Sam's brother, still the one Sam loves more than anyone else, still annoying and beautiful, and Sam doesn’t know when he started using that word in his head to describe his brother.
Sam lets the small things hurt so he doesn’t have to think about the big ones. He's extra-vicious when they train, kicking at Dean where it hurts, and Dean almost always gives him this half-surprised, half-proud look when Sam gets in a good punch or an effective headlock.
Everything Sam's got, he's got from Dean: the ability to fight, to hunt, to be protective of his brother, to hurt his brother like no one else can.
He loves Dean. He loves Dean, but the very thing that's kept them together is now driving them apart, and Sam's the only one who knows why.
--
The truth is, he touches the things they hunt more than he touches anyone else these days. He knows Dean doesn’t want to take him along on hunts, would rather leave him safe in motel rooms-as though anywhere were safe-and go alone. As though Sam is dead weight bound to his ankle and dragging him down. This knowledge gets into Sam's head and hurts constantly, a never-ending rhythm of he’d be so much better off without you, his pain-in-the-ass little brother.
--
It’s easily their worst fight in at least six months.
On the outside, nothing’s really changed. They’re in their shabby rental as usual, the exception being that Dad isn’t around this time. Dad’s absences are becoming more routine anyway, the rule now rather than the exception.
It should’ve been a night for celebration. They’ve just successfully completed a hunt, not less than an hour ago. Sam is still flushed with adrenaline from the fight, his own blood still warm on his skin. (A scratch on the arm from a wayward claw, nothing serious.) But then Dean says something on the way back home about Sam's battle technique and Sam snaps, lashing out at Dean with words that are meant to hurt. Later, he can’t really recall what he’d said, but he can remember very clearly the sharp pain on Dean's face, the way he retreats into himself instead of lashing right back at Sam.
It gets so bad that they don’t speak at all for the next couple of days. Dean works his job at the town mechanic’s and comes home late, smelling of engine oil and sometimes whiskey. He never acts drunk, but he’s quieter than usual on the days that Sam can make out that he’s been to a bar. Sam doesn’t get close enough to him to check if he smells of sex. If he didn’t, it would make Sam feel a ridiculous amount of relief that he has no right to feel. If he did, it would break Sam’s heart in a way that it has no right to break. Sam would rather not know.
One night, Sam’s working on a term paper on Great Expectations-they haven’t spoken much to each other for days now, except for functional things that have to be said-when it becomes obvious that Dean is going to go out on a hunt. He’s got his back to Sam and he’s checking his weapons and stuffing holy oil and other essentials into the side pockets of his bag.
“Be back when I’m done,” he says, hoisting his bag over his shoulder and turning to the door, still not looking at Sam. “Not sure exactly what this thing is. Could take a while.”
"Wait," Sam says, the fear that had welled up in him at the sight of Dean getting his bag ready swelling up into full-blown panic. "Dean, wait. Please."
Dean turns around, half-impatient, half-concerned. "What?"
"I. I'm scared, Dean."
Dean's expression softens a bit. "Stay inside the salt lines. You'll be fine, Sammy."
"No, Dean. I'm scared you won't. Won't come back."
Dean looks confused for a second, as though he can't fathom why Sam would be scared for him. "I'm good, Sam. I've done this a hundred times."
The spreading ache inside Sam only worsens. "You said it yourself. You’re not sure what this thing is. And every time. Dean, every time you go out to hunt something, I. It gets worse. I. I think I'll die of anxiety if I just have to wait here not knowing if you're okay."
"You could've come along for a salt and burn, Sam. But I don't know what to expect with this one."
"All the more reason you'll need backup," Sam says.
"I hate it when you get logical, Spock. Fine, come with me. But you stay in the car unless I say you can come out, and you do exactly as I ask you to. Deal?"
Sam nods, some of the tightness in his chest dissipating.
Dean reaches over to ruffle his hair, a quick drag of his fingers over the crown of Sam's head. "And we're gonna talk about this anxiety thing."
--
It goes off spectacularly well.
At least Sam thinks it does. He figures out while sitting in the car that there are two ghosts, not just one, and tears into the house just in time to pump rock salt through the second one before it gets his brother.
They bicker all the way back to the motel, but Sam thinks it was worth it.
His conviction is tested when Dean confronts him after they've showered and made coffee (Dean's with a shot of whiskey).
"You disobeyed me." He sounds so much like Dad in that moment. You disobeyed a direct order, Sam."
“Wasn’t aware you were the boss of me,” Sam shoots back, perfectly aware that it’s very far from the truth.
“I am the boss of you, you little dick. Dad left me in charge and that means you do as I fucking say.”
“Don’t recall Dad saying you could curse at me.”
“Don’t recall Dad saying you could ignore my orders.”
“I saved your hide back there, you jerk.”
“I could’ve handled it just fine, you bitch.”
“Don't call me that,” Sam says, furious. “You don’t get to call me that when you act like Dad and try to rule my fucking life.”
“So I can call you a bitch if I’m not trying to rule your fucking life?” Dean says, straight-faced.
Sam stares at him for a moment. It takes him a minute to get that Dean’s joking. Here they are, just having escaped with their lives yet again, not to mention the animosity that’s silently been growing between them for the last several weeks, and Dean’s joking.
Sam keeps staring at him, bewildered, as Dean starts to laugh. “Oh, Sammy. Your face.” He throws himself on the bed, face to the ceiling, and keeps laughing. “Am I allowed to call you ‘Sammy,’ Sammy?”
“You’re a complete jerk, you know that?”
“Yep.”
“A total asshole.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“I fucking hate you.”
“I know you do.” Dean doesn’t open his eyes, but he stops laughing, the grin wiped clean off his face like it was never there. “Get some pizza or something if you’re hungry. Money’s in my wallet.” He turns over with his back to Sam, conversation over.
I didn’t mean that, Sam thinks. Dean, you have to know I didn’t mean that. But it’s too late to say anything now, to take back his words, the room still echoing with the horrible sound of them as though it were Sam and not Dean who’d spoken last.
He hides in the bathroom for a while, slumped against the cold floor, wondering how it’s possible to almost constantly be with someone else and be as lonely as he is. Sometimes he wonders if Dean is just as lonely. He doesn’t seem to be going on dates at all at the moment, but then they aren’t together all day when Sam’s at school, and maybe. Maybe Dean’s seeing someone at work, or fucking someone during the day. Having sex every day when Sam’s not around, when his annoying little brother isn’t there to be a third wheel. Bringing someone back to this room, their room, having sex on his bed, on Sam’s bed.
Sam scrubs furiously at his eyes when he realizes they’ve been wet for a while now. He isn’t going to be upset over something that he can’t control. His fucking jerk of a big brother, one word from whom can light Sam up from the inside, can tear Sam up so badly that the invisible wound takes weeks to heal sometimes. Sam tells himself that those wounds don’t hurt as bad as the ones from fangs or claws, that the invisible pain in his insides is a luxury, is nothing compared to the very tangible battle wounds that they get on the job. That Dean gets, mostly, because he rarely allows Sam to be put in a position where he can get hurt.
It’s strange how Sam’s quiet tears leave him even more exhausted than angry sobbing can. He splashes some water on his face and opens the door, expecting Dean to be asleep.
He isn’t. He’s sitting at the edge of his bed, a bottle of cold water in his hands that he must have gotten out of the fridge. He holds out the half-empty bottle to Sam, his gaze lingering on Sam’s red eyes.
Sam takes the bottle, acting on auto-pilot. He sinks down on to the bed next to Dean, trying to ignore the thrill of putting his mouth where Dean’s just was. He doesn’t know if the mouth of the bottle is wet from the water or from Dean’s mouth. Probably both. He puts his lips carefully around the rim of the bottle and drinks, not stopping until the bottle is empty.
Dean takes the bottle from his hand, not touching him, and replaces the cap before tossing it on the night table and lying back down, swinging his legs around Sam’s body so that he can stretch out. Sam can see from the corner of his eye that Dean’s eyes are open, his arms crossed behind his head.
“I didn’t mean that.” He looks down at his hands. The anxiety is just a low throb somewhere deep down at the moment, biding its time; it’ll flare up the next time Dean goes hunting without Sam. Right now what he’s feeling most strongly is pure misery. He forces himself to turn toward Dean, suddenly desperate to make his brother believe him. “Dean. I didn’t.”
“I know.” Dean straightens up a bit, reaches out to rub his hand along Sam’s spine. “I know, kid.”
Sam closes his eyes, his body thrumming with nervous energy as Dean’s hand curls around the nape of his neck, his thumb rubbing under Sam’s hair. “Dean.”
“I know,” Dean says again. “C’mere.” He pulls Sam close until his head is on Dean’s shoulder. Sam lets himself curl up next to Dean, their bodies pressed together in a long line. They haven’t done this in a long time.
Dean’s hand moves away from Sam’s neck, and Sam feels the loss keenly until Dean’s fingers thread through his hair. He relaxes against Dean’s chest, putting a hesitant arm around Dean’s waist. He’s not sure yet if he’s earned this.
But Dean seems to approve, letting out a low hum as he pets Sam’s hair, shifting a little closer to him. “It happens, Sam. We’re always in each other’s way. You’re sixteen, and you have no privacy. Maybe we should think about getting a different place, hmm? One where you can have a bedroom of your own. Give you some space.”
“Maybe,” Sam says, his voice muffled against Dean’s neck. He knows it’ll never work. Dean doesn’t really earn enough to afford a bigger place, even with the money Sam makes with his part-time after-school jobs. And even if they could somehow scrounge up the funds to get a bigger place, they don’t know how long they’ll be in this town, when Dad will turn up to drag them away, off to a new place yet again.
“Sam. I mean it.”
Sam shakes his head as much as his cramped position allows. He’s pretty much pinned down next to Dean’s side, but he doesn’t want to move. “I don’t. I don’t need that, Dean.”
“Then what? What do you need, Sam?” Dean’s voice is soft, non-confrontational, as though he’s genuinely asking, and not just trying to rile Sam up. “I. I can make up a bed on the couch and let you have the bedroom to yourself if. If you...”
“Dean. I’m okay with sharing.”
Dean sighs, his breath fluttering in Sam’s hair. He doesn’t say anything else for a long time, and Sam’s almost asleep when he hears Dean’s last words, spoken almost only to himself. “I wish you could have a better life, Sammy.”
--
They wake up tangled together. The blankets are tucked in around them, covering them up to their chins, and Dean’s body is warm beside Sam’s in their makeshift cocoon.
Sam remembers his near-breakdown the night before, the conversation in the dark, Dean’s fingers in his hair. The memory fills him with something suspiciously like pride, despite that harsh thing he’d said to Dean, the thing he didn’t mean. He doesn’t want to remember his words in the light of day, the way Dean’s body had gone rigid and closed off with hurt. He spends his life in fear that Dean will get hurt, and last night he’d been the one to hurt Dean.
“Morning, sunshine,” Dean says around a huge yawn, pulling his arms free of the blanket to stretch them above his head. “I gotta go to work. Want me to give you a ride somewhere?”
It takes Sam a moment to remember that it’s Saturday. He doesn’t have to go to school, but Dean works the whole day on Saturdays. No one else at the garage comes in, so Dean gets paid overtime.
“Nah, I’m good.”
“No plans?”
Sam shrugs, watching as Dean climbs out of bed. “Go over to Audrey’s later. Do homework.”
“Homework, huh? That a euphemism for something else?”
“You have a one-track mind, Dean.” Sam jumps out of bed and beats Dean to the bathroom.
--
Audrey is Sam’s closest friend from school. He calls her Hepburn and she’s called him Hemingway ever since they read A Farewell to Arms a few weeks ago and he fell in love with the book. He can’t tell her that it had him from the title. Just the thought of giving up arms, of living a regular life in which he has nothing more to worry about than bills and mortgages and maybe vaccinations for his dog is so compelling that Sam fantasizes about the idea for hours sometimes.
That day, they take their books out into the backyard of Audrey’s house. It’s too nice a day to stay indoors, and the grass in the back lawn is springy and comfortable. They lie on their backs in the sun while they’re taking a break from work, tall glasses of iced lemonade sitting on the ground beside them.
“Sam?” Audrey says, sounding comfortably sleepy, her dark shoulder-length hair, very much like Sam’s, fanned out beneath her head.
“Mm?”
“Are you gay?”
Sam turns to face her. “Why would you ask me that?”
She turns too so that their positions are mirrored, reaching out to push a strand of hair out of his face. “Do you mind my asking?”
“No.”
“I think I am,” she says, and Sam’s anxiousness disappears when the reason for her question becomes apparent. “That’s why I asked. I thought you. That maybe you.”
Sam lets out a long breath. “I don’t know.” He tangles his hand with hers. “How did you know?”
“I’m not sure either. But, I. Uh. I think I’m in love with Dana. You know her? Blonde, gorgeous? Her dad owns the garage on fourth?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen her around. My brother works there. The garage.” He smiles at her, squeezes her hand. “Good choice. She seems awesome.”
Audrey sits up, hugging her knees. “I don’t think she even knows I exist.”
Sam puts his arm around her shoulders, not really sure what to say.
“How did you. I mean, what makes you think you might like guys? Is, is there someone?”
“Uh, yeah. I think so.”
“You think so?” she says, her tone gentle, teasing.
Sam grins back. “Yeah, I. I’m not sure if it’s like that, you know? I just really like him, and I like it when he’s nice to me. I just. I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean.”
They sit quietly for a few minutes, sipping their lemonade, and Sam has the silent realization that a small weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He’d been pretty sure Audrey didn’t like him like that, but having confirmation of it has made him a lot more secure in her company.
They’re just finishing up when his phone buzzes. “Hey,” Dean says when Sam answers. “I’m heading home. Want me to pick you up? If you’re done.”
He blinks for a moment, suspicious about the lack of innuendo in Dean’s tone. “Uh, sure. We’re done.”
“Be there in five,” Dean says, and hangs up.
“That him?” Audrey asks. She’s smiling.
“What? No. It. That was my brother.”
“Oh. He picking you up?”
“Yeah.”
“Sam, will you go to the prom with me?”
Sam blinks at her. “What?” he says again. “I thought you. You said you were-”
“Not. Not like that, Sam. I just. I don’t want to go with any other guy and give him the wrong idea, you know? Since we both like people we can’t go with, I thought, I thought we could just go together.”
“I’m not sure I can go, Hepburn. We-my dad might be back by then and maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Okay, well, if you can go, let me know? It’s no biggie.”
“You really wanna go, huh?”
She shrugs. “I know it’s mostly for the cheerleaders and the jocks and all that. I just thought it might be fun to go with someone I actually like, and maybe snark at everything.”
Sam grins. “I’ll try to make it. Promise.”
The Impala’s horn blares then, and Sam gathers up his stuff and slings his bag over his shoulder.
Audrey comes up to the car with him, bending to say hi to Dean through the passenger window.
“Hey,” Dean says easily, leaning across to shake her hand. “Audrey, right? I’m Dean. I was just gonna take Sammy for a bite at the diner. You wanna come with?”
“Not this time, but thanks,” Audrey says with a smile. “My parents will be home soon and tonight’s family night, apparently.” She rolls her eyes and tucks her hair behind her ear.
“All right,” Dean says easily, giving her a wave. “Some other time, then.”
As the car pulls away, Dean looks over with a smirk. “So that’s your little girlfriend? She’s cute.”
“I told you it’s not like that.” Sam ruins the effect of the statement by adding, “She asked me to the prom.”
“How is it not like that if she asked you on a date?”
“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“That you’re going out with her? Pretty sure people are going to see you at the prom, princess. Unless you were planning on wearing your invisibility cloak.”
“Asshole. I meant don’t tell anyone what I’m going to tell you. She, uh. She thinks she’s gay. And she wants to go with me because she came out to me.”
To Sam’s absolute surprise, Dean doesn’t make any inappropriate lesbian jokes. In fact, he stays silent for the next couple of minutes, until they pull into the diner’s parking lot. Then he turns to Sam, his expression more serious than Sam’s seen in a while.
“So, she wants to go with you because she’s a lesbian and she doesn’t want some horny teenage dude’s hands all over her at the dance.”
“Thanks for the gross mental image, but yeah. That’s about it.”
“So what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Why do you want to go with a lesbian and ruin your chances of getting laid on prom night?”
“Dean!”
“Dude, come on. Everyone gets laid on prom night.”
“I am so not having this conversation with you.” Sam gets out of the car and heads into the diner.
Dean doesn’t let it go. “Look,” he says the moment he slides into the seat across from Sam. “I know you’re a virgin and all, but-”
“Dean!” Sam says in a furious whisper, looking around. “Would you keep it down? Someone could hear you!”
“Okay, okay, jeez. Sorry.”
“I swear to god, Dean, if you say another word I’m walking back home right now.”
Dean mimes zipping his mouth shut, and they actually have a relatively quiet and peaceful meal for once.
--
Dean goes out on Sunday afternoon and returns in the early evening with a rented tux.
Sam just stares at it for a moment, completely at a loss for words. It had been worrying him that he didn’t have anything to wear, that he might have to take up several extras hours of tutoring and odd jobs to be able to afford a tux, not the best thing to have to do so close to his exams.
“Dean, you. You didn’t have to do this. I don’t even know if I can go. What if, you know. Dad.”
“You wanna go to your prom, Sammy, then you should go. If Dad makes a fuss, I’ll handle it.” Dean nods at the suit. “Go on, try it on.”
He disappears into the bathroom for a shower and Sam changes quickly. He’s examining himself critically in the mirror when Dean emerges in a cloud of steam, wearing the soft, worn-in sweats that he wears to bed.
“Wow, Sammy. Gonna knock ’em dead.”
“You think so?” Sam peers at Dean through his bangs, hoping he isn’t smirking.
“You clean up real nice, kid,” Dean says, grinning proudly.
Sam flushes at the sincerity of Dean’s tone, the praise going straight through him like a warm shot of alcohol.
--
As it turns out, Sam does get to go to his junior prom. Except Dean isn’t there.
Dad calls on the morning of the prom to give Dean info about their next job, and Sam can tell from the look on Dean’s face that what Dad’s saying isn’t exactly great news.
“Another job?” he asks when Dean hangs up, dreading the answer.
Dean nods. “Couple of towns over. Gotta leave right away. You gonna be okay by yourself for a couple days?”
“I’m going with you.”
“Sammy, you have the prom today.”
“Fuck the stupid prom, Dean. You think I care about that when you’re just going to drive off into some sort of horrible danger?”
“I’ll be fine, Sam. I’m always fine. ’Sides, Dad’s going to be there.”
“Oh. You sure?”
“Yeah, kiddo. He’ll have my back.”
“What is it? What are you going to hunt?”
“Poltergeist, I think. He didn’t really share too many specifics.”
“Call me, okay? Call me when you’re done?”
Dean nods. “Yeah, I’ll call. I was gonna let you have the car tonight, but...”
“Take the car, Dean. I’ll be fine.”
Dean sighs. “Sorry, Sammy. Come to the garage with me, okay? I’ll ask Dave if he can spare some wheels.”
Dean is as good as his word. They stop by the garage-Dean’s asked for the day off, even though not working on a Saturday means losing good money, and Sam, for the millionth time, feels a twinge of irritation at their father-and Dean fixes him up with a ’76 Chevy.
“Not the Impala, but she’ll do,” he says with a grin, tossing Sam the keys. “Told the boss you’ll have her back by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thanks, Dean.” Dean’s looking at him a little nervously, as though Sam might not think the car’s good enough for his big date, and Sam makes a show of admiring the sleek navy blue car. “It’s awesome.”
Dean’s face relaxes into a genuine smile, and Sam has to fight back the sudden urge to hug him.
“Oh,” Dean says, reaching into his bag. “Almost forgot.” He hands Sam a thin file.
“What’s this?”
“Knew you were busy with that science project, so I signed you up for the PSATs. And made an appointment with you with the school counselor on Monday.”
“The counselor?”
“You gotta talk to someone, Sam.”
“About what?” Sam asks blankly.
“That anxiety stuff you mentioned.”
“Dean.”
“Come on, Sam. This isn’t optional.”
“You can’t just make these decisions for me,” Sam snaps. “You’re not my father.”
Surprised hurt flares on Dean’s face for a second before he tamps it down. “Fine. I’ll get your father to speak to the school. You’re going to that appointment.”
“And tell them what? That I’m fucked up because my family hunts supernatural things? Huh? Is that what you want me to say?”
“Jesus, Sam. Just make something up. Say your dad’s commissioned or something.”
“So, you want me to lie? Real good idea, lying to a counselor.”
Dean stares at him for a moment, and then tosses his bag into the shotgun seat of the Impala. “Whatever. Have fun at the prom.”
--
Sam’s favorite book by far is The Lord of the Rings. He finds something to like about pretty much every book he reads, but no book has stuck in his mind the way that one has. At sixteen, he’s already read the whole of it thrice, and some parts of it more often.
When he was a few years younger, Dean had declared that he was finally ready to move on from The Hobbit and bought him a copy of the huge book, complete with John Howe’s illustrations, from a second-hand bookshop. Sam had instantly fallen in love.
He remembers reading it for the first time. One musty night, he and Dean had sneaked out and driven the Impala into a field, lying back on the hood with root beers and watching the stars.
“I think I’m Gollum,” Sam said. His head was on Dean’s shoulder, and he was content and sleepy.
“Hm?”
“Gollum. From the book. I’m most like him.” He rolled his head a bit to glance up at Dean. “Who are you most like?”
“Arwen,” Dean said promptly, and Sam dissolved into giggles. “What? She’s only in it for like two pages, but she totally kicks ass.”
“Dean. Be serious.”
“Okay, then. You’re totally Frodo, kid.”
“Really? You think so?”
“’Course. Small and hairy and all that.” Dean ruffled Sam’s hair, as though to prove his point.
Sam didn’t bother to point out that hobbits had hairy toes, not hairy... hair. If that made any sense. He was too content to dwell on it. He snuggled closer, incredibly proud at the thought that Dean considered him the hero of the book. “And you’re Aragorn,” he said firmly.
As he’s grown older, Sam’s started to relate places he goes to with places in Middle Earth. He can’t decide if he likes Rivendell or Lothlórien better, so his favorite libraries usually become one of the two. The places they hunt things are always Mordor, and Mordor is always the worst in his head when he’s left behind alone. The Impala is, of course, the Shire. The place he calls home, the most important person in the world at the wheel.
Prom night feels like Mordor with Dean away on a hunt. It shouldn’t, because Dad’s with Dean, he must have Dean’s back, but it does. Happy people are all around them, laughing and dancing and surreptitiously spiking the punch, and the noise is beginning to pound inside Sam's head.
"You seem distracted," Audrey says, linking her arm with Sam's as they lean against a wall, sipping from their glasses of punch. "Worried about something?"
"Not really," Sam says, but Audrey gives him a skeptical look, and he sighs. "My brother. He's, uh. Gone out of town."
"On business?"
"Yeah. To help out my dad."
"What does he do?"
"He's. Kind of a freelancer. Sales and stuff. You know. Family business."
"So why are you worried?" She presses gently, concern in her eyes now. He supposes he looks kind of manic.
"Well. He. Uh. He's gonna be working. Like, really long hours. And then he's gonna be tired and driving for hours and I just. I worry."
"I won't tell you not to worry." She squeezes his arm. "But Dean looks like the strong type, you know? I think he'll be okay."
"Yeah?" Sam can't help but smile at her. Sometimes it takes someone who knows nothing at all about your life to give you a little perspective, he thinks as they head over to the punch bowl for refills. Of course Dean's going to be okay. He's been okay every single time he's gone hunting with Dad, so this time shouldn't be any different. The odds are in their favor, really.
The thought lessens the anxiety inside him a little, although he knows he won't stop listening for the buzz of his phone until Dean calls. He knows all too well that a hunt, any hunt, means injuries. Sometimes they're life-threatening and sometimes they're just scratches, but they're always there. Sometimes he wants to scream aloud at how unfair it is. Why should it be his brother who gets hurt to save other people? Why can't it be someone else, someone who doesn't have anyone waiting for them, loving them, worrying themselves to the point of nausea?
Sometimes he wishes really fucking hard that he wasn't trapped in this prison of worry, in this bottomless pit of love that is the entire history of his life, overwhelmingly defined by his love for his brother.
--
Dean doesn't call.
When they leave the prom they're both very slightly tipsy from all the spiked punch. They walk back together from the school, leaving the car in the parking lot. Sam kisses Audrey on the cheek and says good night to her parents.
By the time he walks out of their driveway and into the darkness of the street his anxiety is back full force, eating at his insides. He tries Dean's number. He was always going to try Dean's number the moment he said goodbye to Audrey, and somewhere inside he already knew that Dean wouldn't answer.
Dean had said that he would call. And if he hasn't called, it means that something stopped him from calling.
Three hours later he's crying, tears wetting his pillow as he buries his face in it to keep from howling in rage and fear.
He tries to compose himself as best he can before calling again. He leaves a message this time. "Dean. Come on. I'm begging you, man. Just. Please. Give me a sign that you're okay. That you're alive. I. I'll do anything. Just. Just don't punish me like this. Dean, please. Please."
Just before he falls into exhausted sleep around four in the morning, he finds himself praying. Sam prays more often than he’ll ever admit to Dad or Dean, who are both pretty likely to scoff at the idea. But Sam’s brain insists that if there’ s so much evil in the world, then there must be some good to balance it out. He doesn’t know if anyone’s listening, but he’s pretty sure it can’t hurt to try.
I’m sorry, he thinks. If you’re listening, I’m sorry I mostly only pray when I want something. But I need help. Please, I need help. Just bring him back safe and I’ll do anything. Anything. I’ll do whatever he wants. I’ll go to that stupid counseling session. Just please bring him back safe. I’m begging you. Please.
--
He dreams of things he’ll never admit even to himself, and wakes to the sound of someone moving around in the bedroom.
“Dean?”
“Hey, Sam. Sorry if I woke you.” Dean looks up briefly from his phone, which is pressed to his ear. His expression changes. “You left me a message?”
Sam can’t really do much except sit up and drink his fill of looking at Dean. He seems intact, if a little tired. He vaguely remembers leaving a panicked message on Dean’s voicemail, but not much beyond that.
Dean drops the phone on his bed and comes to him. “Oh, Sam. My battery died and I couldn’t charge my phone because I was driving back. Didn’t want to leave you alone for longer than I had to. I’m so sorry, Sammy.”
Sam just nods, hoping they’re going to avoid talking about his voicemail, but Dean says “I’m sorry” and touches Sam’s face lightly, and that’s it. In the next second Sam’s wrapped tightly around him, shaking with bone-deep relief, his face pressed as close as possible to Dean’s neck. “I was really scared,” he says, his voice muffled against Dean’s skin. “Dean. I... just please don’t do that to me again.”
“I won’t. I’m sorry, Sammy, I... I won’t, I promise.”
Sam pulls away after a long minute, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Are you okay? Is Dad okay?”
“Yeah. It was just a routine thing.”
Sam nods in acknowledgement. “The car’s in the parking lot,” he says. “At school. I’ll get it tomorrow.”
Dean blinks, as though taking a moment to understand what Sam’s talking about. “How was the prom?” he asks finally.
Sam shrugs. He can’t really say it sucked because I was thinking of you every moment, wondering if you were safe.
Dean watches him closely for a moment, and then pats Sam’s shoulder. “I need to sleep for a bit. Don't worry, okay? I’m fine.”
Sam nods, and just watches as Dean lies down on his bed, still dressed in his jeans and t-shirt, and closes his eyes. Thank you, he thinks. Thank you. When Dean’s breathing evens out, Sam sits down at the foot of his bed and removes his brother’s shoes, leaving his socks on because it’s a little cold.
For a moment during his wild anxiety when he couldn’t reach Dean, he’d wondered if Dean was being punished because of Sam’s strange obsession with him, if this was karma’s way of ensuring that Sam’s weird desires never saw the light of day.
The logical part of him knows that it’s unlikely to be true, but he can’t silence the voice in his head that tells him that if there are forces of good, they probably want to punish evil. And whatever Sam’s feelings for his brother are, they definitely aren’t good.
Maybe, he thinks-daring to voice the thought to himself, and not for the first time-maybe Dean would be better off without him. Maybe he’d be safer without the weird invisible shadow of Sam’s wrongness following him everywhere.
Part 2