Disclaimer – Not my boys, just my story

Chapter 2

For once, it was not nightmares that roused Sam from the grip of sleep. He woke slowly, eyes remaining closed as he took in everything around him. Dean's face was buried in the side of his neck, the hand under the waistband of Sam's boxers curled around his hip bone. The regular breaths warming his collarbone told Sam that his older brother was still deep in sleep. He luxuriated in Dean's warmth for a long moment, a lazy smile touching the corners of his mouth as his fingers played softly in the feathery hair at the back of Dean's head. His shoulder was a dull ache, tolerable whilst he was lying still, but he wasn't anxious to try moving his arm. As his awareness widened beyond the bed, his body went suddenly rigid. The outside noise from the road across from the motel's parking lot was way too loud and busy for early morning. His eyes flew open and he looked past Dean's sleeping head to see his father's bed, empty.

The noise of someone clearing their throat arrested Sam's attention, and he looked to the small desk and chair at the foot of the bed. His eyes met the passive gaze of his father's. John didn't say a word, just continued to stare at his youngest son. There was no way to conceal the fact that his sons were clearly sharing a lot more than a bed. Sam looked away, ashamed and almost terrified.

"I think we should have a talk, Sam." He inwardly winced at his father's words, his mind involuntarily calling up memories he would rather pretend weren't real.

"Dad, I…" Sam couldn't finish his sentence and desperately wished for a second that Dean would wake up. But his older brother remained asleep, oblivious to the tension in the room.

"Get dressed and come outside. I don't want to disturb your brother." John's voice allowed no room for argument. Sam watched him go to the door, unable to move for a second. As John Winchester left the room, his youngest son let out a shaky breath.

He untangled his body from Dean's, trying not to make any noise as pain cascaded down his arm with every stiff movement of his bad shoulder. A dirty pair of jeans were half stuffed in his duffle, and he awkwardly manoeuvred them on, using the scuffed wall at his back for support. His green hoody lay across the desk, bloodstained from the fight last night. He stuck his good arm in the sleeve and wrapped it around his body, not wanting to try the lifting necessary to get the other arm in its sleeve. Toeing on his sneakers, Sam looked Dean's sleeping form, still lying on his side, reaching into the warm spot where Sam's body had been. Again Sam was tempted to wake Dean up so he wouldn't have to face their father alone, but Sam knew from bitter experience that it was better to get their confrontation over with before Dean got involved. Taking a deep breath that calmed him not at all, Sam stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

Dean woke up with a sudden feeling of missing. Before he even fully regained consciousness, he realised what it was. He was in bed alone. Sam was gone. Sleep was forced back as Dean opened his eyes to stare at the side of the bed Sam should have been lying in. Blearily rubbing at his eyes, he pushed himself up on an elbow and glanced round the room, trying to remember why, exactly, Sam's disappearance should be bothering him. Sam usually got up before he did, and he always returned bringing Dean breakfast and coffee.

His shoulder. Dean suddenly remembered the events of the night before, watching an iron bar impale itself in Sam, watching Sam fall to the ground, watching Sam's blood gush out of him like it had somewhere better to be. Watching their father sew Sam back up. Their father. Dean looked at the other empty bed. Fuck.

"When did this start?" John Winchester's voice was level. He stood opposite Sam on the wooden decking that ran along the front of all the motel rooms, joining them together. The cover overhead protected them from the already burning sunlight that razored down, but the heat pervaded their shelter anyway, leaving the air hot and thick. It seemed to slow Sam's brain too, twisting his excuses and explanations until they were nothing but broken shame. John stood over him, despite Sam having a few inches on his father's height. He felt his father's judgement and blame, and it took him back to when he was sixteen, twelve, eight. It was his fault. He had hurt Dean, again, and it was going to get him in trouble, going to get him punished. He needed to learn, before he got Dean really hurt, got Dean killed, and that would be his fault too.

Sam looked up at his father. John's face was carefully blank, his eyes an even stare at Sam. Sam could only hold his gaze for a few seconds, averting his eyes to stare at the wooden flooring between them instead.

"It wasn't Dean, it was my fault, I had a nightmare, he was just watching out for me." It tumbled out in a childish rush of words, sounding wrong in Sam's now deep man's voice.

"I asked, when did this start?" His father's voice was still calm and collected, and terrifying for it. Sam's mind was blurred, and he had forgotten that he was bigger now, older and stronger.

"After I came back. We were looking for you, we thought you might have been killed, we didn't…" They hadn't wanted to feel alone. Sam remembered the night they'd both almost not been so lucky. The anger and fear they'd felt, faced with not their own mortality, but each others'. The fear of being left on their own.

"You thought I'd died, so you decided to seduce your own brother." John said flatly.

"No, it wasn't…"

"How could you do that, Sam? How could you do that to your own brother? I told you before, he doesn't need you, you'll get him killed." Like you did your mother, was not said but both heard it anyway.

"I didn't mean…" Sam trailed off.

"You clearly did mean to, otherwise it wouldn't have gotten so out of hand. You left once, Sam. You left your brother and he was fine. Maybe you should consider leaving again." The unintentional reminder of the argument that Sam actually won, the fight was able to walk away from, broke through the old habits of childhood.

"I'm not leaving." The quiet finality of Sam's declaration shocked them both. "You can't make me want to leave again. I'm not a child anymore." When Sam met his father's eyes, the expression hadn't changed. "And neither is Dean. You can't make our decisions for us. I think Dean will question why if I have a bloody nose now." It was the first time it had been said out loud by either of them. Sam felt a flash of triumph as his father's eyes hardened, the first sign of emotion he had shown.

"What?" The third voice made both men turn toward the motel room door. Dean stood in the now open doorway, wearing the same rumpled t shirt and boxers he had slept in, looking between his father and his brother with a face as pale as milk.