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Sammy grows in silence.
She’s fifteen and her jaw is a little too sharp, her nose is a little too straight, her legs are a little too long.
She’s all angles and no give, it should bother her, Dean thinks, because he’s heard High School girls cry themselves to sleep about their lack of breasts and the jut of their hips, but Sammy grows and doesn’t say a thing.
They’re somewhere in Texas, near Wichita Falls and the March weather is slowly melting Dean from the inside out. Their Dad’s been gone for two weeks now, taking care of a ghoul nest two hours outside the city, it’s strange enough that he isn’t working alone and dangerous enough that his backup isn’t Dean himself for once. He left them two crisp fifty-dollar bills that were a month worth of scamming but will barely last his children a week. They have food to buy, a motel room to pay and Sammy desperately needs new clothes, she’s grown out of Dean’s shirts almost two weeks ago and now everybody from here to Houston can see her navel.
It should bother her, Dean thinks again, because she’s walking around with her stomach on display, and sure, he has seen girls her age sport short shirts too, but they usually have a little flesh on their bones, and maybe even a few jewels to dangle. Sammy doesn’t have an electric blue butterfly piercing to show off, she only has the lines of forming abs, something unfamiliar to other girls at school, Dean is sure of it. But Sammy puts Dean’s old shirts, the Metallica one that got torn up by a werewolf's claws on the left side or the black one with a huge bleach stain on the right armpit, and she doesn’t say a thing.
She’s become terribly agreeable these past few days and if it was any other kid, Dean would be thrilled, because his sister can be loud when she wants to and she can really tear you a new one if she feels like it, she’s got sharp bones and an even sharper tongue. Except it isn’t any other kid, it’s Sam, his Sammy, and she’s grown quiet ever since Dad has caught her trying to swipe nail polish at a gas station while they were still in Odessa. It was unusual enough for Sam to shoplift anything; Dean knows for a fact that she would rather starve than steal which is why he is the one who does all the scamming that make her queasy, there is no world out there where Dean would let his little sister go hungry. The nail polish was new and strange and it had made John Winchester shout at her for the four-hour drive that had taken them away from Ector county. Dean would have tried to stop it, or at least try to defuse the situation enough that the yelling stopped or turned into a severe lecture, but he’d been just as surprised as their father, just as rattled by the red blotches of shame on his sister’s cheeks and neck. Sammy doesn’t steal, and she doesn’t wear nail polish and the fact that she’d never gotten the chance to even try to wear some does leave a bitter taste on Dean’s tongue.
The decision is rather easy when he puts it all into perspective; Sammy is too quiet, she’s growing and fading in front of him, their father isn’t here, he won’t be back for a few weeks and Dean is the one managing their money, picking up a bottle of nail polish with the little groceries he gets isn’t that big of a splurge, hell, the one he picks isn’t even 3$, Sammy could have stolen ten back in Odessa and it wouldn’t have been worth half of the shit they spend for ammo in a week, it’s not a big deal.
He tells himself that again when he’s on his way to pay for the small sparkly bottle of color and his five cans of Chef Boyardee, he tells himself it’s really not a big deal, that it’s fine, when he passes the jewellery and watches section of the store and grabs a pair of silver stud earrings that cost more than he has and he buries it in his jeans pocket. Sammy doesn’t have her ears pierced but Dean’s sure they can figure that out and she doesn’t seem to be the type of girl who would like a necklace or a bracelet, it can get caught in branches when they’re running in the forest, or some monster can even snatch it off, these earrings are practical, it’s fine .
He doesn’t wrap it because they barely wrap presents at Christmas and this is nothing, he leaves the nail polish in the plastic bag when he takes out the rest of his groceries and putting the earrings in the bag just make sense, it’s not wrapping them, these aren’t even really presents, it’s fine, it’s normal .
The sun has started to set when Sam comes home, the light outside is all soft pinks and oranges, a sky of corals that Dean would almost call pretty. His sister kicks her dirty boots as soon as she passes their motel room door, dust rises in the air at the same time as she lets her backpack fall heavily on the floor. She looks beat, her crestfallen face is covered in muck and sweat, her shirt clings to her back and Dean’s heart squeezes in his chest when she looks up at him, the somber edge in her eyes brightening into radiant fondness. It’s a little insane how innate it is for them both to light up when they’re in each other’s presence, Dean knows he’s just as bad, he knows that each time she’s surprised him at the garage where he works at, the rest of his day had gone by a lot quicker.
“Hey Bigfoot,” He throws her a can of soda, she catches it mid-air, “How was your day?”
She rips the pull-tab and takes a big swig, some of it dribbles down her chin and Dean stops himself from laughing when she scrunches her nose in disgust, it’s an old root-beer he found at the bottom of their kitchenette’s fridge, he has no idea how long it’s been there but from his sister’s face, he can tell it’s probably flat and nasty.
Sam spits back into her can and raises her middle finger at him, “It was fine before you tried to poison me, you jerk.”
“Now, c’mon, Sammy, I’m just building up your tolerance.” He lets himself fall on a chair, plopping his feet on the table, right next to the plastic bag he’s prepared for her. “Your body needs to learn how to fight all supernatural toxins.”
“Moldy soda isn’t a supernatural toxin, Dean, it’s just moldy soda.”
“You don’t know that, who knows what’s out there?”
“I’m pretty sure there’s no monster that injects old root beer into its victims’ bodies before it eats them. I’ll even go on a limb and say that I can back that statement with some lore.”
“I’ll back your ass with some lore, kid.”
She snorts and sits down on the chair facing him, her jeans are too short for her and Dean can see her mismatched socks and he has to say that for someone who is the size of a small building and who can bench press as much as a forty-four-year-old marine, his sister has surprisingly delicate ankles. He wonders if she’d like a pair of heels, she really doesn’t need it in terms of height but she might like the look of them, Dean sure does, he still thinks of that girl back in Laramie who wore baby pink heels the same color as her panties when he’d taken her to the movies. That memory attached to the thought of his baby sister’s long tanned legs make the back of Dean’s neck heat with shame and something he knows akin to arousal but he does not want to name. He doesn’t go there, he can’t go there, he’s spent the past months of Sam’s abrupt puberty not going there.
“Earth to jackass,” Sammy laughs, snapping her fingers in front of his face, “You just fazed out, dude, what’s up?”
Guilt tenses up Dean’s shoulders, but he tries to play it off, smiling back cockily at his sister and pushing the plastic bag on the table towards her with the sole of his left boot, “Nothing’s up, although I kinda got you something.”
He shouldn’t have said it like this, he knows, because now it does sound like he got her a gift and it does sound like he wrapped it in a shitty supermarket plastic bag and just, this is not going as he thought it would.
Sam frowns at him, jerking her head on one side like a puppy, “You,” Dean doesn't like how she pauses, she’s putting too much suspense into something that is really, really not a big deal, “Got me something?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, it’s nothing.” And he means that, it’s just two stupid things he snagged without thinking, one he didn’t even pay for, but Sam is already tearing through the plastic bag, her hazel eyes brilliant with curiosity.
She takes out the earrings first and confusion paints her face into an amused, lopsided grin, then she finds the nail polish and her smirk melts, dripping off her face in big clumps of troubled perplexity like ice cream off a cone in the middle of July. Dean doesn’t know what to do, he’d expected some sort of puzzlement, sure, but hadn’t imagined this reaction at all, he thought she’d be happy and yet his baby sister is close to tears and he only has the time to get his feet off the table before she launches herself into his arms, clinging to him so close and tight that he can almost feel the beat of her heart.
“Wow, hey, Sammy, what’s wrong?” The nickname makes her shudder and her breath tingles Dean’s neck. “Sammy,” He tries again, bringing a hand to the back of her head, where her hair, that John makes her cut so very short, falls into cute little curls.
Her hair is a lot darker than his own, so are her eyes and skin, it’s a little unnerving sometimes because people will see them in the street and they won’t make the connection, they’ll send leer looks at his baby sister and when Dean puffs his chest and lets a possessive hand fall on her back, they’ll look at him with acknowledgement, as if they’re respecting the indisputable fact that she’s his. It disgusts him each time it happens but all for the wrong reasons, he should be furious that someone views his baby sister in such a crass way, he should be fucking sickened at the mere thought of his hands on Sam’s body, but that’s not the problem, that’s not what he feels. The disgust comes after the sense of pride and desire that shakes him each time.
“Sammy,” He mumbles into her shoulder, taking in the smell of her Chelan cherry soap, “Sam, why are you crying?”
She’s shaking with it, each sob making her flutter in Dean’s arms like a captive bird and it breaks his heart, it makes him want to wrap her in thousands of layers; shirts, coats, blankets and entire comforters just to soothe her trembling for a few seconds. Instead, he stays there, his back pressed uncomfortably to a wooden chair, his fifteen-year-old sister weeping openly with a bottle of night sky blue nail polish clasped tightly in her fist.
She calms down slowly and Dean doesn’t register at first that he’s started rocking her back and forth on one knee, unconsciously he’s been pressing kisses into her wet cheeks and he’s whispered sweet nothing into her ear, it feels too big, too much between two siblings. But for them, it’s not enough.
“You got it for me?” She finally says, raspy and hopeful, “It’s really for me?”
“Jesus Christ, Sammy,” He pushes her away slightly, just so he can see her face, just so he can watch the mole next to her nose move with each of her breaths, “You see a lot of other pretty girls in this motel room? Who else do you think it’s for, you dork.”
She inhales sharply and Dean tries to not think too much about how red her cheeks have gotten, how wet and shiny her eyes seem. He lets her up and doesn’t stare when she gets busy painting her nails, her pink tongue sticking out with concentration and her brows furrowed, he’s been training himself to not look, to not let his eyes linger.
It becomes harder in the morning when he can see the silver studs in her freshly pierced ears. She did it perfectly, it’s symmetrical and precise in a way that is so very Sammy. He wants to touch, he wants to caress the sore skin and tap his finger on the new jewellery, but he doesn’t because this isn’t about him, this is for Sam and for Sam, Dean will stop looking.
They’re somewhere at the east of Fort Collins, Texan dust in their rearview mirror, they’ve been on the road for longer than needed, their dad stopped at three bars on the way here and he found a hunt in two of them. The ten hours drive turned into a week-long journey, Dean has scammed his way through all the drunks and tourists on the side of the road and Sam has gotten her share of work done too, her backpack is heavy with books on Black Dogs and death omens, she’s even fallen asleep on one of them.
They’re living in the car right now, Dean sleeps in the front, Sam in the back and dad doesn’t come back at night, because they’re not staying, this is transitory, even more than the passing motel rooms and the episodic towns. Dean doesn’t mind, he almost enjoys it really, being this fleeting image that haunts dive bars’ parkings, he plays this game sometimes; he imagines what people will say of him when he finally disappears, when the Impala drives away, leaving blood and burned matches in her wake, will the pretty girls sigh in regret, will they whisper his name while covering their mouths, with a hint of carnal curiosity? Sammy is not the same, she doesn’t play this game, she’s always hated the fugitive lifestyle, she likes stability, she gets her rocks off on getting mail at one address, she’s weird like that. Usually, she’ll complain to no ends about it all, she’ll glare at Dean when he’s bleeding a drunk idiot dry, she’ll turn up her nose in the morning when their breakfast happens to be vending machine honeybuns, but this time she takes it all in stride. Her blue nails are chipped, her ears are no longer aching red, she’s settled into what Dean gave her, but she’s still quiet like dad wanted. It should be perfect, Dean shouldn’t push it, because it’s better to keep this peace alive, if he goes poking at it he knows it will crumble, the truce is brittle and Sammy is straining to keep it up, she’s doing the most, really she’s doing it all.
But Dean hates the fact that she doesn’t hum when he puts on her favourite tape of Thin Lizzy, he hates how she munches down a Clif bar for breakfast and doesn’t say anything about the lack of vitamins, he hates her gentle smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, he hates dad for doing this to her and he hates her too because it hadn’t been that bad, dad hadn’t shouted that long or that loud. It’s not fair that Dean can tell his sister how fantastic she is all day, every day and it has no weight when dad can tell her only once that she needs to be less, to take less place and she starts to fade away, obedient in a way she’s never been before.
He’s angry, the back of his neck is hot with sweat, his hands smell like gunpowder and his left knee is tender where the Black Dog had tried to grab him, its claws hadn’t gotten to dig into his flesh but the skin is black and blue, he wants to skip this town just as much as he wants to bury himself in its ground, he just wants some sort of sign, something to do that will give him a solution. Dean’s familiar with ghosts and apparitions and he doesn’t want his sister to become a fainting spirit, he wants to take off the shroud of apathy in her eyes and burn it, salt it, leave it behind where it can no longer inhabit her.
He gets into the store before he can think about it, he noticed it when they first arrived in this town, when dad had tried to find an isolated spot to park the car. It’s small and detached from the main road and he guesses that it must be unpopular in a place like this. When he enters, he immediately sees them, they’re in the corner of the room, displayed near similar pairs but Dean knows for certain that these are the ones he needs, the ones Sam would want. He pays a hefty price for them, more than half of what he’s gained in seven days of playing pool, but he doesn’t even hesitate.
This time he wraps them, or at least he lets the old man behind the counter put them in a big white box and stick a bow on it, because it is a gift, he’s brave enough to admit that here. It’s a present for Sam, because Sammy hasn’t laughed since dad knocked down the door of their Texan motel and told them to pack their backs as quickly as they could.
He throws the box at her head when she gets out of the library, she catches it out of habit, because Sam might not entirely be herself right now but she would need a lot more than a few yells to tear her instincts out of her.
“What’s this?” She asks, eyes wide and Dean really hates the fact that she can never seem to pick a color, her eyes are kaleidoscopes, he never knows if he’ll come home to a blue, a brown or a green stare.
“A box.”
She rolls her eyes, it’s so her it hurts to watch, “What’s inside the box, genius?”
He shrugs, his popped collar is rubbing on his sweaty skin, she’s grown another inch since the last town, it’s disconcerting. “Normally, you find that out when you open the box.” A pack of boys, a little older than Sammy, exit the library behind them and Dean can see how their eyes automatically find his sister’s legs, like hounds smelling fresh blood, they’re like the dogs Dean hunts. “C’mon, you’ll do it in the car.”
His hand on her shoulder still stinks like gunpowder, but Sammy smells of graveyard mud and wet stone dust, he doesn’t think she minds much. She’s bouncing on her feet while they walk, she’s eager in a way she only is when they’re alone, she dilutes her typical nosiness around dad, she’s barely curious when he’s around.
She gets in the Impala without even looking behind her, unaware of the looks that follow her, Dean has to bite the inside of his mouth to stop himself from smirking, it doesn’t mean anything that his sister doesn’t see the boys around her, that she only looks forward, at Dean and the box in her hands, but he can’t help the traitorous, gasoline heavy contempt that fills him up, making him purr like an engine.
She tears the box up as soon as Dean gets the keys in the ignition, throwing the lid in the backseat and ripping the black tulle paper that covers the chestnut brown suede boots that he bought for her, just for her. They’re good boots, great even, but they could never be used to run in the woods, these are boots to go to school in the fall with, boots to wear when she goes to the mall with the few friends she’ll make in the next town, boots for a normal life, a stable place, where you get letters with your name on the envelope. They cost 230$ Dean didn’t have to spare and yet he did, because Sammy’s been holed up in the Impala for seven days, only taking showers by sneaking into the public pool’s bathrooms and spending all her evenings alone, because Dean can pass for twenty-one but even with her long legs she looks fifteen and no bars will let her in. Seven days of reading about death, of shooting at dogs and searching for their den, seven days of gas station dinners and keeping one bacon sandwich warm enough for Dean when he’s finally done with fraud for the night, seven days of cleaning dad’s guns in at 2am in the parking lot because when he’ll come around in the morning, his sawed-off better be oiled up. It’s been seven days for Dean too, seven days of the same shit but Sammy has been silent and frowning for its totality.
She’s still silent now, her mouth open in a stunned shout, but there is no grimace on her face, she’s shocked and happy and golden, Dean looks at her and wants to press his lips on her temple and because it’s not strange between siblings to sometimes just be nice with each other, he does.
The noise she makes is new, it comes from the back of her throat and Dean has never heard it before but he likes it a lot. “Dude,” She breathes out, looking back at him with amazement, “What the fuck?”
Dean smiles so wide he can feel his lips cracking a bit, he loves this kid so much sometimes he doesn’t know who she is without her by his side, “Take it as an early back to school gift.”
“Dean,” Her fingers are brushing lightly on the suede, almost worshipping, “Dean, I can’t take this.”
“Like hell, you can’t, Sammy,” He takes a turn to get back on the parking they’ve elected as their HQ, “There’s a no return policy on these, it’s too late now, you don’t wear them and it’d be like burning up my money.”
“I didn’t ask you to buy these for me.”
He looks back at her now, because she sounds almost sad and that wasn’t what he wanted, far from it, “Do you, do you not like them?”
“No!” She’s loud and Dean can hear the panic building in her voice, “I mean, yes, I love them, they’re just, they’re so great, Dean, but I can’t wear these.”
“Well, you can’t wear them on our next swamp monster hunt that’s for sure,” The Impala sings when he lines her up in the small space between a lamppost and a trash bin, “But I mean it, Sammy, wear them when you go back to school, you’ll look great.”
The sharp breaths are back, Dean is scared he’ll have to haul her up on his lap again to calm her down, but she relaxes on her own, maybe this is doing both of them more good than harm, “Really?”
“Of course, that’s what boots are for, ya know?”
Her hands are nuzzling the shoes now, but she’s staring at him, “Will I look pretty?”
He blinks, “What?”
She doesn’t back down, but she looks like she wants to, her whole face is pink and she’s biting her bottom lip, “Do you think I’ll look pretty with them?”
That’s the easiest question Dean has ever been asked in his life, she doesn’t know it, clearly, and he wishes he could make her see it all, understand it without breaking whatever it is they have between them, without losing his friend and his sister at the same exact time.
“Yeah, Sammy, I think you’ll be real pretty.”
It goes like this for a while, for a lot longer than Dean ever thought it’d last really. Dad bosses them around, Dean follows like he’s used to and Sam is right behind, just as silent as she’s trained herself to be since Odessa, but Dean makes her laugh and smile again when they’re alone, he buys her shirts that fit, jeans that aren’t from the boys’ section, he steals more earrings, a few rings too, she wears them all and she doesn’t look like she’s vanishing in front of him again.
He starts getting her makeup while they’re in Oregon, May is around the corner but they might be out of Salem by then and he’s been thinking about what he could possibly get her for months now. Sixteen is important, dad got him the stainless steel Colt M191A1 he now calls his gun for his sixteenth and so it means that Sammy deserves something big too, something cool.
There is a dwindling hope in Dean’s heart that their father won’t give Sam a gun, not because he doesn’t think she’ll like it, she’s as much of a freak as the rest of them when it comes to firearms, but because it will mean something Dean is not ready to face yet and something he refuses to accept.
If dad gives her a gun, then it will officially mean that Sam’s a woman, that’s what it means in the Winchester family, you get your own gun, you’re a hunter, you’re an adult, it’s done. Logically, Dean knows that it means nothing, there are more milestones to adulthood than a gun gifted on the day you were born. Sam got her periods when she was only eleven and even though her teacher had told her, uncomfortable and distraught in a way Dean hadn’t understood, that she was a little lady now, she’d still been a baby. His baby.
But the gun would mean something, the gun would mean no more leaving Sam behind on hunts considered too dangerous for a kid, it would mean training her even more, until all of the soft skin of her hands turned rough, it would mean making her like them, exactly like them, maybe even asking her to drop out so they’d no longer need to stay in motels at a walking distance of a school.
The gun would also mean that dad doesn’t get it, that he doesn’t see how Sam is different, not only because she’s a daughter and not a son, but because she’s Sam , she’s witty and too smart, she’s kind and she’s got more than they do, she could be more than they are.
He doesn’t know why getting her makeup is how he copes with the idea of her growing up, but he doesn’t analyse it, if he studies too deeply his own eyes he’s scared of never being able to look at hers again. And so he fills his pockets with strawberry lip glosses that smell too sweet but makes her lips shiny, with charcoal dark pencils that she tells him are named khol and that she smudges on her eyelids with expert fingers, quick with it like she is with a weapon. He gets her more nail polish, her gets her mascara and blush, and he tries to get her foundation because he knows it’s in the list of things girls put on their face but Sam says she wouldn’t wear it, it takes too much time and she doesn’t see the point of it. He tells her one day that he can get her more, he can get colors for her eyes and more of the things he already gave her, but she doesn’t want too much, she might be a girl but she’s a Winchester.
“You’re not like other girls, uh, Sam?” He laughs one evening while she’s carefully drawing a wing on the side of her eye, it makes her look like a feline.
She gives him a dark look, even darker with the makeup, “That’s bullshit, you know? All girls are different and the way we express ourselves shouldn’t be compared or judged by some fucked-up norms of femininity.”
It probably says a lot about Dean that he enjoys it so much when his little sister tells him he’s dumb, “Is that what you’re learning at that fancy school of yours, Kathleen Hanna?”
“It’s not a fancy school, Dean, it’s a school, it’s not fancy just because you don’t attend it.” She starts her other eye with even more intensity, “And I’m surprised you listen to Bikini Kill.”
He’s a little hypnotised by the way she can speak and do this at the same time, “Pussy Whipped rocks and Tobi Vail is kinda hot.” It isn’t a shameful admission, she’s seen the tapes in the car, she must have because Dean knows for a fact that he heard her sing Rebel Girl under her breath, and if someone is buying punk rock band albums in this family, it’s for sure not their dad and not even dear Sammy.
She snorts and the movement would have screwed all her hard work if she hadn’t lifted her hand just at the right moment. She finishes her eyes and fishes one gloss out of the small bag she’s started stashing everything in, if John Winchester ever got his hands on Sam’s makeup, especially the scarlet deep lipstick called Orgasm , they’d be all dead by the end of the night.
“What’s the big occasion?” Dean finally asks, he’s been watching her for half an hour, leaning on the bathroom door while she moves around the room and works on her face like she would on a particularly important math homework. “You got a date or something?”
If she did, he’s not sure how he’d feel about it, but it wouldn’t be strange, hell, he’d gotten a lot more action before he even turned fifteen, she’s got all rights to find herself a cute townie, just like Dean does when they stay for longer than a few days, and spend a pleasant night. Still, the vicious side of him that wants the taste of her sugar lips on his, the sick part of him that dreams of her long fingers and thinks of her face when he wraps a hand around his shaft late at night, this Dean wants to find whichever boy (or girl, a small voice whispers) is going to see his Sammy tonight, while she’s all made up and inviting and tear the boy’s guts out.
It’s not even about him, he doesn’t want to make it about him, he wants to believe that deep down he’s just worried that she’ll fall for someone that isn’t worthy of her time and that he’s just trying to protect her, to be a good big brother and keep her away from boys like him who see a girl who blushes so deeply when she’s told she’s pretty and devour her entirely. But he knows better.
“No,” She’s not lying, she’s a lot less serious when she’s lying, “I just thought we could go see a movie.”
And now Dean is the one who feels like he should be getting ready, he might have a clean shirt somewhere, something that doesn’t smell like the fries he has to serve down at the burger joint he’s working for at the moment. He tries to stay casual, he probably fails spectacularly, “They’re playing anything good?”
She’s lining her lips with a clear lip gloss, the one with specks of gold that smells more like mocha and less like fruit roll-ups, it’s Dean’s favorite. “Something with a haunted video game of some kind.”
“Ugh, what happened to a good old-fashioned ghost?” He throws his shirt on the floor, passing behind his sister to grab a new one, her back is warm on his naked chest, he doesn’t look up at her face when he walks by the mirror. “Virtual demon here, virtual spirit there, just give me a good, solid werecreature and I’ll die a happy man.”
“Don’t die before dinner,” She runs a hand through her hair, it’s gotten longer and Dean knows that dad has been complaining about it for weeks now, but it’s still above her shoulders short and she looks happier with it like this, dad can let this go, just once. “I need your employee's discount for a peanut butter milkshake.”
“As long as you don’t smash a banana in that one, it’s fine by me.”
“It was one time!”
“One time too many! I’ve never seen someone eat the way you do, Sammy, it’s fucking gross.”
“Oh yeah, because peanut butter and banana is such a vile combination, Mr Dunk-Your-Egg-Sandwhich-In-Your-Coffee.”
“That was one time!” And he knows before she says it, he just knows her down to the tip of her fingers.
She laughs, “One time too many!”
It hits him there, while he’s watching her choose small silver hoops and two rings in her bag, the bag filled with things he’s gotten her because she had stopped smiling somewhere in Texas and he hadn’t been able to deal with it. It hits him profoundly, straight to his core and leaving no parts of him whole, that he’s in love with his sister.
It was already awful when he thought it was just desire, it already made him sick to admit that he found the straight line of her shoulders beautiful, that he found her heart-shaped lips kissable and that he got hard at the thought of her naked thighs, but this was worse. This was contamination, it was dirty, it would stain her, tarnish what they had, it would turn the love he had for her, the love he’d felt since his father and mother had said “Dean, do you want to hold your sister?” into something defiled and vulgar. In that moment he’d never loved her more, because she was funny, and she was so clever, so quick and so loving, so brave, so pretty and so strong, she was everything. And he wished, he would even pray tonight, cross his hands in front of him and scream for God’s mercy to please, just please let him love her less.
At the end of the night, because he couldn’t leave her when she’d look so happy to spend the evening by his side, he waited for her to fall asleep before he left the room, went into the bathroom and dropped down on his knees, his head in his hands and Bible verses he thought he had forgotten falling from his lips. He stayed there for hours, until the sun lit up the room and the last thought in his mind was not holy, it was the memory of her mouth around her milkshake’s straw, of the slurping and the licking and the cream on her chin.
He wonders if sin tastes like peanut butter.
May comes and conquers.
One evening they’re in the car, still in the middle of April, Sam is fifteen and counting, she’s grown a few more inches and Dean is as amazed as he is horrified by the fact that she’s taller than him and then the next morning, it’s the second of May and Dean wakes his sweet-sixteen-sister up in one of the ugliest motel room of the entire state of Montana with the smell of fresh coffee and funfetti pancakes.
“You made them for me?” It still fucks Dean up a bit, how she’s always so surprised that he’ll do something nice for her, even though it’s all that he’s been doing since forever.
“No, I made them for the couple of raccoons outside that are digging through our trash cans.” He puts three pancakes on her plate and a generous amount of whipped cream (from a can, he’s not Martha Stewart) and diced strawberries. “Eat, bitch.”
She’s got two forks worth of pancakes in her mouth when she says back “ Jerk .”
They eat breakfast together, they always do but this one feels important and in a way that makes Dean’s skin crawl a little. Dad isn’t here, hopefully he’ll be back tonight and not in two days because there’s a lot Dean can excuse his father from, a lot he can try to play out as duty and not just carelessness, but missing your only daughter’s sixteen birthday might be the one thing he can’t quite absolve.
Bobby Singer sent Dean a package two towns over, when he’d been certain that the Winchesters wouldn’t be out of town before they could get it and Dean has been carrying a small black box in his duffel bag for what feels like forever.
His own gift might not be up to whatever the hell Bobby got her, he always finds some crazy cool shit, the amulet on Dean’s chest being proof but he’s confident enough that she will like it. It’s not a book or a knife which means it's at least original.
“So,” She wipes her hands on her jeans, whipped cream making her lips glisten and Dean turns his gaze away before he can think too much about it. He still hasn’t forgotten that night in Oregon, couldn’t if he tried, really. “What’s the plan?”
He licks his own plate clean, strawberry juice dripping down his chin, his sister looks a little less confident for a moment, Dean doesn’t think about it. “You’re the birthday girl, kiddo, aren’t you supposed to be the one with the plans?”
“You’ve always cared more about birthdays than I do,” She says and Dean hates her a little when she starts sucking on her fingers, probably to get the sugar she couldn’t get rid off. “You’ve got something planned out, I just know it.”
It’s true, Dean is the one who cares about birthdays and all the other important dates, Sam has stopped giving a fuck about them after that one Christmas where he stole presents to make her think Dad had come around and she opened up a Barbie and just knew , like some freaky medium that John Winchester would never buy her a glittery, fuchsia doll.
“Nah, got nothing for you, Sammy, I just thought you’d wanna stay in, you know? Maybe do some homework, read a book, watch Jeopardy and all that nerd shit you like.”
“You’re such a bad liar when you’re trying to be funny.” She gets up and takes their empty plates to drop them in the sink. “Stick to only life or death lies from now on.”
“Alright, geez, who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?”
“Take a wild guess.” The silence gives the answer and while Dean knows that Sam and dad aren’t always the best of friends, not having him around today is going to take a toll on her. It’s not even like their dad is on a hunt, he finished that witch case three days ago and he should be back already, but it isn’t unheard of for John Winchester to just drink his way back to his children, taking more time than he should because he’s visiting every bar on this side of the country. He’s not a bad dad, Dean says that a lot but most of the time he truly means it, he’s doing what he can, coping how he can but even he can admit that doing what you can doesn’t mean you’re doing enough. His absence today sounds too much like a confession.
“I know, Sammy,” He stands up to give her a quick hug, her head rests on his shoulder and it is so damn weird, a few years ago he could pack her up in his pocket, now she’s taller than the trees and so much bigger than her own older brother. “I’m sorry.”
“You got nothing to apologise for, Dean,” Her tone is acidic, lemon drops in golden honey, “You don’t have to fix all of his messes.”
“It’s kinda my job, kid.”
“No, no , it really isn’t.” She’s severe and cold, he can hear in her voice how much she means it and how many times she wanted to say it. “You’ve done everything, you’ve done more than enough, too much sometimes. You’re the best big brother any girl could have, you don’t have to be a good father too.”
And he wishes so badly it was true, he wishes so much that he could feel guiltless when she compliments him, because of course he loves her, of course he’d do anything for her, he’d steal diamonds if she wanted them, he’d carve out his own heart if she needed it, but all of it isn’t pure, all of it isn’t right, and the amount of love he holds for her is colored by the lust that lies beneath it, a serpent in the grass.
“C’mon Sammy,” He whispers in her neck, hot breath on her skin, the smell of her shampoo making something burn in his abdomen. “Let’s just have a good day, okay? You and me, alright?”
The hazel of her eyes is more green than brown, maybe people would recognise them as siblings today. “Yeah, Dean, okay.”
He takes her out in town and keeps her busy all day; they visit all the museums they can find, even the ones Dean had scratched off his list of potential birthday activities because dad still isn’t here and where else is Sam going to see a collection of two hundred and fifty-seven Legacy dolls?
When they come out of an exceptionally boring army knife exposition, it’s dark outside and the air is a little colder, Dean drags his sister back to the motel and doesn’t listen when she begs for a salad at the nearest open café because he’s got an entire birthday meal planned and he’s not letting Sam pay ten dollars for floppy lettuce covered in watered down mayo.
They destroy their dinner, gobble down more mashed potatoes than any human should be able to ingest in one sitting and Sam has to stop Dean from drinking gravy directly out of the pot he cooked it in. He did make vegetables too and Sam makes a good effort of trying to balance the amount of carbs and meat on her plate with carrots and peas, but she is only human after all and Dean did make the best fucking meatloaf.
“Was it mom’s recipe?” Sam asks when they’ve finally stopped eating and have collapsed on the sofa, a food coma arriving quickly to take them both out.
He could lie, she’d never know it, but it’s unfair in so many different ways that Sam has no memories of their mother and Dean won’t be the one filling her head up with fakes. “No, I mean, maybe, but I wouldn’t know. It’s just one I picked from a cookbook back in Idaho, when you made me wait for you for hours at that clinic.”
She doesn’t look sad, instead she’s smiling, “You stole a cooking mag from a gynaecologist’s waiting room just so you could make meatloaf for my birthday? Careful now, Dean, I could almost say you’re being cute.”
He nudges her feet off from where they’re sprawled on his knees, they’re twisted together, almost lying on top of each other. “Eat me.”
“I couldn’t even if I tried,” She groans, a hand rubbing her stomach, “I feel like I swallowed a kettlebell.”
“You’re a growing girl, Samantha, it’s good for you.”
“It’s Sam .”
She’s so close to him he can feel her warmth and she might be a bit too thin for a 6’2 sixteen-year-old but her bones don’t dig into Dean’s body, she’s cushy next to him, he could fall asleep on her shoulder and not wake up with a crick in his neck. He wants to, he wants nothing more than to stay there forever, wrapped around his sister, protecting her from the world. He would, if he didn’t doubt his own intentions, like this he can protect her from the world but not from himself.
“Hey,” She’s got her mouth right next to his ear, her hair tingling his cheek, “Don’t fall asleep yet.”
“I’m not,” He is, his sight is getting blurry, he feels so heavy.
“I want my gifts first, you jerk.”
And that wakes him up, because he’s been thinking of his sister’s face when she opened up her presents, he’s been playing the scene in his mind for weeks now. He hopes she’s as shocked as when she got her boots, the ones she’s wearing right now, and as happy as when she got the engraved silver ring she’s got on her middle finger. There’s not a single thing on her body right now that Dean hasn’t gotten for her, from her shirt to her earrings, to the makeup making her eyes bluer and even down to her panties and bra, because she couldn’t keep wearing hand-me-down boxers. It shouldn't make him hot under the collar, because only huge perverts get off on providing for their sibling, but here he is, getting a little too excited at the idea of Sam opening her gifts.
He jumps up, ignoring how she complains when she’s knocked off the sofa, and he rushes to his room, the two boxes, Bobby’s and his, look like a matching set.
She cranes her neck up when he comes back, she’s impatient but she’s hiding it well, Dean’s heart grows with fondness. “Here,” He tosses Bobby’s gift at her, hitting her square in the face, she doesn’t catch it this time and it only makes the whole thing better.
“Asshole.”
“You love it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She doesn’t spare him a second stare, eyes all shiny with excitement when she rips the small scotch tape keeping the box closed. They get even shinier when she opens it. “Oh my god.” Bobby outdid himself, Dean can admit that without even feeling jealous.
There’s a dog collar inside the box, a red leather collar with a dangling nameplate in the shape of a bone. It’s blank and Dean guesses that the small engraver pen integrated means only one thing.
“Well, Sammy,” She’s cradling the collar in her hands, tears of joy wetting her cheeks, “You gotta pick a name.”
“This is insane,” She hasn’t looked back at him since she opened the box, “This can’t be real, you’re all pranking me or something.”
“Dude, I didn’t even know what was in the box, Bobby didn’t tell me. I think this is as real as can be.”
“A dog,” She’s gonna cry soon, full-on sob and Dean will have to get a towel because they have no tissues and she’s gonna put snot all over her shirt. “It’s a dog, Dean.”
“It sure is,” He’s kind of curious now, he wonders what kind of dog Bobby got from the shelter if it’s a big lazy one or a zippy little shit. “We can’t take it on the road with us,” He hates being the bearer of bad news but he knows he has to make that clear, Sam gives him the duh look because of course, she does. “But we’re gonna spend some more time in South Dakota now, I guess.”
“We need to call Bobby,” She’s up on her feet before Dean can do anything about it, “I gotta know if it’s a male or a female, because I can’t call a female Duke, or maybe I can, I mean, it’s not like I even really wanna call a male Duke but either way I should choose a name that’s right for both options, right? I mean it’s-”
“Sammy,” His hands are on her face, “ Breathe .”
She listens, lets the collar fall back in the box and takes small but deep breaths, Dean doesn’t need to watch her to know that she’s biting her lips, that she’s exhaling from her nose and pouting with effort, because Sam’s natural state is nervosity, she has to work towards calm.
He wants to kiss the beauty mark on her face, instead, he pinches her side and she barks out a laugh, a little too rough on the edges but he’ll take it. “You want your other present?” Her eyes are pools of gold, he would drown if given the chance. “It’s not as cool as Bobby’s, but ya know.”
“Shut up.”
When the door opens, Dean has one hand on his sister’s neck and the other on the small box he hid between his flannels for three weeks, Sam’s face is still wet and her hands twitch, gripping around nothing. Their father is back, dark and drunk, Dean can smell it.
John Winchester removes his mud-covered boots with meticulous, steady hands, because alcohol doesn’t make their father wobbly and lively, it makes him quicker and stern, even more than usual. He’s standing tall, spine straight, head high, no shame in his limbs and god, Dean wishes for once their father could have stayed gone just a little longer.
“Dad,” It’s Sam, she’s stepping away, both from Dean and from their father. “You’re back.” She sounds scared and Dean doesn’t get it until he sees her as she plunges her hands in her pockets and her fingers come back ringless. She’s trying to hide it all, shaking her head so her hair can cover her ears and hopefully, dad is too drunk to see the makeup.
“Hey,” Dean walks the distance, placing himself between them in what he hopes seems regular. “You hungry? I think there’s some meatloaf left, I can make you a sandwich.”
“It’s fine,” John’s voice is harsh and low, Dean wonders if his own will sound like that when he’s older. “I got Sam a gift.” He takes it out off his coat and Dean knows , the shape is telling, it’s so obvious, maybe if he tries hard he can even guess the type. “Not every day your kid turns sixteen.” It’s the way he says it, the way he never admits that he’s got a daughter and not another son, Dean can see it now.
Sammy flinches, it’s small, if Dean didn’t know her better than himself he wouldn’t have been able to tell, but he does and he sees. He can see it all now.
It’s a Taurus, a 99 model, the cross is pearl white, a bit like Dean’s, too much like Dean’s except for the fact that Dean’s own gun had been prettier. t-This is sturdy and good, it will be a great weapon but it’s so wrong, it’s all wrong and when Sam takes the gun in her hand, checking the clip, Dean wants to vomit.
“Dad,” He’s not even listening to his father’s speech on the importance of taking care of your gun, he’s gotten the same one four years ago, Sam says thank you but doesn’t smile, she’s disappearing again, Dean wants to punch something. “Dad, c’mon.” He’s trying to get his father to the couch, where he’ll crash and start to snore the moment he’s lying down, but John pushes him back.
“What’s all this?” His finger is pointing at Sam, at her face, her eyes, at the dark marks of her eyelashes left behind when she cried. There’s a fight in the air, building like a storm, the first crack will be unforgivable, Dean needs to stop it before it wrecks their home.
He’s going to place himself between them, maybe even in front of Sam because she’s been so quiet lately, she doesn’t seem up for the fight, Dean doesn’t want to see a battle where only one person throws the punches. But he’s wrong because the moment he tries to hide her behind him, she takes a step forward, her knuckles white and her face red, her anger is devastating, she’ll destroy everything around, burn herself on it too before she lets it go. It’s Sam, all of her, every single piece that Dean’s been trying to gather since she got fractured in Odessa, it’s terrifying, it’s stunning, it’s Sam.
“It’s my face, you got a problem with it?” She pushes her hair back, her earrings catch the light.
“ Language .”
“Or what? What are you gonna do, dad? What else can you do?” Her voice resonates in the room like thunder, “You’re gonna lock me up? We’d need a house for that, a place where the keys don’t have to be returned before noon. You’re gonna make me toss my things away? I’ll get them back, I’ll get more of them even. You can’t do anything!”
“I am your father!” John stands tall but Sam is taller, right now she looks bigger than everything, endless and infinite.
“And I am your daughter!” It’s so loud, so sad and furious, it shakes the room and makes Dean sway. “You think I don’t know? That you wish I was your son? You think I don’t hear how you talk about me to other hunters? Dean’s your son, you always say it, you say my son Dean, but when you talk about me, it’s the kid, my other kid . And I’m tired, dad, I’m so tired to hide when it’s not wrong, I’ve done nothing wrong! I just want to be myself!”
Dad won’t get this, he won’t understand that it’s more than the longer hair and the made-up eyes, he won’t see past the earrings and the distraction they represent, Dean knows it and Sam must too, she said it for herself, because it’s the truth and she wanted to be free of it. She doesn’t even wait for an answer, she’s out of the door before John can open his mouth and when she slams it shut, his mouth closes too. The Taurus lies on the table, next to Bobby’s gift, it’s a strange dichotomy.
“Dean,” John’s voice is still low, still harsh but it sounds tired too and he wonders how long they can keep doing this, how long until someone leaves and doesn’t come back, until three becomes two and he knows, with a cruel certainty, that he’ll never be the one who gets to walk away. He’ll be the only one left, in the end. “Let her go, she’ll come back when she’s ready.”
But the fear has taken its place and Dean’s not sure what ready will mean this time, how long she’ll walk around town, alone and angry. He doesn’t want to wait, doesn’t want for her to deal with this on her own and maybe it’s selfish because he’s the one that feels out of his skin when Sam’s not here, he’s the one that doesn’t truly fit, but it’s her sixteenth birthday and he promised a good day, you and me , he had said.
He’s out in the night before he can think about it, Sammy’s gone and she’ll be cold soon, she’ll need a jacket and she’ll need a shoulder to cry on or someone to listen to her rant, he’ll be both, he’ll be all.
He finds her after twenty minutes of walking in circles, or more accurately she calls him to her, guiding him through the trees of the small but dense forest behind the department store at the end of the road. She’s sitting on a rock, her back pressed to the tree behind her, she’s not crying, she doesn’t even look angry, she’s just there, watching the stars and letting the wind mess up her hair.
“I was gonna come back, you know? You didn’t need to come get me.”
“Yeah, well, you know what they say,” He sits next to her, close enough that she can let her head fall on his shoulder, “Old habits die hard and all that.”
She hums, low and pleasant, Dean’s always liked her voice, even though she can’t sing and she’s got no rhythm, he likes the fact that she sounds nothing like him or dad, that her voice is her own, like all the rest.
“You left before I could give you this,” He still has his gift for her in one hand, he’s kept it there during the whole thing, his fingers are clamped tight around the box, five locks made of stone. “It’s not as cool as Bobby’s, but I’m gonna go on a limb and say it’s better than dad’s.”
She huffs a laugh, “Dad’s gift wasn’t even bad, I do like the gun, it’s just, you know, everything around it.”
“Yeah, I know.” He drops the box on her knees, she catches it before it topples off and Dean knows she’s trying to weigh the thing before she opens it, she’s always enjoyed guessing and being right, it’s just another nerdy shit in the long list of Sammy’s nerdy shit.
He watches her while she turns the box on each side, shaking it to listen to the noise it makes and he tries to not panic when she finally opens it, he tries to calm the beat of his heart and let her do her thing.
“Oh,” She’s got it out now, it looks a lot better in her hands than it did in Dean’s when he picked it, “Dean .”
“It’s Sirius,” He can hear the frenzy in his own voice, “You know, the brightest star in the sky? I read somewhere that people used to follow it when they were lost to find their way home.”
She’s gotten it around her neck, the chain is long enough that she doesn’t need his help to clasp it shut, “Dean, it’s beautiful.” It moves with each of her breath, a bit like his amulet does too.
“I wanted to save it for Christmas, cuz you know, you got me mine then but I always found symbolism a little boring and I’ll just get you something else. I told dad he should give you something of mom’s for your birthday, like her wedding ring or a bracelet because he likes symbolism and you deserve to have something of hers but we’ll find something else, Sammy, I haven’t gotten you skirts or dresses yet, maybe I can get you a real nice one for-”
He doesn’t understand what happens at first, because he’s sure he hasn’t gotten hit to the head recently, he’s not concussed, he’s not dreaming, he’s not even high or drunk, but it has to be something like that, something weird or supernatural because if not, then his sister just kissed him full on the lips.
“Sam, what-”
“Wait, before you say anything just, just listen okay?” She’s so close, her mouth still brushes on his when she speaks and Dean doesn’t want to break this moment, doesn’t want to push her away when this might be the only time in his life he can feel complete. “I thought it was just me at first, I thought I was just being a freaky self and that I had made all of it up in my head, but then you got me the nail polish.”
Her nails are black today, not glitter blue, but it still feels like it was yesterday.
“You got me that nail polish, and you got me the earrings and you said I was pretty.” She’s got a hand on his chest, he feels a little like he’s dying, it’s the sweetest agony. “And no one said that to me before, no one. You called me cute before, you said I was a cute kid, a cute girl, you even said I was too beautiful for that guy in Utah who made fun of my hair but it was the first time anyone said I was pretty. And, I didn’t think I’d care, because it’s so stupid, right? I mean it's just looks, I don’t care if people find me pretty, I don’t care what kids at school think, I don’t care that the cheerleaders say I look like a dude, I don’t even really care what dad thinks.”
She’s trembling, Dean wants to wrap her up in his jacket. “But I care about what you say, I always cared about what you said and I know that it’s fucked-up and that people can’t know, that we’d have to be careful and that dad can never ever know but, Dean,” And god, she’s so beautiful, she’s so pretty, she’s everything. “Dean, I love you, and I wanna be with you, I wanna be the girl you’re with and I think you want that too.” She's so brave, she's so sweet, he'll kill the world before anything happens to her.
If he’s dying, he doesn’t care, if he’s already dead, it’s Heaven and it’s too late.
“Sammy,” She’s all he’s ever known, it couldn’t end another way, they’ve never had a chance, destined for it, like lambs to the slaughterhouse, he doesn’t mind, he’d bleed out just to hold her close. “Sammy, my Sam, my Sammy .” He kisses that beauty mark, he kisses the one on her chin next, then he moves to her neck and he likes how she puffs and whines, she’s perfect in every way, better than his dreams.
“Yours, Dean,” Her necklace swings between them, crashing with his amulet, echoing and grinding. It’s impractical, a necklace is just a distraction, it’s dangerous, it’s not what hunters wear, it’s not what soldiers want.
But it’s Sam and it’s him, Sam and Dean, SamandDean .
It’s what he needs.