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Being back on the road with his brother is both familiar and novel at the same time. Like a new song by a favourite band. Dean’s still getting used to this independent, confident version of Sammy. Sam, he reminds himself: it’s Sam now.
He had forgotten – or maybe he just never let himself think about it – how much he really enjoyed their time together. Or maybe he just hadn’t realized how much he missed him. Either way, Dean was selfishly grateful circumstances turned out as they did.
When Sam plays a prank on him and flashes that gigawatt smile, Dean has to literally bite his tongue to keep from saying something unbelievably stupid. Like how much he loves to hear him laugh. How it makes his stomach do backflips and his heart race. Idiotic shit like that.
If he were to be honest with himself (and he isn’t), he might notice something else simmering there too. But he knows better than to give it much thought. Not when it’s easier to stick to bars and one-night stands he won’t spare another thought later. Okay, maybe one thought, when he seems to have caught a cold or something from the last person that had his tongue down their throat.
“You coming down with something?”, Sam asks after his latest coughing fit, glancing up from his laptop.
“No, it’s just a hobby I picked up: coughing for fun.” He wishes there was any bite to his words, but he’s barely even up for sarcasm. “Have no fear, I’m sure it’s the plague.”
“Plague has different symptoms”, Sam remarks as Dean heads for the bathroom. His eyes begin to tear as he heaves, finally spitting out a delicate blue petal, covered in blood. “What the serious fuck?” He’s pretty sure he’d remember inhaling a bouquet – and it feels like there’s one stuck in his lungs. As more flowers make their way painfully out, Dean makes a mental note to start researching lore.
***
Three days, and what feels like several pounds of plant material later, he’s no closer to figuring out the curse – it has to be a curse, he’s just not sure where he picked it up. Sam’s fussing around him, and it’s getting increasingly difficult to stash away the tissues full of wisteria flowers (knowing the species was just about completely useless).
“Dean!”, Sam’s eyes widen when he finally realises there’s something supernatural going on. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? We have to call Bobby –“ and he’s already on the phone, like Dean hasn’t been through every damn resource on flowers and curses and anything vaguely resembling those conformations of things.
Just to spite him, turns out Bobby does have a clue, not that it’s any good news. He wants to laugh, he does, because for someone who spent his life avoiding chick-flick moments, this is just pitifully sappy. Dying of unrequited love. Ridiculous.
Sam’s talking to him, asking something about Cassie’s number, and what the hell does that have to do with anything? Dean asks as much, and gets a frown in response. “Well, who else?”, he asks, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s okay with dying right now, because there is no way he’s admitting it aloud. Hell no. All nine circles of Hell no, and come to think of it, they’ll probably invent a new circle just for him.
Sam’s looking at him expectantly, puppy eyes to the max, all desperate to save another soul. Sam must be short for Samaritan. “I’m sure if she knew it was a matter of life and death –“, he starts, and Dean’s had it. “Damn it, I said it’s not her!”, he barks, and starts coughing again. Sam hands him tissues and stays by his side, hand rubbing absently at Dean’s shoulder.
Dean has a random urge to run his hand through his Sam’s hair but thinks better of it. He just has to sit here and wait. Then he can take his secret to the grave and not screw up the one good thing in his life.
“You know, it’s weird. I used to love these.”, Sam says, looking down at the small, bloody flower. “Remember that summer in Georgia?”
Dean did remember now. Dad had rented a half-decent house near the shore, with a garden full of wisteria. Sammy would sit there, reading for hours, refusing to do anything fun and normal. He smiles wistfully. It was just a year before Stanford, before everything changed. He looks up, resolved to break the weird moment with a cheap joke, when the look on Sam’s face silences him, the words crashing and burning, forgotten on his tongue.
“Oh.” Sam’s eyes are alight and aflame, flickering from one emotion to another, in contrast with the rest of his face that seems to be frozen in realisation.
Dean’s too exhausted to decipher his expression, and he can feel a faint panic rising, dampened only by how weak he generally feels. “Sammy…”, he starts, not even knowing what he’s going to say.
But then he doesn’t have to, because Sam close, then closer, until there’s no more space between them, his lips soft but insistent on Dean’s, and it feels like it was always like this, no borders separating them at all. He breaks apart for a second, only to whisper into the thin sliver of air between their lips, “Me too. Me too, you idiot.” And then he’s back, all intensity and want and bliss, as Dean feels him smiling into the kiss.