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They had been driving without saying a word for such a long time that the silence had started to feel like a third person in the car.
Dean tried his best to focus on the road but couldn’t help throwing furtive glances in Sam’s direction. Sam kept looking out of the passenger window as though they were still in the Centennial Wilderness Area and he was admiring the view. In reality, they had long left Tennessee and hardly anything could be seen through the heavy dusk.
Dean had no idea what was going on in his brother’s head. He kept replaying Gabriel’s words in his mind, anger and confusion roiling within him like two dark shadows. You were born to this, boys. It's your destiny! It was always you! As it is in heaven, so it must be on earth. One brother has to kill the other.
That was complete bullshit, of course, and none of that was gonna happen. Dean had put a six-foor fence between himself and these words the moment he heard them. Still, the utter conviction Dean had sensed behind Gabriel’s speech left an uneasiness somewhere deep in his gut, a feeling of foreboding that he couldn’t shake off. A fear Dean couldn’t admit even to himself, let alone to Sam.
“I don’t know about you,” he said after what felt like hours of silence. He brought Baby to a halt in the parking lot. They were in front of the first bar he saw after driving into a town whose name didn’t mean anything. “But I could definitely throw back a few.”
Dean expected Sam to protest and say that it was too late or that Dean had been drinking too much lately—or just roll his eyes at him. Any of that could have been a relief, a sign that no matter how messed up everything seemed, at their core things remained normal. But Sam just got out of the car and followed him into the bar.
There was a crowd of people at this hour, and the music coming from the jukebox was some atrocious band from the eighties. A couple of college girls Dean spotted near the bar didn’t look attractive enough to bother with, even though they threw interested glances in his direction. Sam loomed behind him like a mute shadow. Dean took the two heavy-bottomed glasses of whiskey from the bartender and headed to a table he spotted in the corner. He draped his jacket over the chair and stretched his legs.
Dean downed his glass in one gulp, the familiar burn in his throat the only pleasant sensation of the past twenty-four hours. The warmth spread inside, relaxing the tight knot in his stomach ever so slightly. Sam sat opposite. He didn’t even touch his glass, a withdrawn and stony expression never leaving his face. In the dim light of the joint, his eyes were full of shadows.
“Come on, man,” said Dean, apprehensive and irritable. “Say something.”
Sam shrugged, chewing at his lip.
“What do you want me to say?”
These were the first words Sam had said in hours, and his voice sounded hoarse.
“How are we gonna deal with the sons of bitches? What’s our plan?”
Sam threw him a glance, unreadable and unsettling, and looked away. He was in one of those moods that had started to appear only recently, after Ruby made him open the Cage. Dean hated these moods. It was like Sam was somewhere at the bottom of the well he’d thrown himself into and Dean couldn’t make him get out of it no matter how many ropes he threw. He usually had to wait until it passed. But the day had been exhausting enough for him to have any patience left.
“Don’t you wanna drink this?” he offered. He wished Sam did, but Sam, predictably, just shook his head. Dean downed Sam’s glass, relishing another burn in his throat and squeezing his eyes for a moment as they started watering. Sam’s stare was fixed on him as Dean opened his eyes again.
“We can do as they ask us,” Sam said with an edge to his voice Dean couldn’t quite explain. “I mean, Michael can kill Lucifer—and you can kill me.”
Dean blinked rapidly in confusion which gave way to disbelief that Sam could be suggesting something like that in his right mind. But no, Sam wouldn’t. Perhaps this was his idea of making some dark fun of Dean, even though the moment was anything but appropriate.
“Haha,” said Dean without a trace of humor in his voice. “Very funny. But seriously, man…”
“I mean it,” Sam interrupted him, the same intense expression in his eyes.
Dean frowned, anger quickly rising, fuelled by alcohol and the sense of foreboding that had settled within him hours before.
“Quit saying this nonsense! How about we really discuss what our options are?”
Sam chucked, too, and it was the most sinister chuckle Dean had ever heard, as devoid of humor as a gravestone.
“Don’t you wanna do it?” Sam said.
Dean’s jaw went slack and then clenched with inexplicable rage.
“Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak,” Sam said in a monotonous voice looking past him and Dean realized he was reciting some horrendous quotation. “Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam—a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back.”
Dean’s breath caught as he froze with horror, the meaning of the words sinking in.
“What,” he said and swallowed. “What the hell was that?”
Sam looked away, defeated. He sat very still, like he wouldn’t budge even if Dean were to rise to his feet and strike him down at that very moment.
“I listened to it so many times I’ve learned it by heart,” Sam said quietly and laced his fingers in his lap.
Dean’s ears were ringing with panic. He couldn’t recognize the words—even at his worst moments of fury he wouldn’t have told Sam anything like that. Yet, the way the message was worded indicated that it could have come only from him. Sam had listened to it so many times he’d learned it by heart and he seemed to have come to terms with the meaning.
“Sam.” Unsure how to get through to him, Dean grabbed Sam’s hand and squeezed as though he wanted to crush the bones. “I’m serious. What. The. Hell. Was.That?!”
Sam snatched his hand away, color rising to his cheeks.
“Quit pretending,” he said, his voice breaking. “You meant it. So why the hell won’t you do it?”
Dean felt like the ground was slipping away from him and it had nothing to do with the alcohol.
“I have no idea what it is you’re quoting here, but I swear to God that has nothing to do with me and I never meant anything like that. Never. Now if some shapeshifter…”
“Shapeshifter? Dean, that was the message you sent me the night I freed Lucifer. Don’t tell me that you don’t remember! You said you wanna kill me so how ‘bout you get down to that now that you have the chance? You know I deserve it and, sure as hell, I know it, too, so why don’t we just stop pretending?”
Dean leapt to his feet like a bucket of icy water had been thrown over him.
“I’m not!”
The buzz of all the other conversations around them died down and people threw curious glances in their direction. Dean wished Sam would look at him, as though eye contact would make all the explanations redundant, but Sam kept staring somewhere past him, jaw clenched.
“You know what? I need some air!” Dean snatched his jacket and stormed out of the bar. He walked up to the car and stood by her sturdy form, gleaming in the lamplight, as though looking for support. The chilly night air did nothing to cool him. His stomach was churning and he felt like he might throw up.
Dean heard Sam’s footsteps and turned around, and at that moment he heard his own voice coming from the phone’s speaker.
Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak.
Sam played the entire recording, his shoulders hunched. Dean felt like he’d been hit by a heavy-duty truck. He didn’t know what was worse—the message, obviously sent by some hellish or heavenly monsters, or Sam’s unwavering acceptance of its meaning.
He walked up to Sam in three long, hasty strides. Sam’s face was a closed book, his eyes cast down, but Dean noticed, despite all the efforts to maintain his composure, he was shaking like a leaf.
“Sammy.” Dean grabbed his forearms in a steely grip. “Come on, look at me, man. It wasn’t me, I swear. I did send you a voicemail when the angels tried to lock me down in Heaven. I was pissed at you, I really was, and I told you about that. And that I owed you a serious beatdown. But it wasn’t like that. Nothing like that. I was saying sorry, Sam. And that we’re family. And that nothing beats that.”
Sam didn’t respond to that, and Dean shook him like he was trying to wake him up. Slowly, Sam’s shoulders relaxed and he lifted his gaze. His eyes were unnaturally bright. He studied Dean’s face for a moment and blinked, allowing two tears to spill.
“You didn’t,” he said, as though he’d only just caught up with the meaning of Dean’s words.
Dean’s knees went weak with relief at having finally gotten through.
“Of course, I didn’t. Come here.”
He pulled Sam in and wrapped both arms around his shoulders.
It had been a long time since Dean had been that affectionate—not since he found out about Ruby and the demon blood. He had been too preoccupied with everything that had been going on—too angry, terrified or betrayed, or all of the three at once—to be capable of any small gestures of fondness. He hadn’t even been sure he was still fond of Sam. But now, after the truth about this horrible deception had been revealed, the dam broke and his heart was flooded with the love he had been holding back for so long.
Sam folded himself like he wanted to become smaller and fit in Dean’s embrace, tucking his face into the junction between Dean’s neck and shoulder. Dean felt his rapid breath on his neck. It was as if Sam was a kid again, waking up from a nightmare. Out of an old instinct, Dean buried a hand in his hair, ruffling it.
“Hey,” he said. “It’s okay.”
Sam said nothing, clinging to him, and Dean tightened his hold. He heard someone pass them by and whistle.
“Find a room, lovebirds,” said a drunk voice from a distance. Dean’s teeth clenched but the last thing he needed was to get in a brawl. He patted Sam on the back, letting go.
“Let’s get the hell out of here, okay?”
Sam nodded, raising his head. He looked like he was barely managing to hold himself together and, for that reason, couldn’t afford the effort to speak. Finally, their eyes met. Sam’s were red-rimmed and pained. Maybe Sam had had this expression for a long time, but Dean hadn’t allowed himself to see it, shutting out all the heartbreak Sam’s betrayal had caused him and with it, Sam himself.
Dean ran a red light in his haste to get to the first motel and be alone with Sam. They hadn’t really talked for so long suddenly all the things that were unsaid were suffocating him. Once in the room, Dean threw his duffel bag to the nearest bed and spun round to face his brother. Sam was still at the door, salting the threshold, and Dean rushed to help him, snatching the salt bag from his hands.
“Look,” he said, the line of salt unfinished and salt spilling over the edges in his grip. “I would never, ever…Sammy, I’m so sorry.”
"It's okay,” Sam said in a resigned voice that Dean hated. “If anyone is to blame here, that’s me.”
Dean let the salt bag fall on the floor with a thud and grabbed Sam’s shoulders.
“Listen to me,” he said, trying to make eye contact. Sam kept his head low and his eyes averted, so Dean ended up gripping his chin and tipping it up to make sure their eyes met. “Here’s the message that I want you to learn by heart. I’d rather die than let anyone or anything hurt you, it’s always been and always will be like that. I can sometimes be pissed at you when you act stupid, but this doesn’t change anything. Nothing can change the way I feel about you. I… love you, more than anything.”
Dean had never told Sam that he loved him—this had just been an obvious fact of his existence, same as that his name was Dean and his birthday was on January twenty-fourth. It had never occurred to him that he might need to say that or that Sam might need to actually hear the words.
Sam’s eyes widened and lit up like some long extinguished light suddenly came alive. Dean couldn’t take his eyes off his face, mesmerized by the metamorphosis.
“And only you can make me go over the top with saying things that sound like romantic crap,” Dean added, his face hot.
Sam smiled a little, more like the corners of his lips curled upwards, but it was his first genuine smile in months.
“I love you, too,” he said with mind-blowing simplicity, as if he had been born to say those words. Warmth bloomed inside Dean’s chest. It felt so good it made him choke up. He had never realized how much he needed to hear that.
“I’m glad we figured that out,” he said, letting go of Sam and remembering to be tough and composed and not one for sentimental outbursts. But Sam could clearly see through his facade. He clasped Dean’s hands before Dean could pull away and entwined their fingers.
“Me, too,” Sam said and then, completely out of the blue, kissed Dean on the corner of the mouth. His lips were chapped and rough. It was merely a fleeting touch but it felt like a burn.
Startled, Dean took a few steps back and touched his mouth. One moment things appeared to be back to normal and the next, Earth was again coming to a halt on its axis. Only Sam could do that to him.
“What was that?” Dean said, fingers still pressed to his lips. It wasn’t really a question because, deep down, he knew the answer but had always avoided looking in that direction.
Sam was already retreating back into himself, eyes trained on the ground, grimacing like he’d been physically hurt or disgusted by what he’d done.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I got carried away. It won’t happen again.”
Dean’s heart was racing. That thing he never dared to name had lingered there for years, but to let it just be somewhere in the darkest corner of the mind, denied and ignored, was one thing. Acknowledging it was a totally different matter.
Facing a pack of hellhounds on the loose would be far less terrifying than crossing that line.
But then, less than an hour ago, Sam was convinced that Dean had been willing to kill him. There had been enough disastrous lies between them to continue on that path.
“Sam.” Dean wasn’t entirely sure what and how he was going to say. Suddenly, it was all or nothing and he was walking a tightrope, risking falling to his doom—or dooming everything that they had—with one small misstep.
Sam wasn’t even looking at him.
“Did you…” Dean started and had to clear his throat as the words got stuck in it. He wiped his palms on his jeans and made another attempt. “Did you… mean… it?”
Sam nodded, captivated by the sight of his dirty boots.
“Then…” Dean was certainly falling into an abyss. One more second and he risked being smashed against the sharp-edged stones of reality but he was past resisting gravity at this point.
He came closer to Sam and pulled at the lapels of his jacket. He glimpsed a wild mixture of hope and terror in his brother’s eyes before his mouth landed clumsily on Sam’s. For a second or two, there was no movement, just the sensation of Sam’s dry lips and their shared breath. Then Sam made a sound, both tortured like he was dying of thirst and elated like he was given water, and his lips brushed against Dean’s, gentle and hesitant.
Dean closed his eyes. He’d already been to Hell, so no fear of breaking human conventions could have any hold of him. The only thing he cared about was how Sam felt about everything.
“Are you sure?” he whispered.
Sam wrapped both arms around Dean’s neck and the kiss became real, like a wildfire igniting from a spark. Sam’s lips parted slightly, allowing Dean’s tongue inside, and Dean’s mind blanked out, overwhelmed by the closeness and heat. This was Sam, the only one who mattered, the little brother Dean had never allowed himself to dream of yet, deep down, always longed for with everything he had.
This was something the feathered dickheads had never had and would never wrap their minds around. Something they had no weapon against. Something that went contrary to all their millenia-old plans.
They finally broke apart, gasping for breath, and Sam’s eyes were shining. Dean couldn’t remember seeing him like that. Maybe that night on the Fourth of July when they were setting off fireworks.
“So…,” he said. “Now we’re good?”
Sam laughed, happy and free, and his elation echoed in Dean’s chest. No one was going to take away from them what they shared. Angels and demons might have some devious scheme for them, but they could burn in Hell for all Dean cared. He had come up with a plan of his own.
“Come here,” he said, pulling Sam in for another kiss, and shivered, swept away by the passion of his response.
It felt like the first step in the finest plan they had ever made.