Xenogenesis
K Hanna Korossy
The poker game was the last straw.
When Sam had asked, reluctantly and with a lot of embarrassed fidgeting, for fifteen hundred dollars for "something important," Dean had briefly dared hope it was for a high-class hooker or something else fun. Hadn't taken long to find out that wasn't the case, however—yeah, big surprise there—and considering Sam wouldn't tell him what it was for, it wasn't hard to guess. As much as they both pretended Dean didn't know what Sam was working on, it was no real secret his brother was trying to get him out of the deal, and he probably needed the money for the latest book/charm/consult for his quest. Dean was pretty sure financial sponsorship of his brother's efforts fell under trying to weasel out of the deal, not to mention the fact he hadn't wanted Sam to try to find a loophole in the first place, so he said no. If Sam wouldn't tell him what the money was for, then no. Plain and simple.
Except, nothing with Sam ever was.
By the time Dean remembered that, here they were: Sam standing mulishly in front of him, Dean blocking his way with arms crossed. 'Cause this wasn't what Dean had had in mind when he'd snidely suggested Sam earn the money if he wanted it so bad.
"No."
"I'm not asking for your permission, Dean."
"Well, that's good, because you won't get it. I'm not letting you go in there, Sam."
"Yeah?" Sam's mouth turned up mirthlessly. "You gonna try to stop me?"
"From getting yourself killed going up against half of Vegas' mafia in a high stakes poker game? Yeah, I think so."
Sam rolled his eyes. "They're not the mafia and it's not that high stakes. Dude, I just need fifteen hundred."
"Open a lemonade stand."
Sam's jaw shifted. "Move, Dean."
"No."
Hazel eyes narrowed. "So, what, now you're in charge of me? Considering you've got ten months left on the calendar, man, it's a little late to be trying to enforce that."
He didn't let himself react, although his eyes probably registered the hit. "Long as I'm still here, I'm not letting you kill yourself doing something friggin' stupid, Sam."
Sam's hands curled, and for a moment Dean thought he might actually take a punch. Which, considering they were in a casino and there were security people around and, oh, yeah, they were wanted by the FBI, might be a problem. But he didn't budge, just stared Sam down.
His little brother caved first, although with the desperation that glanced through his eyes before he turned away, Dean didn't feel it a win. He followed his stalking brother out, knowing it was a little like grabbing the departing tiger's tail but unable to help himself. "Why, Sam?"
Sam kept moving in that eerily sure-footed, lethal way that reminded Dean of their dad. He still saw Sammy when he looked at his brother, innocent and vulnerable, and the reminders that his brother could probably have held his own against a roomful of wiseguys was not one Dean especially wanted just then. Nor did the irony of needing Sam to be ready to go it alone and not being ready to let him do so, escape Dean. He was just really good at ignoring things.
He had to hurry a little to keep the pace—freakish long legs—and caught up to Sam just outside the casino doors. "Why's it so important to you?"
Sam shoved his hands into his suit jacket pockets—the dress code had been one of Dean's first clues as to his brother's plans that night—and started walking, along the curved sidewalk toward the shadows, and in the opposite direction of their little fleabag motel.
Dean grimaced. Yeah, chasing after a brooding Sam: that hadn't gotten old about twenty years ago. It suddenly irritated him that they were wasting time, one of the last days of his frickin' life, on a temper tantrum. Dean shot out an arm and grabbed Sam's, jerking him around and to a halt. "Cut the act, drama queen—I told you I wasn't gonna help you welch on the—"
"It's not about the deal, all right?" Sam spat unexpectedly. "It's not about you, Dean—not everything's about you. It's about me. Satisfied?" He spun away and started moving again, like a six-foot-four juggernaut.
No, Dean was pretty sure satisfied was not the word he would have chosen. Stunned, maybe. Knocked on his butt. Possibly even humbled. But Sam looking at him like that and admitting he needed a whole lot of money for something Dean didn't even know about wasn't in the ballpark of satisfying. Maybe a whole different state, even.
He shook himself free, jogged up to Sam, who had his shoulders rounded as if waiting for the next attack. Which, okay, fair enough, it wasn't like Dean hadn't been bullying him. He'd just been so sure… after all, with Sam's recent obsession…
Crap.
"Sam… Okay, I'm sorry." It wasn't a word they said often or easily, even to each other. Well, maybe emo-Samantha did, but Dean, not so much. When Sam didn't keep moving, Dean snagged his arm again, but he was gentler this time, lifted his hand quickly when Sam froze up on him. "Just…stop a minute, okay?"
Sam did. Unmoving, as taut as a guitar string, but listening and not running away.
Dean circled him, disconcertingly needing to duck down to see Sam's face. Not that the dim lighting revealed anything of his brother's features besides the pressed-thin lips, but at least Dean wasn't chasing after Long Legs anymore. "So, fifteen-hundred, huh?"
Sam's eyes slid to the right, otherwise he gave no sign of hearing Dean.
Dean's mouth twitched, forced and without real mirth. "You sure it's not for a hooker?"
Sam's face tightened even more, and he started to take a step.
"Don't." The humor that often loosened Sam's defenses was just battening them tighter, and Dean admitted defeat. This wasn't something Sam was just embarrassed about. It went a lot deeper than that, and if Dean hadn't been sure already he needed to know more, he was now. "You can tell me, Sam," he said in all earnestness, choosing the name carefully when Sammy came so easily to his tongue. It was the same way he'd coaxed out of his little brother that a bully had tripped him, that Sam liked a girl in his class, that his first hunt had utterly terrified him. But Sam wasn't so little, nor innocent, anymore. He deserved to be treated as an equal—Dean's partner—not a kid asking for an allowance.
Sam took a breath. His eyes darted the other way, less evasion now and more searching for a response.
Dean recognized the signs, pushed just a tiny bit harder. "Please."
The broad shoulders wilted. Sam blinked at the ground, ventured his gaze up to about Dean's waist, then dropped it again. His voice when he spoke was almost too low to hear. "I need it for a DNA test."
Dean blinked. Hello, left field. "Come again?"
"A DNA test, all right?" Sam's voice rose a little, surface belligerence. "They're expensive."
"I know they're…" Okay, he didn't have a clue how expensive they were. Still. "Dude, did you…?" He made a vague gesture, wishing Sam would read his mind like he did on an annoyingly regular basis, but Sam just looked at him blankly. Dean cleared his throat. "You know. You think you might've…with, who, Sarah?" They hadn't been by New Paltz for a while, certainly not since Madison, but…had it been nine months? Dean tried to do the math in his head.
Sam's head shot up, eyes widening, then a brilliant blush spread across his cheeks that would have had Dean laughing his head off in most situations besides this one. "What—? No! Dean…God, no! I didn't… I wouldn't…"
All right, so it was a little funny. Dean's mouth twisted as he patted Sam's shoulder, trying to calm him down. "Yeah, well, you're not giving me much to go on here, Sam. Who's the test for?"
Sam didn't drop his gaze again, but he seemed to pull himself inward, like a turtle. Bracing himself, and Dean unconsciously did the same. "Me."
"You." Dean stared at him, uncomprehending. "You, like…you."
"Yeah."
"Okay. Uh, why?"
Sam looked away again.
"Oh, no, you're not doing this to me, Sam. You started this, so you finish it. Why do we need to check your DNA? I mean, I know I'm a lot better looking, and your freak height's probably—"
"I want to see if there's anything…wrong with me."
Chilly, clammy hardness settled in Dean's gut. Oh. "Wrong with you as in…" he prompted, hoping he was wrong, knowing for pretty sure he wasn't.
"Not human," Sam whispered.
Dean took a minute to digest that because they were standing on the front lawn of a Vegas casino, his soul mortgaged to Hell, and Sam was telling him he wasn't sure he was completely human. It wasn't exactly a situation Dean had ever pictured himself in. He blinked, still about as shocked as when Sam said the words. Yep, digestion wasn't really happening. "Why?" he said numbly, then straightened, a very, very unhappy thought cropping up. "You don't think…Mom…?"
Thank God, Sam's face utterly crumpled in horror at the thought of Mom in any way being complicit in the matter. His mother's memory was sacred ground, and Dean wasn't sure he could've stood his brother just then if Sam had desecrated it. "No! Geez, no, Dean, I'm not saying…that. I just mean, what if the demon…did…something to me in the nursery that night? What if it changed me?"
"Like how?"
"I don't know!"
Something about that rang false, but he didn't push it. There was plenty more to talk about. "What if it tried to get you and Mom stopped it, like it told you?" Dean shot back, balancing on the balls of his feet. They should never have needed to have this conversation, and he really wanted to hit something very badly at that moment. "What if it's just been messing with your head all along?"
"I can do things, Dean—you know that's not—"
"No," he said hotly, poking Sam in the chest. "You know what I know? I know you're my brother. I know you're Mary and John's son. I know a demon's been messing with us for the last twenty-four years, and I know that every time it makes you doubt, every time you question yourself, you let it win a little more. That's what I know, Sam."
"I'm different, Dean! Shoving our heads in the sand isn't gonna change that!"
"Neither is a piece of paper with a bunch of test results on it!" Dean snapped. He waved a hand. "Dude, I knew you were different from the start."
Sam's eyes were huge. "What?"
"Sure. You were the only one who could make me talk after the fire. You could get Dad to smile when nothing else could. You got us extra pie at diners, earned honor roll in schools we were barely in long enough, and grew your hair faster than anyone I've ever seen. Even with those giraffe legs, you had every girl in the school after you. Of course I knew you were special." It came out almost as an accusation, but considering he'd just reeled off a whole chick confession, that was only saving face.
Sam swallowed, eyes shiny.
Dean resisted rolling his own. Might as well go all the way now. "The things you can do, Sam—so what? It doesn't change who you are. You're still gonna be my pain-in-the-ass little brother."
"For ten more months," Sam whispered.
"No, even when I'm gone," Dean said stubbornly, because this he would not give on, nor give up. "That's never gonna change. And no piece of paper's gonna make a difference, not to me."
"What about me?" Sam asked, trying to sound dispassionate and failing miserably.
Dean studied him. Really looked, taking in the paradoxical set of Sam's chin and the fearful look in his eyes. He finally brought his chin down an inch with a sigh. "This mean that much to you?"
Sam didn't answer. He didn't have to.
Dean folded. Ultimately, he'd never been able to say no to his brother. Not when Sam was scared. "Where is this place?" Because the geek would have already looked it up.
Sam looked at him like he was trying not to hug Dean. Which, thank God at least for that. And which made this whole thing maybe a fraction more bearable.
That was how they ended up spending their last day in Vegas in a clinic, waiting to have Sam's blood drawn.
Dean had no idea what would happen if the results were…off. Heck, for all they knew, if Sam ended up some weird hybrid, it could get back to the feds and bring them down on the Winchesters with a vengeance that would make Henriksen look like a playground bully. But Sam had to know, and Dean couldn't argue it. Better to find out now when he was there to help deal with the aftermath than when he was gone and Sam was…
Well, just, better now. If it had to be at all. And with his overthinking brother, it did.
Dean was careful not to think about the possibilities, himself.
00000
They had the results sent to a mail drop that Dean hadn't used before and didn't intend to again. If someone tried to follow the trail, it would end there.
He'd tried to put off the visit, but Sam had grown visibly more tense every day, and finally Dean had to concede the delay was counterproductive. Getting it over with, even if the news was bad, was better than living in fear. In Sam's fear.
He waited in the car, drumming his fingers idly while Sam went inside the post office. He came out with a simple white envelope in hand. Dean still didn't know exactly what tests Sam had asked for: didn't they do different kinds for law enforcement databases versus, say, seeing if you were gonna get cancer or something? Dean was pretty sure he'd seen a documentary on that at some point. But Sam had seemed to know what he was doing, and Dean didn't ask.
His brother got in the car, unopened envelope held tight. Dean looked at it, then at his motionless brother.
"You want me to open it?"
A shake of the head, but otherwise Sam didn't move.
"It doesn't change anything, dude."
Sam looked at him. Dean looked steadily back. Then his brother took a breath and slid a finger under the flap.
There were several sheets, but again Sam seemed to know what he was looking for. He read in tense silence a minute.
Then sagged in his seat, face turned too far down and away for Dean to see.
He chewed his lip. "So? You gonna grow an extra pair of arms or turn green anytime soon?"
Sam's head shook, hair sliding messily over his forehead. "Normal." His throat bobbed. "I'm normal."
Something dark and suffocating deep inside where Dean hadn't even been conscious of it, suddenly unwound itself and let go. The truth was, even though the doc in Rivergrove hadn't seen anything in Sam's blood, Dean hadn't known what further tests would find, nor what he'd do if the news wasn't good.
But the fear hadn't for a second been for him, and Dean knew that for sure now. He'd meant what he'd said about the results not changing anything.
Dean smiled, sloppy and uncontrollable. "I wouldn't say that," he drawled. "You'll always be a freak to me, Sammy."
Sam stared at him, mouth a little ajar, then scrunched his face up. "You're a jerk, Dean."
"You're a bitch, bitch." He turned the motor over, still grinning.
"I can't believe I'm related to you."
"Looks like," Dean conceded, pulling smoothly back onto the road.
Sam snorted a laugh, as helpless as when Dean would tickle him when he was small.
And that was why Sam had to be Sam. Because Dean was a big brother, had been ever since his father had introduced him to the bump of his mother's stomach when Dean was three; ergo, he had a little brother. Always, even when Sam had been away at school, even when his eyes had turned black, even if he someday grew a halo, or horns.
Even, Dean swore silently, ten months from now.
The End