Soulfulsam is the goddess of my soul and I love her. Warnings: I don't own Supernatural. Mature content.

Sam found out, years later, that Brady had dropped out of med school. He actually heard that Brady dropped out weeks before he was scheduled to be kicked out. A 4.0 GPA had plummeted to a 2.4 in a single semester. He never did call Sam for help. Sam never heard from Brady again.

The night he left, he wandered in the dark streets of the college town. He had friends, but they were Brady's friends first and probably Brady's friends still, So Sam and the pavement did some thinking together and before he knew it, he was at the buzzer to her apartment. Sam would never be able to say how long he stared at the buttons, before it some angel of forgiveness and light, lifted his hand. Her voice was heavy and slow with sleep as she spoke through the intercom, but Sam barely got through, "hey, it's me" before the door was unlocked.

It was never a big thing between them, just an unspoken agreement. Sam lived there now. He didn't sign a lease. He didn't ask and he wasn't asked. That first night set the pattern for a hundred nights after; she asked what was wrong, he evaded her question. She pulled him into a hug and he fell into her, into her bed and held her as long as she let him, and she let him hold her all night long. It was three days before the hold turned into clutching and two nights after that before they were moving together, through clothes, panting and breathing each other's air. Then, on an ordinary night and without great ceremony, they joined together and Sam's life was never the same again.

He brought her a handful of cash on the first of the month and suddenly they were a single unit. He never went anywhere without her and she without him. One by one, his old friends, Brady's friends, fell off his radar. Jess' friends became his friends. Jess' life became his life and Sam was happy. Jess was willingly his and it was so simple that it almost hurt to think that anyone had ever suffered for something that came so easily.

One would think that Sam had learned his lesson by now.

Jess would never say it, because Jess wasn't the kind of person who would ever place blame, even if it was on the rightful source, but it was entirely Sam's fault. It was Sam's fault that she didn't pick up the prescription; she had rolled over in the morning, looked at the little purple box on the bedside table and murmured "fuck." It was empty and she had to go to the pharmacy because they closed early on Saturday and something about the rainbow striped underwear and the way her tank top rode up over the small of her back made Sam realize that he needed to be inside of her or the world would simply cease to exist.

And so he did, he put his big hand over the little dip between her hip and her ribs and she let out a playful moan of protest. His hand dropped from her waist to her stomach then underneath the elastic of her underwear. Her little moan of protest became an encouraging whimper and when he slipped two fingers into her. They both took shuddering breaths. She always seemed a little surprised when he was sunk in her wetness, be it his cock or his fingers. She always closed her eyes and threw her head back as if it was something new. As if they hadn't done it every day, sometimes twice a day, since he started living with her. It had been a month, but unless Jess forced him, Sam would never leave her bed, their bed, or their apartment.

Upon reflection, it was a miracle that it hadn't happened sooner.

But it didn't, it happened that morning, when Sam nestled his mouth between her legs and marveled at all the differences between sexes. With men it had been an obscene reenactment of thrusting and pumping; with women it was an entire different species of pleasure. It wasn't about pumping or thrusting or power or speed. It was about presence. It was about the pressure and the intimacy, tucked between her thighs, licking her button and tracing it with his tongue. Just pressure; humping and rhythmic never got Jess to come, it was when he swirled his tongue over the nub, flicked it with the tip, sucked it between his lips. Sex with men was more straight forward, cock and mouth or cock and ass, always the same motion, always the same speed. But with Jess, every time he went down on her was just a little different, a brand new dance, smooth and always changing. Maybe he was straight after all and Dean was just… Dean. But then, he'd never been gayer than wanting Dean and at the moment the idea of straight sex with anyone besides Jess didn't seem terribly appealing either.

Jess liked to be kissed during sex and Sam liked to make Jess happy so when she threaded her fingers through his hair, he scooted up her body and met her mouth with his. He had almost forgotten about his cock because when he was with Jess and when she was making those noises, Sam just forgot about everything. His pleasure didn't matter when Jess needed him. As usual, Sam's head and heart were worshipping the miracle that was Jess and his body was on a completely different page. But his dick was intrusively reminding him that it was there. Jess canted her hips just right and Sam guided himself into her. They moved like choreographed dancers in the lazy weekend morning light and Jess came as she always did, quietly like an angel, looking up at him with peaceful adoration. Sam came like a teenager, hard and earth shattering, as if he didn't come that hard every time.

He was tired and she was perfect so he collapsed onto her perfect body and they snoozed before she shoved him off and pointed to the clock. It was past one in the afternoon, the pharmacy was closed and she was still naked. So Sam apologized with his fingers between her legs and she forgave him with a sweet surprised noise as his hand worked her.

She told him it wasn't his fault. She should have been better organized and gotten the pill on Friday after work. She could have gotten that morning after pill on Monday. It was no one's fault. They were in love and they were young and stupid and these sorts of things happen. But it was his fault and he knew it was his fault because Jess had bought him that box of condoms and left it sitting proudly, out in the open, on his bedside table. But Jess was his and he was Jess' and he honestly forgot about protection most of the time. Jess was never something Sam even thought he would need protection from. He could eat her to a climax and completely ignore his own erection, much to his cock's disdain. He could kiss her and forget class or work or demons and nightmares. Jess was Jess and condoms were for fucking. Dean always had them in his pockets and in his bag and his wallet. Honestly, Sam was pretty sure that his brother had at least three open boxes worth on his person at all times, like some sort of safe sex boy scout. But Dean fucked anyone and anything. Jess and Sam were making love and it was more beautiful than anything the world had ever seen. So, yeah, sometimes Sam forgot about rubbers. He had forgotten about them that morning. As always, someone else to the brunt of the hit for his selfishness.

She had asked him what he wanted to do. After all, it was their problem and their future and they had a pretty big decision to make. He could be a father. She was sitting there, letting him seriously consider being a father and Sam didn't even know what to do with that. Sure, he wanted a life without demons and monsters and life or death every day. And now that he had discovered Jess, he wanted her in that bed beside him. He wanted to wake up every day with her and make love to her and laugh with her and everything everything with her forever and always. But a kid was… a kid. It was more permanent than a house or a job. It would seal him and Jess together forever. It would be theirs like nothing else before it or nothing else after it. But then they would never be the same again: suddenly there'd be a baby between them to feed and to clothe and to entertain. Sam selfishly liked how they were. He told her it was her body and her decision. It seemed like the kind of thing that good, 21st century men would say.

She wore a white dress to her appointment. In case anyone was wondering what one should wear to that sort of thing, she wore a pretty white sundress and sandals. It wasn't as dramatic as he had thought it would be. There was no one outside the office with picket signs of aborted fetuses, questioning the state of the world if Jesus had been aborted. It was just a quiet doctor's office with perfectly lovely nurses and a waiting room with magazines. She held a two issue old Redbook in her hands and stared blankly at an article telling her how go from flab to fab in three weeks but her eyes weren't moving across the page. She was just staring at it. And she looked so pale. She was so scared but she never told Sam that it was too much and he figured that she never would so he sat beside her and let her pretend that she was strong and cool and making the best informed decision. She didn't look at him when they called her name, just stood up and smiled a smile that was a few watts too bright. She said she wanted different things. She was young and bright and she had a big future ahead of her. Look how brave she was. Sam didn't know if the show was for world or for him.

The drive back home was silent in all the worst ways. She didn't cry, for all their time together Sam hadn't seen Jess ever do more than well up. They sat around their apartment for a few hours after, staring at the TV. Sam tried to touch her, soothe her, hold her but she was always stiff and seemed a little relieved when he scooted away. He told her he loved her. She told him she loved him. After a few hours she asked him to get some food from the Chinese place down the street and Sam thought she might have done it more to get him out than that she was hungry. He wished that she would just fucking tell him what she felt. She didn't even have to tell him how to make her feel better or how to feel himself; he could suss that out on his own. He was a nice guy and he could be the best boyfriend ever if she gave him the chance. But she stayed silent and stoic so he just had to feel punished. Once again, he took without thought and once again, it was someone else giving him more than his fair share.

He was pretty sure that Jess wanted to be alone, so he wandered a bit. He walked into a bookstore and aimlessly picked volumes off the shelves and skimmed through them, looking for anything to distract him. When he couldn't find a copy of Assholes Who Want Their Girlfriends to Get Abortions, he went back outside to the street. He checked his phone. If Jess was really hungry, she'd have texted or called him. Instead, the time and the picture of them together that he used as his wallpaper were looking back up at him, as of saying "Hey, remember when she was happy? Don't you know that you bring hurt everywhere you go?"

Jess needed time away from him. She needed to not see his face. The kindest thing he could give her was space so he went for a destination-less walk through the park. The sun was setting and Sam glanced up from the pavement just as the street lamps came on. That was when he saw a shadow flit just a little too fast to be innocuous. Any other person in Palo Alto would probably just assume it was someone else. Maybe their minds were playing tricks on them. Maybe shadows and streetlamps made people see things that weren't there.

He turned down a narrower path between some trees and he felt eyes on his back. He slowed down, but no one passed him. He was being followed and he was being watched. Sam hated violence. He hated how his father could be so cool about blood and gore. He hated how he could pick up the skeleton of a person, a real person who once felt things and thought things and touched and was touched, and then smile coldly and set them on fire. Sam hated guns and hated hurting and being hurt but tonight he almost wanted a fight. He was big and fast and it would feel good to have that kind of control again, even if he hated it.

So Sam sped up and slipped behind the gardening shed a few feet ahead, sinking into the shadows like he belonged there. Whoever was following him was big as well, but not as big as Sam. They wore biker boots, Sam could hear them clomping. They cleared their throat. They slowed down outside his hiding spot and Sam knew exactly who was there and, like a child, he wanted to stay hidden in the shadows, but of course Dean could always find him, even in the dark. The aluminum wall of the tool shed squeaked as his brother leaned against it.

"Sam?"

"Hey, Dean."

"You gonna come out of there?" he asked and Sam could hear that soft, knowing tone that always pissed him off.

It was like when they were kids and Sam would blow up at their dad and Dean would find him under the bed or in the closet, fuming. He would sit down, just outside of Sam's screaming slapping zone and wait it out with him. It made him so angry that Dean knew his moods better than he did. Dean could watch him grow jealous of all the girls in the backseat of the Impala. And each one of them hurt worse than the one before because each time Sam thought that she might be the girl that Dean stayed faithful to. She might be the one that he changed his life for and Sam didn't want Dean to change his life for anyone besides Sam. But Dean waited him out, laid awake, waiting for his cue to take care of Sam all over again.

And the older he got the more he realized how fucked up that was. Dean wasn't happy when Sam was jealous and fuming over all the other girls in the world. Dean would never be happy, sitting outside of the closet, waiting for Sam to calm down. So Sam did the man thing and he left Dean. Because if he left, Dean would hurt for a month, maybe a year. But if he stayed? Dean would be miserable for his entire life. But this was why Sam left. Because he couldn't be this close to his brother without reverting into his thirteen year old self, reaching for him and taking, taking, taking a person he couldn't have for things he shouldn't want.

Of course tonight, of all the nights in the world, would be the one where Dean would land back into his life.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

" I missed you."

"Missed you too." Sam whispered back, haltingly.

Dean gave a snort and Sam heard him drop down onto the ground, finally sitting instead of squatting. He let out a long sigh.

"Would have fooled me." He said. It sounded like he bit the words out. "Do you wish I hadn't found you?"

"No," Sam whispered.

"Do you wish that you hadn't run away?"

"No." said Sam and he heard Dean's hurt.

He didn't know that that was a thing but he heard Dean's shoulders drop and he heard Dean's eyes water. Sam had never wanted to hurt Dean. He didn't like hurting Dean and if he wasn't careful he'd throw himself around the corner and tackle Dean to the hard earth behind the gardening shed. All these years, everything that had happened and Sam just wanted it all again. He had tried to cut out Dean cold turkey, and. suddenly here Dean was and Sam was thirteen, sitting in the dark, finally putting a name to all those dirty beautiful things he had thought about as he felt himself in tentative, unsure touches.

"Dean," Sam murmured and he heard Dean's breath shudder.

"Fuck, Sam, just… just fuck,"

"Dean," Sam said again and he could feel himself growing hard, just from the name and the memory of the quiet night of their motel room.

"I'm coming around," Dean warned.

Sam nodded, only half realizing that Dean couldn't see him. And then it was Dean. Sam couldn't see his face in the shadows but like he always had, he felt Dean's sure hands as they took him by the shoulders. He smelled the leather and the gunpowder on Dean's coat and that familiar, comforting Dean smell that Sam was afraid he would never know again. And then Sam was on his back, Dean was straddling his thigh and Dean was rubbing his cock against Sam's, through denim and on the dirt of the ground.

"Dean" Sam almost cried, "Dean,"

Sam didn't remember Dean being so loud in the past. It wasn't loud like Brady had been loud. Pornographic moans, like he had to prove to himself that he was having a good time. It wasn't even loud like Jess was loud, coos and whimpers and sighs of pleasure, like she was enjoying a very good meal. It took Sam a second to realize that they were gasps and sobs. Of desperation. Of hurt. Sam's eyes welled up and he locked his arms around Dean as Dean claimed him into the earth.

"Sam, Sammy, Sammy, missed you. Missed you, I missed you, so lonely, so lost without-," And Dean was speeding up, desperate, fucking, oblivious to Sam's own rhythm. Sam had always fantasized about giving Dean what he needed, letting Dean use him out, fuck him hard, take everything that Sam had to give because a part of Sam just wanted Dean to assert that he wanted something Sam had to give at all. But Dean took comfort in sacrificing. Dean found solace in taking care of Sam so Sam grew concerned as Dean clumsily bumped against him. And after a couple of minutes, of horrible, sad minutes, Dean turned his head, nestling his face against Sam's neck and Sam smelled the sterile sting of alcohol on his breath.

"Dean, are you drunk?"

"Nuh, uh."

"What is this, Dean? What are you doing to yourself?" Sam murmured, running his hands through Dean's hair, as Dean kept rutting into him.

"Why'd you leave, Sammy? Why'd you leave me?" asked Dean. He ran his hand over Sam's chest to his crotch, feeling it, squeezing the bulge there looking a little hypnotized by Sam's reaction. "Thought you wanted me, Sammy. Want me to give you this? I can do it, Sam, I can do it all the time if you want."

"Dean," Sam said, grabbing the hand that Dean was using to try and unzip his pants with, "Dean, stop. Stop."

"Don't you want me?"

"Yes, yes of course I—" but Sam lost Dean's attention as Dean forced a look of drunken focus on Sam's zipper. For all of Dean's sloppy drunken conquests, Sam had never had the privilege. He'd seen Dean get wasted, follow a man into the bathrooms and stay gone for a few minutes. He'd watched Dean come home so plastered he barely made it to the bed, his hands always smelling of pussy and his pants always a little disheveled. But Dean was always moderately sober when he was with Sam. Even that first time, Sam had waited until Dean's eyes got a little soft with the vodka before he reached for him, but Dean wasn't drunk. Dean was never as drunk as he was right now.

Sam's sober hand was stronger than Dean's fumbles so it was easy to stop him from swiping at the front of his pants. Sam wondered if Dean could see him in the shadows of the bushes. He couldn't see Dean, lit from above and behind but he felt Dean's eyes searching his face as he laid out beneath him on the ground.

"Don't you want me?" Dean slurred.

"You can't always have what you want."

"Come home with me, Sam. Come home with me tonight."

"Dean, you don't have a home. You have a motel room."

"Home is where the heart is, Sammy." Said Dean around a smile that Sam could hear if he couldn't see. "You're right, I don't have a home."

Dean got off of Sam and staggered upright. After a second of adjusting his coat, Dean gave his head a single shake and if Sam hadn't smelt his breath and felt his clumsy fingers, he wouldn't have known that Dean was plastered. Suddenly Sam wondered how many times he'd seen Dean hunt or drive and simply not been physically close enough to realize how drunk he was. Sam stood behind him and Dean turned to face him. After a moment of Dean looking up at him, they moved towards the well-lit path. Sam led the way. Dean was always a little less sure of himself in the light.

"Is dad here with you too?"

"Haunting in Big Sur," said Dean gruffly and Sam noticed the more than casual distance between himself and his big brother.

"You found me."

"'Course we did."

"You wanted to talk to me?"

"No. Yes. You know how worried I've been? How wrecked Dad's been?"

"He's the one who told me to never call. He's the one who said don't come back."

"You know what, Sam? That's bullshit. Dad could be a real dick sometimes but you knew, you fucking knew, how messed up he'd get. Dad says shit he doesn't mean. A lot—most of the time. He loves you, alright? Just 'cause he doesn't say it every ten minutes don't mean he doesn't."

"Oh, and the leaving us? And the hunts? And the guns and the yelling and the drinking. He says things he doesn't mean? What about what he does Dean? He's never there and when he is, he's always going on about how we're not good enough."

"He's a fucking wreck Sam, and he has been as long as we can both remember. Doesn't mean he doesn't deserve our love."

"Are we talking about dad or you?"

"Sam—"

"Look, he's made his bed. Twenty years of this crap. Hunting and fighting and drinking and hunting again. Maybe if we were a little older we could have helped. Maybe if we weren't kids we could have taken care of him and saved him from himself but we were kids and he made his choice that he wants this life of shit. But you? Damn it, Dean, why don't you see that you're better than this?"

"You left, Sam."

"I left to give normal a try."

"Yeah, and now you've got a girlfriend and an apartment. With rent. And utilities bills. How's normal going for you, Sam?"

"I meant normal for you, Dean. I am poison to you. You weren't happy when we were teenagers."

"Well, now it's fucking rainbows and unicorns all day long."

"I just want you to be normal. To be ok. To have roots someplace and to grow and build something with people."

"Yeah, white picket fence, couple kids, fat wife, nine to five. That's your dream, Sam, not mine, so don't lay your shit on me."

"I said normal not suburbia. The only two options in the world aren't hunting or Stepford for fucks sake, Dean. I just wanted you to get away from Dad. I wanted you to wake up and see that you're better than the way he treats yo—"

"I'm not having this conversation with you."

"You found me, Dean. You tracked me and you followed me. What did you want?"

"I don't know, Sam. I wasn't going to say anything or do anything I was just going to let you live and be normal and I… I couldn't help myself." Dean had led them to the Impala parked on the curb by the park and Dean leaned against the door. Sam stood next to him. "Look, get in. We could be in another state by morning. We could pretend this never happened. We could go back to—"

Dean let it hang in the air, heady and thick and suddenly Sam was thirteen and Dean was touching him and Sam thought he might die because it felt so good. And then suddenly, Dean was seventeen and vomiting their shame in the bathroom.

"You weren't happy, then, Dean."

"I'm not happy now."

"Give it time, please, Dean."

Dean closed his eyes as Sam pleaded with him and something soft and intimate flashed across his features, features that Sam had never seen like that because before, it had always been done in the dark. He wanted to see Dean, beautiful Dean, in the light. Dean belonged there, bright and noble. Sam didn't know why his brother shied away from it. Dean was perfect and the only thing wrong about him was Sam.

Dean reached forwards and skimmed a finger along Sam's hip and Sam shuddered. Dean was watching his hand as it traced Sam's belt loops, played along the seam of his pocket, started heading to his crotch. Sam didn't dare breathe because then harsh logic and self-restraint and guilt might come in with the oxygen and Dean was just so beautiful like that. Even if he looked so defeated.

Suddenly Sam's phone vibrated and Dean stared at that part of Sam's pocket. Numb and stone faced, he stared at the thing that dared to take Sam away from him.

"Dean I'm sorry, I've…" and Sam gestured to his phone. Dean's jaw clenched and he gave his trademark, cocky smile that was so hard Sam wondered if it ever worked on anyone. He pulled the phone out and opened it, holding to his ear. He didn't need to check who was calling him.

"Sam?" asked Jess, shakily, "Sam, I think I need you to come home now."

"Ok, Jess, Ok, I'm coming home."

"I love you so much, Sam." She whispered through the cell phone; even alone in their apartment, Jess kept up appearances. She only let Sam hear her crumble, "I need you. I need you home with me. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. It's my fault, it's all my fault and I'm so scared… I love you. I need you. Come home, Sam. Come home."

"Jess," Sam said back, shaky, just like her. But he was looking at Dean. He was watching Dean watch him and it hurt like a bitch but Sam knew where he belonged. It was finally clear. "Jess, it's my fault. It's my fault and it hurts me to watch you blame yourself. I hate watching you hurt, I never wanted to do that to you. God, I love you. I love you so fucking much. "

"Come home, Sam."

"Yeah, Jess. Yeah, I'm coming home."

Dean slid out from between Sam and the Impala and walked around to the driver's side, with so much swagger that Sam almost didn't see him wipe his eyes on the shoulder of their father's leather jacket. Almost.

With one last, bracing smirk, Dean held his arms out to the empty, deserted parking lot of the square, congratulating Sam on how he got everything he wanted. The slamming door of the Impala was that part of Sam's life finally slamming closed. Sharp, harsh, loud and not without hurt, but final nonetheless.

Jess needed Sam. They made a mess, together. They cleaned it up, together. Normal wasn't perfect. Normal wasn't easy but with Jess, it was ok, because she needed him and he needed her and it was simple between them.

The kindest thing Sam could ever give Dean was space from this mess he created between them.

Oh, hey, look, a tiny little box for reviews? Please, don't let me stop you. (I need a lot of attention.)