Fic: That Was The Year (Sam/Dean, R) Part 1 of 5

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***

It’s something he’s been putting off for months, replacing the carpeting in Baby’s trunk. He’d fixed the leak pretty quickly in the spring, but she’d taken on a lot of water before she was sealed up right. Turns out keeping a pissed-off werewolf, even if he is a friend, in your trunk can cause leaks. Unfortunately the funky smell hadn’t ever really gone away. Sam had complained about their duffels smelling musty the last time they’d had to drive cross country. He’s got the next couple of weeks off, they’d both agreed to take a breather in their packed hunting schedule. Luckily he’d ordered the replacement carpet and backer boards months ago when he’d thought he’d have some time. That was before Mom had…enough thinking about that, back to work.

It’s a little strange ripping and tearing the old carpet out, it separates from the glue pretty easily in most spots. But it feels awful to be so destructive to his baby even if it’s necessary. There’s a big pile of what he’s torn out in the trash can within a half hour or so. The most time-consuming part of this step is going to be the places where it’s being stubborn and staying glued on. Seems to be mostly the corners and dips in the body panels. He’d forgotten how many small crevices were in there. Back when he’d made the hidden weapons compartment a little more organized, he hadn’t utilized most of this space because it wouldn’t have been one flat surface. He remembered that he hadn’t wanted to risk losing some important tool that they’d need in a hurry on a hunt. It would be pretty dumb to bite it just because he couldn’t find the essential gizmo before the beastie of the week got him.

He brings one of the stand lights over next to Baby and turns it on to illuminate the depths of her now mostly exposed trunk. The shadows and shapes are almost eerie, it seems like it could go on forever in some places, like an endless tunnel. But it’s just how the light is hitting it he tells himself, shoving a hand into the strangest looking spot, trying to grip an edge of carpet to pull. He grips it tightly between his fingertips and tugs, setting his feet, pushing his ass out for counterbalance, he yanks—hard. He almost falls back on his ass, a big piece of carpet in one hand that stays attached the only thing that keeps him from hitting the floor. This old-school glue is really something. He looks back into the space he’d been trying to clear and it looks different now, a little shiny, but not quite car-paint shiny. He adjusts the stand light to hit the spot a little more directly and is surprised to see what he’s uncovered.

It’s a camera. One of those old-school kind of chunky models from when they’d first come out in the mid-2000’s. As Dean holds it in his hands, turning the camera over and over, he remembers it all in a rush. It’s the one he’d bought at the Walmart they’d stopped in on their way out of Cicero, Indiana. He’d grabbed it to give something to Sam for his birthday. And to kind of make up for the whole weird thing with Lisa and Ben. After all, Sam was the one who had really saved Ben, he was the one who’d figured out the whole changeling thing and torched the mama changeling.

Dean remembers that Lisa and Ben had only thanked him, not his brother. Sam had backed off and stayed by the car to give him privacy or whatever. Because it had been weird, him having an almost could-have-been family that didn’t include Sam. Basically, it just wasn’t fair that Sam didn’t get thanked the way he should have. Back then he’d wanted to make up for it, and grabbed the nicest looking camera in that Walmart when they’d been resupplying on their way to the next hunt.

The camera—it suddenly feels so heavy with all the damn memories that are attached, Dean sinks down to sit on the Impala’s back bumper holding the thing, wanting to throw it away from him like a hot potato. He hasn’t let himself think about Ben or Lisa in a long time.

Way back then, he had still been carrying around that foolish hope that Ben might have been his—actually his kid. And he remembers how relieved he’d been when Sam had saved Ben, especially Ben from the changelings. They’d never talked about it (of course) but Sam coming through for that particular kid had really been a special thing for Dean. Probably because he’d appreciated that Sam had seen how important Ben was to Dean without him even saying anything. It had really been…thrilling, no that’s not quite right, more like inevitable that Sam would do that. Like it was assumed, it was something either of them would do for family. And if it had all worked out like he’d foolishly hoped, his brother would have really been Uncle Sam to Ben.

Uncle Sam, hah! Now that would have been something to get to tease him endlessly about.

He looks down to the camera, sees how tight his grip is, the whiteness of his knuckles and fingertips showing that these memories are tough to bear, almost too much. No wonder he doesn’t let himself go there too often. Remembering all this might-have-been domestic bliss is all crap anyway. Sure, he’d have made himself stay with Lisa if Sam hadn’t come back from Hell. He’d probably own the construction company he’d been working for by now, had himself even more drinking and/or backyard barbecue buddies. It would have been fine. He would have eventually pulled himself out of the pit of despair. Would have let himself concentrate on making a good life for Ben and Lisa at the very least. Who knows, he might have even let himself be happy now and then.

Who is he kidding? That domestic bliss shit is only a crappy wish for the sheep who don’t know what really happens in the dark. There’s not enough whisky in the world to turn him into that.

He tosses the camera back into the trunk, he can’t hold it a second longer, it really is feeling too heavy with all the memories attached to it. He stands up and gently puts the trunk lid down, pressing it until the latch catches. Dean pats the trunk twice, like he’s saying goodnight to an old and beloved family dog.

“I’ll be back to finish this up tomorrow, Baby,” Dean says, feeling silly for speaking out loud to his car. But Sam’s not around, and even if he was here to start teasing, Dean wouldn’t care too much. His whole life he’s talked to her like another member of the family. Because she is one, and Sam knows it.

He ambles out of the garage and heads to the bathroom to get cleaned up before it’s time to make dinner. Sam’s going to be back some time before then. He searches out the newest hiding spot Sam’s tried out for his special shampoo. This time it’s behind the stack of folded towels in the cupboard. He knows that Sam knows that he uses the stuff, the scent is hard to miss. It became a regular thing, after that first time he’d used it because his own bottle of shampoo had been empty, and Sam’s had been sitting there—well, there had been something about that smell. It’s comforting or something, like it’s become *their* smell. Which is all kinds of weird, he knows, he knows. But playing this hiding and finding the fancy shampoo game is a low-level way to satisfy the ongoing prank war thing they’ve had going between them all these years. They could call it: Eau de Winchester—he ought to make a label on the computer and slap it on the bottle, Sam would probably get a kick out of that.

He probably would not get a kick out of how much shampoo Dean uses…or exactly where he actually uses it. It’s not too often he has the bunker to himself, and he’s in the mood after thinking about Lisa, how bendy she’d been even a few years after the first time they’d spent that long weekend together. He rubs the shampoo into his hair and sighs when the scent envelops him, and he flashes on his brother’s hair, warmed up in the sun at that one rest stop in Colorado. How the breeze had blown the smell to him across the picnic table. Sam had looked radiant, smiling at his jokes, clinking their beer bottles together, those dimples…oh god, why is he using his Sam shampoo-covered hand to stroke himself? He tries to switch back to thinking of Lisa instead, how she’d been so eager to please, especially after Sam had come back, like she knew she had to work harder to keep Dean in her bed.

Sam—god how gutted he’d been, waking up from the djinn juice, seeing him alive after all that time, his hair so long and perfect, thinking he must be in Heaven. He strokes harder, faster at the thought of that reunion, how Sam had hugged him so close, how they’d pressed their bodies together head to toe. And Sam had smelled so fucking good, he’d smelled just like this. That must have been when he started using this fancy-ass shampoo, only the best for Soulless. Goddamn how ripped he’d been, an absolute perfect specimen, Dean hadn’t been able to avoid staring when he’d walk around naked after showers in their motel rooms.

Dean had hoped that Soulless would push the issue, try and step over the line they’d always tugged on between them—never stepping over it, but always wanting to, both of them, never going too far. Not like this now, imagining his ripped brother, with him here in the shower, using his big hand on Dean, how he’d hold him with his other hand, probably have it on his ass, maybe pressing in a few fingers, those long fingers reaching inside him. Dean couldn’t help thrusting between Sam’s hand on his cock, and Sam’s fingers pressing his ass open. The things Sam would say about what he wanted to do to Dean next. That was that, he was coming hard, shouting out Sam’s name, all over the tile in the showers, the evidence of his disgusting weakness washed away almost immediately.

Thankfully he was toweling off when Sam called down the hallway.

“Hi honey, I’m home!”

This was their new joke, making fun of their pretend domestic almost-bliss. But hearing Sam’s voice, the one that had the smile in it that Dean loved so much almost made him cry in that moment. It had been too close like this for too long. He wasn’t sure how much more of this stupid pining and self-denial he could really take. He knew it affected how he treated Sam, sometimes he’d take it out on him, treat him more harshly than he wanted or even worse, just shut him out completely. At least he wasn’t shoving women in his face all the time like he used to, that was his usual go-to coverup maneuver, especially back in the days when Sam was using that camera. That desperate year, a whole year’s worth of the most intense longing to just crash through the line that separated them, but holding back because he didn’t want to lose Sam at the moment he needed him most. Maybe he should have, then Sam could have just left, had his own life, not dealt with all the crap that came next. Who knows, the angels might have just left Dean down in Hell to rot like he was supposed to be doing. Like he probably deserved for thinking about his brother this way.

“You look tired, Dean, you want me to make dinner tonight?” Sam asks, leaning just his head into the bathroom like he didn’t want to intrude.

Dean glances at himself briefly in the mirror over the sink that he’d apparently been staring into when Sam had come in. What was he even doing home this soon? “Yeah, that’d be great, Sam, thanks. I’m gonna go lie down until then,” Dean says, resolutely not making eye contact, because he knows he can’t hide all this, it’s too close to the surface.

Sam steps into the bathroom and comes closer, landing a giant hand on Dean’s shoulder, the weight of his brother’s concern feeling even heavier. “Dean, what’s going on, you okay?” Sam asks, concern and worry coloring all the spaces in-between the words.

“‘m good, Sam, just didn’t get much sleep last night,” Dean mumbles, still not meeting Sam’s eyes. He focuses on what he sees in the mirror, Sam’s hand on his bare shoulder, cupping the whole damn thing in his enormous palm, he can feel the warmth of Sam soaking into him. If he only knew what you were just doing in the shower, he wouldn’t be touching you, he’d be running away down the hall screaming.

“Sometimes I miss staying in motel rooms, because I’d already know that,” Sam says.

Dean’s eyes flick up and finally meet Sam’s in the mirror. All he sees is concern, and Sam’s super-power: true empathy. It’s always Sam’s job to be filling in the blanks of what Dean isn’t saying. This time he’s probably assuming Dean was having nightmares or stressing about Mom. But hold on…he misses staying in motel rooms? Just because Sam would know what was going on with him better?

“You do?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, we kept better track of each other when we were living like that,” Sam says, his hand briefly squeezing Dean’s shoulder before he lifts it off.

Dean wants to tell him to put it back this second, that he wants it—needs it. And it must show on his face, because Sam’s hand is back on his shoulder, warm and welcome, and he’s using it to turn Dean towards him. Dean looks up and searches Sam’s face, trying to figure this out, what has Sam seen, what is he thinking?

“You know you can talk to me, right? I’m right here,” Sam says, slow and careful, almost like he’s walking through a minefield.

“It’s the same shit, different day, nothin’ new or exciting. And yeah, I know I can talk to you, thanks for the reminder, Sammy,” Dean says, putting the relief and gratitude into the way he says Sam’s nickname. The one that they both know means so much more than a plain old nickname.

Sam smiles, the dimples even make a blessedly rare appearance, Dean doesn’t get to see those much these days.

“I’ve really missed those,” Dean blurts out, instantly sorry he said that out loud because of all the questions it’ll raise that he doesn’t want to lie about when he answers.

“Missed what?” Sam asks, almost tilting his head in that puppy-like way he’s always had, still smiling, still flashing the fucking dimples. They go away slowly as Dean hesitates to actually answer with the truth.

“These,” Dean says, poking two fingers into either side of Sam’s face, landing right in the spots where the dimples appear. He’s betting by doing this that it’ll break the tension, of what might happen next. But then Sam smiles and Dean’s fingers are being moved, almost sucked into where the muscles that make the dimples appear. And Sam’s so damn warm under his fingertips and his beautiful, smiling mouth is right there.

Sam giggles and his eyes flash briefly with something much darker than Dean is used to seeing. He turns his head and grabs one of Dean’s fingertips with his front teeth. His lips close around Dean’s finger and there’s the briefest moment of Sam’s tongue and slight suction that makes the floor disappear under Dean’s feet. He’s falling into finally having this feeling and he just doesn’t care. Sam growls and lets Dean’s finger go and takes a step backwards that might as well be a mile.

“Dinner then?” Dean asks, embarrassed to sound so damn breathless, but he’s standing there, only a towel around his waist, relieved that he hadn’t done something worse, and that at least the half-chub he’s got going now won’t be too obvious or get much worse thanks to his previous activities in the shower.

“Yeah…uh, I’m on it,” Sam says, stepping out of the bathroom, a little unnecessary wiggle in his walk just to put a point on whatever the hell that just was.

Good lord, what is he supposed to do with all this now?

***

While they’re eating dinner in the kitchen, Sam’s phone rings with a message from Jack.

“So,…uh, Cas is dropping Jack off in Manhattan tomorrow. I’m going to go meet them,” Sam says after he reads the message on his phone.

“Good thing it’s just Manhattan, Kansas and not Manhattan, New York. Who knows what the kid would get into there on his own,” Dean says.

“True, at some point we’ve got to try a hunt in a big city with him, just to show him how to get around,” Sam says.

“Who knows, maybe he’d blend in better in a city, unlike he does here in Lebanon,” Dean observes, thinking of that little gang of high schoolers Jack had gotten involved with.

Dean knows it’s well past time for Sam to teach Jack about using university libraries for research. Kansas State over in Manhattan is the closest school to them that’s got anything worthwhile on site, and their computer access to the rest of the digital resources out there is top notch.

“My plan is to teach him how to use university libraries to research stuff for cases, how to fit in on campus, how to gain access to restricted special section collections. Those libraries have saved our asses a few times so it’s worth making sure he knows how to do it on his own.”

“That’s where they keep all the good books and scrolls and shit,” Dean says.

“Yep, climate control is where it’s at for that kind of stuff. I wish it wasn’t so inconvenient and that all the libraries would just digitize everything, but that’s still a long ways off,” Sam says.

“You wearing your sweater vest?” Dean asks.

“Probably, why?” Sam asks.

“No reason,” Dean mutters, not wanting to admit a thing, and kicking himself for bringing it up in the first place. What the hell is with him tonight, anyway?

Sam’s eyebrows quirk for a moment, like he’s going to push the question. “I’ll be leaving early in the morning, probably before you get up,” Sam says.

“Okay, uh, how long are you planning on being there?” Dean asks.

“Two days max,” Sam says. “You can come with me if you want, Jack would probably love it if you were there too.”

Dean smiles at the idea, it’s sweet to think of that, and probably true. “Naw, you guys need the time together to concentrate on the whole collegiate gig. I don’t have much to offer as far as that goes.”

Sam tips his head to the side, scrunches his eyebrows together in obvious disagreement, then he rights himself and schools his face into the normal range. “I don’t agree with that—at all. You always have something worthwhile to teach him, Dean.”

God, he never stops with this shit. Dean frowns, not accepting the praise. “Not about college stuff, that’s your thing, it was never mine.”

“Fine, I guess we’re pretending all those times you’ve charmed your way into college libraries across the country never happened. Whatever, dude,” Sam says with a scoff with the edges sanded off by another smile.

Sam knows, of course he knows why Dean doesn’t want to come along. Any reminder of the Stanford era brings it all up again. How happy Sam had been there, what he’d lost, how he’d wanted to go back and finish all those years later and never got the chance to do, all wrapped up with the feelings of abandonment that Dean would never get over.

“You could still go back and finish, you know that, right?” Dean asks in a rush.

“It’s not what I want anymore, Dean. I’m happy with what I’ve got here. But thanks, that means a lot, you saying that,” Sam says.

Dean’s stunned, he can’t put enough words together to respond coherently. Sam smiles again, the dimples coming out in full force.

“You don’t believe me?” Sam asks, momentary worry flashing across his face.

Seeing that flash of worry on his brother’s face pushes him to answer honestly. “Sure I do, Sammy. It’s just…I don’t know, I feel like a failure sometimes, that I had to pull you away from all that because I couldn’t deal with Dad being missing by myself. You loved college so much, it was so good for you. And I wish you could have it again.”

“Dean…listen, I never blamed you for that, okay? It’s not on you, it never was. Besides, if I’d ever really wanted to, I would have gone back to school somehow. But like I said, I’m happy with what I’ve got here.” Sam stands up from the table and takes his plate to the sink. “And with that, I’m going to head to bed, see you in a couple days.”

Sam gets up and leaves then, a satisfied, happy look on his face. Like he knows he’s finally gotten the point across after all these years. Dean has to get used to the idea that Sam is actually happy with where he is now. Dean watches him lope up the steps and out of the kitchen. He calls after him, “Bye, say hi to Jack for me.”

***

The next morning, by the time Dean gets up, Sam is indeed gone. But he’s left half a pot of coffee and some oatmeal. The good rolled oats kind that taste passable when you add enough brown sugar, cinnamon and raisins. It’s quiet while he eats and catches up on the news, He misses Sam being there and making all the noise he makes, humphing at news stories, sharing the ones he wants Dean to read. It’s boring without him there. Dean is sure Sam’s already in his element, back on campus, getting to teach someone, and to hang out in a library like the true geek he’ll always be. And Jack is likely just happy getting to be with Sam, having his full attention. Dean remembers how stupid jealous he’d been at first, but he’s gotten used to it. And the kind of attention Sam pays to Jack isn’t quite the same as what he gets from Sam.

Instead of waiting for Sam to come back and ask if he wants his camera back, Dean decides to try and get it working again for him. Or at the very least to retrieve anything that’s still on the memory card. Dean gets the camera out of Baby’s trunk and sets it on one of the library tables. He tracks down an old school usb connector, but the camera won’t recharge or even turn on when its plugged in. He can see that the batteries are all corroded, this was made before the Li-ion batteries were introduced. These were the usual alkaline ones and there had definitely been some moisture in the Impala’s trunk over the last twelve years or so which would have helped the corrosion along.

Moving onto the memory card then, he’ll try to clean out the battery compartment later, see if he can get the camera itself working or not. It takes a bit to figure out where the memory card even is, but he finally finds the clever little door and quickly has it opened up. He presses and pinches out the card, and is surprised to see that it’s one of the big old original SD cards. That definitely won’t fit into the slot on the side of his laptop. He knows they have a reader converter thingy somewhere. It’s in the same box the old usb connector had been, that miscellaneous box of electronics he’s saved is really coming in handy today.

He gets the card plugged in to the reader and brings up the files on his laptop screen. What he sees on his screen shocks Dean so completely that he’s unable to move a muscle. He’s frozen with…what…uncertainty or maybe just confusion.

The memory card is filled with pictures and videos, and all of them are of him. Every single one. Why would Sam have so many pictures of him? He thinks about when exactly he’d gotten this camera for Sam and he soon realizes that Sam was trying to give himself something to hold onto when Dean finally took his trip down to Hell. The sneaky little bastard had videoed him working on the car, singing off-key in the car when he probably thought Sam was asleep, singing even more off-key in the shower when he probably thought Sam was even more asleep.

Dean flicks through the pictures, wishing there was a picture of Sam on there, and then there—finally, one is up on the screen. One that he didn’t expect. He’s in this one too. Just like all the others, he doesn’t remember Sam asking him if it was okay to take a picture. And he sure as hell would remember taking one like this.

In the picture there are Christmas lights twinkling in the background, and they’re both snuggled up together on a small, very ugly green couch. He instantly knows that this was the night when Sam had surprised him with doing Christmas after all. He recalls how strong the eggnog Sam had made for him had been. Maybe that was why he doesn’t remember posing for this photo. (sure, Dean blame it on the alcohol). But then there’s the way he’s snuggled right up to Sam, his head is resting on Sam’s damn chest, his own eyes are closed and he looks so damn content but not asleep or passed-out. Sam’s giant arm is around him, the knuckles white on the hand holding onto Dean’s own bicep. Sam is looking down at him with the fondest expression, no it’s not just fond, it’s something much more than that. (love it’s love, you know it is, Dean—a voice whispers in his ear).

Dean remembers that night, how they’d opened what they’d thought were their last Christmas presents to each other and Sam had also given him the gift of stopping the conversation before it got too chick-flicky. They’d watched some dumb football game neither of them gave a shit about instead. And they’d kept on drinking Sam’s eggnog. And when that ran out, they’d finished off what was left of the bottle of bourbon. Apparently they’d snuggled up on one couch at some point, and Sam had used the self-timer on the camera to get this picture. He can tell that he’s not passed out. Or maybe he’s just handsy-drunk like Sam gets sometimes. Sam doesn’t look upset about all the contact at all, he looks a million times happier than Dean has seen him in years.

There’s something about seeing this picture that takes Dean’s breath away. He’s never imagined this sort of softness from Sam. The fondness and blatant love that’s so evident on his brother’s beautiful face and the way he’s holding Dean like he’s precious and special, it’s everything he’s wanted and needed all these years. How had he missed this? Was this really possible between them? And if so, what the hell was he going to do about it?

Obviously…if he was brutally honest with himself, the possibility of a loving relationship or whatever with Sam was terrifying. It was paralyzing in a way, knowing this unstated, undiscussed thing was maybe right there for the taking and having. Even worse that it maybe had always been there and he’d been oblivious. Was it a thing he wanted, (or even deserved) being loved like that by Sam? He reminds himself that this picture was taken a long, long time ago, twelve years. So much has happened between them and to them, they aren’t the same young men that they were back then. When he searches inside himself, that young man is still in there, buried under the memories of his own stint in Hell, as well as losing Sam to it for his own stint and all the angel and demon stuff that came afterwards.

Is it still a possibility? And if it is…well what is he going to do about it?

Dean finds he can’t answer that question, so he prints the photo out on their best photo paper and shuts the laptop lid. This has all been more than enough of memory lane for him today.

He finds an ornate silver frame in one of the bunker’s miscellaneous household junk storage closets and polishes it up as he thinks about all the questions about Sam and what he might or might not let himself wish for. The intricate swirls and indentations on the frame take a lot of elbow grease to get clean, but as his hands are occupied with the silver polish, his mind wanders, imagining and hoping for things to be clearer. He just wants to know what’s possible. It’s not worth hoping for some big happily ever-after if Sam’s changed his mind since he took this photo.

He sets the frame up on his desk right next to the one with the picture of the two of them and Bobby, and the one with them as small children and Mom and Dad. It looks good there, the might-have-been of it suits the definitely-were vibes of the pictures of them with Bobby and their parents. It’s probably a good thing that they’re not here to give advice, and honestly he wouldn’t even be considering this if they still were. He decides that he can’t call up any of the people he knows to ask for their advice because they all know Sam, and the crucial fact that Sam is—his brother. Cas probably already has it all figured out in that vague know-it-all angel way that he has, and maybe Jack has as well. Jody would probably freak the fuck out, and any of the other hunters he just doesn’t know well enough to ask about something so personal.

The more he thinks about talking to someone, the more it becomes clear. There’s really only one person he wants to talk about this with…Sam. He’s the only one that really knows Dean, and vice versa. And if Sam feels even half as much as Dean admits to himself he feels for Sam, then it’s got to be worth the risk. It’s hard to admit that to himself. That he wants this, that he wants to risk screwing up how good it is between them now, just for the chance that they could have a chance at—everything.

It’s probably going to be down to him deciding to bring it up with Sam. At the risk of well…everything in his life. If he’s wrong, then Sam will leave him, right? He probably should have left for good already really, especially after that whole Dean becoming a demon fiasco. It’s hard to even conceive of a life without his brother as his partner. He can’t imagine doing this whole hunting thing without him, it had been hard enough when he’d gone off to Stanford.

Dean remembers the conversation they’d just had the night before Sam left to go meet Jack at the university. He remembers the odd smiles he’d gotten from Sam, when he was talking about how he was happy with what he had here. From the context of their conversation, Sam hadn’t just been talking about being happy with their home in the bunker, or the Men of Letters library, he was talking about them—living here together. That’s what those adorable, kind of shy smiles had been about, Dean’s certain of it, deep in his gut where all of this is churning around like the worst and best sort of tornado. It’s too much to keep going around and around about.

He gets ready for bed and turns out all the lights but his desk lamp. As he lays there, alone and cozy under his blankets, staring at the new (old, twelve years old) picture, the two of them all tangled up together, he lets himself wish. At first it’s just a vague, ‘I wish I knew what to do’ kind of thing. But it soon turns into a more visceral, emphatic, even needy: ‘I need to know if this is possible, if Sam still wants this’. He falls asleep after sending that wish out into the universe. Who knows who’s listening these days, right?

****

***
Part 2