FIC: Wish you were here (Sam/Dean, nc-17, pining, first time, angst)
Title: Wish You Were Here
Gifter: citrusjava
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Sam
Word count: 3000
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: [read]Angst, angst, angst. Pining. Dub-con. Ableist notions. Background mentions of spoilers up to 12x07, rape, torture, self harm, self sacrifice. Mentions of canon character death, mourning.
Fic-spoiling warning: [read]hurt no comfort. Be warned.
A/N: Beta by the awesome TipsyKitty, who was so wonderful, kind and encouraging, who made things much better. Any remaining mistakes are just mine!
A/N: side note about my writing experience
A/N2: This is for amypond45, who asked for Winchester angst, as part of SPN_J2_Xmas. I really hope you enjoy it, and have a wonderful winter!
Summary: Dean hasn’t died, not permanently. Still right there at the Bunker.
Wish You Were Here
For Sam, it was always Dean.
Dean waking him up in the back seat by pressing a cold Mountain Dew to Sam’s neck. Dean in his leather jacket, struggling to pose as a hair rock fan. Dean with the sun shining through his lashes, smear on the bridge of his nose, blood or jam, freckles and that smile like he was 16. Or 6. Dean lighting up like a switchboard every time for Sam, making Sam laugh, making Sam grimace, talking softly just for Sam. Always all antennae on Sam. It could get scary, intrusive, ridiculous, but it was maybe the best thing he ever had in his life.
Dean, who would grab Sam by the lapels like a lightning storm, who would overreact whenever Sam got banged up. Dean who learned about how to be, from Eastwood and Travolta and from Dad, but still cooked for his kid brother and waited anxious to find out if Sam liked it.
The greatest hits of Dean. Sam plays them for himself more and more often.
Maybe it’s like a credit roll.
Dean, whose touch was comfort and naked wires, Sam’s first crush and last, and every time he's been resurrected since. Dean, who was Sam’s most disgusting and purest craving, more than abandoning his father, more than demon blood. The Dean Sam gave his amulet to, for being honest. For being there. For being Dean.
Even after Jess. Even losing Dean for six months, for four. After a decade or millennia as Lucifer’s plaything, his everything, his victim - there was still Dean.
There was always Dean.
Next to Dean, even secret desire was not so horrible, not with Dean forever to Sam’s right, humming along with his Baby, in the bed closer to the motel door, that argument lost a hundred times over so long ago, telling a witness Sam’s embarrassing childhood stories, or mocking Sam’s salads. Pale but smiling for Sam , clearly swallowing down the beating in his throat as he sewed Sam up, breath shallow, hands steady. ‘Eh, you’ll live.’ Squeezing Sam’s arm or tapping Sam on the shoulder - 'that librarian checking you out - d’ya think you can handle it? Librarians are kinky, Sam.'
Before, every time before, he managed to get Dean back, whether by benediction or by fight or by curse, what mattered was that Dean was there.
It was always them, and the world. Sam was never an open road junkie. Never got the thrill of it, the leather and electricity, like Dean. But Dean did, tipping two fingers goodbye to the bar with the cute waitress, always more interested in the path before them, always more interested in his life with Sam. Engine humming and Zeppelin on high, wind and sweet chaff under their wheels.
It was always them.
Sam never believed in it, the magic embroidered in mystics’ ancient words, rumbling in the dust along the highway, brilliant green transparent cicada over fields at the feet of the Rockies, streams of melted snow. Sam never believed in magic beyond its practicalities, get the job done.
Dean was the one who bought into the magic of cheap whiskey, or coffee burnt over a small fire by the side of the road, a thousand motel rooms, pie eating contests, magic fingers, McDonald’s bathroom showers and wet-wipe showers and showers paid for in coins, able to wash off memories of blood and guts and smoke. The fun magic of driving into town, shooting the wicked and hooking up with the different kind of wicked, of really loving, really leaving. The magic of doing right, or at least doing your best, of doing something good in this world, never planning too far, of dying smirking, dying with your gun in your hand.
Dean hasn’t died, not permanently. Still right there at the Bunker.
Sam misses Dean so badly sometimes he can’t cry, it just gets clogged up with the words.
Sam told Charlie one time - told Charlie before there was so much blood. I love this life now. I just need my brother. Don’t want to do it without Dean. And the words were true and they floated out stale like a lie. Because they weren’t the entire truth. How desperate Sam was. To believe it was the Mark. Not just Dean. Not that Dean ended up the one to leave after all, for real.
“You wanna go grab a beer?” he asks, casual, the words so foreign he needs to stop and remind himself how to say them.
Dean looks up at him, eyebrows just a bit raised. “Nah, gonna get some shut eye.”
Fragile, like he’s worried he no longer knows his lines.
No, Sam tells himself firmly. That is wishful thinking. Fragile like those no longer are his lines, like he doesn’t have others to say for Sam.
Before, even when it was bad, with Dean it was good. After Dad. After hell, both times. After Bobby.
Even back after Jess, it was Dean. At the funeral for his own life, there was his other life, his real life. There was Dean.
And so there was hope.
Through all of it, Dean was there. Shoving jerky and Cherry Coke into Sam’s hands. Looking so worried that Sam pulled himself together and ate, and drank. Arguing about music. Punching Sam’s shoulder and mocking Sam’s music. Letting Sam drive.
Dean was a promise that there still was life in the world. That Sam was alive. That there was still a future worth living. The future Dean believed in. Their future. It started out with ‘avenge Jess,’ avenge himself as well - but Dean believed so strongly.
Dean believed in the secrets behind haystacks and at the furthest reaches of mountains. Believed, in an unwavering deep knowledge, that as long as Sam and he were together, everything was going to be okay. That together, they could face the whole entire universe. Forces unknown. That the open road was for them to drive, to discover, to live their lives on.
Sam believed this was their abusive dad talking. What sort of person sends his sons to seek out and pick fights with murderous creatures? Sam believed he’d go back to school and become a lawyer. But more strongly than that, he always believed in Dean.
With Dean there was a road before them. Even when it went through hell. Even when it was through death. Even when Dean made him so angry Sam wanted to do draw blood, to pummel into himself till he could smooth out his serial number, peel away his name.
Because whatever came, it was them, alone in the world but got each other’s backs. Got each other. It was Dean smiling like he was victorious, the world stretching out at their feet. Dean running like a jerk into danger and Sam there to cover his ass. To take care of him. Dean coming up with genius ideas, brilliant solutions, and when there weren’t any left - there was still them.
Mulder and Scully, Bonny and Clyde, Sonny and Cher - Sam would gladly always be called a girl, grimace because Dean meant it as a tease, and carry that title, treasure it, because it meant Dean was on the other side of it.
Driving one-handed chewing on a Twizzler like a toothpick in a gangster movie, teaching Sam how to have a threesome like Dean’s the expert - or maybe he was.
Sam finds excuses to check Dean for curses, possession, everything. Finds a small location curse, actually, maybe from the Men of Letters, and removes it. It all remains the same.
It’s not the Mark anymore. Maybe it was just the Mark making Dean tell Sam he’s worthless, unworthy of even mourning. Now there’s no Mark. No longer monstrous coercion making Amara Dean's main thing. Sam can understand those, has been through those himself, body like a ragdoll passed around. It is no longer the comfort of Zachariah twisting Dean’s words, making him tell Sam he’s a monster.
There is nothing else going on this time.
Just Dean.
Sam reads fan fiction online. No therapist on earth he could talk this stuff over with, but maybe the slashers know something.
There are a lot of stories about Sam being transsexual and Dean never once making a bad joke. About Sam telling Dean he’s in love with a boy, at 14, and Dean unwaveringly supporting him, never pausing with shock, never telling Sam to hide it from Dad. At first Sam is amused - that would never have happened, not with his brother, not in the nineties. Then he thinks - probably it could have. Knows Dean would have been there for Sam some way.
One story mentions prank wars, and Sam is thrown back, hadn’t remembered those in so long. So many years. For a moment he debates supergluing Dean’s mug or beer bottle. Wild happiness like they could go back, could be - but then he imagines Dean’s moment of confusion, irritation, then just a tired grimace of a smile as he disconnected his hand, more forced than delighted. Dean wouldn’t retaliate, and that would be the saddest day.
They watch the news together. Sort of research. And Sam’s over the thing with the Mark, he is, but when there is blood on the screen Sam’s sense memory cringes away a fraction, can’t help it. Away from Dean. Doesn’t cringe away on jobs, but when it’s just on TV, his body remembers even when Sam tells it not to.
Dean goes through the papers. Dean texts with Mom. Dean stays in his room. Dean drinks.
Dean doesn’t put his palm on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam misses it like freezing, like starving, but something inside of him also screams no at the idea. Screams for help. For his big brother.
He is still in love with Dean. Always was, always will be (though a lot of things were for always). It’s an ancient, well used, hymn book, always with him, sacred still. When Sam gave Dean his amulet, it wasn’t just Dad’s place he was giving Dean.
He is always in love with Dean. But it no longer threatens to burn out his entire world - gonna go to hell, gonna lose Dean. Most everything bad has already happened.
Finds them a job in the Key Islands, hot chicks and sunshine. Finds a monster movie marathon at a hipster drive in, Dracula and Ed Wood in Dean’s car.
Dean tries. Arguing about the best Stooge, the best Bond. Twice he trails off in the middle of Carmen Electra vs Pam Anderson and just stares at his burger. Looks tired. Trying is a weight.
A job takes them to San Francisco and Dean doesn’t grimace when they drive past Palo Alto.
If he completely loses Dean, there is nothing left for Sam in life. Or in death. He let go of everything else so long ago, he’s this guy now.
The guy Dean wanted him to be.
Sam gets hurt during a hunt, wolf creature opens a gap in his ribs, and Dean purses his lips and sews Sam up and looks away. Resigned. Doesn’t look Sam in the eye, doesn’t hold his face.
Lucifer is raising hell again, maybe literally this time - and Sam’s body reacts with his proximity, Sam shakes with dread and the scent of fire - but he also doesn’t care.
It doesn’t really matter, if it doesn’t matter for Dean - just another endless job in their endless road going down.
Such a mild slope.
In the past, when Sam would fantasize about jumping into flames, the possibility of Dean right on his heels would always snap him out of it. Now he’s not sure Dean would feel much beyond relief.
And isn’t that the thing Sam had wanted, Dean being willing to live his life regardless of Sam?
Sam toys with it for a while, jagged edge of a bloody tooth.
He can’t tell anymore, really. Is it a good idea or is it self-destructive?
He might try it one day, might as well try. Find out.
It used to be this horrifying shameful burn, his worst and biggest secret. The reason he’ll lose Dean.
Does it still matter if he falls, so close to the ground?
Dean leans over his shoulder to check out some local newspaper clipping - not into Sam’s shoulder but politely next to it, and it hurts to hope one time too many.
Sam turns to him, places a palm on Dean’s arm. Gentle. Looks into his eyes long, and Dean tenses, swallows, unsure. But does not move away.
“Dean,” Sam hears himself say, and it’s filled with years of hurting and longing, and so much love, after everything. Everything he is is loving Dean.
Dean looks wary, that round-eyed look like when he was way too young.
Sam smiles sad at himself. Looks back up at Dean, squeezes his arm for comfort.
“Dean. Is it okay if I kiss you?” Like everything’s torn, wild in the wind. Like being somebody else, maybe Ruby, on the head of a pin. Like he could never have said before.
Dean shoots out from under Sam’s palm, crashing into the map table. Freckles and stark white, scrabbling for something, a knife, a gun. “What the fuck, Sam?”
Sam nods, swallows. “It’s me.” Does the silver, holy water. “Look.”
The scratch he makes across his arm stings like reality, or like losing himself. Dean nods at him, wide eyed. But no longer like the kid he was. It’s regular Dean. Hiding inside of himself, grumpy. “Then what the hell are you doing, Sam?” We men don’t act like that. We don’t kiss each other and we sure as fuck don’t ask first.
So many things are without words, he never found any words for these things, not ever. “Is it okay if I kiss you?” If nothing else, maybe it will get a rise.
Dean tosses the knife he grabbed back onto the table. Walks away. Dean’s ‘nope, not getting involved.’ Paces a few times with intent. In the past maybe Dean would have been worried, guilty, curious to discover this new thing about Sam. These days, for Dean there are no longer new things about Sam. He already knows Sam. He’s tired. He turns back. “Sam, what the hell?”
Sam shrugs, helpless. I-Pod stand in the Impala. Nothing he could say would be enough.
Dean looks down, away. Thoughtful? Bitter? Angry?
Disappointed?
Then Dean looks back at Sam. “Yeah. All right, yeah.” His jaw is set. He doesn’t wait for Sam to do it, takes the few steps back, presses their lips together, and already there’s a hint of his tongue. Sam would maybe be incredulous if there was room for any of that, his entire body, like the best strawberry syrup, like being shot. His entire body dripping over the brim, hums with Dean, so many years he’d wanted that kiss. Is this really the kiss, that kiss? New beginnings, or the single item off his bucket list? Dean’s lips are on his and they’re rough, Dean never drinks enough water, Dean’s hand is on Sam's shoulder and Sam’s body quivers with terror and Sam’s body drinks in the warmth and the touch and needs, needs more.
“Dean, are you sure this is - is this -?”
“Shut up, bitch.”
Oh. Oh.
“Jerk”. And his eyes are wet but Dean’s kissing him again and they’re on the map table and Dean is pushing the books and papers and knives off of it and pushing Sam down. He looks wild, hungry, torn apart.
Strong arms and stubble, hands all over Sam, holding, touching his face. Like Dean used to do when Sam got hurt, like Dean used to make sure Sam was unharmed, not leaving Dean, not leaving him. Hands at Sam’s hair, all over his chest, and Sam arches into it and moans like crying.
Dean pushes a muscular thigh against Sam’s erection, expertly. And Sam is so, so hard already, can’t remember the last time he was this hard, or really, this into sex at all.
“Dean, Dean” Sam keeps saying quietly. Only one left to believe in.
“Dean, do you wanna- you wanna-“ Sam offers, breathes. Rubs against Dean, too empty. Please. Worn jeans, leather belt, heavy silver buckle. Please stay.
Dean nods and Sam pushes Dean’s pants down. Dean isn’t hard yet, just a little interested. Oh.
He touches Dean’s dick - Dean’s dick! - tries to jerk it. Kisses Dean.
Dean presses his hips against Sam’s hand, back and forth, learned movements.
Sam bends - “Can I-?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
It’s so velvety, warm against Sam’s lips. Dean’s dick! In Sam’s mouth! Sam’s big brother and the one Sam’s never been able to stop wanting, his entire life.
Dean’s dick jerks a bit against Sam’s lips. “Fuck, Sam.”
Sam takes Dean in soft, sucking hard, hard, working his tongue against it. Rough waves.
Not the first dick in Sam’s mouth. Thousands of years he’d done this, maybe, a millennia. Knows how to suck a dick.
It’s not that he’s bad at it.
Dean’s hands are on Sam’s head, hips fucking at Sam’s mouth. “Yeah suck it, suck it.”
Like Dean is in a world of his own.
Dean jerks a few more times into Sam’s mouth. Stops.
“Gonna pretend you’re Megan Fox.”
A few fast thrusts. Warm against Sam’s tongue. It’s not working.
Dean pulls out. It’s a no go. “Sorry, Sammy,” he says, earnest. Resigned. Isn’t even mortified about his erection. Knows it’s not because of him.
He squeezes Sam’s arm, soft. Goes to his own bedroom, and Sam realizes with a start he doesn’t remember the last time Dean used that name. Not without believing it might be for the last time.
The next day, Dean finds them a hunt in Nebraska.
Gifter: citrusjava
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Sam
Word count: 3000
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: [read]Angst, angst, angst. Pining. Dub-con. Ableist notions. Background mentions of spoilers up to 12x07, rape, torture, self harm, self sacrifice. Mentions of canon character death, mourning.
Fic-spoiling warning: [read]hurt no comfort. Be warned.
A/N: Beta by the awesome TipsyKitty, who was so wonderful, kind and encouraging, who made things much better. Any remaining mistakes are just mine!
A/N: side note about my writing experience
A/N2: This is for amypond45, who asked for Winchester angst, as part of SPN_J2_Xmas. I really hope you enjoy it, and have a wonderful winter!
Summary: Dean hasn’t died, not permanently. Still right there at the Bunker.
Wish You Were Here
For Sam, it was always Dean.
Dean waking him up in the back seat by pressing a cold Mountain Dew to Sam’s neck. Dean in his leather jacket, struggling to pose as a hair rock fan. Dean with the sun shining through his lashes, smear on the bridge of his nose, blood or jam, freckles and that smile like he was 16. Or 6. Dean lighting up like a switchboard every time for Sam, making Sam laugh, making Sam grimace, talking softly just for Sam. Always all antennae on Sam. It could get scary, intrusive, ridiculous, but it was maybe the best thing he ever had in his life.
Dean, who would grab Sam by the lapels like a lightning storm, who would overreact whenever Sam got banged up. Dean who learned about how to be, from Eastwood and Travolta and from Dad, but still cooked for his kid brother and waited anxious to find out if Sam liked it.
The greatest hits of Dean. Sam plays them for himself more and more often.
Maybe it’s like a credit roll.
Dean, whose touch was comfort and naked wires, Sam’s first crush and last, and every time he's been resurrected since. Dean, who was Sam’s most disgusting and purest craving, more than abandoning his father, more than demon blood. The Dean Sam gave his amulet to, for being honest. For being there. For being Dean.
Even after Jess. Even losing Dean for six months, for four. After a decade or millennia as Lucifer’s plaything, his everything, his victim - there was still Dean.
There was always Dean.
Next to Dean, even secret desire was not so horrible, not with Dean forever to Sam’s right, humming along with his Baby, in the bed closer to the motel door, that argument lost a hundred times over so long ago, telling a witness Sam’s embarrassing childhood stories, or mocking Sam’s salads. Pale but smiling for Sam , clearly swallowing down the beating in his throat as he sewed Sam up, breath shallow, hands steady. ‘Eh, you’ll live.’ Squeezing Sam’s arm or tapping Sam on the shoulder - 'that librarian checking you out - d’ya think you can handle it? Librarians are kinky, Sam.'
Before, every time before, he managed to get Dean back, whether by benediction or by fight or by curse, what mattered was that Dean was there.
It was always them, and the world. Sam was never an open road junkie. Never got the thrill of it, the leather and electricity, like Dean. But Dean did, tipping two fingers goodbye to the bar with the cute waitress, always more interested in the path before them, always more interested in his life with Sam. Engine humming and Zeppelin on high, wind and sweet chaff under their wheels.
It was always them.
Sam never believed in it, the magic embroidered in mystics’ ancient words, rumbling in the dust along the highway, brilliant green transparent cicada over fields at the feet of the Rockies, streams of melted snow. Sam never believed in magic beyond its practicalities, get the job done.
Dean was the one who bought into the magic of cheap whiskey, or coffee burnt over a small fire by the side of the road, a thousand motel rooms, pie eating contests, magic fingers, McDonald’s bathroom showers and wet-wipe showers and showers paid for in coins, able to wash off memories of blood and guts and smoke. The fun magic of driving into town, shooting the wicked and hooking up with the different kind of wicked, of really loving, really leaving. The magic of doing right, or at least doing your best, of doing something good in this world, never planning too far, of dying smirking, dying with your gun in your hand.
Dean hasn’t died, not permanently. Still right there at the Bunker.
Sam misses Dean so badly sometimes he can’t cry, it just gets clogged up with the words.
Sam told Charlie one time - told Charlie before there was so much blood. I love this life now. I just need my brother. Don’t want to do it without Dean. And the words were true and they floated out stale like a lie. Because they weren’t the entire truth. How desperate Sam was. To believe it was the Mark. Not just Dean. Not that Dean ended up the one to leave after all, for real.
“You wanna go grab a beer?” he asks, casual, the words so foreign he needs to stop and remind himself how to say them.
Dean looks up at him, eyebrows just a bit raised. “Nah, gonna get some shut eye.”
Fragile, like he’s worried he no longer knows his lines.
No, Sam tells himself firmly. That is wishful thinking. Fragile like those no longer are his lines, like he doesn’t have others to say for Sam.
Before, even when it was bad, with Dean it was good. After Dad. After hell, both times. After Bobby.
Even back after Jess, it was Dean. At the funeral for his own life, there was his other life, his real life. There was Dean.
And so there was hope.
Through all of it, Dean was there. Shoving jerky and Cherry Coke into Sam’s hands. Looking so worried that Sam pulled himself together and ate, and drank. Arguing about music. Punching Sam’s shoulder and mocking Sam’s music. Letting Sam drive.
Dean was a promise that there still was life in the world. That Sam was alive. That there was still a future worth living. The future Dean believed in. Their future. It started out with ‘avenge Jess,’ avenge himself as well - but Dean believed so strongly.
Dean believed in the secrets behind haystacks and at the furthest reaches of mountains. Believed, in an unwavering deep knowledge, that as long as Sam and he were together, everything was going to be okay. That together, they could face the whole entire universe. Forces unknown. That the open road was for them to drive, to discover, to live their lives on.
Sam believed this was their abusive dad talking. What sort of person sends his sons to seek out and pick fights with murderous creatures? Sam believed he’d go back to school and become a lawyer. But more strongly than that, he always believed in Dean.
With Dean there was a road before them. Even when it went through hell. Even when it was through death. Even when Dean made him so angry Sam wanted to do draw blood, to pummel into himself till he could smooth out his serial number, peel away his name.
Because whatever came, it was them, alone in the world but got each other’s backs. Got each other. It was Dean smiling like he was victorious, the world stretching out at their feet. Dean running like a jerk into danger and Sam there to cover his ass. To take care of him. Dean coming up with genius ideas, brilliant solutions, and when there weren’t any left - there was still them.
Mulder and Scully, Bonny and Clyde, Sonny and Cher - Sam would gladly always be called a girl, grimace because Dean meant it as a tease, and carry that title, treasure it, because it meant Dean was on the other side of it.
Driving one-handed chewing on a Twizzler like a toothpick in a gangster movie, teaching Sam how to have a threesome like Dean’s the expert - or maybe he was.
Sam finds excuses to check Dean for curses, possession, everything. Finds a small location curse, actually, maybe from the Men of Letters, and removes it. It all remains the same.
It’s not the Mark anymore. Maybe it was just the Mark making Dean tell Sam he’s worthless, unworthy of even mourning. Now there’s no Mark. No longer monstrous coercion making Amara Dean's main thing. Sam can understand those, has been through those himself, body like a ragdoll passed around. It is no longer the comfort of Zachariah twisting Dean’s words, making him tell Sam he’s a monster.
There is nothing else going on this time.
Just Dean.
Sam reads fan fiction online. No therapist on earth he could talk this stuff over with, but maybe the slashers know something.
There are a lot of stories about Sam being transsexual and Dean never once making a bad joke. About Sam telling Dean he’s in love with a boy, at 14, and Dean unwaveringly supporting him, never pausing with shock, never telling Sam to hide it from Dad. At first Sam is amused - that would never have happened, not with his brother, not in the nineties. Then he thinks - probably it could have. Knows Dean would have been there for Sam some way.
One story mentions prank wars, and Sam is thrown back, hadn’t remembered those in so long. So many years. For a moment he debates supergluing Dean’s mug or beer bottle. Wild happiness like they could go back, could be - but then he imagines Dean’s moment of confusion, irritation, then just a tired grimace of a smile as he disconnected his hand, more forced than delighted. Dean wouldn’t retaliate, and that would be the saddest day.
They watch the news together. Sort of research. And Sam’s over the thing with the Mark, he is, but when there is blood on the screen Sam’s sense memory cringes away a fraction, can’t help it. Away from Dean. Doesn’t cringe away on jobs, but when it’s just on TV, his body remembers even when Sam tells it not to.
Dean goes through the papers. Dean texts with Mom. Dean stays in his room. Dean drinks.
Dean doesn’t put his palm on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam misses it like freezing, like starving, but something inside of him also screams no at the idea. Screams for help. For his big brother.
He is still in love with Dean. Always was, always will be (though a lot of things were for always). It’s an ancient, well used, hymn book, always with him, sacred still. When Sam gave Dean his amulet, it wasn’t just Dad’s place he was giving Dean.
He is always in love with Dean. But it no longer threatens to burn out his entire world - gonna go to hell, gonna lose Dean. Most everything bad has already happened.
Finds them a job in the Key Islands, hot chicks and sunshine. Finds a monster movie marathon at a hipster drive in, Dracula and Ed Wood in Dean’s car.
Dean tries. Arguing about the best Stooge, the best Bond. Twice he trails off in the middle of Carmen Electra vs Pam Anderson and just stares at his burger. Looks tired. Trying is a weight.
A job takes them to San Francisco and Dean doesn’t grimace when they drive past Palo Alto.
If he completely loses Dean, there is nothing left for Sam in life. Or in death. He let go of everything else so long ago, he’s this guy now.
The guy Dean wanted him to be.
Sam gets hurt during a hunt, wolf creature opens a gap in his ribs, and Dean purses his lips and sews Sam up and looks away. Resigned. Doesn’t look Sam in the eye, doesn’t hold his face.
Lucifer is raising hell again, maybe literally this time - and Sam’s body reacts with his proximity, Sam shakes with dread and the scent of fire - but he also doesn’t care.
It doesn’t really matter, if it doesn’t matter for Dean - just another endless job in their endless road going down.
Such a mild slope.
In the past, when Sam would fantasize about jumping into flames, the possibility of Dean right on his heels would always snap him out of it. Now he’s not sure Dean would feel much beyond relief.
And isn’t that the thing Sam had wanted, Dean being willing to live his life regardless of Sam?
Sam toys with it for a while, jagged edge of a bloody tooth.
He can’t tell anymore, really. Is it a good idea or is it self-destructive?
He might try it one day, might as well try. Find out.
It used to be this horrifying shameful burn, his worst and biggest secret. The reason he’ll lose Dean.
Does it still matter if he falls, so close to the ground?
Dean leans over his shoulder to check out some local newspaper clipping - not into Sam’s shoulder but politely next to it, and it hurts to hope one time too many.
Sam turns to him, places a palm on Dean’s arm. Gentle. Looks into his eyes long, and Dean tenses, swallows, unsure. But does not move away.
“Dean,” Sam hears himself say, and it’s filled with years of hurting and longing, and so much love, after everything. Everything he is is loving Dean.
Dean looks wary, that round-eyed look like when he was way too young.
Sam smiles sad at himself. Looks back up at Dean, squeezes his arm for comfort.
“Dean. Is it okay if I kiss you?” Like everything’s torn, wild in the wind. Like being somebody else, maybe Ruby, on the head of a pin. Like he could never have said before.
Dean shoots out from under Sam’s palm, crashing into the map table. Freckles and stark white, scrabbling for something, a knife, a gun. “What the fuck, Sam?”
Sam nods, swallows. “It’s me.” Does the silver, holy water. “Look.”
The scratch he makes across his arm stings like reality, or like losing himself. Dean nods at him, wide eyed. But no longer like the kid he was. It’s regular Dean. Hiding inside of himself, grumpy. “Then what the hell are you doing, Sam?” We men don’t act like that. We don’t kiss each other and we sure as fuck don’t ask first.
So many things are without words, he never found any words for these things, not ever. “Is it okay if I kiss you?” If nothing else, maybe it will get a rise.
Dean tosses the knife he grabbed back onto the table. Walks away. Dean’s ‘nope, not getting involved.’ Paces a few times with intent. In the past maybe Dean would have been worried, guilty, curious to discover this new thing about Sam. These days, for Dean there are no longer new things about Sam. He already knows Sam. He’s tired. He turns back. “Sam, what the hell?”
Sam shrugs, helpless. I-Pod stand in the Impala. Nothing he could say would be enough.
Dean looks down, away. Thoughtful? Bitter? Angry?
Disappointed?
Then Dean looks back at Sam. “Yeah. All right, yeah.” His jaw is set. He doesn’t wait for Sam to do it, takes the few steps back, presses their lips together, and already there’s a hint of his tongue. Sam would maybe be incredulous if there was room for any of that, his entire body, like the best strawberry syrup, like being shot. His entire body dripping over the brim, hums with Dean, so many years he’d wanted that kiss. Is this really the kiss, that kiss? New beginnings, or the single item off his bucket list? Dean’s lips are on his and they’re rough, Dean never drinks enough water, Dean’s hand is on Sam's shoulder and Sam’s body quivers with terror and Sam’s body drinks in the warmth and the touch and needs, needs more.
“Dean, are you sure this is - is this -?”
“Shut up, bitch.”
Oh. Oh.
“Jerk”. And his eyes are wet but Dean’s kissing him again and they’re on the map table and Dean is pushing the books and papers and knives off of it and pushing Sam down. He looks wild, hungry, torn apart.
Strong arms and stubble, hands all over Sam, holding, touching his face. Like Dean used to do when Sam got hurt, like Dean used to make sure Sam was unharmed, not leaving Dean, not leaving him. Hands at Sam’s hair, all over his chest, and Sam arches into it and moans like crying.
Dean pushes a muscular thigh against Sam’s erection, expertly. And Sam is so, so hard already, can’t remember the last time he was this hard, or really, this into sex at all.
“Dean, Dean” Sam keeps saying quietly. Only one left to believe in.
“Dean, do you wanna- you wanna-“ Sam offers, breathes. Rubs against Dean, too empty. Please. Worn jeans, leather belt, heavy silver buckle. Please stay.
Dean nods and Sam pushes Dean’s pants down. Dean isn’t hard yet, just a little interested. Oh.
He touches Dean’s dick - Dean’s dick! - tries to jerk it. Kisses Dean.
Dean presses his hips against Sam’s hand, back and forth, learned movements.
Sam bends - “Can I-?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
It’s so velvety, warm against Sam’s lips. Dean’s dick! In Sam’s mouth! Sam’s big brother and the one Sam’s never been able to stop wanting, his entire life.
Dean’s dick jerks a bit against Sam’s lips. “Fuck, Sam.”
Sam takes Dean in soft, sucking hard, hard, working his tongue against it. Rough waves.
Not the first dick in Sam’s mouth. Thousands of years he’d done this, maybe, a millennia. Knows how to suck a dick.
It’s not that he’s bad at it.
Dean’s hands are on Sam’s head, hips fucking at Sam’s mouth. “Yeah suck it, suck it.”
Like Dean is in a world of his own.
Dean jerks a few more times into Sam’s mouth. Stops.
“Gonna pretend you’re Megan Fox.”
A few fast thrusts. Warm against Sam’s tongue. It’s not working.
Dean pulls out. It’s a no go. “Sorry, Sammy,” he says, earnest. Resigned. Isn’t even mortified about his erection. Knows it’s not because of him.
He squeezes Sam’s arm, soft. Goes to his own bedroom, and Sam realizes with a start he doesn’t remember the last time Dean used that name. Not without believing it might be for the last time.
The next day, Dean finds them a hunt in Nebraska.