This is a multichapter story, and it is most definitely not my usual fair.

A very, very grateful nod here to decemberdove ( u/4543008/), without whom this story most definitely wouldn't exist.

As always, please review, and keep in mind while doing so...the storyline won't always be so shamefully close to canon.

A window being opened.

The tiny sound that that made - the soft hiss of wood and glass sliding against each other-was what jerked Sam out of sleep, heart racing and adrenaline pouring into his bloodstream. He opened his eyes without moving a muscle, his instincts standing in for conscious thought while the more important parts of his brain woke up and making him keep his breathing even and his body completely still. After a second or two, he grimaced. Feeling the urge to draw his arms in to protect his stomach, he swiftly crushed it, closing his eyes and sighing deeply.

This was the third time this week that a small, random, totally normal household noise had woken him up in the middle of the night. The first time had been water dripping in the bathroom, the second a muffled, nearly-silent thud from the apartment above them. Stuff that didn't bother normal people when they were sleeping - Stuff that doesn't bother Jess, he thought with a little flicker of affection as he felt her shift her position slightly behind him.

At least it was better than it had been two years ago. When he woke up several times a night, on edge, totally convinced that fangs were about to sink into his face. Or a superhumanly strong blow was about to knock him out of bed and slam him into a wall. Or fingertips were about to trail liquid fire down over his upper mouth while a hot mouth pressed against his neck and muscular legs wrapped tight around his long ones -

No. Ugh. No, no, no.

He wasn't going to think about that. That was over.

With another sigh (quiet, so as not to wake Jess), Sam rolled over onto his back, looking up at the ceiling of their bedroom with half-closed eyes. Hands resting haphazardly on his chest and fingers twisted into the sheets, he tried to breathe evenly, tried to put himself back to sleep. He was capable of it, it just took awhile, as he knew all too well. He had to convince himself that no monsters were prowling around the apartment, and that everything was okay. He focused on familiar, reassuring noises: Jess's breathing, water gurgling softly through the pipes of the building, footsteps in the hallway. And he closed his eyes.

A second later, they flew open again.

Wait.

Footsteps in the hallway?

Sam sat up, swung his legs out of bed, and padded towards the bedroom doorway, all without waking Jess. His impressive height had been a real pain in the ass back when he was sixteen and it was brand-new, but he was used to it now, and could actually move pretty quietly, for a guy his size. It was a skill that he was grateful to have as he stalked through the apartment he shared with his girlfriend, trying to keep down the memories that doing this stirred up. If there actually was someone (Or something, maliciously whispered a little voice in the back of his mind) in here, he didn't want them to hear him before he found them. And if it was nothing, he most definitely did not want Jess to wake up and ask him why he was prowling around in the dark. That was a conversation he didn't ever plan on having.

But Sam's restless, vaguely self-conscious thoughts stilled when he saw something. There. A dark figure in the room, broad shoulders and close-cropped hair, made into a blurry silhouette by the darkness but still unmistakably human. And unmistakably male. He appeared to be meticulously looking over Sam and Jess's possessions, and Sam shook his head, silently moving across the room to wait for the guy to come to him.

Oh, man, did you pick the wrong people to rob, he thought, kind of amused, but mostly just resigned. Determined to get some use out of the useless skills he'd spent his childhood honing and defend his home and his girlfriend.

He couldn't help feeling a tiny bit gratified that, for once, his instincts had actually been right.

The guy walked softly, moving around the room, occasionally stopping to look at something in the dark and getting steadily closer to Sam. He seemed to know how to move quietly - it was obvious in his movements, something unconscious, but he wasn't making any real effort to hide the sounds he was making. Probably figured that the college kids this apartment belonged to wouldn't wake up or even think that something like this could happen to them.

And now he was in range.

Sam lunged forward, adrenaline singing in his veins and some part of him relieved that the waiting was over and he could actually fight. He grabbed the intruder by the shoulder, intending to pull him down and shove a knee against his head to knock him out, but the guy's arm shot up and pushed his hand away. The movement turned into a punch, which Sam ducked away from without thinking. His body moved on autopilot; inside, he was more than a little surprised. This guy had really great reflexes.

He actually knows how to fight.

He straightened up, hands flexing into fists.

Weird, for a cat burglar...but it's okay. So do I.

Before Sam could react, he felt a hand on his arm, a ring pressing into his flesh. The guy swung him around, handling him pretty easily even though he was quite a bit shorter than Sam, and shoved him, towards the doorway of the room. Sam stumbled, caught himself, and aimed a powerful kick towards his opponent, forgetting for a second that his feet were bare and he wasn't wearing his usual heavy, thick-soled boots. Not like it mattered. The guy blocked his kick with one forearm, then shoved him back again, back into the kitchen. Before he could get his bearings, an elbow caught him in the face. He saw stars and tasted blood. He kicked again, but it went high, and missed by a mile when the guy ducked. He tried to hit him again, but Sam managed to block this blow with a quiet grunt of effort, chest shuddering with fatigue and real fear. He might actually get beaten here - might actually get killed. By a human.

He couldn't decide if that was ironic or just stupid.

He didn't get a lot of time to think about it, because he was suddenly shoved roughly to the floor, his opponent using all his weight to pin him down, gripping his neck with one hand and his wrists with the other. So he couldn't move or fight back. The guy was well-muscled, and so close that Sam could smell him. Leather, sweat, cheap alcohol, a familiar brand of cologne, an inexplicable hint of something almost like vanilla - a thousand faint, masculine scents all mixing together to make something that Sam's body recognized before his brain did. His breathing sped up, and so did his heartrate, sending blood shooting downwards as a pretty private part of him woke up in reaction.

Oh, no.

The weight on top of him felt familiar now, pressing down in all the right spots. Maybe a little heavier, wider with muscle in the shoulders and chest and thighs than he remembered, a slightly more mature shape. But that could definitely happen in two years. Especially doing what he had to have been doing this whole time.

Oh, God, no.

He even recognized the hands. Callused and scarred and strong enough to snap a werewolf's neck, but so warm, and holding him oh-so-gently...

No. No no no no no -

"Whoa. Easy, tiger." His voice was rough, horribly familiar, and obviously amused. Sam's chest heaved; he felt like he couldn't get enough oxygen.

"Dean?" His own voice was barely a whisper.

The guy on top of him laughed, low and husky, and that was enough to break Sam out of his horrified stupor. With every hair on his body standing at attention and his blood feeling like acid in his veins, he yanked his hands free and shoved Dean off of him with more force than he knew was strictly necessary. He scrambled away, disgust making him shake a little, and forced himself to his feet. Backing up a bit, he felt the countertop against the backs of his thighs and knew he couldn't go any further. When Dean stood, too, he held both hands up, palms out, in a universal "stay-the-hell-away" gesture.

"Don't touch me," he ordered with surprising ferocity, breathing hard.

"Okay, fine." Dean held up his hands, too, staying where he was. "That's your bubble." He gestured to the space around Sam, smirking a little. The expression was visible even in the dim light. "Got it."

Sam, very slowly, lowered his hands, when Dean showed no sign of coming towards him. He pushed one up through his sleep-matted hair, blinking a couple of times in an effort to clear his head. He could still feel Dean's hands on him, and he shuddered, trying to push that sensation away. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Well, I was looking for a beer..." Dean took a step forward, then stopped and rolled his eyes when Sam immediately tensed up. "Jeez. Think you might be taking this personal space kick just a little too far?"

"Just...stay away from me." He swallowed hard, all of his earlier confidence gone.

"Y'know, it's okay to let other people in." Dean put his hand over his heart and arranged his face into an over-the-top expression of concern. Sam, unamused, gritted his teeth.

"Seriously." He looked away, not wanting to make accidental eye contact even though he couldn't actually see Dean's eyes in the dark. "What the hell are you doing here, Dean?"

"Okay." The amusement vanishing suddenly, Dean stuffed his hands into the pockets of the jacket he was wearing. "All right." He sighed a little. "We gotta talk."

"I don't wanna talk to you," Sam said immediately, shaking his head a little, and immediately holding back a cringe because of how childish and petty that sounded. He hadn't thought for a second before saying it - being this close to Dean made his skin crawl and dredged up memories he'd really rather forget. He just wanted him out. Out of his apartment, out of his thoughts, out of his life. Like he had been for two years, before he just had to show up tonight and screw with everything Sam had here. He definitely didn't want to waste any time at all talking to him. He was already pretty sure he knew what he'd want to talk about, anyway.

Dean raised an eyebrow, the pale hair catching what little light there was in the apartment. "Well, what're you doing right now?"

Sam was about to reply when he heard bare feet padding against the floor, just a second before the light turned on. He automatically squinted as his eyes adjusted.

"Sam?"

He glanced towards the voice, seeing Jess standing in the doorway of the kitchen with her blonde hair all messed up from sleep and her expression confused. He was suddenly incredibly aware of how revealing the outfit that she slept in was, as Dean's gaze raked up and down her, practically burning away what little she was wearing. He felt a sudden flash of jealousy, but not concerning Jess.

How many women like her did you bed while I was gone, Dean?

He shoved that thought out of his head with as much mental force as he could.

"Jess," Sam started, doing his best to keep his tone calm. "Hey." He kept looking at her, making a point to keep Dean out of his field of vision. "Dean...this is my girlfriend. Jessica."

He looked over at Dean when he rocked back on his heels, and saw the perplexed expression on his face as he just kept taking Jess in. All of her, from her long legs to some of her...other assets. Sam could practically read his mind: Wait. Girlfriend?

And...was he imagining it, or had actual hurt flickered across his face when he introduced Jess as his girlfriend?

But it was gone now. Dean was wearing his crooked, cocky, "God's-gift-to-women-and-I-know-it" grin.

"Well," he said, gaze appreciative as he kept his eyes on Jess, "I definitely wasn't expecting you." The smile widened, and he held up his hands in a "kidding" gesture. "Not that I'm complaining, of course. You're just not my brother's usual type." He cast a sly glance at Sam, whose jaw tightened as he held himself rigid and aloof. He completely refused to rise to the bait.

Jess frowned a little, but didn't ask what he meant by that. Instead, she turned her attention back to Sam, asking, "Didn't you tell me your brother was Dean?"

That was pretty much all he had told her about his brother.

Brother. Just mentally connecting that word and everything it meant to Dean was enough to turn his stomach, bring on a wave of guilt and self-disgust that he only quelled out of pure necessity. He couldn't afford to get lost in feeling sorry for himself right now.

"Yeah." He nodded, reluctantly. "This is my - brother." If either Dean or Jess noticed the slight hitch in his voice, they didn't react to it.

"Nice to meet you." Dean walked over to stand by Sam, who tried to stiffen further and found that he couldn't, bare toes curling against the linoleum. He didn't want his brother anywhere near him, but he couldn't shove him away without having to explain that to Jess. And he would seriously consider killing himself as an acceptable alternative to explaining that. "Anyway, I gotta borrow your boyfriend here, talk about some private family business."

"No," Sam said immediately, pushing off of the counter and stalking over to put an arm around his girlfriend. Partly, it was to get away from Dean, all the guilt and pain and hatred that he dredged up. And, partly, it was to remind himself that he had Jess, he was hers, and let her slender, athletic build take his mind off his racing heart and the throbbing erection in his boxers.

Which - Oh, God - he really, really hoped no one but him had noticed.

"No," he repeated, shifting his weight a little self-consciously. "Whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of her."

"Well, if you're sure." Dean took a deep breath. "Dad hasn't been home in a few days."

Dad. Sam kept his face neutral. I would think you'd be glad he's gone, he snapped inside his own head. I've seen the way he looks at you, and I know what he's thinking. It's the same way he used to look at me. We disgust him, both of us. But you especially, I think.

"Are you sure he didn't just run off without you?" he asked instead. It really wouldn't surprise him if their father had finally gotten sick of Dean, being around him and pretending to be oblivious. Maybe he couldn't look him in the eye anymore - like Sam hadn't been able to.

A muscle in Dean's jaw twitched, but other than that, he didn't react to the implication that John'd abandoned him. Sam felt a weird sort of disappointment.

"Dad's on a hunting trip," he clarified. "And he hasn't been home in a few days."

Internally, Sam sighed. He didn't want to admit it...but that changed everything. He couldn't wave Dean's concern off as childish or unfounded. As much as he didn't want to, as fresh as the memory of John's hate for him was, the man had raised him. And he hadn't thrown him out or hit him or anything when he found out what Sam had been doing. He had to at least hear Dean out - he owed their father that much. Besides. He probably wouldn't leave the apartment without a fight until Sam'd listened to what he had to say.

"Jess, excuse us," he said quietly. "We have to go outside."

Dean waited for him while he ducked back into the bedroom just long enough to pull on jeans and a hoodie and talk Jess into at least trying to go back to bed while he was gone. When he came back, Dean gave his outfit a once-over that seemed just a little too critical, then led the way out the front door and to the stairs. Sam made no effort to be quiet as they went down, knowing that the neighbors wouldn't be able to hear him; every time his boots hit a new step, they made a noise like a thunderclap. Dean was much quieter.

"You realize I'm not leaving with you," Sam said as they reached a landing. Dean glanced back at him over his shoulder.

"I wondered why you didn't pack anything," he said. "Guess I just figured all your stuff was useless now. I mean, you obviously don't own knives or guns or anything practical." He paused on the stairs below Sam, turning to smirk up at him. "Why else would you have tried to take down an armed prowler in your underwear?"

Sam chose to ignore that.

"I'll let you tell me why you think you needed to come out here and tell me all about Dad, but that's it," he said. When Dean didn't answer, he continued with, "I mean, come on. You can't just break in, middle of the night, and expect me to hit the road with you."

"You're not hearing me, Sammy - "

"Don't call me that."

That shut Dean up immediately, and Sam was surprised by the venom in his own voice. He sounded just as vicious as he had when he'd told Dean not to touch him, if not more so.

And now his heart was racing again. He shoved past his brother, trying to ignore the miniature lightning bolt of excitement that the nickname had sent zinging up his spine. He could practically feel hands resting heavily on his hips, spread over his chest and pulling him back against another warm, muscular body, tangled in the hair he didn't like to cut as someone gasped against his mouth between fevered kisses.

Someone. No way was he using names in these involuntary little fantasies.

"So you don't like it anymore?" Dean spoke up suddenly. Sam froze. "You loved being called that, awhile back. Used to whimper and howl - "

Sam spun around, furiously meeting his brother's green gaze. "Shut up."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"I said, shut up. We're not gonna talk about any of...that." Sam spit the last word out like it had been burning the inside of his mouth, turning away so he wouldn't have to look at him. "None of it should have ever happened, I wish more than anything that it hadn't, and, as far as I'm concerned...it didn't." He shook his head, anger dulling into pain and guilt, and, for some reason he couldn't fathom, he felt absolutely terrible. "Just let me forget about it, okay? That's what I want."

Dean stayed quiet and still for a couple seconds, his expression completely unreadable in the dim light of the stairwell and his eyes gleaming when Sam glanced at him. Finally, he spoke, his voice flat and utterly devoid of emotion.

"Okay," he said. "Let's just focus on finding Dad, then."