Chapter 3

We were passing through Sacramento after driving for a couple of hours when I looked over at my brother. "Hey man, let's find a motel and crash for a few hours."

Dean had been quiet since the discussion about the coordinates Dad had left us. He now glanced at me with a raised brow. "You sure 'bout that, dude? You seemed pretty fucking worried earlier 'bout making it to your interview in time."

"Palo Alto is only two hours from here, and my interview's not until ten in the morning. As long as we leave before seven, I'll have plenty of time to change and grab the stuff I'll need," I explained. "Right now we're both beat and could use the rest. And I'll like to spend some time with my big brother that doesn't involve a case."

He snorted. "Yeah, whatever."

Nevertheless, he turned off the highway and drove around for a bit before pulling into the parking lot of the Echo Lodge. He ducked into the motel office and emerged with a key, then moved the car to near the end of the building. The room we entered was a fairly standard double—two queen beds with matching comforters, TV stand, desk, mini-fridge, and microwave along the opposite wall, armchair and small table in front of the window, and small bathroom and closet in the back.

Dean dropped his bag on the bed closest to the door and toed off his boots. "I'm gonna take a shower and then hit the sack. Think you remember how to lay down proper salt lines, college boy?"

"Wait, Dean! I thought . . . I want to talk to you, not go to sleep right away."

He shot me a derisive glare while pulling out his shower bag. "What's the point, dumbass? You made it real fucking clear that you wanna go back to being Joe College and forgetting 'bout your family. You think a coupla hours of sharing and caring is gonna make up for that shit? I'd rather not waste my breath and spend the time getting some goddamn sleep in an actual bed!" He stormed across the worn carpet and slammed the bathroom door shut.

I sighed and decided to try again when he emerged. I stripped down to my boxers and undershirt and lay down on top of the comforter of the other bed. I then turned the TV on low volume and flipped channels until I found a CSI marathon, which sadly was the most palatable thing on at this hour.

The bathroom door opened ten minutes later, and Dean stepped out with a towel slung around his hips. "Forgot to bring my sleep clothes in with me."

I gasped in shock at his unclad appearance. His broad-shouldered frame was thin, just lean muscle stretched over bone with no flesh to spare. His pale skin was littered with scars—it looked like he'd earned more in the past two years than in the dozen before that. Bruises of varying age, size, and shape were also scattered about his body, including hand-shaped bruises on his hips peeking over the edges of the towel—bruises far too large to have been made by any woman. I'd suspected that things were bad, but not like this . . .

I shot to my feet. "Fucking hell, Dean! What the fuck have you been doing to yourself?"

He looked down at himself briefly. "Don't sweat it, man. Been taking care of myself just fine since you bailed."

I stared at him incredulously. "Bullshit! You're obviously not being careful on hunts with how banged up you are. You barely ate anything the past two days, just pushed your food around on the plate. Your comment about an actual bed—what, you've been mostly sleeping in the car? And hell, you never used to pass up an opportunity to hit on a pretty girl, but I haven't even seen you looking lately!"

He shrugged as he crossed the room to his bed. "The girl thing ain't a big deal, okay? I just got tired of the charade. Dad ain't around, so it ain't worth the fucking effort to pretend to be interested."

"Charade? Wait, you're gay?" I gaped at him. "How—how long have you known? Why didn't I know?"

"I've always known, dude. But Dad made it pretty damn obvious over the years how he felt 'bout 'fags.' So I flirted with lots of girls in front of you both, even pretended to leave the bar with one sometimes if she was sympathetic enough to help maintain the act."

"Okay, I totally get hiding this from Dad. But you could've told me, man! And what kind of guys have you been going with that leave bruises like that?"

He shrugged again while rummaging in his bag. "Getting ridden hard is 'bout the only time I feel anything anymore. Besides, guys like that usually pay better."

"You're turning tricks? What the fuck, Dean? Why?"

"I still gotta buy ammo and gas, and sometimes setting up a good pool hustle is just too much goddamn work. People are always talking 'bout my cocksucking lips and fuckable ass, so why not use 'em?" He smiled sardonically. "Besides, how d'ya think I managed to keep you fed and clothed and shit when we were younger, when Dad would leave us with fifty fucking bucks to last two whole weeks?"

"Oh God! Why didn't you ever say anything back then? If not to me, then to Pastor Jim or Bobby? They would've—" I stopped and scowled. "You're trying to change the subject, aren't you? Nice try, but it's not going to work. You need to tell me what's wrong now! Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"Just leave it. It don't matter," Dean said dismissively as he pulled out a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants.

I caught hold of his upper arms. "Of course it fucking matters! Talk to me, man!"

"No, it don't! I don't matter! There ain't anyone, 'cept maybe for Bobby, who's gonna shed a goddamn tear if I get fucking ganked!" he shouted before knocking my hands loose.

"That—that's not true! People do care about you!"

"Oh, really? Like who?" he sneered. "Dad? I busted my balls my whole damn life to try to be the kinda hunter, the kinda son he'd be proud of. I learned to walk and talk and dress like him, learned to like his music, his car, his booze, everything. All just to get one fucking 'Good job, son,' that never ever came. Dad musta thought I was just slowing him down, so he dumped me as soon as he could! Only time I hear from him anymore is when he's got a case for me.

"And you? Man, I gave you everything I fucking could! I raised you, protected you, taught you, I went hungry, stole, and sold myself for you, I gave up my childhood and my dreams and my future for you. I even supported you when you went to college, despite the shitstorm I got whenever Dad found out I talked to you or visited you. And what do I get for all that? You running away from me every fucking chance you got, and then telling me two years ago that I was dragging you down and that you never wanted to see me again!

"So tell me again, Sam—why should I give a single fuck 'bout my life when no one else goddamn does?" He stopped, his chest heaving and tears streaking his face.

I staggered back for a moment figuratively, barely able to face the anger, loneliness, and misery in front of me. More than that, I was appalled at my own selfishness. I'd been so wrapped up in my own goals, so concerned with getting away from Dad, hunting, and my own lustful emotions, that I never stopped to think how my actions were affecting my brother. I just assumed that he'd be fine and didn't once look back to check.

"Oh, Dee . . ." I stepped forward and clasped his hands. "Listen, I can't speak for Dad, but . . . I know he does care about both of us in his own way, even if he has shitty ways of showing it. So it's more likely that he was trying to keep you safe when he left you behind.

"Think about it! Whenever he was tracking down whatever killed Mom when we were kids, he always left us with Pastor Jim or Bobby rather than bring us anywhere near what he was chasing. Even when we were old enough to help him, he never risked bringing us along for those hunts. If Dad's been hot on the trail of this thing the past couple of years, he probably thinks it'd put you in too much danger to stay with him. He deserves a huge smack upside the head for not telling you anything, but I'm sure he means well.

"As for what I've done . . . Dean, I am so sorry! I've been so focused on what I wanted, what I needed, that I didn't realize how much I was hurting you. I—I should've found a better way to deal with my problems than cutting you out of my life.

"I need you to know that—that I love you so much! You're more than my big brother—you've been my mother, my father, my best friend, my hero. You—you're the most important person in my life, and I can't believe I let you think that you don't matter to me!"

My brother pulled his hands free and shoved me away, snarling, "Bullshit yourself, asshole! You spent the past two fucking years living your happy life and pretending I don't exist. Never gave me a single goddamn thought this whole time, did you? Then I show up in shitty shape, and now suddenly you're all touchy-feely and caring? You can take your yuppie pity party and shove it up your ass!"

"Dammit, this isn't some temporary guilt thing!" I threw my arms around him and pulled him down until we were both sitting on his bed. "I never stopped thinking about you! Whenever anything good happened, I wanted to share it with you. Whenever something had me down, I wanted you to make it better. Every day, I wanted to hear your opinions, your advice, even your bad jokes! I never stopped missing you!"

He stared up at me, tears running down his cheeks again. "Then why? Why did you kick me out like that? I never could figure out what the fuck went wrong. What did I do to make you say those things, to make you wanna have nothing to do with me?"

"God no, it was never you! You were always the best big brother and friend I could ever hope for, and you didn't do anything wrong! The problem was me! I—I chased you away because . . . because I was terrified that I'd let it slip if you were around, that you'd find out an—and be revolted! I thought you'd be better off away from me instead, so I said those hateful, untrue things that day to force you to leave. But I never meant any of it!"

"What the hell are you talking 'bout, Sam? You've been the center of my world since I was four fucking years old, and there ain't anything that could make me turn my back on you! I—I'd rather know that you're a serial killer or—or pig-fucker or whatever you think your big dark secret is, instead of you not wanting me in your life! So what was so fucking bad that you were willing to do this to me?" he demanded.

I jerked back in a panic. "I can't! You—you'll hate me if you know! Besides, the important thing is that I've realized I was completely wrong before, and I'm so sorry for putting you through so much pain! I want you back in my life if you'll have me. I—I want us to be brothers again."

The expression on Dean's face told me he wasn't letting go so easily. "Don't try to pull that shit with me! If you don't trust how I feel 'bout you, how much you matter to me, then why do you want me back? And how do you expect me to believe that this is how you really feel, as opposed to what you shouted at me two fucking years ago, if you won't tell me the truth? Cut the crap, Sam!"

I'd painted myself into a corner, and there was nothing I could do about it. If I told him the truth, I risked that he might storm off in disgust and never want to see me again. But if I didn't, I would definitely lose him for good. I had to take my chances and then deal with the consequences.

I took a deep breath and looked him in the eyes. "Fine! You want to know the real reason why I ran away to college and why I tried to drive you away after that? It's because I'm in love with you! That's right, I'm a sick goddamn freak who's wanted you in a way that no brother ever should since I was thirteen, and the longer I was around you, the harder it became to control myself! Even after this time apart, all I want to do when I see you is kiss you! That's the whole fucking truth! Are you satisfied now?"

He sat very still and stared at me for a long moment before slowly shaking his head. "You stupid, stupid sonofabitch!" Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to mine.