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Chapter 5

John arrived late in the afternoon. Dean was on his bed, cleaning the already-spotless guns for the third time. Sam sat cross-legged on the carpet with his pad of paper and crayons. He'd ignored all Dean's attempts to get him off the thinly carpeted floor.

The knock on the door jolted Dean out of muddled and increasingly dark thoughts, the shotgun in his hand slipping onto the mattress. Sam didn't look up. His little brother had discovered a few hours ago that the paper could be removed from the pad, and had delighted in arranging picture after picture on the floor, until he was sitting surrounded by a sea of brightly coloured confusion on A4 sheets.

"Dean? It's me." His dad's low tone was comforting and Dean suddenly felt all of four years old again, before his mom was gone, when John would tuck him in to bed at night with the promise that nothing could hurt him.

He jumped up from the bed, sidestepping Sam's growing gallery, and opened the motel room door. John stood on the porch outside looking tired and dirty, and Dean wanted nothing more than to have his dad hug him.

"Dad." John smiled briefly, pushing past him and into the room. He stopped dead on sight of his youngest son. Dean closed his eyes and shut the door, preparing for a long discussion.

Sam didn't look up at the new presence in the room, his fingers a blur of movement as he scrawled.

"Sammy?" John sounded…scared, uncertain. Dean wanted to cry.

"He's been like this since he woke up. He doesn't talk, he just draws. I think he knows who I am, but he's…he's not right."

John crouched down beside Sam, giving no indication that he was listening to Dean's explanation. "Sammy, son, can you hear me? It's dad." The image of Sam suddenly responding to John's voice and coming to with much crying and hugging and relief flickered in Dean's mind. The vehement hope that Sam would ignore John took him by surprise.

"Dad…" Dean said, interrupting the moment.

John finally turned to Dean. "Son, we need to take him to a doctor. He needs to be looked at."

"What if they take him away?"

"Well, he can't stay like this." John gestured to Sam's hunched-up form. "Do you think he'd want to live like…like a retarded child if he knew?"

Dean blinked. "Dad, he's right there. He's not dead."

"He's not himself either." John said gruffly. Beyond his dad, Dean noticed Sam's hand had stilled on the paper.

John booked the room next door to Dean's, bringing more food when he returned. Dean heated up more soup for Sam, kneeling in front of him on the floor and feeding the mug to his lips. Sam tried to help, both hands gripping the cup around Dean's. John watched wordlessly from the other bed.

"He's getting stronger now. He can almost hold it himself." Dean reached up and wiped Sam's mouth with his cuff. "He's gonna get better. It just…might take some time." Dean heard himself trying to defend his brother and wondered why he thought it would ever be different. He was always forced to choose sides between Sam and John, always had to pick one of their causes.

Of course it was a little different when his brother couldn't defend himself, and Dean would be damned if he was letting anything separate them again after so long apart. He'd take a broken Sam over no Sam any day.

Dean didn't know quite what he'd been expecting from his dad. That once John was here Sam would be okay? That John would take one look at his brother and know exactly what to do? Dean recognised for maybe the first time the pedestal he put his father on, the idol worship. John Winchester was an infallible object in Dean's mind, always having a plan, always right.

He could see how Sam might find that annoying.

John knelt beside him, scrutinising Sam closely. Sam stared right back. But when John stretched a hand toward his youngest son, Sam flinched away.

"He did that with me at first." Dean said. John blinked, his hand wavering in the air. Sam leant back as far as he could, his eyes distrustful, until John stood.

"I'm going to pick up some takeaway for dinner. You want anything?" Dean could hear the rejection in his dad's voice.

"Whatever you're having, dad."

As soon as the door closed behind their father, Sam was pressing himself into Dean's lap, insistent and suddenly desperate like they'd been kept apart for days. Dean fell backwards in his shock, his arms reflexively coming up to hold Sam safely. His little brother's face was tucked into his neck, his hands twisted in Dean's shirt.

"Sam, Sammy? What…" Sam whimpered, nuzzling at Dean's jaw line. Dean sucked in a breath. "Sam…" The rest of the sentence was cut off by Sam's mouth.

Dean let himself be kissed for a second, let himself feel every dry catch of Sam's lips, soon slicked by a wet tongue. He let Sam kiss him until his conscience was a shrill scream in his ears, and then he levered Sam off, holding him back with one arm.

"Sam, we can't. Not this." Sam apparently decided not to hear him, pushing back with surprising strength. His little brother's eyes were dark and half-closed as he began mapping out every inch of Dean's face with nose and mouth, savouring the tastes and scents he found there.

Dean's arm fell away limply. He couldn't allow himself to respond, to take what Sam was offering. But Sam felt so good, connected to him by the perfect press of their bodies, the touches like feathers and ice and fire. One arm lay around Sam's waist, just feeling the warmth of his brother. Dean's dick had certainly taken notice, hard against his zipper.

Sam flexed against him, bringing a thigh up to press between Dean's legs. Suddenly the urge to respond got a lot harder to fight. A tiny twitch of his hips caused cascades of heat to zigzag up and down his nerves and he groaned. Sam seemed to sense Dean's faltering resolve, but instead of pushing it until he broke, the younger man backed off.

"S-Sam?" Sam cocked his head to one side, so close their noses were almost touching. His hair fell forward in a soft curtain, brushing against Dean's face.

Before he could catch his breath again, Sam leaned forward and rubbed his cheek against Dean's. The rough stubble on Sam's face caught and rasped against his own. And then Sam was pushing himself up, picking up his crayon and paper as if nothing amiss had happened. Dean remained splayed out on the floor, his cock rock hard in his jeans, wondering what the hell was going on.

The door rattled and a second later John walked in, pausing to take in the sight of Dean on his back on the dirty carpet.

"Dean? What are you doing?"

He blinked, shoving himself to his feet and rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. "Uh, nothing. I'm-I'm gonna take a shower."

"But I've got you a burger…"

"I'll eat it when I get out." Dean said, striding into the shower and closing the door with a shaky sigh.

He stepped out of the bathroom half an hour later to be met by John on the other side of the door. His dad was holding one of Sam's drawings.

"Dean, what the hell is this?" Dean blinked. The drawing John was holding was the same one Sam had been so insistent on creating in the middle of the night, the two figures surrounded by yellow and red circles.

"Sam drew it. Last night. Woke up just to do it, actually."

John stepped backward, his eyes fixed on the picture. A deep frown creased his forehead. He sank onto Sam's bed.

"Why, what is it?" Dean asked.

"It…it's the hunt I was on. Last night. The spirit. I used these symbols to bind it, ancient Tibetan sigils. I used a yew branch to ward it, salt and blood to purify the circle."

Dean stared blankly at the paper for a second longer, the childish clash of colors blurring together in his vision. He barked a laugh that caught in his throat. "What-no. You think…no! It's just a coincidence, dad. It doesn't mean anything. It's…a memory, or something. One of the hunts we did before Sam left. We've been on hunts that needed warding and purified circles. Sam just…had a nightmare, it's his way of dealing."

John stared at the paper for a full minute longer before putting it carefully aside. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

From his seat on the floor, Sam huffed air through his nose without looking up. Dean watched him, his mind spinning crazily.

Halfway through the night, Dean felt the bed dip and a warm body settle snug next to his. The light stroke of Sam's tongue at the back of his neck made him shiver involuntarily and he entertained thoughts of leaping up, jerking away out of reach of his baby brother and his sudden ambition to strip away all of Dean's defences lick by lick. But he was tired and comfortable and he'd just finished pounding the pillow into submission under his head. So he stayed still and let Sam wind his body into all of Dean's curves and told himself it wasn't everything he'd ever wanted.

Dean woke up slowly. Sam's nose was pressed into the skin under his jaw and his soft breaths puffed over his neck, even and gentle. Sometime in the night, Sam's hand had slipped under his shirt to rest along the line of his ribs. It felt reassuring, like Sam was built to be right there, as if that was his place. Dean half-opened his eyes, blinking languidly at the morning light floating through the crack of the curtains. His own arm was wrapped around Sam's waist, holding him close, and his conscience was silent.

His little brother shifted against him, awake now. He stretched his neck, brushing lips against Dean's. The knock on the door interrupted Sam before he could take it any further, and Dean sighed in what he hoped was relief, getting up to unlock the door.

"Morning, Dean. And, uh, Sam." John said, stepping into the room with two paper cups of coffee. Sam stretched in the bed, catlike and lazy. He didn't bother looking in John's direction, turning over onto his side and curling up with the covers wrapped around him.

"We should get going. We got a lot of miles to travel." Dean spun to face his father.

"What? Where are we going?" Not so soon, he can't take Sam away so soon.

"I've called a friend who might be able to help. She's a psychic. I was hoping she might be able to see into Sam's mind, find out what the problem is." At Dean's frown, John held up a hand in appeasement. "Look, I don't like the idea of people poking around in Sam's mind, especially when he can't give his consent. But she's good, if anyone can figure out what's going on, it's her. And it's either this or a doctor."

Dean looked across the bed at his brother. Sam was a mop of chocolate hair and a lump under the bed covers. "And this has nothing to do with the whole drawing thing last night?"

"Well…"

"Dad, it was a coincidence! We've been on thousands of hunts, just like that! Sam's not some kind of…some kind of freak." His nails bit into his palms.

"I know, Dean. I just…want to know what we're dealing with here. It's just a precaution."

Dean sighed and let his head drop forward in submission. "Okay, dad. Where are we going?"

John coughed. "Lawrence."

They were going to Lawrence. After everything, after swearing to himself never to return there again, no matter what, and his dad just walks in and casually - casually! – tells him to pack up, as if it's no big deal. Dean chewed at his lower lip, changing gears with more force than necessary.

John's truck was a black shadow in the forefront of his vision. His father didn't seem to feel any apprehension at returning to the place his wife was killed. If anything, John seemed embarrassed at having to go back, as if it was the site of some past failure he'd prefer not to revisit. Damn John and his stoic crap. He still hadn't told Dean anything about the woman they were going to see, the psychic that was going to probe around inside his baby brother's head.

Dean really wasn't comfortable with allowing anyone to violate Sam like that. His brother's thoughts were private and personal, even if they were a little…disjointed, at the moment. But if he were honest with himself, he was curious as to what exactly was going on in Sam's brain.

Sam, who was currently amusing himself in the passenger seat with his crayons and paper. Dean was kind of worried Sam might get car-sick like that and throw up all over the Impala's upholstery. Before they left, Dean had carefully collected up all of Sam's drawings and put them in the glove compartment, in easy reach if Sam decided he needed any of them. At the moment, Sam was involved in creating a colourful picture centring on a stick figure and what looked like a brown dog. It would have been sweet, had the two not been surrounded by inscriptions from the runic alphabet.

They spent all morning and most of the afternoon on the road. By the time John indicated to stop at a diner Dean was exhausted, blinking to try and wipe the repetitive lines on the blacktop from the backs of his eyelids.

Sam looked over at him as the slowed as if to say stopping? Already? Dean absently reached out and patted him on the arm.

Sam hadn't been in a public place since 'waking up', and Dean wasn't sure how he would handle it. But Sam allowed Dean to sit him in a corner booth, his eyes scanning the room disinterestedly before dropping to his drawing. John sat opposite Sam, trying not to stare.

The waitress walked over, flipping her hair and sticking out one hip when she saw Dean. "Hey honey, what can I get you?" She smiled and Dean returned it almost without thinking. She was pretty, in a plain sort of way, and if Dean had time to spare he might have spent an hour in the diner, drinking coffee and flirting a bit.

Before he could speak, John was brusquely snapping out an order for the three of them. The girl looked startled but quickly caught up, writing down the order and trotting away.

Dean opened his mouth but John was already talking. "Don't have time for any of that now, Dean. We have to look after Sam." Dean looked at Sam beside him, content in his own world. Irrational anger welled up inside him. They had to look after Sam? He was the one who'd done all of the looking after while John had been off in his own room, making phone calls and avoiding the sight of his youngest son. Dean looked blankly at the tabletop and didn't say a word.

Their food arrived while John was in the toilets, and the waitress seemed relieved to see Dean alone in the booth. Her eyes drifted over Sam's form as if he weren't there.

"So, how long y'all in town for?" She asked, bending forward as she put the plates of food down and giving Dean a good view.

"We're just stopping through. It's a shame, I'd definitely enjoy checking out the sights round here." Dean drawled.

The girl's smile turned distinctly dirty. One corner of Dean's mouth turned up and he thought about how long it had been since he last got laid. Except Sam was right there, and his mind was drifting to the day before, feeling the phantom press of Sam's skin against his own.

It was a few moments before he realised the girl hadn't spoken again. He glanced up at her face in time to watch the lascivious expression slowly dissolve into wide eyes and white shock. She was looking past Dean and he turned.

Sam was no longer concentrating on his picture. Instead he was staring hard at the waitress through the dark strands of his hair, his eyes narrowed and fox-sharp. Dean heard the stumble of the waitress as she practically ran from their table without another word. As soon as she was gone Sam went back to his drawing as if nothing had happened, leaving Dean shell-shocked and almost afraid.

Dean fed Sam mechanically, helping him to lift spoonfuls of stew to his mouth, the mushy lumps easy to chew and digest. Sam obediently ate everything and then drank a glass of thick strawberry milkshake through a straw. John didn't seem to notice the quiet between them or the paleness Dean knew must show on his face. The waitress waited until after they'd left the diner to collect their empty plates.

They stopped for the night in a tiny town that consisted of a motel, a bar and a garage, all sharing the same parking lot. Most of the rooms were already booked by long-haul truckers, their parked trucks lined up in front of the row of rooms and blocking the light from the street.

John booked two adjacent rooms, a double for his boys and a single for himself. What was going on between Sam and Dean he didn't know, but things had only gotten worse after their stop at the diner. He assumed that Dean was just having a hard time dealing with the state his brother was in, and he knew he hadn't been much help. Sam's condition scared him, more than any of the monsters he'd seen. At least with the supernatural there were signs, motives, predictable routines. His youngest son's mind had always been a mystery to him.

The picture his youngest drew had disturbed him more than he liked to admit. Even with Dean's too-quick denial, John couldn't stop thinking about those symbols. He was positive Sam hadn't been around when he'd been researching them as possible binding sigils for malevolent trapped spirits. Of course, Sam being Sam, he could have researched them on his own. The boy had an uncommon love of books and learning, and John had always been proud of it, even if he never told Sam. When he'd gotten into Stanford, after the anger and impotent rage had subsided, John was left with a feeling of awe for his youngest. Sam hadn't let anything slip, had worked just as hard on researching demons and learning Latin as he had on his schoolwork, and as a father John had felt so achingly proud of his boy for knowing his own mind and going after what he wanted with everything he had.

Missouri would know what to do. Sam would be safe there, protected. Dean wouldn't like leaving him, but it had to be done. Sam had to be safe.

John walked over to where Dean was standing beside the Impala. His older son looked shattered and raw, hands stuffed deep into his pockets and arms pinned to his sides like he was trying to hold himself in. Sam stood next to him, their arms touching. His youngest son's flitting gaze dancing across the parking lot as if there was too much for him to see and not enough time to take it all in. John studiously avoided meeting Sam's sharp eyes.

"Here. You're in room twenty-two, I'm next door. Get some sleep, we'll be up early tomorrow." Without waiting for Dean to reply John turned on his heel, listening to the footsteps as his children followed him to the rooms. He held in the heavy sigh that wanted to escape. Missouri would know what to do, and until then Dean could handle Sam and he could handle Dean. They would be okay. They could hold each other together for a while longer.

Dean threw himself on the nearest bed as soon as he walked into the motel room, not looking to see if Sam was following. His head was pounding and he felt strung-up and thin. His brother would be the death of him one way or another.

There was too much going on in his mind for him to focus on any one thing, too many problems, too many variables. Dean liked simple and direct; one plan, one solution. He wished his dad would just tell him what to do. But John didn't have a plan, or if he did he wasn't letting Dean in on it.

Dean stretched out on the bed, his hands hanging off the edges. His left hand hit something warm and furry, and he jerked back as if he'd touched poison ivy before realising that Sam had settled himself cross-legged on the floor beside him and Dean's hand had managed to find his little brother's head. Sam's hair had gotten long, Dean realised, long enough to touch the tip of his nose when he bowed his neck. Another thing to go on the list of 'Stuff For Dean To Do'. Right after he figured out how Sam was able to terrorize a waitress with one look.

"I'm gonna take a shower." He mumbled. Sam looked up at his voice, regarding him with bright eyes that held no comprehension. "Stay here and be good." Dean felt Sam's gaze tracking him as he walked to the bathroom door, a burning needle in his back.

As soon as the door was locked Dean sank to the floor. His vision was blurry and his chest felt sore and twisted. He knotted fists in his hair, distantly noting his own need for a haircut. The tears caught him off guard, the wracking sobs following closely until his entire body was convulsing as he tried to keep silent. His arms wrapped themselves around his midriff and locked on tightly.

The irony hit him and Dean managed to spit a laugh through his tears. He had his family back together, the only thing he'd ever wanted in his life, and he'd never felt so alone.

After his crying fit had tapered off, Dean decided to skip the shower. He splashed cold water on his face and stepped out into the room, wondering when it had gotten so dark outside. Before he could take another step, strong arms were around him and a long body pressed against his side. Dean stumbled, off balance by the sudden extra weight, and fell sideways onto the nearest bed. Sam didn't let go, one arm tightening around Dean's waist while a hand travelled up to stroke across his face in touches soft as petals.

Dean's breath caught in his throat and he blinked, seeing the grey outline of Sam's features inches from his face. The dull light from the window made his eyes shine like molten iron.

Sam's gentle fingers traced a slow path down the centre of his face; forehead to nose tip to lips to chin. It left a chilled stripe behind and Dean shivered.

The kiss when it came was just as soft, and Dean blamed his vulnerable state for leaving him so open, so easy to break down. His eyes fluttered shut and his head tilted to give Sam better access. His own arms found their way around Sam's slender frame, pulling Sam to him and squeezing, like his baby brother could be absorbed into Dean's own body if they could just get close enough.

His cock was hard against Sam's thigh and Dean pressed into the stretch of muscle with a tiny gasp. He snaked a hand into Sam's long hair, tangling it around his fingers and keeping Sam's mouth on his own. Which Sam didn't seem to have any objection to, his own hand low on Dean's back, stopping Dean from moving away.

Dean wondered vaguely who had taught Sam to kiss so dirty. His mouth was hot and slow and all tongue, pulling Dean in and melting him down. He was making some very embarrassing noises. Sam didn't seem to mind, flexing around him to push their two bodies closer. His brother's huge hands stroked over his skin, skimming under clothes and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Dean found himself helplessly rutting against Sam's taut thigh muscles, whimpering into his open mouth. It felt like his brother was pulling him apart and moulding him into new shapes with each touch of his clever fingers. It was too good, and more than Dean ever deserved or did anything to earn. It was wrong, and their dad was right next door behind the thin plywood wall, and Dean would probably be arrested if anyone ever found out.

And then Sam pulled away and Dean opened his eyes, whatwhywhat on the tip of his tongue, until Sam shifted up with the leg pressed to Dean's cock, and all he could see were his brother's eyes with their blank emotionless shine as he came.

The filtered sunlight woke Dean from a deep and dreamless sleep. His neck ached and he rolled over on the bed, confused as to why he was still wearing the same dirty jeans and scratchy tee shirt he'd been dressed in the day before. His eyes fell on his little brother, sitting on the second bed and scribbling on his pad of paper like his life depended on it.

Dean's boxers were stuck to his skin under the jeans. He stood on shaky legs, collecting fresh clothes and walking quickly to the bathroom. Sam didn't look up as he passed, and Dean looked away. John would be here any minute and he'd be expecting Dean to have them ready to leave promptly.

Dean didn't know what he had expected from Sam. Some acknowledgement, maybe. Some kind of reaction. Not the complete indifference of every other day, the silent stillness only broken whenever he felt the urge to start another one of those goddamned drawings. They'd broken one of the iron-cast rules, gone so far over the line that Dean felt dizzy thinking about it.

John was almost as quiet as Dean was, lost in his own thoughts and the newspapers he'd managed to pick up somewhere between the motel and the diner they were eating in. Dean ate his burger staring at his plate.

He carefully didn't pay any attention to the waitress this time. Sam didn't either, but Dean wasn't sure if that was because hewasn't flirting with her or because this waitress didn't offend Sam in the same mysterious way the other had.

After they'd eaten, John would again lead them across the country. Dean could practically sense Lawrence approaching, nearer and nearer like a thundercloud. His knuckles were tight around his knife and fork and his lip was sore from nervous chewing.

It would take them a few more hours. A few more hours and for the first time in twenty-two years he would be back in that place, the place where it all started to go wrong. The thought made the back of his neck prickle. Sam twitched beside him, the crayon in his fingers slipping out of his grip and onto the fornica with a clatter. Absently Dean picked it up and handed it to his brother.

Sam's long fingers closed around his own, a brief touch that crackled with electrical sparks. It felt strangely soothing. Dean glanced sideways to find Sam watching him with cocked head and eyes soft and dark as midnight, holding their own silent secrets.