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They said goodbye to Bobby at a rest stop outside Mansfield after making him promise he'd check in within a couple of days. Sam couldn't blame him for wanting some alone time, though neither he nor Dean was thrilled about it.
Six hours later, on the stoop outside room 12 of the Lincoln Motor Court, Dean handed him a beer, the bottle slippery with condensation.
"You wanna talk about it?"
"What?" At Dean's look, he managed a half-smile. "I mean, it's not supposed to be easy, right? If it is, then you should be worried."
"Good to know." Dean came and sat on the step beside him, taking a swig from his own bottle. The long rays of the setting sun glinted off the Impala's chrome. "Hell of a day," he said with a shake of his head.
Sam let out a soft, bitter laugh. "That's an understatement." He took a sip, too; it tasted better than it had any right to. "Think Bobby'll be okay?"
"Honestly? I'm not sure what that word means any more." Dean sighed. "But Bobby's tough. It ain't like he's a stranger to losing friends."
"He doesn't have many left to lose."
Dean grunted agreement. "Us, neither, for that matter."
Sam couldn't argue with that. They'd all three of them killed another hunter today. But he was the only one who'd done it while in his right mind and under his own power.
"Dude, quit it." Dean leaned his shoulder against Sam's, a feeling Sam hadn't realized until that moment that he'd missed as badly as he had.
"Quit what?" He tried to fight the warm glow that threatened to start up in his stomach.
"Whatever's goin' on in that stupid head of yours."
Dean was worried about what Samuel might have told him, Sam knew. Anytime anybody hinted that Sam should remember, or think about Hell, or the things he'd done while walking around soulless, Dean got nervous. Sam took another swig of his beer and tried not to let impatience get the better of him. "Relax, all right? I'm not scratching."
"Yeah, well, you better not be."
Dean had been taking that tone with him a lot lately. On one level, it felt good having Dean care about him again, enough to worry about his sanity. On another, it was kind of driving him crazy, the big brother, do what I say or else treatment.
"You know, it's kind of hard to forget about stuff when you're always telling me not to think about it." At Dean's expression, he shrugged. "I'm just saying."
"Smartass."
"Well, it's true."
Dean nodded glumly and drank.
"How about you?" Sam asked after a minute. "You okay?"
Sam could feel the heat of his brother's body all along his side, not exactly pressed against him, but knocking gently at knee and hip and shoulder, sharing his space, and it felt better than he wanted to think about. He was pretty sure it shouldn't help as much as it did, having Dean there and close. He didn't like what it said about him, that he could shoot his own grandfather in the head, deal with some kind of revolting, primordial, mind-controlling worms and bury three bodies in one afternoon, but when it came down to it, as long as he and Dean were alive and together, everything else paled.
Dean seemed to think about the question; at last he let out a long breath. "Sucks," he said eloquently. "About Gwen. I don't know if I'm glad I don't remember it, or not."
Sam nodded. "Be glad," he said.
"Yeah. I didn't like her much, but she never even had a chance."
"She was a hunter," Sam said. She had a choice, he wanted to say. She chose to trust Samuel. "It wasn't your fault, Dean."
Dean shot him a glance, and judging by his wry expression, the irony wasn't lost on him. He'd been telling Sam that for weeks. "Funny how that don't make me feel better."
It sounded hollow to Sam, too. "Believe me, I get that." He didn't have many memories of her, but that only made her death feel like more of a waste.
They fell silent for a while, and the beer tasted bitter on Sam's tongue. Questions he wanted to ask ran on a slow loop in his head, but a big part of him didn't want to do anything to break the fragile peace he and Dean had been building, even if it meant more truths that never got said between them. He didn't think he could stand to be the one to break open the careful acceptance Dean had been working so hard for.
Sam had changed in more ways than he could count, and maybe this was one of them. A few years ago, he would have been the first one to drag all his doubts into the light and force Dean to talk about them. It had taken him years and more mileage than he cared to think about to break himself of that childish habit and recognize it for what it was: a selfish desire for Dean to reassure him and tell him everything was going to be okay. He might pretend it was honesty that motivated him, but the truth was, he'd always known Dean would give him a pass on pretty much everything, and he'd used that, despite the fact that it meant Dean had to be the one to carry both their fears. Even when he was long past old enough to recognize the price Dean paid for that, he'd still done it.
Even now, he wanted badly to hear Dean say he'd meant what he'd said in the graveyard. Clean slate. The thought of it made his heart beat like it wanted out of his chest. Are you sure this is what you want? he wanted to ask. But even if he thought Dean was capable of answering that question honestly, he couldn't. It would have been for himself, to make himself feel better, and he was done with that. The best thing he could do would be to do what he'd promised, and have Dean's back. Whatever that meant, and wherever it took them. He didn't know much, any more, but he did know that.
He finished his beer and studied his hands, the empty bottle dangling between his knees. "You ever get the feeling the world already ended, and we're too dumb to know it?"
Dean glanced at him, his expression saying it wasn't what he'd expected. "Pretty sure as long as we can still buy cold beer at a gas station, we're good."
Sam's mouth quirked. "Good point."
Dean scratched at his beer label with his thumb. "Hey."
Sam looked up.
"You were right. I know things haven't been going our way lately, but that don't mean we give up. Somebody's gotta stick around to fight the new Hell-bitch in town. After today, it's personal."
"Right. I mean, it's not every day a slimy, gross, mind-controlling worm crawls in your ear."
Dean shuddered. "Don't remind me. Ain't enough showers in the world."
Sam should have laughed, or made another crack, but by some chance his hand bumped Dean's, and Dean's gaze caught his, and Sam didn't mean to, but he found himself holding that look too long.
They'd barely looked directly at each other for more than two seconds these last weeks, never mind from two feet away, their shoulders touching, Dean's boot pressing alongside his. Sam fought the urge to swallow. The last thing he wanted was to make Dean uncomfortable, but he couldn't help himself. He didn't know what it was. Maybe everything—the fragile hope he kept seeing in Dean's eyes whenever he'd steal a glance at Sam; that look like he was sure Sam was going to vanish like a mirage any second. The way Dean had touched him more in a month than he had in years, his constant concern and physical presence something Sam hadn't even realized was missing until now. The way Sam couldn't help feeling like Dean needed something from him he would never name.
His pulse felt like the slow, heavy tolling of a bell deep in his chest. And Dean wasn't looking away, either. Wasn't so much as breathing, that Sam could tell. So long, Sam thought, with a desperate, sinking feeling leaden in his belly. Not since right after Dad. They'd put it away and never spoken of it again, one of a hundred pacts of silence between them and this the deepest of all.
Dean's fingers were white where he gripped the bottle he held. A breeze lifted Sam's wet hair from his neck.
"You have to ask me," Sam said, in a low voice he barely recognized. "Dean, you—"
His brother let out a soft, sharp breath like he'd been holding it in too long. He closed his eyes, his Adam's apple jerking. His voice came rough when he said, "I'm scared to, Sammy. You got no idea."
Sam nodded, though it felt like it tore at his heart. "Yeah. Okay. I get that."
"God knows I want to. Tried like hell not to, but I do, God help me."
Dean looked like it was tearing something out of him, too. His face was averted now, his eyes cast down, and Sam leaned into him, aching to reach out but denying himself the right. He had to know Dean wanted this, that he was sure, whatever this was.
"I can wait," he said, and he meant it. All their lives, he'd waited. He'd thought he'd burned his last chance long ago. "As long as you need me to."
Dean made a sound that Sam felt to his core. "Goddamn you," he said, and reached out, locked an arm around Sam's neck and hauled him in. "Son of a bitch." But his face was hot against Sam's, his mouth saying something completely different when it sought and found Sam's, when he caught Sam's lips with his and held on, rocking Sam's body into his so that he could pull them hard together.
Sam tasted his brother for the first time in years, and all he could think was, yes, anything. Whatever you want. And then, nobody else, ever, my whole life.
It went on a long time, Sam's blood rushing in his ears and the rest of his body, Dean's arm locked tight around his neck. His strength held Sam fast, his mouth slick and warm and better than anything Sam could remember. Dean's lips felt like cherries, his tongue hot where it twined with Sam's and owned him from the inside out. Sam groaned into his brother's mouth and gave himself to it, only too glad to give Dean anything he could.
He lost track of time. When Dean finally pulled away, breathing hard, Sam felt like the world had changed course around him.
"Fuck, I can't," Dean said, the words like glass in his throat.
"Dean, it's okay. " Sam barely knew what he was saying.
Dean leaned forward, resting his head on one hand. He still hadn't let go. "Shut up. I gotta think."
"I'm not going anywhere," Sam said. He realized he'd grabbed hold of Dean's shirt, and was still hanging on to it.
Dean gave a bitter laugh and shook his head. He pushed Sam away from him. "You don't know that."
And that was the whole problem, Sam realized. Dean was scared to death that Sam would check out on him—or walk out, first chance he got. He'd said as much, half a dozen times in half a dozen different ways. And who could blame him?
"Dean—" But his brother was on his feet, putting distance between them that felt like miles. Sam scrambled up before he knew he meant to. He caught the motel room door before it closed and pushed his way inside, grabbing hold of Dean's arm as the door closed behind them, leaving them in shadows. "Hey. Look at me." When Dean did, Sam told him, "The combined forces of Heaven and Hell have been trying to kill us most of our lives, one way or another, and we're still here."
"Yeah. But for how long?"
Sam shook his head in exasperation. "Does it matter? That's the whole point. You said it yourself. We could bite it tomorrow for all we know, and it seems pretty damn likely that the angels have better things to do these days than keep bringing us back. So—screw maybes, and what ifs. I'm not going anywhere. What about you?"
He was breathing hard, and he hadn't meant to push Dean like this. I can wait, he'd said, and he'd meant it. But he'd be damned if he was going to let Dean wonder any more where Sam stood. He'd done that all his life.
Dean had tired lines under his eyes, and a bloody scrape on his neck, and he stared at Sam like he was seeing him for the first time in years. He cracked a crooked smile, the last gasp of a desperate man. "Well, hell, Sammy. If I'd known you were that hard up, I'd've hooked you up with that waitress back in Toledo."
Sam's brows lowered, and his face twitched. "Are you trying to make me hit you?"
"Maybe." But Dean's smarmy expression fell away.
Sam stepped into him, fists coming up to clench in his shirt. "You're an idiot, you know that?"
"No argument here." But when Sam leaned down and claimed Dean's kiss-swollen mouth, Dean's hands found his hips and pulled him in, meeting the solid length of Sam's body with his own.
When the kiss was finished, they were both breathing like they'd been running. If Sam had had any doubts about whether he could still get hard for his brother, or vice versa, those had been put to rest, too; the feel of Dean against him, the heat of his mouth, had been more than enough to work him up, and the firm jut of Dean's erection against his made it tough to think.
Dean seemed to have no such problem. He unbuttoned Sam's shirt in record time, and he had hold of Sam's henley before Sam remembered. He flushed, catching Dean's hands and holding them still.
"Wait—"
"Wait? You gotta be kidding me."
Sam's cheeks burned hotter. His pulse skipped, sudden doubt gripping his heart. But there was no help for it; if he let Dean second-guess this, they might never get back to this moment.
He let go of Dean's wrists, and pulled his shirts off. Then he stood there, unable to meet Dean's eyes until Dean slowly reached out and closed his hand over the amulet, lifting it away from Sam's chest.
Sam risked a look at his face. Dean's expression made his stomach flip over. "I should have told you," he said.
"Where'd you get it?" Dean asked, his voice flat.
"Picked it up out of the trash?"
"Yeah, but—" Dean let go of the amulet and looked up at him, his face pale in the shadows. "You were wearing it? This whole time?" In Detroit? was what he meant, and Sam knew it.
Sam swallowed. His hand closed over the amulet, as if he could use it to ward off the embarrassment he felt. It was warm to the touch. "Yeah. I carried it around for a while, and then— I just thought—"
"Sammy." Dean's voice sounded thick. He met Sam's eyes, and Sam felt that look all the way down to his foundations. Dean hadn't looked at him like that in so long, Sam felt like he might lose it after all. "If you ditch me again—" Dean's voice broke. His eyes shone, but his face set in a look that was all deadly intent. He stepped in to Sam and laced his fingers in Sam's belt loops, holding on tight. "If you die on me, so help me God, I will haunt your ass to Heaven or Hell or Purgatory or wherever the fuck, and I will kick your ass so hard my boot prints will be tattooed on your forehead, you got that?" The whole time he was saying it, he was pushing Sam backwards, toward the bed.
"That doesn't even make sense," Sam told him. But his hands came up and he cradled Dean's face between them, the sharp angles of Dean's jaw rough against his palms. A bright, soaring feeling swooped through him, liquid and sweet, and he thought he might dissolve under Dean's hands as soon as Dean touched him.
"Shut up, it makes perfect sense. Now, give me back my necklace, bitch."
Sam did, eventually. But not before he made Dean persuade him with every method available to him, and no small measure of the love for Sam he still held in his generous heart.