Are we nearly there yet? (Sam/Dean, nc-17, 3400 words)
For wendy and anyone else who was needing some season four SamandDean schmoop. Apologies, schmoop is not my strong point.
Are we nearly there yet?
(Sam/Dean, nc-17, 3400 words)
Sometimes Sam just knows the answer. Sometimes he knows what has to be done. This is one of those times and God help anyone who gets in his way.
He leaves Dean, who's asleep in the blinking golden splash of light of the faulty motel sign just outside the window, sleeping like he's giving in, and drives out along the back roads, into the spiderweb of shadows thrown by the trees and into the moonlight-bright fog.
When he stops, Ruby's there. Her mouth is dark-red, glistening, and it's nothing but a flash of the whites of her eyes that makes her look human.
"Sam, hey," she says. "I didn't think we had anything planned for tonight."
"We don't," he tells her. "Do me a favour, don't be around for the next couple of days. Don't lurk, don't be just around the corner. Don't."
He doesn't need to warn her. He doesn't need to remind her that he'll see her even if he doesn't lay eyes on her. No threats or explanations are necessary. It's all there in the way she looks at him, the faint ripple of her throat as she swallows. She ducks her head and steps back off the road. She's gone altogether by the time Sam starts the Impala up again.
On the way back to the motel, Sam calls Bobby.
"I don't care how many seals Lilith opens in the next couple of days, me and Dean are off the map, okay? I'll get in touch when we're back in it," Sam says.
He's friendly and polite because Bobby's earned that much from him but he's not spending any more time on this than he has to. His plan is staggeringly perfect but it's delicate.
"Sam? Everything okay?"
"It's fine. It's all fine," Sam says. "Like I said, I'll get in touch."
He hangs up before he can hear what Bobby's saying next. He doesn't want to hear it. Sam has to protect his plan, can't let it be damaged by questions and second-guessing.
When he's back at the motel, he sits in the Impala, in the derelict parking lot, his hands spanning the steering wheel and prepares himself. There's a faint thrum of tense excitement just under his skin, jumping between each pulse of his blood. His breath comes out in small, wet shivers.
The motel sign flickers more erratically than before, frantic, blinking gold - or yellow (depending on who you ask) - like Morse code gone awry. It's still dark beyond the window, and still dark in the sky.
Inside, Dean is still asleep and Castiel is on the bed beside him. His gaze turns to Sam as he comes in, as distant and ancient as anything in the yawning black stretch of the universe.
"Your brother dreams of Hell, Sam."
Sam nods, tightens his jaw.
"With all due respect," he says, in a tone that threatens to turn disrespectful as soon as necessary, "please leave my brother and me alone for the next few days."
Castiel is shaking his head before the words are out and Sam feels like a child again, feels like he's begging John to please stop dragging them across states, all the while knowing John will do as he sees fit and not expect Sam to understand, only to obey.
"I can't do that. We don't have time."
"I'm making time," Sam says.
"It can't be done. Lilith is already-"
It's heat and shadow and broken mirrors and razors on the air. It's something shaking off the skin of Sam and emerging. It's being Sam, the real deal, for the first time.
Sam reaches out, snatches, draws back a fistful of feathers. Castiel hisses, the window panes rattle, Dean stirs with a whimper. As Sam loosens his grip, five long white feathers spiral to the floor. Humanity drips off Castiel until he is almost too big for the room, until it's something huge and unearthly, hunched over like a cornered animal baring its teeth.
It's seen Lucifer in his cage and it's seen Jesus on the cross, and now it's looking at Sam.
"What are you doing?" it says to him.
Sam raises his hands, slow and deliberate, a surrender that's anything but.
"We just need time," he says. "A few days. That's all I'm asking." Sam can't help smiling as he adds, "I promise the world won't end in a few days."
For a long moment, the angel seems frozen. It must be thinking but Sam can't even guess at its thoughts. That requires a certain empathy and empathy requires understanding and how can you understand something that walked the earth before time itself existed?
And then Castiel shrinks back in on himself and Dean's holy tax accountant smiles back at Sam, acknowledging the joke like they're two guys who met at a bar.
"I'm holding you to that promise, Sam."
After Castiel's gone, Sam lets out a slow, shuddering breath. He waits for the room to stop spinning, for his heart to sink back down his throat to his chest. Despite the trauma of facing-off with an angel, Sam is jubilant. His plan survived intact.
While Dean sleeps, Sam packs their stuff. He enjoys packing Dean's stuff, enjoys retrieving the little pieces of evidence from all around the motel room that prove Dean is here and alive. It's entirely possible Sam has gone insane because even discovering a slice of pizza stuck to the back of one of Dean's shirts is ridiculously wonderful.
At last, the only thing left to do is wake Dean. Sam takes Castiel's place on the bed beside Dean, lays his hand on Dean's shoulder over the brand Castiel placed on him, and shakes him gently.
"Hey, Dean, c'mon man, wake up. We gotta go."
Dean blinks awake, knuckles his eyes like a child, and Sam smiles and smiles. He can't help stroking Dean's hair, touching the rumpled imprint the pillow's left on Dean's cheek, letting his fingers move over Dean's face while Dean is still too fogged up with sleep to register the overt affection.
"Wha'sit? What's goin' on?"
Training's got Dean reaching for his gun and getting to his feet before he's even properly conscious and Sam is maybe too hands-on about removing the gun from his grasp and steering him towards the door but Dean takes it. There's something adorable about him when he's still warm from his bed and soft with sleep, entirely trusting Sam's orders to see him right.
Sam gets him out in the Impala and Dean struggles to stay awake, blinking and looking fiercely out the windscreen, but by the time Sam's got them out on the road, Dean's forehead is pressed to the window, his lips parted like he's about to speak and his lashes are dark against his cheeks.
Maybe Sam's kidding himself but he likes to think Dean's sleeping easily beside him. Sam likes to think he has authority over the memory of Hell as much as he does the real thing.
He turns Led Zeppelin on low and drives and drives and drives.
:::
Dean doesn’t wake up until Sam's stopped them at a tiny fill-up joint. It's not quite dawn yet, the sky still heavy and smooth, the colour of ink.
"What the fuck is going on?" he says.
Sam's only answer is to throw the bag of M&Ms he's bought at him.
"Seriously, Sam," Dean says, his hands instinctively already opening the bag, "where are we going?"
Sam grins, leans over to him, and kisses him, hard and fast right on the mouth. The rasp of stubble is an intriguing contrast to the softness of Dean's lips. For the first time, Sam truly believes he has his brother back, and the sudden relief of it is hot and bright.
He sits back sharply in his seat, short of breath and still grinning like an idiot.
"It's a surprise," he says.
:::
"I don't understand," says Dean, after a long moment's consideration.
The beach is pale pink and buttery in the first wash of dawn. The sea is calm, waves steadily roaring and rolling out to the sun-stained horizon. It's a cloudless, warm morning with not another person in sight. Sam couldn't have planned it better himself.
Dean has only taken a few steps from the Impala. He looks confused, just a little unsure.
"I'll explain," Sam promises. "Soon. C'mon, take your boots off."
He props himself up against the car while he clumsily kicks off his sneakers and socks. Tentatively, Dean follows suit, then goes round-eyed when Sam strips off his over-shirt.
"Whoa! Voice of experience here, the sand really does get everywhere. There's no sex worth the bitch of hooking sand outta your crack."
Sam rolls his eyes at him, though the effect is dampened by his inability to stop smiling. With a put-upon glare, Dean obediently removes his jacket and t-shirt, and Sam resists the urge to back him up against the Impala and kiss him again.
Instead, he runs out towards the tide, whooping and hollering and it feels as though the noise has been waiting to break free for months. His feet sink into the sand and the sudden shock of cold seawater over his toes makes him laugh and skitter backwards. The hems of his jeans get soaked and the damp material smacks against his legs. And Sam can't stop laughing.
"Dude, you are so off your meds," Dean says, moving up behind him.
He gives a little sigh and tries to look disapproving but his gaze is drawn to the horizon, where the sun is rising higher into the sky and its reflection is a glowing, yellow-red line across the sea. Fascinated, Sam leans closer, studying the flecks of gold in Dean's eyes. Then Dean's looking straight at him, his lips quirking into a smile despite the frown tugging his brows together.
Sam curls his arm around Dean's waist and brings them together. He takes Dean's face in his hand, fingers and thumb cradling his jaw, and kisses him. Dean leans in to meet his mouth, lips already parted and eyelids heavy. Sam sighs into the kiss and tightens his grip on Dean, but he keeps his eyes open to take in every detail of his brother's face.
Dean's body feels the same as it always has against his - sleek and warm and hard - but it's like learning it new all over again, how it feels and how it moves and how it responds to being touched and held. The pad of his thumb stroking backwards and forwards over the firm line Dean's jaw, Sam licks his way into Dean's mouth, and Dean tilts his face up for him in silent supplication.
There are points of contact all down the length of their bodies - mouth, chest, hips, thighs, even bare toes to bare toes - and it's the first time Sam's felt safe in months. They're moving slowly against each other, a slow lazy rubbing that makes Sam's skin feel alive. They kiss open-mouthed and tender until Sam thinks he might burn away into ash if he doesn't stop, and even then he only presses his lips to Dean's forehead and lets his fingers curl up the nape of Dean's neck into his hair, fingertips pressed tight against Dean's scalp.
"What are we doing?" Dean says, his breath hitched and heavy.
"Savouring the moment," Sam tells him.
:::
They find a diner and Sam pretends to eat some pancakes, drives his loaded fork through the syrup, while he watches Dean devour an ice-cream sundae. Dean's spoon flashes silver in the sunlight, clattering against glass, and there are smears of chocolate and strawberry at the corners of his lips.
"I know nutrition isn't your strong point, but I think you should know ice-cream isn't a breakfast food," he tells Dean.
"You join the food-police or something while I wasn't looking? I don't gotta listen to any authority when it comes to breakfast. If it's on the menu and I wanna eat it, I'm gonna freaking well eat it."
"You're going to be really fat by the time you're fifty," Sam says cheerfully.
Dean's spoon stills and Dean levels him an unimpressed glare.
"I look like I care?"
"Fat and fifty," Sam repeats. "It's gonna be awesome."
:::
They exhaust pretty much every entertainment the small town has to offer by the afternoon and wind up in the nearest bar. It's still bright with sunshine outside but the bar is dim and cool, virtually silent save for the background hum of the local news channel on TV.
Dean trails a hand over the pool table and picks up a stick. He glances at Sam, head cocked to one side.
"Give you a game, college boy?"
There's no real conversation as they play, just the occasional jibe about missed shots and a brief return to the age-old argument of luck versus skill. It's not even a real game, it's just knocking the balls about across the table, and Sam knows he's not the only one deliberately ignoring easy shots in favour of dragging the game out.
As the hours drag on - afternoon passing unnoticed into evening in the static shadows of the bar - a vague thrill of heat charges the game. Sam pointedly watches his brother bend over the table and grins, raising an eyebrow, when Dean sees him; Dean lets his looks linger a little too long on Sam as he lifts his glass of whiskey to his lips.
Making a decision, Sam quickly and efficiently ends the game, one ball sunk after another. Dean stares at the table and blinks. As he passes by, Sam tugs on his belt.
"C'mon, Dean," he says, his voice full of his every filthy intention for the next few hours.
Dean downs the last of his whiskey, slams his glass down, and falls in beside Sam.
:::
They find a motel and the door isn't even properly closed before Sam's on Dean, swinging him first against the wall to kiss him bruisingly, and then flinging him down onto the bed. Dean tastes of whiskey and cotton candy and he laughs throatily as flops onto his back, the mattress squeaking beneath him. His laughter breaks off into soft, happy noises as Sam strips them both and they're just bare skin on bare skin. He spreads his thighs wider for Sam and hooks a leg around him to pull them in tight together.
Sam breaks from the plan for the first time then. He thought he'd worship Dean then, taking his time to get Dean all worked up and ready. He thought he'd suck Dean and finger him open, thought he'd get Dean begging to be fucked.
But it all goes out of his head when Dean arches his hips up into Sam's and says, "Four fucking months in Hell, I'm fucking ready all ready."
And then all Sam can think of is being inside his brother again, and before he knows it there's lube dripping over the sheets as he buries his fingers knuckle-deep in Dean. Dean groans and shifts and Sam wonders if maybe it's too much too soon but then Dean's pushing back, fucking himself in sharp little thrusts on Sam's fingers.
Sam's on his knees, precome and lube slippery fingers digging into Dean's hips as he hauls him up and into his lap, his cock bumping behind his balls and then sliding up into his ass. Dean spreads his legs wider around Sam, sinking deeper onto him. His skin is heated and slick with sweat, and Sam buries his face in the crook of Dean's neck. Dean's palm is flat against the scar on the small of Sam's back and for the first time, Sam lets him touch it, even lets his fingertips rub circles over the gnarled skin.
Dean's ass is hot, wet silk around Sam's cock, gripping him so tight it's painful and perfect. Sam rolls his hips, fucking his cock in deeper, muscles flexing in a smooth pulse while Dean rides him. There's no rhythm to it. They fuck, messy and uncoordinated, both of them too hung up on being wrapped up in each other again to be able to think straight.
It's still infinitely better than anything Sam thought he might ever have again.
:::
Over breakfast the next morning, Dean tries to read the obituaries column in the newspaper. Sam bats it out of his hand without a word and then looks at Dean's heaped plate of breakfast.
"Y'know, I think I can hear your arteries calling for mercy."
"Yeah, but luckily all the cholesterol should shut 'em up," Dean says.
He looks at the abandoned newspaper and then back at Sam.
"So, when are we heading back? I think we got work to do." He leans closer, lowering his voice to a whisper that is as audible and even more attention-grabbing than his usual tone, and says, "We've still got an apocalypse on the schedule, right?"
"Not today," Sam says.
"Sam-"
"Dean!"
The waitress glances over at them again and Sam flips idly through the newspaper while Dean goes back to his breakfast. They pass the rest of their time in the diner in silence.
:::
When Dean realises the directions Sam's been giving him bring them to the largest ball of twine in the state, he shoots Sam a look and growls, "Seriously?"
"It was started in 1956 and now weighs 15,000 pounds," Sam says, reading from the pamphlet.
Dean nods like this is highly interesting and gives Sam a very taut smile.
"Yeah, right, and is it also one of the 66 seals that Lilith's after? 'Cause I'm gonna guess it isn't."
Sam sits silently for a long time. He's out of practice when it comes to handling Dean. He used to have all the tricks and angles figured out, not that they always worked, but he knew what to try. It's a language he hasn't spoken since Dean died, and that's both four months and an eternity.
"You went to Hell, Dean," he says at last. His tone is quiet and calm, but it's as if he's telling Dean something new. "And now you're back. And I spent so long before you died worrying about how to save you that… that sometimes it feels like we never had that last year. And I'm sick of angels and demons and everything else getting in the way of just… having you back."
"The apocalypse isn't gonna wait for us to get reacquainted," Dean says.
"Yes," says Sam. "Yes, it's gonna wait. Just a couple of days."
Dean bows his head, his expression drawn. He draws a breath to speak, but stops as Sam skims his knuckles over his cheek.
"Look," Sam says reasonably, "if I'm the antichrist, the world can't end without me. And if I'm not, then… it's an apocalypse and we're gonna be pretty much useless against something of that size anyway."
Dean makes a choked sound and shakes his head. He's laughing.
"Dude, you being the antichrist is not the best case scenario here."
Sam laughs as well and grips the back of Dean's neck to rest their foreheads together. He shares breath with Dean, feels close enough to hear the beating of his heart.
"Just another few days," Sam says. "One, maybe two, more days. That's all we need."
Being kissed by Dean is a benediction, a ward against all the evil inside of Sam and outside. He kisses Sam and Sam knows he can't end the world, because Dean is in it. It's slow and strangely delicate from Dean and Sam barely dares to breathe.
Then Dean's drawing back, plucking the pamphlet out of Sam's slack hands.
"A ball of twine, huh? Not a huge step up from Hell, buddy, I gotta tell you."
But he climbs out of the car all the same, looking back to make sure Sam's with him.
Sam's with him.
:::
The next day, they visit the Museum of Dolly Parton Memorabilia. It's Dean's choice and Sam threatens him with a visit to a cow house - "Built in the shape of a cow, not built of cows, Dean," Sam says - for the day after.
They argue over what to write on the postcard for Bobby. Dean fights dirty and sucks Sam off then scribbles the message on the card while Sam is still recovering.
The world doesn't end.
~end
Are we nearly there yet?
(Sam/Dean, nc-17, 3400 words)
Sometimes Sam just knows the answer. Sometimes he knows what has to be done. This is one of those times and God help anyone who gets in his way.
He leaves Dean, who's asleep in the blinking golden splash of light of the faulty motel sign just outside the window, sleeping like he's giving in, and drives out along the back roads, into the spiderweb of shadows thrown by the trees and into the moonlight-bright fog.
When he stops, Ruby's there. Her mouth is dark-red, glistening, and it's nothing but a flash of the whites of her eyes that makes her look human.
"Sam, hey," she says. "I didn't think we had anything planned for tonight."
"We don't," he tells her. "Do me a favour, don't be around for the next couple of days. Don't lurk, don't be just around the corner. Don't."
He doesn't need to warn her. He doesn't need to remind her that he'll see her even if he doesn't lay eyes on her. No threats or explanations are necessary. It's all there in the way she looks at him, the faint ripple of her throat as she swallows. She ducks her head and steps back off the road. She's gone altogether by the time Sam starts the Impala up again.
On the way back to the motel, Sam calls Bobby.
"I don't care how many seals Lilith opens in the next couple of days, me and Dean are off the map, okay? I'll get in touch when we're back in it," Sam says.
He's friendly and polite because Bobby's earned that much from him but he's not spending any more time on this than he has to. His plan is staggeringly perfect but it's delicate.
"Sam? Everything okay?"
"It's fine. It's all fine," Sam says. "Like I said, I'll get in touch."
He hangs up before he can hear what Bobby's saying next. He doesn't want to hear it. Sam has to protect his plan, can't let it be damaged by questions and second-guessing.
When he's back at the motel, he sits in the Impala, in the derelict parking lot, his hands spanning the steering wheel and prepares himself. There's a faint thrum of tense excitement just under his skin, jumping between each pulse of his blood. His breath comes out in small, wet shivers.
The motel sign flickers more erratically than before, frantic, blinking gold - or yellow (depending on who you ask) - like Morse code gone awry. It's still dark beyond the window, and still dark in the sky.
Inside, Dean is still asleep and Castiel is on the bed beside him. His gaze turns to Sam as he comes in, as distant and ancient as anything in the yawning black stretch of the universe.
"Your brother dreams of Hell, Sam."
Sam nods, tightens his jaw.
"With all due respect," he says, in a tone that threatens to turn disrespectful as soon as necessary, "please leave my brother and me alone for the next few days."
Castiel is shaking his head before the words are out and Sam feels like a child again, feels like he's begging John to please stop dragging them across states, all the while knowing John will do as he sees fit and not expect Sam to understand, only to obey.
"I can't do that. We don't have time."
"I'm making time," Sam says.
"It can't be done. Lilith is already-"
It's heat and shadow and broken mirrors and razors on the air. It's something shaking off the skin of Sam and emerging. It's being Sam, the real deal, for the first time.
Sam reaches out, snatches, draws back a fistful of feathers. Castiel hisses, the window panes rattle, Dean stirs with a whimper. As Sam loosens his grip, five long white feathers spiral to the floor. Humanity drips off Castiel until he is almost too big for the room, until it's something huge and unearthly, hunched over like a cornered animal baring its teeth.
It's seen Lucifer in his cage and it's seen Jesus on the cross, and now it's looking at Sam.
"What are you doing?" it says to him.
Sam raises his hands, slow and deliberate, a surrender that's anything but.
"We just need time," he says. "A few days. That's all I'm asking." Sam can't help smiling as he adds, "I promise the world won't end in a few days."
For a long moment, the angel seems frozen. It must be thinking but Sam can't even guess at its thoughts. That requires a certain empathy and empathy requires understanding and how can you understand something that walked the earth before time itself existed?
And then Castiel shrinks back in on himself and Dean's holy tax accountant smiles back at Sam, acknowledging the joke like they're two guys who met at a bar.
"I'm holding you to that promise, Sam."
After Castiel's gone, Sam lets out a slow, shuddering breath. He waits for the room to stop spinning, for his heart to sink back down his throat to his chest. Despite the trauma of facing-off with an angel, Sam is jubilant. His plan survived intact.
While Dean sleeps, Sam packs their stuff. He enjoys packing Dean's stuff, enjoys retrieving the little pieces of evidence from all around the motel room that prove Dean is here and alive. It's entirely possible Sam has gone insane because even discovering a slice of pizza stuck to the back of one of Dean's shirts is ridiculously wonderful.
At last, the only thing left to do is wake Dean. Sam takes Castiel's place on the bed beside Dean, lays his hand on Dean's shoulder over the brand Castiel placed on him, and shakes him gently.
"Hey, Dean, c'mon man, wake up. We gotta go."
Dean blinks awake, knuckles his eyes like a child, and Sam smiles and smiles. He can't help stroking Dean's hair, touching the rumpled imprint the pillow's left on Dean's cheek, letting his fingers move over Dean's face while Dean is still too fogged up with sleep to register the overt affection.
"Wha'sit? What's goin' on?"
Training's got Dean reaching for his gun and getting to his feet before he's even properly conscious and Sam is maybe too hands-on about removing the gun from his grasp and steering him towards the door but Dean takes it. There's something adorable about him when he's still warm from his bed and soft with sleep, entirely trusting Sam's orders to see him right.
Sam gets him out in the Impala and Dean struggles to stay awake, blinking and looking fiercely out the windscreen, but by the time Sam's got them out on the road, Dean's forehead is pressed to the window, his lips parted like he's about to speak and his lashes are dark against his cheeks.
Maybe Sam's kidding himself but he likes to think Dean's sleeping easily beside him. Sam likes to think he has authority over the memory of Hell as much as he does the real thing.
He turns Led Zeppelin on low and drives and drives and drives.
:::
Dean doesn’t wake up until Sam's stopped them at a tiny fill-up joint. It's not quite dawn yet, the sky still heavy and smooth, the colour of ink.
"What the fuck is going on?" he says.
Sam's only answer is to throw the bag of M&Ms he's bought at him.
"Seriously, Sam," Dean says, his hands instinctively already opening the bag, "where are we going?"
Sam grins, leans over to him, and kisses him, hard and fast right on the mouth. The rasp of stubble is an intriguing contrast to the softness of Dean's lips. For the first time, Sam truly believes he has his brother back, and the sudden relief of it is hot and bright.
He sits back sharply in his seat, short of breath and still grinning like an idiot.
"It's a surprise," he says.
:::
"I don't understand," says Dean, after a long moment's consideration.
The beach is pale pink and buttery in the first wash of dawn. The sea is calm, waves steadily roaring and rolling out to the sun-stained horizon. It's a cloudless, warm morning with not another person in sight. Sam couldn't have planned it better himself.
Dean has only taken a few steps from the Impala. He looks confused, just a little unsure.
"I'll explain," Sam promises. "Soon. C'mon, take your boots off."
He props himself up against the car while he clumsily kicks off his sneakers and socks. Tentatively, Dean follows suit, then goes round-eyed when Sam strips off his over-shirt.
"Whoa! Voice of experience here, the sand really does get everywhere. There's no sex worth the bitch of hooking sand outta your crack."
Sam rolls his eyes at him, though the effect is dampened by his inability to stop smiling. With a put-upon glare, Dean obediently removes his jacket and t-shirt, and Sam resists the urge to back him up against the Impala and kiss him again.
Instead, he runs out towards the tide, whooping and hollering and it feels as though the noise has been waiting to break free for months. His feet sink into the sand and the sudden shock of cold seawater over his toes makes him laugh and skitter backwards. The hems of his jeans get soaked and the damp material smacks against his legs. And Sam can't stop laughing.
"Dude, you are so off your meds," Dean says, moving up behind him.
He gives a little sigh and tries to look disapproving but his gaze is drawn to the horizon, where the sun is rising higher into the sky and its reflection is a glowing, yellow-red line across the sea. Fascinated, Sam leans closer, studying the flecks of gold in Dean's eyes. Then Dean's looking straight at him, his lips quirking into a smile despite the frown tugging his brows together.
Sam curls his arm around Dean's waist and brings them together. He takes Dean's face in his hand, fingers and thumb cradling his jaw, and kisses him. Dean leans in to meet his mouth, lips already parted and eyelids heavy. Sam sighs into the kiss and tightens his grip on Dean, but he keeps his eyes open to take in every detail of his brother's face.
Dean's body feels the same as it always has against his - sleek and warm and hard - but it's like learning it new all over again, how it feels and how it moves and how it responds to being touched and held. The pad of his thumb stroking backwards and forwards over the firm line Dean's jaw, Sam licks his way into Dean's mouth, and Dean tilts his face up for him in silent supplication.
There are points of contact all down the length of their bodies - mouth, chest, hips, thighs, even bare toes to bare toes - and it's the first time Sam's felt safe in months. They're moving slowly against each other, a slow lazy rubbing that makes Sam's skin feel alive. They kiss open-mouthed and tender until Sam thinks he might burn away into ash if he doesn't stop, and even then he only presses his lips to Dean's forehead and lets his fingers curl up the nape of Dean's neck into his hair, fingertips pressed tight against Dean's scalp.
"What are we doing?" Dean says, his breath hitched and heavy.
"Savouring the moment," Sam tells him.
:::
They find a diner and Sam pretends to eat some pancakes, drives his loaded fork through the syrup, while he watches Dean devour an ice-cream sundae. Dean's spoon flashes silver in the sunlight, clattering against glass, and there are smears of chocolate and strawberry at the corners of his lips.
"I know nutrition isn't your strong point, but I think you should know ice-cream isn't a breakfast food," he tells Dean.
"You join the food-police or something while I wasn't looking? I don't gotta listen to any authority when it comes to breakfast. If it's on the menu and I wanna eat it, I'm gonna freaking well eat it."
"You're going to be really fat by the time you're fifty," Sam says cheerfully.
Dean's spoon stills and Dean levels him an unimpressed glare.
"I look like I care?"
"Fat and fifty," Sam repeats. "It's gonna be awesome."
:::
They exhaust pretty much every entertainment the small town has to offer by the afternoon and wind up in the nearest bar. It's still bright with sunshine outside but the bar is dim and cool, virtually silent save for the background hum of the local news channel on TV.
Dean trails a hand over the pool table and picks up a stick. He glances at Sam, head cocked to one side.
"Give you a game, college boy?"
There's no real conversation as they play, just the occasional jibe about missed shots and a brief return to the age-old argument of luck versus skill. It's not even a real game, it's just knocking the balls about across the table, and Sam knows he's not the only one deliberately ignoring easy shots in favour of dragging the game out.
As the hours drag on - afternoon passing unnoticed into evening in the static shadows of the bar - a vague thrill of heat charges the game. Sam pointedly watches his brother bend over the table and grins, raising an eyebrow, when Dean sees him; Dean lets his looks linger a little too long on Sam as he lifts his glass of whiskey to his lips.
Making a decision, Sam quickly and efficiently ends the game, one ball sunk after another. Dean stares at the table and blinks. As he passes by, Sam tugs on his belt.
"C'mon, Dean," he says, his voice full of his every filthy intention for the next few hours.
Dean downs the last of his whiskey, slams his glass down, and falls in beside Sam.
:::
They find a motel and the door isn't even properly closed before Sam's on Dean, swinging him first against the wall to kiss him bruisingly, and then flinging him down onto the bed. Dean tastes of whiskey and cotton candy and he laughs throatily as flops onto his back, the mattress squeaking beneath him. His laughter breaks off into soft, happy noises as Sam strips them both and they're just bare skin on bare skin. He spreads his thighs wider for Sam and hooks a leg around him to pull them in tight together.
Sam breaks from the plan for the first time then. He thought he'd worship Dean then, taking his time to get Dean all worked up and ready. He thought he'd suck Dean and finger him open, thought he'd get Dean begging to be fucked.
But it all goes out of his head when Dean arches his hips up into Sam's and says, "Four fucking months in Hell, I'm fucking ready all ready."
And then all Sam can think of is being inside his brother again, and before he knows it there's lube dripping over the sheets as he buries his fingers knuckle-deep in Dean. Dean groans and shifts and Sam wonders if maybe it's too much too soon but then Dean's pushing back, fucking himself in sharp little thrusts on Sam's fingers.
Sam's on his knees, precome and lube slippery fingers digging into Dean's hips as he hauls him up and into his lap, his cock bumping behind his balls and then sliding up into his ass. Dean spreads his legs wider around Sam, sinking deeper onto him. His skin is heated and slick with sweat, and Sam buries his face in the crook of Dean's neck. Dean's palm is flat against the scar on the small of Sam's back and for the first time, Sam lets him touch it, even lets his fingertips rub circles over the gnarled skin.
Dean's ass is hot, wet silk around Sam's cock, gripping him so tight it's painful and perfect. Sam rolls his hips, fucking his cock in deeper, muscles flexing in a smooth pulse while Dean rides him. There's no rhythm to it. They fuck, messy and uncoordinated, both of them too hung up on being wrapped up in each other again to be able to think straight.
It's still infinitely better than anything Sam thought he might ever have again.
:::
Over breakfast the next morning, Dean tries to read the obituaries column in the newspaper. Sam bats it out of his hand without a word and then looks at Dean's heaped plate of breakfast.
"Y'know, I think I can hear your arteries calling for mercy."
"Yeah, but luckily all the cholesterol should shut 'em up," Dean says.
He looks at the abandoned newspaper and then back at Sam.
"So, when are we heading back? I think we got work to do." He leans closer, lowering his voice to a whisper that is as audible and even more attention-grabbing than his usual tone, and says, "We've still got an apocalypse on the schedule, right?"
"Not today," Sam says.
"Sam-"
"Dean!"
The waitress glances over at them again and Sam flips idly through the newspaper while Dean goes back to his breakfast. They pass the rest of their time in the diner in silence.
:::
When Dean realises the directions Sam's been giving him bring them to the largest ball of twine in the state, he shoots Sam a look and growls, "Seriously?"
"It was started in 1956 and now weighs 15,000 pounds," Sam says, reading from the pamphlet.
Dean nods like this is highly interesting and gives Sam a very taut smile.
"Yeah, right, and is it also one of the 66 seals that Lilith's after? 'Cause I'm gonna guess it isn't."
Sam sits silently for a long time. He's out of practice when it comes to handling Dean. He used to have all the tricks and angles figured out, not that they always worked, but he knew what to try. It's a language he hasn't spoken since Dean died, and that's both four months and an eternity.
"You went to Hell, Dean," he says at last. His tone is quiet and calm, but it's as if he's telling Dean something new. "And now you're back. And I spent so long before you died worrying about how to save you that… that sometimes it feels like we never had that last year. And I'm sick of angels and demons and everything else getting in the way of just… having you back."
"The apocalypse isn't gonna wait for us to get reacquainted," Dean says.
"Yes," says Sam. "Yes, it's gonna wait. Just a couple of days."
Dean bows his head, his expression drawn. He draws a breath to speak, but stops as Sam skims his knuckles over his cheek.
"Look," Sam says reasonably, "if I'm the antichrist, the world can't end without me. And if I'm not, then… it's an apocalypse and we're gonna be pretty much useless against something of that size anyway."
Dean makes a choked sound and shakes his head. He's laughing.
"Dude, you being the antichrist is not the best case scenario here."
Sam laughs as well and grips the back of Dean's neck to rest their foreheads together. He shares breath with Dean, feels close enough to hear the beating of his heart.
"Just another few days," Sam says. "One, maybe two, more days. That's all we need."
Being kissed by Dean is a benediction, a ward against all the evil inside of Sam and outside. He kisses Sam and Sam knows he can't end the world, because Dean is in it. It's slow and strangely delicate from Dean and Sam barely dares to breathe.
Then Dean's drawing back, plucking the pamphlet out of Sam's slack hands.
"A ball of twine, huh? Not a huge step up from Hell, buddy, I gotta tell you."
But he climbs out of the car all the same, looking back to make sure Sam's with him.
Sam's with him.
:::
The next day, they visit the Museum of Dolly Parton Memorabilia. It's Dean's choice and Sam threatens him with a visit to a cow house - "Built in the shape of a cow, not built of cows, Dean," Sam says - for the day after.
They argue over what to write on the postcard for Bobby. Dean fights dirty and sucks Sam off then scribbles the message on the card while Sam is still recovering.
The world doesn't end.
~end