N.B.: Well, hi there, fanfiction dot net. It's been at least six years since I spent any amount of time on this website so I'm not really sure what the hip young'uns are doing nowadays. Do you still need a header or a disclaimer? It seems like just yesterday that we weren't allowed to use special characters or hyperlinks in the story content! What a brave new world we live in. Oh, wait. Anyway, consider this disclaimed and consider me ancient.
.
I. ANDALUSIA, ALABAMA
Sixth grade sucks unequivocally, which, incidentally, is the word that Sam's Language Arts teacher insists he misspelled on yesterday's vocabulary quiz (he didn't; his handwriting is just fucked up from learning how to write cursive in sixteen slightly different ways in the span of about six months). All Sam really wants to do is crumple his stupid quiz at the bottom of his backpack––it's not like Dad will really care one way or the other––eat his weight in Fruit Roll-Ups and watch as many episodes of Legends of the Hidden Temple as the motel's basic cable package will allow. Dean laughs at him for devouring such hokey shit, but sometimes he'll snag a package of beef jerky from his duffel and throw his arm around Sam's shoulders and predict which kid will win and which one will secretly pee their pants, and Sam likes those afternoons best.
Today, Sam can tell as soon as he steps into the motel room and takes an eye-watering whiff, is not going to be one of those days.
Accompanying the overpowering scent of Dean's stash of dime store cologne is the man himself, decked out to the nines in an actual collared shirt, shimmying as he pokes at his hair in the bathroom mirror. Sam rolls his eyes extravagantly as he shakes down Dad's extra bag for vending machine quarters. Whatever the leather jacket and the thin veneer of menace have led a dozen girls to believe, Dean is nothing more than a giant fucking nerd with deeply questionable hair.
"I'll be out late, Sammy," Dean advises, ruffling his hair. "Shotgun's on the desk and the other revolver's under my pillow, everything else is in the black duffel bag. Be careful or I'll kill you myself and burn the bones so you can't ever come back."
"Don't call me Sammy," Sam says as snottily as he can, grabbing Dean's wrist and twisting. "Just go already, all right?"
Dean pauses and looks at him in the way that Sam hates because it means Dean's going to make an abortive attempt to talk their shit out without ever actually admitting either of them has ever had something so effeminate, God fucking forbid, as a feeling. "You doing okay, Sammy? Rough day?"
Sam shakes him off and glares. "No, I had the best day of my life, obviously, because I love middle school and I love everything about everything the Winchesters do and are."
"Sammy––" Dean starts, looking constipated.
"Whatever," Sam says with as much disgust as he can muster, "go on your skanky date and leave me the fuck alone."
Dean cuffs the back of his head, but gently, his giant hand resting on the back of Sam's neck like it does whenever Sam catches a cold from some stupid truck stop restroom and he can't stop coughing long enough to force down the soup Dean plies him with. "Don't let Dad catch you using words like that," he warns, heading back into the bathroom.
"You smell like a cesspool!" Sam calls after him, and morosely empties a handful of nickels onto the ugly maroon comforter. "And we don't have any money for dinner!"
"Vending machine candy is not dinner, Sam Winchester," Dean shouts through the bathroom door, "you're gonna eat some fucking vegetables or I'll set a ghost on you."
"That threat stopped working in third grade, and we don't have any vegetables," Sam huffs, and burritos himself into the bed he claimed last week, pretending not to hear Dean wolf-whistle at himself––ugh, why does anybody give him the time of day?
When he wakes up, the clock is blinking 10:54 PM at him, and Dean must have come back at some point because there's a gas station salad and a plastic-wrapped ham and cheese sandwich on the bedside table. Next to it is an unopened box of Fruit By The Foot; Dean's circled the nutrition information and written ONLY ONE AT A TIME, SAM next to it in what looks and faintly smells like permanent marker. Dean's still a dumbass and a giant hypocrite and apparently he can't tell the difference between processed fruit-flavored desserts, but Sam feels a little better because at least Dean tries.
He gets about halfway through the sandwich before the plasticky orange cheese starts to really freak him out and switches to the salad––lettuce, however limp, doesn't usually betray him. He's unrolling his second illicit Fruit By The Foot when he hears the thump. Every muscle in his body tenses, and he sneaks his fingers under his pillow to grab the knife hidden there; he's all too aware that reaching for the gun under Dean's pillow might alert something to his presence when he'd much rather stay hidden, thanks all the same.
The thump sounds again, and again. A shrill little follows it, which is when Sam recognizes the sound for what it is: the paraphernalia of someone getting lucky. He relaxes and wraps himself back up in the comforter; he listens in for a little while, trying to figure out what precisely is so appealing about the whole thing. Mostly it just sounds like a lot of squeaking and uncomfortable groans. It's not like Sam hasn't discovered his dick yet––he's got a mental bikini-flavored Rolodex just like any red-blooded American male, fuck you very much––but the elaborate, machismo-fueled mating rituals that Dean engages in seem totally foreign and artificial to him. Dull.
Sometimes Sam worries this means he's actually secretly gay, but he guesses he'll just have to cross that bridge when he comes to it.
The giggle pierces through the wall again, and after an unmistakable voice, not as deep as it clearly wishes it were, growls, "C'mon, baby, a little harder––c'mon, lemme––" and Sam can't believe this is his dumb life.
He gets up and waddles over to the television set, still wrapped up in the blanket. When he switches it on it immediately becomes clear that the shitty cable is even shittier than normal, and the only thing coming through that isn't Public Access obviously filmed by a bored suburban mom filching her ex-husband's camcorder is a marathon of Touched By an Angel reruns.
"Life sucks," Sam says to the screen. Della Reese doesn't say anything back, but she does look concerned and compassionate and just a touch sassy, which is nice, and the insipidly inspirational music behind Roma Downey's philosophical crisis of the week is at least drowning out most of the noise. Someday, Sam thinks, he'll live in a house all his own.
.
II. DULUTH, MINNESOTA
Sam kisses a boy exactly once, five months after his fifteenth birthday. It lasts for about thirty dissatisfying seconds before Dean clatters into the room like a bear on stilts and interrupts the whole thing; Sam reels back, panic and relief crowding together in the back of his throat.
"Uhhh," says Dean, his eyes wide. "I can––leave––"
"No, that's okay," Sam reassures him. "I think we were about done here."
"Yeah, I'm going to go," the boy mumbles. "Thanks for inviting me over, I guess."
"I'll get your coat," Sam offers. Deans backs away from the open door and, Sam can see from his perch on the bed, goes over to the Impala, where he aggressively crawls into the backseat and pretends to be looking for something.
"See you around," the boy says unenthusiastically. He's staying in 9C, just down the walk, on his sixth vacation from his belt-happy dad, tagging along after his boozehound mom. Sam couldn't really relate, but they were bored and it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Sam's already forgotten his name, but, "Sure," he agrees, lying through his teeth.
Later, Sam is nominally working on his essay about Lady Macbeth, although really he's doodling in the margins of his notebook and wishing the laptop computers this high school's tech lab had stashed away were actually affordable on your average pool-hustling salary. His teacher insists on the essay being typed, which means Sam's going to have to log a study hall or two in the computer room, which means he's going to have to finish this essay earlier rather than later, which means he should get started on the stupid thing. But he can't seem to concentrate on Lady Macbeth's slow, slipping betrayal––he can only see the stricken look on Dean's face, think about how disappointed he's going to be when he gets back, how impossible to talk to.
But Dean doesn't come back, not for hours, and when Sam peeks out the front window he can see the Impala's gone from its parking space. Dean actually trusts Sam to spend time alone now that Sam's been old enough to hunt on his own for a couple years, but he always comes back before nightfall, so Sam's not that worried––even though their dad was tracking what seems to be a wendigo through a national park and so had actually left the car behind, Dean couldn't have gone too far.
Sam looks down at the notebook in front of him and wants to punch both himself and every king of Scotland who ever lived in the face. He throws his pen across the room and shakes his hair out of his face, sticks his favorite salt-treated butterfly knife in his back pocket and says aloud to the empty room, "I'm going for a walk."
They're in northern Minnesota at the butt end of summer, so it's hot as balls and twice as sweaty. Sam jogs twice in quick succession around the parking lot before it gets boring and then heads out to trace a habitual canvass around the neighborhood. The motel's off the highway, like they usually are, but it bleeds off into suburbia quicker than most; the houses are a little rundown, but nicer than a lot of the places they've stayed.
It's not dark yet but it's soon going to be, and he's deep in the nest of modular homes when he sees the Impala's familiar shape parked just outside of the glow of a streetlight. No way, Sam thinks, another one? He inches closer, just wanting to see the car, maybe figure out which house it belongs to, when the body of the car shakes the very littlest bit, rocking ever-so-slightly on its wheels. Sam's stomach immediately drops and he races forward, getting his knife out and ready––
––when a hand slaps the rear window, in true Titanic style, and he hears Dean's voice shout, "Rhonda!"
"Oh Jesus," Sam says, clapping his hands over his eyes for several long and despairing seconds, and starts running back to the motel room as fast as he can. It goes a whole lot quicker with desperation and mounting horror on his heels. "Why does this always fucking happen, oh my God."
He sits back down at the desk and finds Lady Macbeth a lot easier to deal with when she's the only thing standing between him and a bunch of traumatizing mental images he never wants to think about again. He's adding a shit-eating paragraph about how much the counterculture would have helped a Lady out when Dean unlocks the door and comes inside, a swagger in his step.
"Hey," Sam greets him, drawing one knee in. "Where'd you go?" he asks, pretty much out of habit and not because he actually, oh God no, wants details.
Dean shrugs. "Out," he says, because at his very core he's that kind of asshole. He shifts awkwardly, his arms crossed over his chest, deliberately not looking Sam in the face."Hey, Sam––you know I wouldn't––you know you'll be my brother no matter what, right?" he chokes out, because he's that kind of asshole too.
"I'm not gay, Dean," Sam says, remembering, suddenly and with a kind of wonder, that Dean is not their father.
"Oh, thank God," Dean breathes, and claps him on the shoulder. "Well, we can deal with, uhh, bi––bisexuality, right? Just, you know, don't tell Dad about the dick half of that equation unless you really have to––"
"I'm not bi either," Sam huffs, "I was just experimenting."
"Oh, God, Sammy, no," Dean protests, looking pained. "Come on, I don't want to hear that."
"Well, I was," Sam insists, "and for the record, experiments prove I don't like dudes."
"And all the angels sang Hallelujah for that," Dean says, heading over to the other bed. Sam can see something pink and satin hanging out of his back pocket. What an asswipe.
.
III. SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA
Sioux Falls is a sleepy sort of beautiful in late spring––even the scrapped-up cars in Bobby's ramshackle lot are limned with green and gold, transformed. Sam hasn't talked to his dad in three weeks and everything in his life seems poised to crumble around him, but, he thinks, staring at the old guest bedroom ceiling, at least the pear trees are blooming.
"Morning," Bobby says acerbically when Sam finally heads downstairs, "nice to see you've graced us with your presence," which is when Sam notices Dean hunched over the table, running a fork through his runny eggs.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean croaks, waving the fork and getting yolk on the collar of his shirt.
"Don't call me Sammy," Sam orders automatically, and gets a mug down from the rack to pour himself some coffee––he glances over and snags one for Dean, too. "How's things?"
"You know, the usual," Dean says, and accepts the coffee with one finger through the handle. Sam will never understand how he balances it. "Thanks. You, uh, getting ready for September?"
"I guess," Sam replies noncommittally. "Are there any eggs left?"
Dean gestures to the pan on the stove; Sam walks over to it, brandishing the spatula like a weapon.
"The amount of repressed emotion in this room is making me sick to my stomach," Bobby grunts, grabbing his hat from the counter and settling it firmly on his head. "I'll be out. Don't call me back unless you've got two demons and a poltergeist to boot on your ass. Oh, and if your friend touches so much as one damn book without asking I'll kill you myself, Dean."
"Noted," Dean grumbles.
"You have friends besides Dad?" Sam asks, too asleep to realize what he's saying.
"Thanks a lot, Sam," Dean growls. "Yes, I have friends beside Dad."
"Oh Jesus," Bobby sighs, and hightails it.
Sam slumps down at the table with his own runny eggs and a mostly-burnt piece of toast. "You know what I meant."
"Yeah," Dean says, and shovels his fork in his mouth.
"You are disgusting," Sam complains, and realizes only in retrospect that it came in stereo––Dean's smiling his crinkly-eyed best and Sam follows his line of sight to the kitchen doorway, where a tall dark-haired guy maybe a year or two older than Dean is leaning into the moulding.
"Hi," the man says, coming forward with his palm outstretched. The whole thing is kind of surreal––usually the people Dean hangs out with, other than a couple of Dad's old buddies, aren't the kind of people who'll voluntarily shake your hand over the breakfast table. "You must be Sam? Congratulations on Stanford. I'm Will."
"Hi," Sam falters, taking the hand, and then rallies: "Thanks. Anyone who thinks the way Dean eats is hideously gross is fine by me. Nice to meet you."
"You too," Will says, and claps a hand on Dean's shoulder with easy familiarity; Sam feels his eyebrows raise in spite of himself, surprised that Will doesn't find himself on the floor with a knife in his gut––Dean's always been a hair-triggered, stab-first-ask-questions-later kind of dude when it comes to unexpected contact.
"So you've known each other a while?" Sam asks, biting into his toast and grimacing as it crunches unpleasantly between his teeth. Man, Bobby's toaster sucks.
Will shrugs and slings himself into the leftover chair, hand still resting on Dean's shoulder for balance before he removes it to snag Dean's coffee, the ring on his finger clinking loudly against the china. "A few months now?" he says, glancing over at Dean and sipping. "Crossed paths with your dad on a hunting trip, Dean got me out of hot water when––uh––the deer we were all after turned out to be rabid, the rest is history.
"Get your own fucking coffee, Martinez," Dean grumps, "and Sam knows, okay? He hasn't been out with us lately because he wanted to stay at the same school for a while, but he knows."
"Oh," says Will, not unkindly but his looking surprised. "Somehow I didn't think people gave up on it."
"I'm eighteen and I've been around this shit since I was born, more or less," Sam points out, trying to reign in his bitterness; it's not Will's fault, after all. "I wanted to try something else for a while."
"Oh, I get it," Will reassures him. "Trust me, if I thought I could be doing anything other than this, I would. Good for you." He takes another long drink from Dean's mug.
"For real, the coffee pot's right over there," Dean huffs, gesturing earnestly at the machine on the counter. "You're five feet away from it."
"But it tastes so much better when it's yours," Will explains, leering at Dean with all his teeth. Sam scoffs internally and revises his opinion––Will might shake your hand like a good ol' boy next door, but he's definitely cut from the same cloth as Dean.
"So how's Dad?" Sam wonders aloud.
He'd figured it was an innocuous enough question, but Dean freezes up, scowling. "Good question," he grumbles, "your guess is as good as mine."
"Trouble in paradise?" Sam asks, honestly shocked. "What the hell happened?"
"I don't know, I'm twenty-two years old and he's an asshole who trusts me about as far as he can throw me?" Dean snaps. Will puts a hand on his arm and Dean visibly resets himself, his expression clearing. "We had a disagreement, is all, Sammy. I've been ganking creepy crawlies with Will for a while, that's all there is to it."
"Okay," says Sam. He'll grill Dean later, when Will goes home or gets on the road or whatever––their dad must have fucked up pretty damn seriously for Dean to be this mad, so seriously that Sam has legitimately no idea what he could have done.
But Will doesn't leave, and doesn't leave, and doesn't leave, not for a couple days. He follows Dean around like a disposal squad after a live bomb, and what's more Dean doesn't tell him to get off his ass or shove at him or swear, like he eventually does with everyone. Will even follows him outside, leans against the car they came in on as Dean tinkers with it, an activity Dean usually prefers to do alone. It's a totally forgettable navy blue Buick Century that's at least fifteen years old and that even Sam can tell has basically no redeeming qualities, but apparently Dean can't help himself.
Dinner that night is tame compared to breakfast––Bobby announces that he's heading out to deal with a stray shapeshifter and gives Will permission to look at the less valuable books. "But I see one fingerprint out of place and I know who to strangle," he warns, shaking a finger––Will laughs and nods, looking at Dean out of the corner of his eye. They're sitting next to each other again, Dean relaxed like he rarely is; Will must be a good hunter.
Sam has school on Monday, so Dean drops him off; he walks home, picks up an extra notebook, and heads out to Brianna Ghosh's house to study for their AP Euro exam and, hopefully, if her mom's at work, to make out a little in between chapters. "Bye," he says as he passes Will and Dean's legs, which are sticking out from under the ugly car.
Dean grunts a response; Will kicks Dean's ankle and tips his head politely, calling, "See you later, Sam. Your good-for-nothing brother woulds say goodbye, too, if he had any manners."
"I'm used to it from him," Sam says, laughing at Dean's muffled "C'mon, man, what did I ever do to you?" and shrugging, and grabs his bike on the way.
Brianna's mom is out; they get through the Revolutions of 1848 before she invites him shyly up to her room––to get a book, she says, but somehow they both trip and fall and end up shirtless on her bed.
"That was really nice," Sam squeaks, the tips of his ears feeling warm. "We should, um, study again sometime."
"Yeah," Brianna agrees, her dark, dark hair around him like a curtain, "how does Wednesday sound? We could get a little––uh––farther––into the book. Before the exam, I mean."
"Perfect," Sam says, and pulls her down for a celebratory good-bye.
He bikes back to Bobby's, grinning to himself––Brianna's smart, and she's pretty, and he can't believe she's giving him the time of day. He toes the kickstand down and heads into the house; the lights are on, but it doesn't seem like anyone's home, so he makes himself a sandwich and heads upstairs, downing a Coke as he goes. He drops the can and his backpack on his bed and wanders back down the hallway, just at the top of the stairs when he hears the door slammed shut and two sets of footsteps, Dean's hiss: "Fuck." Sam stills, a third of the way down the staircase and a white-knuckled grip on the railing; he knows from experience that it's better to stay out of Dean's way when he's like this.
"Dean," Will says, "Dean––"
"I can't believe he fucking––called me and then just––" Sam can't see Dean, just the heavy tread of his pacing, but he can see one of Will's legs and his shoulder, the agitated way he's standing. "I can't believe he'd say that to me."
"Dean, you know he doesn't mean it like that." Will steps out of Sam's field of vision. "He's just worried about you."
"Well, fuck him and his fucking––condescending––concern, I swear to God I'm never talking to him again." Dean stops moving, breathing hard; Sam knows just how he's standing, the way his arms are crossed over his midsection like he's been gutshot, the tops of his cheekbones red with the effort of restraining his fists.
"You know you don't mean that," Will says, gentle. "You guys will work it out. And I––I don't have to be there, you know."
"Don't fucking say that," Dean breathes out, "don't––I wouldn't do that––I'm not some chickenshit––"
"I know," Will interrupts; two more creaks, then he whispers, "I know you're not," and then there's a soft sound that Sam can't identify. Will backs up, so Sam can see his leg and shoulder and the back of his neck again. "Come on, Dean, you don't have to convince me of anything––"
"I––I know––" Dean chokes, sounding, horrifically, like he's on the verge of crying, "I'm just––I can't believe him. I do everything he asks of me, ever, without questioning one goddamn order, and he can't get over himself for one fucking second?"
"I know, honey, I know," Will says, and while Sam's still trying to figure out where the fuck that came from, Will leans slightly forward, Dean's hand shows up wrapped around the side of Will's neck, and Sam realizes, with a sudden lurching shock, that they're kissing.
What the actual fuck. Sam feels stuck; he can't fucking be here for this––but their mom's ring on Dean's finger makes it impossible for him to look away, and anyway if he climbs back up the stairs they'll hear the creaking and know he's been listening. Fuck. iFuck./i Someone moans a little––fuckSam Winchester's God damn fucking life.
"Back up, back up," Dean whispers, pushing Will fully into Sam's view. Will's hands are clutched in Dean's jacket, one thumb stroking the leather, tender; Sam feels like an interloper, but still can't look away. "Sam's bike is outside, he's probably upstairs––I don't want him to hear.
"You're not gonna tell him?" Will asks, not sounding angry, only worried.
"I can't lose my brother, too," Dean says flatly. "I will, just––not yet. Gimme a while."
"Sure, sure," Will whispers, and draws Dean in for a hug. Sam can see them both now and prays Dean won't look up from where he's got his face buried in Will's shoulder––and how fucking surreal is that. "You know I ain't pushing you."
"Yeah, I know," Dean sighs, and clutches Will to him a little harder. "All right. All right. I'm good––let's get dinner started, huh?" He steps away, back where Sam can't see him. "Sam eats about three tons of food a day, he'll probably appreciate something that isn't Bobby's cooking."
"Hell, I've only been here two days and I'll appreciate something that isn't Bobby's cooking," Will says, smiling, and follows Dean into the kitchen. Sam breathes out and carefully sneaks back up the stairs, making sure to close his door loudly before barreling down the stairs.
"Hey, Will's cooking spaghetti––all right?" Dean asks him, sticking his head out of the kitchen.
"Yeah, you know I'm good with whatever," Sam says seriously.
Sam does the dishes and heads upstairs to screw around on Bobby's tan box of a computer, spending way longer on an Everwood chatroom than he means to or would ever admit to anyone. It's nearing midnight and he's dead thirsty, so he grabs the empty glass off his bedside table and starts to head down the stairs to go to the kitchen and grab some OJ.
He gets about a third of the way down the staircase before he realizes the creaking he hears isn't just the house settling or his imagination––he hears the same soft little moan he heard this afternoon and Dean snicker, "Put your back into it, Martinez." Oh God, oh God, Sam has slept on that pull-out bed––he forgets all about his dry throat and the squeaky stairs and just turns around and buries himself in his bed, embarrassed enough to die.
"Please, God, if you're there, and any angels or whatever who might be listening," he whispers, "never again. Honestly, I don't think I can take it." He thinks about it for a while, the smile that seems to chase around Dean's mouth more than it ever used to. "But thanks for Dean being happy, I guess."
(Will disappears about six months later. Sam never finds out what happens because Dean won't talk about it, or about him, just hunts on his own for a while before getting back on the road with Dad. He does wear Will's ring on his left hand, opposite their mom's––eventually that disappears too.
"I'm not gay, Sam," is all he'll say. "I never was. I don't know what you're talking about. Now leave me alone.")
.
IV. CANONSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA
"You know, I––I haven't done this before," Dean rumbles, sounding weirdly innocent with his voice pitched so low. "Not really. Not like this."
Jamie sighs out a warm little sigh in response and does––something––that sounds wetly obscene from where Sam is crashing on her roommate's empty futon.
Sam is either going to vomit or kill himself. No, he's going to vomit and then kill himself, bloodily, so Dean has to clean up twice as much of his insides––and Sam knows how tall he is, okay, he has a lot of insides.
"You're pretty good at this for someone who, ah, hasn't done it before," Jamie giggles.
"Well, you know, I'm not exactly as pure as untouched snow," Dean says, chuckling, and then, ruining Sam's life forever, he continues, "but I've––I've thought a lot about it."
"Dean, Dean," Jamie breathes. "Dean."
Sam changes his plan. He's not going to kill himself––he doesn't deserve to be punished because his brother is a douche bag. He's going to kill Dean, slowly––like, with a damn teaspoon, that kind of slow––and then bring his spirit back to a terrible themed motel room so he can have soul-scarring sex while simultaneously pumping Dean full of rock salt over and over and over. Yes. Yes, perfect.
Sam wakes up the next morning to Jamie making pancakes. He feels slightly less homicidal when she hands him a plate. "They're flavored with lager," she tells him, cocking an eyebrow. "Most of the alcohol's cooked off, but they're great for a pick-me-up."
"Thanks," Sam says dubiously.
"Oh no," Jamie says, shaking her finger at him. "Thank your brother."
Sam doesn't know what to say so he forks a giant piece of pancake into his mouth. "Wow," he says around the mouthful. "These are actually really delicious."
"Mind your manners, Sam," Dean admonishes just as he steps into the room. "Jamie went to all this trouble for you, the least you can do is not play See-Food at the breakfast table."
Sam's mouth is too full to do anything but glare, but his cheeks are hamster-packed with pancake and he probably doesn't strike as fearsome a figure as he usually does; when Jamie's back is turned, probably dishing Dean out his own pancakes, he swallows hugely and flips Dean the one-fingered salute.
Dean shakes his head and kisses Jamie on the cheek as she sets the pancakes in front of him. "Thanks," he says gruffly.
"I don't usually do this for guys who can only stay one night, but, well––" Jamie shrugs. "I thought you had a thank you coming to you."
"And we appreciate it, it's really immensely, um, appreciated," Sam says quickly, before Dean can come out with anything too self-aggrandizingly disgusting. "This is really great, seriously."
"Well, I'm about ready to go," Jamie announces, pecking Dean on the cheek and resting a hand on the juncture of his neck and his shoulder muscle. "Come down to the 'Fest to say goodbye before you leave for good, huh?"
"Of course," Dean promises, and to Sam's surprise they actually do.
"Dehymenized with pancakes after," Dean crows once they're on the road again, drumming his thumbs happily on the steering wheel. "I still got it, Sammy. Still got it."
"Never say that to me again," Sam groans. "I hate you. You ruin everything you touch."
"I think you're pronouncing 'make everything awesome' incorrectly," Dean cackles, and turns up the radio, which is on a Best of the Blue Oyster Cult marathon. Sam fucking hates this band.
"Needs more cowbell," Sam mutters.
"Every time a cowbell rings, an angel gets his wings," Dean sing-songs happily, adjusting the volume again.
.
V. LIMON, COLORADO
Sam wakes up, muscles tensed for flight, and is greeted by nothing more threatening than the slight of the spidery crack extending from one corner of the ceiling to the other. He blinks twice to jumpstart his night vision and brings the room into focus, but still can't see anything worth shooting or running from––the room is quiet and still except for the tree frogs outside and a gentle, rhythmic rustle coming from Dean's side of the––
oh, for fuck's sake.
Sam and Dean had agreed years ago––years, when Sam was just beginning to discover the wonderful world of his dick––that they'd keep that shit behind closed doors, because contrary to popular opinion, Sam does not actually ever want to hear or, God forbid, see Dean go spelunking in the hills and valleys of his girlish figure.
Sam opens his mouth to tell Dean to knock it off, or at least take it to the goddamned bathroom like a civilized person, when he realizes this is the perfect opportunity to get Dean back for bleaching and frosting his armpit hair. It's not that Dean is all that likely to be embarrassed––Sam was the one who had insisted on the Mutual Non-Masturbation Pact of 1995 because the couple of times he'd walked in on Dean in flagrante dedickto, Dean had just made a face and rolled over and kept going, unashamed. But, Sam figures, Dean'll be off-guard; at the very least, Sam can freak him out a little while planning for a future pièce-de-resistance.
Dean's breath hitches a little. Yeah, that sucker's going down.
Sam carefully detangles himself from his bedsheets and stands up, shaking his hair out of his face. He ninjas over to Dean's bed to the best of his ability; the floor creaks under him, but Dean's too focused on whatever he's doing––gross––to notice. Sam grabs the corner of Dean's blanket, which is covering the entire half-curled shape of his body, and pulls.
"Candid Camera!" he shrieks. Dammit. He'll have to come up with a better punchline next time.
It takes Dean a couple seconds to realize what happened, which, incidentally, is as long as it takes Sam to realize that Dean's got one hand wrapped around his dick and the other undernea––oh God. Oh God.
Sam staggers back, clapping his hands over his eyes. "I hate you, Dean Winchester," he says.
"Sam––" says Dean from somewhere behind him.
"Nope," Sam shouts, shaking his head as he drags on a sweatshirt and his sneakers. "I am going for a run. If I'm not back in three hours, it's because I'm still running. Don't worry about it."
"I'm not––" Dean starts.
"I don't care," says Sam as he slams the door behind him. He needs to run the image out of his brain: Dean, curled in himself, his other hand questing somewhere else––a place where angels fear to tread.
(Or where they don't fear to tread at all, possibly, now that Sam thinks about it. Oh God.)
.
VI. I-80, UNDERWOOD, IOWA
Sam is mostly asleep, crammed into the back seat of the Impala, when he hears Castiel say, "Dean."
"Hey," Dean whispers back. Sam keeps his eyes shut in case one of them checks back his way.
"I wanted to say––" Cas begins, then seems unable to continue, clearing his throat as though he's uncomfortable.
"What is it?" Dean presses. "Is it important? Is this something I should know about?"
"No, no, it's nothing like that," Cas reassures him, hut still doesn't go on. Sam cracks one eye open; Cas is looking steadfastedly out the window, Dean drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel and glancing at him for longer than is probably safe. "It's nothing."
"Well, you came in here in a hurry, so it's got to be something," Dean points out reasonably.
"It was not so much a hurry as an impulse," Cas admits. "I've never had them before. Controlling them takes––getting used to."
"Humanity rubbing one off on you?" Dean chuckles. Sam just barely refrains from rolling his eyes and giving the whole game away.
"You might say that," Cas agrees gravely. "Humanity does rub off more quickly and with greater efficacy than I had truly expected."
Dean outright guffaws, nearly letting the car stray the other lane as he wipes his eyes. Cas has crossed his arms and is frowning at him. Sam has never particularly understood why Dean likes Cas so much, but in moments like these he can nearly see it, the strange and affection-spangled thing they share between them. "We do tend to defy expectations, don't we?"
"That you do, Dean, that you do," Cas says.
The speakers start spitting out Hey, hey, Mama said the way you move gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove, and Dean fiddles with the volume until Sam can feel his body reverberate with the beat at every point of contact with the leather seat under him. His teeth nearly rattle, but Cas is still doing his impression of a wound spring, and Sam doesn't want to be the one to make him pop.
The tape finishes and clicks to silence. Dean ejects it and hands it to Cas. "Your turn," he offers. Sam bites his tongue to hold back his automatic grunt of betrayal––he can count on one hand the times Dean has let him pick their music.
"As you wish," Cas acquiesces, and pecks through the old box of cassettes. He holds one case in his hands for nearly an entire minute before he licks his lips and says, "Dean."
"Yeah?" Dean responds, actually watching the road for once in his life.
Cas reaches to his side and pats Dean bracingly on the shoulder. If it's not the most awkward arm-pat Sam has ever seen, it's definitely in the top ten and vying for position. "I just want to say I appreciate––that I appreciate you, Dean, for––"
"No chick flick moments," Dean interrupts. Sam can see his eyebrows furrow in the rearview mirror.
"But there aren't any baby chickens in this car, Dean," Castiel says, tilting his head to the side as he always does when he's confused, or at the very least pretending to be confused. "And even if there were I wouldn't flick them. That seems unnecessarily cruel, and I have vowed to do no harm."
"Well, you'll harm me if we get too sloppy in here, that's all I'm saying."
Cas clears his throat again. "Pull the car over."
"What? No, I've got at least another three hours––"
"Pull the car over, Dean," Cas insists, solemn as a graveyard, and Sam hears Dean sigh and then the car's inevitable drift over to the shoulder, because Dean has never been able to say no to Castiel, not really, not when it would mean something. "Thank you," Cas continues once the car is idling at the side of the road.
There's a long beat of silence. "Is that it?"
"You said no chick flick moments," Cas reminds him. "I hope thank you is appropriately succinct."
"You're welcome, then," Dean replies. He doesn't drive back onto the road. Sam wants terribly to sit up and end the silence, but the whole car seems wreathed in tension and it doesn't feel like it's his place to break it.
"Dean––" Cas says, and sighs, obviously frustrated. "If the word is really so anathema to you, then––"
"What?"
Cas's coat rustles as he leans forward. "Be not afraid," Cas says dryly.
"Afraid of you? Please," Dean scoffs.
"I can see into your soul, Dean Winchester," Castiel intones, "and I'm telling you––be not afraid," and Sam's got his eyes closed again but it's not like he doesn't know the sound people make when they kiss.
"Holy shit, Cas, you can't just––just spring that on someone," Dean stutters.
"I had not thought it to be a surprise, Dean." It sounds like Cas is frowning, somehow, his voice faintly distorted.
"Well, it was, okay? Christ."
"I've asked you not to take that name in vain," Cas says irritably.
"Would you prefer Our Lord The Motherfucker? Or maybe I should say Fucker of One Specific Mother, it's more accurate."
"Asking you to refrain from blasphemy, Dean, when it's by the grace of God you're here, is little enough to ask."
"Don't give me that Grace of God bullshit," Dean snaps, and then they're kissing again.
Sam counts to thirty and then stretches and yawns as obtrusively as he can stand to. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Dean and Cas spring apart like guilty children. "Oh man, what'd I miss?" he asks brightly. "Hey Cas. Good to see you. I sure was out like a light."
"You didn't miss anything," Dean grunts, "we're on our way, still," and pulls back out onto the highway. "Cas is coming."
"Sure thing," Sam agrees, and manfully refrains from making the obvious joke until the next morning, when they meet up from their separate motel rooms and Dean has a distinct bite mark on the back of his neck right above his shirt collar, when he says, "So I guess Cas came after all, huh," and Dean's entire face goes a hideous, satisfying pink, so then he says, "How was being touched by an angel, anyway? Was it as great as I always imagined or what?" and Dean's arm shoots out to push Sam so hard he nearly falls into the bush in front of the motel's dumpster––and all through it, Sam just thinks: Thank you.