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runedgirlAuthor name: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl
Artist name:fanlay
Pairing: Dean/Sam, with Sam/Jess and Dean/Cas
Rating: NC17
143 Alice Grim Lane
It wasn’t that hard to let Sam go off to college. Sure, it hadn’t been the way Dean had expected things to go, but whether he ever gave conscious voice to it or not – and mostly he didn’t – Dean had always known his little brother was different. He’d glared and cursed and balled up the oh-so-official looking letter with the red seal and thrown it at Sam in disgust, but underneath the anger there was a tidal wave of relief threatening to break through. Sammy will get out. Sammy will be safe. He won’t get eaten by a wendigo or cursed by a witch or killed by a poltergeist.
“Dean,” Sam said, too much pleading in his tone. His voice broke in the middle, even though it had mostly changed a year ago, caught between boy and man just like the rest of Sam. “Don’t be mad. Dean, I gotta. I just – I gotta do this.”
And Dean had turned his back, braced his hands on the top of the dresser they shared in the crappy room in the crappy house in the crappy dustbowl town they were in and refused to see the desperation in the slanted eyes he’d thought he had the rest of his life to stare into. It was all he’d ever really wanted for himself. “I know,” he’d said, and it was as much as he could give.
“Thanks,” Sam answered. “Really, I – thanks, man.” Part of Dean wanted to feel the weight of Sam’s gratitude, wanted to feel the weight of Sam right behind him, gangly long arms around him, the tickle of Sam’s too-long hair on the back of his neck. The rest of him wanted to push Sam away and get a head start on not wanting that at all.
Dean didn’t move until he heard the bedroom door close behind his brother. His fingers ached where he’d dug his nails into the maple sides of the bureau, tiny half moons in the ancient accumulated layers of polish and grime.
It wasn’t that hard to let Sam go, but it changed a few things that didn’t need changing. The rest of that summer became an anomaly – their time together abruptly redefined as temporary, instead of taken for granted as the way life would always be. The image of Sam and Dean against the world that Dean had always counted on above all else was no longer part of his future – and that made the present feel like the two of them had been swept away on a vacation. A time-limited exception to the rules, a free pass to do stupid things without worrying about lifelong consequences. The adolescence that Dean had never allowed himself to have. As the days stretched longer and hotter, Dean grew more and more restless, knowing Sam would soon be gone. Part of him couldn’t wait to get it over with, wanted to shout just amputate the goddamn limb already if it’s gotta go, don’t make me dream about it every night. He’d wake up sweat-sheened every morning, heart pounding out of his chest, throat still tight and eyes still wet. It was too much, having Sam right there and knowing there were only 42 days left, 41, 40, 39. A month, one fucking month. Dad still oblivious, Sam resolute about not telling him until the last possible moment. Dean shouldered that burden with his brother, stomach twisted with the fear of their father’s anger. Or worse, his disappointment.
Sam met a girl named Vickie Ann at the QuikMart where he worked part-time, trying to save up some money for the books he’d have to buy in September and a backpack to replace his ratty duffel. Dean teased him when Sam tucked his long hair behind his ears and stole a splash of the shit Dean wore when he took a girl out. Sam made a face in the mirror and took a deep breath. He smelled like Dean; like Dean when he was about to get laid. Dean pressed up behind him in the tiny bathroom and nosed behind Sam’s ear until the skin there goosebumped.
“Don’t you just smell like a stud, Sammy,” he said, trying for obnoxious.
His warm mouth grazed Sam’s throat, and Sam shoved back blindly to put some distance between them. “Fuck off,” he growled, but his voice broke on the second word, and Dean laughed, a dark sound. When Sam turned around, his brother was just standing there, leaning against the door jamb as he regarded Sam like a museum specimen.
Sam scowled. His heart was beating too fast. “What? Is there something on my face?”
Dean shook his head and didn’t smile. “You need a ride somewhere?” he finally asked, though Sam could swear that hadn’t been the original question.
Vickie Ann was on the front porch when the Impala pulled up, sitting beside her sister Becca, who had the same fiery red hair and pale blue eyes that had made Sam notice Vickie Ann. Becca’s was pulled back in an unruly pony tail, or half of it was, the rest escaping in long tendrils curling over her shoulders. When she saw Dean in the driver’s seat, she hurriedly swept them back and wiped at the dirt smudged on one cheek. A row of freshly planted flowers lined the porch steps of their neatly kept house with its brightly painted yellow shutters.
Sam walked up the driveway and stopped at the porch steps, nodding a greeting to both girls. When he turned around to wave goodbye to Dean, he caught his brother staring, his gaze stuck on Vickie Ann’s sister.
“That’s my brother, Dean,” Sam said in explanation, and Dean waved through the open window. He let his arm rest there, freckled skin and the silver glint of his ring stark against the shiny black metal. Sam would only see them both for another thirty days, and suddenly he didn’t want to stop looking.
“Does your sister wanna come to the movies with us?” he heard himself ask Vickie Ann.
Behind him he heard the Impala’s door creak open and then slam and the familiar rhythm of Dean’s footsteps, before a warm palm gripped the back of his neck and squeezed affectionately.
“Yeah,” Dean said, still looking at Becca over Sam’s shoulder, “Why don’t we all go? I’ve been wanting to see that movie too. Whaddaya say, Becca?”
Becca’s smile said yes very clearly. “Give me two minutes to get cleaned up,” she said, scrubbing her hands on her worn jeans.
“Sure,” Dean drawled, his voice honey smooth, “But you look pretty damn perfect already.”
Sam wanted to punch him, never mind that ten seconds earlier he’d been worrying about how much he’d miss the bastard. That’s how it was now, all his feelings for Dean magnified into near-uncontrollable and all over the map. Right then a left to that trademark smirk seemed appropriate, but Becca just laughed and went inside.
“I’ll help,” Vickie Ann said, and Dean clapped Sam on the back the second the door had closed behind her.
“Thanks, man,” he said, and his eyes were sparkling, warm. Sam couldn’t help but smile back.
They watched the movie with the girls in the middle. Dean wrapped his arm around Becca fifteen minutes in, and Sam followed ten minutes later. Dean’s fingers brushed up and down Becca’s arm, so slowly it seemed like it must be unconscious, unplanned, just a casual touch of fingertips, up and down, up and down, and Becca snuggled into him. Dean’s knuckles bumped Sam’s every now and then, and Sam darted an annoyed glance over the girls’ heads to his brother to accuse him of doing it on purpose. Dean kept his eyes on the screen, but the corner of his mouth quirked up the way it always did when he knew he was getting to Sam. On the way back, Vickie Ann slid across the leather back seat right up next to Sam, averting her gaze like that would make it seem less obvious, and Sam slipped an arm around her, felt the warmth of her all up against him, the tickle of her curls against his neck. He shifted his knees a little wider, full up with the smell of her mixed with the leather scent of Dean’s car and Dean’s cheap cologne. When he looked up, he caught Dean’s gaze in the rearview, eyes narrowed hotly.
Dean pulled the Impala off the road another half mile down, cutting off the single lane that passed for a highway and down a dirt almost-road that ran up Red Rock Hill. The big car lurched over potholes and squeaked its complaint, but Dean kept her going, coaxing her over grass and around the deepest ruts until they had a view of the sky and the stars above the tree line. It was the kind of place the two of them – Dean and Sam – would stop sometimes to lay themselves on the warmth of the hood on a chilly night, see who could point out the planets and the constellations. Dean turned the motor off and Becca turned to face him, while Sam and Vickie Ann watched from the backseat like it was another movie, just enough moonlight to see more than silhouettes when Dean and Becca started making out. Sam watched Dean’s hands tangle in the girl’s long hair, tilting her head to fit himself closer, the silver of his ring glinting amongst her curls as he stroked his fingers through them, and she went with it, easy--of course she did.
“Sam?” whispered Vickie Ann, and shit, for a second he’d forgotten she was there. One of her small hands curled onto his thigh, pink nails scratching against the denim.
“Yeah,” he answered, not knowing what to say, and when he leaned down she leaned up, meeting him halfway, her mouth pink too, and tasting like cotton candy, sweet on his tongue.
It was weird knowing Dean and his girl were right there, only the Impala’s seats separating them, and Sam tried not to hear the creak of leather as they shifted--tried not to wonder what they were doing, how far they were going. How far he was supposed to go. Most of those rational thoughts disappeared when Vickie Ann pushed him backwards and climbed on top, kissing him like she wanted to eat him alive, one hand tangled in his hair and yanking at it hard enough to hurt. It got him even hotter, her wanting it like that, and Sam slid his hands down her back to palm at the curve of her ass. She kissed him deeper-- his head fell back against the door handle with a thunk, and he groaned a little against her mouth. He thought he heard Dean echo the sound from the front seat, and then thought was impossible because Vickie Ann had her hand on the crotch of his jeans, rubbing up and down and yanking the snap open, tugging on the zipper.
“Damn, lookit the size of you,” she said when she pulled his dick out, her eyes big and round. She licked her lips and smiled at him, and oh God, yes, she was, she was gonna…
“Sammy,” Dean said from the front seat, his voice gravel rough, and Vickie Ann froze, her pretty pink mouth still open.
Sam twisted, craning his head, speechless. Dean was leaning half over the seat, shaking his head and doing his best disapproving-big-brother impression as he tsked at Sam. His shoulders were bare; for all Sam knew, the rest of him was naked too. There was a hickey on his collarbone, Becca’s red lipstick smeared around it. Sam’s cock leapt, stiff and obvious, and he tried to cover himself with one hand, blushing violently.
“I taught you better than that,” Dean said, still shaking his head. “Ladies first, Sammy.”
Sam gaped. Dean tilted his head pointedly at Vickie Ann, who had closed her mouth but was still staring at Dean like he was insane. Which seemed pretty likely to Sam too.
“Deeeeean,” Becca singsonged from somewhere on the front seat. Sam couldn’t see her, but he supposed she was spread out on the Impala’s soft leather, eager to reclaim Dean’s attentions. “You’re not stoppin’, are you?”
Dean was still looking at Sam. His mouth was kiss-swollen, red and glistening. “Course not sweetheart,” he said, but his eyes lingered on Sam’s a little longer, the green faded into black, smoldering.
Sam tucked his reluctant cock back in his jeans, Dean’s gaze tracking the movement approvingly. Sam glared at him again before turning back to Vickie Ann.
“Why don’t you lay back and let me make you feel good?” he said, easing her down and crawling between her spread legs.
“That’s my boy,” Dean murmured, and it sounded so wrong, meant for learning to tie his shoes and knocking down tin cans, not for this – not for sex. Sam bit his lip and moved, the words heating the blood already pounding hard as he kissed Vickie Ann again, hands slipping up under her shirt, working on the zipper of her jeans. Her murmured words of encouragement didn’t quite drown out the sounds her sister made from the front seat, the way they got louder and higher, a crescendo of moans and curses and his brother’s name. Sam went faster, worked harder--a race to see which one of them could reach the finish line faster, and Sam hated to have his big brother best him at this, at everything. Sam tried to remember every trick he’d seen on Dean’s pay-per-view porn over the years. Either he’d learned quite a bit or Vickie Ann was almost there anyway, because she gasped and lost it, her thighs clenched around him so hard it felt like he’d had his ears boxed, but it was worth it to hear Dean’s grunt of determination and the squeak of the front seat’s leather as he made Becca scream too.
Vickie Ann giggled, her cheeks flushed pink, and a few moments later, Becca’s laugh floated over the seatback, muffled by Dean’s mouth as he leaned in to kiss her.
“Your turn,” Vickie Ann said to Sam, still breathless, pushing him back against the door and going for his half-unfastened fly. Dean and Becca shifted position too, and Sam caught his brother’s eye for a second as they did. He watched Dean’s gaze drop to his cock as Vickie Ann pulled him out again, and Christ, Sam almost lost it right then, groaning at the relief of being touched after being hard so long.
“Shit,” Dean swore, and disappeared down onto the front seat, Becca with him. Sam tried not to hear the familiar grunts and half-stifled groans that were the soundtrack to so many nights in too-small motel rooms or shared beds--tried not to match his own rhythm to his brother’s as the pleasure ratcheted up too fast, too intense to slow it down.
“Yeah, God, just like that,” Dean urged from the front seat, out of breath and his voice too gruff to whisper, the leather creaking beneath his hips as he couldn’t keep from bucking them, and Sam pumped up into Vickie Ann’s small hand as she bent over him, licking her red lips.
“Gonna come, shit, gonna come so fuckin’ hard,” Dean said, his voice wrecked, and Sam did, lost it so fast he cried out before he could stifle it, and Dean shouted “Fuuuuuuck” from the front seat, both seats creaking.
Vickie Ann dug a handful of tissues from her purse to clean him up, giggling, and Sam blushed at how much there was, the mess everywhere. Dean snuck glances in the rearview, no doubt making sure Sam didn’t leave spots of spunk on his baby’s seats. Sam scowled at him.
“Guess you do know your way around a girl,” Dean teased later, when the two of them were headed back to the rundown little rented house on the edge of town.
“Fuck you,” Sam shot back, but he smiled as he looked out the side window.
They double-dated three more times, though they both knew it was playing with fire--the summer winding down and Sam’s departure drawing closer. The last time, Vickie Ann and Becca cried a little, making them promise to stay in touch. Sam looked up from Vickie Ann’s head bobbing in his lap to find the rearview knocked sideways, reflecting a sliver of his brother’s face. Dean’s lips parted on a moan as he grimaced in pleasure, green eyes desperate and glittering wetly in the moonlight. He was lying on his back, Becca busy below his unfastened belt. “Oh oh,” he panted, and Sam could see it, the flush on his cheeks, the way he gasped and shuddered. Sam came without even warning Vickie Ann, crying out too loud with it, and Dean’s eyes caught his own in the mirror, went wide with shock and then rolled back, and Sam heard the surprise in Becca’s voice when he came too.
They didn’t kid around on the way back, telling themselves it was because they’d miss Vickie Ann and Becca. Dad’s truck was parked in front when they got back, and Dean knew this was it—Sam would tell him now and everything would change between them forever. The summer had run out while they were sharing popcorn and parking on the hill and pretending not to watch each other.
Part of Dean was grateful that Sam didn’t drag it out. He handed Dad the letter, and Dad called Sam ungrateful and disloyal and all the things Dean knew Sam wasn’t. Sam yelled and stomped around the room and called Dad names back. Dean stood in the doorway, back against the wall, silent, while Dad told Sam that if he left, he should never come back, because Sam had made his choice. The pain in Sam’s eyes then was almost unbearable to see, the ache in Dean’s throat impossible to breathe through. His stomach clenched violently--like his whole body wanted to throw itself at Sam, clutch at his arm and beg him to stay. Dean turned away so he couldn’t see it anymore, willing his shoulders not to shake, his fists not to curl. He didn’t watch Sam go, afraid he’d see that Sam didn’t look back at all before he slammed the door.
He didn’t drive Sam to the bus stop; he was strong, but not that strong.
It wasn’t that hard to let Sam stay at college either. California was like a different continent; Stanford a foreign country that Dean had no desire to visit. He stayed away and did what he did, saved who he could, tried to keep Dad from the bottle some nights and joined him on others. He thought sometimes about driving west, cruising up the coast in the Impala and driving around the university town, maybe past Sam’s dorm. It had a stupid name; probably Sam had absorbed the stupid himself by now and forgotten all about salt lines and Latin incantations in favor of philosophical blahblahblah or whatever. Dean wiped a hand over his mouth, pushing the corners down. Stupid Sam, not needing salt lines anymore.
They were both proud, that was the rub; raised to independence and self-sufficiency. They didn’t need anyone, including each other. Every man for himself, survival of the fittest. At the core they were hunters, raised to be alone. So Sam didn’t call Dean when he caught the end of Saturday Night Fever on cable. He remembered walking in on Dean at fifteen in front of the mirror in a gaudy motel outside Little Rock, finger pointing to the cracked ceiling and hips perfectly imitating John Travolta’s lewd thrust and shimmy. It should have been utterly ridiculous, Dean still skinny in only his underwear like some crazy pop culture mix of Travolta and Tom Cruise, but instead it left Sam blushing and jealous of the way his brother looked, the way he moved, and Sam had only managed a squeaked-out, “Dean.”
Dean didn’t call Sam when he lit the match and tossed it down into an excavated grave, his body trembling with exertion, covered with dirt and buzzing with adrenaline. Two months of hunting a ghost determined to stay behind and make everyone miserable had finally paid off, and fuck yes, he’d figured it out. You see that, Sammy? See how it’s done? He’d rubbed at the muscles throbbing between his shoulder blades instead, fingers shaking as he heaved the shovel up. The cemetery was silent, not even a breeze. Dean put on some Metallica as he drove away. Sam would hate this. Probably try to put on some stupid indie rock crap. He turned the volume close to earsplitting, since there was no one to protest.
* * *.
Sam’s acceptance letter from Stanford said Winchester. He changed the files easily, both on paper and throughout the relatively simplistic university network, on August 26th, before he started classes. Samuel Francis Wesson, the shiny new ID proclaimed, beneath the photo of a shaggy-haired young man attempting a tremulous smile. He met Jessica Moore at orientation, mostly because she was behind him in the endless line as they waited to pick up their burgers and salad and chips at the long tables set up in the quad.
“Where are you from?” she asked him, and Sam turned around startled to be spoken to--and more than a little spooked by the innocuous question.
“I – um, not any one place really – we moved around a lot,” Sam stammered, and fuck, he could feel his cheeks flushing.
Jessica just laughed, eyes as blue as the ocean he’d spent his first day in California wading into, hair a mess of blonde curls that caught the sunlight. “It wasn’t meant to be a hard question,” she said, and Sam felt himself blush darker--but there was no meanness behind her words, nothing like the barb that would have come with Dean’s teasing.
It was hard not to smile back. Sam decided to chance it. “Yeah, sorry – Kansas, I guess. Originally.” It felt wrong to say it, but it was as true as anything else. Even if it had only been for six months and Sam didn’t remember any of it, Lawrence was still the closest to home he had that wasn’t on four wheels.
Jess smiled even wider, if that was possible. “Kansas, wow, long way from here. Me too – I’m from the east coast. Maryland.”
Dad and Dean had nearly gotten mauled to death by a vengeful spirit outside Aberdeen when Sam was eleven. Sam remembered the heady rush of relief that swept over him when he heard the Impala’s engine rumble through the motel parking lot. The shock hit him minutes later, wasting precious seconds as Sam gaped at the sight of his brother covered in so much blood, limp and barely conscious under Dad’s arm.
“Sam?” Jessica was looking at him with her head tilted, like Sam was something to figure out instead of just another student.
“Maryland,” he choked out, shaking the memory off and searching for a replacement – more pleasant – one. Nothing came to mind. “Um, that’s nice. I guess?”
“Parts of it are,” Jess allowed, one eyebrow still quirked at him. “But California seems pretty damn nice too. Don’t you think?”
He did think. There was no vengeful spirit here to nearly disembowel Dean. In fact, there was no Dean at all. Sam shrugged noncommittally. “Yeah, sure, seems nice.”
Jessica tossed him a bag of chips and he caught it easily, without thinking. “Ringing endorsement,” she teased, but nodded at the bag in his hand. “Nice reflexes.”
This time his smile wasn’t planned. “Thanks,” he said, and didn’t mind when she followed him to a nearby picnic table. She gave him her cell number before they headed back to their dorms -- just so they could find each other in the mass of students, she said. He tacked the little piece of paper up on the bulletin board that was permanently affixed to the wall above his desk, next to a flyer for a pizza delivery company and a printout of registration instructions. Two days later he entered ‘Jess’ into his phone. Below it was “PJ” for Pastor Jim, just in case. Above her name was a single “D”. Sam let his finger hover over it a few times, watching the digits appear and disappear on the screen before shoving the phone back in his pocket. He called Jess the next day.
In the beginning she was a tour guide to this strange new world, noticing the unlikely circumstances that threw Sam – and no one else – out of his element, and smoothly clueing him in to things the rest of the teenagers who’d come to Stanford already knew. Sometimes she raised an eyebrow, but she never asked why there were such odd gaping holes in his socialization and never made him feel ashamed of being different. When the ache of loneliness started to feel unbearable on newly crisp October evenings, Jess was right across the quad or right there to pick up the phone, so Sam wouldn’t give in and hit the speed-dial button just above hers instead.
By the time Christmas break came, they were sharing Jessica’s double futon most nights. She only went home to her parents’ for a week, but the seven days left Sam wandering the empty campus and thinking way too much about heading home himself. He supposed that would be wherever Dean was; he called Dean’s number five times, but didn’t leave a message until Christmas day.
“Merry Christmas, jerk. Hope you’re not doing something stupid out there. Which you probably are. Hope you have some mistletoe or whatever.”
He paused, wishing there was a way to erase a message because shit, he sounded like an idiot. Why the hell had he even said that?
“Anyway, Merry Christmas.” He put his finger on the end button, then hesitated. “You’d better be staying safe, Dean. I mean it. You better.”
He got a text message back a few hours later.
Merry Christmas, bitch. Safe and sound. Don’t need mistletoe. Stock up on some for yourself tho.
Sam could picture the smirk. Jerk he typed back, smiling at the display. The phone buzzed again seconds later.
You better be staying safe too.
Sam sat down hard on a bench beside the path he’d been running, the desire to see his brother’s cocky grin so intense it brought on a wave of weakness.
I’m not stupid, Dean.
Jury’s still out.
Fuck you.
Gotta run. Not kidding about the safe. I’ll come out there and kick your ass.
Sam huffed, but he was still smiling.
Whatever was what he typed, because it was expected. “Bye Dean,” he said to the phone as the display went black.
He bought Jess a braided leather bracelet with silver charms in the shapes of exotic symbols she thought were “interesting”, and a CD of songs he’d heard her singing. She gave him a bunch of dark colored knit shirts that actually fit him (so she could admire the way they hugged his chest and arms, she said), six novels (so he’d stop borrowing from her bookshelf), and a Metallica tee shirt that she’d seen him pause and stare at for nearly a minute at a little shop in Santa Cruz. When he opened the brightly wrapped package, he froze just like he had in the store, then grabbed her by both shoulders and pulled her to him, catching her mouth for a fierce kiss.
“I guess you like it, then?” she laughed when she could breathe again.
He never wore it, but it was always in his top drawer. Sometimes when he was getting dressed, he’d run his fingers over it, like he was contemplating putting it on, then settle on something else.
In January, she teased him about getting her a necklace that matched the charm bracelet for her birthday.
“When is it?” he asked, ready to enter it in his phone.
“It’s soon,” she grinned. “January 24th.”
Sam put the phone away. “I’m sure I’ll remember that,” he said.
* * *
Sam had never thought of himself as a social person—hell, he’d been raised to be antisocial by John, trusting no one but their little family of three. Dean wasn’t antisocial; with Sam he was funny and affectionate, and with strangers he was charming and charismatic. But he subscribed to the same insular view of family that Dad did, never sharing himself with outsiders in a way that was real. Sam had followed the rules while he was a Winchester, though he’d been in trouble often enough for begging to join the soccer team or the robotics club or go to some other kid’s party on the weekend. Now that he was away from John’s insistence on isolation, Sam found himself making friends for the first time without having to worry about saying goodbye two months later. He also found himself falling in love.
The Moores were nothing like the Winchesters. Mr. Moore had made a good living in banking and then turned that into a small fortune with good investments. Mrs. Moore was an art teacher, whose panoramic seascapes and pastoral farmhouse watercolors decorated their suburban home. Jessica was an only child, pampered but not spoiled. She’d grown up quickly just like Sam had, not to fight monsters but to keep her parents company on trips to museums and sailing excursions on the Chesapeake and summer trips to explore the rest of the world. From her father, Jess had inherited a keen business sense and a surprising facility with taking things apart and putting them back together. Like her mother, she loved to draw and take photographs—something Sam found disconcerting at first. He had two photos in his wallet. One was a faded photograph of all four of them, John and Mary smiling, Sam a newborn and Dean a blonde and wide-eyed preschooler. The other was of Dean, seventeen and smirking at the camera. They’d been in Atlantic City when Sam was fourteen, and he and Dean had crowded into a two-dollar photo booth and taken a bunch of pictures. He’d swiped the one of Dean as it came out of the slot and shoved it in his pocket.
Now Sam had photos of Jess in his wallet too, and she had some of him. There was a framed photo of him looking out a window next to her bed, his face in profile and his shoulders backlit from the sun outside. He’d been wearing only a pair of jeans, the curve of his back in shadow.
Jess had grown up trailing behind her parents to soup kitchens and Habitat for Humanity sites. Her major was cultural anthropology, but she had a minor in finance so she could land a job with a non-profit when she finished school. Now she fed the feral cats at Stanford and volunteered at the stables a few miles away, keeping the cost down so other people could learn to ride. She’d grown up around horses, taking lessons and learning to jump at the stables in nearby Churchville. Sam liked to watch her ride, strong body a fluid line with the horse’s as they cantered around the ring or floated over the fences. She had a soft spot for all sorts of animals, and insisted on capturing six and eight-legged varieties and letting them go outside instead of exterminating them.
The Moores were nothing like the Winchesters, and Sam was fascinated by the differences. He loved Jessica for her ability to open herself up and take the world in, without the hypervigilance that had been ingrained in Sam since he was a toddler. He loved that she wasn’t cynical, that she could hope that the world would get better instead of worse; that she believed she could be a part of that. He loved the way she looked at him, blue eyes warm and unguarded, letting him see how much she cared.
Sam had spent his whole life under the watchful gaze of his brother. He’d chafed under it plenty of times, but once he was away from Dean, he’d missed it—the knowledge that there was someone who had his back. The absolute certainty that he was loved, no matter what, forever. For all that Dean had yelled and cajoled and cuffed him on the back of the head, Sam had never once doubted his brother’s love. Jessica looked at him the same way.
Sam had always been part of a pair, joined at the hip to his brother for better or worse. Now Jessica was beside him, and Sam found himself craving her when they were apart; wanting to share the stupid mundane details of his life the way he always had with Dean, wanting to feel seen and heard and known, and wanting to know her in return. Dean had always kept some parts of himself hidden; Jessica gave all of herself. In her arms, Sam felt whole in a way he never had before, free to desire the person he loved most and to be desired in return. Some weekends, they didn’t get out of bed at all, except for quick trips to the bathroom or to grab sodas from the mini fridge.
He missed Dean. He worried about Dean and Dad. But Sam was happy.
* * *
Three years went by in occasional text messages, usually when Dean was too drunk to keep his fingers to himself and they started doing whatever the hell they wanted. He drove through California sometimes, sure, maybe sometimes through the campus and past the building where Sam and the pretty blonde girl lived. But he never stopped. He didn’t want to, despite the way the Impala slowed and veered too close to the curb when she caught a glimpse of her other boy once or twice. Dean waited until Sam was out of earshot before he put his foot to the gas, ignoring the way her engine sputtered and protested, wanting to stay.
No, Dean didn’t want to come to Stanford. He hadn’t wanted to come the time Dad fell down a gravel embankment in South Dakota and lay in a ditch for five days. It had been that long before Dean got concerned enough at the lack of a return phone call to trace the signal. He didn’t, not that time. He sat beside Dad’s hospital bed and rechecked the IV and thumbed over the “S” on his phone, pressing almost hard enough, not quite sure why he wanted so badly to call Sam now, now that Dad was safe and Dean had found him and Sam hadn’t even known he was missing anyway. He hadn’t wanted to come when he was working a job on his own down in Clearwater and some virus from hell – not literally – made him so sick he passed out cold. He came to in the bathtub of the Turquoise Lake Motel, the shower-curtain rod wrenched out of the wall and the bright coral flamingoed curtain on top of him, covered in his own puke. It was four days before he could even keep down water. Sometimes he thought Sammy was there, stupid bangs in his face and worry in his pretty fox eyes, saying “Here Dean, drink this, ginger ale will make you feel better.” Sam always said that shit.
He didn’t want to come this time, either, but Dad had been gone too long, and everything that had happened before his disappearance made Dean’s gut twist with the sort of bad feeling he’d long ago learned to trust. Every day brought a stronger sense of fear, the need to do something itching beneath his skin. The Impala headed west like she knew that was their only option, the palm-lined streets of Palo Alto outside the windows before Dean had made the conscious decision to do it.
Once inside Sam’s new place, even in the dark, it was like they’d never been apart. Dean knew Sam’s smell, the grip of his big hands. He knew the firmness of Sam’s long lanky body, knew the way Sam moved, the curve of his spine, the flex of his shoulders, as Dean laid him out easily. He didn’t expect the warmth that washed over him at the recognition in Sam’s eyes, the breathless way he said Dean’s name. He didn’t know the heft of Sam, a grown man now, big enough to switch their places and put Dean on his back; or the shudder that rippled down Dean’s spine when Sam lay over him, smiling. He sure as hell didn’t know the suffocating mix of pride and jealousy that choked him when he met Jessica Moore. In Sam’s apartment, in Sam’s bed.
Convincing Sam to come with him was easier than he’d thought it would be, especially with a girl in a Smurfs tee shirt left behind, waiting there with her long tan legs and sparkling blue eyes. Sam shouldn’t even think about giving any of that up; Dean knew he shouldn’t ask. Part of Dean loved that it was his fault that Sam considered it, at least for a little while; the other part felt sick and insisted that it wasn’t.
Having Sam riding shotgun felt so good that Dean couldn’t let himself look too often. Sam, with his stupid long hair half blowing out the window and his stupid big forehead creased in concentration, shone too brightly in the afternoon sun. It hurt Dean’s heart to look at everything he wanted and everything he’d lost; he watched the road, vigilant for traffic and crossing deer.
Some things were almost the same, like three-plus years hadn’t sent them down different paths and left them with experiences neither could explain to the other. Dean expected the arguments, welcomed the ribbing, gloried in setting the rules and watching his little brother chafe against them. He didn’t expect the near-white-out blind panic that gripped him when the woman in white had Sam in her clutches, the way he had to shake out his fingers before he could pull the trigger, the expression of agony on Sam’s face too much for him to bear. He drove too fast on the way back, until Sam put a hand on his arm and said, “Dean, I’m okay. It’s okay.”
It wasn’t, though. Losing Sam to Stanford was a hell of a lot different than losing him period. Dean made a halfhearted attempt to convince Sam to come with him instead of going back, all cocky and cavalier. “We made a great team back there” – it was bullshit, and they both knew it. He’d almost gotten Sammy killed, and that wasn’t even the worst of it. There was bad crap brewing out there, and Dean was about to plunge into it headfirst. He didn’t want Sam with him when it went to shit. So it wasn’t all that hard to leave Sam there, with his beautiful blonde and a lock on the door and textbooks piled high on the shelves.
“Take care of yourself, Sammy,” he said as Sam got out of the car, his duffel over one broad shoulder. “You never know where –
“Yeah, I know,” Sam interrupted, and Dean thought he probably wanted to get back upstairs, crawl back into bed with that hot chick and her Smurfs. Sam leaned in the open window, all the flecks of green and gold and brown and grey glittering in his eyes, his expression serious. “I will,” he said, “but you have to do the same thing, Dean, okay? Take care of yourself. And – and stay in touch, all right?”
Sam was pretty brave to say that, Dean thought as he drove away, the breeze from the still-open window ruffling the discarded fast food wrappers in the footwell. Sam was changing the rules, inviting a little of Dean into his new life.
Dean wasn’t going to do it; keeping Sam safe was more important. Dad was hot on the trail of something big and bad, and Dean had every intention of continuing to look for Dad and doing what he could to help. He didn’t need Sam. And clearly Sam didn’t need him. The tightness in Dean’s chest when he thought about Sam with Jessica, the way Dean’s throat closed up and started to ache a little when he saw the adoration for her in his brother’s eyes – those only cemented his decision.
Sam’s apartment caught on fire the next day, while Sam and Jessica were visiting someone Jess knew in Mendocino. Their friend Brady ended up in the hospital with unexplained rope burns, flesh wounds and a bad case of amnesia the following afternoon. Sam’s new assignment was a spacious room in a big house in Governor’s Corner, on the edge of Lake Lagunita. Jess technically lived across campus in a residence hall, but most of her clothes now hung in the closet in Sam’s room, next to his three plaid shirts.
Shortly after Dean found out about the fire and turned the Impala back toward the west coast, he got a text from Sam. Just three digits, 000. It was an old code between them -- nothing left to do, it’s handled. Dean didn’t know what ‘it’ was, but he trusted Sam’s assessment and heard the dismissal for what it was. He spun the wheel and pressed his foot to the gas, heading east. He didn’t text back.
Three weeks later, Dean was in the back aisle of the Gas ‘N Go, trying to decide if the four dollars in his pocket should go for what passed for porn in South Tillowiskee or if two packets of extra hot beef jerky would feed a more practical hunger. He’d almost decided on the paper over the plastic when his other pocket vibrated.
He put the porn down abruptly, then felt stupid for it. It was Sam—of course it was Sam. And why would Sam care that he was buying Busty Asian Beauties?
Not going to answer me, r u? the screen said. Dean shook his head like Sam could see him through the smudged plastic, though he ran a thumb over the keypad slowly at the same time. He watched the screen, waiting for the backlight to fade. When it lit up and buzzed again in his palm, he smiled, knowing what he’d see.
“Bitch,” he murmured back, and shoved the phone in his pocket.
He bought the jerky.
* * *
Dean was easy to figure out. And the most maddening enigma of Sam’s life. Over the years, Sam had said no to Dean plenty of times, a disproportionate number of them when he was two or thirteen, but Sam could always tell when ‘no’ wasn’t an option. The night Dean cat-burgled his way back into Sam’s life, smack in the middle of Stanford-dorm-normal, Dean had that look in his eyes that said this was one of those times. At least he did once they got over staring at each other.
Sam snuck sideways looks while Dean drove, trying without much success to keep the dopey smile off his face. Nearly being disemboweled by a woman in white wasn’t exactly fun, but sitting beside Dean, the Impala rumbling down the road beneath them—he’d missed that. Dean wasn’t doing much better, angling his face away from Sam to try to hide the smirk that kept turning up the corners of his mouth. Every time Sam looked away, he could feel Dean’s eyes on him, the fondness like a physical warmth. Inevitably they fucked it up, Sam not looking away fast enough, Dean turning too quickly. Their eyes caught, and the smile Sam had been fighting burst onto his face just like that, stupid and loopy and blissful. Dean didn’t turn away or call Sam a girl or do any of the things Sam expected. He grinned until his eyes crinkled, then ducked his head, tips of his ears going red. It was a good look on him.
Still, Sam wasn’t surprised when Dean dropped him off with a show of resistance that was pathetic for a seasoned con man. He’d seen the terror when Dean had pulled the woman in white off him, felt the panic in Dean’s hands as he clutched at Sam’s chest and felt for the still-pounding hammer of his heart. The one thing Sam had never questioned in his life was that his big brother would take apart the world before he’d let anything hurt Sam. He’d also keep that world away if he thought that was the best way to keep Sam safe. Even if it meant taking himself away too. Sam had always thought he was the one keeping distance between them. It sat in his belly differently, knowing it was Dean staying away. Sam dropped his duffel in the entryway and inhaled three of the giant chocolate-chip cookies Jess had baked, but they didn’t do much to fill up the hollow feeling in his stomach.
“So that was your brother,” Jessica said the next morning, glasses on, her hair piled on top of her head. She looked smart; substantial. Real. He nodded, pouring them each a mug of coffee with a splash of milk and thinking that Dean liked his black. His stomach swooped, hollow again, and he shook his head impatiently. Dean wasn’t here, wouldn’t be here.
“His name is different than yours. Half brother?” It was the logical assumption.
Sam shook his head. “Jess, I know this is weird, but – I kinda need you to forget that I have a brother.”
Jess widened her eyes, the glasses slipping down her nose. “Why?”
“Because he’s in a – a line of work – that’s not exactly safe.”
A flash of understanding crossed Jessica’s face. “Or legal?”
“Or legal.” It was true.
She whistled out a breath, gulping her coffee. “And that would really not be what you need if you’re pre-law.”
“Right. Exactly.” This was easy. Wiping Dean out of his life, just like that. A one sentence reason, and Jessica was agreeing. Dean? Dean who? Done. Sam’s stomach swooped again, more violently this time.
“Do we have any waffles?” he asked, a hand pressed to his belly, and Jessica got up to pop a couple of blueberry Eggos in the toaster.
A few nights later, Jess awoke alone in Sam’s bed at 3 AM. She found Sam in the bathroom, scrubbing at his hands. The porcelain was swirled pink, full of bubbles.
“Rough night at the library?” she whispered, and he jumped and spun around, hot water splashing her tee shirt.
“Jesuschrist De—Jess! You fucking scared the crap outta me.”
“Really? Well, you’re scaring the crap outta me right now too,” she shot back, because he was the one with blood on his hands at 3 AM calling her by his brother’s name.
Sam dried his hands with the dark blue towel from the rack, then wiped it over his bare torso. He had a scratch there, still bleeding a little.
“Jesus, Sam, are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
For some reason, the question made him laugh, but there was no joy in it. “No hospitals,” he said, shaking his head, then added, “I’m fine” when he saw her look of disbelief.
He let her dab antiseptic ointment on the gashes across his chest. They were superficial, but there were at least ten of them.
“This was about your brother, wasn’t it?” she asked as she taped a line of bandaids over the ones that were still bleeding a little.
“His kinda thing, yeah,” Sam admitted, and Jessica sighed.
“I was going to tell you that you should rethink it, maybe invite him over for your birthday party. But if this is what happens….”
She trailed off, blue eyes shining with fear as she assessed the amount of blood in the sink and the scratches on Sam’s chest and realized they didn’t add up.
“Sam,” she said, and her voice was soft. “If something happened to you, I don’t know what –
That was the first time Sam realized just how much she loved him. She was terrified that something would happen to him; the panic was familiar, something Sam recognized. He’d seen it all his life in eyes of a different color.
He took her hands between his own and squeezed. “It’s over – I’m out of all that. For good.”
She nodded, looking grateful.
“But you can’t keep bringing up Dean, okay? I can’t--this life, it’s not his. Can’t be.” Sam could see the intensity of his own expression mirrored on her face. “Okay, Jess?” It sounded a little like pleading.
She nodded again, squeezed his hands back. “Okay, yeah. I get it.”
She didn’t, Sam knew, but he couldn’t say if I can’t have him here all the time, I can’t have him here at all. Who felt like that about their brother, anyway?
Sam put his duffel on the top shelf of the closet, way in the back, the strange things in it carefully wrapped in old tee shirts and zipped inside, put away just like his old life.
At the end of senior year, before he started law school and she found a job, Sam and Jess moved into an off campus house on a quiet street, and the duffel moved to the back of the walk-in closet in their bedroom. Sam carried it into the house himself, slung over one shoulder. He thought about unzipping it just to make sure everything was there, but then the front door was banging open and Jess was balancing three boxes at once and trying not to laugh as she called for help. The duffel stayed closed.
* * *
Sam texted every once in a while.
Passed all my classes. Stop looking so surprised.
Did you know Stanford has feral cats all over campus? Jess volunteers at one of the feeding stations.
Last night a skunk crawled under the porch. You thought aboleths smelled bad?
Got into Stanford Law.
Moved into an off campus house. 2218 Embarcadero 2A.
With Jess.
Dean didn’t answer most of them. On December 25th he texted back a You too, bitch and on January 24th he stared at his phone for a long time before he sent back a Thanks
Dean called Sam for the first time since he’d driven away from Palo Alto almost two years later -- the night Dad showed up, hugged Dean so hard his ribs hurt, then said they’d both be safer if they stayed split up.
Sam picked up on the second ring; Dean had been ready for voicemail.
“Is it Dad?” Sam kept his voice calm, but Dean could hear the tremor.
“He’s alive.”
Sam let out a breath, and Dean could picture the expression on his face, the relief in his eyes.
“Thank God,” Sam said, and it sounded like he meant it.
“Stubborn sonofabitch,” Dean added, because it was expected. And because right then, it was mostly true.
Sam snorted. “That’s Dad.”
“Yeah,” Dean agreed. There was a pause, and the silence sat awkwardly in his gut, twisting there. Dean pictured Jessica in the other room, maybe cooking dinner, wearing that Smurfs shirt. Which was stupid, he knew. She had other shirts, but there you go. “So that’s all I wanted to tell you, I guess.”
“Thanks,” Sam said, and Dean could hear music in the background, something soft and uncool. He steeled himself to hang up. “Take care of yourself, Sammy,” he said, and it sounded sappy, too much.
“Dean, hang on,” Sam said quickly, and Dean held his breath, trepidation and anticipation warring in his chest. “Jess is throwing me some stupid birthday party next weekend, and she – I mean, it would be nice if you – if you could come by. Just for a little while even. If you’re not--I mean I don’t know where you are, but if you’re not in Rhode Island or something.”
Every bone in Dean’s body knew it was a mistake. He closed his eyes, picturing Sam’s stupid long hair and that puppy face he made when he wanted to get his way. Say no, say no, say no.
“Not sure where I’ll be by then,” he said finally, trying for casual. “But if I’m not on the east coast, I’ll see if I can – I’ll try to swing by.”
Sam laughed, and for once there was no edge to it. “Yeah okay,” he said, and his voice was warm, settling in Dean’s chest like the slow burn of fine whiskey. “It’s on Saturday, late afternoon. I can text you the address.”
“Got it,” Dean said, and ended the call. He sat for a long time trying to convince himself not to go.
* * *
“That’s the fourth shirt you’ve had on,” Jess said from the bedroom, while Sam inspected his cleanshaven face and carefully trimmed sideburns in the bathroom mirror.
“Yeah, so?”
She leaned into the doorway and her reflection cocked an eyebrow at him. “Nothing, it’s just – you could usually give a shit what you wear, is all.”
Sam shrugged, a flush of heat pinking his cheeks.
Jessica’s eyes widened in the mirror. “Should I be worried about one of the girls you invited from Torts class?” she demanded, not entirely joking.
“No, God – no, of course not.” He turned around to smile, could tell when she saw the truth in it.
“Good thing,” Jess said, and smiled back. “Otherwise I’d have to kick your ass.”
You sound like Dean, Sam almost said, but the words caught in his throat suddenly with the thought that Dean might actually come, that Sam might hear that familiar threat in his brother’s annoyingly condescending voice again. He turned back to the mirror, splashing cold water on his face and dabbing at the last of the shaving cream. He smoothed both hands down the black tee shirt he’d finally settled on; California was hot in May, already like summer. Who was he kidding? Dean couldn’t even be bothered to return his text messages.
* * *
Part Two
runedgirlArtist name:
fanlayPairing: Dean/Sam, with Sam/Jess and Dean/Cas
Rating: NC17
143 Alice Grim Lane
It wasn’t that hard to let Sam go off to college. Sure, it hadn’t been the way Dean had expected things to go, but whether he ever gave conscious voice to it or not – and mostly he didn’t – Dean had always known his little brother was different. He’d glared and cursed and balled up the oh-so-official looking letter with the red seal and thrown it at Sam in disgust, but underneath the anger there was a tidal wave of relief threatening to break through. Sammy will get out. Sammy will be safe. He won’t get eaten by a wendigo or cursed by a witch or killed by a poltergeist.
“Dean,” Sam said, too much pleading in his tone. His voice broke in the middle, even though it had mostly changed a year ago, caught between boy and man just like the rest of Sam. “Don’t be mad. Dean, I gotta. I just – I gotta do this.”
And Dean had turned his back, braced his hands on the top of the dresser they shared in the crappy room in the crappy house in the crappy dustbowl town they were in and refused to see the desperation in the slanted eyes he’d thought he had the rest of his life to stare into. It was all he’d ever really wanted for himself. “I know,” he’d said, and it was as much as he could give.
“Thanks,” Sam answered. “Really, I – thanks, man.” Part of Dean wanted to feel the weight of Sam’s gratitude, wanted to feel the weight of Sam right behind him, gangly long arms around him, the tickle of Sam’s too-long hair on the back of his neck. The rest of him wanted to push Sam away and get a head start on not wanting that at all.
Dean didn’t move until he heard the bedroom door close behind his brother. His fingers ached where he’d dug his nails into the maple sides of the bureau, tiny half moons in the ancient accumulated layers of polish and grime.
It wasn’t that hard to let Sam go, but it changed a few things that didn’t need changing. The rest of that summer became an anomaly – their time together abruptly redefined as temporary, instead of taken for granted as the way life would always be. The image of Sam and Dean against the world that Dean had always counted on above all else was no longer part of his future – and that made the present feel like the two of them had been swept away on a vacation. A time-limited exception to the rules, a free pass to do stupid things without worrying about lifelong consequences. The adolescence that Dean had never allowed himself to have. As the days stretched longer and hotter, Dean grew more and more restless, knowing Sam would soon be gone. Part of him couldn’t wait to get it over with, wanted to shout just amputate the goddamn limb already if it’s gotta go, don’t make me dream about it every night. He’d wake up sweat-sheened every morning, heart pounding out of his chest, throat still tight and eyes still wet. It was too much, having Sam right there and knowing there were only 42 days left, 41, 40, 39. A month, one fucking month. Dad still oblivious, Sam resolute about not telling him until the last possible moment. Dean shouldered that burden with his brother, stomach twisted with the fear of their father’s anger. Or worse, his disappointment.
Sam met a girl named Vickie Ann at the QuikMart where he worked part-time, trying to save up some money for the books he’d have to buy in September and a backpack to replace his ratty duffel. Dean teased him when Sam tucked his long hair behind his ears and stole a splash of the shit Dean wore when he took a girl out. Sam made a face in the mirror and took a deep breath. He smelled like Dean; like Dean when he was about to get laid. Dean pressed up behind him in the tiny bathroom and nosed behind Sam’s ear until the skin there goosebumped.
“Don’t you just smell like a stud, Sammy,” he said, trying for obnoxious.
His warm mouth grazed Sam’s throat, and Sam shoved back blindly to put some distance between them. “Fuck off,” he growled, but his voice broke on the second word, and Dean laughed, a dark sound. When Sam turned around, his brother was just standing there, leaning against the door jamb as he regarded Sam like a museum specimen.
Sam scowled. His heart was beating too fast. “What? Is there something on my face?”
Dean shook his head and didn’t smile. “You need a ride somewhere?” he finally asked, though Sam could swear that hadn’t been the original question.
Vickie Ann was on the front porch when the Impala pulled up, sitting beside her sister Becca, who had the same fiery red hair and pale blue eyes that had made Sam notice Vickie Ann. Becca’s was pulled back in an unruly pony tail, or half of it was, the rest escaping in long tendrils curling over her shoulders. When she saw Dean in the driver’s seat, she hurriedly swept them back and wiped at the dirt smudged on one cheek. A row of freshly planted flowers lined the porch steps of their neatly kept house with its brightly painted yellow shutters.
Sam walked up the driveway and stopped at the porch steps, nodding a greeting to both girls. When he turned around to wave goodbye to Dean, he caught his brother staring, his gaze stuck on Vickie Ann’s sister.
“That’s my brother, Dean,” Sam said in explanation, and Dean waved through the open window. He let his arm rest there, freckled skin and the silver glint of his ring stark against the shiny black metal. Sam would only see them both for another thirty days, and suddenly he didn’t want to stop looking.
“Does your sister wanna come to the movies with us?” he heard himself ask Vickie Ann.
Behind him he heard the Impala’s door creak open and then slam and the familiar rhythm of Dean’s footsteps, before a warm palm gripped the back of his neck and squeezed affectionately.
“Yeah,” Dean said, still looking at Becca over Sam’s shoulder, “Why don’t we all go? I’ve been wanting to see that movie too. Whaddaya say, Becca?”
Becca’s smile said yes very clearly. “Give me two minutes to get cleaned up,” she said, scrubbing her hands on her worn jeans.
“Sure,” Dean drawled, his voice honey smooth, “But you look pretty damn perfect already.”
Sam wanted to punch him, never mind that ten seconds earlier he’d been worrying about how much he’d miss the bastard. That’s how it was now, all his feelings for Dean magnified into near-uncontrollable and all over the map. Right then a left to that trademark smirk seemed appropriate, but Becca just laughed and went inside.
“I’ll help,” Vickie Ann said, and Dean clapped Sam on the back the second the door had closed behind her.
“Thanks, man,” he said, and his eyes were sparkling, warm. Sam couldn’t help but smile back.
They watched the movie with the girls in the middle. Dean wrapped his arm around Becca fifteen minutes in, and Sam followed ten minutes later. Dean’s fingers brushed up and down Becca’s arm, so slowly it seemed like it must be unconscious, unplanned, just a casual touch of fingertips, up and down, up and down, and Becca snuggled into him. Dean’s knuckles bumped Sam’s every now and then, and Sam darted an annoyed glance over the girls’ heads to his brother to accuse him of doing it on purpose. Dean kept his eyes on the screen, but the corner of his mouth quirked up the way it always did when he knew he was getting to Sam. On the way back, Vickie Ann slid across the leather back seat right up next to Sam, averting her gaze like that would make it seem less obvious, and Sam slipped an arm around her, felt the warmth of her all up against him, the tickle of her curls against his neck. He shifted his knees a little wider, full up with the smell of her mixed with the leather scent of Dean’s car and Dean’s cheap cologne. When he looked up, he caught Dean’s gaze in the rearview, eyes narrowed hotly.
Dean pulled the Impala off the road another half mile down, cutting off the single lane that passed for a highway and down a dirt almost-road that ran up Red Rock Hill. The big car lurched over potholes and squeaked its complaint, but Dean kept her going, coaxing her over grass and around the deepest ruts until they had a view of the sky and the stars above the tree line. It was the kind of place the two of them – Dean and Sam – would stop sometimes to lay themselves on the warmth of the hood on a chilly night, see who could point out the planets and the constellations. Dean turned the motor off and Becca turned to face him, while Sam and Vickie Ann watched from the backseat like it was another movie, just enough moonlight to see more than silhouettes when Dean and Becca started making out. Sam watched Dean’s hands tangle in the girl’s long hair, tilting her head to fit himself closer, the silver of his ring glinting amongst her curls as he stroked his fingers through them, and she went with it, easy--of course she did.
“Sam?” whispered Vickie Ann, and shit, for a second he’d forgotten she was there. One of her small hands curled onto his thigh, pink nails scratching against the denim.
“Yeah,” he answered, not knowing what to say, and when he leaned down she leaned up, meeting him halfway, her mouth pink too, and tasting like cotton candy, sweet on his tongue.
It was weird knowing Dean and his girl were right there, only the Impala’s seats separating them, and Sam tried not to hear the creak of leather as they shifted--tried not to wonder what they were doing, how far they were going. How far he was supposed to go. Most of those rational thoughts disappeared when Vickie Ann pushed him backwards and climbed on top, kissing him like she wanted to eat him alive, one hand tangled in his hair and yanking at it hard enough to hurt. It got him even hotter, her wanting it like that, and Sam slid his hands down her back to palm at the curve of her ass. She kissed him deeper-- his head fell back against the door handle with a thunk, and he groaned a little against her mouth. He thought he heard Dean echo the sound from the front seat, and then thought was impossible because Vickie Ann had her hand on the crotch of his jeans, rubbing up and down and yanking the snap open, tugging on the zipper.
“Damn, lookit the size of you,” she said when she pulled his dick out, her eyes big and round. She licked her lips and smiled at him, and oh God, yes, she was, she was gonna…
“Sammy,” Dean said from the front seat, his voice gravel rough, and Vickie Ann froze, her pretty pink mouth still open.
Sam twisted, craning his head, speechless. Dean was leaning half over the seat, shaking his head and doing his best disapproving-big-brother impression as he tsked at Sam. His shoulders were bare; for all Sam knew, the rest of him was naked too. There was a hickey on his collarbone, Becca’s red lipstick smeared around it. Sam’s cock leapt, stiff and obvious, and he tried to cover himself with one hand, blushing violently.
“I taught you better than that,” Dean said, still shaking his head. “Ladies first, Sammy.”
Sam gaped. Dean tilted his head pointedly at Vickie Ann, who had closed her mouth but was still staring at Dean like he was insane. Which seemed pretty likely to Sam too.
“Deeeeean,” Becca singsonged from somewhere on the front seat. Sam couldn’t see her, but he supposed she was spread out on the Impala’s soft leather, eager to reclaim Dean’s attentions. “You’re not stoppin’, are you?”
Dean was still looking at Sam. His mouth was kiss-swollen, red and glistening. “Course not sweetheart,” he said, but his eyes lingered on Sam’s a little longer, the green faded into black, smoldering.
Sam tucked his reluctant cock back in his jeans, Dean’s gaze tracking the movement approvingly. Sam glared at him again before turning back to Vickie Ann.
“Why don’t you lay back and let me make you feel good?” he said, easing her down and crawling between her spread legs.
“That’s my boy,” Dean murmured, and it sounded so wrong, meant for learning to tie his shoes and knocking down tin cans, not for this – not for sex. Sam bit his lip and moved, the words heating the blood already pounding hard as he kissed Vickie Ann again, hands slipping up under her shirt, working on the zipper of her jeans. Her murmured words of encouragement didn’t quite drown out the sounds her sister made from the front seat, the way they got louder and higher, a crescendo of moans and curses and his brother’s name. Sam went faster, worked harder--a race to see which one of them could reach the finish line faster, and Sam hated to have his big brother best him at this, at everything. Sam tried to remember every trick he’d seen on Dean’s pay-per-view porn over the years. Either he’d learned quite a bit or Vickie Ann was almost there anyway, because she gasped and lost it, her thighs clenched around him so hard it felt like he’d had his ears boxed, but it was worth it to hear Dean’s grunt of determination and the squeak of the front seat’s leather as he made Becca scream too.
Vickie Ann giggled, her cheeks flushed pink, and a few moments later, Becca’s laugh floated over the seatback, muffled by Dean’s mouth as he leaned in to kiss her.
“Your turn,” Vickie Ann said to Sam, still breathless, pushing him back against the door and going for his half-unfastened fly. Dean and Becca shifted position too, and Sam caught his brother’s eye for a second as they did. He watched Dean’s gaze drop to his cock as Vickie Ann pulled him out again, and Christ, Sam almost lost it right then, groaning at the relief of being touched after being hard so long.
“Shit,” Dean swore, and disappeared down onto the front seat, Becca with him. Sam tried not to hear the familiar grunts and half-stifled groans that were the soundtrack to so many nights in too-small motel rooms or shared beds--tried not to match his own rhythm to his brother’s as the pleasure ratcheted up too fast, too intense to slow it down.
“Yeah, God, just like that,” Dean urged from the front seat, out of breath and his voice too gruff to whisper, the leather creaking beneath his hips as he couldn’t keep from bucking them, and Sam pumped up into Vickie Ann’s small hand as she bent over him, licking her red lips.
“Gonna come, shit, gonna come so fuckin’ hard,” Dean said, his voice wrecked, and Sam did, lost it so fast he cried out before he could stifle it, and Dean shouted “Fuuuuuuck” from the front seat, both seats creaking.
Vickie Ann dug a handful of tissues from her purse to clean him up, giggling, and Sam blushed at how much there was, the mess everywhere. Dean snuck glances in the rearview, no doubt making sure Sam didn’t leave spots of spunk on his baby’s seats. Sam scowled at him.
“Guess you do know your way around a girl,” Dean teased later, when the two of them were headed back to the rundown little rented house on the edge of town.
“Fuck you,” Sam shot back, but he smiled as he looked out the side window.
They double-dated three more times, though they both knew it was playing with fire--the summer winding down and Sam’s departure drawing closer. The last time, Vickie Ann and Becca cried a little, making them promise to stay in touch. Sam looked up from Vickie Ann’s head bobbing in his lap to find the rearview knocked sideways, reflecting a sliver of his brother’s face. Dean’s lips parted on a moan as he grimaced in pleasure, green eyes desperate and glittering wetly in the moonlight. He was lying on his back, Becca busy below his unfastened belt. “Oh oh,” he panted, and Sam could see it, the flush on his cheeks, the way he gasped and shuddered. Sam came without even warning Vickie Ann, crying out too loud with it, and Dean’s eyes caught his own in the mirror, went wide with shock and then rolled back, and Sam heard the surprise in Becca’s voice when he came too.
They didn’t kid around on the way back, telling themselves it was because they’d miss Vickie Ann and Becca. Dad’s truck was parked in front when they got back, and Dean knew this was it—Sam would tell him now and everything would change between them forever. The summer had run out while they were sharing popcorn and parking on the hill and pretending not to watch each other.
Part of Dean was grateful that Sam didn’t drag it out. He handed Dad the letter, and Dad called Sam ungrateful and disloyal and all the things Dean knew Sam wasn’t. Sam yelled and stomped around the room and called Dad names back. Dean stood in the doorway, back against the wall, silent, while Dad told Sam that if he left, he should never come back, because Sam had made his choice. The pain in Sam’s eyes then was almost unbearable to see, the ache in Dean’s throat impossible to breathe through. His stomach clenched violently--like his whole body wanted to throw itself at Sam, clutch at his arm and beg him to stay. Dean turned away so he couldn’t see it anymore, willing his shoulders not to shake, his fists not to curl. He didn’t watch Sam go, afraid he’d see that Sam didn’t look back at all before he slammed the door.
He didn’t drive Sam to the bus stop; he was strong, but not that strong.
It wasn’t that hard to let Sam stay at college either. California was like a different continent; Stanford a foreign country that Dean had no desire to visit. He stayed away and did what he did, saved who he could, tried to keep Dad from the bottle some nights and joined him on others. He thought sometimes about driving west, cruising up the coast in the Impala and driving around the university town, maybe past Sam’s dorm. It had a stupid name; probably Sam had absorbed the stupid himself by now and forgotten all about salt lines and Latin incantations in favor of philosophical blahblahblah or whatever. Dean wiped a hand over his mouth, pushing the corners down. Stupid Sam, not needing salt lines anymore.
They were both proud, that was the rub; raised to independence and self-sufficiency. They didn’t need anyone, including each other. Every man for himself, survival of the fittest. At the core they were hunters, raised to be alone. So Sam didn’t call Dean when he caught the end of Saturday Night Fever on cable. He remembered walking in on Dean at fifteen in front of the mirror in a gaudy motel outside Little Rock, finger pointing to the cracked ceiling and hips perfectly imitating John Travolta’s lewd thrust and shimmy. It should have been utterly ridiculous, Dean still skinny in only his underwear like some crazy pop culture mix of Travolta and Tom Cruise, but instead it left Sam blushing and jealous of the way his brother looked, the way he moved, and Sam had only managed a squeaked-out, “Dean.”
Dean didn’t call Sam when he lit the match and tossed it down into an excavated grave, his body trembling with exertion, covered with dirt and buzzing with adrenaline. Two months of hunting a ghost determined to stay behind and make everyone miserable had finally paid off, and fuck yes, he’d figured it out. You see that, Sammy? See how it’s done? He’d rubbed at the muscles throbbing between his shoulder blades instead, fingers shaking as he heaved the shovel up. The cemetery was silent, not even a breeze. Dean put on some Metallica as he drove away. Sam would hate this. Probably try to put on some stupid indie rock crap. He turned the volume close to earsplitting, since there was no one to protest.
* * *.
Sam’s acceptance letter from Stanford said Winchester. He changed the files easily, both on paper and throughout the relatively simplistic university network, on August 26th, before he started classes. Samuel Francis Wesson, the shiny new ID proclaimed, beneath the photo of a shaggy-haired young man attempting a tremulous smile. He met Jessica Moore at orientation, mostly because she was behind him in the endless line as they waited to pick up their burgers and salad and chips at the long tables set up in the quad.
“Where are you from?” she asked him, and Sam turned around startled to be spoken to--and more than a little spooked by the innocuous question.
“I – um, not any one place really – we moved around a lot,” Sam stammered, and fuck, he could feel his cheeks flushing.
Jessica just laughed, eyes as blue as the ocean he’d spent his first day in California wading into, hair a mess of blonde curls that caught the sunlight. “It wasn’t meant to be a hard question,” she said, and Sam felt himself blush darker--but there was no meanness behind her words, nothing like the barb that would have come with Dean’s teasing.
It was hard not to smile back. Sam decided to chance it. “Yeah, sorry – Kansas, I guess. Originally.” It felt wrong to say it, but it was as true as anything else. Even if it had only been for six months and Sam didn’t remember any of it, Lawrence was still the closest to home he had that wasn’t on four wheels.
Jess smiled even wider, if that was possible. “Kansas, wow, long way from here. Me too – I’m from the east coast. Maryland.”
Dad and Dean had nearly gotten mauled to death by a vengeful spirit outside Aberdeen when Sam was eleven. Sam remembered the heady rush of relief that swept over him when he heard the Impala’s engine rumble through the motel parking lot. The shock hit him minutes later, wasting precious seconds as Sam gaped at the sight of his brother covered in so much blood, limp and barely conscious under Dad’s arm.
“Sam?” Jessica was looking at him with her head tilted, like Sam was something to figure out instead of just another student.
“Maryland,” he choked out, shaking the memory off and searching for a replacement – more pleasant – one. Nothing came to mind. “Um, that’s nice. I guess?”
“Parts of it are,” Jess allowed, one eyebrow still quirked at him. “But California seems pretty damn nice too. Don’t you think?”
He did think. There was no vengeful spirit here to nearly disembowel Dean. In fact, there was no Dean at all. Sam shrugged noncommittally. “Yeah, sure, seems nice.”
Jessica tossed him a bag of chips and he caught it easily, without thinking. “Ringing endorsement,” she teased, but nodded at the bag in his hand. “Nice reflexes.”
This time his smile wasn’t planned. “Thanks,” he said, and didn’t mind when she followed him to a nearby picnic table. She gave him her cell number before they headed back to their dorms -- just so they could find each other in the mass of students, she said. He tacked the little piece of paper up on the bulletin board that was permanently affixed to the wall above his desk, next to a flyer for a pizza delivery company and a printout of registration instructions. Two days later he entered ‘Jess’ into his phone. Below it was “PJ” for Pastor Jim, just in case. Above her name was a single “D”. Sam let his finger hover over it a few times, watching the digits appear and disappear on the screen before shoving the phone back in his pocket. He called Jess the next day.
In the beginning she was a tour guide to this strange new world, noticing the unlikely circumstances that threw Sam – and no one else – out of his element, and smoothly clueing him in to things the rest of the teenagers who’d come to Stanford already knew. Sometimes she raised an eyebrow, but she never asked why there were such odd gaping holes in his socialization and never made him feel ashamed of being different. When the ache of loneliness started to feel unbearable on newly crisp October evenings, Jess was right across the quad or right there to pick up the phone, so Sam wouldn’t give in and hit the speed-dial button just above hers instead.
By the time Christmas break came, they were sharing Jessica’s double futon most nights. She only went home to her parents’ for a week, but the seven days left Sam wandering the empty campus and thinking way too much about heading home himself. He supposed that would be wherever Dean was; he called Dean’s number five times, but didn’t leave a message until Christmas day.
“Merry Christmas, jerk. Hope you’re not doing something stupid out there. Which you probably are. Hope you have some mistletoe or whatever.”
He paused, wishing there was a way to erase a message because shit, he sounded like an idiot. Why the hell had he even said that?
“Anyway, Merry Christmas.” He put his finger on the end button, then hesitated. “You’d better be staying safe, Dean. I mean it. You better.”
He got a text message back a few hours later.
Merry Christmas, bitch. Safe and sound. Don’t need mistletoe. Stock up on some for yourself tho.
Sam could picture the smirk. Jerk he typed back, smiling at the display. The phone buzzed again seconds later.
You better be staying safe too.
Sam sat down hard on a bench beside the path he’d been running, the desire to see his brother’s cocky grin so intense it brought on a wave of weakness.
I’m not stupid, Dean.
Jury’s still out.
Fuck you.
Gotta run. Not kidding about the safe. I’ll come out there and kick your ass.
Sam huffed, but he was still smiling.
Whatever was what he typed, because it was expected. “Bye Dean,” he said to the phone as the display went black.
He bought Jess a braided leather bracelet with silver charms in the shapes of exotic symbols she thought were “interesting”, and a CD of songs he’d heard her singing. She gave him a bunch of dark colored knit shirts that actually fit him (so she could admire the way they hugged his chest and arms, she said), six novels (so he’d stop borrowing from her bookshelf), and a Metallica tee shirt that she’d seen him pause and stare at for nearly a minute at a little shop in Santa Cruz. When he opened the brightly wrapped package, he froze just like he had in the store, then grabbed her by both shoulders and pulled her to him, catching her mouth for a fierce kiss.
“I guess you like it, then?” she laughed when she could breathe again.
He never wore it, but it was always in his top drawer. Sometimes when he was getting dressed, he’d run his fingers over it, like he was contemplating putting it on, then settle on something else.
In January, she teased him about getting her a necklace that matched the charm bracelet for her birthday.
“When is it?” he asked, ready to enter it in his phone.
“It’s soon,” she grinned. “January 24th.”
Sam put the phone away. “I’m sure I’ll remember that,” he said.
* * *
Sam had never thought of himself as a social person—hell, he’d been raised to be antisocial by John, trusting no one but their little family of three. Dean wasn’t antisocial; with Sam he was funny and affectionate, and with strangers he was charming and charismatic. But he subscribed to the same insular view of family that Dad did, never sharing himself with outsiders in a way that was real. Sam had followed the rules while he was a Winchester, though he’d been in trouble often enough for begging to join the soccer team or the robotics club or go to some other kid’s party on the weekend. Now that he was away from John’s insistence on isolation, Sam found himself making friends for the first time without having to worry about saying goodbye two months later. He also found himself falling in love.
The Moores were nothing like the Winchesters. Mr. Moore had made a good living in banking and then turned that into a small fortune with good investments. Mrs. Moore was an art teacher, whose panoramic seascapes and pastoral farmhouse watercolors decorated their suburban home. Jessica was an only child, pampered but not spoiled. She’d grown up quickly just like Sam had, not to fight monsters but to keep her parents company on trips to museums and sailing excursions on the Chesapeake and summer trips to explore the rest of the world. From her father, Jess had inherited a keen business sense and a surprising facility with taking things apart and putting them back together. Like her mother, she loved to draw and take photographs—something Sam found disconcerting at first. He had two photos in his wallet. One was a faded photograph of all four of them, John and Mary smiling, Sam a newborn and Dean a blonde and wide-eyed preschooler. The other was of Dean, seventeen and smirking at the camera. They’d been in Atlantic City when Sam was fourteen, and he and Dean had crowded into a two-dollar photo booth and taken a bunch of pictures. He’d swiped the one of Dean as it came out of the slot and shoved it in his pocket.
Now Sam had photos of Jess in his wallet too, and she had some of him. There was a framed photo of him looking out a window next to her bed, his face in profile and his shoulders backlit from the sun outside. He’d been wearing only a pair of jeans, the curve of his back in shadow.
Jess had grown up trailing behind her parents to soup kitchens and Habitat for Humanity sites. Her major was cultural anthropology, but she had a minor in finance so she could land a job with a non-profit when she finished school. Now she fed the feral cats at Stanford and volunteered at the stables a few miles away, keeping the cost down so other people could learn to ride. She’d grown up around horses, taking lessons and learning to jump at the stables in nearby Churchville. Sam liked to watch her ride, strong body a fluid line with the horse’s as they cantered around the ring or floated over the fences. She had a soft spot for all sorts of animals, and insisted on capturing six and eight-legged varieties and letting them go outside instead of exterminating them.
The Moores were nothing like the Winchesters, and Sam was fascinated by the differences. He loved Jessica for her ability to open herself up and take the world in, without the hypervigilance that had been ingrained in Sam since he was a toddler. He loved that she wasn’t cynical, that she could hope that the world would get better instead of worse; that she believed she could be a part of that. He loved the way she looked at him, blue eyes warm and unguarded, letting him see how much she cared.
Sam had spent his whole life under the watchful gaze of his brother. He’d chafed under it plenty of times, but once he was away from Dean, he’d missed it—the knowledge that there was someone who had his back. The absolute certainty that he was loved, no matter what, forever. For all that Dean had yelled and cajoled and cuffed him on the back of the head, Sam had never once doubted his brother’s love. Jessica looked at him the same way.
Sam had always been part of a pair, joined at the hip to his brother for better or worse. Now Jessica was beside him, and Sam found himself craving her when they were apart; wanting to share the stupid mundane details of his life the way he always had with Dean, wanting to feel seen and heard and known, and wanting to know her in return. Dean had always kept some parts of himself hidden; Jessica gave all of herself. In her arms, Sam felt whole in a way he never had before, free to desire the person he loved most and to be desired in return. Some weekends, they didn’t get out of bed at all, except for quick trips to the bathroom or to grab sodas from the mini fridge.
He missed Dean. He worried about Dean and Dad. But Sam was happy.
* * *
Three years went by in occasional text messages, usually when Dean was too drunk to keep his fingers to himself and they started doing whatever the hell they wanted. He drove through California sometimes, sure, maybe sometimes through the campus and past the building where Sam and the pretty blonde girl lived. But he never stopped. He didn’t want to, despite the way the Impala slowed and veered too close to the curb when she caught a glimpse of her other boy once or twice. Dean waited until Sam was out of earshot before he put his foot to the gas, ignoring the way her engine sputtered and protested, wanting to stay.
No, Dean didn’t want to come to Stanford. He hadn’t wanted to come the time Dad fell down a gravel embankment in South Dakota and lay in a ditch for five days. It had been that long before Dean got concerned enough at the lack of a return phone call to trace the signal. He didn’t, not that time. He sat beside Dad’s hospital bed and rechecked the IV and thumbed over the “S” on his phone, pressing almost hard enough, not quite sure why he wanted so badly to call Sam now, now that Dad was safe and Dean had found him and Sam hadn’t even known he was missing anyway. He hadn’t wanted to come when he was working a job on his own down in Clearwater and some virus from hell – not literally – made him so sick he passed out cold. He came to in the bathtub of the Turquoise Lake Motel, the shower-curtain rod wrenched out of the wall and the bright coral flamingoed curtain on top of him, covered in his own puke. It was four days before he could even keep down water. Sometimes he thought Sammy was there, stupid bangs in his face and worry in his pretty fox eyes, saying “Here Dean, drink this, ginger ale will make you feel better.” Sam always said that shit.
He didn’t want to come this time, either, but Dad had been gone too long, and everything that had happened before his disappearance made Dean’s gut twist with the sort of bad feeling he’d long ago learned to trust. Every day brought a stronger sense of fear, the need to do something itching beneath his skin. The Impala headed west like she knew that was their only option, the palm-lined streets of Palo Alto outside the windows before Dean had made the conscious decision to do it.
Once inside Sam’s new place, even in the dark, it was like they’d never been apart. Dean knew Sam’s smell, the grip of his big hands. He knew the firmness of Sam’s long lanky body, knew the way Sam moved, the curve of his spine, the flex of his shoulders, as Dean laid him out easily. He didn’t expect the warmth that washed over him at the recognition in Sam’s eyes, the breathless way he said Dean’s name. He didn’t know the heft of Sam, a grown man now, big enough to switch their places and put Dean on his back; or the shudder that rippled down Dean’s spine when Sam lay over him, smiling. He sure as hell didn’t know the suffocating mix of pride and jealousy that choked him when he met Jessica Moore. In Sam’s apartment, in Sam’s bed.
Convincing Sam to come with him was easier than he’d thought it would be, especially with a girl in a Smurfs tee shirt left behind, waiting there with her long tan legs and sparkling blue eyes. Sam shouldn’t even think about giving any of that up; Dean knew he shouldn’t ask. Part of Dean loved that it was his fault that Sam considered it, at least for a little while; the other part felt sick and insisted that it wasn’t.
Having Sam riding shotgun felt so good that Dean couldn’t let himself look too often. Sam, with his stupid long hair half blowing out the window and his stupid big forehead creased in concentration, shone too brightly in the afternoon sun. It hurt Dean’s heart to look at everything he wanted and everything he’d lost; he watched the road, vigilant for traffic and crossing deer.
Some things were almost the same, like three-plus years hadn’t sent them down different paths and left them with experiences neither could explain to the other. Dean expected the arguments, welcomed the ribbing, gloried in setting the rules and watching his little brother chafe against them. He didn’t expect the near-white-out blind panic that gripped him when the woman in white had Sam in her clutches, the way he had to shake out his fingers before he could pull the trigger, the expression of agony on Sam’s face too much for him to bear. He drove too fast on the way back, until Sam put a hand on his arm and said, “Dean, I’m okay. It’s okay.”
It wasn’t, though. Losing Sam to Stanford was a hell of a lot different than losing him period. Dean made a halfhearted attempt to convince Sam to come with him instead of going back, all cocky and cavalier. “We made a great team back there” – it was bullshit, and they both knew it. He’d almost gotten Sammy killed, and that wasn’t even the worst of it. There was bad crap brewing out there, and Dean was about to plunge into it headfirst. He didn’t want Sam with him when it went to shit. So it wasn’t all that hard to leave Sam there, with his beautiful blonde and a lock on the door and textbooks piled high on the shelves.
“Take care of yourself, Sammy,” he said as Sam got out of the car, his duffel over one broad shoulder. “You never know where –
“Yeah, I know,” Sam interrupted, and Dean thought he probably wanted to get back upstairs, crawl back into bed with that hot chick and her Smurfs. Sam leaned in the open window, all the flecks of green and gold and brown and grey glittering in his eyes, his expression serious. “I will,” he said, “but you have to do the same thing, Dean, okay? Take care of yourself. And – and stay in touch, all right?”
Sam was pretty brave to say that, Dean thought as he drove away, the breeze from the still-open window ruffling the discarded fast food wrappers in the footwell. Sam was changing the rules, inviting a little of Dean into his new life.
Dean wasn’t going to do it; keeping Sam safe was more important. Dad was hot on the trail of something big and bad, and Dean had every intention of continuing to look for Dad and doing what he could to help. He didn’t need Sam. And clearly Sam didn’t need him. The tightness in Dean’s chest when he thought about Sam with Jessica, the way Dean’s throat closed up and started to ache a little when he saw the adoration for her in his brother’s eyes – those only cemented his decision.
Sam’s apartment caught on fire the next day, while Sam and Jessica were visiting someone Jess knew in Mendocino. Their friend Brady ended up in the hospital with unexplained rope burns, flesh wounds and a bad case of amnesia the following afternoon. Sam’s new assignment was a spacious room in a big house in Governor’s Corner, on the edge of Lake Lagunita. Jess technically lived across campus in a residence hall, but most of her clothes now hung in the closet in Sam’s room, next to his three plaid shirts.
Shortly after Dean found out about the fire and turned the Impala back toward the west coast, he got a text from Sam. Just three digits, 000. It was an old code between them -- nothing left to do, it’s handled. Dean didn’t know what ‘it’ was, but he trusted Sam’s assessment and heard the dismissal for what it was. He spun the wheel and pressed his foot to the gas, heading east. He didn’t text back.
Three weeks later, Dean was in the back aisle of the Gas ‘N Go, trying to decide if the four dollars in his pocket should go for what passed for porn in South Tillowiskee or if two packets of extra hot beef jerky would feed a more practical hunger. He’d almost decided on the paper over the plastic when his other pocket vibrated.
He put the porn down abruptly, then felt stupid for it. It was Sam—of course it was Sam. And why would Sam care that he was buying Busty Asian Beauties?
Not going to answer me, r u? the screen said. Dean shook his head like Sam could see him through the smudged plastic, though he ran a thumb over the keypad slowly at the same time. He watched the screen, waiting for the backlight to fade. When it lit up and buzzed again in his palm, he smiled, knowing what he’d see.
“Bitch,” he murmured back, and shoved the phone in his pocket.
He bought the jerky.
* * *
Dean was easy to figure out. And the most maddening enigma of Sam’s life. Over the years, Sam had said no to Dean plenty of times, a disproportionate number of them when he was two or thirteen, but Sam could always tell when ‘no’ wasn’t an option. The night Dean cat-burgled his way back into Sam’s life, smack in the middle of Stanford-dorm-normal, Dean had that look in his eyes that said this was one of those times. At least he did once they got over staring at each other.
Sam snuck sideways looks while Dean drove, trying without much success to keep the dopey smile off his face. Nearly being disemboweled by a woman in white wasn’t exactly fun, but sitting beside Dean, the Impala rumbling down the road beneath them—he’d missed that. Dean wasn’t doing much better, angling his face away from Sam to try to hide the smirk that kept turning up the corners of his mouth. Every time Sam looked away, he could feel Dean’s eyes on him, the fondness like a physical warmth. Inevitably they fucked it up, Sam not looking away fast enough, Dean turning too quickly. Their eyes caught, and the smile Sam had been fighting burst onto his face just like that, stupid and loopy and blissful. Dean didn’t turn away or call Sam a girl or do any of the things Sam expected. He grinned until his eyes crinkled, then ducked his head, tips of his ears going red. It was a good look on him.
Still, Sam wasn’t surprised when Dean dropped him off with a show of resistance that was pathetic for a seasoned con man. He’d seen the terror when Dean had pulled the woman in white off him, felt the panic in Dean’s hands as he clutched at Sam’s chest and felt for the still-pounding hammer of his heart. The one thing Sam had never questioned in his life was that his big brother would take apart the world before he’d let anything hurt Sam. He’d also keep that world away if he thought that was the best way to keep Sam safe. Even if it meant taking himself away too. Sam had always thought he was the one keeping distance between them. It sat in his belly differently, knowing it was Dean staying away. Sam dropped his duffel in the entryway and inhaled three of the giant chocolate-chip cookies Jess had baked, but they didn’t do much to fill up the hollow feeling in his stomach.
“So that was your brother,” Jessica said the next morning, glasses on, her hair piled on top of her head. She looked smart; substantial. Real. He nodded, pouring them each a mug of coffee with a splash of milk and thinking that Dean liked his black. His stomach swooped, hollow again, and he shook his head impatiently. Dean wasn’t here, wouldn’t be here.
“His name is different than yours. Half brother?” It was the logical assumption.
Sam shook his head. “Jess, I know this is weird, but – I kinda need you to forget that I have a brother.”
Jess widened her eyes, the glasses slipping down her nose. “Why?”
“Because he’s in a – a line of work – that’s not exactly safe.”
A flash of understanding crossed Jessica’s face. “Or legal?”
“Or legal.” It was true.
She whistled out a breath, gulping her coffee. “And that would really not be what you need if you’re pre-law.”
“Right. Exactly.” This was easy. Wiping Dean out of his life, just like that. A one sentence reason, and Jessica was agreeing. Dean? Dean who? Done. Sam’s stomach swooped again, more violently this time.
“Do we have any waffles?” he asked, a hand pressed to his belly, and Jessica got up to pop a couple of blueberry Eggos in the toaster.
A few nights later, Jess awoke alone in Sam’s bed at 3 AM. She found Sam in the bathroom, scrubbing at his hands. The porcelain was swirled pink, full of bubbles.
“Rough night at the library?” she whispered, and he jumped and spun around, hot water splashing her tee shirt.
“Jesuschrist De—Jess! You fucking scared the crap outta me.”
“Really? Well, you’re scaring the crap outta me right now too,” she shot back, because he was the one with blood on his hands at 3 AM calling her by his brother’s name.
Sam dried his hands with the dark blue towel from the rack, then wiped it over his bare torso. He had a scratch there, still bleeding a little.
“Jesus, Sam, are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
For some reason, the question made him laugh, but there was no joy in it. “No hospitals,” he said, shaking his head, then added, “I’m fine” when he saw her look of disbelief.
He let her dab antiseptic ointment on the gashes across his chest. They were superficial, but there were at least ten of them.
“This was about your brother, wasn’t it?” she asked as she taped a line of bandaids over the ones that were still bleeding a little.
“His kinda thing, yeah,” Sam admitted, and Jessica sighed.
“I was going to tell you that you should rethink it, maybe invite him over for your birthday party. But if this is what happens….”
She trailed off, blue eyes shining with fear as she assessed the amount of blood in the sink and the scratches on Sam’s chest and realized they didn’t add up.
“Sam,” she said, and her voice was soft. “If something happened to you, I don’t know what –
That was the first time Sam realized just how much she loved him. She was terrified that something would happen to him; the panic was familiar, something Sam recognized. He’d seen it all his life in eyes of a different color.
He took her hands between his own and squeezed. “It’s over – I’m out of all that. For good.”
She nodded, looking grateful.
“But you can’t keep bringing up Dean, okay? I can’t--this life, it’s not his. Can’t be.” Sam could see the intensity of his own expression mirrored on her face. “Okay, Jess?” It sounded a little like pleading.
She nodded again, squeezed his hands back. “Okay, yeah. I get it.”
She didn’t, Sam knew, but he couldn’t say if I can’t have him here all the time, I can’t have him here at all. Who felt like that about their brother, anyway?
Sam put his duffel on the top shelf of the closet, way in the back, the strange things in it carefully wrapped in old tee shirts and zipped inside, put away just like his old life.
At the end of senior year, before he started law school and she found a job, Sam and Jess moved into an off campus house on a quiet street, and the duffel moved to the back of the walk-in closet in their bedroom. Sam carried it into the house himself, slung over one shoulder. He thought about unzipping it just to make sure everything was there, but then the front door was banging open and Jess was balancing three boxes at once and trying not to laugh as she called for help. The duffel stayed closed.
* * *
Sam texted every once in a while.
Passed all my classes. Stop looking so surprised.
Did you know Stanford has feral cats all over campus? Jess volunteers at one of the feeding stations.
Last night a skunk crawled under the porch. You thought aboleths smelled bad?
Got into Stanford Law.
Moved into an off campus house. 2218 Embarcadero 2A.
With Jess.
Dean didn’t answer most of them. On December 25th he texted back a You too, bitch and on January 24th he stared at his phone for a long time before he sent back a Thanks
Dean called Sam for the first time since he’d driven away from Palo Alto almost two years later -- the night Dad showed up, hugged Dean so hard his ribs hurt, then said they’d both be safer if they stayed split up.
Sam picked up on the second ring; Dean had been ready for voicemail.
“Is it Dad?” Sam kept his voice calm, but Dean could hear the tremor.
“He’s alive.”
Sam let out a breath, and Dean could picture the expression on his face, the relief in his eyes.
“Thank God,” Sam said, and it sounded like he meant it.
“Stubborn sonofabitch,” Dean added, because it was expected. And because right then, it was mostly true.
Sam snorted. “That’s Dad.”
“Yeah,” Dean agreed. There was a pause, and the silence sat awkwardly in his gut, twisting there. Dean pictured Jessica in the other room, maybe cooking dinner, wearing that Smurfs shirt. Which was stupid, he knew. She had other shirts, but there you go. “So that’s all I wanted to tell you, I guess.”
“Thanks,” Sam said, and Dean could hear music in the background, something soft and uncool. He steeled himself to hang up. “Take care of yourself, Sammy,” he said, and it sounded sappy, too much.
“Dean, hang on,” Sam said quickly, and Dean held his breath, trepidation and anticipation warring in his chest. “Jess is throwing me some stupid birthday party next weekend, and she – I mean, it would be nice if you – if you could come by. Just for a little while even. If you’re not--I mean I don’t know where you are, but if you’re not in Rhode Island or something.”
Every bone in Dean’s body knew it was a mistake. He closed his eyes, picturing Sam’s stupid long hair and that puppy face he made when he wanted to get his way. Say no, say no, say no.
“Not sure where I’ll be by then,” he said finally, trying for casual. “But if I’m not on the east coast, I’ll see if I can – I’ll try to swing by.”
Sam laughed, and for once there was no edge to it. “Yeah okay,” he said, and his voice was warm, settling in Dean’s chest like the slow burn of fine whiskey. “It’s on Saturday, late afternoon. I can text you the address.”
“Got it,” Dean said, and ended the call. He sat for a long time trying to convince himself not to go.
* * *
“That’s the fourth shirt you’ve had on,” Jess said from the bedroom, while Sam inspected his cleanshaven face and carefully trimmed sideburns in the bathroom mirror.
“Yeah, so?”
She leaned into the doorway and her reflection cocked an eyebrow at him. “Nothing, it’s just – you could usually give a shit what you wear, is all.”
Sam shrugged, a flush of heat pinking his cheeks.
Jessica’s eyes widened in the mirror. “Should I be worried about one of the girls you invited from Torts class?” she demanded, not entirely joking.
“No, God – no, of course not.” He turned around to smile, could tell when she saw the truth in it.
“Good thing,” Jess said, and smiled back. “Otherwise I’d have to kick your ass.”
You sound like Dean, Sam almost said, but the words caught in his throat suddenly with the thought that Dean might actually come, that Sam might hear that familiar threat in his brother’s annoyingly condescending voice again. He turned back to the mirror, splashing cold water on his face and dabbing at the last of the shaving cream. He smoothed both hands down the black tee shirt he’d finally settled on; California was hot in May, already like summer. Who was he kidding? Dean couldn’t even be bothered to return his text messages.
* * *
Part Two
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no subject
Date: 2012-06-19 02:35 am (UTC)Thank you so much, I adore knowing what bits worked for someone!
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Date: 2012-06-19 04:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-19 06:24 pm (UTC)But seriously, having so much time with Jess is awesome. It's really making her an important relationship in a way they didn't have heaps of time to do in the pilot... I have a real soft spot for her as a character :).
The distance, the lack of active communication but the way they're still twined into each other and on each other's mind is so sweetly melancholy.
Also, this:
He didn’t want to, despite the way the Impala slowed and veered too close to the curb when she caught a glimpse of her other boy once or twice. Dean waited until Sam was out of earshot before he put his foot to the gas, ignoring the way her engine sputtered and protested, wanting to stay.
Lovely bit of projection from Dean that's quite achey to read.
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Date: 2012-06-20 02:45 am (UTC)And 'sweetly melancholy'? YES, exactly! :)
That's one of my favorite little bits, Dean projecting his own ambivalent feelings onto his Baby -- thank you so much for picking up on that! :)
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Date: 2012-06-21 03:10 pm (UTC)Great job!
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Date: 2012-06-21 04:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-23 02:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-23 06:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-24 07:38 pm (UTC)Finally, a fic where Dean feels like he should feel, like I feel for him.
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Date: 2012-06-24 11:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 04:02 pm (UTC)It's heart breaking the way Dean lets Sam go to keep him safe. At least Sam has Jess. Dean is so alone.
I love Sam, but he's so selfish here. At least he's mostly honest with Dean, but not at all with Jess really. She doesn't know the real Sam. I have to wonder how much she suspects it and whether it hurts.
A really telling moment about Sam is in the bathroom when she catches him after a hunt. The liar in him comes out when he defects this too off on his 'criminal' brother. He swears he's out of 'it' for good, which I take to mean he won't hunt anymore. I've always wondered how, if Sam had gotten his 'normal' life, he would have been able to live with himself when he saw signs of monsters and ignored them.
Really interesting first chapter.
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Date: 2012-07-08 11:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-14 12:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-14 01:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-03-08 09:09 pm (UTC)But that last summer before Stanford is always bittersweet. Especially since the boys still hadn’t admitted how they feel about each other so there is unresolved tension as well as a ticking clock. Poor boys.
And I love digging into how much of a fish out of water Sam is at Stanford. That was so great. And there was another thing I especially liked about this chapter. You said:
For all that Dean had yelled and cajoled and cuffed him on the back of the head, Sam had never once doubted his brother’s love. Jessica looked at him the same way. — 🤗 I had never thought about it like this before. Sam can count on one-and-a-half fingers the number of people in this world who love him. It must have been so heady for him to see that look in another persons eyes. And the next point you made was that Sam had always been one half of a duo. That’s his natural state. To be alone must be doubly lonely for him so no wonder he is drawn so strongly to Jess. And of course this all only work because Jess is so genuine in her devotion. She really does mirror Dean in how much she loves Sam. So he is very lucky that he found her!
I’m also really curious to see how the canon divergence plays out 😄. It seems like Sam took care of the situation with demon!Brady? (Brady’s rope burns and Sam’s bloody hands? Oh and I loved the detail of the 000 all clear code!) but I don’t know if Sam will remain safe in this ‘verse or not.
But before then will have to see if Dean makes it to Sam’s birthday party 😄
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Date: 2022-03-10 04:19 am (UTC)