(no subject)
Dinner on Monday night is an awkward affair.
Sam had gone to school that afternoon to keep his appointment with the counselor. Dean knows he’d gone to school, and Sam can’t lie that he had an exam or project work to do, because Dean knows his school schedule. Sometimes it seems as though there’s nothing Dean doesn’t know about him except for the huge awful secret Sam’s carrying around inside him.
Dean’s home reasonably early for a change, as though he’s making an effort not to leave Sam alone for too long, and Sam can’t decide if he’s annoyed or touched. Probably a little of both. He can’t seem to make Dean understand the simplest of things these days, can’t seem to be able to make him see that it’s only when Dean’s away on a hunt that Sam gets his anxiety attacks.
They’re chopping up stuff for sandwich fillings when Sam finally decides to break the silence. “So, I. Met the counselor today.”
“Yeah?” Dean says, looking over at him. It’s obvious that he’s trying as hard as possible not to sound very interested for fear that Sam will shut down.
“Yeah. I told her that my dad was on active duty. Like you said. And that I was having anxiety attacks because of that.”
“What’d she say?”
“Well, she didn’t think I was crazy, for one. And, uh. She said I should probably try to make some more friends. I told her I have Audrey, but she didn’t seem to think that was enough. Recommended that I do a summer course or workshop or something, get to know some more people.”
“What’d you think about that?”
Sam shrugs. “I dunno. I guess I could try, maybe.”
Dean passes him a sandwich and takes a bite of his own before speaking again. “Maybe you should spend the summer at Bobby’s. Maybe if you aren’t with Dad and me you won’t know when we’re working, and...”
“Dean, no. That would make it a hundred times worse. I’d just be worrying all the time. And besides, this isn’t a big deal, okay? I don’t want you to worry about me. It’s just a stupid thing. I can handle it.”
“Sam, come on. It’s not a-”
“Drop it, Dean, okay? I just drank too much at the prom and then left that stupid message. It didn’t really mean anything. You wanted me to meet the counselor, and I did and she just told me some stupid shit. She knows squat about our lives. Now can we just drop it, please?”
Dean’s watching him with his sharp eyes, and Sam looks away. “Sure. If that’s what you want.” He picks up his plate and goes to sit on the couch, turning on the TV before he settles in.
Sam crawls into bed and falls asleep to the faint sound of the TV from the living room, soothed by the evidence that Dean’s right there, safe and probably half-asleep by now, his feet propped up on the coffee table.
--
After that conversation, there’s one thing Sam knows for sure: whatever it is he’s going through, he’s going to have to deal with it alone.
He can’t let Dean worry about Sam not being able to handle himself. Not when Dean risks his life on pretty much every hunt. The panic attacks just mean that he’s weak, weaker than he’d ever thought possible. He’s worse than a child, really, and there’s no way he has the right to make Dean worry about him when his brother’s out on a hunt and needs to be at his best. He can’t be worrying about the possibility that Sam’s having anxiety attacks while he’s away. Nothing should distract Dean from being alert and taking care of himself during a hunt.
He’s also realized that he doesn’t love his father the way he loves Dean. He fears for his father’s safety, sure. But the thought of Dad being hurt doesn’t make him want to claw out his own insides. And the thought of Dad dying, the thought of him being killed by a monster... It’s absolutely devastating. Sam can almost taste the grief he’d feel if Dad were to be killed.
But the thought of Dean dying is so desperately unimaginable that Sam can’t even process the whole of it. Sometimes he forces himself to remember that time in the parking lot when Dean had collapsed, just to make himself recall how he’d felt at the time. But he’d been fourteen then, and not really sure of his own thoughts. Now he’s older, and when he thinks of Dean being in a place where he can’t be saved, all Sam really knows for sure is that if Dean dies, Sam will follow right behind, because there’s no way he could be alive if Dean were not.
And buried somewhere under that mountain of anxiety, even deeper somewhere inside, is the fact that Dean’s praise makes Sam feel things he’s never felt before. He’s tried to pretend that he’s imagining things, that Dean doesn’t make him feel things that he has no right to feel, but it really doesn’t work.
Between trying to hide two huge things from Dean now-his anxiety and his... other thing, things are starting to get really strained between him and Dean.
Things take a turn when Dad calls one evening, just as Dean has walked in the door, covered with engine grease from work.
Sam sees Dean's face tense up as he listens to whatever Dad’s saying, and then Dean says, “Where are you taking him?”
Dean's silent for a few seconds while Dad speaks. He doesn’t look at Sam.
“Where are you taking him?” Dean repeats. This time he glances at Sam, and Sam knows instantly that they're taking about him.
“What kind of job?” Dean says into the phone, pushing his greasy hand into his hair. And then, after a beat: “Why do you need Sam?”
Sam watches Dean's face change at whatever Dad says next. “By himself?” Dean asks, the hand not holding the phone clenching into a fist now.
“He’s not going.” A pause. “I said he’s not going with you. He’s sixteen. He belongs in school, not on a monster hunt.”
Another pause, and then Dean's voice becomes sharper. “No, sir. I won’t have him drop out like I did because he’s too busy training and learning how to kill things to do his homework. He’s not going to have that life. I won’t let you-”
Dad obviously cuts him off then, because Dean's face scrunches up in frustration, his mouth open to start speaking as soon as he’s allowed. “He’s not some spare soldier that you can train to do your work for you. Find another hunter or let me do it. Not Sam.” He hangs up the phone without waiting for a response.
“What was that about?” The question is barely out of Sam’s mouth when his own phone starts to ring.
“Don't answer it.”
“Dean.” The screen says Dad calling. Sam moves to pick up the phone.
“Sam, do not answer that phone.”
Sam stares at him. “What the fuck did he say to you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Does to me.” Sam’s clutching the still ringing phone in his hand now.
“Sam, if you answer that call, so help me god, I’ll.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s fine,” Dean says shortly, a bite in his tone that Sam hasn’t really heard before.
“Okay.” Sam says, hating the sight of the tightness in Dean’s expression. He puts the phone down on the bed, and they’re both silent until it stops ringing.
“Switch it off.”
Sam picks up the phone and keeps the power button pressed until the screen goes dead.
“Good boy,” Dean says, and then he comes over and hugs Sam.
Sam is so surprised that he’s frozen in Dean’s embrace for a moment, letting Dean wrap his arms around him and squeeze him tight.
“Don't go anywhere with him, Sammy,” Dean says, his face pressed into Sam’s hair. “Promise me you won’t go anywhere with him if I’m not around.”
“I.” Sam’s face is squished against Dean’s chest, his heart pounding. Part of him wants to know right now why the promise is being elicited from him, but most of him just responds to Dean’s tone. “I promise.”
Dean lets out a shaky breath, pulling back a little but not letting go of Sam. “Good,” he says, brushing Sam’s hair back from his forehead.
“Dean, what’s this about?”
“He wants to start training you to go on hunts alone.”
Sam looks up at Dean, more than a little surprised. “So?”
“So, you’re not going.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Sam, you’re sixteen.”
“Way older than you were when you started helping Dad.”
“Sam, I. I do it so you don’t have to.”
“What?” Sam hadn't thought there’d be anything Dean could say that would shock him.
“I. It’s not only because of that, Sam, but. But it’s my job to look out for you. And he wants to send me on another job and take you with him. I can’t-I won’t allow that. I won’t ever allow that.”
“Dean,” Sam says, and his voice is little more than a whisper. “I have to start sometime.” It’s a half-hearted protest, Sam unable to put much effort into it because something large and warm is swelling in his chest.
“No. No, you don’t. All you gotta do is go to school and put that genius brain of yours to work and get an education.”
Sam shakes his head, still clinging to Dean a little. “Dean, it’s not real. That school stuff. Trying to protect me from monsters isn’t going to make them go away.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Don’t you see? I’m here to worry about that stuff so you don’t have to.”
“What if. Dean, what if you aren’t around? I have to learn how to-”
“We do plenty of training, don’t we? I’ve followed his regime, Sam. I’ve put you through all the training he asked me to. You have damn good reflexes and you know everything there is to know about fighting these things. And what you don’t know yet, I’ll teach you. We’ll keep training, okay? But you are not going out there on your own.”
“It’s my choice to make!”
“Yes, it is. When you’re eighteen. You’re a minor, Sam. I’m not having that choice taken away from you.”
“But you didn’t have that choice!”
“Exactly,” Dean says, looking almost pleased that Sam’s figured it out. “I never had the choice. And I’m not letting the same thing happen to you, Sam.”
Sam stares at him, open-mouthed for a second. “But I want to have that choice now. Not two years from now.”
“If you had the choice now, what would you choose, Sammy? Would you choose this life? Huh? Are you really gonna tell me that you’d prefer hunting monsters to getting an education?”
“That’s all... that’s just theory, Dean. Classrooms and lectures. It’s nothing, nothing at all to do with the real world! The world you and Dad fight in.”
“It’s everything to do with it, Sam. It’s the power to be informed and make your own choices. Understand what your options are.”
“If the other option is to have my nose stuck in a book while you go out and risk your life, then there’s no way I’m choosing it.”
“Look, Sam, I know Dad and I-”
“No.” Sam shakes his head. “Not him. Just you.”
“Sam, he’s our dad.”
“And he’s hell-bent on revenge for Mom. Yeah, Dean, I get that. But Mom wouldn't have wanted this life for us. And you sure as hell didn’t choose this life any more than I did. And as long as you’re in it, as long as you could get hurt, I’m in it too.”
“I’m responsible for-”
“Is that all you ever think about?” Sam says, hating the sudden sting in his eyes. “Dad’s stupid words? Take care of Sammy? Huh? Is that what I am to you? Something that it’s your duty to protect?”
Dean stares at him. “The hell you talkin’ about?”
“That’s it, isn’t it? Christ, Dean, you’re obeying Dad’s orders even when you’re defying them! He’s... he’s programmed you to believe that it’s your job to protect me, and that’s all I’ve become to you-a stupid, helpless kid who drags you down all the time and-”
“Shut the hell up, Sam.” Dean’s hand is in his hair now, gripping it tightly: not hard enough for it to really hurt, but enough that Sam can’t move his head without actually hurting himself. “Shut up and listen to me. You’re not a thing that I have to keep safe. I don’t want to keep you safe because I have to. I don’t love you because I’m your brother and I have to. I want to, okay? Jesus, kid. You’re everything to me. Fucking everything. How do you not know that?”
“I.” Sam wants to talk, because having an opinion on everything is kind of his thing, but for once, and maybe even for the first time, he really doesn’t have anything to say.
Dean is so close to him. He’s just said that he loves Sam, and not because he has to. It would be so easy now, so easy to spill his secrets out to Dean, rip them out of his chest and put them in Dean’s hands, give himself up to Dean. Dean will understand. He’ll get it.
But the voice of reason in him instantly tells him that that would be a horribly selfish thing to do. Even if Dean understands, it’ll break him. Dean already loves Sam as much as he can. Sam has no right, none at all, to ask for more.
“I’m sorry,” is what he says, drawing Dean close and taking a shaky breath, his nose pressed against the hollow of Dean’s throat. “I’m sorry. I know. I know.”
--
After their next hunt, Sam’s cheek is stinging slightly when they reach home. He can’t tell if it’s from where he hit the ground during the hunt or because he nodded off with the side of his face pressed to the window glass.
Dean looks over at him. “You okay? Any dizziness, stuff like that?”
“I’ll be fine, Dean.”
Dean doesn’t look so sure. “Maybe you should get checked out.”
“I don’t need a doctor, Dean. I promise. Just help me inside.”
Dean does as asked, still looking a bit unhappy and chewing on his lip as he takes Sam’s arm and helps him into the house.
Sam stops him with a hand on his chest when he attempts to follow Sam into the bathroom. “I just need to clean up a bit, Dean. I’ll be fine. Stop mothering.”
“At least let me stitch up your wound.” Dean nods at the gash on his arm.
“It doesn’t need stitches.”
“Can’t hurt to play safe, right?” Dean smiles winningly. It doesn’t reach his eyes, and Sam doesn’t have the energy to refuse him.
Fifteen minutes later he’s patched up and tucked into bed. “I’ll wake you in a couple of hours,” Dean says, smoothing Sam’s hair back.
“I don’t have a concussion,” Sam says. Attempting to roll his eyes takes too much energy.
--
“Thought I told you to stay in bed,” Dean says with a frown as Sam wanders into the kitchen, yawning, to see what he’s up to.
“I’m good, Dean.”
“Hungry?”
“Starving,” Sam says. “I could happily eat one of your greasy burgers right now.”
Dean lets out a laugh. “Tough luck, tiger. I made you some rabbit food.” He slides a big bowl of salad across the table to Sam. Sam forks in without hesitation, letting out a moan at the first bite. It’s perfect, salad dressing just enough that it covers the veggies but doesn’t drip all over the place when Sam lifts it to his mouth, lettuce crunchy just the way Sam likes. There’s even some beet, carefully boiled and peeled, lending a little pink tinge to everything.
“Good?” Dean glances over.
“Perfect.”
Dean gives him a pleased little grin and takes another swig of his beer. “Beer? Or you wanna try this girly drink I made you?”
Sam grins into his salad, too content to be annoyed. “Whatever you like, Dean.”
“Good answer,” Dean says, and Sam’s head snaps up. But Dean’s already turned away, leaning into the fridge. He re-emerges with a tall glass of something that looks chocolate-y. He sticks a long straw and a little umbrella into it before putting it down in front of Sam with a flourish.
“Really, Dean?”
“Just try it, princess.”
Sam rolls his eyes and takes a sip. “Wow, Dean. What’s in it?”
“Guess.”
“Mm, chocolate. And... coffee?”
“Just a smidge. What else?”
“Whiskey.” Sam takes another sip. “Whipped cream. And...” Another sip. “Hazelnut.”
Dean claps him on the arm. “Top of the class, Sammy. Make it harder for you next time.”
“Make exactly this next time, and I’ll be your slave for life.” The words are out before Sam can help it, before he registers his own reaction to Dean’s praise. It isn’t even actual praise, not really, but for a moment Sam just lets himself relish the warmth curling through him all the way to his toes at Dean’s approval.
Dean gives him a look, snatching up his drink and taking a large sip before setting it down in front of him again. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Sam looks down into his glass, his stomach tightening in a way that isn’t really unpleasant. “Yeah?”
“Yep.” Dean’s busying himself with shredding cheese over an enormous bowl of steaming pasta now, but he glances at Sam. “Since you offered, and all.” He nods at the salad bowl. “Keep eating. Don’t want to get drunk on an empty stomach, do you?”
“We’re getting drunk?”
“Not the plan,” Dean says, carrying the pasta over to the table and sitting down next to Sam. “But with you being such a lightweight and all, one never knows.”
“Shut up.” Sam’s glad Dean’s next to him rather than across the table. “I can drink as much as you.”
“Cannot.”
“Can, too.” Sam snatches the bottle of oregano before Dean can get to it, holding it out of his reach.
“Oh, very funny. Real mature, Sammy.” But Dean’s grinning, eyes on Sam even while he takes the chili flakes and pretty much upends the bottle over his food.
Sam rolls his eyes and puts the oregano over Dean’s food himself, careful not to put too much. Dean grabs his wrist and makes him keep going. “Need to balance out the chili,” he says with a grin, his fingers warm against Sam’s skin, and if Dean keeps looking at him like that, Sam will put every last bit of oregano in Dean’s pasta if that’s what Dean wants.
“Seriously though,” Dean says with his mouth half-full. “You okay?” He nods toward the bandage on Sam’s arm.
“I’m good, Dean. Honest.”
“I’ll change the dressing after we eat.” Dean gives him a look as he opens his mouth. “No arguments, Sam.”
“Right,” Sam mutters, looking down at his plate and forking up some pasta. He’s become an expert at this over the last couple of years: hiding his expression and letting Dean think he’s pissed off so Dean doesn’t notice how it affects Sam when Dean gives him an order or speaks in that tone that doesn’t allow any arguments.
“Okay, seriously, what is up with you? You look like your puppy just died.” Dean reaches over to put his hand on Sam’s arm. “Sam?”
“It. It’s nothing, Dean. Just feeling a bit knocked out.” He isn’t even lying. Not really. Keeping things from Dean is exhausting, especially when he keeps imagining the look on Dean’s face when he finds out what Sam feels for him. Anger. Hurt. Disappointment. That one hurts the most. The thought of how disappointed Dean’s going to be in Sam. All that disapproval, the very opposite of the praise that Sam craves from his brother, has been craving pretty much all his life.
He almost wants Dean to take his drink away, say “that’s enough, Sammy,” punish him in some small way that might make Sam feel better about everything, even as he tells himself that it’s a selfish hope, hoping that Dean will do something that he won’t even know he’s doing. It’s a way to use Dean to make himself feel better.
Dean’s silent for a moment, and when Sam glances up at him, there’s worry on his face. And Sam put it there. He feels instantly guilty, his need to reassure Dean climbing to the top over every other need. “It’s fine, Dean,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean. I’m not in pain or anything. Not much. Just worried, you know? About what Dad’s going to say. I’m fine otherwise. I promise.”
Dean looks confused for a moment, as though he’s forgotten about Dad. “Oh. That. It hasn’t bothered me much, Sam. He’s usually too busy to bother about us much. You know? I don’t think he’s going to go out of his way to bother with us right now.”
Sam’s sure that the smile he attempts looks more like a grimace. “He will at some point, though. And he’s not going to be happy with us, Dean. You know what he’s like when he thinks we’re being insubordinate. And maybe. I don’t know, Dean. Maybe he has a point, you know?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Dean says, and it sounds like a promise.
--
After dinner, Dean refuses to leave Sam alone.
He almost follows Sam into the bathroom again when Sam decides to take a shower, and Sam has to suffer getting his arm carefully wrapped in a cut-up shower cap before Dean allows him under the water.
Truth be told, Dean’s overt concern for him is both pleasing him and making him fear that he’ll give himself away somehow. It’s getting more and more difficult to be touched by Dean, to feel Dean’s worry for him so tangibly, without betraying the fact that he loves it when Dean brushes his hair back or gently treats his wounds. Hell, he’s even begun to hope he’ll get bruised every time they go on a hunt just so he can get to feel Dean touching him, and even Sam knows that that isn’t good.
He dries himself and puts on a pair of Dean’s clean sweatpants-his are all in the laundry bag-and starts rubbing a towel in his wet hair before stepping out of the bathroom.
Dean’s sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, and he’s got one hand behind his back.
“What’re you up to?” Sam says, instantly suspicious.
“Not gonna prank you when you’re down and out, Sammy,” Dean says, but he’s smirking. He pulls his arm out from behind his back with a small flourish. “Presents!”
He’s holding a box gaily wrapped with glittery paper.
“What’s the catch? That a jack in the box, clown face and all?”
“You wound me, little brother. Just told you I wouldn’t prank you when you’re hurt.”
“It’s just a scratch, Dean. I’ll live.” The words ring a bit hollow, given the fact that they risk their lives pretty much every time they go hunting.
“You’ve kept your 4.0 average and I bet you’ll ace the PSATs. I figured you deserve a little treat.”
“So it’s an actual present?”
“Honest to god, Sammy.”
“Fine.” Sam holds out his hand. “Hand it over.”
“You’re welcome,” Dean says, rolling his eyes, but he hands it over.
Sam shakes it a bit. “Too light to be books.”
Dean grins. “Keep going.”
“If this is a gag gift, I’m gonna skin you. Just so you know.”
“Point noted.”
Sam turns the box over in his hands. He shakes it again. There’s a tiny rattle from within, as though something is a little loose inside. “Movies?”
“Made it too easy for you. But which ones?”
“The Die Hard series.”
“Dude, that would be a present for me, not you.”
“Star Wars.”
“We have those already.” It’s true. Bobby had bought them a box set one Christmas, and it’s at his place for times when they crash there and marathon the series on his VCR.
Sam laughs. “Fine. I give up.”
“Open it.”
Sam opens the wrapping carefully, trying not to tear the paper. Dean makes an impatient sound, but Sam shushes him. It’s always been their thing when Sam takes his time over opening a gift and Dean is impatient to see his reaction.
When the paper falls away, Sam is silent for a long moment. He tries to speak around the huge lump in his throat. “You remembered.”
It’s the animated versions of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. They’d seen the movies for sale a couple years ago while hanging around at a bookstore waiting for Dad to pick them up. They’d been way too expensive for the boys to buy and Sam hadn't bothered asking Dad if he could get them, knowing that Dad would see it as a frivolous expense, but Dean had squeezed him around the shoulders and told him that one day he’d buy them for Sam.
“’Course. Knew you’ve wanted to watch these forever, giant geek that you are.”
They don’t talk much about The Lord of the Rings anymore, although Dean makes the occasional reference to it. Sam almost never takes up where Dean leaves off, the memory of that night when he was fourteen and they watched the stars together, so much closer to each other than they are now, still too painful to consider. And now he’s holding the animated movies in his hands.
“I’m not a kid anymore, you know.” He hates the words almost as soon as they’re out of his mouth. It’s become his coping mechanism these days to say things that make it sound like he’s pissed off, and hope like hell that Dean doesn’t notice what Sam feels for him. The downside of it-and it’s a big one-is that it almost always results in that hurt look on Dean’s face, as though he doesn’t know what he’s done to piss Sam off.
Dean just shrugs this time, his expression getting a bit closed off, and Sam instantly wants to bring back the warmth that was on Dean’s face just a moment ago. If Dean says “Whatever, Sam,” and that’s the end of the subject, it would be unbearable.
Instead, Dean says: “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”
Sam’s head snaps up, his eyes wide. “What?”
“I’m not Dad, Sam. I know you don’t like to let him know about stuff you like. You don’t… You want him to treat you like an adult. But you don’t have to do that with me, okay?”
Sam rolls his eyes, trying not to show Dean how his words affect him. “So you can keep treating me like a kid?”
Dean doesn’t get discouraged. “So I can get you stuff you like and you can enjoy it without having to be afraid about what I’m going to think. It’s okay to want stuff, Sam. It’s okay to like books and movies and music and all that other stuff that you want.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, giving in. He swallows hard. “Thanks, Dean.”
Dean’s grin is blinding. “Anytime, Sammy.”
Sam realizes with a jolt that there’s something he doesn’t know about Dean. “Dean. Did you ever watch these films?”
“’Course I did.”
Sam opens his mouth and shuts it again. He suddenly has an image in mind of Dean in a darkened room, watching the films without Sam at his side. Maybe he’d had his arm around someone else, someone who smelled nice, someone he’d fucked later.
“With. With a girlfriend?”
Dean has a curious look on his face. “What’s it to you?”
“You did, didn’t you.” Sam’s sure his face is burning, but he presses on, suddenly desperate to know. “I thought we’d watch them together someday, but you watched them with someone you were fucking.”
“Sam,” Dean begins, his tone both a warning and a plea.
And Sam has no choice but to stop talking, not when Dean has the ability to say his name like that. When he can make Sam’s name sound like so many words that haven't been invented yet, like they have a language made just for two that consists of nothing but their names.
“What’s it to you?” Dean says again. This time his fingertips touch Sam’s cheek, so lightly that Sam wouldn’t have known they were there if his eyes weren’t open.
“Dean.” He leans into the touch despite himself, desperate for more and terrified of what he’ll do if he actually gets it.
“Sammy. I... how long’s this been going on?”
Sam has to look up then, terrified but unable to stop himself. He has to know what Dean’s thinking. He has to. There’s no disgust on Dean’s face that he can make out, just curiosity and something that looks a lot like affection. “I. Dean, please. I just... Please don’t ask me to talk about it.”
“Why not? You’re the one who used to love to talk about stuff. So talk to me, Sammy. Tell me what’s going on in that giant brain of yours.”
Sam closes his eyes, mortified.
“Come on, Sammy. You can look at me. You’ve done it a million times before.”
Sam shakes his head, eyes tightly shut. “Don't hate me. Please don’t hate me. Not you.”
“I don’t hate you, kiddo. I could never hate you.”
Sam glances at him, a brief glimpse of Dean’s face, his gorgeous eyes, before his gaze skitters away, landing on every part of the room except his brother.
“I know you have a thing for me. I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not looking.”
Sam groans and drops his head in his hands.
Dean’s hand moves soothingly over the crown of his head. “Is this some sort of hero-worship thing? I thought you’d outgrown that. If it is, Sam, we can deal with it. It’s not the end of the world, okay?”
“It’s not that.” Sam’s voice is muffled by his hands.
“Then what? Is it a sex thing?”
Sam drops his hands. “Dean!”
“What? It’s not unheard of, Sam. Is it a sex thing?”
“You can’t-you can’t just say stuff like that.”
“Then you say it. Tell me what you’re thinking, Sammy. You gotta talk to someone. If you can’t talk about this shit to anyone else, then you’re gonna talk to me.”
“It’s not like that,” Sam starts, miserable. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I don’t want to... I don’t...”
“Hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m not judging you, all right? I swear. You can say anything to me, Sam. You know that.”
“It’s.” Sam pushes his hands back through his hair, realizing that his face is wet. “It’s all so. I’m so fucked up, Dean.”
“You’re not.” Dean hands him his towel, and Sam wipes his face. “No more than I am, at any rate.”
Sam sob-snorts into the towel. “You’re not fucked up. You’re perfect.”
“Perfect, huh?” Dean says, teasing lightly.
“Shut up. You know what I mean.” Sam flicks the towel at his face.
“Eww, dude. Gross.” Dean bats the towel away. He sounds so much like Sam’s brother in that moment that Sam feels something ease up inside him. “But seriously, Sammy. Help me understand what it is?”
“I. I’m not sure myself, Dean.”
Dean contemplates him for a moment. “Is it like... do you fantasize about me? About us? Together?”
“Dean,” Sam chokes out.
“Come on, kiddo. You can say anything, remember?”
“I don’t want you to. You know. Break my nose or something.”
Dean smiles at that. “I’m not going to hit you, Sam. And I’m not going to get mad. I promise.”
Sam’s already exhausted by the talk so far, his insides squirming to the point of hurting. “Can. Can we talk about this some other time? Please?”
To his immense relief, Dean nods immediately. “Yeah, Sammy, sure. I. I’m sorry if I pushed you. I didn’t mean to corner you like that.”
“It’s fine, Dean.” Sam scrubs a hand across his face, still not quite able to meet his brother’s eyes.
“Can I-do you want to sleep with me?”
Sam’s head jerks up, his eyes wide.
“Not like that!” Dean says in a rush. “Just, you know. Like when you were little. Just sleep with me.”
It’s what Sam wants more than anything in the world in that moment, but he hesitates.
“Just come here.” Dean holds out an arm in invitation. And Sam goes, just because he’d do anything if Dean asked him to. Dean’s arms are warm and solid around him, folding him into their embrace, and he tugs Sam down until they’re stretched out together, Dean on his back and Sam on his side, tucked up against Dean.
It’s the best place in the world, this space at Dean’s side that Sam’s always imagined is just for him, only for him. For a few minutes he’s hyper-aware of their closeness, of Dean’s breathing, but the overwhelming feeling of safety and warmth soon lulls him into sleep.
--
They wake up tangled together as they have so many times in the past, but this time Dean knows, and it’s all different. It’s all changed in so many ways, and there’s nothing Sam can do to change it back.
Dean notices he’s awake; of course he does. There’s nothing about Sam that Dean doesn’t know, especially not now, and that thought creates a little bubble of contentment inside Sam that he wants to protect with everything he’s got. Dean knows. It’s done. Dean knows, and he didn’t hit Sam or call him names or walk out on him. All the hundred scenarios Sam had been imagining endlessly in his head, each worse than the previous one, haven’t happened.
“Come on,” Dean says, nudging him in the ribs and making Sam squirm away. “Up and at ’em, Sammy.”
“Five more minutes,” Sam says, hiding his grin in his pillow.
“Fine,” Dean says, falsely indulgent, and kisses the side of Sam’s head before dragging the covers off Sam.
“It’s cold, you jerk!”
“You wanna stay in bed like a lazy little bitch, you get up and fight for the blankets.” Dean tosses the covers on the other bed and leans over Sam, his hands on either side of Sam’s head. “Guess I was right about you, huh? You always wanted to be my little bitch.”
“You’re a complete asshole,” Sam says, but he turns over on to his back, grins and braces his hands on Dean’s chest.
“Yeah?” Dean dips his head, says the word into Sam’s ear. “Something tells me you like this, little brother.”
Sam moves his hands up to Dean’s shoulders, feeling the strength of his muscles under the softness of his skin, his threadbare t-shirt. “Dean,” he says, and it sounds like a plea.
“Am I doing this wrong? You gotta tell me if I’m doing anything you don’t want, Sammy.” Dean’s mouth is still very close to Sam's ear, his breath a tangible thing against the soft shell of Sam's lobe.
Sam swallows hard, so full of affection for Dean that he wonders if it’ll burst out of him and flare to the ceiling like fireworks. He tangles his fingers in Dean's hair. “Remember that time we almost burned down that field?”
Dean pulls back a little, bringing his hands closer until they're cupping Sam's face. “Not what I asked, but yeah. ’Course I remember. Fourth of July, three years ago.”
“Wanted to kiss you then. Wanted it so bad. When you defied Dad and gave me what I wanted. You didn’t get into trouble for it, did you?”
“It was totally worth it.” Dean runs his thumbs lightly over Sam's cheekbones. “You wanted to kiss me when you were thirteen?”
Sam can feel his face heat up. “Probably since before then.”
“How long?”
“I. I’m not really sure.”
“Sam.”
“It. It didn’t start off like that. Wanting to, you know. It was different.”
“Different how?” Dean's gaze is sweeping his face now, nothing within Sam hidden from it.
“I just. I started liking it when you were nice to me.”
“I’m always nice to you,” Dean says, mock-affronted.
“You aren’t, you big jerk.” Sam keeps his arms wound tight around Dean's neck. “I mean nice like when you, uh. When you praise me. And...”
“And?” Dean's looking at him very intently now.
Sam's pretty sure he’s blushing even harder now. “And nothing. That’s enough for today.”
But Dean doesn’t seem as hesitant this morning as he was last night. “If you tell me,” he murmurs, leaning down to Sam's ear again, “I might do it.”
Sam shudders against him, and feels Dean smile against his ear. “Is it a kinky thing, little brother? Hm?” He noses along Sam's ear.
“Dean.” Sam's mouth is almost too dry to say the word.
Dean's hands slide to Sam's wrists, and gently tug his arms up over his head. “Is this okay?”
“Dean. Fuck. Yes. Yes, it’s okay.” He almost always wakes up with a low level of arousal thrumming under his skin, and now that Dean's saying and doing these things, the feeling is skyrocketing.
“You want more? You wanna move your hips, rub off against me?”
“Dean.” Sam just about manages to choke out the word this time. He pulls experimentally at Dean's hold on his wrists. It doesn’t give in the slightest.
“You gotta use your words, Sammy.”
“Yes. Yes. Dean, please.”
“There’s my good boy,” Dean murmurs, shifting to get a leg between both of Sam's. “There you go, baby.”
The endearment hits Sam harder than the feel of Dean's strong thigh between both of his own. He can feel Dean against him through the thin cotton of their sweats, and he’s definitely feeling this as much as Sam is. “God, Dean. You’re.”
“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean's voice sounds strained. “Did you think you were the only one?”
Sam arches up against him with an almost-sob, his body thrilling at the friction. “You can’t mean...”
“I’ve been thinking about it, baby brother. Ever since I figured out how you felt. I’ve been. Fuck, Sam.”
“You didn’t. You couldn't possibly have known that I... how much I.”
“I do now.”
And Dean does, he really does. He keeps a firm hold on Sam's hands, not letting him squirm away, giving him as much room as he needs to thrust up against Dean's body, which is a long, hard line of warmth and desire above Sam's. It’s so, so much better than Sam could ever have imagined.
When the unthinkable happens, it happens abruptly and like a storm that turns their lives inside out.
They’re still lying there in their blissfully sleepy post-orgasmic haze, Dean's hands still loosely wrapped around Sam's wrists and his lips against Sam's cheek, when the door opens and Dad walks in.
--
Later, Sam's not sure how much he remembers of what actually happened that day.
Most of what registers in his brain-at first-is blind terror. He remembers Dean reacting first, letting go of Sam's hands and trying to disentangle himself from Sam. Remembers Dad’s thunderous “The hell is going on here?” Remembers what it must’ve looked like to Dad to see Dean on top of a bare-chested Sam, his large hands holding Sam's smaller ones above his head, the whole bedroom probably smelling like sex.
All that registers over the overwhelming sensation of terror is Dad dragging Dean out of the bedroom by the back of his thin t-shirt, the fabric ripping with a too-loud sound, and bolting the door shut, locking Sam inside while he takes Dean outside to-to-Sam doesn’t even know what Dad’s planning to do to Dean, can't even imagine what their father is capable of in his wrath, in this most terrible of situations.
Ever since Dad dragged Dean out of the door Sam's been screaming and screaming at Dad to listen to him, that it isn’t Dean's fault, that Dean hasn't been hurting him. He’s been hammering on the door as hard as he can, hurting his fists, slamming them against the hardwood over and over and over until he forces himself to stop so he can listen to what’s going on outside.
He can hear Dad’s voice, but he can’t make out the words. He can’t hear a single sound from Dean. There are repeated sounds of something being hit hard, and Sam's mind is almost blanking out at the horror of imagining Dean being hit repeatedly by their father.
When he hears the gunshot, his mind shuts down completely.
There’s no feeling anything anymore, not even terror. He switches to autopilot, looking wildly around the room to see if there’s something he can use. There’s no weapon in the bedroom except for his knife, and that won’t get him through the door. He grabs the knife and goes into the bathroom, standing on the toilet lid to get to the small window above, pulling out the horizontal glass panes until there’s just enough space for him to hoist himself up and wriggle through.
He lands hard on the ground, rolling over just as Dean's taught him. Dean. Oh god, Dean. He swallows back the bile that rises up in his throat and wipes his clammy hands on his sweatpants-Dean's sweats-before turning the corner and heading to the front of the house.
Everything is deathly quiet. Everything except for the trail of red that leads from the front door to the street, an image that screams things inside Sam's head until he’s sure it’s going to burst with agony.
He isn’t aware that he’s screaming Dean’s name until Dad steps out of the front door, Sam's duffel thrown over his shoulder, and slaps Sam hard across the face. “Cut it out, Sam. Shut the hell up. You hear me?”
“Where’s Dean? What’ve you done with him? Where’s Dean?”
“In the car,” Dad says shortly, and for a brief, unreal moment, Sam allows himself to believe that Dean might be okay.
It doesn’t last. Dad grabs his arm and all but drags him to his truck, parked outside on the street in front of the Impala. It’s very quiet at this hour of the morning, everyone asleep, no one even roused by the sound of the gunshot that’s shattered Sam's whole life in a second.
The trail of blood ends at the Impala’s trunk, and then Sam sees the whole picture in a split second, as though he’s seen it all happen. Dad had shot Dean. He’d shot Dean and then dragged him out and put him in the trunk of the Impala. And he isn’t even staying long enough to clean up the evidence of what he’s done.
“No,” Sam says, beginning to struggle against his father’s hold. “No, please, no, let me go to him. He needs help, he could still be-Dad. Dad, please!”
“That’s not your brother,” his father says calmly, his hand a vise around Sam's arm. “Listen to me, Sam. That isn’t Dean.”
“I-what?”
“Your brother’s gone, son.” Dad’s face is heavy with grief. “Just get in the truck.”
“Dad, no! No! That’s Dean in there! I have to help him. Let me go, please, please just let me-”
The last thing he feels is the pinch of Dad’s fingers on a nerve in his shoulder. Dad had told him and Dean about it. Told them a lifetime ago that there was a particular nerve that could be pinched to render someone immobile, even unconscious.
--
The first thing that Sam becomes aware of when he wakes up is the sound of people talking in low voices.
“...attacking him. I had to, Bobby.” His father’s voice.
Then Bobby’s. “Did you get a look at his eyes?”
“They looked normal. Maybe it was something else. A shifter. Maybe Dean's still out there.”
Sam forces himself to keep his eyes squeezed shut. He’s lying on something hard and lumpy. He tries to move, but something stops him.
The voices fade into silence. He has to open his eyes then, as he starts to struggle. One look around tells him exactly where he is. Bobby’s panic room, restrained to the bed with thick straps.
“Bobby,” he says, his mouth feeling like it’s stuffed full of wool.
“Christ, kid.” Bobby’s leaning over him, worry etched on his face. “Is it you?”
“Of course it’s me! Where’s Dad?”
“He stepped out for a bit. He thinks you-he thinks you aren’t you. That you might be brainwashed. We did all the tests, so we know you aren’t possessed.”
“I’m not possessed! Or brainwashed or anything. Bobby. He. He shot Dean. He. Dean needs help. Please. Please. You gotta let me go. You gotta let me help him.”
“Sam.” Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, you’ll hurt yourself. Dean obviously isn’t himself. Your dad said he was attacking you.”
“He wasn’t-” Sam swallows, not sure how to explain it to Bobby. Dad obviously hasn’t told him exactly what he’d seen. “Bobby, Dean wasn’t attacking me. Dad. He didn’t. He misinterpreted the whole thing.”
“What exactly did he see?”
“I. Bobby, please. You have to let me go. I have to help him.”
“No, Sam. Something’s obviously very wrong here, and we can’t let you go until we know exactly what happened to Dean.”
“What happened to Dean was that Dad shot him!” Sam says, his voice breaking on a sob. “He’s wrong, Bobby. He’s wrong! There’s nothing wrong with Dean. He was. He was just... There’s nothing wrong with him, please. You have to believe me.”
A glimmer of doubt appears in Bobby’s eyes, and it’s all that registers for Sam: a sliver of hope. “Please,” he says again, unable to stop the tears from tricking steadily from his eyes, slipping in a crooked line from the corners of his eyes into his hair. He’s hardly even seeing Bobby anymore. Dean, wounded, bleeding, locked in the trunk of the Impala. Dean, hurt. Dying. Maybe already dead.
“I’ll be right back,” Bobby says, squeezing his shoulder before he gets up. He goes out and closes the door behind him.
“No! Bobby, please! He needs help now!”
There’s no response. Sam doesn’t really need one, because he already knows what he has to do. It takes him a few minutes, but then he’s free of his restraints. Dean had taught him, trained him over and over, tying him up in various positions and teaching him how to get loose. At the time, Sam had been so blindingly turned on at being tied up by Dean that he wasn’t sure how much of Dean’s lessons had actually registered. Luckily, he doesn’t even really need to use any of Dean's tricks because his wrists are slender enough to slip out of their restraints, and the rest is simple.
Part 3
Sam had gone to school that afternoon to keep his appointment with the counselor. Dean knows he’d gone to school, and Sam can’t lie that he had an exam or project work to do, because Dean knows his school schedule. Sometimes it seems as though there’s nothing Dean doesn’t know about him except for the huge awful secret Sam’s carrying around inside him.
Dean’s home reasonably early for a change, as though he’s making an effort not to leave Sam alone for too long, and Sam can’t decide if he’s annoyed or touched. Probably a little of both. He can’t seem to make Dean understand the simplest of things these days, can’t seem to be able to make him see that it’s only when Dean’s away on a hunt that Sam gets his anxiety attacks.
They’re chopping up stuff for sandwich fillings when Sam finally decides to break the silence. “So, I. Met the counselor today.”
“Yeah?” Dean says, looking over at him. It’s obvious that he’s trying as hard as possible not to sound very interested for fear that Sam will shut down.
“Yeah. I told her that my dad was on active duty. Like you said. And that I was having anxiety attacks because of that.”
“What’d she say?”
“Well, she didn’t think I was crazy, for one. And, uh. She said I should probably try to make some more friends. I told her I have Audrey, but she didn’t seem to think that was enough. Recommended that I do a summer course or workshop or something, get to know some more people.”
“What’d you think about that?”
Sam shrugs. “I dunno. I guess I could try, maybe.”
Dean passes him a sandwich and takes a bite of his own before speaking again. “Maybe you should spend the summer at Bobby’s. Maybe if you aren’t with Dad and me you won’t know when we’re working, and...”
“Dean, no. That would make it a hundred times worse. I’d just be worrying all the time. And besides, this isn’t a big deal, okay? I don’t want you to worry about me. It’s just a stupid thing. I can handle it.”
“Sam, come on. It’s not a-”
“Drop it, Dean, okay? I just drank too much at the prom and then left that stupid message. It didn’t really mean anything. You wanted me to meet the counselor, and I did and she just told me some stupid shit. She knows squat about our lives. Now can we just drop it, please?”
Dean’s watching him with his sharp eyes, and Sam looks away. “Sure. If that’s what you want.” He picks up his plate and goes to sit on the couch, turning on the TV before he settles in.
Sam crawls into bed and falls asleep to the faint sound of the TV from the living room, soothed by the evidence that Dean’s right there, safe and probably half-asleep by now, his feet propped up on the coffee table.
--
After that conversation, there’s one thing Sam knows for sure: whatever it is he’s going through, he’s going to have to deal with it alone.
He can’t let Dean worry about Sam not being able to handle himself. Not when Dean risks his life on pretty much every hunt. The panic attacks just mean that he’s weak, weaker than he’d ever thought possible. He’s worse than a child, really, and there’s no way he has the right to make Dean worry about him when his brother’s out on a hunt and needs to be at his best. He can’t be worrying about the possibility that Sam’s having anxiety attacks while he’s away. Nothing should distract Dean from being alert and taking care of himself during a hunt.
He’s also realized that he doesn’t love his father the way he loves Dean. He fears for his father’s safety, sure. But the thought of Dad being hurt doesn’t make him want to claw out his own insides. And the thought of Dad dying, the thought of him being killed by a monster... It’s absolutely devastating. Sam can almost taste the grief he’d feel if Dad were to be killed.
But the thought of Dean dying is so desperately unimaginable that Sam can’t even process the whole of it. Sometimes he forces himself to remember that time in the parking lot when Dean had collapsed, just to make himself recall how he’d felt at the time. But he’d been fourteen then, and not really sure of his own thoughts. Now he’s older, and when he thinks of Dean being in a place where he can’t be saved, all Sam really knows for sure is that if Dean dies, Sam will follow right behind, because there’s no way he could be alive if Dean were not.
And buried somewhere under that mountain of anxiety, even deeper somewhere inside, is the fact that Dean’s praise makes Sam feel things he’s never felt before. He’s tried to pretend that he’s imagining things, that Dean doesn’t make him feel things that he has no right to feel, but it really doesn’t work.
Between trying to hide two huge things from Dean now-his anxiety and his... other thing, things are starting to get really strained between him and Dean.
Things take a turn when Dad calls one evening, just as Dean has walked in the door, covered with engine grease from work.
Sam sees Dean's face tense up as he listens to whatever Dad’s saying, and then Dean says, “Where are you taking him?”
Dean's silent for a few seconds while Dad speaks. He doesn’t look at Sam.
“Where are you taking him?” Dean repeats. This time he glances at Sam, and Sam knows instantly that they're taking about him.
“What kind of job?” Dean says into the phone, pushing his greasy hand into his hair. And then, after a beat: “Why do you need Sam?”
Sam watches Dean's face change at whatever Dad says next. “By himself?” Dean asks, the hand not holding the phone clenching into a fist now.
“He’s not going.” A pause. “I said he’s not going with you. He’s sixteen. He belongs in school, not on a monster hunt.”
Another pause, and then Dean's voice becomes sharper. “No, sir. I won’t have him drop out like I did because he’s too busy training and learning how to kill things to do his homework. He’s not going to have that life. I won’t let you-”
Dad obviously cuts him off then, because Dean's face scrunches up in frustration, his mouth open to start speaking as soon as he’s allowed. “He’s not some spare soldier that you can train to do your work for you. Find another hunter or let me do it. Not Sam.” He hangs up the phone without waiting for a response.
“What was that about?” The question is barely out of Sam’s mouth when his own phone starts to ring.
“Don't answer it.”
“Dean.” The screen says Dad calling. Sam moves to pick up the phone.
“Sam, do not answer that phone.”
Sam stares at him. “What the fuck did he say to you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Does to me.” Sam’s clutching the still ringing phone in his hand now.
“Sam, if you answer that call, so help me god, I’ll.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s fine,” Dean says shortly, a bite in his tone that Sam hasn’t really heard before.
“Okay.” Sam says, hating the sight of the tightness in Dean’s expression. He puts the phone down on the bed, and they’re both silent until it stops ringing.
“Switch it off.”
Sam picks up the phone and keeps the power button pressed until the screen goes dead.
“Good boy,” Dean says, and then he comes over and hugs Sam.
Sam is so surprised that he’s frozen in Dean’s embrace for a moment, letting Dean wrap his arms around him and squeeze him tight.
“Don't go anywhere with him, Sammy,” Dean says, his face pressed into Sam’s hair. “Promise me you won’t go anywhere with him if I’m not around.”
“I.” Sam’s face is squished against Dean’s chest, his heart pounding. Part of him wants to know right now why the promise is being elicited from him, but most of him just responds to Dean’s tone. “I promise.”
Dean lets out a shaky breath, pulling back a little but not letting go of Sam. “Good,” he says, brushing Sam’s hair back from his forehead.
“Dean, what’s this about?”
“He wants to start training you to go on hunts alone.”
Sam looks up at Dean, more than a little surprised. “So?”
“So, you’re not going.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Sam, you’re sixteen.”
“Way older than you were when you started helping Dad.”
“Sam, I. I do it so you don’t have to.”
“What?” Sam hadn't thought there’d be anything Dean could say that would shock him.
“I. It’s not only because of that, Sam, but. But it’s my job to look out for you. And he wants to send me on another job and take you with him. I can’t-I won’t allow that. I won’t ever allow that.”
“Dean,” Sam says, and his voice is little more than a whisper. “I have to start sometime.” It’s a half-hearted protest, Sam unable to put much effort into it because something large and warm is swelling in his chest.
“No. No, you don’t. All you gotta do is go to school and put that genius brain of yours to work and get an education.”
Sam shakes his head, still clinging to Dean a little. “Dean, it’s not real. That school stuff. Trying to protect me from monsters isn’t going to make them go away.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Don’t you see? I’m here to worry about that stuff so you don’t have to.”
“What if. Dean, what if you aren’t around? I have to learn how to-”
“We do plenty of training, don’t we? I’ve followed his regime, Sam. I’ve put you through all the training he asked me to. You have damn good reflexes and you know everything there is to know about fighting these things. And what you don’t know yet, I’ll teach you. We’ll keep training, okay? But you are not going out there on your own.”
“It’s my choice to make!”
“Yes, it is. When you’re eighteen. You’re a minor, Sam. I’m not having that choice taken away from you.”
“But you didn’t have that choice!”
“Exactly,” Dean says, looking almost pleased that Sam’s figured it out. “I never had the choice. And I’m not letting the same thing happen to you, Sam.”
Sam stares at him, open-mouthed for a second. “But I want to have that choice now. Not two years from now.”
“If you had the choice now, what would you choose, Sammy? Would you choose this life? Huh? Are you really gonna tell me that you’d prefer hunting monsters to getting an education?”
“That’s all... that’s just theory, Dean. Classrooms and lectures. It’s nothing, nothing at all to do with the real world! The world you and Dad fight in.”
“It’s everything to do with it, Sam. It’s the power to be informed and make your own choices. Understand what your options are.”
“If the other option is to have my nose stuck in a book while you go out and risk your life, then there’s no way I’m choosing it.”
“Look, Sam, I know Dad and I-”
“No.” Sam shakes his head. “Not him. Just you.”
“Sam, he’s our dad.”
“And he’s hell-bent on revenge for Mom. Yeah, Dean, I get that. But Mom wouldn't have wanted this life for us. And you sure as hell didn’t choose this life any more than I did. And as long as you’re in it, as long as you could get hurt, I’m in it too.”
“I’m responsible for-”
“Is that all you ever think about?” Sam says, hating the sudden sting in his eyes. “Dad’s stupid words? Take care of Sammy? Huh? Is that what I am to you? Something that it’s your duty to protect?”
Dean stares at him. “The hell you talkin’ about?”
“That’s it, isn’t it? Christ, Dean, you’re obeying Dad’s orders even when you’re defying them! He’s... he’s programmed you to believe that it’s your job to protect me, and that’s all I’ve become to you-a stupid, helpless kid who drags you down all the time and-”
“Shut the hell up, Sam.” Dean’s hand is in his hair now, gripping it tightly: not hard enough for it to really hurt, but enough that Sam can’t move his head without actually hurting himself. “Shut up and listen to me. You’re not a thing that I have to keep safe. I don’t want to keep you safe because I have to. I don’t love you because I’m your brother and I have to. I want to, okay? Jesus, kid. You’re everything to me. Fucking everything. How do you not know that?”
“I.” Sam wants to talk, because having an opinion on everything is kind of his thing, but for once, and maybe even for the first time, he really doesn’t have anything to say.
Dean is so close to him. He’s just said that he loves Sam, and not because he has to. It would be so easy now, so easy to spill his secrets out to Dean, rip them out of his chest and put them in Dean’s hands, give himself up to Dean. Dean will understand. He’ll get it.
But the voice of reason in him instantly tells him that that would be a horribly selfish thing to do. Even if Dean understands, it’ll break him. Dean already loves Sam as much as he can. Sam has no right, none at all, to ask for more.
“I’m sorry,” is what he says, drawing Dean close and taking a shaky breath, his nose pressed against the hollow of Dean’s throat. “I’m sorry. I know. I know.”
--
After their next hunt, Sam’s cheek is stinging slightly when they reach home. He can’t tell if it’s from where he hit the ground during the hunt or because he nodded off with the side of his face pressed to the window glass.
Dean looks over at him. “You okay? Any dizziness, stuff like that?”
“I’ll be fine, Dean.”
Dean doesn’t look so sure. “Maybe you should get checked out.”
“I don’t need a doctor, Dean. I promise. Just help me inside.”
Dean does as asked, still looking a bit unhappy and chewing on his lip as he takes Sam’s arm and helps him into the house.
Sam stops him with a hand on his chest when he attempts to follow Sam into the bathroom. “I just need to clean up a bit, Dean. I’ll be fine. Stop mothering.”
“At least let me stitch up your wound.” Dean nods at the gash on his arm.
“It doesn’t need stitches.”
“Can’t hurt to play safe, right?” Dean smiles winningly. It doesn’t reach his eyes, and Sam doesn’t have the energy to refuse him.
Fifteen minutes later he’s patched up and tucked into bed. “I’ll wake you in a couple of hours,” Dean says, smoothing Sam’s hair back.
“I don’t have a concussion,” Sam says. Attempting to roll his eyes takes too much energy.
--
“Thought I told you to stay in bed,” Dean says with a frown as Sam wanders into the kitchen, yawning, to see what he’s up to.
“I’m good, Dean.”
“Hungry?”
“Starving,” Sam says. “I could happily eat one of your greasy burgers right now.”
Dean lets out a laugh. “Tough luck, tiger. I made you some rabbit food.” He slides a big bowl of salad across the table to Sam. Sam forks in without hesitation, letting out a moan at the first bite. It’s perfect, salad dressing just enough that it covers the veggies but doesn’t drip all over the place when Sam lifts it to his mouth, lettuce crunchy just the way Sam likes. There’s even some beet, carefully boiled and peeled, lending a little pink tinge to everything.
“Good?” Dean glances over.
“Perfect.”
Dean gives him a pleased little grin and takes another swig of his beer. “Beer? Or you wanna try this girly drink I made you?”
Sam grins into his salad, too content to be annoyed. “Whatever you like, Dean.”
“Good answer,” Dean says, and Sam’s head snaps up. But Dean’s already turned away, leaning into the fridge. He re-emerges with a tall glass of something that looks chocolate-y. He sticks a long straw and a little umbrella into it before putting it down in front of Sam with a flourish.
“Really, Dean?”
“Just try it, princess.”
Sam rolls his eyes and takes a sip. “Wow, Dean. What’s in it?”
“Guess.”
“Mm, chocolate. And... coffee?”
“Just a smidge. What else?”
“Whiskey.” Sam takes another sip. “Whipped cream. And...” Another sip. “Hazelnut.”
Dean claps him on the arm. “Top of the class, Sammy. Make it harder for you next time.”
“Make exactly this next time, and I’ll be your slave for life.” The words are out before Sam can help it, before he registers his own reaction to Dean’s praise. It isn’t even actual praise, not really, but for a moment Sam just lets himself relish the warmth curling through him all the way to his toes at Dean’s approval.
Dean gives him a look, snatching up his drink and taking a large sip before setting it down in front of him again. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Sam looks down into his glass, his stomach tightening in a way that isn’t really unpleasant. “Yeah?”
“Yep.” Dean’s busying himself with shredding cheese over an enormous bowl of steaming pasta now, but he glances at Sam. “Since you offered, and all.” He nods at the salad bowl. “Keep eating. Don’t want to get drunk on an empty stomach, do you?”
“We’re getting drunk?”
“Not the plan,” Dean says, carrying the pasta over to the table and sitting down next to Sam. “But with you being such a lightweight and all, one never knows.”
“Shut up.” Sam’s glad Dean’s next to him rather than across the table. “I can drink as much as you.”
“Cannot.”
“Can, too.” Sam snatches the bottle of oregano before Dean can get to it, holding it out of his reach.
“Oh, very funny. Real mature, Sammy.” But Dean’s grinning, eyes on Sam even while he takes the chili flakes and pretty much upends the bottle over his food.
Sam rolls his eyes and puts the oregano over Dean’s food himself, careful not to put too much. Dean grabs his wrist and makes him keep going. “Need to balance out the chili,” he says with a grin, his fingers warm against Sam’s skin, and if Dean keeps looking at him like that, Sam will put every last bit of oregano in Dean’s pasta if that’s what Dean wants.
“Seriously though,” Dean says with his mouth half-full. “You okay?” He nods toward the bandage on Sam’s arm.
“I’m good, Dean. Honest.”
“I’ll change the dressing after we eat.” Dean gives him a look as he opens his mouth. “No arguments, Sam.”
“Right,” Sam mutters, looking down at his plate and forking up some pasta. He’s become an expert at this over the last couple of years: hiding his expression and letting Dean think he’s pissed off so Dean doesn’t notice how it affects Sam when Dean gives him an order or speaks in that tone that doesn’t allow any arguments.
“Okay, seriously, what is up with you? You look like your puppy just died.” Dean reaches over to put his hand on Sam’s arm. “Sam?”
“It. It’s nothing, Dean. Just feeling a bit knocked out.” He isn’t even lying. Not really. Keeping things from Dean is exhausting, especially when he keeps imagining the look on Dean’s face when he finds out what Sam feels for him. Anger. Hurt. Disappointment. That one hurts the most. The thought of how disappointed Dean’s going to be in Sam. All that disapproval, the very opposite of the praise that Sam craves from his brother, has been craving pretty much all his life.
He almost wants Dean to take his drink away, say “that’s enough, Sammy,” punish him in some small way that might make Sam feel better about everything, even as he tells himself that it’s a selfish hope, hoping that Dean will do something that he won’t even know he’s doing. It’s a way to use Dean to make himself feel better.
Dean’s silent for a moment, and when Sam glances up at him, there’s worry on his face. And Sam put it there. He feels instantly guilty, his need to reassure Dean climbing to the top over every other need. “It’s fine, Dean,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean. I’m not in pain or anything. Not much. Just worried, you know? About what Dad’s going to say. I’m fine otherwise. I promise.”
Dean looks confused for a moment, as though he’s forgotten about Dad. “Oh. That. It hasn’t bothered me much, Sam. He’s usually too busy to bother about us much. You know? I don’t think he’s going to go out of his way to bother with us right now.”
Sam’s sure that the smile he attempts looks more like a grimace. “He will at some point, though. And he’s not going to be happy with us, Dean. You know what he’s like when he thinks we’re being insubordinate. And maybe. I don’t know, Dean. Maybe he has a point, you know?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Dean says, and it sounds like a promise.
--
After dinner, Dean refuses to leave Sam alone.
He almost follows Sam into the bathroom again when Sam decides to take a shower, and Sam has to suffer getting his arm carefully wrapped in a cut-up shower cap before Dean allows him under the water.
Truth be told, Dean’s overt concern for him is both pleasing him and making him fear that he’ll give himself away somehow. It’s getting more and more difficult to be touched by Dean, to feel Dean’s worry for him so tangibly, without betraying the fact that he loves it when Dean brushes his hair back or gently treats his wounds. Hell, he’s even begun to hope he’ll get bruised every time they go on a hunt just so he can get to feel Dean touching him, and even Sam knows that that isn’t good.
He dries himself and puts on a pair of Dean’s clean sweatpants-his are all in the laundry bag-and starts rubbing a towel in his wet hair before stepping out of the bathroom.
Dean’s sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, and he’s got one hand behind his back.
“What’re you up to?” Sam says, instantly suspicious.
“Not gonna prank you when you’re down and out, Sammy,” Dean says, but he’s smirking. He pulls his arm out from behind his back with a small flourish. “Presents!”
He’s holding a box gaily wrapped with glittery paper.
“What’s the catch? That a jack in the box, clown face and all?”
“You wound me, little brother. Just told you I wouldn’t prank you when you’re hurt.”
“It’s just a scratch, Dean. I’ll live.” The words ring a bit hollow, given the fact that they risk their lives pretty much every time they go hunting.
“You’ve kept your 4.0 average and I bet you’ll ace the PSATs. I figured you deserve a little treat.”
“So it’s an actual present?”
“Honest to god, Sammy.”
“Fine.” Sam holds out his hand. “Hand it over.”
“You’re welcome,” Dean says, rolling his eyes, but he hands it over.
Sam shakes it a bit. “Too light to be books.”
Dean grins. “Keep going.”
“If this is a gag gift, I’m gonna skin you. Just so you know.”
“Point noted.”
Sam turns the box over in his hands. He shakes it again. There’s a tiny rattle from within, as though something is a little loose inside. “Movies?”
“Made it too easy for you. But which ones?”
“The Die Hard series.”
“Dude, that would be a present for me, not you.”
“Star Wars.”
“We have those already.” It’s true. Bobby had bought them a box set one Christmas, and it’s at his place for times when they crash there and marathon the series on his VCR.
Sam laughs. “Fine. I give up.”
“Open it.”
Sam opens the wrapping carefully, trying not to tear the paper. Dean makes an impatient sound, but Sam shushes him. It’s always been their thing when Sam takes his time over opening a gift and Dean is impatient to see his reaction.
When the paper falls away, Sam is silent for a long moment. He tries to speak around the huge lump in his throat. “You remembered.”
It’s the animated versions of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. They’d seen the movies for sale a couple years ago while hanging around at a bookstore waiting for Dad to pick them up. They’d been way too expensive for the boys to buy and Sam hadn't bothered asking Dad if he could get them, knowing that Dad would see it as a frivolous expense, but Dean had squeezed him around the shoulders and told him that one day he’d buy them for Sam.
“’Course. Knew you’ve wanted to watch these forever, giant geek that you are.”
They don’t talk much about The Lord of the Rings anymore, although Dean makes the occasional reference to it. Sam almost never takes up where Dean leaves off, the memory of that night when he was fourteen and they watched the stars together, so much closer to each other than they are now, still too painful to consider. And now he’s holding the animated movies in his hands.
“I’m not a kid anymore, you know.” He hates the words almost as soon as they’re out of his mouth. It’s become his coping mechanism these days to say things that make it sound like he’s pissed off, and hope like hell that Dean doesn’t notice what Sam feels for him. The downside of it-and it’s a big one-is that it almost always results in that hurt look on Dean’s face, as though he doesn’t know what he’s done to piss Sam off.
Dean just shrugs this time, his expression getting a bit closed off, and Sam instantly wants to bring back the warmth that was on Dean’s face just a moment ago. If Dean says “Whatever, Sam,” and that’s the end of the subject, it would be unbearable.
Instead, Dean says: “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”
Sam’s head snaps up, his eyes wide. “What?”
“I’m not Dad, Sam. I know you don’t like to let him know about stuff you like. You don’t… You want him to treat you like an adult. But you don’t have to do that with me, okay?”
Sam rolls his eyes, trying not to show Dean how his words affect him. “So you can keep treating me like a kid?”
Dean doesn’t get discouraged. “So I can get you stuff you like and you can enjoy it without having to be afraid about what I’m going to think. It’s okay to want stuff, Sam. It’s okay to like books and movies and music and all that other stuff that you want.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, giving in. He swallows hard. “Thanks, Dean.”
Dean’s grin is blinding. “Anytime, Sammy.”
Sam realizes with a jolt that there’s something he doesn’t know about Dean. “Dean. Did you ever watch these films?”
“’Course I did.”
Sam opens his mouth and shuts it again. He suddenly has an image in mind of Dean in a darkened room, watching the films without Sam at his side. Maybe he’d had his arm around someone else, someone who smelled nice, someone he’d fucked later.
“With. With a girlfriend?”
Dean has a curious look on his face. “What’s it to you?”
“You did, didn’t you.” Sam’s sure his face is burning, but he presses on, suddenly desperate to know. “I thought we’d watch them together someday, but you watched them with someone you were fucking.”
“Sam,” Dean begins, his tone both a warning and a plea.
And Sam has no choice but to stop talking, not when Dean has the ability to say his name like that. When he can make Sam’s name sound like so many words that haven't been invented yet, like they have a language made just for two that consists of nothing but their names.
“What’s it to you?” Dean says again. This time his fingertips touch Sam’s cheek, so lightly that Sam wouldn’t have known they were there if his eyes weren’t open.
“Dean.” He leans into the touch despite himself, desperate for more and terrified of what he’ll do if he actually gets it.
“Sammy. I... how long’s this been going on?”
Sam has to look up then, terrified but unable to stop himself. He has to know what Dean’s thinking. He has to. There’s no disgust on Dean’s face that he can make out, just curiosity and something that looks a lot like affection. “I. Dean, please. I just... Please don’t ask me to talk about it.”
“Why not? You’re the one who used to love to talk about stuff. So talk to me, Sammy. Tell me what’s going on in that giant brain of yours.”
Sam closes his eyes, mortified.
“Come on, Sammy. You can look at me. You’ve done it a million times before.”
Sam shakes his head, eyes tightly shut. “Don't hate me. Please don’t hate me. Not you.”
“I don’t hate you, kiddo. I could never hate you.”
Sam glances at him, a brief glimpse of Dean’s face, his gorgeous eyes, before his gaze skitters away, landing on every part of the room except his brother.
“I know you have a thing for me. I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not looking.”
Sam groans and drops his head in his hands.
Dean’s hand moves soothingly over the crown of his head. “Is this some sort of hero-worship thing? I thought you’d outgrown that. If it is, Sam, we can deal with it. It’s not the end of the world, okay?”
“It’s not that.” Sam’s voice is muffled by his hands.
“Then what? Is it a sex thing?”
Sam drops his hands. “Dean!”
“What? It’s not unheard of, Sam. Is it a sex thing?”
“You can’t-you can’t just say stuff like that.”
“Then you say it. Tell me what you’re thinking, Sammy. You gotta talk to someone. If you can’t talk about this shit to anyone else, then you’re gonna talk to me.”
“It’s not like that,” Sam starts, miserable. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I don’t want to... I don’t...”
“Hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m not judging you, all right? I swear. You can say anything to me, Sam. You know that.”
“It’s.” Sam pushes his hands back through his hair, realizing that his face is wet. “It’s all so. I’m so fucked up, Dean.”
“You’re not.” Dean hands him his towel, and Sam wipes his face. “No more than I am, at any rate.”
Sam sob-snorts into the towel. “You’re not fucked up. You’re perfect.”
“Perfect, huh?” Dean says, teasing lightly.
“Shut up. You know what I mean.” Sam flicks the towel at his face.
“Eww, dude. Gross.” Dean bats the towel away. He sounds so much like Sam’s brother in that moment that Sam feels something ease up inside him. “But seriously, Sammy. Help me understand what it is?”
“I. I’m not sure myself, Dean.”
Dean contemplates him for a moment. “Is it like... do you fantasize about me? About us? Together?”
“Dean,” Sam chokes out.
“Come on, kiddo. You can say anything, remember?”
“I don’t want you to. You know. Break my nose or something.”
Dean smiles at that. “I’m not going to hit you, Sam. And I’m not going to get mad. I promise.”
Sam’s already exhausted by the talk so far, his insides squirming to the point of hurting. “Can. Can we talk about this some other time? Please?”
To his immense relief, Dean nods immediately. “Yeah, Sammy, sure. I. I’m sorry if I pushed you. I didn’t mean to corner you like that.”
“It’s fine, Dean.” Sam scrubs a hand across his face, still not quite able to meet his brother’s eyes.
“Can I-do you want to sleep with me?”
Sam’s head jerks up, his eyes wide.
“Not like that!” Dean says in a rush. “Just, you know. Like when you were little. Just sleep with me.”
It’s what Sam wants more than anything in the world in that moment, but he hesitates.
“Just come here.” Dean holds out an arm in invitation. And Sam goes, just because he’d do anything if Dean asked him to. Dean’s arms are warm and solid around him, folding him into their embrace, and he tugs Sam down until they’re stretched out together, Dean on his back and Sam on his side, tucked up against Dean.
It’s the best place in the world, this space at Dean’s side that Sam’s always imagined is just for him, only for him. For a few minutes he’s hyper-aware of their closeness, of Dean’s breathing, but the overwhelming feeling of safety and warmth soon lulls him into sleep.
--
They wake up tangled together as they have so many times in the past, but this time Dean knows, and it’s all different. It’s all changed in so many ways, and there’s nothing Sam can do to change it back.
Dean notices he’s awake; of course he does. There’s nothing about Sam that Dean doesn’t know, especially not now, and that thought creates a little bubble of contentment inside Sam that he wants to protect with everything he’s got. Dean knows. It’s done. Dean knows, and he didn’t hit Sam or call him names or walk out on him. All the hundred scenarios Sam had been imagining endlessly in his head, each worse than the previous one, haven’t happened.
“Come on,” Dean says, nudging him in the ribs and making Sam squirm away. “Up and at ’em, Sammy.”
“Five more minutes,” Sam says, hiding his grin in his pillow.
“Fine,” Dean says, falsely indulgent, and kisses the side of Sam’s head before dragging the covers off Sam.
“It’s cold, you jerk!”
“You wanna stay in bed like a lazy little bitch, you get up and fight for the blankets.” Dean tosses the covers on the other bed and leans over Sam, his hands on either side of Sam’s head. “Guess I was right about you, huh? You always wanted to be my little bitch.”
“You’re a complete asshole,” Sam says, but he turns over on to his back, grins and braces his hands on Dean’s chest.
“Yeah?” Dean dips his head, says the word into Sam’s ear. “Something tells me you like this, little brother.”
Sam moves his hands up to Dean’s shoulders, feeling the strength of his muscles under the softness of his skin, his threadbare t-shirt. “Dean,” he says, and it sounds like a plea.
“Am I doing this wrong? You gotta tell me if I’m doing anything you don’t want, Sammy.” Dean’s mouth is still very close to Sam's ear, his breath a tangible thing against the soft shell of Sam's lobe.
Sam swallows hard, so full of affection for Dean that he wonders if it’ll burst out of him and flare to the ceiling like fireworks. He tangles his fingers in Dean's hair. “Remember that time we almost burned down that field?”
Dean pulls back a little, bringing his hands closer until they're cupping Sam's face. “Not what I asked, but yeah. ’Course I remember. Fourth of July, three years ago.”
“Wanted to kiss you then. Wanted it so bad. When you defied Dad and gave me what I wanted. You didn’t get into trouble for it, did you?”
“It was totally worth it.” Dean runs his thumbs lightly over Sam's cheekbones. “You wanted to kiss me when you were thirteen?”
Sam can feel his face heat up. “Probably since before then.”
“How long?”
“I. I’m not really sure.”
“Sam.”
“It. It didn’t start off like that. Wanting to, you know. It was different.”
“Different how?” Dean's gaze is sweeping his face now, nothing within Sam hidden from it.
“I just. I started liking it when you were nice to me.”
“I’m always nice to you,” Dean says, mock-affronted.
“You aren’t, you big jerk.” Sam keeps his arms wound tight around Dean's neck. “I mean nice like when you, uh. When you praise me. And...”
“And?” Dean's looking at him very intently now.
Sam's pretty sure he’s blushing even harder now. “And nothing. That’s enough for today.”
But Dean doesn’t seem as hesitant this morning as he was last night. “If you tell me,” he murmurs, leaning down to Sam's ear again, “I might do it.”
Sam shudders against him, and feels Dean smile against his ear. “Is it a kinky thing, little brother? Hm?” He noses along Sam's ear.
“Dean.” Sam's mouth is almost too dry to say the word.
Dean's hands slide to Sam's wrists, and gently tug his arms up over his head. “Is this okay?”
“Dean. Fuck. Yes. Yes, it’s okay.” He almost always wakes up with a low level of arousal thrumming under his skin, and now that Dean's saying and doing these things, the feeling is skyrocketing.
“You want more? You wanna move your hips, rub off against me?”
“Dean.” Sam just about manages to choke out the word this time. He pulls experimentally at Dean's hold on his wrists. It doesn’t give in the slightest.
“You gotta use your words, Sammy.”
“Yes. Yes. Dean, please.”
“There’s my good boy,” Dean murmurs, shifting to get a leg between both of Sam's. “There you go, baby.”
The endearment hits Sam harder than the feel of Dean's strong thigh between both of his own. He can feel Dean against him through the thin cotton of their sweats, and he’s definitely feeling this as much as Sam is. “God, Dean. You’re.”
“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean's voice sounds strained. “Did you think you were the only one?”
Sam arches up against him with an almost-sob, his body thrilling at the friction. “You can’t mean...”
“I’ve been thinking about it, baby brother. Ever since I figured out how you felt. I’ve been. Fuck, Sam.”
“You didn’t. You couldn't possibly have known that I... how much I.”
“I do now.”
And Dean does, he really does. He keeps a firm hold on Sam's hands, not letting him squirm away, giving him as much room as he needs to thrust up against Dean's body, which is a long, hard line of warmth and desire above Sam's. It’s so, so much better than Sam could ever have imagined.
When the unthinkable happens, it happens abruptly and like a storm that turns their lives inside out.
They’re still lying there in their blissfully sleepy post-orgasmic haze, Dean's hands still loosely wrapped around Sam's wrists and his lips against Sam's cheek, when the door opens and Dad walks in.
--
Later, Sam's not sure how much he remembers of what actually happened that day.
Most of what registers in his brain-at first-is blind terror. He remembers Dean reacting first, letting go of Sam's hands and trying to disentangle himself from Sam. Remembers Dad’s thunderous “The hell is going on here?” Remembers what it must’ve looked like to Dad to see Dean on top of a bare-chested Sam, his large hands holding Sam's smaller ones above his head, the whole bedroom probably smelling like sex.
All that registers over the overwhelming sensation of terror is Dad dragging Dean out of the bedroom by the back of his thin t-shirt, the fabric ripping with a too-loud sound, and bolting the door shut, locking Sam inside while he takes Dean outside to-to-Sam doesn’t even know what Dad’s planning to do to Dean, can't even imagine what their father is capable of in his wrath, in this most terrible of situations.
Ever since Dad dragged Dean out of the door Sam's been screaming and screaming at Dad to listen to him, that it isn’t Dean's fault, that Dean hasn't been hurting him. He’s been hammering on the door as hard as he can, hurting his fists, slamming them against the hardwood over and over and over until he forces himself to stop so he can listen to what’s going on outside.
He can hear Dad’s voice, but he can’t make out the words. He can’t hear a single sound from Dean. There are repeated sounds of something being hit hard, and Sam's mind is almost blanking out at the horror of imagining Dean being hit repeatedly by their father.
When he hears the gunshot, his mind shuts down completely.
There’s no feeling anything anymore, not even terror. He switches to autopilot, looking wildly around the room to see if there’s something he can use. There’s no weapon in the bedroom except for his knife, and that won’t get him through the door. He grabs the knife and goes into the bathroom, standing on the toilet lid to get to the small window above, pulling out the horizontal glass panes until there’s just enough space for him to hoist himself up and wriggle through.
He lands hard on the ground, rolling over just as Dean's taught him. Dean. Oh god, Dean. He swallows back the bile that rises up in his throat and wipes his clammy hands on his sweatpants-Dean's sweats-before turning the corner and heading to the front of the house.
Everything is deathly quiet. Everything except for the trail of red that leads from the front door to the street, an image that screams things inside Sam's head until he’s sure it’s going to burst with agony.
He isn’t aware that he’s screaming Dean’s name until Dad steps out of the front door, Sam's duffel thrown over his shoulder, and slaps Sam hard across the face. “Cut it out, Sam. Shut the hell up. You hear me?”
“Where’s Dean? What’ve you done with him? Where’s Dean?”
“In the car,” Dad says shortly, and for a brief, unreal moment, Sam allows himself to believe that Dean might be okay.
It doesn’t last. Dad grabs his arm and all but drags him to his truck, parked outside on the street in front of the Impala. It’s very quiet at this hour of the morning, everyone asleep, no one even roused by the sound of the gunshot that’s shattered Sam's whole life in a second.
The trail of blood ends at the Impala’s trunk, and then Sam sees the whole picture in a split second, as though he’s seen it all happen. Dad had shot Dean. He’d shot Dean and then dragged him out and put him in the trunk of the Impala. And he isn’t even staying long enough to clean up the evidence of what he’s done.
“No,” Sam says, beginning to struggle against his father’s hold. “No, please, no, let me go to him. He needs help, he could still be-Dad. Dad, please!”
“That’s not your brother,” his father says calmly, his hand a vise around Sam's arm. “Listen to me, Sam. That isn’t Dean.”
“I-what?”
“Your brother’s gone, son.” Dad’s face is heavy with grief. “Just get in the truck.”
“Dad, no! No! That’s Dean in there! I have to help him. Let me go, please, please just let me-”
The last thing he feels is the pinch of Dad’s fingers on a nerve in his shoulder. Dad had told him and Dean about it. Told them a lifetime ago that there was a particular nerve that could be pinched to render someone immobile, even unconscious.
--
The first thing that Sam becomes aware of when he wakes up is the sound of people talking in low voices.
“...attacking him. I had to, Bobby.” His father’s voice.
Then Bobby’s. “Did you get a look at his eyes?”
“They looked normal. Maybe it was something else. A shifter. Maybe Dean's still out there.”
Sam forces himself to keep his eyes squeezed shut. He’s lying on something hard and lumpy. He tries to move, but something stops him.
The voices fade into silence. He has to open his eyes then, as he starts to struggle. One look around tells him exactly where he is. Bobby’s panic room, restrained to the bed with thick straps.
“Bobby,” he says, his mouth feeling like it’s stuffed full of wool.
“Christ, kid.” Bobby’s leaning over him, worry etched on his face. “Is it you?”
“Of course it’s me! Where’s Dad?”
“He stepped out for a bit. He thinks you-he thinks you aren’t you. That you might be brainwashed. We did all the tests, so we know you aren’t possessed.”
“I’m not possessed! Or brainwashed or anything. Bobby. He. He shot Dean. He. Dean needs help. Please. Please. You gotta let me go. You gotta let me help him.”
“Sam.” Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, you’ll hurt yourself. Dean obviously isn’t himself. Your dad said he was attacking you.”
“He wasn’t-” Sam swallows, not sure how to explain it to Bobby. Dad obviously hasn’t told him exactly what he’d seen. “Bobby, Dean wasn’t attacking me. Dad. He didn’t. He misinterpreted the whole thing.”
“What exactly did he see?”
“I. Bobby, please. You have to let me go. I have to help him.”
“No, Sam. Something’s obviously very wrong here, and we can’t let you go until we know exactly what happened to Dean.”
“What happened to Dean was that Dad shot him!” Sam says, his voice breaking on a sob. “He’s wrong, Bobby. He’s wrong! There’s nothing wrong with Dean. He was. He was just... There’s nothing wrong with him, please. You have to believe me.”
A glimmer of doubt appears in Bobby’s eyes, and it’s all that registers for Sam: a sliver of hope. “Please,” he says again, unable to stop the tears from tricking steadily from his eyes, slipping in a crooked line from the corners of his eyes into his hair. He’s hardly even seeing Bobby anymore. Dean, wounded, bleeding, locked in the trunk of the Impala. Dean, hurt. Dying. Maybe already dead.
“I’ll be right back,” Bobby says, squeezing his shoulder before he gets up. He goes out and closes the door behind him.
“No! Bobby, please! He needs help now!”
There’s no response. Sam doesn’t really need one, because he already knows what he has to do. It takes him a few minutes, but then he’s free of his restraints. Dean had taught him, trained him over and over, tying him up in various positions and teaching him how to get loose. At the time, Sam had been so blindingly turned on at being tied up by Dean that he wasn’t sure how much of Dean’s lessons had actually registered. Luckily, he doesn’t even really need to use any of Dean's tricks because his wrists are slender enough to slip out of their restraints, and the rest is simple.
Part 3