Archive of Our Own ^beta

He left them in the evening, taking off with a few muttered words. Though they'd meant to be celebrating as a family, Sam and Dean are familiar with his absence, and comfortable in each other's company. They're too old to be disappointed, and anyway, now that John's not here they can pull the whiskey from underneath Dean's bed and drink it right from the bottle.

So that's exactly what Dean does. He turns up the radio as loud as it can go, pulls the bottle from under his bed, and snaps the top of the bottle off with the penknife he keeps in his pocket.

Sam, cross legged on his own bed, raises an eyebrow when Dean takes a long swig from the bottle. It burns, but Dean is too proud to cough or grimace. He grins and licks his lips.

"Your turn, Sammy." Dean drawls, holding out the whiskey to his little brother.

"Dude." Sam laughs. "How long have you been hiding that bottle?"

"Since Illinois." Dean admits. "Been saving it for a special occasion."

"Huh." Sam shakes his head. He's never been able to hold his drink well. Dean thinks Sam doesn't like being drunk because he becomes so open and willing, and sober Sam is a wound-up ball of self restraint. "No thanks."

"C'mon. It's New Years!" Dean protests. He wiggles the bottle, still grinning. Sam will give in. He always does. "We've gotta celebrate!"

"What, by throwing up in the sink?"

Dean splutters.

"That was one time! One time, Sam!"

"I'm still not drinking with you."

"Yeah, you are."

"Oh yeah? You gonna make me?"

"I could." Dean says, his grin growing devilish. "You know I could."

Sam rolls his eyes, but there's a familiar smile playing around his mouth. He always concedes to Dean eventually. Sam has those damned puppy dog eyes, but Dean has his own advantage - he's Sam's big brother. Sam might be tall and lanky and fiercely independent, but he's still the baby, and Dean won't let him forget it.

"C'mon, Sammy." Dean wiggles the bottle again. "You know you want to."

"Whatever." Sam mutters. He grabs the bottle from Dean's hand, his fingers large and warm when they touch Dean's, and then he takes a long swig from the bottle. Dean watches his throat as he swallows.

Sam coughs.

"And you call yourself a Winchester?" Dean laughs.

"Shut up." Sam grumbles, looking very embarrassed.

They pass the bottle between them as the radio plays, and tell stories of old hunts. Sam tells Dean his plan for the future, and Dean notices how none of them seem to involve him. The night gets darker, and as the moon rises so does the drunk flush in Sam's cheeks.

Dean's in a fantastic mood. He likes drinking. He likes bars and shots and bottles. And he doesn't get to do it much, but he really likes drinking with Sam. It's fun seeing his brother like this, no longer stern and serious. Sam leans his chin on his hand and his eyes crinkle the way they used to when he was just a kid.

So Dean's enjoying himself. He's tapping his foot to the music, singing along, when he catches Sam looking at him.

"What?" Dean asks, the bottle halfway to his lips. Sam shakes his head, his eyes flickering to his feet. He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear with a shy little smile.

"Nothing." He says softly. "Hey, remember that werewolf? Back in Colorado?"

And they're off again, laughing about the past. They've shared so many memories together that they never run out of stories to tell. Dean is enjoying himself more than he has in a long time, and he realises suddenly how nice it is to spend time with his brother when Sam's not fighting with John or disappearing off to God knows where. He makes the most of it, Sam's time. He never wants the night to end.

"Hey." Sam says after a while. He speaks warmly, his tongue loosened by the whiskey. "This is nice, you know? Been a while since we hung out just the two of us."

"You're not about to get all chick-flick on me, are you?"

"No." Sam scowls. "I'm just saying, Dean. We don't usually, I don't know, have fun like this. Not anymore."

Dean offers his brother a crooked smile. He's right. As Sam grew up up he became less willing to follow John blindly, and he won't listen to Dean anymore either. They argue often. The three of them used to be joined at the hip, and in some ways they still are, but Sam is his own person. It's terrifying knowing one day Sam could, and probably will, take off without a backwards glance. How will Dean protect him then? What would he do without him?

"We could." Dean says. "If you, I dunno, listened to Dad more often."

"Oh, right. I forgot. You want me to roll over and follow his orders like a good little boy?" Sam laughs bitterly. Dean prickles with irritation. "I don't think so, Dean."

"Show some respect." Dean warns him.

Sam lifts a shoulder in a shrug, his eyes hard and defiant. He's always had this fire in him, this urge to rebel and disobey. Dean doesn't understand it.

"Respect is earned." Sam says. He takes a long swig of whiskey, and his lips shine under the dim motel light. "He hasn't earned it."

"What, so you don't respect Dad?" Dean asks. "You don't respect me?"

Sam looks at him strangely. His eyes soften, and Dean feels like he's missing something.

"You're not Dad. Course I respect you, Dean." He smiles a little, looking down into the bottle. "You're my big brother."

There's a silence for a moment as he takes that in. It's been a while since Sam called him his big brother. When he reached his teenage years he was distant from Dean, sullen and irritable. He liked avoiding Dean at whatever school they were attending that month, and he still hates admitting he's the youngest. But the whiskey has softened his resolve, made him open and pliable. Dean can't find it in himself to continue the argument. Not when Sam's looking at him like that, with those wide puppy eyes.

"Let's just drop it." Dean says, and swallows a thick lump in his throat. He holds out his hand for the whiskey and gulps it down, letting out a loud gasp when he's finished. "That's better."

"Steady." Sam laughs, but he takes a similarly large gulp. "You know, it doesn't taste that bad, once you get used to it."

Dean reaches forward and tousles his hair.

"That's my boy." He says affectionately. Through his tipsy haze he hears a familiar guitar solo. "Oh! I love this song!"

Midnight is drawing closer. But if there's one thing Dean can count on with drunk Sam, it's that he'll start conversations that Dean really doesn't want to have. A sense of dread overcomes him when Sam sets the bottle of the whiskey on the floor and says, with a nervous look in his eyes,

"Hey, Dean? Can I ask you something?"

Dean grabs the bottle from the floor quickly.

"Lay it on me."

"...If I went to college, would you be mad?"

Something twists inside of Dean, some red-hot, possessive anxiety. He clenches his jaw, and when he looks at Sam he gets the sudden urge to shake him. It wouldn't do any good. Sam has been thinking about this for a long time.

"Hell yeah I'd be mad." Dean grumbles. "What, you gonna leave me and Dad on our own? Go off and live some apple-pie life? We've talked about this, you already know what I think. We're a family, Sam."

"Yeah, but-" Sam bites his lip. "Family isn't everything. Isn't there anything you want outside of this life?"

"I have everything I need." Dean says bitterly.

Sam won't look at him. He plays with his fingers, his head bowed.

"But I don't. I want-"

"That's exactly the problem." Dean interrupts. "It's all about what you want. You're selfish, you know that? You only care about yourself."

Sam looks up, an angry glint in his eyes.

"Nevermind. I shouldn't have asked. Dunno know why I thought you'd support me." Sam mutters.

"Oh, don't give me that crap. I don't support you? Hell, I've been looking out for you your whole damned life!"

"Yeah, and that's exactly the problem." Sam says, his soft voice rising just a little. "You smother me, Dean."

Dean freezes. The words hurt, like a blade to the chest, and suddenly the alcohol hits him and he feels a wave of drunken despair. Why did it always end like this between them? Why couldn't he just have one fun night with his baby brother?

"Right." Dean mutters. He'd always thought that Sam needed him just much as he needed Sam, but looking at Sam now, Dean isn't so sure.

Sam's face softens, tinged with regret.

"Dean-" He begins to say.

Dean shakes his head. He stands quickly, knocking the almost empty bottle of whiskey onto the motel carpet. The remaining whiskey spills and stains the fabric, but Dean doesn't care. You smother me.

"It's okay, Sammy. You've made yourself clear." He says. "I'm going out. Don't wait up."

He moves to turn away, but he's stopped by Sam's hand on his arm. His grip is iron-tight, and no matter how much Dean pulls, he can't escape it.

"Let go of me." Dean says. Sam's face is shadowed by the hair hanging over his face, and in the dim motel Dean can't make out his expression.

"Don't go." Sam says gently. He looks up, and his eyes are warm and sincere, a little red around the edges. "Sit down. Let's forget about it."

"I don't think so."

"Dean." Sam pleads. His grip on Dean's wrist is so tight that it stings, and Dean knows there'll be a bruise there later. "C'mon. We never hang out anymore. Just stay with me."

Dean tries to hold on to his resolve, tries to keep his anger close, but Sam is looking at him with those eyes, and it's impossible to say no.

"I wouldn't want to smother you." Dean hisses.

"Please." Sam says, and Dean's resolve breaks entirely. "I didn't mean it. You know I didn't."

Dean doesn't know that. Not really. Sometimes he thinks Sam slips through his fingers like water, so unwilling to stay, and one day- one day he'll just be gone entirely. He sighs, looking at down at his little brother and knowing he'd give him anything he asked for.

"Sorry?" Sam offers. A smile twitches on his lips when he realises Dean isn't trying to pull away from him anymore, but his grip doesn't loosen. "I won't bring it up again. Promise."

Sam's eyes are still shining when he looks up at Dean. His eyes flicker over his older brother's face.

"...You'd call me, though, if I went to college?" Sam asks. "You'd come and see me sometimes?"

"Nah, it wouldn't work."

"What?"

"'M not an idiot, Sammy. You've been wanting to leave for years now. And surely you know that if you leave Dad, if you leave hunting? You leave me too. I'm wrapped up in it. It's a package deal."

In the dark, a flash of hurt passes over Sam's face.

"So you're saying it's you or college?"

Dean offers him a sad smile. He already knows what Sam will choose.

The tears sparkling in Sam's eyes overflow. He sniffs, rubbing hard at his face with his free hand. He's always cried easy, but especially when he's drunk. Seeing him cry has always softened Dean.

"Why do I have to lose you too?" Sam asks. He chokes on a sob. The words are hard for him to say, but harder for Dean to hear.

"You think I want this? Hell, Sammy I don't know what I'd do without you on the road with us. But I don't have a choice. My duty is to this family."

Sam rubs his eyes again, but the tears keep coming, hot and fast. From the motel room next to him, they hear cheers. Dean's eyes flicker to the clock and he realises it's midnight. The new year has come, but at what cost?

"Dean..." Sam says.

He tugs on Dean's wrist, and Dean falls forward. Sam clutches him, his hands bunched up in Dean's shirt as he holds him up. With damp eyes and a broken smile, Sam looks up at his older brother, and Dean's heart cracks just a little.

"I'm sorry." Sam says. "Happy New Year."

"I know." Dean murmurs. "Me too."

They look at each other as the clock chimes another minute. Sam still doesn't let go of him. His grip grows tighter, even more desperate, as he pulls Dean closer to him.

"Dean."

"What?"

"We should kiss." Sam says, his eyes glazed with cheap, store-bought whiskey. His eyes flicker to Dean's mouth, and Dean's world stops. "It's midnight. We should kiss."

"What-" Dean swallows. Sam's lips are parted, his face wet and open.

"I want to." Sam says. The hands that have been holding his chest so tightly move to his neck, warm and wanting, pulling him closer until Dean can see the green and yellow specks in Sam's eyes. "C'mon. Kiss me."

Dean takes a deep breath, feeling unsteady. He doesn't know why Sam is asking this, doesn't know what good it would do. They're not kids anymore, pressing wet kisses to each other's cheeks. There's nothing a kiss can do to make any of this better.

But Sam... Sam begs him.

"Please." He says softly. He'd never act like this, not if he wasn't drunk. "Please, Dean."

"For God's sake, Sammy." Dean says. But he doesn't say no.

Sam makes a frustrated noise and surges forward. He kisses Dean so hard that it almost knocks him backwards, and Dean, surprised, clutches at his button up shirt. For a moment, in his drunken state, Dean melts. He can't help it. Having Sam so close, so open to him, it's irresistible. He opens his mouth and kisses back, giving Sam what he needs right now. Sam's face is wet and warm in his hands.

But reality catches up quickly. With firm hands Dean shoves Sam back onto his bed, and Sam lands on his back. There's a long silence while Dean breathes heavily and looks down at his stupid, beautiful little brother.

"You should go to bed." Dean says, in a broken voice. "I'm going out."

"Dean." Sam sits up quickly. He brushes his hair away from his face, and his eyes are so desperate that Dean almost gives in to him. "Don't go. We gotta talk about this. I-"

"No, Sam." Dean says. He hardens his voice, steels himself against Sam's begging and pleading, tries not to let anything slip. "Do you understand? No."

"Look, I'm sorry, I'm sorry for everything, just stay, please-"

"I said no!" Dean yells, and Sam falls silent. His face closes off, and he looks like he's going to cry again. Regret tugs at Dean, painful and familiar, but he ignores it. "I'm leaving. Get some sleep."

When he comes back in the morning, John is back. Sam is quiet and sits in the back of the Impala with his eyes fixed on the window. And they don't talk about it. Sam doesn't ask again, and so they don't talk about it. And a few months later, his eyes blazing, Sam leaves Dean for Stanford.

Dean doesn't call. He doesn't drive to see Sam. But he wants to.

The next New Year they spend together, they sit on the boot of the impala and watch fireworks together.

They have a bottle of beer each, and their knees touch as they sit and look up at the sky silently. They're familiar with each other's company, so sometimes they don't need to talk. They just sit together, quiet and still, and utterly comfortable. Even though it hasn't been long since Jess died, even though John is still missing, they're happy in their own way.

Sam checks his watch.

"Almost midnight." He says.

"Hell of a year, huh?" Dean says.

"You can say that again." Sam offers him a smile, and drains his bottle. Dean passes him another wordlessly. "You tryna get me drunk?"

"Why? Is it working?"

Sam's pretty like this, lit up every now and then by fireworks. His eyes are bright when he looks over at Dean, and fond the way they used to be. The moment aches pleasantly. Dean takes a swig of his beer, and savours all of it. There's no telling when this sort of peace will come again, not in lives like theirs.

"Just a little." Sam offers him a teasing smile. "You know, Jess and I used to go to these... parties on New Year's Eve. She loved them."

Dean's eyes flicker to Sam. He hardly ever talks about Jess.

"You, at a party?"

"Ha ha. I did have a social life, you know, Dean."

"I find that hard to believe."

Sam scowls at him, but it's light hearted. It's fun, it's easy, the way they bickered when they were in school.

"You'd kiss her at midnight, then?" Dean asks. He keeps his expression emotionless, stares passively out into the night sky, trying to convince himself that whatever Sam answers, he'll accept it. "Suppose you did."

"Yeah." Sam says. Dean's heart drops, but then he adds, "On the cheek, though."

Dean's lips twitch. He knocks their shoulders together, strangely relieved. The possessive anger that had begun to burn inside of him fades and flickers out.

"Prude."

"Yeah." Sam says. But Dean knows better. The way Sam had gripped him, that New Year's Eve... It was desperate.

The comfortable silence lingers. Their knees stay pressed together. Sam sighs happily, the night breeze touching his cheeks and pushing back his hair, and Dean smiles at him.

"What?" Sam asks, and Dean shrugs.

"Just thinking." Dean says.

"About?"

"That's none of your business."

Sam laughs. He swings his feet, like a kid, and his eyes sparkle when another firework explodes above them.

"We should do stuff like this more often." Sam says. "Hang out, you know. Like we used to. It's nice."

"Good idea, Sam. You know, why don't we just leave Dad out there, wherever the hell he is, and go on vacation?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean says. He looks down at his beer bottle, waiting for the moment the clock strikes twelve. "I've got better things to do than hang out with my kid brother."

"Oh yeah?" Sam teases. "Like what?"

Sam has caught him in a lie, and Dean knows it. He scowls, pushing Sam hard, and Sam just laughs and catches his balance on the impala. He can't remember when Sam got so much taller and stronger than him, but at some point he did. It always surprises Dean.

"Three minutes." Sam says.

"You're counting it down? How old are you?"

Sam sends Dean a sad smile.

"I like the New Year." He says. "Maybe I'm just sentimental, I don't know, but it's nice to think I could have a fresh start."

"That's real cute." Dean says. He means it, a little.

"Shut up." Sam says, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes.

As another minute passes, Sam becomes visibly more and more tense. Dean drinks his beer and hopes to God he's not going to bring up the last New Year's Eve they spent together. But, of course, he does.

"Dean..." He starts to say. Dean watches him take a deep breath. "Do you remember the last New Year's Eve we spent together?"

Dean takes another swig of beer. He waits a moment, gathering his thoughts. He doesn't know how to tell Sam he never stopped thinking about it, no matter how long Sam was away from him.

"Sure. I spilled whiskey on the carpet."

"Yeah." Sam rubs his hands on his knees, visibly nervous. "That night, I asked you-"

"I remember." Dean says quickly, "You don't need to do a play by play. I know damned well what happened."

"C'mon. Hear me out."

"Do we have to talk about this? Really, Sam?"

Sam swallows. He looks like he'd rather be torn apart by a Wendigo than having this conversation, but he pushes on. He's always been the brave one, Dean thinks.

"You left..." Sam bites his lip. "You left me there. That night. Why did you leave? I begged you to stay."

"Stop." Dean says. "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Just don't." Dean shakes his head. "Don't you try and make me feel guilty about this. What the hell was I supposed to do? You asked me to do it. You asked me to kiss you."

"Oh, so you didn't want to?" Sam says. His eyes are blazing as he slips from the impala boot and spins around. He faces Dean, close and insistent, making sure Dean can't escape his eyes. "Well? Come on, answer the question. You didn't want to?"

Dean runs a hand over his face.

"Sammy, c'mon. Let's forget about it."

"I don't think so." Sam says, stepping closer to him. "Answer the damn question, Dean."

Dean looks up into Sam's blazing eyes, hard and alight with a passion that Dean understands, and he has to look away.

"Why are you doing this now?"

"Answer. The. Question."

Dean sighs, draining the last of his beer and throwing the bottle onto the grass. He looks up at Sam, and gives in.

"Yeah, of course I wanted to kiss you. You happy now? Does that make you feel better, hm?"

Sam, triumphant, steps closer still, until he's trapping Dean against the car.

"Then why did you leave?"

"You're the one who left. Went off to college, got yourself a pretty girlfriend. Don't you dare try and tell me I left you. I never have."

"But I wasn't gone yet. I was still in that motel room when you walked out of that door. You walked out of that door, Dean."

"Even then, I knew you were going to leave. Saw the damned college acceptance letters, didn't I? What's the point in making it harder for both of us by kissing you?"

"What, so you thought you'd just ignore it instead?"

"Hell yeah I did." Dean says. "And I'd encourage you to do the same."

Sam tilts his head. His eyes darken.

"No, I don't think so." He says. He's warm. Despite his frown and the hardness in his gaze, he's so very warm.

"So, what? You think we're just going to drive off into the sunset like Thelma and Louise?"

"You know, beneath all of that snark, I think you're scared." Sam says. "You're scared and you won't admit it. But I know the truth Dean. I know you. And I know what you really want."

"Right." Dean says. "What's that, then?"

Sam pauses. Now... Now he's hesitant. Dean realises his brother is far more nervous than he looks.

"Me." Sam says. And he's right. He's right, and Dean hates him for it.

But when Dean doesn't respond, Sam's eyes flicker with doubt.

"Don't you?" Sam asks, a little breathy and desperate, and fireworks explode above them suddenly, bright and loud.

"What time is it?" Dean asks. Sam blinks at him.

"What?"

"The time, Sam."

Sam looks down at his watch.

"Oh." He says. He looks up. "It's, uh, it's midnight."

Dean smiles. He looks down at Sam and knows that he should never have left that motel room. He's regretted it ever since. He takes the collar of Sam's coat in his hands and pulls him forward, the way Sam had that night, desperate hands in his oversized shirt.

"Dean." Sam says, his lips shining and his eyes bright. "Dean, please will you-"

He doesn't need to ask. They don't need to talk anymore. Dean kisses him, pulling Sam tight against him, warm and close. He's missed this. He opens his mouth, runs his hands through Sam's hair, and almost cries, because he's missed this. More than he thought possible.

Sam smiles against his mouth and pulls away, looking giddy and windswept.

"Dean." He says warmly. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip. "Thank you."

"Yeah, whatever." Dean mutters. He's a little embarrassed as he pulls Sam even closer, so they're pressed against each other, Sam practically in his lap. "Happy New Year, bitch."

Sam laughs. He buries his face in Dean's neck, tall and nerdy and beautiful, and murmurs Happy New Year, jerk, against his neck.