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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
For three more days, Sam was more like a zombie than any of the actual zombies Dean had destroyed over the past decade. He wore the same jeans and tee shirt Dean had helped him into when they got back from the funeral, ate half of whatever Dean put in front of him, and obediently held Rosie when Dean put her in his lap. He stared in the vicinity of the television when they sat on the couch, and looked at his food while they ate, and nodded sometimes when Dean made pathetic attempts at conversation. He didn’t cry during the day, but sometimes Dean stood outside his closed bedroom door at night and he could hear the half-stifled sobs. Maybe Sam was asleep and didn’t even know he was crying; maybe he just didn’t want Dean to hear him.
On Wednesday morning, Sam showed up in the kitchen freshly showered and wearing a clean pair of jeans and a different shirt. Dean was flipping pancakes; he’d finally found a skillet and a box of mix, and a few Ziploc bags of blueberries in the freezer. Rosie was in her high chair gobbling Cheerios off the tray and watching, occasionally offering a babbled suggestion that Dean thanked her for.
“Hey,” Sam said. Rosie said “Dada,” and Dean said “Sammy.”
“Looks good,” Sam said, nodding to the pancakes. Dean gestured to the coffee pot, something tight and painful in his chest loosening so abruptly he didn’t trust his voice.
“Thanks.” Sam filled a mug and sat down at the table next to Rosie, who smiled tentatively at her father. “Thanks, Dean. I mean – for everything.”
Dean didn’t turn around; he was afraid the pancakes might stick. Or he might do something incredibly girly like get teary-eyed. “Don’t have to thank me, Sam.”
He busied himself with slapping a few pats of butter in between the pancakes as he stacked them on a plate. The plates were ivory with a ring of blue and yellow flowers. Jessica must have picked them out, Dean thought. Just like everything here, Sam included. Jess had picked them all out.
“Cut up one for Rosie, will ya?”
Sam did, both of them glad to have an excuse to stop talking. Rosie’s mouth and chin and cheeks were smeared with purplish blue by the time she was done, and her fingers sticky with syrup. She grinned happily.
“C’mon, squirt,” Dean told her, picking her up and holding her at arm’s length as he carried her to the bathroom. “Tubby time for blueberry-faced kiddos.”
* * *
Sam could hear Rosie’s squeals of delight from down the hall, punctuated by the sound of water splashing in (and probably out of) the tub and Dean’s soft chuckles. He let himself slump back into the chair, looking around the house -- their house – for the first time since Jess was gone. Died. The reality sunk in abruptly, bright flash of pain shooting through his chest, closing up his throat in an ache so intense he put a hand to his neck on instinct. She was gone; Jessica was gone. Everything he’d planned on, everything they’d planned together, had come undone in that instant the truck had run the red light. They said she hadn’t felt a thing, it had been too quick. Sam took comfort in that, at least, having witnessed too much suffering in his life. He had no doubt she was in a better place, but fuck, he wanted her here. With him. With their daughter.
I can’t do this without you.
He heard footsteps coming down the hall, and realized he’d been lost in his thoughts for a while. He quickly wiped his eyes on his sleeve and tried to clear his throat.
Dean had Rosie dressed in a bright-yellow romper with a green duck on the front and orange socks with ruffles. She was scrubbed clean, her cheeks rosy, her fingers twisted into Dean’s tee shirt as he carried her. Sam remembered the day Dean had said the words he’d just been thinking, his hands resting easily on the wheel of the Impala, his green eyes imploring, wanting Sam to get back in and drive away. I can’t do this without you.. Yes, you can, Sam had said. Yeah, but I don’t want to.
“Sam, you okay?” Dean sounded worried, the smile wiped off his face.
Shit. “Yeah, I’m okay, sorry.” He swallowed against the lump still in his throat and tried to smile at Rosie. “Well, don’t you look pretty all cleaned up.”
She squirmed for Dean to let her down and toddled off into the living room to find the toys strewn around it
“You sure you’re – I mean, not okay, of course you’re not okay. But is there – “
Dean broke off, scrubbing a hand through his hair in frustration.
“You’re doing it,” Sam said. “You’re taking care of Rosie, and – hell, you’re taking care of both of us.”
The color rose on Dean’s cheeks and Sam realized Dean must not have shaved in a while, the stubble coarse on his jaw. A wave of guilt rushed over him. What right did he have, asking Dean to drop everything and come here, after he’d walked away all those years ago?
“Stop it,” Dean said. “I can hear you thinking, and it’s bullshit. I want to be here.”
Sam nodded, but it must not have looked very convincing, because Dean came closer and put his hand on Sam’s arm, squeezing hard enough to make Sam look up. “Sammy,” he said, and he looked as sad as Sam felt. “I’m so sorry.”
That was the moment Sam started to cry.
* * *
Sam went back to work a week later; the firm had been generous, giving him a full two weeks off and filing for postponements on a few pending cases in his absence.
“I can start interviewing babysitters,” he said that morning, realizing with a stab of guilt that he’d taken for granted that Dean would be there. It had been long enough; Sam needed to pull it together, let Dean get back to his own life.
Dean juggled Rosie on his hip and a cup of coffee in one hand, her favorite “Mr. Dog” toy in the other. “Whatever,” he said, waving Sam out the door. “Just go. Save some helpless animals or something.”
Sam got the names of three reputable nanny agencies. He spent two hours staring at his sandwich with his office door closed and thought about Dean walking out the front door and driving away, the Impala’s taillights disappearing up the street and into the night. Sam still remembered the first time he watched Dean drive away, how hard it was to remember that this was what he wanted. And it was what he wanted, this life, this normal – Jess, law school, a house, a job – but it had never been an easy decision. Sam had always wanted Dean, too. Dean would never know how close Sam had come that day to running into the street and waving his arms, yelling for his brother to turn around and come back for him.
Now he’d have to do it again. Be the better man, for Rosie, for himself – and for Dean, too. Dean was a hunter. He needed to be on the open road, not cooped up in a house in the suburbs watering plants and picking up after a baby. Or a baby brother. And he sure as hell didn’t need to be around Sam, whose dreams had always included Dean in ways that were far from brotherly. Sam didn’t think he’d ever experience anything close to sexual ever again; he couldn’t imagine it, with Jess gone and everything so dark and joyless. He felt safe touching his brother now, the times he cried and Dean held him nothing but the sort of comfort he’d known as a child, Dean’s arms strong and warm, pulling him in. His heart started beating too fast when he thought about giving that up – about being in the house that had always been so full of Jessica, alone with a little girl who depended on him to be okay. It had been so easy to fall into being the little brother again, to let Dean take care of things the way he had when they were kids. Sam knew it wasn’t fair; he was a grown man and he owed it to Dean to let him go, the way Dean had once let him.
He interviewed a dozen applicants for the nanny position the next weekend. Dean was uncharacteristically surly with every one of them, even the ones who were hot – so hot that even Sam, in his currently asexual state, noticed. Sam asked them questions while Dean kept Rosie away, claiming it would be confusing for her to get familiar with anyone they might not hire. When a perfectly lovely young woman named Charlie tried to brush a blonde curl out of Rosie’s face, Dean yanked the baby away so quickly Rosie gave a surprised yelp. Dean scowled at the woman, and then at Sam. Sam had no clue what he’d done wrong. He put it down to the fact that Dean had always been a moody bastard, and that half the time Sam never did find out what had caused it.
Sam narrowed it down to three after he’d checked all their references, and on Thursday night he called Sabrina and made her an offer.
“She accepted,” he told Dean, who was in the living room watching something stupid on TV. Dancing With the Stars, maybe?
Dean didn’t look up. “Great,” he said, then abruptly sat up and started pulling on his boots.
Sam’s stomach plummeted violently. “Uh, she doesn’t start for two weeks.”
Dean glared at him, grabbed his jacket from the chair and yanked his keys out of his jeans pocket. “Back in a few hours,” he said, as Sam stared.
* * *
“You’re Sam Wesson’s brother, aren’t you?”
Dean grimaced inwardly. Figured one of Sam’s friends would be tending bar instead of the stranger he was hoping for.
“Yeah. I’m Dean.”
The bartender poured him another shot. “On the house, then. I’m Angela.”
She had blue hair and a nose ring, and definitely didn’t look like a lawyer. That was the only reason Dean didn’t go looking for another place to drink.
“Thanks. I guess you’re not one his law-firm buddies.”
She shook her head, smiling. “Nope. I know Sam from here, actually.”
That didn’t fit with Dean’s picture of his brother’s apple pie life. “He come in here a lot?”
Angela shrugged. “Used to. Not so much since the baby was born, but sometimes.”
Huh. Dean downed the shot; slid the glass back across the bar.
“How’s he doing?” Angela asked, refilling it. “Terrible thing about Jessica. She seemed like a nice person.”
Dean thought about how he’d never know her, the woman his brother loved, who’d broken Sam’s heart by dying on him. Rosie’s mother. He answered honestly. “He’s a mess.”
Angela came back a few minutes later and filled his glass again without asking. “So,” she said, and Dean knew she was looking a little harder than necessary; that she liked what she saw. He wanted to tell her not to bother, that he hadn’t thought about touching anyone but his brother in weeks, and wouldn’t that just send someone running? Angela leaned closer. “You still hunting monsters out there, Dean?”
He jerked upright, alert for black eyes or evil in the curve of her smile.
Angela backed away a step. “Hey, whoa, not trying to make trouble. It’s just – Sam gets drunk sometimes, talks about stuff.”
“And you didn’t think he was just making shit up?” Dean had his gun out underneath the bar, ready.
Angela snorted. “My daddy was a hunter. I don’t remember him, really, but I knew what he was. Mama told me enough that I knew some things were true that other people would say were impossible. When your brother started talking about you being a hunter – I saw the devil’s trap on his tie one day and knew he wasn’t talkin’ about deer.”
Dean cocked an eyebrow. “That so?”
“It’s okay,” Angela laughed. “Hunters are the biggest skeptics going. You don’t have to believe me. But Sam talked about you a lot, when he drank too much. You and your big black car and pearl-handled Colt. Made you sound like a big damn hero.”
Dean’s turn to snort. “Yeah, right. That doesn’t sound like anything Sam would say in a million years.”
“Not to you,” Angela shot back, then leaned in again. “I assumed you guys didn’t get along – he said you hated him for getting out of the life, for wanting to go to school.”
“I never hated him,” Dean protested; the thought of Sam saying those words made his stomach twist. “Could never hate him. More like he was pissed at me for not getting out.”
Angela laughed. “Pissed at you? Is that what you think?” She polished a few glasses, then refilled Dean’s again.
“Sam gets pretty sappy when he’s drunk,” she said conversationally. “That hold true for you, Dean?”
“No.” Dean was quite sure it didn’t. Mostly. He pictured Sam drunkenly professing his love for Jessica while Angela admired his ties. “I should go. What do I owe you?”
“On the house,” Angela said, but she put her hand over Dean’s when he went to get up. “Mama always said hunters are hard-headed, can’t see what’s right in front of ‘em and can’t ever admit what they’re feeling. But Sam wasn’t pissed at you. He spent too much time sitting at my bar telling me how much he missed you, how badly he fucked things up between you, how he wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, thinking you might be dead because he wasn’t there to watch your back. No offense, but at first I thought he was talking about an ex.”
All the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stood up. “What?” he asked carefully, staring at Angela’s hand holding his down. That couldn’t be true. Sam was out here living his apple-pie, carefree, life—not worrying about Dean.
“Maybe it’s hard for you to believe,” Angela said, and she let go of Dean’s hand. “But he loves you, man. I mean, he really does. It’s great that you’re here. I bet it makes all the difference to him right now.”
Dean got up, his legs shaky. He’d had five shots; it felt like fifty.
“He was right about you,” Angela said as he put on his jacket. “You’re a good guy.”
“Thanks,” Dean mumbled, and turned to go.
“And you’re drop-dead gorgeous, just like he said,” Angela called after him.
Dean was glad he was outside before she could see him blush.
Sam was pacing on the porch when Dean got back, and a pang of guilt swept over Dean when he saw the way Sam sat down heavily, pushing his hair back off his face and trying to compose himself.
“Here’s the thing,” Dean said, when he got to the top stair. Sam sat on the wicker chair, looking up at him through red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t wanna go, not right now. If you want me outta here, that’s okay, I get it. But don’t do it for me.”
Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean, like he was trying to see through the lie. Dean narrowed his eyes right back, a silent argument like the millions they’d had as kids, glaring at each other over bowls of cereal and half-spoilt milk or across the Impala’s back seat, silently huffing their displeasure until John told them both to knock it off.
Sam caved first this time, shrugging and finally standing up. “I’ll see if Sabrina wants a part-time gig, then. Or find out if one of the others is interested.”
“Not that Veronica chick--she gave me the creeps. And not the one with the boots either.”
Sam’s eyebrows went up. “But you love hot girls in boots.”
“Exactly!” Dean said, and walked into the house, leaving Sam to ponder.
That night Dean slept soundly for the first time since he’d invaded 143 Alice Grim Lane, where he still felt like an interloper in the house that Sam and Jess built. He wouldn’t stay too long, he told himself. Just as long as Sam and Rosie needed him.
* * *
At the end of Sam’s sixth week back to work, he wore one of his favorite ties. It was crimson, an array of protective sigils in five ancient languages decorating it from top to bottom. Dean raised an eyebrow when Sam came into the kitchen. A pot of coffee was steaming and bubbling, and Rosie was scooping up handfuls of oatmeal and smearing them all over the tray of her high chair, the leftovers sticky on her pink cheeks.
“What? It’s one of my favorites.”
Dean nodded. “I can see why.”
Rosie said “Dada,” and Dean rolled his eyes at Sam’s expression of alarm at the amount of oatmeal that was no longer in her bowl.
“Chill out, Dada,” Dean chided, handing Sam a cup of coffee. “You like Daddy’s tie, Rosie? Think Daddy looks handsome all dressed up for work?”
“Shut up,” Sam shot back automatically, but he met Dean’s eyes over the bowl of oatmeal that was set before him. The corners were crinkled with amusement, the green muted with affection. Dean was teasing him. Without warning, Sam’s stomach swooped, that hollowed out feeling he hadn’t had in a million years heating his face. Dean was smirking, making fun of Sam and building him up at the same time, taking care of him like he’d done at so many makeshift breakfast tables. It felt good, and Sam reminded himself that it was temporary, that he couldn’t have this forever. Dean wasn’t Jess; Dean would be gone soon. Just like Jess was.
He kept his eyes on the oatmeal, finished it and the coffee in record time, and grabbed his briefcase.
A few weeks later, Sam went out to lunch with Penny, one of his favorite colleagues. She never made fun of him for his refusal to cut his hair short, and always complimented his ties. Sam and Jess had gone to her wedding last year, when she and Kim, her girlfriend of a decade, decided they should tie the knot for real now that they could. There were plenty of gay couples there, and Sam had thought about Dean and Cas; the way Cas had followed Dean with his striking blue eyes and walked so close beside him. He tried to picture them together, wondering if Dean liked to get on his knees or on his back for Cas, or if Dean would want to top. Jess had elbowed him with a questioning look and he’d snapped out of it, blushing and shifting his hands over his lap.
“So how are you holding up?” Penny asked once they’d ordered.
“Sometimes it’s so bad I can’t even breathe, when I think about her never coming home again,” Sam said. “Other times, I feel like it’s just a normal day, like I almost forget it happened. It’s weird, the way it comes and goes.”
“Sounds pretty normal,” Penny said. “You know Kim’s a therapist, right? That’s what she says about grief. It comes and goes, and there’s no right way to do it. You just muddle your way through as best you can.”
Sam shrugged and managed a half-smile. “I guess that’s pretty much what I’m doing.”
Penny asked about Rosie, and this time Sam’s smile wasn’t halfway.
“She’s doing okay. Kids are resilient. Dean’s really good with her. He’s a great parent, always has been.”
Penny looked surprised. “Oh – I didn’t know your brother had kids.”
Sam chuckled. “He doesn’t, but our mom died when I was just a baby, and our dad was . . . he was on the road a lot. So Dean kinda raised me really. More than anyone else.”
“Then it must be a huge relief to have him here.”
Sam’s shoulders slumped, the full weight of impending loss hitting him. “It is, but that’s the thing – it won’t be for much longer, I’m sure. I can’t ask him to put his life on hold like this. I mean, it’s already been a few months. It’s asking too much of him and I know it. He hates California, and this apple-pie-life – that’s what he calls it – and I know it’s unfair of me to want him to stay . . . but God, I do.”
Penny put her hand over Sam’s where he’d laid them both flat on the table to brace himself against the wave of grief flooding over him. “You know, I think you’re allowed to be a little selfish right now, Sam. You have to let people help you. He’s your brother, I’m sure he wants to help you.”
Sam snorted. “We’ve seen each other exactly seven times in the past ten years. Seven. I don’t even know him. I don’t know what TV shows he likes, or what movies he’s seen, or if his taste in music has expanded past Metallica, or anything. I don’t know if he’s ever been in love or even if he’s gay or straight.”
Penny raised an eyebrow, maybe wondering – reasonably enough, Sam supposed – what Dean’s sexuality had to do with any of this. Still, she was undeterred. “Then get to know him. Tell him you need him there – tell him you want him there. I can see how much you do. Hell, tell him Rosie needs him if that’ll go down easier. You said he’s a great parent, so let him parent! And as far as the gay or straight, if you want to know maybe you should just ask, Sam. Not like you’d judge him.”
“Of course not.” Sam sighed and picked up his half-eaten sandwich. “Not really sure what I am either, these days.”
Penny cocked an eyebrow, mouth curving upwards. “Oh really? Is there a hot dude who’s caught your eye, Samuel Wesson? That’s healthy, you know – you can’t become a monk. Jess would never have wanted that. She’d want you to be happy.”
Sam shook his head. He was pretty sure nobody would call the way he’d always felt about Dean anything close to healthy. “No, not really.”
Penny grinned. “That’s a yes if I ever heard one. I won’t pry, you’re probably not ready, I get that. But it’s good that you’re not blind and you’re still alive in there.”
Sam wasn’t sure about the alive part. The times he did feel alive . . . sometimes in the morning when Dean’s amazing green eyes greeted him, or when his brother’s mouth pursed to smack a kiss on Rosie, or one afternoon when Dean took off his shirt to trim the bushes around the front porch in just a pair of worn-thin jeans and bare feet . . . Sam sort of wished he couldn’t see any of it.
* * *
“You know,” Sam said one ridiculously hot Saturday night, when Dean flopped down on the couch and stripped off his dirty tee shirt, “you don’t have to stay in every night for me. You can – I mean, I know you know this, but – I’ll be fine here if you wanna go out. It’s Saturday night, so.”
Dean looked startled for a second, then shrugged and popped open his beer. “Sure, I know. Been busy fixing the railing around the porch all day. It’s like a million degrees out there. Fucking California.”
Sam heard the frustration for what it was, and his heart sank with the awareness of what he had to do. He’d been selfish for almost four months; he owed it to Dean to let him go. Push him if he needed it.
“I can fix the porch, you know.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, right.”
“Or I can hire someone to do it. You don’t have to feel like this is on you, Dean. I’m – I’m fine, really.” Sam forced himself to go on, though he felt anything but fine. “We’re both fine.”
Dean got up and went into the kitchen; Sam could hear the refrigerator open and close, the rustle of plastic and boxes being opened. When Dean came back, he had a box of wheat thins and some leftover squares of cheese he’d cut up for Rosie. He plopped them all down on the coffee table.
“I know you are, Sam.”
Sam couldn’t look at him, afraid Dean would see the lie of it all over his face. Luckily Dean didn’t look at him either, busy sandwiching cheese between crackers and stuffing too many into his mouth. Sam’s chest ached more with the familiarity of it, the rush of affection. Dean’s stupid face with his cheeks crammed full of food and his too-long lashes obscuring his eyes just made this harder.
Dean cleared his throat. “There’ve been a few jobs that Bobby’s called about, one in Nevada that nobody can seem to get a handle on.”
Sam cleared his throat, too. “Yeah, sure. Of course. You should – you should go. Try to help.”
Sam lay awake all night, rehearsing how he’d say goodbye to Dean, how he’d wish him luck and tell him to stay safe, and be totally and completely okay with watching the Impala drive away once again. He got up four times to wash his face and drink a lot of water, like it would somehow wash away the sadness.
In the morning, he got up earlier than Dean and made the coffee and cooked some pancakes, just to show them all that he could. Dean came in with his boots on instead of barefoot, his hair still in wet spikes and his eyes avoiding Sam’s. They ate breakfast more quietly than they had in months, Rosie trying to provoke them both by painting her high-chair tray with sticky syrup.
Sam cleaned her up and carried her to the door as Dean swung his duffel over his shoulder.
“I’ll call you later,” Dean said, and if his voice was gruff, Sam didn’t think too much about it.
“Say goodbye to Uncle Dean,” Sam said to Rosie, keeping her between them.
“Be good for Daddy, kiddo,” Dean said, and kissed her on the cheek.
Dean was halfway down the walk when Rosie started screaming. Sam saw him hesitate, then keep going without looking over his shoulder. He didn’t turn around or wave, just started the Impala and drove down the street. The sun was still low in the sky, painting the blue with streaks of red-yellow-orange, and the bougainvillea on the porch were a riot of overgrown color, beautiful. “Deeeeeee” Rosie wailed as the Impala disappeared around the corner.
* * *
There was no job in Nevada; Dean headed south, trying to appreciate the beautiful day and the fact that he was back on the road where he belonged, unencumbered by family obligations and the constant temptation of Sam under his nose 24/7, with his powerful shoulders and gentle hands and cinnamon eyes and . . . oh jesus, this was why he couldn’t be there. Waxing poetic about his little brother’s eyes was so far over the line, Dean didn’t even want to hear his own thoughts. He pressed the gas pedal, and the Impala leapt under him, happy to be fast and free again.
He found the little shop on a side street in a part of Santa Cruz that catered to new-agey and leftover hippie types, with a sign in the window that said “We Do Custom Ink” fronting stacks of candles and incense and fugly skirts and Ouija boards. A bell jingled when Dean shut the door, and a funny-looking dude who reminded Dean a little of that nasty-ass leprechaun who almost killed him appeared.
“Can I help you?” he asked, squinting at Dean through thick glasses. He looked as suspicious as Dean felt.
Dean pulled the crimson tie with the sigils out of his pocket and put it on the counter. “You make this?”
The clerk shrugged. “Don’t remember. Where’d you get it?”
“At a friggin’ yard sale. Seriously, I know you made it. What I want to know is why. Do you know what it means or did my brother just tell you what to put on it?”
The clerk squinted at him a while longer. “Your brother, huh? What was his name?”
Dean squinted right back. “Sam.”
“Just Sam.”
“Yep.”
“Okay,” the clerk said, and took off his glasses. “Guess you pass the paranoia test. You the brother who’s still hunting then?”
Dean cocked an eyebrow. “I might be.”
“Garth,” the clerk said, and he looked even goofier when he smiled.
Dean shook the proffered hand. “Dean. So why did Sam ask you to make all these ties?”
“I should think that’d be pretty obvious. Most of them are for protection. Some for himself, some for his wife, some for the baby. And some for you.”
That brought Dean up short. “Come again?”
Garth rummaged around in a bin below the counter and pulled out another tie. Bright green, a single unfamiliar symbol running for most of its length. “He asked for this one four or five months ago – never came in to get it. He okay?”
Dean nodded, fingers gliding over the silk and tracing the sigil. “What is it?”
“Sumerian, very old. Very specific. Enhances the healing powers of the person it’s spun for. It has to have a bit of that person’s blood in it.” Garth looked at Dean pointedly. “Yours.”
“But how would –“
“Said he borrowed some the last time you were in the hospital. I think a monster nearly took you out that time, and Sam didn’t want to leave it to chance. This is the fifth one I’ve made that’s got a wee bit o’ you in it.” Garth grinned a toothy smile. “Guess you can have it – seems it matches your eyes perfectly.”
Dean just nodded, still staring at the tie. “Tell Sam it’s on the house,” Garth added.
“Thanks,” Dean finally managed, and was turning to go when Garth said, “Oh, wait a sec.” He disappeared into the back room and returned with a brown paper bag that he handed to Dean.
“As long as you’re picking stuff up for him, that’s more of the devil’s-trap marker and the salt line paint.”
Dean gaped. “The what? I mean, what for?”
“For touch-ups, obviously. He still has the house, right?”
“Right,” Dean answered slowly, the bits and pieces slipping into place. “Garth, did Sam – was Sam still hunting?”
Garth shook his head. “Not officially, no. Said he gave it up – mostly – when he moved in with his girlfriend. But there were a few times, things came up. You know, as they do. Shit follows you sometimes. Hey, you okay?”
Dean gripped the counter with one hand, feeling dizzy. Followed him? He remembered the fire, the day after he’d taken Sam back to the place that was supposed to be safe. Sam’s text a few days later.
“Hang on a sec,” Garth said, and returned with a glass of something brown and serious looking. “Just whiskey,” he answered, at Dean’s skeptical look.
Dean slammed it back. His fingers were shaking. Garth poured him another.
“I’m guessing Sam didn’t want you to know. Probably shouldn’t have said anything. He didn’t want you to worry about him.”
Dean slammed the glass onto the counter, and Garth jumped a foot. “IT’S MY JOB TO WORRY ABOUT HIM!” he bellowed, far too loud, but jesus christ Sammy, you fucking idiot, all this time. All this time, Dean had stayed away, foolishly thinking he could keep the danger far from Sam’s doorstep if he kept himself away too.
Garth poured himself a shot and downed it, shaking his head like a dog afterwards. “Calm down, will you? You’ll scare away any potential customers.”
“Sorry.” He wasn’t, really. He was too dumbfounded to feel much of anything except the overwhelming desire to punch Sam in the face.
“Seems like you two both think you have the same job. He was always worrying about you.”
It was too much to process; his entire construction of Sam as away and safe and normal and not thinking about Dean exploded in globs of magicked paint and day-glo ties. Dean drove for fifteen hours straight, headed nowhere, letting his Baby lead and only stopping for coffee and a burger that sat in his stomach like lead. At 3 AM he turned her around and headed northwest, the Impala gleaming as she flew along under a full moon.
* * *
Rosie cried for a solid half-hour, probably because Sam gave in and ended up crying right along with her. Eventually they both wiped the snot and tears off their faces and distracted themselves with a walk down to the park. It was a beautiful day, and Sam tried to feel it, tried to feel lucky for the comfortable house and the good job and the green-tree-lined street and Rosie in her stroller in a blue polka-dotted sunhat. He thought about Jessica walking beside him, fussing with Rosie’s bonnet to keep the sun off her face. He thought about Dean brushing Rosie’s curls out after a bath, the callused rough hands of a hunter gentle as he worked, as precise as when he took apart his favorite gun. He choked back more tears and kept walking.
Rosie wandered around the house when they got back, searching for Dean in every corner and sulking when she came up empty. She called for him again when Sam put her to bed; that was usually Dean’s job, and almost five months was forever to a toddler. She finally fell asleep in Sam’s arms, the creak creak creak of Jessica’s old wicker rocking chair a familiar lullaby. Dean usually sang her Metallica as a lullaby, but Sam didn’t trust his voice to do anything but break.
The babysitter came at 7 AM the next day, because Monday meant work and Sam couldn’t afford time off to grieve all over again. He threw himself into trial prep and didn’t think about anything else. For the first time since he’d gone back to work, Sam didn’t want to go home. Without Jess, without Dean, the house was too empty. He thought about selling it, moving himself and Rosie into a little apartment that wouldn’t have any empty spaces he couldn’t fill. Eventually it was 7 PM, and Sam couldn’t justify keeping the sitter any longer.
When he opened the door to 143 Alice Grim Lane, the babysitter wasn’t there. Dean was sitting crosslegged on the floor, barefoot and smiling, setting up towers of building blocks for Rosie to knock down.
“Dada!” yelled Rosie happily.
“Hi Sam, I’m back,” said Dean.
Sam dropped his briefcase.
Dean alternated between giving Sam pointed looks that seemed mildly disapproving and avoiding any and all discussion of why he was back in their living room just a day after leaving. When Dean came back from putting Rosie to bed, Sam finally cornered him in the kitchen.
“So, what happened?”
Dean took a swig of the beer he’d just opened and Sam flushed a little, watching his brother’s throat work and still a little overwhelmed with the fact that Dean was actually there at all.
“Got something for you,” Dean said, instead of explaining. He grabbed a brown paper bag off the counter and shoved it at Sam. Gingerly, Sam reached inside and pulled out the – oh. Oh.
“Out of the life, huh, Sam? Done with hunting, done with all of it. So why’s there a permanent salt line painted into the floor in the foyer and all the window sills, and devil’s traps under all the area rugs? Wanna explain that, Sam?”
Fuck. Dean looked pissed.
Sam scowled back at him. “What? I can’t be careful? You think I forgot 18 years of training when I went to school?”
“YES!” Dean yelled, and Sam flinched, hoping the noise wouldn’t wake Rosie. “Yes, I fucking thought you did – I thought that was the whole fucking POINT, Sam! You didn’t want the life, you wanted OUT, you wanted NORMAL. This is not normal!”
Sam grabbed a beer of his own from the fridge and popped it open, gulping three times before he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and answered. “It’s as normal as I could make it,” he said, and his voice was deceptively calm, nothing like the mess of panic and rage that was simmering in his gut. Fuck Dean for challenging him on this now, when he’d failed at protecting Jessica, failed at normal.
“You were hunting!” Dean shouted, poking a finger in Sam’s chest as punctuation. “I thought you were OUT, and you were hunting this whole time.”
Sam grabbed the finger up against his chest and wrenched it back cruelly, pulling a hissed curse out of Dean. “Only when I had to, Dean – you think everything supernatural just up and decided to leave me alone?”
Dean pulled his hand away, cradling it protectively. “Yes – hell yes, that’s what I thought. That was the whole fucking point, wasn’t it?”
“Maybe that’s just what you wanted to think,” Sam said, and he knew it was a low blow.
The expression on Dean’s face told him he’d hit home. The anger rushed out as quickly as it had come over him, and Sam sagged back against the corner, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
Dean blinked and swallowed hard, deflating as quickly as Sam had. “Maybe,” he said, and his voice was hoarse.
“Sorry,” Sam said, wishing the three feet between them didn’t feel like thirty.
Dean looked just as stuck. He shuffled his bare feet against the tiled floor, then sighed. “It’s just – I thought you were safe, Sammy. I thought you were safe, and I stayed away.”
Sam’s feet abruptly broke out of the cement block keeping them anchored, and he stumbled forward without thought, intent on wiping the look of sadness off his brother’s face. Dean had a moment to look surprised and maybe a little scared, and then Sam pulled him in for a hug. Dean’s arms came around his back, one hand warm and flat between Sam’s shoulder blades and the half-empty beer bottle pressed against the small of his back, cold and wet. Dean smelled the same as he always did, familiar, no matter how much everything else changed around them, and Sam turned his head and pressed his nose into Dean’s soft spiky hair and let himself breathe.
He stepped back when he realized he was inhaling a little too obviously, and that their hips were pressed together as tightly as their chests. Dean took a gulp of beer and cleared his throat. The tips of his ears were red, and his eyes glittered in the harsh light of the kitchen, wet and way too green.
“Oh,” Dean said, clearly trying to lighten the moment. “Garth said to give you this too. On the house.”
Sam caught the tie that matched Dean’s eyes in one hand, and Dean’s lip curled at the sharpness of his reflexes.
“Oh,” Sam said, and felt himself blush. “Did he –“
“Yeah,” Dean said, but he was smirking now, and that was better than the sadness that was there a few minutes ago. “Yeah, he told me all about it. Thanks for lookin’ out for me, little brother. With a friggin’ TIE.”
“You’re welcome, jerk,” Sam answered, but he was smiling, too. It felt odd, unfamiliar on his face, impossible that it was real and not faked.
“Bitch,” Dean answered amiably, and held out his half-empty beer. Sam raised his without hesitation, waited for the clink and then drank it down, the liquid and the sight of Dean’s smile settling warm and heavy in his stomach.
“See you in the morning,” Dean said, and tossed his empty in the recycling bin.
“Yeah,” Sam answered, and slept through until then.
* * *
In October, Dean bought a ghost outfit at Target and convinced Rosie to wear it for Halloween.
“You couldn’t have found something that wasn’t real?” Sam complained, and Dean cuffed him affectionately on the back of the head and told him to shut up.
Before midnight, Dean ate half the candy that Rosie had charmed out of their neighbors and soon thereafter he was sprawled out on the couch rubbing his stomach and moaning theatrically like he was dying. Or having the world’s most awesome orgasm.
Sam tried not to stare, and willed his dick to stay down. It had only recently become interested in getting up and looking for some action again, other than the physiological certainty of morning wood or the unfettered lust for his brother that still sometimes stalked his dreams. Dreams of Jessica were never like that; they were of death and fire and screams, and Sam always woke up soaked in sweat and shaking. More and more often, dreams of Dean left him sweaty and shaking for a completely different reason. Sometimes he let himself jerk off to get back to sleep, but the guilt that hit him afterwards wasn’t really worth the momentary relief. Now it was starting to happen while he was awake too, when Dean was just being himself – fully clothed, stupid, annoying, overbearing Dean.
“Do you mind?” Sam protested, because he had to say something.
“Sammy, it hurts,” Dean whined, and oh jesus christ, now he had his shirt pulled up so he could rub the bare skin of his stomach, and Sam’s eyes caught on the trail of dark hair beneath his navel, the ripple of his abs as he writhed and whimpered, and Sam thought that was probably how he moved and sounded when he was getting fucked, and –
“I’m tired, I’m – I’m goin’ to bed,” Sam announced, jumping up and heading for the bedroom. “Uh, hope you feel better. There’s Pepto in the kitchen cabinet.”
“You suck at sympathy,” Dean called after him, as Sam hurriedly closed the door.
As the holiday season approached, Sam felt the loss of Jess more acutely. They skipped Thanksgiving all together, the thought of giving thanks still feeling alien. Christmas was equally painful, but it was a holiday too obvious to ignore. Jessica had loved Christmas; had even taught Sam not to hate it so much. Rosie was nearly two, old enough to know that there were holidays happening – that there were menorahs in some of their neighbors’ windows and Santas in the stores and everyone seemed to be celebrating something. Sam dragged the big boxes of decorations and wrapping paper out of the hall closet, and then became mesmerized by a ridiculous Hallmark snow-globe ornament that Jess had bought their first Christmas together. He lost time for a while, tipping it back and forth and watching its little swirling snowstorms.
“You okay?” Dean’s hand on his shoulder startled Sam out of his trance, and without thinking, Sam reached up and covered Dean’s hand with his own.
Dean froze, and then they both yanked their hands away. “Yeah, just – I don’t know if I can really deal with all this holiday stuff.” Sam put the ornament back in the box.
“There’s no right or wrong, you know that,” Dean said, and Sam knew what he meant, but the lingering warmth of Dean’s hand on his shoulder distracted him so much he couldn’t answer right away.
“I know,” he said after a moment. “I just – we should give Rosie some kind of Christmas, but Jess – God, I miss her.”
He didn’t talk about her often; it was still too hard. Dean put his hand back on Sam’s shoulder and squeezed. “C’mon, we can decide this later. Whatever you wanna do, Sam. You know that, right?”
Sam followed his brother into the kitchen, feeling unaccountably emotional. It was a dangerous feeling, he knew.
Dean had a big pot of chili on the stove, left over from their dinner. Sam didn’t know when Dean had learned to cook it, but it was good. The whole house smelled like cooking, like somebody lived here.
“Dean?” The question popped out before he could think better of it, and Dean turned from where he’d been ladling chili into a Tupperware container.
“Yeah?” Dean said, his expression unguarded, still tender from the way Sam was hurting.
“How long are you gonna stay with us?”
It was a question Sam wanted to ask a billion times a day, but one he’d been too scared to voice for fear of getting an answer.
Dean blinked, and Sam could see his guard come up. “Uh, as long as you want me to, I guess,” he said, then shifted his feet uncomfortably and scrubbed at his face, sure tell that he didn’t think he should have admitted it. “I mean, until you find another – you know, someone to be with, I guess. You don’t have to worry, soon as you start dating again, I’ll make myself scarce, promise.”
Sam was tired. He’d lost the woman he loved; his dreams of a future with her. The only other people he loved were sleeping in a newly-bought big-girl bed down the hall and standing right in front of him.
“Then you might be here for a very long time.”
Dean raised an eyebrow and tried a reassuring smile. “You’ll meet someone when you’re ready, Sam . . . it hasn’t been that long. A million girls’d be lucky to have you – big-time lawyer, nice house, most perfect kid in the universe. They’ll be linin’ up.”
Dean ducked his head. “Don’t make me say that again,” he complained, and Sam looked at Dean’s bare toes against the tile, the torn knees of his jeans and the way his legs bowed as he leaned back against the counter, and thought, this is it for me.
“I don’t want that,” Sam said, and was surprised by how certain he was the moment the words came out of his mouth.
“What?” Dean regarded Sam with his head still lowered, which meant he was looking up through those ridiculous lashes of his. It just made Sam more certain.
“I don’t want to find a girl and get married again. Not now, not ever. There won’t be another Jess.”
Dean looked gobsmacked; apparently he’d never considered that Sam might not find someone else – might not want to. He started to say something once or twice, then closed his mouth like he’d thought better of it. Eventually he settled on, “You don’t wanna be hurt again, I get that.”
It was an easy out, and that was part of the reason. Sam took it.
“I’m good with the way things are right now, as long as this is good for you. If you ever want to hit the road, go back to hunting full-time, I’ll get it. But until then, I’m okay with this.”
Dean fiddled with the Tupperware, fumbling the lid. “Whatever,” he said, then grumbled a few choice words at the recalcitrant plastic top. “Someone’s gotta stick around and keep your big ass safe.”
Sam flicked a few chili beans that had fallen out on the counter in Dean’s direction. They hit him smack on the cheek, and he spun around with his eyes comically wide. “Dude, you did not just throw chili at me.”
“So what if I did?”
Sam couldn’t get away quite fast enough to avoid the plastic ladle Dean chucked at the back of his head, but he started laughing on the way to the bathroom. A small smile stayed on his face the whole time he was washing the bits of chili out of his hair.
They ended up buying a Christmas tree at the corner lot a few blocks away, and Dean insisted they transport it using Sam’s car because “the sap will ruin my Baby’s finish, bitch.” Rosie hung a few nondescript balls that she chose out of the two boxes (out of seven) they got out of the closet, and Dean insisted on flinging handfuls of silver and blue icicles that he got from the Dollar Store all over it. Sam made a face; Rosie loved them. The lower branches of the tree were so covered with icicles that you could no longer see any actual tree. On December 23rd, the babysitter came in the evening after Rosie was asleep, and Sam and Dean took the Impala to Toys R Us and bought a bunch of things that Rosie had oohed and aahed over on the television, and a bunch of things that Dean oohed and aahed over in the store, and a few practical items like a booster seat, since she had long ago outgrown the high chair. They argued over a tricycle, which Sam had always wanted and never had and Dean insisted was too dangerous.
“Dean, it’s a tricycle, for godsakes,” Sam swore, while Dean stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his pouty lips pursed, obstinate.
“You guys are the cutest couple ever,” the salesgirl said, and that flustered Dean enough for Sam to win the argument.
“You’re puttin’ on the bandages when she ends up with skinned knees,” Dean complained as they drove home with the backseat full of bags. “I did my time puttin’ ‘em on you.”
“I never even had a tricycle,” Sam said, and that shut Dean up for a while, until Sam felt bad. “You always did a good job with my skinned knees, though,” he said after a while.
Dean didn’t say anything, but the next night, after Rosie was tucked into bed and cookies were left out for Santa, the tricycle was all assembled when Sam came back to the living room in his tee shirt and sweatpants.
It was one of those times when the full force of all the feelings he tried not to look at too hard caught Sam off guard. Dean on his knees, his capable hands tightening and re-checking and re-tightening the wheel nuts, the curve of his back beautiful and powerful in the low light flickering off the tinsel. When Dean stood up, Sam was already too close, and Dean startled.
“Sammy,” he said, and Sam kissed him before he could close his mouth, chaste but so full of emotion that it rocked Sam to the core, almost knocked him off his feet.
“I never thought I’d feel it again,” Sam said, and Dean hadn’t moved; they were still only inches apart. Dean’s eyes were wide, impossibly green.
“What?” he asked, and it came out a whisper, no voice behind it at all.
“Happy,” Sam said, and he couldn’t help but smile. “I never thought I’d have even a moment of it again.”
“Oh,” Dean answered, and Sam could see how thrown he was, afraid to move a muscle.
“Thank you,” Sam said, and he stepped back so Dean could breathe, and Sam could stay on his feet – and so he could look at his stupid, loyal, loving, exasperating, amazing brother. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”
Dean was still gaping when he turned and went off to bed, and Sam knew he might have to pass it off as too much Christmas sentimentality, or maybe temporary insanity, but he’d kissed his brother on Christmas Eve and for a while, at least, Sam was happy.
Jessica’s parents flew in on Christmas day to spend some time with Rosie, and Dean hovered protectively every time one of them picked her up, scowling if she so much as looked unhappy. Sam kept trying to distract him with “Hey, can you make another pot of coffee?” and “Would you mind running to the grocery store for more eggnog?” and a few even lamer requests, before Dean got wise to him and told him to go get more insulated foam cups himself if he thought they were so goddamned necessary.
The Moores asked to have Rosie for two weeks in the summer, and Sam kept a hand on Dean’s arm throughout the conversation, patting him gently every time he could feel the muscles there twitch, like Dean would be making a fist if he thought he could get away with it. So there wasn’t any time for real conversation, and by the time it was nearly midnight and their houseguests were gone and the kitchen was more or less cleaned up, Sam had forgotten all about his moment of insanity by reason of unexpected happiness.
* * *
Dean stood in the living room in front of the Christmas tree for a long time after Sam had gone to bed. After Sam had kissed him and gone to bed. He ran a finger over his bottom lip, trying to get it straight in his head that Sam’s mouth had been right there just a few minutes earlier. He hadn’t imagined it. It was quick, but not that quick. Not tentative, just brief. But certain, deliberate. Was Sam trying to say thank you in some weird California way, like how actors always kiss each other in Hollywood? Wasn’t that usually on the cheek?
He sat on the edge of his bed in the guest room for hours, playing the scene over and over again in his head, trying to work out if he had given Sam some kind of signal, something that gave away that he’d thought about it – dreamt of it, fantasized about it. He knew he’d been getting careless; it was impossible not to, living with Sam for months, going on a year. Impossible not to stare a little too long when Sam paraded around in a stupid fucking towel, miles of gleaming wet skin over rippling muscle. Sometimes the stupidest thing would stop Dean in his tracks. Sam carrying Rosie one-handed, the other hand stacking papers and shoving them into his briefcase or pouring a cup of coffee or trying to tame his unruly overgrown stupid hair to get it out of his eyes. Moments like that would blindside Dean, leave him standing there knocked breathless with it, how much he loved his brother.
Had Sam caught on? And if he had, why had Dean gotten a kiss instead of a right cross to the jaw?
There was no time to ask on Christmas; Rosie woke up with the dawn, shortly after Dean had finally fallen asleep, and her squeals of delight when she saw the tricycle put a smug smile on Sam’s face that Dean was helpless against. Jessica’s parents arrived after lunch and distracted Dean with their constant need to have their hands on Rosie (though he knew they missed Jess, and of course Rosie was hers, so it made perfect sense, but still) so there was no time to talk. Sam acted perfectly normal, which meant perfectly annoying, sending Dean out on fool’s errands and expecting him not to notice, goddammit. By the time the house had cleared out and Rosie was tucked into bed in a new pair of jammies, Dean, too, had almost forgotten about the kiss.
The water was running in the bathroom as Dean walked down the hall, and the door was open, so he paused before heading to the room they both still called the guest bedroom. Sam was leaning over the sink, rinsing out the toothpaste, and Dean stared at the width of his shoulders pulled taut under a tee shirt, the strip of skin exposed as the shirt pulled up above the waistband of his worn cotton boxers, the tight curve of his ass clearly visible. Dean swallowed hard, and when he forced his eyes up, he met Sam’s in the mirror. Fox eyes, that’s how Dean had always thought of them. Too many colors, all swirling together, like the riot of emotions they’d always produced in Dean.
“Dean,” Sam said, and kept staring.
“Why’d you do it?” Dean asked, because it was easier to talk to Sam in the mirror.
Sam didn’t pretend not to know what Dean was asking. “Because I meant it,” he said, like that was an answer.
Dean shook his head. “Not good enough.”
“Because I’ve wanted to do it as long as I can remember,” Sam said, and Dean braced himself against the door, his head spinning.
“You’ve wanted to – kiss me?” It sounded stupid when he said it out loud. Maybe Sam meant he’d wanted to thank him. Even that was enough to make Dean feel dizzy with relief. “Or t-to . . . thank me?”
Sam spun around, and this close he loomed a few inches taller than Dean, imposing even in his underwear with a dab of toothpaste on the bow of his upper lip. “To kiss you, dumbass.”
“But – but why?” Dean was leaning, going sideways against the door, his knees buckling. This couldn’t be happening, probably wasn’t happening. Was he sleepwalking maybe? Did he drink too much eggnog?
Sam came a little closer, and Dean slid back farther, until he bumped up against the door frame.
“Dean,” Sam said, and he was using his voice of younger-brother-who-knows-more infinite patience, the one that Dean hated, “Let’s not dissect it, okay? I wanted to kiss you, and I did, and I’d like to do it again but if it freaked you out too much, it’s okay, we can just leave it.”
“Leave it?” Dean asked, because he seemed to be incapable of anything except repeating Sam’s unintelligible words.
“I mean, if you’re too freaked, we can never do that again – or . . . “ He took a breath and seemed to brace himself. “Or we can leave it at just kissing.”
“Just kissing,” Dean repeated dumbly, trying to make sense of concepts that made no sense.
“Yes, Dean,” Sam said with more infinite patience. “Like this.” And he leaned in and kissed Dean again, perhaps even more quickly this time but still definitely on the mouth. Dean licked a glob of toothpaste where it had stuck to his upper lip from Sam’s. Sam’s eyes followed his tongue.
“Sorry,” Sam said, but he was smiling, so he probably wasn’t.
“Okay,” Dean whispered, because he didn’t have much voice left after that, and he slipped out of the doorway and went to bed. Brushing his teeth could definitely wait.
He sat up most of the night again, coming up with explanations of how Sam’s sudden desire to kiss him could be something brotherly, or maybe some strange manifestation of grief, or possibly the result of some sort of possession. The stupidly unrealistic (and extremely horny) part of him kept trying to suggest that maybe Sam was harboring some more-than-brotherly feelings of his own, while the more rational part tried not to listen. Sam wasn’t fucked up like he was. Sam was normal, goddammit. Normal.
* * *
Part Five
runedgirlArtist name:
fanlayPairing: Dean/Sam, with Sam/Jess and Dean/Cas
Rating: NC17
For three more days, Sam was more like a zombie than any of the actual zombies Dean had destroyed over the past decade. He wore the same jeans and tee shirt Dean had helped him into when they got back from the funeral, ate half of whatever Dean put in front of him, and obediently held Rosie when Dean put her in his lap. He stared in the vicinity of the television when they sat on the couch, and looked at his food while they ate, and nodded sometimes when Dean made pathetic attempts at conversation. He didn’t cry during the day, but sometimes Dean stood outside his closed bedroom door at night and he could hear the half-stifled sobs. Maybe Sam was asleep and didn’t even know he was crying; maybe he just didn’t want Dean to hear him.
On Wednesday morning, Sam showed up in the kitchen freshly showered and wearing a clean pair of jeans and a different shirt. Dean was flipping pancakes; he’d finally found a skillet and a box of mix, and a few Ziploc bags of blueberries in the freezer. Rosie was in her high chair gobbling Cheerios off the tray and watching, occasionally offering a babbled suggestion that Dean thanked her for.
“Hey,” Sam said. Rosie said “Dada,” and Dean said “Sammy.”
“Looks good,” Sam said, nodding to the pancakes. Dean gestured to the coffee pot, something tight and painful in his chest loosening so abruptly he didn’t trust his voice.
“Thanks.” Sam filled a mug and sat down at the table next to Rosie, who smiled tentatively at her father. “Thanks, Dean. I mean – for everything.”
Dean didn’t turn around; he was afraid the pancakes might stick. Or he might do something incredibly girly like get teary-eyed. “Don’t have to thank me, Sam.”
He busied himself with slapping a few pats of butter in between the pancakes as he stacked them on a plate. The plates were ivory with a ring of blue and yellow flowers. Jessica must have picked them out, Dean thought. Just like everything here, Sam included. Jess had picked them all out.
“Cut up one for Rosie, will ya?”
Sam did, both of them glad to have an excuse to stop talking. Rosie’s mouth and chin and cheeks were smeared with purplish blue by the time she was done, and her fingers sticky with syrup. She grinned happily.
“C’mon, squirt,” Dean told her, picking her up and holding her at arm’s length as he carried her to the bathroom. “Tubby time for blueberry-faced kiddos.”
* * *
Sam could hear Rosie’s squeals of delight from down the hall, punctuated by the sound of water splashing in (and probably out of) the tub and Dean’s soft chuckles. He let himself slump back into the chair, looking around the house -- their house – for the first time since Jess was gone. Died. The reality sunk in abruptly, bright flash of pain shooting through his chest, closing up his throat in an ache so intense he put a hand to his neck on instinct. She was gone; Jessica was gone. Everything he’d planned on, everything they’d planned together, had come undone in that instant the truck had run the red light. They said she hadn’t felt a thing, it had been too quick. Sam took comfort in that, at least, having witnessed too much suffering in his life. He had no doubt she was in a better place, but fuck, he wanted her here. With him. With their daughter.
I can’t do this without you.
He heard footsteps coming down the hall, and realized he’d been lost in his thoughts for a while. He quickly wiped his eyes on his sleeve and tried to clear his throat.
Dean had Rosie dressed in a bright-yellow romper with a green duck on the front and orange socks with ruffles. She was scrubbed clean, her cheeks rosy, her fingers twisted into Dean’s tee shirt as he carried her. Sam remembered the day Dean had said the words he’d just been thinking, his hands resting easily on the wheel of the Impala, his green eyes imploring, wanting Sam to get back in and drive away. I can’t do this without you.. Yes, you can, Sam had said. Yeah, but I don’t want to.
“Sam, you okay?” Dean sounded worried, the smile wiped off his face.
Shit. “Yeah, I’m okay, sorry.” He swallowed against the lump still in his throat and tried to smile at Rosie. “Well, don’t you look pretty all cleaned up.”
She squirmed for Dean to let her down and toddled off into the living room to find the toys strewn around it
“You sure you’re – I mean, not okay, of course you’re not okay. But is there – “
Dean broke off, scrubbing a hand through his hair in frustration.
“You’re doing it,” Sam said. “You’re taking care of Rosie, and – hell, you’re taking care of both of us.”
The color rose on Dean’s cheeks and Sam realized Dean must not have shaved in a while, the stubble coarse on his jaw. A wave of guilt rushed over him. What right did he have, asking Dean to drop everything and come here, after he’d walked away all those years ago?
“Stop it,” Dean said. “I can hear you thinking, and it’s bullshit. I want to be here.”
Sam nodded, but it must not have looked very convincing, because Dean came closer and put his hand on Sam’s arm, squeezing hard enough to make Sam look up. “Sammy,” he said, and he looked as sad as Sam felt. “I’m so sorry.”
That was the moment Sam started to cry.
* * *
Sam went back to work a week later; the firm had been generous, giving him a full two weeks off and filing for postponements on a few pending cases in his absence.
“I can start interviewing babysitters,” he said that morning, realizing with a stab of guilt that he’d taken for granted that Dean would be there. It had been long enough; Sam needed to pull it together, let Dean get back to his own life.
Dean juggled Rosie on his hip and a cup of coffee in one hand, her favorite “Mr. Dog” toy in the other. “Whatever,” he said, waving Sam out the door. “Just go. Save some helpless animals or something.”
Sam got the names of three reputable nanny agencies. He spent two hours staring at his sandwich with his office door closed and thought about Dean walking out the front door and driving away, the Impala’s taillights disappearing up the street and into the night. Sam still remembered the first time he watched Dean drive away, how hard it was to remember that this was what he wanted. And it was what he wanted, this life, this normal – Jess, law school, a house, a job – but it had never been an easy decision. Sam had always wanted Dean, too. Dean would never know how close Sam had come that day to running into the street and waving his arms, yelling for his brother to turn around and come back for him.
Now he’d have to do it again. Be the better man, for Rosie, for himself – and for Dean, too. Dean was a hunter. He needed to be on the open road, not cooped up in a house in the suburbs watering plants and picking up after a baby. Or a baby brother. And he sure as hell didn’t need to be around Sam, whose dreams had always included Dean in ways that were far from brotherly. Sam didn’t think he’d ever experience anything close to sexual ever again; he couldn’t imagine it, with Jess gone and everything so dark and joyless. He felt safe touching his brother now, the times he cried and Dean held him nothing but the sort of comfort he’d known as a child, Dean’s arms strong and warm, pulling him in. His heart started beating too fast when he thought about giving that up – about being in the house that had always been so full of Jessica, alone with a little girl who depended on him to be okay. It had been so easy to fall into being the little brother again, to let Dean take care of things the way he had when they were kids. Sam knew it wasn’t fair; he was a grown man and he owed it to Dean to let him go, the way Dean had once let him.
He interviewed a dozen applicants for the nanny position the next weekend. Dean was uncharacteristically surly with every one of them, even the ones who were hot – so hot that even Sam, in his currently asexual state, noticed. Sam asked them questions while Dean kept Rosie away, claiming it would be confusing for her to get familiar with anyone they might not hire. When a perfectly lovely young woman named Charlie tried to brush a blonde curl out of Rosie’s face, Dean yanked the baby away so quickly Rosie gave a surprised yelp. Dean scowled at the woman, and then at Sam. Sam had no clue what he’d done wrong. He put it down to the fact that Dean had always been a moody bastard, and that half the time Sam never did find out what had caused it.
Sam narrowed it down to three after he’d checked all their references, and on Thursday night he called Sabrina and made her an offer.
“She accepted,” he told Dean, who was in the living room watching something stupid on TV. Dancing With the Stars, maybe?
Dean didn’t look up. “Great,” he said, then abruptly sat up and started pulling on his boots.
Sam’s stomach plummeted violently. “Uh, she doesn’t start for two weeks.”
Dean glared at him, grabbed his jacket from the chair and yanked his keys out of his jeans pocket. “Back in a few hours,” he said, as Sam stared.
* * *
“You’re Sam Wesson’s brother, aren’t you?”
Dean grimaced inwardly. Figured one of Sam’s friends would be tending bar instead of the stranger he was hoping for.
“Yeah. I’m Dean.”
The bartender poured him another shot. “On the house, then. I’m Angela.”
She had blue hair and a nose ring, and definitely didn’t look like a lawyer. That was the only reason Dean didn’t go looking for another place to drink.
“Thanks. I guess you’re not one his law-firm buddies.”
She shook her head, smiling. “Nope. I know Sam from here, actually.”
That didn’t fit with Dean’s picture of his brother’s apple pie life. “He come in here a lot?”
Angela shrugged. “Used to. Not so much since the baby was born, but sometimes.”
Huh. Dean downed the shot; slid the glass back across the bar.
“How’s he doing?” Angela asked, refilling it. “Terrible thing about Jessica. She seemed like a nice person.”
Dean thought about how he’d never know her, the woman his brother loved, who’d broken Sam’s heart by dying on him. Rosie’s mother. He answered honestly. “He’s a mess.”
Angela came back a few minutes later and filled his glass again without asking. “So,” she said, and Dean knew she was looking a little harder than necessary; that she liked what she saw. He wanted to tell her not to bother, that he hadn’t thought about touching anyone but his brother in weeks, and wouldn’t that just send someone running? Angela leaned closer. “You still hunting monsters out there, Dean?”
He jerked upright, alert for black eyes or evil in the curve of her smile.
Angela backed away a step. “Hey, whoa, not trying to make trouble. It’s just – Sam gets drunk sometimes, talks about stuff.”
“And you didn’t think he was just making shit up?” Dean had his gun out underneath the bar, ready.
Angela snorted. “My daddy was a hunter. I don’t remember him, really, but I knew what he was. Mama told me enough that I knew some things were true that other people would say were impossible. When your brother started talking about you being a hunter – I saw the devil’s trap on his tie one day and knew he wasn’t talkin’ about deer.”
Dean cocked an eyebrow. “That so?”
“It’s okay,” Angela laughed. “Hunters are the biggest skeptics going. You don’t have to believe me. But Sam talked about you a lot, when he drank too much. You and your big black car and pearl-handled Colt. Made you sound like a big damn hero.”
Dean’s turn to snort. “Yeah, right. That doesn’t sound like anything Sam would say in a million years.”
“Not to you,” Angela shot back, then leaned in again. “I assumed you guys didn’t get along – he said you hated him for getting out of the life, for wanting to go to school.”
“I never hated him,” Dean protested; the thought of Sam saying those words made his stomach twist. “Could never hate him. More like he was pissed at me for not getting out.”
Angela laughed. “Pissed at you? Is that what you think?” She polished a few glasses, then refilled Dean’s again.
“Sam gets pretty sappy when he’s drunk,” she said conversationally. “That hold true for you, Dean?”
“No.” Dean was quite sure it didn’t. Mostly. He pictured Sam drunkenly professing his love for Jessica while Angela admired his ties. “I should go. What do I owe you?”
“On the house,” Angela said, but she put her hand over Dean’s when he went to get up. “Mama always said hunters are hard-headed, can’t see what’s right in front of ‘em and can’t ever admit what they’re feeling. But Sam wasn’t pissed at you. He spent too much time sitting at my bar telling me how much he missed you, how badly he fucked things up between you, how he wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, thinking you might be dead because he wasn’t there to watch your back. No offense, but at first I thought he was talking about an ex.”
All the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stood up. “What?” he asked carefully, staring at Angela’s hand holding his down. That couldn’t be true. Sam was out here living his apple-pie, carefree, life—not worrying about Dean.
“Maybe it’s hard for you to believe,” Angela said, and she let go of Dean’s hand. “But he loves you, man. I mean, he really does. It’s great that you’re here. I bet it makes all the difference to him right now.”
Dean got up, his legs shaky. He’d had five shots; it felt like fifty.
“He was right about you,” Angela said as he put on his jacket. “You’re a good guy.”
“Thanks,” Dean mumbled, and turned to go.
“And you’re drop-dead gorgeous, just like he said,” Angela called after him.
Dean was glad he was outside before she could see him blush.
Sam was pacing on the porch when Dean got back, and a pang of guilt swept over Dean when he saw the way Sam sat down heavily, pushing his hair back off his face and trying to compose himself.
“Here’s the thing,” Dean said, when he got to the top stair. Sam sat on the wicker chair, looking up at him through red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t wanna go, not right now. If you want me outta here, that’s okay, I get it. But don’t do it for me.”
Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean, like he was trying to see through the lie. Dean narrowed his eyes right back, a silent argument like the millions they’d had as kids, glaring at each other over bowls of cereal and half-spoilt milk or across the Impala’s back seat, silently huffing their displeasure until John told them both to knock it off.
Sam caved first this time, shrugging and finally standing up. “I’ll see if Sabrina wants a part-time gig, then. Or find out if one of the others is interested.”
“Not that Veronica chick--she gave me the creeps. And not the one with the boots either.”
Sam’s eyebrows went up. “But you love hot girls in boots.”
“Exactly!” Dean said, and walked into the house, leaving Sam to ponder.
That night Dean slept soundly for the first time since he’d invaded 143 Alice Grim Lane, where he still felt like an interloper in the house that Sam and Jess built. He wouldn’t stay too long, he told himself. Just as long as Sam and Rosie needed him.
* * *
At the end of Sam’s sixth week back to work, he wore one of his favorite ties. It was crimson, an array of protective sigils in five ancient languages decorating it from top to bottom. Dean raised an eyebrow when Sam came into the kitchen. A pot of coffee was steaming and bubbling, and Rosie was scooping up handfuls of oatmeal and smearing them all over the tray of her high chair, the leftovers sticky on her pink cheeks.
“What? It’s one of my favorites.”
Dean nodded. “I can see why.”
Rosie said “Dada,” and Dean rolled his eyes at Sam’s expression of alarm at the amount of oatmeal that was no longer in her bowl.
“Chill out, Dada,” Dean chided, handing Sam a cup of coffee. “You like Daddy’s tie, Rosie? Think Daddy looks handsome all dressed up for work?”
“Shut up,” Sam shot back automatically, but he met Dean’s eyes over the bowl of oatmeal that was set before him. The corners were crinkled with amusement, the green muted with affection. Dean was teasing him. Without warning, Sam’s stomach swooped, that hollowed out feeling he hadn’t had in a million years heating his face. Dean was smirking, making fun of Sam and building him up at the same time, taking care of him like he’d done at so many makeshift breakfast tables. It felt good, and Sam reminded himself that it was temporary, that he couldn’t have this forever. Dean wasn’t Jess; Dean would be gone soon. Just like Jess was.
He kept his eyes on the oatmeal, finished it and the coffee in record time, and grabbed his briefcase.
A few weeks later, Sam went out to lunch with Penny, one of his favorite colleagues. She never made fun of him for his refusal to cut his hair short, and always complimented his ties. Sam and Jess had gone to her wedding last year, when she and Kim, her girlfriend of a decade, decided they should tie the knot for real now that they could. There were plenty of gay couples there, and Sam had thought about Dean and Cas; the way Cas had followed Dean with his striking blue eyes and walked so close beside him. He tried to picture them together, wondering if Dean liked to get on his knees or on his back for Cas, or if Dean would want to top. Jess had elbowed him with a questioning look and he’d snapped out of it, blushing and shifting his hands over his lap.
“So how are you holding up?” Penny asked once they’d ordered.
“Sometimes it’s so bad I can’t even breathe, when I think about her never coming home again,” Sam said. “Other times, I feel like it’s just a normal day, like I almost forget it happened. It’s weird, the way it comes and goes.”
“Sounds pretty normal,” Penny said. “You know Kim’s a therapist, right? That’s what she says about grief. It comes and goes, and there’s no right way to do it. You just muddle your way through as best you can.”
Sam shrugged and managed a half-smile. “I guess that’s pretty much what I’m doing.”
Penny asked about Rosie, and this time Sam’s smile wasn’t halfway.
“She’s doing okay. Kids are resilient. Dean’s really good with her. He’s a great parent, always has been.”
Penny looked surprised. “Oh – I didn’t know your brother had kids.”
Sam chuckled. “He doesn’t, but our mom died when I was just a baby, and our dad was . . . he was on the road a lot. So Dean kinda raised me really. More than anyone else.”
“Then it must be a huge relief to have him here.”
Sam’s shoulders slumped, the full weight of impending loss hitting him. “It is, but that’s the thing – it won’t be for much longer, I’m sure. I can’t ask him to put his life on hold like this. I mean, it’s already been a few months. It’s asking too much of him and I know it. He hates California, and this apple-pie-life – that’s what he calls it – and I know it’s unfair of me to want him to stay . . . but God, I do.”
Penny put her hand over Sam’s where he’d laid them both flat on the table to brace himself against the wave of grief flooding over him. “You know, I think you’re allowed to be a little selfish right now, Sam. You have to let people help you. He’s your brother, I’m sure he wants to help you.”
Sam snorted. “We’ve seen each other exactly seven times in the past ten years. Seven. I don’t even know him. I don’t know what TV shows he likes, or what movies he’s seen, or if his taste in music has expanded past Metallica, or anything. I don’t know if he’s ever been in love or even if he’s gay or straight.”
Penny raised an eyebrow, maybe wondering – reasonably enough, Sam supposed – what Dean’s sexuality had to do with any of this. Still, she was undeterred. “Then get to know him. Tell him you need him there – tell him you want him there. I can see how much you do. Hell, tell him Rosie needs him if that’ll go down easier. You said he’s a great parent, so let him parent! And as far as the gay or straight, if you want to know maybe you should just ask, Sam. Not like you’d judge him.”
“Of course not.” Sam sighed and picked up his half-eaten sandwich. “Not really sure what I am either, these days.”
Penny cocked an eyebrow, mouth curving upwards. “Oh really? Is there a hot dude who’s caught your eye, Samuel Wesson? That’s healthy, you know – you can’t become a monk. Jess would never have wanted that. She’d want you to be happy.”
Sam shook his head. He was pretty sure nobody would call the way he’d always felt about Dean anything close to healthy. “No, not really.”
Penny grinned. “That’s a yes if I ever heard one. I won’t pry, you’re probably not ready, I get that. But it’s good that you’re not blind and you’re still alive in there.”
Sam wasn’t sure about the alive part. The times he did feel alive . . . sometimes in the morning when Dean’s amazing green eyes greeted him, or when his brother’s mouth pursed to smack a kiss on Rosie, or one afternoon when Dean took off his shirt to trim the bushes around the front porch in just a pair of worn-thin jeans and bare feet . . . Sam sort of wished he couldn’t see any of it.
* * *
“You know,” Sam said one ridiculously hot Saturday night, when Dean flopped down on the couch and stripped off his dirty tee shirt, “you don’t have to stay in every night for me. You can – I mean, I know you know this, but – I’ll be fine here if you wanna go out. It’s Saturday night, so.”
Dean looked startled for a second, then shrugged and popped open his beer. “Sure, I know. Been busy fixing the railing around the porch all day. It’s like a million degrees out there. Fucking California.”
Sam heard the frustration for what it was, and his heart sank with the awareness of what he had to do. He’d been selfish for almost four months; he owed it to Dean to let him go. Push him if he needed it.
“I can fix the porch, you know.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, right.”
“Or I can hire someone to do it. You don’t have to feel like this is on you, Dean. I’m – I’m fine, really.” Sam forced himself to go on, though he felt anything but fine. “We’re both fine.”
Dean got up and went into the kitchen; Sam could hear the refrigerator open and close, the rustle of plastic and boxes being opened. When Dean came back, he had a box of wheat thins and some leftover squares of cheese he’d cut up for Rosie. He plopped them all down on the coffee table.
“I know you are, Sam.”
Sam couldn’t look at him, afraid Dean would see the lie of it all over his face. Luckily Dean didn’t look at him either, busy sandwiching cheese between crackers and stuffing too many into his mouth. Sam’s chest ached more with the familiarity of it, the rush of affection. Dean’s stupid face with his cheeks crammed full of food and his too-long lashes obscuring his eyes just made this harder.
Dean cleared his throat. “There’ve been a few jobs that Bobby’s called about, one in Nevada that nobody can seem to get a handle on.”
Sam cleared his throat, too. “Yeah, sure. Of course. You should – you should go. Try to help.”
Sam lay awake all night, rehearsing how he’d say goodbye to Dean, how he’d wish him luck and tell him to stay safe, and be totally and completely okay with watching the Impala drive away once again. He got up four times to wash his face and drink a lot of water, like it would somehow wash away the sadness.
In the morning, he got up earlier than Dean and made the coffee and cooked some pancakes, just to show them all that he could. Dean came in with his boots on instead of barefoot, his hair still in wet spikes and his eyes avoiding Sam’s. They ate breakfast more quietly than they had in months, Rosie trying to provoke them both by painting her high-chair tray with sticky syrup.
Sam cleaned her up and carried her to the door as Dean swung his duffel over his shoulder.
“I’ll call you later,” Dean said, and if his voice was gruff, Sam didn’t think too much about it.
“Say goodbye to Uncle Dean,” Sam said to Rosie, keeping her between them.
“Be good for Daddy, kiddo,” Dean said, and kissed her on the cheek.
Dean was halfway down the walk when Rosie started screaming. Sam saw him hesitate, then keep going without looking over his shoulder. He didn’t turn around or wave, just started the Impala and drove down the street. The sun was still low in the sky, painting the blue with streaks of red-yellow-orange, and the bougainvillea on the porch were a riot of overgrown color, beautiful. “Deeeeeee” Rosie wailed as the Impala disappeared around the corner.
* * *
There was no job in Nevada; Dean headed south, trying to appreciate the beautiful day and the fact that he was back on the road where he belonged, unencumbered by family obligations and the constant temptation of Sam under his nose 24/7, with his powerful shoulders and gentle hands and cinnamon eyes and . . . oh jesus, this was why he couldn’t be there. Waxing poetic about his little brother’s eyes was so far over the line, Dean didn’t even want to hear his own thoughts. He pressed the gas pedal, and the Impala leapt under him, happy to be fast and free again.
He found the little shop on a side street in a part of Santa Cruz that catered to new-agey and leftover hippie types, with a sign in the window that said “We Do Custom Ink” fronting stacks of candles and incense and fugly skirts and Ouija boards. A bell jingled when Dean shut the door, and a funny-looking dude who reminded Dean a little of that nasty-ass leprechaun who almost killed him appeared.
“Can I help you?” he asked, squinting at Dean through thick glasses. He looked as suspicious as Dean felt.
Dean pulled the crimson tie with the sigils out of his pocket and put it on the counter. “You make this?”
The clerk shrugged. “Don’t remember. Where’d you get it?”
“At a friggin’ yard sale. Seriously, I know you made it. What I want to know is why. Do you know what it means or did my brother just tell you what to put on it?”
The clerk squinted at him a while longer. “Your brother, huh? What was his name?”
Dean squinted right back. “Sam.”
“Just Sam.”
“Yep.”
“Okay,” the clerk said, and took off his glasses. “Guess you pass the paranoia test. You the brother who’s still hunting then?”
Dean cocked an eyebrow. “I might be.”
“Garth,” the clerk said, and he looked even goofier when he smiled.
Dean shook the proffered hand. “Dean. So why did Sam ask you to make all these ties?”
“I should think that’d be pretty obvious. Most of them are for protection. Some for himself, some for his wife, some for the baby. And some for you.”
That brought Dean up short. “Come again?”
Garth rummaged around in a bin below the counter and pulled out another tie. Bright green, a single unfamiliar symbol running for most of its length. “He asked for this one four or five months ago – never came in to get it. He okay?”
Dean nodded, fingers gliding over the silk and tracing the sigil. “What is it?”
“Sumerian, very old. Very specific. Enhances the healing powers of the person it’s spun for. It has to have a bit of that person’s blood in it.” Garth looked at Dean pointedly. “Yours.”
“But how would –“
“Said he borrowed some the last time you were in the hospital. I think a monster nearly took you out that time, and Sam didn’t want to leave it to chance. This is the fifth one I’ve made that’s got a wee bit o’ you in it.” Garth grinned a toothy smile. “Guess you can have it – seems it matches your eyes perfectly.”
Dean just nodded, still staring at the tie. “Tell Sam it’s on the house,” Garth added.
“Thanks,” Dean finally managed, and was turning to go when Garth said, “Oh, wait a sec.” He disappeared into the back room and returned with a brown paper bag that he handed to Dean.
“As long as you’re picking stuff up for him, that’s more of the devil’s-trap marker and the salt line paint.”
Dean gaped. “The what? I mean, what for?”
“For touch-ups, obviously. He still has the house, right?”
“Right,” Dean answered slowly, the bits and pieces slipping into place. “Garth, did Sam – was Sam still hunting?”
Garth shook his head. “Not officially, no. Said he gave it up – mostly – when he moved in with his girlfriend. But there were a few times, things came up. You know, as they do. Shit follows you sometimes. Hey, you okay?”
Dean gripped the counter with one hand, feeling dizzy. Followed him? He remembered the fire, the day after he’d taken Sam back to the place that was supposed to be safe. Sam’s text a few days later.
“Hang on a sec,” Garth said, and returned with a glass of something brown and serious looking. “Just whiskey,” he answered, at Dean’s skeptical look.
Dean slammed it back. His fingers were shaking. Garth poured him another.
“I’m guessing Sam didn’t want you to know. Probably shouldn’t have said anything. He didn’t want you to worry about him.”
Dean slammed the glass onto the counter, and Garth jumped a foot. “IT’S MY JOB TO WORRY ABOUT HIM!” he bellowed, far too loud, but jesus christ Sammy, you fucking idiot, all this time. All this time, Dean had stayed away, foolishly thinking he could keep the danger far from Sam’s doorstep if he kept himself away too.
Garth poured himself a shot and downed it, shaking his head like a dog afterwards. “Calm down, will you? You’ll scare away any potential customers.”
“Sorry.” He wasn’t, really. He was too dumbfounded to feel much of anything except the overwhelming desire to punch Sam in the face.
“Seems like you two both think you have the same job. He was always worrying about you.”
It was too much to process; his entire construction of Sam as away and safe and normal and not thinking about Dean exploded in globs of magicked paint and day-glo ties. Dean drove for fifteen hours straight, headed nowhere, letting his Baby lead and only stopping for coffee and a burger that sat in his stomach like lead. At 3 AM he turned her around and headed northwest, the Impala gleaming as she flew along under a full moon.
* * *
Rosie cried for a solid half-hour, probably because Sam gave in and ended up crying right along with her. Eventually they both wiped the snot and tears off their faces and distracted themselves with a walk down to the park. It was a beautiful day, and Sam tried to feel it, tried to feel lucky for the comfortable house and the good job and the green-tree-lined street and Rosie in her stroller in a blue polka-dotted sunhat. He thought about Jessica walking beside him, fussing with Rosie’s bonnet to keep the sun off her face. He thought about Dean brushing Rosie’s curls out after a bath, the callused rough hands of a hunter gentle as he worked, as precise as when he took apart his favorite gun. He choked back more tears and kept walking.
Rosie wandered around the house when they got back, searching for Dean in every corner and sulking when she came up empty. She called for him again when Sam put her to bed; that was usually Dean’s job, and almost five months was forever to a toddler. She finally fell asleep in Sam’s arms, the creak creak creak of Jessica’s old wicker rocking chair a familiar lullaby. Dean usually sang her Metallica as a lullaby, but Sam didn’t trust his voice to do anything but break.
The babysitter came at 7 AM the next day, because Monday meant work and Sam couldn’t afford time off to grieve all over again. He threw himself into trial prep and didn’t think about anything else. For the first time since he’d gone back to work, Sam didn’t want to go home. Without Jess, without Dean, the house was too empty. He thought about selling it, moving himself and Rosie into a little apartment that wouldn’t have any empty spaces he couldn’t fill. Eventually it was 7 PM, and Sam couldn’t justify keeping the sitter any longer.
When he opened the door to 143 Alice Grim Lane, the babysitter wasn’t there. Dean was sitting crosslegged on the floor, barefoot and smiling, setting up towers of building blocks for Rosie to knock down.
“Dada!” yelled Rosie happily.
“Hi Sam, I’m back,” said Dean.
Sam dropped his briefcase.
Dean alternated between giving Sam pointed looks that seemed mildly disapproving and avoiding any and all discussion of why he was back in their living room just a day after leaving. When Dean came back from putting Rosie to bed, Sam finally cornered him in the kitchen.
“So, what happened?”
Dean took a swig of the beer he’d just opened and Sam flushed a little, watching his brother’s throat work and still a little overwhelmed with the fact that Dean was actually there at all.
“Got something for you,” Dean said, instead of explaining. He grabbed a brown paper bag off the counter and shoved it at Sam. Gingerly, Sam reached inside and pulled out the – oh. Oh.
“Out of the life, huh, Sam? Done with hunting, done with all of it. So why’s there a permanent salt line painted into the floor in the foyer and all the window sills, and devil’s traps under all the area rugs? Wanna explain that, Sam?”
Fuck. Dean looked pissed.
Sam scowled back at him. “What? I can’t be careful? You think I forgot 18 years of training when I went to school?”
“YES!” Dean yelled, and Sam flinched, hoping the noise wouldn’t wake Rosie. “Yes, I fucking thought you did – I thought that was the whole fucking POINT, Sam! You didn’t want the life, you wanted OUT, you wanted NORMAL. This is not normal!”
Sam grabbed a beer of his own from the fridge and popped it open, gulping three times before he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and answered. “It’s as normal as I could make it,” he said, and his voice was deceptively calm, nothing like the mess of panic and rage that was simmering in his gut. Fuck Dean for challenging him on this now, when he’d failed at protecting Jessica, failed at normal.
“You were hunting!” Dean shouted, poking a finger in Sam’s chest as punctuation. “I thought you were OUT, and you were hunting this whole time.”
Sam grabbed the finger up against his chest and wrenched it back cruelly, pulling a hissed curse out of Dean. “Only when I had to, Dean – you think everything supernatural just up and decided to leave me alone?”
Dean pulled his hand away, cradling it protectively. “Yes – hell yes, that’s what I thought. That was the whole fucking point, wasn’t it?”
“Maybe that’s just what you wanted to think,” Sam said, and he knew it was a low blow.
The expression on Dean’s face told him he’d hit home. The anger rushed out as quickly as it had come over him, and Sam sagged back against the corner, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
Dean blinked and swallowed hard, deflating as quickly as Sam had. “Maybe,” he said, and his voice was hoarse.
“Sorry,” Sam said, wishing the three feet between them didn’t feel like thirty.
Dean looked just as stuck. He shuffled his bare feet against the tiled floor, then sighed. “It’s just – I thought you were safe, Sammy. I thought you were safe, and I stayed away.”
Sam’s feet abruptly broke out of the cement block keeping them anchored, and he stumbled forward without thought, intent on wiping the look of sadness off his brother’s face. Dean had a moment to look surprised and maybe a little scared, and then Sam pulled him in for a hug. Dean’s arms came around his back, one hand warm and flat between Sam’s shoulder blades and the half-empty beer bottle pressed against the small of his back, cold and wet. Dean smelled the same as he always did, familiar, no matter how much everything else changed around them, and Sam turned his head and pressed his nose into Dean’s soft spiky hair and let himself breathe.
He stepped back when he realized he was inhaling a little too obviously, and that their hips were pressed together as tightly as their chests. Dean took a gulp of beer and cleared his throat. The tips of his ears were red, and his eyes glittered in the harsh light of the kitchen, wet and way too green.
“Oh,” Dean said, clearly trying to lighten the moment. “Garth said to give you this too. On the house.”
Sam caught the tie that matched Dean’s eyes in one hand, and Dean’s lip curled at the sharpness of his reflexes.
“Oh,” Sam said, and felt himself blush. “Did he –“
“Yeah,” Dean said, but he was smirking now, and that was better than the sadness that was there a few minutes ago. “Yeah, he told me all about it. Thanks for lookin’ out for me, little brother. With a friggin’ TIE.”
“You’re welcome, jerk,” Sam answered, but he was smiling, too. It felt odd, unfamiliar on his face, impossible that it was real and not faked.
“Bitch,” Dean answered amiably, and held out his half-empty beer. Sam raised his without hesitation, waited for the clink and then drank it down, the liquid and the sight of Dean’s smile settling warm and heavy in his stomach.
“See you in the morning,” Dean said, and tossed his empty in the recycling bin.
“Yeah,” Sam answered, and slept through until then.
* * *
In October, Dean bought a ghost outfit at Target and convinced Rosie to wear it for Halloween.
“You couldn’t have found something that wasn’t real?” Sam complained, and Dean cuffed him affectionately on the back of the head and told him to shut up.
Before midnight, Dean ate half the candy that Rosie had charmed out of their neighbors and soon thereafter he was sprawled out on the couch rubbing his stomach and moaning theatrically like he was dying. Or having the world’s most awesome orgasm.
Sam tried not to stare, and willed his dick to stay down. It had only recently become interested in getting up and looking for some action again, other than the physiological certainty of morning wood or the unfettered lust for his brother that still sometimes stalked his dreams. Dreams of Jessica were never like that; they were of death and fire and screams, and Sam always woke up soaked in sweat and shaking. More and more often, dreams of Dean left him sweaty and shaking for a completely different reason. Sometimes he let himself jerk off to get back to sleep, but the guilt that hit him afterwards wasn’t really worth the momentary relief. Now it was starting to happen while he was awake too, when Dean was just being himself – fully clothed, stupid, annoying, overbearing Dean.
“Do you mind?” Sam protested, because he had to say something.
“Sammy, it hurts,” Dean whined, and oh jesus christ, now he had his shirt pulled up so he could rub the bare skin of his stomach, and Sam’s eyes caught on the trail of dark hair beneath his navel, the ripple of his abs as he writhed and whimpered, and Sam thought that was probably how he moved and sounded when he was getting fucked, and –
“I’m tired, I’m – I’m goin’ to bed,” Sam announced, jumping up and heading for the bedroom. “Uh, hope you feel better. There’s Pepto in the kitchen cabinet.”
“You suck at sympathy,” Dean called after him, as Sam hurriedly closed the door.
As the holiday season approached, Sam felt the loss of Jess more acutely. They skipped Thanksgiving all together, the thought of giving thanks still feeling alien. Christmas was equally painful, but it was a holiday too obvious to ignore. Jessica had loved Christmas; had even taught Sam not to hate it so much. Rosie was nearly two, old enough to know that there were holidays happening – that there were menorahs in some of their neighbors’ windows and Santas in the stores and everyone seemed to be celebrating something. Sam dragged the big boxes of decorations and wrapping paper out of the hall closet, and then became mesmerized by a ridiculous Hallmark snow-globe ornament that Jess had bought their first Christmas together. He lost time for a while, tipping it back and forth and watching its little swirling snowstorms.
“You okay?” Dean’s hand on his shoulder startled Sam out of his trance, and without thinking, Sam reached up and covered Dean’s hand with his own.
Dean froze, and then they both yanked their hands away. “Yeah, just – I don’t know if I can really deal with all this holiday stuff.” Sam put the ornament back in the box.
“There’s no right or wrong, you know that,” Dean said, and Sam knew what he meant, but the lingering warmth of Dean’s hand on his shoulder distracted him so much he couldn’t answer right away.
“I know,” he said after a moment. “I just – we should give Rosie some kind of Christmas, but Jess – God, I miss her.”
He didn’t talk about her often; it was still too hard. Dean put his hand back on Sam’s shoulder and squeezed. “C’mon, we can decide this later. Whatever you wanna do, Sam. You know that, right?”
Sam followed his brother into the kitchen, feeling unaccountably emotional. It was a dangerous feeling, he knew.
Dean had a big pot of chili on the stove, left over from their dinner. Sam didn’t know when Dean had learned to cook it, but it was good. The whole house smelled like cooking, like somebody lived here.
“Dean?” The question popped out before he could think better of it, and Dean turned from where he’d been ladling chili into a Tupperware container.
“Yeah?” Dean said, his expression unguarded, still tender from the way Sam was hurting.
“How long are you gonna stay with us?”
It was a question Sam wanted to ask a billion times a day, but one he’d been too scared to voice for fear of getting an answer.
Dean blinked, and Sam could see his guard come up. “Uh, as long as you want me to, I guess,” he said, then shifted his feet uncomfortably and scrubbed at his face, sure tell that he didn’t think he should have admitted it. “I mean, until you find another – you know, someone to be with, I guess. You don’t have to worry, soon as you start dating again, I’ll make myself scarce, promise.”
Sam was tired. He’d lost the woman he loved; his dreams of a future with her. The only other people he loved were sleeping in a newly-bought big-girl bed down the hall and standing right in front of him.
“Then you might be here for a very long time.”
Dean raised an eyebrow and tried a reassuring smile. “You’ll meet someone when you’re ready, Sam . . . it hasn’t been that long. A million girls’d be lucky to have you – big-time lawyer, nice house, most perfect kid in the universe. They’ll be linin’ up.”
Dean ducked his head. “Don’t make me say that again,” he complained, and Sam looked at Dean’s bare toes against the tile, the torn knees of his jeans and the way his legs bowed as he leaned back against the counter, and thought, this is it for me.
“I don’t want that,” Sam said, and was surprised by how certain he was the moment the words came out of his mouth.
“What?” Dean regarded Sam with his head still lowered, which meant he was looking up through those ridiculous lashes of his. It just made Sam more certain.
“I don’t want to find a girl and get married again. Not now, not ever. There won’t be another Jess.”
Dean looked gobsmacked; apparently he’d never considered that Sam might not find someone else – might not want to. He started to say something once or twice, then closed his mouth like he’d thought better of it. Eventually he settled on, “You don’t wanna be hurt again, I get that.”
It was an easy out, and that was part of the reason. Sam took it.
“I’m good with the way things are right now, as long as this is good for you. If you ever want to hit the road, go back to hunting full-time, I’ll get it. But until then, I’m okay with this.”
Dean fiddled with the Tupperware, fumbling the lid. “Whatever,” he said, then grumbled a few choice words at the recalcitrant plastic top. “Someone’s gotta stick around and keep your big ass safe.”
Sam flicked a few chili beans that had fallen out on the counter in Dean’s direction. They hit him smack on the cheek, and he spun around with his eyes comically wide. “Dude, you did not just throw chili at me.”
“So what if I did?”
Sam couldn’t get away quite fast enough to avoid the plastic ladle Dean chucked at the back of his head, but he started laughing on the way to the bathroom. A small smile stayed on his face the whole time he was washing the bits of chili out of his hair.
They ended up buying a Christmas tree at the corner lot a few blocks away, and Dean insisted they transport it using Sam’s car because “the sap will ruin my Baby’s finish, bitch.” Rosie hung a few nondescript balls that she chose out of the two boxes (out of seven) they got out of the closet, and Dean insisted on flinging handfuls of silver and blue icicles that he got from the Dollar Store all over it. Sam made a face; Rosie loved them. The lower branches of the tree were so covered with icicles that you could no longer see any actual tree. On December 23rd, the babysitter came in the evening after Rosie was asleep, and Sam and Dean took the Impala to Toys R Us and bought a bunch of things that Rosie had oohed and aahed over on the television, and a bunch of things that Dean oohed and aahed over in the store, and a few practical items like a booster seat, since she had long ago outgrown the high chair. They argued over a tricycle, which Sam had always wanted and never had and Dean insisted was too dangerous.
“Dean, it’s a tricycle, for godsakes,” Sam swore, while Dean stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his pouty lips pursed, obstinate.
“You guys are the cutest couple ever,” the salesgirl said, and that flustered Dean enough for Sam to win the argument.
“You’re puttin’ on the bandages when she ends up with skinned knees,” Dean complained as they drove home with the backseat full of bags. “I did my time puttin’ ‘em on you.”
“I never even had a tricycle,” Sam said, and that shut Dean up for a while, until Sam felt bad. “You always did a good job with my skinned knees, though,” he said after a while.
Dean didn’t say anything, but the next night, after Rosie was tucked into bed and cookies were left out for Santa, the tricycle was all assembled when Sam came back to the living room in his tee shirt and sweatpants.
It was one of those times when the full force of all the feelings he tried not to look at too hard caught Sam off guard. Dean on his knees, his capable hands tightening and re-checking and re-tightening the wheel nuts, the curve of his back beautiful and powerful in the low light flickering off the tinsel. When Dean stood up, Sam was already too close, and Dean startled.
“Sammy,” he said, and Sam kissed him before he could close his mouth, chaste but so full of emotion that it rocked Sam to the core, almost knocked him off his feet.
“I never thought I’d feel it again,” Sam said, and Dean hadn’t moved; they were still only inches apart. Dean’s eyes were wide, impossibly green.
“What?” he asked, and it came out a whisper, no voice behind it at all.
“Happy,” Sam said, and he couldn’t help but smile. “I never thought I’d have even a moment of it again.”
“Oh,” Dean answered, and Sam could see how thrown he was, afraid to move a muscle.
“Thank you,” Sam said, and he stepped back so Dean could breathe, and Sam could stay on his feet – and so he could look at his stupid, loyal, loving, exasperating, amazing brother. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”
Dean was still gaping when he turned and went off to bed, and Sam knew he might have to pass it off as too much Christmas sentimentality, or maybe temporary insanity, but he’d kissed his brother on Christmas Eve and for a while, at least, Sam was happy.
Jessica’s parents flew in on Christmas day to spend some time with Rosie, and Dean hovered protectively every time one of them picked her up, scowling if she so much as looked unhappy. Sam kept trying to distract him with “Hey, can you make another pot of coffee?” and “Would you mind running to the grocery store for more eggnog?” and a few even lamer requests, before Dean got wise to him and told him to go get more insulated foam cups himself if he thought they were so goddamned necessary.
The Moores asked to have Rosie for two weeks in the summer, and Sam kept a hand on Dean’s arm throughout the conversation, patting him gently every time he could feel the muscles there twitch, like Dean would be making a fist if he thought he could get away with it. So there wasn’t any time for real conversation, and by the time it was nearly midnight and their houseguests were gone and the kitchen was more or less cleaned up, Sam had forgotten all about his moment of insanity by reason of unexpected happiness.
* * *
Dean stood in the living room in front of the Christmas tree for a long time after Sam had gone to bed. After Sam had kissed him and gone to bed. He ran a finger over his bottom lip, trying to get it straight in his head that Sam’s mouth had been right there just a few minutes earlier. He hadn’t imagined it. It was quick, but not that quick. Not tentative, just brief. But certain, deliberate. Was Sam trying to say thank you in some weird California way, like how actors always kiss each other in Hollywood? Wasn’t that usually on the cheek?
He sat on the edge of his bed in the guest room for hours, playing the scene over and over again in his head, trying to work out if he had given Sam some kind of signal, something that gave away that he’d thought about it – dreamt of it, fantasized about it. He knew he’d been getting careless; it was impossible not to, living with Sam for months, going on a year. Impossible not to stare a little too long when Sam paraded around in a stupid fucking towel, miles of gleaming wet skin over rippling muscle. Sometimes the stupidest thing would stop Dean in his tracks. Sam carrying Rosie one-handed, the other hand stacking papers and shoving them into his briefcase or pouring a cup of coffee or trying to tame his unruly overgrown stupid hair to get it out of his eyes. Moments like that would blindside Dean, leave him standing there knocked breathless with it, how much he loved his brother.
Had Sam caught on? And if he had, why had Dean gotten a kiss instead of a right cross to the jaw?
There was no time to ask on Christmas; Rosie woke up with the dawn, shortly after Dean had finally fallen asleep, and her squeals of delight when she saw the tricycle put a smug smile on Sam’s face that Dean was helpless against. Jessica’s parents arrived after lunch and distracted Dean with their constant need to have their hands on Rosie (though he knew they missed Jess, and of course Rosie was hers, so it made perfect sense, but still) so there was no time to talk. Sam acted perfectly normal, which meant perfectly annoying, sending Dean out on fool’s errands and expecting him not to notice, goddammit. By the time the house had cleared out and Rosie was tucked into bed in a new pair of jammies, Dean, too, had almost forgotten about the kiss.
The water was running in the bathroom as Dean walked down the hall, and the door was open, so he paused before heading to the room they both still called the guest bedroom. Sam was leaning over the sink, rinsing out the toothpaste, and Dean stared at the width of his shoulders pulled taut under a tee shirt, the strip of skin exposed as the shirt pulled up above the waistband of his worn cotton boxers, the tight curve of his ass clearly visible. Dean swallowed hard, and when he forced his eyes up, he met Sam’s in the mirror. Fox eyes, that’s how Dean had always thought of them. Too many colors, all swirling together, like the riot of emotions they’d always produced in Dean.
“Dean,” Sam said, and kept staring.
“Why’d you do it?” Dean asked, because it was easier to talk to Sam in the mirror.
Sam didn’t pretend not to know what Dean was asking. “Because I meant it,” he said, like that was an answer.
Dean shook his head. “Not good enough.”
“Because I’ve wanted to do it as long as I can remember,” Sam said, and Dean braced himself against the door, his head spinning.
“You’ve wanted to – kiss me?” It sounded stupid when he said it out loud. Maybe Sam meant he’d wanted to thank him. Even that was enough to make Dean feel dizzy with relief. “Or t-to . . . thank me?”
Sam spun around, and this close he loomed a few inches taller than Dean, imposing even in his underwear with a dab of toothpaste on the bow of his upper lip. “To kiss you, dumbass.”
“But – but why?” Dean was leaning, going sideways against the door, his knees buckling. This couldn’t be happening, probably wasn’t happening. Was he sleepwalking maybe? Did he drink too much eggnog?
Sam came a little closer, and Dean slid back farther, until he bumped up against the door frame.
“Dean,” Sam said, and he was using his voice of younger-brother-who-knows-more infinite patience, the one that Dean hated, “Let’s not dissect it, okay? I wanted to kiss you, and I did, and I’d like to do it again but if it freaked you out too much, it’s okay, we can just leave it.”
“Leave it?” Dean asked, because he seemed to be incapable of anything except repeating Sam’s unintelligible words.
“I mean, if you’re too freaked, we can never do that again – or . . . “ He took a breath and seemed to brace himself. “Or we can leave it at just kissing.”
“Just kissing,” Dean repeated dumbly, trying to make sense of concepts that made no sense.
“Yes, Dean,” Sam said with more infinite patience. “Like this.” And he leaned in and kissed Dean again, perhaps even more quickly this time but still definitely on the mouth. Dean licked a glob of toothpaste where it had stuck to his upper lip from Sam’s. Sam’s eyes followed his tongue.
“Sorry,” Sam said, but he was smiling, so he probably wasn’t.
“Okay,” Dean whispered, because he didn’t have much voice left after that, and he slipped out of the doorway and went to bed. Brushing his teeth could definitely wait.
He sat up most of the night again, coming up with explanations of how Sam’s sudden desire to kiss him could be something brotherly, or maybe some strange manifestation of grief, or possibly the result of some sort of possession. The stupidly unrealistic (and extremely horny) part of him kept trying to suggest that maybe Sam was harboring some more-than-brotherly feelings of his own, while the more rational part tried not to listen. Sam wasn’t fucked up like he was. Sam was normal, goddammit. Normal.
* * *
Part Five
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no subject
Date: 2012-06-19 07:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-20 02:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-23 03:55 pm (UTC)Mh yeah, I wanted to read through the whole story first and then leave a comment. Didn't work out... Your writing is just too good. After this chapter I had to write down my feelings to keep my heart from bursting! ♥ This story is incredibly well written! Espacially the way you describe the few times the boys actually met. I can feel the electricity between them! All the feelings bottled up for so long, love and hurt, anger and trust, protectiveness and inevitability. Thank you Sam for finally, FINALLY, breaking all this tension! Okay off to read the next chapter...
♥ ♥ ♥ So much love for this fic so far!!!
no subject
Date: 2012-06-23 06:45 pm (UTC)I hope you'll let me know what you think of the rest of the story when you get a chance to read more -- your comments made my day! Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2012-06-24 03:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 01:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 06:37 pm (UTC)Also, I love seeing protective Dean, so sweet that such a violent man can also be so gentle and caring, and I'm loving how brave Sam is in kissing Dean -- giving him an opening to what they both want (although Sam doesn't know it's what Dean wants which makes it all the braver). Now, if Dean just figures it out.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-08 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-24 07:02 pm (UTC)First off, the babysitter thing. I love how possessive Dean is of Rosie, like she's *his* kid, and I almost know that feeling myself; my sister has a little boy who looks so much like me, and he is so affectionate toward me, I almost feel like he's mine sometimes. I love how he has to leave when Sam finally finds a sitter. Because obviously, talking about it would be so much harder!
And apparently, it is. I like seeing Dean figure out what we already know, but what he's too insecure to really get--that Sam loves him, and misses him, and was worried for him, instead of just wanting him gone so he could live his perfect "normal" life. It was so great to see him there with Rosie when Sam came home.
When Sam FINALLY told Dean he would like him to stay, I was so relieved. They've danced around "I want to be here" and "I want you to be here" for so long, it's such a relief to have it out in the open.
And oh, man.
It was one of those times when the full force of all the feelings he tried not to look at too hard caught Sam off guard. Dean on his knees, his capable hands tightening and re-checking and re-tightening the wheel nuts, the curve of his back beautiful and powerful in the low light flickering off the tinsel. When Dean stood up, Sam was already too close, and Dean startled.
“Sammy,” he said, and Sam kissed him before he could close his mouth, chaste but so full of emotion that it rocked Sam to the core, almost knocked him off his feet.
I love that image of Dean putting together the tricycle that he was so opposed to in the half light, and I love seeing him through Sam's eyes like that, and I love the kiss. It could have been so awkward, but Sam, full up with happiness and love, just does it so naturally. Of course it's awkward for Dean later though, his guilt-tripping self.
lol, Dean's little bewildered "is this just some sort of California thing???" thoughts. Awesome.
And the bathroom scene! Sam's "let's not dissect it" paragraph is so pragmatic and even a little dry, I hear it in my head like he's reading Dean something he's found in his research. So pragmatic, so practical.
What a rambling comment, but there's just so much going on in this story. It's excellent. I soooo just want to plow ahead, but I'm out of leisure time for the moment. Looking forward to reading the next chapter later :)
no subject
Date: 2012-09-15 02:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-14 04:02 pm (UTC)I just love this chapter, and not just because the kiss, but it shows that Dean is can be this tough guy hunter yet be gentle with Rosie, especially when he got protective of her when Sam was looking for a baby sitter. XD
no subject
Date: 2012-09-15 02:10 am (UTC)143 Alice Grim Lane
Date: 2013-09-15 05:45 am (UTC)Garth was great. I was pleases to finally find out what was going on with those earn ties :-)
Re: 143 Alice Grim Lane
Date: 2013-09-15 03:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-03-09 06:13 pm (UTC)Oh and also that moment when Dean was leaving to go back on the road and Rosie was wailing for him! Oh my heart! I’m so glad it didn’t take Dean long to turn Baby around and go home! 😄🤗