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The silence in the car is stifling, rife with the echoes of loud angry voices. Sam is stiff, staring straight ahead so he doesn't have to look his dad in the shotgun seat. He's tempted to cross his arms, but he's aware of how childish it'll look, so he keeps his hands clenched on the steering wheel.
He's not even sure how the argument started. He never is these days. But the last thing that was said was an accusation that college equals abandonment and just thinking about it makes Sam so furious that he has to bite his tongue to keep from restarting their fight.
Not that he's sure it actually is over. When dad spit out the words, "You leave, and then what happens to us, huh? You think about that, Sammy? How your kid brother and I will manage without a third person watching our backs?", Sam was too stunned to even respond and chose to fume quietly instead.
The shuffling from the backseat is the first thing to break the spell. Sam's eyes flick to the rearview. Dean winces at the sound his jacket makes against the leather seats of the Impala, like the last thing he wants is to be the one to disturb the quiet. He looks up sheepishly, meeting Sam's gaze in the mirror. Sam swallows, looks back at the road. Dad's words run circles in his head, taunting him.
15 years is a long time to be chasing revenge for a ghost. Sam misses his mother with a fiercess that John thinks he doesn't possess, but she wouldn't want this for them. She wouldn't. Sam doesn't think he could love the memory of her if he believed otherwise.
That's not to say he doesn't love his father. He does, but... God, the man does not make it easy to do so.
15 fucking years. Dean's whole life.
Sam takes a look at Dean again. His head is bowed again, fiddling with his Walkman. He looks small in his thick jacket, face pale from the Nevada winter and a pink flush to the tip of his nose. An ugly bitter part of Sam wishes he loved him less. It might be easier to just walk out on this life if that were the case.
Like he can read Sam's mind, Dean looks up again. It's hard to tell in the mirror, but fear flickers over his face before he manages a supportive smile at Sam. He hasn't mastered Sam and John's ability to repress every fucking feeling under the sun yet and there's a tremor at the edges of his lush mouth that tugs at Sam's heartstrings in the worst way possible. It's the same expression he gets when he's pushing into Sam's space with single-minded determination, under the bedcovers at night when dad is passed out drunk or during after-school afternoons in the backseat of this very car. Like he's afraid, behind the confident facade, that Sam might push him away.
Ha! If only.
Something on Sam's face must be indicative of his thoughts, becuase Dean's fragile smile drops and he slides closer to the window behind Sam, effectively hiding himself. Sam only grips the wheel tighter.
"There should be a truck stop in about twenty minutes, pull over," John says. It's not sharp enough to be an order, but it snaps through the air like one anyway.
"We've got half a tank, we can make it to Ely in three more hours."
"I don't care. Pull over. I'll drive the rest of the day."
Sam breathes out through his teeth. "I can drive for-"
"Sam," he snaps. "Pull over."
Oh, for fucking- he's such a-
Rather than waste his breath arguing, he stays quiet. When the truck stop appears, the icy road is the only thing keeping him from slamming the brakes. He stops in front of the 7/11 and leaves the keys in, slamming the door closed as he steps out. He pauses for a moment, turning his face up to the sky that's bruising purple from across the orange sunset. It's pretty, and any other day, he would probably appreciate it for a little bit longer.
But the Impala's doors open and shut again, both his travel companions joining him outside. He can see his father start to say something; he doesn't wait to hear, turning on his heel to escape towards the seedy diner next to the store. He's halfway there when he faintly catches John say, "Go with your brother, Dean."
Part of Sam hopes that Dean will refuse, but he hastens his steps anyway. The diner is empty, the two waitresses not even giving him a cursory glance, and Sam is grateful for it, slipping into the bathroom in the hopes that it would dissuade his brother from following. He knows better though.
Dean is moving before the "Yes, sir," fully leaves his mouth. Off the road, the snow is fresh and soft, crunching pleasantly under his boots. He follows Sam into the diner, pausing in confusion for when there's no one there. For a moment, he eyes the backdoor, pondering the possibility that Sam might just try to run away right here, right now, in the middle of nowhere as long as it took him away from Dad.
Except it would take him away from Dean too, and he wouldn't do that.
Dean's pretty sure he wouldn't do that.
The swinging bathroom door is wobbling back and forth, catching his eye. Relieved beyond reason, Dean quietly walks past the sleepy waitresses and into the washroom, carefully locking the door behind him.
Sam is standing at the sink, knuckles white around the cracked porcelain. "Go back out," he says, eyes closed. He seems almost calm, meditative. "I'll be there in a minute."
"Will you?" Dean asks.
Sam's shoulders tense even under his jacket. He's shot up in height over the last couple of years. Dean's tall for his age too, and he's filled out since he took up swimming the previous summer, but his brother makes him feel irritatingly small, like he's not strong enough to hold on to Sam.
"What, you think Dad's right?" Sam snaps, turning aroud with a glare. "You think I'm that heartless, I care so little, that I would just run off to college and never give a shit about you guys?"
"I don't think you don't care," Dean mumbles. "But I think you'd leave us behind just because of how pissed off you get at Dad."
"Well, maybe it would serve him right." An unamused huff of laughter falls from Sam's scowling mouth. "Maybe I should just up and leave one night."
Dean knows it's just anger talking, he knows Sam doesn't mean it. But the words are too close to a waking nightmare that Dean has tortured himself with, ever since he's found Sam staring off into the middle-distance with an air of defeated exhaustion. He can't be sure that it hasn't gotten worse and more frequent in the past six months and he's afraid he's the one to blame. Maybe if he didn't lose his mind and crawl into Sam's lap after sneaking sips of dad's whiskey... Maybe if he hadn't spotted the tortured restraint in Sam's strong hands and pestered him till his breaking point... Then Sam wouldn't hate this life so much more than he already did before. Then he wouldn't feel the need to run. Maybe, maybe, maybe...
"Dean, hey, hey." Sam's in front of him all of sudden, his voice dropped low and soothing. He takes Dean's shoulders, squeezes. "I'm not gonna do that. C'mon, you know I wouldn't." He gives a smile, and it's twisted, a fascimile decorated with dimples. "I wouldn't leave you like that."
But you can't take me with you, Dean wants to point out. And you can't stay either. Not forever.
He doesn't say it. It's his turn to close his eyes and then he tips his face up, a silent request.
Sam's fingers tighten, pressing on a faded bruise where neck meets shoulder. "Dee."
He stays quiet, screws his eyes shut tighter. He's still surprised when a heavy sigh warms his chilled skin.
Sam kisses him, and Dean's lips are already parted in hunger. Six months they've been doing this and the thrill down his spine is still the same, the headiness of Sam's tongue in his mouth as dizzying as the first time. Sam kisses him like he could spend forever doing it. But it's not enough for Dean, it never is, and he rises up on his toes, threads his fingers into Sam's hair. Their jackets are too much of a barrier and he whines without pulling away, "More, Sammy, more, touch me, touch-"
Deft fingers unzip his jacket and slip under his hoodie, his flannel. Sam's palm is hot on Dean's stomach, tracing developing muscles from memory. Dean shivers, moans, breaks the kiss to hide his face against Sam's neck. A pulse beats right under the tip of his nose, faster than it should be.
"More."
"Dean," Sam warns, but it's weak. "Not here. C'mon, it's not safe."
Dean huffs, kisses Sam's neck. It makes him shiver, fingers skittering against skin, and Dean takes the encouragement, rocks his hips forward tentatively. Sam's choking gasp feels like truimph.
"More," Dean begs.
Sam curses, bites Dean's neck. It won't leave a mark, but stings enough to send a bolt of heat right down to his dick, already hard and aching. Sam fumbles with the button of the jeans, draws him out with worshipful care.
The simple contact has Dean muffling another groan in the collar of Sam's jacket. Sam almost seems to laugh, more real this time. He's got one hand still on Dean's stomach, rucking up his shirt to reach his chest, thumb at a sensitive nipple. It makes Dean shiver, makes him picture what Sam's lips might feel like there.
"Stop teasing," he pleads.
Sam kisses his temple. His fingers wrap around Dean's cock with unfair ease and Dean can't even be embarrassed about how badly it affects him - he's too busy panting into Sam's neck, still clutching him by the hair, like it could keep them anchored together.
Sam knows he's coming before Dean does. Dean's whimper is lost into Sam's throat and Sam's clean hand falls down his torso, landing on his hip.
Dean winces; the kiss breaks.
There's another bruise at that spot, this one only a day old. Sam pulls back just enough to examine the mottled purple.
Dean hates the downturn of Sam's kissed lips. He tries to reach for Sam's jeans, but finds his wrist captured tight.
"Not now," Sam says, quiet. "Go back out. I'll clean up in here."
Dean's chest feels caved in. "Sam..."
"I'll be there in a minute," he promises.
It's the best Dean's gonna get right now. So he gathers himself as much as he can, and walks out, leaving Sam to himself.
Half a tank of gas is enough to make it three hours to Ely. John fills up anyway, trying not to check his watch.
When the boys don't come out in three minutes, he enters the store, just for something to do that isn't idling by his car waiting for his sons. He stocks up on some meds, a six-pack, some jerky. After a minute of searching, he's relieved to find the ridiculous flavor of energy drink Sam likes, the only one he'll drink on account of some health-related bullshit. He gets two cans of it.
It's while he's paying at the counter that he spots Dean through the glass. He's trudging over the snow, back to the car. There's a slump to his figure and John's stomach lurches.
He exits the store quickly then. "Where's Sam?" He doesn't mean for it to come out in a bark, but Dean straightens at once.
"He'll just be another minute, sir."
John nods, breathing easier. Dean leans back against the car, fixating on the diner. He's worrying at his lower lip with his teeth, an obvious tell that he hasn't been able to get rid of yet. John starts to tell him to quit it, that his lips are already slightly swollen and the winter air will only make it worse-
His lips are already swollen.
John's stomach turns again, for an entirely different reason. He doesn't have time to dwell on it before Sam steps out of the diner. He looks twice as grim as before, but there's an air of defeat about him now. His mouth is in the same state as Dean's, though less noticeable.
John wishes he could be more surprised. But he was the one who sent Dean in after Sam, after all, so really who was to blame?
"Get in, let's get out of here," John says curtly.
Dean gets into the backseat without a word. Sam wavers between following him and taking the shotgun seat.
John eyes him for a moment. Then he reaches into the shopping bag and pulls out the energy drink. Sam catches the toss one-handed, meeting John's gaze. John shrugs, more to steady himself. "Get some sleep in the back if you want, I'll wake you boys when we reach."
Sam's conflicted, it's written all over his face. But he takes the white flag and pops open his can, taking a sip before sliding into the back with Dean.
John gets in behind the wheel. In the rearview, he can see the boys sitting at opposite ends of the seat, careful not to touch. It won't take them long to fall asleep on top of each other, John muses, and starts the car.