Current mood:	loved
Current music:	Pearl Jam - The Kids Are All Right
Entry tags:	supernatural

Fire
Title: Fire
Author/Artist: windout
Requestor: spellbind_ing
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1,877
Warnings: Wincest
Summary: AU!! Sam and Dean were separated at a young age, Mary, John and Dean all believing that Sam had died in a fire. Twenty years later, Dean Winchester--fireman, rescues a young lawyer, Sam from a burning home. They, after a lengthy friendship become more than that, not knowing they are brothers. What happens when they find out?
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its trappings belong to Eric Kripke.
A/N: These are snapshots of Sam ‘n Dean because it would have been way lengthier otherwise. Not exactly how the prompt went, but I hope it works. *fingers crossed*



The morning Dean met Sam had started with a cup of coffee down the drain and another sleepless night. Things just kind of went from there, really…

***

“You what?”

“Dragged your sorry ass out of the fire,” Dean boasted proudly. And why not? Not like jumping into the middle of a burning building was exactly in the same league as jumping into a ball pit. “You oughtta be thankin’ me.”

“I could’ve taken care of myself,” the kid snapped. His longish hair was flopping into his eyes and almost, but not quite, in need of a trim. Instead of looking like a menacing sort of guy, he just looked like a baleful sheepdog. A sheepdog on a gurney wearing a pale blue dress.

“And ya done a real sharp job, pal.”

“Why are you here?”

Dean frowned. That was actually a pretty good question…

***

“Dude, what is your problem? Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“My problem? You haven’t exactly been the picture of perfect hostmanship yourself.” The kid hadn’t even offered his name or some, you know, common courtesy like that. (Not that it mattered; Dean had swiped a look at his file while the kid was passed out. Second thought, he didn’t really blame the kid for not wanting to tell Dean his name was “Weston.”)

“So you’re just going to sit here and annoy me while I recover,” Weston remarked dryly. “Why don’t I feel more reassured?”

“You should, I saved your life, you know.”

“I know.” The look that accompanied that particular comment Dean christened the “Bitch Face.” He had a feeling he’d be seeing a lot of it.

***

“How’s the wrist?” Dean asked cheerfully as he plopped in his favourite chair. Weston was already awake, shoving melted green things around a plate. It might’ve been a plate of broccoli once.

Weston glanced up, looking like he couldn’t quite believe that someone was doing a kind thing for him. “I don’t get you. Why are you doing this?”

“Because you’re a man of mystery,” Dean replied casually. “And, you know…never really had to wait three days to get a person’s name before.”

His expression turned quizzical, which amused Dean even more. What kind of a life did Weston have to live that he was unused to people? “You didn’t look at my chart?”

“Why should I? None of my business.”

The kid nodded just enough that Dean almost convinced himself that he might’ve imagined it. Until the kid replied, anyway. “I’m Sam. Sam Smith.”

Sam, huh? Dean thought. All right. Beats the shit out of Weston. He stuck his hand out with a jovial smile. “Nice to meet ya, Sam. I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.”

“Nice to meet you, Dean.”

And he looked like he meant it.

***

The bar was pretty crowded, which meant that nobody would notice a pair of guys sharing a couple of beers. Dean had to push pretty hard to get Sam (Weston) to agree to go out, and it felt damn good to finally win him over. He was still quiet, closed off and generally friggen annoying.

“So. You have a girlfriend?” Dean asked, still trying to wrangle some sort of conversation out of the kid. It’d been a month, how the hell much longer was this silent treatment gonna last anyway?

But damned if Sam wasn’t still determined to play the strong, stalwart type. He just shook his head for the umpteenth time that evening and left it at that. Dammit, Sam! How the kid even managed to become a lawyer was completely beyond Dean.

“Oookay. Awkward.”

***

Sam had passed out in the recliner, giving Dean no choice but to take the couch. He was not, repeat, not in the mood to take care of the laundry on the bed. And besides, watching Sam sleep the sleep of the incredibly drunk, Dean couldn’t help grinning goofily.

Who said persistence didn’t pay off?

All right, nobody did, but it was principle. Ever since he’d kept visiting Sam in the hospital after the fire, he’d gradually won Sam over. That had been mighty sweet.

Dean downed the last of his beer and planted it on the table. He got to his feet slowly, carefully and wandered over to the couch. Except, he took the scenic route, stopping by Sam’s chair to inspect him for a moment. Watch him sleep.

Reach out and ruffle his hair.

Sam groaned before snuggling further down in the leather chair. Dean grinned.

***

“Dean…I like you too, man, but what are you talking about?”

Dean just smirked. “Exactly what I said. I like you, Sam.”

“Er…thanks?”

“For Christ’s sake, Sammy!” Dean groaned. “You’re not even trying, are you?”

His eyes were about five seconds away from popping out of his head from surprise. “Dean, what?”

“Forget it.”

***

For the first time, words just completely failed Dean Winchester.

Sam was redder than the truck Dean rode in at the station and looking brighter by the minute. Dean just gulped as his trademarked grin slowly crossed his face.

“You kissed me.”

The kid seemed to shrink into himself as he nodded.

Dean reached out, somehow managing to find Sam’s chin buried in his plaid shirt, and nudged it upwards. Sam glanced at Dean for the first time since the kiss, expression looking pretty sheepish. Dean leaned forwards and kissed him firmly on the lips.

“Love ya, Sammy.”

***

That night, Dean managed to coax Sam into his bedroom with minimum fuss. The foreplay had been pretty much nonexistent, and it didn’t really matter to either of them. There was sweat, and touch, and whenever one or both of them came during the night, they just switched positions and started again.

***

For the second time in his life, words completely failed Dean Winchester. Sam had an impressive 2-0 streak going.

“Excuse me?”

Sam looked pissed. Looked like he expected Dean to be completely, one hundred percent on board with his train of thought. “I told you, Dean, I hunt evil. Ghosts. Boogeymen.”

“…ghosts.”

Sam’s lips got thin to the point where they almost ceased to exist. “Am I not speaking English, Dean? Ghosts! Demons!”

Dean raised his hands, mouthing “Ooookay,” in as placating a manner as he could manage. Clearly, Sam was either completely serious or batshit crazy. Maybe he was trying to break up with Dean without the hard feelings?

“Whatever,” Sam muttered.

“Sam, I’m sorry—”

“No. Forget it.”

Well… Dean reflected. Couple nights alone never hurt anybody…

***

The next day, Dean marched over to Sam’s firm with a bagged lunch and apologized straight away. Sam nodded and when nobody was watching, gave Dean a peck on the cheek.

***

“I had a brother, but…” Dean sighed. “When I was four, our house burned down. He was lost in the fire and…”

Sam nodded as Dean had to stop for a swig of beer. The nights they really did just get to bed and sleep were starting to becoming a pain in the ass for Sam, so he’d confronted Dean about it. Asked about the tossing and turning and what he dreamed about that upset him so much. Considering the point in their relationship, Dean kind of owed Sam a real answer.

“That’s what I dream about, that fire. We left that night, my folks couldn’t handle it. We moved out to New York and…that was it. That’s why I’m a fireman; I swore I was gonna make sure that didn’t happen again to anyone else.”

Sam nodded, a weak smile on his face. “I lost my parents in a fire when I was real young. That’s what I was told anyway. Not exactly from a reliable source though.”

Dean frowned, wondering if Sam was lying. The green eyes revealed nothing but raw emotion, even while hidden beneath his bangs. More than a little weird…

***

“Your name’s what?”

Not too long after he’d moved into Dean’s apartment, Sam was getting mail. Mail for Weston Smith.

“It’s Sam, okay? I go by Sam. My foster dad just named me friggin’ Weston because of the gun,” Sam snapped, immediately in defensive mode. Dean knew what that meant: lay the hell off.

But Dean wasn’t done yet.

“Where’d the Sam come from?”

“I dunno, I guess Samuel Colt or something. He was a hunter and liked guns. That’s it.”

“Not…”

“No, not ghosts.”

“Right…”

***

A week, and a hell of a lot of money later, Dean was at a hospital in Palo Alto hoping to infiltrate an adoption agency with a reeeeeally nice fake ID and a whole lot of charm. So far, so good. He flashed the receptionist a huge smile while offering the ID.

“Hi! I’m Agent McGrath, and I need to check the registry for records of a Sam Winchester, or a Weston Smith. You wouldn’t be able to help me out would you?”

The receptionist scanned the card before glancing back at Dean. “Right this way, officer.”

Too easy.

***

Samuel Winchester, born May 2, 1983 to John and Mary Winchester. Parents unreachable, probably killed in house fire in Lawrence, KA. Adopted by Gregory and Linda Smith.

Date of inoculations: 05/05/04, 11/10/04…

Dean didn’t notice when the paper slipped out of his hand. An orderly had to come fetch him and tell him that it was closing time. If he'd capable of rational thought at the moment, there would have been only one word scrolling through his head.

Sammy.

***

“Sam, we’ve gotta talk.”

“What’s up?”

Sam plopped down at the kitchen table, grinning like a dork. It was his turn to fix supper, which meant he got to pick the tunes that came out of the radio. That, combined with the promotion he got at work left him pretty damned ecstatic. And Dean just felt like someone went and stabbed him in the gut. That was how life worked.

“Sam, I…”

What the hell was he gonna say? Hey, dude, guess what, you’re actually my dead baby brother so we should probably stop bangin’ each other? Dean swallowed thickly, his brain scrabbling for some kind of a feasible answer.

“Dean, you’re acting like you found out the world’s gonna end; seriously, man, what’s up?”

Pretty apt description if I do say so myself. And really—Dean felt like a piece of shit for even thinking this, but—who would know or care? Wasn’t like the agency was going to hunt either of them down right? It was an accident for Christ’s sake!

Dean could imagine the look in Sam’s eyes if he told the kid—his brother—what he’d found out.

Wasn’t it the older brother’s job to watch out for his baby brother anyway? Save him from any and all pain he could?

He shook his head, forcing a smile. They’d find a way.

“Dean?” Sam asked quizzically.

“I hope you know that you’re not gonna be cooking again, like, ever, Sammy. Smashing Pumpkins? Are you serious?”

“What’s wrong with the Smashing Pumpkins?” Sam’s face was full of all kind of outraged, playful hurt as Dean ribbed him about his taste in music. Better than having Sam’s face be full of outraged, scandalized hurt.

If Dean had anything to say about it, it never would be, either.