Archive of Our Own ^beta

Leisure wasn’t something Dean usually had in abundance. After all, monsters didn’t take any time off killing either. He was used to that. But taking a break for a change—he could get used to that too. Perhaps splitting firewood and fixing a draught on the back door wasn’t what other people would consider leisure, and perhaps Dean would start seeing those tasks as chores eventually too, but for now it was new and thrilling. It was part of having a home.

A cottage in the woods, just outside of a rural town where the most exciting event was the annual pie bake off around Thanksgiving. The town was full of normal people—apart from the werewolf they had dealt with two months ago. And apart from Sam.

(Sam, who was a witch. A big nerd. His little brother. His—perhaps something else too, but they didn’t look at that too closely.)

Dean still needed to get rid of the snow on the porch, but so far this day had been productive for both of them and the exhaustion was making itself known in his muscles, not too dissimilar to the exhaustion he got from a lengthy hunt. He was looking forward to curling up on the couch when he was done. At least shovelling snow shouldn’t be more strenuous than grave desecration.

He grabbed the shovel from the shed-slash-garage, gave his Baby a pat, and trudged back through the crunching fresh snow. The front porch was buried in fleece-like white, flawless aside from a few stray bird tracks, a tell-tale sign the ravens had come knocking.

He shoveled the snow with straining arms, while the sharp wind bit his cheeks and creeped underneath his coat. Once the wood beneath was revealed, he popped his back and stretched, ready to go inside, but caught the sight of a frozen spider web hanging under the roof ledge. A last little task.

He couldn’t reach it with his hand by only so much, so he swatted at it with the shovel stem. That removed most of it. A bit more, and he almost had it when the shovel knocked against the roof ledge and jolted a blanket of snow that came sliding down into Dean’s face, his coat, his boots.

“Fuck me.”

He shivered and hurried to scoop away the snow that got under his collar, and wiped it from his numb face with chattering teeth. That was it, he was done for the day.

Leaving the shovel against the railing, he stomped a few times to shake the snow off his boots, and went inside. The warmth of the air made his face tingle and burn, and he shuddered again as he took off his coat and boots.

The sound of crackling fire and Sam leafing through a book came from the living room, but Dean flew first into the bedroom to change his wet shirt for a dry one. When he finally joined him on the couch, the soft plum-colored blanket immediately came from the backrest and onto Dean’s lap. He put his feet under Sam’s thigh, which his toes appreciated greatly, and Sam didn’t even flinch. Slowly, the feeling in his fingers was returning too. He should have taken the gloves Sam had offered. And the hat.

“Gotta fix up the shed, if Baby’s gonna stay here,” said Dean instead of sharing his revelation.

Sam was engrossed in his book and only glanced at him, crinkling his nose like he did so often when Dean referred to the Impala as Baby. “Not today, I’m not letting you go out again unless you want frostbite.”

Nothing would compel Dean to go outside anymore. Maybe sometime this week though, there was still so much to be done—so much where Sam never bothered with some fixing up—and they still hadn’t put up any decorations. Sam had only haphazardly slung fairy lights over the bookshelves. The candles on every surface didn’t count, those were a fixture in this house.

Dean tried to smell the air but found his nose was closed. “What are we having for dinner?”

“There’s roast beef in the oven. Needs thirty more minutes.”

His stomach rumbled. “Alright.” Dean leaned forward and stole Sam’s cup from him, took a sip. The cup was empty. “God, today sucks.” His head felt a bit woozy too.

Finally, Sam closed the book. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I don’t know,” said Dean. He hadn’t meant to say it like that. He didn’t want to complain about getting snow in his face or a stuffy nose or little inconveniences when every day felt like the best day of his life. He loved hunting, but damn did it feel good when his biggest problem was not being able to smell the dinner Sam cooked rather than a sprained ankle and a bullet wound.

The last thing he minded was pitching in with the chores and fixing little problems. The house made him feel safe. He could feel being included in its protective magic, and there was no need for looking over his shoulder, or sleeping with a gun under the pillow, or laying salt lines by the doors and windows. He had never been sleeping better.

“Did you catch a cold from someone?” asked Sam, and reached out to test Dean’s temperature. Dean leaned away, Sam was undeterred.

“No, I didn’t. I’m just tired.”

“You are getting sick.”

“You can’t tell that, shaddup,” said Dean, and pushed the empty cup to Sam. He grabbed for the remote, turning on the TV and ending the conversation. After a long time staring at him, Sam stood and went to the kitchen.

Sam didn’t have a TV until about a week ago. Which should be a crime, but was not apparently. He channel-surfed for a bit and settled on one of the million A Christmas Carol movies, because everywhere else was on commercials. It was way too early for Christmas movie reruns, but he still had to catch Die Hard this year.

“Here you go,” said Sam when he came back and passed him a steaming cup of yellow tea. It was green tea, actually, but why the hell it was called that when the liquid in his mug was yellow, Dean didn’t know.

“Thanks,” he said, heating both his hands on the mug because it was too hot to drink yet.

Sam picked up his book again, a heavy tome, so it had to be something witchy.

“Whatcha reading there?” asked Dean.

“I’m reading up on offensive magic, figured that would be useful. I don’t want another incident like we had with the Wendigo.”

“Don’t worry, Wendigos aren’t that common,” said Dean. “But yeah, definitely do. Why don’t you know any curses already anyway? I thought witches loved that stuff.”

Sam threw him a look that Dean had already dubbed his bitch-face. “It’s not exactly something I have to do in my day to day. I have wards, I don’t need to know how to conjure up maggots for you to gag on.”

Dean grimaced. “But you could?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Disgusting.”

“Oh, please.”

“I did think you would be more useful on those hunts though…” A lie, of course, Sam had been plenty useful. With the slight hitch that he didn’t know how to use any kind of gun.

Sam gave him another one of those faces. Dean grinned, he loved riling him up.

“I have my potions, I have hex bags, I put a lot of energy into my garden. Half the stuff wouldn’t even grow here if I didn’t make it—”

“Ha! Knew it.” Leave it to Sam to use his access to magic for making plants grow out of season and climate. Dean couldn’t help his smile.

“And other than that I do everything else that comes up in a ritual. I don’t have many offensive things on speed dial.” Sam raised the book momentarily. Very soon that would change, went unspoken, and Dean looked forward to seeing what he could do. He gave him a pat on the shoulder, hand lingering a second too long.

“Whatever. You’re still learning how to fire a gun,” he said, and pulled his handgun from his waistband and placed it on the coffee table. He still took that everywhere he went, especially when going outside.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said with a small smirk.

Dean hummed, happy enough with that response.

⁂

As Sam had predicted, Dean got sick. The next morning he got chased out of bed by a runny nose. At first, he sniffed a few times, not even realizing, but it persisted.

He squirmed out of Sam’s grip around his waist and heaved himself up. His head felt thick and there was pressure in his ears, but that wasn’t the priority. Snot was running out of his nose. It was almost touching his lips.

Where did Sam keep the tissues? There were none on the bedside tables, none in his drawer, none in the drawer on Sam’s side. He sprang to the wardrobe—his clothes, Sam’s clothes, two empty shoe boxes, an extra blanket. He couldn’t see the top shelf, so he ran his hand across it and came up with a lot of lint and dust.

“Dean?” Sam asked behind him. “What are you doing?”

Dean let out a closed mouthed scream. His lips were pressed together, the snot was in the line between them.

He yanked out a shirt and blew his nose into that.

“Fuck, Dean.”

He turned around, watched as Sam got up, went to his desk and retrieved a tissue box from the drawer.

“Why’s that in there?”

“Why’d you have to blow your nose into my shirt?”

“I was panicking, okay?” Fuck, he needed to sit down.

“Back to bed,” said Sam.

Dean didn’t argue and slipped under the still warm covers, leaning against the headboard.

Sam brought him the tissues and the bin he kept by the desk. Dean held out the shirt and Sam curled his lips in disgust but took it. Dean couldn’t help a smirk. “I think I’m sick.”

Sam rolled his eyes and put his other hand on Dean’s forehead. Dean allowed it. “You have a light fever.”

At least Sam didn’t have an I-told-you-so attitude about him. He looked at Dean like he hadn’t expected to wake up to anything less.

“And I have a runny nose,” Dean added, because really, that was more annoying and demanded a fix first.

“Didn’t notice that one,” said Sam, but added with more concern in his voice, “does your throat hurt?”

“Not really. Maybe a bit sore.”

“Alright, stay in bed. I'll bring you a few things.”

Sam left, and Dean didn’t stay in bed. He went to the toilet, got chills from the cold tiles, and was back building a Dean burrito with the blanket way before Sam came tapping up the stairs carrying a tray. Dean shivered even under the blanket and was delighted to see a hot water bottle clamped under Sam’s arm.

“Breakfast in bed? You’re amazing,” said Dean.

Sam chuckled. “Don’t get used to it.”

Dean took the hot water bottle and Sam put the tray on the bedside table. He'd made omelet with tomatoes and sausage, and by the looks of it had sneaked in some spinach too. Sam had also brought him an orange and the whole tea kettle, steaming from the spout, and was now pouring some tea into Dean’s designated mug—sleek black like Baby. “If you don’t have an appetite for the omelet, at least eat the orange. And drink.”

Dean pursed his lips. “Can’t you fix this?”

“I am fixing it?”

“Can’t you fix it your way? With a spell?”

“You’ll feel much better tomorrow.”

Dean groaned. “Medicine could do that.”

Sam had the audacity to laugh. “There’s no cure for the common cold, Dean.”

“Sa-am, you could heal my wounds in a day, but you can’t heal a cold in a minute?”

“You should have finished the tea I gave you yesterday instead of switching to beer,” said Sam, and then, milder, “I’m sorry I can’t snap my fingers and heal you. I’m not a crossroad demon.”

“Would have to pay for that with a kiss,” Dean mumbled. And regretted it immediately when Sam’s face twitched. Blood rushed in Dean’s ears. He could blame that on the cold.

His soul Sam already had, but he bit his tongue before that could slip out too.

“Better not, don’t want me getting sick too,” said Sam eventually, tone strained like he had tried to make it a joke.

Dean took the tea and shut his mouth. The herbal-sweet water scorched his mouth but that was deserved. “Hey, wait a minute. This doesn’t taste like the good stuff.”

“The good stuff?”

“The one you said had restorative powers.”

“Oh,” made Sam. “Well, I can do that to every kind of tea. It doesn’t even have to be tea.”

“I liked the red one you gave me that first day best. The one with the million ingredients.”

Sam flashed his dimples and Dean’s heart lightened. “Me too.”

With the air between them more comfortable again, Dean relocated the kettle off the tray and onto the bedside table and put the tray in his lap. Sam was hovering.

“What? You gonna feed me?”

“No, sorry—Never mind.” He left the room, and Dean wished he had stayed.

Dean ate breakfast, and cursed his mouth for always saying the wrong things. He finished the cup of tea, didn’t immediately feel any better, and started peeling the orange and gave up on that. Then, he blew his nose and tried to go back to sleep.

An hour and no sleep later, his nose still wasn’t giving him any reprieve. When he called Sam back up and complained, Sam gave him to his surprise nasal spray, which made breathing a whole lot easier, even though his nose was still running and his brain felt like cotton.

Mercifully, Sam placed a hand on Dean’s head and a warmth swapped over him. He fell asleep within seconds.

⁂

It was strange. Being cared for like that.

The last time he had been sick (with a flu or cold, not the took-a-bullet-to-the-leg kind of sick), Dad had pulled him out of school, gave him some medicine, and cooked him his Cure-All Kitchen Sink Stew, which tasted better than it sounded. But he hadn’t fussed over Dean like this, hadn’t tucked him in or read to him when he got bored or made sure he never ran out of homemade tea and dried fruits from the summer.

Around early afternoon Dean relocated to the couch. While it was nice having Sam read Faust to him, their tastes in books couldn’t be considered anywhere close. He was propped against the couch arm, in one of Sam’s hoodies and covered not only by the living room’s blanket, but also by Sam, who was arguably the real reason he was warm.

Sam was snacking on walnuts, his head resting on Dean’s stomach and feet hanging off the side. Dean combed slowly through his hair, silky strands gliding through his fingers, as they watched cartoons, where Mickey and Minnie skated arm in arm over a frozen river.

“Do you think we would have done this as kids, had we—” Sam stopped himself. Dean’s fingers stopped too, freezing in motion. Sam was carefully still on him.

“I don’t know,” said Dean after an awkward pause. He cleared his throat. “I’m the big brother, I should be taking care of you.”

It was hard to imagine, a world in which he had a little brother growing up. Sam was four years younger than him, when would Dad have taken up leaving them alone? Would Dean have been the one to care for Sam, make him dinner, tie his shoes, help him with his homework? Would his heart ache so fiercely thinking about Sam had he known him all his life?

It was a line they’ve been dancing around—a line they’ve been trying to find between them—since they left to find Dad. Trying to fit the idea of brother with what they tentatively had tried to establish before. If they had grown up together, would there still be this thing between them? Would they be lying at night, holding each other?

“Not when you’re sick,” muttered Sam, and Dean took a few seconds to fit that into context, having momentarily forgotten the conversation.

Dean continued stroking Sam’s hair.

The colors and squeaky voice of Mickey Mouse filtered back in and his thoughts got swept aside.

The silence wasn’t so awkward this time, having brushed against the elephant already.

“We wanted to decorate the tree this evening,” Dean said a few minutes later during commercials.

“We’ll do that tomorrow,” answered Sam quietly.

⁂

Some time later—Dean might have slipped into sleep for a while—Sam peeled the orange for him and Dean ate it obediently. Sam placed the orange peels on the windowsill instead of throwing them away. Dean didn’t ask.

After a lunch of winter vegetable broth, Sam brewed more tea for them and disappeared into his witch room. The couch got too uncomfortable by Dean’s prolonged stay on it (that Sam wasn’t keeping him company anymore had nothing to do with it) so eventually he went back to bed, and took a nap there.

The day went by in a haze, and Dean couldn't guess how long he’d slept when he woke up later. He glanced out the window to judge the time of day, and squinted against the sun on the stark white of the endless frosty treetops stretching into the horizon. They should really get a clock for the bedroom. And where was his phone anyway?

Brief trip to the toilet and back to sleep.

A harsh, blaring noise thrummed against his brain and woke him. Something like a guitar. Then drums.

It wasn't until the singing started that he realized his phone was ringing. He opened his bleary eyes and took a few too long moments to locate the phone under the bed.

"Hello?" he slurred.

"Dean?" That was Dad. He should have looked at the Caller ID.

“Yeah, sorry, you woke me up.” Dean sat up.

“What are you doing sleeping in the middle of the afternoon?”

“Never mind that. What’s up?” Dean asked, grabbing for the tissues.

“I’m just letting you know I’ll be hopping in soon.”

A beat to process. “Wait. You’re going to come here?” Dean cleaned his nose quietly.

“Yes. I’m in the area.”

“Oh, okay. Are you—Do you—”

“Everything’s fine,” Dad interrupted. “Just think we should talk. Sam cool down yet?”

Something protective swelled in him. “Yes, he’s good. Did you?”

“Wouldn’t be coming if I hadn’t. Don’t worry.”

“Alright…”

They hung up without having said goodbye.

“Shit.”

He was about to call for Sam, when he heard voices that weren’t Sam’s. He crept downstairs slowly, and spotted Sam in the hallway talking to two women he hadn’t seen before. The older gray-haired woman could be the mother of the one in her early thirties, given the similarities in their faces.

“Hi,” Dean said, hands disappearing into the hoodie pockets.

“Dean,” said Sam, “This is Mildred’s wife Esther and their daughter Elena. I’ve pointed them out to you at the pie festival, you remember?”

Dean didn’t, there had been too many pies to focus on. “Ah, yeah. Sure.”

Esther carried one of Sam’s big mason jars that he kept herbs and teas in. “Sam was so kind to give us some more of his lovely blends,” she said, chipper and with animated eyes. “We’re out so quickly now that the grandkids have started drinking his lovely tea too.”

Elena fiddled with a dainty necklace and giggled. “Only with heaps of sugar.”

“Lovely,” repeated Dean, and threw Sam a look. “D—John called. Wants to visit. Can we talk?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Esther started up again before Sam could react. “We’re already going, it was just a quick visit. You seem a bit sickly, dear, are you alright?”

“Fine,” Dean bit out and forced a smile.

“Well, anyway, thank you so much, Sam. You’re a treasure.”

Sam beamed widely at her. Esther clamped the jar under her arm to pat his hand with both of hers. Then Elena came forward and gave him a hug, and Dean’s smile fell when she kissed his cheek.

“Thanks for the charm,” she said. Dean struggled not to wrestle them out already.

“You’re welcome. Take care,” Sam said before he lead them out and closed the door behind them.

“What was that?” asked Dean. There was a weird burn in his stomach. He frowned at Sam like it was his fault.

“What was what?”

“That Elena chick. She like you or something?”

“No, Dean.” Sam’s smile was too fond for what he said. “She has a husband. Esther and Elena are just handsy like that.”

“Well, she needs to keep her hands to herself.”

Sam’s smile widened. “Are you jealous?”

Dean glared at him, and went past him to the kitchen. “No. She just seemed very charmed by you, is all.”

He opened the fridge and took out a beer. Sam closed in, took the bottle from him, and put it back in the fridge.

“Hey.”

Sam backed him against the counter. His hand slipped up and curled around Dean’s amulet, pressing it against his chest. “They’re good friends of mine. Her necklace was a simple, harmless enchantment for easing anxiety. It’s nothing in comparison to this.” He tugged lightly. Dean swallowed hard and stared into Sam’s bright eyes, not blinking. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Dean croaked out.

Sam stepped back and leaned against the counters, leaving Dean cold all over again. “Now, what did John say?”

Dean shifted on the spot. “He said he’s coming to visit.”

Sam’s eyebrows jumped. He crossed his arms. “When?”

“Eh,” Dean said smartly. “Soon-ish.”

“Okay.”

“He will come around, you know?” said Dean. “I have, after all. And back then I didn’t even know you were my brother.”

“Saved your life though. He only saw me marching up, coming back into his life without his say so and demanding a story.”

“He’s—He’s just—”

“Don’t start.” Sam turned away with the pretense of heating the tea kettle. That was his go-to when he was stressed or couldn’t sleep or wanted to relax, or like now, when he was nervous. Dean put a palm between his shoulder blades, the urge to comfort Sam winning out over trying to avoid the fickle air between them.

“He was happy to see you,” he said as Sam prepared two cups.

“For like a hot minute,” Sam muttered, barely rising over the loud sound of the kettle heating the water. With nothing left to prepare, he couldn’t keep his hands busy anymore and turned to grab Dean’s amulet again. Dean’s throat grew thick. With Dean’s arm still around Sam, they stood in a kind of half-hug—not embracing each other, only touching cautiously and selectively.

They shared air for one breath, then two, then three, and then their foreheads knocked together. Sam fidgeted with the pendant. “I—I don’t even know why he makes me so mad. I went through life perfectly happy not knowing who my birth parents were, and then—And then you came and I found out about him and when I met him he just…”

Dean stroked down his back. Sam raised his eyes for their gazes to meet and his pupil's dilated. Dean’s breath hitched—that was the first time he had noticed his pupils doing that. He wanted Sam to look away and back, just so he could see it again.

Sam continued. “I don’t know. I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything, since he gave me anyway to begin with—And don’t get me wrong, I understand why he did it. And I love my parents. But—Shit, he could have at least waited until the second meeting to accuse me of evil witchcraft.”

“You did bring up the blood ritual pretty early on though.” Dean smiled humorlessly. And sniffed because his nose had the worst timing and was running again. They probably shouldn’t have their faces this close, given that Dean was still sick.

“Shut up,” Sam said, but there was a smile in his voice.

“And he didn’t seem like he wanted to be found,” said Dean. “He just needs to come to terms with the way you met, you know…”

“Yeah,” Sam said in a breath, Dean had a feeling Sam wasn’t much with him in this conversation anymore. A hand came up to cradle his nape, and Dean’s eyes fell shut. He sighed deeply. Their noses brushed together.

And then the rumbling of the kettle stopped. Sam drew back.

Dean’s shoulders slumped and he watched Sam make tea for them. His bare toes were freezing. His arms hung uselessly by his side.

It didn’t feel like there was ever a right time. And simultaneously there was never a time where Dean didn’t want to. It was too slow and too fast and inevitable and so fucked up. There were consequences and Dean feared they both didn’t care.

They would never be like other people, like other couples, like other brothers. They could never be honest to their neighbors and the people of the town, the people Sam called friends. It would be an either-or. To them, either brothers or lovers, either call John Dad or Dean’s Dad in front of people. He was John to Sam, but Dean already omitted the ‘my’ in his thoughts and he was bound to slip up. His little brother. His family. The guy he moved in with after less than two months of knowing.

Dean lowered his head and accepted the cup Sam gave him.

“Tell me about John,” said Sam when they were both in bed and the cover of the night made it easier to talk.

“What do you want to know?” asked Dean.

They weren’t touching. Dean was lying half an arm’s length away from him, but once they woke up in the morning there would be at least some kind of contact—arms slung around each other, a head on the other’s chest, legs interlaced. Now, though, there was only the painful awareness of the space between them.

“You said he took you hunting for animals too, what was it like?” asked Sam and shifted onto his side.

The curtains were drawn and the luminousness of the full moon through the small gap only aided the sight so much; all Sam could make out were the hints of Dean’s silhouette, his profile—there was a tiny bump on his nose, and then there wasn’t as Dean turned to face him.

“Pretty fun, mostly.” He was speaking hushed. “We’d make a weekend out of it. Sometimes Bobby would come too, sometimes it was just Bobby and me. But when it was me and Dad we’d focus on one animal at a time, and he’d teach me.”

“How old were you the first time?”

“I don’t remember, pretty much as soon as I knew how to use a firearm. Eight maybe?”

“Dean,” whispered Sam.

Sam yearned to reach out to Dean. He moved his hand gently over the mattress, stilled when Dean offered up more, “He’d show me how to read tracks, and how to tell the time with the sun, and how to survive in the wild. And over the years I had pretty much learned how to hunt anything. Big animals like deer, and how to get smaller ones like squirrels. Setting traps and fishing too, of course.”

Sam smiled lightly into the darkness. “Was it fun?”

“For the most part, yeah. Sleeping on the floor not so much. Did… Did your dad do stuff like that with you?”

“No, he isn’t much of an outdoorsy type. Tell me more about John. Did he leave you alone a lot?”

The covers moved with Dean's shrug. “I suppose days or weeks at a time can be considered a lot. But he didn’t do that until I was old enough. He tried to leave me with people he knew, but often he would just rent a cabin or pay for a few weeks at a motel.”

Sam didn’t want to know what Dean considered ‘old enough‘.

“Sounds lonely.”

Having someone else in bed with him should be the opposite of loneliness. Even like this, even when they weren’t touching, even when they would wake up tangled together. It would feel guilty either way, with or without the space, because the space wasn’t the issue.

Sam longed for him so intensely his chest hurt.

Dean exhaled in a shudder. “Could be sometimes,” he confessed.

It was an ache greater than the pang of shame for still wanting it.

For a change, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

⁂

Sam had been up and busy for hours already, having been plagued by nightmares again. They left him hot and unable to fall back to sleep, and were becoming more and more frequent.

Dean was sleeping in. He was doing much better, but had demanded breakfast in bed for his ‘head still hurts a little bit, Sammy, come on, please’. Sam had indulged him. It had been more of a late brunch, and Sam had joined him and foregone lunch for it.

He was building general use hex bags when someone pounded on the front door.

Sam called for Dean, and didn’t get a response except for the shower turning off. Sam went to open the door.

“Hey,” he said tonelessly.

“Hey,” said John Winchester, and he sounded like Sam.

They stared at each other for a few long seconds, until Sam stepped aside. “Well, come in, I guess. Shoes off.”

John obeyed, and Sam watched, not knowing what to do with his limbs. He released a breath when Dean finally came down the steps. Barefoot, in sweatpants, and sporting Sam’s hoodie that was a tad too big on him. His hair was still wet and he looked soft like this, nothing like he did on a hunt. Nothing like John.

“You sure got cozy here, Dean,” said John in a strained tone.

Dean glanced down on himself and raked a hand through his hair. He shrugged. “Why don’t we go to the living room? I’ll go ahead and make us coffee.” And slipped off into the kitchen, leaving them alone again.

“Thanks,” Sam called after him sarcastically.

John considered him with a pained stare and Sam could only imagine what his own face looked like. He shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for what John would say.

John raised his hand, and it took everything in Sam not to flinch when he clapped his face—not a slap, but holding Sam’s face for a quick moment, his palm rough like Dean’s. He drew back without a word, and followed Dean into the kitchen, ignoring his obvious attempt to leave the two of them alone to talk.

Sam wavered in the hallway, unsure where to go, and then caved in and slipped away into the living room alone. He considered cleaning up a bit. The crystals, herbs, and small animal bones on the table really identified him as a magic user, but he hadn’t bothered hiding anything away for Dean, and he wouldn’t do the same for their dad, so he left the books and half-assembled hex bags. Those mice bones were fragile, shouldn’t be moved too much anyway.

Dean and John came in with two coffees and for Sam a red tea, rooibos by the woody aroma of it. Sam went to sit on the armchair, leaving the couch for John and Dean.

Sam wasn’t eager to start the conversation, but Dean was happy to fill the quiet by asking John what he’d been up to. John was vague as anything, but he did make an effort of being civil—not saying anything about Sam’s house or Sam went a long way—but it didn’t take a psychic to tell John was dancing around the topic that made him visit.

John didn’t ask about Dean and Dean didn’t offer information, anything he could have said would have included Sam and they all seemed happy not to touch on that. Still, John was careful not to exclude Sam, but Sam barely contributed in more than one or two words at a time. The tenseness between them was swapping over Dean, who was sitting in the middle, trying every now and then to lighten the mood with a joke or comment, but it was no help.

After another taut silence, when Dean was already opening his mouth to say something trivial, Sam interrupted, “Not to be rude, but please, John, cut to the chase. Why are you here?”

John didn’t bother playing insulted, and asked deadpan, “Is it so hard to believe I might want to build a relationship with you?”

“No,” Sam admitted. “But not by snowing in randomly, into the very house you sneered at Dean for wanting to voluntarily go back to.”

Dean bit his lip.

John sighed. “Fine, you got me. And I’m not gonna lie, I’m still not exactly happy about—” He gestured around, vaguely encompassing Sam and the room. “But I hate how we left things. I have to tell you boys something.”

That was too easy. Sam kept from frowning.

John took a deep breath and stared into his cup. “It was a demon. Who killed—” His voice broke and Sam knew in his bones he wasn’t lying. He just couldn’t put his finger on why he seemed off. Opening up like that after what happened in Jericho?

Dean looked up, expression vulnerable in a way that mirrored John’s. His next words were aimed at Dean. “Who killed your mother. Put her on the ceiling and set her aflame like that.”

“What?” said Sam. Put her on the ceiling? Set her aflame? He wanted him to elaborate but the thought alone sent a sharp stab through his chest.

Dreams of his parents burning—his adoptive parents, the ones he actually saw as his parents—on the ceiling of their house in Pennsylvania, their bedroom. It’s been haunting him for days. He had thought they were stress dreams. From entering a hunter’s life, from all the new discoveries. He knew Mary had died in a fire, but—

Now a very different kind of dread spread through him, made him almost nauseous.

“I figured that out a while ago,” continued John. “I can’t tell you much more, but I’m on it’s tail. I first gotta find something that can kill it of course—”

“Nothing can kill demons. You can only banish them,” said Dean, unsure.

“I think there might be something.”

“We can help you.”

“No, no. Dean, it’s too dangerous.”

“When you have no backup, yeah!”

“Dean, I just want to protect you.” Sam watched their conversation like he wasn’t part of it. In a way he wasn’t, but then John’s eyes snapped to Sam, and his adam’s apple bobbed. “Both of you,” John said, and Sam didn’t know what to think.

“Why didn’t you say you knew what it was when we found you?” Sam asked.

“You weren’t supposed to find me in the first place!” John snapped. He turned to Dean and said, softer, “I knew you would have wanted to come so I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Dad.” Dean was visibly agitated, couldn’t sit still, turning to face John fully and away from Sam. “This is our hunt as much as it is yours.”

John laughed dryly. “Our? Sam doesn’t even know how to hunt.”

“He can help in other regards, can’t you?” Dean snapped his head at him, eyes fierce, wanting Sam to agree, wanting Sam to be part of it.

Sam gave a stiff nod, eying John.

“Maybe later, when I have a concrete lead,” said John vaguely. Sam didn’t miss the way that contradicted how he said he was on its tail already.

“And we can teach him,” continued Dean like John hadn’t said anything. “We did two hunts after we split in Jericho—”

“The one in Blackwater Ridge I told you about?”

“Yes, after that we drove up to Wisconsin and dealt with an angry ghost. Sam’s incredibly book smart already, he just needs to learn how to use weapons and recognize hunts.”

“Dean, I don’t think it’s a great idea for us to team up on this.”

“Then I will teach him. He already knows a bunch of lore, probably more than us, honestly. He was the one who recognized the signs of a Wendigo in Blackwater Ridge. I didn’t even consider that, you said they typically don’t show up out of Minnesota.” It was a slight jab at John, in a way Sam hadn’t seen him talk to their dad yet.

John though didn’t seem to take it personally. “Okay,” he said, and looked at Dean like…

Like he wanted to keep Dean’s allegiance.

Abruptly, Sam realized. He didn’t tell them because he thought they deserved to know, or because he wanted their help, or even just to build something between them. He told them to keep Dean tied to him. To not lose him to Sam.

It made Sam feel guilty for keeping Dean with him and that wasn’t deserved at all.

“He can also—” Dean started, broke up, and tried again, looking John straight in the eye. “Sam can heal some of the monsters.”

John feigned nonchalance but Sam saw his surprise. “Heal? Who can be healed?”

“Werewolves, for one.”

John laughed, almost heartily, there was the edge of bitterness to it like he’d already resigned himself to having been outdone. “Bullshit.”

Dean started Sam. “What else?”

Sam shrugged and flipped through his mental bestiary. “Vampires. Skinwalkers. Rugarus. Arachnes. Probably anything that was born human.” He didn’t actually have ways to heal monsters other than werewolves. But he was confident enough he could figure something out.

“If it wasn’t for Sam I’d be a werewolf now, Dad.”

John shook his head, set his jaw. “What did you do?”

Dean licked his lips nervously, suddenly sheepish. “Fucker got the better of me.”

“Goddammit, Dean.” There was real pain in his voice, real anger in his eyes that didn’t stem from disappointment but from worry.

Again, Sam felt like an outsider. John said he wanted to build a relationship with Sam—and maybe he did, to some extent—but he was here for Dean. Not Sam.

It was a twisted way to repair what he’d cut when he and Dean had split for jobs. Abandoning his child to hunt, like he had done with Sam, only this time he regretted it. Sam watched them bicker, and wondered why John had decided he and Dean should hunt separately in the first place. Dean had said they’ve been mostly hunting alone for a few years already, but he had never mentioned why.

Maybe John had that demon lead for longer than he admitted.

It made Sam wonder what else he knew. The need to find out was pulling at him, but fear, just as strong, was holding him back.

Put on the ceiling and set aflame.

“Alright, alright,” said John eventually, snapping Sam out of his thoughts. “I’m not saying anything else about you hunting with Sam—just, be sure you teach him before you both die from some avoidable mistake. Don’t go dragging him to any more ghost hunts before he can fire a shotgun.”

Dean grinned. “Yeah, okay.”

“And maybe keep your gun on your person, huh?” said John in a low voice and the mood shifted.

Dean’s glance fell to his handgun. His ears went red and he grabbed the gun to put it in his waistband, brushing a turquoise off the table in his haste, and he hurried to pick it up, placing it back with averted eyes. A hunter’s gun next to a witch’s arsenal. John had meant it as a warning against Sam, but Sam knew Dean didn’t take it that way, wasn’t rattled. Not much this gun could do to Sam anyway, that kind of bullet stopping had been one of the first things his aunt had taught him, ever so vigilant for hunters.

John’s mouth twitched in distaste. He would think Sam could kill someone with the contents on the table. He didn’t know turquoise was for protection and safety.

Sam looked down where he was still holding his mug, and realized he hadn’t taken a single sip. The tea was already lukewarm.

“Dean, you remember Jerry Panowski?”

“We helped him with that poltergeist a couple years ago, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. He left me a message saying something about a plane crash. Thinks there might be more to it.”

Dean frowned. “What do you think that might be?”

A distraction.

“Honestly, I don’t know. But I don’t have the time to go to Pennsylvania, I have other business right now, so I was wondering if you could check it out.”

“Yeah, sure. What do you think?” he asked Sam.

His parents lived in Pennsylvania. Sam forced a smile. “Sure, let’s go.”

“Well, that’s all then,” said John, and made to stand, but Dean put a hand on his arm.

“Hey, wait. You wanna stay for dinner?”

“I don’t know, Dean.” John’s gaze was on Sam.

Dean’s face switched to an angry grimace. “Oh, come on. He’s not going to fucking poison you.”

John raised his hands and yielded. “Jesus, fine. I’ll stay.”

⁂

Sam and Dean left John in the living room, and went to the kitchen together. The tea had done its magic, but Dean was still slightly off, and now that John wasn’t watching he slumped a bit more, less keen to extort himself. So Sam had him sit him at the table and gave him potatoes to peel and cut, and made another tea for him, Dean’s appointed favorite.

While Dean was busy peeling, Sam set the oven to preheat and started preparing the green beans.

“Maybe we should have picked a quicker meal to cook,” commented Dean.

Sam smirked, John being alone out there was his last worry right now. “He can wait half an hour. Or come help if he wants. Not like he will get bored.”

“Yeah, he’s exploring right now, no doubt.”

“Oh, like you didn’t do the same.”

Dean laughed. Then he lowered his voice and said, “Do you think he’ll find your secret witch room?”

“It’s not secret,” said Sam and didn’t bother whispering. “And I wouldn’t care if he did. But I did leave the book on offensive magic on the other table.”

Sam glanced behind himself and found Dean shaking his head with a smirk, concentrated on chopping. “You’re impossible,” Dean said.

Sam seared the pork chops—luckily he had put enough in the brine for three people—and couldn’t help replaying their chat in his head. “Hey, Dean? Why did you and John split up?”

“We cover more ground this way. It’s not like I’m sixteen, I can hunt on my own,” he said. Sam turned and Dean put on a fake cheer. He was bitter about it.

“Hm,” made Sam. He tossed the pork chops into the oven, the heat hitting him in the face, conjuring up images of fire in his mind.

“Holy shit,” said Dean.

His heart skipped on the possibility that Dean somehow knew. It was irrational, and Sam closed his eyes for a second, raised himself, before facing Dean.

He wasn’t paying attention to him at all, instead watching the snow.

The darkness came rapidly in December, and the kitchen was already gently reflected in the window. But it was light enough to see outside, where heavy snowflakes were falling in a wild whirl, and the wind whistled against the glass. Not quite a storm, though John would certainly need to scrape ice off his truck.

“Son of a bitch. I just shoveled everything from the porch yesterday.”

Sam laughed, shoulders momentarily slumping. Dean’s reflection lost his exasperation at once, became fond, and Dean turned to take him in. Sam caught off guard, raised an eyebrow in question, and Dean just smiled.

“You two are all I’ve got,” Dean said out of nowhere, though maybe not to him, and Sam couldn’t break their eye contact. “I want you to like each other, you know?”

Sam swallowed heavy, and meant it when he said, “I’ll try.”

Dean gave a nod and ducked his head to pretend the potatoes needed his full focus. Sam’s chest swelled. He didn’t want Dean to have to choose between John and himself, and he sure as hell hoped John wouldn’t make him either.

But then again, maybe John was hoping the same thing from Sam.

⁂

Less than an hour later dinner got put on the table without a hitch, despite Dean’s complaint that Sam was putting Kale? Again? in a salad. They hadn’t heard anything from John, and after a certain while Sam had wondered if he had really stayed. When he searched for him, he found him, predictably, in Sam’s witch room, going with scrutiny through each of Sam’s books.

“Anything of interest?" asked Sam and John jumped.

“You have an impressive library here,” he said. Sam couldn’t read his gruff tone.

“I have a soft spot for knowledge.”

“Maybe you won’t make such a bad hunter after all,” said John, and put the book he had leafed through back to its place on the shelf.

Sam tilted his head towards the kitchen. “Table is set.”

He nodded, walked past Sam out of the room, and Sam hung back, tried to take in the room from John’s point of view. This was the room where he stored the titles that were more dubious to keep, as well as the ingredients a normal person wouldn’t have lying in their cupboards.

Sam could understand where the hesitation to trust him was coming from. In three huge shelves were multiple bestiaries, encyclopedias, books on ceremonial magic, on hermeticism, tomes on protection and defense, and—what he caught John going through—a special little section with books about demons: The Language of Demons and Angels, The Infernal Dictionary, The Lesser Key of Solomon…

There was a gap where there previously hadn’t been one.

Sam went to join them for dinner.

The pork chops turned out tender and well seasoned, one of the best Sam ever made. Cooking with Dean was substantially better than cooking alone and for himself. Sharing it with someone, and tasting the same meal was gratifying, and even more so if the person loved it. He had been teaching Dean his recipes, and they cooked together whenever time allowed. Sam had been outraged when Dean had said he and John had mostly eaten in diners and from take out.

Dean had made the sourdough bread that was on the table—his first attempt that had actually turned out like something, and Sam couldn’t be prouder. He wondered if John would feel the same if he knew.

Apart from the initial hesitation of pushing food around his plate John swiftly fell over the meal with a ravenous appetite. Who knows when he last ate, or when he last had a home-cooked meal, but Sam and Dean had skipped lunch and were quick with their first portion as well. They all went back for seconds and, with the first hunger quelled, the conversation really started—or, after Dean brought out the beer, rather.

“So.” John was the one to break the quiet. “I hate to say it, but your library is almost as impressive as Bobby’s. Maybe more so as far as personal journals and originals go.”

“That’s a huge compliment,” said Dean and elaborated, “Bobby has quite a collection.”

Sam smiled lightly. “He sounds like a great guy, then.”

John huffed and pinched his mouth. Sam shot Dean a questioning look.

“They’ve had an argument or something, Dad hasn’t seen him in a while,” Dean explained.

“Way to air our dirty laundry to him, son.”

“He’s your son too,” snapped Dean.

After too long of a pause John said, “Yeah.”

A thought washed hotly over Sam; John would have noticed there was only one bedroom upstairs.

They cut into their meat, the air tense like a harp string between them. Sam poked a leaf in the salad and kept his head low.

“I’m trying to look out for you,” said John. Sam didn’t need to raise his head to know he was talking to Dean. “You barely know him. Just because he’s blood, doesn’t mean we can trust him.”

They were talking like Sam wasn’t there, and Sam wished he wasn’t. He glanced at Dean, who was staring back, defiant. “I know I can trust him.”

“As long as you don’t forget your training,” said John, desperate. Dean was still looking at Sam. “Dean.”

“What?”

“I noticed there are no salt lines.”

Sam clenched his teeth, but couldn’t hold it in. He lifted his chin sharply. “I have something better,” he bit out, looked John right in the eye, and refused to be the one to cave. Didn’t want to hide what he was.

John sat rigidly and gave a sharp nod—of acknowledgment, or defeat, or something else, Sam didn’t know.

Sure, they weren’t getting along, but they weren’t technically arguing. Dean wanted them to like each other, but even he seemed to have given up on that, sipping his beer with a defeated look on his face.

Sam bit the bullet. “So,” he started with no idea where he was taking the sentence. “How do you like the pork chops?”

“They’re good,” said John and took a slice of bread.

“Dean made the bread,” said Sam, conversationally.

“Yeah?” John’s eyes twinkled as he caught Dean’s gaze. A small smirk pulled at his mouth. “How many tries did that take you?”

“Third attempt.” Dean grinned. “Sam helped. I thought I could do it on my own, but Dad, I’m telling you, baking bread is more complicated than poker.”

John laughed, and Sam joined in with a chuckle. Something broke in John’s expression, and he was more at ease than Sam had ever seen him.

“I remember when me and your mother just moved in together, and she wanted to try all those recipes. She tried making bread more than a dozen times, I’m sure. Never got the hang of it.”

Dean smiled and they looked at each other, a moment Sam couldn’t share with them but was happy nonetheless to have created, however unintentional.

The moment was over as soon it had appeared, John closed off again and a different expression passed over his face.

“You still grief her after all those years?” asked Sam in a careful tone.

John didn’t hide when he said, “Never stops hurting.”

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again, threw Sam a glance. Sam didn’t know what he wanted. Dean’s eyebrows were drawn together.

“I don’t talk about her often,” admitted John. “Nothing is more important to me than killing that demon.”

“I understand,” said Sam quietly. “But not above Dean? You gotta let us in, John. Dean’s been part of this as long as you. You can’t shield him from the fight.”

“I can try,” John said.

“I don’t want you to,” Dean said.

John and Dean shared a drawn out look.

Sam did understand, to some degree. Wanting revenge for Mary’s death, wanting to find her killer, to stop the demon. He thought about his own parents, and what he would do for them. He thought about his aunt and how long it took him to accept her death, how he couldn’t move out of this house even to go to college. They weren’t so different in that regard.

He looked at Dean and imagined what he would do for him. Thought about the fact that Dean was staying with him when he’d rather be out there fighting alongside John.

After dinner John was ready to go, didn’t want to stay for dessert. He took Dean aside for a private talk, and Sam waited in the kitchen, started cleaning the dishes. Sam could guess what words of warning he gave, he really didn’t need to eavesdrop on that.

They parted less tensely than last time, and perhaps even with something akin to acceptance between them.

⁂

After a few minutes Dean came back in and took over—Dean washing while Sam dried. They didn’t talk, both in their own heads, but there was no silence. The weather had calmed, and the clock was ticking all the louder for it. The roads must be covered by a fresh sheet of snow and Sam would have offered John to sleep here, if he wasn’t so convinced he would decline.

“How do you feel?” asked Sam quietly, when they were done. “Your nose still bothering you?”

“Yeah, still stuffy. Imma have to take another hit from the nasal spray before bed,” said Dean and gathered the leftovers to put in the fridge. “But everything else is better already.”

He looked better than this morning too—much more alert, the red nose from using so many tissues was the only remnant of his sick day.

“So you’re good to drive tomorrow?”

“Yup,” said Dean. “My head’s good. Seriously.”

Something else was still biting at him, but Sam wasn’t in a state to deal with that. “Wanna take this to the living room?”

Dean lit the fireplace, and Sam sat at one end of the couch, leaning his head against the backrest, mind whirring. “We could sleep in tomorrow so we can drive into the night, there’s gotta be less traffic on the highway then, right? We can take shifts.” It shouldn’t take too long to drive up there, but he didn’t know how much time they had so every hour felt vital. “Or do you think it’s faster if we start early and drive the bulk during the day?”

Once the flames were licking at the wood Dean came down next to him, propping his feet on the coffee table. “You sound eager to get there. I’m still not sure what we can do about a plane crash, but Dad gave me his number. I’ll call him tomorrow to get the details.”

“Yeah, alright,” said Sam. He should call his parents.

“You okay, Sammy? You have your whole brooding vibe going on.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said and then because going into why he was worried was worse than the alternative, “Just processing what he told us.”

Dean hummed. “I can tell you’re upset. Sorry about Dad, he’s—protective. He just wants the best…” Dean didn’t finish his thought, went quieter towards the end and broke off, cleared his throat. He faced away but Sam caught him wincing. Maybe the best for Dean, but what happened to Sam… Back in Jericho John had said he wanted Sam to grow up safe with a normal family, but what happened after, apparently he didn’t care that much.

Maybe he was being unfair, John did him a solid with that decision after all. But being separated from his own brother as a result—did he not realize how unfair that was? Especially to Dean. John hadn’t tried to separate them, but it was obvious he was displeased they had found each other.

Sam wasn’t exactly sure if that was the biggest problem John had with this. It was almost like the worst of John’s hate came from Sam using magic.

Sam breathed out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes. A headache started pressing against his forehead.

Then, out of nowhere, Dean clapped him on the thigh and Sam’s eyes flung open.

“Hey,” Dean said, beaming at him. “I have an idea. Take off your shirts. I’m taking care of you now.”

A punch of heat went to Sam’s chest, maybe panic, maybe something completely different. “Take care of me how?”

Dean put on a shit-eating grin and dashed out of the room.

Sam stared after him. His palms were sweaty. He was wearing a t-shirt and a flannel over it, so he took off the flannel and threw it on the sitting chair.

Dean came back with olive oil. “Shirt too. I’m giving you a massage.”

Sam huffed a laugh, more from confusion than anything else. Dean wiggled his eyebrows at Sam so he stripped off his shirt obediently. “Not with olive oil though. I have a few essential oils that I use for some spell bases, they’re not bewitched or anything.”

Dean tilted his head towards the bookshelf that hid Sam’s witch room. “In there?”

Sam nodded, and lied down on his stomach, filling the whole couch and then some—as a teen he used to fit here comfortably, but those times were over. He propped his head on his arms, and listened to Dean open the door, and then to a whole lot of quiet. Dean spent an extensive time there, either he couldn’t find the labeled bottles that were prominently on the ingredients shelf, or he fretted over which one to choose.

Sam tried to catch a glance at which one he picked when he came back, but Dean was behind him and Sam didn’t want to be obvious. He wondered if he had gotten chamomile or maybe roses.

Dean opened the bottle, and then there was the sound of hands rubbing together, and a smell spread through the room that wasn’t anything like flowers. It was strong and fresh and reminded Sam of walking through an evergreen forest on a winter day.

Maybe Dean had picked pine oil because he thought rose oil must be more expensive and he didn’t want to waste any. Or maybe he didn’t want to go with roses for the implications—and maybe Sam was overthinking it as Dean had probably done.

Despite the fire radiating warmth Sam shivered when Dean put his hands on his back. He stroked up toward his neck and down to the edge of Sam’s pants, giving him more of a back rub than a massage. Then he dug in, right where the meat of the shoulders was, and pressed firmly. The pressure hurt and at the same time it was so perfect.

Dean kneaded the muscles expertly, each spot he worked on felt pleasantly relaxed, left with a phantom impression of Dean’s deft fingers. He moved the skin around with his palms and rubbed over sore spots, and patiently worked stubborn knots, reapplying oil occasionally.

He worshipped his back and his shoulders and his neck.

“Good?” asked Dean. “Pressure okay?”

“Perfect,” said Sam.

Dean gave a pleased hum, and muttered, “Love the noises you’re making.”

Sam hadn’t realized he was making any. He hid his face in his arms and didn’t respond, but during the next firm grasp Sam was aware of the soft groan that escaped him, and didn’t try to stop it.

Dean went lower, his fingers dancing over his ribs, trailing patterns where Sam had a few tattoos Dean had so far only gotten glimpses off, and rolled the pads of his fingers over his lower back. After a little while he did more shoulder work, before slowly transitioning back to the soothing caress, until he was more or less petting Sam.

Dean sat down by Sam’s hip.

“I promise I’ll protect you,” said Dean whisper-soft. Sam strained to hear.

From what, Sam wanted to ask, and how—how could he protect Sam from his own mind. But he felt slack and not like opening his mouth. Dean was still doing magic in his own way, stroking with gentle motions.

“You falling asleep?” Dean asked, a bit louder.

Sam hummed no, and slurred, “Just relaxing.”

“Good,” said Dean, a smile in his voice.

Then, the TV got turned on and immediately muted. Sam wanted to say he could turn it up, he didn’t mind, but one of Dean’s hands was in his hair, scratching his scalp lightly, and he didn’t want to move his lips.

He dozed off.

⁂

Sam blearily opened his eyes, head turned just the right way to see what was on TV but without the sound he could only guess what it was about. Some guy in a car with a monkey. The movie looked older than him.

“What’re we watching?” he mumbled.

Dean was sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, and nursing a beer. He frowned like Sam’s question was an offense. “Every Which Way but Loose, Sammy. It’s only Clint Eastwood’s best movie.”

Sam smirked, and sat up. “You can unmute it,” he said. He stretched, his limbs were tingling warm and drained of tension.

“I know this one by heart, don’t need the sound.”

Dean didn’t attempt to get up, so Sam put his legs on either side of him, and curled his hands around Dean’ neck, thumbs pressing against the tendons in the nape. Dean’s head fell forward and he sighed.

“Thank you for earlier,” said Sam. “I feel great.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one who can do magic.”

Sam gave a mellow laugh. “That’s what I thought too,” he admitted.

He gave Dean a neck rub and Dean turned on the volume for Sam’s benefit, but Sam had already missed half the movie so it didn’t matter anyway. He was just happy to sit here with Dean.

“Hey, wait,” said Dean, “I’m being pampered again.”

“Hm?”

Dean stood and took his body heat with him. Gruff, he said, “You wait here.”

Sam did. Dean stayed gone longer than before, and Sam debated whether he should put his shirt back on but decided against it and instead threw the blanket from the back of the couch over his shoulders. The room was warm enough, almost too hot, and when Dean came back he sat so close their shoulders brushed.

He was carefully carrying two steaming mugs of hot chocolate with one hand, and a plate with store-bought gingerbread in the other. Sam’s chest swelled with something light.

Dean kept the one with the little marshmallows and gave Sam the mug with cinnamon and white chocolate splinters sprinkled on top, and by the taste of it with a shot of fire cider.

“Love it,” said Sam. Dean was glowing, and Sam felt like he was glowing too.

Dean tapped a loose fist against Sam’s chest and shifted on the seat, and then took out his gun from his waistband, putting it resolutely on the table.

“Your dad wouldn’t be happy about this,” joked Sam, and it felt like a joke too, until he saw Dean’s face, staring back at him with a clenched jaw and pained expression.

“No, he wouldn’t,” said Dean. “He… told me something before he left.”

“And what’s that?”

“He told me to look out for you.” Dean paused, but he wasn’t done. Sam swallowed. “That you don’t turn into something bad.”

“Oh,” said Sam, relieved it was only that again. “Well, I’m just gonna have to prove that I’m not. You said it, he’ll come around.”

“He seems to think you’re evil or something. Or that you will become evil. Regardless of the you-being-a-witch part.”

Sam frowned. Dean was serious. If not the magic, what was John afraid of?

“And I know you won’t. Sammy. I’ve known you only so long, but I know you’re good.”

Sam huffed humorlessly. “Thanks.”

“No, I mean it. I don’t—want to kill you.”

Sam's face softened. “You couldn’t.” He meant that in two ways.

“And I wouldn’t want to.” Dean averted his gaze. “But he said to kill you if I had to.”

“What? He said that to you?”

After today? After pretending he might want to get to know Sam?

Flashes of his parents burning shot through his head. Flames, fire, sometimes it felt like hell. Sometimes he thought he dreamed of Mary, but he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t even know what she looked like.

He needed to see his parents. They were going to Pennsylvania as soon as they could. He could feel they were fine, at least right now, but that wasn’t enough. He had to bring protection with him. John had said it was a demon. Sam could deal with demons. In theory.

What if there was something else John hadn’t told them?

Must be, if he was worried about Sam in this way.

“Hey,” said Dean and bumped their shoulders together. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, alright? And you got me. I’ll protect you. Little brother.”

Those words didn’t give Sam that guilty shameful zing this time.

They pretended to watch the rest of the movie. Sam didn’t pay any attention to the masterpiece, but Dean didn’t fault him for it. He was lost in his thoughts too.

At least Sam was still happy to lean against him, and Dean even dared to put an arm around him. Of course Sam could protect himself, but the fact that he was still trusting Dean after that that loosened something in Dean.

That wasn’t all Dad had said, but Dean didn’t want to pile on another thing, however small. Sam wouldn’t want to go on that hunt anymore, Dad had sent them on it after all, so it wasn’t a pressing matter anyway.

Sam put his head on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean’s fingers skimmed up to Sam’s ribs where the bulk of his tattoos were. Flowing around him like half a hug, runes and symbols and all kinds of elaborate enchantments. They sneaked up over his pecs and that’s where the words were, latin and something else mixed in which didn’t allow for Dean to take a wager at a translation. His skin was unmarred and smooth, no scars like Dean’s.

Dean focused on the ones further down, at his sides, and with his finger he redrew the lines of an especially wiggly one that had caught his eye when he gave him the massage.

Sam smiled against his shoulder. “That one’s for magical strength.”

“Ah, so much for ‘protection’,” Dean teased.

Sam laughed softly and it would have been the best sound in the world if it wasn’t for the sorrowful undertone. “I can protect myself just fine from big bad hunters.”

“You won’t need to, now you got me,” said Dean resolutely. Poked him between two ribs, and asked, to distract him, “How’s your offensive magic going anyway? You find some good stuff?”

“Why don’t you come and see?” said Sam and stood.

He walked over to the back door and Dean followed. Sam opened the door, hitting them with a burst of freezing but fresh smelling air.

They had a clear view into the garden, which was covered in untouched white and frost, some stray flocks of pale little stars drifted through the air, the main storm having passed. No sliver of the moon was visible amongst the clouds. It was dark out, the warm light from the living room swept outside only so far, leaving the forest behind the garden bleak and impenetrable.

Most plants were dead, but the bushes were still there, as well as some weirdly frost tolerant vegetables that Sam was telling him was normal—Dean had his doubts but he didn’t know enough about gardening to argue. All the trees except for the two pines had lost their green.

And amongst it all stood the scarecrow, at which Sam raised his hand. He was focused, ignoring the breeze that ruffled his hair and swirled some strands into his face. Sam uttered some words, not Latin and maybe not a spoken language at all, and a dozen invisible knives ripped into the main body of the scarecrow. Some of the padding fell out, an imitation of disemboweled guts.

“That scarecrow’s dead, man,” said Dean. A raven settled on the scarecrow’s shoulder, ever the reliant omen of death.

Sam gave a glum smirk, not worried about his little suicidal pet. “First try.”

Dean slapped his shoulder in approval, and stepped away from the door. He was freezing, and Sam didn’t even have a shirt on, so he closed up and steered Sam back to the couch, pressing the hot chocolate back into his hands. “That’s not gonna do much against a ghost though.”

“Yeah, I’m looking into other methods as well,” said Sam. Dean pulled at the blanket until Sam shared. “I’m gonna have to prepare some hex bags before we go tomorrow. Or at least take the ingredients with us.”

“We don’t have to leave right away,” allowed Dean.

“Yes, we do,” said Sam and it was so definitive Dean shut his mouth, tilted his head instead in a silent question but Sam ignored him.

Sam had never been opposed to hunting, helping, but hadn’t been happy about following Dad’s orders to go to Blackwater Ridge. It struck Dean as odd he would push to investigate the plane crash.

“Dad gave me his journal,” Dean said, testing Sam’s reaction. Might as well get it all out there.

Sam’s eyebrows drew together. “His journal?”

“It’s his most prized possession. Everything he knows is in there—cases he’s been on, lore, all his contacts, and yeah it’s a journal too, he basically documented what happened after Mom died.”

Sam regarded him quietly. “Why did he give that to you?”

“I think he wants us to pick up where he left off.” It felt huge. Giving it to Dean.

“You. Wants you to do that.”

Dean didn’t argue. “I’ve never had a good look at it before, and I’ve only skimmed through the first few pages when he left.”

Sam’s gaze dropped to the ground.

“What?” asked Dean. “What are you thinking?”

Sam hesitated. “I think he gave that to you so we don’t go running after him.”

“So? We shouldn’t. If he tells us not to.” Even after what Dad said to him, Dean felt the need to defend him. It made him feel bashful, embarrassed to do that in front of Sam, but he couldn’t help it. The man had his faults, but he was his dad and the best hunter Dean knew, and Dean wouldn’t go against his wishes and chase after him.

“Don’t you want to, Dean? Hell, I want to be part of this and I didn’t even know this was a thing until recently.”

“Of course I do. But obviously Dad knows something we don’t.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell us then?”

Sam’s voice was gaining heat and perhaps he was even looking for an argument, so Dean made an effort to keep his voice soft. “It’s not safe. He would if it was safe, Sam.”

Sam didn’t say anything for a long time, seething and staring at Dean unyieldingly. “I’m starting to think he was wrong,” he said. Dean knew better than to think that referred to Dean’s last statement.

“Wrong about what?”

“Wrong in thinking I would be safer with a normal family.”

Dean frowned. “Weren’t you?”

“I was. I’m not anymore.”

“That’s why I’m gonna watch out for you,” Dean said resolutely. “You don’t think Dad wants that too?”

“He told you to kill me if you had to.”

“He also told me to take care of you. To save you if I could.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not—What, he thinks using magic is gonna corrupt me, or—” Sam suddenly had a haunted look on his face, and then he convulsed as if in pain, grabbing at his head.

“Sam? Sam. What’s happening?” He grabbed for him, took his shoulders.

Sam shrugged him off. “Sorry, sorry. A migraine. Hit me real bad. It’s okay now.”

“Let’s not talk about this anymore, okay?” said Dean carefully. Sam’s face was distorted and he put visible effort into schooling it into a neutral expression. Or almost that.

“Listen—No, you know what, listen to him. Kill me if you ever think you have to.”

“What the hell are you on,” said Dean dryly.

“I’m tired of this argument. You’re right. He knows something he’s not telling us. Let’s… Let’s just go to Pennsylvania tomorrow, okay? Do the hunt.”

“Okay, yeah. But, I’m not going to—”

“How about you get us some more hot chocolate, Dean?”

Dean hesitated. “What about the tea, the one you drink for headaches?” He still had his hands on Sam, didn’t want to let go.

“Oh, yeah. Okay. Yes, do that then,” Sam said and pushed back, straightening himself.

“Alright…” Dean got up, his eyes never leaving Sam until he was out of the room. He prepared the tea as quickly as he could, but didn’t skip the step of adding a pinch of salt like he’d seen Sam do.

“Sorry,” said Sam when he came back. “He brings out the worst in me. Guess it’s good I didn’t grow up living with him.”

“Ha. Yeah. He’s a stubborn bastard like you. You would have been at each other’s throats all the time.”

Finally, Sam laughed again and Dean’s heart clenched. He wanted to keep him happy like that forever. He would try.

“I think I would have hated it anyway,” said Sam, “to constantly have to switch schools and states.”

“That wasn’t so bad. Moving constantly meant always meeting new people. And I could never really fuck anything up for good, because we’d be gone by the next month. I could pretend to be someone else if I wanted, and the mysterious stranger vibe let me score with the girls.”

“Yeah, I bet. We only moved once when I was two or so and a second time when I was in sixth grade. My mom’s parents weren’t doing great and they wanted to be closer in their last years.”

“So you did most of your growing up in one place. What’s that like?” Dean was genuinely curious. He never knew anything else, too young to really remember what it was like living in Lawrence. But now that he had pretty much made himself a permanent resident in Sam’s house, he found he enjoyed having that more than he previously would have guessed. Sam had said he was nesting, when they had hopped in for Thanksgiving.

“Well, I remember being mad I had to leave all my friends behind, but I never said any of that, because I knew we moved because of my grandparents. And I settled in, it was fine in the end. Great actually, my school was better, and the town we were living in was bigger.”

“City kid, huh?”

“Yeah, in my teenage years. I do prefer the quiet though.” Sam relaxed against the backrest. Dean mirrored his position, turned slightly towards him.

“I couldn’t have said anything either, you know?” It felt like exposing himself, saying so much about his past to a single person, but he couldn’t stop, wanted to know Sam and be known by him. “About moving all the time. That wasn’t so different.” Well, that detail maybe, but not the way they grew up. “Are you still in contact with your friends?” he added.

“Not really. They went to college, I moved here. I wanted to go too, be a lawyer. But then I thought, well it’s either law or—” he made a gesture towards the witch room. “Someone’s gotta take care of all that knowledge, study it, so it doesn’t get lost.”

“Couldn’t you have taken it with you?”

Sam shrugged. “I made the right decision, I think.”

“Sounds like Dad did too. Maybe that’s his greatest gift to you,” Dean said. Sam’s gaze was piercing. Dean could only smile at him. “I’m glad you had all that.” He was, he really was. It wasn’t that he was envious, he couldn’t be, there was too much good he was doing being a hunter. But he was glad Sam got to have a normal life. And an aunt to teach him how to protect himself even when he didn’t have the threats of a hunter’s life.

Sam weighed his head, contemplating something. “Do you think John regrets it?”

Dean frowned. “Regrets—?”

“Giving me away. Seeing what I’ve become, maybe he thinks he could have prevented it. Isn’t this what he was trying to keep me away from?”

“What you’ve become. Don’t talk like that. He couldn’t handle a baby on the road, there’s nothing more to it.”

“He wanted something normal for me though.”

“Screw normal. Look at what you have here—you have neighbors who love you and give you free shit. You have parents who take your calls and are sad when you can’t come celebrate Thanksgiving with them. You have weird raven pets who bring you trinkets.”

“And now I have a brother.”

Dean didn’t miss a beat. “And a brother. And this house. And a million books on every topic.”

“And your dirty socks in my bathroom sink,” Sam said, fondly.

“You won’t be smiling about that in a year. But as long as you’ll still have me by then...”

“Yeah. Don’t leave me.”

“Never,” Dean said and his voice cracked with emotion. If anything Sam would be the one to leave. Like Dad did, but if Dean had any say in it, he would keep Sam until the end of his days.

It was hard to imagine what their lives would be like in a year, where they would stand as brothers, as more, or maybe embrace both. Sam swallowed visibly as they looked at each other, and Dean had a lump in his throat, thinking of what they could have.

They had been trying to find a line, but perhaps it didn’t exist.

“Hey… Dean?”

“Yeah?” A hot flush came over Dean. Sam was always so attuned to what Dean was feeling, had he come to the same realization?

“It’s nearly Christmas…”

“Mhm?”

“I don’t think we’re gonna have time for that Christmas tree.”

“Okay?” This wasn’t exactly going where Dean thought it would.

“But… My parents have one…” Sam trailed off.

“Oh. You mean?”

“Yeah. Do you want to? Meet them? Celebrate Christmas with us?”

Dean had assumed they would celebrate together, just the two of them, but of course Sam would want to visit his parents. “If you think they wouldn’t mind… And if you want me there?” he asked cautiously.

“Of course I want you there, Dean. And I wouldn’t go if you didn’t want to meet them so soon,” he said and Dean wanted to believe him but something in his tone was off. “And they’re dying to meet you.”

“You’ve been telling them about me?” Dean asked to hear it confirmed. But he knew, he’d heard Sam on the phone once or twice, and it gave Sam’s words the conviction his tone was lacking. He didn’t know the details of the way Sam talked about him, and it wouldn’t ever be the full truth anyway. Maybe that was why he sounded troubled.

“Okay, yeah, sure,” said Dean. “Will we make it in time? Where do they live?”

Sam paused. “Pennsylvania.”