September 19, 2001 – The Vagabond Motel – Merced, California

Sam slammed through the door of room 38 and into the balmy night, leaving Dad and his unbending attitude as far behind as possible. Sam was tired of trying to explain. Dad didn’t understand and he never would; worse, he wouldn’t even try. As for Dean…well, he wasn’t helping. Just once, Sam wished Dean would take his side instead of always agreeing with Dad on everything.

“Damn it, Sam, get back here!” Dad yelled behind him, but Sam didn’t stop. Didn’t turn around. Didn’t obey. He just kept walking, his sneakers methodically thwapping on the pavement with each step. Maybe he’d just keep going. All the way to Stanford. Without looking back. Leave this life with nothing but the clothes on his back and a driving desire to be someone else. To surround himself with people who didn’t know he’d learned how to field strip a gun at nine or knew all the words to the exorcism ritual by heart. He could just be Sam Winchester, freshman, who couldn’t decide on a major and who was awkward around girls and who had no idea what normal was but was desperate to find out.

Sam cast a look over his shoulder. The motel was nearly out of sight. He expected to hear the rumble of the Impala’s engine at any moment, to see his dad behind the wheel, eyes edged with anger, demanding Sam get his ass back in the car before his stupidity got him killed. But he didn’t hear it. All he heard were the sound of his own breathing and the scuff of his shoes on the pavement.

So he kept walking, shoving his hands into his pockets, replaying Dad’s words over and over again inside his head. You can’t just walk away from your family, Sam. Walk away? He didn’t want to walk away. He wanted to run. As fast as he could, as far as he could. But it wasn’t his family he was trying to escape. Not really. It was everything else. He’d grown up in the shadows—first he’d been kept in the dark, then he’d been thrust into it head first. And he’d never had a say in any of it.

Well, fuck that. He’d made up his mind. He’d had enough of Dad’s shit and of Dean always defending him, of the constant two against one battle that had been waging for weeks among them, ever since Sam had finally gotten the nerve up to tell them he’d been accepted to Stanford. Full scholarship. Was it too much to ask for a “Congratulations, Sam”? Apparently. Well, fuck that, too. He didn’t need it anyway.

He’d been listening for the car, so the sound of his name being uttered behind him made him jump. He turned and saw Dean a few steps behind him, standing just inside the edge of a pool of yellow light thrown off by a streetlight, hands in his pockets.

“Did Dad send you to follow me?” Sam asked, not even trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Poor, helpless Sammy can’t take care of himself, is that it?”

Dean shuffled his feet. “He worries about you, that’s all.”

Sam snorted. “Sure. Worries that he won’t have me to boss around anymore, maybe.”

“Sam,” Dean said. “That’s not fair. Dad—”

Sam gritted his teeth as he shook his head. “If you defend him one more time, Dean, I swear to fucking God…” His hands balled into fists inside his pockets.

“Such language, Sammy,” Dean said, a half-smile curving one side of his mouth. “I may just have to bend you over my knee.”

“Fuck you,” Sam spat, relishing the surprised look that widened Dean’s eyes. He couldn’t remember actually saying that to Dean before. Well, at least not to his face.

The smile dropped from Dean’s lips and he took a step forward. “That’s enough, Sam. Let’s go.”

Sam felt his lips twist into a cruel smile. “No.”

Dean had his fingers locked around Sam’s arm before Sam could even react, reminding Sam once again that Dean was better than him at nearly everything—better at fighting, better at hunting, better at pool and darts and fixing cars.

Not to mention he’d always be better at being John Winchester’s son.

Sam jerked his arm away, grinding out the words, “Let go of me,” through his teeth.

Dean stared up at him. Stared up at him. That should give Sam a tiny bit of satisfaction, right? That his big brother was smaller than him? Only it didn’t, because when Dean looked at him like that, he always felt so damn small. “You’re being ridiculous, Sam.”

Sam felt a knot of irrational anger at the base of his skull. “I’m being ridiculous?” he asked, his voice rising. He looked pointedly at Dean. “What about you? Always defending Dad, no matter what. Never asking questions. Always taking his side, even when he’s wrong. And he’s wrong a lot, Dean, in case you haven’t noticed.”

A muscle worked in Dean’s jaw. “He just wants what’s best for us. For you.”

“Only he gets to decide what’s best, doesn’t he?” Sam said, holding Dean’s gaze. “We don’t get to choose.”

Dean made a sound low in his throat, a barely stifled groan of frustration. “Jesus Christ, Sam,” he said. “This”—he motioned between them—“isn’t Dad’s fault. He didn’t choose this life for us. Our lives, including Dad’s, were chosen for us the night Mom died. You know that.”

Sam wanted to scream. He was so fucking sick of hearing this. Lots of people lost a loved one; they didn’t all end up dragging their kids into their quest for revenge, never giving them a real home, turning them into killers and calling it love. “No, I don’t know that, Dean. Not for sure. I only know what Dad told us, and we both know what a pillar of truth and virtue he is.” He took a breath, tried to bite back his next words, but couldn’t. “He’s a goddamn liar, Dean. He’s lied to us our whole lives. He tells us he loves us, but he doesn’t know what it means.”

Before he knew it, he was on the ground, Dean standing over him, fists clenched and chest heaving, eyes cold. Sam just stared up at him and willed himself not to touch the trickle of blood he felt on his upper lip. He wouldn’t give Dean the satisfaction.

But just as quickly as Dean’s anger flared, it fizzled out, and his shoulders sagged heavily. “You just don’t know when to shut up, do you, Sammy?” he asked softly, offering Sam a helping hand.

Sam refused to take Dean’s hand, instead placing his palms flat against the pavement and pushing himself up. He felt shaky inside, unstable, felt like his skin was too tight. He wiped his hands carefully on his jeans, too angry to speak, and simply looked at Dean.

After a moment, Dean shook his head. “Dad’s gonna rip me a new one for hitting you,” he said, then cracked a half-smile. “Even though you totally deserved it.” He reached out, grabbed Sam’s chin between his fingers, and tilted Sam’s head under the light, leaning in a little to check the damage.

Sam punched him then, taking the opportunity when Dean’s guard was down and his weak side was unprotected to make solid contact. Dean staggered back a step, his fingers sliding from Sam’s face. Sam’s own fingers were still curled into tight fists at his sides, nails cutting into his palms, and he watched the emotions skitter across Dean’s face—surprise, anger, sadness. The last one lingered, settling in the shadows beneath Dean’s eyes. A red splotch was already blooming on Dean’s left cheek, but Dean ignored it, choosing instead to hold Sam’s gaze until Sam wanted to squirm.

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean finally said, nodding slightly. “I get it.” He backed away a step, then turned and headed back in the direction of the motel. After a few seconds, he stopped and said over his shoulder, “Dad’ll come looking for you next, so don’t be too long.” Then he started walking again, his boots crunching on the gravel. Sam watched him until he disappeared around a building, then finally unclenched his fists.

Sam returned less than thirty minutes later. When he walked through the door of room 38, he didn’t look up, just walked straight over to the adjoining door and into room 37, the room he and Dean shared. He closed the door behind him and began to undress, kicking off his shoes and peeling off his shirt on the way to the bathroom.

He stared at his reflection. His lip was cut and slightly swollen and a smear of dried blood under his nose was in stark contrast to the paleness of his skin. It wasn’t the first time he’d been punched; it wasn’t even the first time he’d been punched by Dean. But somehow, this punch hurt more because, once again, it was Dean taking Dad’s side over him. Dad had committed the sin, but Sam had gotten punished for it.

It wasn’t until he was in the shower and standing under the stream that he let himself cry.

*

Sam could hear their voices through the wall—both deep, but in different ways. Dean’s voice was smooth, Dad’s rumbled like distant thunder. He couldn’t make out the words, but he knew they were talking about him.

He pulled the thin blanket up under his chin and listened to the rise and fall, the pitch and roll of their voices, envy coiling in his stomach. Dean and Dad had always been able to just talk to each other. Just talk. About anything. Sam felt as though he had to fight for every word he exchanged with his dad—struggling to find the right ones, then struggling to say them the right way. But he never seemed to get it right. He had an easier time talking to Dean, but even then sometimes, he got it wrong. Meant one thing but said another. Said what he meant but wished he hadn’t.

Like tonight. He had the busted lip to prove it.

The voices stopped and Sam heard the knob turn on the adjoining door. He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. The door opened, then closed, and Sam followed Dean’s progress through the room by the sound of his boots on the carpet. There was a creak of bedsprings as Dean sat down and the sound of a heavy sigh. Then nothing.

Sam opened his eyes since his back was to Dean and stared at the outline of light around the curtains. The sound of squealing brakes sounded in the distance. The faint echo of a television crept into the quiet from the room on the other side of them.

“I know you’re awake,” Dean said. “Your fake sleeping routine hasn’t worked since you were six.”

Sam didn’t say anything. Okay, so Dean knew he was awake. That didn’t mean Sam had to talk to him.

“There’s not really a job here, Sam. I just convinced Dad there was,” Dean said a moment later, and the bedsprings squeaked again as he shifted his weight. Two soft thuds in succession told Sam that Dean had taken off his boots. “The truth is, it’s just close enough to Stanford without being obvious.”

Sam closed his eyes, felt the burn of emotion in his throat.

“Dad hasn’t figured it out yet,” Dean said. “But he will. When he does…” He left it hanging, then chuckled a little. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time Dad’s been pissed at me. Probably won’t be the last.”

Sam felt tears sting his eyes and he chewed at the inside of his bottom lip. He heard the squeak of the bedsprings again and the clink of Dean’s belt buckle and a moment later, felt the other side of his own bed dip under Dean’s weight. Then he felt the pressure of Dean’s hand against his shoulder and the bloom of heat in his own skin through the blankets.

“Sam,” Dean whispered, pressing in his fingertips.

Sam turned slightly, just enough so he could tilt his head to look up at Dean, who was looking back at him in the darkness. He felt Dean’s hand move, felt it slide upwards until his fingertips grazed along Sam’s cheek, then through his hair. He could hear Dean breathing.

Sam watched him, fighting the urge to touch him as a surge of guilt coursed through him. Dean needed him; Sam knew that even if Dean would never admit it. Without Sam, Dean had only Dad and his obsessions to keep him company.

“Come with me,” Sam said before he could stop himself. It was a secret fantasy he’d been harboring since he’d first thought about leaving this life. Just he and Dean, living the lives they should have had. The ones they deserved. The ones that had been taken from them by fate and their father’s unquenchable grief. He’d even gone so far as to imagine their apartment: mismatched furniture, skin mags mingled with copies of Smithsonian on the coffee table, beer in the fridge, dirty dishes in the sink, the toilet seat always up. They could be happy. Dean could be happy, for once.

Of course, Sam knew it would never happen. Could never happen. Dean would never leave Dad. So when Dean gave him a sad smile, he wasn’t surprised. But it still hurt.

“Could you see me in college, Sammy?” Dean asked, trying to make a joke, toying with a strand of Sam’s hair. “I’d spend so much time chasing co-eds, I’d never go to class.”

“You know what I mean,” Sam said, turning completely to face Dean, not quite ready to give up the fantasy just yet. “Just you and me, Dean.”

“You and me.” Dean’s smile widened a little. “Sounds nice.”

“It could be.” Sam pressed his head into the pillow and rested his hand on Dean’s knee.

But Dean was shaking his head. “I can’t.” He said the words like they hurt, like he really wished he didn’t have to, and that was something, at least.

Sam nodded. “I know.” He pressed his fingers into Dean’s skin and when Dean covered Sam’s hand with his own, Sam flipped his over and grabbed Dean’s wrist, giving it a tug. “Come here.”

Dean hesitated, then pulled back the blankets and slid beneath them, turning on his side so he was facing Sam. Sam slid his hand across the short expanse of bed between them and found Dean’s hand pressed flat against the sheet. Running his fingers over the back of Dean’s hand, he inched forward until he could feel Dean’s breath against his face.

“You love him, Dean,” he whispered and watched Dean’s eyes watch him. He curled his fingers around Dean’s hand and pulled it towards him, placing it in the dip above his right hipbone, against the crescent of exposed skin where his t-shirt had ridden up. “But he doesn’t deserve it.”

Dean’s fingers moved against Sam’s skin, beneath the hem of his shirt and over his back, fingertips pressing into the knobs of his spine and tugging him closer. Sam complied, moving into the space between them until his knees bumped Dean’s, until their chests almost met. Dean’s hand was splayed against the small of his back, his breath was warm against Sam’s lips, and Sam was hard. He slid his fingers over Dean’s cheek, over the bruise he knew was there but couldn’t see in the dark, and heard Dean whisper his name.

Sam moved his hand to Dean’s hip, slipped his fingers beneath the elastic of Dean’s boxers, and felt the warmth of Dean’s skin against his palm. Dean lifted up from the bed to let Sam push them down, sliding his own fingers beneath the waistband of Sam’s boxers and pressing his thumb into the groove of Sam’s hip.

Dragging his hand forward, Sam wrapped his fingers around Dean’s erection and heard his brother’s sharp intake of breath. “Sammy,” Dean whispered, pressing his fingers into Sam’s hip.

Sam leaned in and brushed his lips against Dean’s. They’d messed around before—usually a quick grope under the blankets before they were even fully awake in the morning—but they’d never kissed. Kissing was something you did with girls who had soft lips and soft bodies, who wore cherry-flavored lip gloss and giggled when you put your tongue in their mouth. You didn’t kiss a guy. Especially not your brother.

But Sam had always wanted to. He’d even tried once three years ago, the first time Dean had let Sam jerk him off. Dean’s eyes had fallen shut, his mouth falling open around a low groan, and Sam had leaned in and kissed him. Dean’s eyes had flown open then and he’d pushed Sam away, saying angrily, “I’m not your fucking girlfriend, Sam.” Dean had avoided him for the rest of the day and Sam thought he’d ruined everything. But later that night, after Dad had left, Dean had crawled into Sam’s bed and let him finish what he’d started that morning. Without the kissing, of course.

When Dean didn’t back away, Sam pressed in closer and felt his brother’s lips, warm and slightly chapped, beneath his own. He tightened his grip on Dean’s dick and felt a warm puff of breath escape Dean’s lips. Dean’s hand twitched against Sam’s hip as he made a small sound.

“Touch me,” Sam whispered.

Dean’s thumb swept a half-circle over Sam’s hip and a muscle jumped beneath Sam’s skin at the sensation. He pressed up against Dean’s hand and dragged his own thumb slowly down Dean’s length. Dean’s eyelids fell half-closed as he pushed at Sam’s boxers, sliding them down over Sam’s hip, Sam lifting up to help them along. Dean drew his hand back up, letting it rest flat against Sam’s side as he rubbed his thumb in a slow arc over Sam’s skin.

Sam breathed out, into Dean’s mouth, and drew Dean’s breaths into his own. Another small sound escaped Dean’s throat as Sam started stroking and he watched Dean blink slowly, then again, felt Dean’s thumb stop moving and his fingers dig in. Sam wanted Dean’s hand on his dick, needed Dean to stroke him, to pull the release from his body. He didn’t know what was holding Dean back, but even he could feel that something had changed between them; there was an air of urgency that had never been there before. Then it suddenly hit him: He was leaving soon.

“I’ll miss you, Dean,” he whispered.

Dean’s breath hitched, a soft hiccup against Sam’s lips, and Sam could feel Dean’s lips trembling. Sam pressed in, wanting more, and felt Dean open for him. He slid his tongue past Dean’s teeth. Dean wrapped his hand around Sam’s erection.

Sam came first, too fast, pushing his release into Dean’s mouth. Dean stroked him through it, then moved his hand to Sam’s wrist to still it as Sam struggled to regain the rhythm he’d lost when the world went white. “Take your time, Sammy,” Dean said softly against Sam’s lips. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Two days later, Sam was on a bus to Palo Alto.