Author's notes: Keep in mind, this is a total AU. In this story, Sam is 21, Dean is about 23.

Sometimes the Hero Gets the Guy (Part 2)

Sam awoke, first to the sensation of a bed dipping down, and then to the feeling that someone, or something, was watching him. His reaction came to him as naturally as breathing. He sat up, muscles already tensing, head turning quickly so that he could find the potential threat and take it down.

What he saw, however, was not anything malicious, supernatural or otherwise. What he saw was a young man, sitting against the headboard, looking at him in surprise (and maybe just a hint of fear).

He let himself relax, feeling the adrenaline literally draining from his body as he did so. In that instant, he remembered everything that had happened the night before. The young man was named Dean. Dean had been with the shifter; except there had been two shifters and he'd had to kill them both. And he had brought Dean here after taking him to the clinic.

And then Dean had kissed him.

More than anything he remembered that kiss. He had a feeling that he would remember it for the rest of his life. And the funny thing was . . . it wasn't as if he'd never been kissed before. He had, probably more times than he could count. But this one had been . . .

He searched for the right words to describe it, knew he'd never find them. He finally settled for a picture in his mind of an ornate and rare key fitting perfectly into a lock.

Sam shook away the romantic thoughts which were so unlike him, found his voice and said good morning.

Dean smiled and said, "Hi," and Sam felt his heart jump as a thrill of adrenaline rushed through his body.

How was it possible that anyone had a smile that nice?

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said in the deep voice that Sam remembered from last night. "I was trying to be quiet."

"No, it's ok. It's probably time for me to get up anyway." Sam glanced around the room and guessed from the sunlight streaming in that it was early afternoon. "What time is it?"

"It's a little after noon."

Sam nodded vaguely before turning his full attention to Dean. "How do you feel?"

The reply was quick and snappy. "Like I was hit by a mack truck. Maybe two."

Sam smiled, but looked pointedly at Dean, making it clear that he expected a more detailed answer than that.

"Ok, so it was a whole fleet of them." He paused. "You know how you always feel worse on the second day after you get the shit beat out of you?"

Of course he was familiar with it, but it surprised him that Dean would be. He tried to keep his face neutral and not let that surprise show, but Dean must have seen it anyway. "Not all monsters go bump in the night, Sam."

Sam raised his eyebrows. Dean's voice was so grave and somber that to reply in other way would be some kind of insult. "No, I guess they don't."

Neither said anything else for a very long while, with Dean choosing not to elaborate, and Sam not knowing how to even begin to explore the meaning of a statement like that. Eventually the silence grew uncomfortable and heavy and Sam cleared his throat and excused himself to the bathroom. He used the toilet, washed his face, and as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, he wondered what the hell was going on with him.

"This is not you," he whispered harshly to his reflection. "You do not hang around like some sort of mother hen, trying to make everything better for people. You get the job done and you move on. So do what you're supposed to do and stop acting like a horny twelve-year-old."

And with that, he took one last, hard look in the mirror and walked out.

He returned to the bedroom to find Dean in the same position where he'd left him, though now his head was tilted back against the headboard and his eyes were closed. The bruising, the obvious exhaustion, all painted the perfect picture of a man who'd been to hell and had survived to tell the tale.

Sam walked over sat down next to him on the bed. He watched as weary eyes opened and focused on him.

And then he made himself say what he should have said last night. "I should . . . ummm . . . I should get going."

He was half-expecting a tearful plea for him to stay, but Dean merely looked at him and said, "Ok."

Sam knew that this was his cue to go, but he couldn't help asking, "Is there anything I can do for you before I go? Anything I can get you?"

There was nothing wrong with being courteous and considerate before taking off, was there?

But Dean shook his head very slightly. "No, I'm fine, Sam."

"What about your prescriptions? I could get them filled for you. Before I leave."

Another shake of the head. "I'll take care of it later. Don't worry about it."

And suddenly Sam found himself feeling guilty for leaving; even though Dean kept insisting that he was fine and that he didn't need anything.

"It's just that I have . . . "

But Dean cut him off. "I know. Monsters to fight."

'And my mother's murderer to kill and my father to find,' he thought. He could have said these things, actually thought about saying them for a minute, but in the end he settled for letting Dean believe only what he needed to know.

"Yeah. I have monsters to fight."

And that was the end of that. He was about to stand up to truly go when Dean spoke his name.

He froze, then settled back down on the bed. "Yeah?"

"I can't even remember the last time that someone was nice to me without expecting something from me in return," Dean said slowly. He looked down and grabbed a hold of a blanket, rubbing it between his fingers, obviously uncomfortable. "I don't know how to thank you. I don't know what to say or what to do."

Sam laid a hand on Dean's arm, felt his heat. "All you have to do is say thank you."

"It's not enough," Dean said, shaking his head. "Not for everything you've done."

"Try it."

Dean finally lifted his head, looking into Sam's eyes with a gaze so intense it could have burned through glass. "Thank you," he said.

Sam returned the gaze, matching Dean's intensity so that there would be no doubt in his mind as to how serious he was. "You are very easy to be nice to."

Dean looked embarrassed and turned his attention back to the blanket, mumbling something that Sam didn't quite catch.

He watched the other man worry the blanket for a minute before he ventured, "Can I ask you something?"

Dean raised his head, a bitter smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "You want to ask me what a nice guy like me is doing in a business like this." It was not a question.

"Something like that."

"You don't want to hear that story, dude. It's a real downer."

But Sam did. He wanted more than anything to find out why this man was wasting his life away by having sex with strangers for money. But somehow he knew better than to push. "I do, but not if you don't want to tell it."

Dean frowned, appearing to be considering it; the look on his face telling of a difficult internal struggle. The decision took so long that Sam figured Dean would tell him it was none of his business and that would be the end of that.

But Dean surprised him once again; something that he seemed to do with alarming frequency. "It's the same story you've heard a million times on Oprah," he began in an almost bored voice. "Kid's dad deserts him and his mom. Mom marries an asshole. Asshole likes to drink and touch the kid. Mom doesn't believe the kid. Kid decides to run away from home when he's barely sixteen, thinking he's going to make it big in the city. The kid doesn't, of course, so he has to find alternate means of feeding himself. End of sob story."

If Sam had ever felt like an asshole, now was it. Why had he asked him that in the first place? What had possessed him? "Dean, I'm . . . "

"Don't," Dean said sharply. "Just don't, ok? It's no big deal, really."

But it obviously was a big deal; how could it not be? Sam, at a loss as to what to say or do, watched as Dean just sat there, face set in angry concentration. But eventually Dean seemed to rally himself with an effort, even managing a smile.

"What about you?" he asked Sam.

"What about me?"

"What's your story?"

"Oh . . . I . . . "

"Come on Clark, you can tell me. I already know your secret identity. Besides . . . quid pro quo, right?"

So Sam told him what he had never shared with anybody else. He told him about being four years old and watching his house burn down with his mother slashed to death on the ceiling inside. He told him about his father's obsession to find the thing that killed her and how that had translated into a childhood where he was constantly on the move; where the things he learned from his father were not how to tie a tie and woo a girl, but how to shoot a gun and effectively disarm an assailant. And finally he told him how his father had disappeared, seemingly off the face of the earth, five months ago when they had each gone on separate hunts, and how he'd been searching for him ever since.

When Sam finished, Dean sat staring at him, wide-eyed, a look of amazement on his face. "Wow," he said. "Makes me wonder which one of us is more fucked up."

Sam couldn't help but laugh at that, and the tension that had built up within him as he had told his story mysteriously disappeared. Dean started to laugh as well, but the aches in his body wouldn't let him, so he had to settle for snickering slightly.

For the first time in his entire life, Sam was not itching to get back to the hunt. He wanted to stay, wanted to talk more about Dean's childhood, wanted to talk more about his own. He wanted to just talk to this man, period.

And he wanted to see if that kiss last night had been just a fluke.

But he couldn't.

No, he couldn't. He had things to do. He had a mission to complete, and he'd already stayed here for far too long.

He sighed and wearily stood up. "I have to go, Dean."

"I know you do, Sam."

Sam nodded, then held out his hand, shaking Dean's carefully so as not to jar him any further. He felt stupid doing it however, when what he wanted to do was to kiss the man goodbye. "Take care of yourself."

"You too, Sam. And thank you. For everything."

Sam acknowledged that last with another nod, then turned away. He was almost out the door when he stopped, realized what the hell he was doing, and turned around.

Sam had never once acted impulsively. He left that to his father, who had always been the one to jump headlong into situations - act first, think later. His own role had always been that of the level-headed one, the thinker, the planner. But his father wasn't here now, and maybe it was about time that his role changed a little.

"Actually," he said. "There is another way you can thank me."

Dean looked at him with open curiosity. "How's that?"

"Come with me. On the road."

Dean sat up a little, winced, then flopped back against the headboard. "What?"

"Just for a little while. I can bring you back whenever you want."

"Monster hunting?"

Dean's voice was incredulous, but Sam was suddenly far too invested in this idea to let it go. "Think of it as a road trip. You wouldn't be in any danger, I swear."

Dean just stared at him, expressionless, so Sam continued, despite the growing fear that he was babbling. "And I could really use the company. And of course there'd be no strings attached, and . . . "

"Come here for a second," Dean said, holding out his hand. Sam stepped forward, relieved that he'd been stopped before he made an even bigger fool of himself than he already had. He took hold of Dean's hand and allowed himself to be pulled back to the bed.

"I'd love to take a road trip."

A giddiness-inducing wave of relief flooded through Sam. "Really?" he asked.

Dean pulled him closer. "Really. But just so you know . . . there's nothing wrong with a few strings every once in a while." And then came the smile; the one that could make you crazy in the head and weak in the knees at the same time.

This time around it was Sam who initiated the kiss.

He was the one who closed the gap between them and gently brushed his lips against Dean's. Mindful of the fact that Dean was still hurting, he moved very slowly, very gently, turning everything into a whisper-soft caress.

And . . . ah yes . . . he had been right. This was no fluke. Kissing this man, being around this man, was like an ornate and rare key fitting perfectly into a lock. A lock that opens the door to a thousand different moon-swept nights and sun-drenched days.

They parted at last, and although this time their kiss was mostly chaste, both had trouble catching their breath.

After a moment, Dean placed his hand against Sam's chest, stroking it gently. "Honestly, I was wondering when you were gonna get up the balls to ask. The only thing is, I may not be up to traveling for a few days."

Sam smiled, then leaned in again for more revelations.

"I'll wait."