New SPN Fic: Losing Control of the Language Again
Losing Control of the Language Again
SPN Sam/Dean, 3,558 words
Notes: Down to the End 'verse, companion piece to The Only Song I Want to Hear. Contains a small reference to earlier canon established in this universe, once again ridiculously high on the schmoop scale. Dialogue from The Only Song I Want to Hear is largely identical, but the small discrepancies are intentional.
Once again for a friend who provided the original prompt, and for tvm, just because. Thanks to maygra and monkiedude for cleaning this up significantly.
They've just finished a job when Cassie calls, and Dean's feeling the kind of good that only comes from killing something big and evil. Green, ugly and dripping viscous poison slime doesn't hurt, either.
Her voice is a shock after almost four years of nothing, but it's a good one, and when she asks for help Dean says yes almost before she's finished the question. It sounds like nothing, at worst a benign poltergeist, but Cassie's freaked, and Dean rather likes the idea of visiting a friend. He doesn't have many of those.
***
Sam's in a mood the entire drive, pissed off that they're heading to a routine house cleansing instead of the trailer park haunting he'd found in Tallahassee. Dean hates Florida, and he hates trailer parks. He'll go, if the haunting ever progresses past flickering lights and a few stoned "witnesses," do the job like the professional he is and keep his bitching to a minimum when anyone other than Sam's around, but given the choice between that and Cassie, Cassie wins hands down.
Sam should understand -- he was quick enough to drop everything when his hot little blonde friend needed help, and she hadn't even asked for it -- so Dean just ignores the sulking. Sam will get over it, and Dean feels great. An easy job for an old friend who also happens to be an incredibly hot chick he's seen naked -- and yeah, that part ended long ago, and he and Sam are... he and Sam, but Cassie's smoking and looks are still free -- and in a beach town, no less. It's almost a vacation, and they could both use one. The hunts have been damned near non-stop lately, and Sam's eyes have that bruised look that says he could sleep for a week.
And Sam, pissy or not, has been off-the-charts horny since they got back on the road, slamming Dean against the first available surface whenever they're alone, dropping to his knees at every opportunity and sucking Dean like he's starving for it, pleading for a second -- or third -- round after Dean's come so hard he thinks the top of his dick must have blown off. Dean's beginning to think someone spiked Sam's juice box, but he's hardly complaining.
They hit construction outside Eugene, which slows them up enough they decide to stop for the night instead of driving through to the coast. It's after 10 p.m., they haven't eaten since lunch and they could both use a shower after twelve hours of driving. But Sam pushes Dean down to the bed before the door's slammed shut behind them and doesn't let him up for air until he's so thoroughly fucked out he can hardly move.
They have to make due with dinner from the vending machine. Sam lets him stay sprawled across the sheets while he shrugs into his clothes to retrieve bags of Cheetos and peanut M&Ms, then strips again and climbs back into bed. They eat naked, sides pressed companionably together and leaning against the headboard as they watch an ancient Futurama episode, and between the sex and the company and the genius of Matt Groening, Dean can't get too worked up about missing a meal.
The best thing about a double is that there's a whole new bed to switch to after you've trashed the first one, though the arch way Sam presses against him makes Dean think this one won't stay neat for long.
***
Sam's still in whore mode in the morning; he climbs on top of Dean and sinks down onto his cock before Dean's even fully awake, fucks them both to shuddering orgasms and then sucks Dean's cock in the shower, makes him come again when he shouldn't even have been able to manage a hard-on. Sam comes at the same time he does, comes moaning around Dean's dick even though he hasn't so much as touched his own, and Dean's pretty sure that will be in his top five jerk-off fantasies until the day he dies.
By the time Dean can manage speech, Sam's back on his feet, licking his swollen lips and palming his own softening cock gently. He still looks hungry, and Dean wonders if he's going to have to refuse sex for the first time in his life.
"Dude," he says. "What the hell?"
"What?" Sam says, all wide-eyed innocence, like he isn't already skimming a hand down Dean's chest.
"When did you turn into a nympho?"
Sam grins, though there's something odd in it, something Dean can't quite categorize. "I always forget you're the wrong side of thirty," he says. "I'm sure we can get you something--"
Dean growls, a completely toothless warning when his bones still feel like liquid, and Sam laughs and kisses him, pins him to the wall easily when he grumbles and tries to squirm away. Not that he tries all that hard, though he hopes Sam knows he'll be paying for that remark for the rest of his natural life.
***
Between the traffic and the late start, which is totally Sam's fault, it's nearly noon by the time they reach Cassie's office. She's as beautiful as ever, and she still smells amazing, light and sweet with just a hint of lime from the body lotion she uses. It used to drive Dean wild, and his cock stirs a bit when she presses herself against him for a hug. He wonders what she'd be up for, if he didn't have Sam, and decides he could charm her into bed without much effort. Once you've had Dean, he thinks, smiling into Cassie's hair, and makes a mental note to repeat that to Sam later. It's been at least a day since he inspired a pained eye-roll.
She takes them to lunch at place called Moe's, and she looks good enough in her flared skirt and three-inch heels that Dean doesn't even hold it against her when she misses his Syzlak joke. Sammy's smile is enough anyway, though he's weirdly distracted through the meal, picking at his food and looking out the window.
Cassie's done so well for herself in the last few years that Dean feels a bizarre sense of pride, an emotion he's never associated with anyone but Sam. She's happy, she's on the road to getting everything she deserves, and her glowing face as she describes her year in Paris, graduating at the top of her class from Northwestern, makes him happy too. Funny, now, to remember that this woman almost broke him apart once, to remember a time when there was anyone who wasn't Sam. But he's glad they stayed friends, if distantly, glad she thought to call him and glad her problem is small enough that they have time to talk. He smiles at her as she tells horror stories from her year in LA, laughs and shakes his head when she smiles back, looking almost shy.
There's not even a hint of anything supernatural in her house, but he's never known Cassie to spook at nothing. "Might have just been something passing through," he tells her when the ritual's done. "It's gone now, whatever it was." Cassie hugs Dean and pecks Sam on the cheek, says she feels safe for the first time in a month, and Dean grins at her, pleased.
Sam pleads a headache when she offers to take them to dinner, and Dean's ready to refuse as well; Sam's been pale and quiet all afternoon, and Dean doesn't want to leave him alone. Sam insists, though, says he'll be fine after a few pills and a full night's sleep, so Cassie makes reservations for two at the local steakhouse -- the woman always did have good taste -- and Dean drives them back to the motel to put Sam to bed and shower and change.
He offers to stay again, but Sam, already sacked out on the bed further from the door, just shakes his head. Dean sets a glass of water and Sam's pill bottle and cell phone on the nightstand, says, "You sure you're--"
"Go," Sam says. "Have fun."
Dean arches a brow at him. "Always do."
***
It's not until the main course -- giant slabs of rare beef that are about the most beautiful things Dean's ever seen -- when Cassie leans low over the table to show off her cleavage to the best advantage that Dean realizes they're on a date, and it's not until she offers him a bite of her cheesecake, almost purring, that he realizes exactly why the EMF meter found nothing. He can't believe he missed it, looking back; he's been out of the game so long he's apparently forgotten the plays.
Sam would be pissed at the waste of a trip, Dean thinks, but he can't bring himself to mind that much, especially when Cassie hugs him at her front door, pressing her whole body into his, and oh, yeah, he could totally have her without even trying. Not that the world isn't filled with hot women who'd come running when he crooked his little finger, but she's not just gorgeous, she's smart and classy and successful, she could have anyone she wanted, and the effort she put into this is as flattering as it is hot. She's not Sam, though, not even close, and a choice between fucking her and going home to his brother is no choice at all.
He extricates himself gently, muttering something about checking on Sam, and shakes his head when she asks if she can see him tomorrow. "Haunting in Florida, sweetheart," he says. "We have to go." He wants to say they should stay in touch, wants to tell her to call if she ever needs anything else, but what she wants belongs to Sam, and that's not ever going to change. So he kisses her gently on the cheek and says, "Good to see you, Cass," and then he walks to the car without looking back, though he can feel her eyes on him.
He finds a 24-hour convenience store on the way back to the motel and picks up a six-pack of coke and a bottle of Excedrin Migraine. If they're lucky, Sam's headache will have cleared up, but if it hasn't, he'll need the caffeine, and the bottle Dean left on the nightstand was nearly empty. The headaches don't seem directly related to Sam's visions anymore, haven't since Sam learned to control them, but he still gets a lot more of them than he did before he turned into Psychic Boy. Dean wonders, sometimes, if the effort it takes to read into people, to move things with nothing but his brain, is hurting Sam, doing some kind of irreparable damage that they won't find out about until it's too late. Sam just laughed the one time he mentioned it, and when Dean called Missouri, stealing some rare time alone while Sam slept off yet another headache, he could hear her eyes rolling when she said, "It doesn't work that way, boy." But he wonders, and he wishes, not for the first time, that Sam's gift was one they could give back.
***
The lights are on in the motel room, and Sam isn't there. Even now, with Sam long grown and saving Dean's ass nearly as often as Dean saves his, Dean's never quite escaped a moment of instinctual blind panic whenever Sam's not where he's supposed to be, and he swallows hard as icy fear gathers in the pit of his belly.
He takes stock quickly. Sam's bag is still there, his cell phone is still on the nightstand, there's no sign of a struggle. He closes his eyes feels for his brother, wishing for the thousandth time that he could use the charm as easily as Sam. Sam can pinpoint him to the millimeter when he wants to, but Dean has to work like hell for general locations, especially when Sam closes himself off. Dean can feel him strongly enough to know he isn't far, and there's no sense of fear or danger, but Sam's clamped down tight and it's hard to tell for sure. He concentrates harder, gets a clear visual of sand and dark water, and opens his eyes in relief. There's a dull throbbing in his skull that tells him he's going to have a bitch of a headache later, but he's pretty sure he knows where Sam is.
He sees the note when he turns to leave. Gone to the beach, be back later, on the notepad in Sam's messy scrawl, and fuck if that isn't enough to make Dean want to beat the shit out of him. Sam's never been so good at taking care of himself, but a beach field trip in the middle of the night when he should be sleeping off a headache -- a completely unarmed field trip at that, as both guns are still on the table -- for no reason whatsoever is stupid even for him.
It's only a few miles to the beach, not even a five-minute drive, but there are no streetlights and the shoulders are narrow. The thought of Sam walking alone, completely unprotected and as likely to be done in by a drunk as by anything in their line of work, just pisses Dean off more.
Sam's sitting on a picnic table near the edge of the sand, shoulders hunched and looking smaller than he has in years. He watches quietly as Dean stalks toward him, and when Dean says, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he slumps down a little further. He doesn't answer, though, and when Dean lays out how incredibly fucking stupid he's been, he just mumbles something about needing air.
"You were supposed to be sleeping," Dean yells. "You know what I fucking thought when I got back and you weren't there?"
Sam shrugs. "I left a note."
It still amazes Dean how Sam can piss him off like no one else in the world. "I know, Sam," he grits out. "I'm here, aren't I?" Sam just shrugs again, and Dean kind of wants to hit him, but Sam hasn't pulled this sullen teenager shit since before Stanford, and slapping him around probably won't make him explain himself any faster. "Just tell me what the hell's going on," he says.
"Did you fuck her?" Sam says. He's looking out over the water, not meeting Dean's eyes, and his voice is quiet.
Dean stares. "Did I... what?" he says blankly. He sits down beside Sam, well and truly gobsmacked for the first time in years. "Sammy--"
"It's a yes or no question," Sam says. "Did you?"
"Christ, Sam, no," Dean says. "Where is this coming from?"
Sam just glares. "Are you going to?"
Dean's fists twitch at his sides and he thinks he's going to deck Sam pretty soon, but then it slams into him, what Sam's saying, what Sam means, and he sucks in a sharp breath and says, "You're jealous?" He's laughing a little before he can help himself, though it isn't really funny. It's just so completely baffling, that Sam could even think he has anything to worry about, that he could think Dean's missed the fact that he's a three-time lottery winner who doesn't need to scrounge for change.
It's the wrong response, though, because Sam looks murderous. "Fuck you, Dean," he says furiously, and Dean has to grab his shoulder to keep him from walking away.
"Stop," Dean says. "Jesus, just give me a minute..."
"Why are you here?" Sam says, and christ, if stupid questions were a sport, Sam would take the gold hands down.
"You're here," he says. Sam still looks mad, but worse, he still looks uncertain, like he doesn't know what's coming next, and Dean feels like the inside of his chest is being hollowed out with a scoop. If there's one thing in the world Sam should be absolutely certain of, it's Dean, and if he isn't, Dean's been doing something very wrong. And he can't even begin to fathom how to fix it. "Sam, you..." he starts, and realizes he has no idea what to say next.
"I what?" Sam says. His voice is flat, toneless.
"You don't..." Dean tries again, but the words aren't there, and he looks at Sam helplessly, willing him to understand.
"I don't what?
"I don't... I mean. There isn't..." and he's stuttering now, completely lost, but Sam's face is hard and unyielding, and he can't let Sam walk away, can't leave things like this, so he stops trying to think and just says the truest thing he knows. "There's just you."
Sam opens his mouth and then shuts it, and then he does it again. There's a look on his face Dean's never seen before, something like wonder, something like joy, and Dean knows he said the right thing. "You promise?" Sam says. He sounds almost guilty, like he knows just what an unnecessary question it is but needs the reassurance anyway, and if Dean has one purpose in life, it's making sure Sam gets what he needs.
"Just you, Sammy," he says. "Just you and me."
Sam blinks hard, and for a moment it almost looks like he's going to cry, but he doesn't, thank god, he just says, "Dean," and reaches for him.
"You're so fucking stupid," Dean says, but he moves forward to meet Sam, and the last word is pressed against Sam's lips. Sam's mouth is hot and hungry, like he's been denied for years, like they didn't fuck twice before breakfast and god knows how many times yesterday, and he pulls Dean to the ground, whimpering into Dean's mouth when Dean rolls on top of him.
They kiss until Dean feels lightheaded from lack of oxygen, and when he breaks his mouth away, gasping, Sam starts to beg. And it's a bad idea, maybe the worst idea ever -- Dean's had his share of semi-public sex, but that kind of shit stops cold when the person you're fucking is your baby brother -- but Sam keeps begging, and Dean's never been able to say no.
He gets Sam's zipper down and closes his hand around Sam's cock. Sam whines, hips thrusting up mindlessly, and Dean presses a secret smile into his neck. "I got you, baby," he says, and he moves lower, takes Sam's cock into his mouth. Sam makes a harsh sound, loud and sharp, and Dean laps the moisture from the head, reveling in the sweet weight on his tongue, the heat and musk and salt that overwhelm his senses and narrow the world to nothing but Sam.
Dean's ready when Sam thrusts forward, opening his mouth wider and relaxing the muscles at the back of his throat. He could make this last, even as desperate as Sam is, but as much he loves sucking his brother, he doesn't want to, not this time. He wants to bring Sam to that soft place, the quiet, sticky afterwards where Sam curls into him, boneless and sleepy, where nothing exists beyond the borders of their skin, and hold him there until Sam never doubts him, never doubts them, again.
He can hear Sam's harsh breaths, hear the lower sound of his own moans as he sucks, and he pulls his jeans open and works himself roughly, wanting to come with Sam. Sam thrusts again, hard, deep into Dean's throat, and he makes that little noise, the soft little gasp he always makes right before he comes. Dean pulls back, wanting to taste, as Sam's cock shudders, and the hot spurts against his tongue, Sam's voice whispering, "Dean, Dean," are too much to take. He comes hard and suddenly, fighting to keep his mouth gentle around Sam.
He keeps sucking, softer now, wanting every drop of Sam's come but careful not to cause any discomfort. One of Sam's hands buries itself in Dean's hair, stroking and petting, and Dean moves into the touch, finally letting Sam slip from his mouth, though he can't resist one final kiss to the head that makes Sam shiver and laugh quietly.
He crawls up Sam's body, wanting his brother's mouth, but Sam grabs his hand instead, laps up the drops of come cooling on Dean's skin. He whispers, "Mine," all lazy certainty, and Dean thinks maybe he finally understands.
"Never been anything else," he says, and Sam smiles at him, slow and sweet, and claims his mouth again.
***
It's an ungodly hour of the morning, but Sam's packed and ready, practically standing by the door tapping his foot. It would be funnier if he'd let Dean get more than two hours of sleep, but it's hard to be annoyed, knowing the reason why Sam wants to get the hell out of dodge.
Dean checks the room one last time and shoulders his bag, but when Sam moves to open the door, he catches Sam's arm. "Hey," he says.
Sam looks up, surprised. "What?"
"Just..." Dean says. "Just." It's not what he wants to say -- he's not even sure the words exist -- but it doesn't seem to matter, because suddenly Sam's grinning like it's Christmas and his birthday rolled into one.
"Yeah," he says. "I know."
Next in the 'verse:
All This Present Tense