this life i'm leading's driving me insane

Twenty-eight fake IDs.

Sam counts them all, piled in his lap and spilling onto the seat. If Dean were
here, he'd smack Sam upside the head and tell him to stop messing about or
something. Even though Dean's basically five years old forty percent of the
time.
He's bored. Twenty-four hours a day glued to Dean's side and in an hour, Sam's
fucking bored. A better man might worry about the state of his independence,
but Sam knows the failings of far better men and, really, he's got bigger things,
in the grand scheme of it all.
Like wraiths in town, for one. One on the sliding scale of millions.
Wraiths. Wraiths and he's bored. The sliding scale tips ever downwards;
constantly wavering relativity. But that's just Sam getting reflective and overly
philosophical because he's bored.
He plays guess who'd die first if there was a zombie apocalypse with himself
for five minutes but it's not as fun without Dean and he's back to square one
again, thoughts in never-ending circles.
If I was a zombie, I'd bite you first.
That's what Dean'd said yesterday, and Sam had done a double take. Excuse
me?
I'd bite you first.
Yeah, I got that, thanks.
Well, I would.
Why, 'cause I'd hunt your dead little ass down?
Dean had looked at him like he was crazy. What? No. He'd scoffed too. Like
you could.
You bet your ass I could.
Awful fixated on my ass today, Sammy.
Sam had gotten eye-ache, rolling them like he was. Funny. And Dean had
thought so, smirking to himself, looking out the window.
Stakeout. That's what they've been doing for days now, why Sam's currently
sitting in the smelting heat of July in a metal hotbox sweating through his t-

shirt and counting everything from his fingers to the sidewalk slabs to the fake
IDs, organizing the tapes and trying to remember all the words to Midnight
Rider. Why yesterday they'd played the zombie game until almost midnight and
promptly both fallen asleep, kinda disputing the notion of a stakeout.
So Sam had gone on, later after Dean had gotten donuts 'cause he's
hilarious like that, Sam's brother. Why would you bite me first?
Dean had given him this look like it was obvious, like Sam was just slow. What
am I gonna do, zombie around on my own without you? Be boring.
Sam had choked on his food. You'dyou'd turn me into the undead for your
entertainment?
Okay, stoic. You sayin' you'd be cool being a zombie without me?
WellI mean
Dean had cocked an eyebrow, looking all smug and right, so Sam had veered in
another direction.
I don't think zombies are all that aware of their situation, Dean.
But Dean had waved it off, unmoved by Sam's impeccable logic.
And after that, even now trying to get comfortable with his back aching, boiling
alive in his own skin, counting everything, all Sam's been able to think about
was what the fuck he'd do if Dean turned into a zombie. He'd had a weird
dream where Dean took off his head and rolled it into a line of military guys like
a bowling ball, picked it up and stuck it right back on again, tossing Sam a
wink. Sam thumbs through the fake IDs and thinks about his brother with his
skin all pale and gross, how he'd need a new license photo.
Trust Dean to give Sam a complex about fucking zombie apocalypses.
Several IDs go scattering to the void of the Impala floor probably never to be
seen again and Dean grins at him from the passenger window where he's just
appeared out of thin air, Sam with a hand over his thumping heart.
Which part of stakeout do you think involves you banging on things? he asks
when Dean climbs in.
Except he hands Sam a blissfully cold iced coffee and earns himself instant
forgiveness.
It cools him from his insides out and Sam asks, amicably enough because he's
not all that bothered, Aren't you supposed to be at the library?
Dean shrugs off his overshirt like he's staying for the long haul. Knew you'd
get bored without me.
Sam neither confirms nor denies thisnot that he needs to, Dean being so
good at honing in on all Sam's little issues.
The guy in the slacks. Dean nods across the street. Bet he'd be a survivor.

Makes you say that?

He's got one of those faces, like he's hiding something.
Unless it's a massive stash of weapons in an underground bunker somewhere,
what's that got to do with anything?
Y'know, Dean says and no, Sam doesn't know, and he stares blankly until
Dean decides to elaborate. Like he's got a tortured past or something, like he's
hiding hisy'know. Nature. Or whatever.
Like an assassin?
Dean's eyes light up. Why not?
Do assassins wear slacks? And impractical dress shoes? Sam asks, to be
arbitrary and no other reason.
G-Man, then.
Yeah, I'll give you that.
Girl in the green skirt, what about her?
Survivor, Sam says instantly. Looks like she could roundhouse kick a horse.
And then some. See those rings? DIY knuckle-duster if I ever saw one.
Think she's in danger?
Could be the mob.
Sam nods sagely, sucking his coffee through a straw 'cause it's better that way.
He stretches one arm along the back of the bench and feels the heat rolling off
Dean seep into his fingertips.
Dean all lazy, pliant like sun-swarm candy.
They're doing it again, getting all caught up in each other when they should be
watching the run-down warehouse. Useless fishing nets cast out and getting
tangled while all the fish get away. Sam loses bits of himself every day but
what's he gonna do? There's nothing he really wants to complain about, no one
particular aspect of it all. Bad days and good days. Days when Dean's this soft
and magnetic thing and days when Sam could hang him from a motel room fan
with his own bootlaces and set the spin to fast. And the ones in between; long,
long days they are and Sam gets stir crazy, Dean even more so.
Last Monday they drank a bottle of Cuervo and set fire to a haystack. Sam had
crowded Dean from behind and mouthed a grin into the back of his neck and
hadn't for one second thought that was a weird thing to dostill doesn't, not
really, not if he doesn't hold it to other peoples' standards.
I'd bite you too, y'know, Sam says.
Dean tips his head back against the seatagainst Sam's fingers that curl

against his neck easilyand gives him a slow grin. Yeah, I know.
And it's as simple as that, really.

I told you, no monsters, Dean complains, muffled under the Impala hood but
boy can he still gripe even when he's got a face full of engine.
Okay, but what about movie monsters? Cut those out and you lose half the
choices for the game.
Monsters just makes it feel like work, or like Dad pop quizzing us.
Sam shifts, ass digging in the plastic cooler. He's going numb on his left side
but he can't be bothered to stand up. He thinks about suggesting folding chairs
and imagines it, both of them camped out like two old fellas by the side of the
road. All they'd need is khaki bodywarmers and more plaid than even Sam
could pack in his duffle to complete the picture. Maybe a couple of trucker
caps.
What he's describing in his head, Sam realizes, is Bobby, and he scoffs a laugh
into his beer.
What're you chuckling at? Dean asks, still under the hood but some of his
attention is always kept on reserve for Sam.
Somethin' Bobby said, he lies easily.
That you're a damn idjit who can't fix an engine?
Yeah, that's was it, I thought it was hilarious, Sam deadpans.
Dean draws back, squinting a bit, wiping his arm over his forehead. He leans
both hands against the car body, a graceful slouch that makes his spine curve.
Sam takes him in; sweating, oil on his jeans, all of him bleached and worn from
the relentless sun, endless burning thing hanging in the sky that stalks them
across the country and makes Sam jittery and lazy in equal turns. An hour ago
they parked up in the shade of this bunch of picturesque, postcard-looking
trees but that was an hour ago and the sun scorches a quick trail these days,
there's no safe corner to hide that won't light up Sam's brother like the fourth
of July.

Dean skips a beat, then tells him with a slanted look, You're not allowed Bobby
either.
You're really narrowing down our options here, man.
Use your imagination, Sammy.
Fine, I got someone.
Female?
No.
Is he a monster? Dean asks, narrowed eyes like he doesn't trust Sam one bit.
Sam looks up, elbows on his knees, bottle swinging. No. And Dean wets his
lips, just a short indecipherable second where Sam forgets what they're doing
before Dean clears his throat too obviously, turning back to the car.
Is he fictional?
Yeah.
By the time Sam's finished his warmed beer, Dean's onto Batman villains, and
fuck if he doesn't just know all of them.
Wait, is it even a dude?
Sam snorts, turns into a full blown laugh; Dean's wearing oil on his face and
he's flushed pink, so visibly annoyed Sam wants nothing but to make it worse.
Not really, no.
Dean levels him a glare and asks, monotone, It's a fuckin' robot, isn't it? Sam
nods, still grinning. HAL?
Nope.
Did it try to start a thermonuclear war?
Sam tips Dean his empty bottle. Yup.
Joshua.
Ding, ding, ding, he finally got it.
Dean groans, straightening up and cracking his back. Fuck, m'getting too old
for this.
Told you we shoulda taken her to Bobby's, and you to a chiropractor while
we're at it. Your back's been a train wreck since Greeley kicked your ass.
That dead-farmer motherfucker did not kick my ass.
If you say so, man. Beer?

Dean holds out a hand, no please or nothing, manners like a guy raised by
bears. Sam stands, his own back aching a little, pulls out two blissfully cold
bottles and hands one to his brother. He doesn't sit back down, perching a hip
against the side of the car instead. He's waiting for Dean to crack the tops off
with his ring, likes watching it for some myriad of reasons.
And Dean watches Sam back while he does it, curious shifting expression; a
gentle apprehension. He hooks his middle finger over the bottle caps and
Sam's shameless, utterly, the way he stares.
Come to learn about engines? Dean asks, soft drawl in the quiet.
Nah, not really.
Just come to gawk at me, then?
Sam shrugs a shoulder. Dean looks down, up again, down again. All the things
he can hide but his eyes give him away. It's why Sam's a better poker player
even though Dean'd never admit it; Dean's got this habit of dropping his eyes
when he's nervous, letting a fluid sweep of vulnerability make his features soft.
And it's Sam's endless, twisted addiction to putting Dean on edge that keeps
him silent and watching, cataloguing Dean's little tells with inappropriate zeal.
Dean gets back under the hood but the entire line of his shoulders is different;
self-conscious, purposeful. Sam's made him like that and oh, God, the sun
burns from the outside in, he feels like he's swimming in it, like he's living some
mad fever dream. July's about to turn to August and nothing, just nothing, has
altered; not the over saturated grass-green or clay-orange of every landscape
they pass, nor the washed-out blue of the sky against all that light. Not Dean
and his sly glances and constant unnecessary closeness, nor Sam and the
thick, bright breath that's caught in his chest like a permanent addition to his
physiology.
They'll go mad by September, he thinks vaguely, watching Dean's back bow,
the faint notches of his spine through his thin t-shirt. Feels like he's already a
few rungs short of a ladder.
Hey, Dean.
Dean looks up whip-quick; Sam feels like he's been punched.
S'your turn.
Dean bites his lip, an unconscious tic which makes it all the more appealing.
And don't go breakin' the rules, Sam warns him, Dean snorting a laugh and
rolling his eyes, dry as a bone.
God forbid we break any rules, huh.
Sam blinks slowly, feels a sluggish, dead-to-rights infatuated grin pull up his
mouth. He covers it with his fist, never good to let Dean see how inviting Sam
finds him; his brother takes every advantage he gets, dirty as anything.

Right, bring it on, Sammy, I got a good one.

Is it a monster?
Dean presses his mouth together, guilty as fuck. No.
Yeah, that's what I thought.

Dean's just about keeping the wheel steady with the flat of his wrist.
He's wearing all seven hours on the road like a carpet draped over his
shoulders, slumped right down in his seat, breathing shallowly, blinking slowly.
They hit midnight twenty minutes ago, straight, dark road to nowhere cutting a
vein through the landscape. The horizon looks seamless, like Dean might take
them over it and just keep on going right up into the stars. Or Sam's just feeling
insubstantial enough to evaporate and scatter like particles to the night.
Even with the windows down, the air feels thick and congealing. Dean found a
Yardbirds tape under the back seat this morning and Sam hasn't heard it since
Dad owned the Impala. It's making him ache for Dean even though he's half a
foot away, one of those rare nights where the tangible need to cling to what's
left of his family is suffocating.
Sam prompts, Dean, I said apple, and Dean rolls his shoulders. Sam catches a
groan under the engine growl.
Eventually Dean replies, Egg, and the word sounds scoured out of his throat.
You can't think of something more exciting than an egg?
You can't think of anything more exciting than an apple?
Fine, Sam huffs. Alfafa.
The fuck is an alfafa?
It's a plant, you eat the shoots.
It's made up, is what it is.
Sam drawls, What-the-fuck-ever, and Dean tosses him a look in the blurry
nothing-light, swerving the car just the littlest bit. Jesus, Dean, he groans.
We gotta stop, get some sleep.

Avocado.
Dean
Not on the menu, Sammy.
Yeah, right, Sam scoffs, implication a slow process through his heat-soaked,
road-ragged brain. Or he just doesn't care; there's increasing shades of that,
too. Oatmeal.
He watches the tip of Dean's tongue touch his top teeth; a silent L he chews on
for a second. Lucky Charms.
Hardly a food but okay.
You used to love Lucky Charms.
Course I did, they're made out of sugar and, and, and Sam loses his train of
thought, too tired to keep steam, fuckin' rainbows. Dean laughs; an
unfettered, loopy sound that predictably makes Sam's heart stutter. Dean,
seriously, if we don't stop right now, we're gonna die, man.
Dean must agree because he eases off the gas and brings them to a crawl at
the side of the road. Sam grips the seat back before they've even stopped,
pulling himself up and over it gracelessly and falling into a heap on the back
seat.
Without momentum, the air's still and stifling. All Sam can hear is the creak of
leather up front and a million cicadas chirping in the tree line ten feet away. He
still aches, a yearning hollow in him where even this, Dean a near-constant
presence, isn't quite enough. The long days turn to weeks and sometimes
Sam's okay, sometimes he's not. Sometimes he doesn't so much as remember
things as relives them, Yardbirds on the tape deck the night Dad drove them
out to Lake Erie from their little place in Toledo. Halloween and he'd picked up
as much candy as he could fit into a bag, lit a fire and mused out loud about
having nothing to hunt on this night out of all of 'em. Dean'd pulled a blanket
around himself and a thirteen year old Sam and they'd stayed like that until
way past midnight, until Sam's fingers were stiff and his brain fried on sugar.
Y'okay, Sammy? Dean's quiet, like he's miles away.
M'fine.
Liar.
Shut up and go to sleep.
Tell me what's up first.
Sam doesn't for a while, but the not-quite-silence of Dean listening feels too
tempting and Sam's memories too vivid. The tape made me a little nostalgic,
that's all.
Yeah, me too, Dean replies quickly; startlingly honest.

Yeah?
I thought it'd be, yknow.
Sam carefully chooses the words, Alright by now?
Yeah, that.
He doesn't know if he can handle talking details right now, about Lake Erie or
their apartment in Toledo where they stayed four months, enough time for
Dean to carve the notches of Sam's staggering growth spurt into the
doorframes.
Dean speaks first though.You, um, wanna hug or something?
Oh my God, Dean
I mean it, you can have one if you want.
It's fucking embarrassing how much Sam does, in fact, want a hug, but he'd
only admit it with a gun to his head and even then death might be preferable.
He says nothing, no chance for his voice to betray him, but Dean sits up, the
shadow of him over the seat blocking out the moonlight.
Sam glares.
But Dean just studies him every-so-gently, hard to make out in the dark.
Eventually he reaches over, hand slipping through Sam's hair, a brief, sweet
shiver of a touch, and then he's laying back down.
Sleep tight, kiddo.
Sam swallows the lump in his throat. Sleep tight, Dean.

Sam's got a dead arm.

Dean might have, but he'd never let on.
The six-thousandth Ford pickup rolls by and Sam thinks for a split-second he's
seen it before Dean but life is full of little disappointments and Dean clocks him
in the arm again, hard.

Slow on the draw today, little brother.

Shut the fuck up, the AC kept me awake
Yeah, yeah, keep whining about the noisy AC.
Sam doesn't bother to answer; he's too fucking tired, melted all over the seat
like chocolate left in the sun. Seven-thirty in the evening and it's still warm
enough to make his skin ripple. This heat is enduring, trapping all his senses.
Dean punches him again.
Your just makin' up Fords now, I didn't see shit, Sam complains.
It was bright red, you couldn't miss it.
No, therefore I think you're full of crap.
Oh, therefore, now, is it? Dean smirks. Throw them fancy sentences at me,
Sammy.
Dean's one-hundred percent focused on Sam now and Sam sees the black
pickup brake to a halt fifty yards away over his shoulder. He grins, meant to
blind-side, and watches Dean cock his head a little before Sam whacks him
solid on his bicep so hard it hurts Sam's wrist.
Ah, fucking
Damn, Dean, it's right there, you need a nap or something?
Fuck you, little shit. Dean rubs his arm, bare skin already turning pink.
I mean, I got this if you wanna head back to the motel.
What, and leave you to fall asleep out here so the witch bitch can get the drop
on you, Dean drawls, all false haughty. Like hell.
You don't even know she's a witch.
White pickup; Sam's fist knocks Dean's in the middle and there's a small
scuffle, Sam trying to bloody-knuckle his brother while Dean tries to aim a halfassed punch to Sam's side. It's still tender, bruise the span of his palm going
sickly yellow from his bottom ribs downwards, and Dean glances him just so,
just enough for Sam to groan.
What the hell, Sam, you said
I didn't say it'd stand up to an assault.
Lemme look.
Dean reaches out with his eel hands everywhere, slipping past Sam's defences.
Dean, quit it.
You quit it, I wanna see

We're in the street!

Dean deflects both Sam's flailing hands, grips his t-shirt and yanks it up and
Sam spares the old man walking his dog along the sidewalk a sheepish,
apologetic grin while the guy's head nearly swivels right off.
Sam grits his teeth. Could you try to look a little less like you're feeling me up
please.
Dean gives him a quick glance and then brushes it off, running two cool
knuckles over the ridges of Sam's ribs, underneath to the slope of his side, and
Sam can't really speak for a few seconds.
I checked didn't I? Nothing was broken, Dean murmurs, mostly to himself. His
eyes fixed down and just a little fucking heartbroken; Sam can't handle that.
Does it hurt when you lay on it?
No, Dean, it only hurts when you punch it.
Right, shit, gotta let me know when you're all healed so I can beat your ass at
this properly.
Sam tugs his shirt back down, spots another black pickup and gets Dean back,
right in the ribs. Dean bites his lip, muffles a little pained sound, and Sam
sniggers, exposing his flank because he knows Dean won't retaliate now and
it'll piss him off. Sam slouches right down in his seat, still sticking
uncomfortably but feeling pretty smug with himself in the face of Dean glaring.
Postponed. I'll get you in the rematch, Dean prickles, pursed lips and wholly
petulant.
The sky's bruising, a canvas of running colors, the sun just a half-slice now.
Time passing like it does. Yesterday they drove four-hundred miles in one
mostly unfaltering drift just because Sam felt a yearning for the ocean. He gets
that way sometimes, a habit thing that's dying hard. Dean's happy enough to
indulge if it means he gets a good reason to put his foot down for half a day.
Sam never thought about asking for a stopover.
He tries to imagine that one day he'll wake up and biology will bring him to a
screeching halt, the urge to bury roots an inexorable itch along with some kind
of nagging guilt over this nomad life, all the potential time wasted. Because
right now he's all caught up in the ease of it, not what they do, exactly, but the
bits in between.
Sam stretches his arm out through his open window, curling his palm up
against balmy air like he could cup the weight of it in his hand. Dean blatantly
watches Sam in his peripheral vision, all of him tinted pink and gold in the
edges of his sight-line. Sam wants to hear his voice some more, the pitched-low
drawl of it.
D'you ever think about what car you'd drive if Dad had never got this thing?
Dean pulls in a deliberate, lazy breath, rubbing at a spot where his shirt's

ridden up. A 1967 Chevy Impala, Sam, you never heard of a thing called
destiny?
You were destined to drive this car?
Absolutely.
You don't believe I'll go darkside Dean predictably tenses. But you believe
in love at first sight with your car.
Yes.
Sam tips his head back, sprawling so far down his knees hurt. He reaches out
and punches Dean in the shoulder just enough to jostle him, figures the contact
might unclench him and it does; Dean rolls with it, pushes into it, chasing
Sam's proximity.
You're dumb, Sam says, soft and heavy and really, really fond all of a sudden.
All full up with unnameable things. Pretty but dumb, is what you are.
Dean shifts in his seat, elbow against the back. He pulls a face. Did you just
call me pretty?
Sam doesn't even know what he's saying, just a mouthful of easy sweetness, a
nudge to get Dean to cooperate with his meandering brain functions. No. I
called you pretty but dumb.
Sam.
It's nothing more than an exhale. Sam's throat goes thick, heart sluggish. Dean
gets it, Sam knew he would, and he's pretty indeed, unsure eyes and soft
mouth. Same bit of his hairline Sam pressed a damp grin into in the firelight
weeks ago resting against his loosely balled fist.
Sam was drunk off the Cuervo, then the heat, then the miles of eaten-up road.
Then Dean making him laugh and laugh. Summer's making him stupid and
making Dean freckled and making Sam's hair curl against his neck. It's making
his impulses wicked and impossible to pin down.
Yeah, Dean.
He thinks about zombies again, unprompted. Definitely a complex. He wonders
what Dean's thinking. That used to be a game too, a million years ago, where
Sam would just ask and Dean would just tell him, usually tits or grenade
launchers or chupacabra. Sometimes Sam, he suspects; all the various ways he
might die on Dean's watch and then something different, later, when Sam was
older and Dean would grin with a slant that felt like a needle full of morphine.
What are you thinking right now? Dean asks; fuck, right in Sam's head, he
shoulda known.
It's a pretty loaded question so Dean's feeling brave, and Sam smirks and tells
him, About chupacabra.
We never did get to kill one of those son's of bitches.

No, we did not.

That all?
Just chupacabra? No, I was thinkin' about other stuff too.
Dean nods slowly and doesn't push it and that's okay, doesn't much look like
he knows how to phrase what he wants to say either.
Was it, maybe, that this is a really fucking pointless excuse for a stakeout and
we should call it a night?
Sam huffs a laugh. Yeah, Dean, that was it.
Awesome. Dean peels himself upright, out of the creeping lean into Sam's
space he'd been doing, probably subconsciously. He turns the key in the
ignition, humming with the engine rumble, and says, vague and in the middle
of checking his blind spot, markedly trying to brush off the sentiment, I'll take
a look at the AC when we get back.
And Sam grins and Dean pretends he doesn't see it, eyes fixed on the road.
Sam could say it now, just say it: I love you too, man. It'd be the same
thingsame damn thing.

Dean pulled scissors.

Sam repeats that to himself, over and over. Dean pulled scissors and Sam
pulled rock and Dean said, best outta three then, come on, and they played
until Sam tried to bash Dean's fucking head in with his rock, leaning over
Dean's stubborn, solid body to throw the driver door open before literally
kicking Dean out with his boot against his brother's thigh.
Police fucking everywhere in this podunk shithole town where one murder
counts for the coming of the end times and one of them had to stand watch
while the loser dug up the body and DeanDean lost.
Except Sam's thinking Dean got off lucky.
Little odd, young fella like you hangin' round a graveyard at two in the
morning.
No, sir, Sam tells Officer Fergus sheepishly, carefully slipping off the Impala
hood and herding them around the side, away from the number plates. I find it
peaceful out here, is all.

Like I said. Fergus narrows his grey eyes, scrunches up his magnificently
bearded face. Little odd.
I'm a First word on the tip of his tongue is enthusiast, but who the fuck says
that standing out front of a graveyard. Writer. Horror. I like to uh, y'know, get
in the mood, get the ideas flowing.
We had one of those satanic cult problems around here a few years ago,
Fergus tells him with emphasis and Sam has to brutally lock down every facial
muscle he has to put the brakes on some incredulous eye roll or a patronizing
scoff. So I think I'll take a look around if that's all dandy with you.
I don't recall seeing any satanic cultist around, officer, Sam says quickly.
Fergus levels him a glare. Seems to me that's exactly what a satanic cultist
would say, huh?
Where the fuck is his brother? Dean revels in lying to people in authority, the
more audacious and convoluted the better as far as he's concerned.
Okay, but if I was a worshipper of Satan, wouldn't I be, I dunno, dressed in
black robes? Maybe carrying blasphemous iconography?
What d'you think this is, boy, a movie?
Sam shrugs, guileless. Um, guess I don't know much about satanic cults.
Fergus eyes Sam up, from bottom to top, disdainfully, and like something out of
an actual movie, Dean chooses this moment to come swaggering out of the
shadows, t-shirt sweat-sticking to him and spattered in grave dirt. He freezes
comically, managing to haul the shovel cocked over his shoulder off into the
bushes before Fergus spins on the spot, startled.
What on my poor grandmother's spirit is goin' on here?
Dean looks from Sam to Fergus and back again, mouth hanging open, taking a
stalling breath, and Sam has never thought so fast in his entire life.
I'm sorry, officer, he mumbles, slipping out to stand between Fergus and his
brother. You were right to be suspicious, I lied.
I thought so. Come on, spit it out.
I'm actually out here meeting my, uh, my friend.
Your friend? Fergus asks, and Sam sees him measure Dean in the same upand-down way but with an added raised eyebrow.
Dean slides up to Sam's side, slides a hand around Sam's hip, and Sam can
hear the hot streak of a grin in his voice. His mother doesn't approve of our
friendship.
Sam's gotta wonder what stereotype Fergus holds dear about gay guys that he
accepts Dean looking like he does right now, but he thanks whatever God is out
there for small town ignorance when Fergus gives them little more than an

awkward nod and a stilted don't let me catch you boys loitering again or
there'll be trouble before he turns tail and leaves them to it.
Dean falls against the side of the car, head tipped back to the sky, and he
whoops a laugh, utterly delighted.
It's not fucking funny, Dean, he almost went in there and caught you ballsdeep in a freshly torched grave.
I was long finished, chill out.
Sam jitters, the feel of Dean's hand a ghost on his hip. Man, I hate lying to the
cops.
I dunno, Dean sniggers. I thought that was pretty well done.
Yeah, you would.
Dean wets his bottom lip, eyes too bright, too manic; he's just spent the better
part of an hour slogging out aggression with a shovel and setting fire to stuff
and Sam knows how it makes him more than a little deranged.
And what exactly are you implying there, Sammy?
Sam needs a minute, a distraction; Dean's an impossible menace like this,
unable to be reasoned with, and it catches too easily, gets under Sam's skin
until he's just as bad. He leans past Dean's side towards the open car window,
grabbing a bottle of water from the passenger seat.
That you enjoy fucking with the police far too much for a guy that drives state
to state pretending to be FBI.
He unscrews the lid but apparently the cocky set of Dean's jaw has already
gripped him, made him reckless as shit too, because instead of handing the
bottle to Dean like he imagines himself doing, he throws a hefty splash of water
in Dean's face.
Dean sputters, back already against the Impala so he's got nowhere to escape
to. What the
You wanna drag grave dirt into the car, huh?
You wanna get left here?
Sam splashes him again, leaning in to scrub a hand through Dean's hair, telling
him in a loaded voice, You're a mess. It's all such a fucking stupid idea, Sam's
hands on his wet brother, the way Dean only half fights him, little breathless
smirk curling up the corner of his mouth.
He makes a swipe for the bottle but Sam holds it too high, Dean looking up with
water slick on his bottom lip.
Too easy. Too easy to get caught up like this, all of these delirious,
ungovernable moments. Sam takes a half-step into Dean's space and thumbs a
dirt smudge on his neck and Dean's breathing hitches like a knife in a notch.

Water sizzles off the hot concrete, drip-dripping off his brother's body.
If Officer Fergus could see them now, Sam thinks for a dizzying second, and
then he clamps down on it, inhaling the smell of smoke from Deanburned a
body, he just burned a body.
We should probably haul ass, Sam says thickly.
Dean gives him a sly look, not quite ready to let Sam entirely drop this; they
keep moving in ever-tightening circles and one daySam thinks it's gonna be
soon.
If you're positive I'm clean enough, sure.
You'll do for now, gimmie the keys.
Sam holds out a hand but Dean knocks his palm with a fist. Play you for 'em.
And Sam closes his fingers, blunt nails skipping against Dean's skin.
Not a lotta room between them, Sam's knuckles drag over Dean's chest just so,
and on a whim, because Dean's a sneaky bastard when all's said and done and
he's just the type to fall back on usual patterns when he thinks Sam's made
him, Sam picks rock.
Good call, Sammy, he smirks, Sam swiping at his scissored fingers.
Dean pries the bottle out of Sam's slack left-hand grip and wraps his mouth
around it, gulping down the last of the water. He makes a noise in the back of
his throat that Sam grits his teeth against, brushes his own hand into his hair to
flick water on Sam 'cause he's still standing so damn close.
Moving out of Dean's space feels like the hardest thing he's done in a long
time; Sam's not gonna be able to do it for much longer.

Dean would never let someone who wasn't Sam sit on his car like this.
It's one of those important concepts that occurs to Sam constantly but only
blind-sides him rarely. And when it does, it turns into a real bugbear; an idea
Sam can't shake or unwrap in his head. Whybecause Sam's special.
Whatwhat does that even mean? Dean prefers Sam to everyone else in the
world, sure, but Sam already knows that. There's something different about the
way Sam lounges on the hood, back to the windscreen and boots against the
metal.
Sam hears the crack-fizz of two tops coming off and Dean hands him a beer,
perching on the edge and awkwardly angling an arm back so Sam can knock
their bottles together.

Sam doesn't know what time it is. Some hours past midday, hot enough but not
asphalt-melting, too-thick-to-breathe apocalyptic hot. He thinks it might be a
Thursday.
So, keep on, get on the I-15 and we should hit St George by the time it gets
dark dark.
Dark dark.
Yeah, y'know.
Yeah, Sam does. I want ribs, he says, sounding a little spoiled but it's only
because he's too thoughtful for excessive verbiage and Dean nods anyway so
it's not like it matters.
There's sweat dampening the neckline at the back of Dean's grey over-shirt
and Sam stretches one arm out, pressing the chilled bottle against Dean's skin.
He flinches, shoulders hunching for a second, and then huffs, cocking his head
a little, angle of his jaw amused.
Unfortunately, spontaneous human combustion is a real thing, Sam starts
and Dean shakes his head, never did love this game like Sam did.
We're not twelve.
Sam drawls, Indulge me, in a voice he hadn't meant to pitch that low. Dean's
profile doesn't quite connect their lines of sight but Sam can see the sweep of
his eyelashes side-on, low then up like Dean's deliberating, all purposeful
motion.
Fortunately, scientists proved spontaneous human combustion was bullcrap,
he says eventually. Unfortunately, they were wrong.
Fortunately, it only happens to guys who freckle.
Dean elbows back blindly, glancing off Sam's raised knee. Bitch.
That's not the game, Dean.
Unfortunately, you're a bitch.
Fortunately, you still let me sit on your car, though, so what's with that?
Dean finally turns to face him, hiking his thigh onto the hood. Huh?
You go fiery wrath of Hell on the entire Department of Transportation if this
thing so much as goes over a pothole but you let me put my feet on her.
It's been really bugging Sam for a while today, to the point where it kinda
sounds like he's accusing Dean of something nefarious.
And Dean looks genuinely baffled, it's unnerving and dangerously compelling
and a ton of other things Sam's hitting a stumbling block over, right along with
why the second Dad handed Dean those keysand not a second soonerSam
was lounging all over his car like a cat head-butting its stuff.

I sit on it too, Dean seems to decide on.

And Sam counters immediately, no idea why he's pushing this issue, Not like I
do, though.
Dean narrows his eyes, mouth falling open incredulously. Sam doesn't blame
him, his thoughts are so meandering some days, so blinding and corruptible
others. Dean pointedly shuffles himself up the hood to lean back against the
glass, knocking into Sam's shoulder to emphasize his stubbornness.
There, happy now? he asks.
Sam may as well have said, Get up here, or something equally as suggestive,
because now Dean's this close Sam feels drunk again, syphoning Dean's body
heat, possessed with the fading sunburn across his nose and cheeks.
Or d'you want me to tell you to get your ass off my car, Sam? Dean asks,
coarse and goading and it sounds dirty for some Goddamn reason. Might be
the proximity, the feel of Dean's words instead of just the sound.
Sam missteps, preparing to say something probably terrible and life-altering
but the tension in his back goes weird and instead he slides half off the hood,
barely getting a leg under him before he hits the grass in a crumpled heap.
Dean abruptly throws his head back and laughs, instantly as bright as a fucking
starburst, holding his ribs and justmesmerizing, irritating as all hell, Sam
aches with a relentless throbbing compulsion and knows he's about to break
the easy balance, the aimless drifting, the loose and endless summer. Dean's
been waiting for it, Sam's been weighing the scale of their timeless existence.
He rounds the hood, knees to the fender, feels his tongue press into his bottom
lip and sees Dean looking up and up and it's the only logical conclusion Sam
knows; he grips Dean's jeans tight and yanks.
Dean yelps, half-laughing still, falling into an obscene sprawl against the metal,
barely propped up on his elbows. Legs spread and shirt ridden up and Sam
navigates his palm to the strip of warm, warm skin, Dean's stomach muscles
twitching, his discernible reaction right against Sam's hand.
Didn't think you'd take it so literally, Sammy, he smirks, real cocky for
someone spread out like a bagel topping. But he's quivering, too, breathy and
the tic in his jaw telling Sam he's on the very edge of his last nerve here.
He knows far too much about this man, he realizes. Down to what the world
looks like from the sudden angle of crushed between Dean's thighs and the
kick of Dean's pulse under his lips. Sam's way ahead of himself, watching on a
time delay from somewhere outside of his body. Future-Sam handles his
brother, a purposeful hand in the back of his collar angling Dean's head just so.
One fluid swoop to press down, run his nose along the edge of Dean's jaw and
attach his unthinking mouth to Dean's throat.
Sam snaps back to himself, all one person again, and Dean just stops breathing
all at the same time. He turns his face into Sam's hair and Sam feels his
eyelashes catch when he blinks, over and over as Sam finally wires his brain

back up to his motor functions and sucks a kiss into Dean's skin, just to test the
waters.
Dean makes a sound like a wrench violently unscrewing a tricky bolt and Sam
rolls their foreheads together a little desperately, kind of grinning but trying not
to, feeling utterly heat-stricken and like his heart might explode in a shower of
cartoon feathers. Dean coughs a little awestruck burst of air and Sam nods,
rubbing his nose into Dean's cheek, all intimate and deceptively non-lethal, like
this isn't five-hundred flavors of ruination.
He rakes a hand down Dean's damp back, way more sweat than before, faint
engine heat and flushed bodies and the sun beating down on the back of Sam's
neck.
M'gonna, y'know, Sam mutters.
Fucking kiss me, right?
Yeah, definitely that.
It's Dean that tips his head, though. Dean that parts his mouth over Sam's
bottom lip. Dean that fists a shaky hand in Sam's hair, using Sam like a beam
to hang off. It's Dean that licks into his mouth and holy fuck he's kissing his
brother.
Sam's chest expands, all the startled air pulled in on one smooth inhale and all
he can smell and taste and feel is Dean. Shockingly soft, Dean dragging out a
counterpoint to his hammering heartbeat; rhythmic and wet, a sweet slickslide.
Sam, Sammy Dean starts, mouthing Sam's lips, kissing him some more.
Sam hums, what? but Dean either forgot or he just wanted to say Sam's name.
Say Sammy. Sam's skin breaks out in shivers; he presses a whimper into
Dean's mouth, presses Dean into the car, pushing a knee against the fender to
get leverage. Well and truly making out with his brother on the hood of the
Impala.
This is not what Dad bought her for, he thinks hysterically, and it's right up
there with him and Dean in their plaid and bodywarmers and fold-out chairs,
forever together by the side of the road and what the fuck is Sam grinning
about
Dean, too. Grinning against Sam's jaw, shaking his head, taking little bites out
of Sam's skin with the gentle scrape of his teeth. He paws Sam's hair out of
both their faces, cocks his head back and gazes up, all freckles and sunburn
and crinkled eyes. Sam's never seen his brother look so sweet.
Well, Sam says.
Dean agrees, Well.
He feels a little over-emotional and a lot clingy; in no way does he want to stop
touching Dean. If Dean wouldn't fight him, Sam'd scoop him right off the hood
and wring the hell out of him like a dishcloth.

We could, uh, Dean croaks; Sam's stolen the substance of his voice right out
of him. We could still make St George by dark dark. Unless you wanna,
y'know, keep doin' this.
Sam considers him intently. Don't wanna stop doing this, to be honest. At all.
Dean breathes, Oh, thank God, and hauls Sam back down, gripping the back
of his shirt in frantic fists and dragging him up onto the car, nowhere for Sam to
go but where Dean wants him.
Do this for a while, Dean murmurs between Sam dipping his tongue in his
mouth, Keep on this road, get on the I-15,
You're OCD about roads, I heard you the first time.
Hit St George, get a motel room.
Keep doin' this?
Uh huh.
Awesome, now shut up.
For once, perhaps the first time in his life, Dean actually does.

EXTRA SECTION I TOLD YOU ABOUTi don't know where to stick this, if at all! so your
advice would be welcome!

Dean hisses slow through his teeth and Sam's hands tremble just a little,
leftover adrenaline finally wringing its way out of his body.
Sam
Yeah, yeah, I know, just shut up, Sam mutters.
What he means is, yeah, this might hurt like a motherfucker, 'cause they
wasted the last of the whiskey on a slow night in Chula Vista and Dean keeps
saying he's gonna make a stop at a pharmacy somewhere to restock the
Vicodin, their dwindling first aid kit another casualty of the crawling summer.
Ironically, Sam can just about make out the bright green sign high over the Oak
Hill pharmacy from this cliff top, all the town settled in seven AM fog under
them.
He can't see as well as he'd like in the thin, threadbare light and Dean's skin
pulls under the needle. Dean's head falls forward, braced elbows skidding

against the Impala roof. The sweat slick on his bare back catches the bleached,
barely-risen sun in weird ways. It's obscene, all of it, down to Dean bleeding
thick globs of blood from his shoulder blade.
Sam hooks him with the needle again, tugging the suture by increments. He
runs his empty palm down Dean's spine, wide open and heavy and shameless,
and Dean shudders long and hard, naked dip of his lower back a perfect fit for
Sam's hand.
How many you puttin' in? Dean asks, a little slurred, drawn out; Sam doesn't
know what that means without seeing his face.
Dozen'll do it, I reckon.
Dean rolls his hips, groaning, and Sam's hands slip and twitch, lose track of
their purpose.
Stay still, dude.
Gettin' cramp, here, man, hurry it up.
Sam crowds closer, anchors Dean with all four fingers and a thumb wrapped all
the way around his uninjured shoulder. There's something like three inches of
warm air between Sam's dick and Dean's ass and it's an incomprehensible
thing to know right now. He could trap Dean good and still against the car if he
wanted, quit his damn squirming. It'd really be something.
He pulls three more sutures through Dean's raw skin, Dean tapping out a
spastic rhythm with his fingertips on the car roof. The next goes too deep, Sam
paying more attention to Dean's hand than his own.
Fuck, Sam.
It's a half breath-half moan that comes out of Dean's mouth and Sam spits,
Jesus, and can't figure out which way either of their neurons are firing. Sorry,
sorry, just a couple more.
Dean doesn't reply, just swallows so loud it sounds like his throat's working
around gravel and takes a handful of heavy breaths.
Sam puts the last stitches in place, ugly little lines skewering Dean's skin. He
grabs their last tiny bottle of rubbing alcohol and wets Dean's clawed-up t-shirt
with it, pressing it over the wound.
Dean exhale beats out of him like a shaken blanket, all of him tensing, and
Sam's empathy is in overdrive or something, the angry red of Dean's puckered
skin making him tender under his ribs. He drops his forehead to the back of
Dean's neck and mouths something that might be an apology there.
And Dean reacts, throwing a hand back, making a fist in Sam's hair.
It's Dean at his most thoughtless. Dean at his own impulsive mercy. It only lasts
a second but Sam's startled by the unrestrained want of it, his gut wrenching
viscously like a knife twisting in there. His breath skitters down Dean's spine,

raising visible bumps. He thinks: this is why they haven't, this is what Sam's
fucking hesitating for, the reason Dean isn't pushing. Just the simple thought of
dragging his lips around to Dean's throat right now feels like it might cleave
this entire cliff in two.
Dean's fingers tug clumsily through Sam's hair and then they're gone and Sam
straightens right up, mouth as far away from Dean's fluttering pulse as he can
get it at this proximity.
How's it look? Dean asks, scratchy as hell.
Sam checks the gash one last time, feeling more intimately acquainted with
the curve of Dean's shoulder blade than he has any damn right to be. Yeah,
you'll live.
Great, 'cause I really thought I was a goner for a minute there, Dean says, dry
enough to bring some much needed levity to the situation.
Sam huffs. He backs way up, tossing Dean's shirt into the back of the car, and
Dean's flushed when he turns around, looks downright high.