World's Forgotten Boys, Chapter 5/? - (Sam/Dean - PG13)
Fic title: World's Forgotten Boys (link to the full verse)
Chapter 5/?
Author name: sonofabiscuit77
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13 this one
Word Count: 6,202
Summary: Season 1 AU. Ross Christopher Winchester knows three things to be true: that his father, John, is a hero, that he's going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world, and that his two older brothers are in love with each other. An AU-version of Season 1 where The Winchester Boys mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still crispy-fried, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with one another...
Previous Chapters Chapter 1
Chapter 5
There are no more visions for the next few weeks, just a couple more hunts, the sort of routine shit he and Dean have been handling on their own for the past couple of years. And he’s gotta kinda… sort of… maybe… perhaps… yeah… alright… fine… admit that having Sam along for the ride makes things go more smoothly. Sam’s a fucking ace at the research, and Ross is almost getting over Sam bogarting the laptop all the freaking time when he manages to come up with the goods three times in a row.
And Sam’s good with the civilians too, even the too young, too old, too butt ugly ones, Sam doesn’t seem to discriminate. Oh, Ross can be charming when he wants to be, but most of the time, he isn’t, (except when there’s a hot girl involved, and that’s usually for entirely different reasons). It’s one of the things he and Dean usually suck at - prying the intel out of the annoying and dumb civilians - Dean’s better than him, but Dean’s kinda short with people, always approaching things the wrong way, getting people’s backs up, not his fault, just the way he is.
Sammy though… whoa, Sam just does that sympathy face and they’re spilling their guts all over him, like they can’t wait to let it all out. Even afterwards, when Ross is all for getting the fuck out of there, Sam’s insisting on going back and making nice and getting closure. Yeah, okay, so he gets that finding out that ghosts and spirits and demons actually exist must be a pretty fucking big kick in the pants, but he’s been dealing with it his entire life, these people need to stop acting so fucking precious and get over it. Seriously.
“Man, your eyes are like a Jedi power,” Dean says with this admiring look in his face when Sam rejoins them at the coffee shop with the exact location of the little spirit dude’s grave. “You got that old broad to spill all that?”
Sam shrugs, but he’s doing a shitty job of hiding how pleased he is with himself. “You just gotta know what to say, Dean.”
“Yeah? So, what’s that then?”
“Ahh, well, that’s the thing,” says Sam smugly.
Ross wants to scoff, roll his eyes at Sam’s smug face, but Dean’s smiling at Sam from over the rim of his coffee mug, mouth curving up in that slow, fond way when he takes the piece of paper from Sam’s hand, their fingers brushing together just a tad too long. Ross sips his coffee, feels something seize up in his chest as he watches them trade looks across the table. He feels uneasy, a cold stab of something that he knows, he just knows, and he could pick up on it if he wanted, but -
It’s not fucking fair; things have been good the last few weeks. Dean’s been acting like he’s almost happy, and Sam’s less whiny and emo than usual, both of which make the life of Ross Winchester a lot less fucking miserable than usual. And if it’s all just because… because Dean and Sam are back doing that again, if it’s because -
He doesn’t want to know, he decides, he’s not gonna obsess about the how and the why and the secret fucking smiles and the soulful looks, cause things have been good between them, and they’re doing their thing, saving people and killing monsters, and Dad’s out there somewhere, and they’re going to find him.
A few days later, they’re not on a job, and things are not good. Back when it was just him and Dean, it was when they weren’t working a job that shit used to hit the fan. They’d start bitching at each other, pitching fits over each other’s stupid-ass habits and the really fucking annoying way Dean always ordered pizza with olives, even though he totally knew that Ross fucking hated olives, or the way he never hung his damn towels up after showering, so by the time Ross got there they were always, always soaked. There’d be the pranks and the teasing and then Dean would tell some chick Ross was hitting on that he had fucking herpes for fuck’s sake, and they’d end up screaming insults at each other in the parking lot of some god-fucking-awful dive bar in freaking Kentucky.
He and Dean have never fought much, so it was always when things got really bad that it went like that. And one time, one truly horrible time, things did get that bad, and they ended up really and truly fighting, punching the shit out of each other, not in the steady, coordinated way Dad taught them, but blindly and furiously, wanting to cause as much damage as possible, Dean swearing eternal vengeance if Ross ruined his stupid, pretty face and Ross spitting blood at him and calling him a fucking faggot.
He remembers how much he regretted that afterwards, seeing the locked-down, cold look on Dean’s face, remembering how he stumbled over apologies, begged Dean, telling him he didn’t care who Dean fucked, and that he didn’t mean to say it, and would Dean forgive him, please, Dean, please, eyes wet, nose snotty and lips bloody, tugging on the torn sleeve of Dean’s Henley, like he used to do when he was a kid, his head start to break in two because Dean was mad with him, Dean hated him, Dean was gonna leave him…
“God, shut up, just shut up,” Dean murmured tiredly, face edged into exasperation, nose bloody and knuckles bruised, “as if I could ever hate you, don’t be so fuckin’ stupid, Ross.”
He felt embarrassed afterwards, embarrassed for losing it so completely in front of his big brother, while Dean just acted like nothing had happened, like they hadn’t just beaten the shit out of each other, like Ross hadn’t just lost it, called him a faggot and sobbed his heart out into Dean’s shirt.
The problem was that he did care, he did care that Dean liked to fuck dudes. He hated watching Dean with other guys, hated the look that would slide over Dean’s face when he noted a guy’s interest, half-smirk, half-thoughtful consideration and how the guys would respond to Dean, smiling and laughing like they couldn’t believe their luck, and how Dean would dismiss him with a shrug, saying, “This is my brother, Ross. You wanna make yourself scarce for a while, little bro?” As if Ross was some annoying little kid, and not his brother and hunting partner. He’d bite his tongue and walk away, knowing that either Dean or the other guy would be on their knees in the men’s room in less than five minutes, worshipping the other’s cock.
God, he hated it, hated it so fucking much.
“You should try it some time,” Dean would counsel afterwards, smiling to himself, running his tongue over his teeth in this dirty, lewd way that made Ross want to punch him. “Seriously, kiddo, I love women, I do, but when it comes to sucking cock, I’d choose a guy every time, they know what spot to hit, you know?” he’d break off, smirk again while Ross would scowl, bite his tongue on the retort: Is that what Sammy used to do? Is that how it used to be between you and Sammy, Dean?
But Dean hasn’t been sleeping around the past few months, Ross can’t remember the last time he saw him head into the men’s room with a guy in tow, the last time he saw him really lay it on with a chick. Whenever they head into bars now, Dean’s all business, straight to the darts board or the pool table, Sammy tagging along and getting in on the hustle or just standing by to watch, like his Dean’s freaking girlfriend, cheering on his man. Pathetic. Anyway, whatever, he shouldn’t complain cause it just leaves him more time to hit on the chicks without Dean or Sam’s interference, and yeah, it’s not like he needs Dean to be his freaking wingman, this face and this body, the Winchester genes, don’t need no fucking backup.
In a bar somewhere in Phoenix, Dean wins big on a pool game. This time, Sam’s working the hustle with him, blending in as an ASU asshole, while Dean’s the shifty outsider, trying to take the college boy for all his money, none of the idiotic fratboys on the sidelines noticing the same $50 bill passing from Sam to Dean and back again as Dean pretends to lose.
They’re both enjoying it, eyes shining and cheeks flushed, and that’s not just from the rounds of drinks the bystanders keep buying them, it’s also the hustle, the growing pile of dirty $10’s and $20’s in the betting pool on the side of the table, the play-acting between them, the insults and dirty looks, the fake antagonism. Ross isn’t watching them, he’s got his own thing going - Rhona, cute, brunette - just the sort of chick he likes. Anyway, he never gets involved with Dean’s hustles, Dean doesn’t need his help, Dean always handles it on his own, he knows exactly how to play it, how to read it. Sammy never used to get involved either, but now, he thinks he’s gotten good, “There was a bar, not far from my dorm, freshman year, my roommate, Jimmy and me, we used to be down there all the time, playing pool, I got kinda good,” he told them a few months back. It made Dean grin, raise his eyebrows in that dorky way, say, “You think you got a chance against me?” And Sammy’s laugh, “Yeah, bring it.”
There’s a cheer from the pool area and Rhona turns her head, looks over and smiles, “Looks like that weirdo guy’s been beaten again.”
Ross glances over: Dean’s standing to one side, looking pissed, glaring at Sam as Sam collects his winnings. “Let’s go again!” Dean cries out, and Ross watches Sam raise his head, look confused as he stares back at Dean.
“What a loser!” Rhona comments with a shake of her head, “Some people can’t admit it when they’re beaten.” She plays with the straw in her drink, tilts her head at him, “Don’t you think?”
“Mmm, yeah, yeah,” he mutters. Someone else is taking on Dean now, probably expecting an easy ride, fucking idiots. It always amazes him how people never see when they’re being played. A couple of girls are talking to Sam, Sam’s not really taking any notice of them, nodding his head and smiling in that distant way of his that means he’s feeling uncomfortable. He looks up, catches Ross’s eye and grins suddenly, wide and happy and friendly, it’s weird, and for a second he doesn’t know what to do, then he nods, smiles back at Sam, acknowledging him.
“Hey, do you two know each other?” Rhona asks. “You and that big guy? Cause I was just thinking that you really look alike.”
Ross clamps down on the urge to roll his eyes. Yes, he looks like Sam, yes, Sam looks like him, he knows, Sam knows, they’ve had people commenting on it their entire freaking lives.
He drags his eyes away from Sam, looks at her, “He’s my brother,” he says, the words feel weird and heavy, like he’s admitting to something he doesn’t want to.
“Oh,” her eyebrows shoot up and she laughs, “well, guess that explains it. We should go over, say hi.”
He shrugs, a sinking feeling in his gut, “Okay, if you like.”
A couple of days later and things have definitely gone to shit. Sam’s on edge, pissy and moodier than usual, giving Ross the evil eye like he’s the spawn of Satan.
“Dude, seriously, what’s your fuckin’ problem?” he snaps out through a mouthful of bacon double cheeseburger.
Sam’s lips thin and his eyes narrow - oh great, that look again.
“I realize you’ve been hanging out with Dean for ages, but how about keeping your mouth shut when you chew, huh?”
“Hey, I’m right over here!” protests Dean.
Ross opens his mouth wide, half-chewed burger exposed to the world, well, at least to Sam. “Fuck you, Sammy.”
Sam gives him a seething look and tosses the remains of his own burger onto the kitchen table.
“Great, now I really don’t wanna eat it.”
“Well, if it’s going spare.” Dean picks it up with a shrug, devouring it in two bites, and hey, maybe Sam has a point, but then on the other hand, maybe Sam’s just a fucking annoying douchebag. He’s about to say something like that when Dean’s phone starts to vibrate, bouncing along the table with tiny hops and jumps.
Dean picks it up and stiffens immediately, mouth falling open in shock.
“Dean?”
Dean swallows and raises his eyes, he looks worried. “It’s a text. From Dad.”
“What?” He’s on his feet, feeling Sammy beside him. “Dean?”
“Dad,” Dean repeats, still staring down at his phone.
He can’t believe what Dean’s saying: Dad? A text from Dad? Dean’s got a text from Dad? Sam’s saying the same thing, though, staring at Dean with big, wide eyes, stammering out, “Dad? Dad sent a text? The guy can barely work a toaster.”
“Is there a number? Can we call him back?” he hears himself ask.
Dean shakes his head. “No, it’s untraceable. It’s just. Coordinates. 44-89. Ross, get the map.”
He hesitates for a moment before bounding across the room to his duffle, grabbing the tattered and well-used map and spreading it out across the skuzzy carpet. Dean kneels beside him, fingers tracing over the creases. Sam moves to loom over them, his face in shadows from the over head lights.
“Dude, you’re blocking the light.”
Sam moves away, sighing his big ole martyr sigh. “Do you think this is a good idea? I mean, it’s probably just another job.”
“And maybe he’ll be waiting for us there,” points out Ross. He looks back down at the map; Dean’s found the location now, finger pointing over a town in Illinois. “Rockford, Illinois,” he reads. “He could be there.” He feels hopeful for the first time in a long time. Dad’s still around… somewhere. There’s no one else who would send them coordinates like this, no one else who uses that system. So Dad’s gotta be okay, and maybe… he could be there, waiting for them.
“Yeah, and he might not be,” says Sam. “It might just be another hunt.”
“So?” says Dean. “If Dad tells us to go somewhere, we’re going.”
“Since when do you get to take all the decisions around here?”
“Since I’m the oldest.”
Ross can see Sam gritting his teeth, holding back his anger, though exactly why Sammy’s pissed, he hasn’t quite gotten yet. This is the first sign of Dad they’ve picked up in five fucking months; it’s what they’ve been waiting for.
“Doesn’t make you the boss, Dean!”
“Fine!” snaps Dean. “How about we take a vote? I vote we go to Illinois, like Dad wants us to. How about you, Ross?”
Ross shrugs, it hasn’t even occurred to him to not follow the coordinates - Dad’s orders.
“Illinois. Why are we even fuckin’ arguing about this shit?”
Dean turns to Sam, eyes narrowed. “You tell me.”
“Why’s he just sent us the coordinates?” protests Sam. “Why’s he using an untraceable line? He must know that we’re looking for him, that we’re worried about him. Doesn’t he give a shit -“
“SAM!”
Sam’s mouth falls shut and Ross jumps. Fuck, Dean’s pissed. He’s looking agitated too, eyes darting between Sam and Ross like he’s trying to figure something out. He stares at them both for a moment, then he swallows, like he’s trying really hard to calm himself. “Like I said. If Dad wants us to go there, then we’re going there. End of story.”
********************
It’s not the job. It’s just another job, another amongst many, and sure, they’re doing good, getting rid of some psycho freak of a ghost is always a good thing, but -
Why aren’t things different now? He and Dean… everything was going so well, he just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get why Dean and Ross are so happy just doing this. Why they don’t want more. Why they’re happy to follow Dad’s direction, so lamely and blindly trusting.
“How about your brothers, Sam? Why don’t we talk about them?” says the doctor, and Sam stops. He’s supposed to be pumping this guy for information, and about the last thing he wants to do is talk about Ross or Dean, God, especially not Dean, and especially not now.
They haven’t touched each other since Dad sent Dean that text, and Sam’s aching for it. He woke up this morning literally aching for it, his cock hard like diamonds, and nothing to do for it. Dean had gone out to get breakfast and Ross was up and packing, whistling cheerfully and looking hopeful because we’re on the right track now, Sammy, Dad’s out there, and he’s alive, he’ll be there, you’ll see… and Sam slumped back into the sheets and felt sick to his stomach.
“What do you mean, talk about my brothers?” he demands, and the doctor’s eyes narrow in on his face triumphantly.
He remembers that look, the I’ve hit pay dirt look. Fucking shrinks.
This isn’t the first time he’s been to see a shrink, in his first year at Stanford, before he met Jess; he went to see one a couple of times. He was referred by one of his professors, he’d been struggling with some of the classes and they’d suggested it as a requirement for him passing the course. The moment he admitted to the counselor - Dr Santi - that his mother was dead and that his father had disowned him, her eyes lit up, just like this guy, practically salivating over the abandonment issues he knew he had in spades. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him how irrevocably screwed up he was, it was hardly news to him, thank you, John Winchester.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he tells the doctor.
“Why not?” asks the guy with the sort of knowing smile that makes Sam’s fingers itch to punch him.
Dean’s waiting outside the clinic, leaning against the wall, smoking and looking bored when he finally gets out.
“Jesus, what took you so long?”
Sam looks at him for a moment; he doesn’t feel safe talking to Dean right now. He bites his lip and looks away, “C’mon.”
“Sam.” Dean drops his cigarette to the ground and puts a hand on his shoulder. His hand is so warm, and for a moment, Sam wants to grab onto him, pull him close, wrestle him to the ground and grind himself against him until he gets off, just fucking use him because he’s just that fucked-up.
“C’mon, man,” says Dean.
And that is fucking it… Sam twists, fists Dean’s shirt in one hand, other on the back of his neck, pulling him into a bruising, painful kiss, and Dean just… melts, sways into him, teeth sinking into Sam’s bottom lip and tongue in his mouth, groaning like a freaking porn star when Sam pulls away.
“Sammy,” Dean breathes out, eyes still closed.
“Let’s go,” he says viciously, pulling away from Dean. “Gotta finish the job, remember?”
He can see the flash of hurt in Dean’s eyes, and he feels a sudden burst of guilt, quickly followed by vindication. Fuck it, Dean deserves to feel guilty. If he’d just man up for once and stop following Dad’s orders so blindly, start thinking for his self… But no, this is Dean, and Dean believes in Dad, God-like Dad whose Dean’s hero, the sun to his earth. And why can’t Dean just see how incredibly fucked-up that is?
Everything gets much worse in the asylum.
“You gonna shoot me, Sam?” says Dean. He’s laying on the floor, staring up at Sam with wide, guileless eyes, a flare of: I dare you alongside: How could you?
And God, he’s just so fucking angry. He knows that somewhere, there’s some part of him that’s watching this and thinking, What are you doing? Why are you doing this to Dean? But there’s the part on top, the part that evil, psycho ghost has ignited that’s so angry at Dean for being… for just being Dean, for - for caring too much, for wanting Sam too much, for making him feel like this: so desperate and lost and needed. For being Dean, perfect soldier, perfect son, so fucking loyal and selfless and desirable, and God, he just can’t stand it.
He makes a sound with his mouth, a keening, pained sound as he lowers the gun. He feels defeated and empty and he can’t breathe. He shot Dean. He shot Dean with rock salt. He can’t believe that he did that, not to Dean...
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Ross rushes into the room, tackling him to the floor. He lies on top of him, covering him completely, forcing the gun from his fingers. Sam closes his eyes and lets his head thump back against the concrete, lets Ross’s weight sink into him; grind him viciously into the dirt and dust. Ross’s hands tighten their grip on his wrists, fingers cruel and hard, he gets to his knees, straddling Sam’s hips, looming over him, breath hot and sour on Sam’s face.
“You son of a bitch!” he spits, freckles of saliva hitting Sam’s face.
“It’s okay, I’m okay.” He hears Dean’s voice as if from far away. “Ross, it’s okay. It wasn’t loaded, he didn’t do it. It’s okay.”
Ross doesn’t move, for once not immediately obeying Dean, and this more than anything means that Dean is so, so wrong and it is definitely not okay. Sam opens his eyes to his brother: Ross’s teeth are bared in a snarl of hatred and disgust, his eyes dark and bitter and jagged, hard enough to cut steel - Dad’s look of death and fury, and for the first time ever, Sam feels afraid of his little brother.
“Ross!”
Dean’s hand comes out and he pulls Ross off Sam, sending him sprawling to the floor. Dean’s breathing painfully, cradling his hand against his chest, his shirt in tatters where the rock salt rounds ripped through him, and holy shit, did Sam really do that? Did he really just shoot Dean?
Ross holds a hand up to his nose, holding his face and staring at the two of them.
“He fuckin’ shot you, Dean? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“He wasn’t himself,” says Dean steadily, his eyes boring steel into Ross. “Now, c’mon, let’s get this son of a bitch and get the fuck outta here.”
Sam still feels sick, his stomach’s bottomed out, he’s lost it somewhere, lost the ability to feel anything but nausea and self-loathing. He watches Ross patching up Dean’s chest, picking out lumps of salt with tweezers, Dean all the while groaning and gritting his teeth around a fifth of Beam and not looking at Sam.
He hasn’t tried to say sorry. Dean already knows he’s sorry and saying the words again is not going to help. They’re not going to put the three of them back together. Ross is barely able to look at him and when he does it’s with that look, that Dad look of his that reminds Sam why he’s not sure finding their father is going to be a good thing.
Ross finishes up, applying bandages with practiced fingers and a professionalism that surprises Sam. Ross was never the one who did any of the patching up in the old days, but then again, he and Dean have been on their own for a long while, he’s probably gotten plenty of practice. The thought of all the times Ross must’ve patched up Dean’s injuries over the past couple of years makes his stomach heave, the nausea coming again and again in a noxious wave. Ross gets up, throws the used dressings into the trash and tosses Dean a clean shirt - one of his own.
“Thanks, kiddo,” says Dean and his voice is slurred, most of the bottle already gone.
Ross grunts and stalks off towards the bathroom to wash his hands, ignoring Sam as if he’s not even there.
Dean shuffles into a sitting position, back bowed as he struggles into Ross’s t-shirt. He swears under his breath and lets the bottle slip between his thighs.
“Here, let me.” Sam jumps to his feet, hurries to sit on the edge of the bed, hands coming out tentatively to grip at the worn cotton, tugging it down over Dean’s shoulders. Dean’s shoulders are broad, a silvered scar across the right where a harpy clawed him up years before, Sam can remember watching his father’s frowning concentration as he sewed up the yawning gash, his big hands intricate and strangely delicate as they held the needle, Dean biting his lip, holding back his groans, trying to be tough enough to win Dad’s approval. Eight days ago he licked a slick trail over that scar, mouth tracing a line across Dean’s shoulders and to the nape of his neck while Dean shivered against him, murmuring his name over and over, Sammy, Sammy…
Dean jerks away from him sharply. “Dude, get off. I can manage.” He glares at Sam as he pulls the shirt down over the bandages, wincing again; Sam ducks his head and retreats back to his own bed.
Dean slides off the bed, draining the last of the bottle and stumbling to throw it in the trash. He sits down at the crappy kitchenette table, snaps the cap off one of the beers Ross bought the day before.
“Are we not going to talk about this?” says Sam after a moment. He licks his lips, “What I - uh, did?”
“No,” says Dean flatly.
Of course, when Sam thinks it can’t possibly get any worse, it always gets worse.
He should be happy, hell, Dean and Ross are happy. Dad finally made contact, which means he’s okay, he’s still alive. But right at this moment that doesn’t matter, cause he’s not thinking straight, not thinking at all. He’s yelling at Dean, and Ross is standing off to one side, the three of them like an equilateral triangle grouped around the Impala whose engine is still chugging away as if she’s trying to tell them something. He can’t think, he’s so goddamned angry and he really and truly can’t take this anymore. He can’t take the three of them and Dad and their pathetic, claustrophobic fucked-up lives and their pathetic, sycophantic fucked-up ways, their reliance on Dad, always Dad. And there are other things out there, there’s real life where kids don’t treat their fathers like God Almighty Mr. General Sir Yes Sir Whatever You Say Sir You Want Me To Throw Myself Off a Fucking Cliff Well Yes Sir Of Course I’ll Do That.
“I’m serious. I will leave your ass!” shouts Dean and his retort is automatic, thrown right in Dean’s face, instinctive and designed to hurt: “That’s what I want you to do!”
He’s shouldering his duffle, laptop bag banging against his hip, Ross’s voice in his ears, for Dean only, but loud enough for Sam to hear, purposely loud enough because Ross can be a vindictive, little bitch and Dean’s just fucking spineless… family doormat to father and brothers… every Winchester’s chew toy.
“C’mon, Deano, leave him. He doesn’t want to do this, then fuck him. We don’t need him.”
The knot tightens in Sam’s gut, that goddamned ring around his heart that may as well have Dean’s name branded into it, because it’s all about Dean, always been all about Dean… And he feels his chest start to ache, like a physical wound, a phantom pain to match Dean’s, to match where he shot his brother full of rock-salt, constricting so hard that for a second, he can’t breathe. But he can still walk, his legs can still move, so he does, carrying him away from his brothers, from Dean, from the one person -
He shakes his head, pushing the thoughts away, keeps walking, legs moving automatically. He hears the car doors crank shut, the chug-rumble-roar of Dean’s foot on the gas, they’re going, leaving, leaving him… He’s on his own, abandoned, odd brother out.
He huffs out a long breath, tightens his grip on his laptop bag and keeps walking.
Dean calls him first. There was a part of Sam that was always expecting it. Dean is always the first to fold, but there was another part of him that didn’t know, that wasn’t sure, that thought perhaps, maybe this time, I’ve gone too far, I shot him full of rock salt; I could’ve killed him. But the stupid, typical irony of the thing, of their entire dumb situation is that it wasn’t that that caused this current rupture, it was him questioning Dad’s orders, going against The Word of Dad, and isn’t that a far greater crime than a chest full of rock salt to Dean?
“You okay, Sammy?” asks Dean, and Sam can’t help the smile breaking across his face, hearing the familiar concern in Dean’s voice, along with the familiar nickname, though Dean’s trying to disguise it, acting breezy, chuckling over him and Ross being run out of town, but the pauses are long and loaded and that has to mean something.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” he says, and for a moment, he wishes it were true. He wishes he could do this: leave them, find Dad, find whatever got Mom and Jess, get his revenge - get their revenge - end it all. Then, perhaps then, once it’s all over, he could go back to Dean, and tell him -
God, he doesn’t know what he’d tell him, because honestly, would anything be any different? Dean would still be Dean, Dean would make the same choice; he’d still choose hunting and Dad and Ross and everything else that has been all their lives in forever, over him.
He closes his eyes, tries to think, hears himself saying, “No, I, uh, screw that, Dean. Screw everything. I’m not okay. I’m sorry, man, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t’ve -“
“Forget it,” interrupts Dean, using that gruff tone of voice which generally means he wants out of this conversation, that he’s embarrassed, embarrassed for Sam. “Sammy, don’t worry about it.”
There’s a long pause while he listens to Dean breathing down the phone, he sounds so close and really, he is close, only miles between them, thirty, forty miles, that’s nothing.
“You still plannin’ on going to California?” Dean asks finally.
Sam looks around him, the depressing bus station, the blonde girl - Meg - dozing on the floor, and he feels a wave of loneliness hit him, he suddenly misses Jess terribly. The two of them used to get buses everywhere, they never had that much money, her family keeping her on a tight budget and he only having what he could earn and sometimes when he was feeling particularly nostalgic (and desperate), what he could hustle. They overnighted in a bus station somewhere in Oregon once, on a trip back from Seattle where her family lived, curling up on one of the ultra-uncomfortable plastic seats together, her tangled hair a mass of itchy warmth under his chin, her body curled into his own. He’d felt proprietary of her, protective and so much in love that he almost didn’t notice the cold, depressing surroundings.
He bites his lip; he can feel the tears edging at the back of his eyes, threatening to come, he knows if he blinks then they’ll just roll down his face. It’s been six months, but he barely feels as if he’s come to terms with her loss. He hasn’t had chance to really think about her not being here anymore, he’s been too busy, Dean and Ross and the Winchester claustrophobia. Every day bleeding into the next, hunts and fights and bickering with Ross, and God, being close to Dean again, having sex with Dean again, until there was no room for anything else, Dean and the Winchester life blotting out everything as it always used to do, and maybe that’s been the point.
“I - uh. No,” he says at last, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I… Dean, where are you? I can come to you.”
Dean pauses for a second, and when he speaks, he sounds relieved. “I’ll come and get you, don’t be stupid.”
“No, Dean, no, you don’t need to. You’ve gotta take care of that scarecrow thing. I’ll come to you.”
“Well, I’m on my way to a local community college to check this out. But Ross’ll be hanging around Burkitsville a bit longer, undercover.”
Sam snorts, mouth creasing in amusement. “Ross? Undercover?”
“Yeah. Uh, maybe you should get your ass over here stat, huh?”
Sam smiles, he feels lighter, a cold knot uncoiling in his stomach. “Okay, and uh, thanks, man.” He snaps his phone shut before Dean can respond, not wanting to hear his brother’s stilted thanks. He gets to his feet slowly, darting a look at the blonde girl, Meg. She’s awake and regarding him with a strange, wry expression on her face. He smiles awkwardly. “Oh, uh, hey. Sorry if I woke you.”
She shrugs. “It’s a bus station.” She watches him get to his feet, zipper up his jacket and shoulder his duffle. “You going somewhere?”
“Yeah, I, uh. I’m not going to California anymore.”
“Oh?” she raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”
He huffs out another awkward smile. “I just spoke to my brother. We - well, things’ve changed, I’m gonna go meet with him.”
“Your brother you were telling me about?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“The one you were trying to get away from?”
He feels a stab of irritation at her, though really, it’s not her fault, he was the one telling her all that shit, too overwrought and angry at Dean and Ross to think properly, bending the ear of some passing chick with his dumb issues.
“That’s the one,” he gives her a fake smile. “Look, it’s, uh, complicated.”
“Right. Complicated.” She nods her head, giving him that wry smile again. “Don’t worry. I get complicated.”
“Sure.” He turns to go. “Look, Meg, it was nice meeting you.”
“You too, Sam!” she calls as he walks away.
After the scarecrow hunt, they fall into a holding pattern, the three of them. Not talking about Dad, about where he could be, what he might be doing, why he’s in California. But Sam thinks about it constantly. And when he’s not thinking about Dad, about getting revenge, about their latest case, he’s thinking about Dean.
It’s nothing new. Since that night in the parking lot in Athens, since they started this thing up again between them, since then, he’s been thinking about Dean whenever he’s not actively thinking about anything else. But this time, after the big fight, after he almost left again…
…It was that look that did it. The one on Dean’s face when Sam emerged from the orchard to see both his brothers tied to the sacred tree, firing up something in Sam’s gut, restarting his heart like a couple of defibrillator paddles.
“Sammy! Oh am I glad to see you!”
And Sam felt himself melt, wanting to fall down in front of Dean and take his face in his hands, kiss him over and over again until nothing else mattered, until he lost himself in it, the rest of the world and his youngest brother evaporating away to give him and Dean that moment, that special moment of reunion. But he didn’t do that; of course he didn’t, contenting himself with unlocking both his brothers before all three of them were running for their lives from the seriously creepy scarecrow monster.
This time though, it feels like a seismic shift. Because he can see it all now, see the truth. Dean… Dean loves him. Dean loves him so much. Dean loves him more than anyone has ever loved him in his entire life, he’s pretty fucking sure of that. Dean is there every day, larger than life, and the most important person in Sam’s life, the one person whose love he can always count on, the kind of love that isn’t even dented by a chest of rock salt, by two years of silences, completely unconditional, as constant and epic as the fucking sky.
So he thinks about Dean: he thinks about the way Dean smiles, about the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, about the short hairs on the back of his neck, about how vulnerable he looks when he leans over the trunk of the car, exposing that thin strip of neck to the world, so usually hidden behind the upturned collar of his leather jacket, about how when Dean grins, wide and wicked and beautiful, it lights Sam up inside.
next chapter
Chapter 5/?
Author name: sonofabiscuit77
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13 this one
Word Count: 6,202
Summary: Season 1 AU. Ross Christopher Winchester knows three things to be true: that his father, John, is a hero, that he's going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world, and that his two older brothers are in love with each other. An AU-version of Season 1 where The Winchester Boys mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still crispy-fried, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with one another...
Previous Chapters Chapter 1
Chapter 5
There are no more visions for the next few weeks, just a couple more hunts, the sort of routine shit he and Dean have been handling on their own for the past couple of years. And he’s gotta kinda… sort of… maybe… perhaps… yeah… alright… fine… admit that having Sam along for the ride makes things go more smoothly. Sam’s a fucking ace at the research, and Ross is almost getting over Sam bogarting the laptop all the freaking time when he manages to come up with the goods three times in a row.
And Sam’s good with the civilians too, even the too young, too old, too butt ugly ones, Sam doesn’t seem to discriminate. Oh, Ross can be charming when he wants to be, but most of the time, he isn’t, (except when there’s a hot girl involved, and that’s usually for entirely different reasons). It’s one of the things he and Dean usually suck at - prying the intel out of the annoying and dumb civilians - Dean’s better than him, but Dean’s kinda short with people, always approaching things the wrong way, getting people’s backs up, not his fault, just the way he is.
Sammy though… whoa, Sam just does that sympathy face and they’re spilling their guts all over him, like they can’t wait to let it all out. Even afterwards, when Ross is all for getting the fuck out of there, Sam’s insisting on going back and making nice and getting closure. Yeah, okay, so he gets that finding out that ghosts and spirits and demons actually exist must be a pretty fucking big kick in the pants, but he’s been dealing with it his entire life, these people need to stop acting so fucking precious and get over it. Seriously.
“Man, your eyes are like a Jedi power,” Dean says with this admiring look in his face when Sam rejoins them at the coffee shop with the exact location of the little spirit dude’s grave. “You got that old broad to spill all that?”
Sam shrugs, but he’s doing a shitty job of hiding how pleased he is with himself. “You just gotta know what to say, Dean.”
“Yeah? So, what’s that then?”
“Ahh, well, that’s the thing,” says Sam smugly.
Ross wants to scoff, roll his eyes at Sam’s smug face, but Dean’s smiling at Sam from over the rim of his coffee mug, mouth curving up in that slow, fond way when he takes the piece of paper from Sam’s hand, their fingers brushing together just a tad too long. Ross sips his coffee, feels something seize up in his chest as he watches them trade looks across the table. He feels uneasy, a cold stab of something that he knows, he just knows, and he could pick up on it if he wanted, but -
It’s not fucking fair; things have been good the last few weeks. Dean’s been acting like he’s almost happy, and Sam’s less whiny and emo than usual, both of which make the life of Ross Winchester a lot less fucking miserable than usual. And if it’s all just because… because Dean and Sam are back doing that again, if it’s because -
He doesn’t want to know, he decides, he’s not gonna obsess about the how and the why and the secret fucking smiles and the soulful looks, cause things have been good between them, and they’re doing their thing, saving people and killing monsters, and Dad’s out there somewhere, and they’re going to find him.
A few days later, they’re not on a job, and things are not good. Back when it was just him and Dean, it was when they weren’t working a job that shit used to hit the fan. They’d start bitching at each other, pitching fits over each other’s stupid-ass habits and the really fucking annoying way Dean always ordered pizza with olives, even though he totally knew that Ross fucking hated olives, or the way he never hung his damn towels up after showering, so by the time Ross got there they were always, always soaked. There’d be the pranks and the teasing and then Dean would tell some chick Ross was hitting on that he had fucking herpes for fuck’s sake, and they’d end up screaming insults at each other in the parking lot of some god-fucking-awful dive bar in freaking Kentucky.
He and Dean have never fought much, so it was always when things got really bad that it went like that. And one time, one truly horrible time, things did get that bad, and they ended up really and truly fighting, punching the shit out of each other, not in the steady, coordinated way Dad taught them, but blindly and furiously, wanting to cause as much damage as possible, Dean swearing eternal vengeance if Ross ruined his stupid, pretty face and Ross spitting blood at him and calling him a fucking faggot.
He remembers how much he regretted that afterwards, seeing the locked-down, cold look on Dean’s face, remembering how he stumbled over apologies, begged Dean, telling him he didn’t care who Dean fucked, and that he didn’t mean to say it, and would Dean forgive him, please, Dean, please, eyes wet, nose snotty and lips bloody, tugging on the torn sleeve of Dean’s Henley, like he used to do when he was a kid, his head start to break in two because Dean was mad with him, Dean hated him, Dean was gonna leave him…
“God, shut up, just shut up,” Dean murmured tiredly, face edged into exasperation, nose bloody and knuckles bruised, “as if I could ever hate you, don’t be so fuckin’ stupid, Ross.”
He felt embarrassed afterwards, embarrassed for losing it so completely in front of his big brother, while Dean just acted like nothing had happened, like they hadn’t just beaten the shit out of each other, like Ross hadn’t just lost it, called him a faggot and sobbed his heart out into Dean’s shirt.
The problem was that he did care, he did care that Dean liked to fuck dudes. He hated watching Dean with other guys, hated the look that would slide over Dean’s face when he noted a guy’s interest, half-smirk, half-thoughtful consideration and how the guys would respond to Dean, smiling and laughing like they couldn’t believe their luck, and how Dean would dismiss him with a shrug, saying, “This is my brother, Ross. You wanna make yourself scarce for a while, little bro?” As if Ross was some annoying little kid, and not his brother and hunting partner. He’d bite his tongue and walk away, knowing that either Dean or the other guy would be on their knees in the men’s room in less than five minutes, worshipping the other’s cock.
God, he hated it, hated it so fucking much.
“You should try it some time,” Dean would counsel afterwards, smiling to himself, running his tongue over his teeth in this dirty, lewd way that made Ross want to punch him. “Seriously, kiddo, I love women, I do, but when it comes to sucking cock, I’d choose a guy every time, they know what spot to hit, you know?” he’d break off, smirk again while Ross would scowl, bite his tongue on the retort: Is that what Sammy used to do? Is that how it used to be between you and Sammy, Dean?
But Dean hasn’t been sleeping around the past few months, Ross can’t remember the last time he saw him head into the men’s room with a guy in tow, the last time he saw him really lay it on with a chick. Whenever they head into bars now, Dean’s all business, straight to the darts board or the pool table, Sammy tagging along and getting in on the hustle or just standing by to watch, like his Dean’s freaking girlfriend, cheering on his man. Pathetic. Anyway, whatever, he shouldn’t complain cause it just leaves him more time to hit on the chicks without Dean or Sam’s interference, and yeah, it’s not like he needs Dean to be his freaking wingman, this face and this body, the Winchester genes, don’t need no fucking backup.
In a bar somewhere in Phoenix, Dean wins big on a pool game. This time, Sam’s working the hustle with him, blending in as an ASU asshole, while Dean’s the shifty outsider, trying to take the college boy for all his money, none of the idiotic fratboys on the sidelines noticing the same $50 bill passing from Sam to Dean and back again as Dean pretends to lose.
They’re both enjoying it, eyes shining and cheeks flushed, and that’s not just from the rounds of drinks the bystanders keep buying them, it’s also the hustle, the growing pile of dirty $10’s and $20’s in the betting pool on the side of the table, the play-acting between them, the insults and dirty looks, the fake antagonism. Ross isn’t watching them, he’s got his own thing going - Rhona, cute, brunette - just the sort of chick he likes. Anyway, he never gets involved with Dean’s hustles, Dean doesn’t need his help, Dean always handles it on his own, he knows exactly how to play it, how to read it. Sammy never used to get involved either, but now, he thinks he’s gotten good, “There was a bar, not far from my dorm, freshman year, my roommate, Jimmy and me, we used to be down there all the time, playing pool, I got kinda good,” he told them a few months back. It made Dean grin, raise his eyebrows in that dorky way, say, “You think you got a chance against me?” And Sammy’s laugh, “Yeah, bring it.”
There’s a cheer from the pool area and Rhona turns her head, looks over and smiles, “Looks like that weirdo guy’s been beaten again.”
Ross glances over: Dean’s standing to one side, looking pissed, glaring at Sam as Sam collects his winnings. “Let’s go again!” Dean cries out, and Ross watches Sam raise his head, look confused as he stares back at Dean.
“What a loser!” Rhona comments with a shake of her head, “Some people can’t admit it when they’re beaten.” She plays with the straw in her drink, tilts her head at him, “Don’t you think?”
“Mmm, yeah, yeah,” he mutters. Someone else is taking on Dean now, probably expecting an easy ride, fucking idiots. It always amazes him how people never see when they’re being played. A couple of girls are talking to Sam, Sam’s not really taking any notice of them, nodding his head and smiling in that distant way of his that means he’s feeling uncomfortable. He looks up, catches Ross’s eye and grins suddenly, wide and happy and friendly, it’s weird, and for a second he doesn’t know what to do, then he nods, smiles back at Sam, acknowledging him.
“Hey, do you two know each other?” Rhona asks. “You and that big guy? Cause I was just thinking that you really look alike.”
Ross clamps down on the urge to roll his eyes. Yes, he looks like Sam, yes, Sam looks like him, he knows, Sam knows, they’ve had people commenting on it their entire freaking lives.
He drags his eyes away from Sam, looks at her, “He’s my brother,” he says, the words feel weird and heavy, like he’s admitting to something he doesn’t want to.
“Oh,” her eyebrows shoot up and she laughs, “well, guess that explains it. We should go over, say hi.”
He shrugs, a sinking feeling in his gut, “Okay, if you like.”
A couple of days later and things have definitely gone to shit. Sam’s on edge, pissy and moodier than usual, giving Ross the evil eye like he’s the spawn of Satan.
“Dude, seriously, what’s your fuckin’ problem?” he snaps out through a mouthful of bacon double cheeseburger.
Sam’s lips thin and his eyes narrow - oh great, that look again.
“I realize you’ve been hanging out with Dean for ages, but how about keeping your mouth shut when you chew, huh?”
“Hey, I’m right over here!” protests Dean.
Ross opens his mouth wide, half-chewed burger exposed to the world, well, at least to Sam. “Fuck you, Sammy.”
Sam gives him a seething look and tosses the remains of his own burger onto the kitchen table.
“Great, now I really don’t wanna eat it.”
“Well, if it’s going spare.” Dean picks it up with a shrug, devouring it in two bites, and hey, maybe Sam has a point, but then on the other hand, maybe Sam’s just a fucking annoying douchebag. He’s about to say something like that when Dean’s phone starts to vibrate, bouncing along the table with tiny hops and jumps.
Dean picks it up and stiffens immediately, mouth falling open in shock.
“Dean?”
Dean swallows and raises his eyes, he looks worried. “It’s a text. From Dad.”
“What?” He’s on his feet, feeling Sammy beside him. “Dean?”
“Dad,” Dean repeats, still staring down at his phone.
He can’t believe what Dean’s saying: Dad? A text from Dad? Dean’s got a text from Dad? Sam’s saying the same thing, though, staring at Dean with big, wide eyes, stammering out, “Dad? Dad sent a text? The guy can barely work a toaster.”
“Is there a number? Can we call him back?” he hears himself ask.
Dean shakes his head. “No, it’s untraceable. It’s just. Coordinates. 44-89. Ross, get the map.”
He hesitates for a moment before bounding across the room to his duffle, grabbing the tattered and well-used map and spreading it out across the skuzzy carpet. Dean kneels beside him, fingers tracing over the creases. Sam moves to loom over them, his face in shadows from the over head lights.
“Dude, you’re blocking the light.”
Sam moves away, sighing his big ole martyr sigh. “Do you think this is a good idea? I mean, it’s probably just another job.”
“And maybe he’ll be waiting for us there,” points out Ross. He looks back down at the map; Dean’s found the location now, finger pointing over a town in Illinois. “Rockford, Illinois,” he reads. “He could be there.” He feels hopeful for the first time in a long time. Dad’s still around… somewhere. There’s no one else who would send them coordinates like this, no one else who uses that system. So Dad’s gotta be okay, and maybe… he could be there, waiting for them.
“Yeah, and he might not be,” says Sam. “It might just be another hunt.”
“So?” says Dean. “If Dad tells us to go somewhere, we’re going.”
“Since when do you get to take all the decisions around here?”
“Since I’m the oldest.”
Ross can see Sam gritting his teeth, holding back his anger, though exactly why Sammy’s pissed, he hasn’t quite gotten yet. This is the first sign of Dad they’ve picked up in five fucking months; it’s what they’ve been waiting for.
“Doesn’t make you the boss, Dean!”
“Fine!” snaps Dean. “How about we take a vote? I vote we go to Illinois, like Dad wants us to. How about you, Ross?”
Ross shrugs, it hasn’t even occurred to him to not follow the coordinates - Dad’s orders.
“Illinois. Why are we even fuckin’ arguing about this shit?”
Dean turns to Sam, eyes narrowed. “You tell me.”
“Why’s he just sent us the coordinates?” protests Sam. “Why’s he using an untraceable line? He must know that we’re looking for him, that we’re worried about him. Doesn’t he give a shit -“
“SAM!”
Sam’s mouth falls shut and Ross jumps. Fuck, Dean’s pissed. He’s looking agitated too, eyes darting between Sam and Ross like he’s trying to figure something out. He stares at them both for a moment, then he swallows, like he’s trying really hard to calm himself. “Like I said. If Dad wants us to go there, then we’re going there. End of story.”
********************
It’s not the job. It’s just another job, another amongst many, and sure, they’re doing good, getting rid of some psycho freak of a ghost is always a good thing, but -
Why aren’t things different now? He and Dean… everything was going so well, he just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get why Dean and Ross are so happy just doing this. Why they don’t want more. Why they’re happy to follow Dad’s direction, so lamely and blindly trusting.
“How about your brothers, Sam? Why don’t we talk about them?” says the doctor, and Sam stops. He’s supposed to be pumping this guy for information, and about the last thing he wants to do is talk about Ross or Dean, God, especially not Dean, and especially not now.
They haven’t touched each other since Dad sent Dean that text, and Sam’s aching for it. He woke up this morning literally aching for it, his cock hard like diamonds, and nothing to do for it. Dean had gone out to get breakfast and Ross was up and packing, whistling cheerfully and looking hopeful because we’re on the right track now, Sammy, Dad’s out there, and he’s alive, he’ll be there, you’ll see… and Sam slumped back into the sheets and felt sick to his stomach.
“What do you mean, talk about my brothers?” he demands, and the doctor’s eyes narrow in on his face triumphantly.
He remembers that look, the I’ve hit pay dirt look. Fucking shrinks.
This isn’t the first time he’s been to see a shrink, in his first year at Stanford, before he met Jess; he went to see one a couple of times. He was referred by one of his professors, he’d been struggling with some of the classes and they’d suggested it as a requirement for him passing the course. The moment he admitted to the counselor - Dr Santi - that his mother was dead and that his father had disowned him, her eyes lit up, just like this guy, practically salivating over the abandonment issues he knew he had in spades. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him how irrevocably screwed up he was, it was hardly news to him, thank you, John Winchester.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he tells the doctor.
“Why not?” asks the guy with the sort of knowing smile that makes Sam’s fingers itch to punch him.
Dean’s waiting outside the clinic, leaning against the wall, smoking and looking bored when he finally gets out.
“Jesus, what took you so long?”
Sam looks at him for a moment; he doesn’t feel safe talking to Dean right now. He bites his lip and looks away, “C’mon.”
“Sam.” Dean drops his cigarette to the ground and puts a hand on his shoulder. His hand is so warm, and for a moment, Sam wants to grab onto him, pull him close, wrestle him to the ground and grind himself against him until he gets off, just fucking use him because he’s just that fucked-up.
“C’mon, man,” says Dean.
And that is fucking it… Sam twists, fists Dean’s shirt in one hand, other on the back of his neck, pulling him into a bruising, painful kiss, and Dean just… melts, sways into him, teeth sinking into Sam’s bottom lip and tongue in his mouth, groaning like a freaking porn star when Sam pulls away.
“Sammy,” Dean breathes out, eyes still closed.
“Let’s go,” he says viciously, pulling away from Dean. “Gotta finish the job, remember?”
He can see the flash of hurt in Dean’s eyes, and he feels a sudden burst of guilt, quickly followed by vindication. Fuck it, Dean deserves to feel guilty. If he’d just man up for once and stop following Dad’s orders so blindly, start thinking for his self… But no, this is Dean, and Dean believes in Dad, God-like Dad whose Dean’s hero, the sun to his earth. And why can’t Dean just see how incredibly fucked-up that is?
Everything gets much worse in the asylum.
“You gonna shoot me, Sam?” says Dean. He’s laying on the floor, staring up at Sam with wide, guileless eyes, a flare of: I dare you alongside: How could you?
And God, he’s just so fucking angry. He knows that somewhere, there’s some part of him that’s watching this and thinking, What are you doing? Why are you doing this to Dean? But there’s the part on top, the part that evil, psycho ghost has ignited that’s so angry at Dean for being… for just being Dean, for - for caring too much, for wanting Sam too much, for making him feel like this: so desperate and lost and needed. For being Dean, perfect soldier, perfect son, so fucking loyal and selfless and desirable, and God, he just can’t stand it.
He makes a sound with his mouth, a keening, pained sound as he lowers the gun. He feels defeated and empty and he can’t breathe. He shot Dean. He shot Dean with rock salt. He can’t believe that he did that, not to Dean...
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Ross rushes into the room, tackling him to the floor. He lies on top of him, covering him completely, forcing the gun from his fingers. Sam closes his eyes and lets his head thump back against the concrete, lets Ross’s weight sink into him; grind him viciously into the dirt and dust. Ross’s hands tighten their grip on his wrists, fingers cruel and hard, he gets to his knees, straddling Sam’s hips, looming over him, breath hot and sour on Sam’s face.
“You son of a bitch!” he spits, freckles of saliva hitting Sam’s face.
“It’s okay, I’m okay.” He hears Dean’s voice as if from far away. “Ross, it’s okay. It wasn’t loaded, he didn’t do it. It’s okay.”
Ross doesn’t move, for once not immediately obeying Dean, and this more than anything means that Dean is so, so wrong and it is definitely not okay. Sam opens his eyes to his brother: Ross’s teeth are bared in a snarl of hatred and disgust, his eyes dark and bitter and jagged, hard enough to cut steel - Dad’s look of death and fury, and for the first time ever, Sam feels afraid of his little brother.
“Ross!”
Dean’s hand comes out and he pulls Ross off Sam, sending him sprawling to the floor. Dean’s breathing painfully, cradling his hand against his chest, his shirt in tatters where the rock salt rounds ripped through him, and holy shit, did Sam really do that? Did he really just shoot Dean?
Ross holds a hand up to his nose, holding his face and staring at the two of them.
“He fuckin’ shot you, Dean? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“He wasn’t himself,” says Dean steadily, his eyes boring steel into Ross. “Now, c’mon, let’s get this son of a bitch and get the fuck outta here.”
Sam still feels sick, his stomach’s bottomed out, he’s lost it somewhere, lost the ability to feel anything but nausea and self-loathing. He watches Ross patching up Dean’s chest, picking out lumps of salt with tweezers, Dean all the while groaning and gritting his teeth around a fifth of Beam and not looking at Sam.
He hasn’t tried to say sorry. Dean already knows he’s sorry and saying the words again is not going to help. They’re not going to put the three of them back together. Ross is barely able to look at him and when he does it’s with that look, that Dad look of his that reminds Sam why he’s not sure finding their father is going to be a good thing.
Ross finishes up, applying bandages with practiced fingers and a professionalism that surprises Sam. Ross was never the one who did any of the patching up in the old days, but then again, he and Dean have been on their own for a long while, he’s probably gotten plenty of practice. The thought of all the times Ross must’ve patched up Dean’s injuries over the past couple of years makes his stomach heave, the nausea coming again and again in a noxious wave. Ross gets up, throws the used dressings into the trash and tosses Dean a clean shirt - one of his own.
“Thanks, kiddo,” says Dean and his voice is slurred, most of the bottle already gone.
Ross grunts and stalks off towards the bathroom to wash his hands, ignoring Sam as if he’s not even there.
Dean shuffles into a sitting position, back bowed as he struggles into Ross’s t-shirt. He swears under his breath and lets the bottle slip between his thighs.
“Here, let me.” Sam jumps to his feet, hurries to sit on the edge of the bed, hands coming out tentatively to grip at the worn cotton, tugging it down over Dean’s shoulders. Dean’s shoulders are broad, a silvered scar across the right where a harpy clawed him up years before, Sam can remember watching his father’s frowning concentration as he sewed up the yawning gash, his big hands intricate and strangely delicate as they held the needle, Dean biting his lip, holding back his groans, trying to be tough enough to win Dad’s approval. Eight days ago he licked a slick trail over that scar, mouth tracing a line across Dean’s shoulders and to the nape of his neck while Dean shivered against him, murmuring his name over and over, Sammy, Sammy…
Dean jerks away from him sharply. “Dude, get off. I can manage.” He glares at Sam as he pulls the shirt down over the bandages, wincing again; Sam ducks his head and retreats back to his own bed.
Dean slides off the bed, draining the last of the bottle and stumbling to throw it in the trash. He sits down at the crappy kitchenette table, snaps the cap off one of the beers Ross bought the day before.
“Are we not going to talk about this?” says Sam after a moment. He licks his lips, “What I - uh, did?”
“No,” says Dean flatly.
Of course, when Sam thinks it can’t possibly get any worse, it always gets worse.
He should be happy, hell, Dean and Ross are happy. Dad finally made contact, which means he’s okay, he’s still alive. But right at this moment that doesn’t matter, cause he’s not thinking straight, not thinking at all. He’s yelling at Dean, and Ross is standing off to one side, the three of them like an equilateral triangle grouped around the Impala whose engine is still chugging away as if she’s trying to tell them something. He can’t think, he’s so goddamned angry and he really and truly can’t take this anymore. He can’t take the three of them and Dad and their pathetic, claustrophobic fucked-up lives and their pathetic, sycophantic fucked-up ways, their reliance on Dad, always Dad. And there are other things out there, there’s real life where kids don’t treat their fathers like God Almighty Mr. General Sir Yes Sir Whatever You Say Sir You Want Me To Throw Myself Off a Fucking Cliff Well Yes Sir Of Course I’ll Do That.
“I’m serious. I will leave your ass!” shouts Dean and his retort is automatic, thrown right in Dean’s face, instinctive and designed to hurt: “That’s what I want you to do!”
He’s shouldering his duffle, laptop bag banging against his hip, Ross’s voice in his ears, for Dean only, but loud enough for Sam to hear, purposely loud enough because Ross can be a vindictive, little bitch and Dean’s just fucking spineless… family doormat to father and brothers… every Winchester’s chew toy.
“C’mon, Deano, leave him. He doesn’t want to do this, then fuck him. We don’t need him.”
The knot tightens in Sam’s gut, that goddamned ring around his heart that may as well have Dean’s name branded into it, because it’s all about Dean, always been all about Dean… And he feels his chest start to ache, like a physical wound, a phantom pain to match Dean’s, to match where he shot his brother full of rock-salt, constricting so hard that for a second, he can’t breathe. But he can still walk, his legs can still move, so he does, carrying him away from his brothers, from Dean, from the one person -
He shakes his head, pushing the thoughts away, keeps walking, legs moving automatically. He hears the car doors crank shut, the chug-rumble-roar of Dean’s foot on the gas, they’re going, leaving, leaving him… He’s on his own, abandoned, odd brother out.
He huffs out a long breath, tightens his grip on his laptop bag and keeps walking.
Dean calls him first. There was a part of Sam that was always expecting it. Dean is always the first to fold, but there was another part of him that didn’t know, that wasn’t sure, that thought perhaps, maybe this time, I’ve gone too far, I shot him full of rock salt; I could’ve killed him. But the stupid, typical irony of the thing, of their entire dumb situation is that it wasn’t that that caused this current rupture, it was him questioning Dad’s orders, going against The Word of Dad, and isn’t that a far greater crime than a chest full of rock salt to Dean?
“You okay, Sammy?” asks Dean, and Sam can’t help the smile breaking across his face, hearing the familiar concern in Dean’s voice, along with the familiar nickname, though Dean’s trying to disguise it, acting breezy, chuckling over him and Ross being run out of town, but the pauses are long and loaded and that has to mean something.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” he says, and for a moment, he wishes it were true. He wishes he could do this: leave them, find Dad, find whatever got Mom and Jess, get his revenge - get their revenge - end it all. Then, perhaps then, once it’s all over, he could go back to Dean, and tell him -
God, he doesn’t know what he’d tell him, because honestly, would anything be any different? Dean would still be Dean, Dean would make the same choice; he’d still choose hunting and Dad and Ross and everything else that has been all their lives in forever, over him.
He closes his eyes, tries to think, hears himself saying, “No, I, uh, screw that, Dean. Screw everything. I’m not okay. I’m sorry, man, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t’ve -“
“Forget it,” interrupts Dean, using that gruff tone of voice which generally means he wants out of this conversation, that he’s embarrassed, embarrassed for Sam. “Sammy, don’t worry about it.”
There’s a long pause while he listens to Dean breathing down the phone, he sounds so close and really, he is close, only miles between them, thirty, forty miles, that’s nothing.
“You still plannin’ on going to California?” Dean asks finally.
Sam looks around him, the depressing bus station, the blonde girl - Meg - dozing on the floor, and he feels a wave of loneliness hit him, he suddenly misses Jess terribly. The two of them used to get buses everywhere, they never had that much money, her family keeping her on a tight budget and he only having what he could earn and sometimes when he was feeling particularly nostalgic (and desperate), what he could hustle. They overnighted in a bus station somewhere in Oregon once, on a trip back from Seattle where her family lived, curling up on one of the ultra-uncomfortable plastic seats together, her tangled hair a mass of itchy warmth under his chin, her body curled into his own. He’d felt proprietary of her, protective and so much in love that he almost didn’t notice the cold, depressing surroundings.
He bites his lip; he can feel the tears edging at the back of his eyes, threatening to come, he knows if he blinks then they’ll just roll down his face. It’s been six months, but he barely feels as if he’s come to terms with her loss. He hasn’t had chance to really think about her not being here anymore, he’s been too busy, Dean and Ross and the Winchester claustrophobia. Every day bleeding into the next, hunts and fights and bickering with Ross, and God, being close to Dean again, having sex with Dean again, until there was no room for anything else, Dean and the Winchester life blotting out everything as it always used to do, and maybe that’s been the point.
“I - uh. No,” he says at last, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I… Dean, where are you? I can come to you.”
Dean pauses for a second, and when he speaks, he sounds relieved. “I’ll come and get you, don’t be stupid.”
“No, Dean, no, you don’t need to. You’ve gotta take care of that scarecrow thing. I’ll come to you.”
“Well, I’m on my way to a local community college to check this out. But Ross’ll be hanging around Burkitsville a bit longer, undercover.”
Sam snorts, mouth creasing in amusement. “Ross? Undercover?”
“Yeah. Uh, maybe you should get your ass over here stat, huh?”
Sam smiles, he feels lighter, a cold knot uncoiling in his stomach. “Okay, and uh, thanks, man.” He snaps his phone shut before Dean can respond, not wanting to hear his brother’s stilted thanks. He gets to his feet slowly, darting a look at the blonde girl, Meg. She’s awake and regarding him with a strange, wry expression on her face. He smiles awkwardly. “Oh, uh, hey. Sorry if I woke you.”
She shrugs. “It’s a bus station.” She watches him get to his feet, zipper up his jacket and shoulder his duffle. “You going somewhere?”
“Yeah, I, uh. I’m not going to California anymore.”
“Oh?” she raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”
He huffs out another awkward smile. “I just spoke to my brother. We - well, things’ve changed, I’m gonna go meet with him.”
“Your brother you were telling me about?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“The one you were trying to get away from?”
He feels a stab of irritation at her, though really, it’s not her fault, he was the one telling her all that shit, too overwrought and angry at Dean and Ross to think properly, bending the ear of some passing chick with his dumb issues.
“That’s the one,” he gives her a fake smile. “Look, it’s, uh, complicated.”
“Right. Complicated.” She nods her head, giving him that wry smile again. “Don’t worry. I get complicated.”
“Sure.” He turns to go. “Look, Meg, it was nice meeting you.”
“You too, Sam!” she calls as he walks away.
After the scarecrow hunt, they fall into a holding pattern, the three of them. Not talking about Dad, about where he could be, what he might be doing, why he’s in California. But Sam thinks about it constantly. And when he’s not thinking about Dad, about getting revenge, about their latest case, he’s thinking about Dean.
It’s nothing new. Since that night in the parking lot in Athens, since they started this thing up again between them, since then, he’s been thinking about Dean whenever he’s not actively thinking about anything else. But this time, after the big fight, after he almost left again…
…It was that look that did it. The one on Dean’s face when Sam emerged from the orchard to see both his brothers tied to the sacred tree, firing up something in Sam’s gut, restarting his heart like a couple of defibrillator paddles.
“Sammy! Oh am I glad to see you!”
And Sam felt himself melt, wanting to fall down in front of Dean and take his face in his hands, kiss him over and over again until nothing else mattered, until he lost himself in it, the rest of the world and his youngest brother evaporating away to give him and Dean that moment, that special moment of reunion. But he didn’t do that; of course he didn’t, contenting himself with unlocking both his brothers before all three of them were running for their lives from the seriously creepy scarecrow monster.
This time though, it feels like a seismic shift. Because he can see it all now, see the truth. Dean… Dean loves him. Dean loves him so much. Dean loves him more than anyone has ever loved him in his entire life, he’s pretty fucking sure of that. Dean is there every day, larger than life, and the most important person in Sam’s life, the one person whose love he can always count on, the kind of love that isn’t even dented by a chest of rock salt, by two years of silences, completely unconditional, as constant and epic as the fucking sky.
So he thinks about Dean: he thinks about the way Dean smiles, about the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, about the short hairs on the back of his neck, about how vulnerable he looks when he leans over the trunk of the car, exposing that thin strip of neck to the world, so usually hidden behind the upturned collar of his leather jacket, about how when Dean grins, wide and wicked and beautiful, it lights Sam up inside.
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