Title: That Which Was Lost... [2/?]
Author: alakewood
Summary: Twenty-one years later...
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2100
Warnings: Slash, of the Wincest variety. Sam/Dean.
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.

oxoxo

June 2006

The Roadhouse was easy enough for Dean to find. He parked the Impala at the far end of the gravel lot next to an old, beat-up El Camino. Gravel dust rose up behind him, caught on the breeze and followed, settling in a thin but noticeable layer on his car. Getting out, he looked at the dirt with a scowl, mentally reminding himself to hit up the firs car wash he came across.

Entering the Roadhouse, he blinked a couple of times as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Everybody at the bar – and behind it – stopped their conversations and turned to look at the newcomer. A few openly stared while a couple of others started talking about him: "John Winchester's boy," he heard an old-timer at a nearby table whisper loudly.

There was a tall kid behind the bar drying beer glasses on a white, threadbare towel while trying to be inconspicuous about watching Dean. The kid apparently had no idea what subtlety was.

"Sam! What's going on out there?" a girl's voice yelled from the back room. "Why's it so quiet all of a sudden?"

Dean grinned cheekily at the other patrons as he moseyed on up to the counter. "I'm looking for Ellen Harvelle," he said to the kid – Sam, he assumed.

Kid glanced up at Dean, eyes hidden by a year's worth of missed haircuts, scowling. "Who wants to know?"

"Sam!" The voice had a face – and a body (a young, petite blonde thing), emerging from the back room, carrying a case of beer. Setting the case down, she said, "Be nice to the customers, Sammy." She leaned against the bar in front of Dean, eyeing him like she was thinking things she looked too young to think about. "Hi. I'm Jo. Harvelle."

"Well, hi there, sweetheart. I'm looking for Ellen. Your mother, I'm guessing?" Maybe a touch too patronizing.

The expression on Jo's face changed so quickly from I'm-going-to-crawl-across-this-bar-and-have-my-way-with-you to I'm-going-to-bitch-slap-you-so-hard-if-nobody-stops-me. Obviously, Dean struck a nerve. "She's not here," Jo said, rolling her eyes.

"Do you know when she'll be back?"

She shrugged. "Do I look like her babysitter? I don't know. Sam?" Then she disappeared into the back room again.

Dean looked at Sam. "Women, huh?"

Sam made another face before the corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. "You have no idea, dude. And, I have to live with her." He set the last glass down and tossed the towel over his shoulder. "Can I get you anything?"

"Your best domestic is fine. You got food, too?"

In response, Sam handed him a plastic-covered menu that had definitely seen better days.

oxo

After Sam had brought Dean his cheeseburger (with the works, and a bottle of hot sauce) and another beer, Sam busied himself cleaning up the tables and taking care of the other customers. But he couldn't keep his mind off of Dean. Eventually, his curiosity got the best of him and he went back over to the mysterious stranger. "So," he started casually, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned back against the counter. "What brings you to the Roadhouse?"

Dean wiped his mouth with a napkin, then balled it up and tossed it into his empty food basket. "Need to talk to your mom."

Sam nodded. "About...?"

"Is it really any of your business?" Dean asked, eyebrows arched slightly.

Sam put his hands up. "Hey. Sorry. Just trying to make conversation." He looked at Dean for another moment before shaking his head and turning away.

Just before Sam was out of earshot, Dean said, quietly, "I'm looking for my dad."

oxo

"Sam!" Jo yelled, poking her head out from the back. "Closing time. Send your friend on his way." She looked at Dean disdainfully before retreating back into the other room.

Sam glanced up at the clock above the shelves of half-full liquor bottles. "Huh." He'd been completely engrossed by Dean's tales of past hunts and lost track of time.

"Time flies," Dean said, getting to his feet and swaying a bit.

Sam looked at the cluster of beer bottles on the bar just to Dean's right. He reached out to him, clamping a large hand over his shoulder. "Hey, you're not driving, are you?"

"Well, I'm not taking the bus," Dean replied sarcastically, trying to shrug Sam's hand off.

"Dude, you're drunk. We've got a couch... You're more than welcome to stay."

Eyed Sam suspiciously and, even drunk – or maybe because of it – could see that Sam was offering more than just was he was saying. Even if Sam didn't seem aware of it. Besides, Dean's wallet was getting thin and he was waiting for those other two credit cards to be approved. A free night's stay somewhere would save him what little cash he had left. "Yeah," he said. "Okay. Sure."

Sam looked a little surprised. "Yeah? Okay. Just, uh, just let me finish cleaning up, then...then we can go. You want another beer while you wait?"

It wasn't like he could get much drunker. Dean settled back on his bar stool. "Why not."

"On the house," Sam said, setting it in front of him.

Dean let his fingers ghost over Sam's as he reached for the bottle. "Thanks." He eyed Sam's mouth, licking his lips, before taking a drink.

Sam was innocent enough to blush, turning away and reaching for a damp rag. "You're welcome."

Silently, Dean watched Sam work; bending, stretching, leaning. Button-up pulled tight across his back, jeans hanging loosely off his slim hips – Dean had to wonder what all that muscle and sinew and skin looked like. It had been awhile since he'd gotten laid, even longer since he'd been with another guy (just that one time in LA because there was no avoiding it – no matter where he went, he was always getting hit on by somebody).

"You ready?" Sam asked, throwing the rag into the empty sink.

Dean slid off his stool again, less steady than he had been before. "Yep."

Sam leaned halfway into the back room. "Jo, I'm heading home. Dean's gonna crash on the couch."

Jo was pulling her jacket on. "Whatever." She tossed a set of keys at him. "I'm going over to Rick's. Don't wait up." With that, she stormed out the back door, letting it slam shut behind her.

Sam pulled a sweatshirt off a hook behind the bar and went to where Dean was standing by the front exit. "Sorry," he said. "Jo."

Dean just nodded and headed outside. "Just gotta get a couple things from my car."

"Okay." Sam turned the lights off and locked the front door. He sidled up beside Dean's car, giving a low whistle. "Nice."

Dean pulled his head out of the trunk, ridiculous grin on his face. "She's my baby."

Sam peered in the driver's side window, then slowly walked around the Impala. "This is a car." He glanced up at Dean. "'67?"

If Sam had been a girl, Dean probably would've proposed then and there. Wasn't freaked out by the hunt (was actually fascinated by it) and knew what year his baby was. Alas. Sam? Definitely a guy, and that necessarily wasn't a bad thing. Besides, Dean felt some sort of connection with the kid.

Sam was staring back at him and Dean realized he hadn't answered.

"Yeah. '67. Sorry, I was just in complete awe for a moment."

"Why's that?" Sam asked as Dean closed the trunk.

They fell in step, side by side, as Sam headed across the small field towards the Harvelle house. "You don't exactly seem like a classic car kind of guy."

Sam nodded. "I couldn't tell you what's what under the hood, but I know body styles. Enough to recognize from a distance." He paused, then explained, "I've got an uncle that runs a salvage yard."

"I see."

The rest of the walk was quiet; a companionable silence, not an uncomfortable one. Sam led Dean into the house ad upstairs. Second door on the right, Sam opened it and turned on the light. One wall was one huge bookcase, completely full of books. "This is my room. You can stay here. The bathroom's right across the hall. I'll be downstairs on the couch if you need anything else." He glanced at Dean quickly before heading back out into the hallway.

"Hey, Sam?" Dean called, still staring at the wall of books.

Sam was through the door in mere seconds. "Yeah?" Dean walked into his personal space, inches away. Just looked up at Sam for the longest moment ever, but Sam couldn't look away. Knew they were thinking and feeling the exact same thing: there was some sort of very real, nearly physical, connection between them. He wasn't surprised when Dean's callused hand slid around the back of his neck and forced their mouths together almost fiercely.

Sam's brain started functioning not long after he found himself shirtless and on his bed, straddled by Dean, a minute - maybe - from being pantsless, too. "Whoa." He placed a firm hand against Dean's chest. "Hold up a minute, okay?"

"Yeah. You all right?"

"I've just..." He looked at Dean's biceps, flexed with the effort of holding his body above Sam's; his eyes traveled across freckled shoulders to a smooth, broad chest and the pendant dangling from a thin leather cord. Returned his attention to Dean's green eyes. "I've never done this before. With a guy, I mean."

"That's okay," Dean heard himself say. "We can go slow." Surprised himself with that – but he actually meant it. For the first time, he wanted more than Wham, Bam, Thank-you, Ma'am- well, Sir.

"You sure?"

Dean's reply was a languid, drawn-out kiss that made Sam clutch at his hips and pull their bodies flush, just pressing, and taking, and giving.

They spent hours like that, making out like high schoolers, before Dean succumbed to sleep. Sam pushed the curtain back from the window to let the moonlight in. He studied the scars on Dean's chest and stomach, cataloging them as if they might provide him with the answers to questions he didn't even know he'd wanted to ask. Dean's whole life mapped out in scars.

oxo

When Sam awoke the following morning, he was alone in bed. But he could hear the shower running across the hall. A glance at his alarm clock showed it was a little after seven – definitely too early for it to be Jo.

The shower turned off and Dean entered Sam's room, towel wrapped around his hips just below the jut of bone, and Sam couldn't not stare.

"Morning," Dean greeted, reaching into his duffle for a change of clothes.

"Morning."

Dean was very aware of Sam's eyes on him as he tugged the towel off and laid it at the foot of the bed before pulling on a pair of boxer-briefs. Sam waited until he was completely dressed before he spoke again.

"How long are you gonna be around?"

"Depends. When's your mom gettin' back?"

"Maybe a week. Maybe less."

Dean nodded. That didn't seem like enough time. Enough time for what?, he had to think. There was something here, between him and this kid. What it was, he couldn't say. It felt as though pieces of himself he hadn't even known were missing were falling into place. One night, Winchester, and you're getting emotional. That's a dick between your legs, not a -

"Oh. Then what?"

"Find the next hunt. Keep looking for my dad."

Sam threw the blankets towards the foot of the bed, swinging his legs over the side. "I gotta get ready for work."

"Okay."

Sam scratched the back of his neck absently. "If you want to stick around for a bit, I can make breakfast."

A home-cooked meal? How could he say- "Thanks, but I can't. There's this, uh, case. In Wyoming. I was gonna check it out. I. I'll see you later, though, okay? I'll stop down at the Roadhouse." He picked his duffle up from the floor and slung it over his shoulder.

"Yeah." The muscle in Sam's jaw twitched. He stalked past Dean, out of the bedroom. "I'll show you out."

Like a walk of shame, but for a different reason. He could feel those perfect-fit pieces slipping away, knew he had to say something.

Sam held the door open, staring at the floor. Waiting.

At the threshold, a half-step away from the morning sunshine, Dean stopped, readjusting his bag. "Sam."

His gaze rose slowly, finally meeting Dean's eyes. "I'll see you."

Such a chick, Winchester. He leaned up and kissed Sam. A promise: "I'll see you later."

But as Dean strode across the field, towards the Roadhouse, part of Sam doubted he'd ever see him again.