Chapter Text
Lake Manitoc was linked to the deaths of several people.
Specifically, there were three recent drownings, and the bodies had mysteriously disappeared from the lake. In addition to these drownings, an investigation they’d conducted revealed that six other people had, too, disappeared over the last thirty-five years—and dangerously close to the little town in Wisconsin. This brings the total number of deaths linked to Lake Manitoc to nine.
Sam hears Dean let out an exasperated sigh behind him. A small thud indicates that he had let his hands fall to the dresser closest to him. Sam tries to crane his neck to the left a little, somewhat to catch a glimpse of his brother’s defeated pose, but also to gauge a general idea of how they were going to play this; by tenacity, or sheer lunacy.
Dean always got a bit too invested when he was tired, like he was trying to compensate for his exhaustion by somehow being more productive. Sam used to scoff at his antics—because the amount of “productivity” being done plummeted faster than a sack of bricks off a skyscraper. It was impressive how fast a person could crash after being so determined. You couldn’t tell Dean that, though—no. He’d never listen.
Sam went on. “Says here—Christopher Barr: Drowned. Same lake. May.”
“May?” Dean tests the word in his own mouth.
Sam nods, even though Dean isn’t looking at him. “Took the boat out for a ride with his son. Took a dip, got pulled under, and drowned all while little Lucas was watching.”
Dean makes a noise of astonishment.
Sam scrolls down the page, opening up an image of Lake Manitoc. The waters reign deep, dark currents. The sunshine captured in the photo allows it to glisten in its monstrosity, but he knows better than to appreciate it for its beauty—not when there’s something so malicious hiding underneath.
“No wonder that kid was so freaked out,” Dean says.
Sam zooms in on the photo. The trees in the background are slightly blurred, most likely due to the wind or swaying. They are dark-leaved and intimate with distance from the lake. His vision dims, and when he zooms out, it’s barely even noticeable that they’re trees at all.
He catches Dean’s eyes on him through the darkness of the screen.
“Watching one of your parents die isn’t just something you get over.”
His focus stays on him, weirdly. His tone sounds all the more ominous when he says things like that, and Sam hates it. He hates how Dean can’t just be normal and say what he means. He doesn’t let his eyes peel away from him, though—watching as Dean studies the back of his head, he even tilts it slightly to illicit a reaction; an exit from this trance, because he’s surely just zoning out.
But his focus stays on Sam and Sam solely, like there’s a gun to his head. And he hopes there’s no gun to his head, because the reflection of this computer screen wasn’t actually all that clear, and maybe he was just missing the point—
Sam lowers the laptop shut with his own exhale of air. “What do you wanna do?”
He finally shifts in his chair and turns to face Dean, all slumped and unwavering in his resolute hypocrisy. The crash would come soon, Sam thinks.
It takes a moment for Dean to stand up straight again. The wood creaks beneath his weight. He stares aimlessly before looking at the closed laptop. Sam can almost see the twinkle in his eye—the twinkle that says ‘I-have-an-idea’.
“We’re gonna pay little Lucas a visit,” he says.
Convincing Andrea Barr to let Dean talk to her son was tedious. And aggravating.
It was Sam who did most of the talking anyway, while Dean eyed the kid from across the playground like a creep. Sam swore, my brother. His off-putting demeanour is of help to absolutely no one. Sam keeps telling him— (“Smile, Dean! You look sinister!”)
Dean chimed in for parts of the conversation to flash his teeth and wink at her, which she did not appreciate in the slighest. When he went back to staring at Lucas, Sam apologised to Andrea on his behalf.
That went on for about fifteen minutes before Dean had just walked off and sat down with the kid, all against Andrea’s wishes and Sam’s better judgement.
They watched as they interacted, though. Sam took a seat beside Andrea and listened to her ramble about the town, her family, her late husband. It wasn’t all that interesting, seeming as it didn’t give them any new insight into the situation. Dean picked at Lucas’ crayons, stealing his desired colours and scribbling onto a loose piece of paper beside the boy. He stole glances up at him every few seconds, and it was obvious he wasn’t really stuck into his drawing like Lucas was.
Sam distantly hoped he would steal a glance over in his direction. Just for any reason, really. An annoyed eye roll, this isn’t working. Or a quick smirk, I’m making progress! Anything that would hint at some sort of normalcy between the two. Ever since Dean had broken in, nothing about them had been normal. Given that it had been years since he’d seen him—you’d think they’d fall back into the swing of things a little more easily, right? But no interaction, no gesture, nothing Dean had said or done had given Sam any sort of idea about how this new relationship was going to go.
Apart from the occasional ‘little brother’ and ‘Sammy’ —which represented a time neither Sam nor Dean wanted to return to—there had been no plan or structure to this time together.
Still, nothing came, and Andrea kept talking.
(When Dean stood up and started to walk back, Sam felt nothing short of relieved.)
This time, it was Dean’s turn to listen as Andrea scolded and nagged him for his immature behavior. Wandering off whilst being spoken to, indulging in his own selfish wishes, making crude comments—Sam snorted. Although Dean shot him a look—a very frustrated look—Sam didn’t even think to hide his smile.
Usually, he would’ve. Maybe ten years ago, when they were kids, because Dean was next in line for ‘danger’ right besides Dad. But now? He only lazily wipes a hand over his mouth to conceal it as a funny cough, sending Dean’s intimidating stare right back at him, except with a twinge of playfulness.
He wiggles his eyebrows. Dean scoffs.
And Sam tunes the rest of the conversation out.
(Except for when Andrea says, “when I think about what Lucas went through… what he saw,” that’s when Sam tunes back in.
When it causes Dean to glance at him, almost worryingly, as if Sam was Lucas.
And when Sam catches his curious gaze—looking away almost instantly, skittish.)
This is so strange, Sam thinks.
“Don’t’cha think we should be talking to the Cartlons about this?” Sam suggests one evening. “Aren’t they the reason we’re in Wisconsin?”
He doesn’t look away from the damp spot on the ceiling. He’s been wondering if it was going to start dripping anytime soon. Motel rooms always have that kind of shitting plumbing and plastering.
He hears the sheets shuffle from where Dean is lying on his own bed. Sam stays sprawled out, though, not wanting to disrupt his own peace. It hadn’t meant to be a loaded question, anyway.
Dean—he sees out of the corner of his eye—sits on the edge of the bed. His elbows rest on his knees, and his hands clasp together, wrapping each finger atop each knuckle nicely. He stares at the patterned carpet for, Sam counts, eight seconds before responding.
“Yeah,” is all he says.
It’d be a shame if it were to start dripping, Sam thinks. That means his bed would become a victim of Chinese Water Torture before they had even begun finishing this case. His pillow, comforter, all three sheets. He didn’t know why there were three sheets—or why he’d checked to see how many sheets there were in the first place. This place had been messing with his head.
An off-rail thought assaults him as he trails a finger across. Maybe it’s Dean, it says. Maybe it’s Dean messing with your head.
He physically shakes it away, then lolls his head in the direction of where Dean is sitting. He’s still sitting, but he’s staring now.
“What’cha thinkin’ about, Sammy?” His mellow voice fills the room.
“It’s Sam,” he corrects, “you know it’s Sam.”
Dean smirks. “Do I?”
It can’t be Dean messing with his head. Dean isn’t smart enough to orchestrate that kind of confusion. As tough and as brave and as diligent as he is, Dean was never the smart one. That’s why Sam was the one to go to college, and not Dean—and that’s why Dean got all salty and crumby about it. Though Sam guesses it was never really about college, just more about going.
He can’t say he doesn’t understand. But he also can’t say he can, if that were to make even any sense at all.
Plus, this kind of mess wasn’t something being done on purpose. It could be Dean, for all he knew. Just regular ol’ Dean going about his day. Hair gelled, belt buckled, handgun shoved so far down his pants, it’d be sure to shoot his damn ass off were he ever to sit down and take a break—
Just Dean. Big green eyes, cleanly shaven except for the growing stubble. Stupidly strong hands; perfect for hugging and holding. Cradling Sam’s head, carding his fingers through his growing hair, murmuring gentle incantations to lull him into calm.
Sam almost feels intoxicated with the thought of it—stupidly, stupidly mistaken at the realization that that hadn’t happened in years. Not since they were little, not since Sam had—for some reason—started overthinking every time Dean had neared him.
Okay, so it could be Dean.
“C’mon,” Dean speaks. “Open that freaky head of yours t’me.”
(“Come on, Sammy,” his big brother whispers, “I’m here. I’m listening. All you gotta do is talk.”)
Sam doesn’t respond.
It’s weird how far they’d drifted after Sam left. As kids, they were closer than ever—but it was really weird to him that Sam didn’t even know his favorite color. Stuff like his favorite food, movie, and song. What interested him, what hobbies he’d wished to pursue when he was young—what kinds of things he values in a person. Nothing.
“Alright—fine.” Dean stood up, walking to a stack of papers sitting on the table. He flicked through a few before holding it up in view for Sam. “Yeah, we’ll go talk to the Carltons tomorrow. Happy?”
Sam squints at him. “When’s your birthday, again?” He asks.
That must surprise Dean because his once patronising expression falls straight to a blank one. His mouth parts ever so slightly, but no words come out. His eyebrows furrow inwards, a bit, like he’s trying really hard to decipher it—this ghastly question Sam has asked him.
He stammers out a response, nonetheless. “Uh—January, twenty-fourth—”
“—twenty-fourth! That’s it. For some reason, I always think you’re the twenty-third.”
Dean stares at him, dumbfounded.
“That makes you an Aquarius, doesn’t it?” Sam keeps going, “Intellectual, open-minded— Yeesh, I don’t know, Dean.”
He scours his mind for more adjectives. More accurate ones, this time.
“Independent,” he stops. But he had came looking for me. “Unpredictable.. check. Stubborn?”
Sam sneaks a glance at Dean, whose arms are crossed and leaning against the small table of papers. His face is sewn in completely. Unimpressed. Non-receiving. Bullseye.
“..Yeah,” Sam chuckles, “definitely.”
“What’re you getting at, Sam?”
Sam sits up, finally. He should’ve done that ages ago, his back is killing him—
Dean is already walking away before he can give an answer. The bathroom door swings open harshly and slams with just as much force. Sam wants to say something in rebuttal, but there’s no use. He hears the water start to run.
Darn, he was getting somewhere. Kind of.
It was fun to tease Dean. He didn’t know how to react. He’d usually tease back, but Sam’s guessing he’d caught him on a weird night, and also started it in a weird way. It might’ve just seemed like he was poking fun—which he was, in a way. But it wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
Dean used to tease him all the time, anyway. It shouldn’t matter. Sam just—he missed some of it, he supposed. He thought maybe Dean wasn’t so different after all. That he hadn’t changed. And he hadn’t—not really. Just maybe their dynamic—it could be fixed.
Less conditional. Less dutiful. More inclined, exclusive, understanding.
He pushes himself off his own bed and makes a few strides to the shut bathroom door. Shut, but not locked. He doesn’t know what possesses him, but he slowly brings a hand up to the doorknob, jangling it sideways, and ultimately opening it.
The running water grows louder without the wood separating them. He coaxes it open wider, carefully, quietly, not to make too much noise. The mirror is fogged up and condensation rises from behind the cheap shower curtain. Sam sighs and lets go off the doorknob.
He bites his lip and starts to eye the toilet. Carefully and quietly, again, he walks over to it and folds the lid down, turning around to sit on it with one knee up to his chin. It creaks beneath his weight a little, but nothing too detrimental.
He speaks without thinking. “What about your favorite animal?”
A sharp yell emits from behind the curtain. “Jesus Christ, Sam!” Dean’s voice is frightened, annoyed, but most of all—confused. “What the hell?!”
Sam hears a few plastic-sounding bottles hit the tub. Dean curses as they do so, presumably bending down to pick them up again. Sam thinks another one drops, because it makes a quiet ‘bonk’ and Dean hisses.
He thinks to chuckle again. Head-shot.
“Your favorite animal,” Sam repeats.
“I don’t fuckin’ got one—the fuck are you doin’ in here, Sammy? I’m trying to shower.”
Sam makes a ‘pssh’ sound. “You’re behind a curtain, it’s fine.”
“I think you need’a brush up on your definition of privacy, pal.”
Sam rolls his eyes—but he doesn’t hear the water turn off or still, so Dean must be rolling his eyes, too. He can’t be too mad, either, since he’d started calling him ‘Sammy’ again.
“You seriously don’t got one?”
A sigh. “No, Sam.”
Sam hums, staring into the fogged-up mirror in front of him. His silhouette is almost vaguely there, shapes and lines tracing the appearance of his hair. Brown, yet it looks lighter. Short, but it looks shorter. He sways from side to side to see his own frame move in the cloud, almost mesmerisingly.
He wonders if this is what the spirits feel like, all mushed together and fuzzy. Some dazed feeling, the phantom touch of a corporeal body. How tangible everything can be, if they’d only remained alive to see it. He wonders if they ever miss it, being alive. And a more melancholy part of him wonders what it’s like to be dead.
“Favorite color?” He asks before that thought continues.
There’s silence for a moment—nothing but the running of water and the scent of shampoo hitting his senses. Sam hears the ‘click’ of the bottle, and the soft ‘thud’ when it’s placed back on the shelf. The water stops and goes every few seconds, probably from Dean stepping under it and out.
You see, Sam would’ve guessed Dean’s favorite animal was a deer, or something, considering how often he and Dad used to go hunting them together—a stark contrast to the merciless supernatural. But was it that Dean had always just been a violent soul, too eager to kill and capture—or was it merely the encouragement of John pressing him to become this weapon he never thought to be?
It could’ve been a panther, maybe. Fierce and mighty, all too confident in the way he protects his cub. Or perhaps a raccoon; messy, disorganised, desperate—but they pack a good punch when you egg ‘em on.
Sam thinks maybe he’d like a fox. Sly, yet caring. Vibrant, but also easily missed.
“…Blue,” says Dean, hesitantly.
At that, Sam suddenly remembers he’s asked another question. Color. Color, right—Blue. That—That’s nice. It makes sense. It makes a lot of sense, actually.
“What kind of blue?” Sam pushes. “Dark and brooding? Navy blue?”
He can almost hear the smile in Dean’s voice. “Nah,” he disagrees softly. “Something glad. A teal…”
Sam smiles, too. “Teal?”
“Mm…” Dean ponders, “Blue like the sky, maybe.”
“Blue like the sky,” Sam repeats, testing the words out on his tongue. They roll off quite comfortably, like it’s the right thing to say.
There’s more silence while Sam thinks. He can’t conjure up any more questions, he finds. Nothing quite piques his entertainment. He watches the mirror fog up some more, and his silhouette becomes further unrecognisable. He watches the steam rise from the shower. He watches the moonlight start to peek in through the motel windows, straight into the bathroom, and straight into his eye.
He’s satisfied with blue like the sky. There’s nothing more fitting for Dean Winchester, he thinks.
“What about you?”
Sam sighs dramatically, almost pretending to think. “Yellow,” he tutts.
Dean clatters around the shower again. “Like?”
Sam wonders about that. Butter, gold, sand… Things like bananas and lemons are too bright. Too vibrant. The kind of yellow he likes is less outward and more—more a feeling.
Like how a sunny day feels on your skin. How a big firework settles in your stomach. How driving past a field of daffodils momentarily splits your attention, almost reeling you in like an electron to a proton.
A negative to a positive. A wound to a scar, a problem to a solution.
Sam to Dean. A mantra. Me to you.
But he might as well pick something that can fly. “Like a canary.”
Seeing Dean Winchester kneel cautiously to a little kid is a weird sight.
Sam was so accustomed to receiving that aggressive, passionate side of him; not the soft, low voice he parrots to Lucas with. He was only in the doorway with Andrea by his side, but he felt farther than a million years away. Dean angles his head to the side, has his eyes soft and inviting—actually gets some acknowledgement from the boy. Sam doesn’t know why there’s a coil tightening in his stomach. Strange, his mind supplies, but not nearly a stranger. He knows this treatment, distantly, far away, in history.
Andrea wears the same shocked expression as he did, but he could tell—instantly—that it was with positive regard. Sam’s, however, was not. He could feel himself twist, eyes narrowing and nose scrunching. He felt light-headed, even, at the sight. But that was right before he’d realised he was holding his breath.
Only snippets of Dean’s voice he could gather, past his abominating cloud of bitterness.
(“You’re scared,” Dean whispered, “It’s okay. I understand.”)
Achingly similar to what Sam remembered, years and years and years ago in their shitty motels.
(“I lost my mom when I was your age.”)
Something flickers in his eye as he briefly glances at Sam—and Sam could guess his face shares the same twinge by Dean’s minute, yet wholeheartedly apparent smirk.
Sam doesn’t mention the lie; How Dean had actually been significantly younger than however old Lucas was now when Mom died.
(“I was scared, too. I didn’t feel like talkin’, just like you.”)
And he remembers that vaguely—John yelling, Dean’s neck craned so harshly away from the volume that his eyes screwed shut, and lips thinned. No words. Sam remembers checking in on him after every fight, but all he’d get was a frustrated huff or a glare. He never took it personally, but maybe some of it snuck in.
Because it was eerie and unnerving when Dean got quiet. As kids, he was a force of nature, having a go at whoever dared to look at Sam wrong, stealing John’s car, and breaking into the booze. The only times Sam ever really recognised the silence was when he would reel in before losing it in a frenzy; the pause, reckoning, then sudden, unexpected noise.
But this was a child, and there was no anger—yet Sam couldn’t stop the initial reaction his body coordinated within him.
(“…wanted me to be brave, so I try my best to be brave…”)
He was dozing in and out of listening—Yes, Dean was brave, but Dean was also a huge coward. Selfish and unresponsive to the consequences of his actions, he threw himself headfirst into danger and suffered the repercussions later. You forget that people care.
Lucas hands him a piece of paper, one adorned with the picture of a house on it. Sam watches Dean smile warmly, and it strikes a chord.
There is nothing going on between them.
Dean groans.
“This is such bullshit—there are hundreds of yellow two-story houses in this town!”
Sam drags a hand over his face as he listens to Dean’s insistent whinging. The paper Lucas had given them—albeit not much proper help—has Dean deciding to berate the poor kid on their way back to the motel.
And Sam thought he was warming up to him, too. “Alright, Dean…”
“What the hell are we supposed to do with that!? I mean—did he even think about writing a note beneath it? A hint of some kind?” Dean rants.
Sam sighs. He traces the contents of the paper with this thumb, seeing some of the cheap crayon dust transfer to his skin. It was annoying, but Lucas was a child—a traumatised one, at that. They couldn’t blame him for not giving them more to work with. Although that’s never stopped Dean before.
Actually, Sam corrects, smiling bitterly to himself, that’s never stopped Dad before. He remembers poor old Dean driving himself crazy at the chance of uncovering more clues and information. John did used to breathe down his back, and all that; (“You better be bustin’ that ass, boy. We ain’t buy no laptop for video games.”) It wouldn’t be that much of surprise if Dean adopted some of those traits.
He thinks maybe research wasn’t ever Dean’s strong suit—because looking at Lucas’ drawing, here and now, Sam can already spot a few key factors that would definitely need to be considered. For starters, there was also a church in the drawing.
“What about this church, huh?” Sam holds it up to Dean’s face, who smacks his hand out of his view. “Bet there’s less than a hundred of those around here.”
He doesn’t miss the way Dean’s face contorts from surprise, to calculating, and then finally to all-familiar saltiness. He huffs, but he doesn’t look Sam’s way when he speaks. “College boy… thinks he’s so smart.”
Sam frowns. “I heard that.”
“Good. I wanted you to hear it.” Dean replies snarkily.
Why do you have to be like this?
Sam peers out the window, leaning his chin on his palm and his elbow on the sill. Night is falling, and they still haven’t found anything of importance. He can feel Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tighten because it makes that awful leather-y sound as he turns a corner. Dean’s stressed; he has to be. For all the poking and teasing he does at his brother, there’s a certain line they won’t cross when the other is reaching their limit—but it’s hard to know where Dean’s limit is, it really is.
Because Dean daily is throwing insults and making comments. Dean is always creating tension and thickening the air. Sure, he’d toss in a few jokes here and there, but that was hardly enough evidence to determine whether his emotional capacity could handle anything more than a banter-filled conversation.
Banter was nice, Sam supposed. It normally led to arguing—but before it did—banter was nice.
Sam sneaks a look at Dean. The moonlight illuminates the left side of his face, the side that is conveniently hidden from him. His head is tilted slightly, though, which means he’s growing tired; Dean can never sit still and focus when he’s tired—but then again, can anyone?
It was real risky to say something like this now, in Dean’s current state—he’d be jeopardising all future possible chick-flick moments.
“So, uh,” he starts anyway, “what you said about Mom earlier…”
As intently as possible, he watches Dean’s jaw harden.
“You never told me that before.”
Like he’s wafting the exhaustion away, Dean sits up straight and pulls his head to a proper height. One hand falls from the wheel, sitting comfortably in his lap, though Sam swears he can see it pinch at his thigh.
He checks the rearview once—then twice—even though they’re on an empty road with no other cars in sight. His lips do that thing where he purses them upwards, then opens them quickly to coat in saliva, all to close them firmly again. Sam thinks he steals a glance or two.
“‘s no big deal,” he responds.
And if that wasn’t Dean-code for please don’t make me talk about this, Sam didn’t know what was.
Not a stranger.
Still, Sam doesn’t push—and true to his wishes—he doesn’t make Dean talk about it. He does, however, stare at him a little longer and bite his bottom lip at his brother’s hurried deflection. It was like he followed a script; a script written by Dad.
Sam outgrew those small equilibria instilled in him as a boy, drove him to the point of insanity. That’s why he left. For Dean to have stayed—it warrants a chill.
He swallows.
Peter Sweeny wore a blue ball cap and rode a red bicycle. Peter Sweeney also lived in a yellow two-story house right next to a church with his mother—who claimed losing him was ‘worse than dying’. They’d asked her questions about his childhood, his friends, but all that came up was the same strained reply. Go figure.
The woman took to tears quicker than they’d anticipated, so Sam and Dean excused themselves and went in search for more clues.
Bill Carlton sat on the dock of his lake, in his chair, just like they’d previously seen him do. With both his children gone, he’d also mumbled something about it being ‘worse than dying’. He didn’t say much else, just like Will had warned them he wouldn’t—though that was before his untimely death. If Bill had said anything useful, the muttering and chuffing from beneath his scarf posed too much of a deterrent for them to understand. Go figure.
Sam and Dean paid it no mind—until the next morning when they came for a visit, and Bill Carlton was on his motorboat. And Bill Carlton was flipped upside down in front of them. And Bill Carlton didn’t resurface.
Sam shook. He knew it came with the job, but it never made seeing people die any easier. Dean walked beside him hastily, his own steps and stature growing weary with each footing. He didn’t know why, but he stayed close to Dean as they made their way to the police station. Their hands brushed not-so-incidentally, and Sam had tried to make eye contact with him each time he’d pull away.
He felt his heartbeat increase. This case wasn’t even all that intriguing, but please—please—let Dean talk to him. Let Dean talk to him normally, like a normal person, like they were normal, regular people. Let something feel normal again—just for once. Let his big brother look him in the eye and say something authentic. Let Sam look back and answer even more truthfully.
Andrea had welcomed them with a warm smile, addressing them by their first names—which elicited a reaction from her father, Jake Devins. Jake Devins held a stony expression as he denied Andrea’s offer of food. He eyed Sam and Dean suspiciously. He definitely knew something. Sam and Dean shared a look—Dean squinted his eyes and Sam furrowed his eyebrows—and it was so familiar that Sam almost retched right there on the floor.
Then Lucas had started to tug on Dean’s arm, whining and shaking his head at the mere mention of the lake. He buried his face into the crook of Dean’s abdomen, to which Dean easily cradled his head and pulled him closer in reassurance.
Andrea tried peeling him off, but he only held on tighter. Dean shushed him softly, lyrics of ‘it’s okay’’ s and ‘talk to me’’ s falling effortlessly from his mouth.
Sam almost retched again. Dean crouched even lower than he had already bent, and his handling was so stabilizing and his voice was so gentle, Sam had to look away for a second.
It was painfully familiar now. Every sleepless night Sam had spent trying not to cross the room and crawl into bed with Dean now slid down an imaginary water pipe—slippery, unreliable, and overall inescapable.
And none of this made sense. The lake, Peter, Bill—there were no obvious connections that made way for the truth. Sam made a fist with his left hand, pressing his fingernails deep into his palm. His eyes closed at the sting, and when they opened again, Lucas was being ushered out the door—but not without stealing backwards glances at Dean over his shoulder.
He had half a mind to not sneer at the boy—and he would’ve had Dean not stepped in front of him and blocked his view.
He gave Sam that ‘big brother’ look, but it hardly made Sam feel anything because not even ten seconds ago, he was using his ‘big brother’ voice on some random kid—and Sam wasn’t jealous—he wasn’t. But Dean gripped his wrist through his sleeve as he met Jake Devins’ eyes and Sam couldn’t even try to search for the security it brought.
It was likely Dean didn’t even know he was doing it, anyway. That’s just the way Dean is; caring, protective, all-too quick to comfort even if it meant denying himself something incredibly necessary. Sam had started to notice that when he turned twelve—Dean was only ever four years older than him, but he acted the way most adults in their life did. And he meant it when he said most—because Dean took on all the angry traits of John’s, but he also harbored Bobby’s understanding and kindness.
And that’s what made Sam so conflicted; he hadn’t seen Dean for years, and now, everything was back to the way it used to be, and he had no idea how to process any of it.
Everything seemed to come out in a whirlwind. Forgotten, but not eradicated; Dean’s soft, worrying tone where Sam’d least expect it. His unforeseen breakdowns. Throwing, smashing; but if Sam watched him hard enough, he’d see the confusion swirling around in his eyes. A void. Lost.
Dean was lost.
Maybe he felt it, too, with Sam’s extensive research and ‘geek’ sessions he’d tease him about. Maybe Dean looked at Sam and saw his younger brother, too. Maybe the unforgiving stare made him squirm.
Jake motioned for them to follow him into his office.
Sam ignored the way Dean pulled him along.
Okay, so being berated by the Chief Police Officer of Manitowoc, Northern Wisconsin, wasn’t something Sam ever wanted to go through again.
The leather seats of Baby squelch under Dean’s excessive wriggling. Sam has his head leaning on his palm again, pressing harshly into his temple. It feels like this dynamic is too easily repeated; Dean being frustrated and Sam enduring his orbiting pessimism.
He doesn’t dare say anything encouraging. That would just set him off.
Instead, Sam lets out a sigh and sits up marginally straight. “Dean, this job…” He shakes his head. “I think it’s over.”
Dean doesn’t spare him any acknowledgment, only sniffing quietly and continuing his focus on the road. The compared responses from being in the car with him before—so energetic and unceasing in the case—it gives Sam whiplash.
“I don’t know, Sam.” His eyes are still stuck on driving, but Sam can now notice the small strain in his face. His mouth is quirked up in stress, and Sam knows it’s in stress because it’s something Dean has done ever since he was a little kid.
It’s always looked like he was forcing a smile, trying to conceal any uncertainty and replace it with his usual facade of confidence.
But still persistent, it seems; Sam presses further. “If Bill murdered Peter Sweeny, then his spirit should be at rest! He got revenge!”
His sudden volume causes Dean to flinch, and he can’t help the twang of pain it sends through his heart.
“Yeah, well, what if we leave and more people get hurt, huh?”
He almost splutters. “What—why would you think that?”
Dean lets out a breathy, disbelieving chuckle. “Because… because Lucas was really scared, man.”
Sam blinks, reeling in his hostility a bit. Strange. He holds his head up on his own, allowing his hand to retreat to his lap. “That’s what this is about?” Well, not reeling it in completely.
The dismay in his tone stuns Dean. Momentarily. And not all that profoundly. Yet Sam watches the gears turn in his head—bolts trapping, cogs skipping—and he snorts when Dean’s eyebrows finally pinch inwards.
He half-snaps again. “No, seriously—are we still just out here just because of some kid?” Dean's head jerks toward him. “He doesn’t even talk, Dean! He hasn’t even said anything!”
“He’s scared—”
“Well, fuck, I’m scared! Aren’t you?” Sam throws his hands up sarcastically, “It’s fucking scary chasing after something that isn’t there—it’s fucking terrifying, isn’t it?”
He usually doesn’t swear this much. Or at his brother.
Dean’s face hardens. “There is something! We just need’a find it—”
“Oh, my fuck—find what, exactly? The Loch Ness monster?”
“Just shut the fuck up, Sam.”
“Oh, yeah,” Sam scoffs, “I remember. Now I remember. God–fucking–forbid anyone disagrees with you—or Dad, for that matter. I swear—It’s like you’re fucking carbon copies of each other.”
Dean looks back at the road, his grip tightening on the steering wheel just like before. It still makes that god-awful leather-y sound. Sam wants to roll his eyes at his brother’s painfully obvious reaction.
But both his eyes turn, too. No more of that recognisable arguing, none of that familiar heat. Dean's lips don’t quirk up in stress and his chin doesn’t twitch. It’s like a wave of calm had just washed over him; serendipitous and telling. It’s like looking at John when—and oh, he’s just compared him to John.
Suddenly, that serenity doesn’t feel so calm.
Dean talks very quietly, and very softly, and Sam almost doesn’t hear him if it weren’t for his frozen position in the passenger seat. “What’s the matter with you?” He interrogatively asks. “Huh? What is it?”
Sam can pinpoint the softness in there, but he’s not idiotic enough to bring it to light.
“You don’t like Wisconsin?” Dean suggests harshly. “What is it, Sam? Why are you acting so childish?”
Sam huffs. “Yeah, that’s what I am,” he mumbles. “Childish.”
And, of course, Dean hears it. “Are you possessed?”
“Are you?”
Silence fills the Impala.
Sam looks out the window guiltily. He doesn’t like fighting with Dean. Banter can, admittedly, be fun. Teasing is adorable. But Sam never enjoyed arguing with his brother. Nothing ever came out of it, anyway. They were just two angry, stubborn men who wanted to look out for each other; Sam knew that. What Sam didn’t know, though, was why Dean suddenly felt this way about Lucas. This protective, gentle, persevering way that Sam could admit he was a little envious of.
Not that Dean had never shown that to him. Dean was the king of showing that to him. It’s just—being away, being here, no warning or preparation between—Dean wasn’t so secretive with his love anymore.
“As if either of us would say yes,” Sam whispers to himself, which Dean miraculously doesn’t hear, because delved inside all the other things different about Dean Winchester was apparently his ultrasonic ability to catch every sliver of air caught beneath your breath.
He wasn’t all that good at controlling his expression, but he must’ve been trying real hard right now. (“You and your fuckin’ canaries…” Sam hears him mutter as his hand drags down the rest of his face.)
Two hands on the wheel again. Their speed goes down, but Sam hadn’t even noticed it increasing. He eyes Dean carefully.
He catches his eyes flicker over to him for a second. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.
“I just—” he starts, “I just don’t wanna leave ‘til I know the kid is okay.”
Sam really wondered what had changed. They didn’t talk over the phone a lot since he’d left, but it wasn’t like he’d cut them off entirely. Everything had seemed the same. Everything had seemed normal. It pools in his stomach, resentment, it does—but why?
It must be a curse, he’s decided. Dean must be cursed in some way—it’s the only reasonable explanation. The fallible thinking, the sloppy attempts at reconnection; it’s like Sam was some stupid little boy again. But clearly Dean liked stupid little boys—since that’s what Lucas was—so why was Sam even feeling guilty about it?
His stomach churns. It almost growls in morse code.
Hopefully, worryingly, desperately pleading—Not a stranger.
They ended up at a shitty town bar not far from the motel. Sam hadn’t anticipated that destination, but he couldn’t say he was surprised. Dean didn’t speak a word to him as he got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Sam only sighed as he gathered his things and followed him inside.
Dean didn’t even sit with him, either. He planted himself at the front of the bar, arms crossed and staring down at the wood. The bartender spoke to him multiple times, Sam saw, to which he probably just waved them off. It wasn’t unusual for Dean to find solace in places like this, but it confused Sam why he was acting so grumpy.
Sam found his own spot in a corner booth closest to the entrance. He set up his laptop in front of him and peeled out all the remaining newspapers he’d collected. Might as well get some research done if they were going to crack this case based on the sheer gut feeling Dean had in his chest.
Sam rolled his eyes.
And Sam didn’t order anything. Not even a beer. He didn’t feel like spending the money. Dean, however, gladly took the several glasses of whiskey that slid his way. Sam bit his lip—Dean only really drank hard liquor to cope. Surely their argument hadn’t been that bad.
He was getting his way, like he always does. They were staying in town, they were keeping on the case—Dean had no reason to be like this.
Sam watched as his brother downed his drinks, one by one.
Then a couple of hours went by, and Dean hadn’t moved from his spot. His head lay nuzzled into the crooks of his elbows, both arms slack against the bench of the bar. Tired, Sam guessed. Or grossly drunk.
Sam hadn’t noticed the time escape him so fast. The papers are spread out messily in front of him, some crinkled, some ripped. Tens of tabs are open on his laptop; articles, reports, and any online suspicion. But nothing shines a light on Wisconsin’s Lake Manitoc.
A few girls approach Dean with low-cut tops and mountains of hair—but he doesn’t do anything to entertain them. They linger for a moment before deciding that Dean’s no fun and not worth their time. Sam feels an odd wave of triumph wash over him as they walk away. He settles back into his work, scribbling and typing and sighing and groaning. Yet nothing comes to him.
Another hour passes. Sam blinks at his laptop screen. Sam darts his eyes over to Dean, who is idly tracing his finger around the rim of an empty glass. He drags a long, annoyed hand down his face, tugging at his eyes, and ultimately closes the laptop and stands up. There’s a small glowing sign past the bar’s pool table, one that reads the universal symbol of a male and female, standing side by side. Sam heads straight for it. He doesn’t give his brother a glance as he passes him, but he’s fairly confident that he’d caught Dean’s head lifting.
Unsurprisingly, the bathroom isn’t quite up to par. A certain smell hits him when he walks in the door—but he does his business quickly and leaves as soon as possible. The basins weren’t too shiny, either. He hides a grimace on his way out.
In front of him, across the pool table’s distance, stand three unquestionably large men; chests puffed, chins up, and eyes red. Behind their broad shoulders, Sam can accurately make out the familiar spiking of his older brother’s hair—and he sighs. Great.
He begins his trek over. He hears conversation being made—evidently not that nicely—and predicts Dean is throwing in some of his passive-aggressive punchlines. Other people around them share worried glances and start to back up. Sam can’t see the other guys’ faces, but that can’t mean anything good. He speeds up, bumping into people.
One of the men steps closer to Dean, and if it were any other time, Sam would’ve barked out a laugh at the height difference. His confidence outweighs his BMI, it really does.
Dean copies their movement, but it looks like a mockery on his small figure. Sam watches his mouth move—words coming out at a rate that he can’t even begin to decipher—and his lips quirk up into a smirk. An angry fist reels back, then hits him square in the face, sending him tumbling into the pool table behind him. Droplets of blood splatter across the felt surface.
Sam whispers a small ‘oh, shit’ before actually breaking out into a run. Not strange. Not strange.
Gasps echo throughout the bar. People create distance around their vicinity. Some mumble, some yelp. Dean pushes himself back up and takes his own arm back, readying for a punch of revenge. He swings, diving forward, but the same man takes hold of the collar of his jacket and clocks him one again. Dean goes limp in his grip, weakly squeezing the man’s wrist for release. His head lolls sideways as more blood starts to trickle down his chin.
A fist reels back again; the man is powering up for a third.
Sam sees red.
He wastes no time in shoving himself between the stranger and his brother, effectively removing the hand dangerously close to Dean’s throat. He hadn’t noticed it before, but here and up close, Sam actually held the inches over the three men. By a lot. They had looked like giants next to Dean—but he supposed that’s what everyone looked like next to Dean—and they weren’t even that muscly to begin with.
Jesus Christ, Dean must be a pipsqueak.
But Sam knew that wasn’t true.
Or just hunched over and very, very drunk.
That seemed more precise.
The sound of glass crunches under Sam’s shoes. He shoots the aggressor a rageful look before turning around and getting his hands on Dean. He takes him by the shoulders, pulling him up slightly. He also pauses to look at the floor. There was glass under Sam’s shoes—so, they’d been tossing drinks, too. Great, again.
Someone speaks. “Who’s this? Your boyfriend?”
Sam looks at him over his shoulder, but he doesn’t let his hands leave Dean. He must’ve looked like Dean’s boyfriend, right now, all protective and touchy—but who was this guy to make a sort of comment like that?
The man had dirty blond hair that was covered by a brown cap. He wore a plaid flannel, similar to Sam’s, and a simple pair of denim jeans held up by a black belt with a gold buckle. The men behind him both had black hair, short and gelled. They wore jeans, too, but matched with a mossy green sort of polo. Sam scoffed.
“I’m his brother,” he corrects fiercely.
Dean places most of his weight on the pool table, but lifts one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, which was running down with blood. And it was like Sam’s touch had no beneficial effect; he was just there to be there.
“You need big bro to come and save you?” The man taunts again. Sam thinks to correct him, again, revealing to him that Dean was infact Sam’s big brother—but he fears it would only give them more fuel to fire with, needing his little brother to come and save him and all—so he doesn’t.
Sam just shakes his head at him, attempting to hook his arm under Dean’s. Dean remains rigid, stubborn.
The man continues. “Well, your brother just spouted some bull ‘bout my girl right ‘ere!” He points to a nearby waitress who is standing innocently behind one of the tables. She hugs a serving tray close to her chest. Her eyes widen as Sam turns to her.
He wants to sigh. Of course.
Instead, he steps closer to the man, close and personal in front of his face. It’s never something Sam thinks to use, but his height does serve as a credible intimidation tool. Maybe when Dean wants to behave stupidly and get himself into fights like these, Sam can be there to back him up if anything goes sideways. The idea makes him warm—protecting Dean.
“What’re you gonna do, tough guy?” Sam asks, lowly. He tilts his head at the end of his sentence, almost in surprise—and it’s all for show, of course. Sam has never been in a bar fight in his life, and he certainly wasn’t going to break that streak now. And not for Dean’s sake, of all people.
The men peer past Sam at Dean against the table, like they’re thinking about making another move. Sam leans over into their vision, blocking sight of Dean, and raises his eyebrows as if to test them—because the three men may be taller than Dean, but Sam is taller than all of them. Only by a few, but it’s enough in ‘man world’ to prompt hesitance. A divergence.
“You—” The dirty blond man stammers, stepping forwards then back, then forwards then back again. “Man—fuck you guys, your brother’s a creep.”
Sam sighs internally, both out of relief and disappointment. I know. They all back off with sour expressions on their faces. The surrounding people fall back into easy chatter, but most of them stare at Dean’s bleeding. Sam watches them intently, ensuring that they don’t rush back over once his back is turned. He looks back to Dean and he studies him. His mouth is bleeding, as well.
Dean looks up at him slowly and blearily, seeing the unimpressed face Sam holds. He rolls his eyes and goes to stand up properly—which Sam doesn’t wait to help him with. He hooks an arm under his armpit and another around his waist, and leads him back to the entrance of the bar—out to Baby. While Dean leans against her, Sam sneaks back in to grab his stuff.
Dean is already in the passenger seat when he returns, eyes closed and head leaning back as if he knew Sam was going to protest him driving. Sam chuckles to himself and hops in the driver’s seat. He reaches over and feels around Dean’s pockets for the keys. Dean whines, ‘stop feeling me up’, but shoves a hand in the correct pocket and fishes them out for him. Sam mutters a quick ‘thanks’.
Not a fucking stranger.