Author's Comment:
Based on the song 'To Build a Home' by The Cinematic Orchestra. Lyrics have been re-written by myself making it 'To Build a Home' but the Cinematic Winchester. This is one of my all-time favourite songs, simply because of how simple and raw it is. It's truly beautiful. I thought it'd be fitting for the boys' relationship.
Loosely based on this post/51486470718/au-when-john-finds-out-about-his- sons-sexual
Rated M for language, sexual themes/situations and violence (I'm not really part of the John-Winchester-Father-Of-The-Year-Fan Club as you may soon be able to tell). I do not own any of the characters. Original song belongs to The Cinematic Orchestra.
"There is a house not made of stone
Nor wooden floors, walls or window sills
But wheels and chairs worn by all of the dust
This is a place where I don't feel alone
This is the place you and I call home."
The Cinematic Winchester – To Build a Home
(.:.)
"That's Orion's belt," he smiled, fingertips caressing three particular stars, mere pinpricks dwarfed by his small hand.
Dean eyed his brother's face, wonderment, excitement and the refreshing look of innocence still rife on his soft features, a face not yet marred by the weight of life's sick sights. Sam's eyes glimmered in what little of the moon's ethereal light had managed to force itself through the slat of the back seat window, pane wound down, gentle breeze licking at the bangs of the young Winchester's hair, ruffling the front, nose scrunching up against the sensation as he flicked it from his eyes.
"Tell me about it," Dean murmured, sinking a little further back into the leather of the seat, small smile tugging at the corners of his lips at the sight of his brother, his gentle encouragement sparking something inside the kid that only ever happened when he got to really let loose, come alive with the things he'd taught himself, all the things he'd learnt outside the realms of salt and sulphur, rifles and rugaru.
Sam shuffled in his seat, leaning over his brother's lap to get a better look at the blanket of sky that yawned openly above their heads, dwarfing and enveloping them in a shimmering cloak, black metal of the Impala's hood collecting each and every star like a grain of sand.
"It's the hunter," he heard Sam murmur, brow furrowing a little in concentration. Dean shuffled underneath him, moulded himself around Sam's steadily-lengthening body, questioning his own memory as he slotted his own limbs in between his little brother's lanky pair of legs. At what point had Sam begun to outgrow him and, more importantly, why hadn't he noticed?
"Is it now? What else?"
This is the hunter's reprieve, a brief period alone with the boy he'd had a hand in raising, a moment to take a breath and recollect, to grow, to bond and allow the boy the pleasure of being normal for a change – what he'd always wished for. He thought Dean didn't know or, if he did, thought he didn't care. But Sam was a special kid – smart in a way he himself could never be. Sam remembered dates, facts, names – all the sorts of things that could ace a test and guarantee you a job in a big office building, the type with plenty of glass and fancy lunches, water coolers and secretaries. Dean knew how to shoot a gun and not get killed and though he didn't mind not knowing all the elements of the Periodic Table or why the sky was blue he couldn't help envy the boy who did, his little brother, the kid with the bright future.
"It's an asterism," he heard him say, Sam's head almost entirely out of the window, knee dangerously close to his brother's crotch though Dean made no move to interrupt him. Sam was gone – a look Dean was more than accustomed to by now. "A part of the constellation Orion. It consists of three stars…"
"Sa-"
"Alnitak is one of them," he interrupted, almost as though he was alone, speaking to himself.
Dean smiled, rested a gentle hand on his brother's back, a gesture with a dual purpose to both support Sam's precarious position and a reminder that Dean was still there, that Sam wasn't in fact alone.
"Alnilam and Mintaka are the other two," he murmured, crossing his arms against the door frame, head resting against them.
"They teach you this at school?" Dean muttered incredulously, mindlessly beginning to draw his own constellations against his little brother's bowed back, huffing out a breath of laughter every time he caught a rib or a segment of his spine that would elicit a shiver from the boy in his lap.
The boy shrugged his shoulders, "Sort of…"
That forced yet another rare smile from the eldest Winchester, a boy that had only just breached the cusp of manhood himself. He ran a hand idly through his hair, fingers of his spare hand probing robotically at the grip of the knife at his side, worn polished wood surprisingly warm from the heat of his own body. Dad wouldn't be gone for much longer – at least he hoped he wouldn't. They'd been working this particular case for a long, long while, Sam hitting the books, Dean stumbling around houses and police stations for leads, scribbled and barely legible addresses in his father's own hand his only guides around towns and cities that were as alien to him as his own family sometimes were. They'd been there so long Sam had had to be put back into the school system, Dean dropping him off on the first day, little kid reluctant to even let go of his brother's jacket sleeve as the bell had gone signalling their parting, his little brother being led away by some teacher leaving Dean alone beneath the flagpole, Impala to his left, eyes on his little brother's battered backpack before he'd disappeared through the doors of the world that would become Sam's safe haven. Because Sam's disinclination towards the American education system had only lasted so long before the call of text books and a stable, safe environment had him doing extra-curricular classes so fast Dean couldn't even blink.
"Extra reading little brother?" He offered, knowing full well how right he was in his assumption. After all, he'd found the astrology textbook beneath Sam's mattress himself.
His little brother turned, eyes filled to the brim, light of the Heaven's setting his pupil's alright. He was pure, purer than anything Dean had ever laid his hands on before, purer than anything he had ever had a chance to call his own. As far as Dean Winchester was concerned Sam was more than he could ever be, better, stronger, more beautiful in every way the Winchester could ever even begin to conceive or comprehend. The innocence that shielded his soul and the honesty that held his heart in its vice like grip protected him from the world they shied away from, the plane of reality where their blood walked the line. Sam was half civilian half soldier, a kid trapped somewhere between the two without the ability to take a side for, as Dean knew better than anyone, he did not have the freedom of that choice. But Sam was there, he was warm and he was open and he was constant. Sam was the living embodiment of all that tethered the elder brother to the waking world of honesty and sobriety, from the lightness of his brother's laugh to the luxury of his lips. Sam was humanity.
"Is it that obvious?"
Dean smirked, "Well you-"
Their bubble crumbled as gunfire shattered their reverie, screams and bloodcurdling shouts carried to them on the breeze, a gentle wind that still continued to comb its fingers through Sam's chestnut mop but now bore the weight of the pain of many. It all seemed too much for the younger of the brothers. Startled like a deer he bolted for the sanctity of his brother's body, eyes wide, pupils that once contained slivers of silver now blackened by fear, a fear they were both far too well acquainted with. Sam ducked his head into the warm crook of his brother's neck, legs entangled, arms wrapping around his chest and hands hooked beneath his arms to anchor himself down, body trembling, eyes snapped shut against the war that raged not far enough outside the fragile shell of their wheeled home.
Dean's hands moved on auto-pilot, fingers raking themselves through his brother's hair, parted lips ghosting soft breaths across Sam's forehead, other hand reaching instinctively for the sawn-off that lay by his feet. He rested the firearm across his knees to free up a hand, hooking one beneath the backs of his brother's legs in an attempt to collect him up and reposition him in a far more logical direction. Oh when had that boy grown up? He was all legs and arms, the latter of which were wrapped around him so tightly he could barely breathe. Dean draped his brother across his lap, settling himself firm in the back seat of the Impala, fingertips caressing the cold barrel of the gun on his knees, gentle hand stroking and cradling the back of his little brother's head as his eyes strained themselves against the horizon.
"It's alright Sam. It'll be okay – I got you."
(.:.)
And I built a home
For you
For me
Until it disappeared
From me
From you
But now, it's time to leave and turn to dust.
(.:.)
The blows came hard but he'd long ago stopped feeling them. He was used to it, accustomed to being beaten and bloodied by all the dregs of hell and God-forsaken sons of bitches they came across on an almost monthly basis, though none hit as hard or as low as his own father. Spirits aimed to maim, vampires and werewolves to kill and that was the way of that world, but when kin attacked kin it was to cause pain. John wasn't aiming to kill him, though the look in his eye and the barbs that lay behind his words had certainly spoken of his withheld intent. It came to something when Dean could tell his own dad was holding back, that he knew he could hit harder, knew he could make him hurt far more than he was dishing out. But he didn't fight back despite wanting to, stood and took each blow as it came because somewhere, deep down, something or someone was telling him he deserved it, that every point of contact had been earned by his actions and his actions alone. Because at the end of the day, no matter how consensual the situation had been, Dean had led his own little brother astray and taken that childish innocence along with him. Oh he cherished it alright, that sweet, sensitive virginity, the righteous and passionate way in which he'd given himself to his brother so completely. But in the eyes of a father, Dean was the devil incarnate, a stain against the family name and a dark temptation to the youngest of the three who had, unbeknownst to their father, actually instigated the act himself.
But John hadn't heard that when he'd caught them, when he'd latched his hands onto his eldest son and dragged him away, Sam kicking and screaming at the door as he'd locked it against him. That boy had battered his fists to breaking point against the wood, fracturing it, fracturing himself, palms of his hands and fingernails bleeding as he'd shrieked and swore and shouted his lungs raw as he heard each blow connect, each bone break.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Dean stood his ground as another well placed blow connected with his stomach, allowed himself to double over, breath knocked completely from his body. His teeth rattled in his skull, ears ringing, the corners of his eyes stinging as the tears threatened to breach the barriers of his lashes, eyes clamped shut against the onslaught he knew was on its way. He wouldn't – not in front of his father.
"Dad – stop! Fucking stop!"
Dean rose again, bred and bold enough to look his father in the eye. He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, spat against the lino tiles at his feet to rid himself of that foul metallic taste he hated. His gaze didn't waver despite his body, the elder brother rocking slightly on his heels as the room inverted, walls shrinking back and closing in, dark and coloured spots marring his vision as he attempted to keep himself conscious. He wouldn't pass out on his dad's watch, especially not by his father's own hand.
"I trusted you with him Dean – is this – what even is this?"
"Don't pretend like you don't know," he murmured, his petulance sounding far more exhausted than he'd hoped.
His father's hand came down hard against his shoulder, fingers digging harshly into the muscle just below his neck, the tears he'd held back until this point just about managing to break cover. Dean gritted his teeth and planted his feet that little bit wider apart to brace himself, blacking out once though a rough squeeze managed to drag him right back to reality again. John pulled him close, father and son face to face, his dad's eyes roaming his body and expression for something – anything to imply he'd got it wrong. But Dean was naked save the sheet he'd dragged with him, a fabrication of modesty he'd quickly slung around his waist before the blows had begun, the look on his face one of guarded pride and guilt as he stared John down, unable to look away even if he'd wanted to.
"You sick son of a bitch," he growled, a guttural sound, one that reverberated through his son's core.
This time there was no connection, no fist against soft flesh, no fingernails digging into aching and torn muscle. Perhaps John would regret training them so well one day, looking back on that evening with retrospect heavy on his mind, knowing full well that if he hadn't taught them every single trick of their trade the situation would have turned out quite differently. But Sam stood tall now, far taller than both of the men he'd joined amid the fray, large hand engulfing his father's fist before it could reconnect with his brother's battered body. Those eyes, those soft hazel eyes that had once held slivers of the sky were now hard pinpricks of something Dean couldn't quite lay his finger on, but something that scared him more than anything he'd seen that night thus far. For at nineteen years old Sam was built like and as sturdy as the old oak that grew in front of their old Lawrence home and may have been as tall – would have no problem climbing the thing like he had done when they were kids. Because Sam Winchester wasn't a kid anymore, and the anger that burned behind the darkened mahogany of his shifting irises spoke of a man who'd seen enough. And Sam had certainly had enough.
"Lay one more hand on him and I swear-"
His words were slow, careful, but each was punctuated with enough force that John seemed to falter in his tirade, the interruption giving Dean time enough to breathe, to recover, to shrink away slightly from the shadow his father had cast over his bruised and broken form. He tried to catch his brother's eye in vain, Sam's attentions saved purely for the man he'd called a father, a man that had locked him in a bedroom to beat the living hell out of his brother and his lover. Dean was well aware there was worse to come yet, torn between nursing his wounds and continuing to stand his ground. But he knew now, faced as he was with the overbearing weight of his brother's anger and the poison that boiled in his father's veins, that he had very little left to give.
"You'll what – son?" He hissed, dropping his arm, Sam unhanding him briefly though his fist remained clenched as it fell to his side.
"This isn't his fault!"
"Then whose fault is it Sam – enlighten me please!"
Sam's brow furrowed, Dean taking a well-practiced step back as the younger of the two turned his head away, teeth grit, eyes tightly snapped shut. He knew the look as well as he knew all of Sam's others, knew that a look like that was a warning for anyone in the immediate area to keep their distance or take cover. He highly doubted their own father would be aware of the signs though, subtle as they were, as ignorant as he was to his own son's body language.
"It's no one's fault! For fuck's sake – it is what it is!"
"Sam wai-"
"No Dean – I won't," he sighed, voice still raised, hand held up to still his brother's tongue. "You need to know that this is something. And I don't know what that 'something' is exactly but I am damn well sure it's not going anywhere anytime soon. So if you can't hack that then-"
"Sam!"
"Listen to your brother Sam," he muttered, taking a step away from Dean towards the boy he'd looked down on nought but six months ago, "don't test me."
"Or you'll what?" Sam hissed, biting out his words, "You can't order me around anymore John," he spat, hands at his sides itching to move, to hit something, to cause some damage to compensate for the blood that sat between his father's knuckles. "I'm not that little kid you scared into hunting – not anymore. You can shout until you're blue in the face or beat me till I bleed but where's that gonna' get you huh? Where's that really gonna' get you?"
The threat was there, subtle, underhanded; an undercurrent of meaning only Dean managed to grasp a hold of. He winced at it, fear rising like bile at the back of his throat, curdling his already aching stomach, making him sweat cold. He'd grown and grown fast – John would say almost too fast. He didn't understand the severity of the situation surely? They were balanced on the head of a pin, teetering either way as they attempted to remain in balance, in control. John was dangerous, always had been, a coiled spring ready to erupt, snake ready to strike, predator ready to sink it's teeth into whatever got in its way next. What they had – it was confusing, frightening… wrong. At the end of the day they were all he had left stable in the world save Bobby, without them he'd have nothing left to fight for – even with. But Sam was pushing it and Dean was more scared than he'd ever been in his life. His dad had done that to him by barely lifting a finger, Dean taking it head on without a word in edgeways. Sam was baiting the trap and all Dean could do was wait for it to snap shut.
"Oh boy – you have no fucking idea what I am capable of."
(.:.)
And snap shut it did.
They'd argued, well into the night. John had hit Sam and Sam had hit back harder, old man hitting the floor heavy. All hell had broken loose not long after that. And Dean had stood there in the midst of it all, blank, emotionless, little plastic soldier caught between two bickering kids, heat of the magnifying glass bearing down over his head. And he'd done nothing, stood there as Sam had screamed at their father, done nothing when John had told him never to come back, done nothing when Sam had gathered his things and left, slamming the door shut behind him. Dean had done nothing.
The papers came through not long after that, after days of Sam's phone coming up blank, garbled messages left on voicemail, asking leading to pleading, desperate notes exchanged across a deaf line. John hadn't stopped drinking – neither had Dean. But the old man could handle his alcohol and seemed to be in a fit enough state to comprehend the gravity of the situation, sober enough to understand what the legal jargon, the official seals and the fancy paper meant for them both. Sam was gone – Stanford and a new life waiting for him on that once distant horizon leaving both men to drown their sorrows in bottles of whisky and scotch. John had scoffed, swigged back the last of his bottle and traipsed over to his son, Dean loading and unloading his gun for the fifth time that hour, boy mindlessly cleaning the equipment despite its pristine condition. The papers had fluttered down over his head like crisp autumn leaves, each landing feather-light in his lap or at his feet, Sam's eloquent signature the only thing Dean really cared to see in amongst the pages of typed font. It was all he really needed to see – it was enough.
"It's better off this way boy," his father had muttered, hand placed lightly on his shoulder. Dean had flinched.
(.:.)
He was forbidden from calling – from making contact.
Father and son hunted together for months in silence, odd comment passed across the dinner table, odd text sent from his dad's mobile if he was lucky – if John was in a forgiving mood. But Dean was tired, feet dragging, body heavy. They hadn't stopped – guessed his dad was keeping his little boy busy. One hunt followed another, no rest stop, no time for the body to pick itself up and recuperate. Cuts and bruises remained cuts and bruises, gashes and broken bones got sewn together and reset in the field – no pain killer, no antibiotics, no meds. There was no time for weakness, no time to think. Dean had long ago accepted that that was the true aim of it all, the true aim of the relentlessness and fruitlessness of their ventures. With no time to eat, sleep or even take a shit Dean had no time to breathe let alone think. What did his dad really think ran through his head – that he was constantly fantasizing about fucking his brother? The thought hadn't crossed his mind ever since that night – the night that Sam had left them both behind. He just wanted him back, just Sam, just as they were.
Dean was a good soldier, but there were some orders he could not simply follow.
John's chest rose and fell, eyes fluttering behind his dark lashes. Gin poured in a steady stream into a pool on the floor at the foot of the sofa, hands still loosely wrapped around the neck like a comfort. Dean's own eyes were heavy, mind buzzing behind his lids as he attempted to keep himself awake. He counted seconds as they came, the steady tick of the clock on the wall above the fire keeping him in rhythm, humming beneath his breath in a bid to keep himself occupied. A small, cold weight sat shaking in his clammy hands, hands he held beneath the table in an almost prayer-like manner. His attentions never left his father, the old man long having fallen to the temptations of unconsciousness, but his son had to be sure – had to be certain. The consequences (if he was caught) didn't bare thinking about.
He removed himself from the chair, wincing slightly as the wooden feet dragged against the tiles of the kitchen, Dean swiftly tugging his jacket off the back of the chair as he slipped out the front door. The night air was cold and bit hard, the Winchester donning his jacket desperately as his body reacted violently to the chill of the night. The world around him was barren, car alarms muttering to themselves in the twilight, streetlamps flickering broken and battered in the street that ran perpendicular to their motel room, logical explanations for the power failures startlingly obvious though the boy still shivered all the same, one hand itching to feel the comfort of steel and wood beneath his fingertips. He leant back against the front door and huffed out a breath, puff of white rising and caressing the stubble across his jaw, eyes turned towards the bleakness that erupted over his head in a thousand tiny sparks. His eyes roamed the darkness, eyes fighting to become accustomed to the blackness against the glare of the lights above his head, Winchester pinching the bridge of his nose as he psyched himself up to make the call.
The mobile phone sat dead and alien in the palm of his hand, both too big and too small and looking far too out of place in his calloused grasp. He flipped the lid, thumb stroking the buttons before he typed in the number he hoped was still live – the number he prayed would at least allow him to listen to the sound of Sam's voice. He held the mobile to his ear, cold metal and plastic pressed hard against the heat of his body, hope and an incredible sickness fluttering and curling in the depths of his gut. He waited.
"H'lo?" The voice on the other end was rough, tone sleep-thick and unused.
Dean breathed out a soft sigh, breath once again clouding in front of his face. A small smile played across his lips.
"Hello?" More insistent. Demanding. Irritated. That was Sam alright.
"I found it," Dean murmured, barely more than a whisper.
"Who is this?"
Dean turned his eyes towards the sky, wondered if his brother shared the same sort of view.
"Orion."
There was silence on the other end of the line, a hitch of a breath.
"Dean?" Sam's voice drifted down the phone as a strangled whisper, an admission of guilt. Dean closed his eyes, leant back further into the shadow of the doorway of their motel room, spare hand running roughly through his unkempt hair.
"Yeah Sam – it's me."
"You can't-"
"Call you? Yeah – I know," he sighed, heel of his palm rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "But here I am. I miss you Sam. I really do."
The voice at the end of the phone sounded desperate. "Dean-"
"I'm sorry Sam I know it's late but I-"
There was a shuffle over the other end of the line, the sound of fabric against fabric, muttered whispers dulled by soft hushes. Dean frowned, worried his lip between his teeth as he waited.
"You really can't just call me like this Dean I-"
"Sam-"
"Sam? What's goin' on?"
That was the moment the world seemed to become that little bit too close, suffocating, overpowering, asphyxiating the eldest to the point he found he could hardly breathe. His chest ached, fingernails of his clenched hand digging into his flesh as he found himself trying to rip the pain out, tried to dig his way between his ribs to get at his lungs, allow himself a breath. But there was no real salvation save the sharp kisses of the wind against his cheeks as the blood drained from his face, the way the night bit and licked at his fingers as the cell fell away from his ear. He could still hear their conversation, small muttering voices continuing on their plain of reality not far enough away from Dean's as it crumbled around his feet. But there was no helping that – not when the voice on the other end of the line had been a woman's.
Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, palm coming to rest against his lips as he stifled whatever sound threatened to escape his throat, noises he feared would wake the hurricane sleeping only a wall away. His skin came away wet, taste of salt heavy against his tongue as he licked his lips damp, mouthpiece returning as he fought for the right words to say. It didn't take him long to find them.
"You're right Sam – I shouldn't have called. Congratulations on Stanford little brother. Enjoy your fucking life."
The line went dead as he snapped the lid shut, breaths coming sharp and shaky now as sucked them in greedily, eyes tightly squeezed shut, cheeks wet, skin nipped red by the cold. He couldn't seem to control the shake of his hands, knees weak as he leant back heavy against the door for support, cursing himself, his father, Sam – fucking everything for the way things had turned out yet again. He couldn't think straight, couldn't feel, outside numbed by the chill of the night air, insides paralytic. He didn't have a path set, didn't have a hope to hold on to. Sam had been at the end of that tunnel, a bright burning road in amongst the bullshit that was his general existence. Even away at Stanford he'd held on to that, so many months down the line they were bordering on a year. But he'd held on. He'd had faith. He'd remained faithful to his own blood.
The door slammed shut behind him. The hurricane fell from his perch with a smash of glass, a grunt and a foul curse, eyes wild and dazed as John's became accustomed to the lack of light, Dean's bulk highlighted by the light of neon signs that buzzed non-stop through the blinds that covered their window, face stone cold and gaze dead, phone crushed in the white-knuckle grip he had around the innocent device.
"Dean-"
"You were right," he murmured, chucking the remains of the tech in the general direction of the trash can in the kitchen, not quite meeting his father's eye. "It's better this way."
Will continue in real time in Part 2 - Season 1 Wendigo.