Supernatural: The Man of Law
Title: The Man of Law
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13 for Mild Sexuality and Language
Word Count: 5,101
Author’s Note: Third charity fic for thepurpledove. This one is for clex_monkie89 who asked for: “Sam gets cursed and must live out his TOP TEN MOST SECRET EVIL DESIRES before the curse will end! Like slashing the tires of the able-bodied people who've parked in the parking spaces for the disabled! Or actually NOT tipping for bad service! Or giving the guy who cut in front of him a SERIOUS PIECE OF HIS MIND instead of just a pissed off glare! Meanwhile, Dean points and laughs and enables, until he realizes he's on the list.” I stole the title from one of the Canterbury Tales of Geoffrey Chaucer-not because this story bears any resemblance to that one (LOLexceptincest), but because of a conversation in my fairytale class that brought it up and yaddayadda, point is, now it’s the title. I wasn't going to write this until after I finished spn_j2_bigbang and then I realized it was Clex's birthday and I couldn't exactly let it go unmarked! Unbeta'd, except by myself. Apologies for any trauma that may cause. ETA 5/7/2013: Thanks to eos_rose, you can now read this in epub format here.
Summary: Sam is cursed into acting out his most repressed urges. Dean points and laughs and enables, until things get a little too personal.
Look, Dean loves his brother, okay? Just the way he is. And Sam does not really live on the wild side (well, he does, but that's just the nature of hunting). Outside of the job, Sam is all careful notes inside the margins and laundry sorted, folded, and carefully stacked in duffle by color. Dean knows and accepts these things about Sam.
So he's having a pretty confusing 45 seconds right now.
"What do you mean, don't tip?" Dean asks, sure he misheard his brother. Or maybe this is one of those times Sam is being funny without the funny part of the equation working out.
"The food took an hour to get here, Dean. And it was cold." Sam pokes at whatever fruity dish he ordered with a sorry look on his face. "I don't even think it would have been good fresh."
Dean tilts his head. "No, yes, I know why I don't want to tip," he says. "But what do you mean 'then just don't tip'?"
Sam considers it for a long time. "Okay. Maybe only 15% he says."
"Are you feeling entirely healthy there, kiddo?"
Dean reaches across the table, pressing a hand to Sam's forehead. Just in case. The last time Dean had suggested tipping the bare minimum, Sam had gone on a 20 minute lecture about how this is how these people feed themselves and was still making pissy faces for the next three hours. Dean is pretty sure Sam worked as a waiter at school, because he came back with a ridiculous soft spot for even the shittiest of them.
Sam swats his hand away. "I feel fine, you dick," he says. "But we're pretty strapped for cash, and I don't see a reason to throw money at someone who wouldn't even refill our water glasses."
Dean shrugs and takes Sam's advice. It makes good sense, so why not.
_______________________________________________________________
"Turn it down," Sam says.
Dean side glances him and reaches out, adjusting the volume. Sam jumps at the increase and gives him a sour face.
"I said turn it down!" he yells over the noise.
Dean laughs and ignores him, tapping out the beat on the steering wheel. Sam fixes him with a death glare, rolls down his window, and, before Dean has any idea what he's up to, Sam ejects the tape and casually tosses it right out the window in the middle of a pretty busy street.
"There," he says, sitting back. "Much better."
"Dude, what the fuck?" Dean asks.
Sam's lips curve up just a little. "I hate AC/DC, Dean," Sam tells him-as if he hadn't just made that perfectly clear. "And you are a truly awful singer."
Sam presses a few buttons until he finds talk radio and gives Dean a 'don't even think about changing it' look. Dean lets him win out of sheer audacity.
_______________________________________________________________
"Fuck," Dean grumbles.
Sam looks up, his eyebrows clenched in confusion. "What's wrong?"
"You'll be happy to hear the idiot at the register chose to interpret 'extra onions' as 'no onions.'"
Sam's eyes flash. "What?"
Dean lifts the bun and shows Sam the offending burger. "Not a single lone onion," he says, then shrugs. "Sucks."
"That's bullshit!" Sam says, slamming his hand on the table.
The family sitting next to them-mom and dad in their Sunday best, and three children who look absolutely delighted by the spectacle-all turn to stare. Dean smiles at them and gives a friendly wave.
"Uh, I agree," he replies, mouth full of burger and not really feeling the loss all that much. At least they remembered the bacon.
Sam snatches it out of Dean's hand and stands up. "They're going to hear about this," he says.
"Sam, it's Wendy's, I don't know what kind of service you were expecting, but I promise I'm not that heartbroken."
"We are paying customers!" Sam balks.
"Actually, we used fake credit cards, so we're not-"
"They don't know that." Sam's face is all steely resolve, like he's had to watch his brother eat one too many burgers without onions in his life, and he is just not going to take the abuse sitting down anymore. He looks like he's about to march on Washington, and it's kind of the funniest thing ever, even if Dean is feeling pretty fucking lost right about now.
"It's really not that big a-"
Sam is already halfway across the restaurant. Dean follows him out of curiosity, and, for the first time in his life, wonders if he is going to have to do damage control for Sam instead of the other way around.
"Excuse me," Sam says, shoving to the front of the line and dropping the burger on the counter. "What the fuck is this?"
"A number six with bacon," says the bored teenager behind the counter.
"With extra onions?"
The kid looks down, then looks up and raises an eyebrow. "Sure doesn't look like it."
"That's exactly right!" Sam snaps, a level of bitchy even Dean has rarely been subjected to in his life. "This is a number six without a single onion on it. We ordered extra. Are you seeing the problem here?"
"Uh," is the reply.
"I thought as much." Sam puts his hands on his hips. "I want to talk to your manager."
"We can just put onions on-"
"No, no, you cannot just put onions on it. We already waited 20 minutes for this supposed fast food, and we don't even get the goddamn onions we pay for?" Sam turns to the line. "Don't you feel like that always happens?" he asks.
"Yeah," says a lady in line timidly. "I hate that."
"Me, too," the guy behind her pipes in. "Why should we wait in this line if you guys aren't even going to listen to our orders?"
"It's why I've stopped using the drive-thru here," says an elderly man closer to the front. "They're even worse when you can't walk up to the counter and complain."
Beside him, his wife nods. "I've been asking him for years why we still come here, you know."
"Because all of these fast food joints are the same," replies her husband. "It's not like going somewhere else is going to change that."
Sam nods. "But why is that acceptable?" He faces the guy behind the counter. "Does that sound acceptable to you?"
"I'll get the manager," he replies, now that he sees the 15 people in line starting to side with Sam. A few leave, announcing that they won't even waste their time.
"Sir, what seems to be the problem?" The manager is a Hispanic man about half Sam's size, and he's cowering before he even gets close enough to see Sam's scowl.
"My brother here," Sam points to Dean, "loves onions. That is why he asked for extra onions. We paid for our meal. Do you see any reason my brother should have to go through his meal without onions?"
"No, sir, we apologize for this-"
"It's just some onions," says the kid they'd originally been dealing with. "It's not that big a deal."
"No," Sam agrees. "Not this one time. But do you know what? I've been dealing with this crap my whole life! If I have to eat at Wendy's every other goddamn day, the least I deserve is to get the best possible meal one can under these circumstances. And my brother, too. He's been doing this even longer than I have. Give him his order!"
"Sammy, why don't we calm down a little?" Dean asks, placing a hand on Sam's bicep.
Sam takes a deep breath and nods, relaxing under the touch. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry, I have no idea why…" He flinches like something has his balls in a vice, and again turns to the register, like he can't fight the compulsion. "What are you going to do to make this up to us?"
And that's how Sam got them four free orders of fries, two large Frostys, and a $10 gift certificate for everyone in line.
_______________________________________________________________
"Let's go out and get drunk tonight," Sam says.
Dean stares, mouth hanging open, as Sam tears into his fourth bacon cheeseburger of the day. "You want to go drink tonight?" Dean asks. "Like, for fun?"
Sam smiles, swallowing a French fry that's more ketchup than potato. "Yeah. When was the last time we drank for fun, not because we felt sorry for ourselves?"
Dean sends a guilty look towards his duffel, then thinks about it. "I'm pretty sure you've never gotten drunk for fun, Sam."
"Not…I totally did in college," Sam grumbles. "Anyway, not the point. I wanna, let's go out."
"Sam, we're on a case," Dean reminds him.
"It'll still be there when we're done being hungover," Sam points out with a happy shrug.
"Okay," Dean says, narrowing his eyes. "What's up with you, man?"
"What do you mean?" Sam kicks his feet up on the table.
"I mean, look at you, man."
Sam looks, then jolts and takes his feet down.
"You're acting like me," Dean says. "You've been acting like me for four days now, ever since you refused to tip that shitty waiter."
"What do you mean?" Sam asks again, though Dean can tell from his expression that he knows exactly what Dean means.
"You really don't know what I'm talking about?"
"Does this mean you don't want to go party with me tonight?"
Dean knows Sam's changing the subject…but it's not like Sam doesn't deserve to unwind a little, so Dean lets it slide.
_______________________________________________________________
Dean smiles at the police officer one last time, his best charming grin, and the man tips his hat, smiling back a little goofily. As soon as the guy is out of hearing range, Dean turns to Sam and smiles. "That was just about everything we needed," he says.
Sam doesn't smile back. His eyes are following the officer, his mouth set into a tight line. "Yeah, lucky thing he was so forthcoming."
"What's up your ass, Sam? Still hungover?" Dean smirks.
Sam cringes at the memory of his morning, then shakes his head. "Nothing, Dean. We were just very lucky your feminine wiles worked on him, that's all."
"I don't have feminine wiles," Dean reminds Sam.
"Your boyfriend didn't feel that way," says Sam, sliding into his side of the car and closing the door much harder than Dean thinks his baby deserves.
"Not my boyfriend," Dean replies, taking his own place behind the wheel. "I don't have a boyfriend."
"You should go get his number. I bet he'd like to change that."
Dean laughs. "I'm not gay, Sam."
"You say that a lot. But you sure do flirt with an awful lot of guys."
"I was getting us intell!"
Sam shrugs. "Having a lot of fun doing it, too."
"What's it matter if I was?"
"Nothing, Dean, it's totally okay that you like dick. I accept you just the way you are."
"I don't, though!"
"You know, the more you say that you're not, the more it seems like you are."
Dean starts the car and snickers. "Yeah, that's likely."
"It's true. Foucault said so. The more you talk about repression, the more you're actually indulging in the fantasy."
"Huh?"
"He's a theorist," says Sam. "I studied him at Stanford."
"Oh, now I'm bummed I didn't get it. That definitely sounds like a good time."
Sam makes a contrary face. "It was interesting."
"I'll take your word for it." Dean makes a right turn into the parking lot of the first motel he sees.
"It means the lady doth protest too much," Sam replies.
"And that means?"
"That's Hamlet."
Dean makes a 'yeah, still not following' face.
"Come on, it's Shakespeare's most famous play! Everyone knows Hamlet."
"Not you idiot brother, apparently."
"Maybe if you'd sit down and read a fucking book some time instead of chasing after girls you'd get there."
"Wow, Sam, fuck you." Dean turns the car off and gets out, almost forgetting himself enough to slam the door.
He hears Sam running to catch up to him, and Dean shakes his hand off when he grabs hold. "Stay out here," Dean says. "You don't want the guy at the counter to think we doth protest too much, do you?"
Sam frowns. "Dean, I can explain."
Dean looks away. "Look, just let me get the room, okay?"
Sam nods and lets him go. As soon as they're done settling down, Dean flops onto his bed and turns on his side. "All right, Sam, you finally want to tell me what's up?"
"I think I'm cursed," he says.
"Cursed how this time, man?"
"I'm all Id," he replies.
Dean tilts his head.
Sam sighs. "Forget it. It means, I'm, I don't know. It's not that I can't control myself, most of the time I can. I just get these urges, urges I get all the time, only now I can't stop them."
"You get urges to call me gay in the most pretentious way possible, Sam?" Dean asks.
Sam blushes. "I'm sorry about that, Dean. Sometimes I want to tell people when they're pissing me off, and sometimes I want to throw your tape collection off a tall building, and sometimes I want to talk about or make jokes about things I learned at Stanford-things I know you won't understand, not that you should, it's not like they're important, it's just sometimes…" Sam ducks his head. "I know I've been awful for the last few days. But I didn't really get it until I called Bobby hungover this morning and explained the situation."
Dean leans off his bed and slaps Sam's shoulder. "Hey, man, you haven't been that bad. You were pretty awesome yesterday, and you did get us all that free food at Wendy's."
"I don't think you're stupid, Dean. I know you're not stupid. I didn't mean to make you feel that way."
Dean sits back, doesn't let the smile he's pasted on to cheer Sam waver. "I'm not you, Sammy. It's not like that's news to me."
"You're better than me," Sam says very quietly.
Dean laughs. "Please, Sam. I'd have gotten us killed if this happened to me. We're lucky it's you. I bet your worst deep dark desire is to steal a library book or something."
Sam grins. "Oh my God," he says. "If I'm not better tomorrow, don't let me near one. Just in case."
_______________________________________________________________
As fate would have it, they do have to visit the library the next day, research for the case they're working. Sam insists they keep going with the job, even though Dean kind of wants to head for Bobby's for a cleansing ritual; Sam tells him the curse should have worn off by now and they don't have to worry.
Only it hasn't worn off, and Dean spends the entire day getting nasty looks from the librarian, because he cannot physically hold in his laughter.
"This is awful," Sam mutters miserably as he begins to scrawl in the margins of the heavy volume he's studying. "I am going to Hell for this."
Dean snorts, looks over Sam's shoulder to see that Sam's idea of a sin worth eternal damnation is to write "Sam Winchester was here" in the pages of a lore book in a bullshit library where Dean is sure no one has ever looked at this particular book before and no one ever will again.
"Defacing public property," Dean agrees with tsk. "Disgraceful, Sam."
"You're making it worse!" Sam says, covering his eye as he doodles a penis on the side of the page.
Dean cracks up again, and the librarian begins to approach.
"Hide it!" Sam says. "Don't let her see what I've done."
"This is pathetic," Dean says happily. "Who raised you?"
"Sir, will you please keep it down," the librarian asks for the fifth time.
Dean smiles at her (again) and (again) Sam slams the book shut just as she's getting close enough to see and leans over it, trying to cover his shame.
"I'm sorry about him," Sam says nervously. "He's not good at this library thing. Like I am. I am, you know." Sam hugs the book to his chest and smiles so broad it's creepy, and the librarian nods very slowly and backs away.
"Dude, you get less anxious when you're in police custody."
"I just don't want her to think I'm a heathen," Sam says, opening the book to the page he'd left off on and underlining a passage. "Here, I think this is relevant to our hunt."
He pushes the book across the table and Dean reads it, taking in the information, then smirking. "Sam, that's a pen. You can't erase that."
Sam gasps and shoves the pen at Dean. "Get it out of my sight."
"You are such a freak."
"You just don't understand." Sam pouts.
Dean ruffles his hair. "I don't think I want to, little brother. Now we've got what we came for, let's go eat."
Sam nods slowly, though his face still resembles an upset three year-old. Dean hardly sees him slip the book into his jacket and zip up, but he gets one last 'shh!' from the information counter as he passes by, laughing at the telling lump in Sam's jacket.
_______________________________________________________________
"I didn't mean to cheat." The woman sobs, blowing her nose loudly into a tissue. "It just happened."
"Yeah, I'll bet you just tripped," Sam remarks.
Dean's body seizes up. He looks to his brother, terrified by the memories the comment stirs in him. Sam look guilty, though. Not sorry for the lady like he usually does on hunts, maybe even pissed at her, but definitely not like he doesn't care at all that he said it.
Dean lets out a long sigh, goes back to trying to forget what Sam was like without his soul. He coughs. "I'm sure it was an accident, Mrs. Hodgeston. Please go on."
"Anyway, the affair went on until Drew passed away, and then I knew I had to really stop."
"So you did not carry on the affair after your husband's death?"
"Not…often," the woman replies, dodging Dean's eyes.
Sam scoffs. "Wow, lady. You cause your husband's suicide and basically told his ghost to kill your boyfriend. Impressive track record." He slaps a hand over his mouth as the lady gasps.
"Sam, why don't you go wait in the car?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "Good idea. Just, don't get too friendly, Dean, she'll probably get you-"
Sam rushes out of the room, and Dean smiles awkwardly at the widow.
That night, they torch the husband and the boyfriend for good measure, and they spend one more night in town before packing up the next morning.
_______________________________________________________________
"I think I need to leave, Dean," Sam says, slashing at a tire with one of his hunting blades.
"The plan was that we were both leaving," Dean reminds him. "Until you got pissed at the able-bodied guy in the handicap space and decided it was tire slashing time."
Sam glowers and moves on to the next wheel. "Whatever. I don't even feel that bad this time."
Dean winces at the sound of tire popping, and Sam stands up, clearly proud of his job. Then his eyebrows draw and he turns to Dean. "Give me your keys," he says.
"What for?" Dean asks.
Sam smiles. "I can't stand how fresh this guy's paint job looks."
"All right, Sammy," Dean agrees, holding out the keychain and watching Sam's face light up as he accepts it. "But then we have to head out, okay? Before this jerk calls the cops on us or comes out here and you can't help beating him until he really does need a handicapped spot."
"Oh, that's a good idea," Sam says. He stops and shakes his head. "No, bad idea."
"Very bad idea," Dean assures him. "I promise you will regret it in the morning."
"Dean, I'm starting to get worried." He hands Dean back the keys and Dean scrapes paint off the side.
"Worried about what?"
"This," Sam says. "It's been over a week now."
Dean shrugs. "So? That's why we're heading to Bobby's. Gonna get you cleaned right up."
Sam shakes his head as they get in the car and close the doors. "No. Bobby said the five day curse should wear off on its own. A week could be cleansed. Longer than a week and he said…" Sam bites his lip. "He said if this wasn't at least calming down by today, it's too powerful to clean. And it's not calming down, it's getting worse. That means I have to let it run its course."
"What's the course?"
"Ten worst desires, I guess," Sam replies. "He said on the 10th day, I'll try to do whatever I'm most afraid of doing. And he said it won't go away until I've done it. I'll just keep chasing it until I have or until I've burnt out trying."
"And what, died?"
"Yes," Sam answers. "That's what I'm hoping."
"You're hoping to die, Sam? I don't think so."
"I know what it's going to be, Dean. I cannot, under any circumstances, let myself do what…"
"What's that, steal candy from a baby?"
Sam shakes his head. "You don't know," he replies.
"Look, whatever it is, it can't be worse than dying."
"You sure about that?"
Dean wipes his mouth. "It's not…is it?" He looks away. "Better you drink a little bit than die, Sam."
"It's not that," Sam answers, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezing. "I promise I'm over that."
"I know, Sammy, but it's a curse."
Sam shakes his head. "It won’t be blood."
"Then it can't be that bad."
"The things I want, Dean." Sam licks his lips. "God, I want."
"No, okay? I know want. I know what it's like to want things so much it kills you. You don't know how to want, Sam. I've been wanting for you your whole life."
Sam moves closer. "I've been wanting for you my whole life."
"Sam, what?"
"I'm going to leave. I'll steal a car and leave my phone with you, and you have to do everything you can to make sure I can't find you."
"What are you talking about?"
"Because if I find you, I'll force you. I'll have to. And I'd rather die."
"You're not making any-"
"I wrote you a letter," Sam explains, digging into his jacket. "Yesterday, in case I woke up today and this was still happening."
"Dude, seriously, talk to me."
Sam takes Dean's face and turns it towards him. "While I can still control it. I want you to know, Dean. I'm doing this because I want this. I'm sorry I ruined what we have, but I can't help it."
"Sammy."
Sam presses a kiss on Dean's lips, quick pressure gone almost before Dean can register the warmth of his brother's mouth. "This is my choice," Sam says. "I'd rather never see you again than do what it's going to make me."
Sam opens the door and slips out then, and Dean doesn't know what the hell is happening, doesn't catch on that his brother is seriously leaving, actually kissed him, whatever else he was trying to tell Dean until Sam has disappeared without a trace.
And then the panic sets in.
_______________________________________________________________
He spends the entire next day reading and rereading Sam's letter. It's long and very Sam, all empirical explanations for what really cannot be explained or reasoned away.
Dean, it says, I'm in love with you.
There are pages and pages and pages more, but that one little sentence at the beginning holds Dean's eyes in place for hours on end. In love. Not "Dean, I love you." It's not like that would be a surprise. But instead, Dean, your impossibly dorky little brother has been lusting after you since he was a teenager and you've missed all the signs. Not just lusting, Sam assures him several times. It's not like that, he says. Well, it is, but not just that. Love. Dean's been in love, but it wasn't anything like what Sam is describing.
God, Sam wants him. Sam wants him so bad he's tried to cut and run, because he can't stop wanting. Dean must have done something really, really wrong when he thought this was the one thing he'd done right. He'd tried to take care of Sam, and somewhere down the line, he screwed Sam up even worse than he knew.
It's horrible. The first few times he reads the letter, he's gripped by chilling terror, hatred for himself, fear of what it says about Sam. It's really horrible. At first.
He keeps reading. Sam apologizes plenty of times, but he never seems to really get what he's confessing to. Because the letter? It's written like a love letter. It's soft, gentle, trying to convince Dean Sam feels this way because Dean was too good, when that obviously can't be the case.
But Sam is nothing if not stubborn. Again and again he says it. "I know you're blaming yourself right now. I know you think you screwed up. You didn't, Dean. I'm the one who couldn't handle how good you were to me the way I should have."
Dean never wins fights against Sam, not logical ones, anyway. By the end of the night, he doesn't know what to feel anymore. The disgust is gone, has left utter confusion and a familiar sense of loss in its wake. He doesn't care how fucked up Sam's feelings for him are, Sam can't just leave him like this: untraceable, determined never to see him again, ready to die. Dean is not ready for Sam to die.
He stays awake, remembering the things Sam mentions in his letter. All the times Sam was apparently falling in love with him and, fuck. He misses those things now, aches trying to imagine a lifetime without Sam around to spend moments like that. He falls asleep longing.
Sam smiles in his dreams, the same way he always has. Dean recognizes the memory, knows it was nothing important, some joke they were sharing right after Sam had come back from Stanford. Things were strained; it was the first time Dean really saw Sam laugh after Jessica died. His heart picks up and he wonders why he didn't reach out and kiss Sam in that moment, then wonders why the hell he's thinking things like that.
That memory bleeds into another, bleeds into things that never happened-never should happen-Sam and Dean, long kisses and hot skin, touching, tasting.
Dean wakes up the next morning wondering how long he's been in love with his brother and not known it. As long as Sam has been aware? Longer? Shit, he knew they were fucked up, but this is something else.
One thing is for sure, though. Sam is not dying. Dean doesn't even know where to start looking for him, and he only has one day left before Sam's curse turns its attention on him. Dean has to find him before then, has to tell Sam on their own terms that he wants whatever the next day brings just as much as Sam does.
It's a wild goose chase for the most part. Dean spends the entire day trying the usual tricks, but Sam knows Dean just as well as Dean does Sam. He knows Dean will be looking, he knows how to hide.
Bobby has nothing-of course Sam didn't call Bobby; no motels in the area have any suspect names; Sam has a day's head start and could be anywhere. He spends a few hours driving in the direction he thinks Sam would choose, praying for the first time in years and not stopping for anything.
In the end, the curse is what saves him from really losing Sam. Because Sam may be smart, may be determined to get as far from Dean as humanly possible, but he still has one day worth of stupid non-Dean impulses left in him, and Dean knows a Winchester urge when he sees the smoke from it wafting up over trees.
He takes the first turn and finds Sam in a forest clearing after about fifteen minutes on the dirt road. Sam is surrounded by broken glass, bent metal, and of course the gasoline. It looks like he went to town, like the car was totaled before he ever even lit the poor thing up.
"I can't believe you didn't invite me to set your stolen car on fire," Dean says, moving to stand behind his brother.
Sam freezes. "Dean, you know you really shouldn't be here," he says thinly. "It'll be too easy for me to find you tomorrow."
"I was hoping that would be the case," he answers, settling one hand on each of Sam's shoulders.
"You can't let me do it."
"What if I want you to?"
Sam only half turns his head to acknowledge it, then catches himself and looks away. "You're not doing that to save me. I've let you get away with a host of bad decisions to save me, but you're not doing this."
Dean turns him. "Sam," he says, doing his best to sound authoritative.
Grudgingly, Sam looks down at him. "You're not going to convince me," he says. "To force you? Even if you agree to it, that's not something you do just because you think there's no other choice. Not with your brother."
"That's not why, Sammy. And if it were? I want you, Sam. And if I didn't, I still wouldn't let you lose me just to stop yourself."
"You don't want me, Dean," Sam tells him. "You want me alive."
Dean shakes his head. "Yesterday, you made a choice, Sam," Dean says, cupping Sam's face to mirror the action. "This is my choice."
Dean has to stretch to reach Sam's mouth, but that's something he can get used to. Despite his protests, Sam opens to him with very little resistance and Dean gets pulled up into the kiss by strong arms on both sides. Dean is surprised by how perfect the fit is, or maybe not by that, maybe it's the fact that it took this long to figure it out that he's so thrown by.
Either way, Sam never does wake up needing to force Dean into anything. They break the spell on their own before the day ever starts.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13 for Mild Sexuality and Language
Word Count: 5,101
Author’s Note: Third charity fic for thepurpledove. This one is for clex_monkie89 who asked for: “Sam gets cursed and must live out his TOP TEN MOST SECRET EVIL DESIRES before the curse will end! Like slashing the tires of the able-bodied people who've parked in the parking spaces for the disabled! Or actually NOT tipping for bad service! Or giving the guy who cut in front of him a SERIOUS PIECE OF HIS MIND instead of just a pissed off glare! Meanwhile, Dean points and laughs and enables, until he realizes he's on the list.” I stole the title from one of the Canterbury Tales of Geoffrey Chaucer-not because this story bears any resemblance to that one (LOLexceptincest), but because of a conversation in my fairytale class that brought it up and yaddayadda, point is, now it’s the title. I wasn't going to write this until after I finished spn_j2_bigbang and then I realized it was Clex's birthday and I couldn't exactly let it go unmarked! Unbeta'd, except by myself. Apologies for any trauma that may cause. ETA 5/7/2013: Thanks to eos_rose, you can now read this in epub format here.
Summary: Sam is cursed into acting out his most repressed urges. Dean points and laughs and enables, until things get a little too personal.
Look, Dean loves his brother, okay? Just the way he is. And Sam does not really live on the wild side (well, he does, but that's just the nature of hunting). Outside of the job, Sam is all careful notes inside the margins and laundry sorted, folded, and carefully stacked in duffle by color. Dean knows and accepts these things about Sam.
So he's having a pretty confusing 45 seconds right now.
"What do you mean, don't tip?" Dean asks, sure he misheard his brother. Or maybe this is one of those times Sam is being funny without the funny part of the equation working out.
"The food took an hour to get here, Dean. And it was cold." Sam pokes at whatever fruity dish he ordered with a sorry look on his face. "I don't even think it would have been good fresh."
Dean tilts his head. "No, yes, I know why I don't want to tip," he says. "But what do you mean 'then just don't tip'?"
Sam considers it for a long time. "Okay. Maybe only 15% he says."
"Are you feeling entirely healthy there, kiddo?"
Dean reaches across the table, pressing a hand to Sam's forehead. Just in case. The last time Dean had suggested tipping the bare minimum, Sam had gone on a 20 minute lecture about how this is how these people feed themselves and was still making pissy faces for the next three hours. Dean is pretty sure Sam worked as a waiter at school, because he came back with a ridiculous soft spot for even the shittiest of them.
Sam swats his hand away. "I feel fine, you dick," he says. "But we're pretty strapped for cash, and I don't see a reason to throw money at someone who wouldn't even refill our water glasses."
Dean shrugs and takes Sam's advice. It makes good sense, so why not.
_______________________________________________________________
"Turn it down," Sam says.
Dean side glances him and reaches out, adjusting the volume. Sam jumps at the increase and gives him a sour face.
"I said turn it down!" he yells over the noise.
Dean laughs and ignores him, tapping out the beat on the steering wheel. Sam fixes him with a death glare, rolls down his window, and, before Dean has any idea what he's up to, Sam ejects the tape and casually tosses it right out the window in the middle of a pretty busy street.
"There," he says, sitting back. "Much better."
"Dude, what the fuck?" Dean asks.
Sam's lips curve up just a little. "I hate AC/DC, Dean," Sam tells him-as if he hadn't just made that perfectly clear. "And you are a truly awful singer."
Sam presses a few buttons until he finds talk radio and gives Dean a 'don't even think about changing it' look. Dean lets him win out of sheer audacity.
_______________________________________________________________
"Fuck," Dean grumbles.
Sam looks up, his eyebrows clenched in confusion. "What's wrong?"
"You'll be happy to hear the idiot at the register chose to interpret 'extra onions' as 'no onions.'"
Sam's eyes flash. "What?"
Dean lifts the bun and shows Sam the offending burger. "Not a single lone onion," he says, then shrugs. "Sucks."
"That's bullshit!" Sam says, slamming his hand on the table.
The family sitting next to them-mom and dad in their Sunday best, and three children who look absolutely delighted by the spectacle-all turn to stare. Dean smiles at them and gives a friendly wave.
"Uh, I agree," he replies, mouth full of burger and not really feeling the loss all that much. At least they remembered the bacon.
Sam snatches it out of Dean's hand and stands up. "They're going to hear about this," he says.
"Sam, it's Wendy's, I don't know what kind of service you were expecting, but I promise I'm not that heartbroken."
"We are paying customers!" Sam balks.
"Actually, we used fake credit cards, so we're not-"
"They don't know that." Sam's face is all steely resolve, like he's had to watch his brother eat one too many burgers without onions in his life, and he is just not going to take the abuse sitting down anymore. He looks like he's about to march on Washington, and it's kind of the funniest thing ever, even if Dean is feeling pretty fucking lost right about now.
"It's really not that big a-"
Sam is already halfway across the restaurant. Dean follows him out of curiosity, and, for the first time in his life, wonders if he is going to have to do damage control for Sam instead of the other way around.
"Excuse me," Sam says, shoving to the front of the line and dropping the burger on the counter. "What the fuck is this?"
"A number six with bacon," says the bored teenager behind the counter.
"With extra onions?"
The kid looks down, then looks up and raises an eyebrow. "Sure doesn't look like it."
"That's exactly right!" Sam snaps, a level of bitchy even Dean has rarely been subjected to in his life. "This is a number six without a single onion on it. We ordered extra. Are you seeing the problem here?"
"Uh," is the reply.
"I thought as much." Sam puts his hands on his hips. "I want to talk to your manager."
"We can just put onions on-"
"No, no, you cannot just put onions on it. We already waited 20 minutes for this supposed fast food, and we don't even get the goddamn onions we pay for?" Sam turns to the line. "Don't you feel like that always happens?" he asks.
"Yeah," says a lady in line timidly. "I hate that."
"Me, too," the guy behind her pipes in. "Why should we wait in this line if you guys aren't even going to listen to our orders?"
"It's why I've stopped using the drive-thru here," says an elderly man closer to the front. "They're even worse when you can't walk up to the counter and complain."
Beside him, his wife nods. "I've been asking him for years why we still come here, you know."
"Because all of these fast food joints are the same," replies her husband. "It's not like going somewhere else is going to change that."
Sam nods. "But why is that acceptable?" He faces the guy behind the counter. "Does that sound acceptable to you?"
"I'll get the manager," he replies, now that he sees the 15 people in line starting to side with Sam. A few leave, announcing that they won't even waste their time.
"Sir, what seems to be the problem?" The manager is a Hispanic man about half Sam's size, and he's cowering before he even gets close enough to see Sam's scowl.
"My brother here," Sam points to Dean, "loves onions. That is why he asked for extra onions. We paid for our meal. Do you see any reason my brother should have to go through his meal without onions?"
"No, sir, we apologize for this-"
"It's just some onions," says the kid they'd originally been dealing with. "It's not that big a deal."
"No," Sam agrees. "Not this one time. But do you know what? I've been dealing with this crap my whole life! If I have to eat at Wendy's every other goddamn day, the least I deserve is to get the best possible meal one can under these circumstances. And my brother, too. He's been doing this even longer than I have. Give him his order!"
"Sammy, why don't we calm down a little?" Dean asks, placing a hand on Sam's bicep.
Sam takes a deep breath and nods, relaxing under the touch. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry, I have no idea why…" He flinches like something has his balls in a vice, and again turns to the register, like he can't fight the compulsion. "What are you going to do to make this up to us?"
And that's how Sam got them four free orders of fries, two large Frostys, and a $10 gift certificate for everyone in line.
_______________________________________________________________
"Let's go out and get drunk tonight," Sam says.
Dean stares, mouth hanging open, as Sam tears into his fourth bacon cheeseburger of the day. "You want to go drink tonight?" Dean asks. "Like, for fun?"
Sam smiles, swallowing a French fry that's more ketchup than potato. "Yeah. When was the last time we drank for fun, not because we felt sorry for ourselves?"
Dean sends a guilty look towards his duffel, then thinks about it. "I'm pretty sure you've never gotten drunk for fun, Sam."
"Not…I totally did in college," Sam grumbles. "Anyway, not the point. I wanna, let's go out."
"Sam, we're on a case," Dean reminds him.
"It'll still be there when we're done being hungover," Sam points out with a happy shrug.
"Okay," Dean says, narrowing his eyes. "What's up with you, man?"
"What do you mean?" Sam kicks his feet up on the table.
"I mean, look at you, man."
Sam looks, then jolts and takes his feet down.
"You're acting like me," Dean says. "You've been acting like me for four days now, ever since you refused to tip that shitty waiter."
"What do you mean?" Sam asks again, though Dean can tell from his expression that he knows exactly what Dean means.
"You really don't know what I'm talking about?"
"Does this mean you don't want to go party with me tonight?"
Dean knows Sam's changing the subject…but it's not like Sam doesn't deserve to unwind a little, so Dean lets it slide.
_______________________________________________________________
Dean smiles at the police officer one last time, his best charming grin, and the man tips his hat, smiling back a little goofily. As soon as the guy is out of hearing range, Dean turns to Sam and smiles. "That was just about everything we needed," he says.
Sam doesn't smile back. His eyes are following the officer, his mouth set into a tight line. "Yeah, lucky thing he was so forthcoming."
"What's up your ass, Sam? Still hungover?" Dean smirks.
Sam cringes at the memory of his morning, then shakes his head. "Nothing, Dean. We were just very lucky your feminine wiles worked on him, that's all."
"I don't have feminine wiles," Dean reminds Sam.
"Your boyfriend didn't feel that way," says Sam, sliding into his side of the car and closing the door much harder than Dean thinks his baby deserves.
"Not my boyfriend," Dean replies, taking his own place behind the wheel. "I don't have a boyfriend."
"You should go get his number. I bet he'd like to change that."
Dean laughs. "I'm not gay, Sam."
"You say that a lot. But you sure do flirt with an awful lot of guys."
"I was getting us intell!"
Sam shrugs. "Having a lot of fun doing it, too."
"What's it matter if I was?"
"Nothing, Dean, it's totally okay that you like dick. I accept you just the way you are."
"I don't, though!"
"You know, the more you say that you're not, the more it seems like you are."
Dean starts the car and snickers. "Yeah, that's likely."
"It's true. Foucault said so. The more you talk about repression, the more you're actually indulging in the fantasy."
"Huh?"
"He's a theorist," says Sam. "I studied him at Stanford."
"Oh, now I'm bummed I didn't get it. That definitely sounds like a good time."
Sam makes a contrary face. "It was interesting."
"I'll take your word for it." Dean makes a right turn into the parking lot of the first motel he sees.
"It means the lady doth protest too much," Sam replies.
"And that means?"
"That's Hamlet."
Dean makes a 'yeah, still not following' face.
"Come on, it's Shakespeare's most famous play! Everyone knows Hamlet."
"Not you idiot brother, apparently."
"Maybe if you'd sit down and read a fucking book some time instead of chasing after girls you'd get there."
"Wow, Sam, fuck you." Dean turns the car off and gets out, almost forgetting himself enough to slam the door.
He hears Sam running to catch up to him, and Dean shakes his hand off when he grabs hold. "Stay out here," Dean says. "You don't want the guy at the counter to think we doth protest too much, do you?"
Sam frowns. "Dean, I can explain."
Dean looks away. "Look, just let me get the room, okay?"
Sam nods and lets him go. As soon as they're done settling down, Dean flops onto his bed and turns on his side. "All right, Sam, you finally want to tell me what's up?"
"I think I'm cursed," he says.
"Cursed how this time, man?"
"I'm all Id," he replies.
Dean tilts his head.
Sam sighs. "Forget it. It means, I'm, I don't know. It's not that I can't control myself, most of the time I can. I just get these urges, urges I get all the time, only now I can't stop them."
"You get urges to call me gay in the most pretentious way possible, Sam?" Dean asks.
Sam blushes. "I'm sorry about that, Dean. Sometimes I want to tell people when they're pissing me off, and sometimes I want to throw your tape collection off a tall building, and sometimes I want to talk about or make jokes about things I learned at Stanford-things I know you won't understand, not that you should, it's not like they're important, it's just sometimes…" Sam ducks his head. "I know I've been awful for the last few days. But I didn't really get it until I called Bobby hungover this morning and explained the situation."
Dean leans off his bed and slaps Sam's shoulder. "Hey, man, you haven't been that bad. You were pretty awesome yesterday, and you did get us all that free food at Wendy's."
"I don't think you're stupid, Dean. I know you're not stupid. I didn't mean to make you feel that way."
Dean sits back, doesn't let the smile he's pasted on to cheer Sam waver. "I'm not you, Sammy. It's not like that's news to me."
"You're better than me," Sam says very quietly.
Dean laughs. "Please, Sam. I'd have gotten us killed if this happened to me. We're lucky it's you. I bet your worst deep dark desire is to steal a library book or something."
Sam grins. "Oh my God," he says. "If I'm not better tomorrow, don't let me near one. Just in case."
_______________________________________________________________
As fate would have it, they do have to visit the library the next day, research for the case they're working. Sam insists they keep going with the job, even though Dean kind of wants to head for Bobby's for a cleansing ritual; Sam tells him the curse should have worn off by now and they don't have to worry.
Only it hasn't worn off, and Dean spends the entire day getting nasty looks from the librarian, because he cannot physically hold in his laughter.
"This is awful," Sam mutters miserably as he begins to scrawl in the margins of the heavy volume he's studying. "I am going to Hell for this."
Dean snorts, looks over Sam's shoulder to see that Sam's idea of a sin worth eternal damnation is to write "Sam Winchester was here" in the pages of a lore book in a bullshit library where Dean is sure no one has ever looked at this particular book before and no one ever will again.
"Defacing public property," Dean agrees with tsk. "Disgraceful, Sam."
"You're making it worse!" Sam says, covering his eye as he doodles a penis on the side of the page.
Dean cracks up again, and the librarian begins to approach.
"Hide it!" Sam says. "Don't let her see what I've done."
"This is pathetic," Dean says happily. "Who raised you?"
"Sir, will you please keep it down," the librarian asks for the fifth time.
Dean smiles at her (again) and (again) Sam slams the book shut just as she's getting close enough to see and leans over it, trying to cover his shame.
"I'm sorry about him," Sam says nervously. "He's not good at this library thing. Like I am. I am, you know." Sam hugs the book to his chest and smiles so broad it's creepy, and the librarian nods very slowly and backs away.
"Dude, you get less anxious when you're in police custody."
"I just don't want her to think I'm a heathen," Sam says, opening the book to the page he'd left off on and underlining a passage. "Here, I think this is relevant to our hunt."
He pushes the book across the table and Dean reads it, taking in the information, then smirking. "Sam, that's a pen. You can't erase that."
Sam gasps and shoves the pen at Dean. "Get it out of my sight."
"You are such a freak."
"You just don't understand." Sam pouts.
Dean ruffles his hair. "I don't think I want to, little brother. Now we've got what we came for, let's go eat."
Sam nods slowly, though his face still resembles an upset three year-old. Dean hardly sees him slip the book into his jacket and zip up, but he gets one last 'shh!' from the information counter as he passes by, laughing at the telling lump in Sam's jacket.
_______________________________________________________________
"I didn't mean to cheat." The woman sobs, blowing her nose loudly into a tissue. "It just happened."
"Yeah, I'll bet you just tripped," Sam remarks.
Dean's body seizes up. He looks to his brother, terrified by the memories the comment stirs in him. Sam look guilty, though. Not sorry for the lady like he usually does on hunts, maybe even pissed at her, but definitely not like he doesn't care at all that he said it.
Dean lets out a long sigh, goes back to trying to forget what Sam was like without his soul. He coughs. "I'm sure it was an accident, Mrs. Hodgeston. Please go on."
"Anyway, the affair went on until Drew passed away, and then I knew I had to really stop."
"So you did not carry on the affair after your husband's death?"
"Not…often," the woman replies, dodging Dean's eyes.
Sam scoffs. "Wow, lady. You cause your husband's suicide and basically told his ghost to kill your boyfriend. Impressive track record." He slaps a hand over his mouth as the lady gasps.
"Sam, why don't you go wait in the car?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "Good idea. Just, don't get too friendly, Dean, she'll probably get you-"
Sam rushes out of the room, and Dean smiles awkwardly at the widow.
That night, they torch the husband and the boyfriend for good measure, and they spend one more night in town before packing up the next morning.
_______________________________________________________________
"I think I need to leave, Dean," Sam says, slashing at a tire with one of his hunting blades.
"The plan was that we were both leaving," Dean reminds him. "Until you got pissed at the able-bodied guy in the handicap space and decided it was tire slashing time."
Sam glowers and moves on to the next wheel. "Whatever. I don't even feel that bad this time."
Dean winces at the sound of tire popping, and Sam stands up, clearly proud of his job. Then his eyebrows draw and he turns to Dean. "Give me your keys," he says.
"What for?" Dean asks.
Sam smiles. "I can't stand how fresh this guy's paint job looks."
"All right, Sammy," Dean agrees, holding out the keychain and watching Sam's face light up as he accepts it. "But then we have to head out, okay? Before this jerk calls the cops on us or comes out here and you can't help beating him until he really does need a handicapped spot."
"Oh, that's a good idea," Sam says. He stops and shakes his head. "No, bad idea."
"Very bad idea," Dean assures him. "I promise you will regret it in the morning."
"Dean, I'm starting to get worried." He hands Dean back the keys and Dean scrapes paint off the side.
"Worried about what?"
"This," Sam says. "It's been over a week now."
Dean shrugs. "So? That's why we're heading to Bobby's. Gonna get you cleaned right up."
Sam shakes his head as they get in the car and close the doors. "No. Bobby said the five day curse should wear off on its own. A week could be cleansed. Longer than a week and he said…" Sam bites his lip. "He said if this wasn't at least calming down by today, it's too powerful to clean. And it's not calming down, it's getting worse. That means I have to let it run its course."
"What's the course?"
"Ten worst desires, I guess," Sam replies. "He said on the 10th day, I'll try to do whatever I'm most afraid of doing. And he said it won't go away until I've done it. I'll just keep chasing it until I have or until I've burnt out trying."
"And what, died?"
"Yes," Sam answers. "That's what I'm hoping."
"You're hoping to die, Sam? I don't think so."
"I know what it's going to be, Dean. I cannot, under any circumstances, let myself do what…"
"What's that, steal candy from a baby?"
Sam shakes his head. "You don't know," he replies.
"Look, whatever it is, it can't be worse than dying."
"You sure about that?"
Dean wipes his mouth. "It's not…is it?" He looks away. "Better you drink a little bit than die, Sam."
"It's not that," Sam answers, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezing. "I promise I'm over that."
"I know, Sammy, but it's a curse."
Sam shakes his head. "It won’t be blood."
"Then it can't be that bad."
"The things I want, Dean." Sam licks his lips. "God, I want."
"No, okay? I know want. I know what it's like to want things so much it kills you. You don't know how to want, Sam. I've been wanting for you your whole life."
Sam moves closer. "I've been wanting for you my whole life."
"Sam, what?"
"I'm going to leave. I'll steal a car and leave my phone with you, and you have to do everything you can to make sure I can't find you."
"What are you talking about?"
"Because if I find you, I'll force you. I'll have to. And I'd rather die."
"You're not making any-"
"I wrote you a letter," Sam explains, digging into his jacket. "Yesterday, in case I woke up today and this was still happening."
"Dude, seriously, talk to me."
Sam takes Dean's face and turns it towards him. "While I can still control it. I want you to know, Dean. I'm doing this because I want this. I'm sorry I ruined what we have, but I can't help it."
"Sammy."
Sam presses a kiss on Dean's lips, quick pressure gone almost before Dean can register the warmth of his brother's mouth. "This is my choice," Sam says. "I'd rather never see you again than do what it's going to make me."
Sam opens the door and slips out then, and Dean doesn't know what the hell is happening, doesn't catch on that his brother is seriously leaving, actually kissed him, whatever else he was trying to tell Dean until Sam has disappeared without a trace.
And then the panic sets in.
_______________________________________________________________
He spends the entire next day reading and rereading Sam's letter. It's long and very Sam, all empirical explanations for what really cannot be explained or reasoned away.
Dean, it says, I'm in love with you.
There are pages and pages and pages more, but that one little sentence at the beginning holds Dean's eyes in place for hours on end. In love. Not "Dean, I love you." It's not like that would be a surprise. But instead, Dean, your impossibly dorky little brother has been lusting after you since he was a teenager and you've missed all the signs. Not just lusting, Sam assures him several times. It's not like that, he says. Well, it is, but not just that. Love. Dean's been in love, but it wasn't anything like what Sam is describing.
God, Sam wants him. Sam wants him so bad he's tried to cut and run, because he can't stop wanting. Dean must have done something really, really wrong when he thought this was the one thing he'd done right. He'd tried to take care of Sam, and somewhere down the line, he screwed Sam up even worse than he knew.
It's horrible. The first few times he reads the letter, he's gripped by chilling terror, hatred for himself, fear of what it says about Sam. It's really horrible. At first.
He keeps reading. Sam apologizes plenty of times, but he never seems to really get what he's confessing to. Because the letter? It's written like a love letter. It's soft, gentle, trying to convince Dean Sam feels this way because Dean was too good, when that obviously can't be the case.
But Sam is nothing if not stubborn. Again and again he says it. "I know you're blaming yourself right now. I know you think you screwed up. You didn't, Dean. I'm the one who couldn't handle how good you were to me the way I should have."
Dean never wins fights against Sam, not logical ones, anyway. By the end of the night, he doesn't know what to feel anymore. The disgust is gone, has left utter confusion and a familiar sense of loss in its wake. He doesn't care how fucked up Sam's feelings for him are, Sam can't just leave him like this: untraceable, determined never to see him again, ready to die. Dean is not ready for Sam to die.
He stays awake, remembering the things Sam mentions in his letter. All the times Sam was apparently falling in love with him and, fuck. He misses those things now, aches trying to imagine a lifetime without Sam around to spend moments like that. He falls asleep longing.
Sam smiles in his dreams, the same way he always has. Dean recognizes the memory, knows it was nothing important, some joke they were sharing right after Sam had come back from Stanford. Things were strained; it was the first time Dean really saw Sam laugh after Jessica died. His heart picks up and he wonders why he didn't reach out and kiss Sam in that moment, then wonders why the hell he's thinking things like that.
That memory bleeds into another, bleeds into things that never happened-never should happen-Sam and Dean, long kisses and hot skin, touching, tasting.
Dean wakes up the next morning wondering how long he's been in love with his brother and not known it. As long as Sam has been aware? Longer? Shit, he knew they were fucked up, but this is something else.
One thing is for sure, though. Sam is not dying. Dean doesn't even know where to start looking for him, and he only has one day left before Sam's curse turns its attention on him. Dean has to find him before then, has to tell Sam on their own terms that he wants whatever the next day brings just as much as Sam does.
It's a wild goose chase for the most part. Dean spends the entire day trying the usual tricks, but Sam knows Dean just as well as Dean does Sam. He knows Dean will be looking, he knows how to hide.
Bobby has nothing-of course Sam didn't call Bobby; no motels in the area have any suspect names; Sam has a day's head start and could be anywhere. He spends a few hours driving in the direction he thinks Sam would choose, praying for the first time in years and not stopping for anything.
In the end, the curse is what saves him from really losing Sam. Because Sam may be smart, may be determined to get as far from Dean as humanly possible, but he still has one day worth of stupid non-Dean impulses left in him, and Dean knows a Winchester urge when he sees the smoke from it wafting up over trees.
He takes the first turn and finds Sam in a forest clearing after about fifteen minutes on the dirt road. Sam is surrounded by broken glass, bent metal, and of course the gasoline. It looks like he went to town, like the car was totaled before he ever even lit the poor thing up.
"I can't believe you didn't invite me to set your stolen car on fire," Dean says, moving to stand behind his brother.
Sam freezes. "Dean, you know you really shouldn't be here," he says thinly. "It'll be too easy for me to find you tomorrow."
"I was hoping that would be the case," he answers, settling one hand on each of Sam's shoulders.
"You can't let me do it."
"What if I want you to?"
Sam only half turns his head to acknowledge it, then catches himself and looks away. "You're not doing that to save me. I've let you get away with a host of bad decisions to save me, but you're not doing this."
Dean turns him. "Sam," he says, doing his best to sound authoritative.
Grudgingly, Sam looks down at him. "You're not going to convince me," he says. "To force you? Even if you agree to it, that's not something you do just because you think there's no other choice. Not with your brother."
"That's not why, Sammy. And if it were? I want you, Sam. And if I didn't, I still wouldn't let you lose me just to stop yourself."
"You don't want me, Dean," Sam tells him. "You want me alive."
Dean shakes his head. "Yesterday, you made a choice, Sam," Dean says, cupping Sam's face to mirror the action. "This is my choice."
Dean has to stretch to reach Sam's mouth, but that's something he can get used to. Despite his protests, Sam opens to him with very little resistance and Dean gets pulled up into the kiss by strong arms on both sides. Dean is surprised by how perfect the fit is, or maybe not by that, maybe it's the fact that it took this long to figure it out that he's so thrown by.
Either way, Sam never does wake up needing to force Dean into anything. They break the spell on their own before the day ever starts.