"Life goes on grinding up
glass, wearing out clothes
making fragments
breaking down
forms
and what lasts through time
is like an island on a ship in the sea,
perishable
surrounded by dangerous fragility
by merciless waters and threats.

...
May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway."

- Neruda, Ode to Broken Things

Leaving Sioux Falls was, for lack of a more fitting word… tense. Jody had been vehemently disapproving of jostling Dean again this soon, and fierce as she is, she told them outright that it was a bad idea. Naturally, it triggered a certain flammable spot in Dean's mind that had been waiting for something to blow it up for days, and the resulting fight shook the walls with its volume. It left Sam with a crying Mom, an irritated Bobby and a mercurial, belligerent boyfriend who would have bitten his head off if he pushed a compromise. He wasn't exactly facing an abundance of choices that could have appeased all sides. So, regardless of the frigid atmosphere, they packed up and left the following day.

If Sam had to be earnest with himself, he would have to admit he feels a tiny bit resentful of the way Dean treated Jody and Bobby. It's damn difficult to get why he acted like a stranger - well, worse than that - when all they ever got from their adoptive parents was love and understanding. Okay, so perhaps Dean doesn't have the kind of relationship with them that Sam does. Still. Jody is the only person in their lives who can ever come close to being their actual mother, why did Dean have to hurt her so bad? Not calling her Mom is one thing, telling her she would never live up to Dean's biological mother is another. For one, that is the biggest bullshit Sam has ever heard and he shared a desk with Brace-face Becky in tenth grade. Since they agreed on going back to California, Dean told him quite a bit about Mary Winchester, and suffice it to say Sam hates her with a fiery passion. He has no doubt that Jody wouldn't have assisted to the abuse Dean went through like that woman did. How could a mother watch that happening to her child? It's beyond Sam's understanding. So yeah, he is a little pissed off that Dean claimed Mary was better. And it's even more salt in the wound that he couldn't behave like a decent person around the couple who saved their asses by getting them out of the system.

Regarding the way he treats Sam… that's a whole new can of worms Sam would rather not think about. Where they stand on the relationship thing isn't yet decided. That short kiss under the shower didn't prove anything. The sense of foreboding is still clamouring in his mind. Dean will probably slap the breakup into his face when Sam least expects him to do so. That would be fitting for the luck Sam has been having lately.

Currently, they are less than three hundred miles away from Palo Alto and a familiar mattress to collapse on, but Sam can't take it, he can't sit behind the wheel anymore today. Tackling a thousand-mile-long drive takes its toll on a man. Goddamn Dean's aviophobia. "We are stopping at the next motel, alright?" He announces.

Dean frowns at him, eyes full of imminent doom. "Why?"

Crossing his proverbial fingers and hoping Dean won't snap at him again, Sam clears his throat. "My legs are cramping."

"We've just left Reno, man, can't you grit through it?"

"No, Dean, I can't."

"Then for God's sake, let me drive. I ain't gonna stop four hours away from home."

Why can't Sam ever have an easy day? A whole twenty-four hours when he doesn't have to battle anyone? He is so inhumanly tired, body and soul, he has to catch a break. He has to. "Sure you will." He tells Dean with a resigned little sigh.

"We could be there by sunset!"

True. "I cannot keep going that long." Also true.

Dean slaps the dashboard. "I want to sleep in my own fucking bed tonight!"

Something breaks loose in Sam's chest and stabs him right in the heart, cuts all his bottled-up rage free. "Stop fighting me over this!" He raises his voice.

"Then take me the fuck home!" Dean bellows back.

Mind flooded with the murky haze of red-hot fury, Sam turns the car onto a dirt road and steps on the brakes, tears the door open and slams it behind himself as soon as he is out of his seat. He pulls in a deep, calming breath, and closes his eyes for a second. This is only temporary, he tells himself, he's gonna bounce back soon enough. But it doesn't ring true anymore. The fatigue inside him seems all-encompassing and incurable. Tiny tremors are running through his legs from the crippling mixture of exhaustion and anger that drags his body down. He can't do this. He's not used to… Dean has always… Whatever. Like so many other things, driving is Sam's duty for now.

"What the hell?" Dean snarls at him, climbing out and stirring the dust around his shoes. He stomps in frustration, regressing like a child. It's the last drop of poison Sam is able to take.

"You know what? Enough is enough." He hisses, hands fisted. There's a distinct picture in his mind, his face distorted from shouting at Dean with a frothing mouth, pouring all the nastiness over his stupid head. It's still nothing but a mild expression of what he feels inside.

"Newsflash - I'm grieving too!" He yells.

Dean takes an involuntary step back, eyes going wide. Good, Sam seethes, full of vitriol. About time he gets it. "What did I lose? My own goddamn identity. Can you comprehend that? Because I can't. Sam Winchester never was your brother, he doesn't have a past, doesn't have a family - he doesn't even exist!" How could anyone crawl out of a mess like this? How to carry on? Sam sets his jaw, voice cold as burnished steel.

"So here's the thing, Dean, and I want you to keep it in your fucking mind. Feeling like crap doesn't give you the right to stomp all over me, especially when I'm trying my absolute best. Get a grip, will you? You have no idea how hard it is to deal with this shit. Seeing you like this is -" He bites off the last part, a tinge of regret creeping in. Dean's eyes are swimming in tears he doesn't let drop, resolute bastard he is. Sam cools down a notch. "Just - if all you can do is lashing out at me, then you should just keep your mouth shut. Clear?"

Dean averts his eyes, shiny droplets clinging to his dark lashes. His mood has turned inside out at the drop of a hat, as it is wont to do these days. Depression at its finest. He must have thrown out his morning pill again. Considering this, there's no satisfaction in seeing his gesture of submission, but it's closure nonetheless. Sam nods, turns away. He feels even worse now. What a lovely afternoon. "Terrific."

The silence in the car comes as a sanctuary.

When they pull up to their motel of the night, Dean jumps out of the car, mumbles something about getting them a room and rushes into the building. Sam runs a hand over his face, then follows at a slower pace, dragging his legs and the lead manacles that seem to be attached to them. Inside, the clerk behind the counter gives him a weird look.

"You the brother?"

What? Did Dean check them in as brothers? Why on earth? And did he still ask for a king bed? No wonder the clerk is bewildered if he did. "Uh… yeah?"

The man shakes his head, then rattles off the room number and some half-assed house rules neither of them gives a damn about.

"Just keep it down, boys." He adds with a long-suffering sigh. Sam tries to smile, but he suspects it comes out as an awkward cringe instead. Dean's not going to make this overdue stop easy for him, is he?

Turns out that Dean checked them in as siblings because he didn't want to ask for a king bed.

"I see." Sam sighs when he sees the layout. Two queens, pushed as far away from each other as possible.

Dean is lying prone on the one closest to the door, his face buried in his pillow. His boots are still on, sand caked into the grooves of their soles. Should Sam take them off? Nah. Better not tempt fate. He moves to put his bag at the foot of his own bed when he notices a slip of paper resting on the flower-patterned pillow. Is it a "fuck you, asshole" note? Or is that the break-up notice he has been dreading since the first day of Dean's hospitalisation? A combination of both? Sam glances at Dean's back, watches it move up and down and purses his lips. It can't get much worse than the way it is now, right?

Before he has time to change his mind, he strides over and snatches up the little white piece to study the messy scrawl written on it.

we are a family, Sam - D

It's a very simple sentiment. Nothing fancy or mind-blowing, but something that pulls on Sam's heartstrings nevertheless. Ever since they found out the truth, his old fear of not belonging has come back with a vengeance. Deep inside he is so afraid that he is going to lose everyone who's important to him that he let it eat away at him to the point of losing hope. But, he realises with a stutter in his breathing, Dean reached out to him through his own emotional hell when he noticed Sam was getting unbalanced. This is how they work, isn't it? Pushing and pulling on each other to keep walking the line side by side. Never letting go.

Sam puts the note back in its place and slowly, soundlessly sinks down on the mattress beside Dean's hip. His hand finds the small of Dean's back and strokes, cajoling, but elicits no response. Okay then. He can step up his game. Sam slides his palms around and under Dean's belly, bends from the waist and wiggles until his arms form a band around Dean's chest, an apologetic hold that soothes the suspiciously hitching inhales to rest.

"I'm sorry that I snapped at you." He whispers into Dean's ear.

He gets a furious headshake in response. "You were right." Dean mumbles. "I wasn't thinking clearly."

Sam has to concede to that. But that doesn't mean Dean has to distance himself, does it? "Roll over."

He prods at Dean's side until he shifts away enough that Sam is able to lie down behind the curl of his body. His sneakers shed their own handful of sand to pool on the clean sheet next to Dean's mess, but Sam couldn't care less at the moment. He cards his fingers through Dean's hair, gauging if he can go for spooning or not.

"So… in this family of ours. Are we brothers?" He ventures. "Or are we… something else?"

At that, Dean turns to face him, features mellow. It's obvious that he must have had another mood shift - they sure come and go like nobody's business today. He must be too tired for normal self-control, God knows Sam is struggling himself. But his eyes don't look too red, so at least he didn't flat-out cry, thank God. That trifle on the dirt road wouldn't have been worth it, really.

"You decide." Dean says, lips twitching upward.

They are on the same page then, it seems. "Let's go with something else." He replies and offers a short, dry kiss that Dean takes with a smile. It's still not enough - Sam needs to hear it, needs the most tangible affirmation he can get. It's irrational, but he is insecure about this, has always been. Jealous and insecure. Wants all of Dean for himself, forever and beyond. "I take it you don't wanna dump me then?"

"I never did." Dean scoots closer, frowning. "It's still you and me against the world, bud."

Sam's anxiety deflates like a balloon. "Yeah."

"You don't look convinced."

Sam shrugs. "The world doesn't make much sense right now."

"I know." Dean sighs, pulling a snagged thread further out of Sam's shirt. "What are we going to do about it?"

"I don't know."

"Will you change your name?"

"Don't think so."

The strand of cotton tears, the thin maroon piece pinched between Dean's pointer and thumb. With unwarranted concentration, Dean starts looping it around Sam's ring finger, a peculiar look on his face. "A lawsuit would be too much trouble, huh?"

Sam feels like he's missing something here. It's as though there's another layer to this conversation he's not privy to. "I like my name as it is."

Dean seems immensely satisfied by that answer. He ties the thread around Sam's finger, picks at it with his nail, then sits up so abruptly that Sam jumps. "Do you want me to get some burgers? I saw…" His voice dies for a second and his face screws up in pain, his hand flying to his chest, but he tries to carry on and pretend the stop didn't happen. "...a diner down the road."

He gives Sam a reassuring smile and a wink. "Promise I'll walk."

It's honestly baffling that he thinks Sam will just let that pause slide. "Quit it." He tells Dean and pulls him back down. "I know you're hurting."

Dean purses his lips, defeated. "Just a headache."

"Uh-huh." They both know what it truly is. Anxiety chest pain that can be so intolerable at times that Dean once scratched up his own sternum trying to claw it away. As far as Sam knows, it's a sharp, stabbing ache, like having your heart used as a pincushion. A literal broken heart. "How about we do our old trick, hm?"

It speaks volumes of how bad it is now that Dean just nods, lies down on his back and waits for Sam to press a hand to the center of his chest. It doesn't stop the pain, but makes it easier to breathe through the pinpricks that would otherwise squeeze Dean's lungs into a panic attack.

"I'm fine." Dean gripes, but falls asleep within minutes as the exhaustion of the last few days catches up with him and takes him under. Deep in thought, Sam retracts his hand and unloops the thread of fabric from his finger. He wonders what Dean is dreaming about.

Three days after they get back to Palo Alto, Sam catches some dreadful stomach bug that renders him useless, incapable of anything but puking and cooking in his own feverish sweat. He feels disgusting and miserable, so naturally this is the time Dean deems fit for rekindling their habit of disregarding personal space.

"Nooo…" Sam moans when Dean wrestles him out of his sopping wet shirt and pulls a clean one over his head. "Gonna infect you."

Dean just snorts and maneuvers Sam's limp arms through the sleeves. His skin feels ice cold, practically sizzling when it connects with Sam's heat, but Sam is too weak to bat the touch away. "'M gross."

"You are." Dean agrees cheerfully.

Sam makes a face and suppresses a burp. He eyes the empty bucket at Dean's feet, contemplating. "Hate you."

"Tell me about it, pal."

Sam whines. "You never call me anything sweet." He lets Dean tug his body this way and that until he's half-sitting, back to Dean's chest. The bucket is placed in his lap without further ado. "I'm ruining our first week here."

Dean starts channel surfing, humming to himself. He is so freaking weird. Is it because of the new flat? Does he like it this much? Still bizarre. "Not really. I think of it as an extended lie-in."

Sam puts the bucket aside, pulling his long legs up and closing his eyes. He doubts there's anything else in him that could make its way out. "Why are you so goddamn happy?"

"'Cause I took my pill?" Dean flattens Sam's bangs to his forehead, then ruffles them again. "Can't have both of us out of commission, honey."

Sam groans and kicks Dean with all his might (which equals a feeble bump at the moment). He shouldn't have said anything about the nicknames, Dean is going to be infuriating now. Also… "You took your meds?" On your own volition?

"Damn right." The grin is audible in his voice. "And I called Rufus."

That's what Sam has been afraid of, why he tried to stay on his feet as long as he could. When his fatigue kept getting worse and he ended up hugging the toilet last night, he knew then and there that Dean was going to do something he wasn't supposed to. Seems like that something was arranging work for himself. Moreover, looking at the items he has been bringing over since Sam woke up from his fitful nap, making calls wasn't the only thing he did. He must have sneaked out to the storage unit for some of their stuff. Sam bets he didn't ask for a friend to drive him either. "You aren't allowed to work yet."

"Wrong." Dean kisses his forehead. "I'm not allowed to work full-time yet."

"No, Dean -" Oh shit. The nausea is building up again. Sam shivers and leans away from Dean, scrabbling for the container that has been appointed as his companion for today. Dean pets his back and says he'll be right back with a wet cloth, conversation promptly forgotten. He reverts to calling Sam kiddo. It feels a lot like nostalgia. Sam wants to die.

It takes another day for him to resemble a functioning human again. By then, all of their stuff has migrated up into their new apartment from the unit they stored them in, even the couch, which Sam has no idea how Dean managed to pull off. He should be angry, he gathers, but since they arrived back here Dean has begun to take care of himself again and he doesn't have the heart to reprimand him. Not driving his Baby for a month must have been like missing a limb. Dean's much calmer now. In fact, he looks…

"Did you shave?" Sam asks from the kitchen's doorway as the realisation hits him.

Dean startles and slaps his laptop shut, sitting at their tiny table like a deer caught in the headlights. Interesting. "Yep."

"Where did you get the -"

"Razor? I bought it." He shrugs, stands up and busies himself with a pot of soup on the stove that smells delicious to Sam's poor empty stomach. "You're one lousy guard dog, Sammy."

Sam scowls and plops down in the chair opposite Dean's, grumbling. He's not sure what to attribute Dean's sudden good mood to. Is it the medication, the increase in activity or just Palo Alto in general? "I was sick."

"Always with the excuses." Dean tuts and licks the spoon in his hand, king of hygiene he is.

Sam figures if they are going to pass a virus between each other, it's not him who's going to be the recipient, so he watches Dean's idea of cleaning a utensil with the amused detachment one usually spares for a rowdy pet playing in the mud. There's a mug of ginger tea and a bowl in front of him, evidence that Dean has been waiting for him to come out of the bedroom for a long time now. It makes him warm inside, knowing Dean was thoughtful enough to prepare these for him. And another morsel of an idea sparks to life in his mind - was it his sickness that prompted Dean to stop self-destructing on purpose?

"Hey, is that my robe?" Dean pipes up, crossing his arms. "Give it back."

Sam tightens the soft flaps around himself. "No. You steal my hoodies all the time."

"They are warmer than mine."

"They are too big for you." He pauses for effect. "By the way, this robe is my size too."

"You told me it looked like I had found it in a flea market."

"So? It's still comfy." Sam makes his best entitled expression. Jesus, he loves bickering with Dean. "I deserve comfy things, you know."

"That so?" Dean growls. "I'll show you what you deserve, big guy…" He advances, eyes narrowed and muscles flexing.

For a split second Sam thinks Dean will pounce and try wrestling with him, which would be a disaster considering how weak he is right now, but what happens instead is something completely different. Dean throws himself into his lap, straddling Sam's legs, and hugs him so hard Sam feels their cheeks squishing together. There's a fifty-fifty chance that the chair will break under their combined weight.

"I made you a broth." Dean says in lieu of explaining his abrupt need for affection.

Fortunately, Sam is proficient in Dean-talk and rarely ever has trouble seeing the hidden meaning in his gestures. "Chicken or vegetable?"

Dean runs his hands over the lapels of the robe, leaning back, face aflame. "Vegetable."

Sam grins. He must have been missed something fierce if Dean willingly touched a bunch of veggies, spent money on them and made a pot of food that doesn't contain any fat, sugar or meat. It's impressive. "Sounds great."

Dean bites his lip. "I took the car to buy you carrots."

That sounds so ridiculous coming out of Dean's mouth that Sam has to hold back a laugh. "I know." He also knows that their shit from the storage unit didn't come over on foot either.

"Aren't you going to flip out?"

He should. God knows he should. Those antidepressants may have side effects that could impair reaction time, just to mention one dangerous possibility out of many. They don't yet know if Dean is affected by any of them - though Sam is already suspecting an obvious one. But nothing bad happened, no one got hurt, and Dean had his precious me-time with his car. Sam is going to let it go, just this once.

He plants a kiss on Dean's clean-shaven cheek. "I'm just glad you are feeling better."

"Me too." Dean confesses with palpable relief and moves to grab Sam's bowl, standing up. "Alright. One portion of bland broth is coming right up, princess."

Out of all the ridiculous nicknames Dean has been entertaining himself with, this one is definitely the worst. Sam is tempted to retaliate with something similar when he sees the smile in the corner of Dean's mouth as he turns back to the stove, and decides to let him win this round. Plenty of time to outplay him when he is healthy again.

That night, when Dean is out like a light and snoring in his duvet-bundle despite the stifling heat, Sam switches off the movie he was pretending to watch in the living room and pulls Dean's laptop out of its bag. It's kind of cute that he thought Sam wouldn't be able to break into it and check his browser history - it takes him less than ten minutes and he is pulling up the pages that seem relevant among the wide plethora of meaningless junk Dean appears to like. He feels somewhat guilty about snooping, but he's crazy curious about what Dean was so flustered about at lunch. He justifies it with his responsibility to keep Dean safe while he's on the mend. Hurtful online interaction could hinder his progress after all.

The first sites are all about various illnesses that could cause vomiting, including a detailed description of stomach cancer that Dean bookmarked with a set of exclamation marks. Sam refuses to spend more than the necessary time with these - otherwise he would end up abandoning his quest in favour of kissing Dean back out of sleep. Next, he finds a jewelry's page - for Jody's birthday gift, perhaps? - that he dismisses without a second thought. And then he hits jackpot.

It's the homepage of San Francisco State University's Engineering Department.

"Woah." Sam mumbles. Now that is something else. Does Dean want to be an engineer? Never said a word about it before.

It's not an absurd plan at all. Sam knows Dean has a brilliant mind that he wastes away on self-deprecation and oiling cars. It's the high school grades that could prove to be a problem, they aren't exactly stellar. He might have to go to community college first, make it through those two years and apply to the uni after. Would he have the persistence to fight his way to a degree? He doesn't have it yet, but maybe in a year? He seems to be getting better already, now that he realised his pills aren't toxic sedatives. It took him a whole month, but he got here. It must mean that he realised some things are worth getting better for, right? This can't be just a fluke before he gives up, Sam senses a real shift here.

A muffled shout from the bedroom interrupts his musing.

"Shit!" He hisses and shoves the laptop back into its holder.

By the time he gets there, Dean is sitting up on his side of the bed, hyperventilating and groping around himself, patting the empty space where Sam would usually be. Alarmed, Sam glances at the night light on the bedside table - damnit, he forgot to plug it in.

"I'm here, shh, I'm here." He climbs on the mattress and tucks Dean into an embrace.

"Nightmare." Dean wheezes. He's all skin and bones compared to his normal weight, his frame doesn't fit right into the cradle of Sam's arms. He is trembling, pale as a sheet. "I woke up, didn't know where you were, didn't know where I was, how old I was, I thought I forgot, I thought you died -"

"Shh." Sam feels the queasy tilt in his reality again - this isn't how things are supposed to be. He is not accustomed to being Dean's pillar, and as much as he used to wish for true equality in their relationship, the real thing is overwhelming to handle.

"Sorry." Dean sniffs and lies back down. Lit by nothing but the dim light coming in from the hallway, his expression stays hidden in the shadows. "I'm okay, you can go back to your movie now."

"I'm not going anywhere. Just let me…" Sam grunts, leaning over Dean's head to switch on the small yellow light they have been using since last Christmas. As its soft glow paints soothing colours over the walls, Dean's breathing evens out. "There. Much better now."

He smiles down at Dean, gets a grateful blink of acknowledgement in return. A hand cups the back of his neck, strokes up and down in contemplation.

"You know that I still think about it, right?" Dean murmurs with a small, sad smile.

Sam lowers himself to his elbows on either side of Dean's head, as if draping himself over his body could protect him from the hurt that's coming from inside. "Kansas?"

"Dying." Dean corrects calmly.

This time, it's not panic that strikes Sam the hardest, but a strange sense of hope. They didn't talk about it since that episode on the bridge. In Sioux Falls, everyone preferred to skirt around the elephant in the room, pretended the issue didn't exist. But talking, real, serious talking could soothe some of Dean's most distressing thoughts and could swing them in the right direction, Sam knows.

"You can always tell me about it."

Dean licks his lips, uncertain. "Do you really want to hear it?"

"Of course." However difficult it's going to be.

"I like to think about the funeral. How peaceful it would be for me. No more pain, no more memories. I'd just float in nothing." Dean says, his green eyes filling with wistful sadness as they flicker away from Sam's face. "I want to be cremated. There's… they have this fountain that they put the urn in. A bunch of water jets form a canopy around it, then when it's time, the mechanism blows the ashes into the air. The water spray catches the cloud and carries it to the drain that's under the fountain."

Dean's expression crumples. "It'd be so good, don't you think? So light and easy. The water would wash it all away, back to the ground where it belongs, no grave to take care of, nothing, no more burden for you -"

Sam presses down with his entire body, sliding his arms under Dean's neck and hugging him close before he could finish that horrible sentence and spiral further down into the clutches of darkness.

"Dean." Sam says like someone just gave him a fatal knife wound.

"You are not a burden, you've never been, not to me." He tells Dean gently. "Two days ago, when I was puking my guts out and you took such good care of me, did you think I was a burden?"

Dean presses his nose against Sam's temple. "No. I just wanted you to get better." He hiccups. "I was afraid you wouldn't."

"I feel the same way." Sam draws back just enough to look him in the eye. "I care about you and I want to help you. You are not a burden."

Dean blinks away his tears. "I feel like I am. And that makes me feel so guilty."

"There's nothing you should feel guilty for." Sam kisses away the saltwater from the corner of Dean's left eye. No words could express how much he wants Dean to believe him now. "I'm so glad you are still here with me. I'm thankful for every day you choose to stay."

Dean lets out a wet laugh, then rubs at his eyes and nose with an embarrassed little huff, holding onto Sam's waist with his free hand. "Ah, I'm so sorry. That nightmare screwed with my emotions, man."

So he wants to take the easy way out. Alright. This was already more than they have ever talked about the subject, no need to push it anymore.

Sam rolls over to lie on his side and curls his palm around Dean's hip, arm resting across his torso. "Don't worry about it. I'm always here if you want to vent about this stuff."

"Thanks." Dean replies and pulls the blanket over them both. "I swear that even with the pills, sometimes my moods are all over the place."

"It's okay. They need a few weeks to take full effect."

Dean cranes his neck to the side to press their foreheads together. He sighs.

"This is why I wanted to come back here. To be alone with you." He admits, probably still too wound up to filter how much of his deepest thoughts he gives away. Sam wishes he could be this open every day.

"Jody and Bobby blow things out of proportion. They look at me like I'm glass." Dean mutters. "They didn't give me space. I know I'm not supposed to work, or drive, or do anything that's not some sort of zen meditation bullshit. But I want to, and I also know that you'll let me."

It's such an endearingly Dean way to express frustration that Sam's fear and sorrow retreat to the back of his mind. "You have me all figured out, huh?"

"You bet." Dean weaves their fingers together, slowly drifting off again. "I love you."

Hearing it is the best damn thing in the world.

The start of Sam's second year at Stanford comes and goes without fanfare. He and Dean have more important things to worry about than school gossip and whatnot, and as a result, Sam feels more out of place than ever. Even with his friends, conversations grow stilted and awkward - they talk about vacations and summer flings, Sam stays quiet and thinks about holding his world in a grip of iron, hoping it won't slip away. The guys boast about banging half a sorority, the girls bashfully admit they had a good time at a festival or two, Sam keeps his mouth shut and tries not to think of Dean's tearful admission about the sexual side effects of his pills. Some of his buddies make an effort to ask - "What about you, Sam?" - but he's too afraid and too jaded to begin explaining. "My boyfriend, who is sort of my brother…" He can't imagine that would go over well.

But Dean's making tremendous progress. They made up with Jody, he is back to work full-time now, sleeps through the night, has started to gain back the weight he lost in Sioux Falls, goes to therapy without complaint. He's getting out of the magnetic pull of darkness step by step, feeling lighter every passing week, and to Sam, that's all that really matters. They are making a good team again. And maybe, if they carry on in the same track, they can become even better than they used to be.

One night in early October he is contemplating just that, the future, over an assignment he has little enthusiasm to finish, when Dean comes out of his own room and throws himself down next to him on the couch. They look at each other. Sam raises an eyebrow. Dean grins.

"I feel good tonight." He announces and presses a dangerously wet kiss to Sam's lips.

His dosage has been lowered this week - and seeing his dilated pupils and red ears tonight, Sam is pretty sure the side effects that hit him in the last months aren't affecting him now. His sex drive and the equipment seem to be working just fine again, and Dean seems ridiculously happy about it.

The heat of anticipation spreads through Sam's chest, up to his face. "Yeah?"

"Hm." Dean breathes warmth into the shell of his ear, his deft fingers worming under Sam's shirt, feeling him up with a confidence he has been lacking since June. His blunt nails scrape down the ridges of Sam's abs.

"How good?" Sam whimpers. He is going to turn into goo any second now.

Dean's hand stills, then slides further down Sam's front to cup the tent in his pants in one slow, deliberate motion. He nips at Sam's cheek. "Very."

It's a mad dash from then on, into the bedroom and onto each other until they are stark naked and Dean is poised astride Sam's hips, rocking with a look of fulfillment on his face. Sam's entire body tingles from the surge of excitement that doubles his heart rate. This is the first time in four months that they are even attempting to go all the way. Four months.

"I'm not gonna last." Sam warns when Dean picks up his pace, but he's instantly silenced by an insistent mouth and the sharp tug of fingers in his hair.

"I missed you so much." Dean chants between kisses, then leans back and braces himself on Sam's knee, giving up on his semblance of composure and just chasing his pleasure any way he can get it.

Sam soaks in the sight of him, mouth agape around a moan of appreciation. Dean has no idea of his own sensuality. He's using his looks as a weapon, a shiny Colt to protect himself with; he flirts and parades around but never once believes it's true awe he induces. Sometimes, Sam just wants to smooth his hands up his body from his ankles over the lush curve of his butt to his neck and watch how those ivory slopes flush pink under a touch that adores their very existence. He draws Dean back down for a kiss and holds onto his thighs, so close, never close enough.

"You aren't my brother." Dean gasps into his mouth, stating it like he needs to hear it over and over again.

"No." Sam replies and catches the ripples of a shudder on Dean's waist. The room is too dark for colours, but he imagines he sees the blush spilling down Dean's chest when the sound of their movements turns restless and erratic.

Dean swallows, muscles tightening. "We aren't related."

Sam smiles. "We aren't."

"There's nothing - nothing wrong with -"

"Nothing." He nods and honest-to-God laughs. This is the first time the relief of it hits him in the chest, that they aren't related by blood, that this isn't a biological crime, that this would have always been fine if only they knew it all along, and thinking about that makes him come so fast and hard it seems to last forever. He is gasping and giggling at the same time and Dean is right there with him, hand mindlessly rubbing whatever he reaches even after Sam turns into a boneless heap of satisfaction under his touch. The ever-present guilt dribbles away from Sam's mind like rainwater.

Afterwards, he indulges in his hobby cartography and maps out the lines on Dean's back with his lips and hands, much to the dismay of their grumpy owner who'd rather escape to dreamland if only Sam let him. After he finally gets his fill, he rests his head on Dean's shoulder blade and drifts in lazy contentment until an idea occurs to him and gets stuck in his mind. He hums. "What do you think about tattoos?"

Dean shrugs, dislodging his head. "Why? Want your name inked on my ass?"

Sam walks his fingers up the jagged knife-mark Dean hates the most. "I was thinking about these."

The following grunt of irritation doesn't come as a surprise. There aren't many topics Dean hates more than discussing his scars. "When did you get so obsessed with my back?"

"Not your back." Sam pouts, then bites into the round apple-knob of Dean's shoulder, mouths at it gently. He thought Dean would know it after almost two years of unwavering worship.

Dean makes annoyed little sounds in the back of his throat and pushes Sam's jaw away. "What is it then?"

Unperturbed, Sam nuzzles his way up to the crook of Dean's neck, breathes in the fragrance of that soft place. It's exquisite. It could only get better if he could taste it, sink his teeth into it and leave rings of possession in its supple flesh. He is a biter, and he would probably leave marks all over that milky canvas if they didn't have such tragic significance in their lives. "Your skin."

"My skin." Dean deadpans, incredulous. "You're going crazy about… my skin."

"Well, yeah." It's so smooth and beautiful, scatterings of freckles everywhere, some for only Sam to see and dote on.

Dean turns around and fakes a pitying look. "You are such a dork."

"Look who's talking."

They fall silent for a second, then open their mouths at the same time, blurting out the same thing. "I need to tell you something."

Another moment of silence. "You first." Dean says, eyes alight with a strange gleam. Is he nervous?

Sam bites his lip. "Don't be mad, but… I have seen some of the websites you have been looking up on your laptop."

"Yeah?" To Sam's surprise, Dean completely overlooks that part of his admission that should have clued him in about Sam's nosiness. He just freezes, eyes wide. "So?"

Confused, Sam goes on. "Do you want to be an engineer?"

Dean lets out a relieved chuckle that makes Sam frown. "Maybe."

Alright then. "Because if you really want to do this, then I can help. You don't have to shoulder this alone, okay? We can look up schools and programmes, see how we can manage things financially, I could get a job - not like last time, but -"

"Sam." Dean cuts him off, then smiles and flips them around, pinning Sam's wrists to the mattress. "Shut up."

And with that command, whatever else they were about to confess that night stays forgotten in the dance of bodies twining around each other, sharing comfort and desire. Sam doesn't mind it one bit. A bossy Dean is a good start.

Things, of course, aren't going to be magically perfect from here on, he knows. Even with the violent mood swings and the despair gone, Dean has a long way to go. But it's okay. For the first time ever, he has a chance to let the past go, to win the battle he has been fighting all his life - and he is taking that goddamn chance. His wings may have been broken, but he is going to fly again. Damn right, he is.