swan_bite

Dean got a look in his eye like a deer stuck in the Impala's headlights, like Sam had seen that one time when they were driving down some back road late at night and a doe and her fawn had crossed the road in front of them. Sam never forgot how they stood frozen in place, and he'd never forgiven his father for hitting the fawn, although logically he knew it wasn't John's fault.

The little body had gone flying through the air and the doe had skittered off into the woods while her baby thumped onto the shoulder of the road and lay still and broken, its eyes blank in the moonlight.

The whole gruesome tableau had stayed with Sam for years, stuck in his memories, showing up in his nightmares whenever he was particularly angry at his father.

And that expression of frozen terror was what he saw on his brother's face whenever Sam got too close. Sam started deliberately brushing his arm across Dean's when he reached past him for the ketchup while they ate, or bumping his shoulder into Dean's when they tramped side by side through the woods, following along behind their father while he taught them the art of tracking..

"How are the exchange students this term?" Andrew asked. He'd really wanted to go to the dinner they'd held to welcome the students from Columbia, except he'd bought tickets for the screening of The Man Who Fell To Earth at Modern Art Oxford and it'd so happened that the dinner and the film had been on the same day.

Ellen shrugged. Ellen was Canadian, but she wasn't an exchange student. She was an international student who decided she'd rather spend four years focusing on what she really loved (Biology; she wanted to live in an ecological commune someday) than "flailing around at a liberal arts school", and now she was in the third year of her degree. Last year she had been the college's LGBTQ representative and this year she was returning to the committee as the international students' rep. Andrew loved her. "Not bad," she said. "I sat next to this guy with dark curly hair who wouldn't say much. He had the bluest eyes, though."

"Sounds exactly like my type," Andrew told her, pretending to swoon. "Did you get a name?"

"I did, actually," Ellen said. "Jesse Eisenberg."

“Deception, deceit. The Shining One is a predator. Save the little ones: they have not yet had the chance to grow. Save the little ones.”

I frown. “We need to find this so-called Shining One.”

Spock nods and whispers against the bark, asking directions. I watch his lips and feel a familiar flip of yearning low in my stomach. I don't need this crap. It's probably just too much fresh air. I approach the tree myself and trace my hand over its gnarled flesh. “We've already beamed back some seedlings and we'll try to take as many as we can. Your children will not be lost.”

Spock's face seems slightly less serious, which means I've managed to shock the hell out of him. “It has understood you.”

I smile softly, patting the trunk. “I like this tree.”

Something terrifying flashes in Spock's eyes for a millisecond and I let my hand fall back down to my side. I couldn't have seen that. Jealousy? Over a tree?

“The Shining One is located three kilometers north in a large valley,” Spock says, his voice as cold as ever.

I must be going crazy.

Brendon still hadn’t gotten used to how quiet it was as an only child, even though he probably made enough noise to compensate for at least one or two siblings. He hummed obnoxiously as he headed for the kitchen without changing out of pajamas, figuring that if he managed to spill anything on himself, at least he wouldn’t be in his church clothes yet.

It was when he passed the window at the landing of the stairs that he realized something was off.

The sun was way too high for it to still be morning, which meant they should have been at church hours before. Brendon’s family never missed church. Tentatively, he called, “Mom? Dad?” as he jogged the rest of the way down the stairs.

There was no reply, and when Brendon got into the kitchen, it was empty.

“Huh,” he said, leaning against the doorframe to take stock of the situation. For a wild moment he wondered if they’d actually left without him—if the conversation from the previous night had actually stuck with them. It seemed unlikely, considering that his father had been pretty adamant when telling Brendon that it was church, or hell. Brendon was still proud that he’d refrained from answering that.

A hand catches Dean as he steps away, wraps all the way around his wrist, makes him look small, which Dean fucking well is not. "Dean. Thank you."

"Yessir."

The hunter makes that almost-smile of his, like he's forgotten how to do it and he's just imitating everyone else. "Call me Sam, okay?"

"Yeah," Dean says, clutching the med kit tightly. "Okay. Uh, Sam."

"G'night, Dean." And then and then oh God, the almost-smile is more smile-like, and there are white teeth and oh shit dimples.

And then Dean's shutting the door behind him and he's got a hard-on for the eighth time today and he's sharing a shitty motel room with his dad and his twelve-year-old little brother, and he heads for the shower so he can jerk off over a really hot, definitely alcoholic, probably crazy and borderline suicidal hunter.

And this is why Sam Moore is ruining Dean Winchester's life.

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