[Big Bang 2010] Book One, Part Three

[annabethbigbang]

October 2003

"Remember what I said about fucking another guy?" Jess said, dragging him out of his post-afternoon-class doze. He cracked an eye open at her, and she was kneeling on the bed, wearing her tank and nothing else. He blinked a little and rubbed his thumb over the top of her thigh where it was pressed against his ribcage.

"Mmm?" he said, even though he hadn't really been asleep, just drifting for awhile.

"C'mon, Sam, you remember, I know you do." She pressed a fleeting kiss to his lips, and then slung her leg over his body. He woke up a lot more when her lower body came in contact with his dick, trapped in denim.

She put her hands flat on his chest, palms over his bare nipples, and settled herself carefully over him. He wondered just what she was up to now.

"If this is leading to telling me that I should go out and pick up a guy, I have to protest," Sam said, even as he skimmed his hands up her sides and under her tank. Her skin was hot and thrillingly soft.

"Not at all," she murmured, and then she reached down with one hand and did something he couldn't see, but it made her body slip down just a little bit better over his, and his cock was stiff and pressing against the inside seam of his jeans almost painfully. But she took care of that too; she undid the button and adjusted him, then ground down against him.

He slipped his fingers down her belly and between them, found her naked and wet down below, her dampness seeping into the material of his jeans.

He supposed it was a more pleasing way to get them dirty enough to need another washing.

"All right," he said on a gasp. "I remember."

"I screwed another chick once," Jess said, grinding her naked lips against his throbbing dick. Sam moaned and thrust his hips up, but she pushed him down with one hand. He let her hold him in place. She slowly rotated her own hips, just a little, and he could tell she was getting herself off by rubbing over his dick in that maddening fashion.

"Did you?" he panted, feeling his muscles locking up with incipient pleasure.

"Uh huh," she said, her own breathing pleasingly erratic as she moved over him. "First we made out, dirty, her tongue thick in my mouth. It felt so good, Sam. Such a forbidden thing to do." She pressed down with her hand and her body at once and Sam's dick spasmed inside its denim prison.

"God," Sam said, surprised by how hot he found the whole idea. Well, not entirely surprised; he knew that guys liked the idea of two chicks doing each other simply because Dean had always exhibited such glee over showing Sam pictures of just that sort of thing in his porn magazines. Dean's favourite, of course, being Busty Asian Beauties, which often featured two girls together in the middle spread. Once, Dean had thrown the magazine at Sam so he could see the huge-breasted, completely nude twins leaning against each other, naked shoulder to naked shoulder.

Sam shoved Dean away with all his will and concentrated on how much he wanted to kiss Jess, to fill her mouth with his tongue, to enjoy that same privilege as some faceless girl had done.

"She snuck into my bedroom after my parents were in bed," Jess whispered, putting her mouth right by his ear and speaking so that the vibrations of her voice combined with the heat of her breath gave him a full-body shudder. "And I stripped off her shirt and unclasped her bra, Sam. I had touched her nipples with these hands—" she played with his nipples as she spoke, rolling them between her fingers even as she kept grinding against him "—and I sucked one into my mouth. It was almost the best thing I've ever tasted."

Sam wanted to ask what was the best, but she continued, telling him the answer without words as she slowly mouthed over one nipple, her lips moving against his skin, her voice muffled but still understandable:

"And then she took off my bra, and did the same to me. And it was almost the best thing I've ever felt." Her hands found his and pulled them up, under her tank top, against her bare breasts. He shivered again and cupped her, flicking his thumb over one nipple.

"And I fucked her hard, Sam," Jess said, thrusting down hard and driving herself against his dick, her body convulsing, and he could feel, even though the worn fabric of his jeans, the throb of her muscles as she came; could feel her orgasm soak right through his jeans and onto his dick, and he thought about those words, felt her body still shuddering under his hands, and his body decided it might as well join her.

He shot off inside his jeans, hot and sticky, pulse after pulse of it, his cock jerking against her as the aftershocks rippled through her body.

Jess dragged her mouth up over his chest, leaving a swollen bruise over his collarbone, before nipping at his lower lip. "And I wanna do the same to you."

Sam was floating enjoyably on a sated lethargy, but her words made his muscles tense all over in a different way than imminent orgasm. "You what?"

Jess used her teeth to pull his lower lip into her mouth, sucking on it hard until it swelled. She let go after a moment, leaving his bottom lip tender.

"I wanna fuck you." She rolled off of him, but her hands kept straying over to his bare chest, tracing along the scars.

"What the hell for?" Sam said, but even though he'd just gotten off, his dick was trying to get interested in the idea, which kind of freaked him out. He wondered for just an instant if Dean had ever gotten fucked by a chick.

"Because I want a turn to be on top, baby," she said, and Sam snorted.

"You've been on top," he pointed out.

"Not the same. You can trust me, Sam. Don't you?"

"You know that I do," Sam replied, stretching like a cat as she stroked his skin with her soft fingers. Every so often she'd just barely graze him with her nails, and that felt fucking incredible.

"It'll be worth it. You'll like it, and I know what I'm doing." She kissed just by his left nipple and then hopped out of the bed, crossing over to the dresser, where she opened the drawer they'd designated as hers and rummaged around in it until she produced a bright, electric blue dildo, complete with the harness. Sam swallowed.

"This is Morris," she said, and tossed it on the bed. She must have recognised the expression on his face because she laughed a little. "Relax, Sam, I didn't mean right now. You'll have some time to get used to the idea if you agree."

He poked it gingerly and she crawled back onto their bed, unzipping his jeans and opening them so that the cooler air of the room immediately washed over his dick, which was still tacky with spunk.

She ran her fingers up and down his shaft and he thought, given another couple of minutes, he might even be able to get hard enough to enjoy that a lot more.

"This is crazy," he said. "That's so not—"

"You don't have to do it," she said. "But I still think you'll find you like it."

Sam looked at her, and thought about what he might have done if he'd fucked that boy in high school. Probably wouldn't have wanted to be the catcher, to be honest.

But there was something so thrilling about Jess, something that made him feel like he was right on the edge of a cliff, about ready to hurl himself off of it. And oftentimes, she suggested things that made him take just that plunge, terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

He wanted to think his logical brain had gone carefully over all of the pros and cons when he agreed to it, but instead it had more to do with the fact that she used her nails ever so lightly on his dick, up and down his shaft, and he swelled up into her hand and found himself nodding. "All right. Someday," he acquiesced.

"Awesome," she said, and Sam wished he could ask Dean if he'd ever known what it was like to be on the bottom. He bucked his hips up, not quite wanting to come again but enjoying the playfulness of her fingers, and imagined giving up the control like that.

Okay, so it was definitely thrilling.

Sam rocked into her hand again and marvelled at her unabashed kinkiness.

:::

August 21, 2004

Sam thought it was a stupid idea. Jess, of course, thought it was brilliant. And, as things often went, she got her way.

Which was how they wound up in front of an altar in Las Vegas in the dead, still heat of August, with Jess standing by his side looking radiant and utterly beautiful in a white dress that was strapless on one side and cascaded down her calves in loose, satiny ruffles on the other side, with Sam putting the cubic circonia ring on her left hand because she'd convinced him of this too much at the last minute for the real thing.

He was twenty-one years old and marrying his girlfriend—the one real girlfriend he'd ever managed to keep—about three days before classes started at Stanford for their senior year. He'd asked her once—long, long ago—why she was in the same class he was when she was a year younger, and realised as she told him about skipping ahead a grade that he should've expected that, she was that smart. Sam rather thought he might've skipped a grade or two had he stayed in one place long enough growing up.

He stared into her eyes—those eyes he'd gotten to know so well over the past three years—and repeated the words given to him. He barely heard her response, because he was too busy thinking about how happy he was, and how crazy it was to be doing this, and how much his father would kill him if he ever found out.

Sam expected him to find out at some point, of course; probably sooner rather than later. And he wondered if John would be angry enough to track him down to punish him for it, even after he'd told Sam to get gone and stay that way.

But more than that, more than just seeing beloved features and knowing he'd get to see them for the rest of his life, he was thinking about Dean. Wondering if Dean would view this as a betrayal—not the marrying-her part, because he was fairly certain Dean would only be happy for him about that, but the part where he hadn't bothered to call Dean even once in the years since he'd left, not even to tell his brother that he was in love, or that he was going to marry her, or that he'd planned an entire future with her that did not, in any way, shape, or form include his family. That he hadn't invited Dean to be there.

He figured Dean would never forgive him for not allowing him to be the best man—or, in this case, one of the witnesses. Amusingly, Candice was one of their witnesses, even though she still kept giving Sam uneasy looks.

But Sam had Jess, and that was all he needed. Was all he was ever going to need, because he'd decided on that a long time ago. Dean had made his choice.

And there was no going back.

:::
May 2, 2005

Sam's twenty-second birthday didn't start off very auspiciously. In fact, he rolled over in bed to hug his wife and his stomach kept on rolling, forcing him to hit the ground running as he attempted to stall the bile in his throat long enough to get down the hall to the bathroom.

By the time he got there, though, he didn't so much feel like throwing up as he felt like his head was about to split open like a coconut and spill his brains everywhere.

He grabbed for his skull and collapsed to the tile, faintly aware of the moaning that seemed to be coming from his own mouth as he rocked back and forth in pain and—

The first thing Sam notices is that the man has yellow eyes. Poisonous yellow, shading to darker in the centre like even his pupil is yellow. Sam doesn't know what type of creature he's looking at—he's never heard of one that looks that much like a human but with yellow eyes before—and his second thought is to call out for Jess because he's terrified she'll be hurt somehow if he doesn't warn her. He realises his mistake immediately, because to draw the creature's attention to her is probably the worst idea he could have had—and just as he's about to question whatever happened to his hunter judgment, he notices that his voice was soundless. He knows he opened his mouth and yelled, but no sound followed that action. And even as he's waiting for the yellow-eyed man to come after him, he sees another young woman standing between Sam and the man.

She's crying and clutching at her face, blood streaming like tears down her cheeks. Her dark hair is matted down with rain, Sam realises, even as he discovers that he can't feel the rain on his own face. He has no idea what's going on at this point, except that he seems to be no more than an observer in some violent, horror-movie-esque tableau.

The creature opens its mouth and speaks, and Sam cannot hear anything. He'd be afraid he's deaf if he didn't already know that apparently he's viewing this scene as though behind glass, like an animal in the zoo watching a man hit his children without being able to do a damn thing about it.

As he stands there impotently, a man grabs at the woman as though he's listening to whatever the creature's just said; yanks her head back and bares her throat. The man appears human, eyes a proper colour, and nothing funny about his teeth to indicate werewolf, but he bites right down into her jugular and when she screams,

that Sam hears—

Sam opened his eyes to the brightness of his bathroom, the ceiling cheerfully painted yellow back when they first moved in, his skull still aching in a residual way that reminded him that the pain was real even as it receded back to whatever hell it had come from. He could hear Jess waking up in the bedroom, and he knew any moment she was going to come padding into the bathroom to take her shower before she got ready to go out and look for a job.

He forced himself to his feet and wobbled unsteadily at first, then leaned down into the basin of the sink and splashed cold water on his face, running his damp hands through his hair. He could remember everything he'd seen, but he had no inkling of what it meant; it was just another one of those weird things that seemed to happen around him, like that time he'd spent three days seeing white spots in the corners of his eyes. He never figured out what that was from, either, despite going to the doctor on his last fifty dollars—a fact that had made Jess worry more about how bad the problem was than complain about the last bit of their money disappearing.

Sam hadn't ever told her about the hustling pool he'd done down at the campus bar to make up for it, either; he'd said he'd gotten an extra few hours down at his job even though they'd been cutting hours all winter.

Sam was just about to take a piss and brush his teeth when he heard his cell phone ring down the hall in the kitchen. He stared down at his hands, and for some reason they flashed red in front of his eyes, dripping as if from blood, and he blinked rapidly and often until the image disappeared.

His phone was still ringing, so he took off jogging down the hall once again, grabbing the cell and punching the button before he even looked at who was calling.

"Sam?"

Sam almost dropped the phone. He might've expected a phone call on his twenty-first birthday, maybe, since it had made him legitimately legal and in less need of fake IDs than before. But he didn't expect this at all: the horrible headache, the searing pain that resolved into some sort of vision—and what the fuck was up with that?—and now a phone call from his brother, the guy he hadn't spoken to in almost four years?

"Dean?" he hissed, trying to cover his mouth with his other hand to keep Jess from hearing. Not that she'd know who Dean was, of course, but she'd definitely ask, since she'd also know Sam had never mentioned anyone named Dean before.

"Yeah, Dad said—" there was a rustling, then the sound of paper being scrunched into a ball, then the sound that Sam would know anywhere as Dean tapping the end of his pen against his teeth, followed by a hushed curse, and then: "yeah, uh, just thought it might be nice to call. Say happy birthday, you know, all that shit."

"You haven't called me in four years," Sam snarled into the phone, still in a sibilant whisper. "What the fuck are you doing? Are you doing drugs?"

There was the sound of more paper rustling, and then Dean snorted, but it wasn't really happy laughter. "Nah, Sammy, you know I'd never touch that stuff."

Sam didn't bite. He wasn't going to get into a reminiscing-session with Dean about the times he'd tried pot, or the one time he'd convinced Sam to try it, too. Though that did give him an idea... maybe one of his friends had laced his drink last night at his birthday party with something stronger, a hallucinogen that caused the horrible pain and the vivid lucid dreaming he'd done. While awake. Man, he was so going to murder whoever had done it. He was pretty sure Jess would help.

"No," Dean said on a long sigh. He was clearly upset that Sam hadn't given him any sort of response he could turn into a taunt. "I just... wanted to check on ya. Call you when you turn twenty-three, little brother," Dean said, and the phone went silent in Sam's ear.

Sam pulled it away and glared at it, furious with Dean for calling and sounding like... like... well, like Dad, all cryptic and uninformative and then just hanging up like he hadn't had some sort of super-important reason for calling if he was going to do it after so long.

For the briefest moment Sam wondered if Dean could've had some idea about the headache he'd woken up with, but it passed as Jess called out from the bedroom,

"Hey, hon? Have you seen my purple shoes? I can only find one of them."

Sam forgot about the phone call and sprinted back towards the bedroom, not really sure why he was in such a hurry to see her, other than to make sure she was all right.

She was smiling a little funny when he came skidding into the room, but other than that, she seemed fine.

"You okay? Did you drink too much last night? I know how much you hate to be drunk," she said, pulling her pantyhose up over her calf. Sam sighed; he'd never get tired of her legs.

The little sapphire she still sometimes wore winked in the overhead light and Sam sighed again, remembering that while she was out job-hunting, he was supposed to be going out ring-shopping, even though she didn't know that. He needed to replace the stupid fake ring she'd been wearing forever; he wanted the ring that signified the love between them to be as real as it was.

He was so busy watching her dress and thinking about diamonds that he didn't even think about Dean's obvious reaction to such a sentiment.

She slipped into her one shoe, clopped unevenly over to him, and wound her arms around his neck, kissing him softly. He pulled back when he realised he hadn't brushed his teeth yet like he'd meant to, and she laughed.

"Have a nice day, babe. And happy birthday."

Sam forgot about everything else but that smile and the sound of her voice. He kissed her quick and hard, smacking her ass as she took off hopping around the room looking for her other shoe.

The rest of the day was brilliant, like sun reflecting off of snow. It heralded even brighter days, ones where he forgot about the pain in his head and the strange waking nightmare he'd had.

:::

2005

They didn't exactly consciously start trying for a baby—Jess was too afraid that if they deliberately tried they'd be liable to feel not only disappointed but guilty, with themselves and with each other, if they didn't succeed right away.

So Jess stopped taking her birth control pills without telling Sam she'd done it, and he gave up using condoms without warning her beforehand that he was going to do so, which led to the first unprotected sex they'd ever had—and that included their honeymoon. Jess still teased about the fact that Sam had worn a condom on their wedding night, but Sam held to his decision, even though he couldn't even explain to himself—much less to her—why he'd done so.

Maybe because they'd gotten married while they were still both undergrads and he'd been more than a little terrified that she'd get pregnant way too soon.

Sam's interview for law school had come and gone, and even though it hadn't been an exceptionally long time, he still hadn't heard anything, so he figured it wasn't going to happen.

He pushed Jess down against the bed with his hips, his fingers in her hair and his other hand on her waist, listened to the punched-out noise she made as he ground down into her.

Her fingers were fluttering against his hipbones, like butterflies unsure of where to set down; he moved and she made another gasping wheeze of a sound. He could feel her all the way into his bones as he dipped deep; he bottomed out and fell against her, barely catching himself in time with his hands—she gave a little cry and some of her hair stuck to his fingers from where he'd torn it out in his haste to keep from crushing her to the bed.

He was reminded, almost involuntarily, of the time that he'd let her take the reins. He bit his lower lip, his hair hanging into her face, his sweat like jewels against her skin, and she grazed the skin of his spine with her hand on her way up to the back of his neck, where she pulled him down and transferred his lip into her mouth.

He kissed her, rolled his hips and felt every minute quiver of her muscles, felt her lips go impossibly soft under his.

She panted, her breath hot and moist against the inside of his mouth, and proved once again that she was more than a match for him as she wound her fingers into the curls at his nape and tugged, and then, when he slid into her again like water freefalling down a slope, gathering speed and pressure, she yanked, hard.

He laughed right into her mouth as strands of his hair were jerked free. Jess was paying him back for his earlier roughness, but he didn't mind.

She echoed his laughter, her body tensing up under his, and he leaned up on his elbows, watched her eyes go smoke-dark as the vibrations from her laughter travelled through her body and into her more delicate parts, and he canted his hips so that the bone of his pelvis ground into her sweet spot and made her eyes squeeze up, crinkled at the corners, as she came.

He swallowed against the pleasure making his throat thick and topped her off again, her body sinking even deeper into the mattress even as it opened up and made dark, sweet space for his.

Her muscles clenched, released; he rode out the waves of sweet agony setting a slow burn in his own body, heard his blood frothing in his ears as her hips came up and her body almost shoved him out; he pressed her back down with the weight of his hips and the movement of his dick inside her.

She still had her eyes closed, her lips shining with a mixture of his spit, her spit, and probably a goodly amount of his sweat from where it dripped off the ends of his hair; he gazed at her and tried to freeze the moment in his mind, this expression, which was so alike and yet so unlike every other 'o' face she'd ever made. He wondered what she'd see when he finally came, and he went up on his palms, flattening the pillow around her head, and his body craved release, reached for it, sought it—he felt his own eyes squinch shut and then he lost it inside of her, pulse after pulse of his dick and the sticky, hot rush of his come as it spread inside her and began to drip back out as he withdrew.

She was watching him when he finally let his breath out again and opened his eyes. She had her fingers down below, caught between them, almost too much pressure on too-sensitive skin and she held them at the opening of her own body, her expression rapt as if she'd never felt anything quite so sublime as the messy, undoubtedly kind of icky feel of his come.

"Sam," she said, and wiped her other hand across his forehead, smearing the sweat there as she swept the hair out of his eyes.

"I love you," he said, though. He didn't know what she was going to say, but he was afraid to break the spell, the first time he'd ever been in this place without any type of protection. It was strangely humbling, and also gave him a feeling of vertigo, like the ground was rushing up to meet him and he was going to hear the crunch of his bones any second.

But she just smiled. "I love you, too," she said, her tone soft and warm. Sam would've liked to stay above her forever, just staring into her eyes, but his arms were starting to shake from the strain of keeping his weight off of her.

He didn't know what was going to happen, didn't know if he was going to make the cut for law school, had really no idea if he was going to be able to fulfil that dream of being a criminal lawyer.

But somehow, the shine in her eyes convinced him that no matter what happened, no matter what he wound up doing or not doing with his life, he couldn't be anything but happy as long as she was by his side.

:::

The day Jess told Sam she was pregnant was the same day he was accepted into Stanford with a full ride to law school. She didn't know that yet, of course, because she'd texted him with just the words great news! and Sam, who had been hoping against hope when she missed her first period, had known instantly—like lightning to the gut—that his dreams were all coming true at once.

:::

Jess had made awesome grilled cheese sandwiches even before they ever knew she was pregnant, but as Sam watched her turning it over on the stove, he pictured her in a couple of years, with a plump toddler in a high chair at their kitchen table, his beautiful wife the beautiful mommy of a little boy or girl, her hands sure as she finished up the lunch she'd be making for him or her.

Sam's mouth watered and he didn't know if he wanted the sandwich she was making or that future, with the baby they'd made together, more.

:::

Dean's the worst older brother ever, Sam thinks as he scrubs ink out of his skin. Dean had thought it would be funny if Sam's brand-new pen, the one given to him as a gift by his older brother, turned out to be a trick pen. It had already ruined his last pair of jeans that weren't either a) too short, b) blood-stained, or c) worn-through at the knees. Although to be fair, Sam owned four pairs of jeans and the only reason he had that many was because two pairs were too short and the third pair was blood-stained from mid-thigh down in a hunt that, while it hadn't gone precisely wrong, had resulted in the monster, in its death-throes, splattering them with blood from head to foot.

Sam mutters furiously under his breath. He's been studying as hard as he can forever, but it's getting towards the end of his high school career and he knows how well he has to do—how he has to be the

best—before he can hope to be accepted into a good college.

Not that Dean or Dad knows that yet, of course; Sam hasn't had the guts to start that war. He'd mentioned it only once about a year ago and they'd both given him identical, stricken and betrayed looks. Sam frowns and scrubs harder at his skin. He hates the way that Dean is just like Dad, hates how his brother tries to

be just like him, too.

He wants Dean all to himself, at least insofar as he has an ally when he's arguing with Dad, but either Dean goes horribly, painfully silent, like it hurts him to be in the same room with them, or he starts trying to placate them, which only makes Dad bristle and Sam angrier.

"Sammy, hurry up in there," Dean yells, banging on the door. "I gotta piss and you've been in there forever, you curling your hair or something?"

Sam grinds his teeth down until his jaw aches and flings the sponge—the crummy sponge that came with the apartment—in the basin of the sink. He shouts back through his tight jaw,

"I'd be in my room studying except

someone decided to give me a gift for my birthday that bloody exploded all over everything."

There's a long beat of silence where Sam infers he's supposed to be thinking Dean is innocent of any wrongdoing, but he knows his brother and he can hear the shifty eyes and admission of guilt even in the allegedly-innocent silence.

"Oh, is that what happened?" Dean asks breezily, as if he doesn't know exactly what happened and why. Sam picks up the sponge, runs it under cold water, smears the ink from his shirt on it, and unlocks the door.

The minute Dean's face is in view Sam pitches the sponge right into his smug, stupid expression and pushes around him, darting into the hall and running for all he's worth.

He hears Dean splutter and curse up a blue streak, and then the pounding footsteps coming for him. Sam's legs are longer now, especially since he won't stop growing, but Dean's still in better shape because Sam's growing has also hindered his training, and it doesn't take more than a minute or two for Dean to tackle him and send them both sprawling onto the hardwood. Dean has inky water still dripping from his eyelashes and there's streaks of blue running down his cheeks like he's been wearing mascara and crying, and his bottom lip, the stupid, pouty thing the girls all go insane for, is also stained blue.

Dean grabs his wrists and yanks them above Sam's head, slamming the bony part of his ass against the floor with his pelvis as he drops all of his weight onto Sam's lower body.

"You're a fucking little

bitch," Dean says, still straddling Sam. "I fucking hate you."

"Likewise," Sam spits back, and then Dean's off of him, shooting to his feet and giving Sam his best death glare. Sam clambers to his own feet and backs up against the hallway wall, panting and staring Dean down.

Dean loses it first, as Sam knew he would; he starts laughing and slapping his thigh, knees buckling as he bends in half at the waist.

"God, you should've seen your

face," Dean says between wheezing laughs. "Aw, man, you suck. I'm gonna look like I lost a fight tomorrow when I go down into the garage to work."

"What's the matter, Dean, the girls won't want you looking like that?" but even as he says it, he's feeling his own face crack into laughter, feeling the anger bleed away, and he never could stay angry at Dean.

"You're such a little bitch," Dean replies, as if that's some kind of answer. He's looking at Sam in a way that Sam can't quite decipher. "You oughta change out of that shirt," he says, and straightens up.

Sam pushes off the wall and walks over, close enough so that he can smell Dean's breath, slightly sour like he's been drinking too much coffee.

He's not even sure what he was planning, just that as soon as he's that close, Dean's eyes go sinfully dark, hooded like he's watchful, as though he's expecting an attack. Sam would never actually

hurt Dean, but something about the infinite depths of his eyes suggests that Dean is truly preparing to be wounded.

It's enough to make Sam stumble back, and Dean's hands go out automatically to steady him, to keep him from losing his footing in the awkwardness of his new gangly limbs. His hands close around Sam's waist just long enough to make sure Sam won't fall and brain himself, and then he lets go, almost as if he's afraid to touch Sam for some reason, when that's never been an issue before.

Sam opens his mouth to ask what the hell is up with Dean, but his brother suddenly ducks away from him and continues down the hall as if they hadn't been in the middle of a conversation, and in a turn that's becoming more and more commonplace, Sam wonders what's going on with his brother.

:::

The problem with the waking nightmares that started on his birthday was that they started to come more and more often, always with debilitating pain and Sam would sometimes find himself keening on the floor of his bedroom, unable to remember how he got there or what had happened, and he could only thank a higher power that Jess had never witnessed any of his episodes.

The one on his birthday had been disturbing and memorable in terms of the fact that when it was over, he did recall what he saw. But a month or two passed before he had another, long enough for him to dismiss the entire thing as obviously someone lacing his birthday drinks and to forget about it.

But he woke up one morning with a headache—the type that felt like his head was three hundred pounds and aching in time with his heart rate—and could remember vivid flashes of the dream he'd been having. He had taken migraine medication and stayed all day in bed trying to conquer not only the headache but the deep feeling of unease that lingered, so inescapable it felt carved right down into his marrow.

Jess went to work, but she kissed his forehead before she left and told him she'd be thinking of him all day, and that had made some of the images playing on a loop in his brain slow and almost grind to a halt.

Sam was actually supposed to start school again soon, to study law and hopefully become the lawyer he'd dreamed of being, but he couldn't help but wonder what he would do if the headaches never subsided; not to only that, but his beautiful pregnant wife couldn't be expected to do all of the working. Sam eventually fell back to sleep, though, and when he woke as Jess was unlocking the door, he didn't remember anything from while he'd slept.

And then the headaches—and the technicolour images—started happening more and more often during the day. He missed class more than once because he'd find himself in some corner of campus, clutching his head, and when he'd check the time he'd be three hours too late for his class.

He thought about going to the doctor, but growing up he and Dean had almost never seen real doctors and that led to an unformed but pervasive terror that if he went now, something horrible would be wrong, like an incurable brain tumour, and Jess was advancing in her pregnancy and he couldn't stand the thought of leaving her alone to care for their baby—with that baby being the incessant reminder of Sam and the fact that he'd abandoned her.

Once or twice he even considered calling Dean and begging him to come out to California and help him, but what could Dean do, other than reassure him—like he always had—that he wouldn't let anything happen to Sam? Sam was old enough by now to know that even though Dean would always be his protective older brother, there were some things that Dean couldn't stall, couldn't stop.

It was November 2nd, 2005 that Sam collapsed during a class and had, what his classmates and professor later explained to him, what looked like a grand mal seizure and sent him to the infirmary.

But while Sam went willingly, this time he remembered everything: the yellow-eyed man, the other young girl weeping, the boy who looked about seventeen pleading with her to step down off the ledge—and the other kid, almost identical to the first, telling her to jump.

Sam watched her jump from his vantage point of impartial observer, at least insofar as he couldn't do—or say—anything to keep it from happening. He saw her plunge hundreds of feet down. He felt his own teeth slice through his lip and cheeks as he beheld the horror that he couldn't forestall.

Only this time, the yellow-eyed man turned from the scene in front of him and met Sam's eyes. Sam couldn't hear what he said, but he found he could read his lips: It's almost your turn, Sammy-boy. Your time will come sooner than you think.

Sam had cut himself off from his family and hunting allies so completely that he couldn't even call them and ask what was going on; all he could do was swab at the blood inside his mouth while in the infirmary and question everything he knew. How did the yellow-eyed man know his name, who he was? What was it almost time for? And why did Sam feel as though the inevitable were, in fact, looming: the train bearing down on him while he stood, unable to move, on the tracks?

He pushed it all to the back of his mind and handwaved it away as delusions he was having because his classes were so intensive and difficult and he was under a lot of stress. He told himself it didn't matter, that it couldn't possibly mean anything.

He made mistake after mistake that he would pay for, dearly, in his own blood.

:::

"Shhh," Sam whispered, trying to hush the baby cradled in his arms. Jess was exhausted, totally worn out, and this tiny, brand-new human being had Sam in absolute awe. Here he was, this perfect combination of their DNA all wrapped up into something so utterly alive and vaguely terrifying.

The baby cried, flailing his little arms, and Sam cuddled him closer, breathing in the scent of him, the baby powder and the way his skin smelled, like nothing Sam had ever smelled before. Perfect. Sam shushed him again, rocking on his feet, swaying from side to side, trying to soothe his newborn.

They had named him Tyler and they had brought him home two days ago, which meant Jess was still recovering from the birth, which left Sam somewhat alone to take care of this miracle of humanity that they had created.

Sam wondered, as his son continued to cry and flail in distress, if Dean had ever felt like this when they were little, when Sam had become Dean's responsibility at six months old.

"Are you hungry?" he murmured, lifting the baby to his shoulder and patting his back gently. Tyler cried.

"I don't know what to do," Sam said a little desperately, but he kept patting and rubbing the baby's back, wondering if Jess had any idea what she was doing with this baby, any more than he did.

What on earth were they doing? This was crazy. This was the craziest thing he'd ever done-

Tyler burped and stopped crying so suddenly that Sam was startled into stillness.

He cradled the baby back in his arms, holding him out to look at him. His eyes were drooping closed, and Sam was swamped by emotion. There was no handbook for this. They didn't tell him, in the hospital when they handed him this baby they'd made, that he could love anything this much.

Sam thought he'd known love, between Dean and Jess. He'd thought he knew everything there was to know about it.

But as his child fell asleep in his arms, Sam realised he knew nothing about love whatsoever.

Nothing could have prepared him for the way he felt, overwhelmed and kind of panicky, because now he was responsible for this child, and he had to care for it and protect it and oh God, but this was his son.

He lowered the baby into the crib and hung over it for awhile, just watching Tyler sleep.

Tyler pursed his little lips and made slightly wheezy baby sounds as he settled in, and Sam tucked the light blue blankets around that impossibly little body.

The baby turned his head and burbled a little as he completely relaxed, and Sam, watching him, felt his heart swell to proportions that ought to have caused it to explode.

This might be the most important thing he'd ever done, creating this child. It humbled him, and he stroked one finger almost imperceptibly across the baby-softness of that tiny cheek, and then straightened up and went back to his room, stumbling a little in exhaustion of his own. It was 2 a.m. after all.

He snuggled up in bed next to Jess, and she mumbled, barely awake, "Does he need anything?"

"Go back to sleep, love," Sam replied gently, filling his hands with her hair. "He's sleeping now. We did something amazing here, baby," he said, but she didn't respond.

Sam had thought he'd known love.

He hadn't known anything, fool that he was.

:::

There's only two months left before Sam graduates high school, and he's been in the same school for a whopping four-and-a-half weeks, which is practically a record. He empties the books he needs from his locker and stuffs them into his bookbag, then slams the locker shut, twirling the combination lock, and starting the trek down the hallway to the front doors that open onto an expansive parking lot where he knows Dean will be waiting.

Sam's actually been in this school long enough to capture the attention of one of the girls in his English class, though so far all she's done is steal glances at him during their lectures and occasionally stammer whenever they both get to the door at the same time at the end of class.

Of course, he knows that his father is actively on the prowl for a new hunt, probably having forgotten that it's almost time for Sam to graduate. He's not looking forward to the giant argument that's going to ensue when he asks—more like begs in desperation—to be allowed to stay in this town long enough to at least get out of high school.

Sam still hasn't worked up the courage to tell his family that he's been accepted into Stanford.

He steps into the bright afternoon sunlight and squints, shading his eyes, until he catches sight of the Impala, looking like she's been freshly waxed, idling in one of the parking spaces.

Just before he puts his foot down off the curb to head towards it, the girl from his English class—Tammy—walks up next to him. She even manages a full sentence without stuttering in nervousness.

"Is that your father's car?" she asks, looking diffident, eyes downcast but peeking up and twisting her long auburn hair in between her fingers.

"Nah," Sam says, eager to get to the car and to get home and start in on his reading for English class. They're reading

A Separate Peace and Sam wants to get a few chapters ahead, he's enjoying the book so much. Then again, he doesn't really want to crush this girl's self-esteem, particularly since she's one of the few girls to ever look beyond Sam's gawky, clumsy outward appearance and actually try to talk to him. "It's my brother's car."

She puts her hand up to shade her eyes too. It only takes a minute, but Sam can

feel her interest slipping away.

"He's cute," she says, sounding less shy. Sam wonders if maybe he just makes her uncomfortable because he's such a freak. "Hey, do you mind," she starts, then pauses awkwardly. "D-do you mind if I come over and study

A Separate Peace with you tonight? I could r-really use some help understanding it."

And that's it, all the confirmation he needs that she just wants to get closer to Dean. Dammit. Besides which, he's not going to take a girl back to the motel and let her see that he's only there temporarily, never mind the mess the motel room is, with papers tacked to the walls, files strewn on every surface, and pizza boxes and Chinese food cartons discarded everywhere. They're really not the most tidy family.

"I can't," he says, preparing the lie, feeling it fill his mouth like a piece of distasteful hard candy. "I don't really understand the book myself. I'm really sorry; I've got to go."

She looks immediately disappointed and Sam gets the feeling she really wanted Sam to introduce her to Dean. He gives her a faint smile, waves a little, and takes off across the parking lot, almost jogging. He's so sick of the type of feminine attention Dean inspires.

He slides onto the bench seat, throws his book bag over into the backseat, and turns to look at his brother.

Dean's got a bit of a golden glow to him, likely from working outside—especially if he was waxing the Impala, as Sam suspects he was. Sam can see why the girls go all gooey over him, but he really doesn't

get it, not exactly.

"Hey, little brother, how was school?" Dean asks, like a normal person might. Sam knows, though, that Dean's actually asking if anything weird happened—Dean never stops thinking about the hunt, and he never ceases trying to ferret out any little thing that might hurt Sam whenever he's not around.

"English was great," Sam says. "We're on chapter five of

A Separate Peace, and then we're going to read Animal Farm and write a paper on it." This is the segue into asking Dean about standing up for Sam, for once, when he asks Dad to stay.

"I think I read

1984 in high school," Dean muses as he flips on the blinker and makes the left turn out of the school parking lot.

"Yeah, right," Sam scoffs. He whaps Dean on the thigh and Dean gives a funny little flinch.

"Okay," Dean says. "But I did try; I just couldn't get into it, so I got Shana—smartest and best-looking girl in my class—to fill me in."

"Dean," Sam says, working up his courage. Figures he can face down monsters, but the prospect of this impending fight is making frogs jump around in his stomach. "I wanna stay here. And graduate. I know Dad's looking for a hunt, but I can't stand the thought of moving again right now."

Dean glances over at him. "You sure, Sammy? You know Dad's gonna hit the roof if you dig in your heels one more time about moving on."

"Yeah, but, think about it, Dean. Why should I leave when I am this close?"

Dean nods as if he agrees, carefully watching the road. The next time he speaks, it's thoughtfully, as though he's really considered things.

"Maybe Dad will let you stay even if he has to go hunting." He gives Sam a sidelong look. "I know you don't need a baby-sitter, Sammy, but I also know that Dad's going to freak about the idea of you staying alone. So." He pauses and looks a little discomfited. "I can try to convince Dad to let us stay here the last couple of months."

Sam feels a grin breaking out over his face like the sun breaking through the clouds. Dean said

us—Dean will do this for him. Dean's actually going to stand up to their father just so that Sam can have the graduation—the normal, run-of-the-mill, everyday graduation—that he's always wanted.

The frogs jump around even more enthusiastically.

"Thanks, Dean," he says earnestly. Not only will he possibly get to have his graduation, but Dean will be there when he finally finishes up high school.

He really can't ask for anything more.

:::

"Daddy!" shrieked Tyler, grabbing for the brightly coloured blocks. Sam plopped himself on the floor next to his four-year-old. Tyler gave him a huge, gap-toothed grin, and began to put the blocks next to each other, one by one.

"Hey, kiddo," Sam said. "How was your day, baby?"

"Watch me, watch me, daddy!" His son assiduously placed each block in a row, five of them, and then began to pile blocks on top. Blue went on top of yellow, and red went on top of green.

"Hey, that's awesome," Sam said, reaching out. Tyler laughed delightedly and careened into his arms, snuggling close and folding up into Sam's lap. The blocks were temporarily forgotten, and Sam inhaled, savouring the healthy, comforting weight of his little boy in his arms.

That lasted all of five seconds before the little terror of hyperactive energy flung himself right back out of Sam's embrace, back to the blocks. Sam watched in a vague sort of awe as Tyler made a pyramid of blocks.

"Mommy showsed me how," Tyler said proudly, even though Sam hadn't asked.

"You're doing a great job, kitten," Sam said, leaning forward, chin on his hands. It still never failed to amaze him that he'd done this, created this wicked intelligent, cheerful, precious little boy.

"Look, Daddy. I maded something!"

"You sure did," Sam said. "I'm proud of you."

Tyler looked at the blocks for a long, pregnant moment, and then looked over at Sam. "I misseded you, Daddy. Why do you go away?"

What a question, Sam reflected, as he opened his arms again. This time Tyler was more subdued as he crawled onto his lap, burrowing in close, and Sam could hear the little slurping sounds of Tyler sucking his thumb.

"I gotta work, sport," Sam said, stroking the long curls. They really needed to take him to get his hair cut, but Sam almost couldn't bear the thought of it.

"I don't want you to," Tyler said, garbled around his thumb. "I want my daddy."

Sam heard footsteps and looked up to see Jess, wiping her hands on the dishtowel. She gave them a fond smile.

"He's been asking me that all day," she said. "Where's daddy, and why doesn't he stay home with me?" She laughed a little. "Your son is way too smart for his own good. He knows where his daddy belongs."

Sam grinned at her. "I love you too, crazycakes. You know why I have to work."

"You do work too hard," Jess said, coming more fully into the nursery. In the crib, the baby fussed, and she crossed over and picked up James, snuggling him to her shoulder.

"I know," Sam said. He kissed those silky-soft curls and cuddled Tyler closer. "I love you, baby," he whispered next to Ty's ear. "I'll try not to come home late tomorrow."

"Goody," Ty said, and lifted his head, thumb slipping out his mouth, leaving his thumb and his lips shiny. "Want you to stay with me."

Sam was still shocked by how articulate his son was, still surprised by every sentence that left that little bowed mouth.

"I would if I could," Sam soothed. He put his son back on the floor and leaned down to look right into those wide green eyes. "But even if I'm not here, Ty, you know I still love you and wish I could be with you all the time."

Tyler looked solemn, and poked at his fat little knees. "Sleepy, daddy," he mumbled, thumb finding its way back into his mouth.

Sam glanced at his watch. Jess had kept them up past their bedtime, apparently, waiting for him. He kept his face impassive with difficulty, but he felt guilty he'd been home so late that his son had to wait up just to spend five fucking minutes with him.

"Come on, kiddo," Sam said, and got to his feet, then picked up Ty. "Time for bed. I'll tuck you in and read you a story."

Tyler put his head on Sam's shoulder. "'Kay," he said, sounding sleepier than ever. "T'morrow I's gonna learn how to make something else," he said confidently, and then his breathing slowed as he drifted off to sleep in Sam's arms.

Tyler had refused a real bed thus far, so Sam settled him into his crib, even though he was really too big for it, and then watched Jess finish changing the baby's diaper before laying him back down in his crib.

With the children asleep, it was just Jess and Sam, almost like it had been before their kids were born.

She came over and wound her arms around his neck, leaning up into a kiss. When they parted, a little bit breathless, she said,

"You really are in the doghouse. Come on, I have dinner sitting in the oven to keep warm."

"You're amazing," Sam said, pushing against her lower lip with his thumb. "I am so lucky," he added, as they left the nursery, shutting out the light. Sam figured that one of them, when James cried during the night, was going to trip on those blocks.

~

It was Tyler who cried out in the middle of the night, and Sam who got up, because Jess was sleeping so placidly that he couldn't bear to wake her. It wound up being providential, because when he picked Ty up, those chubby little arms going around his neck and nearly strangling him, his son said,

"There was someone in my room, Daddy."

"It was just a dream," Sam replied, stroking up and down Ty's tense little back. "No-one's going to hurt you while I'm around, kiddo." He slowly extricated himself and put his son back in his crib. He told him a story—an abbreviated version of Jess's favourite fairy tale—and when Tyler drifted back off to sleep, Sam made a promise to himself: keep an eye on things, even if it meant making Jess suspicious. But what if it hadn't been a dream? Sam could barely get a wink of sleep for the rest of the night after that, second-guessing himself.

If only he had known that his luck was just a year away from running out.

:::

December 2009

It was just before Christmas that Dean called for the second time in just over eight years.

Sam was still basting the turkey the way that Jess had taught him, humming Metallica—some things never quite slipped away—and listening to the sound of his beautiful wife and his eighteen-month-old laughing as she bathed him.

He was just putting away the turkey in the oven when his cell phone rang. He fumbled for it without looking and, even though he should have known better, flipped it open without reading the display.

Slightly faded like he was hearing it through glass, Jess said,

"Time for the duckie!" and there was splashing that followed, plus the delighted shriek of James, who flailed in the water—Sam could tell because he heard droplets cascading all over the bathroom.

"Not duckie!" he shouted, and Sam said, holding the phone gingerly between his ear and shoulder as he went to wash his hands,

"Hello?"

"I totally need a lawyer." The words came through crackling but no matter how much time had passed, no matter whether he was trying to be sneaky about it, Sam recognised that voice. Like he could forget it.

"What do you want, Dean," he said, and it was barely a question, just the resignation that he was going to have to figure out a way to make his brother go away. He still missed Dean like he was missing every other beat of his heart, but he knew that there was no place in this life for his brother, whatever he might wish sometimes. He couldn't, for example, let Jess ever find out about Dean.

He cocked an ear towards the bathroom and heard only childish laughter, so he assumed she was finishing up James's bath and he cupped a hand over his mouth and walked through the house until he was as far from their full bath as he could get.

"All right, listen up, Sammy. This is important."

Sam growled without even intending to. "I'm not your kid brother any more," he said. "Just tell me what you want and then fuck off, Dean."

"Jesus Christ," Dean said, and Sam could hear Metallica blaring through the Impala's speakers, the rushing sound of wind through her windows as Dean drove. Sam bit his lip; the song playing was the same one he'd just been humming. "I really do need a lawyer," Dean said. "Or rather, Dad does. He's in prison, Sammy."

"Dean—" Sam started, but his brother barrelled right on over him.

"They got him for credit card fraud and grave desecration, and they pinned a murder on him—a shapeshifter, dude, if you can believe that—and the jury just fuckin' ate it up like Dad was the devil or something. I need you to get him out."

"Has he already been sentenced?" Sam asked, curiosity biting through him in spite of how much he just wanted to escape.

"Well," Dean hedged.

"Dean, I'm sorry about it, but I doubt I could do anything. I've only passed the bar in California, for one thing."

"Sam," Dean went on urgently. He even turned the music down. "This is fuckin' important. We gotta break him out of there."

"No way," Sam said. "I am not risking everything in my life to try and stage a jailbreak. You want that done, you do it yourself."

Dean made a strangled sound of impatience threaded through with worry. "Sammy, I mean it. You can't—" he stopped himself, fiddled with the volume dial on the music. It warbled as it slid up and back down. Sam pinched his nose and fought off a headache.

"Either tell me what the f–hell is going on, or leave me alone," Sam said fiercely. "I am tryin' to have a life here. I can't, I don't need—" he paused, frustrated. "You are gonna fuck this up for me," he finally mumbled, cursing even though he tried really hard not to teach his kids bad habits. There was suddenly the ringing laughter of Tyler, and Dean made a surprised, startled noise.

"You baby-sitting, little brother?" Dean asked, incredulity in his tone.

Sam ignored that. "Just spit it out. Just tell me."

"Okay, you know what?" Dean went quiet for a minute and Sam could all at once picture Dean, his one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding the phone, silver ring glinting in the streetlights as Dean passed under them. Longing took up residence under his heart, burrowing into his ribcage like a small animal in winter, and it hurt.

Sam forced himself to wait patiently, even though he just wanted to hang up the phone. To get away from the uncomfortable feeling squeezing through his chest.

"You need to be careful, Sammy," Dean said at last. "Salt the doors and windows and stay away from everyone you can, and I'll be there as soon as I can if anything weird happens."

"Weird? Like what?" He was reminded of the visions, which had suddenly and abruptly stopped, just like they had begun.

"Just do what I say. Fuck. I gotta try to break Dad out, then I'm gonna—"

Sam interrupted. "Don't you dare come looking for me, Dean," he said. He still remembered Dean's strange looks, his tics and every tell. He didn't want Dean around Jess, either; she'd probably fall right out of love with him if she saw Dean.

And Dean would probably try to pick her up.

"Sam—" Dean tried again.

"I'm serious. I don't wanna see you," he said, and lifted the phone away from his ear to push the red button.

Just before he did, he heard, distant:

"Don't forget your training, and watch out—"

And then the phone went dead under Sam's thumb.

Jess walked into the room, which just happened to be their bedroom. The baby must have been in his crib, and Sam thought, looking at her, that she'd put Tyler to bed too. She crossed her arms, and he tried not to let his gaze wander down to her belly, wishing and hoping.

"Who's Dean?" she said without preamble. From reading the expression on her face, Sam knew she'd heard quite a lot of the conversation.

"It's nothing—" Sam attempted, but even though he'd been lying to her by omission for years, he had trouble now with the outright lies.

"Your boyfriend, Sam?" she asked, and she looked—well, she looked hurt and upset.

Sam gave it up; he was going to have to tell her.

"My brother," he said. "He's kind of... crazy. My dad too. It's why I left. It's why I don't—"

"Why you didn't invite them to our wedding, or ask them for Christmas?" she said, and her forehead was less furrowed. He wanted to kiss the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes.

"I don't want them to come into this, this perfect thing we have, and mess it up," he said honestly.

Jess came over and uncrossed her arms, lifting her hand to stroke along his cheek. "I love you," she said, and Sam could feel the interrogation coming. "But why didn't you ever say you had a brother?"

Sam realised, staring down into her eyes and facing that question aloud from someone other than himself, that he really had no idea. He couldn't answer her, so he just kissed her instead, and her hands cupped the sides of his neck as she leaned up and into it.

But when she turned slowly and backed out of it, her expression was troubled.

"I don't know," he said. "I just... Dean is part of my past. That part of my life is over." More prophetic words were never spoken, if Sam only knew how they would apply to his future.

Jess nodded as if she understood, but for the first time, Sam felt sadness slip over him like a shroud. She'd always understood him—like Dean, his inner voice cackled—but this time she didn't. She couldn't. It hurt a lot more than he thought it would, and he rubbed over her flat belly and kissed her hard. It was Christmastime, and Sam had so been hoping that this time, it would take and there would be another baby, but it didn't look like he was going to be that lucky.

"I don't think he'll bother us again," he said, but what he didn't know was that he was going to impose on Dean instead—and that Dean, unlike Sam, was not going to push him away.

Jess, though, didn't look convinced. Or maybe she just didn't think he should refuse to interact with his brother.

:::

Sam slipped into complacence, believing he was just a little bit crazy from the stress and that therefore he was safe.

But that was before he kissed his wife good-bye one warm November morning, slipping a little note in her purse—he did that sometimes, hid notes for her to find that told her how much he loved her—and then tickled his five-year-old, Tyler, and kissed his two-year-old, James, and then, with one final pat to Jess's rounded belly, he grabbed his briefcase and slammed out the back door on his way to work.

Had he only known what was going to happen, he might have been more careful.



Book One, Part Four [end Book One] >>
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