It's the Blueprint of Your Life [NC17] Sam/Dean - part one

[queenklu]

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Dean is taking a leak in the middle of the night when Sam wakes up gasping. He has the bathroom door open-too much effort, plus the thought of Sam lying motionless where Dean can’t see him breathing is still enough to make Dean’s skin crawl-so he gets a glimpse of the moments before, the way Sam spasms and arches, tangling himself in the sheets before Dean can get to him. The sink stays running, Dean’s hands water-damp as they drag Sam free of the nightmare, the vision, the polyblend bedspread, whatever the hell it is, Sam’s eyes already open but unfocused, his breathing hard and choked and hitchy.

“Sam,” Dean says, tight, pawing Sam’s shaggy bangs out of his eyes and almost flinching at the heat of his skin. “Jesus, Sammy, you get a fever when I wasn’t looking?”

And that’s the bitch of it right there, which always leaves Dean’s stomach cramped and twisted-that yeah, he brought Sam back to life, but that doesn’t mean Sam will live forever, or even make it through the whittling year Dean has left. If it isn’t some monster, why not pneumonia or some other completely normal way to die? When has Dean’s life ever been kind?

Sam’s gaze snaps into focus with a jolt that makes Dean twitch, makes his hair stand on end, like everything in the universe shifted a half-inch to the left, and not quite in a metaphorical way, either. Dean’s muscles lock up and Sam grabs on, keeping him there, holding on like he can see Dean’s impulse to check the salt lines. Or maybe like he can’t see anything but Dean, each exhale pushed out sounding more and more like Dean’s name.

Something kicks over, makes Dean relax. There’s nothing supernatural going on here, just Sam and a nightmare. Maybe the visions have come back and that’s what has him so freaked.

“Hey, Sammy,” he says. He ignores the little pinpricks of hurt made by Sam’s nails cutting into the thin skin at the back of his arms; he can take it. “Hey, chill, dude, you’re awake.”

Sam-faster than Dean can think to dodge-wraps his arms around his brother and clings there, clutching at Dean’s shirt and shaking, Jesus Christ, and something short-circuits in Dean’s brain. This is the hug he wanted to get from Sam when he walked back into that rundown shack in Cold Oak, South Dakota, when he’d half convinced himself that Sam would still be laid out cold and too-still on that mattress just for the mindfuck of it. Once that thought hits, Dean’s arms clamp around Sam so fast he almost pulls something, scared out of his mind that Sam will pull back before-just before. Tremors run down Sam’s shoulders and Dean’s hand chases them away.

“Must’ve been some nightmare,” he says, not even half a laugh, shoving away all those instincts screaming chick flick moment. "Or-it’s okay if it was a vision, Sam. With our luck I’m surprised they haven’t come back before now.”

And that’s a sour little thought, but Dean tries hard to-whatever, project that it really will be okay, as far as Dean is concerned. Visions suck balls, but they were also their fair share of helpful, and if they’ve come back into the picture then Dean is going to look at the god damn silver lining.

But Sam tenses at the word, and he pulls back and away, dragging the heel of his hand up over his right eye even though Dean can see he hasn’t quite been crying-like he’s too shaky to figure out how. “Huh?” Sam asks, “What-?”

He stops right then, lowers his hand, and just stares at Dean, like he hasn’t already got his fill of looking in the last ten minutes. Dean fidgets because he can, but doesn’t scoot back like he wants to because Sam’s hand tightens on his wrist. And Sam looks so lost anyway, Dean isn’t sure he could make himself back off if he wanted to.

The air around Sam feels a few degrees warmer than the rest of the room, or maybe Dean is imagining things. His bare legs feel hot where they’re pushed up against Sam’s, pinning the blanket between them. He’s just in a boxers and a t-shirt, like his brother, but Sam is sweating through his shirt in patches.

“You look-“ Sam swallows with a dry click Dean can hear, and whoa, just wait a second. Dean’s eyebrows arch up high. “-tired,” Sam finishes, still staring, but at least starting to look uncomfortable. Dean has a pretty good feeling it wasn’t what Sam had started to say at all, call him suspicious.

“Tired,” he repeats, “Well, Sammy, that’s what happens when you’re awake at three in the morning.”

Dean feels the sudden need for a little personal space; the late hour and sleep-deprivation are making everything a little too surreal. He tugs himself free of Sam’s grip and goes to shut off the water in the bathroom after filling a thin plastic cup for his brother.

“Drink this,” he orders, pushing it into Sam’s hand. “You’re burning up.”

“Huh?” Sam asks, distracted by the framed puzzles nailed down as art around the room. Then his gaze snaps back to Dean with a surprised, “Oh.” He takes the cup with wary hands, then drinks one sip at a time, like he isn’t sure if there’s a punch line coming at his expense.

Dean fishes the ibuprofen out of his duffle and tosses it over, careful not to react when Sam fumbles the catch. “Indulge me, dude.”

Watching like a hawk would not be an inappropriate description of what Dean does to make sure Sam gulps down at least two pills, and he snags the cup from Sam’s hand to refill it without asking or offering. Sam just looks grateful, and kind of caught-out.

“So,” Dean calls over the splash of running water. “You gonna tell me what had you popping out of bed like The Grudge grabbed your ankle?”

It’s pretty damn nonchalant, considering his heart keeps twisting up into a fist.

“I don’t…remember,” Sam says, voice vague as he screws the top back on the pill bottle and trades it for the cup. “So, uh, weird question,” he adds, “which state are we in?”

Dean makes himself snort. “All these motels start to blur together after a while, huh? Except for Wisconsin, for some reason. I don’t know why, but I can always tell I’m in cheese country.” He frowns, and shrugs it off. “Anyway, princess, we’re still in New York. Headed East. Girl who drowned in her shower ringing a bell?”

Sam sees his phone on the nightstand and grabs it like that time Dean spilled Pepsi on their diner table and it started bleeding towards Sam’s laptop. He runs his thumb restlessly over the screen, taps the on-button a couple times before pressing down.

“Dude,” Dean says while Sam stares at his phone, features strange and alien in the LCD light, “I wasn’t going to say anything, but you are almost freaking me out. Give it another second and I’m going to have to ask if you’re okay.”

“What?” Sam says without looking up, then louder, “What? No. What? Holy crap.”

The ticking of the clock bears down like a lead weight, and Dean makes an executive decision that now is not the time to give a fuck. In the morning, maybe. When Dean has had at least six hours uninterrupted sleep, a strong cup of coffee, and a bearclaw, then he will tackle Sam’s neurosis. Right now Sam has his research face on, the one that means no arguing as he throws the covers off his long bare legs and looks around like he can’t remember where he put his laptop.

“Is this a thing that needs immediate attention?” Dean asks, because it’s Sam, and he looks a little less feverish but his color is still high. “Should I be starting up the car, or can I crash and let you do your thing?”

“Umm…” Sam doesn’t look away from untangling his computer chord. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

“…Yeah,” Dean says to himself, because no one else is listening. “No, you go on, do what you gotta do.”

Sam looks at him and cringes a little as his computer boots up, and finally, finally Dean’s brain kicks into gear. He’s across the room in two long strides; Sam almost doesn’t get his hands out of the way before Dean snaps the laptop closed.

“Dean, what-“

“Sam,” Dean growls, and maybe he’s showing his teeth a little, sue him. “We talked about this.”

“We…did?” Sam blinks, confused, mild annoyance mixed in from Dean touching his computer, rubbing one of his knuckles where it got clipped with the lid. He’s getting better at playing dumb-scary better. Dean tries not to be freaked right out by that.

“Yes,” he says anyway, “and I got to tell you, Sam, my patience is wearing real thin. Stop. Trying. To save me. From Hell.”

Sam’s jaw drops open, and then-before Dean can get a read on whatever the hell that expression is-snaps shut. “Right,” Sam says faintly, “Right, no, I wasn’t.”

And…Jesus Christ, that might be true, because there’s a bullet missing from the Colt and Dean is still waiting for Sam to mention how that could have happened, and fuck but he doesn’t want to think about Sam going after the crossroads demon by himself, after Dean told him not to; he doesn’t want to think about it so he just…hasn’t been.

Exhaustion, creeping up his neck since the end of that impromptu hug fest, sinks its teeth into the top of Dean’s spine and starts gnawing. “Sam,” he sighs, covering his eyes just for a second. “I don’t have it in me to fight with you right now, but I am going to ask you, please, do not do anything that might drop you dead on this fugly shag carpet. Please.”

If Sam looks a little floored by Dean saying the ‘P’ word-twice-then screw him. Dean is too tired for this shit. But Sam says, “Okay,” so Dean has to believe him, or has to pretend to, and he walks over to his long-cold bed and drags the covers up over his head so he won’t have to watch Sam’s face as he stares at his laptop until the sun comes up.

“Wake me up if you start feeling worse,” he orders, and waits for Sam to pause his rapid typing.

“I feel fine,” Sam says like he’s not sure why Dean is concerned. Dean drags back the blankets far enough to glare at him. “I will,” he says, defensive but smiling a little.

Sam leaves the bedside lamp on all fucking night. That Dean can be annoyed about; it takes a little more lying to say he doesn’t find the click of Sam’s computer keyboard comforting.

~*~

“Did you sleep at all?” Dean asks, and Sam answers with a yawn that looks like it hurts. “Didn’t think so.” He presses the toasty warm coffee cup into Sam’s hand and doesn’t think about how it seemed like Sam had insisted on packing up early just so Dean wouldn’t go get coffee by himself-paranoia is a bitch.

“Slept a little,” Sam says, surprising him. His brother’s voice is grumbling rough, but Sam got his hands on a pair of their hangover-sunglasses, so at least he plans on crashing in the car. “Couldn’t help it.”

Dean watches his brother settle in the passenger’s seat and tries to think of something clever to say. “How strange and human of you, Sammy,” is what he settles on, but it sounds hollow and for some reason it makes Sam twitch, so maybe he should have paid a little more attention to his word choice and not so much on how Sam keeps knocking into things like he isn’t sure of his own dimensions anymore.

“Do you feel-okay?” Sam asks out of nowhere. He pushes the sunglasses up so he can get a clear look at Dean’s face and wow, it’s almost worse. There are deep circles of exhaustion under Sam’s eyes, which still might be a little fever bright.

“Yes…?” Dean says, coffee pumping through his veins triple time. “Why?”

“Sorry, I just. It’s nothing.” Sam shakes his head, and down go the shades, like a car door shut in Dean’s face. “Think I’m coming down with something,” Sam mumbles, and tucks his face away.

“Drugs are under your seat,” Dean reminds him, shifting instantly to big brother mode.

“Maybe later,” Sam says but it’s not a brush off, not entirely, and two miles down the road Dean has to reach over and rescue Sam’s coffee before it slips out of his nerveless fingers. Dean turns down AC/DC until he can listen to Sam’s snores, and the highway stretches out in endless waves before his baby’s bumper as they head for Massachusetts.

~*~

Dean almost confronts him over lunch, but he had to wake Sam up and almost had to help him walk to the diner, Sam was so stiff. Sam blames the car and Dean knows that’s bullshit, they grew up in the front seat together, they know how to make themselves fit. So Sam is sick, has to be, and Dean gives him three reddish pills and watches Sam wash them down with half-burnt coffee. Sam is also not arguing with him, clue #145. No laptop, no print-offs, no skimming through Dad’s journal, no talking except to order-plain oatmeal and a side of toast. Clues #146 through eight billion.

Sam spends most of the meal with his head down, storm cloud sitting on his forehead as he thinks about something too hard to let Dean in on (just like when he studied for the SATs, not that Dean had known Sam was even thinking about taking them at the time). Every time Sam’s gaze flicks up-and Dean knows, okay, because he’s staring to make sure Sam actually finishes his god damned food-he just looks uncomfortable, maybe about getting caught, and without fail his eyes hit Dean’s, drop to his left shoulder, and then back to his oatmeal like it holds the secret of eternal life.

When they get back on the highway Sam pulls out a pad of legal paper that Dean knows for a fact was brand new yesterday, now scribbled and battered and almost half full. Sam turns to a fresh page and draws a line down the middle, balancing the pad on his knees and hunching over it for almost 20 minutes before his pen starts faltering.

“Whatcha got there?” Dean asks, the king of nonchalance.

“Nothing,” Sam mutters, sleep-petulant, and shuts his eyes, head angled awkwardly against the door so he’s still turned toward Dean.

He’s out cold again within minutes, sprawled everywhere, legs splayed so the legal pad falls into the footwell and Dean can’t try to sneak a look at it. Sam drools in his sleep, snorts without snuffling, without moving, and every time Dean hears a noise he can’t stop himself from glancing over, and every time he checks Sam’s spit is drying on the upholstery.

Hours pass, and Sam sleeps on.

When the radio clock says 10:00 PM Dean grits his teeth and swerves too fast to miss a pot hole, shoving Sam half-upright in the process with one last grunt. But Dean is done, the sun is long past set and his brain keeps skittering over the absent sound of Sam’s voice. They’re going to talk even if they have to fight to do it.

“Hmm?” Sam asks, reaching a fumbling hand up to drag sleep out of his eyes. “We there?”

Dean ignores him, because if he doesn’t he’s going to lose his grip on the resentment and frustration and fucking worry that’s been building in him for the last day and a half. “So,” he says instead of answering, “I’ve been waiting since Maple Springs. You got something to tell me?”

Sam blinks at him, holding very still; Dean can see it out of the corner of his eye. “Uh,” Sam says, “….No?”

“There’s a bullet missing from the Colt,” Dean snaps. “I know it wasn’t me. So unless you were shooting at some incredibly evil cans…?”

“Oh!” Sam sits up a little straighter for a second, then slouches back down, arranging himself in a position that’s probably supposed to look relaxed. “Oh. Right. I shot the Crossroads Demon.”

“You-“ Dean’s jaw works without producing any sound. It’s not a surprise, he just-he hadn’t expected Sam to be so fucking blunt about it. Dean shakes his head, sticks to his guns. “Sam, I specifically told you not to. You could have gotten yourself killed!”

Sam’s eyebrows twitch in something like amusement, and Dean drags his attention back to the road before he hauls off and slugs his brother. “I didn’t,” Sam shrugs. Dean can hear the tentative smile creeping in.

“And you killed her,” Dean says, just to be clear.

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Dude, if I remember right, she definitely had it coming.”

“So, what?” Dean asks. His stomach is cramping up like he’s trying to digest rusty metal. “Does that-that mean I’m out of my deal?”

Sam’s head tilts a fraction of an inch, then pops back up straight in a strange kind of twitch. “Oh. Uh, no, she doesn’t hold the contract. And,” Sam adds, slipping Dean an awkward half-hurt look, “I would have told you, Dean. That’s really not something you forget to mention.”

Dean waits, throat all twisted, his foot easing up on the gas because he can’t decide whether it might be worth it to pull the car over and just shake his brother until the information falls out. “So who does?”

“Who does what?”

“Hold my contract, Jesus, Sam-“

“Oh. Lilith.”

“…Am I supposed to know who Lilith is?” Dean demands, because Sam said her name like he’d say Jon Bon Jovi, or The Yellow-Eyed Demon.

“First demon ever created,” Sam rattles off, watching Dean, “insanely powerful, likes to possess children and her death breaks the last seal keeping Lucifer imprisoned, starting the apocalypse.”

Dean runs through this new information several dizzying times in his head, gaze fixed on the road as he goes through the available explanations-Sam being feverish right there at the top of the list-before giving the fuck up.

“You’re trying to tell me,” Dean says, starting small, “that Lucifer is real.”

“Umm,” says Sam, drawing it out like he’s debating whether or not to lie. “Yeah. I guess. Probably a safe thing to assume.”

Dean takes a deep breath and risks closing his eyes for a second. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. So what you’re saying is-we can’t kill the demon holding the contract on my deal because we might start the apocalypse?”

“No,” Sam equivocates, “I’m pretty sure we can kill her as long as the other seals stay unbroken.”

“Jesus.” Thank god for red lights. It gives Dean time to press his forehead to the top of the steering wheel and just think for a damn second. “This is what you were up all night researching?”

Sam finally turns his head enough to watch the rain run down his window like the emo bitch he is. “Among other things.”

Sympathy For The Devil starts playing on the tape deck; Dean punches eject and shoves it into the shoe box like it’s on fire, not looking at Sam because Sam’s an asshole, smiling at Dean the way he is.

“Don’t worry,” Sam says, distant like he’s not even talking to Dean. “I’m not going to let you go to Hell. She can’t have you.”

“Oh, great,” Dean says, sarcasm laid on thicker than he has the energy to feel. “That’s just…great, Sam. Awesome. If you say so, I’m sure whoever this Lilith demon is will go, ‘Oh, well, if you called dibs,’ and just write the whole thing off.”

The light turns green, and Sam takes The Stones and slips them back into the cassette box with an audible click.

~*~

The old bird whose niece kicked it isn’t too bereaved to hit on Sam, which Dean finds hilarious and Sam…takes in stride. Mrs. Case-Oh, excuse him, Miss Case-flutters her lashes and strokes Sam’s fingers and Dean has to excuse himself to the bathroom before he cracks up, has to fake a giant coughing fit when he comes back and Gert’s hand is on Sam’s thigh.

Gert is very helpful, though-probably why Sam allows the molesting, which, whatever, awesome-and lets slip a name. Alex, possibly a hunter but it isn’t ringing any bells. Gert also says her niece mentioned a mysterious disappearing “ghost ship” she saw just before she died. It’s like the case is basically solving itself.

Sam is sort of checked out through the whole thing, though. It’s not nearly as much fun as if he had squirmed and stammered and tried to keep his polite face on; Sam just lets Gert grope him like this is something he’s used to putting up with, and it leaves Dean feeling off kilter. Sam isn’t supposed to have inside jokes with other people.

Then Sam goes and bows over the wrinkled hand she offers when they leave, when she says, “See you around, boys,” and Dean stares at his brother, hard.

“Dude, what?” Sam says, eyebrows twitching when he catches Dean at it. “Seriously, bring on the Mrs. Robinson jokes. I can take it.”

“You think? I don’t know.” Dean’s reach into his jacket is absolutely casual, just a guy reaching for his wallet, fingers deftly working the top off his flask. He drifts two steps away from Sam as they walk, enough room to maneuver if he has to (and god, he hopes he doesn’t have to). “I got a couple stored up that might be too much for you, Christo.”

Sam stops, and stares at him. With perfectly normal-if slightly pissed off and guarded-bluish greenish whateverish eyes. Dean bounces his eyebrows to show his innocence and screws the cap back on his flask before any holy water can spill.

“Dean,” Sam growls.

“What?”

Sam’s eyes narrow, but still don’t go black. “I’m not a demon.”

Dean lifts both shoulders and lets them hang out up there for a moment. “Can’t be too careful.”

“What are you talking about?” Sam demands, incredulous. “We’ve-oh.” His hand jumps up to cover his heart, and then-Dean swears to whatever gods are tuned in this week for the Winchester Variety Show-Sam pulls his shirt out at the collar, and peeks at his own chest. “Huh. Never mind.”

“Sam.”

“What?”

“Were you expecting to see boobs under there?”

“What?” Sam splutters, “No, of course not. Shut up.”

“Sam-“

“Hey, look,” Sam says, muscle ticking in his jaw, “I think someone stole the Impala.”

“Not funny, asshat.” Dean turns to follow the point of Sam’s finger, and then. Then everything gets a little hazy.

The next thing he knows Sam is hovering at his side, and Dean is sort of hunched over his own knees, trying to get air into his fucking lungs and listen to Sam when he says, “It’s okay, man, she’s okay.”

“The ’67 Impala?” a familiar voice sings out across the wharf. Dean almost passes out again when he stands up straight too fast. “Was that yours?”

“Bela,” Sam says, sounding strangely engaging for the circumstances. “Just the person we were hoping to see.”

“We were?” The words tear free, blood still rushing in a dull roar through Dean’s ears.  He’s compiling a list of people he would trust less with the Impala and coming up with pretty much nobody.

Whether Sam meant it to or not, his cheerful greeting puts a little hitch in Bela’s confident stride. Her smile just stretches wider, though, which Dean is beginning to suspect is a tell. “Aren’t you a smart cookie. Did Gert tip you off?”

“Pretty much.” Sam turns to Dean. “She’s Alex, the one Gert mentioned. I bet Bela scams a lot of old ladies wanting to commune with their dead cats.” He raises his eyebrows at her. “Am I right?”

“Sam,” Dean grits out, “This is super awesome, watching you showcase your brains and everything but where the fuck is my car?”

Bela blinks, her carefully painted mouth almost pinched. She’d been shocked there for a minute, though, before Dean’s outburst. Yes, Sam is smarter than the average bear, people really need to get over it. “I had it towed,” she says with half a shrug, and Dean’s hackles snap right back up.

“You what?”

“Cute,” Bela says to Sam, indicating Dean with a tilt of her head. “But a bit of a drama queen, yeah?”

Sam’s eyebrows arch high.

“By the way,” Bela adds, smirk firmly in place even though she doesn’t come close to meaning it, “Thanks for telling Gert the case wasn’t solved.”

“It isn’t,” Dean points out.

Bela’s eyes are flat and unimpressed. “She didn’t know that. Now the old bag’s stopped payment and she’s demanding some real answers. Look, just stay out of my way before you cause any more trouble. And I’d get to that car if I were you, before they find the arsenal in the trunk. Ciao.”

It might be Dean’s imagination, but he thinks Bela might be sauntering off a bit stiffly, like she’s pissed off. Dean approves of this, quite a lot.

Sam is looking at him when Dean glances his way. “Well?” Sam asks, and it’s the sixth grade Christmas play all over again, when Dean missed his cue as Head Elf because he was distracted remembering the pagan rituals involving mistletoe. “You aren’t going to ask if you can shoot her, or anything…?” Sam prompts.

“Dude,” Dean scowls, “don’t tempt me. Can’t shoot people in public.”

Sam’s lips twist like they’re fighting not to grin, and Dean keeps glaring at him until the laugh falls out. “Fair enough,” Sam snorts, head ducked, “Wow, we really are brothers.”

“You been having doubts?” Dean isn’t sure why, but the thought makes his stomach hurt.

Something about this is funny enough for Sam to twist up another smile, but not funny enough to say No like Dean would really like him to. “Come on. I think I remember the tow lot being this way.”

Dean blinks at him. “You’ve been in this town before?” And it sucks, his imagination, because suddenly all Dean can think about is Sam here with Jess, here with college buddies on spring break, out on a boat somebody’s daddy owns, as normal as normal can be.

Sam is giving him an odd look when Dean pulls himself out of his own head. “No,” he says, almost careful. “I just saw it on a map in the motel lobby. Don’t worry.” He lifts one shoulder like he might give Dean a friendly nudge with it, then drops it. “We’ll get the Impala back, no problem. Then, uh-“ Sam coughs, and Dean can’t help tensing up. “This is going to sound kind of out-of-the-blue, but if we have time do you want to scope out some tattoo parlors?”

Dean stops walking. Even though it kills him a little inside not to keep headed in the direction of his car. “What, Sam.” He has to give up and start again. “If we have time-? Don’t we have to identify the ghost ship, maybe, I don’t know, do a little saving people, hunting things crap before we go tattooing each other’s names on our asses?”

Sam’s cheeks go all blotchy, and Dean wonders for about the millionth time if Sam started growing his hair out just so it would hide the way his ears turn beet red when he’s embarrassed. There’s something profoundly amusing in the image of Dean’s name on Sam’s ass that could almost be distracting enough from the Impala getting jacked to make Dean laugh out loud. Almost.

“I know which ship it is,” Sam says, eyes narrowed to show just how serious he’s being. “Or-I will. It won’t take too long.”

“Okay, fine,” Dean allows. “How many three-mast clipper ships can be wrecked off the coast, right?”

Sam looks torn for a split second, before he looks elsewhere. “Right.”

“So what’s with the tattoos, Sam?” Dean presses when it really starts to look like his brother is going to throw that out there and just ignore it. “You thinking tramp stamps? Something tribal, with, like, butterflies…?”

“Something-“ Sam bites out, and stops like he has to chew on the words first. “Something that will keep the demons out. Like the charms Bobby gave us but-on our skin. I’ve been reading up on them, and…I think I’ve got a design that will work. That way you won’t have to worry about me going all black-eyed.” Sam’s smile is wry and lopsided. He won’t quite look at Dean.

“Damn, Sam.” Dean’s swallow is a little rough, and he isn’t quite sure why. “I don’t know what was in your Wheaties this morning, but you’re just full of bright ideas.”

Sam snorts softly and there it is, the quick glance just to make sure Dean is still there, that he’s still giving Sam his undivided attention. Dean has to take a couple seconds to figure out how to breathe around the sudden sharp wire-knot in his throat when he thinks about the first time Sam will glance over and Dean won’t be there.

Dean swallows it down, pulling words out of thin air and somehow finding an actual grievance to cling to. “But, man, I got to say, I expected you to be way more pissed at Bela than you were.”

Sam coughs a little before answering. “Why?”

“Uh, let’s think about this,” Dean drawls, blinking out Get-A-Clue in Morse Code with his eyelashes. “She shot you.”

“Oh, right.” Sam squirms under Dean’s scrutiny like he should have squirmed for Gert. “Uh. It was more of a graze, really.”

Dean drags a hand over his face so he doesn’t follow his first impulse of-something else. “Have I mentioned lately how sad it is that we’re the kind of people who don’t hold grudges unless someone shoots us in a way that’s not a flesh wound?”

“We’ll hold grudges for each other,” Sam says, and he looks at Dean’s shoulder before he puts his hand on it, like he’s not quite sure if Dean will flinch away.

Dean realizes with a relief that makes him dizzy that Sam hasn’t touched him since the midnight hug and he’s missed it, without even paying real attention to Sam keeping his distance. He leans into Sam before he can stop himself, knows Sam’s eyes are wide and unsure without looking. Chick flick-but screw everyone in the world who thinks he shouldn’t have this, Dean is going to Hell. He can have this one thing.

Sam looks a little shocked after touching Dean, too, but then, weirdly, he keeps it up for the rest of the day, bumping shoulders and brushing elbows like he needs to make up for lost time. Or like he needs to get his fill while the getting is still around to be got.

~*~

“Uh,” Sam starts awkwardly over cold alphabet soup in the house they’ve picked to squat in. Dean is busy spooning through his bowl looking for the letters to spell ‘cunnilingus’ just so he can shove the bowl in Sam’s face and say Eat Me, so he doesn’t bother looking up.

“Seriously, um, though.” Sam shuffles one more time through their research-alright, Dean will be fair, Sam’s research, the kid rocks the Google Fu. “Think about the tattoos? I’m not saying we’re going to need the protection immediately, but-like, within the next case or so? It might be a good idea.”

“I already said-Look, I’m not balking because I think it’s dumb, I’m not-I’m not balking at all,” Dean, well, balks. And the more times he says it, the dumber that word gets. He gives up on the elusive G and scoots a T next to his C, U, N. “Check it out,” he says, and spins his soup so Sam can see.

He is not disappointed by the face Sam makes, not at all. “Wow, Dean,” Sam drawls, “You’re a real Mr. Shakespeare.”

“Forsooth, avast,” Dean agrees, kicking his feet up on the table and cradling his bowl of word awesomeness to his chest with one hand. With the other he grabs a stack of print-offs from the library, balancing them on his knees as he skims through.

Espírito Santo, blah blah blah, merchant sailing vessel old Yankee clipper. The article uses words like “Rakish topsail,” which sounds like a band, and “Barkentine rigging” which sounds like some sort of horrible coughing disease, and smack dab on the front of the boat is a pretty little angel statue. “Oh, hey, that reminds me.” He snaps his fingers until Sam looks up, spoon absently dangling from his mouth. “So demons, Lucifer…” Dean turns a palm up. “How are we feeling about angels?”

Sam’s eyes, for no reason Dean can think of, drop to Dean’s right shoulder and stick there a second, finally meeting Dean’s gaze by way of his amulet. Dean waits. Sam, sure enough, finds something very important to click through on his laptop while he answers, arm resting heavy on the same legal pad he was using yesterday.

“Ah, real. Probably. Definitely? Yes.” Sam gives him a dodgy, defensive look. “What? Look, if there are demons-which we know there are-then it makes sense for angels to exist.”

Dean had been kind of hoping for a good solid No on this, actually. “Come on, Sam... Really? With all the hunters you and I have ever talked to, that Dad ever talked to, that Bobby ever talked to, not one of them has ever met or ever heard of anyone who’s met an angel. Who wasn’t a certified nutbag,” Dean adds before Sam can cut him off.

“I’m not getting into this with you,” Sam says, strangely flat, like they’ve been arguing for hours already. Another note gets jotted down in that yellow pad of paper. “And if we’re very, very lucky, I won’t ever have to.”

Dean can’t help rolling his eyes, okay-because Sam being cryptic isn’t exactly new but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t piss Dean off-and something catches his attention in the brick of text on his lap. “Holy shit,” he mutters, skipping back, reading it through, dropping his feet to the floor as Sam sits up, tense. “Wait, how long did you say the death omen cycle was?”

“…Thirty-seven years-“

“Damn, I’m good. Hey, give me the laptop.”

Sam’s hands convulse around it like Dean just proposed throwing it into the rusted old fireplace. “Dude, what-“

“What, are you looking at porn? Give it here.” When Dean gets his hands on the computer after sprawling half across the table to grab it, Sam’s internet browser is neither busty nor Asian. It’s not even anything to do with Dean’s deal, just a local telephone directory. Dean gives Sam a look. “Sharing is caring. Just give me one sec…”

It takes about five minutes, all told, and Sam fidgets the whole time. “There,” Dean crows when he finds what he was searching for. “Take a look at that.”

He spins the laptop around to show Sam, who looks at it like he’s scared it might bite him. “…What am I looking at?”

“Sam, come on, right there.” Dean points, tapping the screen because he knows fingerprints drive Sam bugfuck. “Joshua Brighton, hanged for treason aboard the Espírito Santo when he was 37, in 1859. None of the other sailors who died at sea on this ship were that exact age. It would explain the death cycle-guy comes back on the anniversary of his death for a killing spree, and the ship acts as a sort of death omen.”

Sam’s mouth is turned down in the corners, not quite a frown but getting there. “That’s a pretty flimsy connection.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean agrees. “Until you add the fact that Brighton’s hand was cut off to make a hand of glory. Which,” he smirks, “sounds like something I got at the end of my Thai massage last week.”

“Ha. Ha,” Sam says, bone dry.

“No, but-that’s human remains. And seriously occult stuff. It doesn’t explain why the victims are getting picked, but if we find, salt, and burn the sucker then it doesn’t really matter, right?” Still nothing. “This is good, Sam, what’s your problem?”

“No problem,” Sam says, still tense, arms locked across his chest.

“Okay,” Dean says, not born yesterday but momentarily willing to let this shit slide. “So-odds are pretty good the hand is around town, somewhere. Ghosts haunt the area they’re tied to, right? How many hands of glory are just lying around in someone’s attic?”

Dean reaches for the laptop again, and Sam-Sam snaps it shut. Dean gapes. “Really, Sam?”

Sam actually looks around, like Dean could be talking to anyone else in this empty run-down house, and shrugs. “What?”

“Don’t what me, man. We’ve got a solid lead and suddenly you don’t want me to touch your computer?” Dean is not going to say that this stings a little, because he is not a bitch. “What the hell?”

“It’s not-“ Sam’s mouth twists, but he doesn’t look away from Dean, like he’s trying to gauge something. “Uh...” And then his gaze drops, expression shifting into something that looks genuine enough to make Dean flinch. “I know it’s a weird thing to ask, but…do you think we could take the night off?”

“…You’re right, that is weird,” Dean says. Then he takes a breath to think about it, an awful feeling crawling up his back. “Why?”

“Well, it’s just-“ Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and slumps a little, before dropping his hand to shut the laptop with a click. “It’s late enough we probably won’t be able to do anything about the hand if we do find it-“

“Right,” Dean cuts in. “Because I would much rather put off any cat-burglaring that needs getting done until…oh, midday sometime.”

Sam twitches slightly and looks anywhere else, mumbling, “There probably won’t be any cat-burglaring.”

It hits Dean right then, what Sam is trying to do, like a shot of rocksalt to the chest. He shifts, uncomfortable-but-not-really in that way he has to be around Sam sometimes, when the chick-flick moments rear their girly-ribboned heads. And, okay, he hates it. He hates that their time together is running down on the clock as much as Sam does, but the alternative just wasn’t an option.

The research can keep. It’s not even really a choice, which knocks at something in Dean’s ribcage; in a contest between Sam and anything, Dean is always going to pick Sam.

“You want to, uh. Go out, play some darts or something?”

Sam looks so grateful for a moment that Dean openly stares before he can help himself, and then they’re both coughing and fidgeting and looking at the peeling paint and rusting hinges. “Sounds like a plan,” Sam says, gruff, and Dean responds with his best man-voice to match it.

“Yeah, I’ll go get the keys.”

~*~

It’s a good night out. No, scratch that, it’s a great night out. They’re on the job so they aren’t drinking to get drunk, just enough to keep a light buzz and excuse how often they laugh and lean into each other. Or at least, that’s Dean’s excuse. If Sam was the one looking down an eternity of Hell, Dean would be doing a lot more than the occasional head on Sam’s shoulder when a joke is just too funny to stay upright. He wouldn’t let Sam out of his sight.

But he doesn’t want to think about Sam’s position. No, he doesn’t, because Sam is stronger than Dean, always has been, always will be. It isn’t the same. Sam is useful to the world in a way that Dean, hard as he’s tried, just isn’t. Sam is-yeah. Sam is just Sam. Dean doesn’t regret his decision one single fucking bit.

And Sam seems like he needs this tonight, angles under his skin where there shouldn’t be, desperation licking at the heels of Sam’s words until the alcohol settles in. Dean tangles his hand in Sam’s hair when he ruffles it, and Sam chokes on a laugh that sounds like it hurts, leaning against Dean hard enough to make his lungs feel tight.

They get a few glances, but Dean doesn’t give a fuck. Maybe they shouldn’t be doing this, should be looking harder for their probably-spirit. But maybe the universe owes him one night laughing with his baby brother.

The universe is a bitch, Dean thinks the next morning. Their police scanner repeats itself, just to rub it in Dean’s face-there’s been another drowning victim.

~*~

Sam looks grim when Dean tells him, but determined and jaw-set in a way that tells Dean he’s not too surprised. Though truth be told, Dean isn’t either. Winchesters don’t catch a break.

“You knew it was a possibility,” he says anyway, because he needs to say something while Sam gets dressed, stupid-long legs disappearing inside the grey suit pants he wears as part of their detective outfits.

Dean isn’t looking, so he doesn’t know for sure if Sam shrugs. “So did you.” Sam doesn’t sound sorry, and if Dean wants to be honest with himself-but why break a winning streak.

“Are you sure you want to spend time interviewing this guy’s family? We’ve got the boat, already.” Sam shrugs into his button-up and focuses awfully hard on fastening it right.

“Probably got the boat,” Dean corrects, “and probably got the spirit. Like you said, it’s all just guesswork. No harm in making sure.”

Sam glances over, and then nods down at his tie. “Not arguing. Just wondering.”

“Dude,” Dean says, because he just can’t do this anymore, “I realize that the touchy feely stuff makes us break out in hives, okay, but I’m willing to put up with whatever chafing rash is necessary if you’d just tell me what’s going on with you.”

Sam blinks, and then his mouth pulls down in a mocking frown. “Sorry, Dean, I didn’t realize my-brother-is-going-to-Hell isn’t a good enough reason anymore.”

Dean sighs.  He’d been really dumb, hoping it was anything else. “You’ve had months to get over it-“

“I’m not going to get over it!” Sam shouts, incredulous, arms out. “Losing you isn’t something I can “get over.” And if I can’t save you-“ He drags in a breath and pinches his lips together, and Dean remembers a million frustrated Stanford fights ending the exact same way.

“If you can’t save me-which you shouldn’t even try, Sam, how many times do I have to tell you that any welching or weaseling turns you back into worm food-“ The bottom drops out of his stomach with a sickening thud. “Jesus, Sam, tell me that’s not your game-plan.”

“No. Dean.”  Sam’s hand closes around Dean’s arm and holds on, tight. “The crossroad demon is dead. That part of the deal is gone, trust me.”

Dean’s air escapes, even though he fights to hold onto it. Damn it. “I want to trust you, Sam,” and here come the hives, as predicted, that hot, itchy feeling under his skin and behind his eyes. “But I need you to trust me when I say you’re going to live through it. You are.”

Because Sam is stronger, smarter, better. And yeah, he might miss Dean for a while, but then he’ll find some nice girl and settle down, pick up the pieces of his life where Dean ripped them to shreds and put them back together. There’s no Yellow-Eyed Demon to get in the way this time-just Dean. And Dean won’t be around forever.

Sam huffs, a quiet, wet sound, looking out over Dean’s shoulder before he looks back at his brother. Dean wishes he hadn’t. Sam looks…small, and behind whatever thin defenses he’s thrown up Dean can tell that something he said cut Sam deep.

“There’s a difference between living and not being dead,” Sam says.

“Very philosophical, Dr. Phil.” Dean’s smile is flat and short lived, desperate to get off this topic. He can’t handle Sam’s manpain this early, he just-he’ll fix it later, when his own foundations feel a little less shaky. He will. “Can we please get this show on the road before this dead guy’s nearest and dearest decide they’ve had enough of talking to the cops? Let’s go.”

~*~

Of course the guy’s only living family is his brother. Of fucking course he is. It couldn’t have been a cousin or an uncle or-really anything but a brother. Dean had kind of hoped they’d moved past dead brothers after the case of the deadly fairy tales and the third little pig; he doesn’t need this shit, and Sam definitely doesn’t need it.

And of course Bela is here. Fucking fantastic.

“Ma’am,” Dean grits out, so not in the mood to deal with her and her fake American accent and her tiny voice recorder, “I think this man’s been through quite enough. You should find somewhere else to be, far, far away.”

One of Bela’s greatest talents, in Dean’s opinion, is her ability to glare death rays without changing her face from angelic kewpie doll. “But I just have a few more questions-“

“Elsewhere, lady,” Dean snaps over whatever Sam started to say. Sam looks a little nonplussed but does Dean care? No, he does not. Because Bela is turning her recorder off with an audible snap and marching off, so. Mission a-fucking-complished.

“Sorry about that,” Sam tells Peter Warren, eyes doing that soppy doe-eyed thing they do around witnesses.

“They’re like roaches,” Dean chimes in, definitely loud enough for Bela to hear.

Sam leads Peter back toward the house-a classic move, there, all leaned in close, trust me trust me trust me oozing from Sam’s voice and expression. “Sir, would you like to tell us about that ship?”

Peter sighs, short and frustrated, dragging a hand over his face. Dean wonders how this guy is even speaking to police at all, has to shove off the urge to compare Peter’s loss to his own. Peter is a civilian. Peter didn’t lose a Sam.

“It was, uh…like the old Yankee clippers. A smuggling vessel, with the rakish topsail, Barkentine rigging, angel figurehead on the bow.”

“Wow,” Sam says, looking impressed. “That’s great. And that should be all we need, so-“

“Whoa, wait a second.” Dean frowns at his brother, You get hit on the head and forget how to interrogate a witness?

“No, really,” Sam grits out, head jerking towards Bela-freaking Bela-talking to some real cops, pointing their way.

“Alright fine. We’ve got to take off,” Dean says, shaking Peter’s hand and holding on just that extra second so he can go for the kill. “That’s an awful lot of detail for a ship your brother saw.”

“Oh shit,” Sam blurts, and then snaps his mouth shut, looking pained.

“Uh, I saw the ship too,” Peter says into the awkward pause, looking confused and increasingly pissed off. “We were night diving, I was right there.”

Sam exhales through his nose, nodding like he’s just been reminded of something terrible.  “Thank you, sir, we’ll keep in touch.” And he grabs Dean’s elbow and starts marching them away.

Dean jostles his arm when they’re back at the car, but it’s a half-assed attempt to get Sam to let go so he’s not going to feel bad when it doesn’t work. It doesn’t even surprise him that he’s grabbed a handful of Sam’s suit jacket, because otherwise this would just look awkward. He also doesn’t want Sam to be able to escape when Dean rounds on him.

“You’re gonna keep treating me like I’m an idiot? That’s fine,” he snaps, not suckered for a second by Sam’s big innocent act. “But if you think I don’t know the difference between my-brother-is-going-to-Hell weird and this? Pull your head out of your ass and think again.”

Sam looks shocked, wide open. Dean catches himself noticing how close they’re standing, how strange it doesn’t feel, and then he grits his teeth and makes himself say it all. “But I do trust you, okay?” Sam straightens up, almost rears back if someone can ‘rear’ about a fraction of an inch. “I’m trusting that you’re going to tell me what’s going on with you. Because I know that you know-whatever it is? I’m going to have your back.”

Sam’s mouth is just a little slack, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, turned towards the ground. But his hand is still on Dean’s elbow, and he can feel the shake that rolls through Sam before he fights it back.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean gets out, hand fisting in Sam’s jacket close enough that his knuckles bump against Sam’s side.  “You’d think I’d never said a nice thing to you in my life.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Sam says with a jerk and a sharp shake of his head. “Just…it’s been a while.”

Really? Dean thinks, taken aback. He can’t remember. He doesn’t keep track of these things. But he-he hadn’t thought it was so long that Sam would be starving for it like he seems to be.

Sam shakes his head again before Dean can do more than open his mouth. “Sorry. I will tell you,” Sam says, eyes apologetic and sincere in a way he can’t fake for Dean. “Just give me some time to sort everything out, okay?”

“What more could a guy ask for?” Dean makes himself spread his hands out in a gesture, even though the joints in his left hand hurt a little from holding on too tight. It’s Sam’s cue to let go, but he keeps his hand on Dean’s arm a few seconds longer before the sharp sound of approaching high heels makes him turn toward the Impala and flip up her trunk.

Bela is, as always, a joy to be around. She doesn’t understand why they’re gearing up to save Peter Warren, but Dean doesn’t expect her to get it.

“He’s cannon fodder,” she smirks. “He can’t be saved in time and you know it.”

Dean looks at Sam for solidarity, but his brother is engrossed in loading the sawed-off, so he lets him be. “Yeah, well, see,” he tells Bela, “we have souls, so we’re going to try.”

“Well, I’m actually going to find the ship and put an end to this,” she says. Maybe Dean has had a bit on his mind lately, but he doesn’t know why it’s taken him this long to notice that Bela prefers talking to him over Sam, by about a mile. “But you have fun.”

Dean looks to Sam again, and this time Sam looks up, mouth tight.

“What?” Bela asks, all clipped, British vowels. “Boys, have you already found the ship?”

He doesn’t want to tell her, and Sam doesn’t look all that warm to the idea, either. But if she can take over the research part of this for the evening, he and Sam can focus on keeping Peter Warren alive. “We’ve got a hunch,” Dean shrugs, once he has the almost imperceptible nod from Sam. “Espírito Santo. Might want to start with that one.”

“That’s all we’ve got for sure, though,” Sam cuts in, eyes sharp. Dean is willing to roll with it, spins Bela a smile.

She’s watching them both, probably trying to tune into the Winchester Brothers radio frequency that leaves a lot of people stumped. Bela doesn’t seem like the kind of person who appreciates being held out on, but boo freaking hoo. She’ll figure out Joshua Brighton in less than five minutes and cover the groundwork on unearthing the hand of glory, and as far as Dean is concerned it’s the least she can do. She shot Sam.

~*~

They don’t save Peter Warren, but it’s not for lack of trying. Sam even suggests they jump the guy’s pretentious rich-person fence so they’re closer than where Dean wanted to set up across the street in the Impala. The lights flicker sharply at ten past midnight, and Dean breaks a window, throws his jacket over the glass and hauls Sam up after him-it takes maybe ten seconds, all told, to get to Peter Warren spitting up water, clawing at his own throat, the ghost of Joshua Brighton snarling down at him as blood falls in sluggish drips from the stump of his wrist.

Sam gets the first shot off, as wild-eyed as his first hunt, and Dean skids to a stop by Peter Warren as he crumples, blue-lipped and lifeless. Dean flips him over, shoves his hands down on the guy’s chest to start CPR, but Peter Warren is cold in a way you don’t come back from. He still tries.

Sam hauls him back, grip shaky, and the ringing from the shotgun blast fades to the sound of sirens. Of course Peter Warren had a security system, and they have to leg it to get to the Impala before the red and blue flashing lights hone into view.

“I can say it this time, if you want,” Sam says into the dead silence of the car. Dean can’t even be fucked to turn on the weather report just to make noise, so it takes him a second to process Sam’s words.

Even then they don’t make sense. “Say what?”

Sam lifts one shoulder and lets it drop, tired in a way that makes Dean’s hand itch to check for fever again. “Can’t save everyone?” Sam offers.

“Yeah, Sam, I know.” Frustration settles down deep in his throat, and he keeps his gaze firmly on the road. What the fuck good is he, that he can’t save one lousy civilian? He told Sam once, as close as he could come to saying it out loud-it’s kind of a comfort staring down the barrel of Hell and knowing he’s not going to be able to disappoint anyone anymore.

“But I’m going to save you,” Sam says, louder than before. Dean looks over before he can stop himself, knows at least half of what he’s feeling is scrawled across his face. Sam’s resolve is like getting side-swiped by a Semi all over again. Dean isn’t ready for it at all.

“Dean,” Sam says, quieter now but no less of a gut-punch. “I’m going to save you.”

…But that isn’t his job.