World's Forgotten Boys, Chapter 7/? - (Sam/Dean - PG13)
Fic title: World's Forgotten Boys (link to the full verse)
Chapter 7/?
Pairing: Sam/Dean, other future pairings
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 8,500 approx
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
Author's note: I'm gonna apologise in advance for the angst-levels of this chapter, but in my defense, it's based on episode 1-12, "Faith", which is pretty damn angsty. But, yeah, I guess I should give a warning for much angst, a lot of bitterness and some schmoop.
Chapter 7
When Dean goes down in the basement in Illinois, Ross’s heart stops. Sam is already pushing him aside, charging down the stairs and yelling. It’s like those moments in Vietnam movies when a grenade goes off and the screen whites out, everyone frozen, deafened by the explosion, until they come to in a shower of gross body parts. But Dean’s not coming to; he’s shaking in a pool of water, Sam’s arms around him, screaming something over and over at Ross.
When Ross finally manages to move, it’s automatic, the training kicking in as he stumbles down the stairs and helps Sam haul Dean back up and outside. Dean’s still terrifyingly out of it, unconscious and pale in Sam’s arms. The kids are standing out by the front door, clutching each other and staring at them with big, scared eyes. Sam completely ignores them, focused only on Dean as he manhandles him into the backseat of the car, barely waiting for Ross to get into the passenger side before he squeals off.
Dean doesn’t look like Dean in the hospital. He looks small and vulnerable and nothing like the big brother Ross is used to. He sits beside Sam in one of the really freaking uncomfortable, beige, plastic chairs in the corridor outside Dean’s room while the doctors do things to him inside. Sam’s perfectly still beside him, like some weird, life-size statue, his fingers wrapped around his knees, all white-knuckled with worry.
Ross, on the other hand, can’t sit still. He gets up, paces up and down the corridor, backtracking past Dean’s room. He pauses outside the closed door and listens to the beep of machines and low, muffled voices.
He's terrified, truly terrified, and he can't stop worrying about what he's gonna do if Dean dies. It's fucked up and selfish of him, but he doesn't know what he'd do without Dean. He knows he's got Dad, and yeah, there's Sam too, but he and Sammy together... just the two of them with no Dean-shaped buffer between them... he'd give it a week, maybe two before they'd fall apart. And Dad. God, Dad is fuck knows where.
Honestly, and this has gotta be the right time for that - for that soul-searching honesty shit - if he’s really and truly honest with himself, then deep down, there’s a part of him that fears that maybe Dad is kinda done with them, that even if Dad did ever come back, then it might only be for a few weeks, a few months before he’d be off again, continuing his epic quest for the sonofabitch that destroyed his dead wife. Dad’s been away from them for so long, and even before, when it was just he and Dean and Dad, when Sam was at school, it wasn’t like it used to be. Dad would leave him and Dean alone for weeks and weeks to work their own jobs, only coming together if it was a really tough case and then, leave them again as soon as they were done.
Without Dean... without Dean there every day, as big as life and as large as the universe, Dean there to ride his ass with training, taking turns who gets the first shower, having each other's backs in fights. Dean there to decide where they go, what job they take, which motel they sleep at, what they have for dinner, even what freaking music they listen to. Dean there, always beside him, always taking the decisions - the tough ones and the easy ones - Dean there to earn the money, run the scams, always with a plan and if not a plan, then an escape route.
God, there is nothing, no place, no part, no fucking inch of his life where Dean isn't present. They do everything together, they always have. Dean taught him how to drive, how to shave, how to pick up chicks, how to boil a goddamn egg, even how to piss standing up, all that normal everyday kinda shit - all of that - he got from Dean. And now, he might not be around... What will he do without him? Seriously, what the fuck is he going to do without Dean?
He can see now that he's failed, that Ross Winchester Fails At Life. All those years when he thought he was right and Sammy was wrong, he had it all totally screwed up, cause he was the one who was in the wrong, while Sam got it, Sam knew. Ross has never had to survive on his own, never truly had to become “his own person” and all that Oprah-style bullshit, never had to think for himself, not really. And he has to give his middle brother some credit here, because Sam… he left, he left their family, and he went somewhere on his own, somewhere where he had to make his own decisions, where there wasn’t Dean or Dad to tell him what to do, no Dean or Dad to look after him. He’s never really gotten this before - what Sam did when he abandoned them - because how the fuck did Sam manage on his own? He doesn’t know, he knows, like, absolutely nothing about Sam’s life at Stanford, Sam’s not exactly been all care-and-share with the details since they've been on the road together, and let’s face it, even if he had been sharing, then Ross probably wouldn’t’ve listened, but he needs to know now, he needs to understand how Sam did it.
He raises his head and shoots a quick glance at his brother. Sam’s lips are pressed so tightly together with nerves and worry that they’ve almost disappeared; his eyes pink and bloodshot and dry, hair greasy and disgusting. He probably just looks as bad, both of them haven’t slept or showered since… Jesus, two days, three? He doesn’t know, time’s kinda become meaningless. There are lines either side of Sam’s mouth, cut into his cheeks where his dimples usually go - those dimples that are, like, virtually identical to the ones on Ross’s own face - except there’s no dimples on Sammy's face right now, just worry and exhaustion.
Sam loves Dean, he thinks, Sam loves Dean as much as he does, of that he's completely sure, but Sam did leave, Sam left Dean and he coped. He coped really fucking well - acing the college thing and dating that hot girlfriend of his, Lovely Jessica. He feels a twinge of sympathy as he remembers her, remembers how nice she'd been when she'd opened the door to these two strange guys who claimed to be her boyfriend's brothers, how excited she'd been: "Oh my God, Dean and Ross, wow! I never thought I'd ever get to meet you guys!" So freaking genuine and sweet it was painful. And she'd given them all those cookies, pulled out photo albums while they waited, so happy to show them all the pictures of her and Sam and their smiling, perfect friends, Sam's face smiling alongside, totally unrecognizable as the brother Ross remembered.
He can't see that for himself. He can't see himself in that life, it's so totally alien, like a crazy bizarro-land. He can only see himself as he is, as they are: the Winchester boys. Hunters. Going from town to town as the job takes them, destroying evil and saving stupid cilivians. He knows, course he does, he's not fucking stupid, that as lifestyles go, theirs is pretty fucking dangerous, pretty fucking scary, but it's their life, it's what they've been raised in, it's what they are.
He sighs, thumps his hand against the wall in frustration, bites out, "What the fuck’s going on?"
Sam jerks his head up, but he says nothing.
“I wish they’d just tell us what was going on.”
Still no response from Sam.
“Why are they takin’ so fuckin’ long?”
Sam twitches in his seat, but he continues to ignore him, staring blankly at the opposite wall.
Ross sighs and swings around, paces back towards the end of the corridor, glancing at the dull, motelish art, the bland, cream walls. He’s doubling back on himself, heading back towards Sam, when the door to Dean’s room swings open. Immediately Sam’s on his feet, leaping out of his seat and pouncing on the doctor just leaving Dean’s room.
"How is he?” Sam demands. His voice sounds breathless and he’s almost, like, vibrating. Ross stays where he is, rooted to the spot, a couple of yards away, gaze flicking between them: Sam and the doctor, the doctor and Sam.
The doctor purses his lip and gives Sam his professional sad face, it’s like the one Dad uses on grieving relatives and it makes Ross's heart clench up, the breath catch in his chest.
“I’m afraid it’s not good news. The electrocution triggered a massive heart attack. We’ve managed to stabilize him but his heart is severely damaged. We can try and keep him comfortable at this point, but I give him a couple weeks at most.”
“There must be some sort of treatment you can give him. Something you can do!” protests Sam. His eyes are looking wonky, twitching as if he’s about to start crying, his face no longer hard and tough-guy, but wobbly, like it’s about to melt.
“I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do. We can’t work miracles.”
The doctor gives Sam one last, sympathetic look, sparing an extra sympathy-laden glance for Ross, before he turns on his heel. The look burns against Ross’s retinas, and seriously, he’s about thisfuckingclose to wiping that fucking bullshit sympathy crap off the prick’s face with his goddamned fist…
“Don’t say anything,” hisses Sam, taking one enormous stride towards him. He grabs onto Ross’s arm, curls his fingers tightly around his bicep, squeezing in a way that’s going to leave marks later.
“Listen, Ross, this isn’t it. There’s stuff we know that they don’t. We can. We can fix this. Right? We’re gonna fix this.” He peers intensely down at Ross, eyes wide and burning up, the perfect picture of a totally batshit crazy person. Ross nods, he seems to have lost the power of speech, gulping and staring and nodding like a freaking nodding dog, frozen in place by the blazing, terrifying look in Sam’s eyes and his huge fucking hand wrapped around his arm.
“C’mon,” Sam hisses and he drags Ross behind him into Dean’s room.
Dean’s awake, but he looks like shit, worse than shit, and that’s saying something, because Ross has seen him looking pretty fucking shitty over the years. He feels numb as he stares at his brother, Dean is talking to Sam, banging on about daytime TV in his usual lame-ass Dean way, acting all like this is normal, like this is just another day.
“Hey, you alright, kiddo?”
Ross jumps, gulps and nods, glancing at Dean then quickly away again.
Ross,” Dean repeats, his voice getting lower, his stern, big-brother voice. Slowly, Ross brings his eyes back to focus on Dean. Dean's own eyes are narrowed on him in, as if he's trying to figure something out. Eventually, he looks away, sighs, points a finger at Sam. "Sam, listen to me. You gotta make sure he’s okay, make sure he eats and he showers. And you both better keep up with the training, cause if Dad found out you were slackin’, you know he’d ride my ass, dead or not.”
Sam’s face crumples again and he ducks his head, “Jesus, Dean - don’t -“
“Sammy. I’m totally fucking serious!” Dean interrupts. “You fuck this up, I’m comin' back to haunt you - both of you.”
“That’s not funny,” mumbles Sam.
“Oh come on, it’s pretty funny.”
There’s just silence for what feels like a long time, Dean’s dumb joke hanging in the air between them.
Finally, Dean sighs again, says, “Look, it’s a dangerous gig, we all know it. I drew the short straw.”
Ross watches Sam raise his head, eyes on Dean for a long moment, he can feel the breath catching in his throat, his fingers flexing and unflexing, hear the sounds of footsteps in the corridor outside. Suddenly, Sam spins around, pushes a chair out of his way, legs screeching on the tiled floor as he storms out the room, door clattering shut behind him.
Ross stares after him, stares at the door, stares at the place where Sam has just left.
“Ross.”
Dean’s voice makes him jump, brings him back to himself, he turns to look at his brother; Dean is watching him closely, a concerned crease between his eyebrows.
“Go after him,” Dean says.
The instinct to do what Dean says is one of the first Ross ever remembers, one of the first rules that was ever drummed into him, and if he’s completely truthful, one of the things that has kept them both alive this long. Only Dean is not going to be around much longer, Dean’s going to die in the next two weeks, that’s fourteen days, fourteen fucking days…
“Ross? You listening to me?”
Ross ducks his head, nodding and blinking, suddenly aware of the tears fringing his eyelashes, threatening any moment to roll down his cheeks, make him look like the goddamn pussy he feels like. Why is Dean doing this? Can’t Dean see that he’s upset? Why can’t he just comfort him like he’s done a million times before? He doesn’t want tough love, he wants reassurance, he wants Dean to tell him that he’s gonna be okay, that he’s not gonna die, that that stupid asshole doctor didn’t know what he was talking about, that he’d gotten his charts or whatever mixed up, and that Dean is gonna be fine, hell, he’s just about ready to get the fuck out of this dump and go get some beers...
Dean doesn’t say anything like that though, just keeps talking, voice relentless and hard, as brutal and commanding as Dad used to be, no time for sympathy, no time for reassurance, soldiers in the field don’t need reassurance, they need cold, hard facts, they need orders.
“Go and make sure he’s okay. Listen to me. Sam’s gonna need you. You gotta be there for each other. This is important, Ross, I’m not fuckin’ bullshitting here. And I know I told him the same thing, I told him he gotta look after you. But it cuts both ways, dude. And he’s had enough shit to deal with, with his girl…” Dean breaks off, a sudden quiver to his voice. Ross looks up, Dean looks like he’s struggling, tongue flicking over his lips in that way that means he’s uncomfortable, that he’s wrestling with something, like, almost struggling to keep up this façade, this tough-guy mask. But he beats it, course he does, it’s Dean, and he looks over at Ross with his taking-not-shit look. “You hear me?”
He takes in a breath, his voice cracking and choking, and he's crying, God, he’s really fucking crying now, those goddamn tears flowing down his face, and all he wants to do is sit down on Dean’s bed and press his face into Dean's lap and cry because he can't fucking take this. "Dean..."
"Don't," says Dean and he sounds scarily close to something himself. "Don't do this, Littlest Brother. I'm relying on you."
He nods, daring for a moment to look up. He swipes his palm over his face spreading the hot tears across his cheeks and nose and eyes, like they’re soap, like he’s cleaning himself, cause he’s gotta be dirty, grimy, he and Sam haven't washed, haven't had chance to do anything since killing that rawhide in that basement, since Dean went down -
He nods again, just keeps nodding, that fucking stupid nodding dog again, “Yeah, yeah, okay,” he manages.
“Sweet,” Dean says. His mouth crooks faintly, a weak version of his usual blinding grin. “Knew I could rely on you.”
Ross is the one who finds the faith healer. Well, he doesn’t find it exactly, Jefferson mentions it when he calls him, saying he’s heard some good reports of him; he might even be the real deal, kid, this guy of mine in Colorado, swears up and down he saved his cousin’s life. Personally, Ross thinks it sounds like a crock of shit, and he knows that Dad would agree, but Dad isn’t here, Dad hasn’t even called them, despite the messages he’s left and the ones he definitely knows Sam has.
He feels kinda rebellious when he does mention it, knowing that Dean would call bullshit, that Dad would, but Sam is different, and really, Ross is about ready to try anything. For once, he and Sam are in the same place on something: both willing to put their lives on hold to save their favorite brother, both willing to believe anything, put their faith any fucking where. As predicted, Sam seizes upon it with typical intensity, his eyes going dark and crazy as if he thinks he’s already found a cure.
“These things are usually fake,” Ross tells him, feeling weirdly responsible for the look of hope on Sam’s face.
“I don’t care, we’re gonna try it,” Sam says flatly.
So they research it, cause God forbid they do anything without fucking researching it first, this is Sam after all, a scary, intense, crazy version of Sam, but still Sam. Ross gets on the phone to Jefferson’s guy’s contacts, trying to get the real deal on this Roy LeGrange. Apparently, he works out of a tent in the middle of Nebraska. They’re gonna put the fate of their brother in the hands of some religious weirdo who works out of a fucking tent.
“There’s lots of lore on faith healers,” says Sam eagerly, still with that scary, fanatical look in his eyes. “Recorded instances of genuine healing miracles going back centuries,” he continues, fingers drumming against the side of his laptop. "You know, this might - this might work, dude. You did good, you did real good findin' this." He grins at Ross, a slightly terrifying grin, but still a grin, his eyes are shining and his face is all lit up, Ross stares at him and can't stop smiling back, Sam so rarely looks like this - happy - Sam hardly ever looks like this, so when he does it's weirdly infectious, like, you can't help catching it too. "We might do it," he continues, "we might save him." He smiles again and pushes one hand through his hair, it's gotten even more lank and greasy, and Jesus, he so needs to wash it. Instead, barely noticing, he looks back down at his laptop.
“Dude, you look like shit,” he says. “You should shower.”
“Huh?” Sam looks up, blinks at him. "What?"
"You should shower. I can call that contact of Jefferson's again while you're in there."
Sam hesitates, eventually he shakes his head, "No time for that. Gotta keep lookin’.” He looks back down at the laptop, starts clicking away again.
Ross sighs, "Sam, dude! For fuck's sake, just take a fuckin' shower, already. You'll be, like, five minutes! Dean'll be way pissed if you turn up again tomorrow reekin' like you do now."
Sam doesn’t look up at him, instead, without looking, he picks up his pen and tosses it in Ross's direction, it hits him on the side of the face.
“Ow! Goddamn asshole!”
Sam smiles to himself, but still doesn’t look up.
Ross slides off the bed, cracks his knuckles, "Yeah, well, whatever, you sit there stinkin'. I'm gonna go get a coupla sodas. You want one?”
Sam nods and Ross turns to pick up his jacket. He’s about to leave the room when there’s a knock on the door. Immediately, Sam’s head jerks up, they exchange a quick look, Sam slides his hand out, grabs onto the sawed-off lying on his nightstand, Ross takes his own pearl-handled colt out his jacket pocket. Glancing at Sam again, Sam gives him a nod and holding the gun high, just inside his open jacket, he yanks the door open.
It’s Dean. Leaning against the doorframe, wearing one of Sam’s hoodies and looking… God… looking dead on his feet.
Ross’s mouth falls open in shock and he gasps out, “Dean? What the fuck are you -"
“Never mind that, you gonna let me in?” growls Dean.
Ross swallows and pulls the door open; Dean wavers a bit, but he manages to stagger in. Ross reaches out for him, steadies him with one hand. Sam is already crossing the room, coming up to them, passing one enormous arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“Hey, hey, careful with the merchandise,” bitches Dean as they help him to one of the beds. “Jesus, you two would make some rough-ass nurses.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” breathes out Sam, taking the seat right next to Dean and refusing to move his arm from around Dean's shoulders.
Dean sighs and turns his head to give him one of his unimpressed looks. “Dude, I was not gonna stay at a hospital where the nurses aren’t even hot.” He tries to jerk away from Sam, “Hey, Sammy, you wanna give a dyin’ guy some room here?”
Sam stiffens as if he’s been slapped in the face and he shifts a couple of inches, his expression crumpling in a way that makes Ross start to feel sorry for him.
Dean takes the bed that Sam’s been sleeping in. Ross keeps his bed and Sam insists that he’s not tired, that he wants to look into this faith healer guy some more, that he’s found a site with some video footage. He sets up at the kitchenette table, laptop in front of him. Ross watches him for a while, but it’s not long before he falls asleep, he’s totally fucking exhausted.
He wakes up a couple of hours later, startled awake by something. He blinks his eyes open and peers around the room. It’s dark, and the only light is coming from the laptop, sitting open on the kitchenette table, screensaver bathing the kitchen wall in eerie, too-white light.
“C’mon, Sammy, c’mon, dude, it’ll be alright…”
Dean's voice.
He listens hard, hears a freaky, choked-off sound. Sam, gotta be Sam.
Shit, so Sam’s crying. And he’s not at the table, or on the couch, which means he's gotta be in the other bed. With Dean.
Ross has got his back to them, lying on his side, facing the kitchenette, and right now, he's not gonna be able to turn around, doesn't want to alert them to his presence, let them know that he’s woken up.
“Dean, God, just - shut up, you’re not… you’re not makin’ this easier." Sam's voice sounds flakey, all chokey, his trying-not-to-cry voice. He sniffs and Ross hears the shuffle of blankets, bed creaking as they shift around.
They're probably holding each other, he thinks dully, gotta be, these beds are too fucking small for anything else. Sam’s probably got his hands all over Dean, and Dean’s probably touching him back, running his hands over Sam’s stupid, dirty hair…
“Sammy, I know, but you gotta listen. Please, just. For me, okay? Just listen.”
There’s no response from Sam, so evidently he’s decided to shut the fuck up and listen.
“Look. I’ve only - if. If this doesn’t happen, and if, you know, I buy the farm, then you gotta promise me something, man. Please, Sammy, promise me.”
More rustling sounds and a muffled, choked-off sob from Sam, eventually, he mumbles, “Okay, I promise.”
Dean sighs and even though Dean’s trying to be quiet, trying to deaden the emotion in his voice, Ross can tell that he’s relieved, can hear it in his sigh. “Good boy,” he says gently. “You gotta promise me that you’ll be there for Ross, that you’ll look out for him.”
“Dean - “
“No, shush, listen. I know the two of you have always been - Jesus, like fuckin’ junkyard dogs - and I’ve always kinda felt responsible for that, I know that some of that’s cause of me -“
“Dean, you don’t think that he knows about -“
“Jesus, shut up. No, he doesn’t know. I’d know if he did, he wouldn’t be able to hide it from me,” Dean interrupts hurriedly, his voice cracking. “God, no, that’s one thing, one thing I am so fuckin’ grateful for…” he breaks off, sighs, and Ross hears another rustling sound, then the soft smacking sound of a kiss. He freezes, listens harder, closer, but there are no other noises, no other kiss sounds. So it was just one kiss? Forehead? Cheek? Lips? Somewhere else entirely? The knots in his chest tighten up and he suddenly wants to scream, wants to shout out: You’re so fuckin’ stupid! Why are you so fuckin’ stupid, Dean? Course I know, I’ve know yours and Sammy's dirty secret for fuckin’ years! But he can’t do it, he can’t say it, not now, not when Dean’s…
The blood is thumping so hard in his head that he can’t hear anything, his heart beating so loudly that he’s shocked that neither of them can hear it, he’s only a few feet away, after all. But they're Dean and Sam and they're cocooned in their own little world, and they’re talking again, Dean whispering, his voice intense, talking on and on, talking about him.
“He’s not like you, he’s never been apart from me or Dad, and I don’t know how he’d manage on his own. So, you gotta stick with him. And I know he can be a punk, but you don’t gotta listen to that shit, cause it's all bullshit, and he’s gonna need you, dude. And I don’t think we can rely on Dad right now, so it’s gotta be you, Sam, please, just promise me that. Just that one thing. I'm beggin' you.” His voice shakes on the plea and he’s suddenly silent, breathing getting harder, tighter, more choked, like, he’s truly beginning to lose it, finally letting his guard down and it's all because... because Dean is scared for him.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” murmurs Sam, “Dean, it’s okay, I promise, I promise, okay? I’ll look out for him. We’ll be okay, and you know, it don’t matter anyway, cause we’re gonna fix this. Me and Ross have got it sorted. You know, dude, we can work together sometimes. Hey, you remember that play we were in in middle school? You remember that? Lord of the Flies? We were the twins cause they didn’t have any real fraternal twins in the school who’d do it. And d’you remember how pissed he was? How he used to bitch all the freakin’ time about how we had to share every scene. But we did it, and I think he even kinda enjoyed it, and I enjoyed it. And we kicked ass, we were fuckin' awesome in the end, d'you remember?”
Dean laughs shakily, “Yeah, stole the freakin’ show…”
“Right, right,” says Sam, and he sounds like he’s on the verge of hysteria, trying far too hard with this goddamn nostalgia, heart-warming shit, but Dean’s such a freaking sucker for it.
Ross remembers that play, remembers that bitch of an English teacher, Ms. Danby, making him do it, forcing him to do it with Sam, Sam who already wanted to do it, cause Sammy was such a sad-ass drama-nerd. She told him he was gonna flunk English if he didn’t do it, so he did it, and he and Sammy had to share every scene, match each other's actions perfectly, like mirror images she said every fucking rehearsal, like that was the only freaking direction she knew. It was easy, way easier than they thought, cause they'd already been trained that way, already knew each other's moves, able to match each other strength for strength, action for action, Dad had seen to that. Dean was real proud of them, took a picture of them backstage in their costumes - dressed up like little, skinny savages - with Ross’s camera. Dean came to every freaking performance, and hell, even Dad went to one, Dad and Dean cheering and whistling like they were at a football game when he and Sam took their bows.
He blinks, feels the hot tears roll down his cheeks. Dean’s gonna die, he thinks, it’s still unreal, he still can’t process it… Dean’s gonna die and he’s gonna be left with Sam, and Dean just begged Sam to look after him, because he doesn’t think Ross is good enough to manage on his own. That's what his big brother thinks of him.
There’s another rustling noise, the bed squeaks again and Ross stills, hears one of them climb out of bed.
“Where you goin’?” hisses Dean.
“Gotta, gotta research,” Sam whispers back. “We’re leavin’ first thing, so I gotta work now. And you - you gotta sleep, Dean. You need to keep your strength up.”
Dean sighs heavily, and bitches about something, but Ross can’t hear him clearly. He closes his eyes, tries to clear his mind of all thoughts, he’s gotta sleep too, with Dean out of action and Sam comatose with lack of sleep and too much research, one of them’s got to be functional tomorrow, one of them's got to drive. It’s his time to step up.
********************************************
Dean’s pretty fucked up afterwards; Ross can see it in everything he does. Dean may act like some devil-may-care hard-ass but he’s got a guilt-complex as big as Sam’s chip on his shoulder. They practically fucking fled out of Nebraska, after Dean’s touching farewell with the hot, doomed chick, all three of them real eager to put that miserable-ass state a long way behind them.
Dean gets wasted at bars three nights in a row, not even savoring each shot and beer as he downs them without tasting it. But Dean's not going to die anymore, and at this stage that is all that Ross cares about, all that matters. The three of them are still together, Dean's not going to die and things will pan out.
And then, Cassie Robinson goes and leaves a fucking voicemail on Dean's phone.
He made no pretence of the fact he didn't like her for the whole two weeks she and Dean were going out. He's not a good enough person to pretend that he did like her for Dean's sake. She wasn't good enough for Dean, and anyway, it wasn't as if Dean was ever gonna settle with her and stick around in Ohio, or wherever the hell she is these days, and make some sort of life with a job and a house and kids and a family. Dean already has a family, Dean would never just abandon him and Dad and the job. He's a Winchester and he belongs to them. So what was the point? What was the point of Cassie fucking Robinson? And where did she get off dumping Dean in the end anyway? Fucking bitch.
"Believe me, she wouldn't leave a message unless she really needed us," says Dean with a look on his face that Ross doesn’t like one bit.
He scowls, glances between Dean and Sam who looks completely confused. "I don't think we should go there," he tells them.
"This isn't up for negotiation, Ross."
"What? Yes it is! Remember what happened before? Remember what you were like?"
"What? What happened?" interrupts Sam.
Dean grits his teeth and rounds on Ross. "What happened before was none of your goddamned business! And I'm not gonna talk about this. We're going to Missouri."
He slams the door as he gets into the car, and that, more than anything, means that he's pissed because Dean would never hurt his baby like that. Sam looks at Ross again. "What's going on?"
"Some - bitch that he was seein'," grits out Ross. "She dumped his ass and he was, like, fuckin' heartbroken for months, ‘cept now she suddenly decides she needs our help."
Sam looks shocked, though, seriously, what the fuck did he think this was about?
"Dean was seeing someone?"
"Yeah. We were in Ohio, on this job 'bout a year, 18 months ago and he met this girl - Cassie - and I think he was kinda serious about her, cause he told her - he broke the fuckin' rule and he told her about the job, about what we do. Bitch thought he was crazy and kicked his ass to the curb."
"What?" Sam shakes his head in disbelief and leans down to pull the driver's door open to look at Dean. "Dean? Did you tell her about us? About what we did?" Dean gets out the car with a pissed-off huff, pushing Sam away in annoyance, but Sam's not done, following him and shouting: "The one rule! The one thing we were never supposed to tell anyone. We do what we do and we shut up about it! I didn't tell Jessica, and I was with her for a year and a half, and you go and tell this girl from Ohio -"
"Stay out of it, Sam!" Dean yells, shooting death-glares across the roof of the car at Ross.
But Sammy's on a role, shaking his head, voice trembling in anger, "I can't believe you. I lied to Jess for months-"
"Did I ask you to do that?" demands Dean. "Did anyone ask you to do that? You were gone, Sam! You left this family! We didn't know what you were doing. You could've told anyone any fuckin’ thing you wanted - it was your decision not to! Don't you dare go layin’ this shit on me!"
Sam's mouth falls open in shock and Dean's seething, face all red, and Jesus, he's really fucking pissed, the two of them staring and glaring and totally un-fucking-aware of anything else in the goddamned world, and whoa, this so isn't about Cassie or about Sam's girl.
"You told a stranger about us?" Sam repeats, "Some girl you barely knew and you told her -"
Dean interrupts him with a tight, nasty-sounding laugh and Ross is suddenly very pleased that he's not the one in Sam's place right now.
"Oh, dude, yeah, I get it - I see - I see what this is."
"What? What is this, Dean?" Sam advances on Dean, getting right into his face and looming over him, and Jesus, Sam is tall.
Dean gets a hand between them, places it on Sam's chest, shoves him backwards. "Get outta my space, Sam."
"What? You afraid I might do something to you?" taunts Sam and he crowds up against Dean again, pushes him up against the side of the car, pinning him there. "Don't be afraid of me, Dean. This is just me, Sammy, your little brother. You know me, you know me really fuckin’ well.”
Ross feels his mouth go dry; he can't see Dean's face from this angle, just the back of his head and the dark, burning look in Sam's eyes which, man, is really fucking scary. Dean and Sam are completely still, Sam's eyes boring into Dean, his hands locked on Dean's shoulders where he's pressing him up against the car, both of them breathing loudly in the ominous silence. Ross feels frozen in time for a second, then he moves, rounds the car and yanks on Sam's arm, pulling him away from Dean.
"What the fuck d'you think you're doing?" he yells.
Sam starts at the contact, spins around and stares at Ross in surprise, shocked that he's even there, shocked that there's anyone alive in the entire world except him and Dean. "Ross?"
"Yeah. You forget I was even here?"
"Like I could do that," sneers Sam. "You're always fucking here."
"Fuck you!"
Sam pulls his arm out of Ross's grasp and makes to move away, but Dean's too fast: hand shooting out and grabbing him, pulling him back towards him. "Sammy."
"What? What now, Dean?"
Dean looks up and glances at Ross as if gauging his reaction from something. He looks nervous; he licks his lips and looks back at Sam, staring at his bent head and stupid hair.
"Look, this… it doesn't mean anything. Cassie - it was over, a long time ago. I never should've told her back then; I know that, I don't know what I was thinking. It wasn’t, she wasn’t… Well, anyway, whatever, doesn’t matter now. I'm only going to help cause she needs our help and that's what we do, right? We help people, we save people and we don't judge who those people are, unless they're really fucking nasty and she's not that." He pauses and looks at both of them again. "Got it?"
Ross nods, Sam doesn't say anything but pulls his arm out of Dean's grasp and gets into the car.
It's no better when they get to Missouri. Apparently, Cassie's father died three days ago - the reason that they're even there - except you can't fucking tell from the way she's acting. She’s like freaking Lisa Simpson on a crusade against racism, all oh yeah, it sucks that my dad died, like, three days ago, but hey, look at the way this sweater makes my breasts look all perky, Dean, you big strong guy, who wasn't good enough for me before, but now that my Dad's dead and I'm stuck in my (literally) dead end home town, I need your help, and I'm gonna shove my tits in your face and be all intrepid girl reporter, just so’s you'll wanna sleep with me again.
Yeah, Ross isn't bitter. He just wants Dean to catch a fucking clue, because this isn't real, she doesn't want Dean, not his Dean, she barely knows him, she doesn’t fucking deserve to know him, not after the number she did on him last time. To her, he's just some hot, mysterious guy she saw for all of two fucking weeks: dangerous and cool and possibly psychotic. Except, oh yeah, he isn’t psychotic at all, because it turns out the reason she kicked his ass to the curb in the first place wasn’t a lie and it got her father killed, and ain't karma a bitch, sweetheart.
Sam nods at her with gritted teeth when Dean introduces them, staying around the other side of the car, as if he has to keep some distance between them, as if he’s trying to forcibly restrain himself, and if Ross was any happier about the entire situation, he'd find Sammy's jealous bitch routine pretty damn funny. Sam can barely stand to look at Cassie, seething every time her hand goes out to land on Dean's arm or Dean's eyes follow her around the room.
"Dude, chill out, wouldya?" Ross whispers to him when Cassie leads them into her house. Sam totally ignores him, lips pursed together and disapproval radiating from every pore.
She serves them tea, and it's gotta be about the most disgusting thing he's ever tasted in his life, and man, he knows from disgusting. He spits it out into the saucer when she's not looking, except Sam catches him and snorts under his breath, trying not to laugh out loud. Dean glares at them both, so Ross sticks his tongue out at him, it's not like Dean's drinking the gross tea either.
At least, the killer racist truck is pretty fun. And if he's gotta suffer through watching Cassie and Dean make eyes at each other and Sam vibrate with jealousy, then at least he gets a kinda fun hunt out of it. They've never dealt with anything like it before, and he wants to call Dad and tell him about it, hear Dad's disbelief and joke with him about how fucked up the entire thing is, but it's hard to have a two-sided conversation with voicemail, so he doesn't bother.
He tries to talk to Sam about the hunt, taking the journal from Dean's duffle when he goes off to spend what Ross hopes is his last night ever with Cassie, writing up the shit that they've already discovered. Sam's not even bothering to pretend that he’s reading or watching TV or whatever he does to pass the time; he’s just sitting on his bed and scowling. If Ross blinks then he could be back in time, four or five years ago, just after a Dad and Sammy fight, Dean off somewhere making himself scarce and Sam sitting and scowling on his bed, rebuffing all Ross's attempts at conversation.
It feels weird to be the one updating Dad's journal. Before Dad went missing, he and Dean rarely even got to glimpse at it, it was Dad’s freaking bible, and only he got to use it, all sacred and special. Since Dad's been gone, Dean's kinda taken over, probably just assuming it was his duty, being the oldest and all that, and it's not like Ross is especially clamoring to write all this shit down, he sucks at details and every teacher he ever had bitched about his penmanship. Well, it's tough shit now because Dean ain't here, too busy banging Reporter Barbie, and Sam's too busy sulking, so hey, they can both suck it up.
"Do you think Dean would wanna stick around?" he asks. Sam scowls harder and says nothing; it would almost be funny, teasing Sam like this, except he's kinda worried that Dean might wanna stick around after all. "Naw, he won't do that."
"Why not? He might," interrupts Sam darkly. "If he's really into this girl. And he must've been into her before to tell her about the job."
Ross shrugs. "Yeah, maybe."
Sam seems to bristle even more, if it’s possible, and Ross feels momentarily sorry for him. Sam’s always been a possessive bastard, hell, that’s one of the many reasons the two of them have always had such a goddamned difficult relationship. And then there’s the whole part where Sam loves Dean in that way, that perverted, fucked-up way that meant that Sam was always going to have Dean in ways that Ross never was and that Sam was always going to be first.
He feels a rush of anger, dark and bitter in his mouth as he sips at his beer, staring across the room at Sam, who’s sitting there, fucking moping, eyebrows drawn together, heavy forehead under the sheet of hair.
Sammy can’t share, that’s always been his problem.
He puts his beer back on the nightstand and says coolly, “I think Dean was lonely.”
Sam flinches and looks up at him with wide, startled eyes. “What? But you were with him."
Oh yeah, he was with him, he knows that. But he’s not Sam, not fucking Sammy, not what Dean really wanted. All those months when Sam was gone and Dean would be Dean, but then he’d get that look on his face and Ross would know… he’d know that Dean was thinking about Sam, and there was nothing, nothing he could do or say to make it better. Dean would get that face on, that devastated, heart-broken face, which made something throb in Ross's chest like a physical pain.
“Yeah, but it wasn’t the same.”
"Bullshit!" snorts Sam, but he looks shaken by the idea.
"No," says Ross, “you’re wrong. It wasn’t the same as when it was you and Dad and all of us together, like a proper family. Dean really missed that."
He wants Sam to know, he wants Sam to know how much he hurt Dean, cause Ross hurt, knowing that he couldn't fill in all the gaps for Dean, that he wasn’t that person. But he also wants Sam to know, for Sam to realize what he did when he abandoned them. Sam was a Winchester, still is a Winchester, he was born into this family just like Dean, (not like Ross - cause he was only half a Winchester, he was the interloper), but Sam had the birthright and he didn’t care, he threw it away anyway. He was a Winchester and he was part of their family and he didn’t care.
Sam's gone all white; blinking as if he's about to start crying, his kicked puppy look, and Ross suddenly feels uncomfortable. Sam deserves this, he reminds himself, Sam deserves to feel devastated and thrown aside, because he did it to them, he forgot about them, he gave himself this perfect life, where he and Dean didn't matter, where -
“Dean missed…” Sam starts to say, interrupting his train of thought.
But Ross isn't having that, Sam has to know, has to get that he can't have it both ways, can't have Dean and also have Stanford and Jessica and law school and all that crap that he got for himself.
"He missed you a lot, man," he says forcefully, cutting off Sam mid-flow. "He missed you, like, a stupid amount. And he tried not to show it, you know how he is, always tryin' to show like he doesn't give a shit, but I could see that he wasn't okay, he missed you. Hell, even I missed you on occasion. You were one of us and then you just left us.”
“But it wasn’t, it wasn’t you or Dean. It was Dad, it was -“
“Whatever,” shrugs Ross. "You think Dean cared about that? You think that made him miss you any less?"
"But I! Ross, it wasn't - it wasn't about Dean, or you, man, it was, it was -" Sam breaks off, voice cracking, and Ross has to look up now, has to see what his words have caused.
Shit, he immediately feels bad, cause Sam's shoulders are shaking, head bowed. Jesus, Sam is fucking crying. Again. Great. He made Sammy cry. Again. And he was trying to make him feel bad, was trying to get him to see, but he didn't want this, this goddamn responsible, guilty feeling...
"It was Dad. You know it was Dad," murmurs Sam, "he was the one who told me to stay gone. It wasn't - wasn't Dean..."
He presses his lips together, stares blankly at the screen. He wants out of this conversation now, doesn't want to see Sam like this, this broken up. Save for that one time in Palo Alto, he hasn't seen Sam cry for years. He knows that Sam cried while Dean was sick, when they thought Dean was gonna die, hell, he heard him, that night when both Sam and Dean thought he was asleep, but Sam hasn't cried this openly in front of him since his girl's funeral. Sam's been blank-faced, red-eyed and stoic since then. Like Dad, he thinks immediately. He can remember how it was between Dad and Sam, always like they were on the edge of a fucking cliff, taunting each other with the big drop on the other side, both of them refusing to take the first jump.
"They're too fuckin' similiar," Dean said one night when he'd been really, really drunk, "Sammy and Dad, they're too much alike."
He thought bullshit at the time, no way is Sammy like Dad, no fucking way. But he can see now, older and wiser and all that, he can see that Dean was kinda right, had a point. But he never got Sam, still doesn't get it. Why did Sam leave? Why did Sam hate the job so much? It was what they did: they did good, what they did mattered, they saved people, they destroyed evil. And he wanted to give all that up to become a fucking lawyer? Give up his family? Give up Dean?
He sighs, takes another pull on his beer, glances back towards Sam. Sam seems to have gotten himself more under control, passing one hand over his face, legs bent awkwardly under him.
"I don't even know anymore," Sam says bitterly, and that makes something in Ross’s brain buzz because now he really sounds like Dad, too fucking much like Dad. "All that time, at Stanford. I missed you guys. Hell, I even missed your annoying ass; you know," he breaks off to look up at him and give him a watery smile and Ross feels a harsh stab of guilt. “Yeah. The one good thing, Jess - well, she's dead now, anyway, and I'm back here with you guys doing exactly what I used to hate doing. So what was the fucking point?"
He coughs, looks away. “Jesus, dude, lighten up.”
“My girlfriend died, Ross,” Sam grits out, “she fucking died. You don’t - you have no fuckin’ idea!”
That stab of guilt sharpens and Ross clenches his fingers around the beer bottle, drains the rest of it.
“You and Dean - you’ve never lost anyone like that, anyone close to you,” Sam continues.
“Yeah well, Dad could be dead, so you never know - Dean and I might be able to join your special club, after all.”
Sam shakes his head and gives him a disbelieving look. “You’re fucking unbelievable, you know?”
“I like to think so.”
There’s a moment of loaded silence, and for a second, Ross thinks that Sam’s going to punch him, and he’s silently bracing himself for it, readying himself for a full-on, proper fist fight because fuck knows he wants to do something, anything to break this horrible-ass atmosphere. Then there’s a sound from Sam, a sort of ugly, snorting, laughing sound, and he looks across to see Sam staring at him and shaking his head.
“Christ, you know, you haven’t changed. You haven’t changed a fucking bit.”
“Yeah, well, neither have you.”
Sam looks sober at that and he sighs, big ole martyred Sam sigh. “Yeah, you’re probably right. It’s weird, cause everything… it’s like I never even went to Stanford. Everything here with you and me and with… me and Dean, it’s exactly the same -“ he breaks off, worrying his lip between his teeth, looking conflicted.
Ross’s stomach rolls over, tight flood of heat and (everything here with… me and Dean, it’s exactly the same…) heart speeding up, rush of no, not again, no, not that… in his head.
(…everything here with… me and Dean, it’s exactly the same…)
Exactly the same.
Next chapter
Chapter 7/?
Pairing: Sam/Dean, other future pairings
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 8,500 approx
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
Author's note: I'm gonna apologise in advance for the angst-levels of this chapter, but in my defense, it's based on episode 1-12, "Faith", which is pretty damn angsty. But, yeah, I guess I should give a warning for much angst, a lot of bitterness and some schmoop.
Chapter 7
When Dean goes down in the basement in Illinois, Ross’s heart stops. Sam is already pushing him aside, charging down the stairs and yelling. It’s like those moments in Vietnam movies when a grenade goes off and the screen whites out, everyone frozen, deafened by the explosion, until they come to in a shower of gross body parts. But Dean’s not coming to; he’s shaking in a pool of water, Sam’s arms around him, screaming something over and over at Ross.
When Ross finally manages to move, it’s automatic, the training kicking in as he stumbles down the stairs and helps Sam haul Dean back up and outside. Dean’s still terrifyingly out of it, unconscious and pale in Sam’s arms. The kids are standing out by the front door, clutching each other and staring at them with big, scared eyes. Sam completely ignores them, focused only on Dean as he manhandles him into the backseat of the car, barely waiting for Ross to get into the passenger side before he squeals off.
Dean doesn’t look like Dean in the hospital. He looks small and vulnerable and nothing like the big brother Ross is used to. He sits beside Sam in one of the really freaking uncomfortable, beige, plastic chairs in the corridor outside Dean’s room while the doctors do things to him inside. Sam’s perfectly still beside him, like some weird, life-size statue, his fingers wrapped around his knees, all white-knuckled with worry.
Ross, on the other hand, can’t sit still. He gets up, paces up and down the corridor, backtracking past Dean’s room. He pauses outside the closed door and listens to the beep of machines and low, muffled voices.
He's terrified, truly terrified, and he can't stop worrying about what he's gonna do if Dean dies. It's fucked up and selfish of him, but he doesn't know what he'd do without Dean. He knows he's got Dad, and yeah, there's Sam too, but he and Sammy together... just the two of them with no Dean-shaped buffer between them... he'd give it a week, maybe two before they'd fall apart. And Dad. God, Dad is fuck knows where.
Honestly, and this has gotta be the right time for that - for that soul-searching honesty shit - if he’s really and truly honest with himself, then deep down, there’s a part of him that fears that maybe Dad is kinda done with them, that even if Dad did ever come back, then it might only be for a few weeks, a few months before he’d be off again, continuing his epic quest for the sonofabitch that destroyed his dead wife. Dad’s been away from them for so long, and even before, when it was just he and Dean and Dad, when Sam was at school, it wasn’t like it used to be. Dad would leave him and Dean alone for weeks and weeks to work their own jobs, only coming together if it was a really tough case and then, leave them again as soon as they were done.
Without Dean... without Dean there every day, as big as life and as large as the universe, Dean there to ride his ass with training, taking turns who gets the first shower, having each other's backs in fights. Dean there to decide where they go, what job they take, which motel they sleep at, what they have for dinner, even what freaking music they listen to. Dean there, always beside him, always taking the decisions - the tough ones and the easy ones - Dean there to earn the money, run the scams, always with a plan and if not a plan, then an escape route.
God, there is nothing, no place, no part, no fucking inch of his life where Dean isn't present. They do everything together, they always have. Dean taught him how to drive, how to shave, how to pick up chicks, how to boil a goddamn egg, even how to piss standing up, all that normal everyday kinda shit - all of that - he got from Dean. And now, he might not be around... What will he do without him? Seriously, what the fuck is he going to do without Dean?
He can see now that he's failed, that Ross Winchester Fails At Life. All those years when he thought he was right and Sammy was wrong, he had it all totally screwed up, cause he was the one who was in the wrong, while Sam got it, Sam knew. Ross has never had to survive on his own, never truly had to become “his own person” and all that Oprah-style bullshit, never had to think for himself, not really. And he has to give his middle brother some credit here, because Sam… he left, he left their family, and he went somewhere on his own, somewhere where he had to make his own decisions, where there wasn’t Dean or Dad to tell him what to do, no Dean or Dad to look after him. He’s never really gotten this before - what Sam did when he abandoned them - because how the fuck did Sam manage on his own? He doesn’t know, he knows, like, absolutely nothing about Sam’s life at Stanford, Sam’s not exactly been all care-and-share with the details since they've been on the road together, and let’s face it, even if he had been sharing, then Ross probably wouldn’t’ve listened, but he needs to know now, he needs to understand how Sam did it.
He raises his head and shoots a quick glance at his brother. Sam’s lips are pressed so tightly together with nerves and worry that they’ve almost disappeared; his eyes pink and bloodshot and dry, hair greasy and disgusting. He probably just looks as bad, both of them haven’t slept or showered since… Jesus, two days, three? He doesn’t know, time’s kinda become meaningless. There are lines either side of Sam’s mouth, cut into his cheeks where his dimples usually go - those dimples that are, like, virtually identical to the ones on Ross’s own face - except there’s no dimples on Sammy's face right now, just worry and exhaustion.
Sam loves Dean, he thinks, Sam loves Dean as much as he does, of that he's completely sure, but Sam did leave, Sam left Dean and he coped. He coped really fucking well - acing the college thing and dating that hot girlfriend of his, Lovely Jessica. He feels a twinge of sympathy as he remembers her, remembers how nice she'd been when she'd opened the door to these two strange guys who claimed to be her boyfriend's brothers, how excited she'd been: "Oh my God, Dean and Ross, wow! I never thought I'd ever get to meet you guys!" So freaking genuine and sweet it was painful. And she'd given them all those cookies, pulled out photo albums while they waited, so happy to show them all the pictures of her and Sam and their smiling, perfect friends, Sam's face smiling alongside, totally unrecognizable as the brother Ross remembered.
He can't see that for himself. He can't see himself in that life, it's so totally alien, like a crazy bizarro-land. He can only see himself as he is, as they are: the Winchester boys. Hunters. Going from town to town as the job takes them, destroying evil and saving stupid cilivians. He knows, course he does, he's not fucking stupid, that as lifestyles go, theirs is pretty fucking dangerous, pretty fucking scary, but it's their life, it's what they've been raised in, it's what they are.
He sighs, thumps his hand against the wall in frustration, bites out, "What the fuck’s going on?"
Sam jerks his head up, but he says nothing.
“I wish they’d just tell us what was going on.”
Still no response from Sam.
“Why are they takin’ so fuckin’ long?”
Sam twitches in his seat, but he continues to ignore him, staring blankly at the opposite wall.
Ross sighs and swings around, paces back towards the end of the corridor, glancing at the dull, motelish art, the bland, cream walls. He’s doubling back on himself, heading back towards Sam, when the door to Dean’s room swings open. Immediately Sam’s on his feet, leaping out of his seat and pouncing on the doctor just leaving Dean’s room.
"How is he?” Sam demands. His voice sounds breathless and he’s almost, like, vibrating. Ross stays where he is, rooted to the spot, a couple of yards away, gaze flicking between them: Sam and the doctor, the doctor and Sam.
The doctor purses his lip and gives Sam his professional sad face, it’s like the one Dad uses on grieving relatives and it makes Ross's heart clench up, the breath catch in his chest.
“I’m afraid it’s not good news. The electrocution triggered a massive heart attack. We’ve managed to stabilize him but his heart is severely damaged. We can try and keep him comfortable at this point, but I give him a couple weeks at most.”
“There must be some sort of treatment you can give him. Something you can do!” protests Sam. His eyes are looking wonky, twitching as if he’s about to start crying, his face no longer hard and tough-guy, but wobbly, like it’s about to melt.
“I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do. We can’t work miracles.”
The doctor gives Sam one last, sympathetic look, sparing an extra sympathy-laden glance for Ross, before he turns on his heel. The look burns against Ross’s retinas, and seriously, he’s about thisfuckingclose to wiping that fucking bullshit sympathy crap off the prick’s face with his goddamned fist…
“Don’t say anything,” hisses Sam, taking one enormous stride towards him. He grabs onto Ross’s arm, curls his fingers tightly around his bicep, squeezing in a way that’s going to leave marks later.
“Listen, Ross, this isn’t it. There’s stuff we know that they don’t. We can. We can fix this. Right? We’re gonna fix this.” He peers intensely down at Ross, eyes wide and burning up, the perfect picture of a totally batshit crazy person. Ross nods, he seems to have lost the power of speech, gulping and staring and nodding like a freaking nodding dog, frozen in place by the blazing, terrifying look in Sam’s eyes and his huge fucking hand wrapped around his arm.
“C’mon,” Sam hisses and he drags Ross behind him into Dean’s room.
Dean’s awake, but he looks like shit, worse than shit, and that’s saying something, because Ross has seen him looking pretty fucking shitty over the years. He feels numb as he stares at his brother, Dean is talking to Sam, banging on about daytime TV in his usual lame-ass Dean way, acting all like this is normal, like this is just another day.
“Hey, you alright, kiddo?”
Ross jumps, gulps and nods, glancing at Dean then quickly away again.
Ross,” Dean repeats, his voice getting lower, his stern, big-brother voice. Slowly, Ross brings his eyes back to focus on Dean. Dean's own eyes are narrowed on him in, as if he's trying to figure something out. Eventually, he looks away, sighs, points a finger at Sam. "Sam, listen to me. You gotta make sure he’s okay, make sure he eats and he showers. And you both better keep up with the training, cause if Dad found out you were slackin’, you know he’d ride my ass, dead or not.”
Sam’s face crumples again and he ducks his head, “Jesus, Dean - don’t -“
“Sammy. I’m totally fucking serious!” Dean interrupts. “You fuck this up, I’m comin' back to haunt you - both of you.”
“That’s not funny,” mumbles Sam.
“Oh come on, it’s pretty funny.”
There’s just silence for what feels like a long time, Dean’s dumb joke hanging in the air between them.
Finally, Dean sighs again, says, “Look, it’s a dangerous gig, we all know it. I drew the short straw.”
Ross watches Sam raise his head, eyes on Dean for a long moment, he can feel the breath catching in his throat, his fingers flexing and unflexing, hear the sounds of footsteps in the corridor outside. Suddenly, Sam spins around, pushes a chair out of his way, legs screeching on the tiled floor as he storms out the room, door clattering shut behind him.
Ross stares after him, stares at the door, stares at the place where Sam has just left.
“Ross.”
Dean’s voice makes him jump, brings him back to himself, he turns to look at his brother; Dean is watching him closely, a concerned crease between his eyebrows.
“Go after him,” Dean says.
The instinct to do what Dean says is one of the first Ross ever remembers, one of the first rules that was ever drummed into him, and if he’s completely truthful, one of the things that has kept them both alive this long. Only Dean is not going to be around much longer, Dean’s going to die in the next two weeks, that’s fourteen days, fourteen fucking days…
“Ross? You listening to me?”
Ross ducks his head, nodding and blinking, suddenly aware of the tears fringing his eyelashes, threatening any moment to roll down his cheeks, make him look like the goddamn pussy he feels like. Why is Dean doing this? Can’t Dean see that he’s upset? Why can’t he just comfort him like he’s done a million times before? He doesn’t want tough love, he wants reassurance, he wants Dean to tell him that he’s gonna be okay, that he’s not gonna die, that that stupid asshole doctor didn’t know what he was talking about, that he’d gotten his charts or whatever mixed up, and that Dean is gonna be fine, hell, he’s just about ready to get the fuck out of this dump and go get some beers...
Dean doesn’t say anything like that though, just keeps talking, voice relentless and hard, as brutal and commanding as Dad used to be, no time for sympathy, no time for reassurance, soldiers in the field don’t need reassurance, they need cold, hard facts, they need orders.
“Go and make sure he’s okay. Listen to me. Sam’s gonna need you. You gotta be there for each other. This is important, Ross, I’m not fuckin’ bullshitting here. And I know I told him the same thing, I told him he gotta look after you. But it cuts both ways, dude. And he’s had enough shit to deal with, with his girl…” Dean breaks off, a sudden quiver to his voice. Ross looks up, Dean looks like he’s struggling, tongue flicking over his lips in that way that means he’s uncomfortable, that he’s wrestling with something, like, almost struggling to keep up this façade, this tough-guy mask. But he beats it, course he does, it’s Dean, and he looks over at Ross with his taking-not-shit look. “You hear me?”
He takes in a breath, his voice cracking and choking, and he's crying, God, he’s really fucking crying now, those goddamn tears flowing down his face, and all he wants to do is sit down on Dean’s bed and press his face into Dean's lap and cry because he can't fucking take this. "Dean..."
"Don't," says Dean and he sounds scarily close to something himself. "Don't do this, Littlest Brother. I'm relying on you."
He nods, daring for a moment to look up. He swipes his palm over his face spreading the hot tears across his cheeks and nose and eyes, like they’re soap, like he’s cleaning himself, cause he’s gotta be dirty, grimy, he and Sam haven't washed, haven't had chance to do anything since killing that rawhide in that basement, since Dean went down -
He nods again, just keeps nodding, that fucking stupid nodding dog again, “Yeah, yeah, okay,” he manages.
“Sweet,” Dean says. His mouth crooks faintly, a weak version of his usual blinding grin. “Knew I could rely on you.”
Ross is the one who finds the faith healer. Well, he doesn’t find it exactly, Jefferson mentions it when he calls him, saying he’s heard some good reports of him; he might even be the real deal, kid, this guy of mine in Colorado, swears up and down he saved his cousin’s life. Personally, Ross thinks it sounds like a crock of shit, and he knows that Dad would agree, but Dad isn’t here, Dad hasn’t even called them, despite the messages he’s left and the ones he definitely knows Sam has.
He feels kinda rebellious when he does mention it, knowing that Dean would call bullshit, that Dad would, but Sam is different, and really, Ross is about ready to try anything. For once, he and Sam are in the same place on something: both willing to put their lives on hold to save their favorite brother, both willing to believe anything, put their faith any fucking where. As predicted, Sam seizes upon it with typical intensity, his eyes going dark and crazy as if he thinks he’s already found a cure.
“These things are usually fake,” Ross tells him, feeling weirdly responsible for the look of hope on Sam’s face.
“I don’t care, we’re gonna try it,” Sam says flatly.
So they research it, cause God forbid they do anything without fucking researching it first, this is Sam after all, a scary, intense, crazy version of Sam, but still Sam. Ross gets on the phone to Jefferson’s guy’s contacts, trying to get the real deal on this Roy LeGrange. Apparently, he works out of a tent in the middle of Nebraska. They’re gonna put the fate of their brother in the hands of some religious weirdo who works out of a fucking tent.
“There’s lots of lore on faith healers,” says Sam eagerly, still with that scary, fanatical look in his eyes. “Recorded instances of genuine healing miracles going back centuries,” he continues, fingers drumming against the side of his laptop. "You know, this might - this might work, dude. You did good, you did real good findin' this." He grins at Ross, a slightly terrifying grin, but still a grin, his eyes are shining and his face is all lit up, Ross stares at him and can't stop smiling back, Sam so rarely looks like this - happy - Sam hardly ever looks like this, so when he does it's weirdly infectious, like, you can't help catching it too. "We might do it," he continues, "we might save him." He smiles again and pushes one hand through his hair, it's gotten even more lank and greasy, and Jesus, he so needs to wash it. Instead, barely noticing, he looks back down at his laptop.
“Dude, you look like shit,” he says. “You should shower.”
“Huh?” Sam looks up, blinks at him. "What?"
"You should shower. I can call that contact of Jefferson's again while you're in there."
Sam hesitates, eventually he shakes his head, "No time for that. Gotta keep lookin’.” He looks back down at the laptop, starts clicking away again.
Ross sighs, "Sam, dude! For fuck's sake, just take a fuckin' shower, already. You'll be, like, five minutes! Dean'll be way pissed if you turn up again tomorrow reekin' like you do now."
Sam doesn’t look up at him, instead, without looking, he picks up his pen and tosses it in Ross's direction, it hits him on the side of the face.
“Ow! Goddamn asshole!”
Sam smiles to himself, but still doesn’t look up.
Ross slides off the bed, cracks his knuckles, "Yeah, well, whatever, you sit there stinkin'. I'm gonna go get a coupla sodas. You want one?”
Sam nods and Ross turns to pick up his jacket. He’s about to leave the room when there’s a knock on the door. Immediately, Sam’s head jerks up, they exchange a quick look, Sam slides his hand out, grabs onto the sawed-off lying on his nightstand, Ross takes his own pearl-handled colt out his jacket pocket. Glancing at Sam again, Sam gives him a nod and holding the gun high, just inside his open jacket, he yanks the door open.
It’s Dean. Leaning against the doorframe, wearing one of Sam’s hoodies and looking… God… looking dead on his feet.
Ross’s mouth falls open in shock and he gasps out, “Dean? What the fuck are you -"
“Never mind that, you gonna let me in?” growls Dean.
Ross swallows and pulls the door open; Dean wavers a bit, but he manages to stagger in. Ross reaches out for him, steadies him with one hand. Sam is already crossing the room, coming up to them, passing one enormous arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“Hey, hey, careful with the merchandise,” bitches Dean as they help him to one of the beds. “Jesus, you two would make some rough-ass nurses.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” breathes out Sam, taking the seat right next to Dean and refusing to move his arm from around Dean's shoulders.
Dean sighs and turns his head to give him one of his unimpressed looks. “Dude, I was not gonna stay at a hospital where the nurses aren’t even hot.” He tries to jerk away from Sam, “Hey, Sammy, you wanna give a dyin’ guy some room here?”
Sam stiffens as if he’s been slapped in the face and he shifts a couple of inches, his expression crumpling in a way that makes Ross start to feel sorry for him.
Dean takes the bed that Sam’s been sleeping in. Ross keeps his bed and Sam insists that he’s not tired, that he wants to look into this faith healer guy some more, that he’s found a site with some video footage. He sets up at the kitchenette table, laptop in front of him. Ross watches him for a while, but it’s not long before he falls asleep, he’s totally fucking exhausted.
He wakes up a couple of hours later, startled awake by something. He blinks his eyes open and peers around the room. It’s dark, and the only light is coming from the laptop, sitting open on the kitchenette table, screensaver bathing the kitchen wall in eerie, too-white light.
“C’mon, Sammy, c’mon, dude, it’ll be alright…”
Dean's voice.
He listens hard, hears a freaky, choked-off sound. Sam, gotta be Sam.
Shit, so Sam’s crying. And he’s not at the table, or on the couch, which means he's gotta be in the other bed. With Dean.
Ross has got his back to them, lying on his side, facing the kitchenette, and right now, he's not gonna be able to turn around, doesn't want to alert them to his presence, let them know that he’s woken up.
“Dean, God, just - shut up, you’re not… you’re not makin’ this easier." Sam's voice sounds flakey, all chokey, his trying-not-to-cry voice. He sniffs and Ross hears the shuffle of blankets, bed creaking as they shift around.
They're probably holding each other, he thinks dully, gotta be, these beds are too fucking small for anything else. Sam’s probably got his hands all over Dean, and Dean’s probably touching him back, running his hands over Sam’s stupid, dirty hair…
“Sammy, I know, but you gotta listen. Please, just. For me, okay? Just listen.”
There’s no response from Sam, so evidently he’s decided to shut the fuck up and listen.
“Look. I’ve only - if. If this doesn’t happen, and if, you know, I buy the farm, then you gotta promise me something, man. Please, Sammy, promise me.”
More rustling sounds and a muffled, choked-off sob from Sam, eventually, he mumbles, “Okay, I promise.”
Dean sighs and even though Dean’s trying to be quiet, trying to deaden the emotion in his voice, Ross can tell that he’s relieved, can hear it in his sigh. “Good boy,” he says gently. “You gotta promise me that you’ll be there for Ross, that you’ll look out for him.”
“Dean - “
“No, shush, listen. I know the two of you have always been - Jesus, like fuckin’ junkyard dogs - and I’ve always kinda felt responsible for that, I know that some of that’s cause of me -“
“Dean, you don’t think that he knows about -“
“Jesus, shut up. No, he doesn’t know. I’d know if he did, he wouldn’t be able to hide it from me,” Dean interrupts hurriedly, his voice cracking. “God, no, that’s one thing, one thing I am so fuckin’ grateful for…” he breaks off, sighs, and Ross hears another rustling sound, then the soft smacking sound of a kiss. He freezes, listens harder, closer, but there are no other noises, no other kiss sounds. So it was just one kiss? Forehead? Cheek? Lips? Somewhere else entirely? The knots in his chest tighten up and he suddenly wants to scream, wants to shout out: You’re so fuckin’ stupid! Why are you so fuckin’ stupid, Dean? Course I know, I’ve know yours and Sammy's dirty secret for fuckin’ years! But he can’t do it, he can’t say it, not now, not when Dean’s…
The blood is thumping so hard in his head that he can’t hear anything, his heart beating so loudly that he’s shocked that neither of them can hear it, he’s only a few feet away, after all. But they're Dean and Sam and they're cocooned in their own little world, and they’re talking again, Dean whispering, his voice intense, talking on and on, talking about him.
“He’s not like you, he’s never been apart from me or Dad, and I don’t know how he’d manage on his own. So, you gotta stick with him. And I know he can be a punk, but you don’t gotta listen to that shit, cause it's all bullshit, and he’s gonna need you, dude. And I don’t think we can rely on Dad right now, so it’s gotta be you, Sam, please, just promise me that. Just that one thing. I'm beggin' you.” His voice shakes on the plea and he’s suddenly silent, breathing getting harder, tighter, more choked, like, he’s truly beginning to lose it, finally letting his guard down and it's all because... because Dean is scared for him.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” murmurs Sam, “Dean, it’s okay, I promise, I promise, okay? I’ll look out for him. We’ll be okay, and you know, it don’t matter anyway, cause we’re gonna fix this. Me and Ross have got it sorted. You know, dude, we can work together sometimes. Hey, you remember that play we were in in middle school? You remember that? Lord of the Flies? We were the twins cause they didn’t have any real fraternal twins in the school who’d do it. And d’you remember how pissed he was? How he used to bitch all the freakin’ time about how we had to share every scene. But we did it, and I think he even kinda enjoyed it, and I enjoyed it. And we kicked ass, we were fuckin' awesome in the end, d'you remember?”
Dean laughs shakily, “Yeah, stole the freakin’ show…”
“Right, right,” says Sam, and he sounds like he’s on the verge of hysteria, trying far too hard with this goddamn nostalgia, heart-warming shit, but Dean’s such a freaking sucker for it.
Ross remembers that play, remembers that bitch of an English teacher, Ms. Danby, making him do it, forcing him to do it with Sam, Sam who already wanted to do it, cause Sammy was such a sad-ass drama-nerd. She told him he was gonna flunk English if he didn’t do it, so he did it, and he and Sammy had to share every scene, match each other's actions perfectly, like mirror images she said every fucking rehearsal, like that was the only freaking direction she knew. It was easy, way easier than they thought, cause they'd already been trained that way, already knew each other's moves, able to match each other strength for strength, action for action, Dad had seen to that. Dean was real proud of them, took a picture of them backstage in their costumes - dressed up like little, skinny savages - with Ross’s camera. Dean came to every freaking performance, and hell, even Dad went to one, Dad and Dean cheering and whistling like they were at a football game when he and Sam took their bows.
He blinks, feels the hot tears roll down his cheeks. Dean’s gonna die, he thinks, it’s still unreal, he still can’t process it… Dean’s gonna die and he’s gonna be left with Sam, and Dean just begged Sam to look after him, because he doesn’t think Ross is good enough to manage on his own. That's what his big brother thinks of him.
There’s another rustling noise, the bed squeaks again and Ross stills, hears one of them climb out of bed.
“Where you goin’?” hisses Dean.
“Gotta, gotta research,” Sam whispers back. “We’re leavin’ first thing, so I gotta work now. And you - you gotta sleep, Dean. You need to keep your strength up.”
Dean sighs heavily, and bitches about something, but Ross can’t hear him clearly. He closes his eyes, tries to clear his mind of all thoughts, he’s gotta sleep too, with Dean out of action and Sam comatose with lack of sleep and too much research, one of them’s got to be functional tomorrow, one of them's got to drive. It’s his time to step up.
********************************************
Dean’s pretty fucked up afterwards; Ross can see it in everything he does. Dean may act like some devil-may-care hard-ass but he’s got a guilt-complex as big as Sam’s chip on his shoulder. They practically fucking fled out of Nebraska, after Dean’s touching farewell with the hot, doomed chick, all three of them real eager to put that miserable-ass state a long way behind them.
Dean gets wasted at bars three nights in a row, not even savoring each shot and beer as he downs them without tasting it. But Dean's not going to die anymore, and at this stage that is all that Ross cares about, all that matters. The three of them are still together, Dean's not going to die and things will pan out.
And then, Cassie Robinson goes and leaves a fucking voicemail on Dean's phone.
He made no pretence of the fact he didn't like her for the whole two weeks she and Dean were going out. He's not a good enough person to pretend that he did like her for Dean's sake. She wasn't good enough for Dean, and anyway, it wasn't as if Dean was ever gonna settle with her and stick around in Ohio, or wherever the hell she is these days, and make some sort of life with a job and a house and kids and a family. Dean already has a family, Dean would never just abandon him and Dad and the job. He's a Winchester and he belongs to them. So what was the point? What was the point of Cassie fucking Robinson? And where did she get off dumping Dean in the end anyway? Fucking bitch.
"Believe me, she wouldn't leave a message unless she really needed us," says Dean with a look on his face that Ross doesn’t like one bit.
He scowls, glances between Dean and Sam who looks completely confused. "I don't think we should go there," he tells them.
"This isn't up for negotiation, Ross."
"What? Yes it is! Remember what happened before? Remember what you were like?"
"What? What happened?" interrupts Sam.
Dean grits his teeth and rounds on Ross. "What happened before was none of your goddamned business! And I'm not gonna talk about this. We're going to Missouri."
He slams the door as he gets into the car, and that, more than anything, means that he's pissed because Dean would never hurt his baby like that. Sam looks at Ross again. "What's going on?"
"Some - bitch that he was seein'," grits out Ross. "She dumped his ass and he was, like, fuckin' heartbroken for months, ‘cept now she suddenly decides she needs our help."
Sam looks shocked, though, seriously, what the fuck did he think this was about?
"Dean was seeing someone?"
"Yeah. We were in Ohio, on this job 'bout a year, 18 months ago and he met this girl - Cassie - and I think he was kinda serious about her, cause he told her - he broke the fuckin' rule and he told her about the job, about what we do. Bitch thought he was crazy and kicked his ass to the curb."
"What?" Sam shakes his head in disbelief and leans down to pull the driver's door open to look at Dean. "Dean? Did you tell her about us? About what we did?" Dean gets out the car with a pissed-off huff, pushing Sam away in annoyance, but Sam's not done, following him and shouting: "The one rule! The one thing we were never supposed to tell anyone. We do what we do and we shut up about it! I didn't tell Jessica, and I was with her for a year and a half, and you go and tell this girl from Ohio -"
"Stay out of it, Sam!" Dean yells, shooting death-glares across the roof of the car at Ross.
But Sammy's on a role, shaking his head, voice trembling in anger, "I can't believe you. I lied to Jess for months-"
"Did I ask you to do that?" demands Dean. "Did anyone ask you to do that? You were gone, Sam! You left this family! We didn't know what you were doing. You could've told anyone any fuckin’ thing you wanted - it was your decision not to! Don't you dare go layin’ this shit on me!"
Sam's mouth falls open in shock and Dean's seething, face all red, and Jesus, he's really fucking pissed, the two of them staring and glaring and totally un-fucking-aware of anything else in the goddamned world, and whoa, this so isn't about Cassie or about Sam's girl.
"You told a stranger about us?" Sam repeats, "Some girl you barely knew and you told her -"
Dean interrupts him with a tight, nasty-sounding laugh and Ross is suddenly very pleased that he's not the one in Sam's place right now.
"Oh, dude, yeah, I get it - I see - I see what this is."
"What? What is this, Dean?" Sam advances on Dean, getting right into his face and looming over him, and Jesus, Sam is tall.
Dean gets a hand between them, places it on Sam's chest, shoves him backwards. "Get outta my space, Sam."
"What? You afraid I might do something to you?" taunts Sam and he crowds up against Dean again, pushes him up against the side of the car, pinning him there. "Don't be afraid of me, Dean. This is just me, Sammy, your little brother. You know me, you know me really fuckin’ well.”
Ross feels his mouth go dry; he can't see Dean's face from this angle, just the back of his head and the dark, burning look in Sam's eyes which, man, is really fucking scary. Dean and Sam are completely still, Sam's eyes boring into Dean, his hands locked on Dean's shoulders where he's pressing him up against the car, both of them breathing loudly in the ominous silence. Ross feels frozen in time for a second, then he moves, rounds the car and yanks on Sam's arm, pulling him away from Dean.
"What the fuck d'you think you're doing?" he yells.
Sam starts at the contact, spins around and stares at Ross in surprise, shocked that he's even there, shocked that there's anyone alive in the entire world except him and Dean. "Ross?"
"Yeah. You forget I was even here?"
"Like I could do that," sneers Sam. "You're always fucking here."
"Fuck you!"
Sam pulls his arm out of Ross's grasp and makes to move away, but Dean's too fast: hand shooting out and grabbing him, pulling him back towards him. "Sammy."
"What? What now, Dean?"
Dean looks up and glances at Ross as if gauging his reaction from something. He looks nervous; he licks his lips and looks back at Sam, staring at his bent head and stupid hair.
"Look, this… it doesn't mean anything. Cassie - it was over, a long time ago. I never should've told her back then; I know that, I don't know what I was thinking. It wasn’t, she wasn’t… Well, anyway, whatever, doesn’t matter now. I'm only going to help cause she needs our help and that's what we do, right? We help people, we save people and we don't judge who those people are, unless they're really fucking nasty and she's not that." He pauses and looks at both of them again. "Got it?"
Ross nods, Sam doesn't say anything but pulls his arm out of Dean's grasp and gets into the car.
It's no better when they get to Missouri. Apparently, Cassie's father died three days ago - the reason that they're even there - except you can't fucking tell from the way she's acting. She’s like freaking Lisa Simpson on a crusade against racism, all oh yeah, it sucks that my dad died, like, three days ago, but hey, look at the way this sweater makes my breasts look all perky, Dean, you big strong guy, who wasn't good enough for me before, but now that my Dad's dead and I'm stuck in my (literally) dead end home town, I need your help, and I'm gonna shove my tits in your face and be all intrepid girl reporter, just so’s you'll wanna sleep with me again.
Yeah, Ross isn't bitter. He just wants Dean to catch a fucking clue, because this isn't real, she doesn't want Dean, not his Dean, she barely knows him, she doesn’t fucking deserve to know him, not after the number she did on him last time. To her, he's just some hot, mysterious guy she saw for all of two fucking weeks: dangerous and cool and possibly psychotic. Except, oh yeah, he isn’t psychotic at all, because it turns out the reason she kicked his ass to the curb in the first place wasn’t a lie and it got her father killed, and ain't karma a bitch, sweetheart.
Sam nods at her with gritted teeth when Dean introduces them, staying around the other side of the car, as if he has to keep some distance between them, as if he’s trying to forcibly restrain himself, and if Ross was any happier about the entire situation, he'd find Sammy's jealous bitch routine pretty damn funny. Sam can barely stand to look at Cassie, seething every time her hand goes out to land on Dean's arm or Dean's eyes follow her around the room.
"Dude, chill out, wouldya?" Ross whispers to him when Cassie leads them into her house. Sam totally ignores him, lips pursed together and disapproval radiating from every pore.
She serves them tea, and it's gotta be about the most disgusting thing he's ever tasted in his life, and man, he knows from disgusting. He spits it out into the saucer when she's not looking, except Sam catches him and snorts under his breath, trying not to laugh out loud. Dean glares at them both, so Ross sticks his tongue out at him, it's not like Dean's drinking the gross tea either.
At least, the killer racist truck is pretty fun. And if he's gotta suffer through watching Cassie and Dean make eyes at each other and Sam vibrate with jealousy, then at least he gets a kinda fun hunt out of it. They've never dealt with anything like it before, and he wants to call Dad and tell him about it, hear Dad's disbelief and joke with him about how fucked up the entire thing is, but it's hard to have a two-sided conversation with voicemail, so he doesn't bother.
He tries to talk to Sam about the hunt, taking the journal from Dean's duffle when he goes off to spend what Ross hopes is his last night ever with Cassie, writing up the shit that they've already discovered. Sam's not even bothering to pretend that he’s reading or watching TV or whatever he does to pass the time; he’s just sitting on his bed and scowling. If Ross blinks then he could be back in time, four or five years ago, just after a Dad and Sammy fight, Dean off somewhere making himself scarce and Sam sitting and scowling on his bed, rebuffing all Ross's attempts at conversation.
It feels weird to be the one updating Dad's journal. Before Dad went missing, he and Dean rarely even got to glimpse at it, it was Dad’s freaking bible, and only he got to use it, all sacred and special. Since Dad's been gone, Dean's kinda taken over, probably just assuming it was his duty, being the oldest and all that, and it's not like Ross is especially clamoring to write all this shit down, he sucks at details and every teacher he ever had bitched about his penmanship. Well, it's tough shit now because Dean ain't here, too busy banging Reporter Barbie, and Sam's too busy sulking, so hey, they can both suck it up.
"Do you think Dean would wanna stick around?" he asks. Sam scowls harder and says nothing; it would almost be funny, teasing Sam like this, except he's kinda worried that Dean might wanna stick around after all. "Naw, he won't do that."
"Why not? He might," interrupts Sam darkly. "If he's really into this girl. And he must've been into her before to tell her about the job."
Ross shrugs. "Yeah, maybe."
Sam seems to bristle even more, if it’s possible, and Ross feels momentarily sorry for him. Sam’s always been a possessive bastard, hell, that’s one of the many reasons the two of them have always had such a goddamned difficult relationship. And then there’s the whole part where Sam loves Dean in that way, that perverted, fucked-up way that meant that Sam was always going to have Dean in ways that Ross never was and that Sam was always going to be first.
He feels a rush of anger, dark and bitter in his mouth as he sips at his beer, staring across the room at Sam, who’s sitting there, fucking moping, eyebrows drawn together, heavy forehead under the sheet of hair.
Sammy can’t share, that’s always been his problem.
He puts his beer back on the nightstand and says coolly, “I think Dean was lonely.”
Sam flinches and looks up at him with wide, startled eyes. “What? But you were with him."
Oh yeah, he was with him, he knows that. But he’s not Sam, not fucking Sammy, not what Dean really wanted. All those months when Sam was gone and Dean would be Dean, but then he’d get that look on his face and Ross would know… he’d know that Dean was thinking about Sam, and there was nothing, nothing he could do or say to make it better. Dean would get that face on, that devastated, heart-broken face, which made something throb in Ross's chest like a physical pain.
“Yeah, but it wasn’t the same.”
"Bullshit!" snorts Sam, but he looks shaken by the idea.
"No," says Ross, “you’re wrong. It wasn’t the same as when it was you and Dad and all of us together, like a proper family. Dean really missed that."
He wants Sam to know, he wants Sam to know how much he hurt Dean, cause Ross hurt, knowing that he couldn't fill in all the gaps for Dean, that he wasn’t that person. But he also wants Sam to know, for Sam to realize what he did when he abandoned them. Sam was a Winchester, still is a Winchester, he was born into this family just like Dean, (not like Ross - cause he was only half a Winchester, he was the interloper), but Sam had the birthright and he didn’t care, he threw it away anyway. He was a Winchester and he was part of their family and he didn’t care.
Sam's gone all white; blinking as if he's about to start crying, his kicked puppy look, and Ross suddenly feels uncomfortable. Sam deserves this, he reminds himself, Sam deserves to feel devastated and thrown aside, because he did it to them, he forgot about them, he gave himself this perfect life, where he and Dean didn't matter, where -
“Dean missed…” Sam starts to say, interrupting his train of thought.
But Ross isn't having that, Sam has to know, has to get that he can't have it both ways, can't have Dean and also have Stanford and Jessica and law school and all that crap that he got for himself.
"He missed you a lot, man," he says forcefully, cutting off Sam mid-flow. "He missed you, like, a stupid amount. And he tried not to show it, you know how he is, always tryin' to show like he doesn't give a shit, but I could see that he wasn't okay, he missed you. Hell, even I missed you on occasion. You were one of us and then you just left us.”
“But it wasn’t, it wasn’t you or Dean. It was Dad, it was -“
“Whatever,” shrugs Ross. "You think Dean cared about that? You think that made him miss you any less?"
"But I! Ross, it wasn't - it wasn't about Dean, or you, man, it was, it was -" Sam breaks off, voice cracking, and Ross has to look up now, has to see what his words have caused.
Shit, he immediately feels bad, cause Sam's shoulders are shaking, head bowed. Jesus, Sam is fucking crying. Again. Great. He made Sammy cry. Again. And he was trying to make him feel bad, was trying to get him to see, but he didn't want this, this goddamn responsible, guilty feeling...
"It was Dad. You know it was Dad," murmurs Sam, "he was the one who told me to stay gone. It wasn't - wasn't Dean..."
He presses his lips together, stares blankly at the screen. He wants out of this conversation now, doesn't want to see Sam like this, this broken up. Save for that one time in Palo Alto, he hasn't seen Sam cry for years. He knows that Sam cried while Dean was sick, when they thought Dean was gonna die, hell, he heard him, that night when both Sam and Dean thought he was asleep, but Sam hasn't cried this openly in front of him since his girl's funeral. Sam's been blank-faced, red-eyed and stoic since then. Like Dad, he thinks immediately. He can remember how it was between Dad and Sam, always like they were on the edge of a fucking cliff, taunting each other with the big drop on the other side, both of them refusing to take the first jump.
"They're too fuckin' similiar," Dean said one night when he'd been really, really drunk, "Sammy and Dad, they're too much alike."
He thought bullshit at the time, no way is Sammy like Dad, no fucking way. But he can see now, older and wiser and all that, he can see that Dean was kinda right, had a point. But he never got Sam, still doesn't get it. Why did Sam leave? Why did Sam hate the job so much? It was what they did: they did good, what they did mattered, they saved people, they destroyed evil. And he wanted to give all that up to become a fucking lawyer? Give up his family? Give up Dean?
He sighs, takes another pull on his beer, glances back towards Sam. Sam seems to have gotten himself more under control, passing one hand over his face, legs bent awkwardly under him.
"I don't even know anymore," Sam says bitterly, and that makes something in Ross’s brain buzz because now he really sounds like Dad, too fucking much like Dad. "All that time, at Stanford. I missed you guys. Hell, I even missed your annoying ass; you know," he breaks off to look up at him and give him a watery smile and Ross feels a harsh stab of guilt. “Yeah. The one good thing, Jess - well, she's dead now, anyway, and I'm back here with you guys doing exactly what I used to hate doing. So what was the fucking point?"
He coughs, looks away. “Jesus, dude, lighten up.”
“My girlfriend died, Ross,” Sam grits out, “she fucking died. You don’t - you have no fuckin’ idea!”
That stab of guilt sharpens and Ross clenches his fingers around the beer bottle, drains the rest of it.
“You and Dean - you’ve never lost anyone like that, anyone close to you,” Sam continues.
“Yeah well, Dad could be dead, so you never know - Dean and I might be able to join your special club, after all.”
Sam shakes his head and gives him a disbelieving look. “You’re fucking unbelievable, you know?”
“I like to think so.”
There’s a moment of loaded silence, and for a second, Ross thinks that Sam’s going to punch him, and he’s silently bracing himself for it, readying himself for a full-on, proper fist fight because fuck knows he wants to do something, anything to break this horrible-ass atmosphere. Then there’s a sound from Sam, a sort of ugly, snorting, laughing sound, and he looks across to see Sam staring at him and shaking his head.
“Christ, you know, you haven’t changed. You haven’t changed a fucking bit.”
“Yeah, well, neither have you.”
Sam looks sober at that and he sighs, big ole martyred Sam sigh. “Yeah, you’re probably right. It’s weird, cause everything… it’s like I never even went to Stanford. Everything here with you and me and with… me and Dean, it’s exactly the same -“ he breaks off, worrying his lip between his teeth, looking conflicted.
Ross’s stomach rolls over, tight flood of heat and (everything here with… me and Dean, it’s exactly the same…) heart speeding up, rush of no, not again, no, not that… in his head.
(…everything here with… me and Dean, it’s exactly the same…)
Exactly the same.
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