(no subject)
Twenty minutes later he’s running down the road as fast as he can.
The door to the panic room is well-secured and pretty much impossible to open from the inside, but all he’d had to do was wait behind the door until Bobby came back and then run out of the door, side-stepping Bobby easily, and pull it shut behind him. Dad hadn't been in sight.
There hadn't been time to hotwire one of the cars in Bobby’s yard; they would've been sure to catch hold of him long before he could get one started. So he’s running, running as fast as his bare feet on the hot asphalt will allow him, and he doesn’t know if it’s providence or some higher power that makes a car stop on the road, a young, nice-looking couple inside, the woman leaning out of her open window to ask if Sam's all right, if they can help.
He tells them he’s running away from his abusive dad who hurt his brother and kidnapped him, and it doesn’t even feel like a lie.
--
They give him some money for a bus and drop him at a bus station, and Sam takes their business card and promises to pay them back when he finds his brother. It’s a thirty-minute bus ride from the terminal to the rented house he’s been sharing with Dean for the last five months, the house in which everything he’s ever wanted had come true only to be torn from him in the most agonizing way possible.
When he reaches the house, the Impala is no longer parked in front. There’s still a dark stain on the ground right next to where the car had been. Dean's blood. Sam falls to his knees on the ground and puts his palm over it. It’s long since gone cold, part of the road now as though it had always been there.
“Sam? Is that you?”
It’s Mrs Henley, their overly helpful neighbor, who’d sometimes given them homemade meals, saying nothing but pursing up her lips at the idea of an irresponsible man who leaves his children alone to fend for themselves. Sam had tutored her small daughter in math for free on occasion, just to return her kindness in some small way.
“Mrs Henley! Mrs Henley, do you know what happened?”
“The police were here. They asked us some questions.” She isn’t looking nearly as kind now as she used to, obviously afraid of whom she’s had for neighbors over the last few months. “About all the blood.”
“And Dean? Have you seen him? Did they take the car? The cops? Did they find him?”
“There was no one there. Your car was gone too. I thought I heard something in the morning. Very early. Was there a break-in?” She’s looking at him uncertainly now, clearly torn between wanting to help him and wanting to keep away. He probably looks like a dangerous lunatic.
“There were. There were some men. I think, I think my dad owes them money or something. They shot Dean and they took me. I just got away.”
The lies roll easily off his tongue, and like before, don’t really seem like lies at all. Finally sympathetic, Mrs Henley offers to drive him to the town precinct, but he declines and tells her he’s going to check in the house before he goes to the cops.
He goes in and washes his blistered feet in the bathroom before pulling on his socks and shoes and looking around. The sheets on the bed are still rumpled, and Sam can’t bear to look at them.
They hadn't even kissed.
“I can’t kiss you,” Dean had said, his fingers tangled in Sam's hair, and Sam’s heart had split in two at the words. And then Dean had fixed it again the way only Dean can. “Not like this,” he’d clarified, dipping his head to brush his lips against Sam's cheek. “There needs to be. I don’t know. More fanfare.”
“Fanfare?” Sam repeated, unable to keep the smile from his lips.
“Yeah, you know. Like, something to mark the moment. Not every day you get to kiss your little brother.”
“God, shut up. You say the worst things.”
“Just following your lead, darlin’,” Dean said in his best cowboy accent, and Sam punched him in the face with a pillow.
Now that pillow’s lying on the floor, probably been lying there ever since it had fallen during their playful tussle on the bed before things had gotten serious and Sam’s wrists were held in the perfect clamps of Dean's hands, held safe like Dean was meant to hold him like that and Sam was meant to come completely undone under his brother, nothing between them at all, not even lies, not anymore.
Sam chokes back a sob and looks desperately for any sign that Dean had been in the house after Dad had taken him away, but there isn’t any, not even a missing pair of shoes. Dean had been barefoot just like Sam. If he was okay, if he’d managed to get away on his own, surely he’d have come in to grab a pair of shoes, maybe a weapon or two. Although if Dean's got the Impala, then there’s no shortage of weapons in the trunk. Maybe Dean had just been in a hurry to get away.
But no. Dean wouldn't have left without coming into the house, without checking to see if Sam was there. Dean wouldn’t have dreamed of going anywhere and leaving Sam behind.
Which left only the possibility that Dean was not okay. That maybe someone had stolen the car with Dean in it.
Trying not to think of Dean locked up in the trunk while he has a bullet in him (and failing miserably), Sam switches to autopilot again as he gathers their things-Dean's stuff and some of Sam's stuff that Dad hadn't bothered to pick up when he’d taken Sam's bag-and shoves everything he can into Dean's bag. The movies that Dean had got him (a lifetime ago) go into the front pocket. He’s zipping up the bag when he realizes that he hasn’t thought of the most obvious thing to do. Grabbing his phone, right there on the nightstand where he’d left it before getting into bed with Dean-had it only just been hours ago?-he dials Dean's number.
The call goes to voicemail, and Sam shuts it off miserably. If someone’s got Dean and the car, they’ve probably got the phone too. Then he calls again, just in case, and leaves a message. “Dean. I can’t say where I am in case your phone’s not with you. I just. If you’re okay, if you get this, call me. Please. I’m going to look for you, okay? I’m not going to give up on you. Just hold on, Dean. Just hold on, big brother. For me. Please.”
He’s just hanging up for the second time when he notices something on the nightstand on Dean's side of the bed. Something silver. Dean's ring.
Sam's always had a photographic memory, but last night was... different. Unique. He has no memory of it that doesn’t involve Dean's face, Dean's arms around him, Dean's warmth beside him. Not a shred of evidence that can help him, tell him if Dean had taken off the ring last night or if he’d left it there later.
Sam sits down at the edge of the bed, shaking, the ring clutched in his hand. Dean almost never takes off the ring. If it was later. If Dean had left the ring later. It means that Dean is okay, that he’d come into the house and left a sign that probably only Sam would notice. Filled with hope for the first time since Dad stepped into this room in the morning, Sam puts the ring on. It’s too big for his ring finger, but it fits over his thumb.
--
He doesn’t go to the cops.
He will if it’s his last resort, but if what Mrs Henley said is true-and she has no reason to lie-then Dean was long gone before the cops arrived at the scene. So now Sam's left with the question: what would Dean do? What would he do if he were hurt and alone and without Sam?
The answer is fairly obvious: he’d look for Sam. And if he’s gone looking for Sam, then he’s probably gone to Bobby’s.
Sam finds a crowded coffee shop and slides into a booth in a corner before calling Bobby’s number.
“Bobby?”
“Sam? Where the hell’re you at, kid?”
“Have you heard from Dean?”
Silence at the other end of the line for a moment. Then Bobby starts, “Look, kid...”
“Yes or no, Bobby? Have you heard from him?”
A beat. “No.”
“You're lying.”
“Don't you dare take that tone with me, boy.”
“You’re no better than Dad,” Sam says, and hangs up.
He drops his head in his hands, pushing his fingers back through his hair.
The phone rings again and Sam's heart leaps, but then falls almost immediately when he sees who’s calling.
“I don’t want to talk to you, Bobby.”
“Look, kid, your dad doesn’t know I’m calling. Dean called earlier. Same as you. Wanted to know if I knew where you were. I think he might be heading here. He didn’t seem to believe me either when I said I didn’t know where you were.”
“You haven’t exactly endeared yourself to either of us today. I don’t know if I can believe you, Bobby. You might just be lying to get me back there.”
“Suit yourself. Just thought you oughta know.”
The line goes dead.
--
Sam has two choices now: either trust Bobby’s word and return to Sioux Falls, or keep looking for Dean on his own.
There’s one very obvious reason that points to Bobby’s tale as absolute lies: Dean would not have called him without trying to call Sam first, and Sam's phone has been on all along. There are no missed calls from any number.
“Damn it, Bobby.”
The phone rings again.
“What now?” Sam says, pretty much at the end of his endurance.
“Sammy.”
“Dean!”
“Hey, kid. You had us all scared. Where are you? Back in that funky town while I’m here at Bobby’s?”
“Dean,” Sam whispers. His heart is pounding a joyful beat at hearing Dean's voice again, but Dean's used their secret code, the one even Dad doesn’t know because they just made it up recently. Dean’s in trouble and Sam needs to play along: only, he has no idea how. He doesn’t dare say anything aloud because he doesn’t know if whoever’s got Dean is listening in. “Dean, are you okay? I thought you... oh god, Dean. I was so scared.”
“I know, Sammy. It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise. Just get here soon, okay?”
“Okay,” Sam says, clutching the phone so hard that his fingers hurt. “Okay, Dean. I’m coming.”
“Uh, hang on a bit. Dad wants a word.”
Dad. Sam wants to reach through the phone and break his face.
“Sam. You listen to what your brother says and get down here right away.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam says, and hangs up the phone.
--
Sam needs a plan.
He needs a plan, and he needs to come up with it on the bus back to Sioux Falls, because there’s no way he’s staying away from Dean for any longer than he has to.
Clearly, Dad still believes that Dean's possessed or something, or Dean wouldn't be a captive right now. Fuck, they’d come up with that code to use only when one of them had a gun to his head. It had been a half-playful thing, and Sam hadn't seriously believed that they’d ever need to use it. The thought of Dean now, hurt and defenseless with Dad and Bobby holding him prisoner, makes Sam want to put his fist through the dirty, rain-stained glass of the window he’s sitting next to on the bus.
He gets off one stop before Sioux Falls, just in case one of the men is waiting for him there, and hikes the rest of the way into town. He knows Dad and Bobby aren’t a threat-not to him. But if Dad has Bobby believing that Dean's possessed, they’ll just as easily kill Dean as let him live. Sam doesn’t even know how badly Dean is hurt; all he has to go on is the blood. All that blood, Dean's blood, spilled outside the house and on the street.
The thing with Bobby’s place is that it’s pretty much a fortress. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but Sam knows from experience that it’s pretty secure. It’s not exactly like he can sneak in the back. Every entry point that Sam can think of, Bobby can think of too.
In the end, Sam has no choice but to walk in the front door and hope for the best.
--
When he does walk in the front, the first thing he sees is the Impala, glittering in the late afternoon sun.
Dean. He’d driven all the way here in the state that he was in, just so he could get to Sam.
Sam pauses at the car. He doesn’t have a plan, and most likely Dean didn’t either. But what if he had? Obviously it hadn't worked since Dad had got him, but if there was a chance that Dean had planned something... Sam takes a quick look inside the Impala, knowing that he probably has just a minute or so, maybe just seconds, to look around before he’s spotted. He quickly looks around in the front seat and the glove compartment. Nothing new there, just the usual jumble of cassette tapes and movie ticket stubs and gas station bills that characterize his and Dean's life.
There’s nothing on the backseat, but when he pushes his hand under it, he feels something in the footwell in front of the backseat, almost wedged under the driver’s seat.
It’s a paper bag, and inside it are two syringes filled with a clear liquid.
Sam shoves them into his jacket pocket-Dean's jacket pocket, really, since he’s wearing the jacket that Dean had left back at the house-and walks up to the house.
--
Bobby greets him with a pat on the back, looking a bit embarrassed, and Dad doesn’t give him more than a cursory nod.
Sam doesn’t care, because all his attention is focused on Dean.
Dean, who’s tied to a chair in the middle of Bobby’s living room, a thick line of salt surrounding him. He isn’t conscious, and it appears that the ropes binding him to the chair are the only thing keeping him in it. His head is slumped forward, his face bruised, a huge dark bloodstain on the left leg of his jeans, which are torn through with what is clearly a bullet hole.
Sam's never felt so much rage, horror and love in his entire life.
Ignoring Dad and Bobby, he steps into the circle of salt and drops to his knees next to Dean. “Dean. Hey. It’s me.” He ignores how his voice is cracking, taking Dean's face in his hands and lifting his head as gently as possible.
Dean's eyes open just a crack. Sam understands immediately. Dean doesn’t want the others to know that he’s awake and alert. He leans in to hug Dean, wrapping his arms around Dean's waist and pressing their faces as close as possible, giving him the chance to speak without Dad and Bobby hearing him.
Behind Dean's back, unseen by the two older men, Sam slips the smallest knife he could carry into Dean's bound hands, their fingers pressed against each other’s for the briefest moment.
“In the car. Backseat,” Dean whispers into Sam's hair.
“Got it,” Sam whispers back, turning his head so his lips are right against Dean's ear.
“That’s my boy,” Dean murmurs.
The absolute devotion Sam feels in that moment is something he’ll never be able to find the words for, but he has three words that come pretty close, and he says them right against Dean's ear, as softly as possible.
Sam hates to let go of Dean, but any more whispering and Dad and Bobby are going to get suspicious. He pulls back from Dean, wiping furiously at his eyes.
“Whatever he’s saying, Sam, it’s lies,” Bobby says from behind him. “That’s not Dean. If it is, he’s not the one in control right now.”
“So you used him?” Sam rounds on them. “You forced him to make that call to lure me here?”
“Lure you here?” Dad’s face is hard. “You make it sound like it’s a trap.”
Sam doesn’t bother to acknowledge those words. “What do you plan to do with him?”
“Find out how to get Dean back, of course,” Bobby says. He sounds surprised, as though it should be the most obvious thing.
But Sam's watching his father, whose face doesn’t show any sign at all of what he might be thinking.
“Dad?” Sam asks. “Is that what you're doing here?”
“What else would we be doing?” Dad’s tone is expressionless.
Sam walks away from Dean and back in the direction of the door, both men turning around to keep their gazes on him, exactly as he’d hoped. Their backs are to Dean now.
Sam shrugs. Keep them talking until Dean can get free. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me why you locked me up in the panic room?”
“That should be obvious to you-or haven’t you learned anything at all by now? You were obviously taken in by this thing masquerading as your brother. We couldn't take the chance that you’d try to help him.”
“What have you done to him?”
“Just the usual tests, Sam,” Bobby says, stepping forward with his hands raised in a defensive gesture. “Nothing worse than that, I swear.”
“The usual tests? Cutting him with silver and forcing him to swallow holy water? Have you seen the state he’s in? He’s been shot, for fuck’s sake.”
“He isn’t a ‘he,’ Sam,” his father says. “If there’s some damage to Dean's meat suit, then-”
“Don't you dare fucking call him that! He’s your son!”
“We don’t even know if this body is even Dean's,” Bobby says, looking nervously between the two of them. “Could be some sorta shifter we’ve never seen before.”
Sam’s had enough. He glances at Dean as quickly as he can, and Dean nods, bringing his hands around to his front. Just as Bobby turns around and sees him.
“John. Watch out!” Bobby yells.
Sam doesn’t know what the exact plan is, but he’s worked together with Dean all his life and he knows what to do, how Dean's mind works. Between Sam and Dean, Sam's the stronger one right now; between Dad and Bobby, Dad’s the stronger.
Taking the syringes from his pocket, he tosses one to Dean before lunging for his father. Dad clearly wasn’t expecting a physical attack from Sam, and the moment it takes for him to register what's happening is long enough for Sam to shove the needle into his father’s leg and press the plunger.
Dean’s legs are still bound to the chair but he throws himself at Bobby and injects the substance in the syringe into his arm. He keeps his arms tight around Bobby as the man struggles, but he’s pinned down securely by both Dean and the chair, and both he and Dad slump against their captors within seconds.
“Anesthetic,” Dean explains, starting to untie his legs. He looks up briefly. “Thanks for trusting me on this.”
Sam just stands there for a moment, completely ignoring the unconscious bodies on the floor, his eyes only on Dean.
“A little help?” Dean says after a moment, gesturing to his wounded leg.
“Yeah, of course.”
Between them they manage to get the chair upright again, and Sam sees Dean's problem immediately: the rope is biting down into Dean's gunshot wound and is knotted tight behind the leg of the chair. “I’ve got it,” he says, taking the knife from Dean and cutting through the knots.
Dean pulls his leg free without so much as a grimace, his face hard. “I gotta go, Sam. If I stay here, they’ll probably kill me.”
“I know. Where are we headed?”
Dean limps over to Bobby’s desk and grabs a bottle of whiskey, takes a long swig. “Not we, Sam. Just me.”
“What?”
“I have to disappear for a while, Sam. If he finds me, he’ll kill me. Or have me arrested for statutory rape. Either way, he wins.” He glances down at the two men. “That dose wasn’t very strong. They’ll be up in a few minutes.” He starts for the door. “I gotta go, Sam,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ll be in touch, okay?”
Sam stares after him for a second, stunned into silence. It’s only when he hears the sound of the car’s door opening that he’s jolted into movement.
“So-that’s it?” he says, incredulous, watching Dean grab an old bandana from the glove compartment and bind it around his wound. “You're just-leaving?”
Dean doesn’t look up. “You want me to stay here and get arrested? Or worse?” He bites his lip as he pulls the makeshift bandage tight around his leg.
“Then why’d you come here in the first place? Huh? You knew they’d grab you.”
“I had to see you. Had to see you were okay,” Dean says, sounding surprised that Sam has to ask.
“And now you want to just leave me here. With the men who tried to kill you.”
Dean's face softens just a little. “Come on, Sammy. It’s not like that. He’s your father. You're a minor. There’s no way I can take you with me. You’ve still got to finish school.”
“You can take over guardianship of me until I’m eighteen. Prove in a court that he’s not a fit parent.”
Dean stares at him. “Courts aren’t a part of our world, Sam. And even if they were-do you have any idea how much effort that would take?”
“And you're clearly not willing to put that effort into making sure we can stay together.” Sam hadn't thought anything could hurt worse than the pain of thinking Dean might be dead, but this comes pretty close.
“Sam. It’s not like that,” Dean says again.
“I get it,” Sam says with a brief nod, although he doesn’t get it at all, not even a little, and it feels as though someone is scouring out his insides with a scoop. He gestures to Dean's leg. “Just. Get that taken care of ASAP, okay?”
“Sammy,” Dean says. “Come on. Come here.” He holds out his hand, still sitting in the driver’s seat with his legs out on the ground.
It takes all of Sam's remaining strength to refuse Dean, but he manages to shake his head. “You should go, Dean.”
Dean just looks at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he says, “Get your stuff. I think it’s still in the truck.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.” Dean slides over into the shotgun seat with a groan. “My leg’s too busted to drive.”
“Where are we going?” Sam asks as he pulls the Impala on to the highway.
“Anywhere. Somewhere out of sight. Find a motel. We’ll figure this out, okay? I just. I need to pass out for a bit.”
--
Hours after they’d gotten each other off in bed, they’re back to not talking much.
Dean looks too messed up for Sam to work up the inclination to argue with him, so he doesn’t. He takes a turnoff-not the first one they come across, because that would be too obvious-and finds a motel with a parking lot that’s far enough off the highway that the Impala won’t be spotted from the road.
In the bathroom, Dean sits at the edge of the tub with his leg inside it and cuts away his ruined jeans, wincing as he peels off the bloody material sticking to his skin. He seems reluctant to let Sam touch him, but Sam waits patiently until Dean looks up at him. The bullet is still in his leg. Sam helps him prop his foot on the edge of the tub and uses a pair of tweezers to get the bullet out, trying to be as careful as possible. He knows it has to hurt like hell. Dean's face is pale with pain, his eyes shut tight, his hand squeezing Sam's shoulder.
“If it looks bad tomorrow,” Sam starts when he finishes dressing and bandaging the wound.
“I know,” Dean says shortly, getting to his feet.
Sam lets him go. He takes a shower, letting Dean's blood wash off his fingers and into the drain in a swirl of pink water. Funnily enough he isn’t feeling terribly anxious at the moment, maybe because even though Dean's hurt, he’s been hurt worse before and Sam at least knows that he’s safe now, here with Sam.
The anxiety returns in a sudden wave when he steps out of the bathroom and sees the empty room. He goes out quickly and exhales with relief when he sees Dean sitting on the steps outside their room, beer in hand, their green cooler at his feet. He’s just starting to wonder if maybe Dean just wants to be left alone when Dean gets another beer out of the box and hands it to him after twisting the top off.
Dean scoots over a bit to make space and Sam sits down next to him, careful not to let their shoulders touch, aching to be closer. He fiddles with the ring on his thumb, reluctant to take it off.
Dean glances at his hand. “So you found it.” He says the words into the night air, and they curl away like smoke.
“Dean, why didn’t you call me? Before heading to Bobby’s?”
“Your phone was at the house when I left. I. I didn’t think you’d be back there so soon.”
“Oh.” Sam takes a swig of his beer. “Did you call them before you went?”
“No. ’Course not.”
“So Bobby lied to me. He told me you’d called. That you were headed there.”
“I was already there. When you didn’t take the bait they made me talk to you.”
“Dean, we should... maybe we can talk to them. Convince them you’re not possessed or a shifter or anything like that.”
“You think Dad doesn’t already know?”
“What? But. He...”
“Beat me up real bad and shot me in the leg, yeah. He knew it was me, Sam.”
Sam stares at him, horrified.
“He knew the whole time. Kept telling me what a monster I was for. You know. Told me he’d given me one job, and I’d screwed that up. That I’m a no-good failure who couldn't even keep my kid brother safe. Told me trusting me with you was the worst mistake he’s ever made. Said he’d kill me if I ever tried to come near you again.”
“He’s wrong. Dean, you know he’s-”
“I’d have done the same, Sam. If I were him. If I saw what he saw. Someone... someone holding you down like that. I’d have killed them, Sammy. I. I deserve everything he said. Everything he did.”
“You’re not just someone, Dean.”
Dean shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I was wrong, Sam. And he was right. You. You shouldn't even be here.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You have to, Sam.” Dean's voice is gentle, as though he's trying to reduce the sting of his words. “If you. If we go on the run, Dad won’t stop until he finds us and takes you back.”
“Maybe he’ll just leave us alone. Maybe. Maybe he’ll understand that I don’t want to go back without you.”
“No, Sam. He won’t. He’s your father, and he thinks I... he thinks you're being hurt, and. He won’t understand. I wouldn't if I were him.”
Sam pushes his hands back through his hair. “You keep saying that. It’s not true. You know it’s not.”
“He can’t accept it, Sam. He’s our father.”
“So what you're saying is that if I don’t go back, I’m. I’m putting you in danger. Because he’ll come for me and he’ll hurt you if he finds you.”
“I’m not saying that, Sammy. But you can’t go on the run with me. You. You need to finish school.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“I do. And Sam, even if we... even if we’re together. We can’t. What happened this morning. It can’t happen again.”
Sam closes his eyes. He’s been expecting this, but now that it’s real, it’s actually happening, he knows he's not in the least bit equipped to deal with it.
“Dean, don’t.”
“Sam, I-”
“Just don’t. Don’t say anything more.”
“Sammy.”
Sam gets to his feet. He puts his hand briefly on the top of Dean's head, caressing his soft hair. “I don’t regret it. At least I got to be with you for a few hours. I don’t regret it and I’ll never take it back. What I said. How I feel.”
He goes back inside and sits at the edge of his bed to finish his beer, feeling strangely devoid of emotion. After he’s done, he lies down and closes his eyes, and doesn’t let himself fall asleep until he hears Dean come in quietly and shut the door behind him with a tiny click.
--
When Sam wakes up the next morning, Dean's already awake and sitting at the small table beside the window.
“Hey,” Sam says, still groggy, pushing his hands back through his mussed hair. “How's the leg?”
Dean glances over. “I'll live.”
“Not what I asked, but okay.”
“It’s fine.” Sam gives him a look. “Okay, it’s not a hundred per cent, but it will be. So quit worrying.”
Sam swings his legs out of bed. “You showered already?” he asks, noticing Dean's damp hair. “You should've woken me.”
Dean shrugs. “You needed the sleep.” He doesn’t look at Sam.
“I'll get ready and we’ll go get breakfast, okay?”
Dean looks up, gives Sam a strained smile. “Sure, Sammy.”
--
Sam insists on checking Dean's wound before they go out, and Dean lets him do it. It doesn’t look bad at all, and Sam puts on a fresh bandage. “All done,” he says, looking up at Dean.
“Always take such good care of me,” Dean murmurs, running a hand over Sam's hair.
Sam doesn’t want to swat his hand away but he does, determined to have his brother back if nothing else. “You took too many pain meds again.”
Dean lets out a small chuckle. “I'm not high, Sam.” He reaches out to tangle his fingers in Sam's hair, and Sam doesn’t stop him this time. “You liked it, didn’t you? When I called you a good boy. When I told you how good you were for me.”
“Dean. Don’t.”
“It’s just a simple question, Sammy. Did you like it?”
“You're a jerk, you know that?”
Dean looks startled. “I didn’t-”
“First you tell me we can’t-that there can’t be anything between us, and then you say these things. It’s not fair, Dean.”
Dean looks away. “I-you're right. I’m sorry, Sam. I was just... I just wanted to know.”
He starts moving his hand away from Sam's hair, but Sam reaches up to hold it in place. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes. I liked it. I still do.”
Dean lets out a soft sigh, his fingers still in Sam's hair, his thumb tracing the outline of Sam's earlobe. “What am I gonna do with you, Sammy?”
“There are so many ways I could answer that question that you don’t wanna hear.”
Dean swallows hard. “Yeah?”
“You like it, don’t you?” Sam knows he’s pushing it, but Dean isn’t actually discouraging him right now. He braces himself with a hand on Dean’s good leg and leans up, his mouth to Dean's ear. “You like it. Me on my knees in front of you.”
Dean's hand tightens in his hair. “Jesus, Sam. The mouth on you.”
Sam pulls back and gives him a cheeky grin. “Sure you don’t wanna know what I can do with my mouth?”
Dean keeps his hand tight in Sam's hair, tugging at it lightly. “You keep talking like that, I’mma have to punish you.”
“Fuck, Dean.” Sam leans forward, pressing his forehead to Dean's shoulder.
“God, Sammy. What're we doing?” Dean threads both his hands through Sam's hair, and then slips his arms around Sam and tugs him up until he's sitting on Dean's good leg. “You really want this,” Dean says, watching Sam's face.
“I. I don’t want it if you don’t, Dean. I don’t want you to think that you have to do, uh. Something. For my sake. ’Cause that would be worse than not having it at all.”
“It’s not like that, Sam.” Dean touches Sam’s cheek. “I promise. It’s just. You’re sixteen. You can’t even legally consent to... to anything. And even if you could, it still wouldn't be legal. It can’t ever be.”
“Aren't you the one who said courts aren’t a part of our world?”
“Trust you to remember every damn thing I say.”
Sam smiles down at Dean from his perch on Dean's knee. “So. In the last twenty-four hours, you’ve been beaten up, shot, locked in the Impala’s trunk, tied to a chair, and tortured. That enough fanfare for you?”
“Wasn't exactly tortured,” Dean says. He runs his thumb over Sam’s lips. “But yeah. I see your point.”
“Then stop talking.” Sam bends his head and Dean lifts his face like they've planned this all along. It’s maybe not really a kiss at first, because they stay frozen with their lips pressed against each other’s. Then Dean opens his mouth against Sam's and Sam is instantly lost, desperately seeking more and so focused on his task that he almost falls off Dean's lap. But Dean hooks an arm around his waist, never breaking the kiss, and keeps him in place.
“Can we do this all the time?” Sam whispers against Dean's mouth when they come up for air, still half-afraid that Dean's going to push him away and say this is a mistake.
“Whatever you want, Sammy,” Dean says, looking as dazed as Sam feels, and Sam can’t keep the smile off his face for hours.
--
Sam gnaws on the thin skin just above his right thumb, foot tapping against the linoleum floor of the diner as he watches Dean on the payphone in the back.
Dean finally hangs up and threads his way through the crowded tables to Sam.
“How’d it go?” Sam reaches across the table to brush his fingers against Dean's.
“I think he bought it.”
“I hate using Pastor Jim like this.”
“I know, kid. I know. Me too.” Dean squeezes Sam's hand, and Sam reminds himself that whatever they’re doing is worth the lies and the deception. “But he’s okay with it, remember?”
Sam nods, squeezing back before going to make his own call. They’ve been using payphones since they’ve been on the run, unwilling to switch their phones on in case Dad manages to use their signals to track them down.
“Dad?”
“Sam, where the hell are you? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Dad. I... listen. Dean took off. He...” He looks at Dean, standing right there next to him, and Dean takes his free hand and squeezes it again. “He left, Dad. Said you'd kill him if you saw him again.”
“Sam, there are things you don’t-”
“Dad, listen to me. I... I need some time, okay? This is all pretty hard to process. I’m going to be staying with Pastor Jim for a while. I talked it over with him. You can come see me there if you like, but I’m not going back with you. Not right now.”
There’s a long pause, and then Dad says: “I’m your father, Sam. Don’t you think you'd be safest with me?”
“Not right now, no. Not after what you did to my brother.” Sam untangles his fingers from Dean's and cups his hand around the back of Dean's neck, bringing their foreheads together.
“Sammy, that wasn’t Dean. How many times do I have to-”
“Say I believe you, Dad. I still want some time on my own, okay? I’ll be safe at Pastor Jim’s. I... I gotta go. I’ll call you when I get there. Don’t worry about me.”
Sam hangs up and buries his face in Dean's neck.
“Wish you didn’t have to do this,” Dean murmurs into his hair, pulling him close. “It’s not gonna be easy, Sammy. Are you sure you want to...”
“Yes.” Sam lifts his head, meeting Dean’s eyes. “Yes, Dean. I’m not leaving you.”
--
Sam spends the rest of the morning curled up with Dean in bed. They don’t talk much. Dean knows that Sam finds it hard to lie, especially to their father, and he doesn’t insist that they discuss it further, doesn’t try to talk Sam out of following the plan.
Things will be tough. They won’t be able to use the Impala for a while; it’s too easily recognizable. Sam will have to enroll himself in a school in Pastor Jim’s town and, as agreed with Jim, pretend to live with him for a while, at least until Dad comes and checks up on him once, as he's sure to do. They’ll have to tell their story to Pastor Jim together, convince him that Dad and Dean had a falling out over something and that Dad shouldn't know for now that Dean's living in the same town.
There are about a hundred things that could go wrong, but Sam's drained after his call to his father and doesn’t want to think about any of it. They have to leave in a while, but for now he feels warm and safe, he’s with Dean, and he doesn’t want to think about anything else except how good Dean's arms feel around him.
--
Epilogue
“You, uh. You wanna watch The Hobbit?” Dean asks, fidgeting with the remote. He’s a little nervous, and Sam thinks it’s adorable.
It’s Sam's first night staying over at Dean's place. They’ve spent a lot of time here in this house over the last couple of months, but Dean's always insisted on taking Sam back to his room at Pastor Jim’s for the night.
Dad visited about four weeks after Sam had started living with Pastor Jim. It’s not a memory Sam wants to visit often. Dean had explained to him, over and over and with infinite patience, that he doesn’t blame their father for being furious with him, that he would have done the same. Finally, it was Dean arguing that it was in their best interests for Sam to at least pretend to have forgiven Dad that made Sam agree to the meeting.
Pastor Jim had gone along with the plan beautifully, never once mentioning to Dad that he’d seen Dean on several occasions and that Dean, in fact, lived not two blocks away from the church compound.
Sam nods in answer to Dean's question. “Not without popcorn, though.”
Dean lets out a laugh, reaching out to muss Sam’s hair. “I’ll get it. You stay put.”
Sam grins. “Wow. I should stay over more often.”
“You can stay as often as you like,” Dean says, indulgent, and leans over to ruffle Sam's hair before heading to the kitchen. Sam smiles to himself as he hears his brother busying himself with the popcorn. They both know he isn’t going anywhere, even if Dean hasn’t officially agreed to let Sam stay for good. He’s still paranoid that Dad will drop in to Pastor Jim’s unannounced and find Sam gone.
Later, when the end credits have long since finished rolling and the screen has gone dark, Sam rolls his head around on the couch to look at Dean. “Do you think we’ll make it?” he asks. He isn’t talking about whether they’ll live or die, and he knows Dean knows it.
“I don’t... honestly, Sammy, I don’t know if I want us to make it.”
“What? Dean, you-”
“You deserve better, Sammy. Way better than your loser of a big brother,” Dean says, smiling ruefully.
“You,” Sam says, lifting his hand to touch Dean lightly on the lips, “are the last thing from a loser that anyone can be.”
“You know what I mean. I’m a fucking dropout, Sam, and you. You should be, I don’t know. A professor at one of those awesome schools. Harvard or Stanford or something. You know?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but you don’t get to talk about yourself like that. Ever. You hear me?”
“Sammy. Be realistic. There’s no future in. In this.” He waves his hand between them.
“Why not?”
“Come on. You know why.”
“No, actually, I don’t. So why don’t you spell it out for me?”
“Sam.” Dean sounds so exhausted that Sam's almost decided to drop it for the moment when a thought strikes him.
“Because it’s wrong? Because you. You think it’s sick. Disgusting. And you just don’t know how to tell me that. Is that it, Dean?”
“Sam, no.” Dean reaches out to touch his sleeve, but Sam pulls away.
“You told me once, Dean. You said I could say anything to you. Well, guess what. It works both ways. You can tell me anything. Even if it’s something you think I can’t bear to hear.”
Dean puts both his hands on Sam's face, one cupping his cheek and the other at his temple, smoothing back his hair. “Sammy. Listen to me very carefully, okay? I don’t think that. I don’t. I can’t think that, because. Because of you. Because you started this thing, and there’s nothing about you that’s wrong or sick or disgusting.”
“What about what Dad said to you? You seemed to think you deserved all that.”
“Forget what Dad said. I don’t care what Dad said or did. He’s wrong, okay? He’s just wrong about us. There isn’t a bad bone in your body, Sam. If you want something, it can’t be bad. It can’t be. I trust you on that, Sam. I trust you. If I... if it were just me, I wouldn't trust it. I can’t trust myself to be a good person, Sammy. I’m. I’m just too fucked up for that. But you. You’re different.”
“So let me get this straight.” Sam keeps his tone as gentle as possible, finally understanding how much it’s costing Dean to have this conversation. “I can’t have what I want, what I want the most, because I’m too good for it? I’m too good for you? That’s kinda ironic, don’t you think?”
“You don’t know what you-”
“If you dare fucking finish that sentence, Dean, so help me god.”
“You know what I mean, Sam. You’re sixteen. You have-”
“My whole life ahead of me. I know. And I know what I want, Dean.”
Dean shakes his head. “I know you think you do, Sammy. But. But someday you're gonna find something better and I...”
“And you think I’ll leave you when I do,” Sam says, understanding finally dawning. “You’re scared I’ll hurt you.”
Dean winces. “Now that really does make me sound like a loser.”
“You aren’t a loser, Dean. And I know you don’t really believe that either, but I’ll keep telling you until you believe it. You're my big brother, and that makes you awesome by default.”
Dean gives him a ghost of a grin. “Can’t really argue when you put it that way.”
“Good,” Sam says. He fiddles with the ring on his finger, which he still hasn’t returned to Dean. “So does that mean I can keep wearing this?”
“Looks good on you,” Dean says. He puts a hand on his chest, over his amulet. “Or you could wear it like this.” He smiles. “Frodo.”
“Aragorn,” Sam says immediately, and leans in to kiss him.
--
Sam loves staying at Dean's place-their place, as Dean insists on reminding him.
The house has two actual bedrooms, because Dean insisted that Sam needed a room of his own. Sam uses it as a study; it’s actually good sometimes to have a space of his own where he can work, especially since he’s going to be working toward college applications soon; he grudgingly admits to Dean that it was a good idea to give him a room of his own, and Dean looks smug for the rest of the evening. It’s a measure of just how much Sam loves him that he doesn’t even mind. He’s even got a computer of his own now, and sometimes he emails Audrey.
Sometimes they have low-key fights, and it almost becomes fun to rile Dean up until Sam sees actual hurt on Dean's face when they fight, and knows that Dean's insecurities are getting the better of him.
He makes it up to Dean by going to his knees and shutting Dean up the only way he can, enjoying the desperate way in which Dean tries to stay controlled, looking up and seeing the promise of revenge in Dean's darkened eyes.
On the first day of Sam's summer vacation, they test out Dean's new Harley. The motorbike had been junked at the mechanic’s where Dean now has a part-time job (part-time because he’s also got another job as a basketball coach at Sam's new school, and Sam couldn't be prouder of his brother if he tried), and his boss had told him that if he could fix it, he could have it. Dean, of course, had risen magnificently to the occasion; the bike now looks almost brand-new, almost as well cared-for as their beloved car, now hidden in the garage and taken out only in the dark on occasions when they both need to drive out for a while.
He gets on the back of the big heavy motorcycle behind Dean and they ride out to the hills just outside of town, the wind rushing by Sam's ears and getting into the helmet that Dean made him wear, a light rain drenching them and cooling the hot summer wind into something wilder and more soothing. Just riding, just the two of them, until they reach the hills and Dean parks in front of a brilliant sunset, all oranges and reds and picture perfect, and because it fits the setting, Sam tugs off his helmet and climbs to the front of the bike, sets his ass down on the fuel tank and kisses Dean until his brother’s making the most delicious little sounds of want.
“If this is a movie,” Dean says into his mouth, “you’re definitely the girl.”
“Take me back home and I’ll show you just how much of a girl I am,” Sam says, and is inordinately pleased when Dean actually shudders at his words.
They ride back when the stars begin to come out, prolonging their mutual need for gratification by stopping at a cheap bar along the way. It has a few tables outdoors with candles stuck in old cheese tins filled with sand, and Sam swears he’s never seen better lighting in his life.
Dean just watches him from across the table, affectionate, indulgent, always protective.
“I could get used to this,” he says, glancing across to the parking lot at the Harley. “A car frames the world, but on a bike you’re a part of the frame.” He looks back to Sam. “That’s from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.”
“Not fair that you've read a book I haven’t.”
Dean laughs. “I’ll buy you a copy, kiddo.”
“So are you saying you wanna trade in the car for the bike?”
“Oh, hell no. Just sayin’ it’s fun once in a while to, you know.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, smiling across the table at him.
Dean downs the rest of his beer and pushes his chair back. “You ready to go?”
“Yup.”
They leave the bar just when the night is getting started for most of the other patrons, weaving through the gathering crowd and making their way back to the motorbike. Their fingertips brush when Dean hands Sam his helmet, sending tiny sparks zinging across Sam's skin everywhere that Dean is touching him.
And then it’s just him and Dean and the night and the road, just the way it’s meant to be, as they ride back to the house and to the Impala and just each other. Sam turns his face up to the sky and lets the rain fall on his skin, tightening his arms around Dean's waist.
End.
The door to the panic room is well-secured and pretty much impossible to open from the inside, but all he’d had to do was wait behind the door until Bobby came back and then run out of the door, side-stepping Bobby easily, and pull it shut behind him. Dad hadn't been in sight.
There hadn't been time to hotwire one of the cars in Bobby’s yard; they would've been sure to catch hold of him long before he could get one started. So he’s running, running as fast as his bare feet on the hot asphalt will allow him, and he doesn’t know if it’s providence or some higher power that makes a car stop on the road, a young, nice-looking couple inside, the woman leaning out of her open window to ask if Sam's all right, if they can help.
He tells them he’s running away from his abusive dad who hurt his brother and kidnapped him, and it doesn’t even feel like a lie.
--
They give him some money for a bus and drop him at a bus station, and Sam takes their business card and promises to pay them back when he finds his brother. It’s a thirty-minute bus ride from the terminal to the rented house he’s been sharing with Dean for the last five months, the house in which everything he’s ever wanted had come true only to be torn from him in the most agonizing way possible.
When he reaches the house, the Impala is no longer parked in front. There’s still a dark stain on the ground right next to where the car had been. Dean's blood. Sam falls to his knees on the ground and puts his palm over it. It’s long since gone cold, part of the road now as though it had always been there.
“Sam? Is that you?”
It’s Mrs Henley, their overly helpful neighbor, who’d sometimes given them homemade meals, saying nothing but pursing up her lips at the idea of an irresponsible man who leaves his children alone to fend for themselves. Sam had tutored her small daughter in math for free on occasion, just to return her kindness in some small way.
“Mrs Henley! Mrs Henley, do you know what happened?”
“The police were here. They asked us some questions.” She isn’t looking nearly as kind now as she used to, obviously afraid of whom she’s had for neighbors over the last few months. “About all the blood.”
“And Dean? Have you seen him? Did they take the car? The cops? Did they find him?”
“There was no one there. Your car was gone too. I thought I heard something in the morning. Very early. Was there a break-in?” She’s looking at him uncertainly now, clearly torn between wanting to help him and wanting to keep away. He probably looks like a dangerous lunatic.
“There were. There were some men. I think, I think my dad owes them money or something. They shot Dean and they took me. I just got away.”
The lies roll easily off his tongue, and like before, don’t really seem like lies at all. Finally sympathetic, Mrs Henley offers to drive him to the town precinct, but he declines and tells her he’s going to check in the house before he goes to the cops.
He goes in and washes his blistered feet in the bathroom before pulling on his socks and shoes and looking around. The sheets on the bed are still rumpled, and Sam can’t bear to look at them.
They hadn't even kissed.
“I can’t kiss you,” Dean had said, his fingers tangled in Sam's hair, and Sam’s heart had split in two at the words. And then Dean had fixed it again the way only Dean can. “Not like this,” he’d clarified, dipping his head to brush his lips against Sam's cheek. “There needs to be. I don’t know. More fanfare.”
“Fanfare?” Sam repeated, unable to keep the smile from his lips.
“Yeah, you know. Like, something to mark the moment. Not every day you get to kiss your little brother.”
“God, shut up. You say the worst things.”
“Just following your lead, darlin’,” Dean said in his best cowboy accent, and Sam punched him in the face with a pillow.
Now that pillow’s lying on the floor, probably been lying there ever since it had fallen during their playful tussle on the bed before things had gotten serious and Sam’s wrists were held in the perfect clamps of Dean's hands, held safe like Dean was meant to hold him like that and Sam was meant to come completely undone under his brother, nothing between them at all, not even lies, not anymore.
Sam chokes back a sob and looks desperately for any sign that Dean had been in the house after Dad had taken him away, but there isn’t any, not even a missing pair of shoes. Dean had been barefoot just like Sam. If he was okay, if he’d managed to get away on his own, surely he’d have come in to grab a pair of shoes, maybe a weapon or two. Although if Dean's got the Impala, then there’s no shortage of weapons in the trunk. Maybe Dean had just been in a hurry to get away.
But no. Dean wouldn't have left without coming into the house, without checking to see if Sam was there. Dean wouldn’t have dreamed of going anywhere and leaving Sam behind.
Which left only the possibility that Dean was not okay. That maybe someone had stolen the car with Dean in it.
Trying not to think of Dean locked up in the trunk while he has a bullet in him (and failing miserably), Sam switches to autopilot again as he gathers their things-Dean's stuff and some of Sam's stuff that Dad hadn't bothered to pick up when he’d taken Sam's bag-and shoves everything he can into Dean's bag. The movies that Dean had got him (a lifetime ago) go into the front pocket. He’s zipping up the bag when he realizes that he hasn’t thought of the most obvious thing to do. Grabbing his phone, right there on the nightstand where he’d left it before getting into bed with Dean-had it only just been hours ago?-he dials Dean's number.
The call goes to voicemail, and Sam shuts it off miserably. If someone’s got Dean and the car, they’ve probably got the phone too. Then he calls again, just in case, and leaves a message. “Dean. I can’t say where I am in case your phone’s not with you. I just. If you’re okay, if you get this, call me. Please. I’m going to look for you, okay? I’m not going to give up on you. Just hold on, Dean. Just hold on, big brother. For me. Please.”
He’s just hanging up for the second time when he notices something on the nightstand on Dean's side of the bed. Something silver. Dean's ring.
Sam's always had a photographic memory, but last night was... different. Unique. He has no memory of it that doesn’t involve Dean's face, Dean's arms around him, Dean's warmth beside him. Not a shred of evidence that can help him, tell him if Dean had taken off the ring last night or if he’d left it there later.
Sam sits down at the edge of the bed, shaking, the ring clutched in his hand. Dean almost never takes off the ring. If it was later. If Dean had left the ring later. It means that Dean is okay, that he’d come into the house and left a sign that probably only Sam would notice. Filled with hope for the first time since Dad stepped into this room in the morning, Sam puts the ring on. It’s too big for his ring finger, but it fits over his thumb.
--
He doesn’t go to the cops.
He will if it’s his last resort, but if what Mrs Henley said is true-and she has no reason to lie-then Dean was long gone before the cops arrived at the scene. So now Sam's left with the question: what would Dean do? What would he do if he were hurt and alone and without Sam?
The answer is fairly obvious: he’d look for Sam. And if he’s gone looking for Sam, then he’s probably gone to Bobby’s.
Sam finds a crowded coffee shop and slides into a booth in a corner before calling Bobby’s number.
“Bobby?”
“Sam? Where the hell’re you at, kid?”
“Have you heard from Dean?”
Silence at the other end of the line for a moment. Then Bobby starts, “Look, kid...”
“Yes or no, Bobby? Have you heard from him?”
A beat. “No.”
“You're lying.”
“Don't you dare take that tone with me, boy.”
“You’re no better than Dad,” Sam says, and hangs up.
He drops his head in his hands, pushing his fingers back through his hair.
The phone rings again and Sam's heart leaps, but then falls almost immediately when he sees who’s calling.
“I don’t want to talk to you, Bobby.”
“Look, kid, your dad doesn’t know I’m calling. Dean called earlier. Same as you. Wanted to know if I knew where you were. I think he might be heading here. He didn’t seem to believe me either when I said I didn’t know where you were.”
“You haven’t exactly endeared yourself to either of us today. I don’t know if I can believe you, Bobby. You might just be lying to get me back there.”
“Suit yourself. Just thought you oughta know.”
The line goes dead.
--
Sam has two choices now: either trust Bobby’s word and return to Sioux Falls, or keep looking for Dean on his own.
There’s one very obvious reason that points to Bobby’s tale as absolute lies: Dean would not have called him without trying to call Sam first, and Sam's phone has been on all along. There are no missed calls from any number.
“Damn it, Bobby.”
The phone rings again.
“What now?” Sam says, pretty much at the end of his endurance.
“Sammy.”
“Dean!”
“Hey, kid. You had us all scared. Where are you? Back in that funky town while I’m here at Bobby’s?”
“Dean,” Sam whispers. His heart is pounding a joyful beat at hearing Dean's voice again, but Dean's used their secret code, the one even Dad doesn’t know because they just made it up recently. Dean’s in trouble and Sam needs to play along: only, he has no idea how. He doesn’t dare say anything aloud because he doesn’t know if whoever’s got Dean is listening in. “Dean, are you okay? I thought you... oh god, Dean. I was so scared.”
“I know, Sammy. It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise. Just get here soon, okay?”
“Okay,” Sam says, clutching the phone so hard that his fingers hurt. “Okay, Dean. I’m coming.”
“Uh, hang on a bit. Dad wants a word.”
Dad. Sam wants to reach through the phone and break his face.
“Sam. You listen to what your brother says and get down here right away.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam says, and hangs up the phone.
--
Sam needs a plan.
He needs a plan, and he needs to come up with it on the bus back to Sioux Falls, because there’s no way he’s staying away from Dean for any longer than he has to.
Clearly, Dad still believes that Dean's possessed or something, or Dean wouldn't be a captive right now. Fuck, they’d come up with that code to use only when one of them had a gun to his head. It had been a half-playful thing, and Sam hadn't seriously believed that they’d ever need to use it. The thought of Dean now, hurt and defenseless with Dad and Bobby holding him prisoner, makes Sam want to put his fist through the dirty, rain-stained glass of the window he’s sitting next to on the bus.
He gets off one stop before Sioux Falls, just in case one of the men is waiting for him there, and hikes the rest of the way into town. He knows Dad and Bobby aren’t a threat-not to him. But if Dad has Bobby believing that Dean's possessed, they’ll just as easily kill Dean as let him live. Sam doesn’t even know how badly Dean is hurt; all he has to go on is the blood. All that blood, Dean's blood, spilled outside the house and on the street.
The thing with Bobby’s place is that it’s pretty much a fortress. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but Sam knows from experience that it’s pretty secure. It’s not exactly like he can sneak in the back. Every entry point that Sam can think of, Bobby can think of too.
In the end, Sam has no choice but to walk in the front door and hope for the best.
--
When he does walk in the front, the first thing he sees is the Impala, glittering in the late afternoon sun.
Dean. He’d driven all the way here in the state that he was in, just so he could get to Sam.
Sam pauses at the car. He doesn’t have a plan, and most likely Dean didn’t either. But what if he had? Obviously it hadn't worked since Dad had got him, but if there was a chance that Dean had planned something... Sam takes a quick look inside the Impala, knowing that he probably has just a minute or so, maybe just seconds, to look around before he’s spotted. He quickly looks around in the front seat and the glove compartment. Nothing new there, just the usual jumble of cassette tapes and movie ticket stubs and gas station bills that characterize his and Dean's life.
There’s nothing on the backseat, but when he pushes his hand under it, he feels something in the footwell in front of the backseat, almost wedged under the driver’s seat.
It’s a paper bag, and inside it are two syringes filled with a clear liquid.
Sam shoves them into his jacket pocket-Dean's jacket pocket, really, since he’s wearing the jacket that Dean had left back at the house-and walks up to the house.
--
Bobby greets him with a pat on the back, looking a bit embarrassed, and Dad doesn’t give him more than a cursory nod.
Sam doesn’t care, because all his attention is focused on Dean.
Dean, who’s tied to a chair in the middle of Bobby’s living room, a thick line of salt surrounding him. He isn’t conscious, and it appears that the ropes binding him to the chair are the only thing keeping him in it. His head is slumped forward, his face bruised, a huge dark bloodstain on the left leg of his jeans, which are torn through with what is clearly a bullet hole.
Sam's never felt so much rage, horror and love in his entire life.
Ignoring Dad and Bobby, he steps into the circle of salt and drops to his knees next to Dean. “Dean. Hey. It’s me.” He ignores how his voice is cracking, taking Dean's face in his hands and lifting his head as gently as possible.
Dean's eyes open just a crack. Sam understands immediately. Dean doesn’t want the others to know that he’s awake and alert. He leans in to hug Dean, wrapping his arms around Dean's waist and pressing their faces as close as possible, giving him the chance to speak without Dad and Bobby hearing him.
Behind Dean's back, unseen by the two older men, Sam slips the smallest knife he could carry into Dean's bound hands, their fingers pressed against each other’s for the briefest moment.
“In the car. Backseat,” Dean whispers into Sam's hair.
“Got it,” Sam whispers back, turning his head so his lips are right against Dean's ear.
“That’s my boy,” Dean murmurs.
The absolute devotion Sam feels in that moment is something he’ll never be able to find the words for, but he has three words that come pretty close, and he says them right against Dean's ear, as softly as possible.
Sam hates to let go of Dean, but any more whispering and Dad and Bobby are going to get suspicious. He pulls back from Dean, wiping furiously at his eyes.
“Whatever he’s saying, Sam, it’s lies,” Bobby says from behind him. “That’s not Dean. If it is, he’s not the one in control right now.”
“So you used him?” Sam rounds on them. “You forced him to make that call to lure me here?”
“Lure you here?” Dad’s face is hard. “You make it sound like it’s a trap.”
Sam doesn’t bother to acknowledge those words. “What do you plan to do with him?”
“Find out how to get Dean back, of course,” Bobby says. He sounds surprised, as though it should be the most obvious thing.
But Sam's watching his father, whose face doesn’t show any sign at all of what he might be thinking.
“Dad?” Sam asks. “Is that what you're doing here?”
“What else would we be doing?” Dad’s tone is expressionless.
Sam walks away from Dean and back in the direction of the door, both men turning around to keep their gazes on him, exactly as he’d hoped. Their backs are to Dean now.
Sam shrugs. Keep them talking until Dean can get free. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me why you locked me up in the panic room?”
“That should be obvious to you-or haven’t you learned anything at all by now? You were obviously taken in by this thing masquerading as your brother. We couldn't take the chance that you’d try to help him.”
“What have you done to him?”
“Just the usual tests, Sam,” Bobby says, stepping forward with his hands raised in a defensive gesture. “Nothing worse than that, I swear.”
“The usual tests? Cutting him with silver and forcing him to swallow holy water? Have you seen the state he’s in? He’s been shot, for fuck’s sake.”
“He isn’t a ‘he,’ Sam,” his father says. “If there’s some damage to Dean's meat suit, then-”
“Don't you dare fucking call him that! He’s your son!”
“We don’t even know if this body is even Dean's,” Bobby says, looking nervously between the two of them. “Could be some sorta shifter we’ve never seen before.”
Sam’s had enough. He glances at Dean as quickly as he can, and Dean nods, bringing his hands around to his front. Just as Bobby turns around and sees him.
“John. Watch out!” Bobby yells.
Sam doesn’t know what the exact plan is, but he’s worked together with Dean all his life and he knows what to do, how Dean's mind works. Between Sam and Dean, Sam's the stronger one right now; between Dad and Bobby, Dad’s the stronger.
Taking the syringes from his pocket, he tosses one to Dean before lunging for his father. Dad clearly wasn’t expecting a physical attack from Sam, and the moment it takes for him to register what's happening is long enough for Sam to shove the needle into his father’s leg and press the plunger.
Dean’s legs are still bound to the chair but he throws himself at Bobby and injects the substance in the syringe into his arm. He keeps his arms tight around Bobby as the man struggles, but he’s pinned down securely by both Dean and the chair, and both he and Dad slump against their captors within seconds.
“Anesthetic,” Dean explains, starting to untie his legs. He looks up briefly. “Thanks for trusting me on this.”
Sam just stands there for a moment, completely ignoring the unconscious bodies on the floor, his eyes only on Dean.
“A little help?” Dean says after a moment, gesturing to his wounded leg.
“Yeah, of course.”
Between them they manage to get the chair upright again, and Sam sees Dean's problem immediately: the rope is biting down into Dean's gunshot wound and is knotted tight behind the leg of the chair. “I’ve got it,” he says, taking the knife from Dean and cutting through the knots.
Dean pulls his leg free without so much as a grimace, his face hard. “I gotta go, Sam. If I stay here, they’ll probably kill me.”
“I know. Where are we headed?”
Dean limps over to Bobby’s desk and grabs a bottle of whiskey, takes a long swig. “Not we, Sam. Just me.”
“What?”
“I have to disappear for a while, Sam. If he finds me, he’ll kill me. Or have me arrested for statutory rape. Either way, he wins.” He glances down at the two men. “That dose wasn’t very strong. They’ll be up in a few minutes.” He starts for the door. “I gotta go, Sam,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ll be in touch, okay?”
Sam stares after him for a second, stunned into silence. It’s only when he hears the sound of the car’s door opening that he’s jolted into movement.
“So-that’s it?” he says, incredulous, watching Dean grab an old bandana from the glove compartment and bind it around his wound. “You're just-leaving?”
Dean doesn’t look up. “You want me to stay here and get arrested? Or worse?” He bites his lip as he pulls the makeshift bandage tight around his leg.
“Then why’d you come here in the first place? Huh? You knew they’d grab you.”
“I had to see you. Had to see you were okay,” Dean says, sounding surprised that Sam has to ask.
“And now you want to just leave me here. With the men who tried to kill you.”
Dean's face softens just a little. “Come on, Sammy. It’s not like that. He’s your father. You're a minor. There’s no way I can take you with me. You’ve still got to finish school.”
“You can take over guardianship of me until I’m eighteen. Prove in a court that he’s not a fit parent.”
Dean stares at him. “Courts aren’t a part of our world, Sam. And even if they were-do you have any idea how much effort that would take?”
“And you're clearly not willing to put that effort into making sure we can stay together.” Sam hadn't thought anything could hurt worse than the pain of thinking Dean might be dead, but this comes pretty close.
“Sam. It’s not like that,” Dean says again.
“I get it,” Sam says with a brief nod, although he doesn’t get it at all, not even a little, and it feels as though someone is scouring out his insides with a scoop. He gestures to Dean's leg. “Just. Get that taken care of ASAP, okay?”
“Sammy,” Dean says. “Come on. Come here.” He holds out his hand, still sitting in the driver’s seat with his legs out on the ground.
It takes all of Sam's remaining strength to refuse Dean, but he manages to shake his head. “You should go, Dean.”
Dean just looks at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he says, “Get your stuff. I think it’s still in the truck.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.” Dean slides over into the shotgun seat with a groan. “My leg’s too busted to drive.”
“Where are we going?” Sam asks as he pulls the Impala on to the highway.
“Anywhere. Somewhere out of sight. Find a motel. We’ll figure this out, okay? I just. I need to pass out for a bit.”
--
Hours after they’d gotten each other off in bed, they’re back to not talking much.
Dean looks too messed up for Sam to work up the inclination to argue with him, so he doesn’t. He takes a turnoff-not the first one they come across, because that would be too obvious-and finds a motel with a parking lot that’s far enough off the highway that the Impala won’t be spotted from the road.
In the bathroom, Dean sits at the edge of the tub with his leg inside it and cuts away his ruined jeans, wincing as he peels off the bloody material sticking to his skin. He seems reluctant to let Sam touch him, but Sam waits patiently until Dean looks up at him. The bullet is still in his leg. Sam helps him prop his foot on the edge of the tub and uses a pair of tweezers to get the bullet out, trying to be as careful as possible. He knows it has to hurt like hell. Dean's face is pale with pain, his eyes shut tight, his hand squeezing Sam's shoulder.
“If it looks bad tomorrow,” Sam starts when he finishes dressing and bandaging the wound.
“I know,” Dean says shortly, getting to his feet.
Sam lets him go. He takes a shower, letting Dean's blood wash off his fingers and into the drain in a swirl of pink water. Funnily enough he isn’t feeling terribly anxious at the moment, maybe because even though Dean's hurt, he’s been hurt worse before and Sam at least knows that he’s safe now, here with Sam.
The anxiety returns in a sudden wave when he steps out of the bathroom and sees the empty room. He goes out quickly and exhales with relief when he sees Dean sitting on the steps outside their room, beer in hand, their green cooler at his feet. He’s just starting to wonder if maybe Dean just wants to be left alone when Dean gets another beer out of the box and hands it to him after twisting the top off.
Dean scoots over a bit to make space and Sam sits down next to him, careful not to let their shoulders touch, aching to be closer. He fiddles with the ring on his thumb, reluctant to take it off.
Dean glances at his hand. “So you found it.” He says the words into the night air, and they curl away like smoke.
“Dean, why didn’t you call me? Before heading to Bobby’s?”
“Your phone was at the house when I left. I. I didn’t think you’d be back there so soon.”
“Oh.” Sam takes a swig of his beer. “Did you call them before you went?”
“No. ’Course not.”
“So Bobby lied to me. He told me you’d called. That you were headed there.”
“I was already there. When you didn’t take the bait they made me talk to you.”
“Dean, we should... maybe we can talk to them. Convince them you’re not possessed or a shifter or anything like that.”
“You think Dad doesn’t already know?”
“What? But. He...”
“Beat me up real bad and shot me in the leg, yeah. He knew it was me, Sam.”
Sam stares at him, horrified.
“He knew the whole time. Kept telling me what a monster I was for. You know. Told me he’d given me one job, and I’d screwed that up. That I’m a no-good failure who couldn't even keep my kid brother safe. Told me trusting me with you was the worst mistake he’s ever made. Said he’d kill me if I ever tried to come near you again.”
“He’s wrong. Dean, you know he’s-”
“I’d have done the same, Sam. If I were him. If I saw what he saw. Someone... someone holding you down like that. I’d have killed them, Sammy. I. I deserve everything he said. Everything he did.”
“You’re not just someone, Dean.”
Dean shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I was wrong, Sam. And he was right. You. You shouldn't even be here.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You have to, Sam.” Dean's voice is gentle, as though he's trying to reduce the sting of his words. “If you. If we go on the run, Dad won’t stop until he finds us and takes you back.”
“Maybe he’ll just leave us alone. Maybe. Maybe he’ll understand that I don’t want to go back without you.”
“No, Sam. He won’t. He’s your father, and he thinks I... he thinks you're being hurt, and. He won’t understand. I wouldn't if I were him.”
Sam pushes his hands back through his hair. “You keep saying that. It’s not true. You know it’s not.”
“He can’t accept it, Sam. He’s our father.”
“So what you're saying is that if I don’t go back, I’m. I’m putting you in danger. Because he’ll come for me and he’ll hurt you if he finds you.”
“I’m not saying that, Sammy. But you can’t go on the run with me. You. You need to finish school.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“I do. And Sam, even if we... even if we’re together. We can’t. What happened this morning. It can’t happen again.”
Sam closes his eyes. He’s been expecting this, but now that it’s real, it’s actually happening, he knows he's not in the least bit equipped to deal with it.
“Dean, don’t.”
“Sam, I-”
“Just don’t. Don’t say anything more.”
“Sammy.”
Sam gets to his feet. He puts his hand briefly on the top of Dean's head, caressing his soft hair. “I don’t regret it. At least I got to be with you for a few hours. I don’t regret it and I’ll never take it back. What I said. How I feel.”
He goes back inside and sits at the edge of his bed to finish his beer, feeling strangely devoid of emotion. After he’s done, he lies down and closes his eyes, and doesn’t let himself fall asleep until he hears Dean come in quietly and shut the door behind him with a tiny click.
--
When Sam wakes up the next morning, Dean's already awake and sitting at the small table beside the window.
“Hey,” Sam says, still groggy, pushing his hands back through his mussed hair. “How's the leg?”
Dean glances over. “I'll live.”
“Not what I asked, but okay.”
“It’s fine.” Sam gives him a look. “Okay, it’s not a hundred per cent, but it will be. So quit worrying.”
Sam swings his legs out of bed. “You showered already?” he asks, noticing Dean's damp hair. “You should've woken me.”
Dean shrugs. “You needed the sleep.” He doesn’t look at Sam.
“I'll get ready and we’ll go get breakfast, okay?”
Dean looks up, gives Sam a strained smile. “Sure, Sammy.”
--
Sam insists on checking Dean's wound before they go out, and Dean lets him do it. It doesn’t look bad at all, and Sam puts on a fresh bandage. “All done,” he says, looking up at Dean.
“Always take such good care of me,” Dean murmurs, running a hand over Sam's hair.
Sam doesn’t want to swat his hand away but he does, determined to have his brother back if nothing else. “You took too many pain meds again.”
Dean lets out a small chuckle. “I'm not high, Sam.” He reaches out to tangle his fingers in Sam's hair, and Sam doesn’t stop him this time. “You liked it, didn’t you? When I called you a good boy. When I told you how good you were for me.”
“Dean. Don’t.”
“It’s just a simple question, Sammy. Did you like it?”
“You're a jerk, you know that?”
Dean looks startled. “I didn’t-”
“First you tell me we can’t-that there can’t be anything between us, and then you say these things. It’s not fair, Dean.”
Dean looks away. “I-you're right. I’m sorry, Sam. I was just... I just wanted to know.”
He starts moving his hand away from Sam's hair, but Sam reaches up to hold it in place. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes. I liked it. I still do.”
Dean lets out a soft sigh, his fingers still in Sam's hair, his thumb tracing the outline of Sam's earlobe. “What am I gonna do with you, Sammy?”
“There are so many ways I could answer that question that you don’t wanna hear.”
Dean swallows hard. “Yeah?”
“You like it, don’t you?” Sam knows he’s pushing it, but Dean isn’t actually discouraging him right now. He braces himself with a hand on Dean’s good leg and leans up, his mouth to Dean's ear. “You like it. Me on my knees in front of you.”
Dean's hand tightens in his hair. “Jesus, Sam. The mouth on you.”
Sam pulls back and gives him a cheeky grin. “Sure you don’t wanna know what I can do with my mouth?”
Dean keeps his hand tight in Sam's hair, tugging at it lightly. “You keep talking like that, I’mma have to punish you.”
“Fuck, Dean.” Sam leans forward, pressing his forehead to Dean's shoulder.
“God, Sammy. What're we doing?” Dean threads both his hands through Sam's hair, and then slips his arms around Sam and tugs him up until he's sitting on Dean's good leg. “You really want this,” Dean says, watching Sam's face.
“I. I don’t want it if you don’t, Dean. I don’t want you to think that you have to do, uh. Something. For my sake. ’Cause that would be worse than not having it at all.”
“It’s not like that, Sam.” Dean touches Sam’s cheek. “I promise. It’s just. You’re sixteen. You can’t even legally consent to... to anything. And even if you could, it still wouldn't be legal. It can’t ever be.”
“Aren't you the one who said courts aren’t a part of our world?”
“Trust you to remember every damn thing I say.”
Sam smiles down at Dean from his perch on Dean's knee. “So. In the last twenty-four hours, you’ve been beaten up, shot, locked in the Impala’s trunk, tied to a chair, and tortured. That enough fanfare for you?”
“Wasn't exactly tortured,” Dean says. He runs his thumb over Sam’s lips. “But yeah. I see your point.”
“Then stop talking.” Sam bends his head and Dean lifts his face like they've planned this all along. It’s maybe not really a kiss at first, because they stay frozen with their lips pressed against each other’s. Then Dean opens his mouth against Sam's and Sam is instantly lost, desperately seeking more and so focused on his task that he almost falls off Dean's lap. But Dean hooks an arm around his waist, never breaking the kiss, and keeps him in place.
“Can we do this all the time?” Sam whispers against Dean's mouth when they come up for air, still half-afraid that Dean's going to push him away and say this is a mistake.
“Whatever you want, Sammy,” Dean says, looking as dazed as Sam feels, and Sam can’t keep the smile off his face for hours.
--
Sam gnaws on the thin skin just above his right thumb, foot tapping against the linoleum floor of the diner as he watches Dean on the payphone in the back.
Dean finally hangs up and threads his way through the crowded tables to Sam.
“How’d it go?” Sam reaches across the table to brush his fingers against Dean's.
“I think he bought it.”
“I hate using Pastor Jim like this.”
“I know, kid. I know. Me too.” Dean squeezes Sam's hand, and Sam reminds himself that whatever they’re doing is worth the lies and the deception. “But he’s okay with it, remember?”
Sam nods, squeezing back before going to make his own call. They’ve been using payphones since they’ve been on the run, unwilling to switch their phones on in case Dad manages to use their signals to track them down.
“Dad?”
“Sam, where the hell are you? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Dad. I... listen. Dean took off. He...” He looks at Dean, standing right there next to him, and Dean takes his free hand and squeezes it again. “He left, Dad. Said you'd kill him if you saw him again.”
“Sam, there are things you don’t-”
“Dad, listen to me. I... I need some time, okay? This is all pretty hard to process. I’m going to be staying with Pastor Jim for a while. I talked it over with him. You can come see me there if you like, but I’m not going back with you. Not right now.”
There’s a long pause, and then Dad says: “I’m your father, Sam. Don’t you think you'd be safest with me?”
“Not right now, no. Not after what you did to my brother.” Sam untangles his fingers from Dean's and cups his hand around the back of Dean's neck, bringing their foreheads together.
“Sammy, that wasn’t Dean. How many times do I have to-”
“Say I believe you, Dad. I still want some time on my own, okay? I’ll be safe at Pastor Jim’s. I... I gotta go. I’ll call you when I get there. Don’t worry about me.”
Sam hangs up and buries his face in Dean's neck.
“Wish you didn’t have to do this,” Dean murmurs into his hair, pulling him close. “It’s not gonna be easy, Sammy. Are you sure you want to...”
“Yes.” Sam lifts his head, meeting Dean’s eyes. “Yes, Dean. I’m not leaving you.”
--
Sam spends the rest of the morning curled up with Dean in bed. They don’t talk much. Dean knows that Sam finds it hard to lie, especially to their father, and he doesn’t insist that they discuss it further, doesn’t try to talk Sam out of following the plan.
Things will be tough. They won’t be able to use the Impala for a while; it’s too easily recognizable. Sam will have to enroll himself in a school in Pastor Jim’s town and, as agreed with Jim, pretend to live with him for a while, at least until Dad comes and checks up on him once, as he's sure to do. They’ll have to tell their story to Pastor Jim together, convince him that Dad and Dean had a falling out over something and that Dad shouldn't know for now that Dean's living in the same town.
There are about a hundred things that could go wrong, but Sam's drained after his call to his father and doesn’t want to think about any of it. They have to leave in a while, but for now he feels warm and safe, he’s with Dean, and he doesn’t want to think about anything else except how good Dean's arms feel around him.
--
Epilogue
“You, uh. You wanna watch The Hobbit?” Dean asks, fidgeting with the remote. He’s a little nervous, and Sam thinks it’s adorable.
It’s Sam's first night staying over at Dean's place. They’ve spent a lot of time here in this house over the last couple of months, but Dean's always insisted on taking Sam back to his room at Pastor Jim’s for the night.
Dad visited about four weeks after Sam had started living with Pastor Jim. It’s not a memory Sam wants to visit often. Dean had explained to him, over and over and with infinite patience, that he doesn’t blame their father for being furious with him, that he would have done the same. Finally, it was Dean arguing that it was in their best interests for Sam to at least pretend to have forgiven Dad that made Sam agree to the meeting.
Pastor Jim had gone along with the plan beautifully, never once mentioning to Dad that he’d seen Dean on several occasions and that Dean, in fact, lived not two blocks away from the church compound.
Sam nods in answer to Dean's question. “Not without popcorn, though.”
Dean lets out a laugh, reaching out to muss Sam’s hair. “I’ll get it. You stay put.”
Sam grins. “Wow. I should stay over more often.”
“You can stay as often as you like,” Dean says, indulgent, and leans over to ruffle Sam's hair before heading to the kitchen. Sam smiles to himself as he hears his brother busying himself with the popcorn. They both know he isn’t going anywhere, even if Dean hasn’t officially agreed to let Sam stay for good. He’s still paranoid that Dad will drop in to Pastor Jim’s unannounced and find Sam gone.
Later, when the end credits have long since finished rolling and the screen has gone dark, Sam rolls his head around on the couch to look at Dean. “Do you think we’ll make it?” he asks. He isn’t talking about whether they’ll live or die, and he knows Dean knows it.
“I don’t... honestly, Sammy, I don’t know if I want us to make it.”
“What? Dean, you-”
“You deserve better, Sammy. Way better than your loser of a big brother,” Dean says, smiling ruefully.
“You,” Sam says, lifting his hand to touch Dean lightly on the lips, “are the last thing from a loser that anyone can be.”
“You know what I mean. I’m a fucking dropout, Sam, and you. You should be, I don’t know. A professor at one of those awesome schools. Harvard or Stanford or something. You know?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but you don’t get to talk about yourself like that. Ever. You hear me?”
“Sammy. Be realistic. There’s no future in. In this.” He waves his hand between them.
“Why not?”
“Come on. You know why.”
“No, actually, I don’t. So why don’t you spell it out for me?”
“Sam.” Dean sounds so exhausted that Sam's almost decided to drop it for the moment when a thought strikes him.
“Because it’s wrong? Because you. You think it’s sick. Disgusting. And you just don’t know how to tell me that. Is that it, Dean?”
“Sam, no.” Dean reaches out to touch his sleeve, but Sam pulls away.
“You told me once, Dean. You said I could say anything to you. Well, guess what. It works both ways. You can tell me anything. Even if it’s something you think I can’t bear to hear.”
Dean puts both his hands on Sam's face, one cupping his cheek and the other at his temple, smoothing back his hair. “Sammy. Listen to me very carefully, okay? I don’t think that. I don’t. I can’t think that, because. Because of you. Because you started this thing, and there’s nothing about you that’s wrong or sick or disgusting.”
“What about what Dad said to you? You seemed to think you deserved all that.”
“Forget what Dad said. I don’t care what Dad said or did. He’s wrong, okay? He’s just wrong about us. There isn’t a bad bone in your body, Sam. If you want something, it can’t be bad. It can’t be. I trust you on that, Sam. I trust you. If I... if it were just me, I wouldn't trust it. I can’t trust myself to be a good person, Sammy. I’m. I’m just too fucked up for that. But you. You’re different.”
“So let me get this straight.” Sam keeps his tone as gentle as possible, finally understanding how much it’s costing Dean to have this conversation. “I can’t have what I want, what I want the most, because I’m too good for it? I’m too good for you? That’s kinda ironic, don’t you think?”
“You don’t know what you-”
“If you dare fucking finish that sentence, Dean, so help me god.”
“You know what I mean, Sam. You’re sixteen. You have-”
“My whole life ahead of me. I know. And I know what I want, Dean.”
Dean shakes his head. “I know you think you do, Sammy. But. But someday you're gonna find something better and I...”
“And you think I’ll leave you when I do,” Sam says, understanding finally dawning. “You’re scared I’ll hurt you.”
Dean winces. “Now that really does make me sound like a loser.”
“You aren’t a loser, Dean. And I know you don’t really believe that either, but I’ll keep telling you until you believe it. You're my big brother, and that makes you awesome by default.”
Dean gives him a ghost of a grin. “Can’t really argue when you put it that way.”
“Good,” Sam says. He fiddles with the ring on his finger, which he still hasn’t returned to Dean. “So does that mean I can keep wearing this?”
“Looks good on you,” Dean says. He puts a hand on his chest, over his amulet. “Or you could wear it like this.” He smiles. “Frodo.”
“Aragorn,” Sam says immediately, and leans in to kiss him.
--
Sam loves staying at Dean's place-their place, as Dean insists on reminding him.
The house has two actual bedrooms, because Dean insisted that Sam needed a room of his own. Sam uses it as a study; it’s actually good sometimes to have a space of his own where he can work, especially since he’s going to be working toward college applications soon; he grudgingly admits to Dean that it was a good idea to give him a room of his own, and Dean looks smug for the rest of the evening. It’s a measure of just how much Sam loves him that he doesn’t even mind. He’s even got a computer of his own now, and sometimes he emails Audrey.
Sometimes they have low-key fights, and it almost becomes fun to rile Dean up until Sam sees actual hurt on Dean's face when they fight, and knows that Dean's insecurities are getting the better of him.
He makes it up to Dean by going to his knees and shutting Dean up the only way he can, enjoying the desperate way in which Dean tries to stay controlled, looking up and seeing the promise of revenge in Dean's darkened eyes.
On the first day of Sam's summer vacation, they test out Dean's new Harley. The motorbike had been junked at the mechanic’s where Dean now has a part-time job (part-time because he’s also got another job as a basketball coach at Sam's new school, and Sam couldn't be prouder of his brother if he tried), and his boss had told him that if he could fix it, he could have it. Dean, of course, had risen magnificently to the occasion; the bike now looks almost brand-new, almost as well cared-for as their beloved car, now hidden in the garage and taken out only in the dark on occasions when they both need to drive out for a while.
He gets on the back of the big heavy motorcycle behind Dean and they ride out to the hills just outside of town, the wind rushing by Sam's ears and getting into the helmet that Dean made him wear, a light rain drenching them and cooling the hot summer wind into something wilder and more soothing. Just riding, just the two of them, until they reach the hills and Dean parks in front of a brilliant sunset, all oranges and reds and picture perfect, and because it fits the setting, Sam tugs off his helmet and climbs to the front of the bike, sets his ass down on the fuel tank and kisses Dean until his brother’s making the most delicious little sounds of want.
“If this is a movie,” Dean says into his mouth, “you’re definitely the girl.”
“Take me back home and I’ll show you just how much of a girl I am,” Sam says, and is inordinately pleased when Dean actually shudders at his words.
They ride back when the stars begin to come out, prolonging their mutual need for gratification by stopping at a cheap bar along the way. It has a few tables outdoors with candles stuck in old cheese tins filled with sand, and Sam swears he’s never seen better lighting in his life.
Dean just watches him from across the table, affectionate, indulgent, always protective.
“I could get used to this,” he says, glancing across to the parking lot at the Harley. “A car frames the world, but on a bike you’re a part of the frame.” He looks back to Sam. “That’s from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.”
“Not fair that you've read a book I haven’t.”
Dean laughs. “I’ll buy you a copy, kiddo.”
“So are you saying you wanna trade in the car for the bike?”
“Oh, hell no. Just sayin’ it’s fun once in a while to, you know.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, smiling across the table at him.
Dean downs the rest of his beer and pushes his chair back. “You ready to go?”
“Yup.”
They leave the bar just when the night is getting started for most of the other patrons, weaving through the gathering crowd and making their way back to the motorbike. Their fingertips brush when Dean hands Sam his helmet, sending tiny sparks zinging across Sam's skin everywhere that Dean is touching him.
And then it’s just him and Dean and the night and the road, just the way it’s meant to be, as they ride back to the house and to the Impala and just each other. Sam turns his face up to the sky and lets the rain fall on his skin, tightening his arms around Dean's waist.
End.