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I. In which Sam shrugs and Dean goes all wtf?
May 1999
The first time it happens it's near the end of Sam's sophomore year in high school. May 19, 1999 to be exact, a Wednesday. Dean swings by the school at lunchtime, convinces his sixteen-year-old brother to ditch the rest of the day so they can go see Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace. It's opening day, after all. Sam protests because he's not one to be breakin' rules for no good reason, and they could always see the movie after school. But Dean says it'll be crowded, they'll have to get there way too early to get a good seat, and hell, Dean doesn't want to miss out on the matinee ticket prices. So Sam goes along with it, leaps over the track-and-field fence and hops into the Impala.
Tickets in hand, they're inside the multiplex theater standing in line to get into auditorium number eleven. This particular showing starts a few minutes later than they'd planned on. They'd originally ended up with tickets that said AUD 13, but as soon as Dean saw that he went back to the box office to exchange them for another showing. Another auditorium. Dean's gotten superstitious like that over the years.
So they're in line, and finally the ushers take down the little velvet rope near the door and the Star Wars fans start shuffling in. Dean puts a hand on the back of Sam's neck—Sam's still a couple inches shorter than Dean at this point—fingers gripping lightly, gently guiding Sam forward. When they get to the auditorium door, one of the ushers, a chick right around Dean's age, smiles at them both, winks a little, and whispers aw, what a cute couple!
Sam just rolls his eyes and shrugs, but Dean goes all what the fuck?
"What the fuck was that supposed to mean?" Dean asks, keeping his voice down because they're in a theater. Plus, he doesn't want any bystanders to hear him talking about the usher who just basically accused him—them—of being...well, gay.
"No big deal, Dean," Sam shrugs again. "Not like it hasn't happened before."
Dean stops dead in his tracks, and the man behind him coming up the wide stairs runs smack into him, spilling popcorn all over the place and cursing.
"Sit down, Dean, this is good here," Sam says, scooting into a row halfway up the stadium theater's steps. Sam automatically goes to the end seat closest to the exit. Just habit. Dean sits down next to him.
"What the fuck you mean, Sammy, 'not like it hasn't happened before'? What're you talkin' about?" Dean asks in a whisper, leaning close to Sam.
"Happens all the time, Dean, you just don't notice the looks we get sometimes on account of you're always staring at me. Which, by the way, is why they are staring at us in the first freakin' place." Sam looks down at Dean's denim-clad knee absently brushing against his own. "That, and the fact you're always touching me somehow. Case in point: knee."
Dean moves his leg quickly as if he'd just brushed it against a hot furnace, and his eyes flick up to meet Sam's. "I do that?"
Sam meets Dean's gaze and nods slowly.
"A lot?"
Sam slowly nods again.
Dean nibbles on his bottom lip a second, swallows hard, and goes for broke. "You mind?"
Sam breaks eye contact, looks up at the blank white screen, and slowly shakes his head.
They watch the movie in silence. They end up going to see it again the next weekend, because neither one could remember a damn thing about it.
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II. In which Dean gets really embarrassed one night while out on a date.
July 2000
Nothing fancy, just Pizza Hut, but Katie Morris is just that kind of girl. Simple, easy to please, as nice and sweet as homemade apple pie. Dean likes her, likes her a lot, and part of the challenge for him is being nice himself, not rushing things like he usually does with girls. He's got his suspicions that the girl's probably a wildcat in bed, anyway. Preacher's daughters almost always are; some sort of subconscious rebellion thing going on that seems to be endemic to the breed. Or maybe it's a special club. Dean isn't sure, but he's had enough girls spawned by men of the cloth to know that it's a rule and not an exception. In the meantime, though, he's taking it slow, playing the charming, witty, gentleman caller. Three dates and he hasn't even kissed her yet, not even a peck on the check. That has to be some sort of record for Dean Winchester.
It's Friday night, crowded. Someone has already queued up Lynyrd Skynyrd's Sweet Home, Alabama on the jukebox, which is apparently some sort of unwritten Pizza Hut rule. It takes a few minutes for a server to come to their table, but Dean and Katie are smiling at each other, making smalltalk, and really aren't in that much of a hurry anyway.
The waitress is Suzanne Hinkley, age twenty-one, and she's noticed Dean in here before, though not with the blonde chick he's with tonight. Her brow furrows slightly as she walks toward their booth, order pad in hand. Jesus fuck, he's gorgeous, Suzanne thinks as she plucks a pencil from behind one ear, what a waste. Must be his sister. Or a cousin. Or a neighbor. Or something.
Suzanne puts on her best I'm just thrilled as shit to be working here smile as she approaches her customers, the drop-dead gorgeous guy with the bright eyes, cutely spiked hair and the dangerous smile, and the blonde chick who looks like she's just tumbled off the cover of Seventeen magazine. "Hi, I'm Suzanne and I'm your server tonight. Can I get you folks something to drink for starters?"
Dean nods for Katie to go first, him being such a gentleman and all.
"I'll have an iced tea, please, with extra lemon," Katie requests, smiling.
Suzanne makes a little check mark in the appropriate box and darkly circles the little 'L' next to it. "And for you?" she asks Dean.
"A Miller Genuine Draft, please. Don't need a glass."
Suzanne smiles brightly. There is a God. "Sure! Can I see some ID, please?"
Dean rolls his eyes, but otherwise doesn't complain. His father's always told him that the time to start grousing is when they stop asking to see it. He lifts his butt off the padded vinyl seat and pulls out his wallet, opens it, and hands his driver's license to the waitress. She studies it just long enough to memorize the basic stats: Dean Winchester, born January 24, 1979 (does the math quickly, makes him, um, just twenty-one), six-one, one-hundred-sixty-two pounds, blond/green (though he looks more medium-sandy-brown/blue-green to Suzanne, but she guesses they just don't get quite that specific on driver's licenses), male (well, no shit!). Too bad they don't have a space on there for sexual orientation, too. That way she wouldn't have to basically come right out and ask so she'll know whether or not he's worth her time.
The waitress smiles, hands Dean's license back to him, says, "Comin' right up," all chipper and cheerful, then turns toward the kitchen. A few steps and she pauses, spins on her heels to face the booth again. "I've seen you in here before, haven't I?" Suzanne asks, stepping in close to the table again. "With a guy, younger than you, hair's about the same same color as yours is but longer, kinda curly around his neck?"
"Yeaaaah..." Dean draws the word out slowly. He's not quite sure where this is going, but he has a really bad feeling about it.
"I thought so!" the waitress fairly squeals. "Me and a couple of the other girls were just sayin' the other day what an adorable couple you guys make! Always smilin' and laughin' at each other, and the way you're always touchin' on him. His hands, brushin' his bangs out of his eyes, bumpin' knees under the table. It's just so cute!"
Suzanne is beaming at him. Katie, on the other hand, is staring at him with a horrified expression on her face like he's just suddenly mutated into a hideous wendigo. Dean looks toward the waitress, mouth open to respond but nothing comes out. He turns back to Katie, does the same. He can't say a goddamn thing that's gonna get him out of this one. Dean knows that "Oh, he's my younger brother" is only gonna make matters worse. Much worse. Like, creepy worse.
Dean leaves the smiling waitress a tip for taking up table space. Katie calls her father to come pick her up. When Dean gets home, Sam's sprawled out snoozing on the living room couch, long arms and legs all akimbo. Dean stares at him a minute, goes to his room and quietly closes the door.
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III. In which Sam comes to a conclusion and makes a decision.
May 2001
Even though the legal drinking age is twenty-one, there's a hell of a lot of liquor flowing at Sam's eighteenth birthday party. The way John Winchester sees it, if his boy's old enough to vote, and old enough to lay down his life for his country if called up, then he sure as fuck is old enough to knock back a couple of beers. The house is full, friends and acquaintances of both the boys, a shitload of people neither of them know who tagged along with other guests or simply just crashed the party.
Dean's invitees are heavily skewed toward the female persuasion. John smiles proudly at his eldest son, the Casanova chip off the ol' block, Dean surrounded by his usual worshipful harem. Sam's looking at Dean too, but he's neither smiling nor proud. He's standing at the makeshift bar, the center island in the kitchen, looking through the pass-through into the dining room where Dean's entertaining his bevy. Five very pretty girls are crowded around Dean, laughing, flashing their teeth, tossing their hair. The more they all drink, Dean and his girls, the more they're randomly touching him. A pet to the chest here, a little grab-ass there. Just shy of midnight, Dean finally makes his choice. He wraps one arm around the shoulders of the cute little pixie with red hair spilling down to her cute little ass. Dean meanders her through the thick, noisy crowd, and to the tune of Eddie Money's Take Me Home Tonight blaring on the stereo, Dean disappears up the stairs with her.
It's at this point that Sam embarks on getting seriously, seriously drunk.
Not a practiced drinker, not by a long stretch, so it doesn't take that much until Sam's officially hammered. Unfortunately he's been drinking rum which—as he'll discover as the years wear on—is the liquor he should totally avoid if he's already feeling sad or upset. He makes his way to the living room through the still-heavy crowd, and asks at least five people if they'd seen Dean lately. Four of them, Sam doesn't even know and they don't know Dean. The fifth, an old buddy of their father's, makes a goofy face and points up the stairs. Sam heads that way, manages to knock over two people and three drinks en route. He bumps into his dad at the bottom of the steps.
"Y'okay, Sam?" asks John, feeling pretty happy himself at this point and swaying just a bit.
"Don't feel so hot," Sam lies. "Gonna go wash my face and lie down for a few minutes. I won't be long. Promise."
"'Kay, son. Just holler if you need anything."
Sam nods, grips the railing tight and starts hauling himself up the stairs. Six steps up and he turns around. "Hey, Dad?"
John turns back and looks up. "Yeah, Sam?"
Sam smiles. "Thanks for the party."
John raises his half-empty glass, then returns to his mingling.
***
Sam sits in Dean's darkened room, in Dean's chair by his computer desk, for ten minutes before anyone notices him. Dean and the girl are in Dean's bed, under the covers, and Sam's just been sitting there listening to them fuck. The girl's been quiet. Dean, on the other hand, has been moaning like a whore, whispering instructions and encouragement to the girl. Sam knows he should've left right away, knows he shouldn't have come into Dean's room unannounced in the first place. But once in, it's been like watching a goddamn car wreck. He can't take his eyes off the rise and fall of the covers, can't shut out the sound of Dean grunting and moaning. Sam tries closing his eyes, but that just makes matters worse. When his eyes are closed Sam can make the red-haired girl go away. Replace her with someone else. Not good. Not good at all.
"Hey, Dean?" Sam finally says.
"Jesus! What the–?" Dean sits bolt upright, dumps the redheaded chick right off the side of the bed and unceremoniously onto the floor. She squeaks, grumbles, and climbs back up onto the mattress. "Sammy?" Dean says into the darkness.
"Giimme my fuckin' clothes," Sam hears the redhead whisper furiously. "Dump me outta bed....fuck..."
Sam sees Dean's face briefly when the door opens, disappearing again when the girl slams it shut behind her. Dean raises up on his elbows, sheets and blankets tumbling down to his hips. Sam clicks Dean's desk lamp on.
"Y'okay, Sammy?"
Sam nods his head, the motion turning into a shake. "No, Dean. I'm not. I'm so not-okay it's not even funny."
"C'mere," Dean says, pats the edge of his bed and scoots over, making room. "What's the matter? Drink too much?"
"Not nearly enough," Sam sighs harshly, goes to Dean's bed and sits on the edge, his back to his brother. "I made a decision tonight, Dean. About school."
"Sam–"
"I'm accepting the scholarship to Stanford. I'll be moving in July." Please God, let me hold out that long, let me be strong...
"But, I thought you were gonna stay here, go to–"
"It's too good of an opportunity to pass up, Dean. I mean, Jesus...Stanford. It'd be stupid of me to throw this away."
Dean lies back on his pillow, arms stretched out overhead, lean muscle pulling taut over his ribs. Sam catches the motion in his peripheral vision, looks at his brother, and before he can suck the sound back in his breath hitches loudly in his throat. Jesus.
"Don't try to change my mind, Dean," Sam goes on, looking away again. "You know it's the right thing to do." Sam lets out a sharp, shuddery breath when Dean lays a hand on his back and starts rubbing.
"Gonna miss you. More than you know."
"Me too," Sam replies, rolls over and lies down next to his brother, smartly remaining on top of the quilt. Dean pulls him close like he did when they were kids, and he's planting a kiss on Sam's forehead just when someone throws open the door.
The drunk guy looks down, sees Dean in bed, Sam cuddling with him, and backs up. "Sorry, dudes," he says, one hand held out apologetically, "didn't mean to intrude." The man starts to giggle. "Want me to put a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the doorknob for ya?"
Dean gets a gleam in his eyes, tilts Sam's chin up and—purely for the benefit of their uninvited guest, of course—kisses Sam square on the mouth.
"Whoaaa," the guy chuckles drunkenly, then exits and closes the door.
Dean and Sam can hear riotous laughter in the hallway, followed by giggling whispers. Sam closes his eyes and snuggles up to Dean. One last time couldn't hurt. Two months, and he'll be leaving for Stanford, putting thousands of miles and at least four years between himself and his brother.
Sam hopes it'll be enough.