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mickeymSee Master Post for all headers.
To the outside world we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other's hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time. ~Clara Ortega
Prologue
Lawrence, Kansas
November 4, 1928
Fire Destroys Three-Family Home, Kills Five
by Richard Downy, Staff Writer for the Lawrence Journal
Fire broke out late Saturday night in a multi-unit home on Euclid, killing five and sending two others to the hospital for related injuries. Firefighters were on the scene quickly, but unable to save the building. They did control the blaze and kept it from spreading to other nearby homes.
Among the deceased were Philip Averly, 73, and his wife Ruth, 70; Thomas Winfield, 22; Mary Winchester, 29 and infant daughter. Mary Winchester is survived by her husband John Winchester, and two sons. Thomas Winfield is survived by his wife Laura and one daughter. Laura Winfield and her daughter were taken to Our Lady of Hope hospital for treatment and observation.
The survivors declined commenting.
Cause of the fire is unknown at this time, and still under investigation.
Funeral arrangements for the deceased are pending.
~~~~~
April 1941
Rural South Dakota
"C'mon, Sammy — get your butt down here and help me."
Dean's shout is loud enough to send the roosting pigeons fluttering upward in panic-driven flight, showering Sam in a cascade of feathers. He sneezes twice then marks his place in his book and leans over the edge of the hayloft to give his brother a grin.
"You know Uncle Bobby told you it's your turn to muck out the stables. I already done my chores." He doesn't add that Dean wouldn't have the problem of chores-not-done if he didn't dawdle in places he wasn't supposed to be, like over at the Marcus's, mooning over Dorothy Marcus.
"You're a little shit, you know that?" Dean scowls up at him and Sam sighs. He might as well help, because he won't get any peace and quiet until he does, and he wants to finish another chapter before bed.
"Language," Sam chides, and heads for the ladder, ignoring Dean's mutterings. He loves this time of year, and this time of the day. The days are lengthening, sun rising earlier and staying up longer, making it easier to steal a few minutes of time for himself, away from his brother.
Not that he wants time away from Dean, exactly. But lately being around his brother makes Sam feel…odd. Flushed and excited, skin too tight and too small to hold him in. And it's not like he wants to feel this way; he knows he's not supposed to feel that around another guy — and especially not his own brother. But he does.
It's gotten worse, too, in the last couple of months. Several times now he's woken up, dick stiff against his belly, aching for want of—something. A couple times he's come awake with it pulsing, smearing sticky wetness across his pajama bottoms and the sheets, Dean's image burning through his dreams. It's worrisome and annoying, and he doesn't know how to make it stop.
He's not sure that, even if he knew how to make it stop, he'd want it to.
He misses the last rung on the ladder and stumbles right into his brother, arms and legs wobbling and wind-milling in an effort to catch his balance. Dean steadies him, hands on Sam's waist, big and broad and warm through his shirt, and it's just like his dream the other night, the one he woke up out of, dick still spurting. His dick stiffens now, rubbing against his underwear, and Sam pushes at Dean, stumbling backward as Dean narrows his eyes.
"Sam." Dean stares at Sam, now practically hugging the barn ladder, and takes a step toward him. "What's wrong with you lately, anyway? You're jumpier than Mr. Dobbin's thoroughbreds." When Sam moves backward again, he frowns. "Sammy? You're acting like I'm gonna hurt you, or something."
"No, I—it's nothin', Dean. Honest." Good mood effectively squashed, Sam sighs. "Let's just get this done, okay? I want to get to bed."
The look Dean gives him says very clearly that Dean's not buying it, but he nods. "Sure. Yeah."
Mucking out the stalls is dirty, tiring, boring work the boys can practically do in their sleep, and in an effort to bring his traitorous body under control, Sam finds himself thinking about all sorts of things: family, what little he can remember of the months and years before they came to live with Uncle Bobby, the day they came.
He was seven. Sam remembers that clearly, though so much of that year is foggy, covered in shadows. Heck, pretty much everything up until that point is covered in shadows. But yeah, he was seven…small and thin, scrawny, even. Dean was almost twelve, and at that time twelve seemed so grown-up; an age Sam couldn't even imagine being. He's older now than Dean was then, and some days he feels even older than not-quite-fifteen, but Sam thinks Dean's always going to seem larger than life to him. Larger, even, than Dad ever seemed.
It's funny how his earliest memories aren't of a momma, or even of his dad; they're of Dean.
Dean tucking him into bed. Dean snuggling up against him, helping to keep him warm. Dean frowning when there was nothing but some stale bread and coffee left to eat, and Dad was passed out in the back of the shanty or boarding house room. Dean patiently teaching him his letters and numbers, playing games with him and reading to him.
Everything leads back to Dean, it seems. Sam stabs the shovel down into the muck with more force than necessary and tries to refocus by thinking of his parents.
He's seen a couple of photographs of his mother, but he has no memory at all of her. All he knows is Momma and the tiny, new baby sister died when their house caught on fire. He knows he was given to Dean, who carried him out of the house, but that it was too late for Dad to get Momma and the baby out.
Dean remembered Momma, though, and at night he would whisper his memories to Sam in the form of bedtime stories, when they were huddled under the covers against the cold or couldn't sleep because it was too hot or their bellies growled with hunger. Momma sounded kind of like an angel, and Dean said she was an angel now, watching over them from far above.
Dad's memory is closer, though it's been over seven years since they saw him. In Sam's mind he's a big man, with a gravelly voice, and a salt-and-pepper beard. Somewhere in the back of his mind Sam sees this man holding him in his arms and laughing while Sam pets his face, the beard scratchy-soft against his fingers. He has that one memory of Dad — Daddy — that shines out from the others. Most of his memories are of Dad with liquor on his breath and hanging like a cloud around him; of Dad scowling or yelling at them, "damned kids, keep that noise down!" There was one time, well, one of many, that Dad left him and Dean alone while he went out — drinking, working, driving, who knew — and Sam fell and twisted his ankle badly. Dad yelled at Dean something awful when he came back home, and it made Sam so mad, mad enough to hit at Dad with small, ineffectual fists, crying the whole time.
That'd been a really bad night, with Sam crying, and Dad yelling, and Dean quiet as death. Afterward, Dad passed out again, and that time it was Sam holding on to Dean, petting his hair and snuggling into him, while Dean muttered, "it's okay, Sammy, he didn't mean none of it. He loves us, he does."
It wasn't too long after that, that Dad brought them up to South Dakota, and Uncle Bobby.
~~~~~
December 1933
Rural South Dakota
Uncle Bobby is Momma's brother. Sam doesn't remember ever meeting him before, though Dean says he was at the funerals for Momma and baby Eleanor. Sam doesn't remember those, either.
He's a big man, though not quite as big as Daddy, and he sounds kind of gruff when he talks, though he smiles at both Sam and Dean. He has a beard and moustache, heavier than Daddy's, and wears a cap on his head. His eyes are blue, with lots of crinkles around them. He's standing on the porch of his house when they drive up, with a big, funny-looking dog running circles around him.
"John, you look like hell," is the first thing he says when they've all piled out of the car, hand extended for Daddy to shake. Then, "this isn't Sammy, is it? Hellfire, but you've grown, boy! And Dean, you're purt 'near tall as me!" He makes a gesture toward the dog, trying to settle it. "Down, Buster. Down, dog."
"I'm almost twelve, Uncle Bobby," Dean says, looking between their Uncle and his dog. Sam knows how much Dean likes dogs; he's probably dying to pet him.
"That so? Well, it shows. You're gonna be a big 'un, like your Dad." Uncle Bobby holds his hand out to Dean, then squats down in front of Sam, who's shying back behind Dean. "Don't remember me, do you, Sammy?"
After a moment of silence Dean pokes Sam in the side. He shakes his head and squeaks, "N-no, Sir."
Uncle Bobby smiles. "You were just a little tyke when I saw you last. I'm not surprised. Reckon I'd be more surprised if you did remember me."
Sam's going to say something, he opens his mouth to do that, because Uncle Bobby seems like a really nice guy — not many adults come down to Sam's level to talk — but Daddy's already talking again, standing there impatiently, face drawn up tight like it's been so often. "Boys, I need to talk to Bobby. You go on, play with the dog or something."
It's cold out, and Sam really doesn't want to play with the dog. He wants to know what's going on, because he has the weirdest knot growing in his belly, and the hair on his arms and the back of his neck is rising in a way that has nothing to do with being cold. Something's about to happen, something that's going to change things, he can feel it in the air. Dean must feel it too, because he's not moving, either.
"Boys," Dad begins again, getting that pinched look on his face that usually means he's about to start yelling.
"John, it's too damn cold outside for any of us. Come on in the house and pretend you're a civilized man." Uncle Bobby is up and dusting off the knees of his overalls, ignoring the thundercloud of anger practically hanging over them. "C'mon, boys. You can warm up by the fire and I'll fix you some cocoa."
Even in the front hall it's warm, almost stifling after the searing cold outside. Sam and Dean hang their coats up on the wooden pegs of the hall tree before trailing after Uncle Bobby into the living room. Dad hangs back, coat undone but not off, until Uncle Bobby calls behind them, "You ain't leavin' right away, John Winchester. Take your coat off and sit down and rest. You look like death warmed over."
"Feel like it, Bobby. Listen, I need to ask a favor."
Their dad's voice is muffled when Uncle Bobby closes the door behind him, shutting the living room off from the kitchen.
"C'mon, let's look around." Dean's looking all around the room, inspecting the walls, the mantle over the fireplace, the shelves, everything, so Sam follows his lead and looks, too.
Uncle Bobby's house is pretty neat, even if they've only been in the entryway and the front room. It's the first real house Sam has any memory of being in, and he's fascinated by the furniture — a sofa and two huge, overstuffed chairs, a bunch of different sized tables (most of them really little, which makes Sam wonder what good they'd be), and lamps, and finally, the book shelves.
One whole wall of the room is nothing but shelves, and those shelves are full of books. Not the picture books Sam is used to, nor the Dick and Jane primers he reads. No, these are big books, full of words in teeny, tiny print. Sam's drawn to them like a magnet to steel; he's never seen so many books all in one place, ever. Not even in classrooms, the few times he's been to an actual school. One book in particular catches his eye; it's bigger than most of the others, with some funny-looking gold stuff on the edges of all the pages. The title of the book is HOLY BIBLE, which Sam thinks is a funny name for a book. When he says as much out loud, Dean rolls his eyes and smacks the back of Sam's head.
"It's God's book, Sammy," he says. "Everything God ever said's in here."
Sam doesn't know how he feels about that: if it's everything God's ever said, shouldn't the book be a lot bigger even than this? When he asks Dean that, Dean shakes his head and wanders off to look at the writing desk on the far side of the room, muttering about stupid little brothers.
Sam runs a reverent, hesitant finger down the spine of the Bible book, and looks over at Dean. "D'you think it's okay? If I look at it?"
Dean shrugs. "I think God probably doesn't care, but I dunno 'bout Uncle Bobby." After a minute he adds, "I never heard of anyone gettin' a whipping for reading the Bible, so go ahead."
It's a big, heavy book, and the pages are kind of funny feeling, thin and whispery, and not at all like the books he's used to. There's all kinds of writing in the front of it, on the first few pages: names and dates, though the writing is hard to read. Sam skips past those pages, making a note to ask Dean later what they are, and finds the first page with actual words on it. He forms the words carefully, silently, finger underlining each one as he reads:
1 First God made heaven & earth 2 The earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters. 3 And God said, "Let there be light"; and there was light. 4 And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness. 5 God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, one day. 6 And God said, "Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it separate the waters from the waters."
It's odd, compared to every other book he's ever read, and harder to read, too, but Sam kind of likes the way the words flow, so he wriggles until he's comfortable on the big sofa, and keeps reading.
Both boys settle eventually, Sam with his Bible and Dean with a Sears and Roebucks catalogue. He never does remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up it's morning-bright in the room and chilly since the fire's mostly out, and Dad is nowhere to be found.
~~~~~
"Sam. Sammy!."
It's kind of jarring, being pulled out of his thoughts so abruptly, and Sam scowls at Dean. "What?"
Dean gestures wildly, taking in the barn and horse stalls. "The hell, Sam? You were just standing there, staring out the back of the barn. Stalls ain't gonna clean themselves."
"Sorry," he mumbles, forgetting to remind Dean this isn't his chore he's helping with. "Was just thinking."
"You looked about a million miles away." Dean's voice is softer, almost gentle.
"Yeah." Sam leans his shovel against the barn wall and grabs up an armful of hay to spread around. "I was thinking—'bout when we came here. Do you. Do you ever think about Dad?" He regrets asking almost immediately when a flush comes up on Dean's cheeks that has nothing to do with what they're doing, or the falling temperatures.
Dean took it the hardest when they woke up that morning with no dad around. He yelled at Sam repeatedly, hid in the attic until he was blue with cold, stomped around and snarled at the horses, at Buster, even at Uncle Bobby. As the days bled into weeks, with Christmas and a new year, and Dean's twelfth birthday passing, it was obvious to everyone John Winchester wasn't coming back. It took almost a year before Dean would even mention their father, and another year after that before Sam ever brought him up.
He doesn't ask often, mostly because it's still clearly a sore subject for his brother. But sometimes Sam wonders what happened to their dad. Why he left; why he never came back. Where he went.
"Sometimes," Dean says finally, the word kind of hoarse. Sam drops the hay on the floor of the stall and goes to stand beside Dean; quiet comfort, if he wants it. Dean doesn't cotton to hugs much anymore; says they're for girls and babies. But once in a while, like now, Dean will lean in toward Sam, bumping their shoulders together. "I wonder sometimes," he says softly, voice almost a whisper, "if I'da done better, looking after you and stuff, if he woulda kept us with him."
"You did fine!" Sam forgets he's trying to comfort, and turns indignantly. "Wasn't him who made sure we got to eat and stuff, or taught me how to read—"
"Never shoulda done that, either," Dean says gruffly. "Can't ever get your nose out of a book, now."
"Very funny." Sam huffs the words out. "But Dean, c'mon. You can't — you can't blame yourself."
"Why not?" Dean shakes his head. "Why else would he have left us here?"
"Maybe because he wanted something more for you than driving around in that beat up car, watching him drink hisself to death?" Uncle Bobby's voice carries across the barn, and Sam and Dean whip around, Sam nearly knocking them both over when he throws himself off balance. He's grown five inches in the last several months, and his body just doesn't behave for him anymore. Uncle Bobby shakes his head at them, coming inside to lean against one of the barn poles. "Dean…Sam…I know it hurt you boys, getting left here. But your daddy…he did the right thing. I truly believe that."
Dean's quiet beside Sam, his face shuttered in a way Sam knows means he's trying to shut the emotions out. So he asks what he knows they both wonder, and what he knows Dean never will ask, himself. "But why? Why'd he leave us? Didn't he love us anymore?"
Uncle Bobby sighs. "It's because he loved you that he brought you here." The ever-present cap is lifted and Bobby runs his fingers through graying hair before settling it back on his head. "Boys, he loved your momma…I ain't never seen a man love a woman so hard… and I don't think he could handle life here without her. But he knew it wasn't fair to the two of you, neither, to keep dragging you all around, while he mourned."
"You said — you said 'loved'." Sam looks down at the floor, at the straw scattered everywhere under his feet, then back up at Uncle Bobby. "D'you think Dad's still… is he—" His throat closes over the words, though, and beside him, Dean goes rigid.
"I don't know, Son," Uncle Bobby says, after a long minute. "I know he didn't want to be living without Mary, but I don't know if he'd…I don't know if he'd take his own life, or be intentionally reckless. I knew your daddy a while, loved him like the brother I never had, but losing someone you love like he loved your momma…it changes a person."
Sam swallows hard, and in the quiet left behind after Uncle Bobby finishes talking, he hears Dean breathing fast and rough. He won't look to see if Dean's eyes are wet, because, well, that's a private thing. Sam doesn't like Dean to know when he cries; he figures Dean doesn't want him to know. But in the space of a heartbeat, hardly longer than it takes Sam to think that, Dean's off like a shot, running out and away from the barn. Sam turns to go after him, fear rippling down his spine, but Uncle Bobby lays a hand on his arm.
"Let him go, Sam. He needs to work it out on his own, his own way."
"But." Sam shakes his head. "It's getting dark—"
"Ain't nothin' out there your brother can't handle." Uncle Bobby sighs and turns. "Let's finish up here, so we can get to bed before it's time to get back up."
Sam takes one last look out the barn door, to where Dean is hardly more than a speck against the setting sun, then sighs and turns away. "Yes, Sir."
~~~~~
Sam spends a couple of hours sitting up in bed, quilts pulled up nearly to his chin against the nighttime chill, eyes trained on the door and ears straining to hear any creaks or groans from the front door or stairs. He's waiting for Dean to come back, yeah, but he's also thinking about what Uncle Bobby said earlier. Could a person really love someone so much they didn't want to live, if that person died?
Sam tries to imagine a life without Dean, and all he gets is an ache in his chest that feels like he's been hollowed out.
"Stupid," he mutters to himself, and knuckles stinging eyes impatiently. The whole world's at war, there's all sorts of people here at home who don't have enough to eat or a job, and he's crying over…stupid things.
But the thought of his life without Dean in it lingers like cold fingers streaking over him, leaving uneasiness in their wake.
He doesn't remember falling asleep — had, in fact, planned to stay awake until Dean came home — but Sam wakes up when the mattress dips and shifts, bedsprings creaking in protest. Dean's a dark silhouette against the light of the moon streaming through thin curtains.
Sam yawns and shifts over, making room. "How far didja run?"
Dean's quiet for so long Sam's nearly asleep again before he answers. "Creek bed by the old Larson place."
That's over five miles away. Sam wants to throw his arms around Dean, hold him close, comfort both of them. Instead he rolls onto his side, shifting so he can see Dean, and yawns again. "You should get some sleep. It's gonna be time to get up before long."
"Mmm. In a minute." Dean settles himself on the side of the bed, sitting up with his back against the brass headboard, legs crossed at the ankles. He must've left his boots downstairs, Sam thinks drowsily. He blinks up at Dean, trying to wake up enough to ask if he's okay when Dean combs his fingers slowly, gently, through Sam's hair. "Sorry," he says, the word hardly more than a whisper.
That wakes Sam up a little. "For what?"
"Takin' off like that."
Sam manages a half-shrug and wiggles a little closer to Dean. The fingers in his hair comb and pet, tugging now and then, and it's soothing in a way nothing else has ever been. "I get it," he says. "I shouldn't have…shouldn't've brought all that up anyway."
"Nah, it's fine." Dean tugs a little harder, and Sam tips his head to try and see his brother's face better, to see what he's trying to say without words. "I — you know I wouldn't…leave you. Like he did. You know that, right?"
Sam swallows, his eyes prickling again. "Y-yeah. I know."
"Good." There's a moment when Sam thinks Dean's going to say something else, and his heart stutters in his chest, like a hiccup. Instead Dean sighs. "Get some sleep, little brother."
When he moves like he's going to get off the bed, Sam grabs at Dean's arm. "Stay here, tonight? Please?" Sam hates sleeping alone, and while they're both almost too big to fit in the same bed, and Dean has his own room, with his own bed, there's as many nights as not the boys end up sleeping together, curled up like it's them against the world.
"Sure," Dean says, voice soft. "But you gotta promise me something."
"Anything," Sam breathes, anticipation shivering through him. Anticipation of what, he doesn't know. But — something.
The pause drags out, and Sam's ready to wriggle out of his skin when Dean's voice finally washes over him. "You gotta promise not to hog all the covers. A fella could freeze to death, sleeping with you."
It feels like all the air leaves Sam's body in a whoosh, and he stutters before finding his voice again. "You — Dean!"
"Shhh." There's a hint of a smile in Dean's voice, now, and it's worth the odd let-down feeling for Sam to hear it. "Don't wake Uncle Bobby."
"You're such a jerk." Sam closes his eyes, sleep tugging at him again, and stretches one hand out to rest it on Dean's leg.
"Yeah, and you're a pain in my ass." The hand in his hair rubs gently, though, and Sam hears all Dean doesn't say in the words he is saying.
He's drifting again, almost asleep, when warm hands push him onto his side and the solid weight of Dean's arm slides over him; the heat of Dean's body close against his back. Later, Sam isn't sure if it's real or just his hopeful imagination, but he's sure he feels Dean's lips brush the back of his neck.
~~~~~
"You need me for planting today?" Sam's busy skimming cream off last night's milk when Uncle Bobby comes into the kitchen, and he breathes out in relief when Bobby shakes his head no, already veering toward the coffee pot burbling on the back burner of the stove.
"Nah. I reckon me an' Dean can finish up. I'd rather you finish up the school year, this year." The scent of the coffee mingles nicely with the bacon and potatoes frying, and Sam steps around Uncle Bobby to open the oven and check on the toast. "No eggs?"
Sam shakes his head. "Hens wouldn't let me close enough to get 'em. Stupid birds."
He'd rather finish up the school year this year, too. Not that not finishing the year has ever been a problem in the past; he's always been able pass the exams and progress into the next grade at the beginning of the next school year. But it's easier if he can finish the year out.
Uncle Bobby laughs. "Self-preservation ain't stupid, Sam. Chickens are smarter'n people give 'em credit for."
"Yeah, well, I wanted eggs this morning."
"I wanted a million bucks when I woke up, but you don't see me whining." Dean bops Sam on the head with his fist, and squeezes around both Sam and Bobby to get to the coffeepot. "'Morning, Uncle Bobby, Sammy."
"Hey!" Sam rubs his head and scowls, but all Dean does is grin at him.
"Someone's in a good mood this morning. Bet the livestock appreciated that." Bobby deftly tips the potatoes into a serving bowl and heads for the table. "Sam, didn't you make any oatmeal?"
"Sorry, I forgot." Sam didn't really forget, and he's not really sorry, because he can't stand oatmeal. But he smiles apologetically, flashing his dimples, and Uncle Bobby sighs.
"S'okay. I can live one morning without it, I suppose."
There's a loud clatter and a smothered curse from Dean. "Someone remind me to fix this damn drawer later? I'm tired of dropping forks and knives all over my feet every morning."
"Language, boy." Uncle Bobby helps him pick the silverware up and get it and the plates to the table while Sam gets the toast out of the oven and takes the bacon up. "Sammy, make sure you pour you and Dean both some milk, then set the rest of it back in the icebox. I'm going to take some over to the MacKenzie's place later."
"Yes, Sir." Sam pours some of the milk into a battered tin pitcher and sets it aside, then puts the rest of the big jug back in the refrigerator, giving Bobby a grin. "You know we don't actually put ice in there any more, right? What with that fancy new electricity?"
"Boys with smart mouths end up with extra chores," Bobby fires back, sitting down at the table. "Dean, I told Sam we didn't need him to finish up planting today."
Dean groans. "Can I go back to school? Or go in Sammy's place? Let him stay and drive the mules."
It's funny now, a little, but it was a sore subject for a while, because Dean didn't get to finish school. There was no local school for what should've been his last two years of senior high school; the county ran out of funds and couldn't pay the teachers nor keep the building heated. There'd been some talk for a while about charging tuition — some rural counties around the country were resorting to doing that — but there wasn't anyone in their district who could afford that. So Dean didn't graduate.
"The mules like you better," Sam says quickly, and ducks when Dean pretends he's going to throw his toast. "Hey, it's not my fault if they recognize one of their own!"
"Is it too late to trade him in for a new plow?" Dean asks in an imploring voice. He shrugs when Uncle Bobby raises an eyebrow. "A puppy? New radio? No? Damn."
"Gettin' awful free with that cussin', aren't you? Might oughta send you back to Sunday school." Uncle Bobby tosses back the rest of his coffee back and stands up to pour another cup. "Best get to eatin', Dean, so we can get to work. Crops ain't gonna plant themselves. Sammy, make yourself some sandwiches with the rest of the bacon, for lunch. Me an' Dean will have somethin' else when we take a break."
"Will do." Sam's already shoveling food in; he still has some homework to finish up before heading out for school, and of course, the ever-present chores that just don't do themselves. "'S'it okay if I finish up the laundry after school? I'll hang the sheets out before I leave, so they're all dry."
"Just don't forget," Uncle Bobby says, slurping at his coffee. "Lemme have some of that milk, huh?"
Things quiet down after that as they all concentrate on eating. It's not a big farm, not by any stretch of the imagination, but there's a lot of work to be done to keep it operating smoothly, not to mention the household chores that seem to be never ending. With it being only the three of them, they all put in long hours at often back-breaking work. Sam wouldn't have it any different, though; he loves the farm and all that goes with it: harvest and planting both, lazy summer afternoons spent swimming in the small lake at the far northern boundary of the farm, and cozy winter nights spent making and eating popcorn and listening to the radio with Dean and Uncle Bobby. He remembers the fear and uncertainty of life with his Dad, when he and Dean never knew for sure if they were going to have something to eat at the end of the day, or where they might sleep. Uncle Bobby might not be rich, or even particularly well-to-do, but he's always made sure they had plenty to eat and the same pillow to lie their heads on every night.
Sam tunes out the low back-and-forth between Dean and Uncle Bobby about getting the last field planted. He knows he and Dean will work on the vegetable garden this next weekend, but between him and Dean, Dean is actually a better farmer. Sam can do the work — doesn't mind getting dirty, or sunburned, or lifting/chopping/hauling until his body aches — but Dean has a better feel for it. He seems to understand, instinctively, what needs doing, and when.
There's going to be a dance at the high school on Friday, and Sam wonders if he should go. He doesn't have much interest in dancing, but he knows Uncle Bobby likes it when he socializes some with the other kids in the area. Even with attending school, and various church functions, they're still pretty isolated out here, so school and church activities are really the only time to socialize. The only reason they have that 'new-fangled electricity', as Uncle Bobby likes to call it, is because the big-money farm in the county ponied up most of the money to get things going.
And that brings his thoughts back to school, and the dance, which they're having to kick off having electricity.
The thing is...Sam doesn't want to go to the dance and hang out or dance with the girls he knows. He kind of wants to go to the dance with Dean, as his date. The person he dances with. Which is never, ever going to happen anywhere or anytime other than in his dreams, even if it's not just a school dance, but more a community thing, to celebrate, and Dean could come with him if he wanted.
He shouldn't even think about dancing with Dean, though this isn't just a crush, or a physical attraction, like he's been trying to tell himself for months.
Oh, Sam knows if he said something to anyone, if he could, they'd say to him, "You're too young to know how you feel; you can't be in love, that takes time and you're so young." Or something like that. But he's had his entire life, almost fifteen years, to know Dean. To love Dean. To know that Dean is his whole world.
"Whose turn is it for dishes this mornin'?" The question breaks through Sam's thoughts, and he glances over at his brother, saying "Dean's" at the same time Dean says "Sam's". Uncle Bobby snorts. "Sam, you get all your homework done last night?"
"Mostly." Sam finishes his milk and pushes back his chair. "I can finish up my reading at lunch." Dishes don't take that long, anyway. "You guys go get started; I'll get the dishes done. Gotta make my lunch anyway."
Dean shoves away from the table. "Don't have to tell me twice!"
"Never, when work's involved," Sam shoots back. He grins when Dean sticks his tongue out. "Bring some more water in for me, though?"
"Yeah, sure." Dean makes a big show of flexing his muscles until Uncle Bobby shoves at him with a gruff, "Get on with it, Boy."
Now that the county has electricity, Sam's kind of looking forward to eventually getting an electric pump, for the well, and a hot water heater. No more heating gallons of water on the stove to do dishes, or laundry, or take a bath. He keeps his thoughts to himself about the bathing part, though, because Dean teases him about being a girl when he mentions that.
Dean and Uncle Bobby clear out of the kitchen, and the house, in a scuffle of boots on hardwood floors, and a slamming of doors. Dean's back in and out twice, bringing water, then he's gone, too, leaving Sam to the quiet of the house in early morning.
Maybe too quiet, because his thoughts wander while waiting for the water to heat up, and making his lunch. He woke up this morning with Dean curled around him like a living blanket, breathing warm against the back of his neck. That in itself would be enough to get Sam hard, and he was, like pretty much every other morning of his life. Except this morning, with Dean around him like that, Sam felt Dean's morning erection pressing against him, throbbing even through the fabric of their pajamas. He made it out of bed and into the bathroom before making a mess all over himself, but it was a close thing.
Thinking about it now makes Sam flush all over and he presses his hand against his fly, feeling his growing erection, lengthening and thickening as he rubs. He shivers and presses harder, fingers splaying outward until he's basically humping into his hand.
He knows it's not a big deal to masturbate. Uncle Bobby was pretty matter-of-fact about it when he sat Sam and Dean down one evening, years ago, to talk about it (though he did say that not everyone was as liberal-minded about it as he was, and to keep quiet about it with other kids). It's a much bigger deal to masturbate in the kitchen, while day-dreaming about what your brother might look like, hard and flushed and wanting you back. Sam doesn't care. No one's around; even Buster's outside. It's just Sam and his thoughts, and he jerks the buttons on his pants until they open and he can reach inside his underwear and draw his dick out.
It feels so good to touch himself; it would feel a hundred times better if it was Dean touching him. Sam strokes himself slowly, then faster, pausing only to spit into his hand to ease the burn a little. He closes his eyes and thinks of his brother, tall and broad, skin freckled from so much time spent out-of-doors. Sam wants to kiss those freckles, follow them with his tongue. Taste Dean's bellybutton, and the hair growing downward from there. He grunts as heat sweeps through his body, boiling his blood. Imagines Dean standing before him, pushing his pants down over strong thighs. Imagines Dean's erection, how it would look and feel. Wonders if he tastes the way Sam does, semen a little bitter, kind of salty.
The heat's reached flashpoint inside him, and Sam pants as he jerks himself faster, harder, his balls drawing up against his body. He feels so hot, shaky, sweat prickling his neck in spite of the cool breeze blowing in through the kitchen window. Coming feels like a lightning storm inside him, hot and cold streaking through him, moving outward from the base of his spine. It's pleasure-pain at its finest, and Sam grips at the wood of the counter with his free hand, panting out the one word still floating through his mind: "…Dean…"
He's barely caught his breath, chest still heaving and body still shivering, when Sam hears a noise behind him. It's like an intake of breath and a gasp all at once, a strangled noise of shock or surprise, and Sam whirls around to see Dean standing there in the doorway, staring at him, eyes wide and dark. Sam stumbles back a step or two as Dean takes one forward, trying desperately to find the dishtowel to wipe his hands. He's hanging out of his pants, and Dean's still staring, not saying a word, not moving any more.
Sam swallows roughly, not sure if he should even try to say anything; not sure what he could say. Dean holds his position for another agonizing few seconds, then turns and darts back out the door, but not before Sam sees the erection pushing against Dean's pants.
~~~~~
For the first time in a long time, Sam has trouble focusing on school, on his teachers, on anything. He wants to get home, find Dean, and see if he's sickened by what he saw, or angry, or anything else.
Dean said he wouldn't ever leave Sam, not like Dad did. But that was before this morning. Before Sam made a mess out of everything.
"Sam, are you going to the dance on Friday?" It's a soft, feminine voice calling him, and Sam turns around to see Becky Summers watching him from the doorway of the Chemistry lab. Not for the first time he wishes he could like her the way she obviously likes him.
"I dunno," he says finally, dodging around a couple of younger kids racing down the hallway. "We're busy doing a lot of planting right now, and we gotta get the garden in, this weekend."
"You aren't going to miss the rest of the school year, are you?"
"I sure hope not. Uncle Bobby said he an' Dean can probably finish up the rest of the field crops without me, but that doesn't mean there isn't still a lot to do." Sam smiles at the expression on Becky's face. Her family farms, too, but unlike his home, at hers, there are six kids and her parents, plus her grandpa lives with them. Lots of people to divide the chores up between.
"I'll save a dance for you, Sam," she says, smiling shyly at him. "Just in case."
Sam can't help grinning, even as his face heats up. Last fall, Becky asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance, and he didn't have the heart to tell her no. It was kind of a disaster, because Sam isn't very coordinated under the best of circumstances, and that's only gotten worse since he started growing like crazy. But it ended up being fun, because Becky is a fun person. She's pretty, and smart, and interesting to talk to. He honestly likes her, but that's all it is. She's a friend. He doesn't want to court her, or anything else.
"Okay," he says finally, nodding. "I'll, um. I'll try to be there."
"Swell!" She leans in and gives him a hasty kiss on his cheek before giggling and darting off, calling behind her, "Bye, Sam!" Sam stares after her, bemused, until he realizes the bell just rang and he's late to his last class of the day.
Swell, indeed.
He's sitting in class and listening to Mr. Dryer drone on about Shakespeare when it occurs to Sam that Friday is his birthday.
There won't be any going-to-the-dance, because the tradition for both Sam and Dean is to go to the movies for their birthdays, and the birthday boy gets to pick the feature. Sometimes Uncle Bobby goes, sometimes he doesn't; it really depends on what the movie of choice is. Uncle Bobby's kind of odd about movies; he likes the ones that don't talk. Says the 'talking pictures' make his head hurt.
Citizen Kane is supposed to be released into theaters this week, according to the advertisements Sam's heard on the radio. Their little town will probably even get this one, though Sam will happily make the trip to Rapid City, if that's what it takes. Assuming Dean will even go with him after what he saw this morning.
"…and who can tell me what Shakespeare's telling us, with Romeo and Juliet? Sam?"
Sam startles when Mr. Dryer calls his name, and feels heat crawl across his face. "Um. That, uh. That love's…love's a tragedy?"
Someone behind him snickers, and Mr. Dryer gives Sam a pained look; a look that plainly says I expected more and better from you. Sam sighs. Today's been the worst day in the history of ever, and it just will not end.
He's saved from any further humiliation by the bell ringing. Mr. Dryer calls out a reminder that their essays on Shakespeare are due Friday and there will be no leniency for late papers. Sam slams his book closed and sets about buckling his bookstrap tight. It would only make a bad day that much worse to lose his books this close to the end of the school year.
The day's over, and after the heart-stopping incident this morning, Sam's not sure he's going to be able to go home and face Dean. He loves his brother so much, it's going to kill him to have Dean tell him what a sick, disturbed person he is. Still, he's not a coward, or at least he likes to think he's not, so Sam squares his shoulders and starts the mile-plus walk home.
Part 2
Prologue
Lawrence, Kansas
November 4, 1928
by Richard Downy, Staff Writer for the Lawrence Journal
Fire broke out late Saturday night in a multi-unit home on Euclid, killing five and sending two others to the hospital for related injuries. Firefighters were on the scene quickly, but unable to save the building. They did control the blaze and kept it from spreading to other nearby homes.
Among the deceased were Philip Averly, 73, and his wife Ruth, 70; Thomas Winfield, 22; Mary Winchester, 29 and infant daughter. Mary Winchester is survived by her husband John Winchester, and two sons. Thomas Winfield is survived by his wife Laura and one daughter. Laura Winfield and her daughter were taken to Our Lady of Hope hospital for treatment and observation.
The survivors declined commenting.
Cause of the fire is unknown at this time, and still under investigation.
Funeral arrangements for the deceased are pending.
April 1941
Rural South Dakota
"C'mon, Sammy — get your butt down here and help me."
Dean's shout is loud enough to send the roosting pigeons fluttering upward in panic-driven flight, showering Sam in a cascade of feathers. He sneezes twice then marks his place in his book and leans over the edge of the hayloft to give his brother a grin.
"You know Uncle Bobby told you it's your turn to muck out the stables. I already done my chores." He doesn't add that Dean wouldn't have the problem of chores-not-done if he didn't dawdle in places he wasn't supposed to be, like over at the Marcus's, mooning over Dorothy Marcus.
"You're a little shit, you know that?" Dean scowls up at him and Sam sighs. He might as well help, because he won't get any peace and quiet until he does, and he wants to finish another chapter before bed.
"Language," Sam chides, and heads for the ladder, ignoring Dean's mutterings. He loves this time of year, and this time of the day. The days are lengthening, sun rising earlier and staying up longer, making it easier to steal a few minutes of time for himself, away from his brother.
Not that he wants time away from Dean, exactly. But lately being around his brother makes Sam feel…odd. Flushed and excited, skin too tight and too small to hold him in. And it's not like he wants to feel this way; he knows he's not supposed to feel that around another guy — and especially not his own brother. But he does.
It's gotten worse, too, in the last couple of months. Several times now he's woken up, dick stiff against his belly, aching for want of—something. A couple times he's come awake with it pulsing, smearing sticky wetness across his pajama bottoms and the sheets, Dean's image burning through his dreams. It's worrisome and annoying, and he doesn't know how to make it stop.
He's not sure that, even if he knew how to make it stop, he'd want it to.
He misses the last rung on the ladder and stumbles right into his brother, arms and legs wobbling and wind-milling in an effort to catch his balance. Dean steadies him, hands on Sam's waist, big and broad and warm through his shirt, and it's just like his dream the other night, the one he woke up out of, dick still spurting. His dick stiffens now, rubbing against his underwear, and Sam pushes at Dean, stumbling backward as Dean narrows his eyes.
"Sam." Dean stares at Sam, now practically hugging the barn ladder, and takes a step toward him. "What's wrong with you lately, anyway? You're jumpier than Mr. Dobbin's thoroughbreds." When Sam moves backward again, he frowns. "Sammy? You're acting like I'm gonna hurt you, or something."
"No, I—it's nothin', Dean. Honest." Good mood effectively squashed, Sam sighs. "Let's just get this done, okay? I want to get to bed."
The look Dean gives him says very clearly that Dean's not buying it, but he nods. "Sure. Yeah."
Mucking out the stalls is dirty, tiring, boring work the boys can practically do in their sleep, and in an effort to bring his traitorous body under control, Sam finds himself thinking about all sorts of things: family, what little he can remember of the months and years before they came to live with Uncle Bobby, the day they came.
He was seven. Sam remembers that clearly, though so much of that year is foggy, covered in shadows. Heck, pretty much everything up until that point is covered in shadows. But yeah, he was seven…small and thin, scrawny, even. Dean was almost twelve, and at that time twelve seemed so grown-up; an age Sam couldn't even imagine being. He's older now than Dean was then, and some days he feels even older than not-quite-fifteen, but Sam thinks Dean's always going to seem larger than life to him. Larger, even, than Dad ever seemed.
It's funny how his earliest memories aren't of a momma, or even of his dad; they're of Dean.
Dean tucking him into bed. Dean snuggling up against him, helping to keep him warm. Dean frowning when there was nothing but some stale bread and coffee left to eat, and Dad was passed out in the back of the shanty or boarding house room. Dean patiently teaching him his letters and numbers, playing games with him and reading to him.
Everything leads back to Dean, it seems. Sam stabs the shovel down into the muck with more force than necessary and tries to refocus by thinking of his parents.
He's seen a couple of photographs of his mother, but he has no memory at all of her. All he knows is Momma and the tiny, new baby sister died when their house caught on fire. He knows he was given to Dean, who carried him out of the house, but that it was too late for Dad to get Momma and the baby out.
Dean remembered Momma, though, and at night he would whisper his memories to Sam in the form of bedtime stories, when they were huddled under the covers against the cold or couldn't sleep because it was too hot or their bellies growled with hunger. Momma sounded kind of like an angel, and Dean said she was an angel now, watching over them from far above.
Dad's memory is closer, though it's been over seven years since they saw him. In Sam's mind he's a big man, with a gravelly voice, and a salt-and-pepper beard. Somewhere in the back of his mind Sam sees this man holding him in his arms and laughing while Sam pets his face, the beard scratchy-soft against his fingers. He has that one memory of Dad — Daddy — that shines out from the others. Most of his memories are of Dad with liquor on his breath and hanging like a cloud around him; of Dad scowling or yelling at them, "damned kids, keep that noise down!" There was one time, well, one of many, that Dad left him and Dean alone while he went out — drinking, working, driving, who knew — and Sam fell and twisted his ankle badly. Dad yelled at Dean something awful when he came back home, and it made Sam so mad, mad enough to hit at Dad with small, ineffectual fists, crying the whole time.
That'd been a really bad night, with Sam crying, and Dad yelling, and Dean quiet as death. Afterward, Dad passed out again, and that time it was Sam holding on to Dean, petting his hair and snuggling into him, while Dean muttered, "it's okay, Sammy, he didn't mean none of it. He loves us, he does."
It wasn't too long after that, that Dad brought them up to South Dakota, and Uncle Bobby.
December 1933
Rural South Dakota
Uncle Bobby is Momma's brother. Sam doesn't remember ever meeting him before, though Dean says he was at the funerals for Momma and baby Eleanor. Sam doesn't remember those, either.
He's a big man, though not quite as big as Daddy, and he sounds kind of gruff when he talks, though he smiles at both Sam and Dean. He has a beard and moustache, heavier than Daddy's, and wears a cap on his head. His eyes are blue, with lots of crinkles around them. He's standing on the porch of his house when they drive up, with a big, funny-looking dog running circles around him.
"John, you look like hell," is the first thing he says when they've all piled out of the car, hand extended for Daddy to shake. Then, "this isn't Sammy, is it? Hellfire, but you've grown, boy! And Dean, you're purt 'near tall as me!" He makes a gesture toward the dog, trying to settle it. "Down, Buster. Down, dog."
"I'm almost twelve, Uncle Bobby," Dean says, looking between their Uncle and his dog. Sam knows how much Dean likes dogs; he's probably dying to pet him.
"That so? Well, it shows. You're gonna be a big 'un, like your Dad." Uncle Bobby holds his hand out to Dean, then squats down in front of Sam, who's shying back behind Dean. "Don't remember me, do you, Sammy?"
After a moment of silence Dean pokes Sam in the side. He shakes his head and squeaks, "N-no, Sir."
Uncle Bobby smiles. "You were just a little tyke when I saw you last. I'm not surprised. Reckon I'd be more surprised if you did remember me."
Sam's going to say something, he opens his mouth to do that, because Uncle Bobby seems like a really nice guy — not many adults come down to Sam's level to talk — but Daddy's already talking again, standing there impatiently, face drawn up tight like it's been so often. "Boys, I need to talk to Bobby. You go on, play with the dog or something."
It's cold out, and Sam really doesn't want to play with the dog. He wants to know what's going on, because he has the weirdest knot growing in his belly, and the hair on his arms and the back of his neck is rising in a way that has nothing to do with being cold. Something's about to happen, something that's going to change things, he can feel it in the air. Dean must feel it too, because he's not moving, either.
"Boys," Dad begins again, getting that pinched look on his face that usually means he's about to start yelling.
"John, it's too damn cold outside for any of us. Come on in the house and pretend you're a civilized man." Uncle Bobby is up and dusting off the knees of his overalls, ignoring the thundercloud of anger practically hanging over them. "C'mon, boys. You can warm up by the fire and I'll fix you some cocoa."
Even in the front hall it's warm, almost stifling after the searing cold outside. Sam and Dean hang their coats up on the wooden pegs of the hall tree before trailing after Uncle Bobby into the living room. Dad hangs back, coat undone but not off, until Uncle Bobby calls behind them, "You ain't leavin' right away, John Winchester. Take your coat off and sit down and rest. You look like death warmed over."
"Feel like it, Bobby. Listen, I need to ask a favor."
Their dad's voice is muffled when Uncle Bobby closes the door behind him, shutting the living room off from the kitchen.
"C'mon, let's look around." Dean's looking all around the room, inspecting the walls, the mantle over the fireplace, the shelves, everything, so Sam follows his lead and looks, too.
Uncle Bobby's house is pretty neat, even if they've only been in the entryway and the front room. It's the first real house Sam has any memory of being in, and he's fascinated by the furniture — a sofa and two huge, overstuffed chairs, a bunch of different sized tables (most of them really little, which makes Sam wonder what good they'd be), and lamps, and finally, the book shelves.
One whole wall of the room is nothing but shelves, and those shelves are full of books. Not the picture books Sam is used to, nor the Dick and Jane primers he reads. No, these are big books, full of words in teeny, tiny print. Sam's drawn to them like a magnet to steel; he's never seen so many books all in one place, ever. Not even in classrooms, the few times he's been to an actual school. One book in particular catches his eye; it's bigger than most of the others, with some funny-looking gold stuff on the edges of all the pages. The title of the book is HOLY BIBLE, which Sam thinks is a funny name for a book. When he says as much out loud, Dean rolls his eyes and smacks the back of Sam's head.
"It's God's book, Sammy," he says. "Everything God ever said's in here."
Sam doesn't know how he feels about that: if it's everything God's ever said, shouldn't the book be a lot bigger even than this? When he asks Dean that, Dean shakes his head and wanders off to look at the writing desk on the far side of the room, muttering about stupid little brothers.
Sam runs a reverent, hesitant finger down the spine of the Bible book, and looks over at Dean. "D'you think it's okay? If I look at it?"
Dean shrugs. "I think God probably doesn't care, but I dunno 'bout Uncle Bobby." After a minute he adds, "I never heard of anyone gettin' a whipping for reading the Bible, so go ahead."
It's a big, heavy book, and the pages are kind of funny feeling, thin and whispery, and not at all like the books he's used to. There's all kinds of writing in the front of it, on the first few pages: names and dates, though the writing is hard to read. Sam skips past those pages, making a note to ask Dean later what they are, and finds the first page with actual words on it. He forms the words carefully, silently, finger underlining each one as he reads:
1 First God made heaven & earth 2 The earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters. 3 And God said, "Let there be light"; and there was light. 4 And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness. 5 God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, one day. 6 And God said, "Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it separate the waters from the waters."
It's odd, compared to every other book he's ever read, and harder to read, too, but Sam kind of likes the way the words flow, so he wriggles until he's comfortable on the big sofa, and keeps reading.
Both boys settle eventually, Sam with his Bible and Dean with a Sears and Roebucks catalogue. He never does remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up it's morning-bright in the room and chilly since the fire's mostly out, and Dad is nowhere to be found.
"Sam. Sammy!."
It's kind of jarring, being pulled out of his thoughts so abruptly, and Sam scowls at Dean. "What?"
Dean gestures wildly, taking in the barn and horse stalls. "The hell, Sam? You were just standing there, staring out the back of the barn. Stalls ain't gonna clean themselves."
"Sorry," he mumbles, forgetting to remind Dean this isn't his chore he's helping with. "Was just thinking."
"You looked about a million miles away." Dean's voice is softer, almost gentle.
"Yeah." Sam leans his shovel against the barn wall and grabs up an armful of hay to spread around. "I was thinking—'bout when we came here. Do you. Do you ever think about Dad?" He regrets asking almost immediately when a flush comes up on Dean's cheeks that has nothing to do with what they're doing, or the falling temperatures.
Dean took it the hardest when they woke up that morning with no dad around. He yelled at Sam repeatedly, hid in the attic until he was blue with cold, stomped around and snarled at the horses, at Buster, even at Uncle Bobby. As the days bled into weeks, with Christmas and a new year, and Dean's twelfth birthday passing, it was obvious to everyone John Winchester wasn't coming back. It took almost a year before Dean would even mention their father, and another year after that before Sam ever brought him up.
He doesn't ask often, mostly because it's still clearly a sore subject for his brother. But sometimes Sam wonders what happened to their dad. Why he left; why he never came back. Where he went.
"Sometimes," Dean says finally, the word kind of hoarse. Sam drops the hay on the floor of the stall and goes to stand beside Dean; quiet comfort, if he wants it. Dean doesn't cotton to hugs much anymore; says they're for girls and babies. But once in a while, like now, Dean will lean in toward Sam, bumping their shoulders together. "I wonder sometimes," he says softly, voice almost a whisper, "if I'da done better, looking after you and stuff, if he woulda kept us with him."
"You did fine!" Sam forgets he's trying to comfort, and turns indignantly. "Wasn't him who made sure we got to eat and stuff, or taught me how to read—"
"Never shoulda done that, either," Dean says gruffly. "Can't ever get your nose out of a book, now."
"Very funny." Sam huffs the words out. "But Dean, c'mon. You can't — you can't blame yourself."
"Why not?" Dean shakes his head. "Why else would he have left us here?"
"Maybe because he wanted something more for you than driving around in that beat up car, watching him drink hisself to death?" Uncle Bobby's voice carries across the barn, and Sam and Dean whip around, Sam nearly knocking them both over when he throws himself off balance. He's grown five inches in the last several months, and his body just doesn't behave for him anymore. Uncle Bobby shakes his head at them, coming inside to lean against one of the barn poles. "Dean…Sam…I know it hurt you boys, getting left here. But your daddy…he did the right thing. I truly believe that."
Dean's quiet beside Sam, his face shuttered in a way Sam knows means he's trying to shut the emotions out. So he asks what he knows they both wonder, and what he knows Dean never will ask, himself. "But why? Why'd he leave us? Didn't he love us anymore?"
Uncle Bobby sighs. "It's because he loved you that he brought you here." The ever-present cap is lifted and Bobby runs his fingers through graying hair before settling it back on his head. "Boys, he loved your momma…I ain't never seen a man love a woman so hard… and I don't think he could handle life here without her. But he knew it wasn't fair to the two of you, neither, to keep dragging you all around, while he mourned."
"You said — you said 'loved'." Sam looks down at the floor, at the straw scattered everywhere under his feet, then back up at Uncle Bobby. "D'you think Dad's still… is he—" His throat closes over the words, though, and beside him, Dean goes rigid.
"I don't know, Son," Uncle Bobby says, after a long minute. "I know he didn't want to be living without Mary, but I don't know if he'd…I don't know if he'd take his own life, or be intentionally reckless. I knew your daddy a while, loved him like the brother I never had, but losing someone you love like he loved your momma…it changes a person."
Sam swallows hard, and in the quiet left behind after Uncle Bobby finishes talking, he hears Dean breathing fast and rough. He won't look to see if Dean's eyes are wet, because, well, that's a private thing. Sam doesn't like Dean to know when he cries; he figures Dean doesn't want him to know. But in the space of a heartbeat, hardly longer than it takes Sam to think that, Dean's off like a shot, running out and away from the barn. Sam turns to go after him, fear rippling down his spine, but Uncle Bobby lays a hand on his arm.
"Let him go, Sam. He needs to work it out on his own, his own way."
"But." Sam shakes his head. "It's getting dark—"
"Ain't nothin' out there your brother can't handle." Uncle Bobby sighs and turns. "Let's finish up here, so we can get to bed before it's time to get back up."
Sam takes one last look out the barn door, to where Dean is hardly more than a speck against the setting sun, then sighs and turns away. "Yes, Sir."
Sam spends a couple of hours sitting up in bed, quilts pulled up nearly to his chin against the nighttime chill, eyes trained on the door and ears straining to hear any creaks or groans from the front door or stairs. He's waiting for Dean to come back, yeah, but he's also thinking about what Uncle Bobby said earlier. Could a person really love someone so much they didn't want to live, if that person died?
Sam tries to imagine a life without Dean, and all he gets is an ache in his chest that feels like he's been hollowed out.
"Stupid," he mutters to himself, and knuckles stinging eyes impatiently. The whole world's at war, there's all sorts of people here at home who don't have enough to eat or a job, and he's crying over…stupid things.
But the thought of his life without Dean in it lingers like cold fingers streaking over him, leaving uneasiness in their wake.
He doesn't remember falling asleep — had, in fact, planned to stay awake until Dean came home — but Sam wakes up when the mattress dips and shifts, bedsprings creaking in protest. Dean's a dark silhouette against the light of the moon streaming through thin curtains.
Sam yawns and shifts over, making room. "How far didja run?"
Dean's quiet for so long Sam's nearly asleep again before he answers. "Creek bed by the old Larson place."
That's over five miles away. Sam wants to throw his arms around Dean, hold him close, comfort both of them. Instead he rolls onto his side, shifting so he can see Dean, and yawns again. "You should get some sleep. It's gonna be time to get up before long."
"Mmm. In a minute." Dean settles himself on the side of the bed, sitting up with his back against the brass headboard, legs crossed at the ankles. He must've left his boots downstairs, Sam thinks drowsily. He blinks up at Dean, trying to wake up enough to ask if he's okay when Dean combs his fingers slowly, gently, through Sam's hair. "Sorry," he says, the word hardly more than a whisper.
That wakes Sam up a little. "For what?"
"Takin' off like that."
Sam manages a half-shrug and wiggles a little closer to Dean. The fingers in his hair comb and pet, tugging now and then, and it's soothing in a way nothing else has ever been. "I get it," he says. "I shouldn't have…shouldn't've brought all that up anyway."
"Nah, it's fine." Dean tugs a little harder, and Sam tips his head to try and see his brother's face better, to see what he's trying to say without words. "I — you know I wouldn't…leave you. Like he did. You know that, right?"
Sam swallows, his eyes prickling again. "Y-yeah. I know."
"Good." There's a moment when Sam thinks Dean's going to say something else, and his heart stutters in his chest, like a hiccup. Instead Dean sighs. "Get some sleep, little brother."
When he moves like he's going to get off the bed, Sam grabs at Dean's arm. "Stay here, tonight? Please?" Sam hates sleeping alone, and while they're both almost too big to fit in the same bed, and Dean has his own room, with his own bed, there's as many nights as not the boys end up sleeping together, curled up like it's them against the world.
"Sure," Dean says, voice soft. "But you gotta promise me something."
"Anything," Sam breathes, anticipation shivering through him. Anticipation of what, he doesn't know. But — something.
The pause drags out, and Sam's ready to wriggle out of his skin when Dean's voice finally washes over him. "You gotta promise not to hog all the covers. A fella could freeze to death, sleeping with you."
It feels like all the air leaves Sam's body in a whoosh, and he stutters before finding his voice again. "You — Dean!"
"Shhh." There's a hint of a smile in Dean's voice, now, and it's worth the odd let-down feeling for Sam to hear it. "Don't wake Uncle Bobby."
"You're such a jerk." Sam closes his eyes, sleep tugging at him again, and stretches one hand out to rest it on Dean's leg.
"Yeah, and you're a pain in my ass." The hand in his hair rubs gently, though, and Sam hears all Dean doesn't say in the words he is saying.
He's drifting again, almost asleep, when warm hands push him onto his side and the solid weight of Dean's arm slides over him; the heat of Dean's body close against his back. Later, Sam isn't sure if it's real or just his hopeful imagination, but he's sure he feels Dean's lips brush the back of his neck.
"You need me for planting today?" Sam's busy skimming cream off last night's milk when Uncle Bobby comes into the kitchen, and he breathes out in relief when Bobby shakes his head no, already veering toward the coffee pot burbling on the back burner of the stove.
"Nah. I reckon me an' Dean can finish up. I'd rather you finish up the school year, this year." The scent of the coffee mingles nicely with the bacon and potatoes frying, and Sam steps around Uncle Bobby to open the oven and check on the toast. "No eggs?"
Sam shakes his head. "Hens wouldn't let me close enough to get 'em. Stupid birds."
He'd rather finish up the school year this year, too. Not that not finishing the year has ever been a problem in the past; he's always been able pass the exams and progress into the next grade at the beginning of the next school year. But it's easier if he can finish the year out.
Uncle Bobby laughs. "Self-preservation ain't stupid, Sam. Chickens are smarter'n people give 'em credit for."
"Yeah, well, I wanted eggs this morning."
"I wanted a million bucks when I woke up, but you don't see me whining." Dean bops Sam on the head with his fist, and squeezes around both Sam and Bobby to get to the coffeepot. "'Morning, Uncle Bobby, Sammy."
"Hey!" Sam rubs his head and scowls, but all Dean does is grin at him.
"Someone's in a good mood this morning. Bet the livestock appreciated that." Bobby deftly tips the potatoes into a serving bowl and heads for the table. "Sam, didn't you make any oatmeal?"
"Sorry, I forgot." Sam didn't really forget, and he's not really sorry, because he can't stand oatmeal. But he smiles apologetically, flashing his dimples, and Uncle Bobby sighs.
"S'okay. I can live one morning without it, I suppose."
There's a loud clatter and a smothered curse from Dean. "Someone remind me to fix this damn drawer later? I'm tired of dropping forks and knives all over my feet every morning."
"Language, boy." Uncle Bobby helps him pick the silverware up and get it and the plates to the table while Sam gets the toast out of the oven and takes the bacon up. "Sammy, make sure you pour you and Dean both some milk, then set the rest of it back in the icebox. I'm going to take some over to the MacKenzie's place later."
"Yes, Sir." Sam pours some of the milk into a battered tin pitcher and sets it aside, then puts the rest of the big jug back in the refrigerator, giving Bobby a grin. "You know we don't actually put ice in there any more, right? What with that fancy new electricity?"
"Boys with smart mouths end up with extra chores," Bobby fires back, sitting down at the table. "Dean, I told Sam we didn't need him to finish up planting today."
Dean groans. "Can I go back to school? Or go in Sammy's place? Let him stay and drive the mules."
It's funny now, a little, but it was a sore subject for a while, because Dean didn't get to finish school. There was no local school for what should've been his last two years of senior high school; the county ran out of funds and couldn't pay the teachers nor keep the building heated. There'd been some talk for a while about charging tuition — some rural counties around the country were resorting to doing that — but there wasn't anyone in their district who could afford that. So Dean didn't graduate.
"The mules like you better," Sam says quickly, and ducks when Dean pretends he's going to throw his toast. "Hey, it's not my fault if they recognize one of their own!"
"Is it too late to trade him in for a new plow?" Dean asks in an imploring voice. He shrugs when Uncle Bobby raises an eyebrow. "A puppy? New radio? No? Damn."
"Gettin' awful free with that cussin', aren't you? Might oughta send you back to Sunday school." Uncle Bobby tosses back the rest of his coffee back and stands up to pour another cup. "Best get to eatin', Dean, so we can get to work. Crops ain't gonna plant themselves. Sammy, make yourself some sandwiches with the rest of the bacon, for lunch. Me an' Dean will have somethin' else when we take a break."
"Will do." Sam's already shoveling food in; he still has some homework to finish up before heading out for school, and of course, the ever-present chores that just don't do themselves. "'S'it okay if I finish up the laundry after school? I'll hang the sheets out before I leave, so they're all dry."
"Just don't forget," Uncle Bobby says, slurping at his coffee. "Lemme have some of that milk, huh?"
Things quiet down after that as they all concentrate on eating. It's not a big farm, not by any stretch of the imagination, but there's a lot of work to be done to keep it operating smoothly, not to mention the household chores that seem to be never ending. With it being only the three of them, they all put in long hours at often back-breaking work. Sam wouldn't have it any different, though; he loves the farm and all that goes with it: harvest and planting both, lazy summer afternoons spent swimming in the small lake at the far northern boundary of the farm, and cozy winter nights spent making and eating popcorn and listening to the radio with Dean and Uncle Bobby. He remembers the fear and uncertainty of life with his Dad, when he and Dean never knew for sure if they were going to have something to eat at the end of the day, or where they might sleep. Uncle Bobby might not be rich, or even particularly well-to-do, but he's always made sure they had plenty to eat and the same pillow to lie their heads on every night.
Sam tunes out the low back-and-forth between Dean and Uncle Bobby about getting the last field planted. He knows he and Dean will work on the vegetable garden this next weekend, but between him and Dean, Dean is actually a better farmer. Sam can do the work — doesn't mind getting dirty, or sunburned, or lifting/chopping/hauling until his body aches — but Dean has a better feel for it. He seems to understand, instinctively, what needs doing, and when.
There's going to be a dance at the high school on Friday, and Sam wonders if he should go. He doesn't have much interest in dancing, but he knows Uncle Bobby likes it when he socializes some with the other kids in the area. Even with attending school, and various church functions, they're still pretty isolated out here, so school and church activities are really the only time to socialize. The only reason they have that 'new-fangled electricity', as Uncle Bobby likes to call it, is because the big-money farm in the county ponied up most of the money to get things going.
And that brings his thoughts back to school, and the dance, which they're having to kick off having electricity.
The thing is...Sam doesn't want to go to the dance and hang out or dance with the girls he knows. He kind of wants to go to the dance with Dean, as his date. The person he dances with. Which is never, ever going to happen anywhere or anytime other than in his dreams, even if it's not just a school dance, but more a community thing, to celebrate, and Dean could come with him if he wanted.
He shouldn't even think about dancing with Dean, though this isn't just a crush, or a physical attraction, like he's been trying to tell himself for months.
Oh, Sam knows if he said something to anyone, if he could, they'd say to him, "You're too young to know how you feel; you can't be in love, that takes time and you're so young." Or something like that. But he's had his entire life, almost fifteen years, to know Dean. To love Dean. To know that Dean is his whole world.
"Whose turn is it for dishes this mornin'?" The question breaks through Sam's thoughts, and he glances over at his brother, saying "Dean's" at the same time Dean says "Sam's". Uncle Bobby snorts. "Sam, you get all your homework done last night?"
"Mostly." Sam finishes his milk and pushes back his chair. "I can finish up my reading at lunch." Dishes don't take that long, anyway. "You guys go get started; I'll get the dishes done. Gotta make my lunch anyway."
Dean shoves away from the table. "Don't have to tell me twice!"
"Never, when work's involved," Sam shoots back. He grins when Dean sticks his tongue out. "Bring some more water in for me, though?"
"Yeah, sure." Dean makes a big show of flexing his muscles until Uncle Bobby shoves at him with a gruff, "Get on with it, Boy."
Now that the county has electricity, Sam's kind of looking forward to eventually getting an electric pump, for the well, and a hot water heater. No more heating gallons of water on the stove to do dishes, or laundry, or take a bath. He keeps his thoughts to himself about the bathing part, though, because Dean teases him about being a girl when he mentions that.
Dean and Uncle Bobby clear out of the kitchen, and the house, in a scuffle of boots on hardwood floors, and a slamming of doors. Dean's back in and out twice, bringing water, then he's gone, too, leaving Sam to the quiet of the house in early morning.
Maybe too quiet, because his thoughts wander while waiting for the water to heat up, and making his lunch. He woke up this morning with Dean curled around him like a living blanket, breathing warm against the back of his neck. That in itself would be enough to get Sam hard, and he was, like pretty much every other morning of his life. Except this morning, with Dean around him like that, Sam felt Dean's morning erection pressing against him, throbbing even through the fabric of their pajamas. He made it out of bed and into the bathroom before making a mess all over himself, but it was a close thing.
Thinking about it now makes Sam flush all over and he presses his hand against his fly, feeling his growing erection, lengthening and thickening as he rubs. He shivers and presses harder, fingers splaying outward until he's basically humping into his hand.
He knows it's not a big deal to masturbate. Uncle Bobby was pretty matter-of-fact about it when he sat Sam and Dean down one evening, years ago, to talk about it (though he did say that not everyone was as liberal-minded about it as he was, and to keep quiet about it with other kids). It's a much bigger deal to masturbate in the kitchen, while day-dreaming about what your brother might look like, hard and flushed and wanting you back. Sam doesn't care. No one's around; even Buster's outside. It's just Sam and his thoughts, and he jerks the buttons on his pants until they open and he can reach inside his underwear and draw his dick out.
It feels so good to touch himself; it would feel a hundred times better if it was Dean touching him. Sam strokes himself slowly, then faster, pausing only to spit into his hand to ease the burn a little. He closes his eyes and thinks of his brother, tall and broad, skin freckled from so much time spent out-of-doors. Sam wants to kiss those freckles, follow them with his tongue. Taste Dean's bellybutton, and the hair growing downward from there. He grunts as heat sweeps through his body, boiling his blood. Imagines Dean standing before him, pushing his pants down over strong thighs. Imagines Dean's erection, how it would look and feel. Wonders if he tastes the way Sam does, semen a little bitter, kind of salty.
The heat's reached flashpoint inside him, and Sam pants as he jerks himself faster, harder, his balls drawing up against his body. He feels so hot, shaky, sweat prickling his neck in spite of the cool breeze blowing in through the kitchen window. Coming feels like a lightning storm inside him, hot and cold streaking through him, moving outward from the base of his spine. It's pleasure-pain at its finest, and Sam grips at the wood of the counter with his free hand, panting out the one word still floating through his mind: "…Dean…"
He's barely caught his breath, chest still heaving and body still shivering, when Sam hears a noise behind him. It's like an intake of breath and a gasp all at once, a strangled noise of shock or surprise, and Sam whirls around to see Dean standing there in the doorway, staring at him, eyes wide and dark. Sam stumbles back a step or two as Dean takes one forward, trying desperately to find the dishtowel to wipe his hands. He's hanging out of his pants, and Dean's still staring, not saying a word, not moving any more.
Sam swallows roughly, not sure if he should even try to say anything; not sure what he could say. Dean holds his position for another agonizing few seconds, then turns and darts back out the door, but not before Sam sees the erection pushing against Dean's pants.
For the first time in a long time, Sam has trouble focusing on school, on his teachers, on anything. He wants to get home, find Dean, and see if he's sickened by what he saw, or angry, or anything else.
Dean said he wouldn't ever leave Sam, not like Dad did. But that was before this morning. Before Sam made a mess out of everything.
"Sam, are you going to the dance on Friday?" It's a soft, feminine voice calling him, and Sam turns around to see Becky Summers watching him from the doorway of the Chemistry lab. Not for the first time he wishes he could like her the way she obviously likes him.
"I dunno," he says finally, dodging around a couple of younger kids racing down the hallway. "We're busy doing a lot of planting right now, and we gotta get the garden in, this weekend."
"You aren't going to miss the rest of the school year, are you?"
"I sure hope not. Uncle Bobby said he an' Dean can probably finish up the rest of the field crops without me, but that doesn't mean there isn't still a lot to do." Sam smiles at the expression on Becky's face. Her family farms, too, but unlike his home, at hers, there are six kids and her parents, plus her grandpa lives with them. Lots of people to divide the chores up between.
"I'll save a dance for you, Sam," she says, smiling shyly at him. "Just in case."
Sam can't help grinning, even as his face heats up. Last fall, Becky asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance, and he didn't have the heart to tell her no. It was kind of a disaster, because Sam isn't very coordinated under the best of circumstances, and that's only gotten worse since he started growing like crazy. But it ended up being fun, because Becky is a fun person. She's pretty, and smart, and interesting to talk to. He honestly likes her, but that's all it is. She's a friend. He doesn't want to court her, or anything else.
"Okay," he says finally, nodding. "I'll, um. I'll try to be there."
"Swell!" She leans in and gives him a hasty kiss on his cheek before giggling and darting off, calling behind her, "Bye, Sam!" Sam stares after her, bemused, until he realizes the bell just rang and he's late to his last class of the day.
Swell, indeed.
He's sitting in class and listening to Mr. Dryer drone on about Shakespeare when it occurs to Sam that Friday is his birthday.
There won't be any going-to-the-dance, because the tradition for both Sam and Dean is to go to the movies for their birthdays, and the birthday boy gets to pick the feature. Sometimes Uncle Bobby goes, sometimes he doesn't; it really depends on what the movie of choice is. Uncle Bobby's kind of odd about movies; he likes the ones that don't talk. Says the 'talking pictures' make his head hurt.
Citizen Kane is supposed to be released into theaters this week, according to the advertisements Sam's heard on the radio. Their little town will probably even get this one, though Sam will happily make the trip to Rapid City, if that's what it takes. Assuming Dean will even go with him after what he saw this morning.
"…and who can tell me what Shakespeare's telling us, with Romeo and Juliet? Sam?"
Sam startles when Mr. Dryer calls his name, and feels heat crawl across his face. "Um. That, uh. That love's…love's a tragedy?"
Someone behind him snickers, and Mr. Dryer gives Sam a pained look; a look that plainly says I expected more and better from you. Sam sighs. Today's been the worst day in the history of ever, and it just will not end.
He's saved from any further humiliation by the bell ringing. Mr. Dryer calls out a reminder that their essays on Shakespeare are due Friday and there will be no leniency for late papers. Sam slams his book closed and sets about buckling his bookstrap tight. It would only make a bad day that much worse to lose his books this close to the end of the school year.
The day's over, and after the heart-stopping incident this morning, Sam's not sure he's going to be able to go home and face Dean. He loves his brother so much, it's going to kill him to have Dean tell him what a sick, disturbed person he is. Still, he's not a coward, or at least he likes to think he's not, so Sam squares his shoulders and starts the mile-plus walk home.
Part 2
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