World's Forgotten Boys, Chapter 8/? (Sam/Dean, R)
Fic title: World's Forgotten Boys
Chapter 8/?
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 9,500 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
Chapter 8
No one says anything as they leave Cape Giradeau behind, but Ross can practically feel the resentment bleeding off of Sam as the two of them watch Dean kiss Cassie goodbye. The kiss looks pretty fucking tame to him, more of a friends or old acquaintances sort of a deal than a hot, humping see you never, Ross knows a good kiss when he sees one and this ain't it. In fact, watching the two of them like this - no freaking tongue for fuck's sake - he gets to thinking that maybe Dean wasn’t getting horizontal with her at all last night, which begs the question: what the fuck was Dean doing with her last night? Talking? Un-fucking-likely. Playing chess? Ha! But Dean seems weirdly off with her, obviously eager to get away while she’s the one keeping him with questions and held-tilts and tinkling laughs that sound like nails on a chalkboard.
But Sam’s too busy getting off on the drama of it all to see Dean’s obvious reluctance, all pissy and hurt, and so fucking jealous it’s actually not even funny anymore, especially when it’s three hundred miles later and he’s still brooding in the back seat like some sulky teenager playing hard to get, staring out the window and ignoring all their attempts to include him in the conversation.
When they finally stop for the night, Ross doesn’t ask before he lifts the car keys from Dean’s pocket and heads off to the nearest bar. Dean will be pissed - taking the car without asking and all that bullshit - but fuck, it’s the family car, not just Dean’s. Okay, so Dad technically gave it to Dean all those years ago, but whatever, they only have the one fucking car between the three of them, it’s not like he has a choice. He’s grinding his teeth before he even notices it, irritated by yet another painful day in the car on their never-ending road trip of brotherly angst. He’s so fed up of his brothers, that right now, he’d happily take off for a mini vacation on his own, leaving the two of them to their own fucked-up issues and their own fucked-up obsession with each other.
Before, he kinda had the idea at the back of his mind that he wouldn’t let them get into this shit again, that he’d make himself a constant, cock-blocking presence. But now, he finds it hard to even care, and right now - at this exact moment - he feels too suffocated, too claustrophobic and just too fucking dead-eyed to even give a shit. Because he knows… he can feel it, whatever it is between Dean and Sam - it’s about to start again, if it hasn’t already, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Oh, maybe, he could plead with Dean, tell him that he knows, tell him how he feels about it, but in the end, it wouldn’t stop them. Dean might give it his best college try because Dean loves him and Dean is the king of guilt and sacrifice, but he’d fail, because Dean loves Sam more than anything else.
Sam’s gonna win because he always wins. He comes first for Dean and he always has. Even for those years when Sam wasn’t even there, he was still winning. Dean could never hide anything from Ross, and his feelings for Sam were far too epic to ever slide under anyone’s radar, especially someone who knows him like Ross does. Ross is too used to being beaten by Sam to really give a shit; he may as well just let them dig their own fucking graves, because he just doesn’t care anymore.
He sits in the bar and drinks and thinks about what they’re probably doing right now. They’ll have realized that he’s gone by now, car missing and all that, so they’re probably taking advantage already. Will Sam have Dean backed up against that crazy wallpapered wall? Or maybe bent over the stained couch? Or the flimsy Formica table? Or will it be Dean bending Sammy over something? Or on his knees to worship Sam’s big cock?
He huffs out a humorless breath, the combo of acid and bile and beer harsh and burning in his throat. He signals for the bartender, this time pointing to the bottle of JD behind the counter. The guy snorts and gives him an unimpressed look.
“I.D?”
Ross sneers at him and tosses one of his fakes onto the bar between them. The guy picks it up and spends far too long staring at it, eyes narrowing in on Ross in an unfriendly grimace.
“Now can I have that drink?” he snaps.
The guy grunts and pours it for him, taking the money from him with a glare.
Ross scowls and fingers his phone in his jeans’ pocket. He could call Dad. Right now. He could call him up and leave him a message. He could tell him the truth: Dad, you’d never guess what? You’d never guess what your two boys are doing right now? Dean and Sam, yeah, do you remember them? Do you remember any of us? Well, they’re fucking each other right now. Oh yeah, fucking each other, having sex, making the beast with two backs, you know, you remember how it goes? Like that time you knocked up that chick in Austin - yeah, my mom, remember that, Dad? Remember me, Dad? Your son? Ross? Yeah, well, you know what the really fucking funny thing is? You know what’s really so goddamn hilarious? They’ve been doing it for years, Dad. Yeah, six fucking years. Since Sammy was sixteen, maybe even before then… And you didn’t know, you never knew a fucking thing. Or perhaps you did, perhaps you suspected. I always thought that - that you suspected. But you never said anything. Why didn’t you say anything, Dad? Don’t you give a fuck? Don’t you care about us anymore?
But Dad won’t answer. Dad probably won’t even hear the message. It’ll sit in his voicemail box for a month, or however long unheard messages sit there, and then it’ll get deleted.
He waves to the bartender for another drink, and this time, after the guy’s grudgingly filled him up; he twists in his seat to face the crowd. It’s a young crowd. College students, he thinks with a sneer, probably even younger. He didn’t notice that before, too busy sitting and brooding, but Jesus, he’s not fucking Sam, he’s Ross Winchester, and when Ross Winchester is pissed, Ross Winchester gets laid.
Her name is Rebecca, and she’s a high school junior, but for once, he doesn’t give a shit. He can hear Dean’s voice in his head, warnings about jailbait and statutory rape, but what the fuck ever, if Dean can fuck his younger brother then Ross can damn well fuck a high school junior, at least they’re not fucking related. They go back to her house, it’s huge, with a goddamn water feature on the front lawn, white marble statues and hedge sculptures, like something outta the freaking Overlook Hotel. She makes him park the Impala half way down the street, looking way out of place in this road of Mazaratis and Porsches. She lets him in around the back, giggling and holding her hand over her mouth, making him tiptoe up the back stairs so as not to wake her parents or little sister. It’s pretty weird, but also kinda hot.
The next morning, he watches her get ready for school, slinging books and pencils into a bag, holding up different pairs of designer jeans against her body, asking him: “This one? Or what about this one?” like he’s her freaking BFF, and not just some random dude she hooked up with the night before.
She lets him out the back again when her parents have left for work so the neighbors can’t see, suggesting that they friend each other on Facebook. When he tells her he isn’t on Facebook, she looks genuinely shocked, Oh my God, no way… But, like, everyone’s on Facebook! How are my friends gonna know how hot you are, if I can’t link to you on Facebook? She looks confused and it’s flattering - hey, she thinks he’s hot - so he lets her take a picture of him with her camera phone.
When he gets back to the motel, Dean and Sam are out. He picks the lock on their room and pushes aside the pile of dirty laundry by the entrance to get it fully open. It’s more disgusting than usual, wet towels, burger wrappings, pizza boxes, empty bottles of Rolling Rock, and it smells worse. He searches for a note and finally finds one tacked to the back of the bathroom door, wilted and ink runny.
Ross, you little shit, if you’ve hurt my baby then you are DEAD!!! I’M NOT FUCKING KIDDING. We’re at the diner across the street.
He rolls his eyes and crumples up the note, slamming the door closed behind him. It takes practically five minutes to cross the fucking highway; it’s stupidly busy at this time of day. He crosses the diner parking lot, spotting Sam and Dean through the window in one of the fifties style window booths. He stops for a moment to watch them, they seem to be deep in conversation, Sam talking and gesturing with his giant hands, Dean with his fork half way to his mouth. They both look happy, Sam’s face lit up, his eyes shining as he talks and talks. Huh, so he’s obviously gotten over yesterday’s epic tantrum of jealousy and lameness.
Sam stops talking and smiles goofily, hand going out to cradle Dean’s face, thumb swiping at something on Dean’s lower lip. Ross feels his heart thud still; Dean’s got a look on his face which Ross has only seen a couple of times before, and both those times… both those times it was like this: Dean and Sam, just the two of them, Dean and Sam, Dean staring at Sam in that way that made him look… reverent, like he can’t quite believe it, as if Sam’s the only thing worth looking at in the entire fucking world. Sam removes his hand and says something, and Dean rolls his eyes and grins at Sam, happy and real. He goes to swat Sam on the arm but Sam grabs his hand instead, bringing it to his mouth and kissing his fingertips, one by one, eyes locked all the time on Dean’s half open mouth.
He looks away, swallowing back the rise of bile in the back of his throat. He feels queasy, the too many shots from last night churning up with the beers and the… God… that - what he just saw, Dean and Sam…
He knew it. He fucking knew it.
He barely notices the traffic, the blaring of horns and screeching of brakes, as he runs back to the motel. He can’t get the lock to the room open this time, his hands are shaking too much or the pick’s fucked-up, or… he doesn’t know what the fuck’s wrong with him, except he really kinda does and it’s not his fucking fault! He gives up, kicks at the shitty, already dented wood in frustration, slides down against the brick wall onto the damp concrete. He brings his knees up to his chest and rests his head on his crossed arms, breathing in the hoppy-gross smell of the beer soaked into his jeans.
“Y’alright there, son?”
He lifts his head, feeling another wave of nausea; some gnarled old dude is watching him. “What?” he snaps.
“I said. Are you alright?”
“Do I look like I’m fucking alright?”
The old dude takes a step back, arms out, all cool-it, cool-it. “Just askin’.”
“Yeah. Well, don’t.”
Ross sneers at him as he backs away, lowering his head back on his arms.
It’s about ten minutes later when he hears them crossing the lot towards him, the familiar rise and fall of their voices, Dean’s barked-out laugh and Sam’s deeper chuckle. They sound happy, content and easy, and he wants to get up and punch both of them in the face, wipe those cheery fucking grins away forever.
“Aww, look, it’s little orphan Annie,” says Dean.
Sam sniggers and kicks the sole of Ross’s boot. “Why aren’t you inside?”
“Fuck off! Your fuckin’ fuck-ass lock pick fucked-up on me! Motherfuckin’ piece of shit!”
“You sure you can’t get anymore fucks into that sentence, little bro?” asks Dean, unlocking the door.
“Fuck you!”
Dean just laughs which has got to be about the most annoying thing in the history of ever. Ross kicks the door shut behind him, pleased to see it shaking in the frame, fucking piece of shit cheap-ass motel. When he turns around Dean and Sam are facing him from across the room, both of them fresh-faced and scrubbed and radiating happiness and I-got-laid-good-last-night vibes from every fucking pore. For a moment, he can’t think straight, he’s so fucking angry…
He doesn’t think again, he grits his teeth, takes a step forward, and hits Dean full in the face with the biggest and best punch he can manage.
It floors Dean; he crumples to the ground, blood gushing from his nose. Ross’s fist is on fire, throbbing and aching where he caught Dean in the mouth, graze of Dean’s teeth against his knuckles. He cradles it against his chest, eyes locked on Dean where he’s laying frozen and unresponsive, head upturned towards him, mouth red with blood and eyes wet and dumb.
“You… fucking… son of a bitch!” Ross chokes out. He strikes out with his foot, but Sam’s too fast for him, blocking and tripping him with one of his stupid long legs, crashing him to the floor, winded and aching and panting for breath.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” snarls out Sam, and it’s weird how Sam’s voice sounds to him: so much like his own voice that for a minute, he’s not sure who just said that.
“Sammy, don’t,” says Dean, and his voice is thick, coughing and spitting blood onto the carpet between them.
“But he punched you, Dean! He fucking punched you! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Sam sounds hysterical. Ross swallows back more rising bile, gagging on it, acid and burning in his throat. Dean’s still staring at him, cradling his busted face, not so pretty anymore, Ross thinks viciously.
“Ross?” croaks Dean.
Ross cries out and launches himself again, fucking jumping on Dean, both of them rolling against piles of dirty laundry and beer bottles. Dean’s underneath him like a thousand other practice sparring sessions, but deadly still, not fighting back. He presses Dean into the floor, covering him from head to foot with his entire body, and he wonders bleakly if this is how it feels for Sam, if it feels this exhilarating and this awful to dominate Dean like this, to have him at your mercy. He’s never been the one to have the upper hand over Dean, Dean’s his older brother, bigger and wiser and always in charge, bossy and sure and always knowing what to do. The one who always looked out for him, the one he looked up to, the one he admired… And even though he knew, he fucking knew, it didn’t matter because Dean was still his big brother and Dean was still the only person in his entire life that he's ever been able to truly count on.
He presses his hands into Dean’s shoulders, grinding him down into the thin, dirty carpet, fingers digging into Dean’s shoulder blades, hurting and grinding against the muscle and bone, trying to push him into it; push him away, let the carpet swallow him up, but unwilling to let go, not willing to let go of the one thing he’s always had. Dean’s struggling for breath, heaving and spluttering through his busted nose and lips, but he’s still not moving, cause he’s guilty, so utterly, overwhelmingly guilty and he’s letting Ross hurt him, allowing him to do this because this is what he thinks he deserves, the stupid fucked-up masochist.
Ross pulls back, worn out and sickened, blinded by the useless, hot tears in his eyes and the guilty, frozen look on Dean’s face. He rolls onto his side and curls up, forehead pressed against Dean’s shoulder, knees coming up to jog his brother’s thighs, cradling his aching hand to his chest. Dean says something to Sam, choking it out, but Ross can’t hear him, the blood is thumping too loudly in his brain and he’s stupidly hot, he’s burning up from inside. His head’s foggy and his throat is raw, aching like a five mile run on an ice cold day.
Dean shifts and gets an arm around him, pulling him back against his body as he groans in pain. Ross freezes in shock: Dean’s… Dean’s fucking hugging him, as if everything isn’t fucked up enough. He punches him in the face and Dean hugs him? And he already knew his brother was a mess, because Dean fucks Sam, he has sex with Sam, he loves Sam like a brother and a lover, and he sucks Sam’s cock, and... what is wrong with him, what is wrong with both of them? Is his family really that screwed in the head? They’re different, but they have a code, they’re hunters, the good guys, not the redneck Deliverance guys, except Dean and Sam are his brothers and they had sex last night.
He feels someone’s hand on his shoulder, helping him sit up. He stares up into his oldest brother's pale, blood-streaked face, his big, stupid, Bambi eyes with their stupid, long eyelashes, like a fucking girl, like a pathetic homo who takes it up the ass from his little brother.
“Ross, what is it? Tell me. What do you know? What's wrong?”
Guilty, you're so fucking guilty, Dean. You fucking know what's wrong.
He looks over Dean’s shoulder at Sam, crouching just behind Dean, concern and wariness blazing across his face, turning his eyes into animal like slants, just like his own.
They know, they both know. This is it. This is the moment.
“You had sex last night,” he says finally, his voice cracked, faint. All those years, all those times he’s imagined this moment, and he’s never thought of it going down like this.
He immediately wants to take it back.
Dean’s face crumbles, about as much as it can with the bloody nose and swollen mouth. He looks desperate, pupils blown and terrified.
Sam leans forward, places a hand on Dean’s shoulder and Dean flinches. Sam ignores him, eyes boring steadily into Ross, “You know about us. How long have you known about us?”
Ross shrugs, swipes one hand across his face, pushing away the sticky, damp tears. He’s got no barriers now, no more secrets, nothing else.
“A long time,” he says.
“Oh my God,” whispers Sam, and Ross sees his fingers tighten their hold on Dean. “Since when?”
“Since Dean’s 21st birthday. I saw you. You thought I’d passed out.”
“Six years? That was six fucking years ago!”
“Yeah.” He shrugs again.
Everything goes silent, Ross can hear them all breathing, Dean labored and painful, Sammy sharp and hurried, and himself, panting, heart still racing, aching and terrified.
“Does Dad… Did Dad know?” mumbles Dean.
Ross shakes his head. “I never told him. I think he suspected.”
“Oh God,” says Dean, his voice cracking, and Ross can see the color drain from his face, smears of blood stark like fluorescent marks against his pale skin. He pushes Sam away, gets to his feet slowly, weaves towards the bathroom, stumbling like an old man. Ross watches him blankly, sees the door half-close, hears the sound of Dean coughing, spitting and retching, probably vomit, maybe blood.
“Dean, you okay?” Sam jumps up, following after Dean, and Ross slumps back against the metal bed frame. He feels done in, exhausted and run out, ridden hard but not yet put away wet.
Dean emerges from the bathroom, white faced, unsteady, most of the blood cleaned away except for one fingerprint shaped smear on his chin. He dips down in front of Ross and takes his head between his hands, cradles his skull.
“I’m sorry, kiddo.” His voice is hoarse and genuine, so fucking genuine. Dean’s devastated like Ross has never seen him look before and it’s wrenching at his heart. “I’m so sorry,” Dean pleads. Ross tries to snort but it’s more like a sob, and he can’t look away from Dean, from the desolation on his face. “If you want us to, then we can never -“
“Dean,” Sam cries out, sounding panicked.
“Ross, I mean it, we can -“ Dean chokes over the words, there are tears sliding down his face and it’s breaking Ross into bits. He’s being scattered, everything’s falling apart… Everything’s got to change now, because he’s told them that he knows, because they know that he knows. Nothing is going to be the same anymore.
“No, you can’t,” he says flatly and he stares at Dean, at his face, at the bruises that he put there, the damage that he’s done.
Dean opens his mouth to deny it, but he doesn’t get the chance to speak, Ross is kissing him before he can really process what’s happening, something coming loose in his brain, some piece unhitching and making him momentarily insane. Someone’s making a strangled sound and he’s not sure if it’s Sammy or Dean, or even himself. But Dean’s mouth is under his, busted lip and the mingled taste of blood and bile and saliva. Dean’s tongue brushes against his, and he can’t believe that Dean’s letting him do this, letting him explore his mouth with his tongue, letting him push into him and take parts of him that only Sam’s been allowed before. And it’s doing weird things to him, it’s making him feel crazy, fucked-up things that are fluttering and itching at his skin, but this - for Dean - it’s just part of his big punishment, and the fact that it’s not that for Ross, is terrifying.
He pulls away and gasps for breath. Dean’s pupils are blurred and he’s breathing heavily, panting hotly against the side of Ross’s face. Ross laughs out loud; he feels high, on the edge of hysteria, his stomach seems to have floated away, bottomed out from all the crazy and the tingling, terrible feelings in his gut.
“I don’t get it,” he says, willing his voice not to shake.
“Get what?” And that’s definitely Sammy’s voice, looming over Dean, suspicious and angry and pissed. “What the fuck are you doing, Ross?”
“Me? I just wanted to see what it was like,” he spits back.
"Stop playing games! Stop screwing with us!” growls Sam.
“Cause you’re only fuckin’ allowed to screw with each other, right?”
Sam’s eyes narrow and he pushes Ross away from Dean, hand fisting into his overshirt, sinewy muscle flexing. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but you don’t get to do that,” says Sam, and his voice is like steel.
“Jesus!” cries Dean. “Sam! Stop it!”
“Dean,” warns Sam, “stay out of this.”
“What? For Christ’s sake, Sammy, what the fuck are you gonna do? You gonna fight him? You gonna fight your little brother?”
“He kissed you.”
“You kissed me last night. And this morning.”
“But - he’s your brother - Dean -“
Dean barks out a laugh, cold like ice breaking. “Sam! Sammy! Can you hear yourself?”
“He hit you, Dean!”
“Yeah, and you shot me full of rock salt.”
Ha! Ross narrows his eyes in on Sam and sees him flinch at Dean’s words, his fingers momentarily weakening their hold on Ross’s shirt. Ross takes advantage of it to tug away from him, pushing Sam’s fist away with his hand.
“This - we can’t. Dean, you and Ross, you can’t do this,” Sam says, and he’s focused all on Dean now, expression pleading and lost.
“He’s not your fuckin’ property!” spits Ross.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” mutters Dean. He turns to Sam, raises one hand to cradle his cheek, sliding his thumb over Sam’s mouth. “Sammy, we can’t do this anymore. Not now. He knows.”
“He’s known for years. He said so!”
Dean swallows and shakes his head, the words slurring through his busted mouth. “No, Sam, you’re not listenin’ to me. We have to stop.”
Sam places his own hand over Dean’s, closing his eyes for a second, “No.”
“Sam -“ and that’s Dean’s warning tone, his older brother tone.
“I said no, Dean!” Sam’s eyes jerk open and they’re flashing, dark and angry, “Just - you don’t get to do this to me! Please.”
Dean blinks and drops his hand. He stumbles to his feet and stomps away, door smashing shut behind him.
*********************
He can still remember that morning, three days before Christmas, a month before his twelfth birthday, waking up to Sam’s scream to see another boy who looked so much like Sammy did two years ago, but darker, harder, none of Sam’s babyish softness, staring back at the two of them with wide, brown eyes.
“Who the hell are you?”
The boy didn’t move, didn’t speak. Dean felt Sam creep up beside him, grab onto his t-shirt with one small fist, the two of them turning to stare at the strange kid.
“Huh? Can’t you speak?” he demanded.
The kid blushed and his eyes flashed angrily. “Yes, course I can speak.”
“Well, answer me then, what’s your name, kid?”
The boy scowled and said, “My name is Ross Christopher Winchester.”
Sam gasped and turned his head to whisper directly into Dean’s ear, “Dean, did you hear what he said?”
Dean grunted and elbowed him away. “Shut up, Sammy.” He stared at the boy, glancing between him and Sam and Dad where he was still passed out on the couch, and had this weird feeling, as if…
He swallowed resolutely and turned back to the boy, making his voice sound gentler. “How did you get here?”
“My dad brought me.”
“Where’s your dad now?”
“There,” said the boy and pointed towards Dad on the couch. “He’s my dad.”
“No he’s not!” protested Sam. “He’s our Dad.”
They were silent for a moment, the boy still looking at them steadily, scratching the side of his face with his small hand. “I’m hungry. Do you have anything to eat?”
They all ate together, Dad still asleep and snoring. Dean poured bowls of Cheerios for Ross and Sammy, watching them both as they ate. Like mirror images, but distorted, wonky mirror images, he thought. The way their noses and mouths screwed up when they took in too big mouthfuls of cereal, the suspicious look in their eyes as they stared each other out over their glasses of milk - all of it, identical and… freaking weird.
Dad woke up after they’d all gotten dressed. Dean had found comics for them to read, and Sam was on his front on Dean’s bed, staring at Ross, looking small but defiant on the other bed. Sam nudged Dean with his elbow and whispered loudly, “He’s not staying, is he?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. Shut the hell up!”
“Shut the hell up yourself!” retorted Sam, turning to stick his tongue out at Dean.
“Boys!” called out Dad in his gruff-just-woken-up voice.
“Yes, sir!” They climbed off the bed quickly, standing together, backs straight and heads up, eyes locked on their father. Ross glanced at them and clumsily followed suit, scrabbling untidily off the bed and moving to stand on Dean’s other side.
Dad stared at them, looking confused for a second before he relaxed and smiled, running a hand over his beard. “Ross, come here,” he said.
Dean watched his father crouch down and pull the boy into a hug when he approached. When Dad turned back to Sam and Dean, he was holding Ross against him, one arm on his small shoulders, Ross’s face pressed against his hip.
“Dean, Sammy, this is Ross. He is your brother.” Dad paused for a moment, tightening his hold on Ross’s shoulders, letting the words sink in. Our brother, thought Dean, we have another brother. He was expecting it, looking at Ross, seeing how much he looked like Sammy, and the feeling he’d gotten when he’d first laid eyes on him, he’d known - he’s our brother. Though, wait a minute, if Ross is our brother and he’s younger than Sam, then that must mean that Dad and some another chick must’ve…
“He’s going to be living with us from now on,” said Dad, interrupting Dean’s train of thought. “He’s a Winchester, he’s one of us. Do you understand what that means?”
Dean cleared his mind of all thoughts, concentrating only on his father’s voice, on what he was asking. He nodded, glancing at Sam from the corner of his eye. He was staring at Dad and Ross with a suspicious, uncertain sort of a look on his face, that small crease between his eyebrows which meant he was thinking about it, taking it in and trying to figure it out in that normal Sammy way of his.
Dad continued as if they’d both already answered, speaking directly to him. “Dean, Ross is your brother. You treat him exactly as you would Sammy. If I’m not around then you’re in charge and you look out for him. You’re the oldest, Dean, and you look out for both your brothers. Do you hear me? I’m counting on you for this.”
He swallowed, nodded, catching Dad’s eye, “Yes, sir, I understand,” he said, trying to make his voice sound firm and sure, like the oldest son, like Dad’s lieutenant, like the guy who now had two little brothers to look after.
Dad nodded, looking pleased, he smiled at Dean, said, “Good. Now - all of you - get your stuff together. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”
After a while, he forgot what it was like before Ross became one of them, how it was before with just him and Sam. But Sam never forgot. Dean could feel it in every accusatory look he’d throw Ross, every fight and spat out word, every resentment and petty argument between them.
And the balance never worked: DeanSammyRoss, SammyRossDean, RossDeanSammy, no matter how much they tried and Dean, Dean was always the one in the middle; fights and arguments and bruises and dead arms and never any fucking amnesty in Sam and Ross’s never-ending backseat war. It wore Dad out, made him gruffer and harder and even spikier than normal.
Dean can remember one occasion when he thought Dad would lose it completely: pulling the car up at the side of the road, Dad jumping out, yanking the back door open and hauling the two of them out, one after the other. Dad threw them to the ground by the side of the road, as if they were sandbags, not boys, screaming and bellowing at them, the freezing cold wind snatching his words so Dean could only see the fury and rage etched into his father’s face, gone dark and almost unrecognizable, like one of the creatures they hunted.
He felt more than saw his Dad’s fingers as they caught in his brothers’ hair, pulling their heads back to look up at him, his mouth shaping horrible, angry words as they whimpered and shook. He ripped their thin worn t-shirts as he grabbed them by their necks and threw them against the side of the car, inside Dean felt it buffer from the weight of his brothers’ small bodies and heard a snatch of his father’s voice: “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t leave you both here!”
He saw the shocked, blubbery looks of terror on both their faces - that look that on Sam would later twist into a cold, hate-filled fury - but then, at that moment, was just childish terror of Dad. Something clenched up hard inside him, and before he realized what he was doing, he was out the car, defying Dad but too scared, truly terrified because Dad… Dad would do that; Dad would totally follow through on that threat if he thought it would teach them a lesson.
“Dad?”
“Stay out of this, Dean. Get back in the car!”
“Dad - please, you can’t -“
“Dean! Get into the car!”
Dean glanced at his brothers, both crying. Big, fat tears rolling down their round cheeks, shivering pathetically in the icy wind in their ripped t-shirts, eyes wet and helpless and fixed on him.
“No, Dad. You can’t leave them here.”
“Are you telling me what to do, Dean?”
“No, no, sir. I wouldn’t do that. But you can’t leave them. Please, Dad.”
It was like walking into a pitch black haunted room without a flashlight, no gun, no back-up, no Dad. He was on his own, casting himself out there, going against his father.
They got back in the car, Dad dismissing him with a look that cut into Dean’s chest like his best silver knife and a barked out, “Dean! You’re in the back with Ross. Sam! Up front with me!” Not even looking him in the face, no admiration for standing up to him, for standing up for his brothers, but disappointment and cold, hard anger.
Dean swallowed, his own eyes as downcast as Sam’s and Ross’s, that look of disappointment from Dad twisting and wriggling into him, like a maggot in rotting flesh. He nodded and slid into the backseat after Ross, not daring to raise his eyes, instead staring transfixed at the small pinpricks of gooseflesh running up and down the length of Ross’s normally tan arms, the mini ripples and shivers under his skin as the car’s warm air hit him.
He only dared look up when he could sense Dad’s attention elsewhere, on the road, swerving back onto the blacktop with a roar of the engine. He looked up cautiously and saw Sam, twisted around in the front seat, looking back at him, giving Dean that clear-eyed, blazing look that meant gratitude and love and never-ending devotion.
Dean felt something in his chest pull, something begin to warm him up again, he gulped, stared back at Sam, unable to look away from that look.
“Sam! Put your damn seatbelt on!”
Dad’s voice jolted them back to the present, Sam’s head snapped back to the front and he fumbled with his belt, the back of his neck flushing red with embarrassment.
Dean turned to look out the window; feeling out of place in the unfamiliar backseat. He felt Ross shift around, edge closer to him, burrow his messy, dark head into Dean’s chest, eyes falling shut as he faded into sleep. Dean rested his hand on the curve of Ross’s skinny shoulder, still cold from the icy wind outside, but familiar and comforting and soothing. He raised his eyes to the back of Dad’s head, immovable and dark in the front seat; he thought again of the look of disappointment on Dad’s face, of the look of adoration on Sam’s, and felt sick to his stomach with a cold, unknowable dread.
He wakes up to his phone vibrating against his ass, the muffled sounds of the opening riff of Paranoid emanating from the back pocket of his jeans. He groans, fumbles around, groping his own ass, until he locates it. Naturally, by the time he manages to flip it open and bring it to his ear, it’s already gone to voicemail. He groans again, checks the caller ID; SAM. Of freaking course.
He shuffles into a sitting position, banging elbows and knees against the side of the car. He hates sleeping in the car, never feels like he’s had a rest after a night in the car. Okay, so this time wasn’t as bad as usual, no Ross in the front seat, bitching about not getting the backseat, cause: I’m taller than you, motherfucker, like half a freaking inch makes any fucking difference. His own usual retort: yeah, well, I’m older than you, bitch, so suck it up.
He blinks tiredly, stares out the foggy back window, dawn is just creeping up, so it must be really fucking early. He checks his watch: 5.06am, Jesus.
Thoughts of Sam immediately slam his brain back to life, memories of yesterday, of what went down yesterday, Sammy… the two of them together all night cause Ross had taken his baby for one of his pleasure cruises, “He won’t be back for hours,” he told Sam confidently, “we got all night, man.”
Sam’s look, wary and belligerent. “Whatever, Dean.” It made him kinda want to laugh, remembering all of a sudden Sam’s jealousy towards Cassie, the antagonism he could almost feel like a tangible presence in the car with them the past four hundred miles.
“Sam, Jesus, give it up already,” he cajoled him; “I didn’t sleep with her, if that’s what you want to know.”
The look on Sam’s face shifted immediately, that edge of suspicion melting away some, he licked his lips, asked, “Yeah? So - you, uh, last night…”
“We hung out,” he said with a shrug. “I told her about some of the shit we’d been up to, she told me about what she’d been doin’.” He paused, considering, “It was actually kinda boring.”
The corner of Sam’s mouth lifted, a weak, half-smile, at long-freaking-last. “Yeah? Really?”
Dean rolled his eyes, “Really. Fuck, dude, I’d forgotten what a possessive bitch you are.”
Sam looked like he was gonna retort, but he closed his mouth instead, obviously deciding it wasn’t worth it. Hell, they had a good few hours of alone-time, probably the whole night, knowing Ross; they should not spend it fighting with each other about old girlfriends he hadn’t given a moment's thought to since Sam had come back into his life.
Sam approached him, wrapped his arms around him and pulling him in close.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I, just. Dean, I know, I can be like that sometimes. Jess - she used to -“ He broke off, tried to pull away, ducking his head again to hide his expression which… no, Dean wasn’t having that. He reached out, caught Sam’s jaw in his hand, tilted his head up so their eyes could meet.
“Yeah?” he asked carefully, “what did she used to say?”
Sam huffed out a long breath, pulled out of Dean’s grasp, a small glimpse of a sheepish smile around his mouth. “She used to get so mad at me when I used to get jealous of her talking to other guys or hanging out with other guys. And yeah, I trusted her, but I guess - I’m just one of those people. I always thought it was just you - but…” he broke off again, flushing self-consciously. “I guess it wasn’t just you, I’m just a jealous sort of person.”
Dean felt a twinge in his chest, so, not just me then, he thought, feeling his own sudden stab of jealousy. He swallowed it back, pasted on one of his best leers.
“Sam, whatever there was between me and Cassie, it’s old news. So, stop cuttin’ a bitch over it, and let’s enjoy ourselves, huh?”
Sam looked up, catching his eye, that slow, spreading grin of his, so goddamn beautiful, the one that’d taken Dean’s entire fucking soul and remade it in his own image, that look of adoration and devotion that hadn’t changed one bit from the ten year old in the front of the Impala thanking him for standing up to Dad.
Sam coming up to him and pushing him back onto the bed, straddling him and looming over him, thick, dark hair brushing against Dean’s skin as Sam explored his way across his collarbone, his chest and nipples, stomach and belly button, tonguing at the scattering of golden hairs leading down to his groin, bypassing his cock and balls cause Sammy was a goddamn tease, to nuzzle apart his thighs, suck and lick at his knees, and inner thighs.
“I want to worship every single inch of you,” breathed out warm air over Dean’s belly button, “God, Dean, I want it all… everything.”
And his own pathetic answer, “Okay, yes, anything, everything, you got it, take it…”
The morning after was just as perfect. Surging awake with Sam’s mouth on his cock, Sam’s tongue writing his name in saliva across his balls. Sam fucking him in the bathroom in front of the mirror, his hands gripping the edge of the chipped and stained sink, their faces together in the mirror, watching, seeing himself as he came, seeing Sam, that perfect, complete moment of falling apart. Sam fucking him on the floor of the bathroom cause however they tried it they couldn’t fit in the tub at the same time, one foot jammed between the toilet and the edge of the bathtub, the other hoisted over Sam’s shoulder. Sam magnificent and so fucking huge as he pounded into him, sliding and slipping over the damp dirty tiles, Sam collapsing on top of him afterwards, knocking the breath from Dean’s chest as he laughed, exuberant and so fucking beautiful into Dean’s skin.
“I can’t believe it took you so long to let me do this to you. I can’t believe I waited this long to fuck you.”
And afterwards…
He still can’t think about that, can’t think about the look on Ross’s face, his baby brother, all those years, six and a half years. The thought of all that time, of every hour spent together with Ross knowing, of all those times he and Sam -
He can’t think about his life the same anymore, it’s all been distorted, every memory is different, not what it seemed.
That year after Sam graduated high school, that extra year he stuck around before Stanford. That year when Dad finally gave into Ross’s pleas to let him leave school, cause he was seventeen fuckin’ years old and he didn’t need any of that school bullshit no more. That year they were all free, crossing the country from end to end, all four of them, together. He and Sammy sharing a motel room, Dad and Ross in the other, the nights of lying beside Sam, of waking him up with his mouth on Sam’s gorgeous cock, of showering together, laughing and groaning in the shower stall, hands over each other’s mouths, cause Dad and Ross were just next door and the walls were way too fucking thin…
That was the best year. The best time of his life. All four of them together, sitting around a diner booth, Dad going through the paper or his journal, he and Ross and Sammy trading kicks under the table, flicking sugar packets at each other, Ross’s junior horndog boasts about the waitresses provoking indulgent looks from Dad. Sam and Ross not even fighting so much, Sam chilled out and happy, and Dean, every time he glanced at Sam, every time he thought about how the four of them must look - like a real family - feeling this warmth in his chest, this stupid happiness that he should’ve known was never going to last.
The phone trills again, Dean starts, pushing away the memories, the goddamn back and forwards, to and fro, rolling and rumbling of his mind. He presses the button to accept the call, holds the receiver to his ear.
“Sam?”
“Dean?” Sam sounds relieved, pissed, but relieved. “Jesus Christ, Dean! Where the hell are you? You gotta - listen, we don’t have time to go over last night, you just gotta - you gotta come back here.”
A prickle of gooseflesh breaks out across his skin, small hairs on his nape rising, “Sammy? What - what’s happenin’? Is Ross okay?”
Sam swallows, doesn’t say anything for a second, when he speaks he sounds unsure, worried, “I. Dean, he had another vision. We, uh, both did. It was bad, Dean, really bad. Just - please. We need you.”
The door to the motel room is open when he gets back, Sam lingering by it, his face white and anxious, it creases up in relief when he spots Dean, then immediately his eyes narrow, that concerned line between his eyebrows.
“Dean? Your face -“
“Oh!” he halts, a couple of feet from Sam, brings one hand up curiously to his face, touches his lip and winces. Shit, he’d forgotten about that. He’d fixed it up as best he could in the bathroom of a McDonalds, crawled into the backseat of the car and taken a couple of Vicodin to go off last night, numbing the ache and numbing his stupid, overactive brain. He’d forgotten about Ross’s punch to his face, the mouthful of blood, no teeth knocked out, thank God, he still has his pretty smile. He smiles awkwardly at Sam, it’s painful, a persistent throb starting up along his jaw line.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. Sam swallows, steps away from the door, going inside and Dean follows him. Ross is flat out on one of the beds, breathing heavily, a cold facecloth over his forehead like a 19th century maiden with a headache.
“We had a vision,” Sam says dully. He’s gone back to packing up their stuff, the bags lying open on the other bed. “A guy called Jim Miller from Saginaw in Michigan killed himself. We both saw him do it just like before. I did some research, called the Sheriff’s in Saginaw. We were too late, he was already dead. But, Dean, how it happened - every single fuckin' detail was exactly as we both saw.”
Dean sinks to the bed by Ross; he’s sleeping so heavily that Dean knows he’s drugged. He looks up at Sam.
“You gave him something?”
Sam nods, “Yeah, some of those painkillers you had left over from the hospital - “
“The OxyContin? You gave him that?”
“I had to, Dean!” Sam snaps. “He was - he was in so much pain! The usual stuff - even the goddamn Vicodin was doing nothing for him! And he was so tired, we didn’t sleep last night. And you weren’t here. You ran away from it, Dean. You left me to deal with the entire fuckin’ fallout! And not just that - the - these goddamn visions... So, don't you fuckin' dare try to tell me what I shoulda done.”
Dean can’t answer Sam, can only take every accusation as what he deserves. He shouldn’t have left them; they’re his responsibility - his brothers, his responsibility - his family. He swallows, ducks his head, unable to meet Sam’s eyes. He leans down over Ross, presses his lips to the side of his face, his pale, wan cheek. He feels a sharp, overwhelming rush of tenderness for him, the urge to scoop Ross into his arms, rock him against his chest like he used to do when he was six, seven years old and woke up with bad dreams. He’s done everything wrong. He’s fucked up this boy beyond repair, nothing is going to be able to undo the damage he’s done to Ross, the damage he and Sammy have done in their selfish desire for each other.
Ross is more than his little brother, has always been so much more than that, just as Sam has been more than a brother, the three of them way closer than normal brothers, than normal fraternal relationships. Dean can see it all clearly now, if he and Sam are mom and dad, then Ross is their fucked-up teenage kid, and they’ve broken him. Ross has grown up, has spent the last six years of his life knowing his two brothers were fucking each other, how can they even begin to understand what kind of damage that has done to him?
“Dean?” Sam says hesitatingly. Dean turns his head to look at him, he suddenly feels ridiculously tired, his face throbbing in time with his pulse. “You - you look awful, dude; maybe you should rest up before we go anywhere. He’ll be out for a while, anyway.”
Dean nods, turns his head and picks up the Vicodin lying on the nightstand, he pops one dry and looks back down at Ross. He slides gently onto the bed beside him, curling up against his brother’s sleeping body. Ross stirs, turns onto his side, as if he knows Dean’s there, though that’s gotta be impossible with the fucking drugs Sam's given him, but Dean rolls into the space gratefully, holding his little brother from behind like the big spoon. He closes his eyes and falls asleep.
When Dean wakes up, Ross is still lying beside him, but he’s awake. He’s watching Dean sleep with this confused, conflicted look on his face. Dean blinks his eyes open and slowly takes in Ross’s face, the absurd familiarity of it, the same face he’s seen for every single day of the past 21 years.
“Hey,” Dean murmurs, then, “I’m sorry.”
Ross’s mouth twitches, he looks even more confused, he lifts his hand, hesitates, then drops it again, says, “My head hurts.”
“You had a vision.”
“Yeah. I know. It sucked. Some dude gassed himself in his garage.”
"Sam says he's dead," Dean tells him.
Ross half-shrugs, "Yeah, you don't come back from that."
“Look, uh, Littlest Bro. I'm so - I'm so sorry. I can't -"
"Shut up," Ross snaps quickly, cutting him off. "I don't wanna talk about it, Dean."
Dean licks his lips, his mouth is so dry, he swallows painfully, "Right," he murmurs.
"Yeah," Ross replies tightly, his mouth quirks, a self-deprecating twist that’s nothing like Ross, but so much like Sam, so much like himself that Dean feels something ache inside him, "I've been dealin' with you and Sammy and your fucked-up shit for six fuckin' years, what makes you think I'm not gonna be able to deal now?”
There's a long, tense silence and Dean tries to think of what to say... but what the fuck can he say? The damage was done a long fucking time ago.
Ross sighs, breaking the silence, “Look, I'm sorry I punched you.”
“Doesn’t matter. I deserved it.”
Ross stares at him for a moment, then exhales exasperatedly, rolls away, getting up off the bed stiffly. Dean sits up, watches him, not sure whether to get up off the bed and help him, but Ross would just push him away, wouldn’t want to be treated like an invalid. He watches him bend over, grab for the painkillers again and a glass of water, he pops them, downing each one with a healthy glug of water; Ross has never been able to take any medication dry.
The door jerks open to reveal Sam standing on the threshold, regarding them both warily. He looks tired, his eyes red-rimmed and dark.
“We should go,” he says.
They get into the car, Sam sliding into the driver’s side after Dean only puts up a token protest, he’s taken way too much Vicodin over the past 12 hours to risk getting behind the wheel of his baby. Ross takes the backseat without a word, stolen motel pillow under his head. He goes off to sleep after only twenty miles, soft huff-huff of breathing in the tense silence.
Sam sighs, throws Dean a look, “I know you don’t want to, but we got to talk about this, Dean - not the visions, but the you and me stuff - about Ross knowing.”
“You have no idea how much I don’t want to talk about that,” mutters Dean.
“I think I kinda do.”
Dean huffs out a humorless breath, sighs heavily, “Yeah, maybe you do.”
They sit in silence for another long moment, then Sam says abruptly, “You know that this doesn’t change anything? Between us. I’m still gonna…” he swallows, sets his shoulders, “I can’t stop wantin’ you just cause he knows, Dean. I’m not - I’m not built that way. And neither are you. Whatever happens, I’m always gonna feel this way about you. I’ve been living with it as long as I can remember, the first time I ever remember getting hard - it was cause of you -“
“Oh Jesus, Sam…”
“Don’t interrupt,” Sam says tiredly, he shoots him another sideways look, white-faced, eyes tight with tension. “Dean, I’m serious, really fuckin’ serious. I can’t do this without you. Since Jess, since everything… you’re the only thing keeping me together. I can’t - without you…” his voice hitches, he swallows, pulls the car over, braking in that restrained, overly cautious way of his. Dean feels his own breath catch in his throat as he watches Sam pull on the handbrake, glance in the driver's mirror - at Ross - still asleep, completely out of it on the backseat.
“I don’t know what to do,” Sam continues. His voice is steadier now. “Last night when you were gone, I felt completely lost. Me and Ross, before the visions hit us, we talked some, he, uh, told me - about when he found out about us, about how long he’d known. He caught us once, you know? In Bobby’s yard one summer. We were in the back of a wrecked Cadillac.” He pauses, but Dean doesn’t say anything, mind going back to that summer - Dad leaving the three of them with Bobby, two fucking months Dad was gone and he was so frustrated by it, being left behind like that. He remembers working on cars a lot, shooting practice in Bobby’s make-shift range, morning runs around the neighboring fields, and Sammy… a whole lot of Sammy and his long, tan limbs, his salty, sweat-soaked body, the two of them screwing around in the back of the wrecked cars…
“I meant what I said Dean, this doesn’t change anything. I need you, I’m always gonna need you. This isn’t over between us, it’s never gonna be. Not for me. Not now.”
He turns and gives Dean a look, and it’s that look again - that blazing, clear-eyed, all or nothing, Sammy look. And Dean knows: he can’t resist, he doesn’t want to resist, he’s just kidding himself when he thinks he can. However bad he feels, however much he loathes himself for doing this to Ross, he’s not going to be able to say no to Sam, and hell, he doesn’t want to.
Sam is the one thing, the only fucking thing in his life that gives him this absolute high, this crazy, stupid happiness; he loves his family, Dad, Ross, the job, more than anything, but he can't give up this again - he can't give up Sam - he's not that good a person.
“Yeah, okay," he says finally. He looks up, meets Sam's eyes, suddenly sure that this is it - this is what he truly and honestly wants. He wants Sam.
"Yeah, Sammy, okay. You and me, we'll figure it out."
Next chapter
Chapter 8/?
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 9,500 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
Chapter 8
No one says anything as they leave Cape Giradeau behind, but Ross can practically feel the resentment bleeding off of Sam as the two of them watch Dean kiss Cassie goodbye. The kiss looks pretty fucking tame to him, more of a friends or old acquaintances sort of a deal than a hot, humping see you never, Ross knows a good kiss when he sees one and this ain't it. In fact, watching the two of them like this - no freaking tongue for fuck's sake - he gets to thinking that maybe Dean wasn’t getting horizontal with her at all last night, which begs the question: what the fuck was Dean doing with her last night? Talking? Un-fucking-likely. Playing chess? Ha! But Dean seems weirdly off with her, obviously eager to get away while she’s the one keeping him with questions and held-tilts and tinkling laughs that sound like nails on a chalkboard.
But Sam’s too busy getting off on the drama of it all to see Dean’s obvious reluctance, all pissy and hurt, and so fucking jealous it’s actually not even funny anymore, especially when it’s three hundred miles later and he’s still brooding in the back seat like some sulky teenager playing hard to get, staring out the window and ignoring all their attempts to include him in the conversation.
When they finally stop for the night, Ross doesn’t ask before he lifts the car keys from Dean’s pocket and heads off to the nearest bar. Dean will be pissed - taking the car without asking and all that bullshit - but fuck, it’s the family car, not just Dean’s. Okay, so Dad technically gave it to Dean all those years ago, but whatever, they only have the one fucking car between the three of them, it’s not like he has a choice. He’s grinding his teeth before he even notices it, irritated by yet another painful day in the car on their never-ending road trip of brotherly angst. He’s so fed up of his brothers, that right now, he’d happily take off for a mini vacation on his own, leaving the two of them to their own fucked-up issues and their own fucked-up obsession with each other.
Before, he kinda had the idea at the back of his mind that he wouldn’t let them get into this shit again, that he’d make himself a constant, cock-blocking presence. But now, he finds it hard to even care, and right now - at this exact moment - he feels too suffocated, too claustrophobic and just too fucking dead-eyed to even give a shit. Because he knows… he can feel it, whatever it is between Dean and Sam - it’s about to start again, if it hasn’t already, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Oh, maybe, he could plead with Dean, tell him that he knows, tell him how he feels about it, but in the end, it wouldn’t stop them. Dean might give it his best college try because Dean loves him and Dean is the king of guilt and sacrifice, but he’d fail, because Dean loves Sam more than anything else.
Sam’s gonna win because he always wins. He comes first for Dean and he always has. Even for those years when Sam wasn’t even there, he was still winning. Dean could never hide anything from Ross, and his feelings for Sam were far too epic to ever slide under anyone’s radar, especially someone who knows him like Ross does. Ross is too used to being beaten by Sam to really give a shit; he may as well just let them dig their own fucking graves, because he just doesn’t care anymore.
He sits in the bar and drinks and thinks about what they’re probably doing right now. They’ll have realized that he’s gone by now, car missing and all that, so they’re probably taking advantage already. Will Sam have Dean backed up against that crazy wallpapered wall? Or maybe bent over the stained couch? Or the flimsy Formica table? Or will it be Dean bending Sammy over something? Or on his knees to worship Sam’s big cock?
He huffs out a humorless breath, the combo of acid and bile and beer harsh and burning in his throat. He signals for the bartender, this time pointing to the bottle of JD behind the counter. The guy snorts and gives him an unimpressed look.
“I.D?”
Ross sneers at him and tosses one of his fakes onto the bar between them. The guy picks it up and spends far too long staring at it, eyes narrowing in on Ross in an unfriendly grimace.
“Now can I have that drink?” he snaps.
The guy grunts and pours it for him, taking the money from him with a glare.
Ross scowls and fingers his phone in his jeans’ pocket. He could call Dad. Right now. He could call him up and leave him a message. He could tell him the truth: Dad, you’d never guess what? You’d never guess what your two boys are doing right now? Dean and Sam, yeah, do you remember them? Do you remember any of us? Well, they’re fucking each other right now. Oh yeah, fucking each other, having sex, making the beast with two backs, you know, you remember how it goes? Like that time you knocked up that chick in Austin - yeah, my mom, remember that, Dad? Remember me, Dad? Your son? Ross? Yeah, well, you know what the really fucking funny thing is? You know what’s really so goddamn hilarious? They’ve been doing it for years, Dad. Yeah, six fucking years. Since Sammy was sixteen, maybe even before then… And you didn’t know, you never knew a fucking thing. Or perhaps you did, perhaps you suspected. I always thought that - that you suspected. But you never said anything. Why didn’t you say anything, Dad? Don’t you give a fuck? Don’t you care about us anymore?
But Dad won’t answer. Dad probably won’t even hear the message. It’ll sit in his voicemail box for a month, or however long unheard messages sit there, and then it’ll get deleted.
He waves to the bartender for another drink, and this time, after the guy’s grudgingly filled him up; he twists in his seat to face the crowd. It’s a young crowd. College students, he thinks with a sneer, probably even younger. He didn’t notice that before, too busy sitting and brooding, but Jesus, he’s not fucking Sam, he’s Ross Winchester, and when Ross Winchester is pissed, Ross Winchester gets laid.
Her name is Rebecca, and she’s a high school junior, but for once, he doesn’t give a shit. He can hear Dean’s voice in his head, warnings about jailbait and statutory rape, but what the fuck ever, if Dean can fuck his younger brother then Ross can damn well fuck a high school junior, at least they’re not fucking related. They go back to her house, it’s huge, with a goddamn water feature on the front lawn, white marble statues and hedge sculptures, like something outta the freaking Overlook Hotel. She makes him park the Impala half way down the street, looking way out of place in this road of Mazaratis and Porsches. She lets him in around the back, giggling and holding her hand over her mouth, making him tiptoe up the back stairs so as not to wake her parents or little sister. It’s pretty weird, but also kinda hot.
The next morning, he watches her get ready for school, slinging books and pencils into a bag, holding up different pairs of designer jeans against her body, asking him: “This one? Or what about this one?” like he’s her freaking BFF, and not just some random dude she hooked up with the night before.
She lets him out the back again when her parents have left for work so the neighbors can’t see, suggesting that they friend each other on Facebook. When he tells her he isn’t on Facebook, she looks genuinely shocked, Oh my God, no way… But, like, everyone’s on Facebook! How are my friends gonna know how hot you are, if I can’t link to you on Facebook? She looks confused and it’s flattering - hey, she thinks he’s hot - so he lets her take a picture of him with her camera phone.
When he gets back to the motel, Dean and Sam are out. He picks the lock on their room and pushes aside the pile of dirty laundry by the entrance to get it fully open. It’s more disgusting than usual, wet towels, burger wrappings, pizza boxes, empty bottles of Rolling Rock, and it smells worse. He searches for a note and finally finds one tacked to the back of the bathroom door, wilted and ink runny.
Ross, you little shit, if you’ve hurt my baby then you are DEAD!!! I’M NOT FUCKING KIDDING. We’re at the diner across the street.
He rolls his eyes and crumples up the note, slamming the door closed behind him. It takes practically five minutes to cross the fucking highway; it’s stupidly busy at this time of day. He crosses the diner parking lot, spotting Sam and Dean through the window in one of the fifties style window booths. He stops for a moment to watch them, they seem to be deep in conversation, Sam talking and gesturing with his giant hands, Dean with his fork half way to his mouth. They both look happy, Sam’s face lit up, his eyes shining as he talks and talks. Huh, so he’s obviously gotten over yesterday’s epic tantrum of jealousy and lameness.
Sam stops talking and smiles goofily, hand going out to cradle Dean’s face, thumb swiping at something on Dean’s lower lip. Ross feels his heart thud still; Dean’s got a look on his face which Ross has only seen a couple of times before, and both those times… both those times it was like this: Dean and Sam, just the two of them, Dean and Sam, Dean staring at Sam in that way that made him look… reverent, like he can’t quite believe it, as if Sam’s the only thing worth looking at in the entire fucking world. Sam removes his hand and says something, and Dean rolls his eyes and grins at Sam, happy and real. He goes to swat Sam on the arm but Sam grabs his hand instead, bringing it to his mouth and kissing his fingertips, one by one, eyes locked all the time on Dean’s half open mouth.
He looks away, swallowing back the rise of bile in the back of his throat. He feels queasy, the too many shots from last night churning up with the beers and the… God… that - what he just saw, Dean and Sam…
He knew it. He fucking knew it.
He barely notices the traffic, the blaring of horns and screeching of brakes, as he runs back to the motel. He can’t get the lock to the room open this time, his hands are shaking too much or the pick’s fucked-up, or… he doesn’t know what the fuck’s wrong with him, except he really kinda does and it’s not his fucking fault! He gives up, kicks at the shitty, already dented wood in frustration, slides down against the brick wall onto the damp concrete. He brings his knees up to his chest and rests his head on his crossed arms, breathing in the hoppy-gross smell of the beer soaked into his jeans.
“Y’alright there, son?”
He lifts his head, feeling another wave of nausea; some gnarled old dude is watching him. “What?” he snaps.
“I said. Are you alright?”
“Do I look like I’m fucking alright?”
The old dude takes a step back, arms out, all cool-it, cool-it. “Just askin’.”
“Yeah. Well, don’t.”
Ross sneers at him as he backs away, lowering his head back on his arms.
It’s about ten minutes later when he hears them crossing the lot towards him, the familiar rise and fall of their voices, Dean’s barked-out laugh and Sam’s deeper chuckle. They sound happy, content and easy, and he wants to get up and punch both of them in the face, wipe those cheery fucking grins away forever.
“Aww, look, it’s little orphan Annie,” says Dean.
Sam sniggers and kicks the sole of Ross’s boot. “Why aren’t you inside?”
“Fuck off! Your fuckin’ fuck-ass lock pick fucked-up on me! Motherfuckin’ piece of shit!”
“You sure you can’t get anymore fucks into that sentence, little bro?” asks Dean, unlocking the door.
“Fuck you!”
Dean just laughs which has got to be about the most annoying thing in the history of ever. Ross kicks the door shut behind him, pleased to see it shaking in the frame, fucking piece of shit cheap-ass motel. When he turns around Dean and Sam are facing him from across the room, both of them fresh-faced and scrubbed and radiating happiness and I-got-laid-good-last-night vibes from every fucking pore. For a moment, he can’t think straight, he’s so fucking angry…
He doesn’t think again, he grits his teeth, takes a step forward, and hits Dean full in the face with the biggest and best punch he can manage.
It floors Dean; he crumples to the ground, blood gushing from his nose. Ross’s fist is on fire, throbbing and aching where he caught Dean in the mouth, graze of Dean’s teeth against his knuckles. He cradles it against his chest, eyes locked on Dean where he’s laying frozen and unresponsive, head upturned towards him, mouth red with blood and eyes wet and dumb.
“You… fucking… son of a bitch!” Ross chokes out. He strikes out with his foot, but Sam’s too fast for him, blocking and tripping him with one of his stupid long legs, crashing him to the floor, winded and aching and panting for breath.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” snarls out Sam, and it’s weird how Sam’s voice sounds to him: so much like his own voice that for a minute, he’s not sure who just said that.
“Sammy, don’t,” says Dean, and his voice is thick, coughing and spitting blood onto the carpet between them.
“But he punched you, Dean! He fucking punched you! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Sam sounds hysterical. Ross swallows back more rising bile, gagging on it, acid and burning in his throat. Dean’s still staring at him, cradling his busted face, not so pretty anymore, Ross thinks viciously.
“Ross?” croaks Dean.
Ross cries out and launches himself again, fucking jumping on Dean, both of them rolling against piles of dirty laundry and beer bottles. Dean’s underneath him like a thousand other practice sparring sessions, but deadly still, not fighting back. He presses Dean into the floor, covering him from head to foot with his entire body, and he wonders bleakly if this is how it feels for Sam, if it feels this exhilarating and this awful to dominate Dean like this, to have him at your mercy. He’s never been the one to have the upper hand over Dean, Dean’s his older brother, bigger and wiser and always in charge, bossy and sure and always knowing what to do. The one who always looked out for him, the one he looked up to, the one he admired… And even though he knew, he fucking knew, it didn’t matter because Dean was still his big brother and Dean was still the only person in his entire life that he's ever been able to truly count on.
He presses his hands into Dean’s shoulders, grinding him down into the thin, dirty carpet, fingers digging into Dean’s shoulder blades, hurting and grinding against the muscle and bone, trying to push him into it; push him away, let the carpet swallow him up, but unwilling to let go, not willing to let go of the one thing he’s always had. Dean’s struggling for breath, heaving and spluttering through his busted nose and lips, but he’s still not moving, cause he’s guilty, so utterly, overwhelmingly guilty and he’s letting Ross hurt him, allowing him to do this because this is what he thinks he deserves, the stupid fucked-up masochist.
Ross pulls back, worn out and sickened, blinded by the useless, hot tears in his eyes and the guilty, frozen look on Dean’s face. He rolls onto his side and curls up, forehead pressed against Dean’s shoulder, knees coming up to jog his brother’s thighs, cradling his aching hand to his chest. Dean says something to Sam, choking it out, but Ross can’t hear him, the blood is thumping too loudly in his brain and he’s stupidly hot, he’s burning up from inside. His head’s foggy and his throat is raw, aching like a five mile run on an ice cold day.
Dean shifts and gets an arm around him, pulling him back against his body as he groans in pain. Ross freezes in shock: Dean’s… Dean’s fucking hugging him, as if everything isn’t fucked up enough. He punches him in the face and Dean hugs him? And he already knew his brother was a mess, because Dean fucks Sam, he has sex with Sam, he loves Sam like a brother and a lover, and he sucks Sam’s cock, and... what is wrong with him, what is wrong with both of them? Is his family really that screwed in the head? They’re different, but they have a code, they’re hunters, the good guys, not the redneck Deliverance guys, except Dean and Sam are his brothers and they had sex last night.
He feels someone’s hand on his shoulder, helping him sit up. He stares up into his oldest brother's pale, blood-streaked face, his big, stupid, Bambi eyes with their stupid, long eyelashes, like a fucking girl, like a pathetic homo who takes it up the ass from his little brother.
“Ross, what is it? Tell me. What do you know? What's wrong?”
Guilty, you're so fucking guilty, Dean. You fucking know what's wrong.
He looks over Dean’s shoulder at Sam, crouching just behind Dean, concern and wariness blazing across his face, turning his eyes into animal like slants, just like his own.
They know, they both know. This is it. This is the moment.
“You had sex last night,” he says finally, his voice cracked, faint. All those years, all those times he’s imagined this moment, and he’s never thought of it going down like this.
He immediately wants to take it back.
Dean’s face crumbles, about as much as it can with the bloody nose and swollen mouth. He looks desperate, pupils blown and terrified.
Sam leans forward, places a hand on Dean’s shoulder and Dean flinches. Sam ignores him, eyes boring steadily into Ross, “You know about us. How long have you known about us?”
Ross shrugs, swipes one hand across his face, pushing away the sticky, damp tears. He’s got no barriers now, no more secrets, nothing else.
“A long time,” he says.
“Oh my God,” whispers Sam, and Ross sees his fingers tighten their hold on Dean. “Since when?”
“Since Dean’s 21st birthday. I saw you. You thought I’d passed out.”
“Six years? That was six fucking years ago!”
“Yeah.” He shrugs again.
Everything goes silent, Ross can hear them all breathing, Dean labored and painful, Sammy sharp and hurried, and himself, panting, heart still racing, aching and terrified.
“Does Dad… Did Dad know?” mumbles Dean.
Ross shakes his head. “I never told him. I think he suspected.”
“Oh God,” says Dean, his voice cracking, and Ross can see the color drain from his face, smears of blood stark like fluorescent marks against his pale skin. He pushes Sam away, gets to his feet slowly, weaves towards the bathroom, stumbling like an old man. Ross watches him blankly, sees the door half-close, hears the sound of Dean coughing, spitting and retching, probably vomit, maybe blood.
“Dean, you okay?” Sam jumps up, following after Dean, and Ross slumps back against the metal bed frame. He feels done in, exhausted and run out, ridden hard but not yet put away wet.
Dean emerges from the bathroom, white faced, unsteady, most of the blood cleaned away except for one fingerprint shaped smear on his chin. He dips down in front of Ross and takes his head between his hands, cradles his skull.
“I’m sorry, kiddo.” His voice is hoarse and genuine, so fucking genuine. Dean’s devastated like Ross has never seen him look before and it’s wrenching at his heart. “I’m so sorry,” Dean pleads. Ross tries to snort but it’s more like a sob, and he can’t look away from Dean, from the desolation on his face. “If you want us to, then we can never -“
“Dean,” Sam cries out, sounding panicked.
“Ross, I mean it, we can -“ Dean chokes over the words, there are tears sliding down his face and it’s breaking Ross into bits. He’s being scattered, everything’s falling apart… Everything’s got to change now, because he’s told them that he knows, because they know that he knows. Nothing is going to be the same anymore.
“No, you can’t,” he says flatly and he stares at Dean, at his face, at the bruises that he put there, the damage that he’s done.
Dean opens his mouth to deny it, but he doesn’t get the chance to speak, Ross is kissing him before he can really process what’s happening, something coming loose in his brain, some piece unhitching and making him momentarily insane. Someone’s making a strangled sound and he’s not sure if it’s Sammy or Dean, or even himself. But Dean’s mouth is under his, busted lip and the mingled taste of blood and bile and saliva. Dean’s tongue brushes against his, and he can’t believe that Dean’s letting him do this, letting him explore his mouth with his tongue, letting him push into him and take parts of him that only Sam’s been allowed before. And it’s doing weird things to him, it’s making him feel crazy, fucked-up things that are fluttering and itching at his skin, but this - for Dean - it’s just part of his big punishment, and the fact that it’s not that for Ross, is terrifying.
He pulls away and gasps for breath. Dean’s pupils are blurred and he’s breathing heavily, panting hotly against the side of Ross’s face. Ross laughs out loud; he feels high, on the edge of hysteria, his stomach seems to have floated away, bottomed out from all the crazy and the tingling, terrible feelings in his gut.
“I don’t get it,” he says, willing his voice not to shake.
“Get what?” And that’s definitely Sammy’s voice, looming over Dean, suspicious and angry and pissed. “What the fuck are you doing, Ross?”
“Me? I just wanted to see what it was like,” he spits back.
"Stop playing games! Stop screwing with us!” growls Sam.
“Cause you’re only fuckin’ allowed to screw with each other, right?”
Sam’s eyes narrow and he pushes Ross away from Dean, hand fisting into his overshirt, sinewy muscle flexing. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but you don’t get to do that,” says Sam, and his voice is like steel.
“Jesus!” cries Dean. “Sam! Stop it!”
“Dean,” warns Sam, “stay out of this.”
“What? For Christ’s sake, Sammy, what the fuck are you gonna do? You gonna fight him? You gonna fight your little brother?”
“He kissed you.”
“You kissed me last night. And this morning.”
“But - he’s your brother - Dean -“
Dean barks out a laugh, cold like ice breaking. “Sam! Sammy! Can you hear yourself?”
“He hit you, Dean!”
“Yeah, and you shot me full of rock salt.”
Ha! Ross narrows his eyes in on Sam and sees him flinch at Dean’s words, his fingers momentarily weakening their hold on Ross’s shirt. Ross takes advantage of it to tug away from him, pushing Sam’s fist away with his hand.
“This - we can’t. Dean, you and Ross, you can’t do this,” Sam says, and he’s focused all on Dean now, expression pleading and lost.
“He’s not your fuckin’ property!” spits Ross.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” mutters Dean. He turns to Sam, raises one hand to cradle his cheek, sliding his thumb over Sam’s mouth. “Sammy, we can’t do this anymore. Not now. He knows.”
“He’s known for years. He said so!”
Dean swallows and shakes his head, the words slurring through his busted mouth. “No, Sam, you’re not listenin’ to me. We have to stop.”
Sam places his own hand over Dean’s, closing his eyes for a second, “No.”
“Sam -“ and that’s Dean’s warning tone, his older brother tone.
“I said no, Dean!” Sam’s eyes jerk open and they’re flashing, dark and angry, “Just - you don’t get to do this to me! Please.”
Dean blinks and drops his hand. He stumbles to his feet and stomps away, door smashing shut behind him.
*********************
He can still remember that morning, three days before Christmas, a month before his twelfth birthday, waking up to Sam’s scream to see another boy who looked so much like Sammy did two years ago, but darker, harder, none of Sam’s babyish softness, staring back at the two of them with wide, brown eyes.
“Who the hell are you?”
The boy didn’t move, didn’t speak. Dean felt Sam creep up beside him, grab onto his t-shirt with one small fist, the two of them turning to stare at the strange kid.
“Huh? Can’t you speak?” he demanded.
The kid blushed and his eyes flashed angrily. “Yes, course I can speak.”
“Well, answer me then, what’s your name, kid?”
The boy scowled and said, “My name is Ross Christopher Winchester.”
Sam gasped and turned his head to whisper directly into Dean’s ear, “Dean, did you hear what he said?”
Dean grunted and elbowed him away. “Shut up, Sammy.” He stared at the boy, glancing between him and Sam and Dad where he was still passed out on the couch, and had this weird feeling, as if…
He swallowed resolutely and turned back to the boy, making his voice sound gentler. “How did you get here?”
“My dad brought me.”
“Where’s your dad now?”
“There,” said the boy and pointed towards Dad on the couch. “He’s my dad.”
“No he’s not!” protested Sam. “He’s our Dad.”
They were silent for a moment, the boy still looking at them steadily, scratching the side of his face with his small hand. “I’m hungry. Do you have anything to eat?”
They all ate together, Dad still asleep and snoring. Dean poured bowls of Cheerios for Ross and Sammy, watching them both as they ate. Like mirror images, but distorted, wonky mirror images, he thought. The way their noses and mouths screwed up when they took in too big mouthfuls of cereal, the suspicious look in their eyes as they stared each other out over their glasses of milk - all of it, identical and… freaking weird.
Dad woke up after they’d all gotten dressed. Dean had found comics for them to read, and Sam was on his front on Dean’s bed, staring at Ross, looking small but defiant on the other bed. Sam nudged Dean with his elbow and whispered loudly, “He’s not staying, is he?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. Shut the hell up!”
“Shut the hell up yourself!” retorted Sam, turning to stick his tongue out at Dean.
“Boys!” called out Dad in his gruff-just-woken-up voice.
“Yes, sir!” They climbed off the bed quickly, standing together, backs straight and heads up, eyes locked on their father. Ross glanced at them and clumsily followed suit, scrabbling untidily off the bed and moving to stand on Dean’s other side.
Dad stared at them, looking confused for a second before he relaxed and smiled, running a hand over his beard. “Ross, come here,” he said.
Dean watched his father crouch down and pull the boy into a hug when he approached. When Dad turned back to Sam and Dean, he was holding Ross against him, one arm on his small shoulders, Ross’s face pressed against his hip.
“Dean, Sammy, this is Ross. He is your brother.” Dad paused for a moment, tightening his hold on Ross’s shoulders, letting the words sink in. Our brother, thought Dean, we have another brother. He was expecting it, looking at Ross, seeing how much he looked like Sammy, and the feeling he’d gotten when he’d first laid eyes on him, he’d known - he’s our brother. Though, wait a minute, if Ross is our brother and he’s younger than Sam, then that must mean that Dad and some another chick must’ve…
“He’s going to be living with us from now on,” said Dad, interrupting Dean’s train of thought. “He’s a Winchester, he’s one of us. Do you understand what that means?”
Dean cleared his mind of all thoughts, concentrating only on his father’s voice, on what he was asking. He nodded, glancing at Sam from the corner of his eye. He was staring at Dad and Ross with a suspicious, uncertain sort of a look on his face, that small crease between his eyebrows which meant he was thinking about it, taking it in and trying to figure it out in that normal Sammy way of his.
Dad continued as if they’d both already answered, speaking directly to him. “Dean, Ross is your brother. You treat him exactly as you would Sammy. If I’m not around then you’re in charge and you look out for him. You’re the oldest, Dean, and you look out for both your brothers. Do you hear me? I’m counting on you for this.”
He swallowed, nodded, catching Dad’s eye, “Yes, sir, I understand,” he said, trying to make his voice sound firm and sure, like the oldest son, like Dad’s lieutenant, like the guy who now had two little brothers to look after.
Dad nodded, looking pleased, he smiled at Dean, said, “Good. Now - all of you - get your stuff together. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”
After a while, he forgot what it was like before Ross became one of them, how it was before with just him and Sam. But Sam never forgot. Dean could feel it in every accusatory look he’d throw Ross, every fight and spat out word, every resentment and petty argument between them.
And the balance never worked: DeanSammyRoss, SammyRossDean, RossDeanSammy, no matter how much they tried and Dean, Dean was always the one in the middle; fights and arguments and bruises and dead arms and never any fucking amnesty in Sam and Ross’s never-ending backseat war. It wore Dad out, made him gruffer and harder and even spikier than normal.
Dean can remember one occasion when he thought Dad would lose it completely: pulling the car up at the side of the road, Dad jumping out, yanking the back door open and hauling the two of them out, one after the other. Dad threw them to the ground by the side of the road, as if they were sandbags, not boys, screaming and bellowing at them, the freezing cold wind snatching his words so Dean could only see the fury and rage etched into his father’s face, gone dark and almost unrecognizable, like one of the creatures they hunted.
He felt more than saw his Dad’s fingers as they caught in his brothers’ hair, pulling their heads back to look up at him, his mouth shaping horrible, angry words as they whimpered and shook. He ripped their thin worn t-shirts as he grabbed them by their necks and threw them against the side of the car, inside Dean felt it buffer from the weight of his brothers’ small bodies and heard a snatch of his father’s voice: “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t leave you both here!”
He saw the shocked, blubbery looks of terror on both their faces - that look that on Sam would later twist into a cold, hate-filled fury - but then, at that moment, was just childish terror of Dad. Something clenched up hard inside him, and before he realized what he was doing, he was out the car, defying Dad but too scared, truly terrified because Dad… Dad would do that; Dad would totally follow through on that threat if he thought it would teach them a lesson.
“Dad?”
“Stay out of this, Dean. Get back in the car!”
“Dad - please, you can’t -“
“Dean! Get into the car!”
Dean glanced at his brothers, both crying. Big, fat tears rolling down their round cheeks, shivering pathetically in the icy wind in their ripped t-shirts, eyes wet and helpless and fixed on him.
“No, Dad. You can’t leave them here.”
“Are you telling me what to do, Dean?”
“No, no, sir. I wouldn’t do that. But you can’t leave them. Please, Dad.”
It was like walking into a pitch black haunted room without a flashlight, no gun, no back-up, no Dad. He was on his own, casting himself out there, going against his father.
They got back in the car, Dad dismissing him with a look that cut into Dean’s chest like his best silver knife and a barked out, “Dean! You’re in the back with Ross. Sam! Up front with me!” Not even looking him in the face, no admiration for standing up to him, for standing up for his brothers, but disappointment and cold, hard anger.
Dean swallowed, his own eyes as downcast as Sam’s and Ross’s, that look of disappointment from Dad twisting and wriggling into him, like a maggot in rotting flesh. He nodded and slid into the backseat after Ross, not daring to raise his eyes, instead staring transfixed at the small pinpricks of gooseflesh running up and down the length of Ross’s normally tan arms, the mini ripples and shivers under his skin as the car’s warm air hit him.
He only dared look up when he could sense Dad’s attention elsewhere, on the road, swerving back onto the blacktop with a roar of the engine. He looked up cautiously and saw Sam, twisted around in the front seat, looking back at him, giving Dean that clear-eyed, blazing look that meant gratitude and love and never-ending devotion.
Dean felt something in his chest pull, something begin to warm him up again, he gulped, stared back at Sam, unable to look away from that look.
“Sam! Put your damn seatbelt on!”
Dad’s voice jolted them back to the present, Sam’s head snapped back to the front and he fumbled with his belt, the back of his neck flushing red with embarrassment.
Dean turned to look out the window; feeling out of place in the unfamiliar backseat. He felt Ross shift around, edge closer to him, burrow his messy, dark head into Dean’s chest, eyes falling shut as he faded into sleep. Dean rested his hand on the curve of Ross’s skinny shoulder, still cold from the icy wind outside, but familiar and comforting and soothing. He raised his eyes to the back of Dad’s head, immovable and dark in the front seat; he thought again of the look of disappointment on Dad’s face, of the look of adoration on Sam’s, and felt sick to his stomach with a cold, unknowable dread.
He wakes up to his phone vibrating against his ass, the muffled sounds of the opening riff of Paranoid emanating from the back pocket of his jeans. He groans, fumbles around, groping his own ass, until he locates it. Naturally, by the time he manages to flip it open and bring it to his ear, it’s already gone to voicemail. He groans again, checks the caller ID; SAM. Of freaking course.
He shuffles into a sitting position, banging elbows and knees against the side of the car. He hates sleeping in the car, never feels like he’s had a rest after a night in the car. Okay, so this time wasn’t as bad as usual, no Ross in the front seat, bitching about not getting the backseat, cause: I’m taller than you, motherfucker, like half a freaking inch makes any fucking difference. His own usual retort: yeah, well, I’m older than you, bitch, so suck it up.
He blinks tiredly, stares out the foggy back window, dawn is just creeping up, so it must be really fucking early. He checks his watch: 5.06am, Jesus.
Thoughts of Sam immediately slam his brain back to life, memories of yesterday, of what went down yesterday, Sammy… the two of them together all night cause Ross had taken his baby for one of his pleasure cruises, “He won’t be back for hours,” he told Sam confidently, “we got all night, man.”
Sam’s look, wary and belligerent. “Whatever, Dean.” It made him kinda want to laugh, remembering all of a sudden Sam’s jealousy towards Cassie, the antagonism he could almost feel like a tangible presence in the car with them the past four hundred miles.
“Sam, Jesus, give it up already,” he cajoled him; “I didn’t sleep with her, if that’s what you want to know.”
The look on Sam’s face shifted immediately, that edge of suspicion melting away some, he licked his lips, asked, “Yeah? So - you, uh, last night…”
“We hung out,” he said with a shrug. “I told her about some of the shit we’d been up to, she told me about what she’d been doin’.” He paused, considering, “It was actually kinda boring.”
The corner of Sam’s mouth lifted, a weak, half-smile, at long-freaking-last. “Yeah? Really?”
Dean rolled his eyes, “Really. Fuck, dude, I’d forgotten what a possessive bitch you are.”
Sam looked like he was gonna retort, but he closed his mouth instead, obviously deciding it wasn’t worth it. Hell, they had a good few hours of alone-time, probably the whole night, knowing Ross; they should not spend it fighting with each other about old girlfriends he hadn’t given a moment's thought to since Sam had come back into his life.
Sam approached him, wrapped his arms around him and pulling him in close.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I, just. Dean, I know, I can be like that sometimes. Jess - she used to -“ He broke off, tried to pull away, ducking his head again to hide his expression which… no, Dean wasn’t having that. He reached out, caught Sam’s jaw in his hand, tilted his head up so their eyes could meet.
“Yeah?” he asked carefully, “what did she used to say?”
Sam huffed out a long breath, pulled out of Dean’s grasp, a small glimpse of a sheepish smile around his mouth. “She used to get so mad at me when I used to get jealous of her talking to other guys or hanging out with other guys. And yeah, I trusted her, but I guess - I’m just one of those people. I always thought it was just you - but…” he broke off again, flushing self-consciously. “I guess it wasn’t just you, I’m just a jealous sort of person.”
Dean felt a twinge in his chest, so, not just me then, he thought, feeling his own sudden stab of jealousy. He swallowed it back, pasted on one of his best leers.
“Sam, whatever there was between me and Cassie, it’s old news. So, stop cuttin’ a bitch over it, and let’s enjoy ourselves, huh?”
Sam looked up, catching his eye, that slow, spreading grin of his, so goddamn beautiful, the one that’d taken Dean’s entire fucking soul and remade it in his own image, that look of adoration and devotion that hadn’t changed one bit from the ten year old in the front of the Impala thanking him for standing up to Dad.
Sam coming up to him and pushing him back onto the bed, straddling him and looming over him, thick, dark hair brushing against Dean’s skin as Sam explored his way across his collarbone, his chest and nipples, stomach and belly button, tonguing at the scattering of golden hairs leading down to his groin, bypassing his cock and balls cause Sammy was a goddamn tease, to nuzzle apart his thighs, suck and lick at his knees, and inner thighs.
“I want to worship every single inch of you,” breathed out warm air over Dean’s belly button, “God, Dean, I want it all… everything.”
And his own pathetic answer, “Okay, yes, anything, everything, you got it, take it…”
The morning after was just as perfect. Surging awake with Sam’s mouth on his cock, Sam’s tongue writing his name in saliva across his balls. Sam fucking him in the bathroom in front of the mirror, his hands gripping the edge of the chipped and stained sink, their faces together in the mirror, watching, seeing himself as he came, seeing Sam, that perfect, complete moment of falling apart. Sam fucking him on the floor of the bathroom cause however they tried it they couldn’t fit in the tub at the same time, one foot jammed between the toilet and the edge of the bathtub, the other hoisted over Sam’s shoulder. Sam magnificent and so fucking huge as he pounded into him, sliding and slipping over the damp dirty tiles, Sam collapsing on top of him afterwards, knocking the breath from Dean’s chest as he laughed, exuberant and so fucking beautiful into Dean’s skin.
“I can’t believe it took you so long to let me do this to you. I can’t believe I waited this long to fuck you.”
And afterwards…
He still can’t think about that, can’t think about the look on Ross’s face, his baby brother, all those years, six and a half years. The thought of all that time, of every hour spent together with Ross knowing, of all those times he and Sam -
He can’t think about his life the same anymore, it’s all been distorted, every memory is different, not what it seemed.
That year after Sam graduated high school, that extra year he stuck around before Stanford. That year when Dad finally gave into Ross’s pleas to let him leave school, cause he was seventeen fuckin’ years old and he didn’t need any of that school bullshit no more. That year they were all free, crossing the country from end to end, all four of them, together. He and Sammy sharing a motel room, Dad and Ross in the other, the nights of lying beside Sam, of waking him up with his mouth on Sam’s gorgeous cock, of showering together, laughing and groaning in the shower stall, hands over each other’s mouths, cause Dad and Ross were just next door and the walls were way too fucking thin…
That was the best year. The best time of his life. All four of them together, sitting around a diner booth, Dad going through the paper or his journal, he and Ross and Sammy trading kicks under the table, flicking sugar packets at each other, Ross’s junior horndog boasts about the waitresses provoking indulgent looks from Dad. Sam and Ross not even fighting so much, Sam chilled out and happy, and Dean, every time he glanced at Sam, every time he thought about how the four of them must look - like a real family - feeling this warmth in his chest, this stupid happiness that he should’ve known was never going to last.
The phone trills again, Dean starts, pushing away the memories, the goddamn back and forwards, to and fro, rolling and rumbling of his mind. He presses the button to accept the call, holds the receiver to his ear.
“Sam?”
“Dean?” Sam sounds relieved, pissed, but relieved. “Jesus Christ, Dean! Where the hell are you? You gotta - listen, we don’t have time to go over last night, you just gotta - you gotta come back here.”
A prickle of gooseflesh breaks out across his skin, small hairs on his nape rising, “Sammy? What - what’s happenin’? Is Ross okay?”
Sam swallows, doesn’t say anything for a second, when he speaks he sounds unsure, worried, “I. Dean, he had another vision. We, uh, both did. It was bad, Dean, really bad. Just - please. We need you.”
The door to the motel room is open when he gets back, Sam lingering by it, his face white and anxious, it creases up in relief when he spots Dean, then immediately his eyes narrow, that concerned line between his eyebrows.
“Dean? Your face -“
“Oh!” he halts, a couple of feet from Sam, brings one hand up curiously to his face, touches his lip and winces. Shit, he’d forgotten about that. He’d fixed it up as best he could in the bathroom of a McDonalds, crawled into the backseat of the car and taken a couple of Vicodin to go off last night, numbing the ache and numbing his stupid, overactive brain. He’d forgotten about Ross’s punch to his face, the mouthful of blood, no teeth knocked out, thank God, he still has his pretty smile. He smiles awkwardly at Sam, it’s painful, a persistent throb starting up along his jaw line.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. Sam swallows, steps away from the door, going inside and Dean follows him. Ross is flat out on one of the beds, breathing heavily, a cold facecloth over his forehead like a 19th century maiden with a headache.
“We had a vision,” Sam says dully. He’s gone back to packing up their stuff, the bags lying open on the other bed. “A guy called Jim Miller from Saginaw in Michigan killed himself. We both saw him do it just like before. I did some research, called the Sheriff’s in Saginaw. We were too late, he was already dead. But, Dean, how it happened - every single fuckin' detail was exactly as we both saw.”
Dean sinks to the bed by Ross; he’s sleeping so heavily that Dean knows he’s drugged. He looks up at Sam.
“You gave him something?”
Sam nods, “Yeah, some of those painkillers you had left over from the hospital - “
“The OxyContin? You gave him that?”
“I had to, Dean!” Sam snaps. “He was - he was in so much pain! The usual stuff - even the goddamn Vicodin was doing nothing for him! And he was so tired, we didn’t sleep last night. And you weren’t here. You ran away from it, Dean. You left me to deal with the entire fuckin’ fallout! And not just that - the - these goddamn visions... So, don't you fuckin' dare try to tell me what I shoulda done.”
Dean can’t answer Sam, can only take every accusation as what he deserves. He shouldn’t have left them; they’re his responsibility - his brothers, his responsibility - his family. He swallows, ducks his head, unable to meet Sam’s eyes. He leans down over Ross, presses his lips to the side of his face, his pale, wan cheek. He feels a sharp, overwhelming rush of tenderness for him, the urge to scoop Ross into his arms, rock him against his chest like he used to do when he was six, seven years old and woke up with bad dreams. He’s done everything wrong. He’s fucked up this boy beyond repair, nothing is going to be able to undo the damage he’s done to Ross, the damage he and Sammy have done in their selfish desire for each other.
Ross is more than his little brother, has always been so much more than that, just as Sam has been more than a brother, the three of them way closer than normal brothers, than normal fraternal relationships. Dean can see it all clearly now, if he and Sam are mom and dad, then Ross is their fucked-up teenage kid, and they’ve broken him. Ross has grown up, has spent the last six years of his life knowing his two brothers were fucking each other, how can they even begin to understand what kind of damage that has done to him?
“Dean?” Sam says hesitatingly. Dean turns his head to look at him, he suddenly feels ridiculously tired, his face throbbing in time with his pulse. “You - you look awful, dude; maybe you should rest up before we go anywhere. He’ll be out for a while, anyway.”
Dean nods, turns his head and picks up the Vicodin lying on the nightstand, he pops one dry and looks back down at Ross. He slides gently onto the bed beside him, curling up against his brother’s sleeping body. Ross stirs, turns onto his side, as if he knows Dean’s there, though that’s gotta be impossible with the fucking drugs Sam's given him, but Dean rolls into the space gratefully, holding his little brother from behind like the big spoon. He closes his eyes and falls asleep.
When Dean wakes up, Ross is still lying beside him, but he’s awake. He’s watching Dean sleep with this confused, conflicted look on his face. Dean blinks his eyes open and slowly takes in Ross’s face, the absurd familiarity of it, the same face he’s seen for every single day of the past 21 years.
“Hey,” Dean murmurs, then, “I’m sorry.”
Ross’s mouth twitches, he looks even more confused, he lifts his hand, hesitates, then drops it again, says, “My head hurts.”
“You had a vision.”
“Yeah. I know. It sucked. Some dude gassed himself in his garage.”
"Sam says he's dead," Dean tells him.
Ross half-shrugs, "Yeah, you don't come back from that."
“Look, uh, Littlest Bro. I'm so - I'm so sorry. I can't -"
"Shut up," Ross snaps quickly, cutting him off. "I don't wanna talk about it, Dean."
Dean licks his lips, his mouth is so dry, he swallows painfully, "Right," he murmurs.
"Yeah," Ross replies tightly, his mouth quirks, a self-deprecating twist that’s nothing like Ross, but so much like Sam, so much like himself that Dean feels something ache inside him, "I've been dealin' with you and Sammy and your fucked-up shit for six fuckin' years, what makes you think I'm not gonna be able to deal now?”
There's a long, tense silence and Dean tries to think of what to say... but what the fuck can he say? The damage was done a long fucking time ago.
Ross sighs, breaking the silence, “Look, I'm sorry I punched you.”
“Doesn’t matter. I deserved it.”
Ross stares at him for a moment, then exhales exasperatedly, rolls away, getting up off the bed stiffly. Dean sits up, watches him, not sure whether to get up off the bed and help him, but Ross would just push him away, wouldn’t want to be treated like an invalid. He watches him bend over, grab for the painkillers again and a glass of water, he pops them, downing each one with a healthy glug of water; Ross has never been able to take any medication dry.
The door jerks open to reveal Sam standing on the threshold, regarding them both warily. He looks tired, his eyes red-rimmed and dark.
“We should go,” he says.
They get into the car, Sam sliding into the driver’s side after Dean only puts up a token protest, he’s taken way too much Vicodin over the past 12 hours to risk getting behind the wheel of his baby. Ross takes the backseat without a word, stolen motel pillow under his head. He goes off to sleep after only twenty miles, soft huff-huff of breathing in the tense silence.
Sam sighs, throws Dean a look, “I know you don’t want to, but we got to talk about this, Dean - not the visions, but the you and me stuff - about Ross knowing.”
“You have no idea how much I don’t want to talk about that,” mutters Dean.
“I think I kinda do.”
Dean huffs out a humorless breath, sighs heavily, “Yeah, maybe you do.”
They sit in silence for another long moment, then Sam says abruptly, “You know that this doesn’t change anything? Between us. I’m still gonna…” he swallows, sets his shoulders, “I can’t stop wantin’ you just cause he knows, Dean. I’m not - I’m not built that way. And neither are you. Whatever happens, I’m always gonna feel this way about you. I’ve been living with it as long as I can remember, the first time I ever remember getting hard - it was cause of you -“
“Oh Jesus, Sam…”
“Don’t interrupt,” Sam says tiredly, he shoots him another sideways look, white-faced, eyes tight with tension. “Dean, I’m serious, really fuckin’ serious. I can’t do this without you. Since Jess, since everything… you’re the only thing keeping me together. I can’t - without you…” his voice hitches, he swallows, pulls the car over, braking in that restrained, overly cautious way of his. Dean feels his own breath catch in his throat as he watches Sam pull on the handbrake, glance in the driver's mirror - at Ross - still asleep, completely out of it on the backseat.
“I don’t know what to do,” Sam continues. His voice is steadier now. “Last night when you were gone, I felt completely lost. Me and Ross, before the visions hit us, we talked some, he, uh, told me - about when he found out about us, about how long he’d known. He caught us once, you know? In Bobby’s yard one summer. We were in the back of a wrecked Cadillac.” He pauses, but Dean doesn’t say anything, mind going back to that summer - Dad leaving the three of them with Bobby, two fucking months Dad was gone and he was so frustrated by it, being left behind like that. He remembers working on cars a lot, shooting practice in Bobby’s make-shift range, morning runs around the neighboring fields, and Sammy… a whole lot of Sammy and his long, tan limbs, his salty, sweat-soaked body, the two of them screwing around in the back of the wrecked cars…
“I meant what I said Dean, this doesn’t change anything. I need you, I’m always gonna need you. This isn’t over between us, it’s never gonna be. Not for me. Not now.”
He turns and gives Dean a look, and it’s that look again - that blazing, clear-eyed, all or nothing, Sammy look. And Dean knows: he can’t resist, he doesn’t want to resist, he’s just kidding himself when he thinks he can. However bad he feels, however much he loathes himself for doing this to Ross, he’s not going to be able to say no to Sam, and hell, he doesn’t want to.
Sam is the one thing, the only fucking thing in his life that gives him this absolute high, this crazy, stupid happiness; he loves his family, Dad, Ross, the job, more than anything, but he can't give up this again - he can't give up Sam - he's not that good a person.
“Yeah, okay," he says finally. He looks up, meets Sam's eyes, suddenly sure that this is it - this is what he truly and honestly wants. He wants Sam.
"Yeah, Sammy, okay. You and me, we'll figure it out."
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