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The only constants in Sam’s life are his brother, their father—but Dean more so than Dad—and the fact that no later than next semester Sam will be in a different school again. That’s how it’s always been.
Sam hates it, but there is no changing it. There is no point in asking “Do I have to come on this hunt?” or “Can’t we stay one more week?” or “Why do I need to know how to use the bow?” There is no settling in or making friends or finding love, nothing to gain from going on dates except for heartbreak. Rationally, Sam knows that, but he still went. And God, had it been a mistake, another punch in the face—message loud and clear: He could never have that. Not with her. Not with anyone else. Not as long as they’re leading this particular life, a new state on Dad’s every whim.
Currently, they’re somewhere in Vermont. Bare maples surround their cabin, a small run-down hut a bit out of town. As soon as they moved here the snow began to melt and none has stayed since, a few slush piles are the only leftovers of the snowy landscape this once was. It’s still daylight outside when Sam gets home, although with the dark cloudy sky it’s hard to tell. It’s cold and windy and Sam wishes they would spend the winter months in the south more often.
“You’re back already? How was your date?” asks Dean as Sam closes the door behind himself. A draught goes through the living room, which is as bleak as the snow-less woods surrounding them, but Dean looks cozy holed up on the couch in his red hoodie, the only vibrant peck of color in the room.
The heater is a weak piece of shit but the hearth burns with a low fire, and the air is warm against Sam’s freezing cheeks. He shivers, loses some of the outside chill, and toes off his shoes and shrugs off his jacket.
When he doesn’t answer, Dean adds on, “Don’t tell me you didn’t want to put out on the third date? Or did she get sick of you?”
“I got sick of her,” says Sam, and slips into the bedroom where he steals the army green hoodie Dean wore last week and tugs it over his shirt. It doesn’t smell bad. Smells like Dean.
“She go to fast for you or something?”
“You could say that,” admits Sam and joins him, yanking on the blanket on Dean’s lap until he adjusts it so Sam can bundle up under it too. Sam sits sideways on the couch and sticks his numb toes under Dean’s thigh. Dean is channel surfing, and Sam watches him for a while, waiting for the jab, the joke, but it doesn’t come. Dean waits him out, but Sam isn’t going to elaborate.
Sonia wasn’t Sam’s first date. But she was his first girlfriend—was, until Sam caught on that she was in love with him. And wanted him to fall in love with her too.
He isnt like Dean, can’t just fuck someone and leave, and trying to date someone was an even worse idea. Of course, hindsight is twenty-twenty. He wouldn’t have fallen in love with her, not if the thought alone scared him, but it made him realize how he didn’t actually want her, however temporary. It didn’t stop him from keeping the quiz she wanted to do though. The paper is burning in his jeans back pocket.
Sam lurches forward and snatches the remote from Dean, one foot coming up to press against Dean’s side, holding him back as Sam flips through the channels, settling on the documentary Dean has ignored a few channels back.
“Hey.” Dean tries to grab the remote but Sam is ready for him, keeping him at bay with his legs and holding the remote out of reach. Sam is almost lying on his back and Dean has no regard for personal space. The couch is creaking with their movement.
A hard knee into his crotch—a dirty move—has Sam doubling over, and Dean takes control of the fight, grabs both of Sam’s arms and presses them with his whole torso against the couch’s back. An elbow digs painfully into Sam’s side. The blanket is twisted between them, part of it slipped onto the floor. The remote is back with Dean.
Sam could easily free his hands, but he doesn’t. They’re still cold, and he pushes further in, slips them under the hem of Dean’s shirt. Dean’s back arcs, and he sits up fully, taking his sharp elbow and his body warmth with him. “Jesus, Sam. Could’ve come picked you up if you had asked. No need to walk all the way through the cold.”
Sam buries his feet under Dean again, and it feels a bit like victory when Dean flicks slowly through every channel and settles on the documentary. Something about the Ancient Egyptians. It’s warm in Egypt. He pulls the blanket back over himself.
Dean isn’t interested in it at all, and Sam isn’t either. He’s watching Dean.
Dean had probably a dozen girlfriends by now, and even more hook-ups. He wonders if Dean has ever been in love with one of them—doesn’t matter if he has. Dean is in the same fucked up hunting boat as Sam.
Sam isn’t like those girls, he’s a guy for one. Of course, the bigger hurdle is that he is his little brother. Not the lack of curves, the age difference, or that there is no way in hell Dean is ever going to think of him like that.
Sonia’s fall-in-love-quiz won’t change any of those things. If Sam backed out, Dean would back out too.
But, there is no disadvantage in trying it. It’s worth a shot, as long as Dean doesn’t figure out what Sam is doing. He asks the first question of 36, “If you could invite anyone in the world to dinner, who would you invite? If they’d have to come.” He butchered the original phrasing.
Dean shoots him a questioning look, but he indulges him. “What do you mean invite?”
“Just anyone in the world, who would you want to meet?”
Dean licks his lips and they turn up in a shit-eating grin. “Well, I watched this video a few weeks ago, and a couple times since. Her name is Jasmine Sparx and she’s amazing.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m sure that’s her real name. You actually think she would go for you?”
“Hey, you’re the one who said anyone in the world. What about you then, genius?”
Sam lied to Sonia and said Julius Caesar to impress her with his Latin, because that was the first thing he came up with. He shrugs. “Dolly the sheep, I think.”
Dean throws his head back and laughs, bright and clear. “God, you’re such a nerd,” he says with a smile that warms Sam more than the blanket.
He lets that sit between them for a while, watching Dean take a few pulls from the bottle of beer he has. Dean is technically too young to drink, but it’s not like Dad cares as long as he doesn’t get into trouble.
The program switches to commercials. They’re blaring and Dean lowers the volume until it’s almost imperceptible.
“Would you like to be famous?” Sam asks and decides to answer first so Dean can’t pry. “I think I would. If it meant I had done something great. But also maybe not, if being famous meant paparazzi.”
“Paparazzi, groupies—hell yeah I would love that. Being a rock star or something.”
Before Dean can think about what Sam is doing, he shoots off the next one, “Before you make phone calls, do you ever rehearse what you’re going to say?”
Dean frowns. “The hell are you talking about? Have you ever seen me do that? Where is this coming from?”
Sam draws his legs back, adjusts the blanket. “No reason. Just curious.”
He studied the first set of questions on his way home, but if he wants to continue this he will have to dig out the paper eventually. Dean is already suspicious. Maybe he will take this more seriously if he knew Sam isn’t making the questions up—though if he knew what this really is he won’t want to continue at all.
Sam raises his ass and digs out the paper from his pocket.
“What’s that?”
“Sonia wanted to do this with me. It’s 36 questions to get to know someone.” He leaves out the part that says ‘to make you fall in love with anyone.’
“And now you’re doing it with me?”
Sam grips the piece of paper like it’s a shield. “Yeah.”
There’s a question on Dean’s face that Sam parses as ‘Why? You already know me, idiot.’
“Why not?” says Sam nonchalantly—the drum of the pulse in his throat is anything but. “You’re bored.”
“I’m probably gonna grow bored doing this, but sure, whatever.”
Taking this as the permission it is Sam reads from the paper this time, “Number 4. What would constitute a ‘perfect’ day for you?”
Dean sways his head. “Maybe some alone time with my hand, and definitely beer. Or nah, actually—it should definitely include sex. Some chick I saved from a monster maybe. Something like that.”
“You’re so predictable.” At least he didn’t straight up say ‘going on a hunt.’
“Aw, come on. Don’t be jealous. Just because I can get some and you can’t.”
“Whatever. Then my perfect day is you off doing your perfect day so I can have the house to myself.”
“Having your own personal time with your hand?” Dean wiggles his eyebrows.
“Reading.”
They could both be off having their perfect days right now, but that they were instead sitting here together didn’t mean anything.
“When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?”
“A few weeks ago or so,” says Dean.
“Not true,” says Sam. “I can hear you singing in the shower.”
“You listen to me in the shower? Pervert.” Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye and takes a sip from his beer. It can’t hide his smirk.
“Not my fault you’re so loud.”
“Well then, when did you last sing?”
“I don’t sing.”
“Not even to yourself?”
“Nah,” says Sam. He pulls his legs tighter against his chest and continues, “If you were able to live to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or the body of a 30 year old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you want?”
“Body, duh.”
“You’re so shallow.”
“Of course you’re picking the mind, you big nerd. Maybe you won’t think that anymore when you start getting all grey.”
If they stayed in this life there would be no getting all grey.
“Maybe you wouldn’t choose the body if you were a bit more mature,” he says.
“Don’t talk to me about maturity, kid,” says Dean, and then his voice shifts as he picks up an impression of an old man, “When your body’s not growing anymore but aging, you’ll be wishing to be hot and sexy like a 20 year old again.”
Sam cracks a smile. “You’ll be wishing you could still remember being 20.”
“Not everyone gets memory problems.”
“Wanna chance it?”
“Yep.”
Maybe Dean does have a point.
“Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?”
“Well, for sure not in a retirement home being all wrinkly and gross.”
Sam tilts his head. Dean is relaxed, reclining against his couch arm. Dean is not stupid, he knows what he said, what he implied.
“You could.”
“Wanna die heroic,” Dean says simply.
“Do you really though?” asks Sam in a careful tone.
“I don’t want you to die that way, so don’t get any ideas.”
“I don’t want to die doing what Dad does,” Sam mutters so quietly he’s not sure Dean heard.
He scans the next question. Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.
Sam lied to Sonia on most of the questions so far, and this one is where he stopped their date, not being able to think of anything. She had answered it first and misinterpreted him greatly, didn’t know him as well as she thought she did, and even built in some of his lies. Sam got so uncomfortable he bailed.
“What’s up?” asks Dean. “You continuing or what?”
“Uh, yeah. Name three things we have in common.”
It’s easy finding things, being brothers. Of course, Dean goes the asshole route. “Alright, well, while we do have genes in common we don’t quite share the same good looks.”
Sam kicks him in the gut. Dean catches his foot and holds it in his lap.
“We like good music, only one of us doesn’t like to admit it,” says Dean.
Sam makes a face, even though Dean is watching the TV and doesn’t see. The program has resumed, but it’s still as quiet as Dean put it before.
“And we both know what’s really out there in the night. Your turn.”
“We can both fire a gun.”
“Damn right, we can.”
“And throw knives,” says Sam. “At which I’m totally better than you.”
“You are so not,” he calls out, head snapping to Sam. “I sprained my wrist, of course my aim’s off.”
“Your wrist healed ages ago.”
“Still hurts,” mutters Dean.
“Only when it’s convenient for you,” says Sam.
Dean starts tickling his foot.
Sam shouts, “We’re both ticklish on the soles of our feet so don’t start that shit! I know all your tickle spots.”
“Fine, I’m stopping.” He does too, but still holds his foot, fingers digging into the sole. The pressure doesn’t hurt, feels kind of good.
“For what in your life do you feel most grateful?” he asks.
Dean’s face lights up. “Oh man, you should have seen the way Paula Roberts can bend—”
“Why is your mind always in the gutter?” Sam interrupts.
“Where’s yours at? You’re almost sixteen.”
“I value the right things in life.”
“Like?” asks Dean.
That Dean is always there for him. Even when he is being an ass. Sam keeps his mouth shut and stares at him, face unmoving. Wanting him to read his mind and afraid that he could.
“Too embarrassed to admit to your math fetish?” asks Dean.
“What math fetish?”
“Saw you fall asleep with your algebra book a few days ago.”
“I was studying.”
Dean hums, “Mhm, studying is what it looked like.” He takes another mouthful of his beer, emptying the bottle.
Sam stares at the unanswered question and the one after that, not so sure anymore about this idea. He reads the next one anyway. “If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?”
Dean doesn’t wait a beat. “Wish we could join Dad more often.”
“No way.”
“I do. Come on, Sam. He’s out there saving people and half the time we have to stay behind, doing nothing.”
“Half the time we’re safe. And this would be even better if we could just fucking stay in one place.”
“Hey, language.”
“Fuck you.”
Dean isn’t angry, but his face hardens. “Don’t talk back to me like that”—like they hadn’t been bickering for the past 20 minutes—“it’s not that bad.”
Sam glares at him, and Dean adds, calmer, “We get to see the country. That’s something?”
Sam hesitates. “I’d still rather stay in one place.”
Dean’s face is soft now. “Read the next question, Sam.”
“Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible.” Sam takes a deep breath and starts, without even glancing at Dean, “I was born in Lawrence, Kansas. When I was six months old our house burned down and my mother died, and my dad and big brother were all that was left.”
“And the Impala,” Dean interrupts.
“And the car that our dad raised us in, while fighting monsters on the side.”
“And saving people.”
“Teaching us too eventually,” says Sam. “And my big brother was the person who did 90 percent of my raising.”
“Oh, come on. Just because Dad wasn’t there as often as he would have wanted to.”
“I made my first step towards you,” Sam throws at him. “You taught me how to shave. You gave me the talk. You cook me dinner—you taught yourself how to cook and then me. You taught me how to ride a bike.” He is getting all jumbled up on the timeline but it doesn’t matter. “You do all these amazing things for me, like that time a few years back on the Fourth of July. You always remember my birthday, and you don’t even remember yours. You care for me when I’m sick, and when I’m not. You protect me. You were my mother and father and big brother.”
You were my first crush.
And isn’t that fucked up? He can’t even imagine the lies he would have told Sonia on this question.
The raw expression on Dean makes his spew of emotions almost worth it. Sam is angry about it though—Dean will make a joke and move on, brush Sam off like he didn’t say a truth they were all collectively ignoring, pretending to be a normal family. But Dean says, “I don’t even know if I have anything to add to that. You told both of our life stories pretty well there.”
Dean deserves something better than always having to care for Sam. His life shouldn’t start with Sam’s birth.
Sam brakes their eye contact. The TV is still on—tombs and burials and afterlife—but neither of them are paying attention. He takes a deep breath before moving on, the paper is shaking slightly. “If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be?”
“Irresistible charm. Oh wait, I already have that.”
Sam can’t stop himself from laughing at Dean’s stupid joke, and hates himself for it. Dean grins widely at him.
“I’d like eidetic memory,” Sam says when he calms down.
“What’s that?”
“Photographic memory, stupid.”
“Well, say that then, bitch.”
“Jerk.”
Another kick that Dean doesn’t bother deflecting. It’s fun and normalcy between them. Maybe Sam can make this work.
“Okay,” says Sam. They're already a third of the way through. “Set two.”
“Set two? How many questions did we do? How many are there?”
“I told you, there are 36. We did twelve already. The questions are separated into three sets because normally people are supposed to alternate reading, either question to question, or set and set.”
“Let me read the next bit then.”
“No!” Sam clamps the paper to his chest, no matter that Dean doesn’t make a move to grab it. More composed, he says, “No, it’s okay, I’ll read it.”
“Jesus, fine. I’m gonna get another beer. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
Dean stands, goes out of Sam’s sight to the kitchen and Sam can breathe easier.
Dean’s wearing socks, so his footsteps are silent. The wind howls against the window, and there’s a leafless branch scratching on the glass, but it’s too quiet in the room. Sam stretches for the remote and clicks a few times, raising the volume of the TV slightly.
Abruptly, the paper is ripped out of Sam’s hands. Dean is behind him, holding it over his head in one hand, and a new bottle in the other.
Sam's stomach tightens. He sits frozen, doesn’t even attempt to snatch it back.
Dean skims the quiz. “36 Questions To Fall In Love?”
Sam hides behind his bangs, wishes he had his own room to hide in, but the bedroom they share doesn’t even have a lock. Neither does the bathroom. Perhaps the old couch can do him a favor and swallow him up, since it’s probably a bit too childish to hide under the blanket.
“This quiz from psychologist Arthur Aron helped boost intimacy between thousands of strangers, resulting in friendship, romance, and even marriage. You trying to tell me something here?”
“No, I told you,” he says, voice shaking, “That’s the quiz Sonia wanted to do with me. I thought it was stupid, because of course it’s not gonna do anything.”
“But you kept the paper because…?” Dean trails off. He steps around to sit on his side of the couch.
“It seemed like fun. Just not with her. I mean, those questions aren’t even anything suggestive. I just didn’t like her that way.”
“Looks like she wanted you to.”
“I didn’t want to. And I had to lie for some questions anyway. I don’t have to lie to you.”
“Damn right you don’t,” says Dean. He turns off the TV. There’s the sudden absence of sound as Dean turns to face him. “And you don’t need her forcing you into something you don’t want. You know I was only joking when I teased you about not putting out.”
“I know. She wasn’t.”
Is he forcing Dean? But it isn’t like the quiz will make love, make Dean fall madly in love with him. It’s something to kill the time. Dean was participating in this for fun, because he was bored, but now he surely will want to stop. Which shouldn’t matter, because Sam doesn’t expect anything to come from this anyway.
It does though. It’s a stupid hope.
Sam keeps his feet on his side and his mouth shut.
Dean takes a pull off his bottle, studies the paper, and reads, “If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?”
“Eh, what?”
“That why you wanted to be the one reading? Can’t concentrate on the question while staring at my handsome face?”
A flash of heat shoots through Sam. “You want to continue?”
“You were the one who started it.”
“Yeah, but it’s—“
“It’s just some stupid questions, what’s that gonna do?” asks Dean. “So what’s your answer? Crystal ball gonna tell you anything about yourself, what do you wanna know? Don’t hold back.”
They are doing this for real now. Well, almost. Sam stops and thinks about the question. “I want to know if I ever get out of this life.”
Dean makes a pained face, lips pressed together.
“And you?” Sam asks.
Dean doesn’t answer, seems lost in thought. “Know everything I want to know already,” he says eventually and skips to the next question right away. “What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?”
Sam shrugs and shifts in his seat. “I haven’t really done anything ever.”
“Dude, what?” Dean’s arm comes up on the backrest and he faces Sam fully. “You’re kidding, right? When we were hunting that shapeshifter with Dad during break, you were the one who got the kill. And you saved quite a few people already, even more if we count the research you did.”
“That’s not exactly my doing,” argues Sam. “And Dad takes you on hunts way more than me, so you did more of that.” Not that Sam is complaining about not going on hunts. Being left behind, however… It’s better like this, when Dean is here with him.
“Okay, sure,” says Dean. “How about this then: You won that math puzzle prize last year. And that thing for the big science project? What was that? Biology? Chemistry? Oh, and that trophy for the soccer team in Utah.”
A small smile tugs on Sam’s lips. “That one was barely more than a participation trophy.”
“Still. Proud of you.” Dean ruffles Sam’s hair like he’s five. Sam ducks his head to hide his widening smile. Dean smooths his hair back down before retreating.
“Don’t do that, I’m not a kid,” Sam mumbles because he has to.
“Nah, but you’ll forever be my little brother.”
“Yeah,” says Sam. They look at each other. It’s darker, without the TV on. Only the low flicker of the fire offers some warm light—they could turn on a lamp or stoke the fire but Sam’s too busy lapping up the play of light on Dean’s freckles, the way his eyes shine, and the deep seated knowledge that he can always rely on Dean to have his back. His little brother—yes, that’s the underlying problem, but it’s also the only sure thing in Sam’s life and he wouldn’t trade that for anything. He lowers his head. “Next question.”
“What do you value most in friendships?”
“What friendships?” asks Sam dryly.
“Aw, don’t be like that,” says Dean. “You have me.”
“Alright. Then I value when I get the first shower or when there’s at least some hot water left.” This morning wasn't fun.
“Older brother privilege. I get first shower, bitch.”
“Can I get a sip of your beer?”
Dean raises his eyebrows.
“I value sharing,” Sam says.
“Dude, Dad’s gonna kill me if he knew.”
“No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t care. And he’s not gonna know.”
“You’re too young,” says Dean.
“And when did you have your first beer with Dad, hm?”
“With Dad. Doesn’t mean he’d want me drinking on my own. You can drink when you’re my age.” Dean grins.
“You’re okay with me killing someone, but not with me taking a sip of your beer.”
“Don’t be crass,” he says, but Sam can tell he already relented. “Fine, alright, but only one sip.”
Dean passes him the bottle. Sam stares at him defiantly and takes a huge gulp. It’s bitter, but not too bad. He could probably get used to it.
“That was more than a sip.” Dean doesn’t show concern about it but does take the bottle back.
“One sip, one swallow, same thing practically.” Sam wipes his mouth. “What are you gonna do about it?”
Dean shakes his head and raises the bottle to his lips. He doesn’t wipe away Sam’s spit. They never do that, unless Sam wants to show how annoyed he is that Dean drank from Sam’s bottle.
The quiz is in the hand that’s still on the backrest and easy for Sam to snatch away. He skims through to get to the right questions and reads, “Number 17. What is your most treasured memory?”
“Dude, it’s still my turn to read.” He snags the paper back.
“I’ll apologize if I get another sip.”
“You just had one.”
“That’s your second bottle, so I get another one for the first one.” Second one since Sam came home, but Sam doesn’t think he had too many more before that.
“That’s not how anything works.”
“Two bottles, two sips. I’m the one who won the math prize.”
Dean bursts out laughing so hard his eyes crinkle. “Alright, fine. But don’t overdo it, you’re going too much too fast for someone who never drank before.”
Dean holds the bottle this time, tipping carefully so Sam doesn’t choke, and Sam lets him, only takes as much as Dean gives him. Dean is watching the bottle and Sam is watching him.
Dean puts the bottle on the coffee table. “Okay, I’m ready,” he says.
“Ready for what?” asks Sam.
“You promised me an apology.”
Sam huffs. “I’m sorry I got sick of waiting for you to read the next question and did it myself.”
Dean shoves him, but he’s smiling. “Little shit.” He says it with so much affection Sam rarely hears. He grabs Sam’s arms and pulls him closer. Sam goes willingly, but then Dean throws an arm around him and holds him in a headlock.
“Hey!” Sam wiggles a bit and Dean lets up—his arm, however, is still around Sam.
“So,” says Dean. “What is your most treasured memory?” he repeats the question.
If Sam could have his way that moment is yet to come. He relaxes into him, just a bit so Dean doesn’t notice—or at least won’t think it’s on purpose. “You first.”
“Well… You took your first step towards me.”
Sam swallows hard and peeks up at him.
“I mean,” Dean answers his silent question, “You already listed pretty much all of them.”
All of his treasured memories involve Sam, is what he hears. Him. Not Paula Roberts or jerking off to a porn star.
There’s a pleasant warmth in Sam—from the alcohol and Dean next to him and his words.
His head is against Dean’s shoulder and the amulet on Dean’s chest is right in his line of sight. The one Sam gave him, that he always wears, to hunts, to bed, in the shower. Sam grabs the strings and holds it between his fingers, letting the amulet dangle. Dean is silent.
Sam’s most treasured memories… They might just be the ones where Dean put him first. Made sure Sam had a nice Christmas, even though that one didn’t always work out. Gave Sam the last lucky Charms, even though Dean didn’t have any yet. Came home the instant Sam called him, even though he was out on a date.
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“You falling asleep on me? The beer already hitting you?”
“No, neither. I’m thinking.”
“Ah, I wondered what that smell was.”
Sam smiles but doesn’t allow himself to get riled up. “You’re not funny.”
“You wanna answer the question? You’re the one who wanted to do this in the first place.”
“I dunno how to answer it,” says Sam. It isn’t really a lie.
“Okay,” says Dean. He sounds off. “Next one then. What is your most terrible memory?”
Sam sighs heavily. Dean’s hand is snug around Sam’s upper arm.
“I don’t know, Dean. How can I rank them when there are so many where you came home half-dead from a hunt, or where I saw you get fucking ripped apart by some monster right in front of me, or when—or when you go off with Dad on a job and I’m supposed to stay back and wait and figure out what it even is you’re after before it kills you both. What’s my most terrible memory supposed to be?”
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean whispers.
Sam can’t look at Dean’s face. He wishes the TV was still on to fill the silence, to provide some distraction. He stares at the black screen anyway.
“For what it’s worth, my most terrible memory is when you disappeared in Flagstaff. And when you get hurt on hunts—I hate that too. You gotta be more careful, man.”
Sam huffs. How careful they are isn’t the issue.
“But we’ll be fine, alright?”
Sam shrugs weakly, fiddles with the necklace.
Dean holds the paper so Sam can see too and Sam quietly reads along when he says, “If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?”
“Well, I fucking wish I could change anything, but nobody ever listens to me, do they?”
“Sammy…” Dean says softly.
“Sam,” he corrects.
“Sam,” Dean says, no less soft. “Be realistic, you know what’s out there. You need to know how to protect yourself.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s our responsibility to do anything about it.”
Sam doesn't know how much he really believes that. But fuck if he doesn’t hate it. It certainly shouldn’t be his responsibility when he’s still in school. He doesn’t want it to be his responsibility at all.
“I hate it.”
Audibly frustrated, Dean sighs into his hair. They had this discussion before and Dean knows better than to engage him. “Let’s not talk about that. Here, what does friendship mean to you?”
“You,” says Sam. With a stubborn bite behind it. He can see the next question.
Dean waits a few seconds. “Same back at ya,” he says eventually. “What roles do love and affection play in your life?”
Sam moves his nose against Dean’s neck and breathes in.
“You,” he says again.
He closes his eyes. Dean is the most comforting smell in the world.
“That doesn’t even answer the question really,” Dean says this time.
It’s ingrained in him; he’s sure he could recognize Dean out of a million people by his scent. It’s captivating too—he doesn’t want to breathe out once he inhales, feels like it could sustain him alone. It’s dependable, it’s his compass, it’s the smell of home.
“You,” Sam says again.
“You’re not making grammatical sense.” Dean doesn’t sound like he’s arguing. His cheek is on top of Sam's head.
Sam stays silent.
He can hear the click of Dean’s swallow.
“Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items,” reads Dean. “Wanna give me compliments?”
“You’re protective,” says Sam, save in Dean’s arms. He slowly opens his eyes.
“Damn right. And you’re a real bitch sometimes, but usually you’re pretty nice to hang around, when you’re not being annoying.”
“Shut up, you jerk. You’re not taking this seriously.”
“I think I am. You’re the smartest person I know.”
Sam smirks. “Smarter than Dad?”
Dean hums non-committedly. “And you can be a good hunter when you want to be.”
“I don’t want to be.”
“You still are, even then.”
Sam straightens himself, still close to Dean but leaning on him less, and brings his feet down to the floor.
“I mean, nothing compared to me of course,” Dean continues.
Sam rolls his eyes and smiles at him. Dean didn’t remove his arm, holding it loosely over Sam’s shoulder.
“And you got damn lucky with—” he gestures at Sam’s body and head.
“Handsomer than you?” Sam jokes, sure he doesn’t mean anything like that.
“No way. I mean you’re taller than me. Only by half an inch, but still.”
“I’m gonna be even taller when I’m done growing.”
Dean gives a small smile. His gaze is unfocused. He finishes the drink and stands to get another one.
“You think you’re funnier than you are, but you are a little bit funny,” Sam says as Dean goes to the kitchen. Sam doesn’t raise his voice. “You get very enthusiastic when you like something, and I love how you smile when you’re happy. I wish I could be as laid back as you, and when I was younger I thought you were the epitome of cool. And you’re very very attractive.” Sam goes quieter the more compliments pour out, to a point where he’s not sure if Dean can still hear him from the nook that is the kitchen. Confessing is easier when Dean isn’t here, when Sam doesn’t see him listening. He could turn around to check if Dean is, and he’s tempted to keep talking. He doesn’t do either.
Dean comes back, looking like he’s in pain, and has two beers with him. He doesn’t say anything, gives Sam a bottle, and picks up the paper with the quiz.
“How close and warm is your family? Do you feel your childhood was happier than most other people’s?” Dean schools his face to neutrality and opens both their beers with his ring. “We’re close.”
“He raises us like soldiers.”
“He’s trying his best.”
Dean is. More so than Dad. Dean is the reason he can begin to say his childhood was happy. Still, in comparison to most people’s…
“I don’t know what I would have done without you,” he says honestly.
“But you do have me.” Dean’s voice is quiet, and he gives Sam a tender look that speaks of adoration. It’s almost something sad, something nostalgic, and usually it’s directed at Sam when he breaks his bratty teenage shell. He feels vulnerable and protected at the same time when Dean makes those eyes, makes him feel flustered and light.
Sam breaks eye contact and hunches his shoulders. He knows Dean only sees ‘little brother’ when he gets like that, the big brother protectiveness soaring.
It stops abruptly, Dean closes off as he glances at the next question.
“What is it?” asks Sam.
“How do you feel about your relationship with your mother?” Dean flicks the paper at Sam. “End of set two. Your turn.”
Without looking back Sam reads the beginning of the third set. “Make three true ‘we’ statements each. For instance, ‘We are both in this room feeling…’”
A long pause, then Dean starts. “We are both in this room bored out of our minds to be doing this.”
Sam isn’t so sure how true that is anymore, but if that’s the excuse Dean needs to continue this then he’s not going to argue.
“We are both… We are both too young to be hunting,” says Sam even though he hates to bring it up again. This is supposed to make Dean fall in love with him, not—not punch him in the face with things they don’t see eye to eye on.
“We both had nice dates today but ditched them.”
“Wait what?”
“Yeah.” Dean shrugs lamely. “Joana wanted to go out with me.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You had your date with Sonia, and I wanted to be home in case you needed me to pick you up. Or if it didn’t work out and you came back early.”
“Why?” asks Sam carefully. Dean doesn’t often ditch his dates for Sam. Well, he does when Sam asks him to, but not like that, not on his own.
Dean shrugs again, putting on fake nonchalance Sam can see right through. “You don’t go out often. Had to make sure you’d be fine. Be lucky I didn’t chaperone you.”
He would have liked it if Dean had been there. Instead of Sonia, that is. But that would have been less of a chaperone, and more of a—
Maybe that is what’s happening now. After all, they are doing what Sonia planned for her and Sam.
“We are both too young to drink,” says Dean.
“Duh,” says Sam.
“And we’re not gonna tell Dad about this.” Dean regards him seriously.
Sam makes a face, not quite an eye roll but enough to convey what he thinks to Dean. Sure, Dad’s not happy when Dean becomes reckless with drunkenness, but drinking beers at home would be safe enough by Dad’s standards. “You have a skewed sense of what Dad would and would not be okay with. Like he’d care we’re drinking. He let’s us shoot guns at people.”
“Monsters. Not people. And you must know first hand what Dad’s okay with and what not, the way you argue all the time, huh?”
“Not my fault he’s being a prick.”
“Hey, don’t talk about Dad like that.”
“You gonna snitch on me?”
“And then what? Watch you yell at each other for half an hour?”
This isn’t going the way Sam was hoping for. He resolutely doesn’t look at Dean and jerks his elbow hard into Dean’s ribs. Dean shoves him but doesn’t scoot away.
Sam doesn’t engage and moves on. “I wish I had someone with whom I could share…” A normal life, Sam thinks and hopes Dean wants the same, then tries to think of something else to fill the blank.
“Some opinions, you stubborn bastard,” says Dean without heat behind it.
“Agree to disagree, then.” Sam fiddles with one corner of the paper. “I wish I had someone with whom I could share my first kiss,” he says and keeps his tone neutral.
He can’t help but glance at Dean, whose eyes go wide. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet?”
“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t have said it. Unless we’re counting yours?”
“Mine?” asks Dean, brows furrowing.
“When you used to kiss me. You don’t do that anymore.”
Of course he doesn’t, Sam isn’t eight anymore. But, God, does he miss it sometimes. He doesn’t want them back because of that—the ones to his forehead or his cheek or his injuries would be enough. If he can’t have the real kisses he wants to have these ones.
Dean’s eyes soften, but his face freezes in a grimace. Maybe it’s pity. Dean licks his lips, spit-wet, and for a second it seems like he’s going to say something, but then he downs half of his bottle in one go. “Go on with the quiz,” he says, voice strained like he might be suppressing a burp.
Sam slowly and deeply inhales and doesn’t sigh. “If you were going to become a close friend with your partner, please share what would be important for him or her to know. I would have told you if I had, you know? Kissed someone.”
“Got no secrets from me?” Dean asks, his gaze on Sam is relentless, and Sam’s face heats up.
“Almost,” he whispers, can’t lie to Dean when he’s hypnotizing him like that.
Dean purses his lips. It’s a displeased gesture but Sam’s mind jumps to something else.
“I slept with a guy before,” says Dean. Sam’s breath stocks, he’s sure Dean notices. “Once. And it wasn’t like, the full on butt thing—only, you know, hands and mouth.”
Sam doesn’t. Only in theory, but he has never much entertained the thought of Dean doing any of that, didn’t even consider it a possibility. Not a real one anyway. Dean has never hinted at being interested in guys before. It doesn’t necessarily mean he is; maybe he was curious and ended up not liking it. He said he only did it once, and even ignoring that this experiment is terribly unlikely to work on Dean, and it’s irrational to hope.
Well, hope isn’t always something rational.
He hasn’t tried any more of the beer yet, so he takes two big swallows. It settles pleasantly in his belly, and he’s sure he’s going to feel some effects soon.
“Sammy?”
“Yeah?” Sam bites out.
“You good there?”
“Yeah,” Sam says and clears his throat. He doesn’t read on for a few long moments, hoping Dean will elaborate. Dean doesn’t and Sam doesn’t want to ask, for fear of how he will sound. “Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time, saying things that you might not say to someone you’ve just met.”
Didn’t they already do this? He recalls quite vividly gushing over all those qualities he adores about Dean. When Dean wasn’t there.
“Well, since you were so sparse in compliments that other question, why don’t you start now? I couldn’t quite hear you last time.” Dean’s grin is wide and teasing and Sam knows with a turn of his stomach that he heard him. It makes him nauseous and giddy at the same time. Dean heard and wants him to repeat—That’s the more important part, he wants Sam to say more.
“I like your freckles. And your eyes,” Sam says, slowly gaining confidence. “And your lips. And your whole face. And your body. And you have freckles on your back, did you know that?”
Dean’s ears turn red, and he appears faintly surprised, like he didn’t expect Sam to actually go for it. To be so bold, and to mention a feature he doesn’t like to acknowledge often about himself.
“You’re cute,” Dean says, but not in a condescending way. His voice is rough. “Especially when you get angry. And you’re filling up muscle already, all that training is gonna be worth it eventually—already is—but now you’re still all lanky and floppy-haired and shit, and yeah, that’s cute. Your eyes are… nice too. And the mole by your nose is adorable. You have two, there’s a smaller one by your chin.”
Sam’s chest is incredibly warm, but he doesn’t know how to take Dean’s words. It’s one thing talking about Dean, but hearing how Dean sees him… He’s nothing like Dean, not suave, not as strong, not as attractive. Sure, he’s taller, but that doesn’t make him hotter, it makes him lanky.
At least he doesn’t think his hair is stupid like he always says.
“Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life,” Sam reads and ends in a long pained sound.
“Oh, I can answer that for you,” says Dean and smirks. “You believed in the Easter Bunny until three years ago.”
“Hey, that’s not even a moment.” And it was Dean’s fault anyway.
“Yeah, that’s a whole embarrassing era in your life. Same with your haircut—“
“You just said you liked it.”
Dean snaps his mouth shut. “Huh, I guess I did,” he says instead of deflecting. “Fine, tell me a real embarrassing moment, then.”
“Pretty sure you already know most of them.”
“Tell me the first thing that comes to mind.”
Sam sighs. “Fine, but no using it against me. In my last school someone put a note on my back on my first day. I didn’t notice until lunch.”
“What did it say?”
“Ask me about my third nipple,” he mumbles and bites his lip hard.
To his surprise, Dean doesn’t laugh. “You know who did it?”
“No,” he says. His lip tastes salty and metallic. “But it felt like the whole school was in on it.”
Dean’s face says then the whole school will get their lungs ripped out. But he won’t be able to do anything, this was back in Florida.
Sam licks the blood away. Dean is watching him, waiting for him to offer more information. Sam takes another drink. He wants to tell him more, have Dean punch someone for him. His current school is nice enough but he could make something up and watch Dean show his love to Sam.
It’s not the kind he wants though.
“Well, there you have it. Your turn.”
Dean huffs and drinks as well. He tilts his head, and a moment later he says, “Hm, alright, I have something. This’ll cheer you up. I don’t remember how old I was, but it was a few years back—Actually, you were eleven at the time, so I must have been fifteen. Those guys invited me to skip school with them, and we hung out at one of their places. There were a few girls too. And that guy got into his parents stash. I thought at the time this must be what being drunk is like, but looking back I only had a bit of a buzz going on. Well, a pretty damn good buzz.”
“With fifteen? Dean.”
“Hey, you’re fifteen now and you’re drinking. Don’t tell me you’re not buzzed.”
“I’m not getting drunk though. I’m maybe tipsy.”
“Tipsy is more drunk than having a buzz.”
“Not tipsy, then. Buzzed.” Not like he had a way to fact-check Dean right now.
Dean laughs. “Anyway, someone suggested we play seven minutes in heaven, and—no nice way to put it. I couldn’t hold my liquor yet, like at all, and I puked on her.”
“On her?” asks Sam.
“Pretty sure some got in her mouth.”
“Ew, Dean! Disgusting,” howls Sam.
“I was so glad we left town a few days after.”
“Yeah, I bet.” He feels a bit sick thinking about Dean’s story. He’s not sure if it’s thinking about puking or thinking about Dean kissing some girl. He tries not to glare.
He takes his bottle, drinks some, and it doesn’t help. Makes it worse, his head feels a bit like it’s swimming, so he puts it back on the table.
Over by the door something hushes across the wooden flooring. Probably a cockroach. Sam glares at that instead of Dean and pulls his feet up, his knees into Dean’s lap, and leans more into Dean. Like they sat before, but Dean doesn’t have his arm around him.
“Gonna continue?” asks Dean and reclines into the backrest, stretches. It only gives Sam more room to plaster himself to his side.
“Yeah, okay,” he says. “When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?”
Dean hums. “Last time you got hurt real bad maybe.”
“Yeah,” agrees Sam. He remembers Dad driving him to the hospital, Dean with him in the backseat, and those tears he thought Dean didn’t notice.
“Do you cry by yourself?” asks Dean softly.
“No,” says Sam. It’s probably a lie but he can’t think of a time. Angry tears after a fight with Dad perhaps.
“You get pretty emotional, when you’re not all closed off.”
Sam punches him. It’s a weak one, Dean catches his hand and holds it for a moment before releasing it.
“Tell your partner something that you like about them already.”
“Oh come on,” says Dean. “We already did that like twice. I’m not giving you any more compliments.”
“You’re not getting any more ego strokes from me either,” Sam says. A tiny bitter voice in his mind whispers Dean has nothing more to say. “What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?”
“Mom,” says Dean. “Next.”
Sam leaves it at that. “Number 33. If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?”
Dean’s mouth twitches and he looks away, brows furrowing like he is contemplating something. “I’m a pretty open book, no secrets.”
“Yeah, right,” says Sam.
“You got any regrets if you died tonight, Sam?”
“Depends on if I die now or later tonight,” he dares to say. Hopes enough to say.
Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs repeatedly, and he rakes a hand through his hair. Sam’s probably not going to get any more from Dean on this one.
“Your home, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?”
“Heh. You’re in my arms already, got no place for a final item and don’t need one.”
Sam draws in a sharp breath. He doesn’t know why there’s a lump in his throat, but he does know how to read the expression on Dean’s face.
Dean glances away, then his attention returns to Sam. He’s sincere and his whole demeanor speaks of devotion to Sam. Dean is the constant in Sam’s life, he’s at the center of Sam’s whole world, and the knowledge that it’s the same for Dean is overwhelming. He knew that already, of course he did—always knew that deep in his soul, but he’s so fucking in love with him it’s not butterflies anymore but an everlasting timeless pull, and it’s hard to imagine Dean could ever reciprocate that too. To be loved back like that seems like an impossible to resolve wish.
Sam wants so badly for Dean to put his arm around him again.
“Read the last question, Sammy,” says Dean without bothering to ask for Sam’s answer.
“Of all p—” his voice is stuttery and he tries again. “Of all people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?”
“I mean, you’re younger than me, so would be pretty disturbing if you died first.”
Sam doesn’t bother finding a reason for his answer. It’s self-evident. “You’re my brother, of course I’d take your death the hardest.”
“Yeah.” Dean’s right there with him, Sam realizes. “C’mere, little brother.” Dean finally reaches around and holds him again, properly. In his arms, like when he saved him from the fire.
“That was the second to last one,” says Sam. “Now we’re at the final question. And there’s something else after that. Share a personal problem and ask your partner’s advice on how he or she might handle it. Also, ask your partner to reflect back to you how you seem to be feeling about the problem you have chosen.”
“Hm. You got something?” asks Dean.
“Yeah…” He stops, not sure if he should. In the window snowflakes are softly floating down, probably not going to stick around once landed. He focuses on that instead of Dean, but it’s still hard to come out with it. “So… You have experience. With dating.”
“Yeah?”
He hesitates. His voice is quiet. “I like someone,” Sam says. He can sense Dean’s gaze on himself. “And I don’t know how to tell that person, or if I should. And if they like me back.”
“They?”
“He. It’s a boy.” That’s easier to admit, he’s sure Dean already knew.
“You have a crush and you don’t know if you should act on it?”
“It’s not a crush. It’s… I’m very in love.” There’s a hand on Sam’s waist and a face close to his. Sam says, “When he touches me I feel all warm inside. And when he’s close to me my lips tingle. I want to know what his feel like. Do you think I should do something?”
“What do you want to do?” whispers Dean like he can’t guess.
“Everything,” says Sam. “It’s not even about the sexual, it’s not—I mean, it’s that too, I can’t stop thinking about wanting to kiss him, but I want to just be close too. And I want to touch him and I want him to touch me. And I want him to love me too. I don’t know if I should tell him.”
“What… what do you love about him?” There is a scratch in Dean’s voice, something rough.
“He’s charming,” says Sam carefully. “And strong and gorgeous, and he has the most beautiful eyes.” Dean snorts faintly. “And his lips look really soft, always, even when they’re dry and cracked, because they’re so plump and I always wonder what they would feel like on my skin and—“
“Okay, okay. That’s—” Dean takes in a ragged breath.
“What do you think he’d say if I told him?”
Sam let’s the paper fall and grabs Dean’s amulet. Keeps his hand on Dean’s chest, his heartbeat in Sam’s palm.
“I don’t know, Sam.”
“Do you think I could kiss him?” whispers Sam. Dean won’t catch his eyes. “Dean.”
“When he has no idea you’re interested in him? Don’t surprise him like that, kisses gotta be consensual too, Sammy.”
“And if he does have an idea? What do you think he’d do if I kissed him anyway?” He can hear the whine in his tone and can’t do anything about it.
“Do you think he knows?”
If Dean could just turn his head and look at Sam. “Yeah.”
“I can’t tell you, Sam,” Dean says. His voice is small.
“Why not?” whines Sam. “What should I do about my problem?”
A mixture of emotions passes across Dean’s face, all of them seem like they’re hurting him inside. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t deflect either, doesn’t try to make a joke.
He’s past reluctance and into sheer denial of Sam’s problem. “How do you think I seem to be feeling about the problem I’ve chosen, then?”
Dean’s shoulders slump, his arm goes limp on Sam. “I don’t think you’ve chosen anything. There was never any other problem this whole thing could have been about, hm?”
“No,” whispers Sam. He has more to say, more to talk about, but Dean isn’t answering in the way he wants. Dean untangles himself from Sam and brings a few inches of space between them. The knot in his throat stings. “No,” he says again.
“What’s the last part, Sammy?”
Sam’s ribs grow tight on him. He sees it as the dismissal it is.
He scrambles to find the quiz—it slipped off the couch—and then reads tonelessly, “Congratulations, you've answered all the questions. Now for the hard part. In order to solidify your love, you have to look into your partner's eyes for four minutes. In silence. It's hard, and you'll squirm, but you'll learn an incredible amount. Good luck.”
Sam stares at the words for a moment and raises his head to Dean running a hand over his neck. Dean leans in and there’s a flash of something hot and swoopy in Sam’s stomach, but Dean only takes Sam’s almost empty bottle from the coffee table and downs it.
“So, how are we doing this?” asks Dean.
“I don’t know…” Sam draws one leg up, the one on Dean’s side, so he’s sitting angled towards Dean, who has both feet on the floor and is staring right ahead. Sam shifts a few inches closer until his knee presses into Dean’s thigh.
Finally, Dean turns to face him.
“On three?” asks Dean. Sam answers with a quick nod, eager to start this, eager to have Dean’s focus. “Okay. One, two, go.”
Dean’s gaze snaps up, his eyes dancing between Sam’s until they settle on one. They’re staring at each other unblinkingly, and at first it’s horribly awkward. What is Dean thinking? Does he like what he sees? Sam has to consciously try and push those thoughts away. Dean likes his eyes. He said so.
Sam’s sweaty hands clutch the paper and he focuses on Dean’s eyes. They’re heavy-lidded and glossy. Forest green, but they seem darker than usual. His pupils are blown wide open, probably because of the low lighting.
Maybe that’s from the alcohol, or the way his breathing is too heavy, but he has a sensation of falling into his eyes. He allows himself to blink, to remove the sting from his own eyes and that clears his head somewhat, but Dean’s eyes seem all the closer for it. Did he move?
They’re overpowering, the green threads, the black void, and knowing he can look into them for the next few minutes completely uninterrupted. It’s mesmerizing him to the point where he doesn’t think he could move if he wanted to. That’s alright—It’s comforting, when Dean’s like that, open and giving him his full undivided attention. He always makes him feel calm and like he’ll be okay, that’s one of the base emotions that come with being around Dean, settled right next to the love and trust.
This is his favorite place in the world. His favorite state to be.
Dean blinks and shifts against his knee. He can hear Dean breathing, is sure Dean can hear his heart beating, can read it in his eyes the way it’s pounding for him, always for Dean.
Sam loves him so much it scares him. This feeling will never go away, he knows that like he knows Dean is home. Even if Dean never loves him back like this, Sam can be content knowing he got to experience a feeling this intense at all. Just this could be enough, if Dean never looks away, if they can make this last and never leave this moment.
Dean knows. It’s a certainty deep in his bones.
Dean keeps licking his lips, the movement of his tongue trying to draw Sam’s attention, but he’s affixed to Dean’s eyes. Sam could cry, he wants it. He wants it so much, it burns in chest and burns in his eyes. It’s tears, maybe, welling up.
“Please,” Sam whispers, so quiet and reverent it’s nothing but a prayer, only for Dean’s ear. Broke a rule, the silence. Dean’s eyebrows draw together like it puts him in distress. Had he only looked at him sooner—Sam will make his best eyes at him and beg and mewl if it means Dean won’t refuse him.
A palm on Sam’s thigh—hot, even through his pants, and a flush rushes up from his groin and spreads through his whole body. He shivers in pleasure and feels it all over, a fiery sensation in his belly, and all the way up to his scalp. His heartbeat is in his neck and drumming against his ribs.
He strains his leg into the touch. Every movement is too goddamn slow—and even then he knows this moment will end and then Dean will move away before they get to anything good.
They didn’t set a timer.
That seems irrelevant at first and makes him ecstatic right after. Nothing is going to interrupt them, time is standing still.
Dean breaks an instruction too, his eyes fall shut and Sam keeps watching, holding his breath. Dean doesn’t kiss him, keeps still and shakes. His hand clenches on Sam’s thigh.
Sam doesn’t have butterflies, doesn’t feel nervous. It’s tranquil. It’s a physical weight in him—the way Dean draws him in. Constant and everlasting. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it’s a comfort. Sometimes when it’s all of that at once he feels he might overflow from all the emotions.
“Sammy.” Dean’s voice is unsteady and wrecked, graveled. Sam is burning, glowing from the inside and Dean just stoked the fire.
Dean resolutions are hanging by a threat and Sam could. Dean’s head hangs low, and Sam’s hand is trembling when he reaches out to touch his face, cup his cheek. Dean leans into it and doesn’t open his eyes.
Sam smells the beer on Dean’s breath. Both their mouths are parted slightly and the air between them mixes together. He yearns to smell his skin and aches to taste his tongue and craves to lick his lips.
He can’t take the first step, Dean doesn’t want him to. They’re trapped in their moment, but that’s enough for now.