Authors Notes: Obviously, these characters aren't mine.
Warnings for child abuse, homophobia, prostitution, and rape/non-con.
This is the very first installment of my very first bit of fanfiction. Any and all criticism is welcome. :)
January 1999 - Hastings, Nebraska
Sam breathed in the cold air, watching the gentle rise and fall of his sleeping brother's chest. Dean's face was hidden in darkness, but Sam knew every line, every freckle, imagined (but only imagined, no one can know, Dean can't know) tracing his fingertips along the sharp jawline, the rounded cheekbone, the gentle curve of his brother's upper lip. Imagined huddling in the safe warmth of that broad chest, feeling Dean's hand comb his hair the way he would when they were young, when Sam woke from the nightmares he pretended not to remember.
A snore from the other side of the room broke Sam's reverie. He pushed his face back into the pillow and willed himself not to move, to lie there, careful and still, to avoid jostling the pain in his back or the memories in his head.
"What were you thinking, Sam? You almost got your brother killed!" John's eyes glittered.
Sam glanced toward the door, willing Dean to return early, to stay out late, to save him, to never, never know this desperate shame.
Sam hung his head. "I'm sorry, sir." There was no defense; there was never any defense. He had learned that early. A black eye was much harder to hide from Dean than a few belt marks on his back.
"Shirt off," John barked, and Sam hurried to obey. "On your knees."
Sam knelt, hands on the floor, and bit his lip against the coming pain.
John did not disappoint. "You worthless piece of shit. I've hauled your ass around for fifteen years, fifteen fucking years, and this is how you repay me? You try to kill my son? The one good thing Mary left me? That vamp should have killed you instead." Harsh belt strokes punctuated his words.
Sam shuddered and searched for the corner of his mind he always found during John's discipline, the place that was warm and dark, smelling of whiskey, leather, and aftershave. The place without fear or humiliation or pain.
Moments or hours later - Sam never knew - he felt John's boot on his ribs, knocking him over. "Put your shirt back on," the older man said. "And get your ass into bed. Don't you dare breathe a word to Dean. He doesn't need to know the truth about you. That boy's suffered enough."
Sam pulled his t-shirt over his head, wincing at the pain. He crawled into bed on his stomach and huddled under the thin motel blanket, hoping his father hadn't drawn blood this time. Hoping that Dean wouldn't see.
xxxxxxx
Dean flashed the red-headed bartender a smile and the fake i.d. that had yet to fail him. "Whatever's on tap, sweetheart."
"Sure thing, hon," she said, drawing him a glass of thin, cheap beer. "You starting a tab?"
Dean grinned. "Guess that depends. How long's your shift?"
She chuckled. "Nice try, cutie, but my guy there doesn't take kindly to strange men sniffing around." She gestured to the heavily muscled cook. "Get yourself a table and give Nancy a try if you're lonely. She's a waitress here, the blonde one, and word is she's looking to rebound from her asshole ex-boyfriend."
Dean winked and slipped her some cash, moving to sit at a little table in the corner. He glanced around until he found Nancy, who was flirting with a table of bikers in the back. She was cute enough, Dean thought, in a tired, small-town way, and her eyes were pretty even if her lipstick was too bright.
His thoughts drifted. The hunt hadn't gone well from the start. Muddled research had led them to burn the wrong bones and to let their guard down, exposing them to attack from the still very active and pissed-off spirit. To make things worse, Sam's reluctance to follow one of John's commands had very nearly gotten Dean killed.
He sighed. John was angry with Sam, he knew. He probably shouldn't have left them alone together. But damn it, he was tired of intervening, tired of navigating John's control issues and Sam's mood swings. He never knew whether Sam would meet John's orders with a flash of anger or with slumped indifference and couldn't understand Sam's lack of respect for their father.
Dean felt a twinge of guilt. John was hard on Sam, much harder than he had ever been on Dean, and while sometimes he felt Sam deserved it, he couldn't help wishing John would ease up.
Nancy caught his eye and sauntered over. "Now, what's a guy like you doin' out alone on a night like this?" she asked, her hand on her hip.
He gulped down the rest of his beer and gave her a tired smile. "Just heading out."
xxxxxxx
Sam was asleep when Dean returned to the motel. His father was cleaning his shotgun. "Hey, dad."
"Son."
"You and Sam hash things out ok?"
John sighed. "Yeah, think so. It was partially my fault, I know. I'd hoped he was ready to join us for a simple salt and burn, but I should have know he wasn't. Too soft and stubborn."
Dean winced. "Yeah, ok."
John put down his shotgun and stood, shrugging on his coat. "I'm gonna get myself a beer or two now that you're back. Let Sam sleep." And he was gone.
Dean kicked off his shoes and climbed into the bed he was sharing with his younger brother. He looked over at Sam and sighed. "Sammy, why you gotta piss him off like that? He knows what he's doing. He's been at this a lot longer than we have. Just, just give him a break now and then, ok?"
Sam's breathing didn't change, and Dean sighed again. He stretched out and tugged some of the blanket over himself, and was fast asleep.
May 1999 - Kirksville, Missouri
Sam brushed his hair out of his face, squinting in the poor light of the school library. He glanced at his watch. Almost five. The library would be closing soon. He shoved his books and papers into his backpack and stood, stretching the cramps out of his long legs.
The streets were busy this time of year. The late spring warmth seemed to bring everyone out from hiding - young couples walking hand-in-hand, groups of laughing teenagers on their way to catch a movie, exhausted mothers pushing strollers full of bouncing children.
Sam just felt lonely. John (Sam had stopped thinking of him as a father years ago, at least in his head) was gone on a hunt, and had wanted Sam to stay in school. At least he had left Dean behind, too, this time. Things were always better when Dean was there.
Except Dean had seemed different lately. A little distant, a little less warm. It was nothing drastic, and Sam couldn't tell if his imagination was just running wild, comparing the Dean that was with the Dean Sam wanted.
He allowed his mind to go there more often now. His feelings for Dean helped wall off the loneliness and shame that threatened to engulf him. Not that he was even sure what those feelings were, just that they were turning in a decidedly unbrotherly direction. In quiet moments like this, without books or conversation to distract him, he found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss Dean, to taste the whiskey on his breath, to press his arms around him and never let go.
They had a studio apartment this time. John's current job was actually a series of connected jobs, and he expected it to take a couple months. Dean had found temporary work at the local mechanic, and the extra income meant a step up from the grimy motels they usually frequented.
A small step up, Sam granted to himself, as he climbed the fire escape. The apartment itself wasn't too bad, small and shabby but clean. But the air in this part of town was heavy, the arguments loud and dangerous, and Sam had to block the memories it stirred.
xxxxxxx
Dean grinned to himself as he finished taping the small package shut. He'd left the repair shop early today to surprise Sam, and had even cooked a halfway decent spaghetti dinner.
Although he was annoyed his dad hadn't seen fit to include him on this latest hunt, he was glad to spend some time with his brother. Sam had been, well, moody lately, quiet and withdrawn, and he'd been hoping a break from constantly moving would cheer him up.
It seemed to be working. They'd been here for three weeks now, and Sam was happier than he'd been in a long time. He kept busy at school and seemed to be getting along well with his classmates. He smiled more often and even laughed now and again.
Dean remembered the night before, when he'd told some dumb joke just to get a rise out of Sam. They were sitting at the tiny kitchen table, picking at the remainders of their takeout dinner, taking jabs at each other. It was friendly though, and easy, without a trace of the moodiness and tension that seemed ever-present of late. Dean took a typical crack at Sam's lack of sexual experience, and Sam had surprised him with a deep, throaty laugh.
Dean shivered at the memory, at how beautiful Sam had been with his hair thrown back from his face and his features lit with happiness. At how he'd suddenly noticed that his kid brother was no longer a kid. The awkward gangliness that had been Sam for so long had begun to fill out, to deepen into something more.
He shook his head. Cool it, Winchester.
At that moment, Sam walked through the door. He grunted a greeting at Dean before tossing his backpack on the floor. "Heard from Dad?"
"Yeah, Sam. He'll be a few more weeks. And either way, he says you can finish the school year here."
Sam looked up. "Really?"
"Yeah, really, kid." Dean smiled at him. "Now, c'mon. I know you didn't eat lunch, and I got paid today, so how about an early dinner? I made spaghetti."
"Ok, Dean, thanks." Sam glanced down at the table, noticing the brightly colored package. "What's that?"
Dean laughed and snatched it away. "Nope! Birthday dinner first, presents later."
Sam frowned. "What?"
"Dude, don't tell me you forgot your own frickin' birthday!"
Sam blinked in confusion and tilted his head. "Huh." He stabbed a finger at Dean and smiled broadly. "You got me a present? Let me see!" He grabbed for the package.
"No way. Dinner first." Dean dangled it out of his reach, and suddenly they were on the floor wrestling, and Sam was stronger than Dean remembered, and he smelled like soap and freshly-cut grass, and Dean was distracted just long enough for Sam to pin him down and grab his present away.
Sam ignored the pounding of his heart and the blood rushing in his ears that he knew was something more than exertion, something dangerous, and picked apart the wrapping. Inside, sheathed, was a beautiful hunting knife.
"Dean." His voice was hushed, awed. He turned it over in his hands. The blade was long and tapered, curving up slightly at the tip, with a wooden handle covered in carefully-etched sigils. He looked up at Dean. "It's perfect. It's just, perfect. Where did you find it?"
Dean blushed. "I made it."
"You what? When?"
"Last summer, actually, when we were hanging out at Bobby's. He knew a guy in town who made hunters' knives, said he could teach me. I made all kinds of excuses to get out there without you noticing. Can't believe you never caught me." He grinned proudly.
Sam caught his gaze and held it for a moment, until Dean felt that familiar wrong thing flutter in his gut and looked away.
xxxxxxx
That night in bed, Sam's mind raced. Dean had blushed, he was pretty sure. Dean had made him a knife, spent his free time months ago learning how to make a knife for him, for Sam, and then blushed when he gave it to him. He'd blushed. And it was beautiful. So soft and red and vulnerable, creeping up his face, betraying the fact that Dean felt something for him, something more than duty. And even if Dean's feelings were miles away from his own, that was enough.