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“I’m Benny.”
Sam takes the offered hand more out of common courtesy than anything else, because he has no interest in learning more about this guy than he has to. The guy who felt comfortable enough calling up his brother out of the blue and Dean felt not only comfortable enough answering, but taking off in the middle of case to help. A guy whose name Sam desperately needed to know right up until he heard it; now he wants it scrubbed from his brain. Benny. What the hell kind of name is Benny? And what’s with that accent?
But Sam takes his hand because he wasn’t quite raised in a barn, and Benny says, “Heard a lot about you, Sam,” which makes something inside him preen and recoil at the same time like a contrary cat (Dean spoke about him, but what did Dean say?); but then he feels a dry, cool palm against his, and he knows.
Later, he’ll tell himself that Benny wasn’t just chilly—he was cold, unnaturally so (though it should be impossible to discern in the biting sea air). He needs a logical explanation because he can’t say, “He looked at me like he knew me, which is bullshit. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know you, Dean. Right? Don’t tell me he knows you in a way I don’t because that’s crazy. I’m your brother. I’m your brother.” He can’t put into words how Benny’s presumptions made his blood curdle, how the very way he stood infuriated. He can’t say it didn’t matter if Benny was human or not because Sam loathed him on sight, more than he’d loathed anyone or anything in his entire life. And that was before the man even spoke.
But that doesn’t matter. Benny’s cold hand is in Sam’s cold hand and he knows that no matter how much Sam hates him or doesn’t (and he does, he does hate him), something about Benny is unnatural. He’s not looking at a person. It’s a truth born from his gut. Dean may say he’s out of practice but instincts don’t die overnight. They don’t even die after a year. Without a doubt, this man is a freak.
But how do you know? his mind continues to demand.
Takes one to know one... a Dean-like voice sing-songs in reply. Dean has his eyes locked on Sam, leery, which is absurd. It’s not like Sam’s going to lose it. He’s just going to kill the monster.
Sam reaches for his knife, mind clear with purpose in a way it hasn’t been since Dean disappeared in an explosion of black goo. Benny watches. And Dean...
Dean shakes his head.
So Sam leaves his knife in its sheath and doesn’t plunge it into the not-man Benny’s neck. He even lets him go without a word of accusation. “I can see you two have a lot to talk about,” Benny says, and Sam’s fury surges and doubles when Benny pats Dean on the arm—the audacity!—as he makes his hasty exit.
“What is he?” Sam demands as soon as Benny vanishes from the dock, and Dean doesn’t deny it. He’s not sure if that’s better or worse than Dean telling him he’s crazy. “What is he?”
“Let it go, Sam,” Dean says bruskly, turning toward where the Impala surely waits. Did Dean let that thing into the car? He wouldn’t.
Sam seizes Dean’s arm. Maybe it’s the same spot Benny presumed to touch, maybe it’s not (it is). “Don’t. What is—”
“Vamp,” Dean snaps shortly. Vampire. Bloodsucker.
Dean hates vampires. Hates them. Or, at least, he’s supposed to. No bigger crime than being a blood-sucking freak.
Sam can barely hear his own thoughts over his heart pounding in his ears. Benny can probably hear it too, wherever he is. Dean looks expectantly at the hand wrapped around his bicep but Sam doesn’t let go. Benny took off in the opposite direction but Sam can’t risk it.
“Why’s he still breathing?” Sam demands. “How do you even know him?”
For a moment, he wants Dean to lie to him. Got the call, but the hunter who put out the APB never showed. Decided to go in anyway—I know, stupid, don’t look at me like that—and would have ate it Benny hadn’t shown. Figured he earned a pass, just this once.
But Dean snorts. “Jealousy’s an ugly color on you, bro.”
Sam jerks away like he’s been burned. “What?”
Dean brushes himself off and straightens his jacket. “You heard me. And it’s none of your business.”
“None of my business?” Sam echoes, dumbstruck. “None of my... he’s a vampire, Dean! Last time I checked, we killed vampires!”
“Killed plenty,” Dean says flippantly. “But not this time. Let it go.”
“Screw you, I book it here because I think you’re getting friggin’ exsanguinated, and you’re busy—”
“Busy? Busy what?” Dean interrupts, eyes hard and mean. “Doing the job? Charitable, considering that didn’t matter to you for a year.” Sam huffs and steams, and Dean smirks. “Jealousy. Ug-uh-ly.” Then, his expression goes hard. “You don’t have the right.”
Jealousy. The lead weight sitting in his insides burning red-hot isn’t jealousy. It can’t be. Jealousy’s small and petty, reserved for insecure teenagers and paranoid housewives. Something this overwhelming can’t be jealousy. That would be crazy.
It’s just that Benny acted like he knew his brother. And what the hell could a vampire possibly know about his brother?
“We’re done,” Dean says, and for a moment, Sam’s heart stops— “This conversation’s over.” Thank God. Dean starts walking.
“What did you tell him about me?” Sam asks, and it comes out flaccid and pathetic. Needy.
Dean stops in place, sighs, and says, “What do you think, Sam?” he asks, not without a faint air of bitterness. “You’re my brother. I told him that.”
“Heard a lot about you, Sam.”
Not, “Nice to finally meet you,” or, “You must be Dean’s brother,” but, “Heard a lot about you.” Benny said those words with the weight of expectation. As in, Oh, you’re that Sam. Like Dean wove tales and spun yarns, all about him. Like they don’t just begin and end in blood. Because what they are is more than just brothers.
Because they are more.
The realization lights up in his brain like a beacon. His heart’s louder than ever, loud enough it wouldn’t take a supernatural creature to hear its rhythm beating double-... no, triple-time in his chest. Sam’s a fool. More than that, he’s an idiot. It’s so obvious in hindsight. His vision’s better than 20/20 looking back on the story of their everything. The story that Dean, presumably, shared with Benny. Benny, who can’t possibly get it because if he did he wouldn’t have presumed the way he did. He wouldn’t have dared.
Sam reaches out, needing to pull Dean against him, share the news, let him know he gets it—
Dean brushes him off. He looks at Sam with faint disdain and Sam knows, just like he knew about Benny, that Dean can read his mind and already knows what he wants to say. And he doesn’t care.
“You don’t have the right,” Dean says again, as if offended that Sam would presume otherwise. Then he walks away.
Sam follows. What choice does he have? But he doesn’t get into the car until Dean grunts at him and when they finally stop for a room, he hangs back so they don’t accidentally brush each other walking through the doorway. Dean doesn’t think he has the right.
But Sam does. Even if that’s not the case, Benny sure as hell doesn’t. Sam just has to make sure Dean knows that. And he will. At least, Sam presumes he will. Eventually.