Remix Author: clex_monkie89
Original Story: He had always Known
Original Author: wine_into_water
Summary: Ghostbusters, marriage proposals, irrational jealousy, and pink vomit. This is Sam and Dean.
When Sammy is three, he and Dean and Daddy watch Ghostbusters at Pastor Jim's big church. Dean's voice is high and awed next to him, and Daddy's heart is loud and steady under his ear. He's tired and it's late and he falls asleep with Daddy rubbing his back and Dean giggling about s'mores.
A few weeks later, Pastor Jim gives Dean a black shirt with a big white ghost on it and a red circle with a slash—a "no" sign, Sammy knows—on the ghost. Dean's eyes get big and he smiles so wide Sammy can see where his baby teeth fell out last night. He thanks Pastor Jim when Daddy flicks his shoulder and then he takes his clothes off right there in the middle of the room and puts his new shirt on.
They're at Caleb's in Nebraska when Dean turns eight. He still hasn't taken off his new shirt. Caleb gives them ice cream, and Daddy gets them cupcakes—three of which Dean feeds to the new Mastiff puppies before Caleb catches him—and they're even allowed to go outside and play all alone as long as they stay where Daddy can see them. They spend hours playing Hunter with wood sticks for guns—Dean's not allowed to use his real gun for play—and shooting invisible monsters and hiding behind the trees and cars and even the puppies when they stayed still long enough.
What happens next is all a blur. One minute Dean is shooting a chupacabra, and the next thing Sammy knows, Dean's on the ground and there's a big dog on him and he's screaming. Then Thor, the puppy Sammy was hiding behind, charges the dog on Dean, and Daddy runs out of Caleb's house with his big gun and Caleb comes running with an even bigger gun and all Sammy knows is blood and screaming and fear.
Sammy doesn't get to see Dean until the next night. Dean has big bandages on his chin and part of his mouth, thick black stitches on the newly-shaved parts of his head and bright white gauze on his hand, wrapping up his arm and disappearing under the blue gown he's wearing. Sammy's wearing Dean's shirt because Daddy warned him that he couldn't hug Dean until the doctors said he was better again. The shirt is covered in dirt and blood and dog slobber, but Sammy doesn't care because it's the closest to a hug from Dean that he can have right now.
For two months, Daddy can't get the shirt off Sammy for anything. Not for a new shirt, not for a book, not to go swimming, not even for a bath. It's Dean who finally gets Sammy to give up the shirt some time in March—and even then only for two hours. Dean tells Sammy that he has to let him wash the shirt because it still has his blood on it and that makes Daddy sad when he sees it.
Sammy sniffles and agrees and sits on Dean's lap in the ugly orange chairs and watches the shirt go round and round while John is at the gas station getting them chocolate milk.
In July, they go back to Caleb's. Daddy got one of his guns eaten by a giraffe—that's what Dean told Sammy—and he needs to get another one so they head back to Lincoln bright-eyed and bushy-tailed first thing in the afternoon. Sammy's asleep by the time they get there, him and Dean curled in back sharing a pillow and blanket with Dean blearily trying to sing along with the radio.
In the morning, Sammy wakes up to Daddy scooping him up and carrying him, legs dangling, down to the kitchen for breakfast. He eats an entire big boy plate of scrambled eggs and cheese and half a piece of toast before Dean begs Daddy to let them go outside and play.
Sammy starts shrieking and crying immediately. He kicks and screams and wails until he can't breathe anymore, face pinched and red with exertion, snot dripping down his face. After seven long seconds of silence, he finally pulls in a loud gasp of air and starts it all over again.
He strikes out when Daddy goes to pick him up, small fists and bare feet screaming, "Put me down!" better than any words could, his words diminished to desperate cries of "D!" and "No out!" Sammy lands on the ground in a heap after a stray kick catches Daddy low on the abdomen and he crumples over out of pure instinct.
Dean is right there next to Sammy as soon as he hits the ground. Before he can check to make sure Sammy isn't hurt—a foot and a half is a long fall for a little kid—Sammy grabs onto him and clings. His face is pressed into Dean's neck and his arms circle Dean's chest and squeeze. He's not screaming anymore, just sobbing and hyperventilating, gagging and choking out pleas that don't even make sense to him anymore.
Dean shushes Sammy and rocks him until his sobs die down and the exhaustion overwhelms him and drags him back to sleep.
That afternoon, Caleb goes to the store and comes back with four board games, a chess set, six decks of playing cards—they were on sale—three boxes of crayons, and nine coloring books.
The next morning, Sammy eats a rook, and Dean tells him that they're going to stick to games with cardboard and paper until he can trust Sammy not to try and cheat when he's losing.
It's September. It's cold and it's boring and they're all at Bobby's because it's snowing and they can't leave. Dean's playing Candy Land with Sammy while Daddy and Bobby work. Five games later, even Sammy is starting to get bored, opting to sing to himself and make his little blue game piece dance in place on the board while Dean hightails it up the gumball pass.
While they're playing, Sam suddenly comes to a decision and decides that Dean should hear it. "I'm gonna marry you when I grow up."
Dean makes Sammy say it again. Sammy heaves a great big sigh and rolls his eyes. "I said I'm gonna marry you when I grow up."
Dean tries not to laugh; Sammy can see him biting his cheek the same as he does when Daddy tries to make breakfast for them. "We can't get married."
Sam's jaw juts out like Dad. "Yes, we can."
"Yuh-huh. Dad said I can do anything if I try hard enough."
"Boys don't get married, dummy."
"Don't call me dummy! And Dad's a boy and he was married!"
"Whatever. I'm going to the bathroom." Dean is halfway out of the room when he turns back around and orders, "And don't bug Dad while I'm gone!"
"You're just running away cause you know I'm right!" Sammy yells after him. Dean flaps a hand and keeps on walking.
Sammy tries to be good for Dean; to sit there and wait for him to come back but it's boring sitting in the living room alone. And, besides, now that he has made his decision he needs to tell Dad about it.
Sam is repeating himself, again when Dean pushes the kitchen door open. Sammy makes sure that this time his voice is big and strong, just like Dad's. "When I grow up, I'm gonna marry Dean."
Dean laughs, at Sammy, and walks to the fridge. "Told you, Squirt." He ruffles Sammy's hair. "We can't get married."
He's leaning in the fridge when Sammy yells, "Don't call me Squirt!" Dean turns around with a carton of Orange Juice and Sammy crosses his arms and asks for what feels like the billionth time, "Why not?"
Dean grabs two of the big plastic glasses from the dish drain and pours them each some juice. "Because we're brothers."
"So?" That's just the dumbest thing Sammy's ever heard in his whole life.
Bobby clears his throat and when Sammy looks over Dad and Bobby are laughing at him and nobody is taking him seriously. "You can't marry your brother, Sammy. It's just not done."
Sammy's bottom lip pokes out as he pulls his legs up on the chair. He pulls his shirt down over his knees and sniffles loudly, wiping away a tear before folding his arms and hiding his face in them.
Sammy can hear the little noise Dean makes as he crouches down next to him and lays a hand on the top of one of his bare feet. "Hey." He waits until Sammy peeks up at him before continuing, "What's wrong?"
Sammy's answer is quiet and he can his voice creak as he tries to keep from crying. "Nothing."
"Sammy, come on," Dean prods quietly.
"Don't you love me?" Tears slide down his face now, faster than he can stop them or wipe them away.
Dean's thumb rubs his ankle gently. "You know I do, Sammy."
"Then why don't you wanna marry me when we get old?" Sammy's breath hitches and starts to come in short and quick and he tries to slow it down, breathe deep like Dean tells him to when he's crying.
Dean looks back at Bobby and Dad but they're talking to each other again and don't see him. "You sure you don't wanna marry somebody better? Maybe a pretty girl?"
Sammy shakes his head back and forth almost violently. "Nobody is better than you, Dean, nobody. And girls are icky."
"Okay, I'll marry you, but only if you stop crying. I can't be marrying a crybaby."
Sam sucks in quick breaths and holds them in an effort to stop his tears. "Really?"
"Promise?" Sam smiles at him, face wet and nose running.
"Promise." Dean grins back at him. "Come on, Squirt, grab your juice and go. I still have to beat you at Candy Land."
"Dean! My name is Sammy," he whines loudly as he climbs down off the chair and follows Dean back into the living room.
Sammy swings his hand back and forth in Dean's grip while they wait for the orange hand at the crosswalk to go dark. Dean smirks out of the corner of his mouth and glances at Sammy out of the corner of his eye. "I thought you were a big boy now."
His face sets in a scowl; eyebrows furrowed, mouth small and voice stubborn. "I am a big boy!"
"I know you are." Dean squeezes Sammy's hand briefly. The light changes, and Dean pulls Sammy along as they hurry across the street. Sammy starts to slow down two blocks into their walk, same as always. Dean doesn't let go of Sam's hand, even though Sam knows he's making Dean walk slower. "I thought you could take care of yourself now."
"I can. But I like it better when you take care of me." All of a sudden, Dean isn't moving anymore. Sam doesn't even notice until he feels the pull on his hand and turns to see Dean standing behind him, hand clasped in Sammy's and standing still. His head is lowered like he's just been yelled at, and the tops of his ears are bright pink like last summer when he fell asleep on the hood of the car in Texas. "Dean?"
Dean clears his throat and looks up. His whole face is pink, and he has a big, wide smile on his face. "Want a piggyback ride?"
"What the hell do you mean, wings?" John roars into the payphone.
"What do you mean, 'what do I mean?' I mean Dean probably has a five foot pair of wings coming out of his back right now."
There are times John wishes there was a way to shoot somebody through a phone. Or at least smack them around a little. "Why would he have wings?"
"You remember that lantern looking thing you brought here a few weeks back?"
John thinks back and struggles to remember any kind of lantern he's come across recently. And then it hits him. "You mean the one that went off in your living room when you wouldn't stop touching it? The one that coated your room and my boy in what you said was harmless paint?"
He can almost hear Caleb's shrug over the line. "Everyone's gotta be wrong sometime."
His fist slams into the wall, and Ellen's barking at him before he can shake off the sting. "Caleb, you better hope there's not a hair split on Dean's head, or—"
"Hey, he wasn't the only one who got hit with that shit. Me and Kimbo got showered, too. We all woke up with the wings; no pain or anything. Hell, even Thor's doing a bird imitation now. If you do come over here to kill me, make sure you bring an umbrella; Thor's been dropping bombs from three stories up all day. Not a pretty picture."
Despite himself, John shudders at the image. Thor's about two hundred pounds now. Not a pretty picture, indeed.
John doesn't bother to say goodbye before he hangs up. He stuffs a five in the mug Ellen's keeping her tips in tonight, waves at Bill, and hightails it back to the motel. It's almost noon, and he's still about a day and a half out, but he figures if he breaks all the speed limits and manages to avoid getting pulled over, he can be there before sunrise.
It's sometime around midnight when he pulls up into the parking lot of the Trade Winds Motel. He feels a small surge of pride when he opens the door. There's a thick salt line on the floor in front of the door, another on the window ledge, and a big, thick circle of salt around the bed.
John's heart stops beating for a moment when his eyes start adjust from the floodlights in the parking lot to the dark and the only shape he sees in the bed is Dean—Dean with fluffy white wings stretching across the bed. His heart starts again when his ears pick up the tiny half-snore, half-choking sound his body knows as Sammy.
As his eyes adjust further, he relaxes more. The cocoon of blankets on the bed are his boys, wrapped to mid-chest. Sammy is a slightly wriggling lump against Dean, head shoved under a pillow and against Dean's neck with one of Dean's new wings—wings—folded over the top half of him not covered by the blanket.
John lets them have the bed and sleeps in the chair next to it.
Sam's day at school is horrible. First he's late to homeroom, which is only fifteen minutes long to begin with. First period is P.E., where he gets detention again when he refuses to dress out, also again. Third period is math, where he realizes that not only does he not have his math book with him, but he's also missing his homework. Lunch is spent sitting in a corner in the library and hoping Mrs. Burns doesn't notice he snuck in food. She does, and he gets in-school suspension, which he thinks is pretty redundant since he spends lunch in the library already.
On the way to English, some jerk throws open a locker as he's walking by, and Sam is suddenly flat on his ass with a bloody nose. The nurse sends him back to class just in time for him to catch the "pencils down" portion of a pop quiz. And as if that's not bad enough, some asshole trashes his locker sometime between science and the end of school.
There's a ring of people near his locker when he goes to it, and if not for the lack of yelling, he'd think there was a fight or something. When he makes his way to the front of the crowd, he sees what all the fuss is about: the word fag carved into his locker in foot-high letters and traced with red spray-paint. The door is open, and there's shredded paper spilling out of it and steadily trickling to the floor like a waterfall of schoolwork. Sam's book report was in there. His notebooks, too, along with three of his textbooks and the specifications for his take-home art assignment.
Sam won't scream; he refuses to. He will not give the asshole that did this the satisfaction of it. He just bends down and scoops the shredded paper into his backpack, shovels in the rest of it from his locker, makes his way back through the crowd—he can feel their eyes on him, and it makes his skin crawl—and starts walking home.
He barely makes it to the sidewalk before some jerk on a Mongoose—an eight hundred dollar bike—comes up to him, asks him if that was his locker. Sam can't bite back his sarcasm when he replies. "No, I just needed some paper for my birdcage."
The jerk, the complete and utter asshole that Sam wants to physically hurt now apologizes to him. "Sorry, dude. Thought that was someone else's locker. Corey something-or-other. Fat kid, y'know? No hard feelings, man, right?" Sam looks at him, eyes the fifty-dollar pegs on his front and back wheels, and thinks of the knife strapped to his ankle.
Sam doesn't answer him, just continues on home to the motel, practicing what he's going to tell Dean about his day.
When he walks in the door, the room is dark; the lights, TV and even the radio are all off. Sam doesn't have to wonder why for long: there's a note stuck to the TV screen with dried toothpaste. Dean's sloppy scrawl covers the sheet. Sammy! Lions And Tigers And Bears Oh Shit! Gone Dancing Hope I Don't Catch Any Dogs At Least I'm Hotter Than Brad Pitt. Be Safe.Translation: Sam. Hunting in South Dakota, back in a week, think up a story if anyone asks.
Sam locks the door, checks the salt lines and turns on the TV. He doesn't bother to pull out the sofa bed, just crawls on the couch and tries to fall asleep.
Sometimes Dean thinks Goodwill thrift stores were created simply to ruin his good days. It's a Tuesday, there's no school—for Sammy, not him—they've got a hundred bucks, and Dad won't be home for at least another two days. But instead of getting drunk or renting a movie or something else fun, he's trapped in Ohio's central headquarters for Hell.
Dean still doesn't see why Sam needs another jacket. He already has three.
In the middle of a row of black shirts. a glimpse of neon blue catches his eye. Dean smirks and picks up the teddy, holding it against his chest and whirling around. "Hey, Sam, you think this comes in..." He stops short at the sight of the old couple behind him where Sam isn't. "Pink?" The old man gives him the stink-eye and the woman has a look of horror on her face, and Dean just can't help himself; he sticks out his chest and pulls back his shoulders in a grotesque imitation of feminine. "Does it match my eyes?" He bats his lashes and can't hold back his cackle when the cranky couple skitters away in fear.
Dean finds Sam standing in the boys' section, head and shoulders above most of the moms and staring wistfully at some shirt like it's the long lost puppy he never had.
"Dude, get out of the kids section. You look like a pedo."
Sam jumps and his head shoots up when he notices Dean. "I'm fifteen," he protests.
"Fifteen year olds can be pedophiles, watch the news." Sam grunts at him and goes back to petting the shirt in his hands.
"I used to have a shirt like this. Remember?" A big, dimpled smile spreads across Sam's face as he holds the shirt up for Dean to see. It's a dead-ringer for the Ghostbusters shirt Sam lived in for the better part of two years, minus a gash or two and the hole under the right armpit.
"No, you didn't."
"I did too."
"No, you didn't. I had a shirt like that. You stole it 'cause you're a little thief."
"I am not! If it's your shirt, why don't I remember you wearing it, huh? Exactly. Because it was mine."
"Because you were three when you stole it. You really don't remember that?" Sam tilts his head to the side and furrows his brow, shakes his head slightly in his best Saint Bernard impression. "We were at Caleb's, playing or something, and some stray bit me all up. Dad said the doctors at the hospital were gonna cut it off me or some shit, and instead I took it off in the car and made you promise to keep it safe. And you never gave it back."
Sam stares at the shirt again, petting it and running his fingers along the neck almost reverently. "That's where the rip in the collar came from, huh?"
Dean nods his head even though Sam isn't looking at him. He looks at the orange tag stapled to the sleeve and almost winces. Five-fifty is a lot for a Goodwill shirt and way too much for a shirt neither of them will ever be able to actually wear. "Get it."
"What?" There's that confused puppy face again.
"Go ahead, man, get it. Don't worry about it, and don't act like you don't want it, either. We can skip the beer tonight."
Sam looks up at Dean again, eyes soft and almost relaxed even as he licks his lips nervously. His hands fist and clench in the shirt, and his weight shifts from side to side. Dean is about to say something, make some lame joke to try and cut the tension, when Sam leans forward and kisses him.
The kiss is chaste, but not innocent by any stretch of the imagination. Sam's lips are chapped against his, insistent but not pushy, open slightly and wet on Dean's mouth. Dean knows he should back up, push Sam away, tell him to stop, do anything other than lean into the kiss like he's doing. He opens his mouth, just a little, and before anything else can happen, Sam pulls back quickly.
Dean's mind is completely blank as he struggles for something to say and finally comes up with, "Sammy?" His voice is lower and hoarser than he intends it to be.
Sam maintains eye contact even though Dean knows it's probably hurting him to do so. His bottom lip is sucked into his mouth, and Dean knows from years of experience that Sammy's biting it, trying to weigh his words before he speaks. He shrugs, and his jaw quivers a little. "I just wanted to. Are you mad?"
He doesn't even have to think about it. Dean grabs at the stomach of Sam's T-shirt and pulls him closer; he slides his hand around to the dip in Sam's back and presses lightly, maneuvers his way to Sam's side and guides them towards the register. "Never, Sammy."
"One minute, Sam."
"No, you said that an hour ago. I want to leave now."
Dean meets Ben's gaze and rolls his eyes. "Little brothers, man. No bigger pains in the ass."
Ben laughs and gives Dean a smile that makes Sam want to break all his teeth. "Tell me about it. David's still the bane of my existence on his good days."
Dean laughs at that; he fucking throws his head back and laughs like it's the funniest thing he's heard all year. "Yeah, I remember. Whiny little fucker, took a page right from your book, Sam."
"Fine," Sam gives in. He knows when he's not wanted; he can take a hint. "Stay here and have your girl talk, just gimme the keys. And don't expect me to pick you up tomorrow."
Dean shoots him a look of complete confusion, and Sam just cannot deal with it. He scoffs so hard his throat hurts and waves Dean away as he turns to walk out the door. Dean, that bastard, grabs the hood of Sam's jacket as he tries to leave and Sam flails embarrassingly as he runs out of his impromptu leash. "Hold your horses, Tonto. Gotta go put the baby down for his nap," he says to Ben on their way out. "Call me."
Dean shoves Sam hard, keeps pushing him right out of the bar and out towards the car. Neither say a word to each other for miles, not even a name called or an insult underneath anyone's breath. Not until they hit a stoplight, and Sam can't hold it in any longer. "So. Who was he?"
"No, the other guy who sat in your lap all night."
"Rawr. Kitty has claws." Dean sighs and shakes his head, smirking like a jackass. "I saved his damsely ass on a hunt a few years back. I guess he picked up the gun after that, too."
"Damsely's not a word." Petty, yes, but Sam feels like he should get to be petty right now. "And I don't remember him."
"You know, the rest of us didn't lay down and die when you ran away. People still needed saving."
Sam knows better than to respond to that by now. Dean can badmouth Stanford to his heart's content, but unless it's about Jess, Sam better not say word one about that place.
It's another fifteen minutes before they pull up to the motel, some dump with a My Little Pony kind of theme to the room, and Sam can't seem to help himself. "Did you fuck him?"
"I can count on one hand the number of times you've told people we were related since I came back. Now all of a sudden you see this Ben guy in the bar, and it's back to 'this is my little brother'? I know what that means: 'Don't worry, he's no one, we can still fuck,' right?"
"Did you snort something while I wasn't looking?"
Sam throws his jacket on the bed in an admittedly pathetic attempt at displaying his anger. Lucky for Sam, his roaring tends to convey the feeling much better. "I'm not high, Dean. That guy was all over you, and you didn't do crap to stop him!"
"Holy shit. You're jealous, aren't you?" Dean looks so smug with himself, and to Sam's horror, he can feel his face start to get hot.
"I'm not jealous." Sam doesn't even convince himself with that half-assed denial.
"You probably didn't notice, but I'm in a motel room with you, not him."
"You told him you had to put me down for a nap, you asshole."
"When you act like a baby, you get treated like one."
"I was not acting like a baby!" Sam sure as hell wants to stamps his foot like one, though. He can feel the anger seeping out of him, replacing itself with a pathetic kind of fear. "You introduced me as your little brother and then spent the whole night ignoring me and flirting with him and laughing like you were… like you were old friends or something."
"I wasn't—okay, I was flirting. But I always do, and you never acted like it bothered you before."
"It doesn't bother me!"
"Obviously, it does, or you wouldn't be having your little bitch-fit."
"No, it doesn't bother me, Dean, he just…" Sam can't put it into words, doesn't know how to say that he doesn't care who Dean picks up and randomly fucks so long as he's being a skeevy creep while doing it. Sam settles for, "He's different," and hopes Dean understands.
"Sammy," Dean starts, stops. He sucks his teeth, cracks his neck and exhales sharply. "You'd been gone for two, three months—"
"I don't wanna hear about it, okay? I'm fine with—"
"Sam! Shut up and listen. God, I fucking hate you for this," Dean says. "You'd been gone two or three months. Me and Dad were in Indiana looking into a bunch of animal attacks that turned out to be a gaki. Ben's little brother was one of the ones that got snatched. Dad stuck me on babysitting duty, and me and Ben spent most of a week trading stories about you and David. That's it. We didn't fuck, we didn't kiss, nothing like that."
"No, we had wild hot monkey sex until we both dropped unconscious from exhaustion and hunger. I'm just trying to calm you down so I can go back and fuck him over the bar while you shower."
Sam can't help but laugh at that. "You're such a jerk."
"Oh, I'm the jerk? You just threw the temper tantrum because I was talking to some hot guy."
"So you admit you thought he was hot."
Sam's hand rubs back and forth on the warm, sweaty skin on Dean's lower back in an attempt to make him feel better. He has no idea if it actually does anything, but Dean used to do it to him when he was sick, so he figures that's gotta be worth something. "Feeling any better?"
Dean burps and spits, groans out something that's either "No," or "Oh God." It's somewhat hard to decipher correctly what Dean's saying while he's still curled over the garbage can, hugging it.
"Did the Pepto Bismol do anything?"
Dean lifts his head and pants heavily, tired and out of breath. "It made my vomit bright pink."
"What about my hoodie?" Sam can't keep the smile off his face. "That helping you any?"
Dean motions weakly for the water bottle in Sam's grip. Sam pops the top, hands it over, and doesn't make any faces at all when Dean swigs and spits in the garbage can. "I was cold."
"I'm sure you were."
"And it's soft."
"And it smells like you."
That one catches Sam off guard. "Wow, you must really be sick if you admitted that."
Dean finally tries to shrug Sam off and leans back against the couch. "I'm tired."
"You should get some sleep, then. You think you can make it to the bed or do you wanna stay here?"
Dean leans over, rolls his head onto Sam's shoulder and fits his face against Sam's neck. He slips an arm around Sam's waist and pulls him closer until Sam's pressed tight against Dean's chest. "Not moving. Too much work."
Dean nuzzles at Sam's hair, makes an affirmative sounding noise, and squeezes lightly at Sam's stomach. Sam knows he's not going anywhere for a while, but as much as he loves being held like this—not that he would ever tell Dean—his neck is at an incredibly awkward angle, and he can feel the pull of muscles in his back. Sam leans over so his head is on the armrest, pulling Dean with him.
"Love you, Dean," Sam says, loud and clear just because he can. Dean groans and mumbles something into Sam's neck again. "What?"
"I said." Dean yawns and clears his throat. "How is it that you still have a dick?"