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The drive to Bobby's house is a sweaty and somber one, each of them caught up in their thoughts. Dean can only guess at what Sam and John are thinking, and as for him, he can't even bring himself to remember what had happened the night before while sitting in the front seat next to his father.
They trudge into their hotel room, and the only words said are John's, when he wakes them in the morning and tells them it's time to go.
It's only a few hours, once they get to Bobby's, before John and Sam are at each other's throats. It starts when Sam takes the fan up to his room and turns it on full-blast, and John pokes his head in and says, "You need to turn that down. I'm not going to be able to sleep with that noise."
Sam's been sullen the whole ride, and even moreso since they got here a few hours ago, barely even acknowledging Bobby, who had given John a knowing, sympathetic look.
Sam had steadfastly refused to turn it down. "I like it like this. It helps me sleep."
"You're going to turn it down before you go to bed, boy," John had said, and Sam had closed the bedroom door in his face.
Sam comes down for dinner, at least, and he eats meat loaf and mashed potatoes in an angry silence, managing to even drink his milk in an obnoxious way.
After the meal, when Bobby's busy in the kitchen putting leftovers away, John tells them, "Bobby and I are leaving in the morning. We're going after the rugaru that took down Alan."
Sam frowns. "Why did you drive us all the way here, if you were just going to leave?"
"I wanted you closer," John says. Dean can see it already, the bullheadedness in John making his shoulders square up.
"Just because you wanted us close? That's... that's so selfish! Dean had a job! We had a house!"
"Yes, but I couldn't afford the rent," John says impatiently. Dean wishes John was humble enough to look at least a little sorry for not being able to provide for them; it would have calmed Sam down, maybe would have diffused this argument altogether.
"What about the air conditioners? Why could you afford that, and not the rent?" Sam asks, puffing up himself.
There's an pause, the air almost crackling with friction.
"Son, you know how I get some of the money. There's a difference between paying with a credit card and paying rent in cash." John's eyebrows are drawn down, high spots of red above his dark beard. Dean can't stand it when they're like this, every inflection of every word making it worse, neither of them willing to back down.
Sam's face is red, his fists shaking at his sides. "But we weren't there for the whole second month. We could have-"
Dean interrupts him. "Sammy," he says in a conciliatory tone, one that doesn't work at all.
Sam whirls toward him, his glare focused on Dean now, the hectic spots of red in his cheeks getting even brighter. "Of course you'd take his side," he says, then he turns and stomps to the stairs.
Once they hear the slam of the door from upstairs, John sighs and murmurs, "That boy, I swear."
Then he looks at Dean, eyes tired.
"Steve floated me the rent for the second month because I couldn't pay it. Tell that to Sam for me. Explain it to him," John says in a no-nonsense tone.
"Yes sir," Dean says.
John nods decisively, as if everything is sorted.
"Time for bed, son," he says, and Dean feels an uprising of his his own rebelliousness. He's eighteen, and being told it's his bedtime.
But he crushes it down. Their family doesn't need any more strife tonight. And... his mind always goes to this when John is leaving for a big hunt.
The thing is, if John doesn't make it back, Dean doesn't want his last memory of him to be them arguing. So, "Yes sir," he says. "Good night."
John nods to him, and Dean trudges up the stairs. He's more tired than he'd thought, he realizes, and arguing with John over it right before going to bed anyway would just have made him look like a spoiled child.
He gets to the bedroom he shares with Sam and hears the box fan blowing. He tries the doorknob; it's locked. He knocks, ready to sleep on the couch if Sammy won't let him in.
"Sam?" he says. He's just about ready to head back downstairs when he hears the rattle of the doorknob, and Sam's pulling it open, not looking at him. Dean walks in to see Sam lying down, his back turned to Dean, and he sighs. He crawls into bed.
After a few minutes Bobby taps on the door and opens it, pauses as if to test the air, then says, "Good night, boys."
"Good night," they says, then Bobby shuts the doors and they're left with nothing but the whoosh of the fan. Dean lies awake for an hour, wondering if he should say something so Sam, but ultimately just falling asleep.
Sam's calmer after John and Bobby leave, and he only has a hint of grumpiness when they sit down for breakfast.
This is how it usually goes. Sam's always had a hard time staying mad at Dean, especially when their dad's not around.
After a quiet lunch, Dean looks out the back door's window and watches Sam playing a subdued game of fetch with Bobby's dog. He thinks about Sam's little orange cat friend, thinks about the lake where they'd spent so many hours, and realizes he's been in a mood, too.
He climbs the stairs to their room and lies in bed, looking up at the water-stained ceiling. Now he has time to think, time to unbox his memories, to take himself to task for what he's done. For hours he lies there, furrowing his brow, frowning, turning over to rest his forehead on his crossed arms, rolling back over to stare at the ceiling again. He goes over every detail of two nights before when he'd been so drunk he'd taken advantage of Sammy, every single minute that he can remember, torturing himself mentally when he finds himself aroused by it.
It's not okay, what he did to Sam. Sam may have initiated it that last time, but he's just a kid, doesn't even really know what he's doing. It's Dean's fault.
His fault, his fault, his fault.
When Sam comes to get him for a canned-ravioli dinner, Sam asks, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Dean says, the bed creaking as he sits up.
But he thinks Sam knows full well what's wrong.
Two days later, and it's one of those muggy, overcast August days that seem to last forever. The tv is on the fritz, and Bobby's the only one with the knack for getting it back up. There's nothing that Dean wants to eat, and he's not supposed to touch Bobby's alcohol. Dean's been slumped on Bobby's ratty couch for almost an hour, staring at the ceiling and wondering if it's worth to spend some of the money he'd saved up, for gas to go into town, when he hears steps behind him.
"Deeeean," Sam says playfully, then Dean feels a squirt of cold water on the back of his head. He yelps and leaps up in time to see Sam run into the kitchen, water gun in hand.
Dean sprints up the stairs to find his bag open, the neon yellow butt of a water gun glaring bright in the dim room. He grabs it, and of course it's the yellow and orange one; of course Sammy got the cool blue and red one. He jogs down to the kitchen to fill it up, and he jumps when he hears the splat of water on the window over the sink.
Sammy's standing outside in Bobby's dirt yard, waving his water gun at Dean and grinning.
Dean curses his half-empty water gun, waits impatiently for it to fill up, then rushes outside.
Sam's nowhere to be seen. The piles of Bobby's junked cars are a dusty maze, and Dean approaches cautiously, sure Sam's going to hop out at any minute and squirt him.
He prowls the junkyard, water gun at the ready. He thinks he heard the scuff of shoes on hard-packed dirt, whirls but sees nothing. A few seconds later he hears Sam's laugh, maybe five yards away.
Sam's quiet, and he's quicker than Dean, his long legs made for sprinting. He's got the upper hand, and he manages to catch Dean and blast him with water a few times before Dean gets the jump on him. He gets off a few good squirts before Sam is out of reach, running for the cover of a pile of smashed Toyotas, his hair flying out behind him.
Dean stalks him, listening for any noise, watching for the yellow of Sam's t-shirt and the bright blue and red of his gun. He catches him once, running out from around a corner, and automatically brings his gun up to shoot, as if it were real. Dean pulls the plastic trigger, and the stream of water falls short of Sam by a good five feet.
Sam laughs uproarishly and turns, and he's gone in a flash.
Dean runs after him, his heavy boots scuffling over the dirt, and when he turns a corner, Sam's right there, and Dean gets a blast right in the face. It blinds him, and while he's wiping his eyes, Sam gets off several more shots, thoroughly soaking his hair and the front of his shirt.
Dean doesn't mind, too much. Of course, he's aggravated that Sammy got the drop on him, but he's sweating, and the cool water feels good trickling down out of his hair.
He's still determined to win, though. Putting extra care in his steps, he slinks through the junkyard now, his senses on high alert. He has the thought that John would actually approve of this playing-turned-training, and just then, he turns the corner to see Sam peering past a pile of cars, his back to Dean.
With a big lunge, Dean grabs the collar of Sam's shirt, rapidly pulling the trigger to spray Sam in the head. Sam whoops and squawks, turning to get his own, but his gun runs out of water after two weak spurts.
"Ha ha, gotcha!" Dean crows, and he liberally sprays Sam, who's all the while twisting and tugging at his collar to try to get away. He's laughing though, and it makes Dean laugh too, and when Dean's out of water he tackles Sam down to the dirt to tickle him and give him good-natured noogies.
"Think you can get me, Sammy? You can't get your big brother," he says, grabbing his gun again and squirting Sam one more time, weakly, in the face.
"I did, I got you good though," Sam grins, and the overcast sky brings out the gray-blue-green of the rings around his pupils, and his face is glowing and muddy, his too-long hair fluffed out in the dirt.
Dean stares at Sam's beloved face laughing, and thinks with despair that he's kind of in love with his kid brother.
The mood changes before Dean can register it. One minute Sam's laughing, and the next, there's weight and intent in his hazel eyes, and Sam's reaching up to wrap a hand around the back of Dean's neck.
Sam's leaning up to kiss him.
Dean freezes when he feels Sam's lips touch his. They're soft and shy, just pressing against his, and Sam's hand is sliding up into Dean's sweaty hair, and Sam's wrapping his other arm around Dean.
Sam takes Dean's bottom lip between his own, and Dean closes his eyes and sighs, and he kisses back. It's just for a moment, just long enough to marvel at the way Sam opens his lips for him, the feel of Sam's tongue lightly swiping against his own, all inexperienced and shy, but so perfect that way.
It feels so, so sweet to be kissing Sam. The soft bow of Sam's upper lip feels just as perfect as Dean had thought it would, and the way Sam clings to him makes Dean want to cling right back.
Sam's eyes are closed, his face the picture of contentment as he kisses Dean, and all of a sudden Dean is terrified.
He pulls back, pushing himself off of Sam's warm body.
"We can't do this," he says, his voice husky.
Hurt flashes over Sam's face. "Why not?" he asks.
"We just can't. I'm your big brother, you're only fourteen. We can't keep doing this stuff," Dean says, pushing himself off the ground to stand. He can still feel the tingle in his lips from kissing Sam, and he's full of self-loathing and regret - both that he'd kissed Sam, and that he'd stopped.
"It's okay, Dean, I like it. I want to do it," Sam says, sitting up. His hair's a mess and the mud is drying in streaks on his confused face, and Dean feels a deep tug of pained love for him.
"We can't, Sammy. I'm your big brother. I'm your big brother, godammit. I'm supposed to be protecting you from dudes who try to do this to you, not doing it myself. It's just - it's just wrong."
After a few seconds of silence, "Then why do you keep doing it?" Sam asks quietly.
"Sammy..." Dean says with a sigh. "I was drunk. Every time. I wouldn't have done it if I wasn't."
Sam frowns and tries another tack. "I'm fourteen. So? You were having sex when you were fourteen."
That gives Dean pause. Sure, he'd been having sex when he was fourteen. But not with guys four years older than him. With girls, who were three years older, at the most.
Thinking this, he feels like a hypocrite. But then, not with my older brother, he thinks, bitterly. He feels shame rush up and turn his face red.
"It's not the same, Sammy, and you know it."
"Why? Why not?" Sam demands.
Finally, the annoyance he's felt since the beginning of this conversation overtakes him. Why does Sam have to be so stubborn?
"It's just not, okay? We're brothers," he says harshly.
Sam stares at him, his face anguished as only a teenaged boy's could be in matters of the heart. "So you didn't want me?"
Dean can't answer right away. He had wanted, that was the problem. He wouldn't have done it if he weren't drunk, but that didn't mean he didn't want to, every time. However, it's easier, and cleaner, to just say, "No."
Tears well up in Sam's eyes, wetting his eyelashes.
"You don't want to kiss me, even though you did. You don't want to do other stuff, even though you did," Sam grits out.
"That's right," Dean says stonily.
Sam stares at him for a few beats, during which Dean's stomach is churning with anger, despair, disappointment that this had gone this way, but he can't think of how he could have fixed it any other way. But he needs a clean break. Sam needs a clean break, and if this is the only way for him to stop ruining Sam's life, this is the way it has to be.
"Fine," Sam says, and he storms away inside, his shoulders tight and shaking, his water gun lying abandoned in the dirt.
Dean rubs a hand over his face and goes to Bobby's study to sneak himself a glass of whiskey.