We Are Plural, We Are Single

Summary: Sam’s thought processes as he comes around to the idea of being with Dean.

A/N: All the locations in the story exist in the United States. I have been to them in person. There is a San Antonio in Texas. There is also one in New Mexico. It's on the way to the Trinity Site.

Title comes from the song “Sisters” by The Church.

******



Sam is watching Dean.



This is nothing new; from his earliest memories Sam has watched Dean. These days, Sam watches Dean in a different way.



They had been taking care of a vengeful spirit in a barn in Williston, Vermont. It had a nasty way with a baling hook and Sam had narrowly escaped being gutted. Dean had caught the hook in his bicep, which stalled it enough to let Sam give it 2 barrels of rock salt and dissipate it long enough for a salt-and-burn.



Afterwards, Dean wants beer (and probably to get laid), so they get a motel room at the edge of Burlington, clean up, and end up at a place called Nectar’s. Sam ensconces himself in a corner with his laptop and a bottle of Magic Hat. He watches as Dean spins his line of affable bullshit to a pair of serially monogamous UVM sorority girls.



Dean glances over at Sam, wide grin clearly saying “Come on over, I’ll introduce you, ‘cuz bro’, you really need to get laid.”



Sam shakes his head slightly. Dean’s shoulders twitch, “Your loss,” and he turns back to the bar.



Dean has a way about him that is irresistible. He can tell an absolutely convincing story right up to the minute that he gets found out, and then he becomes all aggressive bluster. Either way, he is so committed to the rightness of his cause that you can either go along with him, get the hell out of his way, or get run over.



Sam knows this because at any point in time when he’s with Dean, he is in one of the above positions.



Sam doesn’t like lying, although he acknowledges the necessity of it in the “family business”. Even if it is for people’s own good, Sam is much better playing the empathetic listener after Dean has made himself obnoxious to any potential witnesses.



Emo-cop to Dean’s Annoying-cop, if you will.



It makes Sam wonder how Dean and Dad had ever gotten any information out of anyone while he was at Stanford, without Sam to soften the edges of their fanaticism.



Dean wanders by, arm around a brunette coed, and tosses Sam a wink. Sam salutes him with his beer bottle and watches him leave. When he finishes his own beer, he packs up his laptop and goes for a walk down to Lake Champlain.



It is the end of August and there’s a light autumnal bite in the air, the kind of chill that starts the leaves to curling in on themselves.  Sam wanders the lakeshore, feeling insubstantial, unreal, in the quiet and the moonlight.  A broad flipper breaks the surface of the lake as if Champ, Lake Champlain’s version of the Loch Ness Monster, is waving to him, and Sam grins ruefully to himself. He decides not to tell Dean about it.  



He goes back to the motel and sleeps so soundly that he doesn’t hear Dean roll in, smelling of beer and sex, but he does take a perverse glee in waking him up the next morning to hit the road early.



**



Dean gets tired of the endless landscape of cows cows cows (“That’s a sheep, Dean.” “Shut up.  Freakin’ farm animals.”) and turns the car towards Boston. Sam watches Dean put on the same performance again, this time with girls from BC or BU or Harvard, and resists the urge to ask him how he does he like them apples?



Sam drinks his bottle of Sam Adams and continues to do research, looking for the next lead on the next hunt. Dean saunters over, unaccompanied.



“Dude, you should come over. She says she’s got a friend.”



“No thanks. I’m working. You go have fun.” Sam replies absently, staring at the screen.



“All work and no play makes Sammy boring…” Dean responds in a singsong voice, trying to bait him. Sam raises exactly one shoulder, and his middle finger, not looking at Dean, indicating his vast (if feigned) disinterest in continuing the conversation.  



But he watches Dean as he returns to his flirtation. How could he not? Dean is vivid. He’s in the moment, whichever moment it is, be it hunting, eating, flirting, or bantering with his little brother, it’s his. He’s all in, no matter what. It’s mesmerizing to be part of that intensity. If he were a woman, Sam would find it totally irresistible. Dean on the prowl is devastating.



Which only makes Sam feel like a big dumb loser in comparison. Sam doesn’t like one-night stands very much. He kind of wants to know the person he’s falling into bed with beyond the fact that they want to fall into bed with him, too. The downside of being Emo-cop is the fading into the woodwork. But that doesn’t change the fact that Sam is a 23-year-old red-blooded male who is not getting anywhere near the level of play he would like, and was used to, let alone the amount his own brother gets.



Sam doesn’t prowl. He hangs back and gets the lay of the land. The only time in his whole life such reticence had been rewarded was when he was at Stanford. Then he was viewed as an intellectual, sought out for his undoubtedly deep thoughts, a cut above, different, from the pussyhound fratboys.  He was approachable.



The only time this happens to him now is if he’s at a bar in a college town and a similarly out-of-place girl decides that they’re kindred spirits. Sam is too nice (and maybe a little too lonely) to shut her out, so he gets some conversation, maybe a phone number that he’ll never call, before he leaves. It’s nice, makes him feel real.



He can understands Dean’s frustration with him, though. If he were Dean, he’d be embarrassed by his unmanly reserve too.



**



New England gets to be too cold, and too busy (“We could spend our whole lives here, Sammy, the amount of evil wants killing.”) and so they head South, trying to find something else to hunt.



In Pass Christian, Mississippi, Sam takes a faceful of zombie dust from an enraged voodooienne that was meant for Dean.



He wakes up three days later in a 4-point restraint strapped to a motel bed. He takes a deep breath and inhales salt. A lot of salt. He immediately starts coughing.  Dean is instantly at his side, brows twisted up in worry, saying, “Sam, Sammy – you okay?”



“Dude,” Sam splutters, “did you put salt in my mouth?”



Dean rinses Sam’s mouth out with water, holding out a towel for him to spit the saline combination into. He has such fierce concentration on his face, unconsciously naked caring, that Sam is taken aback. He is so used to feeling like the unwilling partner, the oft-shouldered burden, that he often loses sight of the fact that yes, Dean loves him, no, he will never tell him that, but Dean will take care of him until his very last breath, because Sam is his.



Sam becomes abruptly aware that he is: strapped to a bed, the cuffs are padded, he is only in boxer shorts, and he smells totally rank.  



Dean leaning over him while he is weak and helpless does strange things to Sam.  He tries not to pay attention the twisty feeling in his stomach as Dean impersonally checks him over.



“I needed to make sure you didn’t go walking,” Dean explains.



“So you put salt in my mouth?” Sam is not getting over this. Salt. In his mouth. His lips are cracked and bleeding and his tongue feels like jerky.



“Zombies hate salt.” Dean says simply.



“I’m not a zombie!” Sam protests, voice rising in a bitchy whine.



“I didn’t know that for sure until today. Will you quit your bellyachin’? At least I saved you from being that old lady’s slave, or being buried alive.”  Dean pulls back, concern replaced with annoyance. That expression is so comforting and familiar that Sam feels better seeing it.



“Do I even want to know why you own padded cuffs?”



Dean smiles – grins, really – and says, “No.”



That twisty feeling in his stomach again, Sam says, “C’mon, let me up. I need a shower and a lot of food.”



Dean undoes the cuffs and Sam shakes feeling back into limbs that haven’t moved for days. He tries to sit up. Tries – and fails.



“A little help,” he says weakly. Dean slings one of Sam’s arms across his shoulders and stands up with him.



Dean looks hilarious tucked into Sam’s armpit, and complains righteously about the smell. Sam is concentrating only on getting to the bathroom and his own cramping, uncoiling muscles.



“I can take it from here,” he protests as Dean attempts to maneuver him into the tub.



“You sure?” Dean’s uncharacteristic solicitousness annoys Sam.



“What, you’re going to get in the shower with me? I’ll be fine.” Sam strips off his (really disgusting, going-on-day-four) boxers and lurches over the edge of the tub.



“If’ that’s what it took, Sammy, I’d do it.” Dean helps Sam into the tub, runs a hand down his back, and turns to leave. “I’ll be just outside the door. You need me, you holler.”



Sam turns the shower up, very hot, and places his back against the cool tile, feeling Dean’s caress like a brand on his skin just under his shoulder blade and down to the small of his back. The soapsuds trickle down his chest, dripping down his dick and off his balls.  He slowly jerks himself off, back to the wall, refusing to think about why.



**

For once, Dean’s attention is all on Sam as they eat; only flirting with the waitress reflexively. Sam is shoveling food into his mouth: biscuits with sausage gravy, cheese grits, pancakes and bacon, all washed down with scalding hot coffee. Dean only takes his gaze off Sam when he puts food in his mouth, and then he’s closing his eyes and moaning extravagantly, which embarrasses Sam.



“Do you two need some time alone?” Sam asks, gaze going back and forth between Dean and his plate. Dean, mouth full, flips him the bird and continues chewing.



A thought occurs to Sam. A thought so awful that his fork stops midway between his plate and his mouth. He eyes his brother suspiciously.



“Dean?”



“Mmph?”



“Was I tied to that bed for the entire three days?”



Dean grunts affirmatively through a mouthful of grits and swallows. “Why?”



“I’m just curious about how you got me to the bathroom.”



In the time Sam takes to ask the question, Dean manages to fill his mouth up with pancakes. He gets a look of maniacal glee on his face.



“Oh no.” Sam is horrified. “Oh, hell no. You didn’t.”



“I changed your diapers when you were a baby, Sammy, and I’m still changin’ ‘em now.” The pleasure Dean is taking in Sam’s discomfort is positively unholy.



“Oh, God!” Sam’s appetite is entirely gone. He feels more embarrassed than any time he can remember and feels himself blushing furiously. To know that Dean changed his diapers when he was a baby is one thing. To be faced with the all-to-recent fact that Dean had to do the same thing? Totally humiliating.



“I couldn’t untie you, Sam. I didn’t know what you’d do. This was the only choice.” Dean’s voice is sweet reason, totally ruined by the shit-eating grin on his face.



Sam buries his face in his hands. “Stop. Talking. Please.” He’s blushing so hard that he can probably be seen from orbit.



Dean is relentless. “Yeah, strapping you into a Depends beats the hell out of having to cut off your head or dig you up from being buried alive.”



By this point, Sam’s banging his head on the table softly, hoping to incur some sort of brain injury that will give him short-term memory loss. He gives his brother a baleful look. “Someday, I’ll have to take care of you. And then, revenge will be soooo sweet.”



Dean grins, waggles his eyebrows and winks at Sam as he steals the last bite of his pancakes.



**



Later that night, in a different bed, in a different motel, Sam thinks about those three lost days and what Dean must have had to do, the worry and watching while Sam sweated the poison out of his system and became artificially dead for a while.



Sam thinks about Dean cleaning him off, making sure he was comfortable and not laying in his own waste. Sam gets stuck on the thought of Dean wiping his crotch with a warm washcloth, and he rolls over on himself, biting his pillow until he falls asleep.



**



Sam spends the next day staring out the car window watching the road unspool. He is thinking about desires, and how they define people.



For the longest time, Dad and his desire for revenge defined him. His obsession, really. Hunting what killed Sam’s mother, who Sam doesn’t even remember. He was Sammy Winchester and when he got big enough, he would hunt and kill the monsters just like Dad. Just like Dean.



But then Sam found out that he was smart and good at school, and even liked it. Sam discovered a whole world of things he wanted that had nothing to do with graveyards at midnight.



Even at Stanford, though, Sam still defined himself in terms of his childhood and Dad’s training, his own warring desires. And Dean. Even if he was defining himself in opposition to everything he left, recreating himself in the image of relentless normalcy, Sam could still see the shape of himself in silhouette against the backdrop of what Dad and Dean thought he should be.  



He is always thrown into shadow by the twin suns of their obsession.



What makes Sam feel real?



Pain.



Dean.



No matter how separated he feels from everything else, there’s nothing like a murderous monster to help Sam rediscover the boundaries of his flesh. He’s been injured far too many times to find the idea of self-mutilation even remotely appealing.



With Dean, Sam feels a hunger. They’re all just too manly, the Winchesters, to go in for gratuitous touching. Every time Sam is jostled by Dean, or kicked, or nudged, it’s like St. Elmo’s Fire running all around Sam’s skin. For an instant, he lights up, remembers where he is, and feels real again. After four years spent adrift among strangers, there is some relief in being in a familiar place, even if it is one whose rules and roles made you run away in the first place.



After nearly four years of separation, Sam is able to see Dean with fresh perspective. He sees more than ever how keeping the monsters from the innocent is meaningful to Dean, beyond the wisecracks and the conman exterior.  Dean cares, though he’d never admit it.



Now that Sam has chosen to join the hunt again of his own volition, he has to work at redefining his role. Dean still tries to take the alpha role, automatically assuming that he knows all there is to know about a hunt. This inevitably causes friction, but Sam is often surprised at how gracefully Dean will cede a point when he knows Sam is right. Sam is actually good at some things. Especially, as Dean has said on more than one occasion, that emo shit.



Sam smiles slightly to himself. Being a master of social engineering is not one of his life goals, but he is happy to own the skill.



“You’re brooding.” Dean’s voice cuts across Sam’s reverie.



“Brooding?”



“Moping, sulking, whatever.”



“Since when do you use synonyms to describe my behavior?”



“Since you were about fifteen and became a moody bitch.” Dean is smirking, of course.



“I’m not brooding. I’m thinking. Jerk.”



“Looks like a duck, quacks like a duck…”



“I can’t believe you miss me talking.”



“You can talk all you want.” Dean glances over at Sam. “Just don’t make it into one of those sharing and caring sessions.”



“I was thinking about steganography.” Sam says.



“Stega-wha?” Dean gets that perplexed look on his face that he gets when he feels people are unnecessarily complicating his worldview. And by “people”, he means Sam.



“Pattern recognition. How, even in the absence of something, you can still tell what it is by the pattern formed around it.”



“I was right to be worried,” Dean announces to the windshield. “You are thinkin’ too much.”



Sam laughs. Dean avoids introspection like the plague, and his reactions to it are inevitably suspicion and annoyance.



“Well, but don’t you ever wonder what you’d be doing if you weren’t doing this? Or in ten years? Or if we kill all the monsters?”



“We’ll never kill all the monsters, Sammy.”  Dean’s voice is tight, his mouth set in a “Do Not Enter” line.



“But don’t you ever imagine a different life for yourself?” Sam is aware of Dean’s agitation, but can’t stop himself.



“No!” shouts Dean. “God, I hate it when you get like this.”



“You wanted me to talk,” Sam mutters, sulky for real this time.  



“Yeah, and I’m sorry I did.” Dean shoots back. “Thing is, Sammy, you don’t remember how it was. Having Mom and Dad and a house and a yard – the whole nine. I do. The yellow-eyed demon took it all away, and now what I want isn’t important. It hasn’t been important for a long time. The future isn’t important. Right now is all I have. You’re all I have. That’s all that matters.”



For an instant, Sam sees Dean as more than a collection of in-the-moment desires and sees the yawning loss behind his eyes that drives him.



“God, Dean. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Sam reaches out for Dean’s arm. Dean throws his hand off furiously.



“Just shut up, okay? If I ever ask you what’s wrong again, just freakin’ punch me in the head and get it over with.” Dean subsides, staring through the windshield like he wants to set the pavement on fire with his gaze.



Sam feels small and scolded and guilty. He is still in college mode, where theoretical conversations are the norm and everyone can imagine several different futures for himself or herself.



For Dean, imagining anything but the present is a potentially fatally distracting reminder of loss.



Sam is surprised that Dean doesn’t just hate him.



That night, Sam dreams that he crawls into bed with Dean, just like he did when he was little and lonely. He dreams he curls around Dean’s back and murmurs, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” into the nape of Dean’s neck. The dream is so vivid that when Sam wakes up alone, he is disoriented.



Dean is asleep in the other bed, face mashed into his pillow, blankets rucked down to his waist. Sam leans over and traces a finger down Dean’s spine, marveling at his solidity.



Dean shifts and mumbles, but doesn’t wake. Sam takes a cold shower and jerks off furiously, tears in his eyes.



**



There are rumors of some sort of rampaging creature in Indiana, so they swing away from the Deep South to the Midwest.



Sam is twitchy and compensates for it by withdrawing. He feels full of sick desire and is afraid to reveal himself by talking, so he doesn’t speak at all.



Dean gives him sidelong glances but declines to pry. He sings along with the radio, voices theories about what this mysterious monster might be, and gently ribs Sam about his near-zombification.



In short, Dean is working his ass off to jolly Sam out of whatever snit he’s in, and Sam knows it. So he uncoils enough to respond to Dean, and is rewarded by Dean’s brows untwisting.



They fetch up in the town of Broadripple and make the rounds of the many antique and used-clothing shops to get a sense of the creature. After an afternoon of questioning and being mistaken for a gay couple looking for souvenirs, all they have are the descriptors “big”, “massive”, “unstoppable”, and “violent”.



“It could be anything,” gripes Dean as they’re eating dinner at the Broadripple Brewpub. “We’ll have to stake out where it was last seen.”



Which is how Sam ends up crouched next to his brother in some bushes by a bridge when the ground starts vibrating.



“The hell?” Dean is incredulous as it heaves into view. It is taller than most men, is in fact a crude representation of one, reddish brown in color, with glowing red eyes.



It doesn’t see them, but goes thundering by as they stare up, wide-eyed.



“A golem.” Sam announces. “Someone around here made a golem!”



“How do we stop it?”



“The chem….the-the-the letters on its forehead give it life. We have to destroy the first one. The aleph.” Sam says quickly.



They whisper a plan in which Dean uses the words “freakishly tall” and Sam uses the words “golem-bait”.  Dean runs out in front of the golem, shouting and waving his arms. The golem turns, very fast, and swings a mighty fist, which Dean dodges nimbly.



“Go! Now!” Dean shouts to Sam. Sam dashes out with a sledgehammer and leaps up to smash it into the golem’s forehead, obliterating the aleph of the chem.



The golem stops in its tracks. Dean stares up at it, panting slightly.



“I knew those stilt-legs of yours would come in handy someday,” Dean says. Sam makes a “ha-ha, very funny” face at him.



“Now what?” Dean asks.



“I suppose we can’t just leave it here.” Sam replies. Dean smirks.



“People might have questions about how a butt-ugly statue suddenly appeared on the riverbank.”



“True enough.” Sam hefts the sledgehammer. “I guess we’ll just have to destroy it, then.”



As they destroy the golem, Sam and Dean end up covered in clay dust with a growing pile of pottery chips around them. Sam doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone look as beautiful and strong as Dean, pounding away at golem limbs in the moonlight.



Before he realizes what he’s doing, Sam grasps Dean’s wrist, thumb sliding up the inside of Dean’s arm, smearing the clay dust.



“Sammy, what the hell,” Dean says, more confused than anything else. Sam drops Dean’s arm and turns his back, totally embarrassed. He gets back to work and, after a minute, hears Dean do the same.



Sam can’t meet Dean’s eyes at all after that, and he can feel Dean’s concerned looks whenever his back is turned. He bolts into the shower as soon as they’re back at the motel, and pretends to be asleep when Dean emerges from his own.



**



That night Sam dreams he is suffocating. There is a weight in his chest and when he wakes up, he can’t breathe. He chokes out loud, hands clutching the bed on either side.



“Sam!” Dean’s voice, as always, pulls him back. Dean clambers into bed next to Sam, one arm around Sam’s chest, the other propped under him.



“Shhh, Sammy, it’s okay, it’s okay. I gotcha. I gotcha.” Dean murmurs into the back of Sam’s neck. Sam stops fighting for breath and breath comes more easily as he relaxes into Dean. He falls asleep with Dean’s arm around his chest, Dean’s breath in his ear.



**



When Sam wakes up again, he feels that Dean is still next to him. He rolls over. Dean is on his back; blankets down to his waist, relaxed as he never is when awake. Sam looks at him – really looks at him, seeing the pinprick freckles, the shadow of stubble, the cupids bow lips and ridiculously long lashes (for a guy), thinking, “This is my brother. This is my brother and I want to touch him and put my mouth on him and –“



Sam’s train of thought derails messily as Dean’s eyes open. He looks at Sam quizzically.



“What’s goin’ on, Sam?” Dean asks softly, and Sam’s gaze drops again. Dean reaches out, grasps Sam’s chin, and makes him look back up. “Tell me what’s wrong.” Dean insists quietly.



Sam laughs harshly, surprising himself. “Me. I’m what’s wrong.”  he says miserably. Dean looks at him steadily.



Sam stares again into Dean’s eyes. Taking Dean’s hand, he raises it to his mouth and kisses the palm, touching the tip of his tongue to the skin. Dean’s pupils flare and he inhales sharply.



But he doesn’t pull away.



For a long moment, their gazes are locked. Sam’s blood is pounding so hard his ears feel like they are throbbing.



“Are you sure, Sammy? Are you really really sure? Because there’s no goin’ back.” There is no judgment in Dean’s gaze, only concern.  He cups his hand around Sam’s jaw, thumb stroking his cheekbone.



Sam shakes his head slightly. “I’m not sure.” he says, his voice raspy and low. “But I want this. I want to feel you. Feel real.”



Dean nods. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He draws Sam’s face down to his, brings Sam’s mouth to his own.



The kiss starts off slow and Sam is amazed at how natural it feels to be kissing Dean. Dean’s lips are softer than Sam thought they would be. When Dean flicks his tongue over Sam’s lips, Sam gasps at the feel of it, then moans as Dean’s tongue arcs around his own.



Dean tastes like: minty toothpaste, slightly sour, and something indefinable and intensely personal. Sam is drowning in it.



When they break for a breath, Sam asks, “What about you, Dean? Is this really okay with you?”



Dean quirks his mouth up in that smartass grin that fools everyone but Sam, and says, “It’s always been you, Sammy. I was just waiting for you to figure out what you wanted.”



Sam thinks about the past few weeks and how he's felt like a teenager with a crush, putting meaning into meaningless interactions and the alternating highs and lows of being around Dean, his object of desire and also, oh yeah, his brother.



Has Dean been feeling that way for years?



Sam rolls Dean onto his back, kissing him, pinning to the bed by his shoulders and hips, feeling just how hard they both are when their dicks slide against each other mediated by two layers of cloth.



“I’m sorry.” Sam murmurs into Dean’s mouth.



“Don’t spoil the moment, Sammy,” Dean mutters back. In answer, Sam twists his hips, creating more friction, and Dean shudders.



Sam slides Dean’s shirt up, palms against his torso, and pulls the shirt over Dean’s head.



Thus disengaged, Sam looks at Dean again, sees the flush on his upper chest and his breaths coming fast and ragged. Dean is fucking beautiful, but Sam knows that, has always known that.



“Come on, Sam,” Dean says impatiently. Sam falls on him ravenously (it’s been a long time, after all) kissing and licking and biting his way down Dean’s torso, to the jut of his hipbone rising above the waistband of his pajamas. Sam rubs his cheek along the length of Dean’s dick, hot through the fabric, and Dean makes a strangled noise in his throat. He tangles his fingers in Sam’s hair.



Sam hooks his fingers into the waistband of the pajama bottoms and slides them slowly off Dean. He looks up at Dean staring down at him, eyes heavy-lidded, one hand still in Sam’s hair.



“Goddammit, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam grins. This shouldn’t feel as right as it does, but it does. All the broken pieces of him are realigning into a new whole.



Sam pulls Dean’s pajamas entirely off and his dick emerges, long and hard and curved slightly with moisture glistening at the tip. Sam curls his lips around the head, licking the salty precome out of the slit, hears Dean’s “Fuck,” on an indrawn breath.  Sam sucks Dean in, inch by slow inch; holding Dean’s hips down and feeling him quiver beneath him. Sam slides up again slowly, releasing Dean’s dick almost reluctantly.



“Don’t stop.” Dean’s voice is raspy; his fingers in Sam’s hair tugging him back downward. Sam is happy to oblige, drawing Dean in again and feeling the bump as the head passes over his palate. He takes Dean in as far as he can without gagging, and then comes up again slowly, tongue playing curlicues along the length. Down again more quickly at the urging of Dean’s hips and the sounds from his mouth, which could be swearing or praying.



Dean says forcefully, “Sam. Sammy.” and shakes all over. He comes in Sam’s mouth, thick hot fluid splashing into the back of Sam’s throat. Sam swallows and swallows, then kisses and mouths his way up the length of Dean’s body, feeling him ride out the end of his orgasm.



Dean’s eyes snap open and he kisses Sam ferociously. The taste of his come in Dean’s mouth is a dizzying aphrodisiac and Sam is yanking his boxers off, wanting friction, wanting to be taken in this frenzy. Dean’s dick is softening, but is still slick with Sam’s spit and come. Sam slots himself next to it, starts thrusting, still kissing and being kissed.



Dean struggles and manages to flip Sam onto his back. He flicks Sam’s thighs apart with one knee and presses downward to meet his thrusts upward.



“Dean. Please, Dean.” Sam is breathless; quivering at the edge of everything he wants, wanting just a little more to tip him over.



Dean looks down at Sam, eyes dark, and raises his hand to his mouth. He licks his palm and fingers as Sam watches, mesmerized. Dean brings his hand down between them and wraps it around Sam’s dick.



A thousand nights of separation and loneliness and the recent weeks of obsession sizzle down Sam’s back until they explode out of him. He barely has time to shout, “God! Dean!” before he is overwhelmed with sensation and his brain goes completely offline.



When Sam comes back to himself, he is trembling and Dean is lying next to him, wiping off his hand. With Sam’s boxers.



Sam snorts and is suddenly laughing. Dean flashes him a quick grin, and Sam isn’t so worried that things are radically changed between them.



“Use your own shorts.” Sam protests.



“No way. Your come, your shorts.” Dean retorts, and then flops down next to Sam.



“You ready for sleep now Sammy, or are there going to be any more interruptions?”



Sam rolls over and drops his head onto Dean’s chest, snoring exaggeratedly. Dean shoves Sam until he’s on his own pillow and then throws his leg over Sam’s. Sam falls asleep peacefully and doesn’t dream.



**



Sam is prepared for things to be really awkward – is even bracing himself for it – when he wakes the next morning. Instead, he startles up when Dean tosses a bag of donuts on the bed, saying, “Rise and shine, princess.”



“’m awake,” Sam sits up, reaching for the bag. Dean sits on the edge of the bed and hands Sam a cup of coffee.



“Found out what happened to the guy that made the golem.” Dean starts.



“Yeah?”



“Golem killed him. Hence the running wild.”



“Oh.” Sam reaches into the bag and pulls out a powdered donut, cramming it into his mouth.



“Also. We have to head up to Wisconsin.”



“Wisconsin? Why?” He follows the donut with a gulp of coffee.



“Poltergeist. In Spring Green.” Dean is watching Sam intently as he licks confectioner’s sugar off his fingers.



“Don’t do that, Sammy.”



“Why not?”



“It’s distracting.”



Sam raises his eyebrows, disbelieving. “Seriously?”



Dean gives Sam a hard “Don’t test me.” look and continues. “Yeah, some disturbance up at an artist’s colony. Destruction of property, all the highlights.”



Sam drinks some more coffee, connecting the dots, and when he does, he nearly spits it out.



“We’re going to Taliesin?” he squeaks.



“Whatever. Come on, get rollin’.”  Dean turns away to pack his duffel as Sam gets up.



Sam finds himself wondering if or when the other shoe is going to drop.



In the car on the way out of Broadripple, Sam says, “Remember when it was goths?”



Dean gets a reminiscently naughty smile on his face. “Yeah. When was that? 1996?”



“They were summoning a demon they couldn’t control and afterward you went off with that girl with the ankh pendant and the black no. 1 hair…” Sam supplies.



“Desiree. She had nice boots.”



“Yeah.” Sam looks over at Dean.  “What about girls, Dean?”



“I like girls,” Dean allows, sparing a glance for Sam. “Probably always will.”



Feeling queasy and daring, Sam asks, “Were there…were there ever any guys?”



Dean looks over at Sam wordlessly, then back at the road.



“No guy but me?” Sam ventures.



“No guy but you, Sammy.” Dean affirms, and they drive on.



**



The poltergeist turns out to be the angry spirit of an architect’s apprentice who felt ill-used by Frank Lloyd Wright. Sam feels weird breaking into Taliesin, but it’s part of the job, and he follows Dean’s all-business lead. They’re in and out quickly and soon back at the motel.



Sam is happy enough to have a streak of jobs where neither of them ends up incapacitated or nearly dead due to injury.



Dean, for a change, doesn’t seem to want to have his usual post-hunt beers and broads. Instead, he buys a six of Leinenkugel’s Red and flops on one of the motel beds.



Two queens, Sam notes.



This, Sam thinks, would be the other shoe dropping. Although the whole day has been one easy interaction after another (easier, to be truthful, than in the entire previous year) Sam is surprised to catch a little smile playing around Dean’s mouth whenever he dares to look at him. Sam is also surprised at how much less of a burden he feels since the night before. Dean sings along with the radio (not badly), drums on the steering wheel, and generally exhibits all the signs of cheer that Sam loves to see.



Sam doesn’t know what he’s expecting – hand holding? Cuddling? Sam snorts mentally. Sam can see Dean holding hands with Cassie, and maybe the random girls he hooks up with. The last time Dean held Sam’s hand was when he was seven and Dean was teaching him how to cross the street.



Now Sam, he’s all about the romantic gestures. He remembers (carefully, bracing to retreat if it starts to hurt even a little) celebrating 3-month, 6-month, and year anniversaries with Jess. Flowers for exams, cupcakes for birthdays, and cards for no reason at all.



It doesn’t hurt to remember these things. Sam feels wistful, but it’s like he’s looking through glass at a stranger’s life. The spaces where Jess used to be are filled up with Dean, now.



Sam also can’t imagine making any of these gestures towards Dean. He can’t even begin to consider them, there’s just a total lack of comprehension surrounding the concept. Holding Dean’s hand? Impossible. Flowers? Dean would probably beat him up with them.



Okay, so. How to proceed, then? Sam is used to taking his cues from his brother. Probably he should do it in this case as well. Even with the status quo so radically changed, Sam wants to find his footing before taking another step. He feels as if he used up all his courage the night before.



They bump shoulders walking to the motel and Sam isn’t sure if it’s deliberate or not.



Sam starts taking the duffels off the other bed. Dean is watching TV and drinking beer.  Sam flops down on his bed and Dean proffers the six-pack across the gap. Sam takes a beer, pops the cap and takes a deep swig. He feels keyed up, like he’s waiting for something to happen, but Dean continues to watch TV, seemingly oblivious.



“I got somethin’ on my face?” Dean asks suddenly.



“No. Why?”



“You keep staring at me.”



Nettled, Sam snaps, “Sorry.” and looks at his beer bottle instead. Finally, he gets up, retrieves his laptop, and gets lost in the internet.  The next time he looks over at Dean, he’s asleep, beer bottle placed carefully on the table between the two beds.



Sam sighs and closes his laptop. He performs his nightly ablutions, crawls into bed alone, and falls asleep to the sound of Dean’s breathing.



**



“Sam.”



Sam falls into his body. There is an arm around his waist, a hand tucked into the waistband of his boxers. A nose is behind his ear, stubble scratching along his shoulder.



Wordlessly, Sam rolls over. He bumps noses with Dean as he kisses him, slow and languorously.



“Go back to sleep, Sammy,” Dean says low against Sam’s lips. Sam nods, sleepily compliant, entwining his legs with Dean’s. He hasn’t opened his eyes at all.



Sam falls asleep, sharing breath with his brother.



**



Sam wakes up alone the next morning, wondering if he dreamed the night before. He sits up.



“Well, good morning, sunshine.” drawls Dean from the tiny kitchenette. He is sitting at the postage-stamp sized table, newspaper unfurled in front of him.



“Coffee?” Sam queries. He’s not at his best when he’s pre-caffeinated. Dean points to the pathetically small coffeemaker.



Sam pours himself a mug and sits down across from Dean. In the process, he jostles Dean’s knees and his eyes fly up to Dean’s face. Something like worry must show because Dean looks both amused and exasperated at once.



“Relax, Sam, wouldya? Everything’s fine.”



“I know. It’s just – weird, that’s all.” Sam wants to say much more, but doesn’t know how much patience Dean will have for it.



“Yeah, it is weird, I’ll give you that. But so is our life. And we’re both consenting adults, you know?” Dean lays down the newspaper to look at Sam, gaze direct and untroubled.



Sam wants to say, “Yeah but,” and bring up every argument he can think of as to why none of this is okay – cultural norms, taboos, the law of God and/or man – but he finds, suddenly, that he really doesn’t care. This life has taken so much from him. All he really has left is Dean. It is Dean that closes the circle of who he is, is both comfort and familiarity along with strangeness and charm. Brother – and lover.



“We must be crazy.” is what Sam finally says. Dean laughs. Sam likes how Dean’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he does it and thinks that Dean should laugh more often.



“Drink your coffee, Sammy. We’re taking in the local sights today.”



“Oh really? After Taliesin, what could possibly compete?”



Dean leans forward. “Have you ever heard of The House on the Rock?”



**



The House on the Rock, Sam decides, is like some sort of exocortical acid trip. There are rooms full of freaky animated dioramas, eerie orchestras that play themselves, and collections of unbelievable crap, dozens of rooms of them. There’s a room with a giant boat and whale suspended from the ceiling and a spiral going up around the wall with displays of all sorts of nautical memorabilia.



Sam is fascinated and repelled by the sheer unabashed kitsch of the place. Even Dean is too stunned to offer his usual snide comments.



Dean is also being a little bit silly. At the entrance to the place, he insists that he and Sam sit for one of the pictures that they sell to the tourists. He slings his arm across Sam’s shoulders and grins broadly for the camera.



“We’ll pick it up at the end,” Dean tells Sam, who just nods, smiling.



Dean is also bumping and nudging Sam a lot – shoulders, elbows, hip checks. Sam can’t wipe the stupid grin off his face. Not only did his brother plan a date for them, but also he’s being grabby in the most characteristic way – all boy.



They reach the crown jewel of the place – the carousel room. It is about the size of a football field, with an enormous carousel in the middle, populated by every conceivable sort of carousel animal, and strange mannequins hanging from the ceiling dressed like bondage angels. The information overload is completed by the intensely loud calliope music that accompanies the fast-spinning merry-go-round.



Sam is so overwhelmed that he doesn’t know where to look first. There is just no logic to a place like this. He’s nearly hypnotized. He doesn’t notice that Dean is crowding and herding him into a shadowy corner until his back hits a pillar.



Sam looks slightly down at Dean, curious. Dean steps into Sam, pushing him against the pillar and leaning in close to kiss him. Sam hooks his fingers through Dean’s belt loops as Dean slides his hands under Sam’s shirt, palms rubbing across heated flesh, sensitive nipples, until Sam’s dick (which has been semi-hard all day anyway) is fully hard and pressing against Sam’s fly.



Dean brings a hand down to roughly caress Sam through his jeans and Sam groans, unheard above the deafening calliope music. Dean unzips Sam’s fly and reaches in, skimming Sam’s dick with his fingertips. Sam bucks against Dean involuntarily and Dean smiles against Sam’s lips, and then lowers himself to his knees in front of Sam.



“Dean, what –“ Sam starts, but Dean holds up a finger and doesn’t answer. He spreads open Sam’s jeans and pulls him out, holding the base of Sam’s dick as he lowers his mouth onto it.



Sam cups Dean’s head in his hands gently, feeling the stubble of Dean’s hair prickle his palms. Dean’s mouth is like fire playing up and down his dick, with rough touches of tongue and teeth and Sam wants it to last longer, but it won’t. He can feel his orgasm charging down his spine like lava and he stares, shaking, at the carousel as it fragments into kaleidoscope pieces and Sam grunts behind gritted teeth to keep from shouting Dean’s name.



Dean swallows, and then wipes his mouth on Sam’s jean-clad thigh. He tucks Sam back into his pants, and then stands up. Sam is still looking dazedly at the carousel, hands clutching the pillar holding him up. His gaze focuses in on Dean and he smiles at him with dazzling sweetness. Dean gives him a genuine, rare, smile back.



“C’mon, Sammy, let’s get out of here. It’s entirely too loud and too weird.”



“Coming from one of us, that’s quite the statement.”



“Yeah, we could write them a review: ‘Too Weird for the Winchesters’.”



In the gift shop, Sam buys a keyring with a carousel horse on it while Dean is paying for the picture. He figures he’ll attach it to the Impala’s keys while Dean is asleep.



In the car, Sam looks over at Dean. “Dude, you totally have blowjob lips.”



“I do not.”



“You so do.”



“If I do, and I’m not agreeing that I do, at least I came by them honestly.” Dean looks incredibly smug.



“Came. Ha ha. Ow!” Sam rubs his head after Dean cuffs him.



**



That night Sam leaves the duffels on the other bed and almost defiantly climbs in with Dean. Dean fake-grumbles, moving over, but Sam can tell he doesn’t mean it, even when he’s warned sternly not to take up more than his share of the bed with his circus-sideshow tallness.



They fall asleep with a measure of space between them, but when Sam wakes up the next morning, Dean is attached to him like a limpet. Sam lays there, savoring a deep feeling of peace. This, right now, is something that belongs to him and can’t be taken away.



**



They take a day to catch up on laundry and weapons maintenance (and at least one instance of Dean tackling Sam to the bed for a make-out session that only adds to the laundry pile) and to plan their next move.



Dean is sharpening a machete when Sam groans from behind his laptop.



“What?” Dean doesn’t look up.



“Tell me we don’t have to go to New Mexico.” Sam is messing up his already-messy hair in dismay.



“What’s in New Mexico?”



Sam spins the laptop around so Dean can read the screen. Dean scans it quickly, and then says, “Huh. A chupacabra.”



“I hate chupacabras.” Sam moans.



“Aw, why, Sammy?” Dean projects yards of false concern.



“They’re gross, that’s why. All pussy and drippy. Plus, they’re vicious.” Sam knows he sounds like a whiny kid, but he doesn’t really want to go to New Mexico. Or deal with this chupacabra. Or spend 20 hours crammed into the Skinner box of the Impala, being hypnotized by the road because Dean won’t let him drive.



It depresses Sam that he automatically knows how long it’ll take to drive to San Antonio, like he’s some sort of highway math savant.



“This is our job, Sam, we have to go.” Dean is already on the move, packing up the machete and whetstone and zipping up his duffel.  “I’ll check us out while you pack the car, all right?”



Sam grunts. Dean squeezes his shoulder as he walks past.



**



The rolling autumnal prairie of the Midwest gives way to the starker landscape of the Southwest, jagged new mountains and extinct volcanoes making the scenery look like the surface of the moon.



Sam falls asleep, lulled by the motion of the car and the gentleness of the sunlight. When he wakes up, slowly, he is stiff and his ass is numb. His head is resting on Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s hand is on his thigh, the thumb lightly stroking.



Sam doesn’t want to move, stiffness notwithstanding. He likes being where he is, and he can smell Dean’s leather jacket and sweat.



“We there yet?” Sam mumbles. The remnants of the sunset show purple and orange above some mountains.



“Bout halfway. You hungry?” Dean doesn’t move his hand.



“I could eat.” Sam stretches, which moves Dean’s hand further up his leg. Sam looks over at his brother and grins. “Um, food.”



“Food it is, then, Sammy.” Dean pats Sam’s thigh and steers them off the highway.



**



They’re on the road early the next day and reach the outskirts of San Antonio that night. Instead of going to a motel, Dean and Sam pull into a rest stop, gear up, and head back out to where the chupacabra was last seen.



There’s not a lot of cover, only some scrubby brush. They walk around in the moonlight looking for tracks or clues. Sam’s shadow seems even more freakishly tall in the weird light, and he’s getting cold.



“Do you think it’ll even come back here?” Sam asks quietly.



“Well, I don’t know, Sammy. We just have to keep looking. Maybe if you talk loudly enough, you’ll attract it.” Dean replies sarcastically. Sam makes a face at him and says nothing.



An hour later, they’re sitting on a rock sharing a canteen of water when the night falls completely silent.



It’s funny how you don’t notice all the tiny noises the nocturnal animals make until they stop, Sam muses, right before a massive shape smashes him off the boulder and onto the ground.



Sam kicks out, and connects with something that grunts. Dean is yelling and Sam fights down his adrenaline, channels it, comes up with his rifle pointed at the shape, and fires.



The chupacabra is enormous, man-shaped, hairy, and diseased-looking. Sam notices this because it takes the shot in its shoulder and keeps coming at him.



Sam scrambles backwards on hands and heels, reversing the gun to use as a club, but the monster is, well, it’s preternaturally fast. It bats the rifle away and grabs Sam around the neck.



It squeezes as it lifts Sam up and he knows he’s going to die this time. His vision is going black and swirly and it feels like sparks are jumping across his tongue.



At least, he thinks, at least Dean and I got to be together.



Sam hears a sound like a thunderclap and he falls to the ground, splayed like a rag doll. He gasps for breath and it hurts, but he’s alive and that’s all that matters.



He hears another loud crack, recognizes it as Dean’s gun, and rolls his head towards the noise. Dean is standing with one foot on the corpse of the chupacabra, firing repeatedly into its head. Then he pulls the machete from its sheath and lops the thing’s head off. He wipes the machete off on the chupacabra’s corpse and looks over at Sam, a vivid, feral look on his face.



“Dean,” croaks Sam, and Dean is there, hauling Sam onto his thighs, turning his head up so that he can look at Sam’s throat.



“Why they always gotta choke me,” Sam rasps, the skin on his throat raw and throbbing.



“If you didn’t have such a pretty goddamn throat, maybe they’d leave it alone,” Dean’s voice is only shaking a little.



“Not pretty. Sexy.” Sam argues, wanting to drive the residual panic from Dean’s eyes, prove to Dean he’s fine, really.



“No, Sammy. I’m the sexy one. You’re the pretty one. Remember that.” Dean responds. “Can you walk?”



“C’n I have some water?”



Dean stuffs his coat under Sam’s head and retrieves the pack and the canteen. He hands Sam the water, and Sam trickles it into his mouth, feeling the pain as the muscles in his throat work to swallow. When he’s done, he hands the canteen back to Dean, grinds out, “Let’s go,” and lets Dean haul him to his feet.



His legs are wobbly, but Sam’s used to that, the number of times he’s been wounded. He leans on Dean, but by the time they reach the Impala, he’s able to mostly walk on his own. It feels good to lean on his brother, though, so Sam keeps on doing it.



Dean checks them into the first motel he can find, gets Sam into bed, and goes for ice. He wraps it in a towel so that Sam can put it on his neck. Only then does Dean kick off his boots and collapse next to his brother.



Sam says, “C’mere.” and Dean slides over and lays his head carefully on Sam’s chest, his arm across Sam’s stomach. Sam can feel the ache and tremor of adrenaline comedown (and the retreat of mortal fear, let’s not forget that) in his muscles, and he can feel Dean vibrating next to him.



“Dean, I’m okay. It’s okay.” it hurts to talk, but Sam hates feeling Dean like this. He’s not supposed to be this afraid.



“I know.” Dean doesn’t look at him. “It’s just. I can’t. I can’t lose you too. You’re all I have left.”



The words are raw, ripped out of Dean like his is the bruised throat.



Sam strokes Dean’s back, not knowing what to say. Theirs is a life of inherent risk and Sam can hold his own. But there’s an added dimension of risk and loss now that they’ve become lovers. Maybe Dean is just realizing this, and that’s why he’s got the shakes. Sam would like to additionally reassure Dean, but it really hurts to talk, so he just continues to rub Dean’s back until he stops shaking, his breathing evens out, and he falls asleep. Sam attempts to make himself as comfortable as possible and tries to sleep as well.



**



Sam doesn’t sleep well. Every time he turns his head or swallows (and he never knew how many times he had to swallow in a night), the pain wakes him up. Eventually he gets up and makes coffee, takes the car and goes in search of food, and does some research when he comes back, taking tiny sips of coffee.



Dean wakes up a couple of hours later, shuffles over to Sam, ruffles his hair, and gets himself some coffee. Sitting across from Sam, he asks, “How’s your throat?”



Sam touches it slightly and winces. “A little sore.”



“Yeah, I’ll bet. What’re you lookin’ at?”



“Did you know the Trinity site is near here?”



Dean looks blankly at Sam, who rolls his eyes.



“Did you pay any attention at all in school?”



“No, that was your gig. What’s so important about the Trinity  site?”



“It’s where the first atomic bomb was tested.”



“Fascinating. And?”



Sam knows Dean is baiting him, and even though he knows it, it still gets under his skin and makes him grind his teeth.



“I’m just wondering if that chupacabra might have been a mutant of some kind.”



“Well, we’re close to Roswell, too, maybe it was an escaped ET. What difference does it make? It nearly killed you and now it’s dead. End of story.” Dean takes a gulp of coffee.



Dean really doesn’t have an ounce of romance in his soul, reflects Sam. “The Trinity site is open to the public once a year, and that’s this weekend. I want to go, have a look around.”



Dean looks at Sam over his coffee cup. His gaze flicks from the livid ring around Sam’s throat to Sam’s face. Then he nods.



“Okay, Sammy. We’ll go.”



**



In the Southwest, October days are beautiful. They consist of an endless blue sky, gentle yellow sunlight, and temperatures of about 70 degrees. It’s a beautiful day to be out.



While Dean is kicking at pieces of trinitite and muttering loudly about irradiated balls, Sam is pacing around the blasted landscape, trying to get a feel for the place.



It doesn’t feel like anything. Sam thought it would feel evil, or tainted or something. But it doesn’t. Even if proximity to the site did create the chupacabra, there’s nothing Sam can do about it, no cleansing ceremony to perform, no sigils to inscribe, no ritual to complete. Trinity is just dead land.



Disappointed, Sam turns to Dean. “I’m done here. Let’s go.”



“Really? You sure?” Dean sounds surprised. Sam is sure Dean was expecting Sam to wander around in some sort of nerd ecstasy at being on such historical ground.  



In the car, Sam is quiet. He is thinking about the power it takes to smash an atom.



He thinks about the word cleave and how it means several different things: to sunder, to join, and to penetrate.



In a way, Sam had cleaved himself from his family and the life of the hunter. But it didn’t take. Now Sam has cleaved himself to Dean in an additional way.



Penetration? Well, Sam thinks, feeling a slight blush stain his cheeks. Maybe someday soon.



Brother. Lover. It couldn’t have fallen out any other way. Sam has suffered the burn of bringing the innocent into his sphere and he isn’t going to do it ever again.



Sam can hold two contradictory thoughts in his head. He can think, “This is wrong,” as he is kissing Dean, and still surrender to, “This feels right.” And to be honest, to be with Dean in every capacity makes Sam feel whole in a way he’s never been. Sam looks over at Dean, limned in the sunlight spilling into the car window. Dean let him go to find himself, Dean brought him back. In the book of Sam’s life there is the constant subtext of Dean, even in the lacuna of Stanford. The first face he remembers seeing, the only person he ever wants to be with.



Sam doesn’t have to watch Dean anymore. He knows that Dean sees him now.



“If I ask you what you’re thinking, are you gonna trot out fifty-cent words and make me regret it?” Dean looks over at Sam, smiling slightly.



“Let’s go eat,” Sam replies, pointing at a road sign for the Owl Bar and Café.



They eat jalapeño burgers and Dean flirts with the pretty waitress, but when they leave, Dean slides an arm around Sam’s waist and rests his hand on Sam’s back under his jacket.



Sam smiles up at the endless blue Southwestern sky. Cleave, he thinks, and it’s enough for now.