You're all going to hate me for this chapter.
It gets better in the next one, promise.
For as long as Dean could remember, he'd woken up before Sam. It was a habit that had been ingrained in him almost twenty-two years ago, when Sam was six months old and needed to be fed, changed, and comforted every few hours - and Dad was usually passed out drunk, self-medicating for the loss of his wife. As they got older, it'd been useful because he could have breakfast ready for his little brother when he woke up, so mornings in a cheap motel room out in God's Nowhere Land were just a little better. Or he could pull him out of whatever obscure corner of the bed he'd wriggled into during the night and cover him with kisses and warm touches, if it wasn't a school day. It was fun to hear his little growls of protest because he wanted to keep sleeping.
But, if he stayed in his arms all night, snuggled against his chest like it was his favorite place in the world...then waking up before Sam was a real treat. Dean hadn't expected that to ever happen again, after the way Sam had treated him when he showed up in his apartment. And the distance he'd forced between them as they worked to find Dad, even though they were at least treating each other civilly now instead of snapping and shoving. So, when he woke up holding someone warm and solid, his sleep-fuzzed brain didn't immediately remember - or believe - that it was Sam.
Oh, shit, I must've fallen asleep, he thought, heart sinking. He assumed he'd gone home with someone he met at a bar. He didn't actually remember going to a bar last night, but that didn't mean much. What mattered was that he'd bedded this person and then stayed the night, which he never allowed himself to do. It conveyed the wrong message. She must think - No, not a woman, the chest pressed to his was flat and angular. - he must think I like him. Damn it, this is gonna be awkward...gonna have to explain I've got somebody else I'm just waiting for...God, I hate talking to one-night stands about Sammy...
The guy in his arms shifted a little, and suddenly whimpered in pain. Dean's breath caught in his throat as the voice registered.
I...no. Gotta be dreaming. Right?
But last night was coming back to him through a haze of exhaustion, stress, denial, and excitement. He held back those memories, making sure. He smelled blood, hydrogen peroxide, antiseptic ointment...and Sam, such a warm, clean, wholly familiar scent. The shape was right, his torso bare and ridged with lean muscle, and Dean felt bandages and hot, smooth skin when he moved his fingers a little. There was a nest of soft hair resting against his shoulder and tickling his neck.
He remembered the absolute terror of cleaning and closing up Sam's wounds last night, pulling each one open to dab the blood and grit out and expecting a torn, pulsating organ to spurt gore at him in a death sentence for his younger brother. He remembered hating himself for touching Sam so intimately when he obviously didn't want it, and his lack of arousal even though Sam's bare skin was under his hands. He was just too scared to be horny, too concerned about his pain. And that bite. The bite was a problem.
And he remembered Sam hugging him. Begging him to stay. Immediately nestling into his chest and and his embrace, making tiny sounds of contentment and comfort. Oh, God, he'd loved him so much right then, with a painful intensity he hadn't felt for years, and he'd wanted to protect him from everything that might hurt him.
Yeah, Sam'd been out of it when he practically begged to be held. But that wasn't a big deal. No matter how hopped up on pain pills he'd been, he still loved Dean, and he still automatically turned to him when he was scared and hurting. Eyes still closed and head resting on a pillow, Dean couldn't keep a disbelieving, ecstatic smile from spreading across his face. Sam had let him sleep in the same bed with him, and he'd let him touch him - asked him to touch him - and he'd spent the entire night safe in his arms without moving once. Every little gesture and vocal tic that he'd latched onto before meant nothing now, because this was indisputable proof that there was still so much between them worth salvaging.
Sam still loved him. He couldn't get over that.
With a long, happy sigh, Dean tipped his head back a little and pulled Sam just the tiniest bit closer to him, being incredibly careful of his stitches. The very last thing he wanted to do was hurt him. He could remember spending a million mornings like this, staying still and just enjoying every single sensation, so he didn't wake up Sam before he was ready. Even as Dean stopped growing and Sam matched, then surpassed him in size, they had slept in this position. It was familiar, it felt good...it was what they automatically fell into at the end of the day. Dean hadn't even realized how much he'd missed it until he felt Sam's weight pressed against him again, filling up a space he hadn't even known was so painfully empty. All the pain and abandonment and uncertainty of the last two years (and, especially, the last week) was totally worth what he was feeling right now.
His fingertips brushing against the bandages on Sam's back as he moved one of his hands in an unconscious, soothing motion, Dean wondered what this meant. Did he have him back now, completely, as a brother and a best friend and a lover? Or was this just the very beginning of what they needed to do to rebuild their relationship?
Either way, he was all for it. Just so long as he got to keep touching and holding.
Sam stirred, his movements stronger now, and groaned in pain. Realizing he was waking up, Dean opened his eyes and raised his head. A tangle of dark hair greeted him, and one bandaged shoulder (hunched inward, reminding him of a broken wing), and his own arms, holding this fragile bundle of tan skin and clever mind and aching stitches to his chest.
"Hey, c'mon, now, take it slow," he murmured to him. "It's gonna hurt like a son of a bitch today, and you gotta get used to it. Don't make it worse."
Sam's hand was on his shoulder, gripping him through the thin white button-down he hadn't had the time to take off last night. It moved slightly now, feeling. With one side of his face pressed to Dean's chest and other shoulder, he murmured out a question that might've been his name.
"Yeah...good morning," Dean said softly, patting the side of his ribcage. There wasn't anything there that would hurt. He thought about kissing the top of his head, but that might not be okay yet. "How'd you sleep?"
Because I slept great, with you right here, he thought, smiling down at him. I wanna tell you that. I want you to know what you mean to me.
"Fine."
Dean paused, his smile fading. It'd only been one word, but it's been enough for him to tell that something was wrong. Sam's voice was so...expressionless, and it shouldn't be. Not after what'd happened, and not with what he obviously felt.
Oh, God, please, not this again. I can't go back to this.
"You...hurting, or something?" he asked uncertainly, as his heart sank and his stomach twisted. He was praying that Sam's lack of emotion came from something other than the fact that they'd spent the night so close. Dammit, he'd wanted this, hadn't he? "Here. Just go real slow, take all the time you need, and we can get you breakfast and some pills. I'll help you if you need it."
Sam's chest slowly expanded and contracted as he breathed, a tiny wince occasionally shuddering through him as he stretched one of his wounds too far. He didn't say anything for a little bit, and Dean swallowed fear and anxiety. Slowly, the hand on his shoulder opened, and moved away. He closed his eyes as the cool air of the motel room hit him through his shirt.
Don't do this, Sammy...
"Dean." Again, his voice was totally blank, and quiet. "Let go of me. Please."
Don't do this to me.
His first instinct was to just hold on, because he hadn't done anything wrong and he hadn't had Sam this close to him in years - he wanted to enjoy it for a little longer. But he couldn't do that, because he'd be forcing him into something he didn't want. The thought made him sick. So he opened his arms, and moved away from Sam as he twisted and turned and carefully maneuvered himself into a sitting position. Every tiny sound of pain he made was like a blow to Dean, and he wanted so badly to help, so he could make it easier. The morning after a beating was always hellish in a way few people could understand. But he kept his hands to himself, sitting up and resting his forearms on his bent knees as he watched Sam. He was sitting on the opposite edge of his bed, torso held stiffly, his hands bearing some of his weight.
Please.
"You got bit," he spoke up, just wanting to fill the silence. What he actually wanted to do was ask him just what the hell was wrong with him, and what he'd done to deserve this. But that might push him further away. "D'you...feel any different this morning? Like you're turning into a monster?"
Sam shook his head, but didn't say anything. Then he shivered, just a little bit. Dean, still pretty much fully clothed, wasn't feeling the chill of the early morning, but Sam's torso was bare. He sighed, scooting over until he could hook his legs over the edge of the bed and sit beside him.
"You're cold," he murmured. "Sam..." He hesitated, then shook his head and decided to just go for it. He'd been dealing with Sam brushing him off and keeping them apart for almost a week now - over two years, actually, if you counted his time at Stanford - and he was sick of it. Especially now that they'd spent the night together, at Sam's urging. Things were different now, and he was damn well going to act according to that. "Whatever morning-after regrets you're having right now, get rid of 'em. It's not worth it, we can't afford it - and I don't even know why you'd have morning-after regrets, seeing as we didn't do anything. We just slept." Dean studied Sam's face, which was impassive, hazel eyes aimed down at the floor. "So...let me warm you up, okay? We'll go real slow with this. I didn't do anything last night that I thought you might be uncomfortable with, and that's not gonna change." Taking a chance, he reached up and used the very tips of his fingers to stroke the ruffles of dark hair that fell onto Sam's neck. "You can trust me."
"Dean, I..." He hesitated, squeezing his eyes shut. His mouth worked as he chewed on the inside of his lip. "Okay. Don't...don't touch me." He reached up, grabbed his wrist, and guided his hand away, and Dean felt the muscles in his face twitch involuntarily. Even though the movement was so reluctant on Sam's part
"Sammy - "
"Don't call me that, either." He turned away, refusing to look at him even as he opened his eyes. "It's just 'Sam' - and last night didn't mean what you obviously think it meant."
"Excuse me?" Dean asked, feeling like he'd just been kicked in the stomach.
"Look. Obviously, I was pretty out of it, and I was hurt, and I was scared," Sam started. "You...comforted me, I guess, and...that was okay. You were...being a good brother." He rubbed a hand over his face. "But we're just partners."
"Sam - " Dean tried, disbelief evident in his voice.
"I told you that I didn't want anything else," Sam quietly interrupted him. "So...we can't ever do anything like this again if we're gonna keep working together. Last night never should've happened - and, yeah, I know it was my fault, but I wasn't thinking straight. You think this was the start of something, but...it wasn't. And I think we should just try and forget about it."
"'Forget about it'?" Dean asked incredulously. "How the hell can you expect me to - "
"We are brothers," Sam said forcefully. "We're related. We can't do this...and I - I don't want to."
Dean stayed silent for a little bit, his heart hammering in his chest and anger and pain twisting bitterly in his stomach. He didn't know how to fix this, or what to say - because, yeah, he'd thought this was the start of something. He'd made himself vulnerable, and now Sam was taking advantage of that, even if he didn't realize it.
I wish I didn't love you like I do, so I could hurt you back.
But he could manage, "So. You're really gonna do this. You're gonna act like nothing happened."
"Don't get pissed at me," Sam said, and it sounded like he was begging. "Look. I'm not leaving, I'm not yelling...you fixed me up and then you didn't take advantage of me, and I understand that. I'm grateful for that. But...no. I'm not gonna be your - " His upper lip twitched a little, like he was fighting with himself about what he was going to say. " - lover again. I have a girlfriend, Dean. I wouldn't want this even if we weren't related."
"Yeah, I know," Dean replied, staring fiercely down at his boots and digging his fingers into the mattress. This hurt. Even worse than when Sam had left for Stanford, and when he'd hit him. Last night, he'd gotten back the one thing he loved and cared about more than anything else, practically a missing piece of his heart...his Sammy. And now that sense of perfect wholeness was being taken away again, leaving him raw and empty. But he didn't know how to say that so Sam would understand.
"I'm gonna...ow...shower, and get dressed." Sam winced as he got to his feet, still not really looking at Dean. "You can get us breakfast, and then we can go back to Robbi's house. Look around."
"Sam..." Dean tried, not sure what he was gonna say but desperate to try. He needed to salvage something. But Sam ignored him, moving stiffly to the bathroom and closing the door behind him. The lock clicked mournfully.
Dean bowed his head with a deep, shuddering sigh. Part of him desperately wanted to yell at Sam, call him out for going back on the promises he'd made last night with his gestures and his body. To touch him no matter what he said, and plant kisses on his hair and the back of his neck from behind, and pull him into quick embraces whenever he thought he needed it. But he had to force those urges down, despite his resentment of his younger brother - and himself, for being so weak. Because, again, that would be forcing something he didn't want on him. Basically rape, which Sam had already all but accused him of right after they started working together...and he didn't want to validate that.
It might make him leave, too, and Dean couldn't stand that. Having him here, even acting like he was and refusing all contact unless he was drugged, was a million times better than being separated again. He couldn't touch, this way, but he could still get his fill of hazel eyes and shaggy brown hair and a deep, deliberate voice.
But that was a pretty small comfort as Dean stared at the closed door, furious and indignant but mostly just hurt.
I kept you safe last night, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut and massaging them so he wouldn't cry. Yeah, because that was exactly what he needed right now - to start bawling in a cheap motel room because his boyfriend didn't want to get back together with him. He didn't let himself think about the fact that there was so much more to it than that. I protected you. I took care of you.
Water stuttered on in the bathroom, and Dean imagined Sam unwinding his bandages and awkwardly trying to shower without getting his stitches wet. He didn't think about his naked body, though that definitely would've been nice. He just thought about how difficult and painful his normal routine was going to be for him, on his own.
That used to be enough.
He forced himself to his feet and wandered over to the table, where he'd left his car keys. He needed to get breakfast.
I did what was best for you...didn't I?
Early October, 1990
"Excited to go back to school?" Dean asked, crouched behind his brother to zip up his jacket. Sammy nodded emphatically, almost hitting him in the nose with his head.
"Uh-huh!" He was fidgeting, impatient, his small, soft body practically buzzing with energy under Dean's hands. "Can we go yet?"
"Hey, calm down. Jesus, you little bookworm..." Dean checked his jacket, his jeans, his boots, and his gloves, making sure he was properly buttoned up against the harsh Montana cold. "Okay, let's get your hat on. Your worksheet's in your backpack, right?"
"Yes!" Sammy bounced on his heels, incredibly excited by the prospect of turning in real homework for the first time. He hadn't been able to stop talking about it all weekend, and Dean had listened, knowing how grownup this made him feel. He'd never had any in kindergarten, and he'd always finished all his work in class as a first grader. He always watched, wide-eyed, as Dean made a half-assed pass at book reports and math assignments in their motel rooms, and begged to help. Most of the time, his "help" amounted to sitting in Dean's lap and listening to him swear at things he didn't understand, because they were four years apart. So the addition worksheet that his teacher had given him on a Friday was a big deal. "It's in my folder. I checked." He looked over his shoulder, as Dean stood up to reach for the woolly green hat on the nightstand between their bed and Dad's. His excitement seemed to fade, suddenly, and he just looked vulnerable. "Dean...can you check it again? On the way to school?"
"I've checked it three times. I think you're good," Dean replied, tugging the hat down over Sammy's ears and smashing the wavy curls of his hair flat in the process. "'Sides. It was right the first time. You're smart." He knelt, and brushed some hair out of Sammy's face, his own gloves making the movement clumsy. "I bet your teacher's gonna be real proud of you. When we get home, you can hop in bed, I'll make some of that instant cocoa Dad picked up the other day...and you can tell me all about it. Okay?"
"Okay." Sammy smiled at him, nervous but happy again. "You really think I did good?"
"I think you did great, Sammy. You definitely spent enough time on it. I feel like I barely saw you this weekend..." Dean automatically opened his arms when Sammy stepped forward and pressed himself against him with no warning, holding him tightly as he murmured an apology into the collar of his own, one-size-too-small jacket. "No, you don't gotta be sorry. We'll make up for it tonight." He let Sammy bury his face in the space between his neck and his shoulder, and dipped his head to breathe in the warm, comfortable little-kid scent of him. He planted a few soft kisses on the hair that curled out from underneath his hat, and the narrow strip of bare skin visible between that and his jacket, and Sammy grabbed onto him with a small sound of pleasure. "Warm enough?"
"Mm-hm." Dean leaned back against Dad's bed, pulling his little brother onto his lap and completely unable to hold back a soft chuckle as he burrowed into him again, reluctant to be separated.
"Few too many layers, though," he murmured, pushing him back a little and laying a hand against his chest. "I'm not looking forward to getting those all off, to see how beautiful you are under there."
Sammy smiled, the expression shy and full of love, and leaned back in to pepper Dean's throat with tiny kisses. He purred in approval, hugging him tightly. Almost two years since Dean's withdrawal (which he could tell Sammy still didn't understand) had reaffirmed their confidence in each other. Sammy barely left his side, but he was no longer afraid that he'd be abandoned at any moment. And Dean, able to see how happy what they did made him without hurting him at all, wasn't worried about it being wrong anymore. Obviously, he knew it wasn't right to kiss and hold and jerk off his baby brother, and that anyone who found out about it would probably freak out, but he didn't care. It worked for them.
Dean closed his eyes, comfortable and content, and let Sammy rest against him. But they flew open again in a second as he heard a car pull up and idle outside.
"Dad's here, we gotta go," he told Sammy, pushing him off his lap. "Get your backpack."
He could tell Sammy was disappointed, but they didn't really have a choice. They either hurried outside as soon as Dad showed up and he took them to school, or one of them didn't quite make it out the door in time and got left behind. No matter how big a fit the other pitched about it.
And they couldn't kiss and touch in front of Dad. Dean slung his ragged backpack onto his shoulder and hurried Sammy, with his small, battered red one, out the door of their motel room. He didn't allow it, and he was pretty sure his brother didn't understand anything about it except that Dean had told him not to, but that was good enough. Sammy didn't need to deal with the guilt or the fear that still hit him every once in awhile.
Dean pulled open the door of the Impala and scrambled in as soon as Sammy had, waving away his worksheet with a reassuring smile when he tried to get him to check it again, telling him he knew, for a fact, that it was perfect. That seemed to appease him. He really hoped that he wasn't this paranoid in the future, when he got more homework; as proud as Dean was of his little brother's academic drive, he didn't think he could take another weekend with him as nervous as he had been during this one. And he wasn't sure he could help him anymore, as he moved into higher and higher grades.
As Dad brought the car to a temporary stop right beside the entrance to their school, Dean grabbed his backpack and pushed the door open. His boots had barely hit the ground before Sammy was scrambling out right next to him. He hesitated before running off in the direction of his classroom, looking up at Dean uncertainly. Like he needed just the tiniest bit more reassurance to get him through the day. Dean felt a flood of sympathy and put a hand on his small shoulder, squeezing comfortingly; after shooting a quick glance at Dad, to make sure that he wasn't looking, he dropped to one knee and pressed a quick, tender kiss to Sammy's soft pink lips. That seemed to be enough. He let go of him, watching him run off to the grade school wing of the building, and turned towards his own classroom. In the back of his mind, he noted that his teacher - he hadn't bothered to learn her name - was standing in the doorway, eyes fixed on him and expression troubled. He didn't care.
At least, he wouldn't. Not for several hours.
Late September, 2005
Dean was numbly nursing a cup of coffee, hunched over the table, when Sam came out of the bathroom, fully dressed and with damp hair. He idly wondered how he'd gotten the clothes. Had he darted out and grabbed them while he was down at the gas station? Or did he stash an extra outfit under the sink, just in case?
"Got your bandages on okay?" he asked as Sam sat down across from him, hazel eyes skating across him like he wasn't even there. He kept his voice casual, slightly upbeat. Because he could totally pretend that it was a bright new day and nothing at all had happened last night.
"Um...yeah. Fine," Sam said quietly, staring at the cheap vinyl finish of the table as he reached for his own coffee. Just like always, Dean had dumped massive amounts of sugar and creamer and other stuff into it, to make it all sweet and frilly like he preferred. Coffee was important, and he wasn't going to screw with Sam's just because he'd figuratively ripped his heart out of his chest earlier.
"Y'know, down at the gas station this morning..." Dean began, taking another sip of coffee and carefully watching Sam. Maybe his stare was a little too intense to be considered perfectly friendly, but he didn't actually care. "I noticed the cashier was pretty cute." He shrugged. "Nice ass. So...you don't mind if I take off for a little bit tonight, do you?"
Sam stiffened. Not much, but enough that Dean caught it. He glanced up, then looked away again just as quickly, and Dean saw something flicker through his eyes before he did. Hurt. He'd hurt him.
It should've made him happy, but he just felt a little sick.
"You don't get to be all wounded when I talk about having sex with other people," he snapped before thinking, and the sick feeling got worse. "I don't owe you any loyalty."
"I'm not wounded," Sam snapped back, anger obviously flaring up in him for a second before it faded and he lowered his voice again. "Why would I be? There is nothing going on between us, and it's better if we act like there never was...so of course you don't owe me anything."
"But we did have something," Dean replied, fully aware that he was playing with fire as he took another drink. "We had a whole lot of something, and pretending it never happened isn't gonna get rid of what we both felt. What we're still feeling, if last night is any indication at all."
"Dean, stop it," Sam murmured, staring down at his insulated cup.
"You can't do this," Dean argued, swallowing apprehension and anxiety and a fear of pushing him away. "You can't just make everything go away. You grabbed onto me last night and begged me to hold you, to spend the night with you, and you can't make that go away."
"Stop it," Sam repeated, looking away.
"I..." Dean hesitated, before quietly saying, "No. I ain't gonna."
They sat in silence for several minutes, before Sam closed his eyes and began to speak in a soft, almost vulnerable voice.
"I don't wanna fight," he started. Dean waited, both hands wrapped around his cup. He was more than willing to hear him out. "I'm so sick of fighting with you. Things've been so much better between us than they were at first, these past couple of days, and I want to go back to that. I don't..." He hesitated. "I don't think I could handle you being angry with me again. Resenting me. And I don't want to be angry with you." He actually looked at him now, fixing him with a steady gaze. "Okay?"
"Okay," Dean agreed, because he didn't really know what else he could do. Immediately, he felt the distance between them again, and Sam broke eye contact, staying quiet until they were ready to leave.
It was something, at least. Things had changed. All he could do was hope that they would keep on doing that, until Sam was right back where he belonged.
Early October, 1990
"Dean...here's a hall pass. You need to visit the counselor."
Bent over his desk, putting minimal effort into a graphing assignment, Dean looked up at his teacher. She was leaning over him, keeping her voice quiet so none of the other students around him could hear. He scowled at the slip of blue paper that she was offering him. She was a younger woman, even younger than his dad, which set her apart from a lot of the teachers he'd had over the years. He didn't like her, even though he could tell his classmates did, with the pale brown hair that she loosely braided and her wide blue eyes and her flower-print blouses. But she didn't follow the unwritten script that he expected teachers to, when he was in their class. She didn't ignore him as soon as he made it obvious he didn't care about school. She tried to give him extra credit so he could bring his grades up, she came over to his desk to help him with his work, she attempted to involve him in the class. She was way too interested in him, and that automatically made him uncomfortable. She was an outsider. She shouldn't care about him.
"Why?" Dean demanded, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms defiantly across his chest.
"She wants to talk to you," his teacher said softly. "I asked her to."
"Why the hell would you do that?" He fidgeted, uneasy behind his caustic tone.
"Watch your language," she reprimanded him, but there was no real anger in her voice. "School words only." She hesitated, before continuing. "Dean, I'm...concerned about you. The counselor - Mrs. Wells - can tell you more."
He didn't move, unconvinced. His dad hadn't prepped him for this exact situation, but he was pretty sure he knew what to do. He didn't like this at all. Fortunately, it had seemed, last night, like Dad's hunt was wrapping up, so they'd probably be out of here before whatever was going on with his teacher could get any worse.
"You get to miss class," she coaxed, holding the hall pass a little closer to him. He examined it warily, then took it, making a big show of only using the tips of his fingers. Missing class meant that he couldn't be yelled at for not doing assignments he wouldn't've done anyway.
He didn't see anyone at all in the halls until he reached the heavy wooden door on the other end of the school, with Janina Wells - School Counselor engraved in its brassy plaque. He only knew where it was because he passed it every day on the way to lunch. Which was coming up soon - this lady'd better not keep him through it. Sammy would be terrified if Dean wasn't around to sit with him. He wouldn't know what had happened.
He hoped he could find someone else, and wouldn't sit alone, if Dean didn't show up. He knew that there were kids in Sammy's class who liked him and who he liked back. Maybe it would even be good for him to socialize with some of them.
That didn't mean he would be okay with basically being forced to abandon him, though.
Janina Wells was a severe-looking woman, but Dean wasn't intimidated. He'd seen a crazed werewolf, chained to a cement pylon under an overpass so Dad and a hunter friend of his could show him what one looked like before they killed it, and normal humans just didn't scare him anymore. He eyed the wide streaks of gray in her hair and the outdated motivational posters on the walls as he pulled out the plastic chair in front of her desk and sat. No, he wasn't intimidated. Even though she had a thick file in front of her that had to be his, and her desk - made of some glossy red wood - was big and ornate enough to dominate the tiny room.
Mrs. Wells smiled at him. He didn't smile back.
"Dean Winchester?" she asked, sounding like someone who already knew she was right.
"That's my name, don't wear it out," he replied, slouching in the chair. She smiled again. He didn't trust her.
"I'm very glad you came to see me, Dean," she said, leaning forward and folding her hands on top of the file.
"I'm not sure I had all that much of a choice," he said, folding his arms in an unconscious imitation of her.
"Well, still." She regarded him with careful, kind brown eyes. "Let's talk about school, Dean. How are you doing in class? Do you like it?"
"No, it's useless. And I suck at it. I'm failing, but I don't care."
"Why are you failing?"
"I never do my homework."
"Why not?"
He swallowed. I didn't do my book report 'cause my dad needed my help tracking the pair of zombies he's after. I never finished my essay on the Panama Canal because I was learning how to stab something through the ribs and hit its heart. I lost my science worksheet because, one of those zombies? It was outside our motel room one night, and my dad was busy with the other one across town, and I had to keep my little brother from finding out what it was. I had to protect him, because he was so scared. He shrugged, but didn't answer.
Mrs. Wells nodded, still looking at him. "And why do you think it's useless, what you're learning?"
"'Cause I don't need to know it. It's not important." He shrugged again. "I'm gonna do what my dad does when I grow up, and he's teaching me everything I gotta know for that."
"And your father is...?" She made a tiny "go on" motion with her hands.
"A - " Hunter. He's a hero, he saves people. He kills monsters. And that's what I'm gonna do. " - mechanic."
Mrs. Wells frowned down at his file. "It says here that your father - John - is the sole guardian of you and your younger brother. And you have no fixed address."
"Nope."
She looked back up at him and leaned forward again, quietly saying, "Dean, I would like it very much if you told me about your home life."
"What do you want to know? It's fine." Dean shrugged for a third time. "Dad's awesome, I've got Sammy. We're great."
"Did you know that Ms. Trevois has tried very hard - and failed - to get an audience with your father so they can discuss your grades?" she asked.
He almost asked who the hell she was talking about, before realizing that "Ms. Trevois" must be his teacher. He shrugged, yet again, before saying, "He's busy."
"How often is your father at home, Dean?"
"Enough," Dean answered shortly. He'd been warned, multiple times, about people who asked too many questions - especially these sorts of questions. His family might not be totally conventional, but he didn't need anyone taking him away from it.
"Okay." Mrs. Wells wrote something down. He couldn't help but wonder what it was. "I think we should talk about your brother now. Sam. He's in...first grade, right?"
"Second," Dean responded automatically. "His teacher's Mr. Zhang."
"How do you feel about him?" she asked, watching him. "Your brother, I mean."
"I...he's my little brother." He looked down at his lap. He didn't like the direction that this was going in. He couldn't help but remember what he had been thinking this morning, about how if, anyone ever found out about what he was doing with Sammy, they'd freak out.
"That doesn't really answer my question," she prompted gently.
"He's okay," Dean said stiffly, unfolding his arms to grip the sides of his seat. He worked at the solid plastic with his fingers.
"How much time do you spend with him?"
"Um. A lot, 'cause, y'know. I kind of have to." He gave her a tiny, tense smile.
"Do you ever leave Sam alone to do things with your friends?"
"No. No way." He shook his head. "I wouldn't do that. He'd be scared if he was all alone."
Mrs. Wells nodded again, and wrote something else down. "You two seem very close."
"Yep." He fidgeted, looking anywhere but at her. "Look. Lady. Can I go yet?"
She ignored him, tipping her head to the side just a little. "Dean..."
He wished she'd stop saying his name.
"Has anyone ever suggested to you that your relationship with your brother might not be...healthy?"
"Excuse me?" He blinked, and then looked at her with a scowl. "Why the hell'd you think that?" He swallowed, but managed to maintain his scowl. "He needs me. He's just...he's little, still. He needs me."
"I'm not sure he needs everything you're providing for him," she told him. Dean, slumped sullenly in his chair, raised an eyebrow, but didn't offer any other response. His heart beat faster, and he willed it to slow down. Not to give away his uneasiness. "Ms. Trevois - and other teachers - told me that they've seen you two kissing, and touching each other inappropriately, on several occasions."
Dean's internal organs froze into a solid lump of ice.
"I need you to explain the extent of your relationship with Sam to me," Mrs. Wells said. "When was the first time you touched him...like that?"
"You think I'm some kind of pervert," Dean said. It wasn't a question.
"No, I don't. I'm just concerned. I realize you two probably weren't raised normally - "
"So you're gonna blame my dad. 'Cause you think I've been giving my baby brother the bad touch," Dean interrupted, sitting up straight. He was angry now. And maybe that came from being afraid, but the ice inside him was rapidly melting "Oh, my God. I've been protecting him since he was six months old, I don't even know what I'd do without him, I'd die to keep him safe - how can you think I'd hurt him like that?"
"You obviously don't have ordinary boundaries," Mrs. Wells said calmly. "I understand you might not know it's wrong."
"Oh, I know it's wrong, but I'm not having sex with Sammy, no matter what you might think," Dean snapped. "Me and him - it's none of your business. Not at all, okay? We can handle ourselves. I can take care of him."
"I'm sure you can, Dean, but - "
"I don't want your help." He cut her off. "I don't need your help. Neither of us do, because we have each other." He swallowed. "I have never hurt him. Not ever. And I never, ever would. Whatever we're doing right now - and it's not having sex - it makes us happy, and that isn't really something we get a whole lot of." He stood up. "You don't get to take that away from us. From him. He deserves a whole lot better, but this is all I can give him right now."
Mrs. Wells didn't say anything as he turned and stalked to the door. But she spoke up when his hand was on the knob. "Dean, you think you're protecting your brother..."
"I know I'm protecting him." Dean shot a glance at her over his shoulder. "No one does it better than me, because there's no one in the world he means more to."
He left, fully expecting to be ordered back at any second, but that didn't happen. She let him go back to class. He knew Ms. Trevois's eyes were on him as he sat back down at his desk, but he refused to look at her. He hadn't liked her before. Now, he hated her. She had meddled. She had stuck her nose into all his private family stuff. She had...his throat tightened, just thinking about the possibility of what might have happened. She had tried to take Sammy away from him. He wouldn't have been able to bear that. Neither of them would've - and that made her a threat to his little brother.
Dean didn't see Sammy until after school, right after Dad failed to show and he resigned himself to walking home in the cold. He hadn't gone to find him at lunch, because he knew Sammy would run to him and hug him tightly, and he didn't want to deal with the consequences of that if some teacher saw. But, now, the second graders were being released, and his brother's big hazel eyes immediately fastened on him. With a tiny squeak of joy, he bolted over and threw his arms around him, burying his face in his chest. Dean hugged him back, suddenly not caring who saw them. It felt so unbelievably good to still have him, be able to hug him and hold him close. He shuddered at the thought of what almost happened...and what might still happen. Extremely aware of their surroundings, he let go of his little brother and stepped away from him. Thankfully, he didn't seem to think it was weird.
"Where were you at lunch?" Those were Sammy's first words to him, immediate and accusing as he tipped his round face up. Dean sighed.
"I...look, it's a long story. Tell you later, okay?"
He seemed to accept that. Maybe because it didn't seem to be bothering Dean, like the last thing he'd refused to talk to him about had. He moved closer to him again and took his hand (which Dean figured was okay to do in public, he saw lots of siblings holding hands), staying close in the river of kids leaving school, and looked around.
"Where's Dad?" he asked. His tone was perfectly even. Dean got the idea that he was already expecting the answer he was going to have to give him, before he even said a word. That somehow made him sad.
"Not here, obviously," he replied. "C'mon, Sammy. We can walk. Tell me if your feet get too cold, and I'll carry you."
"'Kay." Sammy obediently followed him, looking up. He gave him a tiny smile and squeezed Dean's large hand with his small one. "'M glad I have you."
"Goes both ways," Dean told him softly, a smile spreading across his face as Sammy nuzzled against him for a second. As he did that, the gesture full of love and affection, Dean happened to glance over his shoulder. He saw Ms. Trevois, herding kids onto their correct buses - and looking over at them. Again.
He nudged Sammy away from him, suddenly afraid. He didn't want her to see, he didn't want her to know - because this was so private, what they had and what he felt, and it was so special. And she'd already showed him that she was more than willing to destroy it. He knew Sammy was on the verge of sulking, because he'd basically pushed him away, but he could deal with that later. He just hoped to God that his teacher hadn't seen.
He would never know if she did or not, because his father would kill both zombies that night and they would leave in the morning. But he hoped she hadn't. He was scared, for himself and his brother. He wouldn't completely reject him again, because that would do way more harm than good, but they had to stop touching and kissing so much in public. No matter how much they both liked it.
He had to protect him.