Archive of Our Own

I. I wrap myself in cities I’ve traveled

Dean knows cities like everyone else knows people. Where the rest of the world measures their lives by the relationships in them, Dean doesn’t have all that many relationships to keep track of. Metropolitan U.S.A. he knows like a class reunion. There’s that one town that felt almost like home. He stays in touch, stops by once in awhile. The sad little barely-a-village sitting ignored in the corner, and Dean always knew that one wasn’t going anywhere. There are a couple he’s grown to hate over the years, and he steers clear of them as best he can. They’re a waste of his time, and they were always bullies anyway.

It was a small town in Idaho that had Sam announcing his full ride and his intention to get gone. Dean remembers that fight. He remembers that he should’ve seen it coming, and the overwhelming impotence of not being able to say a damn thing that could undo it. He watched his family crumble itself in half, and Idaho has made him twitch ever since. He hasn’t set foot in that town since Sam’s been gone, but it’s like the whole damn state smells bad.

“Come on, man. I know you hate Idaho, but these people need help.”

“Who says I hate Idaho?” Dean slams the driver’s side door too hard and tosses his unopened bag of cheetos in the back seat.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Sam’s voice cajoles. “We never take cases there, and when we do we’re gone faster than the spirits we’re getting rid of.”

“I got nothing against Idaho,” Dean says, and he realizes it’s true. Sam is sitting in his passenger seat, right where he belongs, and maybe Idaho doesn’t smell quite as bad as he remembers. “You really want to drive all the way to Boise for something that might just be some kid sleepwalking and freaking his sister out?”

“I don’t think it’s just some kid sleepwalking, Dean.”

“Fine. We’ll check it out. But I don’t want to hear you whining about how I never let you do anything.”

Sam snorts, and Dean smirks, and if their route is a little less than direct and one particular town doesn’t come too close, Sam doesn’t comment.

II. I wrap myself in dreams

Dean doesn’t have dreams of his own anymore. It’s been a hell of a long time since he had that luxury. He gave them all to Sam somewhere along the line, and he’s not sure when it happened, but there’s no way he regrets it now.

He meant what he said, wanting to be a fireman when he was a kid. That’s an old dream, one he let go of when he wasn’t even in high school yet. Sammy had put chubby hands on his hips and declared, “I’m gonna be president some day.” Dean believed him. Dreams of his own hadn’t seemed so important after that.

He had tried to hold onto that kind of dream with Cassie. She’d been smart and perfect, and he’s not sure how she would have fit into his existence if she’d believed his story the first time. But she made him wonder about possibilities, and that was new.

“Hey, Dean,” says his brother from the passenger seat. Sam’s legs are in his own way as he slouches against the window, but he doesn’t seem to mind what looks like an uncomfortable farce of a sprawl.

“Hey, what?”

“What would you be doing, do you think? If you weren’t doing this?”

Dean feels suddenly cold and uncomfortable, fingers drumming a rough staccato on the wheel. There is no such reality. There is no world where this isn’t exactly what Dean is doing. There isn’t an existence beyond this car and find dad and protect Sammy and killing every evil son of a bitch in their path.

“Porn,” he finally answers. “I’d be doing porn.” He waited too long and the humor doesn’t take, wouldn’t have even if his delivery weren’t hard and edged with something like panic.

“Dude, I’m being serious.”

“What do you want me to say, Sam? I don’t think about that shit.”

“How can you not think about it?” Sam’s face is all startled disbelief, and Dean kind of wants to hit him until the look goes away.

“What’s the point? Not like they’d ever be anything but thoughts. Even if I wanted to, it’s not like I could stop hunting.”

“You really think that?” Sam asks sadly. “That you can’t stop?”

“You’re the one that knows how to walk away, Sam. Not me.” He almost, almost regrets the words the instant he says them. Sam shutters up and stares down at his feet for stretched, angry minutes.

“There’s too much at stake right now,” Dean says, tries not to let his voice sound like an apology. “What’s the point in wondering about the impossible when we’re not even sure we’re gonna make it through today?”

“You’re an idiot,” Sam grumbles, but Dean hears everything else in it.

“And you ask stupid questions,” he bites back. He risks a glance to his right, and Sam is only slouching again. There’s no anger in the set of his brother’s shoulders, and Dean fixes his eyes on the road and just keeps driving.

III. I wrap myself in strangers’ arms

Dean has liked sex since the first time he had it. Ever since Cassie, he prefers it anonymous. He wonders sometimes if he should feel guilty for the lies and half-truths (okay, quarter truths) that he tells women. Then he remembers the one time he tried the whole-and-total truth on for size, and the guilt doesn’t so much bother him anymore. Even once she believed him, Cassie had said goodbye and meant it.

It’s a simple enough math equation. Woman-plus-truth equals almost certain disbelief and no sex. Woman-plus-truth-plus-belief equals great sex but inevitable rejection anyway. Woman-plus-lie equals sex, no strings and a heart no flatter than it started out. The solution isn’t so difficult to see that way, even if Dean does hate math.

“You could at least use more plausible stories, dude. Casting director? Shuttle pilot?”

“Whatever. It’s not nearly as much of a challenge if your story is believable.” Dean is almost sober again after the walk back to their hotel, and his whole body feels sleepy but alive. Twenty minutes in a dark corner, and her hands were small but sure. She tasted like sugar and strawberries.

“It’s dishonest, Dean.” Sam closes the door behind them, and Dean turns to level a dark look his way.

“So I should, what, stick closer to the truth? Let them think I’m looking for more than I am? Let them think they know me?” He’s suddenly angry at Sam, angry at the judgment in his brother’s eyes.

“No, but… come on, dude, the things you tell them… it’s downright ridiculous.”

“Exactly.” And Dean can’t believe he’s bothering to explain this. Part of him rebels at the fact that he has to explain, and he resists the urge to crowd straight into Sam’s personal space. “I tell them stupid shit, Sam. And you know why it works? Because they’re not looking for any more than I am. Because they goddamn want to believe me.”

Sam looks a little dumbstruck. More than a little, really, like it hadn’t occurred to him that Dean might actually think of these things. Dean tries not to feel it like a betrayal and finally drags his eyes away and drops the steady glower. It hurts further down than he ever plans on owning up to, because there are things Sam is never, never going to know.

Dean likes his sex anonymous. And ever since Sam staggered back into his life, all hard edges, new vendetta and freaky powers, Dean gets it as often as he can. He also doesn’t think about it too hard. Because you never know when your psychic freak little brother’s repertoire will start to include telepathy, and there are some chances you just don’t take.

IV. But I wish I could wrap myself in thee

Because what Dean really wishes for, what he goddamn dreams, he’s never had any delusions about. He’s known the nauseous stab of no-bad-wrong in his gut long enough that it’s started to feel normal. Almost.

While Sam was gone it faded to a dull throb, like a quiet headache in the back of his skull that it was easy to ignore. It’s worse since his brother’s fiery return, worse than it ever was before he left. Years without constantly having to block the thoughts away have left Dean’s walls atrophied and all but useless. Sometimes Sam just looks at him, and Dean wonders what he sees. He doesn’t bother wondering why his veins pulse with terror at the thought.

And sometimes Sam looks at him a little differently, and Dean can’t turn off the part of his brain that does the wondering. Hope is dangerous, and he’s never entertained it. Not really. But sometimes he’s not sure just where things between them stand.

Which is now, the car parked on the side of the road half a mile behind them and nothing but open field with too many flowers stretching out on all sides. It’s like sitting in a goddamn chick flick, with the sun shining down and the clouds blowing just enough to offer new shapes every couple minutes. It’s pastoral is what it is, and Dean’s not sure why he knows that word but he’s pretty sure it’s his brother’s fault.

His whiney, gargantuan, emo kid brother who’s spread out in the grass next to him. He’s got one leg bent and swaying back and forth, bumping into Dean’s thigh at random intervals and driving him slowly insane. Sam demanded they pull over, all “It’s a gorgeous day” and “I’m not spending another minute in this car,” never mind that they’re in the middle of nowhere with hours between them and the nearest anything. Dean feels strung out and twitchy, afraid of all the things he’s not allowed to say, and he can’t even tell if Sam’s doing it on purpose.

“Dude, breathe,” Sam says, voice full of easy comfort. “A couple hours of nature won’t kill you.”

“Says you. It’s come pretty close more than once.”

“Monsters don’t count. There’s nothing even out here. Just lie down and relax.”

Dean glowers long enough to convey how very much he resents being told what to do, but he eventually sheds his coat and lies back in the grass. He watches the clouds drift by, but no way is he going to tell Sam what he thinks they look like. He just stares at the sky, blinking his eyes shut when the sun shines free of the clouds, and reminds himself to breathe.

He’s so blank he’s practically meditating when he’s startled by movement beside him. He freezes as Sam rolls onto his side, and then a little farther, head finding Dean’s shoulder and hand slipping up across his stomach. Dean holds his breath and doesn’t dare move until a soft snore has the inside of his skull echoing with silent curses.

“Hell with it,” he mutters. Option A is to give Sam a push and call him a snuggler and a pussy. Option B is to shut up and wait it out, and Dean decides not to shove Sam away. Instead, he closes his eyes and forces his breathing steady. He doesn’t sleep. But eyes closed and breath even, he fakes it like a pro and waits for Sam to wake up.

He’s in that same empty zone forty minutes later when he feels Sam stir against his side. Still asleep he tells himself, and keeps right on faking it. He feels Sam prop himself up on an elbow, feels the hand on his stomach slide slowly away. Sam lingers close longer than Dean expects, but when he rolls back out of Dean’s space and sits up it’s with a chuckle of quiet amusement. Whatever Dean was expecting, and really he wasn’t, he chafes a little at that.

“Dean.” Sam prods his shoulder, and Dean takes a moment for a groggy blink then glances deliberately at his watch.

“Told you the nature wouldn’t eat you,” says Sam, laughter in his voice when he gets his gargantuan feet beneath him. Dean just glowers and ignores the hand Sam offers him up.

“This time,” he says and bites his lower lip at the sparkle in Sam’s eyes.

Sam is all smiles as they start back for the car. The sun is still ducking its way free from the clouds in sporadic bursts, and it offers weirdly angelic highlight to the wide grin, deep dimples, floppy hair. He elbows Dean in the side intermittently the whole way, bumping their shoulders together and occasionally sticking a foot out to try and trip him up.

It doesn’t work, not once, but he keeps doing it. Dean would find it funny if his insides weren’t twisting all around themselves. As it is, he just stares at his feet, wonders to himself, and ignores Sam’s obvious attempts to drag him from his reverie.

Back at the car Dean moves straight for the driver’s door, even though it’s Sam’s turn and they both know it. Sam doesn’t protest. He barely bothers with a ‘whatever, dude’ expression as he stuffs himself back into the passenger seat. Dean puts the key in but doesn’t turn it.

“Dude,” Sam’s voice is exasperated. “What’s with you today?”

Dean’s fingers are white from his grip on the steering wheel, and he hesitates a moment too long before he asks, “Are you doing it on purpose?”

“Doing what on purpose?”

He can’t get a damn thing from Sam’s question, whether the tone means truth or bullshit. And maybe Sam is really on his game today, or maybe Dean is too off his own to read him. He has to jerk his head to the side to make himself look at Sam, and the wide-eyed expression of befuddlement tells him nothing. It’s the face that says ‘look how harmless and innocent I am,’ and Sam is goddamn good at it, which means Dean doesn’t even know what to think.

“Dean,” says Sam, actual concern darkening his voice. He slides across the seat and sets a big warm hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You okay, man?”

Dean can feel the breath of Sam’s question against his ear, because his brother is that close. Sam wouldn’t mess with him like this. It would be cruel, and malicious, and Sam wouldn’t. Except maybe he would, and maybe he is, and Dean can’t breathe with him sitting so close.

“Fuck,” he whispers, a slow angry exhale, and barely has to move at all to find his brother’s lips with his own. He feels Sam gasp against his mouth and plunges right in, drives his fingers into girly-long hair and plasters himself against Sam’s body. There isn’t space in the car to straddle Sam’s hips, or Dean would probably climb right up into his lap. He settles for a quick exploration of his brother’s startled mouth, tongue slipping past barely parted lips.

He barely swallows a groan when he breaks the kiss, and opens his eyes to see all the answer he could ever need on his brother’s face. It’s gone in an instant, the walls Sammy wears around his nightmares snapping into place. But it’s not fast enough, and Dean isn’t equipped with enough delusion to miss or misunderstand the parade of mismatched emotions chasing themselves across Sam’s face. Shock. Confusion. Guilt. And a dawning horror that tells Dean everything he needs to know.

Once the walls are up, all he can see is the surprise. The surprise, and maybe a little bit of the guilt. Sam’s hand hovers over his mouth, poised to wipe the kiss away but frozen in place.

“Dean,” he says too softly and drops the hand into his lap. The walls are crumbling a little, too much behind them not to show through, and both of them might as well be saying all this shit out loud with how well they’re understanding each other. Because Dean’s own face is open and raw, and there’s no point putting his own walls back up. The damage is already done. Sam has seen everything, and what else is there to hide?

“Yeah,” says Dean, and he’s already starting the car. “That’s what I thought.”