Fruit of the Vine, 1/1, PG-13, Sam/Dean
Apr. 10th, 2010 07:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mickeymTitle: Fruit of the Vine, or, Four Times Dean Got Sam Drunk (And One Time He Didn't)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating:PG-13
Word Count: ~3500
Spoilers/Warnings: Vague for the pilot, but none otherwise
Disclaimer:They're not mine, unfortunately.
Summary: Sometimes it takes a lot to get Sam to relax.
A/N: I found this while going through my files, and was surprised it was so close to done, but not quite there. I needed a break from the angst of Big Bang, so thought I'd see what I could do with it. It turned out a bit differently from what I'd originally (I think) intended, but I like where it went, and how it got there. And I really like the idea of Dean meaning well, but being a little misguided in how he gets Sam to relax. Anyway, hope y'all enjoy it :)
~i.~
The first time Dean gets Sam drunk, Sam is still three months away from his fifth birthday, and it's completely by accident and totally out of desperation.
Dad is two days overdue returning from his hunt -- "routine salt-and-burn, kiddo, shouldn't be gone long" -- when Sam slips climbing out of the bathtub and topples over on the slick tile flooring, twisting his foot and ankle beneath him as he falls.
He won't stop crying, even when Dean tries to bribe him with hot chocolate; just rubs his hand across his face, smearing tears and snot, and sobbing about how much it hurts.
"Make it stop, Dean, make it not hurt," he cries, over and over. He won't let Dean get close enough to it for long enough to see if it's broken or sprained; all Dean can see is that it's swelling and turning purple. Dean reads the label on the baby aspirin bottle again, but he doesn't understand the whole dosage thing and he's afraid to give Sam any more of it.
His gaze lands on Dad's bottle of whiskey (nasty smelling stuff, Dean doesn't understand why Dad likes to drink it) and he thinks about how Dad always seems more relaxed and not in pain, even when he's scratched or clawed really bad, after he's had some.
Dean pours some into the hot chocolate and takes it back to Sam. "Here, Sammy, this'll make it stop," he tells him, holding out the mug. "I made it special, it's got magic stuff in it to make it stop hurting." Sam snuffles noisily and drags his hand across his face again.
"Promise?" He asks, eyeing the mug suspiciously.
"Yep." Dean helps him hold it, bringing it up to drink. "You gotta drink it all, though, or it won't work."
To his surprise (or maybe not, Dad says Sam listens to Dean better than he listens to Dad), Sam tips the mug and drains it, a shudder rippling through him as he finishes. "Tastes nasty," Sam proclaims, leaning back on the pillows.
"I know. But it's like cough medicine, y'know? Always tastes icky, 'cos that's how it works best." Dean takes the mug over to the sink before returning to sit on the bed next to Sammy. "Can I look at your ankle now?"
"Mmm. Don't got an ankle," Sam slurs, then giggles. "Can't feel my toes--do I still got toes?"
"Look down, dummy, of course you got toes!" Dean pokes Sam in the thigh and rolls his eyes when Sammy raises up a little, only to flop right back down. He's acting kind of like Dad does, when he's had too much of the stuff, actually, all loose and relaxed.
He stays loose and relaxed while Dean looks at his ankle, frowning in concentration while he tries to remember everything Dad's told him so far about broken bones and sprains. He wishes he was older and smarter; nine doesn't seem very old all of a sudden.
Sammy wiggles away from him when Dean presses on the swollen spot, and he asks, "Does it still hurt?"
"Nuh-uh, tickles," is all Sam says, laughing again when Dean tickles him on purpose before propping the ankle up on some extra pillows. He thinks it's just a sprain, but if Dad's not home by morning, he'll call Pastor Jim. Just in case.
Sammy giggles again sleepily, and Dean settles in beside him with the book he's supposed to reading for school -- The Mouse and the Motorcycle. Sam's tears have stopped completely and he looks about ready to fall asleep, so maybe that stuff is magic after all.
~ii.~
Dean's just popped the top on a beer and stretched out on the couch when Sam slinks into the trailer, shoulders hunched in, body stiff and awkward. He doesn't appear to be injured, but he's holding himself so oddly that everything in Dean instantly goes on alert.
"Sammy?" He's trying for casual, he really is, because Sam at fifteen is kind of like a powder keg, waiting to go off. "You okay, dude?"
He gets a grunt that he supposes is an answer of some sort, and then Sam disappears down the hallway. Dean winces when the door slams, shaking the walls of the trailer with the force.
He gives Sam a count of ten minutes, but there’s no sign of him and the back of the trailer is dead silent, so Dean finishes off his beer and goes to investigate.
The door to their room is closed, but that's an easily passed barrier. Dean knocks once, more a head's up than out of politeness, and pushes the door open.
"Sam?"
"I don't understand girls," Sam mutters from the far side of the room. He's on his bed, curled up on his side, facing the wall. "Just—why they have to be so complicated?"
Dean huffs out a laugh – that's all it is, thank God – and chokes it back down when Sam stiffens. He wants to make some sort of smart-ass comment, make a joke about how Sam's practically a girl so he should understand, but every line of Sam's body is screaming at him, telling Dean that would be the absolute worst thing he could do. Instead he gives a shrug.
"Dude, no one understands girls. I don't think we're supposed to understand 'em."
"I thought I did—" Sam fades off, then clears his throat. "How come it works for you?"
Dean blinks. Oh. "Um. Guess it depends on what you mean by 'it'."
Sam rolls to glare at him. "You know what I mean. I just want someone—" Sam trails off again, and Dean's chest aches in sympathy. Fifteen isn't so far behind him that he doesn't remember it, and even if he was scoring with the ladies a lot earlier than Sam, there were still plenty of times he got shot down.
Okay. Time to switch tracks before this train derails completely. "C'mon, stringbean," Dean says, tipping his head toward the living room. "Let's have some good old fashioned male-bonding over some brewskis."
"You're gonna let me drink?" Sam sits up, face blotchy but hopeful.
"Dude, I'll let you get shitfaced, if that's what you want. Only you gotta swear you won't let dad find out. That happens, I'll have to hurt you, and you'll never drink again."
"I swear," Sam says solemnly, pushing up off his bed. He's all long, stork legs, ungainly and graceless, awkward with the height he's just gotten. But Dean watches Sam move, sees the man hidden in the boy. Maybe the girls don't see him now, but Dean has a feeling that one of these days his baby brother is going to come into his own.
He drowns the sadness and inexplicable jealousy those thoughts bring with beer, and later, whiskey shots, Sam matching him shot for shot.
Later still, Dean holds Sam's hair back from his forehead while he pukes it all back up. Just another rite of passage, like striking out with girls.
~iii.~
He knows he's supposed to be happy for Sam – Dean knows Stanford is one hell of an awesome school – but all Dean can think is don't leave, Sammy. Don't leave *me*. He doesn’t say it, though; won't say it, because Sam's clearly hurting even through his happiness, the fight with Dad is still ringing in Dean's ears, so Dean figures Sam still hears it, too.
"C'mon," Dean says, shoving back from the table. Sam looks up at him, greasy, lank hair falling into his eyes.
"Come on, where?" He's pale, and too thin, and Dean wishes things were different. Wishes Sam didn't feel like he had to go away; wishes Sam and their Dad could just talk instead of trying to outshout the other. Wishes a lot of things that aren't ever going to happen. "I still gotta pack, Dean," Sam adds, scraping his own chair backward.
"You have time to pack." It hurts like a punch to the gut to say that, but Dean manages a smile anyway and doesn't think about how his time with his brother has narrowed down to only hours left. "Let's go down to the creek for a little while."
'Creek' is probably a generous word for the tiny stream that runs through the back of the lot adjacent to where they're staying right now, but it has mossy-soft banks, and the water is cool and clear, and he and Sam have spent a lot of time this summer hanging out down there – when Dad didn't need them on hunts.
Sam bites his lip, then nods. "Bring beer?"
"Duh." Dean pokes Sam in the gut, then wiggles his fingers, grinning when Sam lurches out of reach. "Get your shoes on."
By the time Sam's got his shoes on, Dean has what he wants all together in a bag. He tosses a towel at Sam's head when he reappears, and they head out the door, jostling and poking at one another like it's just another day.
If it were just another day, though, Dean wouldn't ache all the way through like he does. Sure, his brother can be a pissy little bitch when the mood strikes, but he's Sam. Dean's brother, friend, sparring partner, confident. Drinking partner, prank partner, pain-in-the-ass-but-Dean-loves-him-anyway.
Dean's whole world.
"So, college," Dean says, after several beers and shots. Sam's kicked off his shoes and is sitting with his feet dangling into the water.
"Yeah," Sam answers finally, after the silence draws out uncomfortably.
"How come?" The words stick in his throat, and Dean washes them down with a shot of Jack.
Sam shrugs; Dean sees the movement in the dim light of evening. "Always—always wanted to go. I don't want to do this—" He gestures widely, and Dean takes that to mean everything they do, "—forever. There's other stuff out there. A whole world, Dean."
Sam takes the bottle from Dean's hand and gulps down a couple swallows, coughing at the end of it. Dean thinks maybe he's trying to wash the words down, too.
They drink in silence, soft swallowing sounds accompanying the frogs and crickets. Dean thinks about all the hunts they've been on, and how weird (wrong) hunting without Sam is going to feel. He takes a swig of his beer.
"Hey, remember those spirits in Charleston? The ones who were haunting the house down by the wharf?"
Sam laughs. "The preacher and his daughter? Kept saying you'd make a good husband for her?"
Dean grimaces. "That's the one. Never had a ghost try the whole shotgun wedding thing before."
Sam leans back on his elbows, long legs still disappearing over the side of the creek bank. "Ever had a vengeful dad try it?" He grins upside down at Dean. "'S often as you cat around, I can't believe it's never happened before."
"So far, so good, Sammy," Dean says lightly.
"Good." Sam flops down on his back and grins up at Dean. "I think 'm wasted," he says, the words thick and heavy-sounding.
"You've always been a lightweight." Dean shifts until he's close beside Sam and when he lays back Sam moves to rest his head on Dean's stomach.
"You love me anyway, jerk." Sam sounds half asleep already, a warm weight against Dean.
"Yeah, I do," Dean says softly, daring to let his fingers trail through Sam's hair. Don't go, he wants to say. Don't leave me.
He's just about asleep himself, lulled by the booze and the crickets, and the soft breeze flowing over him, when Sam shifts suddenly, rolling until he's on his belly, hanging over Dean.
"You could come with me." It's funny how the moon comes out from behind the clouds at that moment, lighting Sam's face up, making him shine. "To Stanford," he adds, like Dean wouldn't know what he's talking about.
Dean shifts up so he's half-sitting, and studies him for a moment, considering and rejecting the idea. No, he really can't. He's shaking his head no, the word on his lips, when Sam lunges forward and presses his mouth to Dean's. It's sloppy and wet, and Sam tastes like Jack and beer, and it lasts only a handful of seconds before Sam's leaning back, head tipped forward so Dean can't see his eyes.
His lips burn like he's been branded, and it's only Sam still sitting there, motionless and silent, that keeps Dean from pressing his fingers to his mouth like a girl might.
He swallows roughly, and says, "Sam, I—"
"I have to go pack," Sam mumbles, lurching to his feet. He disappears into the night before Dean can move, or speak, or do anything.
In the morning they're both hung-over, and neither one mentions anything about the night before.
~iv.~
Sam's like a ticking time bomb in the days before the funeral. Single-syllable answers to questions; grunts if he can get away with it. He doesn't sleep, hardly eats, and the night before the funeral his eyes are dark and ringed with shadows that make him look seventy, instead of twenty-two.
"C'mere," Dean tells him, and nudges him through the door of the motel. The sun is down and the pool is emptied, so no one else is around. Just them and two bottles of tequila Dean picked up earlier. He points at one of the lounge chairs. "Sit, Sam."
"'m not a dog," Sam says faintly, but he sits down, not even tracking Dean's movements when he disappears back into their room before coming out with one bottle of tequila and a six-pack to chase it with. "Dean—"
"You need to relax so you can sleep tonight, dude." Dean pours them each a slug into the motel-furnished glasses, then pops the caps off two beers. "You're gonna scare people with the undead look. Now drink."
"Bossy." But Sam picks up the glass and slams the shot back, then looks at Dean. "Another."
It's like that for a little while, Sam downing two or three shots for every one of Dean's, chasing them with swallows of beer. Normally Dean would be looking to get trashed, too, but that's not what this is about. This…this is for Sammy. This time, Dean's going to stay sober, even if his goal is to get his brother shit-faced.
"I really loved her," Sam slurs some time later. He's been quiet, mostly, other than demands for more shots. "Love her. Didn't—she shouldn't, it should'a, I dunno what to do, Dean."
He looks so young in the dim light, eyes wide open, shiny with unshed tears, voice low and soft. Dean wishes this was something he could fix like the sprained ankle, or a girl-crush sending mixed signals. He wishes he could make it not hurt.
"I'm sorry, man. I wish—wish you didn't have to go through this." He pours another shot for both of them, emptying the bottle, and pushes the glass toward Sam. "I'd give anything if I could undo this for you."
He feels guilty saying that, because it's not completely true. Yeah, he wishes Sam wasn't hurting, but he's glad to have his brother again. Have him back. There's been a Sam-sized hole in his life – in his heart – for too long.
"I just never thought…could hurt like this an' still be alive." Sam looks at Dean, mouth open like he's going to say more, and then his eyes are rolling back in his head, and that's all the notice Dean gets before Sam passes out.
As he's lugging his ginormous brother back into the motel room, Dean thinks he should've planned better for this possibility. Sam's actually taller than he was before he left for Stanford, and he's heavy, and he's dead weight. But at least he'll likely sleep through the night, even if he wakes up hung-over as hell.
He gets Sam settled on the bed and strips him out of his jeans and t-shirt, then pulls the blankets up over him.
"Sometimes the only way you know you are still alive is by how much it hurts," he whispers, and leans down to brush a kiss across Sam's mouth.
~v.~
"You know you wanna go for it, man. I can get another room for the night." Sam nods toward the server eyeing Dean from the bar, and kicks Dean's ankle under the table.
"What? Nah, it's cool, Sammy." Hooking up with their server is the last thing Dean wants. What he wants is sitting right across from him, all six-feet-plus lounging back into the corner of the booth. "Not in the mood."
"Not in the mood? Who are you, and what've you done with my brother?" Sam's gorgeous when he smiles, and he does it far too seldom. It's nice to see, the dimples flashing, and Dean'll be damned if he does anything to dim that smile. He'd pass on the girl even if he was in the mood, to keep Sam smiling like that.
"Shut up, bitch."
"Make me, jerk." Sam knocks his foot against Dean's ankle again and grins when Dean twitches.
"You done yet, princess? I'm ready to blow this joint."
"You sure you don't want to stay and—"
"Positive." Dean's already moving toward the edge of the booth. "C'mon, we got some research still to do."
Sam raises an eyebrow but doesn't argue, following Dean out to the car. "You wanna drop me at the motel, then go get us something to drink? Just beer," he adds, when Dean opens his mouth to point out they have a bottle of Jack in trunk. "I don't want whisky tonight. I always end up with a headache."
"Lightweight," Dean grumbles, but sure, beer sounds good. And maybe he can sneak some whisky into Sam after he's had a few. The nightmares have picked up again – apart from the visions he's getting now during the day – and it'd be good to have Sam get a good night's sleep for a change.
And Dean's totally not going to think about how he'd like to sit beside Sam while he's sleeping, and just watch him sleep. That's entirely too creepy to contemplate.
"Just beer," is all Sam says when Dean stops in front of the motel. He climbs out of the car, all long limbs and sleek grace, and Dean's glad the sun is setting, so Sam can't see him staring.
Sometimes it's a physical pain, wanting his brother the way he does.
Joe's Liquor Barn is having a two-for-one sale, so Dean gets beer and some soda, and a couple packages of Red Vines. The Doritos are a total impulse buy at the checkout. So is the bag of little chocolate bars.
Sam's eyebrows disappear under his bangs when Dean carries the stuff into the motel room.
"I said some beer, not a whole store."
"Dude. Two for one." Dean tosses a package of licorice at Sam, and heads for the kitchenette to put the beer in the fridge.
"Yeah, but—"
Dean turns around and nearly collides with Sam, who's looming right up in Dean's personal space all of a sudden.
"—you don't need to get me drunk, Dean," Sam tells him, leaning in slowly. "But you do need to tell me if this is okay."
Dean thinks he says yes. He hopes that's what comes out, since his brain has shut down. He has just enough time to lick his lips before Sam's kissing him, soft and sweet, just a warm press of lips before Sam pulls back a little.
"Okay?" He asks, the words hardly more than puffs of air against Dean's mouth. Dean nods and closes the distance, his heart pounding so hard he barely hears Sam's soft laugh.
This time it's so much more than just a press of their mouths together. It's hot and wet, and Sam tracing his tongue along the seam of Dean's lips, teasing him into opening up. Dean leans back against the counter and pulls Sam along with him, reaching up to cup Sam's face, thumbs stroking over warm skin, scratchy-soft stubble prickling him. Sam angles his head and presses harder, tongue slicking around the inside of Dean's mouth like he's trying to taste all of him at once, and all Dean wants to do is melt into him.
"Wasn't gonna get you drunk," he tells Sam when they've parted to breathe, forehead-to-forehead, sharing breath between them. "Not—I mean. Maybe, so you could sleep. But not, not this."
"I know." Sam nips at Dean's mouth, nuzzles at his jaw, and then bites and sucks until Dean feels the blood rising, making it sting sharply. "I was teasing about that. And drunk's okay. But I wanted to do this sober, the first time."
First time? That's too much to process right now, so Dean stops trying. Instead he gives himself over to turning them around, pressing Sam against the counter, and making a mark on Sam's throat to match the one on his.
~fin~
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating:PG-13
Word Count: ~3500
Spoilers/Warnings: Vague for the pilot, but none otherwise
Disclaimer:They're not mine, unfortunately.
Summary: Sometimes it takes a lot to get Sam to relax.
A/N: I found this while going through my files, and was surprised it was so close to done, but not quite there. I needed a break from the angst of Big Bang, so thought I'd see what I could do with it. It turned out a bit differently from what I'd originally (I think) intended, but I like where it went, and how it got there. And I really like the idea of Dean meaning well, but being a little misguided in how he gets Sam to relax. Anyway, hope y'all enjoy it :)
The first time Dean gets Sam drunk, Sam is still three months away from his fifth birthday, and it's completely by accident and totally out of desperation.
Dad is two days overdue returning from his hunt -- "routine salt-and-burn, kiddo, shouldn't be gone long" -- when Sam slips climbing out of the bathtub and topples over on the slick tile flooring, twisting his foot and ankle beneath him as he falls.
He won't stop crying, even when Dean tries to bribe him with hot chocolate; just rubs his hand across his face, smearing tears and snot, and sobbing about how much it hurts.
"Make it stop, Dean, make it not hurt," he cries, over and over. He won't let Dean get close enough to it for long enough to see if it's broken or sprained; all Dean can see is that it's swelling and turning purple. Dean reads the label on the baby aspirin bottle again, but he doesn't understand the whole dosage thing and he's afraid to give Sam any more of it.
His gaze lands on Dad's bottle of whiskey (nasty smelling stuff, Dean doesn't understand why Dad likes to drink it) and he thinks about how Dad always seems more relaxed and not in pain, even when he's scratched or clawed really bad, after he's had some.
Dean pours some into the hot chocolate and takes it back to Sam. "Here, Sammy, this'll make it stop," he tells him, holding out the mug. "I made it special, it's got magic stuff in it to make it stop hurting." Sam snuffles noisily and drags his hand across his face again.
"Promise?" He asks, eyeing the mug suspiciously.
"Yep." Dean helps him hold it, bringing it up to drink. "You gotta drink it all, though, or it won't work."
To his surprise (or maybe not, Dad says Sam listens to Dean better than he listens to Dad), Sam tips the mug and drains it, a shudder rippling through him as he finishes. "Tastes nasty," Sam proclaims, leaning back on the pillows.
"I know. But it's like cough medicine, y'know? Always tastes icky, 'cos that's how it works best." Dean takes the mug over to the sink before returning to sit on the bed next to Sammy. "Can I look at your ankle now?"
"Mmm. Don't got an ankle," Sam slurs, then giggles. "Can't feel my toes--do I still got toes?"
"Look down, dummy, of course you got toes!" Dean pokes Sam in the thigh and rolls his eyes when Sammy raises up a little, only to flop right back down. He's acting kind of like Dad does, when he's had too much of the stuff, actually, all loose and relaxed.
He stays loose and relaxed while Dean looks at his ankle, frowning in concentration while he tries to remember everything Dad's told him so far about broken bones and sprains. He wishes he was older and smarter; nine doesn't seem very old all of a sudden.
Sammy wiggles away from him when Dean presses on the swollen spot, and he asks, "Does it still hurt?"
"Nuh-uh, tickles," is all Sam says, laughing again when Dean tickles him on purpose before propping the ankle up on some extra pillows. He thinks it's just a sprain, but if Dad's not home by morning, he'll call Pastor Jim. Just in case.
Sammy giggles again sleepily, and Dean settles in beside him with the book he's supposed to reading for school -- The Mouse and the Motorcycle. Sam's tears have stopped completely and he looks about ready to fall asleep, so maybe that stuff is magic after all.
Dean's just popped the top on a beer and stretched out on the couch when Sam slinks into the trailer, shoulders hunched in, body stiff and awkward. He doesn't appear to be injured, but he's holding himself so oddly that everything in Dean instantly goes on alert.
"Sammy?" He's trying for casual, he really is, because Sam at fifteen is kind of like a powder keg, waiting to go off. "You okay, dude?"
He gets a grunt that he supposes is an answer of some sort, and then Sam disappears down the hallway. Dean winces when the door slams, shaking the walls of the trailer with the force.
He gives Sam a count of ten minutes, but there’s no sign of him and the back of the trailer is dead silent, so Dean finishes off his beer and goes to investigate.
The door to their room is closed, but that's an easily passed barrier. Dean knocks once, more a head's up than out of politeness, and pushes the door open.
"Sam?"
"I don't understand girls," Sam mutters from the far side of the room. He's on his bed, curled up on his side, facing the wall. "Just—why they have to be so complicated?"
Dean huffs out a laugh – that's all it is, thank God – and chokes it back down when Sam stiffens. He wants to make some sort of smart-ass comment, make a joke about how Sam's practically a girl so he should understand, but every line of Sam's body is screaming at him, telling Dean that would be the absolute worst thing he could do. Instead he gives a shrug.
"Dude, no one understands girls. I don't think we're supposed to understand 'em."
"I thought I did—" Sam fades off, then clears his throat. "How come it works for you?"
Dean blinks. Oh. "Um. Guess it depends on what you mean by 'it'."
Sam rolls to glare at him. "You know what I mean. I just want someone—" Sam trails off again, and Dean's chest aches in sympathy. Fifteen isn't so far behind him that he doesn't remember it, and even if he was scoring with the ladies a lot earlier than Sam, there were still plenty of times he got shot down.
Okay. Time to switch tracks before this train derails completely. "C'mon, stringbean," Dean says, tipping his head toward the living room. "Let's have some good old fashioned male-bonding over some brewskis."
"You're gonna let me drink?" Sam sits up, face blotchy but hopeful.
"Dude, I'll let you get shitfaced, if that's what you want. Only you gotta swear you won't let dad find out. That happens, I'll have to hurt you, and you'll never drink again."
"I swear," Sam says solemnly, pushing up off his bed. He's all long, stork legs, ungainly and graceless, awkward with the height he's just gotten. But Dean watches Sam move, sees the man hidden in the boy. Maybe the girls don't see him now, but Dean has a feeling that one of these days his baby brother is going to come into his own.
He drowns the sadness and inexplicable jealousy those thoughts bring with beer, and later, whiskey shots, Sam matching him shot for shot.
Later still, Dean holds Sam's hair back from his forehead while he pukes it all back up. Just another rite of passage, like striking out with girls.
He knows he's supposed to be happy for Sam – Dean knows Stanford is one hell of an awesome school – but all Dean can think is don't leave, Sammy. Don't leave *me*. He doesn’t say it, though; won't say it, because Sam's clearly hurting even through his happiness, the fight with Dad is still ringing in Dean's ears, so Dean figures Sam still hears it, too.
"C'mon," Dean says, shoving back from the table. Sam looks up at him, greasy, lank hair falling into his eyes.
"Come on, where?" He's pale, and too thin, and Dean wishes things were different. Wishes Sam didn't feel like he had to go away; wishes Sam and their Dad could just talk instead of trying to outshout the other. Wishes a lot of things that aren't ever going to happen. "I still gotta pack, Dean," Sam adds, scraping his own chair backward.
"You have time to pack." It hurts like a punch to the gut to say that, but Dean manages a smile anyway and doesn't think about how his time with his brother has narrowed down to only hours left. "Let's go down to the creek for a little while."
'Creek' is probably a generous word for the tiny stream that runs through the back of the lot adjacent to where they're staying right now, but it has mossy-soft banks, and the water is cool and clear, and he and Sam have spent a lot of time this summer hanging out down there – when Dad didn't need them on hunts.
Sam bites his lip, then nods. "Bring beer?"
"Duh." Dean pokes Sam in the gut, then wiggles his fingers, grinning when Sam lurches out of reach. "Get your shoes on."
By the time Sam's got his shoes on, Dean has what he wants all together in a bag. He tosses a towel at Sam's head when he reappears, and they head out the door, jostling and poking at one another like it's just another day.
If it were just another day, though, Dean wouldn't ache all the way through like he does. Sure, his brother can be a pissy little bitch when the mood strikes, but he's Sam. Dean's brother, friend, sparring partner, confident. Drinking partner, prank partner, pain-in-the-ass-but-Dean-loves-him-anyway.
Dean's whole world.
"So, college," Dean says, after several beers and shots. Sam's kicked off his shoes and is sitting with his feet dangling into the water.
"Yeah," Sam answers finally, after the silence draws out uncomfortably.
"How come?" The words stick in his throat, and Dean washes them down with a shot of Jack.
Sam shrugs; Dean sees the movement in the dim light of evening. "Always—always wanted to go. I don't want to do this—" He gestures widely, and Dean takes that to mean everything they do, "—forever. There's other stuff out there. A whole world, Dean."
Sam takes the bottle from Dean's hand and gulps down a couple swallows, coughing at the end of it. Dean thinks maybe he's trying to wash the words down, too.
They drink in silence, soft swallowing sounds accompanying the frogs and crickets. Dean thinks about all the hunts they've been on, and how weird (wrong) hunting without Sam is going to feel. He takes a swig of his beer.
"Hey, remember those spirits in Charleston? The ones who were haunting the house down by the wharf?"
Sam laughs. "The preacher and his daughter? Kept saying you'd make a good husband for her?"
Dean grimaces. "That's the one. Never had a ghost try the whole shotgun wedding thing before."
Sam leans back on his elbows, long legs still disappearing over the side of the creek bank. "Ever had a vengeful dad try it?" He grins upside down at Dean. "'S often as you cat around, I can't believe it's never happened before."
"So far, so good, Sammy," Dean says lightly.
"Good." Sam flops down on his back and grins up at Dean. "I think 'm wasted," he says, the words thick and heavy-sounding.
"You've always been a lightweight." Dean shifts until he's close beside Sam and when he lays back Sam moves to rest his head on Dean's stomach.
"You love me anyway, jerk." Sam sounds half asleep already, a warm weight against Dean.
"Yeah, I do," Dean says softly, daring to let his fingers trail through Sam's hair. Don't go, he wants to say. Don't leave me.
He's just about asleep himself, lulled by the booze and the crickets, and the soft breeze flowing over him, when Sam shifts suddenly, rolling until he's on his belly, hanging over Dean.
"You could come with me." It's funny how the moon comes out from behind the clouds at that moment, lighting Sam's face up, making him shine. "To Stanford," he adds, like Dean wouldn't know what he's talking about.
Dean shifts up so he's half-sitting, and studies him for a moment, considering and rejecting the idea. No, he really can't. He's shaking his head no, the word on his lips, when Sam lunges forward and presses his mouth to Dean's. It's sloppy and wet, and Sam tastes like Jack and beer, and it lasts only a handful of seconds before Sam's leaning back, head tipped forward so Dean can't see his eyes.
His lips burn like he's been branded, and it's only Sam still sitting there, motionless and silent, that keeps Dean from pressing his fingers to his mouth like a girl might.
He swallows roughly, and says, "Sam, I—"
"I have to go pack," Sam mumbles, lurching to his feet. He disappears into the night before Dean can move, or speak, or do anything.
In the morning they're both hung-over, and neither one mentions anything about the night before.
Sam's like a ticking time bomb in the days before the funeral. Single-syllable answers to questions; grunts if he can get away with it. He doesn't sleep, hardly eats, and the night before the funeral his eyes are dark and ringed with shadows that make him look seventy, instead of twenty-two.
"C'mere," Dean tells him, and nudges him through the door of the motel. The sun is down and the pool is emptied, so no one else is around. Just them and two bottles of tequila Dean picked up earlier. He points at one of the lounge chairs. "Sit, Sam."
"'m not a dog," Sam says faintly, but he sits down, not even tracking Dean's movements when he disappears back into their room before coming out with one bottle of tequila and a six-pack to chase it with. "Dean—"
"You need to relax so you can sleep tonight, dude." Dean pours them each a slug into the motel-furnished glasses, then pops the caps off two beers. "You're gonna scare people with the undead look. Now drink."
"Bossy." But Sam picks up the glass and slams the shot back, then looks at Dean. "Another."
It's like that for a little while, Sam downing two or three shots for every one of Dean's, chasing them with swallows of beer. Normally Dean would be looking to get trashed, too, but that's not what this is about. This…this is for Sammy. This time, Dean's going to stay sober, even if his goal is to get his brother shit-faced.
"I really loved her," Sam slurs some time later. He's been quiet, mostly, other than demands for more shots. "Love her. Didn't—she shouldn't, it should'a, I dunno what to do, Dean."
He looks so young in the dim light, eyes wide open, shiny with unshed tears, voice low and soft. Dean wishes this was something he could fix like the sprained ankle, or a girl-crush sending mixed signals. He wishes he could make it not hurt.
"I'm sorry, man. I wish—wish you didn't have to go through this." He pours another shot for both of them, emptying the bottle, and pushes the glass toward Sam. "I'd give anything if I could undo this for you."
He feels guilty saying that, because it's not completely true. Yeah, he wishes Sam wasn't hurting, but he's glad to have his brother again. Have him back. There's been a Sam-sized hole in his life – in his heart – for too long.
"I just never thought…could hurt like this an' still be alive." Sam looks at Dean, mouth open like he's going to say more, and then his eyes are rolling back in his head, and that's all the notice Dean gets before Sam passes out.
As he's lugging his ginormous brother back into the motel room, Dean thinks he should've planned better for this possibility. Sam's actually taller than he was before he left for Stanford, and he's heavy, and he's dead weight. But at least he'll likely sleep through the night, even if he wakes up hung-over as hell.
He gets Sam settled on the bed and strips him out of his jeans and t-shirt, then pulls the blankets up over him.
"Sometimes the only way you know you are still alive is by how much it hurts," he whispers, and leans down to brush a kiss across Sam's mouth.
"You know you wanna go for it, man. I can get another room for the night." Sam nods toward the server eyeing Dean from the bar, and kicks Dean's ankle under the table.
"What? Nah, it's cool, Sammy." Hooking up with their server is the last thing Dean wants. What he wants is sitting right across from him, all six-feet-plus lounging back into the corner of the booth. "Not in the mood."
"Not in the mood? Who are you, and what've you done with my brother?" Sam's gorgeous when he smiles, and he does it far too seldom. It's nice to see, the dimples flashing, and Dean'll be damned if he does anything to dim that smile. He'd pass on the girl even if he was in the mood, to keep Sam smiling like that.
"Shut up, bitch."
"Make me, jerk." Sam knocks his foot against Dean's ankle again and grins when Dean twitches.
"You done yet, princess? I'm ready to blow this joint."
"You sure you don't want to stay and—"
"Positive." Dean's already moving toward the edge of the booth. "C'mon, we got some research still to do."
Sam raises an eyebrow but doesn't argue, following Dean out to the car. "You wanna drop me at the motel, then go get us something to drink? Just beer," he adds, when Dean opens his mouth to point out they have a bottle of Jack in trunk. "I don't want whisky tonight. I always end up with a headache."
"Lightweight," Dean grumbles, but sure, beer sounds good. And maybe he can sneak some whisky into Sam after he's had a few. The nightmares have picked up again – apart from the visions he's getting now during the day – and it'd be good to have Sam get a good night's sleep for a change.
And Dean's totally not going to think about how he'd like to sit beside Sam while he's sleeping, and just watch him sleep. That's entirely too creepy to contemplate.
"Just beer," is all Sam says when Dean stops in front of the motel. He climbs out of the car, all long limbs and sleek grace, and Dean's glad the sun is setting, so Sam can't see him staring.
Sometimes it's a physical pain, wanting his brother the way he does.
Joe's Liquor Barn is having a two-for-one sale, so Dean gets beer and some soda, and a couple packages of Red Vines. The Doritos are a total impulse buy at the checkout. So is the bag of little chocolate bars.
Sam's eyebrows disappear under his bangs when Dean carries the stuff into the motel room.
"I said some beer, not a whole store."
"Dude. Two for one." Dean tosses a package of licorice at Sam, and heads for the kitchenette to put the beer in the fridge.
"Yeah, but—"
Dean turns around and nearly collides with Sam, who's looming right up in Dean's personal space all of a sudden.
"—you don't need to get me drunk, Dean," Sam tells him, leaning in slowly. "But you do need to tell me if this is okay."
Dean thinks he says yes. He hopes that's what comes out, since his brain has shut down. He has just enough time to lick his lips before Sam's kissing him, soft and sweet, just a warm press of lips before Sam pulls back a little.
"Okay?" He asks, the words hardly more than puffs of air against Dean's mouth. Dean nods and closes the distance, his heart pounding so hard he barely hears Sam's soft laugh.
This time it's so much more than just a press of their mouths together. It's hot and wet, and Sam tracing his tongue along the seam of Dean's lips, teasing him into opening up. Dean leans back against the counter and pulls Sam along with him, reaching up to cup Sam's face, thumbs stroking over warm skin, scratchy-soft stubble prickling him. Sam angles his head and presses harder, tongue slicking around the inside of Dean's mouth like he's trying to taste all of him at once, and all Dean wants to do is melt into him.
"Wasn't gonna get you drunk," he tells Sam when they've parted to breathe, forehead-to-forehead, sharing breath between them. "Not—I mean. Maybe, so you could sleep. But not, not this."
"I know." Sam nips at Dean's mouth, nuzzles at his jaw, and then bites and sucks until Dean feels the blood rising, making it sting sharply. "I was teasing about that. And drunk's okay. But I wanted to do this sober, the first time."
First time? That's too much to process right now, so Dean stops trying. Instead he gives himself over to turning them around, pressing Sam against the counter, and making a mark on Sam's throat to match the one on his.
~fin~
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Date: 2010-04-19 12:51 am (UTC)I don't know that I would have the strength to wait it out until the end of the season. Ugh. Good luck :)