Part Three

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Chapter Three

His first waking thought is: what's going on? His second is: what time is it?

Dean rubs the sleep out of his eyes and squints at his clock, which proclaims it's 2:37 in luminescent green.

It's getting worse, instead of better.

Dean stares at his ceiling, listening to the quiet gasps and sobs coming from Sam's room, until he can't stand it any longer, and gets up.

Like every other night, Sam isn't even awake. He's gasping and whimpering and crying in his sleep, head moving back and forth, body tense like he's expecting to have to jump up at any given moment. He actually had some blood on his bandages this morning, meaning he pulled something at some point during his nightmares.

"Sam. Sammy. Wake up." Dean shakes him gently, fingers brushing damp, sleep-warm cheeks. "C'mon, Sammy."

"Huh? Dean?" He rubs at his eyes, and for a minute Dean's reminded of the chubby toddler who would rub his eyes all the while protesting he wasn't sleepy, not at all! "Did I wake you up again?"

"Nah, I was awake." The lie comes easily, smoothly, because Sam's already carting around enough guilt and worry. "You okay? Need anything?" He knows what's coming as soon as he asks, because Sam's asked him every night since he came home from the hospital – over a week, now – and Dean knows he shouldn't, but he can't help it, can't not say yes. He needs to feel Sam close by as much as his brother seems to need him.

"Sleep with me?" Sam looks so young, hair all tousled and messy and flopping down into his eyes. No way anyone would believe his brother is sixteen, if they saw him like this.

"Sure. Scoot over." It takes Sam a minute to shuffle over, and something tightens in Dean's chest when Sam sighs and relaxes only after Dean slides in beside him. "Get some sleep, okay?"

"'Kay." Sam already sounds halfway to asleep again, and Dean feels his own breathing deepening, slowing down, his body relaxing. Sam's like a furnace beside him, and it's chilly in his room because he likes to sleep with the window open, so Dean edges a little closer, sighing as he warms up and sinks into sleep, right behind Sam.

~~~~~

Dean wakes up with a Sam-shaped octopus wrapped around him, and hard heat pressed against his hip. Sam's rocking gently, quiet, breathy sighs tickling the side of Dean's face. It takes him about half a minute to realize what is pressed against him, and why Sam's rocking, and then he's sliding out of bed as quickly – and carefully – as possible. He makes it to the door just as Sam stirs, and Dean braces for –something – but Sam just rolls over and goes back to sleep.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief as he heads for the bathroom, but he can't help the weird flush of heat that runs through him when he thinks about how not little his little brother felt, hard and ready, up against him.

He lingers in the shower, decidedly not thinking at all about Sam as he soaps up and jerks off, and by the time he's out of the shower and dressed, Sam's sitting up in bed, yawning and stretching carefully.

Dean stops in Sam's doorway. "Any blood this morning?"

"Nope." Sam wrinkles his nose at himself. "I wish I could take a real shower. I feel gross."

"Your face is gross."

Sam rolls his eyes. "What are you, eight? Geez. But seriously. You try not taking a shower for almost two weeks, see how you feel."

"No shower 'til the staples come out." Dean heads down the hall to his room and surveys the boxes still stacked in the corner. Mike and Ellie drove his stuff back to him over the weekend, but he hasn't had a chance to unpack it yet. Now to figure out where his sweatshirts are, because it's chilly out, and the forecast isn't saying much about it warming up.

"I know!" Sam calls after him. Dean smiles when he hears the quiet shuffling sounds of Sam heading for the bathroom, and the door slamming shut behind him. He's happy to have his brother being kind of pissy, if only because it means Sam's actually letting himself feel something.

Dean knocks on the door as he goes past it. "You want anything for breakfast?"

"Nothing to eat. Just some orange juice." Sam opens the door. "I'm not hungry."

"You gotta eat something, dude. You have all those pills you have to take."

Sam makes a face at him. "I'm not hungry, Dean."

"How 'bout I make you a—what's it called, a smoothie? With orange juice in it." He's pretty proud of himself for remembering that Sam likes those – though for the life of him, Dean can't imagine why. Yogurt and juice? Why not just have a milkshake?

Sam smiles, just a little, but it's enough for the dimples to appear. "That'd be awesome, Dean. There's some fruit in the freezer—strawberries, I think—they'll work with the orange juice."

There's that disturbing flush of warmth again, and Dean feels it expanding inside his chest the longer Sam smiles at him. He clears his throat and nods, mumbles, "Okay, one fake milkshake, coming right up."

Sam's laugh follows him down the stairs.

~~~~~

It's gonna be a busy day; they have lots of things that need to be done. Dean starts to suggest that Sam could stay home and work on the piles of homework Eric dropped off for him, but he knows what Sam's answer will be. Even though it's clearly still painful for Sam to get in and out of the Impala (and Dean can't even imagine what it would be like if it was a small car, like Mom's Honda was), he won't let Dean leave him behind. At all. So Dean's stopped suggesting; it eliminates a lot of stress right off the bat.

They stop by the auto shop first thing, and it's the third most painful thing Dean's done lately, right after having to identify his parents' bodies, and cremating them. This place is what Dean sees when he thinks about his dad. He and Gunther opened the shop together, just a couple months before Dean was born. He's grown up coming in here – both him and Sam have – learning the basics of oil changes and tire rotations at first, and then slowly learning his way around the inside of an engine.

He just saw all the guys at the memorial service, but it's a huge shock to be here, smelling the oil and rubber, and hearing the different noises associated with the shop. The first time he ever smoked a cigarette was out back, Ernie and Dad standing there smoking, laughing when Dean inhaled the smoke and damn near choked to death.

Actually, that was the first and last time he ever smoked a cigarette, though Dad smoked off and on, according to his moods and stress level.

Beside him Sam whispers, "I didn't think it would hurt this much," and Dean nods. He didn't think it would, either.

"C'mon," he says gruffly. "I gotta give these papers to Gunther before I forget 'em again."

Bringing the papers hurts too, because they're the legal papers for Gunther to buy out John Winchester's portion of the shop. Dean doesn't mind working on cars – it can be relaxing, actually – but he doesn't want to make a living doing it, and Sam couldn't find his way around an engine if his life depended on it. Better to sell it outright than have it hanging over them for forever. Sam and Dean spent the better part of one evening sitting with Gunther and Sally, going over the numbers, and then Sam and Dean had to talk it through.

If anyone had ever asked him what a loved one dying would have entailed, paperwork definitely wouldn't have made it onto the list. In Dean's opinion, it's pretty much at the top of said list.

Gunther has someone in his office, so they hang out in the shop area, talking to Ernie and Dave and Jason while they wait. It's bittersweet, because Dean knows they likely won't be back here after this, though they'll probably still see Gunther and Sally, at least.

"Boys," is how Gunther greets them, a hug-and-handshake for each. He waves them into the chairs, and sits down to look over the papers. "Did you want to go through your daddy's toolboxes? I cleaned off his desk for you, put everything in a box. You can go through it when you're feeling more up to it."

Sam gives a shrug about the tools, but Dean hesitates. Dad has -- had, dammit – an awesome collection of tools at home, but that one's dwarfed by what he kept at the shop. "Nah," he says finally. "Pretty sure I got everything I might need in the toolbox at home."

"If you find there's something you need, you just let me know. They ain't goin' nowhere."

Dean tries to smile; hopes it comes out more than the grimace it feels like. "Thanks, Gunther. Do we—is there anything else we need to do, for the shop stuff?" He waves his hand toward the papers. "I signed everywhere the attorney told me I needed to sign—"

"No, no, it looks good. I'll go through and sign, and then take them back to the lawyer, and he'll make sure the money gets into your account." Gunther looks between them, then gives them an almost-gentle smile. "You boys take care of yourselves, you hear? And I meant what I said before: you need anything, you give me a call. Day or night, okay?"

Dean nods; out of the corner of his eye he sees Sam doing the same thing. He's not sure he can actually say anything, though, because his throat feels like he has a huge lump stuck in it. Maybe everything he'd like to say.

They say goodbye to Gunther, and to the rest of the guys as they exit the garage, and then it's just them getting into the car.

"Fucking hate all this," Dean mutters as he starts the engine. Beside him, Sam makes a quiet noise of assent, and Dean knows if he looks over he's going to see Sam, pale and tired-looking, mouth drawn down into a tight line. It's hard to see past that, now, and remember his happy, always laughing, healthy-looking younger brother. For just an instant Dean's pissed at his parents for dying, for leaving them, for all the crap both he and Sam have to deal with now. He tightens his grip on the wheel and breathes slow and deep for a minute until the anger eases and passes onto the guy who fell asleep while driving and killed his parents – and his younger brother, to some extent.

He's still mad when he puts the car in gear; angry when he steps on the gas, tires squealing loudly as he pulls out of the parking lot. He slams on the brakes abruptly when a car appears out of nowhere, driver honking his horn and shouting incomprehensibly from behind glass. The tires shriek again—

No, that's not the tires. That's Sam. Sam, gone beyond pale and into white, as if he's just seen a ghost, eyes wide and scared, hands clutching at his abdomen where he's still stapled together from the last run-in with a car being where it shouldn't.

"Sammy? Sam, God, I'm sorry. You okay?" Dean feels sick to his stomach when Sam shakes his head. He backs the car slowly into the parking lot they just left, and puts it into park. Sam's across the seat and into his arms before he's even fully turned, and Dean just holds him and strokes his hair while Sam sobs, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sam."

~~~~~

Once Sam's calmed down enough that Dean can drive again (though 'calm' isn't the word Dean would use willingly, since Sam's still shaking like a leaf in a hurricane) they head back home. Forget the doctor's appointment, it can be rescheduled; so can the appointment with the insurance agent. They can get groceries another day; there's always pizza delivery.

Dean leads Sam upstairs and strips him down to his boxers, then pushes him gently toward the bed. He doesn't wait for Sam to ask – beg – him to stay, just strips his own clothes off and climbs in behind, pulling the covers up around them. Sam curls onto his side and Dean spoons up behind him, holding him close. It feels wrong and right, good and bad all at the same time, with the right and good growing as Sam's shivering slows and then stops. When he turns in Dean's arms and presses a hesitant kiss to Dean's mouth, it feels perfect. The first good thing that's happened since that awful, horrible moment he got the phone call.

One kiss turns into two, three, four, and each one is more perfect than the last, soft and gentle, practically chaste.

Sam licks at Dean's mouth, tongue tip teasing along his lips, and Dean opens up for him eagerly. Wants to kiss and be kissed, and make everything bad that's happened lately just disappear for a little while.

He coaxes Sam over onto him by rolling onto his back, arms coming up to hold Sam close. Sam makes a little whimpering sound low in his throat and strains forward, tongue sweeping through Dean's mouth, tasting him thoroughly. Dean slides his hands down the length of Sam's back, tracing over smooth, soft skin and feeling the muscles flex beneath it. He cups Sam's ass in his hands, the heat of his skin burning even through boxers. Sam gasps into Dean's mouth and rocks downward, his dick hardening against Dean's leg as he moves. Dean's hard in his shorts, too, and it only takes a couple of tugs to get Sam right against him, weight providing the best possible friction when they move against each other.

Sam tenses against him, and Dean feels his erection harden further just before it pulses, wet heat spreading through two layers of thin cotton. He keeps kissing Sam, tongue stroking over the soft, slick surfaces while Sam moves against him. Dean comes right after Sam, body throbbing in time with each spurt, hips rocking upward, seeking more friction even while it's almost too much.

Sam snuggles down against Dean, breathing evening out and then slowing, deepening. Dean rubs his back, slow, sweeping movements up and down until Sam goes lax against him, snoring softly. That's when Dean's brain catches up.

Oh, my God, what did we just do?

He counts it as a win that Sam doesn't wake up when he practically falls out of bed in his haste to get out. He makes it to the bathroom just before throwing up, and spends several minutes dry heaving into the toilet. Even after brushing his teeth, he can taste the bitterness of bile.

~~~~~

Dean's at the kitchen table going over the checkbook (he can't quite bring himself to call it his checkbook yet, and it's weird and inaccurate to still call it Mom-and-Dad's-checkbook, so he's just going with the checkbook) when Sam shuffles in a few hours later. He's still flushed with sleep, and his hair is kind of everywhere, curling and twisting into odd swirls, and a couple of improbable-looking spikes. He put sweats on, though no t-shirt, and Dean has to make an effort not to let his eyes wander up and down the full length of Sam's body.

His stomach rolls, and Dean swallows the nausea down determinedly. Sam doesn't need to have to deal with Dean's panic attack. Especially since this is the first time since Dean saw him lying in the hospital bed, pale and still, that Sam has some color in his cheeks and doesn't look haunted by recent events.

Hey, let's hear it for a little incest, smoothing things over.

Oh, God.

"Hey, Sammy," he manages, and wonders how long he's been lost inside his head. Sam shuffles past him, pausing to stop and drop a kiss on the top of Dean's head, and on to the refrigerator. He pulls the carton of orange juice out, starts to open it, then stops and looks toward the cupboard where the glasses are. Dean can't help smiling. "Go on," he encourages. "I'm not gonna tell on you. Besides, it always tastes better out of the carton."

Sam snorts, but doesn't disagree. Instead, he brings the carton to the table and takes a seat across from Dean. He stares until Dean wants to fidget, then asks, "So, are you totally freaking out?"

"Maybe." Possibly. Definitely. "Yeah." Dean watches him take a long drink of the juice, throat working as Sam swallows, and drops his eyes. "Aren't you?"

"Maybe a little bit." Sam chugs some more juice, then sets the carton aside. "I've thought about doing that before, though."

Dean's pretty sure he couldn't be more surprised if Sam just told him he'd sprouted a tail and horns. "Say what? You're kidding me, right?"

"Nope. Didn't—plan to ever follow through on it, but I thought about it."

"But—I—dude." It's been a while since Sam was able to render Dean this speechless. He can't think of anything even remotely coherent to say, so he settles for shaking his head, and trying to change the subject. "I rescheduled your doctor's appointment for tomorrow, and I changed our appointment with the insurance agent to later this afternoon. We need to swing by the attorney's office, too, and get the power-of-attorney so I can close out Mom and Dad's checking account, and open up one in our – my – our names."

"In yours, or in ours?" Sam raises an eyebrow. "We could be domestic partners."

"Sam! Jesus." He scowls at his brother. "We can't—that's not going to happen again. It was just a comfort thing. A one-time comfort thing." No matter how good, how right it felt to hold Sam like that, it just can't happen again. Period.

"Being domestic partners isn't going to happen again? We haven't been that, to start with."

Dean opens and closes his mouth a couple of times before he actually has words. "Sex," he says through gritted teeth. "The sex can't happen again, and we're sure as hell not going to be domestic partners. Jesus Christ, Sam. I could go to jail for what we did. You're sixteen, for fuck's sake!"

"You're gonna focus on my age, instead of how we could both go to jail for that whole sex-between-siblings thing?"

Dean's pretty sure he's about two seconds away from hyperventilating, and Sam's sitting there, cool and collected as anything. "Okay, yeah, there's that—but you're missing the bigger picture: you're sixteen. I'm almost twenty-one! Sex with a minor—not to mention I'm your fucking guardian, now!"

Sam slaps his hands down on the table and glares – actually fucking glares -- at Dean. "Age of consent in Kansas is sixteen. I'm sixteen. And I wasn't planning to run out and tell the world that I had sex with my brother. Besides, I kissed you. You didn't take advantage of me or anything."

"Still your guardian," Dean says in a weak voice. Sam needs to be a fucking lawyer, or something.

"Still not planning to tell anyone," Sam snaps back. He gentles his voice then, and asks, "Who's it hurting if it's something that feels good and we both agree to?" He pauses, then says, "You say it was a comfort thing—and it was. But it felt like—like more, too."

Dean shakes his head, not sure of what to say, but unable to just let it go like that. "Can we—have this talk again later? When I'm not trying to figure out bills and payments and shit?" Sam heaves a huge sigh and nods. The animation from earlier is gone from his face, from his eyes; he's back to looking pale and drawn, tired and sad. Dean aches to realize he did that. Did both: made Sam happy again, then took it away like a bully taking a little kid's candy. Fuck. "Sam—"

"Forget it." Sam's already pushing away from the table, one hand on his belly, making aborted rubbing/scratching motions. "I'm gonna go get dressed. Let me know when you're ready to go."

Goddammit. Dean wishes he knew what to do, or say, to make things right again. Or, well. He wishes he had the strength and the guts to do what he knows he should do…what he wants to do. Because in spite of the fact that Sam's his brother, for those minutes they were together, kissing and touching…it was perfect. He and Sam, in sync with each other, caring for and about each other. Partners.

He thinks he understands better why people are drawn to the things they aren't supposed to have, once they have a tiny taste. Something that's forbidden tastes sweet, and once you know how sweet something is, you want more and more of it. Dammit.






 

Chapter Four

The absolute best part about getting his staples out, is Sam gets to take a real shower. Finally.

He stays in long enough that the water actually turns cold, which is a pretty awesome feat considering Dad replaced the hot water heater a few years ago with a bigger one, so they could all shower without the water running cold.

Dean's helped him wash his hair and do the sponge-bath thing while he's been healing, but it's not the same. Plus, things have been really weird between them since that day last week. Weird enough that while Dean is still sleeping with him, he jumps if Sam so much as glances in his direction, which sucks a whole lot.

The downside to getting his staples out, is it means he has to go back to school. Not that Sam is against school, per se. It'll be good to get back to his classes, especially band and biology. No, what's going to suck like a hoover is that he'll be at school, and Dean will be here at home. Or at least, not at school with Sam.

He's doing better, mostly, with the separation thing. Made it a whole thirty minutes yesterday before the cold sweats started. Sam knows he needs to get a grip, because this is totally a psychological thing. But knowing something, and being able to pull it off are two different things entirely.

Dean's out right now, actually, has been for coming on close to an hour, now. And if Sam's set to wear a hole in his carpet from pacing, oh, well.

"So no more marching band at all?" Eric's over today; his mom dropped him off after school, along with pan of lasagna she made, obviously not trusting that Sam and Dean can cook for themselves. Neither one of them is going to argue with anyone who wants to feed them, because while they can both fix mac-and-cheese from a box, or make sandwiches, that's about the extent of their repertoire. So, double win: real food for dinner, plus company. It's nice to have Eric hanging out with him, because it actually takes his mind off Dean being gone. Somewhat.

"The doctor said I could probably start back after the new year. I have to wait and see how everything's doing."

"But you got your staples out."

"God, yes. Finally." And he can scratch the itchy, healing incisions to his heart's content, now, too.

"Can I see the scar?" Eric looks like he's asking Sam to show him something dirty or perverted, all sly and stealthy, and Sam grins. Eric makes Sam look like a wild man, he's so conservative. Asking to see Sam's scar probably seems dirty or weird to him.

"I have three of 'em, actually." Sam lifts the hem of his t-shirt to show them off. The first is where a piece of something, metal probably, went through and into his abdomen; the second is from the surgery it took to repair that damage, and the third was when they had to go in and remove his spleen. He explains all this to Eric – though he probably talked about it some when Eric first visited, Sam can't remember – while Eric stares in fascination.

"Do they still hurt? They look like they hurt."

"This one does." Sam points to the largest one, the one from the second surgery. "Or, well. It doesn't hurt so much as itch—but inside still hurts. All achy, kind of."

Eric frowns up at him. "That must feel weird. Because you're missing parts now, right?"

"Missing a part, anyway, yeah. And it does feel kind of weird, because it's not like it hurts, but then it kind of does. I don't know how to explain it." Sam tugs his shirt back down and sits down on his bed.

"Mom wanted me to remind you that you guys are invited for Thanksgiving dinner."

"Tell her I said thanks, but Gunther and Sally already told Dean they expect us to be there." Sam gives Eric a smile. "Which isn't really different than any other year, because we had Thanksgiving dinner with them most of the time. Just—no parents, this year."

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"Thanks." Sam's sorry, too. He hates mentioning it because it fucking hurts, but not talking about them at all hurts, too. Like he's trying to pretend they never existed or something. "So, hey. You said Cassidy Arvada said yes to going to the Winter dance with you?"

"Yes!" Eric looks almost as relieved as Sam feels to change the subject, and he launches into a gushing ramble about Cassidy's many virtues, most of which Sam already knows because hello, Cassidy lives just down the street from him and he's known her for forever. But it's cute that Eric's so head-over-heels, and it takes his mind mostly off things.

Mrs. Westerly picks Eric up a little after five, and about ten minutes after that Sam hears the low, growly sound of the Impala pulling into the drive. He manages not to fling himself at Dean as soon as he steps through the door, but it's a near thing.

"Eric's mom brought us dinner," he tells him. "Lasagna."

"Ooh." Dean's eyes light up. "I think we still have some garlic toast out in the big freezer."

"Yeah, I think so. I'm gonna make a salad, do you want one, too?"

"Vegetables? On purpose?" Dean manages to look so horrified that it's all Sam can do not to laugh. "Sammy, you're a teenager. You're not supposed to eat green things willingly."

"Carrots and tomatoes aren't green."

"Well, you're not supposed to eat green things, or orange or red things, either." Dean sets a thick envelope on the kitchen table, and puts a cardboard box beside it. "The stuff from Dad's desk at the shop," he says, when Sam raises his eyebrow. "It's been in the trunk of the car and I kept forgetting to bring it in."

"And the envelope?"

"From the attorney. Gunther owns A&W Auto Repairs completely now. The money from the buy-out is in our account, and that's that." Dean says it briskly, no-nonsense, but Sam knows it hurts—because it hurts him, too. Yeah, it's the logical thing to do since neither of them have any real interest in keeping on Dad's share, but it's like one more thing, one more bit of their history, of their parents, gone. "Sam?"

He refocuses on Dean. "Huh?"

"I asked if you wanted to eat now, or wait awhile?"

"Sorry. Um. We can wait awhile, if you want. I'm good."

"Nah, now is good." Dean hangs his coat over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and Sam almost says, "better move that before Mom sees it." He catches himself, but it's just one more thing on top of a bunch of them, and he finds himself asking, "It's gonna get easier, right? I mean, everyone says it will, but I keep wondering if that's just a bunch of bullshit people tell other people because they don't know what else to say. But I'm so tired of everything reminding me of Mom and Dad, and I miss them so much, and I hate this."

His stomach hurts, too, both surgical incisions, and that's probably something to do with some of this.

Dean falters, then steps in closer and pulls Sam into a hug. It feels so good Sam can't help but cling a little bit, and he shivers when Dean brushes a kiss across his temple. "It'll get better, Sammy. It kind of has to, because I can't imagine if it got any worse."

Sam stays in Dean's arms until he feels confident he's not going to lose it completely, and then he lifts his head and tries on a smile. It must work, because his brother smiles back at him, then reaches to brush his hair back off his forehead. "You need a haircut, kiddo."

Sam snorts. "Says you. I like it longer."

"It's gone beyond 'longer', dude. You're rapidly heading into hippie territory."

"Flower power, peace and love-ins were the bomb, back in the day."

"Which is not a day you remember. Don't you have some homework you need to do?"

"Yeah. Hey, what's that?" Dean's pulled another, much thinner, envelope out of his jacket pocket.

"My homework. I gotta get all the paperwork done so I can start back to school in January."

"Yeah?" Sam's belly clenches tight with something that feels like fear. "Here in town? Or back at the university?"

"Sam." Dean looks at him. "I already said I was transferring to a local college. Relax. I'm not going anywhere. Promise."

"You shouldn’t make promises you might not be able to keep."

"Hey." Dean takes Sam's chin in hand, and tilts his head down a little. "There's no way I'm not keeping a promise like that. It's my job to look after you. Take care of you." He leans in and brushes a light, chaste kiss across Sam's mouth, then adds, "Even when you're being an annoying pain in the ass."

"Hmph. Sweet talk like that will get you anywhere." But Sam's totally smiling when he says it, and his lips tingle, just a little bit.

Dean might feel conflicted about the sex stuff, but it's pretty obvious he wants it, too. Actions – like the kisses – speak louder than any words he's said so far.





~~~~~

"You're gonna be late if you don't get your ass in gear." Dean's standing by the front door, jingling the keys in his hand impatiently, and Sam scowls. He knows he's dragging his feet on this, but he can't help it.

On the one hand, he's glad to go back to school. He misses his friends, his teachers, misses having something normal in his life. But on the other hand, what if something happens to Dean while he's at school? What if there's an accident and this right now is the last time he sees his brother alive, like with his parents? He ducks back into the bathroom and closes the door, then leans forward against sink for support while he tries to slow down his breathing. Now is not a good time for a panic attack.

"Sam! C'mon, shake a leg." Dean bangs on the bathroom door, and Sam jumps. "Dude. Come on."

"In—in a minute."

The doorknob rattles, and then Dean's pushing the door open. "Sam?"

He shakes his head, and meets Dean's eyes in the mirror over the sink. "I…can't, Dean."

"You can't what?"

"Leave—you. I can't do it. What if something happens?"

Dean sighs and leans back against the door, shutting it. "Sammy—"

"Don't say nothing will happen. You don't know that. You can't know that."

"I wasn't going to say that." Dean pulls Sam back against him and winds his arms around Sam's waist. Close together like this, Sam feels safe. He stares at their reflections; he's a shade taller than his brother, now, but he thinks he could be twice Dean's size and he'd still feel safe in his embrace. "I am gonna remind you that you can call me or text me any time you need to. Okay?"

Sam nods. In the mirror Dean leans in a little, and Sam feels the soft scritch of stubble against his throat, and the softer touch of Dean's lips, following the line of Sam's throat up to his jaw. Sam closes his eyes and turns in Dean's arms. Dean's hands are warm against Sam's face when he cups it, his mouth gentle on Sam's. So much love, so much caring, and Sam can feel it all through him. He kisses back, hungry for more, for every touch Dean will give him, wanting to lose himself in his brother.

Eventually Dean draws back, not pulling away but separating enough to whisper in Sam's ear, "You're gonna be okay, Sammy. We're gonna be okay. Right?" Sam nods, and Dean kisses him once more. "Okay. Now let's get you to school."

~~~~~

"What do you want to do about Christmas this year?" Sam's only half awake, chewing his cereal with his eyes still mostly shut, but Dean's question wakes him right up.

"What? What'd'you mean?"

Dean gives him an apologetic half-shrug. "I'm—not really feeling the whole Christmas thing this year. Thanksgiving was hard enough. I don't think I can make myself go up into the attic and bring down the Christmas decorations."

Well, put that way. "Yeah, you're probably right." Sam drops his spoon into his bowl. "I didn't think about it. Didn't want to think about it."

"That's kind of been the theme to our lives the last couple of months." Dean stretches, then reaches out and snags Sam's juice glass, downing the contents before Sam's even really aware it's been taken.

"Hey! That was the last of the OJ."

"Relax, Princess. I'm going to the store after I drop you at school. I promise I'll get you some more orange juice."

"You better." Sam scowls at his empty glass. "Jerk."

"Bitch. Jesus, you're like an orange juice junkie, aren't you? I wonder what it was mom ate or drank while she was pregnant with you, to make you like this."

"Same stuff she ate or drank while she was pregnant with you, probably."

"Nuh-uh. Because you eat vegetables on purpose, by choice."

Sam rolls his eyes, and gets up from the table, taking his dishes with him. "Just don't forget to get some more and I promise I won't tell Santa that you're a jerk who steals the last of the OJ from his younger brother."

"Ah, me and Santa, we go way back. Give it your best shot." Dean tosses his napkin at Sam. "And think about what you want to do for Christmas."

~~~~~

Sam considers it all through school, in the car on the way home, and all afternoon while he does his homework.

He's still thinking about it when bedtime rolls around, and Dean tugs gently on a hank of hair. "If I'd known you were going to try and short-circuit your brain, I wouldn't have brought it up. Stop thinking so hard, I can smell the smoke."

"Oh, shut up," Sam says, and yeah, it's not witty and it came out a little harsher than he'd meant, but he's tired and his abdomen's been bothering him all evening. He kicks his jeans off and lays them over the back of his chair along with his t-shirt, before crawling into bed. The light clicks off and Dean's sliding in beside him, warm and solid against him.

"Sammy? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just achy today. Sorry I snapped at you."

"S'okay." Dean snuggles closer, spooning up behind Sam. "You want me to get you some Tylenol?"

"Nah, I'm good. Just—this. Like this is good." He pulls Dean's arms tighter around him and sighs when Dean nuzzles at his throat and along his jaw. "I like that," he whispers, and feels Dean's lips curve into a smile before he whispers back, "me too."

In the morning, Sam's abdomen is tender and sore. Dean takes one look at it, and at Sam wincing as he crawls out of bed, and drives them to the ER. They wait for three hours to be seen – it seems like every person in Lawrence is in with flu symptoms – and then it's good news and bad news. The good news: nothing's torn or ripped, just irritated. Probably too much lifting, hauling his schoolbooks around. The bad news: he's on restriction from lifting anything heavier than a loaf of bread for the next two weeks, which bites.

"So you'll have to stop by your locker between every class," Dean says. "So what? You have a doctor's note, they're not going to mark you tardy."

"That still doesn't fix morning and afternoon, for homework. I'll still have to carry my book bag then."

Dean shakes his head. "I'll carry the bag to your locker in the morning, and I'll meet you there in the afternoon, and carry it to the car."

Sam lets his head thunk against the car window several times.

"It's only for week, then you're out of school for the winter holiday." Dean pats his shoulder, which somehow turns into rubbing a thumb over his cheek.

"True." That won't be so bad, right? Just one week to get through.

It still gets him a lot of funny looks the first couple of days, and Sam gets really good at ignoring those looks. Most everyone who knows him knows why he was injured in the first place, and they're sympathetic for the most part.

He and Dean decide to do the get-Chinese-food-and-go-to-the-movies thing for Christmas, foregoing even putting up a tree. It doesn't stop Sam from waking up early Christmas morning – far earlier than he'd gotten up in years – and rummaging quietly around in his desk until he finds the little box he stashed away from prying eyes. He wraps it in newspaper, smiling at Dean's snores and snorts behind him, then puts a huge green bow on it, and sets it on the corner of his desk where Dean can't possibly miss it. He slides back into bed, and into his brother's arms, and kisses up and down Dean's throat and along his jaw line, his lips tingling from the stubble on Dean's face.

"Muhhh?" Dean shivers when Sam bites down on the long tendon on the side of his neck. "Sammy? Wha--?"

"Merry Christmas," Sam whispers, then kisses Dean again, licking at his lips. He's sure he can taste some of the cocoa from the hot chocolate they had just before bed, and he chases after it, teasing his tongue around and around Dean's until Dean's responding, pulling him closer and angling his head so Sam can kiss deeper.

Dean mutters something Sam can't quite make out, and then he's shifting, reaching for Sam's hand. He draws it down and settles it over his erection, squeezing at Sam's fingers until he starts rubbing gently through the cloth, pressing and molding the fabric over the thick length.

"Feels good," Dean says, arching his hips upward, rocking into Sam's hand.

"Can I—take it out?" Sam strokes his fingers up and down the length, then rubs at the tip, feeling the cloth dampening.

"God, yes." Dean wiggles until Sam realizes he's trying to push his shorts down, and he goes to work getting them off Dean entirely. His own follow, leaving them with nothing between them, just lots of smooth, hot skin. Sam shifts up onto one elbow and strokes Dean's erection with two fingers, moving lightly up and down. He can feel it throb against his fingers and it makes heat curl low in his belly; makes his belly tighten with anticipation. "Harder, Sam. Please."

So Sam strokes him harder, wrapping his fingers tightly around, grinning when Dean shudders and pushes up into his grip, fucking into the tight warmth of his fist. He jacks him hard and fast, the way he likes, and is rewarded by Dean making the most awesome noises, grunts and gasps, breathy pleas for more, more, please Sammy, more.

Dean's dick swells in his grip, throbbing harder, and then Dean's coming, thick pulses of spunk splashing on Sam's fingers and up onto Dean's belly. Sam licks his fingers clean, then leans down and licks at Dean's stomach before moving further down. Dean sucks in a harsh breath when Sam laps at the sticky head, tongue poking gently into the small slit. By the time he's finished, Dean's plumped up some, and Sam lifts his head to give him a huge grin.

Dean flips him so quick it takes Sam's breath away, because he really wasn't expecting that. He gets half a minute to adjust and then Dean's mouth is on his, hot and wet, then moving lower, licking and kissing as he goes.

When he closes his mouth over one of Sam's nipples, Sam nearly comes up off the mattress. He doesn't have a lot of experience, but he also never gave any thought to his nipples being sensitive. Not a girl, right? But apparently gender doesn't matter as much as individual, because Dean sucking his nipple into a hard, tight nub? So, so, so good. Sam threads his fingers through Dean's hair and holds on, arching upward to get as much of that delicious suction as possible.

"Dean, God—"

"Oh, baby." Dean laughs softly against Sam's chest, then bites gently on the other nipple, making Sam jerk. "Just wait 'til I get down to your dick."

"Please, be my guest," Sam manages hoarsely. He whimpers and shivers when Dean licks downward, tongue teasing at his navel before kisses are pressed along the still-healing scars. The sparse trail of hair leading down from his navel to his dick is wetted down thoroughly, and Sam thinks he's going to die of wanting before Dean ever gets to his cock.

He's just about to say something to that effect when Dean takes him into his mouth, and oh, Jesus. He's never felt anything as good as Dean's mouth feels, hot and wet and completely surrounding him. The one other blowjob he's had in his lifetime was fast and awkward, fumbling around on the couch in a friend's basement last year, with Alicia Hayes. This? This is a zillion times better.

Dean licks around the crown of his dick, and teases his tongue against the little slit there before sucking Sam in, drawing him further and further into his mouth. He sucks Sam slowly, then faster, one hand moving down to cup Sam's balls, rolling them gently in his hand.

The heat in his belly has transformed into fire. Electricity. He's being consumed by it, as it spreads all through him.

"Dean—Dean, gonna, I can't—"

Sam comes with a groan, thrusting upward into Dean's mouth with each pulse of his dick. Dean swallows around him, then licks him clean before sliding back up to kiss Sam, sharing the taste of his come.

"Best Christmas present ever," Sam whispers, before biting at Dean's lower lip. He thinks Dean laughs, but it's kind of hard to say for sure, since his mouth is otherwise occupied.

That's okay. Sam's happy to keep it occupied for awhile.

~~~~~

"Oh, man. Sam, this is awesome! I love it!" Dean holds the necklace up and studies the little—whatever it is. Sam isn't really sure what to call it. It's like a little idol, or statue, or something, and the lady selling it at the outdoor market told Sam it was a protection charm. That was all he needed to hear before laying down his money. "Thank you."

Sam beams at him. "You're welcome. I'm glad you like it."

"I love it. And it's kind of gonna make my gift a little lame, but—Merry Christmas." He hands Sam a small box – really, not much bigger than the little pendant's box – also wrapped in newspaper, but with a red-and-gold bow.

When Sam rips the paper off, he's staring at a brand-new iPod Touch, and his mouth drops open. "Really? A Touch? Oh, man! Thank you!"

"I know you're going to shrivel up and die without your tunes." Dean gives Sam a grin, then pokes him. "C'mon, let's get something to eat, and then we can see what movies are playing."

They end up getting sucked into a marathon showing of all the Home Alone movies, followed up by Jim Carrey's The Grinch, so that it's getting dark when they're ready to eat again, the clock moving toward four-thirty.

"I still like the original, the cartoon, better," Sam says as Dean pulls out the phone book to find a Chinese place.

"That's because you have no appreciation for the finer things in life."

"Just because I'm not a fan of Jim Carrey doesn't mean I don't appreciate the finer things in life." Sam gives Dean's shoulder a shove on his way past. "Besides, the Whos just look wrong in the movie."

"They're pretty freaky looking no matter what," Dean points out. "They have antennas on their heads." He thumbs through the phone book, then looks at Sam. "How about Lucky Chin's? They have a buffet."

"Works for me." Sam sits down to pull on his sneakers. "Wanna go look at lights after we eat?"

Dean nods. "Can't ditch that custom. Remember when the Hammersmiths did their whole winter wonderland fantasy thing? What was that, three years ago?"

"Four, I think," Sam says, watching Dean lace up his boots. "I wonder what their electric bill was like that year."

"They haven't done it up like that since, so I'm thinking it was pretty bad."

They run into the Markowitz family at Lucky Chin's, and end up sitting with them for a little while, just exchanging pleasantries. Sam's had Rachel Markowitz in at least one of his classes since he was in the third grade, and Dean used to play baseball with Adam and Bruce, though they were a year behind Dean in school. After dinner, Dean drives them around the city and then downtown to look at the lights and decorations.

It's nice, and for a little while, Sam manages to forget how much the holidays hurt this year.





On to Part Four