Part One
Dean stretched contentedly, feeling the mellow lassitude of well rested limbs. Morning sun lit the room in tones of gold, from outside the window the faint sounds of children at play vied with the ever-present drone of the highway in the distance.
Humming a sigh of pleasure, Dean rolled onto his side and smiled at the sight of Sam, conked out next to him. Sam slept like he did everything else, with fervent concentration, frown creasing his forehead, eyes tightly shut. Careful not to wake his sleeping lover, Dean reached out and stroked a careful finger over one muscled bicep. At sleep Sam still had the look of a boy about him, but his Sammy was 21 years old, and a man.
Dean let himself just gaze for a while, something he only did when Sam was asleep. Not that he didn't want to stare at other times. If he could he'd spend his days gazing at this miracle that had come into his life and changed it from top to bottom. This man, his lover, his brother.
A warmth lit his chest and Dean chuckled under his breath at his own sentimentality. Yes, he wanted to stare. He wanted to reach out and touch. He wanted to announce to the world, especially the parts of it that looked at Sam with desire, that this man was his, and had been since the day he was born.
But he didn't, of course. First because they were the only two in the world that knew that particular secret. And second because Dean might have opened his heart and his body and his whole life to Sam, but he wasn't going to be a girl about it.
Anyway, Sam understood.
Dean crept from the bed and dressed quietly in the bathroom, unable to keep the smile off his face. He wondered if Sam would remember the date again this year. If he'd even say anything.
Nick was sitting at the table buried in the Saturday morning paper when Dean walked into the kitchen, he tapped the old man on the shoulder and Nick grunted, never at his best first thing in the morning.
Dean set a skillet on the stove and started collecting ingredients from the refrigerator.
"Omelet?"
Nick looked up with a suspicious scowl. "You're cooking?"
"Don't make it sound like I never cook." Dean broke eggs into a bowl and began chopping mushrooms and peppers.
"What's the occasion?"
Dean popped a piece of raw mushroom in his mouth and then scraped the rest in the bowl. "No occasion." he glanced up at the clock as he chopped some bacon and tossed it into the mix. Nothing stirred Sam faster than bacon sizzling, and Dean saved a slice and dropped it into the skillet where it began to sizzle.
Would Sam remember? Two years today since they first met - or at least met again as adults. Not their first kiss, or when they moved into together. Not even when they'd come back together again after learning the truth about their shared past. Just the day that Sam had walked into Petrakos Auto and right back into Dean's heart. Last year Sam had cooked, brought him a tray, even snagged a sickly looking rose from the neighbors fence and stuck it in a jelly glass. Dean had lifted one eyebrow and proceeded to tease Sam about his sentimentality for the whole day, until the younger man had shook his head and chased him down the hall, tickling fingers flexing.
But once caught, panting and laughing on their bed, Dean had cupped Sam's flushed face in his hands and gently drawn him down. Kissed his lips, his cheeks, the translucent skin of his closed eyes. "Love you," he'd whispered, and Sam had smiled against his mouth and whispered back.
Yes, Sam understood.
"You're cooking?" Sam was standing in the doorway, big and rumpled, cheek still creased from his pillow. "What's the occasion?"
"Why does everyone make it sound like I never cook around here?" Dean huffed.
Sam caught his hips and curved up close behind him, lips finding his neck. "Happy Anniversary," he murmured.
Dean snorted, poked at his sizzling bacon, poured the egg mix into the pan. "It's just breakfast, Sam," he said casually, and Sam pressed another smacking kiss to his cheek.
"Right," he agreed, but when their eyes met Sam was smiling and Dean shook his head and smirked back.
Yeah, Sam got it.
888
His good mood lasted through breakfast and Sam's chatter about where they should go on the upcoming long weekend. Nick finished his omelet and started on the dishes and Sam got up to help, telling Dean to enjoy his coffee, since he'd cooked. Dean didn't argue, sitting back in his chair with a sigh, reaching for Nick's discarded paper with his free hand.
Bad news on every page. War. Young people dead. Rich people stealing. Some pedophile in Wisconsin on trial.
Dean quickly turned the page, then turned it back again, heart starting to pound harder in his chest. He didn't want to read this, the last thing he wanted was more stuff like this in his head. But no matter how many times he swore he'd ignore this kind of news, some part of him that he couldn't control seemed to take charge, compelling him to read every article, sit through every sound bite. It was like a penance he imposed on himself, and only he knew why.
Not even to Sam had he confessed his guilt about this.
So he read the article, sickness invading his belly at the details. Soccer coach. Well liked in the community. Offences going back twenty years.
Finally Dean pushed the paper away and stared down into his cold coffee with distaste. Nick and Sam were finishing the dishes, debating the merits of various resorts within a few hours drive. It was a nice normal Saturday morning and Dean could hardly believe that a few minutes ago he had been happy and content. Now he felt on edge, skin paper thin, belly churning.
"I'm gonna work on the car," he said curtly, ignoring Sam calling after him as he pushed open the creaking back door and took the steps in a couple of strides. The garage door opened onto his pride and joy, a ton of US steel and chrome, sleek black body gleaming in the September sunlight. Dean trailed his hand along her hood, the ultra smooth finish of her deep black surface gliding under his callused fingertips.
He and Sam had done all the paintwork themselves on their last vacation, sweating in boiler suits and face masks, teasing each other about whether they should add some custom painted flames on the hood or a naked chick riding a dragon on the side. This project had started as his hobby and ended up theirs, him and Sam, building something together. They were planning on taking her for her first big run next weekend.
Dean leaned back against his car, rubbing wearily at the pain behind his eyes. He hated that this could still get to him so badly, still affect him so much.
"You okay?" Sam said quietly from the door and Dean straightened and turned away, scrubbing at his cheeks.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"No reason."
Dean busied himself popping the hood and checking the plugs and leads, willing Sam to just walk away and leave him. In a few hours this mood would pass, he knew that from experience. In a few hours he would bury his guilt again and go back to his normal life.
"Dean, man, you have to stop doing this to yourself."
"Doing what?" Dean asked casually.
"Every time there's one of these stories in the news you torture yourself over it."
Wow, Sam really did know him well. Dean had always been sure he'd hidden the worst of this from his lover.
"Let it alone, Sam," he said coolly. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Then tell me." Sam said, stepping closer, leaning on the side of the car. Dean kept his eyes on the engine, staring without seeing at its gleaming chrome finish. "Talk to me, Dean," he appealed.
Dean was shaking his head automatically. Sam already knew his dirty little secrets, the past he'd tried so hard to live down the last ten years. He didn't need to know about this other burden he carried, the one that still woke him up from his sleep in a cold sweat.
He didn't need to know he was living with a coward.
"Dean, after everything we've been through," Sam said quietly. "Do you think there's anything you can tell me that could make me love you less?"
"Maybe," Dean muttered, then looked up, smoothing away all traces of anguish and quirking a wry smile. "Seriously, Sam, it's just a thing, okay? Stuff like this just puts me in a bad mood for a while. But I get past it and it's fine. Okay?"
"I'm not so sure it is okay, Dean," Sam said and with a sinking heart Dean recognized his stubborn expression. For all his boyish smiles and easy-going manner, Sam could be a pit bull when he thought he was onto something. He nodded his head a little. "If you can't talk to me maybe you should talk to someone else. Someone impartial."
Dean gaped at him. "Are you kidding me? A shrink? You think I should see a shrink?"
"A counselor," Sam corrected and Dean shook his head and turned away. Sam circled him and stood on his other side, facing him squarely. "Someone who's trained in this kind of thing, Dean," he persisted. "Someone who hears about cases like yours every day."
"I'm a case now?" Dean said irritably.
Sam frowned at him. "You know what I mean. People who've been through what you went through. Like the story that brought up all these bad memories this morning."
"This isn't about bad memories, Sam," Dean said. "This is about me having to live with what I've done. So just drop it, okay? Please?"
Sam's stubborn expression wavered. "Dean," he said miserably. "I don't want to hurt you, you know that. But how can this be about anything that you've done? You were a victim. You were a child -"
"But I haven't been a child for a long time, Sam," Dean returned angrily. "That story today, do you know how they even caught that creep? Because one of those kids had the courage to come forward. After everything he'd been through he had the guts to tell someone." Dean broke off, feeling that wretched pain in his chest again. "I never did that, Sam," he whispered harshly. "I never told... anyone. I just ran away and left him... left him to..."
The churning in his guts was suddenly too much and breakfast rushed back up his throat, burning like acid as he stumbled away and braced himself with one hand on the wall. He retched, coughing and spitting, tears burning his eyes in pain and humiliation.
"Christ," he groaned.
Sam laid a big hand on his back and rubbed gently.
"I'm okay," Dean said, shrugging him off. "Don't fuss."
Sam's hand dropped away and Dean closed his eyes miserably. What the hell was he doing? None of this was Sam's fault. He rubbed at his face, turned away from the wall, tried to catch Sam's eye. "I..."
Sam gazed back at him, eyes dark and shiny. Dean shook his head, apology in his mouth, but Sam just gave him a tiny grimace-like smile and nodded.
Of course Sam forgave him, Sam loved him, a damn sight more than he deserved to be loved. And just that thought stung Dean's eyes, made his mouth tremble. Because what the hell would he do if Sam figured that out for himself? A second later Sam's big arms were reaching out and hauling him in and Dean collapsed against him, hands gripping desperately at Sam's back.
"Sorry," he managed, choking on emotion. "I'm sorry, Sam."
"It's okay," Sam was whispering. "I got you, Dean. It's okay."
Dean wanted to explain, wanted to make Sam understand how it had been, wanted more than anything to make excuses, to stop feeling so much like a coward. But the words were all dammed up inside him the same way they'd been for years. Every time he thought about telling someone what had happened everything inside him seemed to seize up, freeze, shatter. And so he lived with the guilt, let it fester inside him, until every now and then it caught him by surprise and brought him to his knees.
Long minutes later they were out in the sunshine, sinking onto the old white lawn chairs in the shade of Nick's holly bushes. Sam kept a hold of Dean's hands and Dean let him, glad for the warm touch on his chilled skin.
"I didn't trust anyone," Dean said lowly, looking down at their joined hands. "I couldn't take the chance of trusting anyone."
"How could you?" Sam said sympathetically. "When everyone you should have been able to trust let you down your whole life?"
"If I'd gone to the cops they would have put me in another foster home. I would have rather been dead."
Sam's hands tightened. "So," he said hesitantly. "He's still out there?"
Dean shook his head. "He's dead, Sam," he said tonelessly. "When I was eighteen Nick and Renie asked me to take their name. I told you that, right?"
Sam nodded.
"I wanted to find out about... him. Wanted to make sure that nothing from my past was gonna come back and be a problem to them." Dean couldn't meet Sam's eyes.
"When did he die?" Sam asked quietly, hands big and warm on Dean's chilled flesh.
"I don't know. I don't even know how he died. Don't you get it, Sam? Even then I wasn't looking to do the right thing, even then I was just trying to protect myself."
"And Nick and Renie."
Dean shrugged. "For all I know he went on to do to a dozen kids what he did to me. And I never lifted a finger to stop him." Dean slumped, trying to pull his hands free. "I make myself sick."
Sam kept a firm hold of his hands, shifting closer on the edge of his seat as Dean leaned away. "If he'd still been alive when you were eighteen you would have done something about it," Sam said confidently.
"You don't know that. I don't even know that." Dean blinked at the hot wetness in his eyes. "I guess I'll never know that."
"I know you," Sam murmured, stroking his fingers gently. "I know that you're a good man."
Dean wasn't so sure but he could see that Sam had his rose-colored glasses on and he wasn't going to let himself believe any differently. Dean could tell him again that he didn't understand, that he could never understand the fear and shame that swamped him every time he thought about those days, but in truth he was glad Sam couldn't understand. Glad to his heart that Sam had never had to suffer anything so soul-destroying.
"Dean?" Sam said tentatively. "I could try to find out for you, you know? What happened to him, when he died?"
Dean blinked in surprise.
"You know maybe the guy got caught and died in prison or something."
"But what difference does it make now?"
"I don't know," Sam confessed. "I just think you're never going to have any peace in yourself if you don't try and lay this to rest."
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to Google it or something." Dean had never really had much to do with computers until Sam came into his life. He'd only learned how to set the damn VCR because Nick kept falling asleep halfway through his shows. But he had developed a healthy respect for the internet since Sam started picking up hard- to- find spare parts from various sites online.
"We'll do it together," Sam said, smiling with relief.
Dean studied his lover's earnest face curiously. "Doesn't this... Doesn't this bother you at all? Sam, I might have given this bastard five years to do to other kids what he did to me because I was too much of a coward to come forward. That's unforgivable. You have to see that's unforgivable."
Sam's pretty slanted eyes were dark with pain, his long, sensitive fingers stroked Dean's hands gently. "What I see is this place inside you, Dean. This... closed off place. The only time you ever let me in there is reluctantly. Both times we've talked about it you've been so stressed you puked your guts up."
Dean flushed and ducked his head.
"It may be twelve years since it happened but in that closed off place it's yesterday. Isn't it?"
Despite the warm morning sun Dean shivered. He'd never thought about it like that, but Sam was right. Somewhere inside him he was still that scared little kid. And every time he thought about the past, every time those memories came flooding back that little kid took over. Run. Hide. Keep your head down and your mouth shut. Don't trust anyone.
"I trust you," Dean said softly. "You're the only one I've ever told."
"Thank you," Sam whispered.
888
"Ryan," Dean said hoarsely. "Jason Ryan."
Sam nodded, typing the name in carefully. "82 200 hits," Sam said, scanning the page. "I'll narrow it a bit," he murmured. "Stockton, California."
"Whoa," Dean said as the results flashed up onto the screen.
"My god." Sam blinked and turned a shocked gaze to Dean.
Brutal murder of Stockton man, Jason Patrick Ryan still unsolved.
"Is that him?"
Dean nodded numbly.
Sam clicked the link.
888
An hour later they sat at the kitchen table, printed pages spread out in front of them, untouched mugs of coffee cooling in their hands.
"1992," Dean repeated. "Not even six months after I ran away."
"At least you weren't a suspect for too long," Sam said, fingering a page with a grainy old picture of a pre-teen Dean. "I mean, I doubt you ever were, really. The wounds on this guy..." He trailed away, grimacing, because really, what did you say about the way Jason Ryan had been murdered? Genitals sliced off, left to bleed to death in an alley? The hell?
"I don't know," Dean said grimly. "I've had some pretty vivid dreams over the years of what I'd like to have done to this fucker. This..." He flicked a printed page adorned with grisly details. "This barely scratches the surface."
Sam nodded bleakly. "Yeah." He lifted a page and skimmed the text for the third time. "Everyone in the community was so shocked," he murmured. "So horrified. Then they found his secret stash of pictures." A sickening thought occurred to him and the page dropped from nerveless fingers.
"No, Sam," Dean said, reaching out and touching Sam's hand. His fingers felt fiery hot on Sam's suddenly clammy skin. "He never took any pictures of me."
"Oh, thank Christ," Sam said, dropping his head into his hands. His belly churned and he totally got why this subject made Dean throw up every time. He rubbed at his eyes and lifted his head, studying his lover worriedly. Dean looked remarkably composed as he sifted through the pages. He was pale, and his hands trembled a little, but Sam knew Dean better than anyone on earth, and he knew that Dean was holding it all together.
"No need to give me that look, Sam," Dean said, a trace of a smile on his lips. "I'm okay. Really," he added when Sam stared at him doubtfully. "You were right about this. Finding out the truth... It helps."
Sam thought about it. "You mean because it happened so soon after you ran away? Because he never got a chance to foster another kid?"
Dean huffed a humorless laugh. "Yeah, right. I got off easy, didn't I? Never had to come forward, never had to face the cops or a courtroom. Just crawled into my hole and let someone else deal with all the shit for me."
"Dean, no one on Earth could say you got off easy," Sam protested.
"Leave it, Sam," Dean said. "That's not what I meant. I mean, yeah, finding out the fucker has been dead most of the last dozen years is... a relief. World's a cleaner place without him, no doubt about that. I just meant... Seeing this stuff..." He touched another printed page, this one with a color shot of the late, unlamented Jason Ryan printed on it, smiling for the camera. "He was just some guy," Dean said tonelessly, staring down at the happy, smiling face. "In my head he was a monster, but he was just some sick fuck who died screaming in an alley."
Sam nodded. "And someone hated him enough kill him like this. Cops said he wasn't even robbed. This was personal."
"I guess he finally pissed off someone big enough to fight back," Dean whispered, and Sam reached over the table and caught Dean's hand in his own, squeezed it tight. "God, Sam," Dean said, voice breaking, head bowing. Sam held tight.
888
Sam held him close, chest rising and falling under his cheek as Dean watched the moon's reflection cross the floor. This morning when he woke up in Sam's arms, Dean could never have guessed the way the day would go. Some anniversary.
And yet...
There was a kind of easing of that ache in his chest, a softening of some old part of him that had been wound up tightly. Despite his words to Sam it was a relief to know that fucker had been killed when he had. That he hadn't spent years finding new victims, wrecking more lives.
That smiling face in the picture swam into his mind. You didn't ruin my life, Dean thought. You tried your fucking hardest, but you failed, you son of a bitch.
Sam's arms tightened around him as he stirred awake. "Dean?" he said sleepily.
"This weekend," Dean said softly. "I want to go to Stockton, Sam."
Sam's heartbeat quickened and Dean slid his hand over smoothly muscled chest.
"You sure?"
Dean tilted his head and gazed into worried eyes, his own heart speeding up. God, Sam was beautiful. Pale moonlight washed the color from his skin, sharpening the strong planes of his face, darkening his eyes. A broad hand stroked Dean's cheek and he leaned into it, nuzzling long fingers. "I need to know everything," Dean murmured.
Sam studied him for a few moments longer, then nodded, eyes softening, lips curving gently. Unable to resist a moment longer, Dean closed the gap between them and met those lips with his own.
End of Part One