World's Forgotten Boys, Chapter 13/28 - (Sam/Dean, Sam/Dean/OMC - R)
Fic title: World's Forgotten Boys (link to the full verse)
Chapter: 13/28
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/OMC, Sam/OMC, Sam/Dean/OMC
Rating: R
Word Count: 8577
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...
A/N Tons of thanks to andreth47 for her awesome beta skills on this one. I'm sure you'll see the difference!
Previous Chapters: Link to the Masterpost
Chapter 13
It’s cool to be in an actual big city for once. There’s something about big cities that mean space, like, real space, space for Ross to get away from his brothers, not that it ever seems to work out like that. Still, there’s the potential for space, potential for him to get away for one night, to, like, do his own thing, away from the never-ending mass of Winchesterness that is his life.
Whatever, it ain’t gonna happen tonight, 'cause right now, at this exact fucking moment in time - they’re on a job. Which is why he’s sitting, propped up against a bar, next to his big brother, bored outta his fucking skull, listening to Dean flirt with the reasonably hot bartender in an effort to pump her for intel on her dead co-worker.
“Really?” says Dean, flashing her his bestest, widest and toothiest grin. It’s the exact same one Ross has been copying for years and he’s never known it to fail with the chicks, and whoop-di-do, sure enough, it’s getting the right results now because the bartender has taken Dean’s phone from his hand and is busy giggling and programming in her number.
Dean nudges him in the side and raises his eyebrows at him in way that makes him look both smug and goofy, like, at the same time, it’s even sorta impressive.
“Jesus, what is with you tonight?” hisses Dean.
Ross shrugs. “Thought you were supposed to be gettin’ intel from her. Not her fuckin’ phone number.”
“Oh my God,” says Dean in a low voice, giving the chick an encouraging grin, “you’ve turned into Sam, haven’t you? You’re not Ross at all, but really Sammy in disguise.”
“Fuck you,” bites back Ross, because no… no fucking way… below the belt.
Dean just raises his eyebrows again, and this time it’s all about the smug.
“Who turned into me?”
And great, here’s Sam, all he needs to make his night even more fucking perfect.
Dean ignores both of them and goes back to chatting with the bartender, taking his phone back from her with a grin and a wink, accepting the free drink she slides his way, her hand lingering over his. Ross feels his eyes narrow, and glancing at Sam, he can see his expression mirrored in his brother’s face.
Shit, is he really, like, seriously turning into Sam? Is it going to be like this every time Dean flirts with another fucking chick or God, even worse, a dude? He never used to be bothered by it, Dean and he were wingmen, they always used to pick up girls together, it was normal, it was what they did, what they used to do, 'cause it’s not like Dean’s been looking to hook up with anyone seriously since Sammy came back. Not that Ross has let Dean’s pathetic lack of game stop him from having fun and hooking up as much as he damn well pleases. No fucking way.
So why the fuck is this bothering him now? Why’s it making him all irritable and itchy and Jesus, okay, he can admit it: fucking jealous that Dean’s all over this freaking chick? Shit makes no fucking sense. It would be understandable if it were a dude, 'cause, yeah, he’s never liked watching his big brother make time with dudes, vanishing into some skeezy bathroom with them to suck their cock, yeah, that shit was freaking unhygienic and Jesus, man, so fucking gay. And, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah, thinking like this is really fucking hypocritical of him, given what the three of them have been up to over the past couple of months, but whatever; he never claimed that his brain ever made any fucking sense.
Whatever, Dean isn’t gonna get serious with this chick, whatever she might think, not with Sam there, scowling and bristling with jealousy, not to mention, the way he’s looming over the bar being freakishly tall and super intense.
He rolls his eyes and elbows Sam out the way; Sam immediately spins around and glares at him.
“What?” he snaps.
Ross pulls a face at him, he might have suddenly developed this weird and way outta character jealousy thing involving his big brother, but man, at least, he’s not so freaking obvious about it.
“Calm the fuck down, man,” he says, “just wantin’ to know if you want a fuckin’ drink?”
“Uh, yeah,” says Sam, but he’s way distracted, eyes narrowed in on Dean and the bartender like the possessive sad-ass he is.
Ross waves the other (much) less cute bartender over to take their order, shoving Sam his beer, but Sam’s not looking at him, and wonder of wonders, he’s not even looking at Dean anymore, he’s looking out towards the pool tables on the other side of the room.
“Duh, Sam, beer’s here,” he prompts.
“Hold it,” says Sam, totally not interested, peering through the crowd at something or more likely, someone. He takes off without another word which… rude much? But then again, this is Sam.
Ross watches him push through a group of people heading for some badly dressed blond chick sitting at a table by herself. And yeah… she’s got strange hair and is a bit skinny for his tastes, but overall she’s not that bad, he’d hit it. She’s looking pleased to see Sam, though, grinning with a helluva lot of teeth and patting him on the arm in a familiar kinda way, so they obviously know each other. So… is she an old college pal? An ex-hookup? He snorts to himself, yeah, right.
“Where’d Sam go?”
He drags his eyes away from Sam and the blond chick as Dean joins him again, obviously finished with the bartender for the moment.
“Talking to some chick over there,” he answers.
Dean’s eyes follow where he’s pointing and narrow slightly when they spot Sam and the girl. He probably doesn’t even notice he’s doing it; it’s almost funny, the two of them, the way they get, like a couple of jealous teenagers. But Dean’s on his feet before Ross has a chance to grab their beers and follow him over.
Sam and the chick are sharing a laugh, still banging on about the randomness of bumping into each other like this, and man, other people’s conversations can be so freaking boring sometimes. Seriously, does Sam really flirt with chicks like this? No wonder he took up fucking his brother if this is the extent of his game. Dean meanwhile is trying to get their attention, fake coughing, which Sam is totally ignoring, (on purpose of course, probably payback for the cute bartender), when the chick turns to Dean and says:
“Dude, cover your mouth.”
Dean looks taken aback for a second, quickly followed up by pissed, while Sam just looks amused. Okay, so she’s one of those chicks, the “sassy” kind.
Finally, Sam decides that it’s time to, like, actually fucking introduce them all, which he does by muttering: “Meg, this is Dean and Ross, my brothers,” and that starts old Sassy Pants off with a tirade against Dean, accusing him of dragging Sam around, treating him like luggage, and seriously, where the fuck is she getting this crap?
Dean’s eyes are kinda wide, like, totally disbelieving what this obnoxious, sorry, “sassy” bitch is saying to him, and, seriously, where the fuck does she get off - accusing his brother of treating Sam like luggage? What a fucking joke, like Dean has ever treated Sammy as anything other than his super-special-adored-little-brother-and-favoritest-person-in-the-whole-freaking-world? Man, it’s just… sometimes he thinks he’s kinda getting to know Sam, and, like, understand him, and then he goes and pulls something like this: bad-mouthing their family, bad-mouthing Dean to a fucking stranger? No one gets to talk smack about their family, to talk smack about either of Ross’s big brothers other than Ross himself.
He’s about to say something along these lines, mouth open to retort, eyes flashing dangerously, when he feels Dean’s hand on his shoulder, hears his quiet, “Don’t,” before Dean’s throwing Sam a serious stink-eye and dragging Ross back towards the bar.
“Dude, what a bitch,” Ross mutters when they get safely away from Sam and Sassy Pants.
Sam comes to join them two minutes later; he’s looking a mix between sheepish and suspicious, avoiding Dean’s eyes, which is just as well for him, 'cause Dean is totally glaring at him.
“So, who the fuck is she?” asks Ross, 'cause Dean’s obviously too busy brooding to ask.
“Just a girl I met. And shit, it’s so weird, running into her here. I met her, literally on the side of the road in Indiana, and now she’s here, at this same bar in Chicago. Something’s really off about that, something’s not right.”
“Oh, but it is right to bitch about me to some chick, huh?” cuts in Dean. And whoa… here we go…
“What?”
“What’d you tell her about me, Sam? Why’d she go off like that? Am I keeping you against your will? Let me know if I am, Sammy. Let me know if I’m draggin’ you around like luggage.” And with that he’s stomping off, hands shoved into his pockets and looking more bow-legged that usual.
“Dean, no, Dean, wait,” Sam doesn’t bother looking back before he’s off after Dean. Fucking drama queens.
They all make it back to the motel eventually, though Ross kinda wishes they hadn’t. The atmosphere between Sam and Dean is seriously tense, Sam’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes following Dean around with this bruised hurt look on his face that makes him look like Dean’s just stolen and destroyed his favorite Barbie. Ross sniggers to himself at the analogy, earning him two identical glares from both his brothers.
He rolls his eyes, says, “Jesus, will you two kiss and make the fuck up already? You’re both such pathetic, jealous bitches. It’s totally pitiful.”
Sam’s glare gets darker and Dean’s blustering to his feet, protesting and bitching at Ross about the case they’re supposed to be working…
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ross says, pulling a face and making a grab for the remote. “Let me know when you’ve, like, gotten some actual fuckin’ useful information, that isn’t just some desperate chick’s phone number.”
“I’m going out,” states Sam, getting abruptly to his feet.
“Where?” snaps Dean, eyes swooping his way.
“Since when do I have tell you whenever I go anywhere?”
“Since I’m the oldest and I’m in charge!” retorts Dean.
“You’re not the boss of me, Dean. And you can’t always tell me what to do!” He slams the door shut and a moment later they hear the roar of the Impala.
“Sonofabitch!” hisses Dean; he falls back heavily onto the other bed, still scowling.
“Relax, he’ll get over it,” Ross tells him.
Dean doesn’t say anything, just sort of snorts under his breath and lets out a sigh, that long, painful sigh of his that Ross just fucking hates hearing, the one that can just get to him, make his chest ache in this way that he really fucking hates.
Without thinking, he gets suddenly to his feet, rounds the other bed, coming to a stop directly in front of Dean. Dean tips his head back and looks up at him. His expression is closed-off, but there’s this sort of anticipatory glint in his eyes, as if he’s waiting for Ross to make the next move, and Ross thinks: this is my brother, this is Dean, this is my big brother… the thoughts coming out and beating across his brain in this way that’s, just, totally redundant, because, duh, yeah, course this is Dean, but also, at the same time this is really fucking overwhelming, because holy fuck, this is Dean, and he wants him, he wants to do bad, dirty shit with him and that’s so fucking fucked-up and wrong.
He swallows and lifts his hand, placing it gently on Dean’s right cheek; his hand looks curiously big against Dean’s face and he can feel Dean’s skin, the dry flaky patch near his temple, the stubble against his palm and his thumb somewhere near Dean’s lip. He stares down at Dean’s mouth and strokes his thumb against Dean’s bottom lip, feeling the wet squishiness of it against his skin.
Suddenly, Dean opens up his mouth and sucks in Ross’s thumb, causing Ross to gasp out loud, which… man, so fucking pathetic and embarrassing. Though, that ain’t the worst of it, 'cause he’s, like, totally popping a fucking boner now, just from this: from Dean sucking on his thumb, cheeks hollowing, making him look exactly the same as when he sucked Ross’s cock a few nights back, and that… fuck, that was amazing, like total cock-sucking Olympic standards, if there was such a thing. Dean’s eyes are watching him closely, like he’s totally reading Ross’s mind, his eyes all wide and huge and girly, and his mouth making these squelchy, kinda obscene sucking noises, and it’s all just like this awesome porno he saw one time.
He gasps when he feels Dean’s hand pressing down against his cock, palm flat against his fly, his obvious hard-on. Dean’s expression goes all smug, well, smugger, and he does that annoying eyebrow thing, and Ross can feel his face flushing, like, he’s totally fucking blushing. At Dean! His goddamn brother for fuck’s sake, which is beyond pathetic, because… come on, it’s not like they haven’t been here before, but that doesn’t seem to matter, not at fucking all, because his dick’s decided to go fucking crazy and is making him act like some blushing virgin.
He makes a noise and moves quickly, using his other hand and his weight to push Dean back onto the bed and climb on top of him. Dean lets out a breath, laughing shakily to himself, and Ross uses the distraction to pull his thumb, now all warm and wet and sticky, out of Dean’s mouth. He straddles Dean’s hips and looms over him, leaning down for the kiss. Dean lets Ross kiss him. It’s the only way to describe it really, 'cause he doesn’t seem to be reciprocating, but then again, he’s not pulling away or telling Ross to stop or shoving him off or anything like that, and Dean is totally capable of doing that if he wanted to, which means…
Jesus, he has no fucking clue what it means, he’s only really all about how stupidly good it feels to kiss Dean, to drag his tongue over Dean’s, to taste his mouth and really, seriously fucking mack on the bastard, on Dean, his big brother.
Finally, Dean seems to stop fucking, like, angsting over whatever he’s doing or not doing with him, and starts making an effort to reciprocate, sinking his fingers into Ross’s ass and pulling him in closer, tongue invading and exploring Ross’s mouth. They make out for a while like this, just biting and sucking at each other’s mouths, Ross grinding his erection down against Dean’s crotch. He pulls back with a gross slurping sound to catch his breath and steals a look at his brother’s face. Dean’s cheeks are pink and flushed, and his mouth looks sort of plush and puffy, exactly like it looks after he and Sammy have been eating each other’s faces for ages, and yeah, he’s way too intimately acquainted with how that looks.
He leans down, about to kiss Dean again when Dean’s hand comes out, palm pressing into Ross’s chest, stilling him.
“Wait,” Dean says.
He freezes, hesitates, eyes searching Dean’s face. Dean’s wearing that sort of conflicted look he gets, that troubled, unhappy one, and Ross can feel his heart start to sink and his chest start to tighten, because he knows that fucking look.
“What?” he demands impatiently. “What the fuck’s wrong now, Dean? C’mon, let me kiss you again.”
“No, Ross, I said, wait,” Dean retorts.
“Jesus, dude, what for?”
“I don’t think we should be doin’ this,” Dean says.
He’s not looking at Ross; gaze fixed somewhere over Ross’s shoulder, like he’s totally refusing to meet Ross’s eyes, like he’s totally pussying out of this fight, or whatever this is going to be. Ross feels a knot of anger tighten up in his belly, and it’s just - Christ! It’s not fucking fair, he’s really fucking horny, like, his cock is totally pressing up against Dean’s lower belly and there sure ain’t no way Dean can’t feel that too, because Ross is totally packing, and man, just what the fuck is his deal?
“What? Ain’t it kinda late for that?” he snaps back. “You know, considering all the shit we’ve been doin’ these past few weeks.”
Dean says nothing, just sort of narrows his eyes and bucks his hips to throw Ross off. And it’s not like he has a choice now, 'cause Dean’s obviously made his decision, and Ross knows better than anyone how epically stubborn his brother can be.
“You’re a fuckin’ tease, you know that?” he snarls out as he climbs off Dean. He sits on the edge of the bed and presses his palm down against the hard outline of his cock. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him and he knows that Dean’s following his hand, that Dean can clearly see his erection. “I don’t get you! What the fuck is your problem? Is it 'cause Sam ain’t here? Is it 'cause of that?”
Dean presses his lips together and glares at him for a moment but doesn’t say anything.
“Oh, what the fuck ever!” he grits out. He gets to his feet and stalks across the four feet to the other bed, climbing onto it and shifting up the mattress until he’s sitting up against the headboard. He gets comfortable and unbuttons his fly, making a fist around his still stubbornly hard dick. “Well, you know, I’m still fuckin’ horny, so I’m gonna sit here and jerk the fuck off, and you can just, like… well I don’t give a fuck what you do!”
“Ross,” Dean says, and his voice is quiet, almost sort of pleading. “Ross, c’mon, man. This - you gotta see, this ain’t right, all this shit that’s been goin’ on between us, between you and me, and between all three of us, it’s wrong. Don’t you get that?”
He doesn’t say anything, gritting his teeth and staring down at his own palm, his fingers curled around the base of his cock. He has a sudden flash memory: Sam’s big hand, dragging up and down his shaft, Sam’s face so close to his, his stupid wavy hair curling around his ears, the line of his nose, swell of his cheeks, all of it, so fucking familiar. And it hadn’t… it had been so good, felt so good, though it shouldn’t’ve. He knows that, he’s not a fucking idiot, whatever Dean might think.
“Ross, think about Dad. What would Dad say if he knew what we were doing? He’d kill me, he’d fuckin’ kill me. For messin’ with you, screwing you up like this.”
He laughs hollowly. “Dad ain’t here, Dean. I don’t know if you’ve been, like, takin’ notice, but he ain’t been here for a while.”
“So?” Dean says quickly, “So what? Don’t mean we get to slack off or fool around or fuck shit up. I’m still responsible for you.”
“Whatever,” he mouths to himself. He grips harder around his cock, he can feel it wilting already, and he doesn’t want to jerk off now, not even sure if he could. Hell, what’s he saying - course he fucking could, if he wanted. But he doesn’t know if he wants to anymore. He buttons his pants back up and gets up from the bed. It’s not even like he can go anywhere right now, because Sam’s taken the fucking car.
“What you doin’?” Dean asks, sounding wary.
He pauses, hesitates in the middle of the room, he shrugs, “Don’t know.”
There’s a hesitation from Dean, then he says, “C’mere.”
Ross turns around, a sudden surge of hope in his chest; maybe Dean’s changed his mind? Maybe -
Dean pats the bed beside him, voice getting a shade lighter, looser. “C’mere, kiddo,” he repeats.
He slides onto the bed beside his brother, shifts so he’s sitting up at the headboard alongside Dean, bodies almost touching, maybe an inch, perhaps two, between them. Dean turns his head and looks at him, he’s wearing his serious face, and he swallows, licks his lips, all Dean’s tells, all things that are signaling to Ross that his brother’s uncomfortable, that they’re about to have A Serious Conversation.
“Listen,” says Dean, and yeah, Ross is so totally right, Serious Conversations always start this way, with a listen, or a look, or some bullshit meaningless word like that. “You don’t really want this, Ross, you just - I guess you’re so used to me and Sam and all that, that you think you do.”
“How the hell do you know what I want?”
“'Cause I know you,” says Dean.
“Yeah, right, whatever,” he mumbles.
“No, listen to me,” Dean says, voice all soft and persuasive. He reaches out, cups Ross’s cheek, turning Ross’s face so their eyes meet. “You don’t want this, not really. You’re just, you’re all fucked-up in the head, hell; we all are. But you could have something else, something good, something real. This shit - with me, with Sam - it ain’t - it ain’t good, man, it’s wrong. You must see that, right?”
He shakes his head, tries to pull away from Dean, getting to his knees to climb off the bed, but Dean’s too fast, too strong for him, he fists his fingers in Ross’s shirt and pulls him back in.
“Get off me, Dean!” he grits out, placing his own hand over Dean’s and trying to pry away his brother’s fingers. “You don’t fuckin’ get it! It’s, like, it’s one rule for me and one for Sam, and it’s always like that, always fuckin’ been like that, and you just - “
“Ross, no,” interrupts Dean. “Listen to me! I’m doing you a favor. Don’t you get that? I’m giving you the choice that I never gave Sammy. Me and Sam - we - it’s not something to fuckin’ aspire to, man, it’s not, like, a healthy fuckin’ relationship! You could do so much better, you know. You’re just - you’re my brother, and I want something else for you. Please, just, listen to me…” he trails off, voice cracking up.
Ross swallows, he can feel a lump building in his throat, another fucking lump, and Jesus Christ, is he going to, like, cry? So fucking pathetic.
“What about Sam?” he retorts quickly. “Do you want something else for him? 'Cause I don’t fuckin’ think you do. I think you want the two of you to be fuckin’ BFF or boyfriends or lovers or whatever the fuck you call it. I think that you’d drive off to fuckin’ - fuckin’ Vermont if you could and get gay married, and get a fuckin’ house and a dog and have gay-ass wine and cheese parties! I think that’s what you and Sammy want!”
Dean stares at him, then his mouth crooks, a look of wry amusement ghosting over his face, he shakes his head, exhaling heavily.
“What?” Ross snaps, “What’s so fuckin’ funny?”
“Gay married?” Dean parrots, raising that goddamn eyebrow again. “Wine and cheese parties? In what freakin’ world could you ever see me and Sam doing that? Christ, dude.” He laughs again and reaches out, tries to ruffle Ross’s hair. “Seriously? Where the fuck are you getting this shit?”
Ross shrugs, scowls at him. “You don’t know what I want. Stop patronizing me, makin’ out like you know what I want. This isn’t some fuckin’ whim. I thought you got that!”
The amusement on Dean’s face vanishes, like a lost TV picture, flickering away, lost to static. His hand slides down from Ross’s hair, cups his face again, his big rough fingers cradling Ross’s cheeks, eyes focusing in on him, and there’s so much affection there, so much Dean-ness that Ross just wants to curl up in it. He wants Dean to put his arms around him and pull him in close and hold him, and then maybe kiss him and stick his hand down his pants and bring him off ‘cause his fucking cock’s waking up again, his brother’s closeness, the warmth from his big, familiar body making his skin tingle and balls throb.
“Hey,” says Dean softly, “I’m gonna tell you something, okay? And this is - this shit, it’s real personal, Littlest Bro. Something I’ve never even told Sam,” his mouth twists and he looks conflicted for a moment, swallowing heavily, before he seems to make up his mind. “’Cause I totally mean it when I say it: you don’t wanna be involved with me - with us - you don’t want that. It’s wrong, kiddo. It’s fuckin’ twisted.”
“Dean -“
“No, shut up, listen to me,” Dean continues. “D’you know how old I was when I first - when I first felt something for Sammy? I was seventeen and Sam was thirteen. And you remember, right? You remember what he looked like. And it was - thinking of it now, makes me sick to my stomach. I used to - I hated it, Ross, I freakin’ hated myself so fuckin’ much. You have no idea, ‘cause that’s sick, you gotta see that that’s sick. Like I was no better than a goddamn pedophile -“
“You’re not a pedophile,” he interrupts, but Dean stops him, grabs his shoulder, squeezes hard, his expression crumpled-up, like paper, like he's a wax dummy that's just been thrown on the fire, like he’s freaking melting…
“Ross, listen to me! You’re not hearing what I’m saying: I was fucked in the head, way worse than a child-molester, ‘cause this was my own brother, this was Sammy, and I was poppin’ wood over him, over Sam, when I saw him in the shower, and that’s sick, that’s totally fuckin’ sick…” he breaks off, swallows, ducking his head, voice coming out all cracked and painful: “there’s no way you can tell me that that’s okay, ‘cause it ain’t okay. No fuckin’ way.”
There’s a part of him that’s perversely fascinated by what Dean’s saying; he’s always wondered about Dean and Sam, wondered about exactly how it was and when it was that they started this fucked-up shit. He was fifteen when he first caught them together, and Sammy was sixteen, Dean twenty-one, the day of his twenty-first birthday of course. Ross knew, he could tell from what he saw on that day that what they were doing - fucking making out with each other, jerking each other off - wasn’t a new thing between them, that the way they were acting with each other, how fucking familiar they seemed to be with each other had to mean that he fucked-up shit had been going on a while. So he got to wondering, couldn’t help himself: six months, one year, two years… How long? Anything seemed possible at the time.
And Sam was… Sam was always so much older than he looked. He looked the same age as Ross for most of their childhood, every motherfucker mistaking them for fucking twins, but Sam was way different to him. Sam was a fucking enigma, kept himself so close, never gave anything away unless he had to. Sam loved his precious secrets, it was why all this shit with Dean must’ve been so goddamn irresistible to him, one huge fucking enormous secret kept between just him and his favorite brother, something to hide from Ross and Dad, Sammy would've been all over that. And he got that, got why Sam wanted Dean, but he never really got why Dean wanted Sam back, just what it was about Sam that was so fucking special. He can remember Dean at seventeen, can remember how big, how strong he was, how much he wanted to be just like him, how much in awe he was of him. How jealous he was when Dad and Dean used to sit at the table, drinking beer, playing cards, while he and Sam were relegated to the couch to watch TV, or sent to bed. Dean and Dad discussing hunts, Dean coming back from a poker game with a roll of bills, Dad slapping him on the back with a: “Good game?” and Dean’s nod and smirk, “Yes, sir,” dropping the bills to the table to see Dad’s smile.
He wanted that: wanted to be that so much. And yet… all that time, Dean wanted Sam. Sam who would curl up on the couch with a text-book like the king of the geeks, sulk in the back of the Impala ‘cause they’d been pulled out of school again. Sam who cried like a girl when Dad said there wasn’t room in the trunk for that freaking Clue board game he’d found in the closet of one of their rental houses and gotten obsessed with. He’d been so upset about that that Dad bought him a shitty Travel Scrabble game at a gas station, tossing it into the back seat with a jumbo bag of Peanut M&M’s when they stopped for gas. Sam’s face lit up like a goddamn salt’n’burn at that, challenged both Dean and him to games for freaking months afterwards, of course, he always beat them, ‘cause Sammy was just that much of a nerd.
Dean drops his head into his hands and sighs, passing his hand over his face in that way that makes his stubble scrape against his ring, such a Dean sound, and so familiar that it grates, gets to him in ways he doesn't want to think about right now.
He grits his teeth, reaches out to pull Dean’s hands away from his face, curl his fingers around Dean’s wrists to hold them in place.
“Quit hiding,” he says firmly, hoping that he sounds like Dad now, all no-nonsense and stop feelin’ sorry for yourself, boy. “You ain’t sayin’ nothing I ain’t thought before,” he says matter-of-factly. Dean looks confused for a second, his face sort of blotchy and red from where he’s be pressing his fingers into his skin. “I always assumed you and Sammy must’ve gotten to screwin’ around when he was about that age. Like fourteen, fifteen, whatever.”
Dean looks shocked, and that is so much like Dean, so caught up in his own head and his own guilt that he can’t see the big picture. “Ross - he was fourteen, when we first kissed. Fourteen! Doesn’t that disgust you?”
Ross shrugs, “Yeah, sure, I guess it used to. But it ain’t like I got no moral high ground now, right? And, hey, whatever, man, you so need to get over this. This is Sam we’re talkin’ about. No freakin’ way would he ever let you take advantage or nothing, he’s like the most stubborn asshole in the history of forever. You know how he is.”
Dean doesn’t answer, purses his lips, pulling his hands out of Ross’s grasp. Ross watches him climb of the bed in silence, turn his back on him.
“Dean, c’mon, you know I’m right.”
Dean’s still quiet, still with his back to Ross, shoulders going up and down as if he’s breathing heavily. He strides towards the counter, the worktop with the cracked coffee pot, black dregs from this morning still sitting there, gathering mold, because none of them have been bothered to clean them up or make fresh, though admittedly, they’ve all been too busy fighting or trying to fuck each other to think about coffee.
Dean grabs onto the edges of the worktop, drops his head, shoulders braced. Ross watches him and kinda wants to laugh, it’s all so dramatic.
“Look, Deano, man, I know what you’re doin’. I know you’re, like, tryin’ to put me off, for my own good. You’re so freakin’ transparent,” he says.
Dean’s head dips and his shoulders sag some. He turns around, leans back against the counter, folds his arms, this totally defensive pose.
“So, you ain’t gonna listen to me,” he says flatly. “Whatever I say. I should’ve known.”
Ross shakes his head, “Nuh-uh. If this is just about you trying to turn me against you, then no, ain’t gonna happen. And all this - all this shit that’s been going on between us, like I fuckin’ told you, dude, I want it. I can’t just force it all away ’cause it’s no longer convenient to you, 'cause it makes you feel guilty. And you can’t keep denying me like this. It ain’t fair.”
“Yes I can,” says Dean, and this time he sounds more forceful, voice getting stronger, eyes finally meeting Ross’s. “I’m not doin’ this anymore. You and me - we’re just gonna go back to being brothers, like we’re meant to be.”
“Dean -“
“I said no, Ross!”
Ross flinches, frozen under the force of his brother’s voice, his glare, the slam of his fist on the edge of the worksurface.
Dean swallows, takes a couple of steps forward, standing over the tiny table, he leans forward, placing his hands on the back of a chair, fingers wrapping white-knuckled around its back, the dirty, flaking paint. “You and Sam - you can do whatever you want - that’s between the two of you, I don’t - I don’t mind if you decide to... But you and me. Ross, kiddo, I can’t do it anymore, it’s wrong and it’s just - it’s fucking you up and I want something better for you. So, please, don’t ask me again, 'cause I ain’t gonna change my mind.”
Slowly, he raises his eyes to Ross, pink and watery; he looks devastated, he’s pleading with him. And he - what’s he supposed to say to that? Yes, okay, Dean, whatever you want, I’m suddenly going to stop getting hard when I brush up against you, I’m going to stop thinking about you when I jerk off, 'cause, yeah, Dean, it’s just that goddamn easy…
The silence is finally broken by a phone; the opening bars of Paranoid, Black Sabbath, he thinks blankly. Dean’s phone.
Dean curses under his breath, sighs and reaches forward onto the table to pick it up. He looks down at the display. “Sam,” he mutters, meeting Ross’s eyes for a fraction of a second.
Ross nods, bites his lip and lowers his head. Maybe he should cry, perhaps that would change Dean’s mind? He can hear Dean talking to Sam in the background, he sounds normal, like they’re discussing the case. So, yeah… he could cry, get Dean’s sympathy, his love, again. He used to do that trick when he was younger, and it never failed, at least it never failed with Dean. Dean was a total pushover when it came to tears and snot and blubbery little-brother faces, would just crumple under the onslaught and give in to whatever he was asking for: hugs or attention or mini Mars bars. Dad was an entirely different matter. Dad would wrinkle his nose; ignore him, making cutting remarks about cry-babies and what happened to kids who acted like that when he was in the Service. So, he soon stopped, only crying two maybe three times after he passed the age of twelve. And all those times: well, that was Dean and Sam of course, seeing them, catching them, knowing about them…
Things really do never fucking change.
Dean snaps his phone closed and gives him a considering look.
“You okay?” he asks. He sounds genuinely concerned, and that - he’s not sure whether it makes things better or worse. But he’s Ross freaking Winchester and he doesn’t need sympathy, and he’s not going to cry.
“Course I’m fuckin’ okay,” he retorts.
Dean nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Look - this - whatever, let’s just forget about it for now - cause, dude, we really gotta work this case.”
“Happy to,” he snaps.
“Right,” Dean says. “Well, uh, Sam’s found something. That bitch from the bar, turns out she’s the one who’s been summoning the daevas.”
*******************************
There’s a part of Sam that genuinely believes they’re not going to find Dad. Dad doesn’t want to be found, Dad is a good, no, Dad is a great hunter, if Dad doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be. Period.
Dean unlocks the motel room door and freezes.
“Hey!”
There’s a person - a guy - a shape - standing on the other side of the room, shadow framed by the windows.
Ross doesn’t freeze. He pushes past both of them, because their little brother’s seen something he and Dean haven’t, and that’s when Sam hears his voice.
“Ross. My boy.”
And it’s Dad. The guy - shape - person…
Dad.
Dean’s breath hitches and he makes that sound in the back of his throat that he makes just before he comes, that slight hiccupping, choking sound that’s shock and relief and joy, so much fucking joy, and Dean’s crossing the room, too, leaving Sam standing on his own, still by the door. He closes the door carefully, concentrating completely on the action, tongue darting out to wet his lips, mouth dry under useless swallows as his eyes drag reluctantly and disbelievingly back to the scene in front of him.
Dad. It’s Dad. And he…
Sam still can’t see him properly, still can’t really see his face, but his shape, his stance, it’s just -
It’s so Dad. So freaking much like him. He’s big and strong and he’s wearing a massive coat that if Sam thinks hard enough he can probably remember, but he’s not sure and it’s dark, too many shadows in this room obscuring them all.
The three of them are hugging it out. Dean’s face split wide with the force of his smile, such real perfect happiness that’s making Sam’s guts churn up. And Ross - he’s refusing to let Dad go, let him move, arm caught around Dad’s shoulders, face lit up, eyes roaming over Dad like he’s devouring him, like he’s got the crazy-eyes, like he’s never going to let go.
But then Ross was always Dad’s favorite, and Ross always loved Dad best.
Sam swallows and he knows he has to say something. He can feel his father’s eyes on him, dark like Ross’s, waiting him out. Dad and his mind games.
“Hello, Sammy,” Dad says at last.
Sam swallows again and nods, stiff and unsure, trying to find the words, get his tongue and lips moving once more: “Hello, Dad.”
There’s a stiff moment of silence, then Dean starts talking, Ross interjecting, the two of them babbling, saying sorry, that they didn’t realize it was a trap, that they didn’t know she was there for him - for Dad - Jesus, Dad’s here - that Meg’s dead…
“Saw her take a swan dive off that building. She’s dead, right?” Dad says.
“Yes, sir.” He finds himself answering in unison with his brothers, no thought put into it, just oral memory, instinct… The three of them together again: yes, sir, it’s uncanny, automatic and brain-washed, like he’s twelve years old all over again.
Dad nods, short and abrupt. “It knows, knows I’m close. That’s why it tried to stop me, why it went after you three. It knows I’m gonna kill it.”
“Kill it? You can’t kill a demon,” says Dean.
Dad chuckles - he has so many versions of that laugh - that sound. But this version is the superior, experienced hunter one, the one that says: I am wise and older, oh apprentice-hunter sons of mine, while you are all still young and foolish with much to learn….
“You can,” he says darkly, “you just need the right weapon, and I’m gettin’ close to it.”
“Let us help you,” interrupts Ross.
He sounds like a kid, like an eager, enthusiastic kid, and Sam has a flash memory: Ross’s screwed up sulky face, let us come with you, Dad, I want to come with you, I want to fight the evil sonsofbitches, and Dad’s fond, approving chuckle, not till you’re thirteen, son.
Ross always knew what to say with Dad, always managed to stay on his good side. Dad would never have said those words to Ross: If you walk out that door, don’t you ever think about coming back…
Sam flinches, pushes the thought aside, listens to Dad speak. His forceful, commanding tone.
“No, not this time, son. This is no ordinary demon; this is one scary son of a bitch. I’m not going to put you boys in danger.”
And he can’t help it, but he’s already thinking, no, that makes no sense, Dad. He can’t just blindly accept what Dad is saying like Dean and Ross are. The two of them nodding reluctantly, twin adoring stares rooted on their father’s face, two beloved soldiers devoted to their commander. But, they’ve been in danger for over a year, they’ve been hunting together for over a year, Dad’s the one who’s been sending through coordinates, getting his buddies to call with jobs, if that isn’t danger, then what is? And he can’t help it, maybe it’s just him, his twisted self, always having to contradict, to over-analyze like Dean says, to see the flaw in everything, but someone has to say something because Ross sure won’t, and Dean… God, Dean won’t either, never fucking stands up to Dad.
He feels a familiar surge of bitterness well up. This isn’t just Dad’s fight, this isn’t just about Dad, and it isn’t just about Mom, not anymore… This demon, this no ordinary demon, this is the sonofabitch that killed Jessica, that murdered his innocent, beautiful girlfriend and it deserves to die for that.
“Dad, no,” he says, and he feels all three sets of eyes spin his way, fix on him. “This isn’t just your fight, sir. We can help you, we can back you up. You need to let us come along with you.”
He doesn’t need to look at either of his brothers to recognize the looks on their faces, the wide eyes and uh-oh this again expressions, Sammy and Dad butting heads. But this is not about Dean or Ross. This is him and Dad and the demon who killed Jess.
Dad’s eyes are dark; Sam can’t see the expression on his face, but his tone is flat, “No, Sammy.”
“God, Dad, no, don’t worry about us, we’ve been hunting on our own for months. We can handle it.”
“I said no, Sam. I’m not puttin’ you in danger. None of you. I’m your father and you will listen to me.”
Sam clamps his mouth shut. Nothing changes. Nothing has changed. He doesn’t listen. Doesn’t care. This is the same guy who gave him that ultimatum, who threw him out just because he didn’t conform, the guy who said those words: If you’re going then don’t you ever come back…
He swallows, ducks his head. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, knows that if he looks up, sees his brother’s face then his eyes will be wide and sympathetic and that the urge to kiss him, to fucking out the two of them in front of their father will be too overwhelming. The urge to give his Dad the big fuck-you, to fucking show him: this is Dean, this is who he really is, Dad, this is me-and-Dean, and you can push me away, you can keep us in the dark and play your stupid fucking games, but it doesn’t change a thing, because I have Dean and I love him and he loves me in ways that brothers really shouldn’t love each other.
The urge to do this, to throw it all in his Dad’s face, to commit some crazy, kamikaze action that will have him disowned for the rest of his life is stupidly tempting. But Dad speaks up, his voice softer, quieter, conciliatory: “Sammy, that was one helluva fight we had last time I saw you.”
“Yes, sir,” he responds. And Jesus, but he can’t help it, it’s automatic and he’s been too well-conditioned.
“Sure is good to see you now, son,” says Dad.
Dad strides towards him, hesitates, then they’re embracing, Dad’s arms around him and he wants to cry, all the anger and resentment melting away. Weight of grief and how long has it been? How many years since Dad held him, touched him? He doesn’t remember. A long time. It feels strange. He feels uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want to let go, wants to hold on for forever.
Dad lets him go and runs his hand over his beard, and that… that’s Dad, weary and tired, and worn-out and about to walk out the door, another day, another hunt, exchanging a look with Dean, over his and Ross’s heads: Look after your brothers Dean; Sammy, Ross, you boys be good for your brother.
“I’m sorry about your girl,” says Dad and Sam’s not expecting that. Dad sounds genuine, sincere. He can feel his eyes blur over, tears, Dad’s here and he’s talking about Jess. Dad never met Jess. He was going to marry her and Dad never even met her.
He nods, he can’t look up. Can’t meet Dad’s gaze, doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to see the sympathy and understanding there, because Dad knows this, knows this sort of pain, losing the person you love. Except he hasn’t thought about Jess in days, and Dad… Dad thinks about Mom every single day. He knows that, lived with it, grew up with it.
So… not the same.
He feels someone shift close, knows from the movements, the rustle of clothes, that it’s Dean. Standing beside him, hand out, reassuring squeeze of his arm. Dean.
And that’s when the daevas come back.
He doesn’t think, sees Dad thrown against the wall, hears Ross’s cry, sees the blood running down his youngest brother’s face, torn-up skin. He grabs for his bag, the room’s too dark, the shadows just flickering sharp and deadly. He reaches for the flare, pulls the peg and throws it blindly, flare of orange and white light in his eyes, blinding them all.
He feels someone’s hands in his jacket - Dean? Ross? Dad? Has no way of seeing, too busy covering his face, choking on the smoke, and blinking uselessly, stumbling over his feet, dragging his duffle behind him as they cough and splutter into the corridor, and finally to the fire-escape, shouts and screams of the motel’s other occupants, and it would probably be funny if he could see any of them, but he can’t, eyes streaming and mouth dry and scratchy.
Outside in the street, Dean stops Dad, puts his hand on his shoulder, “Dad, you should go, you should leave. It ain’t safe.”
Dad looks torn but he nods, puts his other hand on Dean’s shoulder, looks into his face: white and torn, bloody and scratched, but this is Sam’s beautiful brother, Dad’s fellow officer. Sam swallows, watches his brother’s face - that defeated hopeful expression - the kind of facial juxtaposition that only Dean can do.
“No! No, wait, Dad, don’t listen to him!”
Sam turns, sees Ross stumble forward, pleading mouth, fingers latching into Dad’s jacket, eyes scrunched up, watery from the smoke, blood trickling down one cheek.
“We should be together, Dad. Don’t leave! Please!” Ross begs.
“Ross,” Dean says. He moves away from Dad, curls his fingers around Ross’s arm, makes to pull him away, but Ross shakes him off, doesn’t turn around, eyes locked on Dad’s face.
Sam watches, he feels curiously blank, dispassionate, disengaged from this - from this family drama - always so much drama, he thinks dryly. He wants their father to go, agrees with Dean, knows it’s not safe, the goddamn daevas just proved that, but - this is Dad and Dad just - they were getting somewhere. For the first time in his life, his Dad seemed to be on his level, to get him: I’m sorry about your girl. They have something in common now, both of them losing people they love. And it should, it should bring them together, but he feels like a fraud, because Jess -
He pushes back the thought, concentrates on the scene unfolding in front of him, the one he should be a part of, and yet…
“Your brother’s right,” Dad says.
His eyes lock on Ross, and quickly, abruptly he pulls him in, folds him into his body, practically wrapping him into that enormous coat, Ross’s fingers white knuckled where they clutch at their father’s shirt.
Then he pulls away, stalks, two, three steps, towards his truck. Sam feels his stomach knot up, sees the anguish on Ross’s face when Dad’s truck growls away. Tick of genuine grief at the corner of his mouth, face wet and shiny with tears and blood. There’s a piece of his youngest brother that’s breaking right now, and he’s just watching.
Dean pulls Ross back into his body, the two of them stumbling together, thrusting and jostling against each other, until Dean’s shoved aside, pushed away and Ross is spinning on his heels to confront him, accuse him: “You told him to leave! Why’d you do that Dean?”
“It was for the best.”
“Bullshit! Bull! Shit! Stop lyin’ Dean! Stop fuckin’ lyin’ for once in your goddamn life!”
Ross is screaming, chest heaving, red face and red blood trickling down his left cheek.
Dean is frozen, not breathing, white face and matching trickles of red blood on both cheeks, a beautiful but gruesome symmetry.
“You sent him away,” repeats Ross, “you sonofabitch, he was… he was there and you fuckin’ sent him away.” He voice cracks, and the tears really start to flow now, like a little kid.
He can’t just watch this any longer, he steps forward, but Dean’s too quick, his arm flashes out, an obvious signal, a warning: a back off, Sam, I’ve got it.
Dean always has it.
This time Ross gives in to the inevitable, lets Dean hold him up, folds himself into Dean and sobs. With a wrench, Sam thinks of another different back alley, nearly a year ago now, only it was himself in Dean’s arms, sobbing out his grief in a back alley in Palo Alto, sobbing out his lost love for Jessica, in Dean’s arms. It wasn’t fake, it didn’t feel fake. It was hurt and numbness and pain, and if he’s brutally honest, and really, what better time than now - now when he’s watching his youngest brother become unraveled piece by piece - then he can’t really remember that hurt anymore. That loss. That memory of love for Jess. He has to pinch that hurt to feel it now, pinching his arm and yeah, it hurts, stab of pain from skin to nerves to brain, synapses flaring, but it’s faded.
To pinch that hurt now he has to think of her, conjure up images in his head, like an actor might do when he’s trying to work a scene, think deliberate cold thoughts: what she looked like in the shower, what she looked like the first time he saw her at that dude’s party, what she looked like when she used to meet him after her shift at The Coffee Bean, a Jessica for everyday of the week, a Jess for all seasons, but not a real person, not the flesh and blood girl. Not anymore. That’s gone, the memories repressed so far, they’ve slipped away.
Replaced by this…
Dean on his knees with Ross in his arms, blood smeared across his forehead, staring at Sam over Ross’s head, green eyes stark with love and regret.
And while Dad made his grief for his lost love his mission, his quest, his life, Sam went back to banging his brother.
next chapter
Chapter: 13/28
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/OMC, Sam/OMC, Sam/Dean/OMC
Rating: R
Word Count: 8577
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...
A/N Tons of thanks to andreth47 for her awesome beta skills on this one. I'm sure you'll see the difference!
Previous Chapters: Link to the Masterpost
Chapter 13
It’s cool to be in an actual big city for once. There’s something about big cities that mean space, like, real space, space for Ross to get away from his brothers, not that it ever seems to work out like that. Still, there’s the potential for space, potential for him to get away for one night, to, like, do his own thing, away from the never-ending mass of Winchesterness that is his life.
Whatever, it ain’t gonna happen tonight, 'cause right now, at this exact fucking moment in time - they’re on a job. Which is why he’s sitting, propped up against a bar, next to his big brother, bored outta his fucking skull, listening to Dean flirt with the reasonably hot bartender in an effort to pump her for intel on her dead co-worker.
“Really?” says Dean, flashing her his bestest, widest and toothiest grin. It’s the exact same one Ross has been copying for years and he’s never known it to fail with the chicks, and whoop-di-do, sure enough, it’s getting the right results now because the bartender has taken Dean’s phone from his hand and is busy giggling and programming in her number.
Dean nudges him in the side and raises his eyebrows at him in way that makes him look both smug and goofy, like, at the same time, it’s even sorta impressive.
“Jesus, what is with you tonight?” hisses Dean.
Ross shrugs. “Thought you were supposed to be gettin’ intel from her. Not her fuckin’ phone number.”
“Oh my God,” says Dean in a low voice, giving the chick an encouraging grin, “you’ve turned into Sam, haven’t you? You’re not Ross at all, but really Sammy in disguise.”
“Fuck you,” bites back Ross, because no… no fucking way… below the belt.
Dean just raises his eyebrows again, and this time it’s all about the smug.
“Who turned into me?”
And great, here’s Sam, all he needs to make his night even more fucking perfect.
Dean ignores both of them and goes back to chatting with the bartender, taking his phone back from her with a grin and a wink, accepting the free drink she slides his way, her hand lingering over his. Ross feels his eyes narrow, and glancing at Sam, he can see his expression mirrored in his brother’s face.
Shit, is he really, like, seriously turning into Sam? Is it going to be like this every time Dean flirts with another fucking chick or God, even worse, a dude? He never used to be bothered by it, Dean and he were wingmen, they always used to pick up girls together, it was normal, it was what they did, what they used to do, 'cause it’s not like Dean’s been looking to hook up with anyone seriously since Sammy came back. Not that Ross has let Dean’s pathetic lack of game stop him from having fun and hooking up as much as he damn well pleases. No fucking way.
So why the fuck is this bothering him now? Why’s it making him all irritable and itchy and Jesus, okay, he can admit it: fucking jealous that Dean’s all over this freaking chick? Shit makes no fucking sense. It would be understandable if it were a dude, 'cause, yeah, he’s never liked watching his big brother make time with dudes, vanishing into some skeezy bathroom with them to suck their cock, yeah, that shit was freaking unhygienic and Jesus, man, so fucking gay. And, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah, thinking like this is really fucking hypocritical of him, given what the three of them have been up to over the past couple of months, but whatever; he never claimed that his brain ever made any fucking sense.
Whatever, Dean isn’t gonna get serious with this chick, whatever she might think, not with Sam there, scowling and bristling with jealousy, not to mention, the way he’s looming over the bar being freakishly tall and super intense.
He rolls his eyes and elbows Sam out the way; Sam immediately spins around and glares at him.
“What?” he snaps.
Ross pulls a face at him, he might have suddenly developed this weird and way outta character jealousy thing involving his big brother, but man, at least, he’s not so freaking obvious about it.
“Calm the fuck down, man,” he says, “just wantin’ to know if you want a fuckin’ drink?”
“Uh, yeah,” says Sam, but he’s way distracted, eyes narrowed in on Dean and the bartender like the possessive sad-ass he is.
Ross waves the other (much) less cute bartender over to take their order, shoving Sam his beer, but Sam’s not looking at him, and wonder of wonders, he’s not even looking at Dean anymore, he’s looking out towards the pool tables on the other side of the room.
“Duh, Sam, beer’s here,” he prompts.
“Hold it,” says Sam, totally not interested, peering through the crowd at something or more likely, someone. He takes off without another word which… rude much? But then again, this is Sam.
Ross watches him push through a group of people heading for some badly dressed blond chick sitting at a table by herself. And yeah… she’s got strange hair and is a bit skinny for his tastes, but overall she’s not that bad, he’d hit it. She’s looking pleased to see Sam, though, grinning with a helluva lot of teeth and patting him on the arm in a familiar kinda way, so they obviously know each other. So… is she an old college pal? An ex-hookup? He snorts to himself, yeah, right.
“Where’d Sam go?”
He drags his eyes away from Sam and the blond chick as Dean joins him again, obviously finished with the bartender for the moment.
“Talking to some chick over there,” he answers.
Dean’s eyes follow where he’s pointing and narrow slightly when they spot Sam and the girl. He probably doesn’t even notice he’s doing it; it’s almost funny, the two of them, the way they get, like a couple of jealous teenagers. But Dean’s on his feet before Ross has a chance to grab their beers and follow him over.
Sam and the chick are sharing a laugh, still banging on about the randomness of bumping into each other like this, and man, other people’s conversations can be so freaking boring sometimes. Seriously, does Sam really flirt with chicks like this? No wonder he took up fucking his brother if this is the extent of his game. Dean meanwhile is trying to get their attention, fake coughing, which Sam is totally ignoring, (on purpose of course, probably payback for the cute bartender), when the chick turns to Dean and says:
“Dude, cover your mouth.”
Dean looks taken aback for a second, quickly followed up by pissed, while Sam just looks amused. Okay, so she’s one of those chicks, the “sassy” kind.
Finally, Sam decides that it’s time to, like, actually fucking introduce them all, which he does by muttering: “Meg, this is Dean and Ross, my brothers,” and that starts old Sassy Pants off with a tirade against Dean, accusing him of dragging Sam around, treating him like luggage, and seriously, where the fuck is she getting this crap?
Dean’s eyes are kinda wide, like, totally disbelieving what this obnoxious, sorry, “sassy” bitch is saying to him, and, seriously, where the fuck does she get off - accusing his brother of treating Sam like luggage? What a fucking joke, like Dean has ever treated Sammy as anything other than his super-special-adored-little-brother-and-favoritest-person-in-the-whole-freaking-world? Man, it’s just… sometimes he thinks he’s kinda getting to know Sam, and, like, understand him, and then he goes and pulls something like this: bad-mouthing their family, bad-mouthing Dean to a fucking stranger? No one gets to talk smack about their family, to talk smack about either of Ross’s big brothers other than Ross himself.
He’s about to say something along these lines, mouth open to retort, eyes flashing dangerously, when he feels Dean’s hand on his shoulder, hears his quiet, “Don’t,” before Dean’s throwing Sam a serious stink-eye and dragging Ross back towards the bar.
“Dude, what a bitch,” Ross mutters when they get safely away from Sam and Sassy Pants.
Sam comes to join them two minutes later; he’s looking a mix between sheepish and suspicious, avoiding Dean’s eyes, which is just as well for him, 'cause Dean is totally glaring at him.
“So, who the fuck is she?” asks Ross, 'cause Dean’s obviously too busy brooding to ask.
“Just a girl I met. And shit, it’s so weird, running into her here. I met her, literally on the side of the road in Indiana, and now she’s here, at this same bar in Chicago. Something’s really off about that, something’s not right.”
“Oh, but it is right to bitch about me to some chick, huh?” cuts in Dean. And whoa… here we go…
“What?”
“What’d you tell her about me, Sam? Why’d she go off like that? Am I keeping you against your will? Let me know if I am, Sammy. Let me know if I’m draggin’ you around like luggage.” And with that he’s stomping off, hands shoved into his pockets and looking more bow-legged that usual.
“Dean, no, Dean, wait,” Sam doesn’t bother looking back before he’s off after Dean. Fucking drama queens.
They all make it back to the motel eventually, though Ross kinda wishes they hadn’t. The atmosphere between Sam and Dean is seriously tense, Sam’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes following Dean around with this bruised hurt look on his face that makes him look like Dean’s just stolen and destroyed his favorite Barbie. Ross sniggers to himself at the analogy, earning him two identical glares from both his brothers.
He rolls his eyes, says, “Jesus, will you two kiss and make the fuck up already? You’re both such pathetic, jealous bitches. It’s totally pitiful.”
Sam’s glare gets darker and Dean’s blustering to his feet, protesting and bitching at Ross about the case they’re supposed to be working…
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ross says, pulling a face and making a grab for the remote. “Let me know when you’ve, like, gotten some actual fuckin’ useful information, that isn’t just some desperate chick’s phone number.”
“I’m going out,” states Sam, getting abruptly to his feet.
“Where?” snaps Dean, eyes swooping his way.
“Since when do I have tell you whenever I go anywhere?”
“Since I’m the oldest and I’m in charge!” retorts Dean.
“You’re not the boss of me, Dean. And you can’t always tell me what to do!” He slams the door shut and a moment later they hear the roar of the Impala.
“Sonofabitch!” hisses Dean; he falls back heavily onto the other bed, still scowling.
“Relax, he’ll get over it,” Ross tells him.
Dean doesn’t say anything, just sort of snorts under his breath and lets out a sigh, that long, painful sigh of his that Ross just fucking hates hearing, the one that can just get to him, make his chest ache in this way that he really fucking hates.
Without thinking, he gets suddenly to his feet, rounds the other bed, coming to a stop directly in front of Dean. Dean tips his head back and looks up at him. His expression is closed-off, but there’s this sort of anticipatory glint in his eyes, as if he’s waiting for Ross to make the next move, and Ross thinks: this is my brother, this is Dean, this is my big brother… the thoughts coming out and beating across his brain in this way that’s, just, totally redundant, because, duh, yeah, course this is Dean, but also, at the same time this is really fucking overwhelming, because holy fuck, this is Dean, and he wants him, he wants to do bad, dirty shit with him and that’s so fucking fucked-up and wrong.
He swallows and lifts his hand, placing it gently on Dean’s right cheek; his hand looks curiously big against Dean’s face and he can feel Dean’s skin, the dry flaky patch near his temple, the stubble against his palm and his thumb somewhere near Dean’s lip. He stares down at Dean’s mouth and strokes his thumb against Dean’s bottom lip, feeling the wet squishiness of it against his skin.
Suddenly, Dean opens up his mouth and sucks in Ross’s thumb, causing Ross to gasp out loud, which… man, so fucking pathetic and embarrassing. Though, that ain’t the worst of it, 'cause he’s, like, totally popping a fucking boner now, just from this: from Dean sucking on his thumb, cheeks hollowing, making him look exactly the same as when he sucked Ross’s cock a few nights back, and that… fuck, that was amazing, like total cock-sucking Olympic standards, if there was such a thing. Dean’s eyes are watching him closely, like he’s totally reading Ross’s mind, his eyes all wide and huge and girly, and his mouth making these squelchy, kinda obscene sucking noises, and it’s all just like this awesome porno he saw one time.
He gasps when he feels Dean’s hand pressing down against his cock, palm flat against his fly, his obvious hard-on. Dean’s expression goes all smug, well, smugger, and he does that annoying eyebrow thing, and Ross can feel his face flushing, like, he’s totally fucking blushing. At Dean! His goddamn brother for fuck’s sake, which is beyond pathetic, because… come on, it’s not like they haven’t been here before, but that doesn’t seem to matter, not at fucking all, because his dick’s decided to go fucking crazy and is making him act like some blushing virgin.
He makes a noise and moves quickly, using his other hand and his weight to push Dean back onto the bed and climb on top of him. Dean lets out a breath, laughing shakily to himself, and Ross uses the distraction to pull his thumb, now all warm and wet and sticky, out of Dean’s mouth. He straddles Dean’s hips and looms over him, leaning down for the kiss. Dean lets Ross kiss him. It’s the only way to describe it really, 'cause he doesn’t seem to be reciprocating, but then again, he’s not pulling away or telling Ross to stop or shoving him off or anything like that, and Dean is totally capable of doing that if he wanted to, which means…
Jesus, he has no fucking clue what it means, he’s only really all about how stupidly good it feels to kiss Dean, to drag his tongue over Dean’s, to taste his mouth and really, seriously fucking mack on the bastard, on Dean, his big brother.
Finally, Dean seems to stop fucking, like, angsting over whatever he’s doing or not doing with him, and starts making an effort to reciprocate, sinking his fingers into Ross’s ass and pulling him in closer, tongue invading and exploring Ross’s mouth. They make out for a while like this, just biting and sucking at each other’s mouths, Ross grinding his erection down against Dean’s crotch. He pulls back with a gross slurping sound to catch his breath and steals a look at his brother’s face. Dean’s cheeks are pink and flushed, and his mouth looks sort of plush and puffy, exactly like it looks after he and Sammy have been eating each other’s faces for ages, and yeah, he’s way too intimately acquainted with how that looks.
He leans down, about to kiss Dean again when Dean’s hand comes out, palm pressing into Ross’s chest, stilling him.
“Wait,” Dean says.
He freezes, hesitates, eyes searching Dean’s face. Dean’s wearing that sort of conflicted look he gets, that troubled, unhappy one, and Ross can feel his heart start to sink and his chest start to tighten, because he knows that fucking look.
“What?” he demands impatiently. “What the fuck’s wrong now, Dean? C’mon, let me kiss you again.”
“No, Ross, I said, wait,” Dean retorts.
“Jesus, dude, what for?”
“I don’t think we should be doin’ this,” Dean says.
He’s not looking at Ross; gaze fixed somewhere over Ross’s shoulder, like he’s totally refusing to meet Ross’s eyes, like he’s totally pussying out of this fight, or whatever this is going to be. Ross feels a knot of anger tighten up in his belly, and it’s just - Christ! It’s not fucking fair, he’s really fucking horny, like, his cock is totally pressing up against Dean’s lower belly and there sure ain’t no way Dean can’t feel that too, because Ross is totally packing, and man, just what the fuck is his deal?
“What? Ain’t it kinda late for that?” he snaps back. “You know, considering all the shit we’ve been doin’ these past few weeks.”
Dean says nothing, just sort of narrows his eyes and bucks his hips to throw Ross off. And it’s not like he has a choice now, 'cause Dean’s obviously made his decision, and Ross knows better than anyone how epically stubborn his brother can be.
“You’re a fuckin’ tease, you know that?” he snarls out as he climbs off Dean. He sits on the edge of the bed and presses his palm down against the hard outline of his cock. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him and he knows that Dean’s following his hand, that Dean can clearly see his erection. “I don’t get you! What the fuck is your problem? Is it 'cause Sam ain’t here? Is it 'cause of that?”
Dean presses his lips together and glares at him for a moment but doesn’t say anything.
“Oh, what the fuck ever!” he grits out. He gets to his feet and stalks across the four feet to the other bed, climbing onto it and shifting up the mattress until he’s sitting up against the headboard. He gets comfortable and unbuttons his fly, making a fist around his still stubbornly hard dick. “Well, you know, I’m still fuckin’ horny, so I’m gonna sit here and jerk the fuck off, and you can just, like… well I don’t give a fuck what you do!”
“Ross,” Dean says, and his voice is quiet, almost sort of pleading. “Ross, c’mon, man. This - you gotta see, this ain’t right, all this shit that’s been goin’ on between us, between you and me, and between all three of us, it’s wrong. Don’t you get that?”
He doesn’t say anything, gritting his teeth and staring down at his own palm, his fingers curled around the base of his cock. He has a sudden flash memory: Sam’s big hand, dragging up and down his shaft, Sam’s face so close to his, his stupid wavy hair curling around his ears, the line of his nose, swell of his cheeks, all of it, so fucking familiar. And it hadn’t… it had been so good, felt so good, though it shouldn’t’ve. He knows that, he’s not a fucking idiot, whatever Dean might think.
“Ross, think about Dad. What would Dad say if he knew what we were doing? He’d kill me, he’d fuckin’ kill me. For messin’ with you, screwing you up like this.”
He laughs hollowly. “Dad ain’t here, Dean. I don’t know if you’ve been, like, takin’ notice, but he ain’t been here for a while.”
“So?” Dean says quickly, “So what? Don’t mean we get to slack off or fool around or fuck shit up. I’m still responsible for you.”
“Whatever,” he mouths to himself. He grips harder around his cock, he can feel it wilting already, and he doesn’t want to jerk off now, not even sure if he could. Hell, what’s he saying - course he fucking could, if he wanted. But he doesn’t know if he wants to anymore. He buttons his pants back up and gets up from the bed. It’s not even like he can go anywhere right now, because Sam’s taken the fucking car.
“What you doin’?” Dean asks, sounding wary.
He pauses, hesitates in the middle of the room, he shrugs, “Don’t know.”
There’s a hesitation from Dean, then he says, “C’mere.”
Ross turns around, a sudden surge of hope in his chest; maybe Dean’s changed his mind? Maybe -
Dean pats the bed beside him, voice getting a shade lighter, looser. “C’mere, kiddo,” he repeats.
He slides onto the bed beside his brother, shifts so he’s sitting up at the headboard alongside Dean, bodies almost touching, maybe an inch, perhaps two, between them. Dean turns his head and looks at him, he’s wearing his serious face, and he swallows, licks his lips, all Dean’s tells, all things that are signaling to Ross that his brother’s uncomfortable, that they’re about to have A Serious Conversation.
“Listen,” says Dean, and yeah, Ross is so totally right, Serious Conversations always start this way, with a listen, or a look, or some bullshit meaningless word like that. “You don’t really want this, Ross, you just - I guess you’re so used to me and Sam and all that, that you think you do.”
“How the hell do you know what I want?”
“'Cause I know you,” says Dean.
“Yeah, right, whatever,” he mumbles.
“No, listen to me,” Dean says, voice all soft and persuasive. He reaches out, cups Ross’s cheek, turning Ross’s face so their eyes meet. “You don’t want this, not really. You’re just, you’re all fucked-up in the head, hell; we all are. But you could have something else, something good, something real. This shit - with me, with Sam - it ain’t - it ain’t good, man, it’s wrong. You must see that, right?”
He shakes his head, tries to pull away from Dean, getting to his knees to climb off the bed, but Dean’s too fast, too strong for him, he fists his fingers in Ross’s shirt and pulls him back in.
“Get off me, Dean!” he grits out, placing his own hand over Dean’s and trying to pry away his brother’s fingers. “You don’t fuckin’ get it! It’s, like, it’s one rule for me and one for Sam, and it’s always like that, always fuckin’ been like that, and you just - “
“Ross, no,” interrupts Dean. “Listen to me! I’m doing you a favor. Don’t you get that? I’m giving you the choice that I never gave Sammy. Me and Sam - we - it’s not something to fuckin’ aspire to, man, it’s not, like, a healthy fuckin’ relationship! You could do so much better, you know. You’re just - you’re my brother, and I want something else for you. Please, just, listen to me…” he trails off, voice cracking up.
Ross swallows, he can feel a lump building in his throat, another fucking lump, and Jesus Christ, is he going to, like, cry? So fucking pathetic.
“What about Sam?” he retorts quickly. “Do you want something else for him? 'Cause I don’t fuckin’ think you do. I think you want the two of you to be fuckin’ BFF or boyfriends or lovers or whatever the fuck you call it. I think that you’d drive off to fuckin’ - fuckin’ Vermont if you could and get gay married, and get a fuckin’ house and a dog and have gay-ass wine and cheese parties! I think that’s what you and Sammy want!”
Dean stares at him, then his mouth crooks, a look of wry amusement ghosting over his face, he shakes his head, exhaling heavily.
“What?” Ross snaps, “What’s so fuckin’ funny?”
“Gay married?” Dean parrots, raising that goddamn eyebrow again. “Wine and cheese parties? In what freakin’ world could you ever see me and Sam doing that? Christ, dude.” He laughs again and reaches out, tries to ruffle Ross’s hair. “Seriously? Where the fuck are you getting this shit?”
Ross shrugs, scowls at him. “You don’t know what I want. Stop patronizing me, makin’ out like you know what I want. This isn’t some fuckin’ whim. I thought you got that!”
The amusement on Dean’s face vanishes, like a lost TV picture, flickering away, lost to static. His hand slides down from Ross’s hair, cups his face again, his big rough fingers cradling Ross’s cheeks, eyes focusing in on him, and there’s so much affection there, so much Dean-ness that Ross just wants to curl up in it. He wants Dean to put his arms around him and pull him in close and hold him, and then maybe kiss him and stick his hand down his pants and bring him off ‘cause his fucking cock’s waking up again, his brother’s closeness, the warmth from his big, familiar body making his skin tingle and balls throb.
“Hey,” says Dean softly, “I’m gonna tell you something, okay? And this is - this shit, it’s real personal, Littlest Bro. Something I’ve never even told Sam,” his mouth twists and he looks conflicted for a moment, swallowing heavily, before he seems to make up his mind. “’Cause I totally mean it when I say it: you don’t wanna be involved with me - with us - you don’t want that. It’s wrong, kiddo. It’s fuckin’ twisted.”
“Dean -“
“No, shut up, listen to me,” Dean continues. “D’you know how old I was when I first - when I first felt something for Sammy? I was seventeen and Sam was thirteen. And you remember, right? You remember what he looked like. And it was - thinking of it now, makes me sick to my stomach. I used to - I hated it, Ross, I freakin’ hated myself so fuckin’ much. You have no idea, ‘cause that’s sick, you gotta see that that’s sick. Like I was no better than a goddamn pedophile -“
“You’re not a pedophile,” he interrupts, but Dean stops him, grabs his shoulder, squeezes hard, his expression crumpled-up, like paper, like he's a wax dummy that's just been thrown on the fire, like he’s freaking melting…
“Ross, listen to me! You’re not hearing what I’m saying: I was fucked in the head, way worse than a child-molester, ‘cause this was my own brother, this was Sammy, and I was poppin’ wood over him, over Sam, when I saw him in the shower, and that’s sick, that’s totally fuckin’ sick…” he breaks off, swallows, ducking his head, voice coming out all cracked and painful: “there’s no way you can tell me that that’s okay, ‘cause it ain’t okay. No fuckin’ way.”
There’s a part of him that’s perversely fascinated by what Dean’s saying; he’s always wondered about Dean and Sam, wondered about exactly how it was and when it was that they started this fucked-up shit. He was fifteen when he first caught them together, and Sammy was sixteen, Dean twenty-one, the day of his twenty-first birthday of course. Ross knew, he could tell from what he saw on that day that what they were doing - fucking making out with each other, jerking each other off - wasn’t a new thing between them, that the way they were acting with each other, how fucking familiar they seemed to be with each other had to mean that he fucked-up shit had been going on a while. So he got to wondering, couldn’t help himself: six months, one year, two years… How long? Anything seemed possible at the time.
And Sam was… Sam was always so much older than he looked. He looked the same age as Ross for most of their childhood, every motherfucker mistaking them for fucking twins, but Sam was way different to him. Sam was a fucking enigma, kept himself so close, never gave anything away unless he had to. Sam loved his precious secrets, it was why all this shit with Dean must’ve been so goddamn irresistible to him, one huge fucking enormous secret kept between just him and his favorite brother, something to hide from Ross and Dad, Sammy would've been all over that. And he got that, got why Sam wanted Dean, but he never really got why Dean wanted Sam back, just what it was about Sam that was so fucking special. He can remember Dean at seventeen, can remember how big, how strong he was, how much he wanted to be just like him, how much in awe he was of him. How jealous he was when Dad and Dean used to sit at the table, drinking beer, playing cards, while he and Sam were relegated to the couch to watch TV, or sent to bed. Dean and Dad discussing hunts, Dean coming back from a poker game with a roll of bills, Dad slapping him on the back with a: “Good game?” and Dean’s nod and smirk, “Yes, sir,” dropping the bills to the table to see Dad’s smile.
He wanted that: wanted to be that so much. And yet… all that time, Dean wanted Sam. Sam who would curl up on the couch with a text-book like the king of the geeks, sulk in the back of the Impala ‘cause they’d been pulled out of school again. Sam who cried like a girl when Dad said there wasn’t room in the trunk for that freaking Clue board game he’d found in the closet of one of their rental houses and gotten obsessed with. He’d been so upset about that that Dad bought him a shitty Travel Scrabble game at a gas station, tossing it into the back seat with a jumbo bag of Peanut M&M’s when they stopped for gas. Sam’s face lit up like a goddamn salt’n’burn at that, challenged both Dean and him to games for freaking months afterwards, of course, he always beat them, ‘cause Sammy was just that much of a nerd.
Dean drops his head into his hands and sighs, passing his hand over his face in that way that makes his stubble scrape against his ring, such a Dean sound, and so familiar that it grates, gets to him in ways he doesn't want to think about right now.
He grits his teeth, reaches out to pull Dean’s hands away from his face, curl his fingers around Dean’s wrists to hold them in place.
“Quit hiding,” he says firmly, hoping that he sounds like Dad now, all no-nonsense and stop feelin’ sorry for yourself, boy. “You ain’t sayin’ nothing I ain’t thought before,” he says matter-of-factly. Dean looks confused for a second, his face sort of blotchy and red from where he’s be pressing his fingers into his skin. “I always assumed you and Sammy must’ve gotten to screwin’ around when he was about that age. Like fourteen, fifteen, whatever.”
Dean looks shocked, and that is so much like Dean, so caught up in his own head and his own guilt that he can’t see the big picture. “Ross - he was fourteen, when we first kissed. Fourteen! Doesn’t that disgust you?”
Ross shrugs, “Yeah, sure, I guess it used to. But it ain’t like I got no moral high ground now, right? And, hey, whatever, man, you so need to get over this. This is Sam we’re talkin’ about. No freakin’ way would he ever let you take advantage or nothing, he’s like the most stubborn asshole in the history of forever. You know how he is.”
Dean doesn’t answer, purses his lips, pulling his hands out of Ross’s grasp. Ross watches him climb of the bed in silence, turn his back on him.
“Dean, c’mon, you know I’m right.”
Dean’s still quiet, still with his back to Ross, shoulders going up and down as if he’s breathing heavily. He strides towards the counter, the worktop with the cracked coffee pot, black dregs from this morning still sitting there, gathering mold, because none of them have been bothered to clean them up or make fresh, though admittedly, they’ve all been too busy fighting or trying to fuck each other to think about coffee.
Dean grabs onto the edges of the worktop, drops his head, shoulders braced. Ross watches him and kinda wants to laugh, it’s all so dramatic.
“Look, Deano, man, I know what you’re doin’. I know you’re, like, tryin’ to put me off, for my own good. You’re so freakin’ transparent,” he says.
Dean’s head dips and his shoulders sag some. He turns around, leans back against the counter, folds his arms, this totally defensive pose.
“So, you ain’t gonna listen to me,” he says flatly. “Whatever I say. I should’ve known.”
Ross shakes his head, “Nuh-uh. If this is just about you trying to turn me against you, then no, ain’t gonna happen. And all this - all this shit that’s been going on between us, like I fuckin’ told you, dude, I want it. I can’t just force it all away ’cause it’s no longer convenient to you, 'cause it makes you feel guilty. And you can’t keep denying me like this. It ain’t fair.”
“Yes I can,” says Dean, and this time he sounds more forceful, voice getting stronger, eyes finally meeting Ross’s. “I’m not doin’ this anymore. You and me - we’re just gonna go back to being brothers, like we’re meant to be.”
“Dean -“
“I said no, Ross!”
Ross flinches, frozen under the force of his brother’s voice, his glare, the slam of his fist on the edge of the worksurface.
Dean swallows, takes a couple of steps forward, standing over the tiny table, he leans forward, placing his hands on the back of a chair, fingers wrapping white-knuckled around its back, the dirty, flaking paint. “You and Sam - you can do whatever you want - that’s between the two of you, I don’t - I don’t mind if you decide to... But you and me. Ross, kiddo, I can’t do it anymore, it’s wrong and it’s just - it’s fucking you up and I want something better for you. So, please, don’t ask me again, 'cause I ain’t gonna change my mind.”
Slowly, he raises his eyes to Ross, pink and watery; he looks devastated, he’s pleading with him. And he - what’s he supposed to say to that? Yes, okay, Dean, whatever you want, I’m suddenly going to stop getting hard when I brush up against you, I’m going to stop thinking about you when I jerk off, 'cause, yeah, Dean, it’s just that goddamn easy…
The silence is finally broken by a phone; the opening bars of Paranoid, Black Sabbath, he thinks blankly. Dean’s phone.
Dean curses under his breath, sighs and reaches forward onto the table to pick it up. He looks down at the display. “Sam,” he mutters, meeting Ross’s eyes for a fraction of a second.
Ross nods, bites his lip and lowers his head. Maybe he should cry, perhaps that would change Dean’s mind? He can hear Dean talking to Sam in the background, he sounds normal, like they’re discussing the case. So, yeah… he could cry, get Dean’s sympathy, his love, again. He used to do that trick when he was younger, and it never failed, at least it never failed with Dean. Dean was a total pushover when it came to tears and snot and blubbery little-brother faces, would just crumple under the onslaught and give in to whatever he was asking for: hugs or attention or mini Mars bars. Dad was an entirely different matter. Dad would wrinkle his nose; ignore him, making cutting remarks about cry-babies and what happened to kids who acted like that when he was in the Service. So, he soon stopped, only crying two maybe three times after he passed the age of twelve. And all those times: well, that was Dean and Sam of course, seeing them, catching them, knowing about them…
Things really do never fucking change.
Dean snaps his phone closed and gives him a considering look.
“You okay?” he asks. He sounds genuinely concerned, and that - he’s not sure whether it makes things better or worse. But he’s Ross freaking Winchester and he doesn’t need sympathy, and he’s not going to cry.
“Course I’m fuckin’ okay,” he retorts.
Dean nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Look - this - whatever, let’s just forget about it for now - cause, dude, we really gotta work this case.”
“Happy to,” he snaps.
“Right,” Dean says. “Well, uh, Sam’s found something. That bitch from the bar, turns out she’s the one who’s been summoning the daevas.”
*******************************
There’s a part of Sam that genuinely believes they’re not going to find Dad. Dad doesn’t want to be found, Dad is a good, no, Dad is a great hunter, if Dad doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be. Period.
Dean unlocks the motel room door and freezes.
“Hey!”
There’s a person - a guy - a shape - standing on the other side of the room, shadow framed by the windows.
Ross doesn’t freeze. He pushes past both of them, because their little brother’s seen something he and Dean haven’t, and that’s when Sam hears his voice.
“Ross. My boy.”
And it’s Dad. The guy - shape - person…
Dad.
Dean’s breath hitches and he makes that sound in the back of his throat that he makes just before he comes, that slight hiccupping, choking sound that’s shock and relief and joy, so much fucking joy, and Dean’s crossing the room, too, leaving Sam standing on his own, still by the door. He closes the door carefully, concentrating completely on the action, tongue darting out to wet his lips, mouth dry under useless swallows as his eyes drag reluctantly and disbelievingly back to the scene in front of him.
Dad. It’s Dad. And he…
Sam still can’t see him properly, still can’t really see his face, but his shape, his stance, it’s just -
It’s so Dad. So freaking much like him. He’s big and strong and he’s wearing a massive coat that if Sam thinks hard enough he can probably remember, but he’s not sure and it’s dark, too many shadows in this room obscuring them all.
The three of them are hugging it out. Dean’s face split wide with the force of his smile, such real perfect happiness that’s making Sam’s guts churn up. And Ross - he’s refusing to let Dad go, let him move, arm caught around Dad’s shoulders, face lit up, eyes roaming over Dad like he’s devouring him, like he’s got the crazy-eyes, like he’s never going to let go.
But then Ross was always Dad’s favorite, and Ross always loved Dad best.
Sam swallows and he knows he has to say something. He can feel his father’s eyes on him, dark like Ross’s, waiting him out. Dad and his mind games.
“Hello, Sammy,” Dad says at last.
Sam swallows again and nods, stiff and unsure, trying to find the words, get his tongue and lips moving once more: “Hello, Dad.”
There’s a stiff moment of silence, then Dean starts talking, Ross interjecting, the two of them babbling, saying sorry, that they didn’t realize it was a trap, that they didn’t know she was there for him - for Dad - Jesus, Dad’s here - that Meg’s dead…
“Saw her take a swan dive off that building. She’s dead, right?” Dad says.
“Yes, sir.” He finds himself answering in unison with his brothers, no thought put into it, just oral memory, instinct… The three of them together again: yes, sir, it’s uncanny, automatic and brain-washed, like he’s twelve years old all over again.
Dad nods, short and abrupt. “It knows, knows I’m close. That’s why it tried to stop me, why it went after you three. It knows I’m gonna kill it.”
“Kill it? You can’t kill a demon,” says Dean.
Dad chuckles - he has so many versions of that laugh - that sound. But this version is the superior, experienced hunter one, the one that says: I am wise and older, oh apprentice-hunter sons of mine, while you are all still young and foolish with much to learn….
“You can,” he says darkly, “you just need the right weapon, and I’m gettin’ close to it.”
“Let us help you,” interrupts Ross.
He sounds like a kid, like an eager, enthusiastic kid, and Sam has a flash memory: Ross’s screwed up sulky face, let us come with you, Dad, I want to come with you, I want to fight the evil sonsofbitches, and Dad’s fond, approving chuckle, not till you’re thirteen, son.
Ross always knew what to say with Dad, always managed to stay on his good side. Dad would never have said those words to Ross: If you walk out that door, don’t you ever think about coming back…
Sam flinches, pushes the thought aside, listens to Dad speak. His forceful, commanding tone.
“No, not this time, son. This is no ordinary demon; this is one scary son of a bitch. I’m not going to put you boys in danger.”
And he can’t help it, but he’s already thinking, no, that makes no sense, Dad. He can’t just blindly accept what Dad is saying like Dean and Ross are. The two of them nodding reluctantly, twin adoring stares rooted on their father’s face, two beloved soldiers devoted to their commander. But, they’ve been in danger for over a year, they’ve been hunting together for over a year, Dad’s the one who’s been sending through coordinates, getting his buddies to call with jobs, if that isn’t danger, then what is? And he can’t help it, maybe it’s just him, his twisted self, always having to contradict, to over-analyze like Dean says, to see the flaw in everything, but someone has to say something because Ross sure won’t, and Dean… God, Dean won’t either, never fucking stands up to Dad.
He feels a familiar surge of bitterness well up. This isn’t just Dad’s fight, this isn’t just about Dad, and it isn’t just about Mom, not anymore… This demon, this no ordinary demon, this is the sonofabitch that killed Jessica, that murdered his innocent, beautiful girlfriend and it deserves to die for that.
“Dad, no,” he says, and he feels all three sets of eyes spin his way, fix on him. “This isn’t just your fight, sir. We can help you, we can back you up. You need to let us come along with you.”
He doesn’t need to look at either of his brothers to recognize the looks on their faces, the wide eyes and uh-oh this again expressions, Sammy and Dad butting heads. But this is not about Dean or Ross. This is him and Dad and the demon who killed Jess.
Dad’s eyes are dark; Sam can’t see the expression on his face, but his tone is flat, “No, Sammy.”
“God, Dad, no, don’t worry about us, we’ve been hunting on our own for months. We can handle it.”
“I said no, Sam. I’m not puttin’ you in danger. None of you. I’m your father and you will listen to me.”
Sam clamps his mouth shut. Nothing changes. Nothing has changed. He doesn’t listen. Doesn’t care. This is the same guy who gave him that ultimatum, who threw him out just because he didn’t conform, the guy who said those words: If you’re going then don’t you ever come back…
He swallows, ducks his head. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, knows that if he looks up, sees his brother’s face then his eyes will be wide and sympathetic and that the urge to kiss him, to fucking out the two of them in front of their father will be too overwhelming. The urge to give his Dad the big fuck-you, to fucking show him: this is Dean, this is who he really is, Dad, this is me-and-Dean, and you can push me away, you can keep us in the dark and play your stupid fucking games, but it doesn’t change a thing, because I have Dean and I love him and he loves me in ways that brothers really shouldn’t love each other.
The urge to do this, to throw it all in his Dad’s face, to commit some crazy, kamikaze action that will have him disowned for the rest of his life is stupidly tempting. But Dad speaks up, his voice softer, quieter, conciliatory: “Sammy, that was one helluva fight we had last time I saw you.”
“Yes, sir,” he responds. And Jesus, but he can’t help it, it’s automatic and he’s been too well-conditioned.
“Sure is good to see you now, son,” says Dad.
Dad strides towards him, hesitates, then they’re embracing, Dad’s arms around him and he wants to cry, all the anger and resentment melting away. Weight of grief and how long has it been? How many years since Dad held him, touched him? He doesn’t remember. A long time. It feels strange. He feels uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want to let go, wants to hold on for forever.
Dad lets him go and runs his hand over his beard, and that… that’s Dad, weary and tired, and worn-out and about to walk out the door, another day, another hunt, exchanging a look with Dean, over his and Ross’s heads: Look after your brothers Dean; Sammy, Ross, you boys be good for your brother.
“I’m sorry about your girl,” says Dad and Sam’s not expecting that. Dad sounds genuine, sincere. He can feel his eyes blur over, tears, Dad’s here and he’s talking about Jess. Dad never met Jess. He was going to marry her and Dad never even met her.
He nods, he can’t look up. Can’t meet Dad’s gaze, doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to see the sympathy and understanding there, because Dad knows this, knows this sort of pain, losing the person you love. Except he hasn’t thought about Jess in days, and Dad… Dad thinks about Mom every single day. He knows that, lived with it, grew up with it.
So… not the same.
He feels someone shift close, knows from the movements, the rustle of clothes, that it’s Dean. Standing beside him, hand out, reassuring squeeze of his arm. Dean.
And that’s when the daevas come back.
He doesn’t think, sees Dad thrown against the wall, hears Ross’s cry, sees the blood running down his youngest brother’s face, torn-up skin. He grabs for his bag, the room’s too dark, the shadows just flickering sharp and deadly. He reaches for the flare, pulls the peg and throws it blindly, flare of orange and white light in his eyes, blinding them all.
He feels someone’s hands in his jacket - Dean? Ross? Dad? Has no way of seeing, too busy covering his face, choking on the smoke, and blinking uselessly, stumbling over his feet, dragging his duffle behind him as they cough and splutter into the corridor, and finally to the fire-escape, shouts and screams of the motel’s other occupants, and it would probably be funny if he could see any of them, but he can’t, eyes streaming and mouth dry and scratchy.
Outside in the street, Dean stops Dad, puts his hand on his shoulder, “Dad, you should go, you should leave. It ain’t safe.”
Dad looks torn but he nods, puts his other hand on Dean’s shoulder, looks into his face: white and torn, bloody and scratched, but this is Sam’s beautiful brother, Dad’s fellow officer. Sam swallows, watches his brother’s face - that defeated hopeful expression - the kind of facial juxtaposition that only Dean can do.
“No! No, wait, Dad, don’t listen to him!”
Sam turns, sees Ross stumble forward, pleading mouth, fingers latching into Dad’s jacket, eyes scrunched up, watery from the smoke, blood trickling down one cheek.
“We should be together, Dad. Don’t leave! Please!” Ross begs.
“Ross,” Dean says. He moves away from Dad, curls his fingers around Ross’s arm, makes to pull him away, but Ross shakes him off, doesn’t turn around, eyes locked on Dad’s face.
Sam watches, he feels curiously blank, dispassionate, disengaged from this - from this family drama - always so much drama, he thinks dryly. He wants their father to go, agrees with Dean, knows it’s not safe, the goddamn daevas just proved that, but - this is Dad and Dad just - they were getting somewhere. For the first time in his life, his Dad seemed to be on his level, to get him: I’m sorry about your girl. They have something in common now, both of them losing people they love. And it should, it should bring them together, but he feels like a fraud, because Jess -
He pushes back the thought, concentrates on the scene unfolding in front of him, the one he should be a part of, and yet…
“Your brother’s right,” Dad says.
His eyes lock on Ross, and quickly, abruptly he pulls him in, folds him into his body, practically wrapping him into that enormous coat, Ross’s fingers white knuckled where they clutch at their father’s shirt.
Then he pulls away, stalks, two, three steps, towards his truck. Sam feels his stomach knot up, sees the anguish on Ross’s face when Dad’s truck growls away. Tick of genuine grief at the corner of his mouth, face wet and shiny with tears and blood. There’s a piece of his youngest brother that’s breaking right now, and he’s just watching.
Dean pulls Ross back into his body, the two of them stumbling together, thrusting and jostling against each other, until Dean’s shoved aside, pushed away and Ross is spinning on his heels to confront him, accuse him: “You told him to leave! Why’d you do that Dean?”
“It was for the best.”
“Bullshit! Bull! Shit! Stop lyin’ Dean! Stop fuckin’ lyin’ for once in your goddamn life!”
Ross is screaming, chest heaving, red face and red blood trickling down his left cheek.
Dean is frozen, not breathing, white face and matching trickles of red blood on both cheeks, a beautiful but gruesome symmetry.
“You sent him away,” repeats Ross, “you sonofabitch, he was… he was there and you fuckin’ sent him away.” He voice cracks, and the tears really start to flow now, like a little kid.
He can’t just watch this any longer, he steps forward, but Dean’s too quick, his arm flashes out, an obvious signal, a warning: a back off, Sam, I’ve got it.
Dean always has it.
This time Ross gives in to the inevitable, lets Dean hold him up, folds himself into Dean and sobs. With a wrench, Sam thinks of another different back alley, nearly a year ago now, only it was himself in Dean’s arms, sobbing out his grief in a back alley in Palo Alto, sobbing out his lost love for Jessica, in Dean’s arms. It wasn’t fake, it didn’t feel fake. It was hurt and numbness and pain, and if he’s brutally honest, and really, what better time than now - now when he’s watching his youngest brother become unraveled piece by piece - then he can’t really remember that hurt anymore. That loss. That memory of love for Jess. He has to pinch that hurt to feel it now, pinching his arm and yeah, it hurts, stab of pain from skin to nerves to brain, synapses flaring, but it’s faded.
To pinch that hurt now he has to think of her, conjure up images in his head, like an actor might do when he’s trying to work a scene, think deliberate cold thoughts: what she looked like in the shower, what she looked like the first time he saw her at that dude’s party, what she looked like when she used to meet him after her shift at The Coffee Bean, a Jessica for everyday of the week, a Jess for all seasons, but not a real person, not the flesh and blood girl. Not anymore. That’s gone, the memories repressed so far, they’ve slipped away.
Replaced by this…
Dean on his knees with Ross in his arms, blood smeared across his forehead, staring at Sam over Ross’s head, green eyes stark with love and regret.
And while Dad made his grief for his lost love his mission, his quest, his life, Sam went back to banging his brother.
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