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It was Sam's idea to come here. Some crazy-ass notion of his about leaving a token of Dad's at mom's grave. Dean Winchester shook his head as he walked away from his brother, checking out any gravestone but the one that Sam was hunkered in front of.
The past is dead, they're dead. There's no use wasting time and tears over it. It won't change anything! Dean snorted to himself as he strode across the windswept graveyard. Next he'll wanna get all SNAG on me, get me to explore my inner feelings; sniffle into a Kleenex 'n'tell him all my problems. Dean rolled his eyes, stopping next to a headstone, reading the inscription. 'Loving Father.' Dean let out a breath and turned away. I hate cemeteries, he thought. He walked on, looking around at the trees and well maintained lawns. They're too…green; too alive. Everything thrives in a graveyard… His gaze was drawn to a tree that stood near a fairly recent looking grave. The grave was too new to even have a headstone yet. Dean narrowed his eyes and paused in his tracks. The tree, in stark contrast to the verdant surroundings, was as dead as they come.
--
Talking was the way that Sam processed things. Dean's gotta know that, right? Sam sighed impatiently. He was starting to think that Dean couldn't see anything beyond his own half crazed vendetta against some evil he suspected was on the loose in the town. Okay, so there were signs at the graveyard, the circle of dead vegetation around the gravesite, and other things, but Dean had grabbed at the chance of a hunt, and held on with all the tenacity of a pit-bull terrier.
I've tried talking to him. Just look how far that got me. Sam glanced towards the door of the motel room, his green eyes clouding with remembered pain.
"I'm going to get a drink. Alone!" Dean said, a moment before he walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Sam shook his head with a sigh, and flicked television on. See if he couldn't forget about his pigheaded jerk of a brother for a little while.
--
So he'd been right. Of course he'd been right. Dean had an instinct for these things.
Now, at the wheel of his beloved Impala, Dean focused on putting as much road between him and mom's grave as physically possible. Sam was beside him, the engine purred and everything was right with the world again.
Except, everything wasn't right.
Dean sighed and glanced over at his brother who'd been silent since they left the graveyard for the last time. Sam stared through the window, keeping his eyes stoically fixed on the passing scenery. His expression was tense, brooding, but he hadn't said anything after their last exchange before hitting the road again.
Dean hated the silence. It left him too much time to think.
The more that Dean thought about the events of the past few days, the worse it made him feel. He'd treated his brother like shit, and for what? For trying to help him. Dean had always known that Sam's way of working through stuff was to talk. A half smirk touched the elder Winchester's lips as he considered that. Hell, growing up, sometimes he would talk so long and so deep about things that I'd fall asleep listening to his voice. He cast Sam another glance. That's where we're different, him and me. He seems to be able to figure stuff out so much faster…easier somehow. Me, I like to tough it out.
Something had begun to filter through to him though, working that case, hunting down the zombie, Angela. He'd repeated the same words over and over.
Dead things should stay dead! How many times had Dean repeated that, working this job? He sighed, caught Sam's quick glance, out of the corner of his eyes. He feigned concentration on the road, keeping the game face firmly in position. I was dead. I was lookin' the reaper right in the eyes, bargaining for my life.
He'd told Sam he didn't remember anything that happened while he lay in the hospital on life support and his spirit roamed the halls. He did remember though. He remembered all of it. Unconsciously, Dean eased back a little on the gas pedal.
--/--
"It's your lucky day, kid!" Tessa turned to him; her eyes had changed to a demonic yellow, she laid a hand on his forehead. Some kind of power ripped through him, dark power. Dean didn't know what it was and before he'd had time to process it, he was back in his body, conscious, choking on the tubes in his throat, and alive.
--/--
I should have stayed dead. Dean thought. His brows drew together in a deep frown. I've done nothing but act like an ass since the hospital let me go. Just like Angela, like any undead we've ever faced. It's making me angry, vengeful. He had to admit, half of his motivation with the zombie case had been anger and some kind of personal vendetta.
Fuck, Dean, why'nt ya face facts? Every case you've worked since coming back has been some kinda personal vendetta. His mind took him back to the argument with Sam outside the professor's house.
"You're tail spinning, man and you won't talk about it, and you won't let me help you!"
Letting out a long breath, Dean eased the Impala over to the side of the road and stopped.
--
"So tell me…what could you possibly say to make that all right?"
Lying awake in bed, Sam recalled Dean's words, spoken through the first real tears he'd seen his brother shed since their father's death. There wasn't anything Sam could say. There just isn't an answer to something like that. At least now he understood why Dean was acting the way he was. That was something. Sam frowned. He rolled over, facing his brother, watching while Dean slept.
Dean had fallen into bed almost as soon as they'd arrived at the motel, leaving Sam to lay the salt lines at the door and windows. He'd been asleep within minutes and he hadn't stirred for hours. Raising himself up on one elbow, Sam studied his brother's face. Dean lost the hard exterior when he slept. His forehead smoothed; the little creases at the corners of his eyes relaxed. The tough guy veneer was erased and Sam could see faint traces of the boy his brother had been once, a long time ago. He wondered, idly, if his face bore the same traces of all the battles they'd seen, the sorrows they'd borne. He wondered if, when he slept, Dean ever watched him and looked for shadows of lost innocence.
That's the whole crux of it, right there, Sam told himself. We lost our innocence too soon. We've seen things that most people never even dream about. We have seen nightmares take physical form and try to kill us, and we've survived…but at what cost?
Tentatively, Sam reached out and traced the shadow of a scar on his brother's forehead. Left over from the wreck that had very nearly taken Dean's life. "I should've stayed dead…" Dean's words, spoken back there on the side of the road; Sam remembered the stab of pain those words caused. He closed his eyes. I'm glad you didn't. It sounds so selfish, but out of you and dad, I choose you, Dean.
Dean stirred, muttering in his sleep and Sam leaned closer to him, trying to make out the words. He couldn't quite catch them. He frowned, wondering what his brother was dreaming about. He started to draw back, but hesitated when sleepy green eyes flickered open and Dean looked up at him.
Sam licked his lips. "Uh…you were talking in your sleep," he offered.
Dean smiled, flashing impossibly white teeth and then he reached up and touched Sam's cheek, his hand lingering, fingers curling into a caress. The smile faded, Dean's gaze grew more focused, more intense. The slightest shift of his wrist and his hand moved to the nape of Sam's neck, pulling him down.
Sam's heart set up a ragged beating against his ribs as Dean pulled him closer. His eyes slipped closed an instant before Dean's lips claimed his mouth. He made a sharp intake of breath, followed quickly by a tortured moan. Dean… Sam let himself melt into the warmth of his brother's lips for a long, precious moment before reason kicked in. He pulled away and sat up on the side of the bed. Taking several deep breaths, he managed to calm the frantic beating of his heart, rubbing the first two fingers of his right hand across his mouth. Fuck, what're you thinking? Sam shook his head and closed his eyes. He's your brother, for fuck's sake!
"Sam?"
He felt Dean's weight shift on the bed behind him. Dean moved to sit next to him. "Sammy?" He took hold of Sam's wrist. "C'mon," he said softly. "It was only a kiss - you liked it, I know you did…I'm good at it."
Sam turned to him, incredulous. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" He shook his head. "We're brothers!"
"Yeah, so?" Dean laughed softly.
"Dean!"
"Sam!" his brother mocked his tone.
"Oh, fuck you!" Sam got to his feet, pacing the room restlessly.
"Well that's kinda what I was pushin' for," Dean replied, he still had that stupid, half mocking grin and Sam wanted to punch that sneering look off his brother's face. He made a fist, glared at Dean for a moment and then swung away, walked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Leaning against the wood paneling, Sam let his head fall back against the door and closed his eyes.
"You liked it, I know you did…I'm good at it."
Tears stung his eyes. It was true. For a whole fleeting moment there, he'd been the happiest man alive when Dean's lips took possession of his. Sam lightly banged his head against the door. He heard movements outside the bathroom, the rustle of clothing, the rattle of keys. A few minutes later, he sensed rather than saw that Dean paused outside the bathroom door for a second before he heard receding footsteps and the sound of the motel room door open and close.
The roar of an engine and a shriek of over accelerated tires a minute or two later, told him that Dean had gone