Fic: 'it’s not the years, honey, it’s the mileage' (Sam/Dean; NC-17)
Title: it’s not the years, honey, it’s the mileage
Author: Ignited
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,115
Spoilers: General S3, future!fic
Warnings: Sexual content and language.
Summary: Nearly twenty years later and they’re men now, with real jobs, real kickass jobs, greying hair, and yep, they’re totally mature now. ‘Cept where Dean’s rockin’ the Indiana Jones flair as a film professor (glasses included) and Sam’s in artifact acquisitions these days.
Author’s Notes: A million thanks to regala_electra for her beta magic and for further inspiration!
-
It’s a few weeks before Dean’s forty-seventh birthday when he realizes how much he’s let himself go.
“Jesus Christ. I can’t look. Take it off my hands, Sammy. Hell, put me out of my misery.”
Sam hums. “It’s your fault and yours alone.”
“You’re a saint.”
Dean shoves the stack of papers away, watches them flutter down off the desk as he takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Yeah, well, next time I get the idea to give ‘em a ten page paper on remakes, shoot me.”
Sam doesn’t look up from the book on his lap, takes a sip from his bottle of beer. Dean crumples a sheet of paper into a ball and throws it at Sam’s head. Sam scowls in response and ends up throwing a pillow back, missing Dean by a few inches.
“Do I have to whale on ya like the ’09 fight in Tuscaloosa, Sammy?” Dean asks. “You had bruises for like, a month.”
“That’s still not funny, Dean,” Sam grumbles, all indignant.
Dean, chuckles, responds, “Yeah, it is. Only you’d wind up lookin’ so beat down that everyone would stop you and ask what happened and man, you couldn’t even fake a good lie. Good thing the sons of bitches we hunt don’t know pillows are the sure thing that’ll kick your ass.”
-
It’s not so much a question of letting go as it is letting it get to this, because Dean’s scrubbing a hand through his hair in front of forty college students, and he’s, you know, actually teaching them instead of giving a report on how his summer vacation went.
Roadtrip with my dad and little brother. Saw a ball of twine and a couple-a cows. Killed a lot of nasty sons of bitches.
Got laid-
Letting it get to being a civilian, this, that one hunt changes the whole deal: they lucked into a leprechaun’s magical and totally not cursed hoard in Pennsyl-freakin’-vania.
So Sam invests wisely, some dummy corporation and a lot of legal mumbo jumbo Dean doesn’t care about, even if Sam asks him for signatures, for info-Dean shrugs it off, says, “Dude, we got a pot of gold. We got his lucky charms!”
Yeah, that joke’s only funny just so many times. Doesn’t stop Dean from saying it whenever he can though. Hell, he’d say it every morning but he’s usually barely able to get out where’s the coffee? at that hour.
It leads them to this, a decent set-up, enough money to clear their names, get their ‘records’, bodies of (impressive) work straightened out. Calm down for a while. Getting older, less cases, that one time holed up in this house here, the other time they’re in that hospital for two weeks there, good times getting muddled up with the bad.
(Sam’s jaw is rigid, face gets tight, focused, strands of silver creeping in at his temples before he hits thirty-five.)
It leads to Dean becoming ‘Professor Winchester’, works at NYU, film department, and the kicker, what’s got him staying: he’s teaching a genre film class on horror.
Yeah, it’s pretty much the greatest job ever. They pay him to watch movies and to tell people to watch these movies, like, all the time.
So he’s in his forties, and Sammy’s okay, they’re not dead yet, and he gets to watch all the horror films he can want, been teaching this type of class for the past three semesters.
And he gets freaking paid, too.
Money, man, money he doesn’t have to get by lying and cheating. Sure, sometimes he’ll do it for a weekend, gotta stay sharp.
But a pot of gold and a guaranteed income, hell, if normal life wasn’t so freakin’ whatever, he’d almost understand why people want to ignore what goes bump in the dark. Dean can’t though, doesn’t want to, because hunting’s wired into his bones and blood, something that’ll never get stamped out, no matter how old his body gets.
“Now, next time we’re going to talk about remakes and why Nicolas Cage should just stick to Elvis and not touch a classic like The Wicker Man. No one can top Christopher Lee.”
Dean starts shoving his papers and folders into his leather bag, angles it back, keeps the flask of holy water inside from view.
He looks up with a smile, says, “Yeah, I know he was in Lord of the Rings but Dracula. Christopher Lee as Dracula. End of story. Papers are due by next class-I want them on my desk when you come in.”
-
If you’re gonna do it, go all the way, then you gotta do it right.
So goes Dean’s reasoning and Sam lets himself scowl in private because Dean’s grinning as he says it, and two years later, they’re doing it ‘right.’
Sam’s got a position at the Morgan Library & Museum and they’ve just moved into some brownstone Dean complains about whenever Sam’s foolish enough to listen to him. Says it’s too swanky, despite the peeling paint and never-ending renovations that Dean not so secretly enjoys doing on slow weekends.
The house is full of boxes and crates; moving’s not as easy as it used to be with two duffels and a bag of weapons.
It makes Sam realize how old they really are getting, all the clutter that they’ve picked up over the years. No matter how many things he might have scanned, how many compact zip drives he might pick up, sometimes the old ways are the best ways.
He decides to pick up Dean after class on a Friday, and this is doing it right: Dean, wearing a suit, rumpled shirt and solid tie-Sam doesn’t allow Dean to buy the ties after he tried to walk out of the house wearing a red-and-black vampire smiley face tie that Dean claimed was totally just for that one time intro to vampire movies-wire-rimmed glasses on the tip of his nose.
It’s the doe-eyed students in front staring at the way Dean scrubs a hand through his greying hair, nervous, that makes Sam snort. They’re like a herd ready to stampede if Dean dares to turn around and flash that smile, burning tinge, come here and fuck me read in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, in the laughter lines near his mouth.
He’s pulling out all the stops when it comes to rumpled professor affectation, rule of thumb being one Indiana Jones, and if that isn’t funny enough, Dean swore he saw a girl with ‘I love you’ painted on her “friggin’ eyelids. That was like, the lamest part of the movie, too.”
(Doesn’t need to bring up the female students, last time Dean’s look, half-lidded, glasses in desperate need to be pushed up the bridge of his nose as he’d said, “Dude, shut the fuck up. You know there’s only one person getting fucked by me in that classroom and that’s you.”)
Sam awkwardly slips into a chair at the back of the class as Dean skips a scene ahead on the DVD of The Exorcist. It’s a good thing he’s not worrying too much about how small the chair is, the slim-cut of his suit tight as he fidgets. Because that’s when Dean pauses the DVD, colored projection lights eerie as they catch the angles on his face, make him look younger-could almost mistake him for still being in his twenties-and he starts talking about exorcism technique. Real exorcism technique, with a brazen reference to Hell Hazers II and getting things right.
Sam stretches and once Dean’s gaze finds him, Dean grins. His smile fades when Sam shakes his head, mouthing a little too emphatically no.
“Uh. Okay, class, that’s enough for today.”
When the students are filing out, girls and guys throwing Dean flirty looks, which Dean notices but he’s careful enough to ignore-for all of Dean’s Dean-ness, he holds true to one thing, and that’s never screwing around with his students. Dean claps Sam on the shoulder in greeting.
“Dude. That’s like, the third time I’ve caught you,” Sam says, hands in his jacket pockets waving out.
“A little extracurricular knowledge isn’t gonna hurt anybody.”
“And when they start shouting Christo in public to check if somebody’s possessed won’t?”
“Hey. Now that’s just disturbance of the peace,” Dean responds, hikes the strap to his leather bag on his shoulder. “That’s outta my jurisdiction.”
“Sure,” Sam responds as they leave the classroom. Outside, there’s older buildings, ivy twisting around the facades and wrought iron, remnants of old New York aristocracy. It’s still urban and cluttered though, hugging Washington Square Park with all the little cafés and bars eager to strip students of their (parents’) hard-earned cash, as if the school isn’t already milking out enough of it. The students are milling about on the sidewalks in the pale afternoon, Sam adding, “Whatever lets you sleep better at night.”
“It sure as hell isn’t you. You’re a goddamn furnace.”
“Shut up.”
And that’s the good thing about New York, the way no one bats an eye-not like they advertise the whole brothers thing which has led to many interesting conversations in the midst of crowds, Dean wondering out loud about supplies. Not weapons or anything like that-more like lube, and whether or not Sam has any interest in leather cuffs or if they should just stick to handcuffs.
You know, things like that.
Sam’s learned to go with the flow about that as apparently it takes him only a couple of years to get used to Dean’s naturally perverse way of talking.
“You sure you’re not going through menopause? Hot flashes?”
“I’m not a woman, Dean.”
Dean shrugs as he nears the driver’s side of the Impala. “Been a couple of hours since I last checked.”
-
Off-campus, Dean wears the same clothing he always has-t-shirts, ripped jeans, boots, that banged-up leather jacket he’s kept for going on twenty years. Doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard-he looks the same as he always has, few more lines on his face, battle scars, reasonably fit despite the food he shoves into his mouth from diners and sidewalk carts when he’s not in class.
The funny thing is that he’s got this hat now, a battered old fedora tipped on his head when they’re out for drinks. A hat he reminds Sam-for the third time-that Harrison Ford ‘gave’ it to him.
“‘Gave’ meaning you stole it.”
Dean scowls. The beer bottle tips and he rights it with one hand. “I got it off this nerdy kid, Shaye or somethin’.”
Sam starts digging for his wallet, ignores that his jeans have gotten a little tighter, just means he needs new jeans, that’s all. Or that Dean’s overdone the drying during his turn to do laundry once again. “Oscar-award winner Shia LaBeouf, Dean.”
Dean nods, though whether it’s in response or because he can’t control his neck muscles with all the alcohol, Sam isn’t sure. “Man, I still can't believe they didn't give it to him for Transformers 3. Transformers 4 was such an Oscar grab. All that freakin’ crying. Real men? Real men don’t cry like that. Fuckin’ single tear bullshit.”
Sam doesn’t argue the point here, not when they’re soon staggering out of the bar, and it’s been a while since they’ve done this, hanging onto each other like a couple of teenagers, sloppy kisses and wandering hands.
Sam flags down a taxi-ultimate sin, this, though Dean can’t stand the traffic and doesn’t drive the Impala around here and there for fear of getting her scratched up-and tucks Dean’s head down and into the car when it arrives.
Dean’s spread eagled and drooling on the backseat, and Sam’s getting hard at that. It’s worse when he squeezes in, Dean kicking his legs over Sam’s, blindly grabs for Sam’s dick. Even now, Dean can be completely wasted and he doesn’t miss.
Sam chokes out their address, praying that he doesn’t come all over-fuck, just don’t come, a constant mantra in his head until they get back to the house.
Huh. Maybe he is getting old.
-
Things change and things stay the same.
They’re getting older, some scars, new pains, and they’ve got day jobs.
They still hunt.
Sam’s in acquisitions, artifacts, trips he uses for work, for research, mind chock full of that kind of stuff ever since the Year, the one year deal. Dean though, he doesn’t travel off to who knows where; doesn’t step on a plane when he’s fine with his teaching job, when he’s got an office that he shares with some crazy hippie that’s never there.
That’s what weekends are for, tearing up asphalt and taking his beautiful car for a much needed spin. Getting familiar with the countryside of Upstate-New Yorkers tend to capitalize it, why, Dean doesn’t really know-and beyond that, the New England area, further up, then Canada, too.
After all, what’s the point of summer vacations and winter breaks if he can’t keep on moving? Yeah, he might be a little more static these days, but he doesn’t want to slow down. Keep moving; keeps his body from breaking down. Apparently you get tossed into enough walls and it tends to make you slow down, but not all the way.
It’s fine, what he’s got. Got a desk where he lays out maps and scrolls, and Sam, tanned flesh against the oak, legs and arms hang over the sides, Dean’s tongue along the underside-
They still hunt and Dean doesn’t take to domesticity fully-can’t deal with furniture, with the sense of permanence that threatens to settle in just as firm as the grey now in his hair, won’t go away, won’t make it go away.
Sometimes, when they’re dragging shit out of the car’s trunk, and they fall onto the couches, dead to the world, breathy sighs of man, did you see that? and you shot it, fucking got the bastard, Dean completely at ease with it all. Couldn’t ask for more in the world.
But he would ask for more, yeah, now, like getting one fucking decent beer in all of Manhattan or to not have a staff meeting on Friday. Friday, Jesus Christ, and people-Sam-wonder why he high-tailed it out of public education the moment Dad let him.
That too, the whole lack of education part-it’s another fine thing that Sammy fixed all up. Fake a few things, get yourself a fake diploma, and hell, just show up lookin’ pretty and someone’ll let you through the door.
Sam’s told him repeatedly, it shouldn’t be this easy, but Dean doesn’t look a gift horse in the friggin’ mouth.
He appreciates the long moments where they’re just reading, cleaning guns, Sam squinting at his reports, denies all he wants that he needs glasses, hypocrite. Long moments, like this, last remnants of laughter fades away and the aches start settling in, leading Dean to ask if Sam wants the ice pack or if it’ll be the heat. It’s not like he’s gonna get either one, though, ‘cause next he’ll be offering poor Sammy a nice cup of lavender tea or some shit like that.
Maybe even a back rub and some ice cream for all his troubles, Jesus.
Dean asks Sam to give him a beer, gets Sam flipping him the bird in response. Dean whines that he might’ve pulled something, which leads Sam to say Dean should masturbate less, makes Dean forget about the beer ‘cause he’s too busy laughing.
-
There are other times, too, when it’s got benefits.
Benefits like this, with Sam promising a few textbooks he’d found on the latest batch of films Dean was readying for class, theme being demonic children rebelling against their parents as a motif. Not familiar at all, Dean had deadpanned.
Funny ha ha, replied Sam, and he tugs at Dean’s balls now, noses his belly, manages to hit his elbow with the desk at the same time. Sucks in, a breath, hollows his cheeks as he moves faster, different rhythm, lips around Dean’s cock.
Dean didn’t bother taking his glasses off, clothes off, just has Sam, there, big fuckin’ desk that he squats under, barely, can’t fit at all, ass wiggles and his back hits the desk edge.
He switches up faster, Dean’s hand crumpling the only thing nearby, a paper ball, and he’s grateful he forgot where he put the friggin’ letter opener instead. Not that he’s got a Norman Bates thing going on but he can’t fucking concentrate.
This, this isn’t work, this being sucked off by his brother, who doesn’t gag, the fucker. He goes for it, full, deep throat, does something wicked to the head of Dean’s dick with his tongue.
Sam puffs air, too, hums on the head and Dean’s over with, slack in his chair, Sam wiping the come off the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
Dean pats Sam on the shoulder. “Good job, Monica.”
He starts laughing, weak and tired, chest tight, Sam pursing his lips.
“That’s not funny, Dean,” Sam says for the millionth time as he grabs Dean’s knees and pushes him back in the desk chair, adding, “Don’t make fun of former First Man Clinton.”
“You’d rock the blue dress, dude. Hey, remember that time-”
“Remember the time I almost zippered your dick off?”
Dean’s shoulders go up when he scowls. He resists cupping his dick, checking to make sure it’s safe. “Okay, see, that’s not funny.”
-
New York City’s a sprawling town, twisting and dark, always has been and always will be. They hunt when they’re not in meetings, when Sam isn’t away messing with artifacts, when Dean isn’t charming his way into early screenings for the latest slasher flick.
There’s the urban myths like alligators in the sewers and too many places where the dead don’t rest, sewers, subway tunnels. Bridges decades old, mansions that’re now museums, churches with high steeples and elaborate stained glass. A million stories that keep on chugging along as more and more people come in, and the ghosts and monsters follow along, as they always seem to do.
Tonight, they’re in the Metropolitan Museum of Art with ghosts running amok in the weapons section, a place Dean’d spent a good half-hour in (he’s never had the patience for standing around and staring at things he couldn’t touch, he’s told Sam, only one exception, and that’s when Dean stopped talking and smacked Sam hard on the thigh, saying to Sam, ‘Cause you see, I get to touch you. Later.).
Dean’s face is pale in the dark, few lights from the high arching windows in the front lobby, pale tile and shadows cast everything into monochrome. They’re near one of the visitor’s desks when it happens, when Dean goes flying into a wall, hard, down for the count.
Sam shoots the ghost full of rock salt with one hand, a wisp of an uptown gentleman in an ancient tuxedo and ragged top hat that fades away.
Dean though, Dean shoves Sam’s hands away and gets up. He winces.
Sam licks his lips, surprised that they’re dry, how his throat feels tight. It was a bad toss, but not that bad. “Did you break your hip?”
He reasons it’s a valid question when all these years later, these kinds of things happen. It’s only made easier when you’ve got a steady home to rest up in.
“What?” Dean flexes his foot tentatively, biting down a muttered fuck. He grouchily answers, “No.”
“Good, ‘cause you still have to finish out the rest of the semester.” Dean swats away Sam’s hands from touching his injured side. Sam blows out an exasperated breath, has to say, “Guess you’ll be stuck hobbling around for the next couple of weeks.”
“Sam, you know my classes have found my cast and crutches adorable.”
“Yeah, they would have. You were too hopped up on painkillers to give ‘em homework then,” Sam says and slings Dean’s arm around his shoulder, sliding a hand around his waist. “C’mon. It’s a school night.”
When they get to the brownstone, the stairs are slick with rain, treacherous.
“I can carry you?” Sam suggests, corners of his mouth twitching.
Dean groans. “I’m not havin’ you carry me over the goddamn threshold.”
Sam doesn’t, but it’s not like he’d be able to lift Dean anyway.
-
It’s been going on twenty years together, still learn something new every day.
New, being Dean trying to bend Sam over into an impossible position, clothes and shoes and suit jackets strewn among low stacks of books everywhere on hardwood floors.
Now, Sam is the one groaning, shakes his hair out of his eyes (needs to cut it, looks like a little boy again), grousing, “We’re too old for this, Dean.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Dean grits out, holds Sam’s hipbones and turns him over, pushes his legs up, up, over Dean’s shoulders, breathing heavy. Dean wriggles a little, jostles for a better position. “Takin’ my fucking time, Sam. You’re not going off early again.”
My point, Sam’s saying by way of lifting his eyebrows, can’t talk, eyes snap shut when Dean wraps a hand around his cock.
He fists him a little too fast, liar, edge of something fierce before he makes good on his promise, Sam biting out, “Okay, I’m not old enough for that.”
Dean presses a little too hard, does something wonderful to Sam’s balls so Sam bolts up, hard wood on his elbows.
“Fucking-”
“Gonna do that in a minute, Sam,” Dean says, hooks his arms around Sam’s knees and lowers his face, Sam’s name mumbled against Sam’s mouth, tip of his tongue on the bridge of Sam’s mouth, runs along the edge of his teeth. Seals him off with a kiss, Sam moaning in Dean’s mouth, asking when it’s gonna happen.
But Dean’s already licking his fingers, hair sticking up every which way when he ducks his head and reaches, strains; he grunts and mumbles a “fuck,” windmilling his arm around before fingertips prod the discarded bottle of lube into his hand.
Sam pants, breathing in short gasps, shoulders hunched as his calves slide off Dean’s shoulders, Dean grousing as he’s slicking his fingers up, says, “Gimme a fucking minute, why don’t you.”
“Hurry the fuck up,” Sam says, wriggles his hips-knows he’s being too fucking eager but there’s only so much space before they crash into that stack of books he’s set, alphabetically, and he’s not one for come stains in the margins of demonic texts, thanks.
“Can’t rush perfection.”
Sam rolls his eyes, rolls his shoulder muscle as he turns and Dean’s still grumbling behind him, like, what the fuck’s taking so long, ready to guide his freaking hand when Dean’s fingers slide in, one, then two. Sam’s back arches up, slack muscles go stiff.
Two fingers and he’s teasing Sam, draws it out still before his dick pushes in, tight, slides in and out with sweaty hands clasping on Sam’s hips, hold on, fingertips dig in. Sam though, groans, hair in his eyes and the hard wood under his knees, and Dean’s hands hurt. But the pressure eases up when one hand pulls away, goes under and he starts to jerk Sam off, pushes in further and says, exhales, “Like that, Sammy?”
“Fuck, Dean, just-oh, just like that-”
Sam pushes towards him in response, slow, and sees a smile, Dean in the dark, grinning, shadows play along the lines near his mouth. Sam moans, orgasm shooting through him, out, blows his load on Dean’s hand. Dean’s thrusting, little slower, a type of drawn out madness as he switches up, sticky hand grips Sam’s hip, other drags fingertips up Sam’s thigh and slaps an ass cheek, the fuck-
Dean groans and comes, fast, muscles go slack like he’s a dead weight, this shit eating grin on his face later, after he’s pulled out of Sam, grumbling about Sam’s arm that’s thrown over his waist.
“’m tired,” Dean mumbles, fussy expression Sam spies between sweaty bangs clinging to his temples, eyes. “I’m not cleanin’ this shit up.”
“Wasn’t gonna ask for another round,” Sam says, tries to, coherently, adds, “I’m the one gettin’ fucked here, Dean.”
“Gotta get my kicks in where I can,” Dean responds, whaps the back of his hand against Sam’s back when Sam pinches his side. “Fuck.”
-
Sam shouldn’t listen to Dean when he gets like this. I have an even better plan. Gonna make you come so hard, you’re gonna see stars for real.
It doesn’t make sense after all-they’ve been tied up so much in the normal course of their nonpaying job, why would either of them want this, getting tied up for kicks, or as Dean puts it, kinks?
Still, Dean says fair’s fair, and Sam knows why Dean insisted when they upgraded their bed why he wanted the headboard with the metal slats. Knows when he tips his head back to watch as Dean finishes a knot, using one of Sam’s better quality ties, and fuck, Dean’s not giving him much room to move.
“Point of the thing is to see how long you can hold off,” Dean says, can’t help the trace of professor in his voice, now, how he cants his head, questioning. “You know, we’re living in freakin’ New York, so why haven’t we bought cock rings, dude?”
“Um,” Sam tries to think words and nearly fails completely, before struggling out, “We don’t need them?”
Dean sits on top of Sam, ass nearly down over Sam’s cock before he moves back up, checking the knots again, then biting down on Sam’s shoulder, which damn it, did it too hard on purpose. “Careful, Sammy, I’ve got a lot of ties and I’m debatin’ about your mouth or your eyes.”
Sam’s quiet for a moment, then blurts out, “I thought the debate’s usually about my mouth or my cock.”
Dean’s smile is bright and scary. “Guilty as sin.”
-
“You ever wish you’d settled down, had a wife and a couple of kids?”
“You ever wish I wasn’t around?”
Sam’s voice is worn, dry, hot breath on the back of Dean’s shoulder blade, thigh pressing between Dean’s ass and the back of his legs.
Dean doesn’t answer.
He closes his eyes and falls into a dead sleep.
-
Dean gets up in the middle of the night to take a shower, to wash the stink and stick off of him, look at the new bruises all over his body with detached interest.
They’ve gotten good at making sure they can hide everything under their shirts, jackets. Ties are a good idea too but Dean still hates the feel of collars, loosening them up every chance he gets. Sometimes it’ll give his students an eyeful into his sex life that he’d like to keep to himself, ‘cept he kinda doesn’t.
It’s a good thing Sam sleeps like the fucking (un)dead, because he’s got something to say before he rolls back into bed-shared bed, goddamn huge fucking sacrifice on his part, because there’s no point in having heating when you’re sharing a bed with Sam. Even the edges of the mattress are nearly boiling when his giant body’s sprawled over the tangled sheets.
“Fuckin’ idiot,” Dean says, softly, sees how the dim light catches Sam’s skin, even though his vision of Sam is blurry, glasses neatly folded on the bedside table. “Like there’s anything out there better than you.”
Dean makes up for saying it by smacking Sam on the ass when he tumbles into bed, leading Sam to raise his head, mutter something about I don’t want seaweed before crashing back to sleep.
-
Morning means there’s no freaking food in the house and Sam threatening to call a plumber because the sink’s fucked up and Dean’s got work.
Sam rolls onto his back and stares up under a curtain of sweaty bangs. “Is that a clip on?”
Dean fixes his tie, yeah, bow tie, but he’s rocking it so he doesn’t look like an asshole. “Dude, we used the last clean ties last night. I’m not wearing spunk ties.”
“Whatever you say, Indy.”
He grins at Sam’s reflection in the mirror. “If you get me some coffee, I’ll try my whip out on ya later.”
It’s funny, ‘cause the best thing about doing what they do? He totally does have a whip now, the kind that was made by a real expert, who grilled Dean nonstop about whether he planned to use it for any fetish purposes. And hey, Dean was initially honest about it. After all, it doesn’t just look cool, but when you’re fighting against zombie ninjas, sometimes you need more than just your gun.
Although, just like Indy, the gun proved to be more useful than the whip, despite how friggin’ bad ass it was to pull out a whip and knock a zombie ninja down.
Man, those zombie ninjas, now that was a freakin’ awesome fight.
After a few seconds, Sam rolls off the bed and gets up, boxers low on his hips. He moves next to Dean and leans close; Dean swears the kid’s gotten bigger by the decade, too, all broad, thick shoulders in Dean’s view.
“Stop fantasizing about the zombie ninjas. There were only three of them, Dean.”
“Dude,” Dean protests, pushing Sam off, monster morning breath about as appealing as the thought of having to stay late today because he’s got students harassing him about their midterm paper assignments, “Zombie ninjas. Only thing that woulda been better would’ve been them being pirates.”
Sam rolls his eyes and heads off to the bathroom, muttering something that Dean chooses, wisely, to ignore.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says after a few minutes, shucking on a suit jacket and standing near the door. “Thought we’d go to West Virginia this weekend. Headless ghost sighting. Might be fun.”
Sam pokes his head out of the door, eyes half-lidded, bedhead, says, “Only you would call a decapitation ‘fun.’”
Dean shrugs. “Dude, it’s either that or we die of dust inhalation from you cataloging your books.”
He watches Sam cock an eyebrow, shove his mouth down against Dean’s, sloppy kiss, hint of toothpaste, smell of aftershave. Sam pulls back and grins, closing the door in Dean’s face as he says, “You love me for doing that.”
Goddamn it.
Dean grumbles, and he’s not gonna admit that he might’ve said, yeah, I do.
Maybe he can get used to this after all.
end
Author: Ignited
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,115
Spoilers: General S3, future!fic
Warnings: Sexual content and language.
Summary: Nearly twenty years later and they’re men now, with real jobs, real kickass jobs, greying hair, and yep, they’re totally mature now. ‘Cept where Dean’s rockin’ the Indiana Jones flair as a film professor (glasses included) and Sam’s in artifact acquisitions these days.
Author’s Notes: A million thanks to regala_electra for her beta magic and for further inspiration!
-
It’s a few weeks before Dean’s forty-seventh birthday when he realizes how much he’s let himself go.
“Jesus Christ. I can’t look. Take it off my hands, Sammy. Hell, put me out of my misery.”
Sam hums. “It’s your fault and yours alone.”
“You’re a saint.”
Dean shoves the stack of papers away, watches them flutter down off the desk as he takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Yeah, well, next time I get the idea to give ‘em a ten page paper on remakes, shoot me.”
Sam doesn’t look up from the book on his lap, takes a sip from his bottle of beer. Dean crumples a sheet of paper into a ball and throws it at Sam’s head. Sam scowls in response and ends up throwing a pillow back, missing Dean by a few inches.
“Do I have to whale on ya like the ’09 fight in Tuscaloosa, Sammy?” Dean asks. “You had bruises for like, a month.”
“That’s still not funny, Dean,” Sam grumbles, all indignant.
Dean, chuckles, responds, “Yeah, it is. Only you’d wind up lookin’ so beat down that everyone would stop you and ask what happened and man, you couldn’t even fake a good lie. Good thing the sons of bitches we hunt don’t know pillows are the sure thing that’ll kick your ass.”
-
It’s not so much a question of letting go as it is letting it get to this, because Dean’s scrubbing a hand through his hair in front of forty college students, and he’s, you know, actually teaching them instead of giving a report on how his summer vacation went.
Roadtrip with my dad and little brother. Saw a ball of twine and a couple-a cows. Killed a lot of nasty sons of bitches.
Got laid-
Letting it get to being a civilian, this, that one hunt changes the whole deal: they lucked into a leprechaun’s magical and totally not cursed hoard in Pennsyl-freakin’-vania.
So Sam invests wisely, some dummy corporation and a lot of legal mumbo jumbo Dean doesn’t care about, even if Sam asks him for signatures, for info-Dean shrugs it off, says, “Dude, we got a pot of gold. We got his lucky charms!”
Yeah, that joke’s only funny just so many times. Doesn’t stop Dean from saying it whenever he can though. Hell, he’d say it every morning but he’s usually barely able to get out where’s the coffee? at that hour.
It leads them to this, a decent set-up, enough money to clear their names, get their ‘records’, bodies of (impressive) work straightened out. Calm down for a while. Getting older, less cases, that one time holed up in this house here, the other time they’re in that hospital for two weeks there, good times getting muddled up with the bad.
(Sam’s jaw is rigid, face gets tight, focused, strands of silver creeping in at his temples before he hits thirty-five.)
It leads to Dean becoming ‘Professor Winchester’, works at NYU, film department, and the kicker, what’s got him staying: he’s teaching a genre film class on horror.
Yeah, it’s pretty much the greatest job ever. They pay him to watch movies and to tell people to watch these movies, like, all the time.
So he’s in his forties, and Sammy’s okay, they’re not dead yet, and he gets to watch all the horror films he can want, been teaching this type of class for the past three semesters.
And he gets freaking paid, too.
Money, man, money he doesn’t have to get by lying and cheating. Sure, sometimes he’ll do it for a weekend, gotta stay sharp.
But a pot of gold and a guaranteed income, hell, if normal life wasn’t so freakin’ whatever, he’d almost understand why people want to ignore what goes bump in the dark. Dean can’t though, doesn’t want to, because hunting’s wired into his bones and blood, something that’ll never get stamped out, no matter how old his body gets.
“Now, next time we’re going to talk about remakes and why Nicolas Cage should just stick to Elvis and not touch a classic like The Wicker Man. No one can top Christopher Lee.”
Dean starts shoving his papers and folders into his leather bag, angles it back, keeps the flask of holy water inside from view.
He looks up with a smile, says, “Yeah, I know he was in Lord of the Rings but Dracula. Christopher Lee as Dracula. End of story. Papers are due by next class-I want them on my desk when you come in.”
-
If you’re gonna do it, go all the way, then you gotta do it right.
So goes Dean’s reasoning and Sam lets himself scowl in private because Dean’s grinning as he says it, and two years later, they’re doing it ‘right.’
Sam’s got a position at the Morgan Library & Museum and they’ve just moved into some brownstone Dean complains about whenever Sam’s foolish enough to listen to him. Says it’s too swanky, despite the peeling paint and never-ending renovations that Dean not so secretly enjoys doing on slow weekends.
The house is full of boxes and crates; moving’s not as easy as it used to be with two duffels and a bag of weapons.
It makes Sam realize how old they really are getting, all the clutter that they’ve picked up over the years. No matter how many things he might have scanned, how many compact zip drives he might pick up, sometimes the old ways are the best ways.
He decides to pick up Dean after class on a Friday, and this is doing it right: Dean, wearing a suit, rumpled shirt and solid tie-Sam doesn’t allow Dean to buy the ties after he tried to walk out of the house wearing a red-and-black vampire smiley face tie that Dean claimed was totally just for that one time intro to vampire movies-wire-rimmed glasses on the tip of his nose.
It’s the doe-eyed students in front staring at the way Dean scrubs a hand through his greying hair, nervous, that makes Sam snort. They’re like a herd ready to stampede if Dean dares to turn around and flash that smile, burning tinge, come here and fuck me read in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, in the laughter lines near his mouth.
He’s pulling out all the stops when it comes to rumpled professor affectation, rule of thumb being one Indiana Jones, and if that isn’t funny enough, Dean swore he saw a girl with ‘I love you’ painted on her “friggin’ eyelids. That was like, the lamest part of the movie, too.”
(Doesn’t need to bring up the female students, last time Dean’s look, half-lidded, glasses in desperate need to be pushed up the bridge of his nose as he’d said, “Dude, shut the fuck up. You know there’s only one person getting fucked by me in that classroom and that’s you.”)
Sam awkwardly slips into a chair at the back of the class as Dean skips a scene ahead on the DVD of The Exorcist. It’s a good thing he’s not worrying too much about how small the chair is, the slim-cut of his suit tight as he fidgets. Because that’s when Dean pauses the DVD, colored projection lights eerie as they catch the angles on his face, make him look younger-could almost mistake him for still being in his twenties-and he starts talking about exorcism technique. Real exorcism technique, with a brazen reference to Hell Hazers II and getting things right.
Sam stretches and once Dean’s gaze finds him, Dean grins. His smile fades when Sam shakes his head, mouthing a little too emphatically no.
“Uh. Okay, class, that’s enough for today.”
When the students are filing out, girls and guys throwing Dean flirty looks, which Dean notices but he’s careful enough to ignore-for all of Dean’s Dean-ness, he holds true to one thing, and that’s never screwing around with his students. Dean claps Sam on the shoulder in greeting.
“Dude. That’s like, the third time I’ve caught you,” Sam says, hands in his jacket pockets waving out.
“A little extracurricular knowledge isn’t gonna hurt anybody.”
“And when they start shouting Christo in public to check if somebody’s possessed won’t?”
“Hey. Now that’s just disturbance of the peace,” Dean responds, hikes the strap to his leather bag on his shoulder. “That’s outta my jurisdiction.”
“Sure,” Sam responds as they leave the classroom. Outside, there’s older buildings, ivy twisting around the facades and wrought iron, remnants of old New York aristocracy. It’s still urban and cluttered though, hugging Washington Square Park with all the little cafés and bars eager to strip students of their (parents’) hard-earned cash, as if the school isn’t already milking out enough of it. The students are milling about on the sidewalks in the pale afternoon, Sam adding, “Whatever lets you sleep better at night.”
“It sure as hell isn’t you. You’re a goddamn furnace.”
“Shut up.”
And that’s the good thing about New York, the way no one bats an eye-not like they advertise the whole brothers thing which has led to many interesting conversations in the midst of crowds, Dean wondering out loud about supplies. Not weapons or anything like that-more like lube, and whether or not Sam has any interest in leather cuffs or if they should just stick to handcuffs.
You know, things like that.
Sam’s learned to go with the flow about that as apparently it takes him only a couple of years to get used to Dean’s naturally perverse way of talking.
“You sure you’re not going through menopause? Hot flashes?”
“I’m not a woman, Dean.”
Dean shrugs as he nears the driver’s side of the Impala. “Been a couple of hours since I last checked.”
-
Off-campus, Dean wears the same clothing he always has-t-shirts, ripped jeans, boots, that banged-up leather jacket he’s kept for going on twenty years. Doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard-he looks the same as he always has, few more lines on his face, battle scars, reasonably fit despite the food he shoves into his mouth from diners and sidewalk carts when he’s not in class.
The funny thing is that he’s got this hat now, a battered old fedora tipped on his head when they’re out for drinks. A hat he reminds Sam-for the third time-that Harrison Ford ‘gave’ it to him.
“‘Gave’ meaning you stole it.”
Dean scowls. The beer bottle tips and he rights it with one hand. “I got it off this nerdy kid, Shaye or somethin’.”
Sam starts digging for his wallet, ignores that his jeans have gotten a little tighter, just means he needs new jeans, that’s all. Or that Dean’s overdone the drying during his turn to do laundry once again. “Oscar-award winner Shia LaBeouf, Dean.”
Dean nods, though whether it’s in response or because he can’t control his neck muscles with all the alcohol, Sam isn’t sure. “Man, I still can't believe they didn't give it to him for Transformers 3. Transformers 4 was such an Oscar grab. All that freakin’ crying. Real men? Real men don’t cry like that. Fuckin’ single tear bullshit.”
Sam doesn’t argue the point here, not when they’re soon staggering out of the bar, and it’s been a while since they’ve done this, hanging onto each other like a couple of teenagers, sloppy kisses and wandering hands.
Sam flags down a taxi-ultimate sin, this, though Dean can’t stand the traffic and doesn’t drive the Impala around here and there for fear of getting her scratched up-and tucks Dean’s head down and into the car when it arrives.
Dean’s spread eagled and drooling on the backseat, and Sam’s getting hard at that. It’s worse when he squeezes in, Dean kicking his legs over Sam’s, blindly grabs for Sam’s dick. Even now, Dean can be completely wasted and he doesn’t miss.
Sam chokes out their address, praying that he doesn’t come all over-fuck, just don’t come, a constant mantra in his head until they get back to the house.
Huh. Maybe he is getting old.
-
Things change and things stay the same.
They’re getting older, some scars, new pains, and they’ve got day jobs.
They still hunt.
Sam’s in acquisitions, artifacts, trips he uses for work, for research, mind chock full of that kind of stuff ever since the Year, the one year deal. Dean though, he doesn’t travel off to who knows where; doesn’t step on a plane when he’s fine with his teaching job, when he’s got an office that he shares with some crazy hippie that’s never there.
That’s what weekends are for, tearing up asphalt and taking his beautiful car for a much needed spin. Getting familiar with the countryside of Upstate-New Yorkers tend to capitalize it, why, Dean doesn’t really know-and beyond that, the New England area, further up, then Canada, too.
After all, what’s the point of summer vacations and winter breaks if he can’t keep on moving? Yeah, he might be a little more static these days, but he doesn’t want to slow down. Keep moving; keeps his body from breaking down. Apparently you get tossed into enough walls and it tends to make you slow down, but not all the way.
It’s fine, what he’s got. Got a desk where he lays out maps and scrolls, and Sam, tanned flesh against the oak, legs and arms hang over the sides, Dean’s tongue along the underside-
They still hunt and Dean doesn’t take to domesticity fully-can’t deal with furniture, with the sense of permanence that threatens to settle in just as firm as the grey now in his hair, won’t go away, won’t make it go away.
Sometimes, when they’re dragging shit out of the car’s trunk, and they fall onto the couches, dead to the world, breathy sighs of man, did you see that? and you shot it, fucking got the bastard, Dean completely at ease with it all. Couldn’t ask for more in the world.
But he would ask for more, yeah, now, like getting one fucking decent beer in all of Manhattan or to not have a staff meeting on Friday. Friday, Jesus Christ, and people-Sam-wonder why he high-tailed it out of public education the moment Dad let him.
That too, the whole lack of education part-it’s another fine thing that Sammy fixed all up. Fake a few things, get yourself a fake diploma, and hell, just show up lookin’ pretty and someone’ll let you through the door.
Sam’s told him repeatedly, it shouldn’t be this easy, but Dean doesn’t look a gift horse in the friggin’ mouth.
He appreciates the long moments where they’re just reading, cleaning guns, Sam squinting at his reports, denies all he wants that he needs glasses, hypocrite. Long moments, like this, last remnants of laughter fades away and the aches start settling in, leading Dean to ask if Sam wants the ice pack or if it’ll be the heat. It’s not like he’s gonna get either one, though, ‘cause next he’ll be offering poor Sammy a nice cup of lavender tea or some shit like that.
Maybe even a back rub and some ice cream for all his troubles, Jesus.
Dean asks Sam to give him a beer, gets Sam flipping him the bird in response. Dean whines that he might’ve pulled something, which leads Sam to say Dean should masturbate less, makes Dean forget about the beer ‘cause he’s too busy laughing.
-
There are other times, too, when it’s got benefits.
Benefits like this, with Sam promising a few textbooks he’d found on the latest batch of films Dean was readying for class, theme being demonic children rebelling against their parents as a motif. Not familiar at all, Dean had deadpanned.
Funny ha ha, replied Sam, and he tugs at Dean’s balls now, noses his belly, manages to hit his elbow with the desk at the same time. Sucks in, a breath, hollows his cheeks as he moves faster, different rhythm, lips around Dean’s cock.
Dean didn’t bother taking his glasses off, clothes off, just has Sam, there, big fuckin’ desk that he squats under, barely, can’t fit at all, ass wiggles and his back hits the desk edge.
He switches up faster, Dean’s hand crumpling the only thing nearby, a paper ball, and he’s grateful he forgot where he put the friggin’ letter opener instead. Not that he’s got a Norman Bates thing going on but he can’t fucking concentrate.
This, this isn’t work, this being sucked off by his brother, who doesn’t gag, the fucker. He goes for it, full, deep throat, does something wicked to the head of Dean’s dick with his tongue.
Sam puffs air, too, hums on the head and Dean’s over with, slack in his chair, Sam wiping the come off the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
Dean pats Sam on the shoulder. “Good job, Monica.”
He starts laughing, weak and tired, chest tight, Sam pursing his lips.
“That’s not funny, Dean,” Sam says for the millionth time as he grabs Dean’s knees and pushes him back in the desk chair, adding, “Don’t make fun of former First Man Clinton.”
“You’d rock the blue dress, dude. Hey, remember that time-”
“Remember the time I almost zippered your dick off?”
Dean’s shoulders go up when he scowls. He resists cupping his dick, checking to make sure it’s safe. “Okay, see, that’s not funny.”
-
New York City’s a sprawling town, twisting and dark, always has been and always will be. They hunt when they’re not in meetings, when Sam isn’t away messing with artifacts, when Dean isn’t charming his way into early screenings for the latest slasher flick.
There’s the urban myths like alligators in the sewers and too many places where the dead don’t rest, sewers, subway tunnels. Bridges decades old, mansions that’re now museums, churches with high steeples and elaborate stained glass. A million stories that keep on chugging along as more and more people come in, and the ghosts and monsters follow along, as they always seem to do.
Tonight, they’re in the Metropolitan Museum of Art with ghosts running amok in the weapons section, a place Dean’d spent a good half-hour in (he’s never had the patience for standing around and staring at things he couldn’t touch, he’s told Sam, only one exception, and that’s when Dean stopped talking and smacked Sam hard on the thigh, saying to Sam, ‘Cause you see, I get to touch you. Later.).
Dean’s face is pale in the dark, few lights from the high arching windows in the front lobby, pale tile and shadows cast everything into monochrome. They’re near one of the visitor’s desks when it happens, when Dean goes flying into a wall, hard, down for the count.
Sam shoots the ghost full of rock salt with one hand, a wisp of an uptown gentleman in an ancient tuxedo and ragged top hat that fades away.
Dean though, Dean shoves Sam’s hands away and gets up. He winces.
Sam licks his lips, surprised that they’re dry, how his throat feels tight. It was a bad toss, but not that bad. “Did you break your hip?”
He reasons it’s a valid question when all these years later, these kinds of things happen. It’s only made easier when you’ve got a steady home to rest up in.
“What?” Dean flexes his foot tentatively, biting down a muttered fuck. He grouchily answers, “No.”
“Good, ‘cause you still have to finish out the rest of the semester.” Dean swats away Sam’s hands from touching his injured side. Sam blows out an exasperated breath, has to say, “Guess you’ll be stuck hobbling around for the next couple of weeks.”
“Sam, you know my classes have found my cast and crutches adorable.”
“Yeah, they would have. You were too hopped up on painkillers to give ‘em homework then,” Sam says and slings Dean’s arm around his shoulder, sliding a hand around his waist. “C’mon. It’s a school night.”
When they get to the brownstone, the stairs are slick with rain, treacherous.
“I can carry you?” Sam suggests, corners of his mouth twitching.
Dean groans. “I’m not havin’ you carry me over the goddamn threshold.”
Sam doesn’t, but it’s not like he’d be able to lift Dean anyway.
-
It’s been going on twenty years together, still learn something new every day.
New, being Dean trying to bend Sam over into an impossible position, clothes and shoes and suit jackets strewn among low stacks of books everywhere on hardwood floors.
Now, Sam is the one groaning, shakes his hair out of his eyes (needs to cut it, looks like a little boy again), grousing, “We’re too old for this, Dean.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Dean grits out, holds Sam’s hipbones and turns him over, pushes his legs up, up, over Dean’s shoulders, breathing heavy. Dean wriggles a little, jostles for a better position. “Takin’ my fucking time, Sam. You’re not going off early again.”
My point, Sam’s saying by way of lifting his eyebrows, can’t talk, eyes snap shut when Dean wraps a hand around his cock.
He fists him a little too fast, liar, edge of something fierce before he makes good on his promise, Sam biting out, “Okay, I’m not old enough for that.”
Dean presses a little too hard, does something wonderful to Sam’s balls so Sam bolts up, hard wood on his elbows.
“Fucking-”
“Gonna do that in a minute, Sam,” Dean says, hooks his arms around Sam’s knees and lowers his face, Sam’s name mumbled against Sam’s mouth, tip of his tongue on the bridge of Sam’s mouth, runs along the edge of his teeth. Seals him off with a kiss, Sam moaning in Dean’s mouth, asking when it’s gonna happen.
But Dean’s already licking his fingers, hair sticking up every which way when he ducks his head and reaches, strains; he grunts and mumbles a “fuck,” windmilling his arm around before fingertips prod the discarded bottle of lube into his hand.
Sam pants, breathing in short gasps, shoulders hunched as his calves slide off Dean’s shoulders, Dean grousing as he’s slicking his fingers up, says, “Gimme a fucking minute, why don’t you.”
“Hurry the fuck up,” Sam says, wriggles his hips-knows he’s being too fucking eager but there’s only so much space before they crash into that stack of books he’s set, alphabetically, and he’s not one for come stains in the margins of demonic texts, thanks.
“Can’t rush perfection.”
Sam rolls his eyes, rolls his shoulder muscle as he turns and Dean’s still grumbling behind him, like, what the fuck’s taking so long, ready to guide his freaking hand when Dean’s fingers slide in, one, then two. Sam’s back arches up, slack muscles go stiff.
Two fingers and he’s teasing Sam, draws it out still before his dick pushes in, tight, slides in and out with sweaty hands clasping on Sam’s hips, hold on, fingertips dig in. Sam though, groans, hair in his eyes and the hard wood under his knees, and Dean’s hands hurt. But the pressure eases up when one hand pulls away, goes under and he starts to jerk Sam off, pushes in further and says, exhales, “Like that, Sammy?”
“Fuck, Dean, just-oh, just like that-”
Sam pushes towards him in response, slow, and sees a smile, Dean in the dark, grinning, shadows play along the lines near his mouth. Sam moans, orgasm shooting through him, out, blows his load on Dean’s hand. Dean’s thrusting, little slower, a type of drawn out madness as he switches up, sticky hand grips Sam’s hip, other drags fingertips up Sam’s thigh and slaps an ass cheek, the fuck-
Dean groans and comes, fast, muscles go slack like he’s a dead weight, this shit eating grin on his face later, after he’s pulled out of Sam, grumbling about Sam’s arm that’s thrown over his waist.
“’m tired,” Dean mumbles, fussy expression Sam spies between sweaty bangs clinging to his temples, eyes. “I’m not cleanin’ this shit up.”
“Wasn’t gonna ask for another round,” Sam says, tries to, coherently, adds, “I’m the one gettin’ fucked here, Dean.”
“Gotta get my kicks in where I can,” Dean responds, whaps the back of his hand against Sam’s back when Sam pinches his side. “Fuck.”
-
Sam shouldn’t listen to Dean when he gets like this. I have an even better plan. Gonna make you come so hard, you’re gonna see stars for real.
It doesn’t make sense after all-they’ve been tied up so much in the normal course of their nonpaying job, why would either of them want this, getting tied up for kicks, or as Dean puts it, kinks?
Still, Dean says fair’s fair, and Sam knows why Dean insisted when they upgraded their bed why he wanted the headboard with the metal slats. Knows when he tips his head back to watch as Dean finishes a knot, using one of Sam’s better quality ties, and fuck, Dean’s not giving him much room to move.
“Point of the thing is to see how long you can hold off,” Dean says, can’t help the trace of professor in his voice, now, how he cants his head, questioning. “You know, we’re living in freakin’ New York, so why haven’t we bought cock rings, dude?”
“Um,” Sam tries to think words and nearly fails completely, before struggling out, “We don’t need them?”
Dean sits on top of Sam, ass nearly down over Sam’s cock before he moves back up, checking the knots again, then biting down on Sam’s shoulder, which damn it, did it too hard on purpose. “Careful, Sammy, I’ve got a lot of ties and I’m debatin’ about your mouth or your eyes.”
Sam’s quiet for a moment, then blurts out, “I thought the debate’s usually about my mouth or my cock.”
Dean’s smile is bright and scary. “Guilty as sin.”
-
“You ever wish you’d settled down, had a wife and a couple of kids?”
“You ever wish I wasn’t around?”
Sam’s voice is worn, dry, hot breath on the back of Dean’s shoulder blade, thigh pressing between Dean’s ass and the back of his legs.
Dean doesn’t answer.
He closes his eyes and falls into a dead sleep.
-
Dean gets up in the middle of the night to take a shower, to wash the stink and stick off of him, look at the new bruises all over his body with detached interest.
They’ve gotten good at making sure they can hide everything under their shirts, jackets. Ties are a good idea too but Dean still hates the feel of collars, loosening them up every chance he gets. Sometimes it’ll give his students an eyeful into his sex life that he’d like to keep to himself, ‘cept he kinda doesn’t.
It’s a good thing Sam sleeps like the fucking (un)dead, because he’s got something to say before he rolls back into bed-shared bed, goddamn huge fucking sacrifice on his part, because there’s no point in having heating when you’re sharing a bed with Sam. Even the edges of the mattress are nearly boiling when his giant body’s sprawled over the tangled sheets.
“Fuckin’ idiot,” Dean says, softly, sees how the dim light catches Sam’s skin, even though his vision of Sam is blurry, glasses neatly folded on the bedside table. “Like there’s anything out there better than you.”
Dean makes up for saying it by smacking Sam on the ass when he tumbles into bed, leading Sam to raise his head, mutter something about I don’t want seaweed before crashing back to sleep.
-
Morning means there’s no freaking food in the house and Sam threatening to call a plumber because the sink’s fucked up and Dean’s got work.
Sam rolls onto his back and stares up under a curtain of sweaty bangs. “Is that a clip on?”
Dean fixes his tie, yeah, bow tie, but he’s rocking it so he doesn’t look like an asshole. “Dude, we used the last clean ties last night. I’m not wearing spunk ties.”
“Whatever you say, Indy.”
He grins at Sam’s reflection in the mirror. “If you get me some coffee, I’ll try my whip out on ya later.”
It’s funny, ‘cause the best thing about doing what they do? He totally does have a whip now, the kind that was made by a real expert, who grilled Dean nonstop about whether he planned to use it for any fetish purposes. And hey, Dean was initially honest about it. After all, it doesn’t just look cool, but when you’re fighting against zombie ninjas, sometimes you need more than just your gun.
Although, just like Indy, the gun proved to be more useful than the whip, despite how friggin’ bad ass it was to pull out a whip and knock a zombie ninja down.
Man, those zombie ninjas, now that was a freakin’ awesome fight.
After a few seconds, Sam rolls off the bed and gets up, boxers low on his hips. He moves next to Dean and leans close; Dean swears the kid’s gotten bigger by the decade, too, all broad, thick shoulders in Dean’s view.
“Stop fantasizing about the zombie ninjas. There were only three of them, Dean.”
“Dude,” Dean protests, pushing Sam off, monster morning breath about as appealing as the thought of having to stay late today because he’s got students harassing him about their midterm paper assignments, “Zombie ninjas. Only thing that woulda been better would’ve been them being pirates.”
Sam rolls his eyes and heads off to the bathroom, muttering something that Dean chooses, wisely, to ignore.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says after a few minutes, shucking on a suit jacket and standing near the door. “Thought we’d go to West Virginia this weekend. Headless ghost sighting. Might be fun.”
Sam pokes his head out of the door, eyes half-lidded, bedhead, says, “Only you would call a decapitation ‘fun.’”
Dean shrugs. “Dude, it’s either that or we die of dust inhalation from you cataloging your books.”
He watches Sam cock an eyebrow, shove his mouth down against Dean’s, sloppy kiss, hint of toothpaste, smell of aftershave. Sam pulls back and grins, closing the door in Dean’s face as he says, “You love me for doing that.”
Goddamn it.
Dean grumbles, and he’s not gonna admit that he might’ve said, yeah, I do.
Maybe he can get used to this after all.
end