Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lake Manitoc was linked to the deaths of several people. 

Specifically, there were three recent drownings, and the bodies had mysteriously disappeared from the lake. In addition to these drownings, an investigation they’d conducted revealed that six other people had, too, disappeared over the last thirty-five years—and dangerously close to the little town in Wisconsin. This brings the total number of deaths linked to Lake Manitoc to nine.

Sam hears Dean let out an exasperated sigh behind him. A small thud indicates that he had let his hands fall to the dresser closest to him. Sam tries to crane his neck to the left a little, somewhat to catch a glimpse of his brother’s defeated pose, but also to gauge a general idea of how they were going to play this; by tenacity, or sheer lunacy. 

Dean always got a bit too invested when he was tired, like he was trying to compensate for his exhaustion by somehow being more productive. Sam used to scoff at his antics—because the amount of “productivity” being done plummeted faster than a sack of bricks off a skyscraper. It was impressive how fast a person could crash after being so determined. You couldn’t tell Dean that, though—no. He’d never listen.

Sam went on. “Says here—Christopher Barr: Drowned. Same lake. May.”

“May?” Dean tests the word in his own mouth.

Sam nods, even though Dean isn’t looking at him. “Took the boat out for a ride with his son. Took a dip, got pulled under, and drowned all while little Lucas was watching.”

Dean makes a noise of astonishment.

Sam scrolls down the page, opening up an image of Lake Manitoc. The waters reign deep, dark currents. The sunshine captured in the photo allows it to glisten in its monstrosity, but he knows better than to appreciate it for its beauty—not when there’s something so malicious hiding underneath.

“No wonder that kid was so freaked out,” Dean says.

Sam zooms in on the photo. The trees in the background are slightly blurred, most likely due to the wind or swaying. They are dark-leaved and intimate with distance from the lake. His vision dims, and when he zooms out, it’s barely even noticeable that they’re trees at all.

He catches Dean’s eyes on him through the darkness of the screen.

“Watching one of your parents die isn’t just something you get over.”

His focus stays on him, weirdly. His tone sounds all the more ominous when he says things like that, and Sam hates it. He hates how Dean can’t just be normal and say what he means. He doesn’t let his eyes peel away from him, though—watching as Dean studies the back of his head, he even tilts it slightly to illicit a reaction; an exit from this trance, because he’s surely just zoning out.

But his focus stays on Sam and Sam solely, like there’s a gun to his head. And he hopes there’s no gun to his head, because the reflection of this computer screen wasn’t actually all that clear, and maybe he was just missing the point—

Sam lowers the laptop shut with his own exhale of air. “What do you wanna do?”

He finally shifts in his chair and turns to face Dean, all slumped and unwavering in his resolute hypocrisy. The crash would come soon, Sam thinks.

It takes a moment for Dean to stand up straight again. The wood creaks beneath his weight. He stares aimlessly before looking at the closed laptop. Sam can almost see the twinkle in his eye—the twinkle that says ‘I-have-an-idea’.

“We’re gonna pay little Lucas a visit,” he says.

Convincing Andrea Barr to let Dean talk to her son was tedious. And aggravating.

It was Sam who did most of the talking anyway, while Dean eyed the kid from across the playground like a creep. Sam swore, my brother. His off-putting demeanour is of help to absolutely no one. Sam keeps telling him— (“Smile, Dean! You look sinister!”)

Dean chimed in for parts of the conversation to flash his teeth and wink at her, which she did not appreciate in the slighest. When he went back to staring at Lucas, Sam apologised to Andrea on his behalf.

That went on for about fifteen minutes before Dean had just walked off and sat down with the kid, all against Andrea’s wishes and Sam’s better judgement.

They watched as they interacted, though. Sam took a seat beside Andrea and listened to her ramble about the town, her family, her late husband. It wasn’t all that interesting, seeming as it didn’t give them any new insight into the situation. Dean picked at Lucas’ crayons, stealing his desired colours and scribbling onto a loose piece of paper beside the boy. He stole glances up at him every few seconds, and it was obvious he wasn’t really stuck into his drawing like Lucas was.

Sam distantly hoped he would steal a glance over in his direction. Just for any reason, really. An annoyed eye roll, this isn’t working. Or a quick smirk, I’m making progress! Anything that would hint at some sort of normalcy between the two. Ever since Dean had broken in, nothing about them had been normal. Given that it had been years since he’d seen him—you’d think they’d fall back into the swing of things a little more easily, right? But no interaction, no gesture, nothing Dean had said or done had given Sam any sort of idea about how this new relationship was going to go.

Apart from the occasional ‘little brother’ and ‘Sammy’ —which represented a time neither Sam nor Dean wanted to return to—there had been no plan or structure to this time together.

Still, nothing came, and Andrea kept talking.

(When Dean stood up and started to walk back, Sam felt nothing short of relieved.)

This time, it was Dean’s turn to listen as Andrea scolded and nagged him for his immature behavior. Wandering off whilst being spoken to, indulging in his own selfish wishes, making crude comments—Sam snorted. Although Dean shot him a look—a very frustrated look—Sam didn’t even think to hide his smile.

Usually, he would’ve. Maybe ten years ago, when they were kids, because Dean was next in line for ‘danger’ right besides Dad. But now? He only lazily wipes a hand over his mouth to conceal it as a funny cough, sending Dean’s intimidating stare right back at him, except with a twinge of playfulness.

He wiggles his eyebrows. Dean scoffs.

And Sam tunes the rest of the conversation out.

(Except for when Andrea says, “when I think about what Lucas went through… what he saw,” that’s when Sam tunes back in.

When it causes Dean to glance at him, almost worryingly, as if Sam was Lucas.

And when Sam catches his curious gaze—looking away almost instantly, skittish.)

This is so strange, Sam thinks.

“Don’t’cha think we should be talking to the Cartlons about this?” Sam suggests one evening. “Aren’t they the reason we’re in Wisconsin?”

He doesn’t look away from the damp spot on the ceiling. He’s been wondering if it was going to start dripping anytime soon. Motel rooms always have that kind of shitting plumbing and plastering. 

He hears the sheets shuffle from where Dean is lying on his own bed. Sam stays sprawled out, though, not wanting to disrupt his own peace. It hadn’t meant to be a loaded question, anyway.

Dean—he sees out of the corner of his eye—sits on the edge of the bed. His elbows rest on his knees, and his hands clasp together, wrapping each finger atop each knuckle nicely. He stares at the patterned carpet for, Sam counts, eight seconds before responding.

“Yeah,” is all he says.

It’d be a shame if it were to start dripping, Sam thinks. That means his bed would become a victim of Chinese Water Torture before they had even begun finishing this case. His pillow, comforter, all three sheets. He didn’t know why there were three sheets—or why he’d checked to see how many sheets there were in the first place. This place had been messing with his head.

An off-rail thought assaults him as he trails a finger across. Maybe it’s Dean, it says. Maybe it’s Dean messing with your head.

He physically shakes it away, then lolls his head in the direction of where Dean is sitting. He’s still sitting, but he’s staring now.

“What’cha thinkin’ about, Sammy?” His mellow voice fills the room.

“It’s Sam,” he corrects, “you know it’s Sam.”

Dean smirks. “Do I?”

It can’t be Dean messing with his head. Dean isn’t smart enough to orchestrate that kind of confusion. As tough and as brave and as diligent as he is, Dean was never the smart one. That’s why Sam was the one to go to college, and not Dean—and that’s why Dean got all salty and crumby about it. Though Sam guesses it was never really about college, just more about going.

He can’t say he doesn’t understand. But he also can’t say he can, if that were to make even any sense at all.

Plus, this kind of mess wasn’t something being done on purpose. It could be Dean, for all he knew. Just regular ol’ Dean going about his day. Hair gelled, belt buckled, handgun shoved so far down his pants, it’d be sure to shoot his damn ass off were he ever to sit down and take a break—

Just Dean. Big green eyes, cleanly shaven except for the growing stubble. Stupidly strong hands; perfect for hugging and holding. Cradling Sam’s head, carding his fingers through his growing hair, murmuring gentle incantations to lull him into calm. 

Sam almost feels intoxicated with the thought of it—stupidly, stupidly mistaken at the realization that that hadn’t happened in years. Not since they were little, not since Sam had—for some reason—started overthinking every time Dean had neared him.

Okay, so it could be Dean.

“C’mon,” Dean speaks. “Open that freaky head of yours t’me.”

(“Come on, Sammy,” his big brother whispers, “I’m here. I’m listening. All you gotta do is talk.”)

Sam doesn’t respond.

It’s weird how far they’d drifted after Sam left. As kids, they were closer than ever—but it was really weird to him that Sam didn’t even know his favorite color. Stuff like his favorite food, movie, and song. What interested him, what hobbies he’d wished to pursue when he was young—what kinds of things he values in a person. Nothing.

“Alright—fine.” Dean stood up, walking to a stack of papers sitting on the table. He flicked through a few before holding it up in view for Sam. “Yeah, we’ll go talk to the Carltons tomorrow. Happy?”

Sam squints at him. “When’s your birthday, again?” He asks.

That must surprise Dean because his once patronising expression falls straight to a blank one. His mouth parts ever so slightly, but no words come out. His eyebrows furrow inwards, a bit, like he’s trying really hard to decipher it—this ghastly question Sam has asked him.

He stammers out a response, nonetheless. “Uh—January, twenty-fourth—”

“—twenty-fourth! That’s it. For some reason, I always think you’re the twenty-third.”

Dean stares at him, dumbfounded.

“That makes you an Aquarius, doesn’t it?” Sam keeps going, “Intellectual, open-minded— Yeesh, I don’t know, Dean.”

He scours his mind for more adjectives. More accurate ones, this time.

“Independent,” he stops. But he had came looking for me. “Unpredictable.. check. Stubborn?”

Sam sneaks a glance at Dean, whose arms are crossed and leaning against the small table of papers. His face is sewn in completely. Unimpressed. Non-receiving. Bullseye.

“..Yeah,” Sam chuckles, “definitely.”

“What’re you getting at, Sam?”

Sam sits up, finally. He should’ve done that ages ago, his back is killing him—

Dean is already walking away before he can give an answer. The bathroom door swings open harshly and slams with just as much force. Sam wants to say something in rebuttal, but there’s no use. He hears the water start to run.

Darn, he was getting somewhere. Kind of. 

It was fun to tease Dean. He didn’t know how to react. He’d usually tease back, but Sam’s guessing he’d caught him on a weird night, and also started it in a weird way. It might’ve just seemed like he was poking fun—which he was, in a way. But it wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

Dean used to tease him all the time, anyway. It shouldn’t matter. Sam just—he missed some of it, he supposed. He thought maybe Dean wasn’t so different after all. That he hadn’t changed. And he hadn’t—not really. Just maybe their dynamic—it could be fixed.

Less conditional. Less dutiful. More inclined, exclusive, understanding.

He pushes himself off his own bed and makes a few strides to the shut bathroom door. Shut, but not locked. He doesn’t know what possesses him, but he slowly brings a hand up to the doorknob, jangling it sideways, and ultimately opening it.

The running water grows louder without the wood separating them. He coaxes it open wider, carefully, quietly, not to make too much noise. The mirror is fogged up and condensation rises from behind the cheap shower curtain. Sam sighs and lets go off the doorknob.

He bites his lip and starts to eye the toilet. Carefully and quietly, again, he walks over to it and folds the lid down, turning around to sit on it with one knee up to his chin. It creaks beneath his weight a little, but nothing too detrimental.

He speaks without thinking. “What about your favorite animal?”

A sharp yell emits from behind the curtain. “Jesus Christ, Sam!” Dean’s voice is frightened, annoyed, but most of all—confused. “What the hell?!”

Sam hears a few plastic-sounding bottles hit the tub. Dean curses as they do so, presumably bending down to pick them up again. Sam thinks another one drops, because it makes a quiet ‘bonk’ and Dean hisses.

He thinks to chuckle again. Head-shot.

“Your favorite animal,” Sam repeats.

“I don’t fuckin’ got one—the fuck are you doin’ in here, Sammy? I’m trying to shower.”

Sam makes a ‘pssh’ sound. “You’re behind a curtain, it’s fine.”

“I think you need’a brush up on your definition of privacy, pal.”

Sam rolls his eyes—but he doesn’t hear the water turn off or still, so Dean must be rolling his eyes, too. He can’t be too mad, either, since he’d started calling him ‘Sammy’ again.

“You seriously don’t got one?”

A sigh. “No, Sam.”

Sam hums, staring into the fogged-up mirror in front of him. His silhouette is almost vaguely there, shapes and lines tracing the appearance of his hair. Brown, yet it looks lighter. Short, but it looks shorter. He sways from side to side to see his own frame move in the cloud, almost mesmerisingly.

He wonders if this is what the spirits feel like, all mushed together and fuzzy. Some dazed feeling, the phantom touch of a corporeal body. How tangible everything can be, if they’d only remained alive to see it. He wonders if they ever miss it, being alive. And a more melancholy part of him wonders what it’s like to be dead.

“Favorite color?” He asks before that thought continues.

There’s silence for a moment—nothing but the running of water and the scent of shampoo hitting his senses. Sam hears the ‘click’ of the bottle, and the soft ‘thud’ when it’s placed back on the shelf. The water stops and goes every few seconds, probably from Dean stepping under it and out. 

You see, Sam would’ve guessed Dean’s favorite animal was a deer, or something, considering how often he and Dad used to go hunting them together—a stark contrast to the merciless supernatural. But was it that Dean had always just been a violent soul, too eager to kill and capture—or was it merely the encouragement of John pressing him to become this weapon he never thought to be?

It could’ve been a panther, maybe. Fierce and mighty, all too confident in the way he protects his cub. Or perhaps a raccoon; messy, disorganised, desperate—but they pack a good punch when you egg ‘em on.

Sam thinks maybe he’d like a fox. Sly, yet caring. Vibrant, but also easily missed.

“…Blue,” says Dean, hesitantly.

At that, Sam suddenly remembers he’s asked another question. Color. Color, right—Blue. That—That’s nice. It makes sense. It makes a lot of sense, actually.

“What kind of blue?” Sam pushes. “Dark and brooding? Navy blue?”

He can almost hear the smile in Dean’s voice. “Nah,” he disagrees softly. “Something glad. A teal…”

Sam smiles, too. “Teal?”

“Mm…” Dean ponders, “Blue like the sky, maybe.”

“Blue like the sky,” Sam repeats, testing the words out on his tongue. They roll off quite comfortably, like it’s the right thing to say.

There’s more silence while Sam thinks. He can’t conjure up any more questions, he finds. Nothing quite piques his entertainment. He watches the mirror fog up some more, and his silhouette becomes further unrecognisable. He watches the steam rise from the shower. He watches the moonlight start to peek in through the motel windows, straight into the bathroom, and straight into his eye.

He’s satisfied with blue like the sky. There’s nothing more fitting for Dean Winchester, he thinks.

“What about you?”

Sam sighs dramatically, almost pretending to think. “Yellow,” he tutts.

Dean clatters around the shower again. “Like?”

Sam wonders about that. Butter, gold, sand… Things like bananas and lemons are too bright. Too vibrant. The kind of yellow he likes is less outward and more—more a feeling.

Like how a sunny day feels on your skin. How a big firework settles in your stomach. How driving past a field of daffodils momentarily splits your attention, almost reeling you in like an electron to a proton. 

A negative to a positive. A wound to a scar, a problem to a solution.

Sam to Dean. A mantra. Me to you.

But he might as well pick something that can fly. “Like a canary.”

Seeing Dean Winchester kneel cautiously to a little kid is a weird sight.

Sam was so accustomed to receiving that aggressive, passionate side of him; not the soft, low voice he parrots to Lucas with. He was only in the doorway with Andrea by his side, but he felt farther than a million years away. Dean angles his head to the side, has his eyes soft and inviting—actually gets some acknowledgement from the boy. Sam doesn’t know why there’s a coil tightening in his stomach. Strange, his mind supplies, but not nearly a stranger. He knows this treatment, distantly, far away, in history.

Andrea wears the same shocked expression as he did, but he could tell—instantly—that it was with positive regard. Sam’s, however, was not. He could feel himself twist, eyes narrowing and nose scrunching. He felt light-headed, even, at the sight. But that was right before he’d realised he was holding his breath.

Only snippets of Dean’s voice he could gather, past his abominating cloud of bitterness.

(“You’re scared,” Dean whispered, “It’s okay. I understand.”)

Achingly similar to what Sam remembered, years and years and years ago in their shitty motels.

(“I lost my mom when I was your age.”)

Something flickers in his eye as he briefly glances at Sam—and Sam could guess his face shares the same twinge by Dean’s minute, yet wholeheartedly apparent smirk.

Sam doesn’t mention the lie; How Dean had actually been significantly younger than however old Lucas was now when Mom died.

(“I was scared, too. I didn’t feel like talkin’, just like you.”)

And he remembers that vaguely—John yelling, Dean’s neck craned so harshly away from the volume that his eyes screwed shut, and lips thinned. No words. Sam remembers checking in on him after every fight, but all he’d get was a frustrated huff or a glare. He never took it personally, but maybe some of it snuck in.

Because it was eerie and unnerving when Dean got quiet. As kids, he was a force of nature, having a go at whoever dared to look at Sam wrong, stealing John’s car, and breaking into the booze. The only times Sam ever really recognised the silence was when he would reel in before losing it in a frenzy; the pause, reckoning, then sudden, unexpected noise.

But this was a child, and there was no anger—yet Sam couldn’t stop the initial reaction his body coordinated within him.

(“…wanted me to be brave, so I try my best to be brave…”)

He was dozing in and out of listening—Yes, Dean was brave, but Dean was also a huge coward. Selfish and unresponsive to the consequences of his actions, he threw himself headfirst into danger and suffered the repercussions later. You forget that people care.

Lucas hands him a piece of paper, one adorned with the picture of a house on it. Sam watches Dean smile warmly, and it strikes a chord.

There is nothing going on between them.

Dean groans.

“This is such bullshit—there are hundreds of yellow two-story houses in this town!”

Sam drags a hand over his face as he listens to Dean’s insistent whinging. The paper Lucas had given them—albeit not much proper help—has Dean deciding to berate the poor kid on their way back to the motel.

And Sam thought he was warming up to him, too. “Alright, Dean…”

“What the hell are we supposed to do with that!? I mean—did he even think about writing a note beneath it? A hint of some kind?” Dean rants.

Sam sighs. He traces the contents of the paper with this thumb, seeing some of the cheap crayon dust transfer to his skin. It was annoying, but Lucas was a child—a traumatised one, at that. They couldn’t blame him for not giving them more to work with. Although that’s never stopped Dean before.

Actually, Sam corrects, smiling bitterly to himself, that’s never stopped Dad before. He remembers poor old Dean driving himself crazy at the chance of uncovering more clues and information. John did used to breathe down his back, and all that; (“You better be bustin’ that ass, boy. We ain’t buy no laptop for video games.”) It wouldn’t be that much of surprise if Dean adopted some of those traits.

He thinks maybe research wasn’t ever Dean’s strong suit—because looking at Lucas’ drawing, here and now, Sam can already spot a few key factors that would definitely need to be considered. For starters, there was also a church in the drawing.

“What about this church, huh?” Sam holds it up to Dean’s face, who smacks his hand out of his view. “Bet there’s less than a hundred of those around here.”

He doesn’t miss the way Dean’s face contorts from surprise, to calculating, and then finally to all-familiar saltiness. He huffs, but he doesn’t look Sam’s way when he speaks. “College boy… thinks he’s so smart.”

Sam frowns. “I heard that.”

“Good. I wanted you to hear it.” Dean replies snarkily.

Why do you have to be like this?

Sam peers out the window, leaning his chin on his palm and his elbow on the sill. Night is falling, and they still haven’t found anything of importance. He can feel Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tighten because it makes that awful leather-y sound as he turns a corner. Dean’s stressed; he has to be. For all the poking and teasing he does at his brother, there’s a certain line they won’t cross when the other is reaching their limit—but it’s hard to know where Dean’s limit is, it really is.

Because Dean daily is throwing insults and making comments. Dean is always creating tension and thickening the air. Sure, he’d toss in a few jokes here and there, but that was hardly enough evidence to determine whether his emotional capacity could handle anything more than a banter-filled conversation.

Banter was nice, Sam supposed. It normally led to arguing—but before it did—banter was nice.

Sam sneaks a look at Dean. The moonlight illuminates the left side of his face, the side that is conveniently hidden from him. His head is tilted slightly, though, which means he’s growing tired; Dean can never sit still and focus when he’s tired—but then again, can anyone? 

It was real risky to say something like this now, in Dean’s current state—he’d be jeopardising all future possible chick-flick moments.

“So, uh,” he starts anyway, “what you said about Mom earlier…”

As intently as possible, he watches Dean’s jaw harden.

“You never told me that before.”

Like he’s wafting the exhaustion away, Dean sits up straight and pulls his head to a proper height. One hand falls from the wheel, sitting comfortably in his lap, though Sam swears he can see it pinch at his thigh.

He checks the rearview once—then twice—even though they’re on an empty road with no other cars in sight. His lips do that thing where he purses them upwards, then opens them quickly to coat in saliva, all to close them firmly again. Sam thinks he steals a glance or two.

“‘s no big deal,” he responds.

And if that wasn’t Dean-code for please don’t make me talk about this, Sam didn’t know what was.

Not a stranger.

Still, Sam doesn’t push—and true to his wishes—he doesn’t make Dean talk about it. He does, however, stare at him a little longer and bite his bottom lip at his brother’s hurried deflection. It was like he followed a script; a script written by Dad. 

Sam outgrew those small equilibria instilled in him as a boy, drove him to the point of insanity. That’s why he left. For Dean to have stayed—it warrants a chill.

He swallows.

Peter Sweeny wore a blue ball cap and rode a red bicycle. Peter Sweeney also lived in a yellow two-story house right next to a church with his mother—who claimed losing him was ‘worse than dying’. They’d asked her questions about his childhood, his friends, but all that came up was the same strained reply. Go figure.

The woman took to tears quicker than they’d anticipated, so Sam and Dean excused themselves and went in search for more clues.

Bill Carlton sat on the dock of his lake, in his chair, just like they’d previously seen him do. With both his children gone, he’d also mumbled something about it being ‘worse than dying’. He didn’t say much else, just like Will had warned them he wouldn’t—though that was before his untimely death. If Bill had said anything useful, the muttering and chuffing from beneath his scarf posed too much of a deterrent for them to understand. Go figure.

Sam and Dean paid it no mind—until the next morning when they came for a visit, and Bill Carlton was on his motorboat. And Bill Carlton was flipped upside down in front of them. And Bill Carlton didn’t resurface.

Sam shook. He knew it came with the job, but it never made seeing people die any easier. Dean walked beside him hastily, his own steps and stature growing weary with each footing. He didn’t know why, but he stayed close to Dean as they made their way to the police station. Their hands brushed not-so-incidentally, and Sam had tried to make eye contact with him each time he’d pull away.

He felt his heartbeat increase. This case wasn’t even all that intriguing, but please—please—let Dean talk to him. Let Dean talk to him normally, like a normal person, like they were normal, regular people. Let something feel normal again—just for once. Let his big brother look him in the eye and say something authentic. Let Sam look back and answer even more truthfully.

Andrea had welcomed them with a warm smile, addressing them by their first names—which elicited a reaction from her father, Jake Devins. Jake Devins held a stony expression as he denied Andrea’s offer of food. He eyed Sam and Dean suspiciously. He definitely knew something. Sam and Dean shared a look—Dean squinted his eyes and Sam furrowed his eyebrows—and it was so familiar that Sam almost retched right there on the floor.

Then Lucas had started to tug on Dean’s arm, whining and shaking his head at the mere mention of the lake. He buried his face into the crook of Dean’s abdomen, to which Dean easily cradled his head and pulled him closer in reassurance.

Andrea tried peeling him off, but he only held on tighter. Dean shushed him softly, lyrics of ‘it’s okay’’ s and ‘talk to me’’ s falling effortlessly from his mouth.

Sam almost retched again. Dean crouched even lower than he had already bent, and his handling was so stabilizing and his voice was so gentle, Sam had to look away for a second.

It was painfully familiar now. Every sleepless night Sam had spent trying not to cross the room and crawl into bed with Dean now slid down an imaginary water pipe—slippery, unreliable, and overall inescapable.

And none of this made sense. The lake, Peter, Bill—there were no obvious connections that made way for the truth. Sam made a fist with his left hand, pressing his fingernails deep into his palm. His eyes closed at the sting, and when they opened again, Lucas was being ushered out the door—but not without stealing backwards glances at Dean over his shoulder.

He had half a mind to not sneer at the boy—and he would’ve had Dean not stepped in front of him and blocked his view.

He gave Sam that ‘big brother’ look, but it hardly made Sam feel anything because not even ten seconds ago, he was using his ‘big brother’ voice on some random kid—and Sam wasn’t jealous—he wasn’t. But Dean gripped his wrist through his sleeve as he met Jake Devins’ eyes and Sam couldn’t even try to search for the security it brought.

It was likely Dean didn’t even know he was doing it, anyway. That’s just the way Dean is; caring, protective, all-too quick to comfort even if it meant denying himself something incredibly necessary. Sam had started to notice that when he turned twelve—Dean was only ever four years older than him, but he acted the way most adults in their life did. And he meant it when he said most—because Dean took on all the angry traits of John’s, but he also harbored Bobby’s understanding and kindness.

And that’s what made Sam so conflicted; he hadn’t seen Dean for years, and now, everything was back to the way it used to be, and he had no idea how to process any of it. 

Everything seemed to come out in a whirlwind. Forgotten, but not eradicated; Dean’s soft, worrying tone where Sam’d least expect it. His unforeseen breakdowns. Throwing, smashing; but if Sam watched him hard enough, he’d see the confusion swirling around in his eyes. A void. Lost. 

Dean was lost.

Maybe he felt it, too, with Sam’s extensive research and ‘geek’ sessions he’d tease him about. Maybe Dean looked at Sam and saw his younger brother, too. Maybe the unforgiving stare made him squirm.

Jake motioned for them to follow him into his office.

Sam ignored the way Dean pulled him along.

Okay, so being berated by the Chief Police Officer of Manitowoc, Northern Wisconsin, wasn’t something Sam ever wanted to go through again.

The leather seats of Baby squelch under Dean’s excessive wriggling. Sam has his head leaning on his palm again, pressing harshly into his temple. It feels like this dynamic is too easily repeated; Dean being frustrated and Sam enduring his orbiting pessimism.

He doesn’t dare say anything encouraging. That would just set him off.

Instead, Sam lets out a sigh and sits up marginally straight. “Dean, this job…” He shakes his head. “I think it’s over.”

Dean doesn’t spare him any acknowledgment, only sniffing quietly and continuing his focus on the road. The compared responses from being in the car with him before—so energetic and unceasing in the case—it gives Sam whiplash.

“I don’t know, Sam.” His eyes are still stuck on driving, but Sam can now notice the small strain in his face. His mouth is quirked up in stress, and Sam knows it’s in stress because it’s something Dean has done ever since he was a little kid.

It’s always looked like he was forcing a smile, trying to conceal any uncertainty and replace it with his usual facade of confidence.

But still persistent, it seems; Sam presses further. “If Bill murdered Peter Sweeny, then his spirit should be at rest! He got revenge!”

His sudden volume causes Dean to flinch, and he can’t help the twang of pain it sends through his heart. 

“Yeah, well, what if we leave and more people get hurt, huh?”

He almost splutters. “What—why would you think that?”

Dean lets out a breathy, disbelieving chuckle. “Because… because Lucas was really scared, man.”

Sam blinks, reeling in his hostility a bit. Strange. He holds his head up on his own, allowing his hand to retreat to his lap. “That’s what this is about?” Well, not reeling it in completely.

The dismay in his tone stuns Dean. Momentarily. And not all that profoundly. Yet Sam watches the gears turn in his head—bolts trapping, cogs skipping—and he snorts when Dean’s eyebrows finally pinch inwards.

He half-snaps again. “No, seriously—are we still just out here just because of some kid?” Dean's head jerks toward him. “He doesn’t even talk, Dean! He hasn’t even said anything!”

“He’s scared—”

“Well, fuck, I’m scared! Aren’t you?” Sam throws his hands up sarcastically, “It’s fucking scary chasing after something that isn’t there—it’s fucking terrifying, isn’t it?”

He usually doesn’t swear this much. Or at his brother.

Dean’s face hardens. “There is something! We just need’a find it—”

“Oh, my fuck—find what, exactly? The Loch Ness monster?”

“Just shut the fuck up, Sam.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sam scoffs, “I remember. Now I remember. God–fucking–forbid anyone disagrees with you—or Dad, for that matter. I swear—It’s like you’re fucking carbon copies of each other.”

Dean looks back at the road, his grip tightening on the steering wheel just like before. It still makes that god-awful leather-y sound. Sam wants to roll his eyes at his brother’s painfully obvious reaction.

But both his eyes turn, too. No more of that recognisable arguing, none of that familiar heat. Dean's lips don’t quirk up in stress and his chin doesn’t twitch. It’s like a wave of calm had just washed over him; serendipitous and telling. It’s like looking at John when—and oh, he’s just compared him to John.

Suddenly, that serenity doesn’t feel so calm.

Dean talks very quietly, and very softly, and Sam almost doesn’t hear him if it weren’t for his frozen position in the passenger seat. “What’s the matter with you?” He interrogatively asks. “Huh? What is it?”

Sam can pinpoint the softness in there, but he’s not idiotic enough to bring it to light.

“You don’t like Wisconsin?” Dean suggests harshly. “What is it, Sam? Why are you acting so childish?”

Sam huffs. “Yeah, that’s what I am,” he mumbles. “Childish.”

And, of course, Dean hears it. “Are you possessed?”

“Are you?”

Silence fills the Impala.

Sam looks out the window guiltily. He doesn’t like fighting with Dean. Banter can, admittedly, be fun. Teasing is adorable. But Sam never enjoyed arguing with his brother. Nothing ever came out of it, anyway. They were just two angry, stubborn men who wanted to look out for each other; Sam knew that. What Sam didn’t know, though, was why Dean suddenly felt this way about Lucas. This protective, gentle, persevering way that Sam could admit he was a little envious of.

Not that Dean had never shown that to him. Dean was the king of showing that to him. It’s just—being away, being here, no warning or preparation between—Dean wasn’t so secretive with his love anymore.

“As if either of us would say yes,” Sam whispers to himself, which Dean miraculously doesn’t hear, because delved inside all the other things different about Dean Winchester was apparently his ultrasonic ability to catch every sliver of air caught beneath your breath.

He wasn’t all that good at controlling his expression, but he must’ve been trying real hard right now. (“You and your fuckin’ canaries…” Sam hears him mutter as his hand drags down the rest of his face.)

Two hands on the wheel again. Their speed goes down, but Sam hadn’t even noticed it increasing. He eyes Dean carefully.

He catches his eyes flicker over to him for a second. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“I just—” he starts, “I just don’t wanna leave ‘til I know the kid is okay.”

Sam really wondered what had changed. They didn’t talk over the phone a lot since he’d left, but it wasn’t like he’d cut them off entirely. Everything had seemed the same. Everything had seemed normal. It pools in his stomach, resentment, it does—but why?

It must be a curse, he’s decided. Dean must be cursed in some way—it’s the only reasonable explanation. The fallible thinking, the sloppy attempts at reconnection; it’s like Sam was some stupid little boy again. But clearly Dean liked stupid little boys—since that’s what Lucas was—so why was Sam even feeling guilty about it?

His stomach churns. It almost growls in morse code.

Hopefully, worryingly, desperately pleading—Not a stranger.

They ended up at a shitty town bar not far from the motel. Sam hadn’t anticipated that destination, but he couldn’t say he was surprised. Dean didn’t speak a word to him as he got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Sam only sighed as he gathered his things and followed him inside. 

Dean didn’t even sit with him, either. He planted himself at the front of the bar, arms crossed and staring down at the wood. The bartender spoke to him multiple times, Sam saw, to which he probably just waved them off. It wasn’t unusual for Dean to find solace in places like this, but it confused Sam why he was acting so grumpy.

Sam found his own spot in a corner booth closest to the entrance. He set up his laptop in front of him and peeled out all the remaining newspapers he’d collected. Might as well get some research done if they were going to crack this case based on the sheer gut feeling Dean had in his chest.

Sam rolled his eyes.

And Sam didn’t order anything. Not even a beer. He didn’t feel like spending the money. Dean, however, gladly took the several glasses of whiskey that slid his way. Sam bit his lip—Dean only really drank hard liquor to cope. Surely their argument hadn’t been that bad.

He was getting his way, like he always does. They were staying in town, they were keeping on the case—Dean had no reason to be like this.

Sam watched as his brother downed his drinks, one by one.

Then a couple of hours went by, and Dean hadn’t moved from his spot. His head lay nuzzled into the crooks of his elbows, both arms slack against the bench of the bar. Tired, Sam guessed. Or grossly drunk.

Sam hadn’t noticed the time escape him so fast. The papers are spread out messily in front of him, some crinkled, some ripped. Tens of tabs are open on his laptop; articles, reports, and any online suspicion. But nothing shines a light on Wisconsin’s Lake Manitoc.

A few girls approach Dean with low-cut tops and mountains of hair—but he doesn’t do anything to entertain them. They linger for a moment before deciding that Dean’s no fun and not worth their time. Sam feels an odd wave of triumph wash over him as they walk away. He settles back into his work, scribbling and typing and sighing and groaning. Yet nothing comes to him.

Another hour passes. Sam blinks at his laptop screen. Sam darts his eyes over to Dean, who is idly tracing his finger around the rim of an empty glass. He drags a long, annoyed hand down his face, tugging at his eyes, and ultimately closes the laptop and stands up. There’s a small glowing sign past the bar’s pool table, one that reads the universal symbol of a male and female, standing side by side. Sam heads straight for it. He doesn’t give his brother a glance as he passes him, but he’s fairly confident that he’d caught Dean’s head lifting.

Unsurprisingly, the bathroom isn’t quite up to par. A certain smell hits him when he walks in the door—but he does his business quickly and leaves as soon as possible. The basins weren’t too shiny, either. He hides a grimace on his way out.

In front of him, across the pool table’s distance, stand three unquestionably large men; chests puffed, chins up, and eyes red. Behind their broad shoulders, Sam can accurately make out the familiar spiking of his older brother’s hair—and he sighs. Great.

He begins his trek over. He hears conversation being made—evidently not that nicely—and predicts Dean is throwing in some of his passive-aggressive punchlines. Other people around them share worried glances and start to back up. Sam can’t see the other guys’ faces, but that can’t mean anything good. He speeds up, bumping into people.

One of the men steps closer to Dean, and if it were any other time, Sam would’ve barked out a laugh at the height difference. His confidence outweighs his BMI, it really does.

Dean copies their movement, but it looks like a mockery on his small figure. Sam watches his mouth move—words coming out at a rate that he can’t even begin to decipher—and his lips quirk up into a smirk. An angry fist reels back, then hits him square in the face, sending him tumbling into the pool table behind him. Droplets of blood splatter across the felt surface.

Sam whispers a small ‘oh, shit’ before actually breaking out into a run. Not strange. Not strange.

Gasps echo throughout the bar. People create distance around their vicinity. Some mumble, some yelp. Dean pushes himself back up and takes his own arm back, readying for a punch of revenge. He swings, diving forward, but the same man takes hold of the collar of his jacket and clocks him one again. Dean goes limp in his grip, weakly squeezing the man’s wrist for release. His head lolls sideways as more blood starts to trickle down his chin.

A fist reels back again; the man is powering up for a third.

Sam sees red.

He wastes no time in shoving himself between the stranger and his brother, effectively removing the hand dangerously close to Dean’s throat. He hadn’t noticed it before, but here and up close, Sam actually held the inches over the three men. By a lot. They had looked like giants next to Dean—but he supposed that’s what everyone looked like next to Dean—and they weren’t even that muscly to begin with.

Jesus Christ, Dean must be a pipsqueak. 

But Sam knew that wasn’t true. 

Or just hunched over and very, very drunk. 

That seemed more precise.

The sound of glass crunches under Sam’s shoes. He shoots the aggressor a rageful look before turning around and getting his hands on Dean. He takes him by the shoulders, pulling him up slightly. He also pauses to look at the floor. There was glass under Sam’s shoes—so, they’d been tossing drinks, too. Great, again.

Someone speaks. “Who’s this? Your boyfriend?”

Sam looks at him over his shoulder, but he doesn’t let his hands leave Dean. He must’ve looked like Dean’s boyfriend, right now, all protective and touchy—but who was this guy to make a sort of comment like that?

The man had dirty blond hair that was covered by a brown cap. He wore a plaid flannel, similar to Sam’s, and a simple pair of denim jeans held up by a black belt with a gold buckle. The men behind him both had black hair, short and gelled. They wore jeans, too, but matched with a mossy green sort of polo. Sam scoffed.

“I’m his brother,” he corrects fiercely.

Dean places most of his weight on the pool table, but lifts one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, which was running down with blood. And it was like Sam’s touch had no beneficial effect; he was just there to be there.

“You need big bro to come and save you?” The man taunts again. Sam thinks to correct him, again, revealing to him that Dean was infact Sam’s big brother—but he fears it would only give them more fuel to fire with, needing his little brother to come and save him and all—so he doesn’t.

Sam just shakes his head at him, attempting to hook his arm under Dean’s. Dean remains rigid, stubborn.

The man continues. “Well, your brother just spouted some bull ‘bout my girl right ‘ere!” He points to a nearby waitress who is standing innocently behind one of the tables. She hugs a serving tray close to her chest. Her eyes widen as Sam turns to her.

He wants to sigh. Of course.

Instead, he steps closer to the man, close and personal in front of his face. It’s never something Sam thinks to use, but his height does serve as a credible intimidation tool. Maybe when Dean wants to behave stupidly and get himself into fights like these, Sam can be there to back him up if anything goes sideways. The idea makes him warm—protecting Dean.

“What’re you gonna do, tough guy?” Sam asks, lowly. He tilts his head at the end of his sentence, almost in surprise—and it’s all for show, of course. Sam has never been in a bar fight in his life, and he certainly wasn’t going to break that streak now. And not for Dean’s sake, of all people.

The men peer past Sam at Dean against the table, like they’re thinking about making another move. Sam leans over into their vision, blocking sight of Dean, and raises his eyebrows as if to test them—because the three men may be taller than Dean, but Sam is taller than all of them. Only by a few, but it’s enough in ‘man world’ to prompt hesitance. A divergence.

“You—” The dirty blond man stammers, stepping forwards then back, then forwards then back again. “Man—fuck you guys, your brother’s a creep.”

Sam sighs internally, both out of relief and disappointment. I know. They all back off with sour expressions on their faces. The surrounding people fall back into easy chatter, but most of them stare at Dean’s bleeding. Sam watches them intently, ensuring that they don’t rush back over once his back is turned. He looks back to Dean and he studies him. His mouth is bleeding, as well.

Dean looks up at him slowly and blearily, seeing the unimpressed face Sam holds. He rolls his eyes and goes to stand up properly—which Sam doesn’t wait to help him with. He hooks an arm under his armpit and another around his waist, and leads him back to the entrance of the bar—out to Baby. While Dean leans against her, Sam sneaks back in to grab his stuff.

Dean is already in the passenger seat when he returns, eyes closed and head leaning back as if he knew Sam was going to protest him driving. Sam chuckles to himself and hops in the driver’s seat. He reaches over and feels around Dean’s pockets for the keys. Dean whines, ‘stop feeling me up’, but shoves a hand in the correct pocket and fishes them out for him. Sam mutters a quick ‘thanks’.

Not a fucking stranger.

Chapter Text

And Sam Winchester has no redundancy when it comes to taking care of Dean.

His brother, whether he’d like to admit it or not, has several holes in his boat that allows his true emotions to leak through every once in a while. Sam understood that it was easy to believe Dean to be this stoic, heartless, angry bastard—but he also understood that Dean only took to a very select few people. And he was one of them.

Dean gave Sam all of his body weight to hold up. His feet scuffed against the floorboards as they stumbled into the motel room, with Sam muttering these useless phrases of ‘it’s okay’, ‘there you go’, ‘I’ve got you’, and ‘that’s it’.

Sam dug his fingers into Dean’s side in order to keep him upright. Dean wormed at it, but let it happen. Now, Sam flops him onto the nearest bed and lets his touch linger before stepping back and realizing—“Ah, fuck, wrong bed.”

He trusts his brother to stay put whilst he disappears into the bathroom—and when he emerges again, he finds that Dean had infact listened. He holds a small red box in hand, placing it carefully beside him when he reaches the bed again. It opens to reveal a collection of needles, gauze, isopropyl alcohol, and bandaids. Dean’s eyes widen slightly.

But Sam works maticulously and gently, not sliding the wipes over his injuries too hard nor rubbing at the wounds excessively. The blood soaks through. Dean closes his eyes, trying to hide his wincing. 

The alcohol stings; Sam knows it does. But there’s no telling what kind of germs could make it’s way into Dean’s system via a public bar. Sam’s seen the documentaries. No place is ever as clean as it seems. Some of his blood seeps through the gauze and follows Sam’s motion over Dean’s face. It spreads a thin layer of the liquid, making it look like Sam is coating him in this ominous, red mask.

And Dean might think he doesn’t notice, but he does. He notices the way his eyes screw in a little tighter at each dab, how his nose scrunches when he gets too close to it. Sam notices every little twitch. Which means he also notices when Dean starts to relax in his hold, chasing his hand unknowingly and almost nuzzling into his palm when he manuvers Dean’s face.

He must be real tired, Sam thinks, and a little more guiltily, notes the fact that Dean probably won’t be eligible to drive anytime soon. And how he was going to loathe that.

He can already see a mild black eye forming. The running blood coming from his nose and lip has stopped, but there still remains numerous cuts—cuts filled with glass. Sam sucks in a breath as he dives back into the first-aid kit. He rummages, then, tweezers, he scores.

He lays a sliver of tissue on his knee, then catches Dean’s slipping chin in his left hand. He clamps the tweezers together with his right, testing, then angles them right above the first shard of glass.

“Ow…” Dean mumbles.

Sam bites his lip in concentration. “How did this even happen?”

“…Throwing glasses.”

He wipes the glass onto the tissue, trying not to mind the blood that comes off with it. He goes in for another, pulling at it with haste, but Dean retreats with a sharp intake. He sways without Sam’s balancing grip on his face—and Sam can only wonder what everything looks like to him right now. Sam was never a big drinker.

He sighs. “What did’ya do this for, Dean?” He reaches an arm out and pulls Dean back in. “Why cant you just leave women alone, man?”

Dean grumbles at Sam picking at his face again. More glass ends up on the tissue. “I did. All I did was ask for… for a…”

He trails off. There’s no smirk or hint of humor in his tone, but Sam could probably guess what he was asking for.

“Yeah, that’s not okay, Dean.”

Dean, again, leans back, whining at what Sam thinks is his response. He catches his chin again, softer this time.

“You’re so drunk,” he tells him, a small smile creeping onto his face, almost sounding endeared.

Dean leans into his cradling touch. Weirdly, he isn’t straying away. He doesn’t wanna seem too surprised by it because even though Dean is hammered at the moment, he always has this fickly way of picking up on the smallest of things. 

It’s a blessing during hunts, but not so much for when Sam wants to stare at him a little longer before he fully wakes up. And that’s not supposed to be weird—it isn’t—it’s just, Dean looks so much more at peace with the world in the mornings, before he’s actually completely conscious. It’s nice to look at. It’s nice to see, for once.

And maybe a little selfishly—since Sam knows no one else really gets the chance to—he slides his hand up to Dean’s cheek and brushes a thumb over the bone.

He plucks more glass out of his face. He sops up more of the upcoming blood. There’s nothing deep, so he doesn’t get near the needles—which he is endlessly grateful for. Sam has always hated needles. He thinks he’d hate sewing Dean up even more.

When all shards are removed, and the tissue is full, Sam folds it carefully and gets up to throw it in the bin. He places bandaids over the cuts—but there’s a lot so Dean looks a bit silly with them all.

He lifts Dean’s chin up one more time and inspects his jaw. Sore, because Dean winces again, but there’s no visible injury. He could probably find a bag of peas to hold against it, along with his mouth and nose. Or Dean could just suck it up.

He doesn’t let go, though. No, he scrapes his fingers over the stubble growing on Dean’s face, tracing small circles as he makes his way back up his cheek. Dean doesn’t move. Sam slides further up to his hairline, brushing the small specks of hair falling over his forehead. 

He pauses—Dean looks so normal like this.

Just like in the mornings, he looks peaceful. Sam’s mouth opens, the ghost of ‘Dean’ falling short on his tongue. He mouths it anyway, hearing a small whisper come out. He wants to say his name just to say his name—just to confirm that this is his Dean right in front of him.

He’s been trying not to let it consume him this entire trip—but he just can’t shake the odd feeling that something is different. He’s chalked it up to him being at Stanford, Dean being with Dad, him not hunting, but Dean hunting—but it also feels like so much more than that.

It’s not crazy to ponder on the idea of ‘what if this isn’t really him?’, is it? He was Dean, still as erratic and immature as ever, as he remembered him to be. But just something wasn’t adding up.

It’s been years, it’s been years, it’s been years, he reminds himself. But that doesn’t mean he’s forgotton everything. But—it also can’t mean something so irrational and ludicrous as them being seperated has reprimands. He can be away from Dean. He’s lived a life away from Dean—for three years. Merely being in each other’s vicinity shouldn’t have him feeling like he’s stuck in a hurricane.

He wonders if Dean feels this way, too. He removes his hand from his face, squeezing his shoulder instead. When Dean doesn’t have any reaction, he nudges him playfully in the chest before standing up to pack the first-aid away.

He finds a bag of peas and corn, mixed, so he peels a sock from off the floor and lays it over top of the surface he presses to Dean’s cheek. He tries to angle it so it’s touching both his nose and his mouth as well, but there’s only so much bag, and Dean’s got a hell of a lot more pain to be numbed.

“You’re an idiot,” Sam says.

This time, Dean cracks open an eye. “Hey.” His eyebrows furrow in confusion and hurt.

Sam presses the bag firmer into Dean’s face, and he finally brings his own arm up to hold it in place. Sam takes his seat beside him once again, looking at him calculatingly.

“I thought you wanted to work this case?”

“I do.” His voice is slightly muffled.

“Yeah, well, we’re here. So work it,” Sam says. “No more bars and strips clubs. And no more harrassing women.”

Dean shakes his head slowly in disapproval, like what Sam is saying is untrue. “I wasn’t…” he groans, “Sammyyy …”

Sam catches a glimpse at the clock. 12:31 AM. He begins to push Dean back to lie down on the bed.

“What?” He peels his shoes off his feet one by one, tossing them across the room and ignoring the ‘thud’ they make as they probably hit one of the walls or a dresser. “Go to sleep.”

Sam crawls up to the headboard and almost snorts at Dean’s flushed face. He sneaks his hands under his leather jacket, pulling it away from Dean’s body and too tossing it somewhere on the floor.

Dean stops his arms, tugging. “Sammy… I’m sorry, dude.” His eyes are foggy, but they’re undoubtedly focused on Sam. “I’m sorry.”

Sam just huffs, smiling almost bitterly. “Careful. You might say something you’ll regret.”

Dean only shakes his head again. He’s about to give himself whiplash if he doesn’t stop.

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever. It’s fine.” Sam accepts, just wanting this night to be over. “Just don’t throw up on me, and we’re all good.”

He has a feeling that isn’t what Dean is referring to. Just a sneaky feeling, one that sorts its way through his chest from his stomach; stemming like a sapling, spreading like a fire. It lights up each crevice of his body it passes, and Sam has to pretend that he hasn’t started sweating.

“No… I mean…” Dean utters, but it doesn’t go anywhere. Sam had gotten fairly good at reading him, or fairly good at remembering how well he could read him.

It wasn’t unusual for Dean to get all sentimental after drinking, but it was normally more repressed stuff. More surface-level, like random ‘i love you’ ’s or insistent teasing that showed he didn’t want to be alone. That he just wanted someone to be around. And even then, again, that had been from years ago. Sam wasn’t equipped for his new style of confession.

A stranger, again, he guiltily resorts to.

“What do you mean?” He kind of already knows, but selfishly—yet again—he kind of just wants to hear it.

Dean bites his lip. “I mean the lake… and the… kid.” He turns and buries his face in Sam’s pillow tiredly. “And Mom and Dad and—everything.”

Sam’s face twists up. “What are you talking about?”

His voice is muffled and incoherent, but he still speaks. “Too much like dad. Not good enough for you. My Sammy… ”

He didn’t catch most of it, but that last part stuck out like a sore–fucking–thumb. He’d never be able to miss that even if he tried. He’d been hearing that his whole life, and even though Dean’s been slipping it in here and there— God, does it feel good to have it said so earnestly.

His heart jumps. “Okay,” he replies in a hush, as nonchalantly as he can, “chill. You’re fine. It’s whatever—I forgive you.” He doesn’t even care about Mom, or Dad, or the lake or the kid, just— My Sammy.

Dean can still hear him somehow, between his reeling head and the mound of a pillow. “Water under the bridge?” He offers.

“Yeah. Yeah, water under the bridge,” Sam agrees.

He settles a hand on Dean’s back, rubbing up and down after a few seconds. Just to make sure he isn’t going to pull away on reflex.

“I’m sorry, too, man,” Sam whispers. “For leaving. I—wait.”

The words kick-start something in his brain. His mind flashes back to before—before the case. Before Andrea, before Jake Devins. That one article about Lake Manitoc, about Lucas’ dad.

Those deep blue waters. Mrs Sweeny, Peter’s disappearance—

Sam scurried off the bed and to his laptop, yanking the lid open without his usual care for its handling. If we’d been speculating Bill and Chris to be Peter’s revenge… Sam typed as fast as his brain could think. Could it be so far-fetched to claim that Peter was drowned?

The page opened just as he’d remembered it. Just as they’d covered, Bill and Christopher’s drownings had been suspiciously connected to the lake—because, obviously, they’d both had an affinity to it. But—what if it had nothing to do with the lake? What if it had everything to do with what was inside the lake?

Sam’s stomach churned. Fuck, he hoped Peter’s bones wouldn’t be in there. That’d be a pain to try and retrieve.

“Okay, let’s just say Bill and Chris had drowned Peter…” Sam mumbles to himself, “Why hadn’t he gone after them the same way?”

Bill’s daughter was first, then his son, and then Bill. But for Chris it was just Chris. Not Lucas, not Andrea—just Chris. Maybe it was all about opportunity, the fact that Chris was on that boat that day. But then—no, Lucas was on the boat, too. Oh, but Lucas is special, Sam’s brain supplies mockingly.

“Hey, Dean, check this out—” Sam peels his eyes away from the screen, preparing to turn it towards his brother. But when he peers over, Dean is slack and still, small snores emitting from the pillow his face is shoved ruthlessly in. His body rises and falls with each breath; Sam sighs.

Guess it was just him tonight.

The room is engulfed in a harsh coldness when Sam wakes up. He thinks maybe one of them had left the air conditioner on, but the events of last night kick that idea to the curb; Dean was drunk, Sam was doting. Neither of them could have cared less about the damn air conditioning.

His eyes are sore as he blinks awake. The curtains are still drawn back from the previous morning, and the pale moonlight sinks in without reprimand. Sam blinks at it. The windows fog the view slightly, so they must be frosted over a bit.

It’s a sharp contrast to the dream Sam was having, where Jess stares down at him from atop the ceiling, her blood dripping ever so elegantly. He felt the same as he did when it happened— frozen. Completely still and unable to do anything— say anything. The flames swallowed her whole, and Sam just laid there until, inevitably, Dean came barging through the door, the dream ending in an abrupt poise the same as his Jessica’s life.

Sam notes the heavy breathing coming from his own mouth.

Sam cranes his head to the other side of the room, where Dean lies in bed fast asleep—or—he had thought so?

His brother leans against the headboard of the bed—Sam’s bed—legs brought up to his chest and arms wrapping around them, meeting at his tangled fingers. He stares out into nothingness, which is in the same spot as Sam’s hanging jacket on the back of the room door. He doesn’t look frightened. He doesn’t look distraught. Just there, quiet.

The amulet around his neck glimmers.

Dean used to have nights like these back when they were kids, where sometimes Sam would have a childish nightmare about the types of monsters their dad had been forcing them to go up against, and he would catch Dean from across the room.

Usually, it was benign, and Dean just had trouble falling asleep after sustaining so many injuries—but other times, Sam could recognise that hollow ball in his brother’s eye. The one that rolled around aimlessly and knocked every last fiber of Dean’s exuberance out of him. There was a difference; Dean would hunch his shoulders and angle his head up in exhaustion—but with the ball, he’d just sit straight and unmoving. Completely motionless. Completely unaware.

What was weird to Sam was that it was never Dean himself who woke him up. It was always Sam having a nightmare, or Sam running too hot, Sam needing to pee in the middle of the night where he’d suddenly catch Dean. Never could he recall his brother making any sort of noise in his hysteria.

Sam started to crawl into bed with him after a few times. John scowled at them the next morning when he’d yank the sheets off of their comfortable bodies, but Sam started to crawl into bed with him.

Now wasn’t any different to those nights. Dean’s stare exudes the same delirium, and his shoulders don’t hunch back and his head doesn’t lean high. Sam’s body spasms as he watches him, almost readying up to get out of bed and sneak in right next to him like he used to. The amulet still glimmers, and Sam recalls holding it as they slept all those years ago. It’s been so long, but his muscles still twitch with memory.

He thinks he’s made a strained sort of sound because Dean turns his head to look at him. Sam can’t guarantee he looks any better, his hair probably askew and face coated in a sheer sheet of sleep. He can’t see it perfectly from the dim light of the moon, but maybe Dean’s eyes soften.

Sam wonders if he remembers anything from last night. The bar, the fight, Sam patching him up and setting him to bed. It doesn’t matter if he does, because he usually doesn’t, but small snippets of conversation and images as residue might be nice.

Jessica’s face fizzles out of his mind as Dean whispers. “What’re you doin’ up?”

Sam’s lips part. The words get stuck in his throat. Dean doesn’t usually speak on a night like this.

There’s so much more now that I don’t know about you, he thinks.

“Uh—Nightmare,” he responds quietly.

He hears a small huff from Dean before he watches him go back to staring at the jacket. Guess it might be a one-time thing, him saying anything.

Sam wonders what he could be thinking about—wonders if Dean still worried about being enough, if any of his words from the night before snuck into their admittedly disturbed-yet-favored reality.

If any of the trepidation was an implicit demand for proof. If the search for Dad was entirely pointless and just a coup to get Sam with him again. Sam finds that he doesn’t think he’d mind if that were the case. Not at all.

He hears the chattering of crickets outside, the rumbling of passing cars, wind. Dean’s face hardens under the small pocket of light shining through, and Sam can’t help his own arms pushing himself off the mattress.

He crosses the room calmly, careful not to knock anything on his way over or scare Dean with his sudden here- ness. It’s a little late, but courage bubbles in his chest as he gets closer. It’s what should’ve urged him to rise in the first place, but he has a terrible habit of acting first and thinking later.

Dean doesn’t spare him a glance when his knees hid the bed frame. Sam blinks at him a second, waiting for him to do or say something that will drive him to retreat back to the “his” respective side of the room. 

It’s his bed, anyway. He should be allowed to sleep in it. 

Dean only takes a deep breath in, and out. In the dark, Sam grins at his own rationalising, knowing full-well it’s a pile of steaming bull.

They’re dishevelled anyway, but Sam pulls the sheets back as he sinks down onto the mattress. His thin shirt rides up at the movement, dragging across his waist uncomfortably. His boxers pinch at the material, and Sam adjusts his position so that he’s lying flat against the pillow. Dean still wears his flannel and ripped jeans. Sam hadn’t had the heart to dress him for bed because it most likely meant stripping his brother in bare light. No thanks.

He doesn’t know if Dean remembered that they used to do this. It’d be a bit embarrassing if he didn’t, if Sam was the only one clinging to recluse reminiscences. It also didn’t seem all that surprising; Sam was always the one clinging to Dean, not the other way around.

Somberly, Sam turns over to face away from Dean. His lips pull themselves into a small frown and he blinks some upcoming tears away. They’re tired tears. He’s tired. 

Stupid. Stupid. Don’t be stupid. He shoves his hands under the pillow his head leans on, warmth wrapping around them in ribbons—finger by finger, knuckle by knuckle.

He counts his breathing.

And suddenly, he feels Dean lie back down beside him. The sheets rustle as he gets comfortable, but when they stop, he can feel the echo of Dean’s breath on the back of his neck. He’s not that close, but he’s not facing away like Sam is.

A smooth stripe sounds behind him. Pressure makes itself known at the edge of his calf, minimal but apparent, and a few moments later the same pressure evolves to the back of his thigh.

The feeling rubs up and down, scratching at him a bit once before settling. Nothing in Sam's breathing changes. He still counts. He considers turning over and finding out what Dean is doing, maybe looking him right in the eye and saying ‘stop fucking around’ , but he doesn’t. The warmth spreads from his hands under the pillow; it now festers around his legs.

Sam realises that it’s Dean’s feet poking at him, his toes dragging as he nudges his brother under the covers. Sam wants to groan, to squeeze his eyes shut in annoyance—but he only feels honored, weirdly. 

Idiotically, he’d convinced himself that Dean’d rid himself of any intimate memories between them. That he no longer wanted something as trusting and complete as before. That after Sam went to college, Dean’s job as his big brother just faded away, right along with the mountains of responsibilities it brought with it.

Sam had carried that. Had carried the notion that Dean was okay, too, when he was so obviously not.

He half wants to grumble at his brother. Both for his indirect brooding and statistically weird behavior. Wants to shove him off and isolate himself with a harsh sentiment. ‘You don’t get to do this,’ maybe, ‘you can’t just pretend we’re the same people.’

It comes out much more reduced and half-hearted.

“Get off’a me.”

Dean only chuckles.

Tenderness blooms in Sam’s chest, making him go slack and mushy in the bed. 

He feels as if sleep can overcome him kindly, now, without the shadow of Jessica’s burnt face haunting him. Maybe now, even, it could be a sweet memory of him and Dean. Maybe that one Fourth of July. Maybe that Drive-In movie.

His frown morphs into a smile. Maybe Dean did want to return to a time like this. 

Sam finds he does, too.

It’s not what he expected, but he can’t say he’s surprised. The running water from the bath floods almost the entire room, pooling under the locked door. Lucas is standing uselessly in front of it when Sam and Dean reach the top of the stairs. Dean kneels down to hold onto his shoulders, and Sam has to bite back the anger that cooks in him. Lucas only points to the bathroom.

Andrea is fully submerged when they make a way in. Their fancy doorknob clatters to the ground. It takes all of Sam’s strength and then some to finally be able to pull her out. He tries not to feel awkward as her naked body grapples at him for comfort. Dean is still with Lucas in the doorway. He doesn’t look as flabbergasted as Sam does.

And Lucas stares right at Sam, eyes and all, almost like he’s challenging him. There’s a flicker of jealousy that passes through Sam’s chest, but it quickly dissipates when he remembers the feeling of Dean’s feet against his calves from the night before. Warm. Close. Right under the rustling covers.

Dean hadn’t kicked him out. Had let Sam sleep in there with him.

They fetch Andrea a towel and Lucas a bag of chips. The sun shines through the living room windows as they sit, the ones that are about six feet tall and practically act as transparent walls. The curtains drape on the sides; grey, dull, and a stark contradiction to the lively atmosphere they have here.

Sam and Dean listen to her talk and let her cry. She mentions more about Lucas’ drawings, but skims over it quickly enough to dismiss Dean’s calculating stare. And apparently the bath had already been drawn before she’d stepped in—but like that gives them any sort of clue.

She weeps something about Chris and the lake. Dean immediately perks up and tries to get her to say more—but she’s already turning around on the couch and looking for her son. It’s a big house, and the living room is huge, but Lucas still only sits on the wooden flooring a few metres away from the zone’s carpet; Andrea doesn’t have to turn much before she spots him.

Sam sighs as her doting, motherly voice begins.

He turns to Dean expectedly, waiting for some kind of comment or remark. Or maybe a freaky light-bulb moment, one that’ll solve the case in four words or less. Dean only stares out the window-walls at the intimidatingly green trees outside.

They cover the sun slightly, but it still manages to peak through the cracks of leaves. It trails a scattered ray of light beaming in, one that catches Dean’s face perfectly in his gander of the scene.

His eyes almost match the trees—albeit too emerald-y to be nature-based—and the sunlight highlights all the little details on his face, ones that Sam was sure he’d forgotten about.

He speaks without realizing. “You have freckles.”

Dean’s peaceful watch is interrupted at the sound of Sam’s voice. It’s almost surprised, unbelieving. He turns to Sam with a confused look on his face.

“What?”

Sam prepares to panic—because that’s what he usually does after speaking out of turn—but finds he only calms at being locked under Dean’s gaze. “Nothing. Just…” He tilts his head, not paying any mind to the way Dean shuffles away from him on the couch. “…you had freckles as a kid. I didn’t realize you still had them.”

There’s a beat, then Dean’s posture relaxes. “I don’t have freckles,” he scoffs.

He’s too lost in counting them to register the words coming from Dean. Each one of different tones, a little darker than the others, a little lighter. Some have weird curves that make them into a blobby sort of shape rather than just a dot. Some are larger than others, mostly the ones that run over his nose—and mostly the other ones that settle on his temples. The ones inbetween fade, like they’re being swallowed in an intermission.

Then he registers Dean’s words. “Wh—Yes you do?” Like it’s preposterous—in disbelief.

Dean’s cheeks tinge a fine shade of pink. It follows the same path as the dots, running to his ears. Sam thinks to compare it to constellations in the sky, but just before nightfall, when the sun is setting and the clouds go all cotton-candy-like.

His eyes dart away haphazardly. “Freckles don’t just disappear,” Dean reasons, “I never had ‘em.”

“Well, they do do that sometimes, actually—and no—you have freckles—”

“No I don’t.” Dean reaffirms.

“Dean, you do—”

“I’ve never had freckles. What are you—”

“What are you trying to accomplish here?” Sam’s eyebrows twist in affectionate confusion. “You have freckles. Look in a mirror. There is literally no reason for you to deny it.”

The pink deepens, and Dean has a repeated sequence of looking back at Sam, then away, then back at Sam, then away again—all while opening and closing his mouth, brows furrowing, lips pursing in that familiar swing of stress.

And Sam watches his brain burn up and catch fire over something so trivial. It’s adorable, he thinks, that Dean’s masculinity will be threatened by the smallest of things, sometimes. It’s also adorable the way he flaps over the words he’s trying to say, darting around the subject and digressing wherever possible, not willing to meet his eyes for any longer than three seconds—Sam smiles.

“I’m not making fun of you!” He reassures. “Or anything. If that’s what you think.”

Dean only trains his eyes onto the coffee table.

Sam leans in closer, filling up the gap Dean previously made between them. He tilts his head at an angle, catching more of the sunlight on his brother’s face.

“I think it’s… nice,” he admits. “I think it’s cute. It just reminded me of when we were kids, that’s all.”

Dean remains silent, not letting any movement of his body give away the restriction he’s thrust upon himself. His catches swift glimpses as Sam stares; they’re anxious and uncomfortable. Maybe he just didn’t like being studied.

Or maybe he didn’t like being praised. It’s not not normal for surface-level Dean to acclaim himself in flattery, but did he really believe every single thing he said about himself—the good things? Even the good things?

Sam chuckles beside him, quiet and honest. “It’s okay, Dean. You can have freckles.” He tells him, almost cautiously, pretending to give him permission for something as natural as breathing. It was easier for Dean to take it that way, if you just made it into one big joke.

Still, nothing.

Until Dean finally looks back and lets his lips snarl. 

“Well, you have freckles, too.”

Sam chuckles again. “It’s not a freckle.” He rubs at the side of his nose. “It’s a single one; a beauty mark—”

“It’s a mole,” Dean beats him.

Sam’s smile falls into a smaller, shocked one. One that’s less teeth-y but more lift-of-the-corners. His finger retracts from his face, leaving the spot where his ‘mole’ is unguarded.

“That.” Dean points at Sam’s nose, where his own hand had just been. There, indeed, lies a small brown speck.

Sam’s eyes zero in on Dean’s finger, slightly crossed. He feels frozen under the action.

Then Dean’s finger retracts, too, but only to return at another part of his face.

“And the one by your mouth,” he adds, giving Sam’s skin a light poke. “The one by your chin,” another poke, “got one above your eyebrow, too.”

Sam’s mouth—partly agape at Dean’s inspection—continues to smile. He licks his lips at each new ‘mole’ Dean finds on his face, feeling ridiculously uncovered yet inexplicably seen. The embarrassment that once controlled the tint of Dean’s face had now vanished into thin air, only being replaced with a dimmed version of his usual cocky confidence; flattened, but mindful.

“They’re all moles,” he says. “Can’t have that much beauty on one face.”

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know whether that was an insult or a compliment—also— what?”

Dean shrugs absent-mindedly. “I’m observant, too.”

Like fuck you are, Sam wants to say, but Dean might not be all that wrong. He’s had a few times where things stood out to him and only him, where it would sometimes save the entire case, the entire day. An entire person.

So he stays silent when his eyes squint and he raises his hand to poke. Again.

“You’ve actually got one reallyyy tiny one right…” Dean traces his thumb under Sam’s right eye. “…there.”

Dean smiles, glistening green eyes coming to meet Sam’s swirling hazel ones—ones that are clouded with astonishment and staring in utter endearment.

“Right next to your eye.”

He briefly flashes his teeth at him. Sam aches to reach up and hold the hand for himself, in his own, not so teasingly brushing against the corner of his very world view of Dean. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he feels himself drift closer. Timidly, breath hitching, but even Dean looked nervous. The thumb dragged down his cheek before dropping at his jaw. They stay leaned in.

That is—until Lucas spots Sheriff Jake Devins in their backyard.

The police force glides nets through the murky water. It only takes half an hour before the Sheriff’s body is retrieved. It’s pale and wrinkly, and there’s no doubt that he’s dead. When no one’s looking, Sam holds his EMF reader closer to the waves from beside the pier, literally ‘testing the waters’. Nothing comes up. No lights flash, no noises sound. Dean is soaking wet, sitting on some rocks on the other side of the pier. He wrings his flannel out into the lake, but his white undershirt stays stuck to his shivering body. Sam can see him through the wooden pillars, and makes a point not to go near him. At least not until the police have taken Jake’s body away.

Andrea hadn’t stopped screaming until they’d arrived. Dean had shoved Lucas into her arms as he climbed out of the water, bending down to struggle on his own knees and coughing up the overbearing liquid as Sam rushed to hold him up by his stomach and shoulders. The police took Lucas away—Andrea was reluctant to go. 

Sam had ‘heimlich-ed’ him too hard, and he vomited right on the shore of the lake. Dean had spat something about the maneuver being strictly choking business, and that it had nothing to do with drowning or overingestion of water. Sam didn’t fully believe him. He kept a close eye.

And after a few more sweeps of the lake’s perimeter, and Dean’s final squeezing of his clothes, they walked back to the car and returned to the motel for the night.

Sam didn’t sleep.

But Dean didn’t, either. His breathing never evened out. Sam thought about crossing the room again—but it was just that; a thought.

It remained a thought for the next few nights.

Andrea kissed Dean before they left. Right in public, right in front of her son, of Baby. Sam didn’t bother to shelf his dismay—he grimaced outwardly.

Dean got in the car with a sly grin. Andrea tried to wave goodbye to Sam, as well, through the window. But he only ignored her.

His eyes caught Lucas’ red hair on their way out. That’s one less thing to worry about, he thought, like it was competition.

Goodbye, Wisconsin. Good- fucking- bye.

The good old rumble of Baby’s engine wakes Sam up from his peaceful slumber. The window—he thinks—presses hard into his temple, conjuring somewhat of a headache. His neck cracks mutely as he pulls it up from this inconvenient position. Dean is there, driving with both hands on the wheel.

Ah. So not the window.

Sam clears his throat, eyeing the damp spot on his brother’s jacket, his shoulder. He blinks tiredly as he looks around—gathers the luminent light coming from the Impala’s stereo, notes the drops of rain pattering gently onto the windshield, shortly swept away by Dean’s wipers.

There’s only darkness outside. Dean sends him a relieved look. The weight of Sam must’ve been uncomfortable on his shoulder.

“Oh, Sleeping Beauty, you’re awake,” Dean says with a teasing tone.

Sam stretches as much as he can in the front seat, minding his arms from Dean’s line of sight. A small groan leaves his lips. “…Where are we?”

“We’re about four hours to Pennsylvania, my dear,” Dean says. “Got a call from one of Dad’s old friends, said there might be something up our alley goin’ on at their airport.” 

Sam lets his eyes wander to Dean, his body fairly lax but his eyes acute with concentration. He doesn’t miss the way Dean’s jaw hardens when he says ‘airport’, but he doesn’t mention it. They pass a ‘No to Hitchikers’ sign. Baby’s high beams shoot the glare right back at him through the glass.

Sam squints his eyes out of reflex, but they don’t fully shut. Dad used to put the highbeams on for that exact reason, to keep them awake, on edge, alert in between hunts.

Dean shuffles in his seat, lifting a hand off the wheel to rub at his eye. “Now, don’t ask me how this guy knows about—”

“We’re still hunting?” Sam realizes. “What—? Fuck, Dean. That case was a lot.”

Dean sends another look his way, surprised, like that stunned his train of thought. He reels back, though, all with the same ideology. “You’ll be alright, princess.”

Sam sighs and leans back on the seating. His body aches. He’s so fucking tired. His mouth almost waters at the idea of a hot shower and a proper meal—his skin’s felt so dirty this entire trip, and he can’t remember the last time he’d eaten something green.

Dean was probably ecstatic about all their takeout dinners. Living la vida loca. This is the life of a hunter, Sammy.

He did not miss that. If there was one thing about the hunting life that Sam definitely did not miss, it was the diet.

His brain recoups as he stares at the car’s ceiling. Dean’s soft mumbling comes to mind. Probably the confusion, too, he discerns. The uncertainty between him and Dean’s dynamic, where they stood and what they needed from each other—it was hard being a team after all these years, and what made it even worse was that his brother was still clinging to their father like a stubborn, malfunctioning landline. He couldn’t just do anything not based on Dad.

Dean’s soft mumbling grows. And Lucas—that fucking kid—what the hell does he have that Sam doesn’t? If all it took was being traumtised into silence to earn Dean’s compassion—then, fuck—Sam would’ve started acting ages ago!

It was also disturbing how similar his thoughts now were to his thoughts from eight years ago, all desperate and unsure and needy and crap—all for his big brother’s attention, reassurance and validation.

“Dean, I don’t know. This—” Sam leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees. This is killing me. “—I don’t know.”

It was, it really was. How weirdly despondent Dean had become to the emotions and futile wants of civilians in these cases. How his softness had slowly become a stranger to him—alarm bells— stranger.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Dean’s voice rises. “We’re doin’ it for Dad.”

Sam mutters, “We’re always doin’ it for Dad…”

“Don’t be smart.”

Sam rolls his eyes at Dean’s usual avoidance, always returning back to flippant orders the same way Dad raised him to. That was the difference between them; Dean acted the way Dad did because Dad raised him, but Sam on the other hand replicated his behavior from whom he was around most, who had stepped in when Dad failed to raise him.

Which was why Sam was too knowing in the way Dean upholds himself, his expressions and body language. It escapes him, though, why Dean neglects to take his own advice. If Dean were to tell him ‘don’t put too much barbeque sauce on your burger, it’s gonna make you sick,’ he’d turn around and do that exact thing, as dumbfounding and staggering as it is.

It played the same principle; Sam strived to talk about things, to resolve issues—while Dean preferred to muck it all inside, never to be acknowledged.

Sam just hoped there’d be an increase in slip-ups from him.

“Easier said than done,” he decides to retort. “Well—I guess not for you…”

Dean shoots him a fake smile.

And then it’s quiet between them for a moment. Sam watches the rain trickle down the window on his side, and Dean keeps his eyes focused on the road. Sam’s thankful to see that none of Dean’s stress habits come to resurface, no lip-biting or wheel-squeezing. And none of that leather-y sound, either.

He taps his foot the the beat of whatever song is playing at a low volume.

“I forgot how much I don’t like hunting,” he says randomly after a few more moments. It’s kind of been gnawing at him, like a pesky mosquito in the night.

Dean, from the very side of his eye, glances. “You can say hate,” he replies.

“Can I?”

“You can,” he confirms, but his voice quickly takes a persevering tone. “Doesn’t change the fact that we’re doin’ this for Dad.”

Sam sighs again—more fed up, this time. 

“You can’t save ‘em all, Dean…” He takes the risk and mumbles, just needing to get some form of truth out. Some type of honesty in the air.

“Excuse me?” The risk wasn’t well-received.

Sam jolts at the sudden sternness in his voice. “Fuck sake,” he veers, “you and your fuckin’ hearing, Dean.”

Now the squelching of the wheel comes into play. The leather turns under Dean’s unrelenting grip. Sam cringes.

“Bro,” he starts, clearly gearing up for an argument. Sam can feel his energy start to drop already. “Why do you hate Dad so much?”

“What!” Sam’s voice reaches a pitch.

“He’s goin’ after the thing that killed Mom! You’d think you’d have a little more respect for the man!”

Sam holds back a scoff at that—instead his eyes widen at Dean, then turn away incredulously. He lets a bitter smirk spread across his face.

“Oh, I’m dripping with it,” he assures, sarcastically.

Dean scowls in his peripheral.

It gets his blood boiling. Dean’s stupid face, his stupid eyes, the way they can’t see what Dad is doing to them. How torn up their family is because of the damn thing he’s hunting—that, now, Sam and Dean are hunting, too.

All the motels, all the changing of schools; mid-semester english papers going straight down the drain, sleepless nights under the place’s crappy heating system. All the different diners, all the different cafes—yet Dean still couldn’t find one that brought Mary’s old apple pie to shame.

Fighting. Fighting. So much fighting. Arguments, left, right, and center, Sam can hardly remember when their words weren’t sharp. And leaving—leaving—Dean begged him to stay. The golden amulet swung on his neck as he clutched at Sam’s shoulders, pulling him backwards back through the door and demanding, pleading, please, don’t leave me.

And he still doesn’t get it—that this is all Dad’s fault, the entirety of their pathetic, bootless lives; trained to be soldiers by the first, adapted to be brothers by the second.

He may have been Dean’s kid, but he was still John’s son. “I don’t know why you care.” Sam spat, the all-too-familiar deflection shining through his words. “No one forced you to come drag me along this shit again.”

Dean’s face twists in frustration. A quick look over to Sam before going back to the road. “Fuck you mean why do I care?  We’re a family, I’m—”

Sam raises an eyebrow.

Dean huffs in defeat, the words decidedly not leaving his mouth. “Okay—If not for Dad, for Mom,” he offered, then sealed it over with a nice authoritarian affirmation. “Got it?”

“Sir, yes, sir.” Sam rolls his eyes.

Dean’s face scrunches. “Don’t do that shit.”

“What shit?”

“Be all obedient, and shit.”

“‘s the kinda shit you did.”

“What?” Dean eyes him.

Sam begins chewing on the inside of his lip. “As a kid,” he says. “For Dad.”

Dean pauses, his mouth hanging open slightly. “Yeah, but that’s—” He thinks for a reason. His eyes squint out the road. “It was—”

Sam meets his eyes beside him, waiting patiently for the next rebuttal. Dean’s exude a frantic display in contrast to Sam’s placating stare. He has no choice but to get even angrier; Sam’s doing this on purpose.

“Fuck—Is that what this is about?” Dean fires. “The fact that I did what I was told?”

Sam doesn’t respond.

Dean huffs wonderously. “Fuck, you and Dad, man.” He shakes his head. “Sorry I didn’t choose between my father and my brother. Jesus.”

Sam shifts uncomfortably in his spot. He rubs a slow hand down his thigh, feeling the stiff denim under his fingertips. The wrinkles barely flatten, barely smooth out. He feels as if his unease had put it that way.

His voice is softer now, it almost shocks himself. “You did, though…”

Dean’s only grows sharper. “Don’t you ever say that. Don’t you ever.” He shoots Sam a warning glance, a hand leaving the wheel to point accusingly in his face. “I did what I did, tried to mediate all your stupid fuckin’ fights— I was always the one in the middle, don’t you ever say I put him above you.”

It’s harsh and it’s harrowing and it’s aggressive and slightly unsettling, but the heat in his tone causes Sam’s chest to tighten. It’s like his heart constricts under the weight of his words; the words Sam’s almost too sure he didn’t mean to say.

He watches his brother’s face contort through a hundred different emotions. It’s a miracle that Dean hadn’t started getting grays yet with the amount of unnecessary stress he puts himself under.

“You— I meant—” He fumbles. “I meant both of you. E–Each other. I never—Dad’s still—”

His hands clench around the wheel some more. Sam continues to chew. The rain grows heavier, and it distracts Sam from the conversation at hand.

He can hear the defeated sigh from beside him, but anything coming from Dean’s direction sounds muffled, now. All inherent and hazy. Sam makes a point not to look at Dean, sewing his eyes shut and turning his lips into a distressed scowl. He hated arguing about this. He hated arguing about Dad.

The rain still patters while Sam’s mind drifts.

(The backseat of Dad’s Impala has more room than the front, but he mostly uses it to dump his extra ammunition in, no matter if Sam had to sleep there or not—so Sam always prayed they would be staying in a motel when it got too crowded.

Dean sits in the front with a large, unfolded map in his hands. There are squiggly lines written all over it, some where Sam can discern they’ve already been. Dad holds the wheel, tight, and Dean tenses each time he asks for the next direction.

“Can we stay longer this time?” Sam feels dread when he realizes they’re off on another hunt. “Wherever we’re going…”

Dad meets his eyes in the rearview. “We’ll stay as long as we need to.”

Sam pouts. “That english paper took me weeks and you just yanked us away.” He notices Dean’s fingers curling around the map. “If we’re going to move somewhere, at least make the stay long enough for me to finish a school assignment.”

“Sam,” Dean says, tone very obviously warning him, eyes also meeting his in the rearview. But Dad looks at him and he clears his throat. Back to the squiggly lines. “Your perfect GPA isn’t ruined yet, don’t worry,” he says, lighter.

Sam relaxes at his teasing, but still stares at his shoes sadly.

Dean turns around in his seat.

“I wish you didn’t have to come with us,” he tells him with a sympathetic smile, “just so you know.”

Sam tries his best to smile back.)

Sam’s pretty sure he meant on these hunts, but the irrational part of his brain supplies the idea that Dean and Dad just didn’t want him around at all.

It’s like his veins clench around his blood—everything feels so small and claustrophobic, like he has no room to breathe. The tension between them doesn’t help, either, air all thick and daring. Sam pinches at his jeans, this time, trying harder to break the stiff separation of denim and skin just so he can feel something.

Dean stays rigid, driving. He steals a few looks at him but it only constricts his throat tighter. He thinks if he were to open his mouth and speak, all that would come out is a dusty cloud of frost, cold breeding with the oxygen in the car and freezing his rationale all over again.

And Dean still looks angry—so Sam bites.

Croaky, timid, and scared. “Why did you even bring me?”

He doesn’t even know what he means. To the hunts, to school, to all those abandoned warehouses they’d sneak off to—Sam couldn’t have been more vague. He just hopes—prays—that the usual interconnecting link between him and Dean would be glowing right now, passing on the message without seams, without misinterpretation.

His palms grow sweaty as he keeps pinching. The dark abyss behind his eyelids continues to swirl. He doesn’t make any other move.

He hears Dean’s breath hitch suddenly, like he’s choking back a kind of sob. Sam’s eyes fling open—and they sting at the abruptness—he looks in Dean’s direction, at the tears rimming his eyes, the red highlighting the veins.

“I—” He starts to whisper, but it sticks around the walls of his throat. He swallows, inhaling deeply through his nose, and starts again louder. “I missed you.”

Sam’s own breath hitches. He thinks, dreadfully, that a small whimper escapes, but Dean doesn’t mention it so neither does he.

Dean’s eyes are still trained on the road—he doesn’t dare look Sam’s way. And Sam—even in the night, pouring with rain—can see the way his jaw clenches and shifts against the teeth in his mouth. How his bottom lip turns upwards involuntarily, a strained smile, and scrunches his nose in passing.

“I didn’t know who else to go to, I— Sam…” He shuts his eyes. “…I’m so fucking sorry.”

The tears start rolling down his face, and—bewildering—his grip on the steering wheel loosens, not like every other time emotions become high-strung in the Impala. Sam watches in disbelief; his brother’s undoing. Then the car begins to swerve.

He gasps, leaning over to steady the wheels. His hands overlap Dean’s, holding his tighter than his own underneath. “Woah, woah!— okay, hey, maybe pull over if you’re gonna…” Sam flicks between the road and Dean’s face. “…uh.”

The rain makes the moment even more slippery, but Dean eventually opens his eyes, staring at Sam confusedly, then at the road and nodding, weak.

He pulls over without a word, but leaves the engine still running. It rumbles in tandem with Dean’s sniffling. He runs a stressed hand through his scruffed hair, and another rests in his lap. His breath shudders. Sam slowly tugs his arms away, but settles a hand around Dean’s wrist on his head.

“Dean…”

“I know, I know,” his voice wobbles, “you had this perfect friggin’ apple pie life, and I just came in and ruined it, I know.”

Sam doesn’t say anything.

Finally, Dean turns to him. “But I didn’t mean to,” he assures desperately, eyes turning wide. “You have to know I didn’t mean to. Sammy, we can’t lose Dad, too.” He shakes his head. “I can’t lose Dad—”

“We’re not—” Sam tries.

“You had Stanford, you had Jess,” Dean rants, “you had a whole fuckin’ life away from me—”

His throat closes up again, and he chokes on the words. Sam tugs on his wrist mindlessly, how he remembers doing when he was young.

“—but all I did was stay,” he explains weakly. “Ain’t nothin’ changed—I stayed.”

I only have Dad.

And Sam catches the message in that, their link glowing. How Sam wanted to get away from this life, from Dad’s—whatever. How he had known nothing but rock salt and iron for years on end.

But Dean’s opposition ignites something in him. “Well, are you happy now? ‘Cause I don’t have none of that anymore.”

“No— No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying, without us—without me— you found something for yourself,” he says. “Fuck—you found yourself, found where you were supposed to be, where you fit in… and it wasn’t with us.”

It wasn’t with me, sounds clear as day to Sam’s ears. He feels the pang deep in his chest, the reciprocation from this entire case—he only blinks.

“Okay?” Although his voice is shaky and low.

Dean sighs. He pulls his wrist back from Sam’s hold and closes his eyes, another tear falling down dramatically.

He turns to face out the windshield again. The engine still rumbles, and the lights illuminate the trees off to the side in front of them.

“Who's to say you can’t do it again, huh?”

Who’s to say you won’t just up and leave?

Sam idly shakes his head in disagreement, his mouth falling open to counter the sentiment. I won’t, he wants to tell Dean. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.

Dean keeps speaking. “I just—” Another choke. “I just—all I see now when I look at you is this kid.”

His lip quivers. He turns back to Sam, and somehow his face is more distraught than before. His eyebrows pinch inwards, wrinkles dancing across methodically. Sam can feel his own features curl in sadness, in guilt, looking at Dean.

“I’m so sorry. All I see is my baby brother who got robbed of a life meant for him, and it’s all my fault—”

Sam grabs his shoulders and hauls him into his arms before he can keep going. His hand grasps at his head, twisting through his hair and finding his own fingers through the mess. His other holds him close by his shoulder, gripping.

He feels Dean grapple at him, too, finding a pile of his shirt and twisting his fingers in it. Another snakes around his back and hangs on by his stomach. It’s so Dean, it hurts. All ruthless and aching for closeness, practically hungry for it; miserable, yearning, his anguish knows no bounds.

“I’m not going to leave you,” Sam mumbles into his neck.

Dean lets out a sob. “But you did—”

“Fucking hell, Dean.” He untangles himself from his brother, steadying him by his shoulders. “Can you open your eyes? It was torture being with Dad. All my fucking life, it’s been torture.”

Dean’s eyes are glassy staring into his, although the picture might be warped by his own mistiness. It doesn’t transcend the green, though. The green peaks through above everything else, shining with remnants of emeralds, grass, ferns. Sam feels dizzy with it. Eyes so piercing shouldn’t hold despair like this.

The freckles, too; they poke holes in his swarm of thoughts, releasing the literal sun into his head. Dean, Dean, Dean. Every new bud, sprouting and blossoming in his name.

“I know you’re some fucking instrument for him to play—but I’m not like you!” Sam exclaims. “I was never like you! I had to get out—”

Dean leans back into his chest. Sam accepts him without a second thought, his arms returning to their previous spot.

“And—And you’re right. I tried to leave it behind, I did.” He drags his hands down Dean’s back, squeezes him tight by the ribs. “All the fucking creatures and nightmares—but—but not you, okay? Never you.”

Dean writhes in his hold—but not uncomfortably, as if he were trying to get away—more like he’s testing the seriousness of Sam’s hands, of Sam’s very words.

Sam can feel his breath on his skin, jagged, unsure, inhaling in certain spots and then exhaling in others. The grip on his shirt returns, this time at the hem.

“…Really?” Dean’s voice eclipses quiet, words somehow surpassing his crying; it’s indistinct, dull, like all the hope in that one word had been pressed against. It’s not like the other quiet ‘Dean voice’ Sam likes, where he’s all sleepy and soothing against his ears. This one’s withdrawn, diffident, all the things Dean is usually not.

Sam nods against him. “When you broke in I—fuck—it’s like some magnet starting buzzing inside of me.” He huffs a small shot of air, affectionate smile breaking out slightly. “I forgot how hard it is to be away from you—to stay away from you.”

“But you did.”

“And it was torture, as well, Dean. It was torture.”

Dean whines, trying to dig himself deeper into Sam’s arms. Like he could bury himself there if he tried. It sounds wounded, the whine, but Sam can’t help the way warmth floods through his chest, his stomach, his entire body, lighting him up from the inside.

He shoves his nose into Dean’s hair and moves a hand to cradle the back of his neck, instinctively pushing him closer. He breathes in shudders. Dean’s scent is intoxicating—he’d almost forgotten.

He feels like he wants to laugh at that, and all the times he remembers falling asleep in Dean’s covers while he was away on a hunt, or working, or gambling for more money. How gross that his brother’s sweat calmed like nothing else.

“I always hated that you stayed,” he admits, “I’d always hoped that you’d grow a pair and just take off, do your own thing. But you just didn’t, and I didn’t know how to reach you.”

His ‘neck’ hand finds the string of Dean’s amulet. He traces it mindlessly before bringing the hand between their embrace, and into the crook of Dean’s collarbone. He fishes it out the heat of his chest, and swings it around his neck so Sam can reach it with his mouth, pressing his lips against it gently.

(Something Sam used to do when he was young, too. When sharing a bed with him, sneakily pulling the necklace closer to his own face, but only to hold it to his lips as he whispers about his day until they both fall asleep.)

He speaks again. “You guys could’ve been anywhere in the country. I just didn’t know where to start.”

Dean’s cries were subdued now, only relevant sniffles and hiccups rising to the surface every now and then.

“Part of me thought you two were better off without me, anyway,” Sam chuckles against the amulet.

He half-expects Dean to pull back and give him a lecture on that—about how Little Sammy completes their family—but he doesn’t. Just remains diminished, drinking in the contact like a sponge. Sam can’t say he blames him. He is, too.

“But, I missed the hell outta you, Dean,” Sam promises, whispering, turning ever so slightly to reach the corner of his ear. Hair tickles his cheek. “Fuck, I missed you.”

Dean nuzzles closer into him again, small puffs of air and whimpers leaving his mouth, ones that Sam can feel on his body. His arms constrict tighter around Sam, and Sam can swear that it burns. He grins at it, Dean’s behavior, how quickly he can fall from his ‘tough guy’ act—Sam adores it endlessly. Sometimes, he thinks they were supposed to be the opposite, swapped in big brother and little.

But he kind of can’t even imagine a world where that is. Where Dean isn’t as strong and brave as Sam knows him to be, where he searches for Sam’s approval much more than he should. It kind of scares him, actually.

But where Dean’s innocence remains intact a little while longer, Sam thinks he could do it. Shielding him from hunting like Dean did with him, taking on the brunt of Dad’s anger like Dean did with him, doing everything in his power to protect his brother and more—just like Dean did with him.

“Sammy,” Dean mutters beneath his breath. 

Against his skin, it makes Sam shiver. “That name, man, it brings me back everyti—”

“I love you.”

Sam freezes. The hug loosens, and he can feel that Dean’s frozen, too.

He pulls away against his own nature, holding him by his shoulders again. He watches Dean’s face grow stern under Sam’s watchful gaze—or anyone’s gaze—how he puts up that wall again.

Sam nods. He peels one hand away from Dean and holds it out in front of him, open and ready to retrieve. Baby’s still rumbling, the rain is still going. 

He thins his lips and furrows his brows, tilts his head. Dean’s eyes meet his once more, and Sam gets to relish in their hue.

“Let me drive,” Sam smiles.

Dean checks them into a two-bedroom room at the nearest hotel when they reach Pennsylvania. It has maroon colored sheets and brown accents, and it’s about 4 AM when they arrive, so he wastes no time in pulling the curtains closed and flopping onto a bed.

Sam watches the rise and fall of his chest, and tries to listen for the evening-out of his breathing beyond the strong pounding of rain. 

Dean had curled up close to Sam after he’d given him the keys, shoulder to shoulder and shaking like a leaf. After a couple of hours, his head dropped back and he eventually fell asleep. Sam snuck in a Pearl Jam tape. It rained all the way through the rest of the drive.

He’d been skeptical of sharing a bed after their whole chick-flick moment, Dean’s selection of a two-bedded room giving him no relief; they usually ended up in each other’s space, anyway. He wondered if that’s how Dean preferred it to go.

Nonetheless, he walked over to the bed right beside him and sat down with a sigh. Boots kicked off, jeans shrugged, shirt pulled over the top of his head—Sam laid down in a similar position to his brother, sprawled and boneless.

He didn’t even bother getting under the covers.

The sun is shining through the curtains, and Sam almost regrets submitting to Dean’s pushing.

The case could wait—could wait a million years if it meant this peace would last five minutes longer. The airport would be fine without them. Dad’s old friend can manage. Sam snuggles closer into his pillow.

The sound of the television starts to penetrate his eardrums. Even at a low volume, Sam can decipher every single word being said. He groans and pulls his body up from lying down, angling himself on his elbows. Dean is sitting at the table, cleaning out one of their guns, while the rest lay sprawled across the surface.

Sam eyes the faint ghostly look on his face, where some areas seem lighter than others against his usual tan skin. There’s a line of opacity dragging over his cheeks, interrupting their slight pinkish hue. Tear tracks, Sam realizes. He sucks in a breath.

Dean’s watching the weather forecast, surprisingly. His gaze locks intently as the cartoon pictures of grey clouds dance across the screen, followed by a group of tiny suns and the wave of the reporter’s hand. His own hands work meticulously on the gun he’s cleaning.

Sam finally pulls himself up properly, grabbing his shirt from off the ground in a tired heap. He tugs it over his head and drags a hand down his face.

Dean gives him a quick glance. It’s calculated, ready, like he’s waiting for Sam’s next move. Sam only gives him a glance back, except his is dowsed more in sleep than paranoia.

He thinks to clear his throat, but it makes it all seem so serious, and Dean can’t handle serious. “We can keep looking for Dad…” Sam says as casually as possible.

And Dean stills, but he doesn’t tear an eye away from the television screen. They hesitantly dart to the gun he’s holding, but nothing else in his vicinity moves.

Sam nods, even if Dean can’t see him. “We can,” he repeats reassuringly, “but I need you to promise me.”

This time, Dean looks up and over at him with an unimpressed glare. The kind he always wore whenever Sam would make some stupid ultimatum as a kid, as if Dean didn’t have four whole years over him and also older sibling superiority. It was a look that said, ‘yeah, nice try,’ or ‘you really think that’s going to work on me? Cute.’

He drops the cloth and places the gun flat on the table, angling himself so he’s turned towards Sam.

It’s an intimidation tactic, Sam knows, giving the person your full attention so they know exactly when you decide you’re going to fuck them up. He’s seen Dad use it on other hunters, seen Dean use it on criminals—hell, he’s even used it on Dad a couple times—but Dean was never really one to use it on his younger brother, for any instance of the sort.

Which is why his palms grow a little sweaty when he sees the familiar glint in his eyes. “You stay,” he tells him. “No matter what Dad has to say, or do, or anything—you stay with me.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, but Sam can distinguish the surprise in there.

“...please?” He adds for good measure.

But then Dean looks away, picking up the gun and cloth again. “If he has a lead on the demon—”

No. Sam’s face pinches inwards in fear. “Please.”

He pauses at the weapon, hands stilling around the barrel. Sam knows he can feel his stare on the back of his neck—it’s why he won’t turn around. Because he knows he agrees with Sam, but knows he doesn’t want to. For whatever stupid reason.

“He doesn’t own your life, and—” Sam feels himself trip over his own tongue. His body isn’t catching up fast enough to his racing thoughts. This protectiveness over Dean—it bubbles, it only boils more. “—and I need you.”

I love you, too, stays paused on his lips. Hesitant.

He sees Dean’s eyes widen a bit and his eyebrows rise. The fall of his tense shoulders is almost easily missed—had Sam not grown up with him, studying him his entire life.

“Okay?” Sam blurts to stop himself from saying something he won’t live down.

The reporter on television notes that the heavy rain is over, and Pennsylvania should be making way for some refreshing summer skies.

“So whatever happens, you’re with me.”

His hands fist and he digs his nails into his palms again. He chews on his lip as he watches Dean not move. His brain gives him a million different things, but Sam knows better than to listen.

“Dean?”

And then Dean lifts his head from the spot on the table, impressed to find that he hadn’t bored holes through the mahogany. Sam’s impressed, too.

He shifts his shoulders up and around, tilting his neck and inhaling intensely as the tension releases from his body. He meets Sam’s eyes again with a warmth swirling in them. The green bounces off the curtains, the sun. It makes Sam’s heart skip a beat.

An exceedingly warmer smile crawls onto his perfect, perfect face, and Sam has no choice but to smile back.

“Okay, Sam.”