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Sam hasn't grown so fast since he went from crawling to complete sentences.
In the weeks since that awkward night at Bobby's, Dean can't help noticing how much his younger brother is changing. Sam's baby fat starts to fall away a little more every day, helped along by Dad's strict training regimens and his newfound love for the game of soccer. His voice gets deeper so gradually that Dean doesn't even notice until one day when he picks up the phone and doesn't recognize the voice on the other end. He grows like a weed, too, and Dean has already resigned himself to being shorter than his little brother before too long.
Sam also becomes a lot more aware of his own body and after that first time, his...experiences are a whole lot more intentional.
Dean discovers this the hard way (ha ha) one sweltering summer day, a month after Sammy turns fourteen. They're staying in a ramshackle bungalow with faded yellow shutters somewhere in the hazy swamp land of Louisiana while Dad is working a case that deals with honest-to-god voodoo. The television only gets two fuzzy channels, even with the bunny ears, but both feature newscasters who agree that it's the hottest summer on record for the last twenty years. The humidity makes it worse, and Dean constantly feels like the air is sticking to his skin, making him irritable and exhausted.
He's taking advantage of the season, working full-time at a garage down the street (someone's gotta make sure Sammy doesn't eat them out of house and home), but it's punishing work in this weather. Roy lets him off early one Saturday, worried about heat stroke and lawsuits and Dean doesn't argue, though they could always use the money. He's blasting Metallica on his Walkman, as he walks into the house, not really paying much attention when he pushes the bathroom door open. All he can think of is a long, cold shower and then maybe a popsicle for good measure.
Until he sees his brother.
Sam's leaning back against the sink, with his jeans around his ankles, hand wrapped around his dick, apparently midway through what appears to be a very enthusiastic jerk-off session.
For a long, horrifying moment, Dean is frozen, taking it all in. Sam's toned, golden skin, his eyelashes trembling against his cheeks as he squeezes his eyes shut, the way his teeth are digging into his bottom lip. He's not wearing a shirt (because we don't have air conditioning, Dean thinks stupidly), and belatedly, he realizes that his brother's lost a lot more baby fat than he'd noticed. When did Sammy get abs?
He must make some kind of noise, because Sam's eyes fly open and lock on his. "Dean," he says in a too-calm voice and it's enough to wrench Dean from his stupor.
"Whisper things into my brain, assuring me that I'm insane..." James Hetfield wails in his ears.
"I--I--sorry, dude, I--" he babbles, stumbling backwards out of the bathroom and slamming the door. He feels a little sick, and a lot aroused and he very badly wants to go do exactly what Sam is doing behind the thin bathroom door. Or better yet, to go back and help Sammy finish up.
Oh God.
He goes for a run instead. It's not really that hot outside.
*
The other unfortunate part of Sam's whole growing-up deal is that it turns him into a total jerk.
Not to Dean, for the most part, but to Dad, which Dean hates even more, because he knows how much his father's been through, and for Sam to treat him with such disrespect just seems wrong. Of course, saying anything like that only gets Sam's ire turned on him instead.
"Stop calling me Sammy, Dean, Jesus." he hisses on more than one occasion, "I'm not a baby anymore, okay?"
Dean is certain that he was never that much of an asshole when he was Sam's age.
"Dude," he says, once, "What are you so angry about?"
Sam looks at him for a long moment like Dean should already know the answer, but when his brother just furrows his brow in confusion, he blows out a frustrated breath and says "Everything."
Dean's pretty sure he was never that dramatic either.
*
After Dean walks in on him, though, Sam's behavior goes from bitchy to downright weird. He expects Sam to freak out on him, to scream about privacy and normalcy, and all that other shit he loves to go on about now that he's a teenager and he thinks he knows everything.
But Sam doesn't say a single word. When Dean finally succumbs to the heat and trudges back to the house, feeling like a failure, Sam's on the couch, wearing only a pair of shorts and a blank expression as he flips through a Batman comic that Dean had bought him the week before. He doesn't even look up when his brother comes in, and Dean has no idea what to make of that, so he just slinks past and goes to stick his head in the freezer for a few seconds, pretending he can't feel his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest.
When he comes back out of the kitchen, Sam is standing in the doorway and he tenses, waiting for the expected yelling. He's getting hard again, just looking at the hard planes of his little brother's chest, and Dean's pretty sure he's gonna puke.
He might be able to blame it on heat stroke, though.
But Sam doesn't yell. He just looks at Dean with that oddly calm expression still on his face and says "Can we go down to the diner for dinner? I really need to get out of this heat for a while."
Dean blinks stupidly at him for a moment, but he's always been a fan of avoidance, so he just nods hastily. "Sure, sure thing, Sammy."
His brother's eyes flash at that, but he doesn't correct Dean again. "Cool." I'm gonna go get my shoes. He turns and walks away, still without having made reference to the incident and Dean lets out a deep breath, feeling like he's dodged a bullet. Then his stomach lurches and he has to dash to the bathroom, barely making it in time to hurl after all.
It's about that point that he realizes how completely fucked he is.
*
So Dean may not have gone through the whole I-hate-the-world thing as a teenager, but apparently he is going through some kind of weird incestuous identity crisis.
He buys Sam a chocolate milkshake as an unspoken apology and spends all of dinner hiding bites of food in his napkin when his brother isn't looking. He may be having some freaky breakdown, but he's sure as hell not going to let Sam notice, and not eating would be like flashing a neon sign and screaming "Hey, Sammy, I just realized that I want you in the way no one should ever want their baby brother!"
Yeah. Not so much.
*
Dean spends the next two weeks distracted and on-edge, waiting for Sam to bring it up, but he never does. Nothing else changes either, at least on Sam's end. He still leans on Dean when they watch television, and falls asleep drooling on his shoulder, steals his food and hooks their ankles together under diner tables. The difference is all Dean, who feels like he's stuck his fingers in a wall socket every time Sam so much as brushes against him. It's becoming quite the problem.
Then Dad tells them to pack it up for Iowa and the yellow-shuttered bungalow is left behind. But Dean fears that the shift that happened there isn't going to be.
*
Truman High School is great, for the first three weeks. Dean starts dating this chick, and does a pretty commendable job of focusing on things that aren't Sam, but then Amanda has to point out Dean's dedication to his little brother and he starts getting eaten up by guilt again. It's a relief when Dad tells them to be ready to leave in the morning.
"What's wrong with you?" Sam asks in the car as they follow Dad down the highway. It's the first thing he's said to Dean in two hundred miles, angry at their father for pulling them out of another school.
"Nothin'. So you're talking to me again?" Dean knows he shouldn't push his luck, but he's the one who had to spend entire previous evening listening to the only two people in the world that he loves screaming at each other. He's owed this much, he thinks.
Sam shrugs. "You aren't the one who made us leave." he admits, "Maybe he'll let us finish out the year at the next school?"
"I'm not going back." Dean says, without thinking about it. The next second, he's wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.
Sam stares. "Not going back? Dean, you're six months from graduating! What the hell, man!"
"Dude, what do you care? I'm not telling you to drop out."
"But what about college?"
A laugh escapes Dean's mouth. "What about it? I was never gonna go anyway."
"Why not, Dean?" Sam says, and he's really worked up about this, face flushed and eyes imploring. Dean jerks his eyes back to the road, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. "You're smart, you could get scholarships and stuff."
"And leave you and Dad? What's the point, Sam, I'm never gonna be anything other than a--" fucked up drop-out who wants his baby brother "--a hunter."
He can feel the full weight of Sam's kicked puppy look on his face, but for once, he manages to keep his eyes on the road. "Just how long have you been thinking about college, anyway?"
Sam doesn't answer and something twists unpleasantly in Dean's stomach. He badly wants to look at his brother, to beg Sam not to consider leaving him. Then he remembers how much he wants his brother and how not-okay that is and swallows the words.
"If either of us was gonna go to college, it'd be you. You're the smart one in this family, Sammy." he says with a smirk, "But I'm a way better shot."
It does the trick. "Like hell you are," Sam growls and Dean represses a shiver.
Yeah. It's really for the best.
*
True to his word, Dean doesn't bother enrolling at the next school. When he tells Dad about his decision, Sam purses his lips in a disapproving way, but John claps him on the back and offers him his first solo hunt.
"It's not much, just a poltergeist the next town over, but it'd be good to get it out of the way before it hurts anyone else." his father says with a smile.
"For real?" Dean says, excited despite himself. Sam's mouth thins even further, if possible.
"I trust you, Dean." his father tells him.
Sam waits until he's climbed into the truck and backed out of the driveway before he rounds on Dean. "You shouldn't be taking a poltergeist on your own."
Dean scoffs. "You worry too much, Sammy. I'll be fine."
*
Except he totally isn't.
*
It's somewhere around three in the morning when Dean gets back and it's a lucky thing that Sam's been waiting for him, because otherwise he might have just collapsed on the front step. As it is, he barely has a second to slump against the door before it's wrenched open and he nearly falls into the room.
"Dean, where have you been? Are you okay?" Sam drags his brother through the door and starts patting him down for injuries, just like Dad taught him. Dean can tell the exact moment Sam finds it, because his hands still and he takes a sharp breath. "What?" He peels back Dean's leather jacket and hisses. "Shit, Dean, what happened?"
"S'not a big deal, Sammy," he grunts, "Just grazed me when I was getting the last corner."
"Grazed you with what?" Sam's voice takes on a dangerous quality and Dean realizes distantly that he's angry.
"Kitchen knife." he admits, "And, uh. I've kind of lost a lotta blood, so if you wanna patch me up, that'd be great."
Sam goes pale and shoves him down onto the arm of the couch. "Don't go anywhere." he instructs, turning to go get the med kit out of the bathroom.
"Wouldn't make it very far," Dean mumbles. The room is kind of spinning and he feels a little nauseous.
"That's not funny, Dean," Sam snaps, reappearing with an armful of medical supplies. He shoves a handful of hydrocodone at Dean and drops the bandages on the couch, manhandling his brother the rest of the way out of his jacket. "Shirt. Off. Now."
Dean flushes, but he doesn't have the energy to be annoyed with his libido. "I, uh, I don't think I can lift my--"
"Looks like you're out a shirt, then," Sam says, taking up the scissors and cutting the t-shirt from hem to collar. His knuckles brush across his brother's stomach and Dean jerks back. "Dude, hold still!"
It takes some work to peel the shirt from the wound, where it's adhered to Dean's blood, but Sam makes quick work of it, like a Band-Aid and Dean clamps his hands down on his own thighs to keep from twitching away.
The gash runs vertical, from the bottom of his ribs on the right side, all the down to hipbone, about eight inches. But once he's got Dean stripped down, it doesn't take Sammy long to get him sewn up. Dean feels a little flare of pride at how efficient Sam is, stitching up his brother with the ease that other kids his age might not even be able to manage sewing a button.
"You're lucky this wasn't up another three inches, or it would've punctured your lung, you jerk." Sam says, taping down gauze over the stitches and leaning back to check his work. His hand is still curled around Dean's hip, anchoring him, warm and firm.
"Yeah, well, you're gonna have more trouble getting rid of me than that, little bitch." Dean throws back. Sam's fingers tighten, enough that Dean thinks he'll probably have bruises tomorrow, and the bolt of lust that goes through him at the thought reminds him that he's supposed to be avoiding this kind of situation. "Well, I'm beat, so--" He tries to stand, but Sam won't back up, so he ends up wobbling awkwardly on the arm of the couch, trying not to fall backwards onto the cushions.
Sam's hand is still on his hip.
"Dean you could've died." he says in a broken voice, "What would I do then?" He's shaking, Dean realizes suddenly, feeling the tremble in his fingers.
"Shh, Sammy, I'm fine, see?" He holds out his arms. "Good as new, okay? You fixed it." Sam just keeps looking at him, eyes wide in his pale face. "Come here, hey, shhh." Dean reaches out, automatically, the synapses in his brain responding in the only way they know, take care of Sammy. He gets a hand on the side of Sam's neck and tugs him forward.
They tumble backwards onto the couch, Dean flat on his back, and Sam next to him, pressed all along his side. They've both grown a lot since the last time they did that, so it's a tight fit, but Sam is still shaking, so Dean just lets him cling to his shoulder until they both fall asleep.
*
Dean wakes up the next morning, feeling like death warmed over. His stitches itch and the smattering of bruises that he didn't tell Sam about ache bone-deep. For a moment, he lays there and lets the pain wash over him. He's distracted enough that it takes him another minute to take complete stock of the situation.
Sam is pressed tight against his right side, no space between them. His lips are mashed against the side of his brother's neck, making Dean break out in goosebumps with every exhale. One of his legs is thrown over Dean's and his morning wood is digging persistantly into Dean's hip.
"Nnngh." Dean manages and tries to get up. But he's pinned between his brother's body and the back of the couch, and slowed by the remnants of hydrocodone in his bloodstream. He's got himself worked up into a near-panic when Sam's arms tighten around his waist.
"Stay." He mumbles against Dean's neck. He's clearly not all the way awake, eyes barely cracked open and hair mussed.
"Sam. Sammy. Let me up." Dean says, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. Sam's arms only tighten further in response and he scoots closer.
"Don't leave." Sam insists, still talking into Dean's neck. His tongue skims over the skin just under his brother's jaw on the L in "leave" and Dean yelps and shoves him roughly to the floor.
"Dude, what the hell?" Sam groans, sitting up. He looks a lot more conscious now, and a lot more annoyed.
Dean gives him a shaky smile, "A man's gotta piss when a man's gotta piss, Sammy." Before his little brother can say another word, he's darted off into the bathroom for a shower.
If, when he takes his turn, Sam notices how he didn't use any of the hot water, he doesn't say anything.
Apparently this is just another thing they aren't going to talk about.
*
Sam goes on his first date the following summer. Even though he's barely fifteen, Dean gives him a fake ID and the keys to the Impala.
"So help me, if you hurt my Baby, I will kill you," he says as he's putting the keys into his brother's hand, "But dude, if this chick doesn't wanna bang you after she sees my car, she's not even worth it."
So maybe Dean's discovered that the best way to combat his inappropriate Sam-feelings is with excessive vulgarity. So what? It's made the last eleven months more bearable, anyway.
Sam gives him Bitchface Number Nine. "Dean, I'm not trying to get in her pants, God."
"Oh, right, I forgot, you're a girl. So not until the third date, right?" Sam punches him in the shoulder. "What? Isn't that the rule?"
"Very funny Dean." Sam says, but he doesn't look like he thinks it's funny at all. Dean sobers a little bit.
"Okay, fine, seriously Sam, have fun." he ignores the now-familiar jealous twist in his stomach and grins, "But seriously, don't fuck up my Baby."
Sam comes back only ten minutes after his curfew, smiling a little, but not enough to have gotten laid, and Dean isn't sure whether to be relieved or dismayed.
*
Dad's out of town when Sam turns sixteen, so Dean maybe splurges a little bit, ordering two extra large pepperoni-and-pineapple pizzas (Sam calls it "The Classic Luau" and Dean calls it fucking disgusting--pineapple doesn't belong on pizza) and buying a carton of Sam's favorite mint chocolate chip ice cream, along with a couple of six packs.
"You're actually gonna let me drink?" Sam says disbelievingly when he gets home from school and sees the spread.
Dean shrugs. "It's just beer, Sammy. Happy birthday."
Sam's face breaks out in a wide grin and suddenly Dean is thirteen years old all over again, determined to make sure his brother gets to smile, even with their shitty lives.
They spend the whole even sitting together on the couch, eating pizza and watching an Indiana Jones marathon on television. Dean picks the pineapple off his pizza and flicks it at Sam, smiling innocently every time his brother shoots him a look, and Sam adopts a terrible accent to quote all of Sean Connery's lines during the third movie.
It's the best night Dean's had in a long time.
He's starting to get sleepy by the time the credits for Last Crusade start rolling, so he grabs the remote and switches the TV off before sinking back into the cushions. Sam is staring at him, so he tosses a pillow at his brother's face.
"Dude, take a picture, it'll last longer."
Sam's expression is hovering somewhere between confusion and admiration and he says "You have the greenest eyes, Dean."
"How many beers d'you have, Sammy?" he asks casually, looking over at the coffee table. There are at least ten, maybe more empty bottles there, and Dean knows he only had two. No way he was getting drunk in such close proximity to Sam.
"You have really great lips, too," Sam continues, oblivious to the question and Dean freezes, "I bet people like kissing you."
"Okay, Sammy, time for bed," Dean says a little too loudly, "Should've known you'd be a lightweight, you girl."
That diverts Sam's attention momentarily, " 'M not a girl. And I'm sixteen, jerk, I've never had alcohol before."
"First time for everything."
"Yeah." Sam appears to take this to heart, because suddenly he's in Dean's space, giant freak hands gripping Dean's thighs. "If I kissed you, that'd be my first time, too."
Oh fuck.
"No, that's not true," Dean babbles, a little desperate, "What about that chick you dated last year? Tina, Tabby?"
"Tiffany, Dean." Sam says, pulling Bitchface Number Three. "And I never kissed her."
"What? Never?" Dean asks, distracted despite his best intentions, "But you guys went out like six times."
Sam shrugs. "Just never felt right."
"Dude, you really are a girl." Dean tries.
Sam doesn't take the bait this time, though, leaning further towards his brother. "It does feel right with you, Dean. I know you want it too."
Dean flushes red and generally looks incredibly guilty, but he's hoping Sam's drunkenness will cover for him. "Dude, I'm your brother." Sam opens his mouth, probably to argue some more, but this has gone on too long already. "You're also shitfaced." He shoves Sam away and climbs to his feet. "I'm gonna go get you a glass of water, you're gonna drink it and go to bed, and we're gonna forget this conversation ever happened, capishe?"
Sam doesn't answer, so Dean turns and hurries into the kitchen before he can do something he'll really regret.
He takes his sweet time and when he gets back, Sam is sprawled across the couch on his stomach, snoring lightly. Dean sets the glass of water on the table next to his head and covers him with the blanket from the back of the couch.
"Dammit, Sammy." he mutters, and then goes to fling himself into his bed.
He doesn't get any sleep.
When Sam wakes up the next morning with only a mild hangover for his troubles, they have one more thing to add to the list of things they don't talk about.
*
Dean finds the Stanford acceptance letter buried in the bottom of Sam's duffle the same day his little brother graduates from high school. He knew it was coming.
Doesn't stop it from hurting like a bitch, though.
*
Sam waits until the last day of July to tell them that he's leaving. Dean knows, from memorizing the acceptance letter that school starts on the seventh of August, but Sam must want some extra time to get settled before classes.
The whole thing makes Dean feel like shit, but he realized a long time ago that it was better for Sam to go and have a shot at normal than to stay and let himself get fucked up by his older brother.
So he stands by, silent and mostly stoic while Dad and Sam hurl insults and accusations at each other, trying to pretend he's somewhere else. He's only broken out of his stupor when Dad delivers his ultimatum and suddenly Sam is striding out the door and Dean hasn't said goodbye.
He doesn't even realize he's following his brother until Dad's hand comes down on his shoulder. "Let him go," John says, but he doesn't sound angry anymore, just tired. Dean shoves him away and chases Sam out into the yard.
"At least let me drive you to the bus station." he hears himself saying in a panicked voice that he doesn't recognize as his own.
Sam stares at him for a long moment, anger still radiating from every inch of his body, and then his shoulders slump forward. "Yeah, okay."
Sam doesn't say a single word to him on the way, and Dean doesn't really know what to say himself. Part of him still wants to beg Sam to stay, but the protective big brother part keeps overriding, reminding him that it will be good for Sammy to get away from him. He thinks about turning on the radio, but the horribleness of the moment keeps him from reaching for the dial.
When did Dean become such a girl, anyway?
"Well." he says when they finally reach the bus station, "We're here." He's pretty proud of the fact that the tremor in his voice is almost undetectable.
Sam turns those big hazel eyes on him, and it's just like with Dad--he doesn't look angry anymore, just very sad. "Walk me to the bus?" he says in a small voice.
And how could Dean possibly say no to his brother now?
"I'll--I'll call," Sam says when they reach the bus for Palo Alto.
Dean nods, even though he knows it's a lie. It's better this way, it's better this way. "You know my number." He won't answer, even if Sam does try to call.
"Dean--" Sam's voice shakes a little bit, but Dean doesn't look at him. He's pretty sure he'll fall apart if he does. "Dammit, Dean, can you at least look at me?"
Oh. Well, if Dean's honest with himself he was probably going to fall apart either way.
As soon as he makes eye contact with his brother (and he has to look up now, how weird is that?) Sam grabs the front of his jacket and yanks him forward.
It's easily the worst kiss Dean's ever had. He doesn't even realize that's what it is at first, his palms only flat on Sam's chest to catch his balance. Then it occurs to him that Sam's lips are pressed to his and that's the taste of Sam's tongue in his mouth and...oh. This is a kiss.
Dean freezes completely. He badly wants to kiss Sam back, but he knows he should push him away. Somehow, he can't quite bring himself to do either and winds up just standing there, with his hands on Sam's chest, letting his brother maul his mouth.
Sam's shaking with something like desperation, and Dean's started to reach for his face when someone shouts at them to get a room and he remembers that they're in a bus depot, surrounded by other people and he wrenches away. His mouth burns like he's been swallowing hot coals.
"You shouldn't've--" he starts to say, but Sam cuts him off.
"Come with me."
"I--what?"
"Come with me. To Palo Alto. We could get an off-campus apartment and you could--"
"Sam."
"No! Just listen." his brother grabs his arm and Dean tenses, not sure if he's expected to be punched or kissed again. "We could get out, we could have whatever we wanted."
"I can't." Dean says flatly. His heart is hammering at double-speed in his chest, but he can't let Sam know that. This is supposed to be a clean break.
"Dean..."
"No, Sam!" he jerks away, "I don't *want* to, okay? I want to stay with Dad, and hunt."
"You're just saying that because you're scared." Sam says with certainty.
Dean bites the inside of his cheek until he can taste blood. "No, I'm saying that because I'm not a deserter, Sam." He puts as much venom into his tone as he can manage, "That's just you."
Sam flinches, visibly hurt, and Dean clenches his fists so he won't reach out. "Just get on the bus and go."
The anger from before comes back to the surface with startling speed and Sam shoves Dean roughly. "You asshole. Fine. I don't need you." He spins on his heel and strides over to the bus, climbing on without looking back.
Dean doesn't wait around to watch the bus drive away, walking back to the Impala as fast as he can manage without actually running. He drops to his knees around the back of the car and empties the contents of his stomach onto the pavement.
Whatever. It's better than crying.