because you're mine
first second third fourth fifth
They settled into this strange routine, treating each other like crystal. Sam stayed in his room a lot. Dean could hear movie shrieks and the howling of werewolves through the wall. He made enough dinner for two people and left Sam's in the oven; it was always gone in the morning.
Dean saw glimpses of him. Sam passing like a poltergeist across doorways, his tousled head bobbing past the window as he ducked around the side of the house. Sam leaning against the counter eating cereal when Dean came in, Sam's eyes cutting and skidding over him and Sam flushed, ears pink, mumbled something and vanished, leaving his bowl half-eaten in the sink.
Time. That was all, the whole ballgame. Time for the vividness to pale, for Dean's chest to stop tightening up every time he saw Sam. Perspective had to return, Dean's sense of himself in relation to Sam in relation to the universe. It couldn't really be as epic as it felt, not as earth-shattering. It wasn't the brothers Winchester against the world, living beyond the laws of man and God. They were just a pair of backwoods nobodies, living out every bad joke about rednecks, but Dean wasn't going to be the kind of man who fucked his brother.
Time was the only thing he prayed for anymore, time and the strength to endure it, but a couple weeks passed and nothing was better.
Dean worked the longest hours Bobby would allow him, until he started to see the cherry-top spiral of light every time he closed his eyes. He suffered a constant low-grade headache that pressed in at his temples like thumbs. He spent a lot of time at the firing range, his elbow bone-aching from recoil.
Sam was hustling outside of town, at firetrap trucker bars between here and Sturgis, out of Dean's jurisdiction. Dean got it through the grapevine, Sam buying rounds all night 'cause he'd shaken down a whole fuckin' road crew the night before, Sam living off of cake and pie and lemonade at the cafe, free coffee at the salvage yard, the peanuts and pretzels at the Spoke.
If they were talking at all, Dean woulda told him to knock it off. Sam was good, he'd always been good enough and thank god he'd grown up tall as hell and with shoulders like a building, but any three guys in one of those dives could probably put him in the hospital if they really put their minds to it. And god knew Sam was just the right amount of cocky to make people want to fuck up that pretty face of his.
Dean was mostly trying not to think about it.
The tension made the house very nearly unlivable when they were both there. Dean caught himself tuned to the slightest sounds through the wall, the clank of Sam in the kitchen or the give of the floorboards under the carpet as he came nearer.
It kept getting worse, and Dean started to long for the coming spring, when the weather would warm and the grass would come back and he would be able to get the hell out of the house and run around if it got too tough to breathe.
But April was still a long ways off and in the meantime, Sam snapped.
Dean was just home from work even though it was past midnight, making some dinner all alone in the house. He moved slow, his side sore and bound to bruise by morning. Someone had actually been rustling cattle up at Caleb's ranch, and Dean had almost caught him clean, chased his dirty red shirt across the pastures and into the thickening brush, into the woods where Dean tripped and flew a good three feet before his trajectory was curtailed abruptly by a tree.
Dean was frustrated, nagged by the pain in his side and the silence around him. He banged plates and pots around as he cleaned up half-assed, thinking that he needed to get a dog.
The front door creaked, slammed. Dean cocked his head, listening for it, and there: thump thump, Sam's boots removed. Dean left the water running in the sink, over the mess of dirty dishes, rinsing his hands repeatedly because it gave him something to do.
Sam appeared in the doorway, rested both hands on the frame and took up all the space in between.
"Dean," he said, and it scraped up Dean's spine. Sam had never said his name like that before.
"You, uh." Dean glanced at him, looked quickly away. Black-eyed drunk, pupils swollen and Sam licking his lips, staring at Dean. "You. Want something to eat?"
Unimaginably dumb thing to say, and Dean cursed inwardly as Sam smirked, pushed off the doorframe and came to him. Two weeks since Sam had been this close to him, since Sam had spoken to him like he meant it. Two weeks and a kamikaze light burning in Sam's eyes, worse than the drunk that reeked off him, and Dean thought that Sam would do this or die trying. He barely got the faucet snapped off before Sam had hold of his shoulders and was driving him into the wall.
Dean's back hit with a thud, a low moan squeezed out of him as his sore side hollered, his heart rattling and his wet hands in fists pressed to Sam's chest. His elbows were locked, keeping Sam from closing the last few inches and holding Dean down with his body.
"You know what I want," Sam said, so calm and dark, hooded gaze intent on Dean's face.
"Sam. Sam."
Sam ducked, trying to kiss him, and Dean yanked his head away in a panic, uncurled one hand and pressed it flat to the base of Sam's throat, holding him off. Sam made a noise, a growl that spurred along Dean's edges, and tightened his grip on Dean's shoulders so Dean couldn't get away.
"You're drunk," Dean said, fighting a stammer, his throat slowly closing up. "You, Sammy, you said you wouldn't anymore."
Sam's face twisted, teeth against his lip. He slid his hand suddenly under Dean's collar, rough fingertips on Dean's collarbone and Dean couldn't hold in his gasp. Sam pushed his whole hand into Dean's shirt, palmed his bare shoulder as Dean shook quietly.
"Can't help it," Sam mumbled, low and shamed. "Can't sleep for thinkin' about it. Can't even breathe right anymore, Dean, please."
The please almost did it. That and the thunder of Sam's pulse under Dean's hand, the open plea scrawled all over his face doing unwarranted things to Dean, making his vision fog. Dean shifted his grip and took hold of the back of Sam's neck, hand half-buried in Sam's hair to draw his brother to him and Sam's eyes went wide as he breathed out, "yeah," hot and sweet against Dean's mouth, and somehow Dean tore away.
Broke Sam's hold on him and his on Sam, a wispy handful of Sam's hair in his palm and Sam hissing between his teeth. The collar of Dean's shirt ripped as Sam's hand came free. Dean shoved Sam hard to the side, his face feeling scalded, the thin skin over his shoulder blistered. His mind was a useless gibbering thing, his body overrun, dying for his brother.
"What are you doing--don't." Sam grabbed his arm and Dean flung him off, shot to the other side of the kitchen, where he clung to the edge of the table. "Why the fuck'd you stop?"
Dean pressed his fingers into his eyes, spare drops of water slicking down his cheeks and counterfeiting tears. He couldn't believe any of this was happening to him.
"You, you're my brother," Dean said, not understanding why the excuse sounded so feeble and weak. "I can't."
Sam grabbed him again, pulled his hands away from his face and wouldn't let Dean jerk away. Sam's hands braceleted around Dean's wrists, forcing him to look up. Sam's face was lit, fanatical.
"You can. You want to," Sam told him without any doubt.
Dean met his brother's eyes. "I won't."
Sam's mouth opened and fished for a moment, and then he said, voice stuttery, "You don't know what it's doing to me."
"I swear to god I do." A half-smiling sad look on his face, Dean turned his hands in Sam's grip, tapped at his wrists. "Lemme go, Sammy."
"No." Sam cuffed him too firm to move again. His eyes flashed. "Not lettin' you run away again, that's such bullshit."
"Sam-" Dean warned.
"No. I don' care what you say, this is what we got. It's not like it should be but it's here and it's ours and we can have it, I promise you we can."
He dragged at Dean, left one hand binding Dean's wrists and put the other on Dean's face, thumbing at his cheek, the edge of his nose. Sam was impossible, huge eyes begging at him, abused mouth on offer, this beautiful fucked up kid and Dean was dizzy, unbalanced, wanting him so bad.
"Lemme go, Sam, you gotta," Dean said, hating the hoarse note of panic in his voice. He felt like he'd been possessed, set to run on dark instincts not his own. He wanted to bite Sam's lip until it bled, let Sam pin his wrists above his head, hold him down.
Sam pressed his thumb against the corner of Dean's mouth. His throat clicked as he swallowed. "Don't know how," he admitted. "Dean, I'm gonna, you gotta let me-" and then Sam kissed him, deep with the brace of his thumb holding Dean's jaw.
Dean groaned against his will, cut off in his throat as Sam licked into his mouth. Dean kissed him back for a few mindless seconds, heady with the taste of liquor and Sam's tongue moving along his own, and then Sam let go of his wrists to cradle Dean's face in both hands. Dean sucked on Sam's lower lip, plastered his hands on the broad expanse of Sam's chest, felt the heat beating out of him. Dean whispered sorry wordlessly into Sam's mouth, and pushed him away again, hard enough that Sam tripped and sprawled back on the floor.
He was smart this time, staggered out of the kitchen before Sam could catch his breath or regain his feet. Dean slammed down the hall, wracked by arousal and trembling so bad he didn't even attempt his boot laces, just jammed his feet in and grabbed his coat and got out. As the door closed, Dean could hear Sam, the wind knocked out of him, gasping his name, sounding like he was suffocating.
Dean got in his cruiser and took off in a spray of gravel. He rubbed at his mouth compulsively, licking at his teeth. Fire, Sam tasted like fire, although that was probably just the booze; he'd never get Sam sober enough to taste clean, and a bolt of jagged laughter broke from Dean, a wild little cackle.
Dean didn't know where to go, nowhere felt safe, but the car followed the familiar route to the Roadhouse and Dean figured it was as good as any other place and better than most.
There was a stool at the end of the bar, out of the worst of the light. Dean beelined for it, making grins for the locals who hailed him as he passed. He turned his coat collar up and hunched inside it. His hands were laced together on the scratched-soft bar so it wouldn't be evident how badly they wanted to shake.
Ellen materialized before him. "Usual, Dean?"
Dean inclined his head affirmatively. Beer in a bottle and a double-shot of top-shelf because Sam might love his gutter whiskey but Dean had standards. The drink laid his throat open like a switchblade going down. Dean blinked away tears, hand over his face.
"Look like you're havin' a rough night," Ellen remarked. She was wiping down already clean tumblers, just for something to do with her hands, Dean thought.
"There another kind?" Dean replied, muttering.
"You just get off duty?"
"Midnight."
"Now, I told Bobby not to let you take those swings anymore; that man ain't got the sense God gave a mule."
Dean smirked, rolling his beer between his palms. "You oughta lay off him, I'm the one volunteering for 'em."
"You," Ellen said with an emphatic finger point, "have never had the vaguest idea of what's good for you."
Dean snorted derisively, but he couldn't really argue it, keeping his eyes down. Ellen went down the bar to serve another patron and Dean thought he would appreciate the quiet, but his thoughts kept slingshotting back to Sam's mouth on his, his tough hands held careful around Dean's face. Dean was stricken, overwhelmed. His physical response to his brother had been so powerful, felt in his marrow and each individual blood vessel, and Dean couldn't understand how he'd let Sam get in that deep. He didn't know if he could realistically fight it.
He thought, can't go home, and his stomach bottomed out. He couldn't sleep with only a wall between them.
Dean sucked at his beer, slow terror growing in him. This had already fucked up everything. Fled from the only home he'd ever known because he couldn't look at Sam, never touch him again. He wasn't just Sam now, he was this terrible hopeless dream of Dean's, branded on memory as sinuous and wicked and hotter than anyone had the right to be, and Dean would never get rid of him like that, never forget.
His mouth felt like a bruise. The familiar scent and noise of the bar flowed around him, surreally normal background to Dean losing his mind. He brushed Ellen off when she came back to banter some more, thinking irrationally that it would be all over his face, clear as a scar.
He needed to pull himself the fuck together.
There was barely time, though. He was just finishing his second beer when the phone behind the bar trilled, high and insistent above the music. Dean watched Ellen pick it up, leaning it on her shoulder with her head cocked and her hands busy making a Colorado bulldog. Saw her say, "Yeah, hang on," and look up to make eye contact with him.
Dean had no premonition about it, no bad feeling. He was deep in the grip of a morose buzz, depressed and suggestible, and he couldn't think of anything anybody on the phone could say that could worsen his situation.
He came around to where the cord would reach, took the phone and pressed his free hand flat against his ear.
"Yeah, 's Dean."
"Get your ass to the station, boy, right fuckin' now."
Bobby. Voice all ragged and scraped and Dean's spine snapped a bit by reflex, shoulders straightening.
"What happened?"
"Just arrested your brother." Coughing on a laugh, Bobby was unable to believe it himself.
"What?"
"'fraid so. Real sorry 'bout that, but he's lucky I didn't shoot him."
Dean shook his head, pressing his hand tighter against his ear in the hopes that he was mishearing. He made eye contact with Ellen over the bar, taking in her worried, resigned expression. He felt a flash of anger, seeing no surprise in her face and knowing she'd expected this of Sam, her and Bobby and everybody else, just standing witness, waiting for Sam to complete his fall.
"What the fuck did he do?"
Another roughened laugh. "Took a baseball bat to my cruiser and the other'n. Right in the station parking lot, beat the holy shit out of two county vehicles, is what the fuck Sam did."
"Jesus Christ," Dean said, all his anger abruptly sliding over to Sam. "He thought I was there."
"Yeah, gathered that. Boy's 'bout as drunk as I ever seen but he's still got a lot to say about you."
Dean's blood ran dead cold. He saw it like a vision, detailed and vivid, Sam face-down on the ruined hood of a cruiser, arms handcuffed behind his back and his mouth spitting and snarling, crying to the whole world how his big brother wouldn't fuck him. It would be the end of life as Dean knew it.
"Like what?" he managed to ask Bobby, keeping the anger in his voice to hide all the other stuff.
"Hell, runt, I dunno, he's drunk. He was shoutin' something about the Impala, something about Lawrence, couldn't make that shit out. Shouldn't you be on your way right about now?"
Dean hung up on him, which Bobby could only have expected. He fumbled for his wallet, but Ellen said, "God's sake, son, go," and so he went.
It wasn't five minutes from the Roadhouse to the station, not with the lights and siren going and the town stepping aside to make a path for him. Dean punched at the steering wheel, cursing Sam even as he knew it was his own goddamn fault. Leaving Sam like that with no air in his lungs and the remembered feel of Dean's tongue in his mouth, leaving Sam drunk and defenseless against the demons that clamored and sang inside them both--Dean knew his brother too well, knew just what he'd looked like with the bat in his hands and broken glass sparkling all around him. This was one of hundreds of anticipated ends.
The little parking lot was crowded: the Impala and Bobby's Chevelle and Mattias's tow truck and both damaged cruisers and the maintenance truck tucked away in the corner. Dean parked on the street and jogged over, eyes fast over the wreckage.
Dents were scattered all over the cruisers, iron-fisted jabs, and the crushed side mirrors were hanging by wires or exploded clear off the door. Each windshield was starburst in several places. The cherry-tops had been shattered, shards of blue and red plastic all over the hoods.
"Motherfuck," Dean said almost conversationally. Mattias popped his head out of the tow truck's cab.
"That you, Deano?"
Dean raised a hand, not taking his eyes off the cruisers. "Howdy, Matt." He felt transfixed, suddenly not ready to see his brother behind bars.
Hopping down from the cab, Mattias came over, stood beside him. "Helluva thing." Dean nodded, didn't answer. Mattias hawked and spat to the side. "You know what got him so riled?"
Dean laughed quiet, without joy. "Nothing new."
"Yeah. Don't rain but it pours, huh." Mattias had always been prone to platitudes and sampler mottos.
"You seen him?" Dean asked. His hands were in fists in his coat pockets, the wind sneaking icily into the tear in his shirt collar.
"Naw, sheriff'd already thrown him in stir. Heard him, though. Cursing, shouting your name out the window."
Dean started. "My name?"
Mattias nodded, restlessly clearing his throat. "Guess he thought you'd come spring him." He gave Dean a little smile. "Guess you did."
Dean coughed, hiding his mouth with his hand. He pressed his knuckles into his chin, his chest aching at the image of Sam's hands pushing through prison bars, Sam's voice calling out for him.
He clapped Mattias's shoulder and went inside, squinting against the sudden light.
Bobby was ripping the rookie a new one (the kid had been distressingly ineffective in subduing Sam in any way before Bobby'd got there), but he stopped short when he saw Dean. Bobby was out of uniform but still carried all the authority of his office, hard-eyed and commanding.
"Sergeant Winchester," Bobby said like he'd never held Dean upside down by his ankles. "Good of you to join us."
Dean hung up his coat, ran a hand through his hair. He glanced at the doorway to the three-cell block, but the angle on the long rectangular window wasn't such that he could see Sam.
"He sobered up yet?"
"Doubt it. Here." Bobby tossed a fifth of Beam across the desk, about a third full and glimmering amber. Dean caught it by reflex. "Took that off him."
"What are the charges?" Dean wanted to take a drink of the Beam like he wanted his next breath of air. Bobby would go nuclear, though, so he stowed it away in a drawer, out of sight.
"Malicious property damage, disturbing the peace, public intoxication, resisting arrest. I'll probably think up a couple more by morning."
"Bobby-" Dean started to say, then glanced at the rookie and his scanning beady eyes. "Sheriff, can I get a word?"
He inclined his head towards Bobby's office and Bobby followed him willingly enough, scowl etched permanently on his face. Dean closed the door behind him and as he turned to face Bobby, he was struggling against a tide of inappropriate laughter, shock and fear gaslighting him a bit. Sam had kissed him. Sam had kissed him and then gone completely batshit nuts.
"Listen, you can't come down that hard," Dean said, trying to keep a straight face. "You know what he's gone through."
Bobby scoffed, though his hunched eyebrows gave a little, barest trace of sympathy. "It's been almost a year, Dean, 'cept when you look at him, it's like it just happened. Nobody expects him to be over it and nobody expects him to be fuckin' cheerful, but he can't get away with this shit either."
"It's not. It wasn't all his fault," Dean said haltingly. "Tonight, I mean. I. I made him mad. Knew he was drunk and pissed him off real bad, then I went to the bar, just left him. He came here looking for me."
"No, he came here looking for your car. 's not like he came in asking for you before he started fuckin' batting practice."
Dean flicked a hand, frustrated. "It was 'cause of me, Bobby, okay? I pushed him."
"Jesus Christ." Bobby fell back in his chair, exasperated. "You never cease to fuckin' amaze."
"What?" Dean's face was hot, arms crossed over his chest defensively.
"There's nothing Sam can do that's bad enough. It's never his fault while you're around."
Dean's voice rose a little. "I'm supposed to look out for him."
"He's twenty-four years old." Bobby's rose more. "And the help he needs he can't get from you. He's sick, Dean, you know that."
His shoulders jolted, his head snagging briefly. He wondered if he should tell Bobby, we're both sick.
"You really wanna watch this happening again?" Bobby asked, lower but still strong, undeniable. "Because I goddamn well cannot. Not one of you boys."
Struck Dean like a blow, pushed him back against the door and he slumped, blinking at Bobby in a kind of stymied daze. There was a difference, he thought, between knowing somebody loved you in the theoretical, as an abstract, and something like this. Bobby'd been a widower as long as Dean had known him, a one-true-love kind of guy who'd never tried again, and instead of family he had the Winchesters, which was essentially the same thing.
"You're right," Dean managed, voice small. "Know you're right, Bobby."
Bobby blew out a breath. He scratched at his beard, looking away from Dean and out the window with a distant gaze. He looked tired, everybody looked so tired all the time. Dean thought it must have something to do with the winter.
"'s late," Bobby said after a minute. "You gonna talk to him?"
Dean nodded. "Hopefully stay shy of police brutality."
"Think there's a pain-in-the-ass little brother clause in there somewhere." Bobby creaked his chair thoughtfully. "We're comin' up with a plan on Monday. Deal with this shit proper."
"He won't like that. Us conspiring."
"Oh no, the felonious vandal will be upset with us! Gimme a damn break."
Dean rolled his eyes. "You set bail?"
That cleared Bobby's face, and he gave Dean a shrewd look. "Maybe some time in would be good for him."
"Uh, no." Dean lifted his eyebrows. "Leave him in jail, are you senile?"
"Watch it," Bobby snapped, but Dean smirked, his distress complete enough to be somewhat freeing. "Anyway, I don't trust him. He's a runner."
"He lives with a cop."
"Fat lot a good that's done him."
Direct hit, Dean rendered speechless for a moment before he recovered himself. "Look, I'll vouch for him, okay, my word on it."
Bobby sighed, rolled his eyes heavenward. Dean suffered a brief shock: his dad used to do the exact same thing.
"No special favors," Bobby conceded gruffly. "You pay the full bail, no half-now half-later."
"Sir yes sir." Dean moved back from the door, rested one hand on the knob. "I'ma go see him now."
"I'ma go home and go back to sleep," Bobby answered. "Goddamn Winchesters."
Dean grinned, blew Bobby a kiss. They were who they were.
In the bullpen, Dean ordered the rookie, "Stay the fuck away from the cell block. Whatever you hear or think's going on, you stick to that desk, hear me?"
The kid nodded, wide-eyed, and Dean knew he was expecting Dean to go kick the shit out of Sam, which wasn't wholly unwarranted but Dean knew better than to hit anybody in custody, pain-in-the-ass little brother or not. He didn't know what exactly was gonna happen back in the cell block, but he was pretty confident they wouldn't want an audience.
Dean went back, closed the door carefully behind him so that there was barely a click. Sam was in the middle cell, lying on the lower bunk with one leg kicked out. He had a hand pushed under his shirt and Dean could see a ribbon of skin.
Sam didn't lift his head, saying to the top bunk, "Took you long enough."
Dean came closer, his hands clenching in and out of fists. "I could kill you."
"You won't, though."
"Don't be too sure." Dean entertained it for a second, hitting Sam until he was unrecognizable, until he stopped moving. He thought he would throw up, reeled by the giddy embrace of the moment.
"What the fuck were you thinking, Sam?"
Sam's mouth thinned. His eyes were open, staring up. "Wasn't."
"Thousands of dollars it's gonna cost and Bobby, you mighta lost him for good with this stunt. I can't, can't fix this for you."
"Nobody asked you," Sam muttered. Dean made a harsh sound of disbelief, his lip curling.
"You just committed a felony to get my attention, Sammy, don't go playing hard to get now."
That got Sam up, swinging both legs onto the floor and reaching above him to grip the upper bunk. He glared at Dean, an incendiary look that sent a shiver through him.
"Don' make a fuckin' joke," Sam said without slurring too badly. "It's not a fuckin' joke."
"No, you're goddamn right about that." Dean stepped right up to the bars, his heart racing. "It's not funny at all, it's fucking terrifying."
Sam's eyes widened, his mouth open but nothing coming out. Dean saw the long muscle in his arm flex as he gripped the bunk, and Dean's fingers twitched in sympathy, wanting to feel the movements under Sam's skin.
"You scared of me, Dean?" Sam asked, his voice strangely breathless.
Dean bit the inside of his lip, eyeing his brother. It wasn't really Sam, not the mayhem that shadowed him or the truncated line where his morality stopped short, because Sam had always been like that and Dean had always been one of the few people that Sam would only ever hurt accidentally. But what Sam did to Dean, that scared him. The ease with which Sam had fundamentally altered Dean, that was downright chilling.
"For you," he said, only half-lying. "Scared you're gonna get locked up or killed or god knows. You can't keep this up."
Sam pulled himself to his feet. He came slowly towards Dean and Dean's hands clenched on the cell bars, knuckles going pale.
"You shouldn't have run away," Sam said. He looked nervous, determined, still awful drunk.
Dean cut his eyes away, swallowing. He knew he should back up; it was basic protocol and common sense to stay beyond arm's reach of the prisoner. Sam had him frozen, pinned.
"That's no excuse for what you did, Sam," he said unevenly.
"Kinda is." Sam was right on the other side of the bars now, his big hands closing just above each of Dean's. "You make me crazy. It's not a figure of speech."
Eyes cast down, Dean shook his head, squeezing the cold iron in his hands. His mind was disjointed and frenzied, tossing him slivers and fragments and nothing at all helpful. He could feel Sam through the bars. They were half a foot apart.
"Shoulda hit me instead of the cruisers, then," Dean mumbled. Sam let go of the bar, lifted his hand and stroked Dean's cheek. Dean gasped, jerked his head away and Sam's hand fell.
"Sorta invested in your face," Sam answered hoarsely. Dean shut his eyes, the reins of control slipping in his grip. "Dean, you, you can't keep fightin' it. It's bound to happen, man, can't you feel that?"
Dean made a choked sound. Sam's fingers brushed down the ridges of Dean's knuckles, and Dean trembled and Sam saw it, Sam breathed out Dean's name. Dean wrenched his hands off the bars, took two big steps backwards and almost stumbled. Sam reached for him, long arms sliding through the bars and Sam's face behind them, stripped and tortured and begging, tearing Dean down.
"Don't, not again," Sam said, eyes blazing. "You get back over here Dean, you fuckin' hurry."
"Jesus," Dean said under his breath, socked full in the stomach by a wave of lust as visceral as a gunshot wound. He shuddered, half-bent over, and it didn't pass; he couldn't work around it.
"Please, Dean," and Sam's hand was open, pushed as far through the bars as he could get it, and Sam was saying please. Dean felt something give inside him, a guardrail splintering and he was over the edge, snatched by gravity, falling.
Dean moved over to the door and Sam cried, "No," and Dean snapped, "Pull your goddamn arms in," and Sam saw that Dean was fumbling to get his key into the cell door mechanism. Sam went quiet, his breathing harsh, and Dean twisted his wrist, all three cell doors ratcheting back.
He dropped the keys on the floor, the ring high and sharp in his ears. Strode across the block and stepped into Sam's cell, watching with amazement as Sam's eyes blackened in swift degrees. Dean took hold of the front of Sam's shirt and walked him backwards and Sam didn't fight, his hands hooked on Dean's arms, staring at Dean's face like there was nothing else in the world.
Sam hit the wall solid and Dean pressed his body against his brother's, both of them moaning low at the feel. Their belt buckles clinked together. Sam tossed his head back and slid his arms around Dean's shoulders. Heat shot up his spine like a plume, and Dean palmed Sam's hips, looking down to watch them grinding together, and then up at his long bare neck, his fallen-open mouth.
"This what you want?" Dean whispered under the line of Sam's jaw, licked away some salt. "This what you been looking for, Sammy?" He pushed his leg between Sam's, took his mouth away and blinked at the damp red mark he'd left on Sam's skin.
Sam rocked down hard, halfway there already. "Yes," he hissed, stretching it out.
Dean pushed his hands up under Sam's shirt, onto the smooth hot run of his sides, the concrete structure of him finally made tangible. Sam lowered his head and bit at Dean's mouth, fierce graceless kisses that dazed Dean better than right crosses. Sam hooked both hands in the rip at the shoulder of Dean's shirt, and tore it off him, strong enough to leave pale fabric burns on Dean's arms, but he couldn't begin to care because nothing more arousing had ever happened to him.
"Holy god," Dean said faintly. His shirt hung in tatters; Sam gave him a shaky grin, slid his hands down Dean's chest.
"See, Dean, I told ya," Sam mumbled, pressing his open mouth to Dean's shoulders. He rode Dean's thigh with these tight lazy snaps of his hips, and Dean's mind whited out every time.
"Don't--don't be a smartass." Dean brought his hands up, buried them in Sam's hair and kissed him deeply. Silver stars detonated across the backs of his eyelids and he would pass out in another second but Dean didn't want to stop.
Sam broke away, panting, wide-palmed hands anxiously painting heat across Dean's body, pure ache when he touched the rising contusions on Dean's left side. He showed a wild, overjoyed smile, eyes scrunching up, Sam, still Sam beyond any question, making Dean's heart wrench sideways.
"What." Dean swallowed, chickened out and hid his face in Sam's throat, asked muffled, "What should I do?"
Sam made an unbelievable noise, choked groan that Dean could feel reverberating under his skin. His hands clutched on the back of Dean's neck, Sam set his teeth to Dean's ear and Dean kinda short-circuited, rubbed against him fast and rhythmless, and they were both fully hard now and the friction was making them stupid, desperate. Sam was fucking everywhere.
"Anything," he managed to answer, voice like pitch and hot right against Dean's ear. "God, anything, I'll fuckin' love it I swear."
"Sweet fuck," Dean snarled, drew Sam's head back and kissed him dirtily, vicious. "Shut your mouth before you kill me."
Sam's mouth opened because he was still a brat and had been put on the earth to drive Dean insane, and Dean didn't think, pushing his fingers between Sam's lips to keep him quiet. An expression of surprise opened Sam's face, and his tongue curled around Dean's fingertips curiously, then sucked him in.
"Fuck," Dean said again, sounding distant to his own ears. He stared at his fingers sliding in and out of Sam's mouth, Sam's eyes barely open, slitted because he was getting off on it so bad. "Sammy, you, oh Jesus Christ, okay, okay."
His free hand scrambled for Sam's belt buckle, jerking it open one-handed and Sam hissed around his fingers, his teeth bared and biting and Dean's eyes rolled back in his head. He left Sam's fly for a moment to press the heel of his hand against his own, about to mess his shorts like a fucking kid, and he hauled in a few breaths. He could already smell them both in the air.
He slumped against Sam, felt how their hearts slammed against each other, and bit Sam's neck, pushed his hand into Sam's shorts. Sam moaned and Dean felt it as much as heard it, shivering up from his fingers wet and dragging into Sam's mouth. Dean curled the fingers of his other hand and thought for a second about how that was his brother's cock and this was such a strange place to find himself, but he stroked a few times and Sam, Sam whined and bucked up and it was kinda like the world ended inside Dean's head.
He slid down the length of Sam, fingers escaping Sam's mouth and icing down his neck, tripping damp over his shirt. Never done this before, never even thought about it, but Dean went to his knees like his body was only meant to fold in one way.
Sam actually twitched in his hand, scalding and getting slick, and Dean's mouth was already open from panting. Sam's huge hands cupped around his head, his thumbs on Dean's cheeks and his fingers woven through his hair, and Dean thought, really gonna do this, meant for it, and he licked his lips.
"God a'mighty." Dean looked up and Sam was staring at him, his eyes searing and burnt-looking. His voice sounded crippled. "If that ain't the prettiest thing I have ever seen."
Dean's mouth curved, flushes breaking over him in waves. He twisted his fist up Sam's dick and Sam's head fell back, his mouth shuddering open.
"Sweet talker," Dean said before lowering his head.
Dean didn't know what he was doing but it didn't matter. Everything he tried made Sam shiver and sweat and keen. Sam figured out how much Dean could take and started rolling his hips, shallow thrusts with his hands secured around Dean's head, his thumbs swiping at the corners of his mouth. Dean let Sam ride him, taken aback by how much it turned him on, having Sam over him like this, in him. He dug his fingers into Sam's sides and Sam was babbling, "Oh you beautiful fuck don't stop, Dean, never fuckin' stop," and all Dean could think was okay yes never will.
Dean came with Sam's cock in his mouth and his own hand shoved down the front of his pants. Sam had the gall to gasp out a laugh at that, but Dean was too distracted to properly retaliate. He could barely even breathe. And anyway, Sam followed right behind him, stammering Dean's name and bowing down over his head. His fingers fluttered and clenched, scrabbling at Dean's ears.
The aftermath was momentarily quiet. Dean sat back on his heels, his knees apart and one hand sticky still buried in his shorts. He was breathing hard and rough and staring up at his brother, letting the picture they formed seep into him, carve across his memory. Half-naked in his shredded shirt, his mouth used and sore, Dean peeled his hand off Sam's hip, lost contact with him entirely.
Sam slowly tucked himself away, moving as if in a trance. His face was slack, sated, a whole gallery of expressions that Dean had never seen before. This was what Sam looked like directly after getting head, hazy and lax and breathing contentment. This was all new for Dean.
Sam gave him a slow look. Little sparks ran across Dean's skin, shivering down the back of his neck. A shallow smile bent Sam's mouth, and he offered Dean a hand up. Not certain his legs would hold him, Dean took it.
They stood too close, Sam steadying him. Dean's eyes flicked from Sam's heavy eyes to his mouth to the darkening marks on his throat, wondering if there was something he was supposed to say.
"You're," Sam said, breaking the quiet and then struggling, falling silent before continuing, "Better than I thought."
Dean caught his smile before it could show. He chewed on the inside of his cheek instead, feeling like his eyes were gaping, stunned. He wanted to touch Sam's face, his swollen mouth. Wanted to take Sam home and strip him bare, lay him out in Dean's bed and try it all again. He wanted weeks of Sam, seasons and years.
"I." Dean's voice barely worked, scraped raw, and he cleared his throat. "I gotta leave you here tonight. Take me a minute to get the bail together."
Sam nodded, his eyes following Dean's smallest movements. "Wore me out, anyway."
Dean's face heated, and he looked down, mumbling, "Yeah."
"Hey." Sam's hand alit under his chin, drawing his face up. "Did good, Dean, you an' me. Perfect."
Dean blinked fast, dismantled and unguarded and not prepared for the tectonic shift Sam caused, saying something like that. Sam smiling at him all loose and soft made impossible ideas run riot in Dean's head, like doors being thrown open to reveal sunlit rooms. Sam was making him light-headed, and Dean patted him on the chest, pulled Sam's hand away from his face. He took a step back. He took a breath.
He wore Sam's coat out of the cell block, zipped up over his bare chest. The rookie fish-mouthed at him and wanted to ask, but Dean shut him up with a glare. He escaped into the parking lot, where the cold air stung his flushed cheeks and the stars spun overhead.
Glancing back once, Dean scanned the high barred windows of the cell block, imagining Sam's long body pressed flat to the wall with his arm stretched up, his pallid waving fingers just barely visible in the moonlight. The middle window was empty, but the picture followed Dean all the way home.
*
Ellen had a little money for Dean to borrow, though she was of Bobby's opinion that a stretch might do Sam more good than harm. Dean worked on her, big sad eyes that had always been gold when he was a kid. She'd gotten wise years ago but sometimes still faltered, and Dean didn't feel too guilty playing on her sympathies, letting his voice crack. This whole leave-Sam-in-prison thing was pissing him off something awful.
Dean cleaned out his meager savings and he was still shy of the bail, so he leadfooted to Sturgis and pawned his watch and a watch of his dad's and the radio he used to listen to baseball games on while washing the Impala. It came out just enough, and Dean had this weird feeling of going to purchase his brother, laying money down and having Sam brought to him.
Clear-skied day, a windless mountain chill in the air, and Dean drove the Impala, going seventy on the backcountry highways with his window down and the stereo up just because he could. It matched with the ineffable feeling he'd had in his chest all day, this amorphous sensation of having been thrown aloft.
He got back by lunchtime, picked up some sandwiches from Mikey at the cafe, and went inside the police station, Sam's coat folded over his arm. Discomfort crawled through him, realized belatedly that he was pretty badly nervous. Bobby wasn't on shift, which was good; he would try to bust Sam down and Sam would lash out in response and Dean wasn't up for it. He hadn't gotten any sleep.
Dean bullshitted with the other sergeant for a minute, trying to regain his bearings, but he felt a second behind the conversation, his eyes hopping compulsively to the cell block door.
Dean had been trying not to think about it too much. He'd been kept up all night because every time he lay down the whole scene came crashing back in on him, on his knees on the stone floor with Sam braced against the wall. Sam's hands on his head, his face, and Sam cursing at him in that midnight voice, Sam's hips locked in Dean's grip, rolling so smooth. Every time he closed his eyes, there was Sam, and Dean didn't like that, didn't like that it was a compulsion and something he had no authority over.
Just going down on Sam was more than fucked up enough for Dean; he really didn't need to be obsessed with it, too.
Dean paid Sam's bail and the sergeant fetched the paper grocery bag with Sam's effects in it: battered brown leather wallet he'd had since he was thirteen, bottle opener in the shape of a cow skull, the slim miniature leatherman he was never without, six pennies and his lucky JFK half-dollar, a seven of spades that had been ripped in half, and a cocktail napkin with a cryptic message scrawled in Sam's hand, meet me five minutes ago, that Dean puzzled over, tried to conjure an explanation for.
"Quit messin' with my stuff," Sam said.
The napkin slipped out of Dean's hand, his fingers gone suddenly nerveless. He watched it flutter down to the floor dumbly, and then looked up. Sam was pocketing his wallet and gear, his clothes rumpled from being slept in and his hair snarled and his eyes trailing over Dean.
Dean grabbed the napkin off the floor, handed it to Sam and Sam glanced at it without interest, balled it up and flicked it into a bin. There was a bite mark on Sam's neck, a brother for the one Dean had found on his collarbone in the shower this morning. Dean wondered if Sam's skin tasted any different where it had been bruised.
"You all right?" Dean asked eventually, feeling like it was the expected thing.
Sam shrugged. "That bunk's cruel and unusual." He cracked his neck to the side, demonstrating.
"Save it for the judge."
"Did you bring me food? They said it was oatmeal for breakfast but it looked more like horse puke."
Dean made a disgusted face, nose scrunching, and Sam grinned. Dean grinned back by reflex, forgetting for a moment that they were in the station and Sam had gotten himself arrested and Dean was supposed to be mad at him.
"Here." Dean handed Sam his sandwich and Sam made pleased noises, tearing into the paper. Dean watched him, thinking kinda hysterically, hey dude remember when i sucked you off last night.
Dean checked the shift board and left Bobby a note that was mostly insults couched around an oblique expression of gratitude for letting Dean bail out his brother. Sam was waiting for him at the door, munching on his sandwich and losing shreds of lettuce out the side. He snatched at the Impala keys but Dean said hell no, pushed him around to the shotgun side.
Driving was good, driving gave him something to do with his hands and somewhere to put his eyes that wasn't on Sam. Hot air blasted out of the dash and Sam held his hands in front of the vents as he would a fire, turning them to warm both sides.
"Cold in jail, too," he remarked.
Dean gave him a sidelong look. "It's not supposed to be a pleasant experience, you know."
"Just sayin', you stole my coat."
"You ripped my shirt," Dean answered without thinking, and was immediately blindsided by shock at the statement. Sam had ripped Dean's shirt off, in pursuit of having sex with him. This was the weirdest day ever.
It was also still really kinda hot, and Dean shifted in his seat, glancing over to confirm that Sam was smirking, looking smug. He was sprawled in the shotgun seat as he ever had, all legs and knees and arm stretched out along the seat. His whole body was angled towards Dean, his hips tipped.
"I was unduly provoked," Sam said, drawling and deep and Dean couldn't talk to him if he was gonna be using that voice.
They rode for a minute. Dean couldn't get over the oddity of the situation, the tension that packed the car like there was a hitchhiker in the backseat getting crazier with every mile. Everything he thought of saying seemed to have a double meaning. Everything was in goddamn code.
"You're gettin' a job, by the way," Dean settled on. "We're gonna do everything possible to keep you out of actual prison, and first on that list is covering the damage."
Sam snorted, looking at Dean almost constantly. "I'll fix the damn cars. Kept tryin' to tell Bobby that last night but did he wanna listen?"
"Yeah, I'm sure you were making a real intelligent argument. And I don't think you're fully appreciating how fuckin' psycho you went last night. I don't know if it's salvageable."
Sam lifted his hand and waved it dismissively, making a pfft sound. "We got different definitions of that, you an' me. On accounta my being way better with cars than you are."
"Dude." Dean might take a lot of Sam's shit, but there were lines. "I'm turning around and taking you back to jail."
"Dude!"
Sam was laughing. His goofy too-loud laugh, face all squinted against the sheer winter sunlight, and Dean thought they could go through their regular back-and-forth, feign the rhythm of being brothers, but at the end of the day he was still gonna want to bend Sam over the arm of the couch. For the rest of his life, he thought, stricken.
"Oh, and," Sam said, still turned towards Dean like a clear offer. "'Cause I'll forget later, thanks. Bailing me out an' all." He bounced his fist on Dean's shoulder, left it close on the back of the seat. "I got me the best big brother in the state."
Dean half-smiled without looking at him, all his focus dedicated to the road. His ears were burning, felt fire-truck red. Sick and dizzy and he thought it was shame but he couldn't tell anymore. Something about Sam saying brother happy and rough like that, and the coil of heat when Dean heard it, this terrible feeling he had that Sam being his brother was actually the basis for the whole attraction, that it was because of, not in spite of.
There were levels to this thing, Dean was realizing. It went deeper, further back than he could have possibly anticipated. It was like he'd been living underwater, deaf and dumb and drowning and never knowing there was a dry and airfilled world just above the surface.
They got back home and Sam immediately went into the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of vodka from the freezer. He took out the orange juice and took down two plastic cups. Dean leaned in the doorway, still in his coat, watching uncertainly.
"One of those for me?" he asked. It wasn't as stupid a question as it sounded, considering who he was talking to.
Sam nodded, expertly fixing up two screwdrivers. "You're in need."
Dean thought about that, figured it was fair. The psycho-killer tension had followed them inside, making Dean's fingers itch at the doorframe. All alone in their quiet house, and Dean wanted to touch Sam and Sam wanted to get him drunk.
Sam came over to give him his drink, and maybe he was a little closer than he strictly had to be. That heat, whatever it was that Sam stored up inside him and bled out through every inch of his skin, Dean got the feel again, the sway of it. Sam dropped his eyes but it wasn't awkwardness this time, more like a ridiculously obvious cruise, up and down Dean's body before he smirked the smallest smirk possible and stepped away.
Situation being as it was, Dean felt lucky not to have lost hold on the drink. He made use of it, two big swallows and a gasp because mother of god there was a lot of alcohol in that. Sam sat down at the table, working on his slower.
"So." Sam stretched it out, made it a dirty word somehow.
"What?"
Half a shrug, Sam leaning back and giving Dean a look that he couldn't read. "There was that thing that happened."
Dean stilled, his free hand hidden by his body and clutching at the doorframe. He thought for a frightened moment that Sam could see it all on his face, everything Dean wanted to do to him and how last night hadn't taken the pressure off in any way; Dean was still dying over here. It occurred to him almost immediately, though, that maybe Sam was the same way and it was bizarre, a strain of optimism so uncharacteristic for Dean.
"Yeah," Dean answered. It was as little as he could get away with. No point denying it when they both still carried the evidence.
"And you seem to be handling it very well."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "Don't be fuckin' snide about it, asshole."
"No, Dean, fuck." Sam held his hands up, his face frustrated. "I was being sincere."
Studying him, nothing in Sam's expression showed a lie, and Dean sighed. "Sometimes it's hard to tell."
"Yeah." Sam scrubbed a hand over his face and through his hair. "Meant it, though. I didn't even. Wasn't sure I'd see you. I know you said you'd come, but I, I dunno."
"You thought I'd bug out and leave you in jail?" Dean was kinda offended.
"Well, no, not now. Full light of day and all that shit, I know you wouldn't really. Seemed plausible in my cell, you know?" Sam took a drink, measured and slow and Dean watched his throat. "But there you were. Even brought me a sandwich."
Dean looked away, shrugging that it was no big thing. He'd just figured Sam would be hungry because they were both usually hungry.
"So."
"You said that already," Dean said.
"Yeah, thanks, I was here." Sam glared at him mildly, heat in his eyes but no malice. "So, you didn't bug out, but are you gonna?"
Dean fidgeted, studying the sticky reddish place on the floor where Sam had lost a glob of jam off the knife while fixing toast a few weeks ago. He was trying to find an honest answer because Sam could usually tell when he was lying and the conversation would go quicker if he didn't get Sam mad.
"Probably not," he allowed. not as long as blowjobs are still on the table, he added silently, inwardly exasperated at how much his dick was running the show here.
Sam tapped his fingers on the table, looking speculative. "What about when it happens again?"
Keeping his face straight with the greatest of effort, Dean asked, "It's gonna?"
"Obviously, Dean."
Dean exhaled, astounded by how Sam could sound so matter-of-fact about it, like there wasn't even a debate to be had: yes, we will be adding incest to the daily schedule. We are that family now.
Somebody had to say something. "It's a bad idea, Sam."
"Obviously, Dean."
Dean scowled. "Shut up. I'm serious. You're all for it, like, no worries at all. Like there's no consequences to it. And that's just, it's so far removed from reality."
"What, Dean?" Sam's getting ticked, flicking his hair like a girl. "Tell me about some of these awful fuckin' consequences you got planned for us."
"It, it's wrong, and it's sick-"
"Those aren't consequences. That's just what other people would say, why would I give a shit about that?"
Shaking his head, Dean didn't know how to get it across, it seemed so clear. "It's what Bobby would say. It. It's what Dad would say."
Sam's lip curled up, pretty sneer that caught in Dean like a hook. His eyes were sea-dark and hard. "I'm suddenly supposed to start caring what he thinks now?"
"Sam-" Dean started, his anger righteous but insubstantial, and Sam rolled right over him.
"No, man, honestly. A consequence, some harm it's gonna do you or me, that's what I wanna hear from you. Because right now? Way things are? All I see it doing is making you a little less miserable and me a little less suicidal."
Dean was taken sharply aback by that, which was surely the intention. He wasn't stupid or blinded by affection, and he could see the death wish in Sam's behavior, but that was different from him saying it out loud, confessing it.
He moved past it forcibly, terrified of looking at it too closely. Leaning back, Dean pinned his hand between his body and the doorframe, gazing tiredly at Sam and letting all the nightmare scenarios play through his mind.
"Something's gonna go wrong," Dean said. "I don't know what. You'll probably be drunk when it happens. We'll get into some stupid fight and we'll take it too far. It'll be hard not to, once we start--everything's gonna mean more. Or it, it's gonna feel that way. Like I can never be all the way mad because I'll still want to fuck you in the middle of it, and that'll only piss me off more--like that. This stupid terrible fight we're gonna have, Sammy, it's gonna go on for days. Weeks. Digging at every little weak spot 'cause we'll know everything then, there won't, won't be anything I can't use against you. And it'll be awful, and we'll both hate it, but we won't know how to stop. And then I'll wake up one morning and you'll be gone. I'll come home after a double shift and all your shit will be cleaned out. You probably won't even leave a note."
Dean paused, took a long breath. Sam was statue-still, wide-eyed. Dean half-smiled, went on, "You can't break up with family, Sam. You're gonna try, though."
"You-" Sam stopped, his throat moving as he swallowed. He was rattled, Dean could tell, his hands curling on the table. Sam shook his head, tight and insistent. He'd only believe what he wanted. "You can't just assume that's how it'll go."
"Got some compelling evidence," Dean answered.
"You never think good stuff is gonna happen," Sam accused him. Dean had to laugh.
"Have I been given reason to? I mean, ever?"
Shaking his head again, Sam clenched his jaw, determination setting back in his eyes. "You act like we're cursed or something. Glass isn't just half empty, it's full of fuckin' arsenic."
Sam got to his feet, dark eyes snapping, and advanced on Dean. Dean was headlight-frozen in the door, fingers clutching the cup. Sam had a feral look on his face, a gibbering edge twisting his mouth.
"You're always sayin' there's no hope but listen to me." Sam got right up close, rested his hand on the frame above Dean's head. "Are you listening to me, Dean?"
Dean moved his head, a fraction of a nod. He felt nailed in place, held in the force field generated by Sam's body. Sam's mouth curved slightly, his eyes getting sad.
"I've never been able to keep any of the people I've loved," Sam told him. "You really think I'd let you go too?"
Dean blinked. A knot came free in his chest, sudden and smooth and he drew in a quick surprised breath. He stared up at his brother, Sam who had been totalled and rebuilt, Sam who had gone to hell and brought back new demons for them both, and Dean found it hard to fathom him. There was this kid he'd grown up alongside, tagging along and pestering Dean and crawling in his bed after nightmares and during thunderstorms, and Dean couldn't see any traces of him here, the sweet solemn boy who ran away for fun and had maybe never made it all the way home.
But this Sam, this new Sam angling his body close to Dean and brushing his mouth half an inch away from Dean's face, Dean would never understand him. The surety in Sam, his faith in the two of them, Dean could never hope to know that himself.
But he could fake it.
When Sam whispered, "C'mon, man, please," Dean pushed up and kissed him, taste of oranges exploding as he thought helplessly, love of my goddamn life.
*
5