f o l l o w . m e . i n t o . t h e . d e s e r t . a s . t h i r s t y . a s . y o u . a r e

Follow me into the desert, as thirsty as you are
[by victoria p.]

Rating: adult

Summary: "Don't you have family, Sam?"

Spoilers: for the pilot only.

Notes: Thanks to Amberlynne for handholding, and to Devil Doll and luzdeestrellas for betaing. All remaining errors are mine. Title from Soundgarden.

Word count: 4,490 words

Date: November 12, 2006

"Come on," Dean says, heading out the door, cooler in hand.

Sam follows. He always follows--no matter how hard he tries not to, no matter how much he rebels against Dad, where Dean goes, Sam follows.

They don't go far, just down to the unkempt tennis courts, the white lawn chairs gleaming softly like ancient ruins in the grass, dirt and rust hidden by darkness.

Dean casually arranges himself on the lounge chair, bare feet hanging off the edge, the cuffs of his jeans fraying, leaving a fringe around his ankles that, after two beers, Sam will find hilarious.

Sam folds himself into the other chair gingerly, refusing to lean against the rust and bird shit he knows is covering the back, even if he can't really see it right now.

Dean snorts and mutters, "Samantha," as he pops open two bottles of Bud and hands one across to Sam.

Sam takes it, the condensation making it cold and slippery against his fingers. "Dean--" he starts, because on the one hand, hanging out with Dean, drinking beer, is one of those cool things he thought would never ever happen to him, and at fifteen he feels like he's been waiting for it forever, but on the other, he's seen Dad stumble home drunk on those special anniversaries when it all gets to be too much too often to ever want to get that way himself.

"Do you really think I'm going to let you get shit-faced, Sam? Jesus." He doesn't have to look to know Dean is rolling his eyes.

"You'd think it was funny."

Dean huffs a laugh. "That's true. But you ought to know how to hold your liquor, so you're just gonna have to trust me."

God knows, Dean has pulled more pranks on him by using that sincere, I'm only looking out for you, man tone, and even though he knows he should be wary, because it's Dean, Sam always falls for it. Because it's Dean.

He takes a long drink, and it tastes better than he remembers from the last time Dad let him have a sip, crisp and cold and perfect on a warm summer evening.

He finishes it faster than he expected, and holds out his hand for a second, which Dean gives him with an approving smile.

They pass a bag of Doritos between them, hungry even though they had dinner an hour ago--Sam's always hungry these days, for everything, growing boy and all that--and the salty taste just makes him drink faster, want more.

Somewhere in the middle of the second bottle, he slips from his uncomfortable perch on the rickety lawn chair to the grass, and halfway through the third bottle, he's convinced he can feel the earth turning beneath him.

He gets up, all awkward too-long legs he's still getting used to, and tries to demonstrate, spinning with his arms spread wide like wings, accompanied by the bright liquid sound of Dean's laughter. Dean's teeth flash white like the moon, and Sam points at the fireflies and says, "They're like stars, if stars were bugs."

"Oh, God," Dean says, choking with laughter. "I can't believe you're such a lightweight."

Sam stumbles over his own feet, still too big for him to negotiate gracefully, like a puppy that hasn't yet grown into his paws, and lands on top of Dean, whose laughter stops with an abrupt oof as he's pinned to the lounge chair by one hundred fifty pounds of drunk Sam. The chair collapses with a pained metallic shriek, and they roll away from it, laughing so hard that Sam ends up puking in the grass.

He has to brush his teeth three times to get the taste of stale beer, Doritos, and bile off his tongue, but it's still one of his favorite memories--the night warm and the edges fuzzy, the sky spangled with stars, and the sound of Dean's laughter rising like music above the steady chirping of crickets.

ii.

There's a girl that summer (there's always a girl, Sam knows; it's like a rule or something--if there weren't one, he'd have to add her in when telling the story, if he ever told the story (he only tells it once, murmuring into the soft skin of Jess's freckled shoulder not long after they moved in together, the warmth of her body easing away the old sting), but there is, so he doesn't have to lie. Much.), a girl with curly blonde hair and long tanned legs. She works at the Seven Eleven down the road from the motel, and the first time she smiles at Sam as she rings him up, something in his brain frizzles and pops, and he can't do anything but stare at her, transfixed.

"It's three seventy-five," she says, and he hands over a five and walks out without his change, stunned.

Every day after training, he heads down to the Seven Eleven for a cherry Coke and a bag of pretzels. He learns her name is Tara and she's going into her senior year at the local high school. She looks like a cheerleader, like every fantasy girl in every teen movie, but she laughs scornfully when he asks, says she plays soccer.

"I'm in a summer league now," she says, handing him his change, short nails skimming over his palm, sending a shock of heat through him. "You should check us out."

He tries to decide if scoping out the practices is stalkery, tells himself it's not if he's actually working out when he does it, and so he starts doing extra training in the humid afternoons, running laps around the field so he can just happen to be there when she arrives.

She waves and smiles and introduces him to her friends, and he finds out that she likes Third Eye Blind and Barenaked Ladies, and hates coconut as much as he does.

When he jerks off at night in the shower, he imagines her.

After their first week in town, he's got her schedule memorized, knows when she comes on shift, and Dad eyes him with something that may almost be amusement when he fidgets in the afternoon, eager to see her. Dad tells him maybe he should spend less money at the Seven Eleven, and gives him an extra ten dollars spending money anyway.

"Take her out for ice cream, or whatever it is you kids do these days," he says.

Sam nods, face burning with embarrassment that Dad's onto him (and, oh, God, please don't let Dean know), and manages a surprised, "Thanks," before he takes off, because he doesn't want to sit through another Talk with Dad. The first one, when he was twelve, had been scarier than anything he's been through on the hunt, and the rehash with Dean last summer had been almost as bad.

Sam waffles about it for a while, but summer is rapidly coming to a close, and who knows where he'll be when school starts up? It's a Thursday when he finally works up the nerve to ask her out. He knows he'll regret it more if he doesn't.

She doesn't laugh, which he figures is a good sign.

"You're very sweet," she says, and he's pretty sure that's a bad sign, "but I'm kind of seeing someone."

"Oh. Oh, well. Okay. I'll just...go." He walks out of the store, face burning, wondering how he could be such an idiot, because of course she's got a boyfriend. How could she not?

He still goes out to the field, needing to run, to burn off some of his embarrassment. He figures it's safe, because there's no practice on Thursdays. When he gets back to the motel, Dean's not in the room, but when he looks out the bathroom window, Sam can see him dangling his feet in the scummy-looking pool, hear the low-pitched giggle of the girl he's leaning in to kiss. Sam gets a good look at her face and feels his stomach drop.

Of course, Tara is seeing Dean.

"It's been fun," Dean is saying, and of course, Dean doesn't even want her anymore, because it's all about the hunt and the chase for him, the stupid romantic vision of himself as some kind of modern-day gunslinger, riding into town to rescue the damsel in distress and then riding off into the sunset when he's done, getting what he can, while he can, and never looking back.

Sam slams his fist into the tiled wall and regrets it immediately.

He flings himself onto his bed, cradling his now sore knuckles, pulls on his headphones, and tries to drown in the wail of Nirvana's guitars. He falls asleep, and wakes when Dean comes in.

"Hey, Dad's not gonna be back until late, so we could grab some Chinese, pick up a couple movies at Blockbuster," he says, smiling like he's offering Sam some kind of treat. "I'll even let you pick one, as long as it's not, like, Steel Magnolias or something. Or in French." He frowns. "Unless there's sex."

Sam rolls away, giving Dean his back. "Whatever."

"Come on, Sammy," Dean wheedles, but Sam isn't a little kid anymore, and he's sick of Dean's bullshit. "We can get those potstickers you like so much. And ice cream for dessert."

"Whatever," he repeats. His hand is throbbing painfully, but he just tucks it to his chest, not willing to deal with Dean's fussing or, worse, his laughter.

"What crawled up your ass and died?"

"Nothing." He turns up the volume on his Walkman and pointedly ignores Dean for the rest of the night.

Two days later, Dad tells them to pack up. For once, Sam doesn't argue.

iii.

Sam's first roommate at Stanford is named Rohit Choudhury. Rohit has three sisters, one of whom--Chanda--is a junior with her own off-campus apartment. She hangs out with them a lot the first few weeks, teasing Rohit and telling horribly embarrassing stories about their childhood, but Rohit accepts it with laughter and good grace, because Chanda always knows where the best parties are, and she drags her brother and Sam along when she goes.

Sam stands awkwardly in a corner, near the keg, plastic cup of beer in his hand, watching the crowd flow around him, waiting for the right moment to dive in. The first sip of beer reminds him of humid summer air against his skin and the feel of the earth spinning beneath him, and the sips after that remind him that this is the life he wants, the life he chose, and somehow, he will figure out how all these people do it--the small talk and the easy confidences, secure in the knowledge that they are safe and the world is theirs for the taking.

He doesn't get drunk, like the frat boys and the soccer players. He drinks enough to make it easier to talk to these people who are scarier than ghosts, and stops, mindful of the long walk home, the dangers lurking in the darkness, the fact that he doesn't know or trust any of these people, and he's not sure he ever will.

"Always so solemn, Sam," Chanda teases him, trying to get him to dance. "I thought Rohit was bad, but he's a laugh riot compared to you."

Sam tries to take refuge in his cup of now room temperature beer so he doesn't have to answer, but she plucks it out of his hand and pulls him into her arms. He relaxes. This he can do, the easy sway back and forth, the press of the crowd forcing her against him, all soft curves and promising heat, the brush of her long hair against his wrists ticklish, seductive.

She smiles up at him, dark eyes flashing, and it's so clear and simple when he looks at her. He leans down, presses his mouth to hers, drinking in the taste of beer and salsa and girl. She takes him back to her apartment, and he goes down on her before he fucks her; the salt tang of her cunt reminds him of the ocean, and he thinks he might drown in it.

Afterwards, he wants to sleep, but she rambles on about Rohit and their two other sisters, both of whom are still in high school, and how their parents met at Stanford, and she and Rohit are hoping to follow in their footsteps--become doctors, find spouses, make happy lives, and carry on the family traditions.

"What are your family traditions?" she asks, wriggling back against him as he spoons her.

Salt lines and silver bullets. Latin, alchemy, and bow hunting. He must be taking too long, because she shifts, turns to face him. "Don't you have family, Sam?" she asks softly, kind now in a way she hasn't been before.

It's harder to lie when she's looking at him with pity in her eyes, but he opens his mouth to try anyway, to say, I'm an orphan, or even just, No, but instead, he says, "I have Dean."

"Dean?"

"My older brother." He clears his throat, which suddenly feels tight. "My family. He looked out for me."

She settles her head against his chest, satisfied. "That's what older brothers do."

He can only nod, and wait for her to fall asleep so he can leave.

He stumbles back to the dorm sometime before dawn; Rohit is passed out on his bed, still dressed, and snoring loudly. Sam hopes it's not awkward in the morning.

He never tells Rohit, but he's pretty sure he knows. Little brothers always do.

*

iv.

Sam's getting dressed when his cell phone rings, and Jess grabs it before he can.

"Hello...Hello?" She waits another couple of seconds and then flips it shut, shrugging, and tosses it to him. "Wrong number, I guess."

He looks at the caller ID, but it just says, "Unknown name, unknown number." It could just be a wrong number. He hasn't heard from Dean at all in the past year, not even one of the blank postcards that used to arrive every couple of months, but--

"Hey," Jess says, plucking the phone from his hand and dropping it on the bed. "It's your birthday, no frowny faces." She leans up, kisses him, and the feel of her warm, soft skin under his hands makes him hard.

"We don't have to go out," he says, kissing a path up her jaw to her ear and sliding his hands up to cup her breasts. "We could stay in bed, order in."

She leans back, looks up at him thoughtfully. "I made these reservations two months ago, Sam. I want to take you someplace nice."

He gestures towards the bed. "This is someplace nice."

She laughs and slips out of his hold. "Not the same thing. Come on." She goes to the closet, pulls on a slinky blue dress he hasn't seen before, and smoothes it down over her hips. "I want to show you off."

Sam stares at her, because there's no way anyone would possibly look at him when she's wearing that dress. She's always beautiful, even hung-over and sleep-starved, but she's luminous now, and it makes him feel like the luckiest guy ever, that she even lets him talk to her, let alone touch and kiss and fuck her.

When they get to the restaurant, he blanches at the prices, the obvious opulence of the place, knowing he doesn't--will never--fit in. He's reminded in a rush of his childhood, of living in cut-rate motels and low income housing, of shopping at K-Mart when things were good, and Goodwill when they weren't, and wearing Dean's hand-me-downs until he outgrew them completely. Of how much he hated it and wanted to get out.

But she tells him it's part of her gift to him and for once he has to stop worrying about money and enjoy himself.

"Let me take care of you," she says, running her foot up his calf and making him squirm. "I know you like it when I take care of you, and I like doing it."

He forces himself to relax, and by the time their entrées arrive, he's not acting anymore.

She promises him dessert at home, and he can't resist the invitation in her voice, can't keep his hands off her in the car. She laughs and says, "Wait, Sam. Wait," so he does, imagining all the things they're going to do when they get home and he can slide that dress off her body, lay her down and kiss her breathless, touch her until she's writhing under his hands and begging desperately for more.

He's so lost in his plans that he's startled when they pull up in front of the building. As they walk to the door, the back of his neck prickles as if someone's watching, but he can't see anyone in the long shadows of the twilight.

He's on alert, nerves wound tight, as he unlocks the door to the apartment, hand automatically reaching for the gun that's not in his waistband--he hasn't carried a weapon since he came to Palo Alto, and for the first time, he regrets it.

He shields Jess with his body as he eases open the door and reaches for the light switch.

"Surprise!"

He stumbles back into Jess as masses of people leap up and come at him--the guys want to shake his hand, the girls want to give him hugs. It's weird, and he can't quite find the level of ease he managed at the restaurant, not with so many people wandering around his home. It's not like the dorm, which had the same temporary feel as the endless string of motel rooms he'd grown up in; this apartment is the first place he's called home in a very long time, more home than anyplace he's ever known, except maybe the backseat of the Impala, and Dean's voice waking him in the morning.

He shoots Jess a bewildered look, and she laughs and kisses him. "Happy birthday, Sam."

"I--I don't know what to say."

"Say, 'thank you,'" she suggests, pushing him forward.

He does exactly that, keeping her hand in his as he moves through the crowd, thanking people for coming, for wishing him a happy birthday, for being his friend, for not thinking he's some kind of freak.

Someone hands him a beer and he drinks it, and when he's done with that, someone hands him another, and he drinks that, too. On top of the wine from dinner, the desperate ache of desire still pulsing in his veins, and the adrenaline surge of the surprise, he gets buzzed pretty fast, and he enjoys it in a way he normally doesn't.

He twirls Jess around the floor to whatever the hell they've got playing on the stereo--he can feel the bass thumping, but he can't hear the words over the sound of people talking loud to be heard above the music--and when they reach the bathroom, he whirls her in and slams the door shut behind them. He cups her face in his hands and kisses her, hot, wet, and deep, the way he's been imagining since dinner, and she pulls him tight against her, her hands sliding up his chest and over his shoulders.

"Happy birthday, Sam," she whispers against his mouth, and he laughs.

"Thank you. I've never had a surprise party before."

There's sadness in her eyes when she says, "I kind of figured."

He hasn't told her much about his life before Stanford, and he feels vaguely guilty that what he has told her makes it sound pretty bad. But Winchesters aren't much for surprises, not even the good kind, and even though he'd tried once or twice, Dean had never managed to pull off the cupcakes for the class deal when Sam was a kid. When they got older, birthdays were an excuse to cut school and sneak into the movies for an illicit double feature, ice cream cake from Carvel, and some small gift from Dad that was never what Sam really wanted.

He shakes his head. He doesn't want to think about that. "I can't believe how many people are here."

She strokes his face gently. "You have a lot of friends, Sam. I don't know why that surprises you."

He can't tell her he's used to only having one who stuck around. Instead, he says, "And I have you, Jess. God, I don't know what I'd do without you."

She runs her thumb over his lower lip. "Let's hope you never find out."

She pulls him in for another kiss, more intoxicating than all the alcohol he's drunk, and he slides his hands up under her dress, desperate to be as close to her as possible, to touch her skin, which is softer than the silk she wears. He slips to his knees and rucks up her dress so he can press his mouth to her cunt, wet and warm through the tiny scrap of cotton serving as her underwear. He pushes it aside to slide his tongue along her folds, every moan and gasp she makes sending a jolt of heat to his dick. Her hands clutch at his shoulders, tangle in his hair, and she arches against his mouth.

He loves the taste of her, the feel of her against his tongue. He loves that he can make her fall apart, and that he can put her back together again, and that she can do the same for him. He loves her, and he tells her with his tongue against her clit and his fingers thrusting inside her.

She comes with a strangled moan, shaking apart above him, and he leans away, lowers her gently into his lap. He undoes his trousers, so he can slide inside her while she's still riding it out, her body clenching around him as he thrusts. Thank you, he thinks, and love you, and thank God, and Jess, and for once he doesn't stop to question how he got so lucky before he can't think at all.

She moves with him, arms entwined around his neck, mouth hot against his jaw, his cheek, his eyelids, and it doesn't take long for him to come, the world exploding in white hot pleasure. He cradles her close, still trembling, and when he comes back to himself, he thinks he can feel the earth spinning beneath them, fast enough to make him dizzy, and she's the only thing keeping him from floating away when gravity loosens its hold.

Sam doesn't remember much about the week after the fire. He knows he talked to the cops, to Jess's parents, to the dean, to the grief counselor the school provided. He knows he didn't say much of anything to Dean, who watched him with wide, wary eyes that said everything his mouth didn't. Couldn't.

He remembers Jess on the ceiling, the heat of fire on his skin, Dean's hands pulling him from the apartment, the acrid scent of smoke in his clothes and hair that he swears he can still smell, half a dozen days and showers later. He wonders if this is what Dad felt like after Mom, wonders if this is what Dean remembers, but when he opens his mouth to ask, nothing comes out.

They spend a week looking for leads, but they both know it was the same thing that killed Mom, and they have no way to track it. All of Sam's dreams are of the past now, filling the few hours of sleep he gets, and he tries to pay attention to every detail he ignored in the days leading up to the fire, but it's all jumbled in his head--nothing makes sense anymore, except the soft sound of Dean sleeping in the next bed, so familiar even after years apart and lulling him back to sleep. He just wants to wake up and have everything be the way it was before.

Everything he eats tastes like ashes, and five days later, after lunch at Jess's favorite pizzeria, he has to stop on the way to the car, bend over, and throw it all back up. The warm strength of Dean's hand on the back of his neck anchors him, keeps him from falling apart completely. They get in the car, and Dean hands him a bottle of water, concern clear in his eyes and in every line of his body.

Sam says, "Thanks," because it's all he can say. It feels inadequate, though he means it in ways he didn't even realize until he said it. Dean doesn't brush it off like he normally would, just nods and bites his lip.

Sam wakes on the morning of the eighth day to the sight of Dean shoving clothes into a duffel bag.

"What--" It comes out a dry croak; he has to clear his throat to continue. "What are you doing?"

Dean pauses for a second, and Sam can see him discard the first half-dozen snarky answers that come to mind before he says, "Time to hit the road, Sammy. Gotta find Dad."

"Dean--" He rubs a hand over his eyes, still gritty and burning from lack of sleep.

"Dad's tracking it, Sam."

"I can't leave."

Dean doesn't miss a beat. "Dad's tracking it. We find Dad, we find the thing that did this."

Sam nods, clings to those words, because they're all he has right now: Dean, and the hope of finding Dad and killing whatever killed Jess and Mom.

He's still in a half-daze, dizzy with grief and lack of sleep, and unable to fathom the new orbit of his world, but he manages to get showered and dressed. When he comes out of the bathroom, Dean's got a bag packed for him, full of clothes he's never seen before, and a handful of things they'd salvaged from the fire. Sam had sworn he didn't want any of it, pummeled Dean with angry words about his own failure to save Jess, though he never quite came out and blamed Dean for any of it; Dean had nodded and continued sorting through the remains of his brother's life, and packed it all away, knowing Sam would eventually want it. He doesn't yet--the scent of burning still clings to it all--but now he knows that someday, he will.

Dean shoulders both bags and yanks the door open harder than necessary, surprisingly graceless. It bangs into the wall with a thump that makes him grimace.

"Come on. Let's go."

Sam takes a last look around the motel room, the particulars of which are already fading from his mind--he knows it will blur into the memory of a hundred rooms exactly like it in the months to come--and then follows Dean to the car.

end

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