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When we had our first kiss, it was your favorite thing
And you weren't lying when you said it would sting
The night is suffocating. It presses on Dean's chest like an old heavy blanket, making it hard to breathe. Isn't this the perfect time to reflect on life?
Dean's life has never been easy. But sometimes — even after Mom's death — his heart would fill with warmth. Speeding down the endless road, the wind from the open window ruffling his hair, Dad at the wheel and Sammy in the back seat — that was pure happiness. But it's all in the past now. The road and the wind no longer bring joy — just sadness and fierce loneliness.
Dean isn't very good at loneliness.
A few drinks at the bar and the company of a local beauty often help, but today he's in no mood for either — or anything, really. So he lies in his room, staring at the dark ceiling and thinking back to the latest hunt. It had been fine, actually, until he lost focus and nearly became a victim himself. Dean tells himself that it was just an accident, a moment of weakness that won't happen again. But the truth is, he’s slipping more and more. Ever since —
Dean stops himself out of habit. Then he sighs and goes on —
Ever since Sam left for fucking Stanford. Every now and then, Dean wonders whether this whole "family business" really means that much to him, or if he just tried to be a role model for his little brother — a rock that would never crumble. There is no need to keep up the facade now that he is halfway across the country. Maybe if he’d gone softer on the kid, they would still be on speaking terms. Maybe if he'd been tougher, things would’ve turned out different.
*
"It'll sting, Dean."
The touch of Sam's hot, dry lips is almost tender — like a whisper. Dean feels long fingers grip his hair; they're trembling.
Sam is eighteen. Dean never misses a chance to tease him about his dates with girls from school, and he still remembers the day he taught him how to kiss. And now here they are. Oh God.
"Sam," Dean exhales, pulling back. "What are you doing?"
Sam looks at him in confusion, as if struggling to wake from a dream. He slides his hands to Dean's shoulders and hesitates, maybe sensing Dean's urge to run. He has a reason — they've come to a point of no return, and it probably won't end well. But as Sam's closeness and undivided attention envelop him, he forgets all about that and doesn't move.
"Want you," Sam answers quietly. He sounds so naive as if he were asking to buy him ice cream.
"Sammy…" Dean starts to say when Sam reaches for him again and kisses him — harder and more desperately.
*
Dean regrets it now. He should have walked away while he could.
From that kiss onward, things went rapidly downhill. Every minute they had alone was rushed. There was never enough time to enjoy each other the way they wanted — too soon they were smoothing their crumpled shirts and tousled hair and leaning into each other for one last moment. And then they were just brothers again, catching each other’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.
Their obsession grew day by day, or so Dean thought, when Sam cautiously sneaked into his bed at night, his warm ragged breath encircling him, drawing him into a tight cocoon of desire and guilt. It went on and on until —
Their story ended just as abruptly as it had begun. That day Sam spoke about Stanford for the first time. Before then, Dean couldn't have imagined they would ever part — in his world they couldn't exist without each other. When Sam announced he's leaving for college, Dean felt his world split. A tectonic shift, or something like that.
Maybe he could persuade Sam to stay. He even tried once or twice. But Sam had changed. In his mind he was already in California, bathing in golden sunlight and pursuing his bright future. The shabby house on the outskirts of town they were passing through — with Dad and his manic hunt for the demon, with their nomadic lifestyle, with Dean — had faded into the background of his life. Dean started to withdraw further into his shell. He didn't talk, didn't look, didn't come near Sam — it hurt less than seeing his detachment.
And just like that, they turned into strangers.
*
The night Sam told Dad everything, then yanked his already packed bag from under the bed and stormed out, Dean didn't know what to do. Although the atmosphere in their little Bermuda Triangle of a family had been heating up for quite some time, deep down Dean hoped for a better ending.
But some dreams aren't meant to come true.
For a long moment he'd stood still in complete silence, his head abuzz with chaotic thoughts. Suddenly one of the thoughts rang louder than the rest: he'd probably never see Sam again, and all he had to remember their last summer by were accusations, too few touches, and anticipation of impending separation. The realization hit hard, because usually Dean preferred to live in the present, not dwell on what was coming.
A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a clap of thunder. It was starting to rain, and Sam was out there walking down the deserted streets. Whatever had happened between them or was going to happen next, Dean couldn't leave his brother alone in such a state. His body filled with nervous energy, and he rushed out of the house, oblivious to everything around him.
Luckily, Sam didn't make it too far.
"Sam, wait," Dean called out, slightly out of breath.
He didn't turn his head immediately, as if he knew — certainly knew — that everything would turn out exactly like this.
"What do you want?" he asked, looking at the road ahead.
It had been raining heavily by then. Dean felt miserable, like a character in a cheesy movie — hair plastered to his forehead and water drops sliding down his face, T-shirt soggy and weighing a ton. Unfortunately, it was reality.
"I can't let you go like this," he said — the first and truest thing that came to mind.
Sam turned to him again. His reddened eyes lit up with irritation, anger even. Then his gaze softened with sadness and pity. Dean hated it when someone pitied him, but given the circumstances it was inevitable. Sam opened his mouth to answer, but changed his mind, and they spent the rest of the way in silence.
The station was almost empty. The bus was waiting with its doors open, dim yellow light spilling from inside. Dean imagined Sam sitting down by the window and speeding away to a new life, leaving him behind in the old joyless one.
"Well… See you," said Dean, unable to find better words.
In fact, he wanted to say many things, but there was no point. Sam already knew everything Dean could have said — and yet he was there, at the station anyway.
Sam glanced at the bus and winced, as if realizing for the first time that it was really happening and wasn't a joke that went too far.
"Dean," he sighed, coming closer, much closer than they'd been lately. "I'm sorry."
It made Dean's heart beat faster, louder, his lungs suddenly short of air, as if on the verge of a panic attack. His throat constricted, so he could only look at Sam, trying not to give himself away. No more pity.
"I'm sorry," Sam repeated and took Dean's face in his palms, threading his fingers through the wet hair.
Their lips met in a tremulous kiss that was out of place and out of time. Dean had dreamed of this so hard, but the second he got it, he wanted it to be over.
"I don't need your 'sorries'," said Dean, moving back. "You be a good boy there."
But Sam seemed not to hear him — or, maybe, he didn't listen. He kissed Dean again, slowly, squeezing the front of his shirt.
They could’ve had a whole summer like this. Maybe even a whole lifetime. But Sam wanted something else — different, bigger — something Dean could never give. Sam betrayed him, broke up with him, Sam —
"Don't call me," Dean blurted out to his own surprise, bitter about the unfairness of it all, about his worthlessness.
"But…"
"Good luck at Stanford," he said quickly, then turned away and strode off in the opposite direction.
*
It's 4 a.m. — that nebulous hour between night and day, when memories revive beneath a web of elusive shadows, yet the first rays of morning rise over the horizon, offering hope for oblivion.
Dean closes his eyes, trying to figure out what time it is in Palo Alto. At first, he did it in every new town he passed through. Despite his anger and denial, he still wanted to find any thread tying him to Sam, even a phantom one. But as the months went by, Dean let go of the idea and stopped living Sam's life in his head.
Sometimes, Dean thinks he's almost accepted this new situation. In some way, this is their chance at normalcy. Normal brothers don't suffer this much when one of them goes to college. Normal brothers don't kiss so deeply as if searching for each other’s souls. Normal brothers don't do anything they did. Dean has never cared about rules, but right now he’d give anything not to know what it feels like when a bond like theirs seeps into every fiber of life.
He probably should've gone to the bar. Wallowing in sorrow certainly isn’t doing him any good. Sure, the burn of alcohol and the weight of a stranger's caress can't replace the touch he knows too well and misses like crazy, but at least it makes his existence bearable.
Sam wasn't lying when he said it would sting. He must've known everything even then. He knew, and still had it his way, consequences be damned. That kills Dean more than anything. More than the constant routine loneliness; more than the distance, the time zones, or the fact that nothing will be the same again.
The night is dying, and the morning will bring another road, another motel, and another case. All the days will blur into one bleak stream of nothing, drawing Dean into its current. It's a sink-or-swim situation, really.
Dean doesn't know what he's going to choose.