Fic: Always Burn to Be
Title: Always Burn to Be
Author: chasingtides
Beta: samidha
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Summary: He was too tired; too exhausted from chasing black, oily eels out of the innocent, human dead; too burned out from holding back; too wasted from saving people to even think before he moved, before he grabbed Dean, before he wrapped his long, sinewy length around Dean's bright sun to keep him safe forever, safe from demons who tortured and soiled and angels who blessed and burned.
Notes: Written forkeefaq in spn_giftxchnge. Her request was: Sam/Dean, first time, any rating, I like competent Latin chanting smart boys. I've had the help of more people than I can count, but particularly I'd like to thank samidha, for dealing with my shenanigans, and spn_support for being impromptu betas and psychic incest advisers.
Sam gasped and pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed. It burned like he was standing just too close to an open flame in the dead of winter: fire ahead and icy wind behind. He closed his eyes and pushed harder, gasping with the effort of it. Something warm and salty trickled down his upper lip and he finally managed to almost grasp at it. It was hot and oily and just slipping out of his reach.
Dean's voice, warm and smooth as whiskey and more familiar than a mother's lullaby, filled his ears. The Latin of the of the Rituale Romanum was a comfort and a grace, but still Sam pulled for it. He knew the pain and the stain of that black oil on the soul and there was a certain pleasure in pulling them out by hand and dropping them back into Hell personally and feeling the freedom and humanity once more in the world. So he pushed and pulled and reached and ignored the coppery tang on his tongue.
And then the slippery heat was gone, vanished completely, and the only things Sam could feel were himself, amber and sinewy and lean, and Dean, bright and hot and strong.
Dean's hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and real and a part of the world. "She's gone."
Sam kept his eyes closed and tried to breathe through the blood in his nose. He pushed and felt for the victim, the girl with the wide brown eyes and honey blonde hair, but there was nothing. There was nothing but Sam and Dean.
Dean's hand tightened on his shoulder. "We can't save them all, Sam. It looks like she's been dead for months."
Sam felt the pin pricks of tears behind his eyelids and fought them back. "She was there. I could feel her. I just wanted to free her."
Dean's arm wrapped around both of his shoulders, pulling him into a half hug. Sam curled into Dean, resting his head against the curve of Dean's neck, and rested in the gentle, comforting warmth and lights he was coming to recognise as pure Dean. His body remained still, the blood still trickling down his face, but he pulled closer into Dean, pulled his yellow length into the warm light of Dean's mottled, glowing sun. There was something about him that was purely compelling. Sam could feel the mottled spots, black stains, left from his time in Hell and the jagged diamond-like light left behind by the angels, but he was still Dean, still the sun to Sam's earth; he still had that pure glow of being human. And still, it wasn't that, there was something else, something irrestistable and fascinating, something that was purely Dean, something that Sam was incapable of leaving alone, of letting the sleeping dogs lie. There was something there, something in Dean, that Sam found more comforting and more real than anything in the world and Sam didn't want to examine that too closely.
He knew the moment that Dean felt him. The miniature sun, the gentle flame, flickered for a moment and diminished and his brother, Dean, froze, his arm tightening painfully around Sam's shoulders. All of the muscles in his back tensed, ready to run and fight and die, and Sam could feel, even with his eyes closed and his mind and body exhausted, Dean's other arm reach down for the knife tucked in his belt. And the dappled glow, the mottled shine and warmth that is Dean, it wavered and hesitated and pulled in on itself like a hedgehog confronted with a fox.
Every fiber of Sam's being shook with a silent fear and a silent rage to see that happen. He had gone so long without Dean, had settled for what was less than Dean, had lived without the human and Deanish glow, had slept without having his ears filled with his brother's breath, had driven his brother's car without hearing his brother's music, had fought without Dean to back him up. He hadn't had enough time to care, to love, to be human, and he had been in the dark for too long. He was too tired; too exhausted from chasing black, oily eels out of the innocent, human dead; too burned out from holding back; too wasted from saving people to even think before he moved, before he grabbed Dean, before he wrapped his long, sinewy length around Dean's bright sun to keep him safe forever, safe from demons who tortured and soiled and angels who blessed and burned. Dean. Safe. Mine.
Dean's arm dropped from Sam entirely as he pulled up, his arms tight against his chest, with a startled gasp of breath that could have been a blessing or a curse. His light flickered in time with his breath and then suddenly it was as though Sam were wrapped around a roaring hearth fire like he had seen in the movies. Instead of being wrapped around Dean, protecting him from the world, suddenly Dean was wrapped around him, covering him in warmth and human and Dean.
Sam had had time, time with Ruby, time on the empty road, time in broken motel rooms, to separate his mind from his body. He knew how to kept still and still move. He knew not to betray his mind with his body. He knew how to keep his body and his face a perfect mask until it was too late to know that he was a threat. Dean had never had that opportunity. While Sam's body, run down and overextended, stood a silent sentinel in the room, Dean twitched and gasped with every move he made, his hands grappling blindly for a Sam he could not touch with his hand or see with his eye.
"Sam," he breathed, spreading his golden warmth out around Sam's long body, even the oily stains and hard diamonds smooth and soothing against Sam's exhaustion.
Sam writhed and revelled in the experience of being surrounded and immersed in Dean. It was the balm of Mecca, the bottomless wine cup. This was what joy was made of, what songs and poems were written of. It was pure joy, pure succor, pure life, pure Dean. And Sam was a part of it. He was surrounded in pure Dean, even his black and tarnished underbelly. Dean cloaked him, held him, saved him. If something so powerful and freeing had ever happened to him before, Sam couldn't remember it.
Beyond the shining warmth of Dean and the joypleasurehappinesslove of being covered in him, Sam could hear Dean gasp and twitch beside him. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, still basking in being enveloped in his brother. Dean looked strung out, wild eyed and tense. His head was thrown back and his jaw hung loose. Sam couldn't remember seeing him so open or so unbridled. Ever since coming back, Dean had kept everything tightly under wraps and suddenly everything was out in the open.
"Sam," he groaned, his voice rough and low. Dean's eyes met Sam's and he made an abortive attempt to grab at Sam's shoulders.
Sam nearly gasped himself when Dean looked at him, the surge of heatlightwarmth was so overwhelming, but he managed to keep a hold on himself. Seeing Dean's tremors and shakes, Sam reached out for him and pulled him tight against himself, trying to blanket Dean in the same warmth that Dean was giving him. Dean shook against him, trembling like Sam had never felt, and just moaned his name over and over again and Sam could feel the comforting flare around him every time he did.
Dean's gorgeous warmth made him conscious of his dark black underbelly, of his long and leathery length, of the very stain and disgrace of his existence, of his cool taint to the presence of Dean's speckled light. He writhed, torn between his pleasure in savouring the very presence of Dean surrounding him and his fear of tainting Dean with his very existence. He tightened his embrace around Dean's body, holding his brother close as though that could protect him from the world.
And suddenly Dean hand was scrabbling at his shoulder and his voice was rasping his name in Sam's ears and his warmth and light was scrubbing Sam inside and out. Dean's light, not cool and golden like Sam's or sharp and white like the angels, but purely Dean's, filled him up inside and poured out of him. Sam shuddered with the feeling of it, with being filled and cleansed by Dean. He was still golden and black, but somehow, Dean was there, too, and it wasn't as much like being tainted by the pulsing black oil of his blood. Sam shuddered, his body shaking in rhythm with Dean's, overwhelmed with it all. He wasn't purified; he wasn't sanctified. His darkness was still there and present, but, for the first time in months, maybe even years, he was safe. He was redeemed. Filled with and enveloped in Dean, he was safe and saved.
Wrapped in his arms, Sam could feel Dean shake against him. It was amazing, after months alone and then months with Dean closed off and angry, to have him so close and so powerfully naked. Everything that Dean felt, Sam could feel. It was forceful and dizzying. Dean's body was pressed tightly against Sam's, chest to chest and hip to hip, as they shook and shuddered in unison. Sam could feel Dean's cock, hard and hot through two layers of jeans, but it seemed arbitrary and insignificant compared to everything else. Dean's presence and light and warmth were so much more important than Dean's shuddering gasps in his ear. The redemptive glow of Dean filling him and surrounding him was more important that his own arousal, pressed hot and tight against Dean.
Dean worried his head against Sam's shoulder, his hips undulating against Sam's. "I want... I... Sam, I need..." he muttered, pressing his mouth against the worn, washed cotton of Sam's flannel shirt.
Dean's light pulsed with his words and his hips, his body and soul moving as one, and Sam could feel Dean's complete thoughts, even as they left him breathless. Sam's blood made him stronger and faster and darker than Dean; his sooty underbelly separated him from himself and made him possible. Even after Dean's time in Hell, even after his years of torture at the hands of demons, Dean was still human, still functioned as a body, in the physical world, still functioned as one and not in pieces.
Sam slipped his hand between them, his hand sure and steady, and unzipped the fly of Dean's rough, loose jeans. Dean gasped wordlessly in his ear and and pulled himself tighter against Sam, thrusting his cock against Sam's waiting hand. Sam stroked it and pulled it expertly, feeling what Dean liked and what he knew, flicking the pad of his thumb over the sensitive head and brushing the back of his nails against Dean's balls.
Sam closed his eyes again, searching for the human balance between touching and feeling Dean with his hands and hearing him with his ears and knowing the beauty and heat of Dean with his whole being. He thrust himself into the light of Dean, coiling and wrapping himself in it, supporting Dean as though he were the Midgardsormr keeping in the waters of the world. He stretched and writhed until he was giving to Dean as much as Dean had filled him, giving and supporting and pressing and holding and warming. He could feel Dean, glowing and soothed and strong inside his coils, as warm and safe and protected as he could ever be in this world. Dean was strong and loved and human and he was inside Sam and Sam was inside Dean.
All was right with the world.
"Oh my god, Sam," Dean gasped out loud, his body giving a final writhe inside Sam's arms.
Sam gently loosened the spiral of his amber and black embrace as Dean moved to break out of Sam's hug. He made sure to keep in contact with his brother, afraid that if he let go, if he retreated back into himself, that Dean would disappear again and forever and Sam would be stuck in the endless, endless night.
Sam blinked and grounded himself, trying to pull back into himself as much as he could without letting go of Dean. He frowned, feeling the disgusting, cooling mess inside his boxers and on his hand and the flaking, dried blood on his face and around his ears. He brushed some away from his cheek and winced as it pulled some skin with it.
"I haven't come like that since I was sixteen," Dean told him, breathless and dazed. "And I think I bled on my shirt." He stared at Sam and then looked down at himself, as though he hadn't realised what happened.
"That's my blood," Sam pointed out. Suddenly the room swayed violently and Dean grabbed him roughly, supporting him from his shoulder.
"Whoa, you okay?"
"Never done that before." Sam's eyes felt like they were weighted with anvils and the room would not stop spinning. "I - I think I want to hurl." His stomach made an unpleasant, acidic noise and Sam felt a wave of strong, purely physical discomfort throughout his body.
"Come on, get in the car. You can puke when we get back to the motel."
Sam leaned heavily on his brother as Dean half dragged him to the passenger side of the Impala. Dean's hair looked so soft, soft and golden. When he blinked, Dean seemed to almost glow with an inner, speckled light. As Dean peeled out onto the road, Sam reached out and brushed at the speckles of darkness in the human light of Dean and it was like petting the fur of a kitten. Dean twitched, but kept his eyes on the road. Touching Dean, just brushing at his edges, was comforting and a distraction from the physical.
"It's only a couple of yards to the room, do you think you can make it?"
Sam looked up at Dean and just blinked until Dean pulled him up out of the car. He shuffled, leaning on Dean, into their room and wondered if anyone in the world had ever been as tired and as happy as he was.
"Come on, lift your feet. You're not sleeping in your shoes."
Sam smiled sleepily as Dean pulled at his feet roughly, pulling off his shoes and making sure he was on the bed away from the door. Sam tried to loop his leathery length around Dean's light in thanks, but Dean didn't seem to notice. Sam felt his light quiver in confusion and hesitation, that Dean didn't want to impose and didn't know what the touches from his brother meant. Dean pulled the blanket over him and stepped away, toward the other bed, when Sam found the strength to reach out his arm and pull Dean back and into the bed.
"What the hell, man?"
"Dean," Sam mumbled. "Dean, here. Here. Dean."
Dean made grumbling, unhappy noises as Sam pulled him closer, but Sam coiled himself gently around Dean and filled himself with his own joy to share and Dean quieted. He didn't even say anything when Sam fell deeply asleep, his arms still wrapped tightly around his brother.
Author: chasingtides
Beta: samidha
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Summary: He was too tired; too exhausted from chasing black, oily eels out of the innocent, human dead; too burned out from holding back; too wasted from saving people to even think before he moved, before he grabbed Dean, before he wrapped his long, sinewy length around Dean's bright sun to keep him safe forever, safe from demons who tortured and soiled and angels who blessed and burned.
Notes: Written forkeefaq in spn_giftxchnge. Her request was: Sam/Dean, first time, any rating, I like competent Latin chanting smart boys. I've had the help of more people than I can count, but particularly I'd like to thank samidha, for dealing with my shenanigans, and spn_support for being impromptu betas and psychic incest advisers.
Sam gasped and pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed. It burned like he was standing just too close to an open flame in the dead of winter: fire ahead and icy wind behind. He closed his eyes and pushed harder, gasping with the effort of it. Something warm and salty trickled down his upper lip and he finally managed to almost grasp at it. It was hot and oily and just slipping out of his reach.
Dean's voice, warm and smooth as whiskey and more familiar than a mother's lullaby, filled his ears. The Latin of the of the Rituale Romanum was a comfort and a grace, but still Sam pulled for it. He knew the pain and the stain of that black oil on the soul and there was a certain pleasure in pulling them out by hand and dropping them back into Hell personally and feeling the freedom and humanity once more in the world. So he pushed and pulled and reached and ignored the coppery tang on his tongue.
And then the slippery heat was gone, vanished completely, and the only things Sam could feel were himself, amber and sinewy and lean, and Dean, bright and hot and strong.
Dean's hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and real and a part of the world. "She's gone."
Sam kept his eyes closed and tried to breathe through the blood in his nose. He pushed and felt for the victim, the girl with the wide brown eyes and honey blonde hair, but there was nothing. There was nothing but Sam and Dean.
Dean's hand tightened on his shoulder. "We can't save them all, Sam. It looks like she's been dead for months."
Sam felt the pin pricks of tears behind his eyelids and fought them back. "She was there. I could feel her. I just wanted to free her."
Dean's arm wrapped around both of his shoulders, pulling him into a half hug. Sam curled into Dean, resting his head against the curve of Dean's neck, and rested in the gentle, comforting warmth and lights he was coming to recognise as pure Dean. His body remained still, the blood still trickling down his face, but he pulled closer into Dean, pulled his yellow length into the warm light of Dean's mottled, glowing sun. There was something about him that was purely compelling. Sam could feel the mottled spots, black stains, left from his time in Hell and the jagged diamond-like light left behind by the angels, but he was still Dean, still the sun to Sam's earth; he still had that pure glow of being human. And still, it wasn't that, there was something else, something irrestistable and fascinating, something that was purely Dean, something that Sam was incapable of leaving alone, of letting the sleeping dogs lie. There was something there, something in Dean, that Sam found more comforting and more real than anything in the world and Sam didn't want to examine that too closely.
He knew the moment that Dean felt him. The miniature sun, the gentle flame, flickered for a moment and diminished and his brother, Dean, froze, his arm tightening painfully around Sam's shoulders. All of the muscles in his back tensed, ready to run and fight and die, and Sam could feel, even with his eyes closed and his mind and body exhausted, Dean's other arm reach down for the knife tucked in his belt. And the dappled glow, the mottled shine and warmth that is Dean, it wavered and hesitated and pulled in on itself like a hedgehog confronted with a fox.
Every fiber of Sam's being shook with a silent fear and a silent rage to see that happen. He had gone so long without Dean, had settled for what was less than Dean, had lived without the human and Deanish glow, had slept without having his ears filled with his brother's breath, had driven his brother's car without hearing his brother's music, had fought without Dean to back him up. He hadn't had enough time to care, to love, to be human, and he had been in the dark for too long. He was too tired; too exhausted from chasing black, oily eels out of the innocent, human dead; too burned out from holding back; too wasted from saving people to even think before he moved, before he grabbed Dean, before he wrapped his long, sinewy length around Dean's bright sun to keep him safe forever, safe from demons who tortured and soiled and angels who blessed and burned. Dean. Safe. Mine.
Dean's arm dropped from Sam entirely as he pulled up, his arms tight against his chest, with a startled gasp of breath that could have been a blessing or a curse. His light flickered in time with his breath and then suddenly it was as though Sam were wrapped around a roaring hearth fire like he had seen in the movies. Instead of being wrapped around Dean, protecting him from the world, suddenly Dean was wrapped around him, covering him in warmth and human and Dean.
Sam had had time, time with Ruby, time on the empty road, time in broken motel rooms, to separate his mind from his body. He knew how to kept still and still move. He knew not to betray his mind with his body. He knew how to keep his body and his face a perfect mask until it was too late to know that he was a threat. Dean had never had that opportunity. While Sam's body, run down and overextended, stood a silent sentinel in the room, Dean twitched and gasped with every move he made, his hands grappling blindly for a Sam he could not touch with his hand or see with his eye.
"Sam," he breathed, spreading his golden warmth out around Sam's long body, even the oily stains and hard diamonds smooth and soothing against Sam's exhaustion.
Sam writhed and revelled in the experience of being surrounded and immersed in Dean. It was the balm of Mecca, the bottomless wine cup. This was what joy was made of, what songs and poems were written of. It was pure joy, pure succor, pure life, pure Dean. And Sam was a part of it. He was surrounded in pure Dean, even his black and tarnished underbelly. Dean cloaked him, held him, saved him. If something so powerful and freeing had ever happened to him before, Sam couldn't remember it.
Beyond the shining warmth of Dean and the joypleasurehappinesslove of being covered in him, Sam could hear Dean gasp and twitch beside him. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, still basking in being enveloped in his brother. Dean looked strung out, wild eyed and tense. His head was thrown back and his jaw hung loose. Sam couldn't remember seeing him so open or so unbridled. Ever since coming back, Dean had kept everything tightly under wraps and suddenly everything was out in the open.
"Sam," he groaned, his voice rough and low. Dean's eyes met Sam's and he made an abortive attempt to grab at Sam's shoulders.
Sam nearly gasped himself when Dean looked at him, the surge of heatlightwarmth was so overwhelming, but he managed to keep a hold on himself. Seeing Dean's tremors and shakes, Sam reached out for him and pulled him tight against himself, trying to blanket Dean in the same warmth that Dean was giving him. Dean shook against him, trembling like Sam had never felt, and just moaned his name over and over again and Sam could feel the comforting flare around him every time he did.
Dean's gorgeous warmth made him conscious of his dark black underbelly, of his long and leathery length, of the very stain and disgrace of his existence, of his cool taint to the presence of Dean's speckled light. He writhed, torn between his pleasure in savouring the very presence of Dean surrounding him and his fear of tainting Dean with his very existence. He tightened his embrace around Dean's body, holding his brother close as though that could protect him from the world.
And suddenly Dean hand was scrabbling at his shoulder and his voice was rasping his name in Sam's ears and his warmth and light was scrubbing Sam inside and out. Dean's light, not cool and golden like Sam's or sharp and white like the angels, but purely Dean's, filled him up inside and poured out of him. Sam shuddered with the feeling of it, with being filled and cleansed by Dean. He was still golden and black, but somehow, Dean was there, too, and it wasn't as much like being tainted by the pulsing black oil of his blood. Sam shuddered, his body shaking in rhythm with Dean's, overwhelmed with it all. He wasn't purified; he wasn't sanctified. His darkness was still there and present, but, for the first time in months, maybe even years, he was safe. He was redeemed. Filled with and enveloped in Dean, he was safe and saved.
Wrapped in his arms, Sam could feel Dean shake against him. It was amazing, after months alone and then months with Dean closed off and angry, to have him so close and so powerfully naked. Everything that Dean felt, Sam could feel. It was forceful and dizzying. Dean's body was pressed tightly against Sam's, chest to chest and hip to hip, as they shook and shuddered in unison. Sam could feel Dean's cock, hard and hot through two layers of jeans, but it seemed arbitrary and insignificant compared to everything else. Dean's presence and light and warmth were so much more important than Dean's shuddering gasps in his ear. The redemptive glow of Dean filling him and surrounding him was more important that his own arousal, pressed hot and tight against Dean.
Dean worried his head against Sam's shoulder, his hips undulating against Sam's. "I want... I... Sam, I need..." he muttered, pressing his mouth against the worn, washed cotton of Sam's flannel shirt.
Dean's light pulsed with his words and his hips, his body and soul moving as one, and Sam could feel Dean's complete thoughts, even as they left him breathless. Sam's blood made him stronger and faster and darker than Dean; his sooty underbelly separated him from himself and made him possible. Even after Dean's time in Hell, even after his years of torture at the hands of demons, Dean was still human, still functioned as a body, in the physical world, still functioned as one and not in pieces.
Sam slipped his hand between them, his hand sure and steady, and unzipped the fly of Dean's rough, loose jeans. Dean gasped wordlessly in his ear and and pulled himself tighter against Sam, thrusting his cock against Sam's waiting hand. Sam stroked it and pulled it expertly, feeling what Dean liked and what he knew, flicking the pad of his thumb over the sensitive head and brushing the back of his nails against Dean's balls.
Sam closed his eyes again, searching for the human balance between touching and feeling Dean with his hands and hearing him with his ears and knowing the beauty and heat of Dean with his whole being. He thrust himself into the light of Dean, coiling and wrapping himself in it, supporting Dean as though he were the Midgardsormr keeping in the waters of the world. He stretched and writhed until he was giving to Dean as much as Dean had filled him, giving and supporting and pressing and holding and warming. He could feel Dean, glowing and soothed and strong inside his coils, as warm and safe and protected as he could ever be in this world. Dean was strong and loved and human and he was inside Sam and Sam was inside Dean.
All was right with the world.
"Oh my god, Sam," Dean gasped out loud, his body giving a final writhe inside Sam's arms.
Sam gently loosened the spiral of his amber and black embrace as Dean moved to break out of Sam's hug. He made sure to keep in contact with his brother, afraid that if he let go, if he retreated back into himself, that Dean would disappear again and forever and Sam would be stuck in the endless, endless night.
Sam blinked and grounded himself, trying to pull back into himself as much as he could without letting go of Dean. He frowned, feeling the disgusting, cooling mess inside his boxers and on his hand and the flaking, dried blood on his face and around his ears. He brushed some away from his cheek and winced as it pulled some skin with it.
"I haven't come like that since I was sixteen," Dean told him, breathless and dazed. "And I think I bled on my shirt." He stared at Sam and then looked down at himself, as though he hadn't realised what happened.
"That's my blood," Sam pointed out. Suddenly the room swayed violently and Dean grabbed him roughly, supporting him from his shoulder.
"Whoa, you okay?"
"Never done that before." Sam's eyes felt like they were weighted with anvils and the room would not stop spinning. "I - I think I want to hurl." His stomach made an unpleasant, acidic noise and Sam felt a wave of strong, purely physical discomfort throughout his body.
"Come on, get in the car. You can puke when we get back to the motel."
Sam leaned heavily on his brother as Dean half dragged him to the passenger side of the Impala. Dean's hair looked so soft, soft and golden. When he blinked, Dean seemed to almost glow with an inner, speckled light. As Dean peeled out onto the road, Sam reached out and brushed at the speckles of darkness in the human light of Dean and it was like petting the fur of a kitten. Dean twitched, but kept his eyes on the road. Touching Dean, just brushing at his edges, was comforting and a distraction from the physical.
"It's only a couple of yards to the room, do you think you can make it?"
Sam looked up at Dean and just blinked until Dean pulled him up out of the car. He shuffled, leaning on Dean, into their room and wondered if anyone in the world had ever been as tired and as happy as he was.
"Come on, lift your feet. You're not sleeping in your shoes."
Sam smiled sleepily as Dean pulled at his feet roughly, pulling off his shoes and making sure he was on the bed away from the door. Sam tried to loop his leathery length around Dean's light in thanks, but Dean didn't seem to notice. Sam felt his light quiver in confusion and hesitation, that Dean didn't want to impose and didn't know what the touches from his brother meant. Dean pulled the blanket over him and stepped away, toward the other bed, when Sam found the strength to reach out his arm and pull Dean back and into the bed.
"What the hell, man?"
"Dean," Sam mumbled. "Dean, here. Here. Dean."
Dean made grumbling, unhappy noises as Sam pulled him closer, but Sam coiled himself gently around Dean and filled himself with his own joy to share and Dean quieted. He didn't even say anything when Sam fell deeply asleep, his arms still wrapped tightly around his brother.