Fic: On the Way Down (Dean/Sam) Part 3/3
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 17,300
Warnings: Weecest (Sam is 15), wing!fic, all sorts of UST, barebacking, mild gore
Notes: See Masterpost for all of my thank yous, notes, and a link to the fantastic art by reapertownusa
Summary - The Winchesters have been subjected to a lot of things in the name of hunting, but the result of a spell-gone-wrong on their latest case is still pretty high on Dean's weird scale. While their father is out searching for a way to undo the magic, Dean's stuck in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, trying to deal with his bitchy teenage brother and his own increasingly un-brotherly feelings toward him. Who'd have thought Sammy growing a pair of giant bird wings would be the least of his problems?
Back to Part 2
***
The hot pulse of the bruise is still there, even days later when the shape of Dean’s teeth on his skin turns from purple to yellow, a steady throb at the junction of hip and thigh like a beacon for the attention that Dean’s not paying to it. They haven’t said a word about it, not either of them, and while sitting around ignoring it is like running a cheesegrater over raw nerves, Sam figures it might still be better than listening to his brother give him a speech about how it’s wrong and bad and not ever going to happen again.
Maybe.
Ok, maybe not.
He still catches Dean looking at him sometimes and the preening… well it gets intense. Sam’s kind of surprised they’ve both made it through it twice a day - because the book says some birds do it twice a day and apparently Dean has suddenly decided that listening to books is super damn important - without it ending in either sex or fratricide. Or both. Honestly, at this point he’d settle for either if it would make this weird, forced-normalcy go away.
He has to say something, Sam’s decided, has to do something because pretending isn't going to change what happened and Dean's kidding himself if he thinks so. Trouble is, what the hell does he say?
"Dean," he starts and already he can tell there's too much in it, giving everything away with a single word. The stiffened line of Dean's shoulders says so just as clearly as Sam's own gut. Dean doesn't turn around from his fourth attempt at making a pie crust - Sam would totally give him crap about it except they're barely speaking - rolling out the dough with more force than seems strictly necessary.
"Sam," is the only reply he gets, warning dripping from every letter. And goddamnit, it’s so freaking Dean to refuse to talk about this. Because why would anyone want to talk about things that could actually, like, affect the entire trajectory of their life? Especially when there's important shit to do like totally failing at making pie!
"You've got to be kidding me!" Sam snaps because he can't keep it in. He's been hanging onto it for days, getting hard every two seconds because his hormones suck and Dean's always there being Dean and he can't help himself. His wings rustle agitatedly and for the first time ever Sam actually likes the things - right now he'll take every mode of expression he can get.
"No, Sam!" Dean barks back and Sam's not stupid enough to think it's an answer about the kidding thing. The glare he shoots over his shoulder is green fire; Sam can feel the heat of it rippling across his skin. There's flour and little gobs of dough all over Dean’s fingers and the front of the dark green shirt that matches his eyes, fabric clinging a little bit to the curve of his back where the oven is keeping the kitchen blazing hot. There's a powdery white smudge on his cheek, spread down to the very edge of his lip that Sam wants to lick more than anything in the world.
He actually takes a step forward - not even meaning to, just does it - and Dean flinches back like he never does when they're sparring and Sam's coming at him with a knife. It hits him harder than he would have ever expected, a sharp, sick roll like his organs are trying to turn themselves inside out all at once. It seeps into his bones, marrow-deep, clammy-cold for a moment before turning branding-iron hot. The room sways and Sam's head throbs like his brain is literally swelling and compressing with every beat of his heart.
About the time he careens helplessly sideways as the floor spins beneath him, it occurs to him that this might be more than a reaction to rejection.
His next, "Dean," might not even really come out - he can't hear one way or the other over the harsh metallic buzzing in his ears and he can't focus his eyes on more than the melting whirl of colors that he thinks is his brother to tell if he reacts. He feels a pain in his hip that would probably be bracing if he wasn't currently redefining pain as the hot sizzle from his bones creeps steadily toward his back, centering around his spine.
There are a series of small, low-grade explosions along his side and he can only guess that he's fallen in the brief instant before the sickening snap he heard resolves itself into bright, silver agony.
***
"Sam? Sam!" Dean can hear himself repeating his brother's name on a loop and can't remember a single other fucking word in the whole English language to add to it.
The bubbled linoleum floor digs painfully against his knees but he barely registers it. Or anything else outside of the twitching, screaming body in his arms. The wing above him flails wildly, beating at Dean's back and leaving dull, stinging marks that will be black and blue later, feather's raining down around him like flurries of dirt and ash.
The only thing he can think through the impotent panic is that screaming is good - screaming means Sam's still breathing.
The left wing is stretched out at an impossible angle, flailing against the ground like a fish dumped on dry land. Sam's whole body spasms with each motion. His eyes have rolled far enough back in his skull that all Dean can make out is a waning-moon sliver of hazel at the top, but he's obviously still semi-conscious, though Dean can't begin to guess how.
He can't get up, not with the one wing beating at him and the other obviously dislocated, only Dean's strength keeping Sam from collapsing onto it completely and doing further damage. He can't do anything, not one fucking thing and he wonders wildly if he died in his sleep and this is hell, trapped forever with Sammy injured in his arms, powerless to help him.
His gut churns at the sound of another wet pop, the bile thick in his throat threatening to spill over when the right wing collapses on top of him, a dead, seizing weight. Sam voice cracks with it, the next rush of air from a would-be scream colliding humidly with Dean's neck, soundless but for the high noise of oxygen rushing from Sam's tight throat.
The clamorous ring of the old phone on the wall bursts into the silence at a heart-stopping level. Dean wants to ignore it, can't leave Sam, but the sound taps into something even deeper in him - Dad. Dad’s the only one who’d be calling, Dad will know what to do, Dad can help, Dad will save Sammy.
As gently as he can and still not nearly gently enough, Dean maneuvers Sam onto his belly, wings hanging limply from his back like puppets with their strings cut.
When his hand hits the oxidized yellow of the receiver, he's shaking so hard he can't actually hold it, ends up knocking it out of the cradle and collapsing to the floor in front of it to hear his father's voice.
"Something happened! Something's wrong! Sammy..." Dean clasps his arms tightly around himself a fruitless attempt to quell the trembling as he babbles. He can't bear to look at Sam and can't look away; still thrashing and quaking with silent screams that Dean hears with his soul, feathers dropping all around his forlorn, drooping wings like autumn leaves. The sun highlights him through the window above the sink, a mocking square of bright warmth where Dean's whole world is collapsing in on itself. He doesn't have a word for what's happening to Sam, just ends up repeating the only part that really matters. "Sammy."
"Dean!" comes across the line, sharp, an order that kicks Dean's brain back into gear, makes him pay attention to the gruff tone that all of his hopes are pinned on. "It's going to be alright, son. I found a ritual to kill the wings."
"But they're on Sam!" he bites back, voice high and desperate but still furious.
"Still?" his father responds, too solemn to be a proper question.
Dean's eyes fly over his brother like he really has to check. Sam's breathing has evened out a little but from the look on his sweaty, tear-stained face and the erratic jump of his limbs, he'd probably still be crying out if there was any voice left in him. The wings lay over him glumly, no apparent life of their own now but still very much attached. At the very base Dean can see where the joints have dislocated, rounded protrusion of bone stark under stretched-white skin. His gag reflex spasms.
"Yeah." It's a whisper, more effort going into the nod Dad can't see.
There's a rasp, a mental image of his father scrubbing a hand over weeks’ worth of stubble coming with it. "Then you'll have to take them off."
No. No. Won't. Can't. Sam! His mind rails, the horror of it scraping at his insides with razor claws. What his mouth says is, "How?"
Dad breathes a heavy sigh and gives him a "Dean," that says shape up, and be a man and do what you have to do. His mind flashes on the carefully honed hunting knife in his duffle. His breakfast spills out all over the floor.
***
Sam's swimming. It's warm and dark; he must be somewhere deep, he thinks. He swam in a lake like this once, except it wasn't warm, it was freezing and his teeth were chattering by the time Dean dragged him back to the surface. He's always liked to swim underwater, see how long he can hold his breath, enjoy the silence and the weightlessness, the ease, but Dean doesn't like him to do it, always wants Sam somewhere that he can keep an eye out and make sure he's safe. He wonders why Dean isn't pulling him out now.
Every now and then his back will hurt from swimming too hard and he has to just float in the dark and wait for it to get better before he can start moving again, flying through the blackness. Sometimes his mouth opens up and he feels water splash in for him to swallow. Sometimes he thinks it’s whiskey instead but that's stupid, he couldn't swim in a lake full of whiskey. Although Dean would probably like to try.
He laughs to himself in the dark and wishes Dean was here so he could tell him about his idea for the whiskey lake. Or maybe beer, Dean would like that even better. Maybe a beer lake with a whiskey river, then they'd have it all covered. Sam laughs again, glad that he can breathe in this lake. It would be a pain to have to keep going up for air. Now if he could just remember where he left Dean everything would be perfect.
***
Dean has never once questioned an order. He’s never fought against what his father says or wondered for a single moment if it wasn’t what was best for all of them. Dean is the good soldier, the good son, and his faith does not waver.
The first thing Dean does when John Winchester walks through the front door of the cabin is knock the sonofabitch flat on his ass.
The scent of blood is still fresh on his fingers no matter how hard he tries to scrub it off, so the new spill of it from his own skin hardly matters. His knuckles ache and at least one of them is definitely broken, and he has never given less of an actual fuck.
His father stares up at him, dumbstruck, eye already starting to swell as Dean grabs the bag of medical supplies - doesn’t ask where he got intravenous antibiotics or any of the rest of it - and goes back upstairs to take care of his baby brother.
***
The fact that the first thing Dean says when Sam opens his eyes is, "Hey kiddo," all forced-cheerful over a layer of exhaustion, seriously ups the chances that Sam's in the process of dying. Again. He’s getting really sick of waking up this way.
“Wha’ h’ppen?” Sam’s throat aches, tongue too big in his mouth, thick and unwieldy. He’s been on painkillers often enough to recognize the sensation of some seriously good shit rushing through his veins. There’s a muted, constant burn all over his back that says to count himself lucky for whatever’s knocking around in his system. He doesn’t realize he’s trying to move his wings until his brother’s hand settles on his shoulder to still him.
Dean hesitates for just a second before answering, “Dad broke the spell.” He’s smiling, but it doesn’t touch his eyes.
“They’re gone,” Sam says, not really a question, but Dean nods anyway.
It's dark, nighttime, though he hasn't got a clue which night that might be. Indigo light fades to black farther out from the bed, swallowed up in flat, empty midnight at the mouth of the stairs. Sam’s sprawled out in the middle of the bed on his belly yet again with Dean sitting up at the head of it, his back braced against the wall, one of Sam’s arms flopped carelessly over his legs. There’s a book in Dean's hand that he keeps thumbing at the edge of, top corner of the pages turning blunt under the constant friction. It's way too dark to read, which means he must have just been watching over Sam for however long it's been since the sun went down. Sam’s not really sure how to feel about that.
“Where?” He asks after a minute, tugging a little on his brother’s jeans to get his warmth scooting closer.
Dean moves slowly, shimmying down a bit so Sam’s arm is laying across his belly instead, hand limply feeling out the beat of his heart. The smile is finally there in his eyes, even if it looks kind of like a frown too when he brushes the hair back from Sam’s forehead.
“There were signs of an angry spirit on the other side of the state line so he had to…” Dean never gets around to finishing, just lets it trail off on one of the dozen variations of the excuse they both know by heart. People in danger, things to be hunted. He’d known as much anyway; his father’s never been Mr. Bedside Manner.
“I meant th’ wings.”
Dean startles at the soft sound of his voice, the pulse underneath Sam's fingers picking up.
“Oh! Oh, uh, salt and burn. You know, just in case.” It doesn’t escape his notice that Dean doesn’t say who did that salting and burning. Sam hopes it was their father; Dean really seemed to like the wings, burning them would have probably upset him.
Sam presses his face against his brother’s side, breathing in the scent of him all mixed in with blood and betadine. That too, is way too familiar.
Dean's hand strokes through his hair gently, the warmth and the comfort of that small touch threatening to let sleep come swallow him up again.
"You're gonna be ok, kid," his brother says quietly. Sam just nods, knowing it's true for the first time in weeks and not actually feeling any better because of it.
When he braces his hand against Dean's chest and pulls himself another couple of inches up the bed, there's a small sting like stitches trying to pull free from skin. He hadn't gotten as far as thinking about that; about how exactly the wings came off - his memories are mercifully vague beyond a constant barrage of pain. The look on Dean's face says there's more to it than that, though, and sometime when they're farther down the line from this, Sam's going to find out what that is. For the moment, he's got - limited, painful - use of all of his limbs and that takes care of the most pressing worry, so he settles his head against Dean's shoulder and fights to breathe through the flaring ache in his back until it settles again.
His brother is looking at him from too close up, air between them thick with the smell of their bodies and antiseptic, a distilled perfume of their whole lives. Sam’s breath presses against Dean's skin and bounces back at him, familiar and thrilling as the way Dean's hand settles on the back of his neck. He wants to say something like, "Let me," or "Please," but it doesn't come. Doesn't need to either, because Dean's head cocks to fit their mouths together naturally when Sam moves in for it. The touch is soft and electric, instantly right, like something he's spent his whole life doing.
Sam doesn't hesitate to push his tongue against the seam of Dean's lips, to let it slide inside even though he's been sleeping for who knows how long and his breath is rank, because that hand is still there on the back of his neck and he knows Dean wants it. For whatever reason, whatever he missed, Dean's not fighting him now. Won't fight him now. Sam hasn’t got the strength to do anything but melt for it and just let it happen.
***
Sam shivers against the blanket as Dean runs his tongue over the rough-smooth of healed skin, uneven under his mouth on a slow, wet kiss. It still kind of bugs him that Sam has to live with the slightly jagged marks because Dean couldn’t quite get them neat and even from the way the skin was broken. A year down the road since they came off, but whatever it was that made the spots so sensitive when the wings were attached has never really worn away. Dean’s not about to admit how much he likes that. Just like he doesn’t admit to the little bundle of brown and grey feathers neatly rolled inside of his duffle, even though he’s pretty sure Sam knows. There are things that don’t need saying.
He mouths his way up the other side of Sam’s spine as well, earning a trickling moan this time and a little roll of the hips trapped underneath his own. He loves this part, maybe as much as the sex even, teasing and touching until Sam’s protections all fall away and all the things he tries to hold back are all laid bare for Dean, just as much as his body.
The tang of sweat is sharp on his skin, moisture gathering in the dip of his spine, the shallow just above the firm swell of his ass. Sam has always been beautiful, even at his most awkward, but this last year has done him right. He’s filled out through the shoulders, emphasizing his slim waist - still too skinny, needs to eat more than friggin’ rabbit food - with the lean jut of muscles that keep springing up every which way. A body made for a museum and Sam still acts like it’s something to be ashamed of, still covers it all with baggy tees and layers and jeans that barely hang on to his hips. And Dean will never say this either, but he loves that too; that even looking like he does, Sam’s still Sammy and only Dean gets to know how truly sweet that is.
He’s got his brother spread out on an old, worn blanket from the trunk, the homey smell of gun oil and salt hovering around them like the shimmer of heat on a desert highway, the grass underneath slightly lumpy but soft. The darkness paints his skin, that coppery tan Dean can never match overlaid with blue.
Time alone like this is a commodity, nowhere to be, no case to worry about, no fear that Dad could come barging through the motel door any minute. He’d scouted this spot out earlier in the week when he figured out they’d still be here by tonight - down a web of back roads, out in the middle of this deserted little clearing. Nothing but them, the soft chirrup of crickets and the stars overhead. It’s chick-flicky as hell, but Dean had wanted to do something special for tonight.
But he’s still not fucking calling it their anniversary, no matter what Sam says.
His brother gasps, though whether it’s from what he’s doing with the two fingers Dean’s got twisted up inside of Sam, massaging around - but never quite on - that perfect spot, or the soft nips he’s laying over the knobby scar tissue on Sam’s back, it’s hard to say.
“Dean, please,” Sam whines and that already says something about how far gone he is. Dean pushes his ring finger in with the other two, slipping easily past the well-worked furl. He has no idea how long they’ve been at it so far, but the ache in his balls says it’s way too long and the way Sam’s body just spreads for him, muscles surrendering, says his brother’s plenty ready. Nonetheless, he skirts his pinkie around the rim, corkscrews just so to hit right where Sam wants it just to watch his brother twitch and bite his pretty, kiss-swollen lip.
“Dean,” Sam repeats, scrubbing his cheek against the blanket. It would take a stronger man than Dean to resist a plea like that.
He pulls back enough to snag the lube and get the fingers of his free hand coated slick, Sam whining wordlessly from the other one still inside of him, wriggling like that’s going to get him what he wants. Dean lets him, enjoying the show as he works his own cock to a glossy shine. If there’s ever been anything hotter than Sam desperate and writhing on Dean’s fingertips… well, it would be Sam desperate and writhing on Dean’s cock. And after that? Nothing. Period. The planet would combust if it got any hotter than that.
He gets another, “Dean!” this time a snap of it over Sam’s shoulder, dark ravenous eyes on him. This whole fucking his baby brother thing really hasn’t done much to discourage Dean from doing his best to get on Sam’s nerves, not when it gets him that same look, a little flashback porno to replay in his head as they motor down the road to their next case. That, and Sam all riled up and pushy is pretty much sexy as hell.
“I gotcha, I gotcha,” he placates with a roll of his eyes. Like he’s not feeling each lube-slippery stroke along his cock in every goddamn fiber of his being. “Bossy little bitch.”
Sam’s, “Jerk,” crumbles to pieces as Dean sets the swollen head of his cock to Sam’s puffy rim. He pushes just a bit to feel how easy the muscle gives way, the feeble clench more like it’s sucking at him than trying to keep him out. Oh fucking hell, Sam’ll never let him live it down if he loses it this fast.
For what it’s worth, how close he is isn’t all a failing of Dean’s stamina - although fuck if getting Sammy split open around him doesn’t play havoc with that too. There’s also the little fact that this is kind of a first for them both.
Dean’s had safety drilled into his head from the first day he ever let his eyes slip down from a girls face to her tits. He’s never fucked anybody bare before, refused to risk Sam until he was absolutely, 110% sure that he was clean, and it’s maybe just a little bit bigger deal in the here and now than he thought it would be.
But Sam is an impatient fucker - in both senses of the phrase - and while Dean pauses to savor the moment - to save some fucking face before he blows it - Sammy gets fed up and shoves back, sheathing Dean all the way to the hilt in one smooth stroke. The tremulous way he gasps says he maybe didn’t intend to take quite that much at once, but he’s so wide open by now and Dean’s slotted in deep from it.
This right here is heaven. Fuck fluffy clouds and harps and pearly gates, Dean’ll take this, the tender, clutching heat of his brother’s body, any day of the week, even if he’s going to hell for it.
It’s hard with his instincts screaming at him to pound in hard and fast, but for Sam he can force himself to be gentle. Stiltedly, his brother settles back down flat on his stomach against their makeshift mattress. Letting Dean press him flat. He works in a slow roll, more grinding into Sam than really fucking, but he can feel that he’s rubbing up against just the right spot from the way his brother’s breath catches each time. For a quiet fuck, it’s amazing how much Sam tells him.
The strain of Sam’s muscles as he cranes his head back to offer up a kiss reverberates through his entire body, a tantalizing, satin grasp around Dean that makes him shudder and moan out a, “Baby.”
For some reason Dean’s never going to really get, Sammy pretends he doesn’t like the things Dean calls him in the heat of it. Sure, sometimes it’s kind of girly and if Dean said most of it any other time, he’d be embarrassed as hell about it himself, but he doesn’t see much point in Sam playing like it doesn’t get to him when Dean whispers, “My baby boy,” against his ear when Dean’s so far up in him he can feel every shiver. It’s good enough incentive, as far as he’s concerned, not to try and stop. And maybe to call the kid that in public a little more, because not much nails him where it counts more than watching Sam flush and go hard in the middle of a diner in Hometown, USA.
He captures Sam’s lips sloppily, the angle fucked on it but still too good to turn down. Always too good to turn down. It’s probably a good thing for both of them that Dean’s the tease instead of Sam because if it was the other way round, their secret would have been out by day one. There’s probably not ever going to be a time when resisting Sammy is going to be a reasonable possibility for him.
Their rhythm is steadily turning faster, Dean‘s hips pulling back a fraction so he can plunge in and out of Sam properly, Sammy arching under him with one leg crooked up at his side to let Dean fuck in as deep as possible. He’s rutting just a little against the blanket, not bad enough for Dean to call him on it. He’s better about it than he used to be - a couple of weeks riding Dean backward, hands trapped so he could learn to come on nothing but Dean’s cock pretty well broke him of that insistence that he needed more to get there - so Dean can’t begrudge him a bit of friction. He loves it when Sam comes any which way, he just loves it most when Sam comes from him and only him.
That familiar heat coils low in his gut, wraps around the base of his spine like silk and razor-wire, slowly heating.
“That’s it, baby,” he hears himself pant, punched out around sucking kisses and nibbles at whatever bit of skin he can reach. “So good. So good for me, my sweet boy. Gonna fill you up, baby boy, get you all slick and messy on the inside. Gonna come so hard. Make you love it. Make you wanna be wet from me all the time.”
Sam gives up a library-whisper of a groan and nods, clutches at the hand Dean’s got splayed out beside his head.
There’s just enough space between them for his amulet to bump fitfully from Sam’s skin to his own and back again, horns catch-dragging on scar tissue to make Sam hiss and drive back into the next thrust. Dean gets his free hand into the game too, fingering at the shiny, uneven flesh. Under him, Sammy chokes on air, fingers digging in harder at Dean’s and clawing trenches into the dirt through the blanket.
“Like that, don’t you baby boy?” he moans into the back of Sam’s neck as the channel around him tightens, trying to draw out the growing ember of heat in the pit of his belly. “Gonna come for me? Gonna let me hear you scream my name?” He strokes the backs of his knuckles up the line of one scar, down the other, pounding in hard a couple of times when Sammy clamps tight around him, so close even Dean can feel it. “My angel. Pretty little angel, just for me. Love you so much, baby.”
“Dean!” coughs out of Sam, barely even a breath, let alone a scream, but it all means the same. It’s all I love you too, just like every time Sam’s ever said it.
The way Sam loses it is a fucking masterpiece, mouth open and eyes closed, hair curling with sweat and sticking out crazily. All spasms and shakes like his body just can’t handle how good it feels. Dean knows the feeling.
When Sam’s body goes into lockdown - clench-release, clench-release all around him - it’s too much to take, orgasm literally milked out of him, straight from his soul. Dean manages to collapse down and get in a handful of rough, feverish thrusts before he’s over the edge too, pawing at Sam, world hazing out at the corners of his vision.
Coming inside of his brother is some kind of revelation - his own wet heat making everything even smoother, slicker, as it floods back around him, coating the shaft. Without a second thought he’s got one hand wedging under Sam’s sticky belly because it seems like he should be able to feel the difference from the outside, how full Sammy is now. A little ‘this is what it’s supposed to feel like’ lightbulb flickers on over Dean’s head and he hopes to God his brother liked it too because they are damn well doing that again sometime soon.
“Fuck,” Sam sighs, completely pliant underneath Dean. All he can do is nod slightly where his cheek is pressed to Sam’s shoulder and hum his agreement.
Carefully he pulls out, Sam hardly flinching as the soft length slips free so Dean can crash down beside him, snug against his brother’s side. When he looks at Sam’s face, though, it’s scrunched up unhappily, hips moving fitfully.
“Dude, I have to lay in the wet spot and be the wet spot, how is that fair?”
The pout of his lip isn’t really cured at all by Dean’s sudden compulsion to get a hand back between his brother’s legs to feel the slow leak of his come drizzling down over Sam’s balls. Fuck. The way he sucks that plump bottom lip into his mouth seems to help though, going by the soft, pleased sound Sam makes against him. It’s even better when he gets a firm grip and drags his brother half on top of him, leaving the sticky splotch of come cooling on the blanket empty. That one earns him a smile.
“Ya done whining now?” he asks, most of the heat in it wiped away by bone-deep satisfaction.
“We’ll see,” Sam answers ominously, but he’s burrowing his face into Dean’s neck at the same time.
Dean’s hand finds the curve of Sam’s ass naturally, the other coming to rest over one of the wing scars. Warm, ticklish breaths press against hi throat along with small kisses he’s not sure he’s meant to feel. Sam gets like that sometimes after, vulnerable and sort of shy now that all of his barriers are down. It’s one of Dean’s favorite things in the whole world.
They come down together slowly, heartbeats and breath evening out into that space between sleeping and really being awake. Soon they’ll have to head back - Dad will start to wonder where they are eventually - but for now, this is alright; just the two of them and the stars and the screech of a nighthawk carried on the summer wind from somewhere in the distance.
The End
If we listened to our intellect, we'd never have a love affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go into business, because we'd be cynical. Well, that's nonsense. You've got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down. -- Ray Bradbury
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 17,300
Warnings: Weecest (Sam is 15), wing!fic, all sorts of UST, barebacking, mild gore
Notes: See Masterpost for all of my thank yous, notes, and a link to the fantastic art by reapertownusa
Summary - The Winchesters have been subjected to a lot of things in the name of hunting, but the result of a spell-gone-wrong on their latest case is still pretty high on Dean's weird scale. While their father is out searching for a way to undo the magic, Dean's stuck in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, trying to deal with his bitchy teenage brother and his own increasingly un-brotherly feelings toward him. Who'd have thought Sammy growing a pair of giant bird wings would be the least of his problems?
Back to Part 2
***
The hot pulse of the bruise is still there, even days later when the shape of Dean’s teeth on his skin turns from purple to yellow, a steady throb at the junction of hip and thigh like a beacon for the attention that Dean’s not paying to it. They haven’t said a word about it, not either of them, and while sitting around ignoring it is like running a cheesegrater over raw nerves, Sam figures it might still be better than listening to his brother give him a speech about how it’s wrong and bad and not ever going to happen again.
Maybe.
Ok, maybe not.
He still catches Dean looking at him sometimes and the preening… well it gets intense. Sam’s kind of surprised they’ve both made it through it twice a day - because the book says some birds do it twice a day and apparently Dean has suddenly decided that listening to books is super damn important - without it ending in either sex or fratricide. Or both. Honestly, at this point he’d settle for either if it would make this weird, forced-normalcy go away.
He has to say something, Sam’s decided, has to do something because pretending isn't going to change what happened and Dean's kidding himself if he thinks so. Trouble is, what the hell does he say?
"Dean," he starts and already he can tell there's too much in it, giving everything away with a single word. The stiffened line of Dean's shoulders says so just as clearly as Sam's own gut. Dean doesn't turn around from his fourth attempt at making a pie crust - Sam would totally give him crap about it except they're barely speaking - rolling out the dough with more force than seems strictly necessary.
"Sam," is the only reply he gets, warning dripping from every letter. And goddamnit, it’s so freaking Dean to refuse to talk about this. Because why would anyone want to talk about things that could actually, like, affect the entire trajectory of their life? Especially when there's important shit to do like totally failing at making pie!
"You've got to be kidding me!" Sam snaps because he can't keep it in. He's been hanging onto it for days, getting hard every two seconds because his hormones suck and Dean's always there being Dean and he can't help himself. His wings rustle agitatedly and for the first time ever Sam actually likes the things - right now he'll take every mode of expression he can get.
"No, Sam!" Dean barks back and Sam's not stupid enough to think it's an answer about the kidding thing. The glare he shoots over his shoulder is green fire; Sam can feel the heat of it rippling across his skin. There's flour and little gobs of dough all over Dean’s fingers and the front of the dark green shirt that matches his eyes, fabric clinging a little bit to the curve of his back where the oven is keeping the kitchen blazing hot. There's a powdery white smudge on his cheek, spread down to the very edge of his lip that Sam wants to lick more than anything in the world.
He actually takes a step forward - not even meaning to, just does it - and Dean flinches back like he never does when they're sparring and Sam's coming at him with a knife. It hits him harder than he would have ever expected, a sharp, sick roll like his organs are trying to turn themselves inside out all at once. It seeps into his bones, marrow-deep, clammy-cold for a moment before turning branding-iron hot. The room sways and Sam's head throbs like his brain is literally swelling and compressing with every beat of his heart.
About the time he careens helplessly sideways as the floor spins beneath him, it occurs to him that this might be more than a reaction to rejection.
His next, "Dean," might not even really come out - he can't hear one way or the other over the harsh metallic buzzing in his ears and he can't focus his eyes on more than the melting whirl of colors that he thinks is his brother to tell if he reacts. He feels a pain in his hip that would probably be bracing if he wasn't currently redefining pain as the hot sizzle from his bones creeps steadily toward his back, centering around his spine.
There are a series of small, low-grade explosions along his side and he can only guess that he's fallen in the brief instant before the sickening snap he heard resolves itself into bright, silver agony.
***
"Sam? Sam!" Dean can hear himself repeating his brother's name on a loop and can't remember a single other fucking word in the whole English language to add to it.
The bubbled linoleum floor digs painfully against his knees but he barely registers it. Or anything else outside of the twitching, screaming body in his arms. The wing above him flails wildly, beating at Dean's back and leaving dull, stinging marks that will be black and blue later, feather's raining down around him like flurries of dirt and ash.
The only thing he can think through the impotent panic is that screaming is good - screaming means Sam's still breathing.
The left wing is stretched out at an impossible angle, flailing against the ground like a fish dumped on dry land. Sam's whole body spasms with each motion. His eyes have rolled far enough back in his skull that all Dean can make out is a waning-moon sliver of hazel at the top, but he's obviously still semi-conscious, though Dean can't begin to guess how.
He can't get up, not with the one wing beating at him and the other obviously dislocated, only Dean's strength keeping Sam from collapsing onto it completely and doing further damage. He can't do anything, not one fucking thing and he wonders wildly if he died in his sleep and this is hell, trapped forever with Sammy injured in his arms, powerless to help him.
His gut churns at the sound of another wet pop, the bile thick in his throat threatening to spill over when the right wing collapses on top of him, a dead, seizing weight. Sam voice cracks with it, the next rush of air from a would-be scream colliding humidly with Dean's neck, soundless but for the high noise of oxygen rushing from Sam's tight throat.
The clamorous ring of the old phone on the wall bursts into the silence at a heart-stopping level. Dean wants to ignore it, can't leave Sam, but the sound taps into something even deeper in him - Dad. Dad’s the only one who’d be calling, Dad will know what to do, Dad can help, Dad will save Sammy.
As gently as he can and still not nearly gently enough, Dean maneuvers Sam onto his belly, wings hanging limply from his back like puppets with their strings cut.
When his hand hits the oxidized yellow of the receiver, he's shaking so hard he can't actually hold it, ends up knocking it out of the cradle and collapsing to the floor in front of it to hear his father's voice.
"Something happened! Something's wrong! Sammy..." Dean clasps his arms tightly around himself a fruitless attempt to quell the trembling as he babbles. He can't bear to look at Sam and can't look away; still thrashing and quaking with silent screams that Dean hears with his soul, feathers dropping all around his forlorn, drooping wings like autumn leaves. The sun highlights him through the window above the sink, a mocking square of bright warmth where Dean's whole world is collapsing in on itself. He doesn't have a word for what's happening to Sam, just ends up repeating the only part that really matters. "Sammy."
"Dean!" comes across the line, sharp, an order that kicks Dean's brain back into gear, makes him pay attention to the gruff tone that all of his hopes are pinned on. "It's going to be alright, son. I found a ritual to kill the wings."
"But they're on Sam!" he bites back, voice high and desperate but still furious.
"Still?" his father responds, too solemn to be a proper question.
Dean's eyes fly over his brother like he really has to check. Sam's breathing has evened out a little but from the look on his sweaty, tear-stained face and the erratic jump of his limbs, he'd probably still be crying out if there was any voice left in him. The wings lay over him glumly, no apparent life of their own now but still very much attached. At the very base Dean can see where the joints have dislocated, rounded protrusion of bone stark under stretched-white skin. His gag reflex spasms.
"Yeah." It's a whisper, more effort going into the nod Dad can't see.
There's a rasp, a mental image of his father scrubbing a hand over weeks’ worth of stubble coming with it. "Then you'll have to take them off."
No. No. Won't. Can't. Sam! His mind rails, the horror of it scraping at his insides with razor claws. What his mouth says is, "How?"
Dad breathes a heavy sigh and gives him a "Dean," that says shape up, and be a man and do what you have to do. His mind flashes on the carefully honed hunting knife in his duffle. His breakfast spills out all over the floor.
***
Sam's swimming. It's warm and dark; he must be somewhere deep, he thinks. He swam in a lake like this once, except it wasn't warm, it was freezing and his teeth were chattering by the time Dean dragged him back to the surface. He's always liked to swim underwater, see how long he can hold his breath, enjoy the silence and the weightlessness, the ease, but Dean doesn't like him to do it, always wants Sam somewhere that he can keep an eye out and make sure he's safe. He wonders why Dean isn't pulling him out now.
Every now and then his back will hurt from swimming too hard and he has to just float in the dark and wait for it to get better before he can start moving again, flying through the blackness. Sometimes his mouth opens up and he feels water splash in for him to swallow. Sometimes he thinks it’s whiskey instead but that's stupid, he couldn't swim in a lake full of whiskey. Although Dean would probably like to try.
He laughs to himself in the dark and wishes Dean was here so he could tell him about his idea for the whiskey lake. Or maybe beer, Dean would like that even better. Maybe a beer lake with a whiskey river, then they'd have it all covered. Sam laughs again, glad that he can breathe in this lake. It would be a pain to have to keep going up for air. Now if he could just remember where he left Dean everything would be perfect.
***
Dean has never once questioned an order. He’s never fought against what his father says or wondered for a single moment if it wasn’t what was best for all of them. Dean is the good soldier, the good son, and his faith does not waver.
The first thing Dean does when John Winchester walks through the front door of the cabin is knock the sonofabitch flat on his ass.
The scent of blood is still fresh on his fingers no matter how hard he tries to scrub it off, so the new spill of it from his own skin hardly matters. His knuckles ache and at least one of them is definitely broken, and he has never given less of an actual fuck.
His father stares up at him, dumbstruck, eye already starting to swell as Dean grabs the bag of medical supplies - doesn’t ask where he got intravenous antibiotics or any of the rest of it - and goes back upstairs to take care of his baby brother.
***
The fact that the first thing Dean says when Sam opens his eyes is, "Hey kiddo," all forced-cheerful over a layer of exhaustion, seriously ups the chances that Sam's in the process of dying. Again. He’s getting really sick of waking up this way.
“Wha’ h’ppen?” Sam’s throat aches, tongue too big in his mouth, thick and unwieldy. He’s been on painkillers often enough to recognize the sensation of some seriously good shit rushing through his veins. There’s a muted, constant burn all over his back that says to count himself lucky for whatever’s knocking around in his system. He doesn’t realize he’s trying to move his wings until his brother’s hand settles on his shoulder to still him.
Dean hesitates for just a second before answering, “Dad broke the spell.” He’s smiling, but it doesn’t touch his eyes.
“They’re gone,” Sam says, not really a question, but Dean nods anyway.
It's dark, nighttime, though he hasn't got a clue which night that might be. Indigo light fades to black farther out from the bed, swallowed up in flat, empty midnight at the mouth of the stairs. Sam’s sprawled out in the middle of the bed on his belly yet again with Dean sitting up at the head of it, his back braced against the wall, one of Sam’s arms flopped carelessly over his legs. There’s a book in Dean's hand that he keeps thumbing at the edge of, top corner of the pages turning blunt under the constant friction. It's way too dark to read, which means he must have just been watching over Sam for however long it's been since the sun went down. Sam’s not really sure how to feel about that.
“Where?” He asks after a minute, tugging a little on his brother’s jeans to get his warmth scooting closer.
Dean moves slowly, shimmying down a bit so Sam’s arm is laying across his belly instead, hand limply feeling out the beat of his heart. The smile is finally there in his eyes, even if it looks kind of like a frown too when he brushes the hair back from Sam’s forehead.
“There were signs of an angry spirit on the other side of the state line so he had to…” Dean never gets around to finishing, just lets it trail off on one of the dozen variations of the excuse they both know by heart. People in danger, things to be hunted. He’d known as much anyway; his father’s never been Mr. Bedside Manner.
“I meant th’ wings.”
Dean startles at the soft sound of his voice, the pulse underneath Sam's fingers picking up.
“Oh! Oh, uh, salt and burn. You know, just in case.” It doesn’t escape his notice that Dean doesn’t say who did that salting and burning. Sam hopes it was their father; Dean really seemed to like the wings, burning them would have probably upset him.
Sam presses his face against his brother’s side, breathing in the scent of him all mixed in with blood and betadine. That too, is way too familiar.
Dean's hand strokes through his hair gently, the warmth and the comfort of that small touch threatening to let sleep come swallow him up again.
"You're gonna be ok, kid," his brother says quietly. Sam just nods, knowing it's true for the first time in weeks and not actually feeling any better because of it.
When he braces his hand against Dean's chest and pulls himself another couple of inches up the bed, there's a small sting like stitches trying to pull free from skin. He hadn't gotten as far as thinking about that; about how exactly the wings came off - his memories are mercifully vague beyond a constant barrage of pain. The look on Dean's face says there's more to it than that, though, and sometime when they're farther down the line from this, Sam's going to find out what that is. For the moment, he's got - limited, painful - use of all of his limbs and that takes care of the most pressing worry, so he settles his head against Dean's shoulder and fights to breathe through the flaring ache in his back until it settles again.
His brother is looking at him from too close up, air between them thick with the smell of their bodies and antiseptic, a distilled perfume of their whole lives. Sam’s breath presses against Dean's skin and bounces back at him, familiar and thrilling as the way Dean's hand settles on the back of his neck. He wants to say something like, "Let me," or "Please," but it doesn't come. Doesn't need to either, because Dean's head cocks to fit their mouths together naturally when Sam moves in for it. The touch is soft and electric, instantly right, like something he's spent his whole life doing.
Sam doesn't hesitate to push his tongue against the seam of Dean's lips, to let it slide inside even though he's been sleeping for who knows how long and his breath is rank, because that hand is still there on the back of his neck and he knows Dean wants it. For whatever reason, whatever he missed, Dean's not fighting him now. Won't fight him now. Sam hasn’t got the strength to do anything but melt for it and just let it happen.
***
Sam shivers against the blanket as Dean runs his tongue over the rough-smooth of healed skin, uneven under his mouth on a slow, wet kiss. It still kind of bugs him that Sam has to live with the slightly jagged marks because Dean couldn’t quite get them neat and even from the way the skin was broken. A year down the road since they came off, but whatever it was that made the spots so sensitive when the wings were attached has never really worn away. Dean’s not about to admit how much he likes that. Just like he doesn’t admit to the little bundle of brown and grey feathers neatly rolled inside of his duffle, even though he’s pretty sure Sam knows. There are things that don’t need saying.
He mouths his way up the other side of Sam’s spine as well, earning a trickling moan this time and a little roll of the hips trapped underneath his own. He loves this part, maybe as much as the sex even, teasing and touching until Sam’s protections all fall away and all the things he tries to hold back are all laid bare for Dean, just as much as his body.
The tang of sweat is sharp on his skin, moisture gathering in the dip of his spine, the shallow just above the firm swell of his ass. Sam has always been beautiful, even at his most awkward, but this last year has done him right. He’s filled out through the shoulders, emphasizing his slim waist - still too skinny, needs to eat more than friggin’ rabbit food - with the lean jut of muscles that keep springing up every which way. A body made for a museum and Sam still acts like it’s something to be ashamed of, still covers it all with baggy tees and layers and jeans that barely hang on to his hips. And Dean will never say this either, but he loves that too; that even looking like he does, Sam’s still Sammy and only Dean gets to know how truly sweet that is.
He’s got his brother spread out on an old, worn blanket from the trunk, the homey smell of gun oil and salt hovering around them like the shimmer of heat on a desert highway, the grass underneath slightly lumpy but soft. The darkness paints his skin, that coppery tan Dean can never match overlaid with blue.
Time alone like this is a commodity, nowhere to be, no case to worry about, no fear that Dad could come barging through the motel door any minute. He’d scouted this spot out earlier in the week when he figured out they’d still be here by tonight - down a web of back roads, out in the middle of this deserted little clearing. Nothing but them, the soft chirrup of crickets and the stars overhead. It’s chick-flicky as hell, but Dean had wanted to do something special for tonight.
But he’s still not fucking calling it their anniversary, no matter what Sam says.
His brother gasps, though whether it’s from what he’s doing with the two fingers Dean’s got twisted up inside of Sam, massaging around - but never quite on - that perfect spot, or the soft nips he’s laying over the knobby scar tissue on Sam’s back, it’s hard to say.
“Dean, please,” Sam whines and that already says something about how far gone he is. Dean pushes his ring finger in with the other two, slipping easily past the well-worked furl. He has no idea how long they’ve been at it so far, but the ache in his balls says it’s way too long and the way Sam’s body just spreads for him, muscles surrendering, says his brother’s plenty ready. Nonetheless, he skirts his pinkie around the rim, corkscrews just so to hit right where Sam wants it just to watch his brother twitch and bite his pretty, kiss-swollen lip.
“Dean,” Sam repeats, scrubbing his cheek against the blanket. It would take a stronger man than Dean to resist a plea like that.
He pulls back enough to snag the lube and get the fingers of his free hand coated slick, Sam whining wordlessly from the other one still inside of him, wriggling like that’s going to get him what he wants. Dean lets him, enjoying the show as he works his own cock to a glossy shine. If there’s ever been anything hotter than Sam desperate and writhing on Dean’s fingertips… well, it would be Sam desperate and writhing on Dean’s cock. And after that? Nothing. Period. The planet would combust if it got any hotter than that.
He gets another, “Dean!” this time a snap of it over Sam’s shoulder, dark ravenous eyes on him. This whole fucking his baby brother thing really hasn’t done much to discourage Dean from doing his best to get on Sam’s nerves, not when it gets him that same look, a little flashback porno to replay in his head as they motor down the road to their next case. That, and Sam all riled up and pushy is pretty much sexy as hell.
“I gotcha, I gotcha,” he placates with a roll of his eyes. Like he’s not feeling each lube-slippery stroke along his cock in every goddamn fiber of his being. “Bossy little bitch.”
Sam’s, “Jerk,” crumbles to pieces as Dean sets the swollen head of his cock to Sam’s puffy rim. He pushes just a bit to feel how easy the muscle gives way, the feeble clench more like it’s sucking at him than trying to keep him out. Oh fucking hell, Sam’ll never let him live it down if he loses it this fast.
For what it’s worth, how close he is isn’t all a failing of Dean’s stamina - although fuck if getting Sammy split open around him doesn’t play havoc with that too. There’s also the little fact that this is kind of a first for them both.
Dean’s had safety drilled into his head from the first day he ever let his eyes slip down from a girls face to her tits. He’s never fucked anybody bare before, refused to risk Sam until he was absolutely, 110% sure that he was clean, and it’s maybe just a little bit bigger deal in the here and now than he thought it would be.
But Sam is an impatient fucker - in both senses of the phrase - and while Dean pauses to savor the moment - to save some fucking face before he blows it - Sammy gets fed up and shoves back, sheathing Dean all the way to the hilt in one smooth stroke. The tremulous way he gasps says he maybe didn’t intend to take quite that much at once, but he’s so wide open by now and Dean’s slotted in deep from it.
This right here is heaven. Fuck fluffy clouds and harps and pearly gates, Dean’ll take this, the tender, clutching heat of his brother’s body, any day of the week, even if he’s going to hell for it.
It’s hard with his instincts screaming at him to pound in hard and fast, but for Sam he can force himself to be gentle. Stiltedly, his brother settles back down flat on his stomach against their makeshift mattress. Letting Dean press him flat. He works in a slow roll, more grinding into Sam than really fucking, but he can feel that he’s rubbing up against just the right spot from the way his brother’s breath catches each time. For a quiet fuck, it’s amazing how much Sam tells him.
The strain of Sam’s muscles as he cranes his head back to offer up a kiss reverberates through his entire body, a tantalizing, satin grasp around Dean that makes him shudder and moan out a, “Baby.”
For some reason Dean’s never going to really get, Sammy pretends he doesn’t like the things Dean calls him in the heat of it. Sure, sometimes it’s kind of girly and if Dean said most of it any other time, he’d be embarrassed as hell about it himself, but he doesn’t see much point in Sam playing like it doesn’t get to him when Dean whispers, “My baby boy,” against his ear when Dean’s so far up in him he can feel every shiver. It’s good enough incentive, as far as he’s concerned, not to try and stop. And maybe to call the kid that in public a little more, because not much nails him where it counts more than watching Sam flush and go hard in the middle of a diner in Hometown, USA.
He captures Sam’s lips sloppily, the angle fucked on it but still too good to turn down. Always too good to turn down. It’s probably a good thing for both of them that Dean’s the tease instead of Sam because if it was the other way round, their secret would have been out by day one. There’s probably not ever going to be a time when resisting Sammy is going to be a reasonable possibility for him.
Their rhythm is steadily turning faster, Dean‘s hips pulling back a fraction so he can plunge in and out of Sam properly, Sammy arching under him with one leg crooked up at his side to let Dean fuck in as deep as possible. He’s rutting just a little against the blanket, not bad enough for Dean to call him on it. He’s better about it than he used to be - a couple of weeks riding Dean backward, hands trapped so he could learn to come on nothing but Dean’s cock pretty well broke him of that insistence that he needed more to get there - so Dean can’t begrudge him a bit of friction. He loves it when Sam comes any which way, he just loves it most when Sam comes from him and only him.
That familiar heat coils low in his gut, wraps around the base of his spine like silk and razor-wire, slowly heating.
“That’s it, baby,” he hears himself pant, punched out around sucking kisses and nibbles at whatever bit of skin he can reach. “So good. So good for me, my sweet boy. Gonna fill you up, baby boy, get you all slick and messy on the inside. Gonna come so hard. Make you love it. Make you wanna be wet from me all the time.”
Sam gives up a library-whisper of a groan and nods, clutches at the hand Dean’s got splayed out beside his head.
There’s just enough space between them for his amulet to bump fitfully from Sam’s skin to his own and back again, horns catch-dragging on scar tissue to make Sam hiss and drive back into the next thrust. Dean gets his free hand into the game too, fingering at the shiny, uneven flesh. Under him, Sammy chokes on air, fingers digging in harder at Dean’s and clawing trenches into the dirt through the blanket.
“Like that, don’t you baby boy?” he moans into the back of Sam’s neck as the channel around him tightens, trying to draw out the growing ember of heat in the pit of his belly. “Gonna come for me? Gonna let me hear you scream my name?” He strokes the backs of his knuckles up the line of one scar, down the other, pounding in hard a couple of times when Sammy clamps tight around him, so close even Dean can feel it. “My angel. Pretty little angel, just for me. Love you so much, baby.”
“Dean!” coughs out of Sam, barely even a breath, let alone a scream, but it all means the same. It’s all I love you too, just like every time Sam’s ever said it.
The way Sam loses it is a fucking masterpiece, mouth open and eyes closed, hair curling with sweat and sticking out crazily. All spasms and shakes like his body just can’t handle how good it feels. Dean knows the feeling.
When Sam’s body goes into lockdown - clench-release, clench-release all around him - it’s too much to take, orgasm literally milked out of him, straight from his soul. Dean manages to collapse down and get in a handful of rough, feverish thrusts before he’s over the edge too, pawing at Sam, world hazing out at the corners of his vision.
Coming inside of his brother is some kind of revelation - his own wet heat making everything even smoother, slicker, as it floods back around him, coating the shaft. Without a second thought he’s got one hand wedging under Sam’s sticky belly because it seems like he should be able to feel the difference from the outside, how full Sammy is now. A little ‘this is what it’s supposed to feel like’ lightbulb flickers on over Dean’s head and he hopes to God his brother liked it too because they are damn well doing that again sometime soon.
“Fuck,” Sam sighs, completely pliant underneath Dean. All he can do is nod slightly where his cheek is pressed to Sam’s shoulder and hum his agreement.
Carefully he pulls out, Sam hardly flinching as the soft length slips free so Dean can crash down beside him, snug against his brother’s side. When he looks at Sam’s face, though, it’s scrunched up unhappily, hips moving fitfully.
“Dude, I have to lay in the wet spot and be the wet spot, how is that fair?”
The pout of his lip isn’t really cured at all by Dean’s sudden compulsion to get a hand back between his brother’s legs to feel the slow leak of his come drizzling down over Sam’s balls. Fuck. The way he sucks that plump bottom lip into his mouth seems to help though, going by the soft, pleased sound Sam makes against him. It’s even better when he gets a firm grip and drags his brother half on top of him, leaving the sticky splotch of come cooling on the blanket empty. That one earns him a smile.
“Ya done whining now?” he asks, most of the heat in it wiped away by bone-deep satisfaction.
“We’ll see,” Sam answers ominously, but he’s burrowing his face into Dean’s neck at the same time.
Dean’s hand finds the curve of Sam’s ass naturally, the other coming to rest over one of the wing scars. Warm, ticklish breaths press against hi throat along with small kisses he’s not sure he’s meant to feel. Sam gets like that sometimes after, vulnerable and sort of shy now that all of his barriers are down. It’s one of Dean’s favorite things in the whole world.
They come down together slowly, heartbeats and breath evening out into that space between sleeping and really being awake. Soon they’ll have to head back - Dad will start to wonder where they are eventually - but for now, this is alright; just the two of them and the stars and the screech of a nighthawk carried on the summer wind from somewhere in the distance.
The End
If we listened to our intellect, we'd never have a love affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go into business, because we'd be cynical. Well, that's nonsense. You've got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down. -- Ray Bradbury