Chapter Text
“Sam, your brother is missing.”
Sam lifts his heavy head from the book he had been scouring. Squinting in the first light of the day, reading the same paragraph over and over but absorbing nothing.
“What?” He grinds the heels of his hands to his eyes and blinks blearily.
“Dean is gone… I’m sorry, am I boring you?” His father’s tone is harsh as Sam tries to stifle another yawn.
“Dad, I’m sure he’s just out in the yard.”
That’s the place he usually finds him. Be it first thing in the morning, before dinner, or in the middle of the night; wedged into the hollow trunk of the big dead oak tree in their backyard, the one they never got around to cutting down. It was the place he went he felt he needed to be punished. Curled into himself and pretending to be somewhere else.
Anywhere but here.
“You don’t think that’d be the first place I checked? C’mon, Sam, get up before I get you up.”
Sam was moving before he finished his sentence. Dean wasn’t in his tree. Dean was missing.
Not bothering to put on shoes, he bursts through the screen door in nothing but boxers and a thin white undershirt. He pauses momentarily as his father calls after him, but doesn't turn around.
“It’s a lot easier in the car, maybe we should-“
But Sam just waves him off. The last person Dean needs to see right now is Dad.
And then it hits him.
“It’s fine, I think I know where he is.”
Please, Dean, don’t be in the river. Just don’t.
With a tired huff of a sigh John shuffles back into the house and back to the bottle. Sam understands, he prefers it, actually. Dean has always been his responsibility.
Racing past the empty tree, he glances back at it, just in case. Hops the fence at the end of yard and onto their back lot, slipping in the early morning dew. Landing hard on his ass he catches his breath, looks down at his bare feet stained grass green and muddy before pushing himself back up and taking off again. When he reaches the tree line he can already hear the water. To call it a river was generous. It was more of a creek, running shallow over rocks and sand, twisting its way through the forest at the end of the property line.
He’s already calling Dean’s name as he breaks through the trees and snagging bushes, and stops abruptly when he sees him there, sitting in the middle of the stream, his legs stretched out in front of him, leaning back on his hands almost casually. Dean’s shirtless, wearing only his threadbare jeans, soaked through with ice cold water.
“Dean?”
At the sound of his name Dean turns his head, and a bright smile breaks across his face.
“Heya, Sammy. Was wondering when you’d get here.”
Sam approaches carefully, the sharp rocks and broken shells cutting at his soles. He stops where the water meets the shore and crosses his arms over his skinny chest.
“Oh, uh, I didn’t know that I was meeting you here. I guess I forgot?” he lies, but Dean’s smile just gets wider.
“No problem, kiddo.” He turns his head back to front, staring into the distance at something Sam can’t see.
“Hey, Dean, maybe you should come outta the water now. I was just gonna make some breakfast, some grilled cheese and egg sandwiches. And I won't forget to leave the yolks all runny this time, so maybe you can come help or…” he trails off. Dean isn’t listening.
“I was gonna go fishing, but I forgot the poles. Stupid right? So then I thought I could try and catch ‘em with my hands. But I think they’re hiding. Gotta get up early when the fish are still sleeping like Uncle Bobby says. Right, Sam?”
Sam takes a few tentative steps towards his brother, the water so icy it stings where it licks at his ankles. As he gets closer he can make out the stark paleness of his brother’s chest, blue veins snaking down his arms, his lips lavender with the cold.
Like a corpse.
Sam’s stomach flips over.
“Come on. Dean, I’m starving. Let’s go.” He tries his best whiny little brother voice but it’s wracked with shivers as his whole body shakes. He reaches out a hand but Dean makes no move to take it. Sam takes a few jerky steps until he crosses his line of vision, and Dean comes back to himself. Blinks rapidly and the fog lifts. And he grins up at him.
“Hey, Sammy.”
Sam smiles back, the burn of tears behind his eyes. Wordlessly, he walks around behind Dean and hooks his arms under Dean’s, hauls him up. Dean stumbles a bit, curses under his breath.
“Ow, fuck. Pins and needles.”
Sam drapes his brother’s arm over his shoulder and walks him to shore. His skin is cold and discolored, the hand he grasps onto stiff and pruney.
Like he’s already dead.
Sam walks faster, practically drags him the whole way. Coming in the back door, they find Dad still at the kitchen table, his big hands wrapped around a mug that Sam doubts will contain coffee. He narrows eyes at his boys as they bang in.
“You can’t just run off like that… Scared the living hell outta me.”
Sam isn’t sure which of them he’s talking to.
Dean shrugs Sam off of him and takes an unsteady step forward, looking as drunk as their father sounds.
“What, are you playing ‘Dad’ today? Fuck if you care where I am, and anyway, I’m almost twenty years old. Not a kid anymore.”
His knees almost buckle and as Sam reaches to catch him, Dean swats at his hands.
“And you, with the grabby hands, get off.”
He stomps past his father and towards the stairs, muttering under his breath as he passes: “Going to my room.”
Sam chases after him, nods to his father, who answers by slowly dropping his head to the table. Follows the trail of puddles Dean leaves behind like breadcrumbs.
Dean’s room is actually their room, and their room is actually the attic. It had been a major selling point when they originally bought the house. That and its foreclosure status, which made it even cheaper than renting. A wide open space, hastily refurbished into a bedroom with plywood over insulation and throw rugs covering rough, splintered floors. The roof leaks at one end into a bucket that sometimes has to be emptied twice a night, and it’s drafty in winter but they didn’t mind. Because Dean doesn’t like small spaces.
Halfway up the stairs, Dean has his pants undone and they hit the floor with a wet plop as soon as he reaches the top. Nothing underneath, he walks naked to the window by their bed and looks out dreamily. Sam comes up behind him to gently place a hand at the small of his back, afraid to spook him.
“Dean, you really need to get in bed, under the covers. You gotta get warm.”
Dean complies automatically, snagging Sam’s hand as he goes. “Stay with me?”
Always.
Sam nods and strips in silence, slipping in behind his brother who immediately presses cold toes to the front of his shins. Sam winces and wraps his arms around him, squeezes him to his chest. Dean’s wet hair soaks the pillow and Sam pushes his fingers through it, wrings out excess water. Dean is still bigger than him, broader, but Sam is catching up to him in height, which is the cause of his glee and Dean’s great displeasure.
You’re my little brother Sam. Little. Best stay that way.
“Jesus, Dean, your feet are cold.”
There is a moment of contented silence and Dean squirms even closer into his embrace, fitting his body to his brother’s like two parts of a whole. Sam sighs and pushes his face into the crook of Dean’s neck.
“I’m sorry, Sam.” Dean’s chest hitches and his shivers from cold turn to body shaking gasps.
“Sorry for what, Dean?”
Dean inhales sharply and slips one foot between Sam’s ankles. In his exhale he mutters confessions: “Sorry I’m… this way. Sorry about how I am.”
And the two fall asleep to Dean’s muffled sobs and Sam’s soothing, hushed forgiveness.
Sam wakes up to an empty bed. There is a clattering downstairs and the faint smell of burning grease. He sits up so quickly his head spins, the fading daylight giving the room an orange glow. He descends the stairs slowly and makes his way to the kitchen. He finds no sign of John.
“Hungry?”
Dean is happily frying pinkish slices of mystery meat on the stovetop while sipping at a large glass of orange juice. His hair has dried in his sleep and sticks up at odd angles. He wears a faded apron, pale blue with dusty pink roses. One of the few things Mom had left behind when she left their father. When she left them.
Mom left because of me, Sammy. Because I’m not right.
Dean whistles softly along with the radio and gestures with the spatula for Sam to pull up a seat.
“What is that?” Sam scrunches up his nose but his stomach growls eagerly.
“Fried bologna, Sam. We were outta bacon, but this is just as good.”
Toast pops up and Dean bounces over, carefully plucks the pieces out and tosses them on a plate. Hisses and sucks burned fingertips, and Sam just stares, mouth agape. Dean messily constructs a sandwich with the bologna and a squirt of ketchup and places it in front of Sam at the table.
“Eat up, little brother. Gotta put some meat on those bones.”
And with eyes sparkling in the golden sunset, Dean kisses him. Soft, wet lips press gently against his brother’s slightly parted ones, slips his tongue inside for a tiny taste. Sam lets him do it, paralyzed in a moment too strange and perfect to be real. Dean tastes like sleep and orange juice and something else. Something familiar. Sam splays one big hand across Dean’s chest and pushes gently.
“Dean, what are you drinking?”
“Screwdriver, Sammy! Want one?”
No. Yes.
Head swimming, lips tingling, he stammers his answer: “No. And you shouldn’t be drinking either, man. You know it makes you all…”
“Awesome? I agree.” Dean laughs, open and free, and takes another big swig. Coughs. “Man, Dad can’t spring for the good stuff, huh? Like fuckin’ paint thinner.”
He glances over at Sam, tilts his chin down and lowers his lashes, coy. Pulls the apron over his head and tosses it to the side. He’s shirtless underneath, as always. Saunters over to Sam and yanks his chair back from the table roughly, slams the drink down next to his plate. The contents splash over the sides of the glass.
“Dean? Dean, where’s Dad?”
Dean swings one leg over his and drops down in his lap. “Dunno, Sam, he wasn’t here when I got up. Anyway, who cares? Got the house all to ourselves.”
Dean takes Sam’s face in his hands tenderly and looks down on him. Smiles and licks his lips. He’s nervous, childlike. A scared little boy, and Sam suddenly feels so much older.
“Sammy, can I? Please?”
Head still reeling, all Sam can do is nod, and Dean leans in. He is careful, presses small, delicate kisses to his lips and his chin and his cheek. Turns his head to the side and considers him with wide eyes and long lashes. Inches their mouths together so slowly Sam wants to scream, then pulls Sam’s bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth and suckles. Sam closes his eyes for fear they will roll back into his head and he tries not to moan. Remembers how his arms work and wraps them around Dean’s back, pulling him closer. Dean chuckles into his mouth, like he couldn’t get away if he wanted to. Sam leans back and pulls his brother flush to his chest, slides a hand up to cradle the back of his head and finally, desperately, kisses back.
Fireworks explode behind his tightly shut lids. Red and gold and green like his brother’s innocent eyes.
Dean’s body is rolling against him and Sam awkwardly pushes his hips up to meet him, messy and hungry and without rhythm. Dean makes little sounds now, pants nonsense into his mouth between kisses. Says his name.
“Sammy. Love you. Let me... take care of you, like you take care of me. Love you. Please let me. Sam.”
Sam’s heart is so full of love, his senses overwhelmed with Dean. His mind tries to catch up with what his body is telling him.
Dean loves you, wants you too, not alone. Not alone.
The front door hits the wall like a gunshot, and Sam nearly bites off Dean’s tongue. Dean pulls back and puts his hand to his mouth. Sam tastes blood.
“Jeez, Sam... Easy tiger.”
He’s still smiling, eyes crinkled with unadulterated joy. His brows suddenly draw together, confused when he feels Sam freeze underneath him, until he looks over his shoulder to the door.
“Hey, Dad.”
He hops off his brother and grabs his glass, takes a sip as he walks over to the stove. Grabs two more pieces of bread and slides them into the toaster.
“Please tell me you grabbed some groceries? We’re living off scraps here.”
He peels another piece of bologna off the pile, slaps it into the frying pan and turns on the burner. Tips the glass to his mouth and takes it all down in a few giant gulps, shuddering as it hits his stomach.
“Hungry?’
John makes his way quickly from the front door, still hanging ajar, clomping heavy boot falls down the hallway, and leans in the doorway of the kitchen. He’s pale, drawn in, like he’s seen a ghost.
“Sam, I need to talk to you.”
“Dad, I-”
“Now.”
Sam rises from the chair slowly, shamefully, not wanting to turn around and reveal his obvious arousal. Dean turns off the stove and trots over to his brother’s side, still oblivious to the chill in the air.
“Alone, Dean. I need to talk to your brother alone.”
The smile drops off his face then and he lifts his chin. Shoulders back, chest forward, raring for a fight.
“Anything you can say to him you can say in front of me.” Dean leans in, hisses, “We don’t keep secrets like some people.”
His mood has soured so quickly, and Sam already misses the little piece of heaven they just shared.
“Dean, it’s okay, I promise. Can you, um, can you make a few more sandwiches? I’m sure Dad’s gonna be real hungry after. Right?”
John sighs like he’s carrying the weight of the world, and nods. Not completely convinced, Dean retreats back to the stove. As the two of them make it halfway down the hallway to the front door, he’s already whistling again.
They walk outside and John stops him on the front porch with a hand firmly on his shoulder. His fingers dig in.
“I’m not going to even try and understand what I just saw in there, Sam.” He searches his son’s face for an answer, for some guilt, but finds none. “What could you possibly be thinking? You know your brother is, he’s-”
“Special, and smart and amazing and strong. Not that you would know anything about that.”
Sam’s chin is quivering, he clears his throat and chokes up.
John softens a bit. “Sam, this is getting out of hand. His behavior is completely unpredictable and I just think. I just think maybe it’s time to try something else. Son, I just can’t take this anymore.”
Sam rips his father’s hand from his shoulder and step into his space, close enough to spit. “You can’t take it anymore? Take what? I do everything for Dean. He’s my brother!”
He’s mine. Mine.
He shoots a look over to the kitchen and watches Dean stack sandwiches on a plate, thankfully unaware of their conversation.
“I went somewhere today, Sam. A facility. Nearby, two towns over, in Clinton. A place that would be good for Dean.”
“A facility. What, a nut house? Are you serious?”
“Your brother needs twenty-four hour surveillance.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Sam, you have school, you have other responsibilities.”
“Not anymore, fuck school.”
John’s face falls, tries to reach out to Sam but he backs away.
“Sam, I know you try to do what’s best for him. Try and make him happy no matter what but, Sam-”
He looks over at his older son and his growing pile of sandwiches and when he turns back his eyes are glassed over with the beginnings of tears. “He could hurt himself. He could hurt you.”
“He would never hurt me. And he doesn’t hurt himself, not on purpose,” he pleads. “I can look after him, Dad, please, please. You can’t send him away.”
John pulls Sam to him and wraps him in his arms. Sam feels so very small in his father’s strong embrace. Smashed up against his body, so much like their old oak tree. Tall and thick and strong, but hollow inside, empty.
“I’m sorry, Sam, but it’s already done. They’ll be here in the morning.”
Sam struggles but his father holds firm, and Sam screams.
“No! You can’t, I won’t let you. They can’t touch him, they can’t have him!”
Bite. Maim. Kill. Mine.
When Sam breaks free his chest heaves, draws painful ragged breaths into his body, and they pause in the relative silence.
No more whistling.
They turn to the kitchen. Dean’s gone.
Sam flies out the back door and across the yard, skidding to a stop next to the tree. He finds him there in the dark hollow, swallowed up in its giant gaping mouth. Crouched down and curled up with one arm extended, he rubs his delicate wrist raw along the rough edge of the tree trunk. There’s a sickening squelch as it slides back and forth, over and over, lubricated by his own blood.
He would never hurt himself.
Sam’s stomach turns as Dean proves him wrong.
He wraps his fingers around his arm to still him, pulls gently until Dean comes to him and collapses against his chest. They lie in the soft grass like that, big brother cradled to little brother’s chest. Breathe together, their hearts synch up, same blood pumping in their veins.
Same blood, we're the same.
“You were yelling because of me. It’s my fault.”
Sam startles at the words. He sits them up and Dean lies back against his chest in the V of his outstretched legs. Sam pulls his wrist to his face to examine it in the dim light of dusk. The skin is rubbed to ribbons, peeled back, and it bleeds freely, small bits of dirt and tree bark lodged here and there. Sam blows gently on the wound and Dean wriggles.
“Hurts, Sam.”
“Sorry, Dean, I-”
“No, I like it. When it’s you, I like when it hurts.”
More silence. Sam gently picks debris out of his arm and Dean breathes heavily.
“Listen, Dean, nothing is your fault, okay? Dad and I were just having a talk. And we decided that we need to take a trip.”
“Psssh, what, like a vacation? No way Dad is gonna-”
“Not Dad, just us. We need to get outta town for a while.”
Dean turns himself around abruptly and comes nose to nose with Sam. His eyes go wide, scared again.
“Shit, Sam... you sure I didn’t fuck up again? I mean, you’re not mad at me, right? Sam?”
So Sam kisses him again. Gentle, his eyes open, reassures with his tongue and his teeth. Dean sighs a relieved breath against his lips.
“Dean, I’m not mad, not at you. I love you, okay? Not your fault. But we don’t have a lotta time. So were gonna get in the house, I’m gonna clean up your arm and were gonna pack. Got it?”
“Sir, yessir!”
“Not funny, jerk. But, you just have to trust me, okay? You got me, Dean?”
Dean takes Sam’s hands in his and pulls them to their feet.
“Yeah, Sammy, I got you.”
John is absent when they return, but Sam hears him shuffling through drawers in his bedroom. Probably looking for his hidden stash, so they're safe for now. Sam pulls Dean past the pile of forgotten dinner and into the bathroom, pours peroxide over the wound that fizzles and foams. Wraps the last of their gauze around and around and secures it with a length of surgical tape. Then they scramble up the stairs and into the attic.
Dean cradles his injured arm to his chest, guarding the two duffel bags Sam has packed with all their measly belongings. They sit in silence save for the wind whistling through the old oak’s dead branches that reach up towards their window like skeletal fingers. Sam gets together any savings he has and pockets it, makes lists of what they may need. Plots stealing their father’s credit card for some bus tickets. Anything to get them somewhere else.
Anywhere but here.
Dean sits and scratches at his bandage, stares at his brother like he’s waiting for permission. For what, Sam doesn’t know.
“Hey, Dean, why’d you do that earlier? I mean, when you kissed me.”
And Dean shrugs his shoulders. “Felt like it.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Why? Don’t we do that?”
“We never have before.”
“Huh.” And he grins like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Well, we should’ve.”
So Sam crawls across the floor and puts his hands on him. Peels off Dean’s jeans, his own shirt, and wriggles his pants over his dirty feet. He chases Dean onto the bed, lays him out naked and unafraid. Drapes himself over his brother, lacing fingers and thighs together, one more first time.
And one more last time, last night on this bed. Their bed.
Dean begs and cries and Sam licks away his tears.
“Love you, Sam. Hurt me. Need you to. Need you. Need you to stay with me.”
Always.
Sam pins his wrists to the bed, digs his fingernails through the gauze until the blood runs down along the edges, pools on the sheets under his arm. Slides two fingers through the gore until they’re stained, pushes them into Dean’s mouth. Feeds him to himself. Bites at his clavicle, his neck, the edge where ribs stick out from his sunken-in belly. Rust and sweat and bone.
Dean writhes and pants.
“More, Sammy, please.”
All of me in all of you.
Sam grinds their bodies together until his arms tremble and threaten to collapse. Until Dean has seized up and released between them and Sam almost comes from the idea of it. From the slip slide of it between them, and the filthy sounds that come from his brother’s mouth.
Dean’s eyes glitter mischievously, he bites his bottom lip and whispers in Sam's ear: “Dad’s gonna know.”
And Sam comes.
Dean’s pale chest is painted pink by the time they’re done, his chin covered in dried blood like a feral animal.
Same blood.
They will leave the old version of themselves in this house. Up in this attic to rot, the corpse of an old life. No longer two souls, they have become one in this ruined bed of their own making.
Dean’s skin is flushed and their hearts are pounding. Blood and spit and come covering them both like proof of life. They’re almost free. They are both alive.
Alive. Alive.