Dean figures, at this moment, Sam is probably surfing or doing some other equally dumb thing that Dean has always secretly wished he'd get a chance to try. As it is, Dean is not surfing. He's in the middle of Nowhere, aching. Literally. The place isn't even on the map.
He'd been hit while bringing down a basilisk in the Oklahoma desert. This is as far as he had gotten before he realized, he'd better cool it for a day or two and recover. The whole thing wouldn't have happened if someone had his back, but that kind of Monday morning quarterbacking is a big fat waste of time.
At 2:13 in the afternoon it's too early for the bar to be open. He's already wasted half of this day in bed, watching cartoons. It was time to get the fuck out of his motel room when it started to feel like he was in an Indiana Jones movie with the walls closing in on him.
Some people might call the rough hewn wood in this log cabin-turned-greasy spoon quaint, or rustic. Dean hates it. He sucks on the splinter in his middle finger; he got that welcome gift when he slid into his booth. But it's the only burger joint in town, so here he is.
There's nobody else in the place but his waitress and a toothless old couple who keep giving him the hairy eyeball. He gives them the splintered finger.
Meanwhile, the wound in his side is giving him all kinds of hell. It just won't heal properly. It itches and burns. It opens up again every time he makes a single wrong move or does something stupid, like breathe. Blood and pus seep through the bandages and muck up another T-shirt.
His face pinches and he shuts his eyes tight. Percoset is working about as well as Children's Tylenol.
There is still one thing worse than the physical pain: this song. Dean does not want to want to hear this fucking song. He can't decide whether he should yell for somebody to turn it up or turn it off. Just last spring, he swore if he ever heard it again, he'd blow a hole in the speakers it was coming through. The moment the jukebox starts up, he takes his gun out of the holster. It lands on the table next to his lukewarm coffee with an unsatisfying thud.
Usually, Dean is oblivious to the date. It might even take him a second to remember what year it is. But this day?
February 14th is S.A.D.
Sammy Awareness Day.
He's been reduced to acronyms; his self-respect is at an all-time low.
But seriously, what the hell does a martyred saint have to do with roses and chocolate?
"Martyred saints." He grunts the words like a curse.
It was one of those things he'd picked up from Sammy. The kid used to be lousy with "Hey, Dean, did you know?" moments.
His dad's response would always be something like, "How is that going to help you in the hunt?"
So, Dean had seen it as his big-brotherly duty to counter that by ruffling his hair, "No, Sammy. I did not know. Thank you for that useless piece of information."
Secretly, he'd always been proud of the little egghead. You can't be related to someone as brilliant as Sam and not feel like it reflects well on you. But Dean always kept that to himself because, well, what good is it going to do him in the hunt?
Dean knows it's an asshole thing to do but, he snaps his fingers twice and points at his table.
This song makes him think of Sam in the worst way. He needs that like he needs a fourth slice of blueberry pie.
It's not even that good: too much sugar, not enough fruit. The berries are mealy, probably frozen and thawed before baking. It's barely decent. His stomach is already on the edge of what promises to be an agonizing revolt. He doesn't even want the pie, but he can't have what he wants.
The only thing Dean ever really craved is the one thing he couldn't let himself have. Instead, he fucks every girl who'll let him and drains every bottle of beer. As long as he lives, he will eat the goddam bacon, eggs, and cheese and go back for seconds. Because he has perfected restraint in the only thing that ever mattered.
Today, he orders another piece of pie and groans.
This song. This fucking song.
The guitar screeches that riff and something inside of him twists. It could be what's left of the basilisk poison or mediocre pie, but, it's probably the fact that he can't stop thinking about that night.
Sam had come to him with his hands stuffed in his pocket, saying he had asked some girl to the prom.
"Fucking prom." Dean huffs and fingers the barrel of his gun.
The kid had run his fingers through his hair, still trying to look cool. Dean couldn't help but chuckle. The hair was just like the rest of him: growing out of control, despite their dad's constant protests. Sam was old enough to refuse a haircut. It was one of the many arguments Dean helped him win, even if he agreed with John.
The "Dark Side of the Moon" shirt Sam had inherited from his big brother hiked up just enough to make Dean feel pervy for noticing. His pants were short around the ankles, too. It made Dean wonder what Sam planned to wear on the big night.
Money was tight as a nun's ass back then. They couldn't ask their dad to rent a tux when the old man was complaining about having to buy groceries.
Dad was always saying, "You don't shit in your own nest." That meant, since they were hunkered down in Dogtown, Alabama for a little while, Dean would have to make a trip to a billiards hall one town over. He'd been working out a decent con he thought could scare up enough for a second hand shirt, some slacks, and maybe even a necktie for the Incredible Expanding Kid.
Not that Sam had any sense of style. He would have put on damn near anything: that small ass shirt being a case in point. But Dean took care of it. He'd even scammed up enough to pad Sam's pockets with some cash to burn.
But before all of that, Sam had come to him, as if Dean had a fucking clue how to dance. The night of Dean's junior prom had been spent all banged up on Bobby's couch: half-conscious and in enough pain to be only half-glad he was still alive. He and his dad had managed to bring down the rugaru, but only after Dean had the shit knocked out of him. A year later, he had his GED, so the senior prom was a moot point.
Dean doesn't dance. To this day, he knows how to do The Twist, but he wouldn't ever admit it. That's the extent of his dancing knowledge.
But Sammy had this way of assuming that Dean knew everything about the world that he couldn't find in a book. A lot of the time, it was true. One thing was sure; he wasn't about to let the kid down. He decided that dancing was like almost everything else; you can just kind of bullshit your way through it.
Dean flicked on the radio and scrolled through the static, twang and bible thumping freaks, until he came to the first slow song: this song.
Now, Dean is no Beatles fan; he usually goes for the harder stuff, but he has respect for all classics.
He held out his arm and beckoned Sam to come closer. "Come on, man. You can't romance her from across the room."
That had earned him a sweet, shy smile, complete with dimples. That smile is the biggest reason why Dean Winchester can never keep his mouth shut. Ever since they were kids, it was the reward for every snarky remark. No matter how crappy the situation got - and it got pretty craptastic at times - Dean could always make Sammy smile. Sometimes, it was his only reason to keep trudging; the only thing good in a completely fucked up world.
Sam stepped closer with his head bowed, adorably bashful. It had only been in the last year that Dean and his little brother stood eye to eye. But he still looked up to him and it made the older brother's heart swell.
Sam said he couldn't dance, but the way he swayed wasn't like anyone Dean had ever moved with before. It wasn't the swift grace he displayed when they were on a hunt. It wasn't his long lazy sprawl over the bed with some boring-looking, thick-ass book.
It was like poetry: eloquent in ways Dean didn't understand. His slender hips rolled side to side like waves, right there in the palm of his trembling hand. The way Sam danced set fire to him, just as sure as if he had struck a match and tossed it into a pile of dry leaves in the center of Dean's chest. He cleared his throat and stepped back, trying to put even an inch between them.
Dean was used to being close to his brother. They were in each others' space, all the damn time. But his hands were accustomed to sparring, patching him up or smacking him upside the head. This was none of those things. This was fanning the flame and spreading it through his marrow.
Dean tried a playful punch to the gut, which the kid pretended to block. That was familiar. That was allowed.
"Come here." Dean gripped his baby brother by the back of his neck and drew him close again.
The smell of Sam's sweat just barely overpowered the artificial freshness of cheap laundry detergent and motel soap. Sam was the only real thing in a completely fake world. With his face warm on his shoulder, Dean's fingers slipped through the silky hair at his nape. Sam's arms curled around his waist. Dean drew him close enough to discover the kid's wood pressed against his thigh. "God, Sam."
George Harrison's voice warbles out of the jukebox, "You're asking me will my love grow…"
It was no big deal that Sam was hard. He was a kid; kid's are always ready to go.
The fact that Dean himself was also aroused?
Like Mr. Harrison says, "Stick around now. It may show."
How could he be blamed for his body's reaction? Sam was so perfect and so warm and so close. He felt like an extension of Dean, only all the best parts.
He had looked at his little brother and thought "want him so bad."
Out loud, he had muttered something about Sam being beautiful. Dean doesn't remember anymore what the hell he had said. He had been babbling under his breath, in tune with the music. He'd always had loose lips, but that slip had shocked some sense back into him.
Dean took a step back, silently mourning the loss of his brother's heat. Sam had leaned in breathing hard, licking his slightly parted lips.
It was too much like that night. They had sat in the backseat of the Impala with their shoulders pressed together. There hadn't been any music playing. Just the constant battering of the rain on the roof and Dean chuckling about how completely wasted Sam was getting. It had been real cozy, real funny. Then, Sam had kissed him, all sloppy and kid-clumsy.
God help him, Dean's dick overrode his brain. The kid's lips were soft and sweet with a tart aftertaste that went straight to his shorts.
He had indulged himself for less than a minute. In the next instant, even as sloshed as he had been, Dean managed to open the door and pour himself out onto the pavement. He had stood outside, letting the rain sting his eyes and run down his nose. It had drenched him sober, even if it couldn't purify the thoughts going through his depraved mind.
Would Sam have let Dean have his tongue? What would that be like? How would it be to feel baby boy shiver when Dean got his mouth on his neck, his nips, his dick?
Eventually, he had climbed into the driver's seat, dripping wet and shaking like a sick dog. He took one last look back at Sam, stretched out across the seat like things had gone very differently. Seeing him all pliant and watery eyed, Dean just shook his head and thought, "God, what is wrong with me?"
Sixteen. The kid had been sixteen that night.
He was just a year older when Dean found himself standing there, about to drown in wide, mottled eyes. Something in the way Sam gazed made his heart skip like an old record. They weren't dancing anymore. This was foreplay. This was going to end … Badly.
The room spun like he'd been drugged. Dean didn't even stop to grab his jacket. He turned and went straight for the door, scooped his keys from the table and piled his ass in the car. The tires screeched as he fled the parking lot, punching the steering wheel and cursing himself.
Dean would go on spending the rest of his life pretending that shit had never happened because, what alternative was there?
There were times after that when Dean could be sitting right next to the kid; Sam would be staring off like his mind was already somewhere else. It was just waiting for the rest of him to catch up. Dean had no idea how to go there with him, or else he would have tried.
On the other side of summer, Sam was gone.
He'd climbed on a bus for CA, in spite of all of Dad's whacked out threats. For the first time, Dean hadn't stood between him and Sam. Just like he hadn't stood between Sam and that bus.
It was probably for the best.
Sam wants normal. Dean knows he's about as far from that as it gets. So, he doesn't bother the kid. Doesn't call. Only drove past the campus a few times since last fall.
He hadn't stuck with their dad another two weeks after Sam left. Just snapped and split. He couldn't stand to be stuck, day in and day out, with the asshole who had said his boy shouldn't come back. Dean is a good soldier, but even he has his limits.
Dad still calls him in on the occasional hunt. Mostly, though, Dean is solo; sometimes, so low he doesn't think he'll get back up. Then, the sun does its thing the next day, and somehow he does the same.
When the damn song ends, he still isn't breathing normal. His fucking side is killing him. His whole body hurts.
The old people are really glaring now. Yeah, well, fuck them.
He drags his ass up to the counter and slaps down another five spot. "Quarters."
The waitress pops her gum like she's 16 instead of 60. She puts her hands on her broad hips and turns her nose up like Dean's money is made of rubber. "You gonna play that same damn song again?"
Dean knows she's seen the gun. She has the nerve to sass him anyway. He always did have respect for ballsy women. If she was 30 years younger, and he was drunk off his ass, he'd coax her back behind this dump and make her day. He'd show her what kind of man she was talking back to.
And this is how far he's fallen: fantasy fucking his geriatric waitress. "So what if I am?"
"Oh, no, you ain't." She's fast for her age.
And he's compromised, with his messed up side. She beats Dean to the jukebox, opens the glass top and pulls out his record: the one he's hates and has been playing on repeat for the last hour. As she tries to get away with it, he grabs hold of the vinyl. Catching a glimpse of her cracked name tag, he growls, "Let it go, Gladys."
"You let it go. If I have to hear that song one more time, I'm'onna lose my ever lovin' mind."
In the end, he lets her have it, because he actually couldn't have said it better himself.
In exchange for a promise that he will only play the next song once, she cracks a roll of quarters and hands it over.
The next song has practically the same title: Something in the Way.
"Nirvana." Dean grumbles. He never saw the appeal in grunge; can't really stand this whiney emo crap.
Wait. What? Did this guy just sing, "It's okay to eat fish?"
This kind of nonsense is exactly why Dean doesn't listen to modern music. Whatever happened to real lyrics that actually mean something? He's no Robert Frost hiimself but, Jesus.
Tired from that little skirmish and feeling generally pitiful, Dean retreats to his table. He settles into the booth and shoves the uninspiring pie around with his fork.
Somewhere around the chorus it occurs to him that this song sounds exactly how he feels. He sinks into the languid thrum; wallows in the low, slow drone of the voice. This guy is moaning more than he is singing. Dean has had his wailing nights: sleepless and Sam-less, in some shitty motel somewhere.
He gives in; gives up trying to understand the words. He lets out a sigh so loud, he'd be embarrassed if there were anyone else around to hear it. But it's just him, Gladys and the old couple: looking considerably less hostile than before.
And there's this song: ruthless, strangely sweet torture until the last note.
Who would have thought Dean Winchester had anything in common with Kurt fucking Cobain?