Away to Darker Dreams, Part Seven
Sam ducks out of his reach, petting down his hair into something that doesn't resemble a rat's nest.
"Missouri's waiting on us," Dean says, walking over to the door. "And it's lunch. And I'm fuckin' starving."
Dean opens the door, but Sam's voice stops him, and he turns back, raising an eyebrow in question.
Sam twirls and fiddles with his fingers. "You're--you're sure this is okay? I mean, you n' me?"
Of course Sam would want to talk about it. Any other moment, Dean would indulge in the chick-flick moment, but he's at the end of his rope. "I already said I was sure, okay? C'mon. We shouldn't keep her waiting." He nods back toward the hall.
Sam gives him that soft look that means he's reading Dean's fucking thoughts, understanding him better than he understands himself, and he kind of hates that look, because he should be the one giving it to Sam. The moment only lasts a second longer before Sam's shoving him in the arm and slipping past him, calling out to Missouri.
Thank god. He'd thought Sam would break down, would give up, would lay down and die. But he wasn't giving Sam enough credit. Sam's a fighter, just like him, and too selfless for his own good.
"Bitch," he mutters under his breath, thundering down the stairs to catch up with Sam.
Things sort of fall into place after that.
Dean had been bracing himself for the worst since the moment he saw Sam at that street corner. It actually feels a little weird for things to be going their way. His life has been one giant shitfest up to this point, so it seems only logical for fate to to continue its routine of kicking them while they're down, like sad little puppies.
But Sam's gaining weight. Sam doesn't constantly look haunted, thinking back on shit that Dean doesn't even know how to begin to talk with him about. Even when it terrifies both of them, Sam works with Missouri, meditating for hours each day, focusing his mind. He still has nightmares, but he hasn’t had a vision since that day in the car, and Dean doesn’t know whether they’re overdue or if his wizard training with Missouri is kicking in already.
Dean joins them every afternoon and finds he doesn't actually hate the peace and quiet of meditation, especially when it means Sam is calm, too. He hasn't felt this clear, this driven in years, and having purpose again is a damned good feeling. It doesn't hurt that he's got his little brother back, too, after those few years of lifeless absence.
Missouri shoves them out of the house sometimes to have moments to herself, free of the headache-inducing fog of other people's thoughts surrounding her. Dean doesn't know where to drive, so he just takes them through the neighborhood, and they stumble upon a quiet little park, full of happy couples and well-adjusted people walking their purebred dogs.
Sam doesn't comment when Dean gets out and stretches. Birdsong is their companion as they weave their way down dirt trails, breathing in the forest air, scented with dirt and tentative, Spring life, the tall trees forming a canopy above them that only lets in brief pierces of wavering light, like they're in some strange underwater land.
It's just damn refreshing, is what it is. After a sweaty motel and the cloying incense of Missouri's house, it's nice to get outdoors for a change.
Dean stops at a bench that looks over a gentle valley, littered with leaves and moss. Sam sits down next to him, letting out a long breath.
Dean slings an arm around his brother and Sam leans into the touch, their shoulders bumping. Dean cocks his head up and peers around with sharp eyes. He knows he can't let down his guard. He tries to show with his face that he's not to be fucked with, that anything that wants Sam has to go through him first.
Sam leans his head against the crook of Dean's neck. Dean squeezes Sam's shoulder.
"I'm afraid to talk to Dad," Sam murmurs, low enough that Dean has to strain to make out what he’s saying.
When all the pieces click, he frowns. "Little random," he says, "s'not like he's gonna snap at you, dude."
"But I yelled at him, he told me never to come back," Sam says. "And he--he knows about me. He knows I'm a freak."
"Sam," Dean warns, glaring at the beautiful greenery all around him.
"I know, I know," Sam sighs, "but we don't know how he feels about it. For all we know, he could hate me. And I--I don't want him to."
Sam's voice cracks and Dean unwraps himself from around Sam, turning to look Sam in the eye. "Sam, he doesn't hate you," he says, watching as the conviction in his tone loosens the muscles in Sam's shoulders. Good. "He could never hate you. Sure, you fought last time you saw each other, but he checked up on you at Stanford, kiddo. We'd cruise by your dorm sometimes, just checkin' on you. He misses you. It'll be fine, dude."
"Okay." Sam runs a hand through his hair. "Okay, so say I believe you. Then maybe we should call him."
"I... kinda already did," Dean says, wincing. He looks away from Sam's big eyes and shrugs. "You were doing great with Missouri and I couldn't meditate and I was dialing his number before I knew it, y'know? But he didn't pick up. I left a voicemail sayin' we were with Missouri and that you were alright."
Sam's quiet for a moment, his expression slightly stormy. His face is scrunched up in that insanely thoughtful look of his, and whenever Dean imagines Stanford, he imagines classrooms full of kids with the same fuckin' look, every single one of the little geeks.
"When was the last time you saw him?" Sam asks an indeterminable time later.
Dean shrugs. "We split up a couple months before I went looking for you," he says. He raises an eyebrow at Sam's incredulous look. "I'm twenty-six, dude. I can hunt on my own. He had some lead he wanted to look into, and he never answered my calls then, either. Dude's a friggin' mystery, it's nothing new."
"So you're not worried?" Sam asks quietly, and Dean wonders how he can go from sounding so old to sounding so young in such a short amount of time.
"Nah." Dean flops back against the bench and hooks his arm around Sam's waist, tugging him closer. "We could go looking for him if you wanted, though. But with all of this shit we know now... I don't think he wants to be found."
"Neither do I," Sam says. "I just hate not knowing, you know? He could be dead in a ditch somewhere."
Dean tries not to let his imagination bother him. "Hell knows I wanna find him, but he's fine, Sam. We'll all be fine."
"Okay." Sam nods, his lip jutting out, and Dean can almost see the cogs in his head trying to convince themselves of what Dean's saying.
Dean pats Sam on the arm. "Now, I don't know about you, but there's a burger somewhere calling my name. Oooh, Dean, it's saying. Eat me, please." Dean moans sexually, eliciting a traumatized look from a mother walking by with her child.
Sam laughs, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, his dimples elongated parentheses framing his sin of a mouth, and shit, Dean has never been more in love. He tugs Sam by the wrist and leads him back through the forest, smelling and looking just like a cute little honeymoon.
Sam seems to be able to sense the change in the air. The moment they're back to the car, burgers are far out of Dean's mind, and he's dizzy with all the blood that’s rushing south.
Sam's in the passenger seat, his long, gangly legs folded into the footwell, his knobby knees sticking up, and everything would appear normal if it weren't for his eyes, so heavy-lidded, his teeth sneaking out to bite at his lip.
Sam doesn't make the first move. Dean can see the doubt in his eyes, so clear, his Sam-dictionary providing an immediate definition for the emotions flitting across Sam's features.
Dean feels the fuckin' same, if he's honest with himself. This is all so new and strange and completely outside of his comfort zone, but he knows Sam feels all of it. They both know it. They both want it. Hell, he can feel the need radiating off of Sam. Sam's always been clingy like that. Dean's never minded.
So he thinks fuck it. He presses Sam up against the passenger side door and Sam's eye's go wide as Dean leans in to kiss him. Dean runs a hand down Sam's chest, and Sam shivers, freezing up for just the tiniest of moments before he surges forward, opening his mouth wide and pressing his tongue up against Dean's.
The kiss goes dirty so fast that Dean's head is spinning, but he's not complaining. He kisses Sam back, pulling out all the stops, using every trick in the book that he knows makes girls toes curl. He laps up into Sam's mouth, wet and mouth, biting and nipping, and Sam gasps and shudders underneath him, so warm and firm.
Sam pulls away, their noses brushing, their lips shiny and sensitive. “Are you sure?” he whispers, and Dean runs a hand through Sam’s hair, calming his trembles. He feels his eyes sting slightly, and he nods. Sam’s eyes go soft and dewy and raw and vulnerable and Dean knows it’s trust he’s seeing there, and nothing but.
He stops thinking about it after that. Need and lust and love take over his thinking brain, working on instinct and drive, and Sam's no better off, already sweating through his shirt, his collarbones stark and shiny and Dean leans down to kiss them, Sam heaving underneath him, breathing loudly through his nose.
Sam huffs and grabs Dean's shirt, yanking him up with a determined strength. Dean goes easy, and he'd be fine with kissing the years away if it weren't for his cock growing heavy between his legs, pressing up uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans.
Sam jerks up against him and Dean slides his hand up, just a tad, really, but he feels it. Sam is hard, too, the bulge at the front of his pants unmistakeable.
It jars Dean for a second. He's never been with a guy in his life. He's gotten plenty of offers, sure, but no one ever turned him on.
But no girl, no long-legged killer in a bikini has ever made him feel the way Sam does. Sam drives him absolutely crazy, in the worst and best ways possible. Sam is everything. Sam has always been everything.
In a brief moment of clarity, Dean thinks that if Sam had kissed him ever in his life, he would have kissed back, no question, because he's always been Sam's, somehow. He has always belonged to Sam, from the moment the bean-sized baby was placed in his arms. It just seems so obvious now. It feels foreign that they ever spent any time in their lives without touching, the Stanford years seeming like a distant bad dream.
Sam interprets his pause for something completely different, making a pained noise low in his throat and pressing back against the door, tilting his head away from Dean.
"Dean, look..." Sam starts, and god, he sounds so pained, like his throat has gone three rounds with a cheese grater. "If you don't want this, I get it. I-"
Dean grabs Sam by the shoulder and thunks him back against the window. "Shut up," he growls. He gives Sam a brief, rough kiss, tasting blood on his tongue. "Undo your belt."
Sam swallows audibly, his pupils completely blown, but he obeys Dean's order immediately, sending Dean's dick into a twitching frenzy, blurting out precome and getting his boxers wet.
Dean grows impatient. He tugs the belt away from Sam's jeans and tosses it away, forgotten. He unbuttons Sam's pants and unzips him, pulling his dick out of his boxers in one fluid movement.
Sam gasps, biting down a groan.
Dean squeezes the base of Sam, so hot, pulsing against his palm, and Dean's mouth fucking waters. Something about Sam is addicting, something about it being his baby brother's fucking cock in his hand, so long and slim, pink-perfect, is too much to handle.
He strokes Sam the way he likes it on himself, a few times from the base to the head, rubbing his thumb over Sam's slit and listening to the delicious, high-pitched moans he gets from Sam in response.
He can't ignore his own hard-on, though, which is almost painful after seeing Sam so vulnerable, after having Sam trust him like this.
He murmurs a quick apology and undoes his belt, shrugging his pants and boxers down to his thighs.
Sam swears and reaches out to curl a hesitant hand around Dean's length and Dean moans.
"Oh, fuck," Sam whispers, breathing harsh and fast. "Dean, god, Dean, please."
Dean gets his knees up on the seat and crawls on top of Sam. Sam slinks down onto the seat, slipping out of his jeans. Dean rubs a hand on Sam's hip, squeezing, his nails digging into the soft flesh there.
He bends forward to kiss Sam again, his finger’s movements up and down Sam's silky shaft almost gentle, slow and measured. Sam's stroking him quickly and efficiently, bunching the skin beneath Dean's crown in a way that makes heat curl around in his belly, and he doesn't stop to think about how fucking good Sam is at this, or why, he just pushes his hips forward, his cock sliding right up against Sam's.
Sam's panting like a dog, now, his mouth held open, easy-access for Dean's tongue to explore. He swats Sam's hand away from his dick and Sam wraps his arms around Dean's neck.
Dean rubs his thumb at the precome spilling out of Sam, and he's so wet, just like a girl. He uses it to slick up both of their cocks, holding them both in his hand and stroking, fucking his hips up against Sam to give them both heated friction.
Sam whimpers high and sluttily, throwing his head back into the seat, baring his neck. His hips are bucking up against Dean's, and their cockheads rub on every up and downstroke, and god, they've just only started but Dean is so close. He can feel it in the base of his back, in his blood, in his balls. He's not going to last.
They find a rhythm, grinding in tandem, Dean's hand adding pressure. Dean breaks apart from Sam's captivating mouth to suck at Sam's adam's apple, adding a little teeth, kissing a bruise into Sam's pale skin.
Sam screams in the back of his throat and his hips go up and freeze, and Dean feels a warm fluid spill over his fist as Sam comes, groaning like a dog in heat, his eyelids fluttering like a hummingbird's wings, and Dean thinks he might've fucked the brains out of the poor kid.
He tightens his grip on Sam's hip and moves faster, more desperately, and Sam pawing at his hand and licking up the come from Dean’s fingers is the last fucking straw. Dean muffles his sob in Sam's sweaty shoulder, coming in long ropes all over Sam's chest, and he's never orgasmed harder in his life.
He flops bonelessly down on Sam, sighing. They're sticky and sweaty and gross but Dean's ascended from his body, his eyes shut, pins and needles covering him.
"Oh my god. We're in public. We did that in your car in public." Sam eventually whispers, his voice getting louder as the realization hits him.
Dean is still too sated to care. He flops off of Sam, tugging his boxers up over his softening dick. Sam's blushing a violent shade of red and he's fumbling with his pants, his hand trembling as he struggles to get the belt through the loops.
"Dude, s'okay, no one saw," Dean says, yawning. He frowns, patting his belly. "Still need a burger."
"Dean, no," Sam says, affronted, still blushing. "We're not going to a fast-food joint while I'm covered in your come."
Dean chuckles. "Oh, man," he sighs. "I would pay a million bucks to hear you say that again."
"Dean." Sam punches him in the arm. "...If we're going anywhere, I'm wearing your jacket."
Oh, fuck yes. Sam is a saint, a hot, beautiful little saint. Dean willingly sheds his leather jacket, trying to tamp down the animal inside him that gloats at seeing Sam slip his arms into the sleeves.
If he could, he'd eat and sleep and fuck some more, but he knows Sam. He knows what's going through Sam's mind. He rubs a hand up and down Sam's back as he drives, letting Sam's panicking brain know that it's alright.
"You okay?" he asks, stopped at a red light, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
Sam smiles softly at him. "A little tired. Freaking out, just a bit. Think I might need a pill. But, honestly? I’m good. Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am."
And that's all Dean needs to hear.
Dean wishes he could say that the rest of the day was sunshine and fairy dust, but life just wouldn't be realistic for the Winchesters if there wasn't something bringing them down, even just a little bit.
Sam's got a headache, but Dean's pretty sure it's actually a migraine by the slow, zombielike gait Sam has adopted. Missouri's senses it, too, and she goes around and shuts all the curtains and switches off any lights.
Missouri tries to get him to meditate but Sam isn't in the right headspace. They sit in darkness, criss-cross applesauce, waiting. Dean counts down to Sam finally saying something about it.
"This is fucking stupid," Sam growls, right as Dean hits zero. "We're not going to get anything done right now. I don't want to make you guys wait for some parlor trick that's not gonna happen."
"It's okay, Sam," Dean says. "Do you need a pill?"
"No." Sam's voice is curt and snappish. "I had one this morning. Just one. We'll fuck up all my progress if I have another and I'll just be an addict again."
"I'm not really liking the energy in here right now," Missouri interjects mildly. "Do you want something else then, Sam? Advil? Chamomile tea? Being frustrated and angry at yourself won't help anything, and I think you know that."
"I know," Sam sighs, shooting Missouri an apologetic look, but she just smiles, ever patient, ever gentle. Dean thinks she should be sainted or some shit. Mother Missouri.
"Thank you, Dean," Missouri says, getting up and patting Dean on the back. Missouri's eyes are kind and he tries not to think about how he doesn't deserve her love. He doesn't want to make her sad.
He focuses on Sam instead, lets Sam lean on him as they get back on their feet.
"We'll try again later," Missouri calls out, disappearing into the kitchen. "I've got a client comin' in around four, so we won't be able to use the living room for the bit. Is that room upstairs clean?"
"Pristine," Dean says at the same time Sam says "no."
Missouri clicks her tongue. "Dean, you know that wasn't ever gonna work."
Dean feels his ears burn like he's a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar.
"We'll get it tidy," Sam says, "and Dean'll do the laundry."
Dean opens his mouth to protest but Missouri laughs. "How kind of him," she says, and Dean has no choice but to shut up and put up.
He feels like he's finally almost home.
The only washing machine Dean's ever used was at a twenty-five cent laundromat, so Missouri's newfangled machine puzzles him for a bit, but it's no challenge. Dean can speak to machines, can break apart and reassemble a watch in a moment's notice, can tell what's wrong with Baby by the sound of her engine.
He makes his way back upstairs as the clothes tumble along to find Sam pulling up the corner of the bedspread and smoothing it out. He looks up when Dean enters, his puppy bangs falling into his eyes. His face is still pasty and drawn. Right. The tea or whatever.
Missouri has it in her hand, a single eyebrow cocked when Dean turns the corner into the kitchen and almost barrels right into her. "You silly boys," she says, "your memory only works with the other around."
Dean says a quick thank you and hauls ass up to Sam. Ever since he realized how many days it's been since Sam's last vision, he's been just waiting for the other shoe to drop. A migraine might be some forewarning, some precursor to some seriously awful shit. If that's the case, tea probably won't help, but he might as well try.
"Room service," Dean chirps, adopting his best Oxford accent, bowing low as he steps into their room.
"Gimme a moment, you loser," Sam mutters, rubbing at his temples. He hobbles over to the windows and slams shut the curtains. His shoulders untense and he turns. Dean approaches him to save him the walk and hands over the cup, his fingers brushing against Sam's as Sam curls his digits around the handle.
"Careful, it's hot," Dean says uselessly, watching Sam carefully handle the porcelain.
Sam takes a loud, slurping sip, shutting his eyes. "Mmm. That's good."
Dean scoffs. "Yeah, maybe to you. Coffee is the only shit that will grace my lips."
Sam takes another sip. "Do I need to make a 'shit on your lips' joke, or is it too obvious?"
Dean's glare does not match the warm bubbles in his chest. "Oh, shut up," he says, and Sam hides his smile by bringing his teacup back up to his lips. His bright, color-changing eyes betray him, though, turning to a warm honey-molasses color, tilted and happy like a playful fox.
on to part eight