reikah
in
inmyvortex
SPN: The winds and the viewless ways
Title: The winds and the viewless ways
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Author: reikah
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 10, 331
Notes: This is why I cannot be trusted with classic mythology or, apparently, sleep. AU.
Spoilers: Some for 1x22, Devil's Trap. Title from Hymn to Proserpine by Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Betas: marecagee, monkiedude.
"As she was gathering flowers with her playmates in a meadow, the earth opened and Hades, god of the dead, appeared and carried her off to be his queen in the world below. ... Torch in hand, her sorrowing mother sought her through the wide world, and finding her not she forbade the earth to put forth its increase. So all that year not a blade of corn grew on the earth, and men would have died of hunger if Zeus had not persuaded Hades to let Persephone go. But before he let her go Hades made her eat the seed of a pomegranate, and thus she could not stay away from him for ever. So it was arranged that she should spend two-thirds of every year with her mother and the heavenly gods, and should pass the rest of the year with Hades beneath the earth."
-Adapted from the Encyclopaedia Britannica
Florida has miles upon miles of dark swamp, undisturbed by anything except the animals who live there. In Texas, out near El Paso, you'll find desert as far as the eye can see, bright and hot and ominous. In Idaho are mountains, bleak and sharp and cruel, thrusting upwards into the sky. In Maine, it's huge pine forests stretching for acres, cold, dark, the wicked untamed woods of children's fairy tales.
In Nebraska there's field upon field of golden wheat, and at the edge of one such field, in a narrow country lane, Sam pulls the Impala to a rumbling halt. The door doesn't creak when he opens it, nor when he slams it behind him. He doesn't lock the car, knowing the closest human life to be five miles away - the grizzled farmer, and his plump young wife who made Sam sandwiches while nattering away at how much of a surprise it was to have the FBI come all the way out here, yes sir!
He gets his favourite sawn-off shotgun out of the trunk, and stuffs some vials of holy water and spare shells into the battered leather backpack shoved down under the weapons trunk. His cell he leaves on the dashboard; he’s expecting a call from his father in half an hour, but he doesn’t think he’ll be that long. Preparations complete, he slams the trunk shut, makes sure it's secure, and wades into the wheat, out to the solitary figure standing about two hundred yards out with their back to the road.
The wheat is tall and makes walking difficult; he slings the shotgun over his shoulder and wipes at the sweat on his face, thinks hopefully of taking a cool shower when he gets back to the motel. Maybe he'll buy some beer en route; celebrate his twenty-fourth birthday in style, yeah, with a whole goddamn shower and a call from his dad. "Hey," he calls to the figure; he's not surprised that this whole thing's been caused by some bored punk kids, rather than anything supernatural. Figures. There's nothing else to do out in the boondocks, after all. He draws to a stop ten yards shy, rucking the satchel up a little further and slowly sliding the shotgun down his arm. "Hey, kid!"
The figure stiffens, and all at once the wheat begins to bend. It's a perfect circle, five yards in diameter, but that's not what's catching Sam's attention - the man is turning, and yeah, Sam recognises him.
For a long time they just stare at each other, man to man; Sam lets the muzzle of the shotgun sink, pointing at the ground. His heart is beating double-time, and his mouth feels fuzzy all of a sudden; he clears his throat and swallows a couple of times, wishes he had that beer with him right now. "Figures," he says, voice smooth and cocky to his own ears, "I come to Nebraska seeking crop circles and I find you." He heads forward, then, confident of his own safety, drops the bag awkwardly as he steps into the crop circle. "So, uh, what're you-?"
"Part of the deal," Dean replies, quietly. "One day in the sun for every fifty... not in the sun."
"Jesus." Sam scrubs at his hair with one hand, abruptly feeling far too old for his own skin. It's like all the guilt and the pain of the last six months have returned, crashing down on him in a sudden wave, and suddenly it's hard to look into Dean's eyes, to face the man who gave up everything. "Jesus. Dean, man, I - I'm sorry."
"Choice was mine, Sammy," Dean says. He doesn't make any move to touch Sam but he does cock his head, regarding him shrewdly before grinning, wolfish. "Was that my baby I just heard?"
Sam blinks, startled at the change in topic, and nods. "Yeah, they finished the repairs, like, a month after you vanished. You should come see her, dude, she's beautiful." There are so many questions he wants to ask, but Dean's gaze goes warm at the mention of his car, and Sam knows it can wait. One day for every fifty. Jesus, even Persephone got a better deal than that. "I promise I haven't even been playing any of my music in her."
"Swear?" Dean grins, rusty around the edges, and you know what? Fuck being manly, Sam thinks, and pulls him into a hard hug. It's all elbows and bony ribs on Sam's behalf; too tall, too skinny, too desperate. Dean's warm, grudgingly pliant, hard muscle beneath the skin: feels exactly like he did before he left. God, Sam's missed him.
"I swear," he says, voice choked and painful, into the hard line of Dean's shoulder blade. "I had to, like, re-record all your tapes, but nothing newer than the Stone Age has crossed her cassette deck." It'd been the least he could give his brother, in the absence of the familiar creak.
"Good. You subject my car to your freaky techno shit, I swear to God I will possess her and punish you."
I wish you would, Sam thinks forlornly, and simply forces himself to smile shakily. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I live in fear. Jeez. Well, aren't you gonna come take a look?" He curls his fingers around Dean's wrist, stroking the two leather cords there with his thumb; so familiar, so Dean. He can feel his brother's pulse, strong and sure beneath the tanned skin, and has to resist the sudden urge to hold Dean's hand like some toddler. Dean wouldn't appreciate it, he's sure; his brother has never been one for displays of physical affection, not since he was first old enough to decide that Sammy had cooties.
"Sure," Dean says softly. "I've got until midnight. You aren't - going anywhere, are you?"
His voice is just slightly vulnerable, in that way that tugs at Sam's heartstrings; Sam shakes his head and says, "No way, dude. I can't think of a better way to spend my birthday than right here."
And yeah, maybe sappy, but Dean looks pleased even as he says, "I didn't know it was your birthday, dude. I'd've totally bought you something if I could've."
Sam merely smiles and doesn't voice the thought swirling in his brain youboughtmeyou, youboughtmeyou but instead tugs lightly at Dean's wrist. Dean goes willingly, wading back through the golden wheat, and the small noise of pleasure he makes when he takes in the fully restored Impala is enough to make Sam completely forget the bag of holy water he left in the centre of the crop circle. "They did a good job, didn't they?" he asks, unsure, because while it looks and runs fine as far as he's aware, she's always been Dean's baby, and if anyone will be the judge, it'll be him.
"Yeah," Dean says, distracted, running a hand over her hood. "Yeah, they did." He continues on down towards the trunk, stroking every inch of her he can, and Sam starts to feel like maybe he's intruding on something private; before he can suggest renting a room at the nearest motel for his brother and his car, however, Dean opens the trunk.
"So, you're still hunting?" he says casually, staring down at the assortment of weapons, and Sam nods sharply.
"Killing every evil son of a bitch I find," he replies, watching his brother's face carefully, and to his surprise, Dean smiles.
"That's my boy," he says, lifting a particularly wicked hunting knife and giving it a look of critical approval. "How's the whole look-ma-no-hands thing?"
"You mean the telekinesis?" Sam asks, amused by his brother's wording. He moves to stand beside Dean, childishly scared that if he lets Dean out of his sight, his brother'll vanish like one of his many dreams. "I'm starting to work out how to control it. I swear, Dean, as soon as I know how to use it, I'm going to bring you back."
Dean blinks at him, surprised, and smiles thinly. "Well, don't hold your breath," he says, sliding the hunting knife back into its sheath and tossing it back into its slot, slamming the trunk down after it. "Huh, no creak."
"Maybe they repaired the car a little too well," Sam offers, wincing. "The doors don't creak anymore, either."
Dean pats his car, distracted, and wanders around to the front again, starting when a harsh noise fills the air. "That your cell ring tone? Jesus, man, could you pick one more obnoxious?"
"You should hear the one I programmed in for Bobby," Sam shoots back, yanking open the driver's door and rescuing his cell. It's his dad, calling to give Sam his birthday coordinates; Sam holds it out so Dean can see the caller ID, a question in his eyes.
"Don't," Dean says, shortly. "He doesn't need to know."
"Dean, he's taken this really hard. You could at least give him a message..." But Dean's shaking his head, expression regretful, and Sam knows that's a definite 'no'. He flips the phone open, slamming the driver's door and moving to sit on the hood; Dean quietly sits next to him. "Hey, Dad."
"Happy birthday, Sammy." His dad sounds tired, but his voice is still steely; Sam glances over at Dean to see his brother watching him, the same steel in his eyes. "You done with that crop circle yet?"
"Yeah," Sam murmurs, switching the phone to his left ear, and as he used to, Dean leans in to eavesdrop. "Yeah, I am. It was -" He glances up and Dean's shaking his head, although his expression is slightly unsure. "It was a couple of local punks, trying to draw some attention to themselves. That's all." He swallows, mouth dry, and doesn't take his gaze off Dean. "You got a new job for me?"
"Vanishing people in Madison, Wisconsin. The bodies are turning up days later, strangled, with their right front canine - of all things - removed. Might be a cult with supernatural ties."
Sam nods silently. This is just one in a long series of random missions his dad had found, used to distract him while John searches for the demon who wanted Sam but settled for Dean. "I'll check it out. Can you email me the victim info?"
"Of course," John says after a brief pause and Sam fiddles with a loose thread on his jeans, desperately wanting to shove the phone at his brother and make him talk. As if reading his mind, his dad sighs softly and says, "Sammy. You know we'll get your brother back in the end, right?"
"Yeah, I know," Sam whispers, closing his eyes. Dean touches his shoulder softly - more a gentle pressure of his fingertips than anything else, and Sam feels awful. "I know, dad, it's just..."
"I know you feel guilty," John continues, and Sam winces. "Hell, I do, too. He's my boy. Should've kept more of an eye on him, should've talked more, should've... but that won't bring him back, right? We need to find out where this bastard is keeping him, and fetch him back ourselves."
"Yeah." He exhales slowly, opens his eyes. His brother is watching him, his expression as close to open as Dean Winchester will ever allow. "When I find that son of a bitch..."
John chuckles, hoarse and low. "Yeah, me too, Sammy. Look, I have to go. I just emailed you the information I have, so get to California soon as, you hear? And enjoy the rest of your birthday, son."
"Yes, sir," Sam says, and flips the phone shut. Dean nods slightly and looks away, down the endless lane and the thick golden fields.
"How is the old man?" he asks, voice carefully indifferent. He lowers his hand from Sam's shoulder, dropping it to the spare stretch of hood between them; Sam glances at it and swallows. Broad palm, long fingers, even the damn ring that he remembers so well. Looted it from a troll when Dean was sixteen, he recalls; his older brother was skinnier then, not done growing. Took him a year to finish up, so that the ring wouldn't fall right off.
"Been better," Sam replies, soft. "Been worse, though, too. He misses you."
Dean sighs and leans back a little, nodding. "I... Yeah, I know. And I'm sorry. To the both of you, I mean."
"Why did you do it, Dean?" Sam asks, aware that there's a plaintive, whining note to his voice and unable to hide it. "It wanted me. I would've gone with it, too, I -"
"You're my baby brother," Dean says curtly. "Like hell am I ever letting you become some interesting specimen for a demon, Sammy."
"I'm the psychic!" Sam points out, furious-bright. "Me, not you!"
"You're still my brother," Dean replies, irritatingly calm. "You're the closest blood-relative I have. I got the potential in me, too, and that was enough for the demon."
"But... why?" Sam asks, his voice almost breaking, and it's right there. The loneliness, the grief, the fear and guilt and self-loathing Sam's all felt during the past six months hang heavy in the air, suffocating him; he takes a slow breath and it burns into his lungs, as though he's breathing in some sort of smog. Dean sighs, soft; removes his right hand from the smooth black paintwork of his car and presses it into the back of Sam's neck, pulling him a little closer.
"I talked to a little boy, once, in Wisconsin," he says, gently, lips just a few inches away from Sam's cheek. "He asked me if I would do anything for my brother, and I told him I would."
And Sam sucks in another lungful of that poisonous air and breaks, on a high, sharp note, falling apart right there, on the hood of an old car out in the backend of Nebraska, his older brother's hand on his neck, the ring cold and the leather thong wrapped around Dean's wrist scratching against the skin. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I'm sorry, I -"
"I know," Dean says simply, and there's everything in his voice: forgiveness, acceptance, and a love so deep and profound it almost hurts. Sam leans forward, burying his face in his brother's shoulder, right where it slopes up into his neck; Dean wraps his arms around Sam's back and just - holds him, lets him shiver and cling like he's four years old and crawling into Dean's bed after a nightmare, rather than twenty-four and fully self-sufficient. Devotion, compassion, absolution; it's all on offer. Always has been.
"Hey," Dean says, when Sam raises his head; he smiles, briefly, and runs a thumb down the sharp line of Sam's jaw, expression thoughtful. Sam remembers that look from years of being abandoned in motel rooms, Dean's I'm-trying-to-be-a-parent-here expression. Sure enough, his brother promptly adds, "Have you been eating right? You're getting a little skinny there, Sam, and you don't have much fat to lose, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, mom," Sam retorts, and for a moment they're brothers again, stopping at some lane in the ass-end of nowhere for whatever reason, like any minute now they're going to get back on the trail, hunting their missing father.
Then Dean sighs, dispelling the illusion, and Sam's painfully reminded he's only got about eight hours left before his brother vanishes like a whiff of smoke. He curls his hands in Dean's jacket, hesitantly, not sure what to do or say next; Dean's palm settles at the nape of his neck again, short fingernails scratching through Sam's scalp like he's some sort of puppy. The sensation is oddly relaxing, oddly Dean; Sam closes his eyes and sighs softly.
The Impala's hood is warm between them, still hot from the summer sun; his brother smells of wheat and sweat and some other, musky, fragrance that Sam can't quite name but knows anyway, from years of being in close contact with Dean. "I needed you," he says quietly, honestly, without opening his eyes. He feels Dean tense slightly, and knows his brother hasn't missed the meaning implicit in his words.
"Me too," Dean murmurs, fingers pausing in their scratching, and Sam arcs into his brother's hand slightly, butting his head back. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know there'll be a brief, pleased smile flash across Dean's face at the gesture - for someone so remarkably self-contained, Dean seems content to take his time petting Sam today. Or maybe he's always been this way, this tactile, vulnerable person with the warm smile and the bright green eyes, the persona buried beneath everything else that makes up Dean.
"Dean," Sam says, steel and sugar spun together, and unclenches a fist from his brother's jacket, raising his hand to brush the pad of his index finger over the bridge of Dean's nose, the fine spattering of freckles beneath. "Dean."
"I know," Dean replies, sounding a little awed. "I think maybe I've always known." And he bends his head, ever-so-slightly, and kisses Sam right there on the mouth.
Yeah, just like that.
Sam doesn't mind the feather-soft kiss, not at all, but it isn't Dean, it isn't them; he tugs hard at Dean's jacket, tipping his brother against him, and kisses hard, possessive. Theirs is a story of soldiers born and bred, and this, too, is just another result of that life. Dean kisses like he fights - single-minded, full-throttle, teeth and tongue and mmm, yeah, get it right, be honest. It's good, Sam thinks, with the small part of his mind that can still manage it; Dean tastes of salt and spit and maybe a little blood, although Sam can't tell whose and, hey, it doesn't really matter anyway. Kissing Dean is not the same as kissing a woman. It's not the same as kissing Jess or Sarah, and Sam's glad for that: Dean's a whole new phenomenon, a separate category. He doesn't taste of lip-gloss and strawberries, he tastes more of -
"Pomegranate," he says, and Dean leans back, raises an eyebrow. God, he looks good; his lips are spit-slicked, slightly swollen and a little bruised. Sam doesn't remember kissing that aggressively.
"That some sort of code?" Dean asks, and Sam shakes his head no, tugs at the worn leather lapel and pulls him back down. Pomegranate, the kiss of death to Persephone's time in the sun; maybe if she'd been just a little less hungry, there would be no winter. He wonders what would happen were Dean to eat something from the world of the living, if it'd be a sort of reverse-affect; wash out the pomegranate, replace it with something warm and real.
Dean's hand on the back of Sam's neck is warm and calloused, short fingers, broad palm; real, a solid pressure. He reaches up with his other hand, brushing a thumb over the sharp curve of Sam's cheekbone, expression focused and determined. Sam closes his eyes, leans into the touch. His big brother is here, and if he concentrates he can tell himself Dean isn't going anywhere, that he didn't make a decision that cost him everything for the sake of Sam's safety.
"You're thinking too much, Sammy," Dean says, grin cat-sharp, and leans in to kiss him again. This one s more languid than desperate, as if Dean's sated his hunger and now seeks only enjoyment; Sam moves into the kiss, grinning as Dean bites at his lower lip then swipes his tongue over the marks, as soothing as the bite was firm. He uncurls a hand from Dean's jacket, sliding it down over hard muscle and crumpled fabric, down to Dean's belt, and that's when it hits him, what he wants to do with his own brother on top of the family car.
There was incest in the Persephone story, too, Sam thinks, and runs a thumb over the smooth cool metal of Dean's belt buckle. Hades was her uncle.
"Sammy?" Dean breathes his name over his slick lips, his tone a soft query, and Sam smiles and kisses him back briefly - a reassurance, a promise. The Impala is hard beneath them, utterly silent; Sam sighs, remembering cold winters, Dean wrapped around him under a thin blanket on the backseat, their dad glancing in the rear-view mirror every two minutes to check on them as they crossed state border after state border.
"Not on the car," he says, and Dean draws back, puzzled. "No offense, man, 'cause this is ... but not on the car." Not on the car we practically grew up in, at least.
Dean looks at him like Sam's just announced that he's thinking of growing a second head. "Never stopped me," he says with a trace of smugness, and Sam lifts his eyebrows, surprised to find himself... well, surprised.
"I'm not you," he replies, a little stiff, a Dean sighs, nods. "Can we just -"
"Yes," Dean cuts in, sharp and with a note of something warm and rough in his tone, and shoves Sam off the hood so fast Sam doesn't have time to react. He turns the unexpected fall into a clumsy roll, ending up on his back in the red dirt, Dean looming over him with his hands in his pockets.
"Warn me next time, Dean!" he spits, gathering his arms beneath him, ready to push himself to his feet; Dean kneels first, however, straddling his thighs. His eyes are darker than normal, the pupils a little wider, but his expression is soft.
"Hey," he says, slowly removing his hands from his pockets. "Sammy. How far do you... how far do you want this to go?"
"All the way," Sam replies, instantly, and feels a spike of warmth at the way Dean's eyes widen, the corners of his mouth turning up in a pleased smile. "Have you -?"
"Fucked a guy before? Yeah. You got anything slick?" Dean says it so off-handedly that Sam's heart beats a little faster, startled; he knows there's a lot that Dean keeps hidden - kept hidden - but he hadn't thought bisexuality would be one of them. God knows it wasn't like he'd've been repulsed, not when their lives consist of banishing fouler creatures than someone who swings both ways. Seemingly sensing this, Dean sighs, looks a little ashamed. "It was a while ago," he mumbles. "While you were gone. I was..."
He doesn't finish the sentence, but Sam doesn't need his precognitive abilities to know what was going to come next, and he doesn't feel anything except a rush of warmth and compassion towards Dean for it. "I understand," he says, softly. "There's some lube and condoms in the glove compartment."
The look Dean shoots him is one of such stunned confusion that Sam blushes a little, despite himself. He doesn't know how to explain himself to Dean, how to explain the occasional guy picked up in a bar here or there, with green eyes and freckles and who's just the right height... "I'm not a virgin," he says instead, and Dean snorts. "Keys are in my jacket pocket." Dean fishes them out, glances at the tacky novelty key ring Sam's added with pure horror, and climbs to his feet; he moves with a sort of sleek grace that Sam is perfectly content to lie back and admire. He thinks maybe he could just watch Dean until midnight comes, attempting to memorise every line of his brother's body; he'd rather do more, however, and his cock stirs in his boxers at the thought, half-hard.
The box of condoms aren't new - Sam bought them in Washington, just before he picked up another kid who reminded him too much of Dean, a stoned classics student named Jason who had a smile that promised sinful things and a mouth that'd delivered. He'd spent two days more than he should've, there, just smoking weed and discussing mythical monsters and fucking in bed and in the shower and against the wall and hell, anywhere. He'd left when Jason started bitching about his professors and his paper, his heart aching, hard.
Dean rifles through the glove compartment, pulling out some of the junk Sam stores in there - tissues, motel stationary, maps, old polystyrene coffee cups, three or four dead pens and a bottle of mouse blood - before drawing back, evidently having found the condoms and the lube.
Sam watches him closely as he slams the car door, pads over the dirt road back to stand over Sam's side. He drops the box and the bottle by Sam's head, kneeling slowly with a leg on either side of Sam's hips, a hand pressed to the hard lean muscle of Sam's chest for balance. His expression is soft, softer than maybe Dean wants anybody to know he can be.
"Hey," his older brother says, hoarse, and leans in, an air of awkward nervousness about him that doesn't suit him. Sam pushes himself up on his elbows, meets Dean midway and just kisses him, opening his brother's mouth with his own and digging his fingers into the smooth leather jacket, scraping his blunt nails across the sleek surface as he kisses harder and harder, counting Dean's teeth with his tongue and pressing himself against his brother as much as he can. Dean's warm and smells of summer; he can feel his cock stiffen at the sensation, feel Dean tense when he feels Sam's dick pressed into the curve of his hip.
"Dean?" he asks softly after several heartbeats, when Dean remains tense. He strokes Dean's back, the leather under his hand sun-warmed and familiar; schools his expression into a carefully neutral one, one he hopes emits the words you can back out now, and I won't mind. It won't affect us, if you want.
But Dean sighs, gently, and all the tension leaks out of him; he grins, green eyes bright, and lazily rocks his hips back against Sam, his cock hard against Sam's belly even through four layers of clothing. Sam tightens his grip on his brother, pulling Dean against him, tipping his head back up at the blue sky and laughing quietly, in the very back of his throat. "Yeah," he whispers, "I didn't wanna stop, either."
Dean kisses the divot of his throat, sinks his teeth in very gently. He's still rocking against Sam, dry-humping him with a sort of grace that is entirely Dean; his warmth and scent and eagerness together might be enough to make Sam come in his pants, and that's really not what Sam has planned. He unwinds his arms from around his brother, slides them up under the leather jacket and begin pulling it off. Dean shifts, helping him as much as he can without moving from Sam's jaw line, outlining it with slow licks and a steady glide of his tongue, tasting and sampling and seemingly savouring every inch of skin there.
"Dean," Sam whispers, pushing the jacket aside and letting it fall in a heap on one side. "Dean." His brother doesn't listen, tucking his head under Sam's, pushing his jaw up to reach the sensitive spot, just below his right ear, and only stops when Sam slaps his ass, hard as he can. "Dean!"
"Sam?" Dean looks up and Sam winces at what he sees there - the guarded caution, the flicker of apprehension, the lack of trust. It was Dean's insecurities which led him to make the bargain, Dean's need to be needed that broke him and left him easy meat, left him a man with so little opinion of himself he gave himself up, in an effort to give Sam back his normal life.
I love you, he thinks, a powerful burn in his chest that he wants to speak out loud but doesn’t dare. He reaches up, cups his brother's face in his hands, strokes his thumbs along the lines of Dean's cheekbones and tries to put as much as he feels into the gesture. Dean's a physical man, refuses words as nothing more than things which can be manipulated, that can be used to distort or twist the truth. You can fake physical gestures, too, but Sam hopes Dean won't think that, not about this one. Not this one.
Dean's eyelids lower, half-shuttered, and he's so warm and god, Sam has missed him so fucking much. He tries to put not only the love but also the pain of being without Dean, day after day, into the slow stroke of his thumbs over Dean's cheekbones, into the expression on his face; catches the way Dean's eyes widen and hopes, hopes, that it's enough.
"You need to be naked," he whispers, after he hopes enough time has passed. Dean nods, slowly, eyes fixed on Sam's face like he's mesmerised, and Sam just... wants. He rocks up as Dean rears back, and for a moment it's a flurry of tangle-grab-clutch, hands on shoulders, knees in the dust; Sam grips the back of Dean's neck and bends his brother's head down, kisses him long and breathless, an apology, a promise. Dean shrugs off his button-down, awkwardly, one arm thrown around back of Sam's shoulder blades as a support; can't get the shirt fully off and lets it hang from his elbow as he kisses Sam back, warm and sure.
They don't part until they feel dizzy from air loss, and when they finally do it's with great reluctance. Sam nuzzles at Dean's chin, feels his brother sigh and gently lean forward, pushing him down so he can finish stripping, and that's not a goal Sam disagrees with. The button-down and the grey tee beneath go the same way as the jacket, heaps of tawdry cloth, picking up road dust like everything Dean owns; the skin beneath the layers Dean wears is golden and hard, nothing like Jess, nothing like a woman's. Sam raises a hand, runs the tips of his fingers over the faint webs of scar tissue over Dean's chest, recalls the weight of the gun in his hand, the look in Dean's eyes. His brother had been handed a raw deal right from the start, maybe, but he'd dealt with it with a grace most would never dream of, genuinely convinced everything was fine if his family was.
Funny, how quickly that one sentence had torn his world down. Sam and John hadn't noticed the wound festering, not for weeks and weeks as they hunted, because it never occurred to them that Dean - Dean, who was strong and brave and only scared of flying, nothing so mundane as a taunt from the thing which killed his mother - could ever be wounded like that, not until it was too late and the damage was done, the two of them short a brother and a son.
Even when self-destructing, Dean'd made sure it'd have benefits for Sam, and maybe that was what had torn the youngest Winchester apart, cruellest of all. He remembers the day after, the argument he'd had with his dad, the worst since the one right before Sam had left for college. He remembers seeing the Impala, repaired, sitting in the garage; signing the bills the mechanic thrust at him without even noticing, unable to take his eyes off her as she gleamed in the sun, a relic of a time before.
Dean's hands are busy on his belt buckle, topless and heavy on Sam's hips, and his cock throbs lazily within his jeans, reminding him of the here and now. His brother strips his belt from his jeans slowly, eyes on his, and flashes a brief smile just for him. Sam grins back.
"So how do you wanna do this?" Dean asks, deliberately slipping into a Kansas slur; Sam presses his hands to his brother's hips, touching warm skin, worn denim. He curls his thumbs into the waistband of boxers and jeans both, tugging at them, then lifts a hand and presses it to his brother's groin as Dean watches, eyes heated, pupils widening.
"Like this," Sam replies, voice pitched deep and even, an edge of rough want in his voice he's never noticed before. Dean shivers but smirks, his spine stiffening as he rocks on Sam’s hips and presses into his hand. Sam can feel how hard his brother is through his jeans, and it's enough to make his dick twitch; he pops the button, pulling the zipper down slowly and grinning as the teeth part, tugging at the waistband with his other hand. "Stand up, dude, it's kinda hard to get your jeans off like this," he says softly, and Dean blinks, like the idea hasn't crossed his mind; then tilts his head and grins, pressing his hands against Sam's chest and leaning forward.
"You too, man," he says evenly, lifting his eyebrows. "Not fair if I have to get naked and you don't."
Sam raises his chin, smiles and runs his thumb back and forth, gently, over the smooth skin of Dean's hip. "Want to help?" he says, pitching his voice low, and Dean's pupils dilate just a bit.
His response is entirely non-verbal, which is just fine with Sam; his brother slips a hand underneath his shirt, warm on Sam's skin. There's a look in Dean's eyes that Sam vaguely recognises from years of dusty motels, of slutty women in low-cut dresses.
I'm sorry, he thinks, and tilts his face up as Dean bends to kiss him, messy and not at all romantic in a way which somehow is.
He marvels at how his brother tastes a little like pomegranate seeds, sharp and sweet and tangy in a warm, strange way. The thought makes his spine crawl, and then Dean's hands are on him, busy and needy and motion tinged with desperation, and there's no time for thinking at all.
It rains just before dusk, a light rain that fades before it has a chance to do more than leave droplets on the windscreen. Dean sticks an arm out of the window, runs his thumb over the Impala's side and then puts it in his mouth, tasting rainwater and road dust in one go.
The dark is slow in coming, doesn't so much creep upon them as slink furtively over the field. They're not really talking - just sitting there watching the storm clouds blowing over a sky tinting towards deepest purple, the wheat wavering in the wind. Sam keeps checking the time on his cell phone, counting down the minutes until Dean has to leave; his body still tingles vaguely with remembered pleasure, and Dean's got this quiet, pleased little smile on his face.
"It's nearly quarter to ten," Sam says eventually, stirring, unfolding his legs; they're cramped from sitting too long in the passenger seat without moving. Dean nods thoughtfully, and glances at his own watch. "Hey, man... do you... uh... do you get to choose? Where you, like, turn up?"
Dean nods, settling back in his seat. "A little," he replies quietly, staring at the centre of the steering wheel. "Not, you know, like I could just be in your motel room or whatever, but I can... generally. You know."
Sam thinks about crop circles as measures of paranormal activity and kids people never see, about Dean carrying the potential for every so-called gift he has, including the telekinesis. "Yeah," he says softly, "I do."
Dean swallows, lowers his eyes, traces a finger over the edge of the wheel and lets his other hand rest on his thigh, balled up tight. Sam tilts his head, curiously, and his brother sighs. "Thanks for getting the car repaired," he says, and it's obviously not what he meant to say. Sam shrugs, nods, thinks of their father and his grief, of Dean's very real presence.
"Two hours and ten minutes," he says instead of lecturing, and Dean sighs, pushing the door open. He doesn't get out, though, but shifts himself awkwardly, climbing over towards Sam and untangling his legs so that he's straddling his little brother's lap, while Sam settles his too-large hands gently on Dean's hips. There's something lingering in the air, something so sharp and sweet and clean he can almost taste it, and he shivers when Dean leans close, kisses him with no preamble, just tongue and teeth and spit.
"Again?" Dean asks softly when they break apart, his words a huff of warm air over Sam's lips. It's partially a statement and partially a question, and Sam answers it by nipping at Dean's lower lip, catching it between his teeth and biting gently, hoping his expression is permission enough.
They both went commando after last time, too bone-sated to pull on underwear and jeans both. Dean undoes Sam's zipper with a casual sort of ease, nuzzling at Sam's face in a motion possessive and needy both; Sam tips his head back, baring his throat to his brother and moaning softly as Dean licks down his chin to the centre of his collarbone, tongue cat-rough over delicate skin.
Dean is heavy in his lap, fingers still playing with Sam's zipper. Sam rocks his hips up, gritting his teeth as his jeans are worked down, Dean moving with him to get them around his thighs. His cock pulses, newly-freed and aching; Dean runs the edge of a blunt thumbnail up the underside of the shaft, moving ever-so-slowly towards the head and grinning as Sam squirms, wriggles uncomfortable on the sticky leather seat.
"Dean," Sam hisses then pants as Dean kisses the corner of his mouth, sloppy-wet and hungry. "Dean, c'mon, man, wanna fuck you." He threw the condoms and lube on the dashboard when he swung into the car, clumsy and lazy with just-came peace of mind; he gropes for them now, leaving one hand behind to clutch at the barely-there curve of Dean's hip.
Dean hums in agreement, rocking back and forth on Sam's lap. He unbuttons Sam's shirt with a sort of slow leisure and shoves it backwards off his shoulders with maybe more force than necessary, leaning forward to lap wetly along Sam's jaw line, his tongue rasping over the slight stubble growing there.
Sam's nipples are almost as hard as his dick is, peaked sharp and brown against the paler skin of his chest, and he gasps despite himself when Dean dips his head, dragging his tongue over the raised nub. The condom foil is shiny and slippery in his hand, the bottle of lube smooth and cool; the rain patters quietly on the roof of the Impala and all Sam can think of is that he has to get Dean to stop that if he wants to put the damn stuff on.
"Dean," he says again, his brother's name soft and heavy on his tongue. "Dean, man -"
Dean nips quietly at the skin just below and beneath his ear, soothes the sting immediately with rough strokes of his tongue, and Sam has to grab the base of his cock and squeeze it to keep himself from coming. Dean smells of something between sweet and sour, strong, and when Sam slants his head, angling his jaw to brush his mouth against Dean's, he can taste a tangy flavour on Dean's tongue that goes straight down to his dick.
He's reminded of the time Jess had taken him out to this cultural market thing going on in Palo Alto. They'd been dating for six months by then, were already thinking about moving in together; they'd walked through brightly-coloured stalls, hand-in-hand, entranced with the difference of it all, by the costumes and the strange foods and the voices gabbling in dozens of languages. They'd come away from the market with bags bulging, everything from French mustard to Danish-prepared duck, things Sam would normally never try if it hadn't been for Jess' sweet smile of encouragement. And despite that smile, he hadn't really liked much of what they'd bought: too strong, too fatty, too spicy, too dry - all but the little bunch of pomegranates they'd been given by an Iranian woman who hadn't smiled, just pressed them into Sam's hands as they wandered past and said, "You will like. Have. Free."
The seeds had tasted somewhere between sweet and sour, and he'd loved them. Jess'd complained that they were gross.
Dean growls and bites on his lower lip, raises himself up and rocks urgently into Sam's lap. Sam hisses, hearing the condom wrapper crinkle as his hands shake, invisible behind Dean; he tears the foil open without looking, butts pointedly at his brother's chest until Dean rocks back, gives him enough room to try and fit the latex thing on.
His brother is so very warm in his arms, head tilted down now and green eyes smoky and still, lashes dark against pale cheeks as he watches Sam put on the condom; he's close enough that Sam can almost count his brother's freckles. He remembers trying to, once, nine and bored, cross-legged on the bed with the gun in his hand, Dean's knee brushing his as the pair of them watched the closet solemly. "Twenty nine," he whispers under his breath, and Dean makes an inquisitive noise at the back of his throat, shifts and twists to reach for the lube, still clasped in one of Sam's hands.
"I'll get myself ready," Dean says, casually, popping the cap with a thumb and leaking the contents over his fingers. Some of it trickles through the gaps, lands on Sam's bare forearm, and the hairs on his arms stand up despite himself. His brother reaches for the one of his hands, empties the bottle onto his palm. "Slick yourself up," Dean orders, lazily, and begins to lean back, so that his weight is mostly supported by Sam's legs and his back rests on the dash. Sam curls a hand briefly around the tip, pumps twice without any real sort of heat, eyes fixed on how the pad of Dean's finger is pressed against his own hole.
He licks his lips, swallows, and glances up to see Dean's eyes half-closed. His brother is smirking, and Sam's heart beats faster, aches. God. Despite himself, his eyes flit to his cell. Ten twenty-four. He swallows again, and then Dean thrusts that finger inside of him, lips parting with a wordless cry; Sam's dick practically lurches in his fist, needy and demanding. "How many?" he asks, his voice sounding gruff and wanting to his own ears, and Dean grits his teeth, hisses three. Sam can't help himself.
He reaches out and takes his brother's hand, pulling it out; twines them together, skin slippery with the lube. His fingers are a lot bigger than Dean's, and he sees his brother's eyes widen, a smile flickering across his face in fits and starts like a stop-motion movie when he sees what Sam intends. Because, sappy at it sounds, Sam does kinda want this to be together.
Dean hisses sharply when he slips both of their index fingers in at the same time. His brother is tight and hot, and Sam whimpers when it occurs to him that this is where his dick is gonna be in a very short while. Dean's hand is slick against his, hot, but Sam refuses to let go; he watches Dean's face carefully, waiting for the sign that he can move, and dips his head uncomfortably to press a kiss that's more a brush of his lips than anything else to Dean's chest. His neck aches too much to prolong the contact, but hell, that's okay. He has an hour and forty minutes left for kissing.
Someday, he thinks, fiercely determined as Dean presses down on his lap with his free hand and twists himself on their fingers, I am going to get you out of there. Dean thinks he belongs in the shadow world, like Persephone knew she belonged in the light; Sam briefly envisions himself as Orpheus in what has to be the most confusing crossing of myths anywhere, leading his brother out of hell. Although Dean, the stubborn bastard, would probably ensure Sammy left him, too wrapped up in a cloud of I'm doing this to keep you safe. His brother's never had any sense, when it came to Sam.
Sam moans quietly as Dean tenses; crooks their fingers, thoughtfully, and grins as Dean throws his head back, howls out his pleasure to the dark. He doesn't think they need three, not really, and he draws their hands out slowly, smoothly. Dean tips his head back down, lips parting in protest; Sam curls his other hand around his brother's shoulder, tugs him close to kiss him long and deep and wet, and thinks of fingers sticky with pomegranate juice while he does so.
Dean hisses when Sam curls his fingers around his older brother's cock, darker with blood, thick and hard and curving towards his belly. He rubs a thumb over the crown, spiralling gradually inwards towards the slit, sweeps up a drop of pre-come and raises it to their mouths, still joined. Dean exhales slowly when he pushes it in between them; the flavour is strong, and Dean whimpers as Sam curls his tongue around his digit, savouring the taste of his brother's fluids.
He breaks the kiss, leaving behind a brief connecting strand of saliva before it breaks over their chins; Sam's tongue darts out to wipe it away, hoping his expression conveys his thoughts. It seems to, because Dean is pale, lips kiss-red, eyes wide and the pupils blown to hell. "Jesus, Sam," he whispers, and Sam smiles, reaches back down to his brother's dick and is stopped by a light touch to his wrist. Dean shakes his head quietly when Sam glances up, and Sam feels a brief stab of paranoia, glances sideways at the time: one hour thirty-two minutes.
"Let me," Dean says forcefully, and then he's shifting, fast, pushing himself up and curling strong hands over the sharp jut of Sam's shoulders, clutching to support himself as he moves his hips down towards Sam's cock, still painfully hard, leaking inside the condom; Sam's mouth opens in a perfect 'o' as his brother slides himself down, and then thought is blasted away in a simple wave of oh fuck hot tight deandeanDEAN.
Sam's not a virgin. He'd known what to expect, known it would be rough but good; he hadn't anticipated how good, however, and he throws his head back hard enough it rebounds off the back of the passenger seat, settles his hands on Dean's hips and digs his fingers in hard enough there would be bruises in the morning, if Dean was going to be there in the morning.
Dean is chanting Sam's name under his breath, a mantra, a prayer, and Sam wishes with a dull sort of anger that he'd been better, been stronger, been quicker to act when Dean made his offer all that time ago. He grits his teeth, sucks in a lungful of air and hisses as Dean uses his thighs to ride him, moving up and down, naked and warm and so fucking beautiful in the dark.
His brother. His. Christ. Sam shifts on the seat, the leather sticking to his thighs and back and ass, moans softly as Dean does a lazy roll of his hips that nearly has him coming right then and there. Dean's supporting himself, so Sam removes his hands from his brother's hips, skates them up past scarred skin to the dark circles of his nipples, sweeping around them with the pads of his thumbs and enjoying the way Dean tenses, shivers and breathes Sammy on a low, hoarse note.
He rolls the hard bud of Dean's left nipple between his index and forefingers, is rewarded with a downwards slide, Dean's blunt nails digging so hard into his shoulders he thinks he can already feel the skin tearing. He'll be wearing these marks for weeks, and relishes the thought; thrusts upwards hard, taking Dean by surprise and pinching his nipple as he does so. Dean's cock is desperately hard, slapping against his belly with each thrust; Sam slips his free hand down, wraps his fist around the base and moans as Dean leans forward, curving around him with a sort of flexibility he hadn't known his brother possessed, kissing his neck, marking him with hard nips.
Oh, hell, Sam thinks, tipping his head back, because it turns out that spot of skin right there is one of his fucking erogenous zones, and the next thing he knows, he's coming, harder than he has since he was twelve and first discovering what masturbation was. Christ. Dean's hands are heavy on his skin and his brother is patient, sliding down and matching Sam's breathing, watching him with alert green eyes and making no move to finish himself off.
They stay there for several sweet, slow seconds, breathing in unison, close in more ways than just physically. Sam's shoulders ache, the euphoria of sex is wearing off; there's blood gathering in the dent where Dean's right thumbnail is, and though Sam feels a pleasant buzz tingling throughout his body, making his nipples tighten despite the recent orgasm, at being marked by Dean, he's not love struck or foolish enough not to want to put a fucking Band-Aid on.
He also doesn't want to move, except Dean shifts quietly, releasing his shoulders and sliding up and off him before straddling Sam's lap again, pressing their foreheads together. "Sam," he says, quietly, and Sam knows with a flicker of something sharp and hot and pleased that Dean hasn't come yet, that his dick is hard and flushed dark with blood, clear drops of pre-come gathering at the tip. Dean just watches him, hands hot and warm, splayed out on Sam's chest, and Sam feels giddy with a startling rush of emotions, far too countless to name.
"Dean," he replies, quietly, reaching for his brother's cock with one large hand, and Dean lifts his chin, giving Sam open access to his throat. And Sam winces, mumbles an apology, and jerks his brother off the way he likes it; rough and slow, with a twist of his wrist at the end, scraping the pad of his thumb over the sensitive spot under the head. Dean smiles, the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkling, and leans forward, placing his cheek in the smooth slope where Sam's shoulder bleeds into Sam's neck, warm. His hands stay on Sam's chest, and Sam feels a rush of fierce protectiveness; he gives one last tug and grins as Dean tenses, as his brother comes over his bare hands with a sharp little inhale.
Dean doesn't move his head from its resting spot, although his eyes do widen when Sam raises hands coated with his come and experimentally slips an index finger in his mouth. "Hmm," Sam says, as though it's nothing. "Needs more salt."
There's a pause, then Dean punches him in the side, grinning. "Sammy," he says, as though offended, and it's nothing, then, for Sam to turn his head, jostle Dean a little with his shoulder and lean a little closer and kiss his brother, right there on the mouth.
They taste of semen, salt, bitter and sour and sweet and bright. It's like nothing Sam's ever tasted before, and that's okay; he strokes his tongue lazily over the roof of Dean's mouth, curls it with his brother's, and thinks, this is how it's going to be.
When all is said and done, and after a somewhat lengthy post-coital make-out session, they are left with something like seventy five minutes of Dean's one day on this world. Dean says he'd rather spend it outside, that as much as he loves his car, he hasn't seen the sky in a while. Well, actually, he says it with a lot more hesitation, because he's a Winchester and a man and some things are ingrained.
There's a pair of ratty blankets in the trunk, that they use when they can't get a hotel and have to sleep in the car. Sam takes them out to the crop circle where he found Dean, his older brother ghosting along at his heels, silent in the wheat, then helping him lay them out, two of them on top of the other. It's chilly but not yet that cold, and they lay on their bellies on the blankets like they had when they were kids, their elbows touching. Sam carefully, deliberately, avoids glancing at the watch. They don't say much, just lay in companionable silence, like they had before when they'd finished a hunt and gotten back to the motel, moving around each other and understanding everything without words.
When Sam does speak, it is after several long moments of silence; Dean's head is resting on his forearms, though his eyes are open and alert, and Sam's hand is on the nape of his brother's neck, fingers toying with the fine blond hairs there. "Dean?" he asks, and his voice seems shockingly loud after just this short time with only the sound of the wheat shifting in the wind.
Dean's eyelashes flutter, and he makes a soft curious noise at the back of his throat. Sam leans over, kisses the spot where his fingers had been stroking. "Sammy?"
"I've been hearing stories about crop circles for weeks before you turned up again," Sam says slowly, sounding like he's puzzling out the question as he says it, and Dean nods. "Are there-?"
Dean shakes his head, smiles sadly. "No," he says. "Just a couple of local kids. I, er, kinda scared the hell out of them when I turned up."
Sam smiles despite himself, and Dean turns, rolling onto his side and placing one hand on his hip. His ring is bright in the darkness, almost as bright as the whites of his eyes, and Sam leans forward and kisses him, taking his time and nothing sexual behind it. Kissing for kissing's sake. Dean tastes of the pomegranate seeds Sam loved so much, and he thinks of Persephone again, beautiful and tragic, stolen away from the mother who loved her.
"I'll miss you," he says, softly, and Dean smiles, kisses him again. "I'll work harder on the telekinesis thing, maybe kick up some more leads - there was a trail that went cold in New Orleans, maybe I gave up on it too quickly."
Dean's smile this time is sad, indulgent. He raises his hand and brushes Sam's hair away from his eyes. "I'll be back in fifty days," he says, softly, and Sam closes his eyes against the sudden sting there, nods. "It's in the terms of agreement, somewhere."
"Is that before or after the part where it says I should be there instead?" Sam asks, muffling his voice in the warm solidity of Dean's shoulder. His brother breathes out in a manner that might be a chuckle, rubs a small circle over his temple.
"I think it's after the part where I willingly put myself into its hands, and before the one where I agreed not to run away," he says, and Sam growls, low and animal in the back of his throat.
Ending the first:
He pulls Dean into a huge hug then, buries his face in the side of his brother's neck and inhales deeply, sharply. Fifty days. Yeah. Practically nothing, right? Except... seven days out of a year, and his heart aches, painful and strong. Dean runs slow hands over his back, soothing, gentle, like Sam's just a little kid again. It hurts more than Sam thought it would.
"I swear," he whispers, muffled, into Dean's skin. "I swear, man, I am going to get you out of there."
"I believe you," Dean whispers back, and Sam dips his head, hugs Dean tight enough it must hurt. Dean doesn't say anything if it does.
He thinks of Demeter, wandering in mourning all those months her daughter is gone, hurting others with her pain.
Sometimes the old myths get something right.
-fini
Ending the second:
Dean presses their bodies closer, his hand lingering on Sam's temple. He smells of sweat and sex and dirt. It's a good scent for him. Sam tucks his head into the hollow of Dean's throat, sucks in a deep breath, taking all of the Dean he can get; strong, steel. "I love you," he says, determined, because he needs to say it and he thinks Dean needs to hear it, and he can sense the pleasure on Dean's voice even when all he says in reply is, "God, Sammy, if I'd known sex would turn you into even more of a girl..."
He lets the sentence trail off and Sam laughs obediently, tired, and pulls him closer. He can feel the weight of his watch on his wrist, and the temptation to check it is a hard one to resist. He distracts himself by kissing Dean again, aiming to see how long he can go without either of them breaking for air. It feels like forever.
Afterwards Dean wraps Sam up in his arms like Sam's much younger and smaller than he really is, tells him stories from their mutual childhood, even snippets of those four years Dean was alone while Sam was at school, things he's never shared before. Sam puts his face to Dean's throat, feels the vibrations of his voice, and tries to let the tension go, stares up at the stars wheeling quietly in the sky above him. Dean occasionally plants soft kisses in his hair or on his forehead, and he smiles at each and every one.
Time passes slowly. Sam supposes that's inevitable; he remembers leaving his girlfriend when he moved out of North Dakota, sixteen and awkward, and their last day had seemed to be drawn out forever. Dean is a damn sight more important than Lydia ever was, and he didn't even get a full day. He wonders what will happen when the clock strikes midnight; some of the Persephone stories he's read indicate she fell into the underworld by a crack in the ground, others, that Hades snatched her and stole her away on his chariot. He wonders if that happened every time she left her mother, or if she just faded, disappearing into nothing more than a fine mist, and he tightens his grip on Dean hard enough that Dean stirs and makes a muffled noise of protest; he forces himself to let go.
He wonders when it’ll come, if he’ll be able to do anything about it: grab Dean's hands, sink his heels in and refuse to be budged. He's not sure he's strong enough.
"Does it hurt?" he asks, softly, and Dean stirs. "The - moving thing."
Dean pauses before answering - not the pause of someone thinking about it, but the pause of someone considering how much information to give. "A little," Dean says, quietly, and then adds, "I'm not normally conscious when I get there."
Sam bares his teeth and closes his eyes, pressing his face closer and thinking of the different ways he's going to kill the demon that took his brother. He and his dad, they're going to hunt it down and get Dean back and they're going to kill it, no matter what. He hopes it'll be painful.
He's not sure how long it's been when Dean strokes his cheek with his thumb, tilting Sam's head towards him. His eyes are green and bright in the night; Sam raises his eyebrows, curious and worried by the solemn air he sees there.
"Sammy," Dean says, and Sam swallows, apprehension settling in his gut like a punch.
"Dean?" he forces himself to ask, resisting the urge to bite his lip, and Dean abruptly releases him, sits upright. Sam closes his eyes, briefly, his brain stamped with the words notenoughtime in big angry red letters. Oh, god. He sits upright, slowly, and watches as Dean grabs his wrist, the one with the watch, twisting it so that he can see the time.
"Huh," he says, which doesn't help any. Sam bites his lip. "That thing accurate?"
Sam can't bring himself to speak, just nods. Dean glances over at him. "Check the time," he says, voice soft and distant.
Sam draws his wrist to his chest, dreading the display and slowly raises it, waiting with baited breath - and blinks, taps the face once with a fingernail.
"Huh," he says, in a strangled tone. And then he lets out this ear-piercing yell that makes Dean flinch and the farmers Sam spoke to on his way here dial the police, because he's supposed to be the smart Winchester, and he knows what it means that Dean's still right here and it's twelve-thirty, the day after.
He supposes it's fair. Persephone ate six seeds, one for every month, and Dean and he have certainly exchanged more than six kisses, each with the flavour of the pomegranate. It's the inverse of Persephone's story: every seed she ate kept her in the dark, kept her away from where she thought she was supposed to be, the world where the sun shone and her mother waited. Dean went to the demon of his own free will, seeking to substitute himself to protect Sam; that place is where he thinks he's supposed to be, and each kiss keeps him away, keeps him in the light where his brother waits.
Well, actually, that's what he'll reason two days later, explaining his brother's return to his father over the phone (if an abridged one, without the sex), Dean snacking on a greasy burger in the driver's seat of the Impala and occasionally shouting things he finds funny, such as "You can take my freedom, but you can never take my life!" in a really bad Scottish accent.
What he does at the time is hug Dean hard enough to bruise.
-fini
notes: I'd originally planned on picking and posting only one of the two endings - the second one, which I prefer because I am a fucking addict for happy endings. However, I decided not to do so on marecagee's recommendation that while the second was happier, the first felt more like the 'real' ending. You can choose whichever suits you.
Love to bleedingsand, keepaofthecheez, wendy, rachel_shanz, impertinence and anybody else who gave me encouragement on this monster, and in particular my maypirate, who doesn't even like SPN and read it for me anyway. ♥
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Author: reikah
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 10, 331
Notes: This is why I cannot be trusted with classic mythology or, apparently, sleep. AU.
Spoilers: Some for 1x22, Devil's Trap. Title from Hymn to Proserpine by Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Betas: marecagee, monkiedude.
"As she was gathering flowers with her playmates in a meadow, the earth opened and Hades, god of the dead, appeared and carried her off to be his queen in the world below. ... Torch in hand, her sorrowing mother sought her through the wide world, and finding her not she forbade the earth to put forth its increase. So all that year not a blade of corn grew on the earth, and men would have died of hunger if Zeus had not persuaded Hades to let Persephone go. But before he let her go Hades made her eat the seed of a pomegranate, and thus she could not stay away from him for ever. So it was arranged that she should spend two-thirds of every year with her mother and the heavenly gods, and should pass the rest of the year with Hades beneath the earth."
-Adapted from the Encyclopaedia Britannica
Florida has miles upon miles of dark swamp, undisturbed by anything except the animals who live there. In Texas, out near El Paso, you'll find desert as far as the eye can see, bright and hot and ominous. In Idaho are mountains, bleak and sharp and cruel, thrusting upwards into the sky. In Maine, it's huge pine forests stretching for acres, cold, dark, the wicked untamed woods of children's fairy tales.
In Nebraska there's field upon field of golden wheat, and at the edge of one such field, in a narrow country lane, Sam pulls the Impala to a rumbling halt. The door doesn't creak when he opens it, nor when he slams it behind him. He doesn't lock the car, knowing the closest human life to be five miles away - the grizzled farmer, and his plump young wife who made Sam sandwiches while nattering away at how much of a surprise it was to have the FBI come all the way out here, yes sir!
He gets his favourite sawn-off shotgun out of the trunk, and stuffs some vials of holy water and spare shells into the battered leather backpack shoved down under the weapons trunk. His cell he leaves on the dashboard; he’s expecting a call from his father in half an hour, but he doesn’t think he’ll be that long. Preparations complete, he slams the trunk shut, makes sure it's secure, and wades into the wheat, out to the solitary figure standing about two hundred yards out with their back to the road.
The wheat is tall and makes walking difficult; he slings the shotgun over his shoulder and wipes at the sweat on his face, thinks hopefully of taking a cool shower when he gets back to the motel. Maybe he'll buy some beer en route; celebrate his twenty-fourth birthday in style, yeah, with a whole goddamn shower and a call from his dad. "Hey," he calls to the figure; he's not surprised that this whole thing's been caused by some bored punk kids, rather than anything supernatural. Figures. There's nothing else to do out in the boondocks, after all. He draws to a stop ten yards shy, rucking the satchel up a little further and slowly sliding the shotgun down his arm. "Hey, kid!"
The figure stiffens, and all at once the wheat begins to bend. It's a perfect circle, five yards in diameter, but that's not what's catching Sam's attention - the man is turning, and yeah, Sam recognises him.
For a long time they just stare at each other, man to man; Sam lets the muzzle of the shotgun sink, pointing at the ground. His heart is beating double-time, and his mouth feels fuzzy all of a sudden; he clears his throat and swallows a couple of times, wishes he had that beer with him right now. "Figures," he says, voice smooth and cocky to his own ears, "I come to Nebraska seeking crop circles and I find you." He heads forward, then, confident of his own safety, drops the bag awkwardly as he steps into the crop circle. "So, uh, what're you-?"
"Part of the deal," Dean replies, quietly. "One day in the sun for every fifty... not in the sun."
"Jesus." Sam scrubs at his hair with one hand, abruptly feeling far too old for his own skin. It's like all the guilt and the pain of the last six months have returned, crashing down on him in a sudden wave, and suddenly it's hard to look into Dean's eyes, to face the man who gave up everything. "Jesus. Dean, man, I - I'm sorry."
"Choice was mine, Sammy," Dean says. He doesn't make any move to touch Sam but he does cock his head, regarding him shrewdly before grinning, wolfish. "Was that my baby I just heard?"
Sam blinks, startled at the change in topic, and nods. "Yeah, they finished the repairs, like, a month after you vanished. You should come see her, dude, she's beautiful." There are so many questions he wants to ask, but Dean's gaze goes warm at the mention of his car, and Sam knows it can wait. One day for every fifty. Jesus, even Persephone got a better deal than that. "I promise I haven't even been playing any of my music in her."
"Swear?" Dean grins, rusty around the edges, and you know what? Fuck being manly, Sam thinks, and pulls him into a hard hug. It's all elbows and bony ribs on Sam's behalf; too tall, too skinny, too desperate. Dean's warm, grudgingly pliant, hard muscle beneath the skin: feels exactly like he did before he left. God, Sam's missed him.
"I swear," he says, voice choked and painful, into the hard line of Dean's shoulder blade. "I had to, like, re-record all your tapes, but nothing newer than the Stone Age has crossed her cassette deck." It'd been the least he could give his brother, in the absence of the familiar creak.
"Good. You subject my car to your freaky techno shit, I swear to God I will possess her and punish you."
I wish you would, Sam thinks forlornly, and simply forces himself to smile shakily. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I live in fear. Jeez. Well, aren't you gonna come take a look?" He curls his fingers around Dean's wrist, stroking the two leather cords there with his thumb; so familiar, so Dean. He can feel his brother's pulse, strong and sure beneath the tanned skin, and has to resist the sudden urge to hold Dean's hand like some toddler. Dean wouldn't appreciate it, he's sure; his brother has never been one for displays of physical affection, not since he was first old enough to decide that Sammy had cooties.
"Sure," Dean says softly. "I've got until midnight. You aren't - going anywhere, are you?"
His voice is just slightly vulnerable, in that way that tugs at Sam's heartstrings; Sam shakes his head and says, "No way, dude. I can't think of a better way to spend my birthday than right here."
And yeah, maybe sappy, but Dean looks pleased even as he says, "I didn't know it was your birthday, dude. I'd've totally bought you something if I could've."
Sam merely smiles and doesn't voice the thought swirling in his brain youboughtmeyou, youboughtmeyou but instead tugs lightly at Dean's wrist. Dean goes willingly, wading back through the golden wheat, and the small noise of pleasure he makes when he takes in the fully restored Impala is enough to make Sam completely forget the bag of holy water he left in the centre of the crop circle. "They did a good job, didn't they?" he asks, unsure, because while it looks and runs fine as far as he's aware, she's always been Dean's baby, and if anyone will be the judge, it'll be him.
"Yeah," Dean says, distracted, running a hand over her hood. "Yeah, they did." He continues on down towards the trunk, stroking every inch of her he can, and Sam starts to feel like maybe he's intruding on something private; before he can suggest renting a room at the nearest motel for his brother and his car, however, Dean opens the trunk.
"So, you're still hunting?" he says casually, staring down at the assortment of weapons, and Sam nods sharply.
"Killing every evil son of a bitch I find," he replies, watching his brother's face carefully, and to his surprise, Dean smiles.
"That's my boy," he says, lifting a particularly wicked hunting knife and giving it a look of critical approval. "How's the whole look-ma-no-hands thing?"
"You mean the telekinesis?" Sam asks, amused by his brother's wording. He moves to stand beside Dean, childishly scared that if he lets Dean out of his sight, his brother'll vanish like one of his many dreams. "I'm starting to work out how to control it. I swear, Dean, as soon as I know how to use it, I'm going to bring you back."
Dean blinks at him, surprised, and smiles thinly. "Well, don't hold your breath," he says, sliding the hunting knife back into its sheath and tossing it back into its slot, slamming the trunk down after it. "Huh, no creak."
"Maybe they repaired the car a little too well," Sam offers, wincing. "The doors don't creak anymore, either."
Dean pats his car, distracted, and wanders around to the front again, starting when a harsh noise fills the air. "That your cell ring tone? Jesus, man, could you pick one more obnoxious?"
"You should hear the one I programmed in for Bobby," Sam shoots back, yanking open the driver's door and rescuing his cell. It's his dad, calling to give Sam his birthday coordinates; Sam holds it out so Dean can see the caller ID, a question in his eyes.
"Don't," Dean says, shortly. "He doesn't need to know."
"Dean, he's taken this really hard. You could at least give him a message..." But Dean's shaking his head, expression regretful, and Sam knows that's a definite 'no'. He flips the phone open, slamming the driver's door and moving to sit on the hood; Dean quietly sits next to him. "Hey, Dad."
"Happy birthday, Sammy." His dad sounds tired, but his voice is still steely; Sam glances over at Dean to see his brother watching him, the same steel in his eyes. "You done with that crop circle yet?"
"Yeah," Sam murmurs, switching the phone to his left ear, and as he used to, Dean leans in to eavesdrop. "Yeah, I am. It was -" He glances up and Dean's shaking his head, although his expression is slightly unsure. "It was a couple of local punks, trying to draw some attention to themselves. That's all." He swallows, mouth dry, and doesn't take his gaze off Dean. "You got a new job for me?"
"Vanishing people in Madison, Wisconsin. The bodies are turning up days later, strangled, with their right front canine - of all things - removed. Might be a cult with supernatural ties."
Sam nods silently. This is just one in a long series of random missions his dad had found, used to distract him while John searches for the demon who wanted Sam but settled for Dean. "I'll check it out. Can you email me the victim info?"
"Of course," John says after a brief pause and Sam fiddles with a loose thread on his jeans, desperately wanting to shove the phone at his brother and make him talk. As if reading his mind, his dad sighs softly and says, "Sammy. You know we'll get your brother back in the end, right?"
"Yeah, I know," Sam whispers, closing his eyes. Dean touches his shoulder softly - more a gentle pressure of his fingertips than anything else, and Sam feels awful. "I know, dad, it's just..."
"I know you feel guilty," John continues, and Sam winces. "Hell, I do, too. He's my boy. Should've kept more of an eye on him, should've talked more, should've... but that won't bring him back, right? We need to find out where this bastard is keeping him, and fetch him back ourselves."
"Yeah." He exhales slowly, opens his eyes. His brother is watching him, his expression as close to open as Dean Winchester will ever allow. "When I find that son of a bitch..."
John chuckles, hoarse and low. "Yeah, me too, Sammy. Look, I have to go. I just emailed you the information I have, so get to California soon as, you hear? And enjoy the rest of your birthday, son."
"Yes, sir," Sam says, and flips the phone shut. Dean nods slightly and looks away, down the endless lane and the thick golden fields.
"How is the old man?" he asks, voice carefully indifferent. He lowers his hand from Sam's shoulder, dropping it to the spare stretch of hood between them; Sam glances at it and swallows. Broad palm, long fingers, even the damn ring that he remembers so well. Looted it from a troll when Dean was sixteen, he recalls; his older brother was skinnier then, not done growing. Took him a year to finish up, so that the ring wouldn't fall right off.
"Been better," Sam replies, soft. "Been worse, though, too. He misses you."
Dean sighs and leans back a little, nodding. "I... Yeah, I know. And I'm sorry. To the both of you, I mean."
"Why did you do it, Dean?" Sam asks, aware that there's a plaintive, whining note to his voice and unable to hide it. "It wanted me. I would've gone with it, too, I -"
"You're my baby brother," Dean says curtly. "Like hell am I ever letting you become some interesting specimen for a demon, Sammy."
"I'm the psychic!" Sam points out, furious-bright. "Me, not you!"
"You're still my brother," Dean replies, irritatingly calm. "You're the closest blood-relative I have. I got the potential in me, too, and that was enough for the demon."
"But... why?" Sam asks, his voice almost breaking, and it's right there. The loneliness, the grief, the fear and guilt and self-loathing Sam's all felt during the past six months hang heavy in the air, suffocating him; he takes a slow breath and it burns into his lungs, as though he's breathing in some sort of smog. Dean sighs, soft; removes his right hand from the smooth black paintwork of his car and presses it into the back of Sam's neck, pulling him a little closer.
"I talked to a little boy, once, in Wisconsin," he says, gently, lips just a few inches away from Sam's cheek. "He asked me if I would do anything for my brother, and I told him I would."
And Sam sucks in another lungful of that poisonous air and breaks, on a high, sharp note, falling apart right there, on the hood of an old car out in the backend of Nebraska, his older brother's hand on his neck, the ring cold and the leather thong wrapped around Dean's wrist scratching against the skin. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I'm sorry, I -"
"I know," Dean says simply, and there's everything in his voice: forgiveness, acceptance, and a love so deep and profound it almost hurts. Sam leans forward, burying his face in his brother's shoulder, right where it slopes up into his neck; Dean wraps his arms around Sam's back and just - holds him, lets him shiver and cling like he's four years old and crawling into Dean's bed after a nightmare, rather than twenty-four and fully self-sufficient. Devotion, compassion, absolution; it's all on offer. Always has been.
"Hey," Dean says, when Sam raises his head; he smiles, briefly, and runs a thumb down the sharp line of Sam's jaw, expression thoughtful. Sam remembers that look from years of being abandoned in motel rooms, Dean's I'm-trying-to-be-a-parent-here expression. Sure enough, his brother promptly adds, "Have you been eating right? You're getting a little skinny there, Sam, and you don't have much fat to lose, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, mom," Sam retorts, and for a moment they're brothers again, stopping at some lane in the ass-end of nowhere for whatever reason, like any minute now they're going to get back on the trail, hunting their missing father.
Then Dean sighs, dispelling the illusion, and Sam's painfully reminded he's only got about eight hours left before his brother vanishes like a whiff of smoke. He curls his hands in Dean's jacket, hesitantly, not sure what to do or say next; Dean's palm settles at the nape of his neck again, short fingernails scratching through Sam's scalp like he's some sort of puppy. The sensation is oddly relaxing, oddly Dean; Sam closes his eyes and sighs softly.
The Impala's hood is warm between them, still hot from the summer sun; his brother smells of wheat and sweat and some other, musky, fragrance that Sam can't quite name but knows anyway, from years of being in close contact with Dean. "I needed you," he says quietly, honestly, without opening his eyes. He feels Dean tense slightly, and knows his brother hasn't missed the meaning implicit in his words.
"Me too," Dean murmurs, fingers pausing in their scratching, and Sam arcs into his brother's hand slightly, butting his head back. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know there'll be a brief, pleased smile flash across Dean's face at the gesture - for someone so remarkably self-contained, Dean seems content to take his time petting Sam today. Or maybe he's always been this way, this tactile, vulnerable person with the warm smile and the bright green eyes, the persona buried beneath everything else that makes up Dean.
"Dean," Sam says, steel and sugar spun together, and unclenches a fist from his brother's jacket, raising his hand to brush the pad of his index finger over the bridge of Dean's nose, the fine spattering of freckles beneath. "Dean."
"I know," Dean replies, sounding a little awed. "I think maybe I've always known." And he bends his head, ever-so-slightly, and kisses Sam right there on the mouth.
Yeah, just like that.
Sam doesn't mind the feather-soft kiss, not at all, but it isn't Dean, it isn't them; he tugs hard at Dean's jacket, tipping his brother against him, and kisses hard, possessive. Theirs is a story of soldiers born and bred, and this, too, is just another result of that life. Dean kisses like he fights - single-minded, full-throttle, teeth and tongue and mmm, yeah, get it right, be honest. It's good, Sam thinks, with the small part of his mind that can still manage it; Dean tastes of salt and spit and maybe a little blood, although Sam can't tell whose and, hey, it doesn't really matter anyway. Kissing Dean is not the same as kissing a woman. It's not the same as kissing Jess or Sarah, and Sam's glad for that: Dean's a whole new phenomenon, a separate category. He doesn't taste of lip-gloss and strawberries, he tastes more of -
"Pomegranate," he says, and Dean leans back, raises an eyebrow. God, he looks good; his lips are spit-slicked, slightly swollen and a little bruised. Sam doesn't remember kissing that aggressively.
"That some sort of code?" Dean asks, and Sam shakes his head no, tugs at the worn leather lapel and pulls him back down. Pomegranate, the kiss of death to Persephone's time in the sun; maybe if she'd been just a little less hungry, there would be no winter. He wonders what would happen were Dean to eat something from the world of the living, if it'd be a sort of reverse-affect; wash out the pomegranate, replace it with something warm and real.
Dean's hand on the back of Sam's neck is warm and calloused, short fingers, broad palm; real, a solid pressure. He reaches up with his other hand, brushing a thumb over the sharp curve of Sam's cheekbone, expression focused and determined. Sam closes his eyes, leans into the touch. His big brother is here, and if he concentrates he can tell himself Dean isn't going anywhere, that he didn't make a decision that cost him everything for the sake of Sam's safety.
"You're thinking too much, Sammy," Dean says, grin cat-sharp, and leans in to kiss him again. This one s more languid than desperate, as if Dean's sated his hunger and now seeks only enjoyment; Sam moves into the kiss, grinning as Dean bites at his lower lip then swipes his tongue over the marks, as soothing as the bite was firm. He uncurls a hand from Dean's jacket, sliding it down over hard muscle and crumpled fabric, down to Dean's belt, and that's when it hits him, what he wants to do with his own brother on top of the family car.
There was incest in the Persephone story, too, Sam thinks, and runs a thumb over the smooth cool metal of Dean's belt buckle. Hades was her uncle.
"Sammy?" Dean breathes his name over his slick lips, his tone a soft query, and Sam smiles and kisses him back briefly - a reassurance, a promise. The Impala is hard beneath them, utterly silent; Sam sighs, remembering cold winters, Dean wrapped around him under a thin blanket on the backseat, their dad glancing in the rear-view mirror every two minutes to check on them as they crossed state border after state border.
"Not on the car," he says, and Dean draws back, puzzled. "No offense, man, 'cause this is ... but not on the car." Not on the car we practically grew up in, at least.
Dean looks at him like Sam's just announced that he's thinking of growing a second head. "Never stopped me," he says with a trace of smugness, and Sam lifts his eyebrows, surprised to find himself... well, surprised.
"I'm not you," he replies, a little stiff, a Dean sighs, nods. "Can we just -"
"Yes," Dean cuts in, sharp and with a note of something warm and rough in his tone, and shoves Sam off the hood so fast Sam doesn't have time to react. He turns the unexpected fall into a clumsy roll, ending up on his back in the red dirt, Dean looming over him with his hands in his pockets.
"Warn me next time, Dean!" he spits, gathering his arms beneath him, ready to push himself to his feet; Dean kneels first, however, straddling his thighs. His eyes are darker than normal, the pupils a little wider, but his expression is soft.
"Hey," he says, slowly removing his hands from his pockets. "Sammy. How far do you... how far do you want this to go?"
"All the way," Sam replies, instantly, and feels a spike of warmth at the way Dean's eyes widen, the corners of his mouth turning up in a pleased smile. "Have you -?"
"Fucked a guy before? Yeah. You got anything slick?" Dean says it so off-handedly that Sam's heart beats a little faster, startled; he knows there's a lot that Dean keeps hidden - kept hidden - but he hadn't thought bisexuality would be one of them. God knows it wasn't like he'd've been repulsed, not when their lives consist of banishing fouler creatures than someone who swings both ways. Seemingly sensing this, Dean sighs, looks a little ashamed. "It was a while ago," he mumbles. "While you were gone. I was..."
He doesn't finish the sentence, but Sam doesn't need his precognitive abilities to know what was going to come next, and he doesn't feel anything except a rush of warmth and compassion towards Dean for it. "I understand," he says, softly. "There's some lube and condoms in the glove compartment."
The look Dean shoots him is one of such stunned confusion that Sam blushes a little, despite himself. He doesn't know how to explain himself to Dean, how to explain the occasional guy picked up in a bar here or there, with green eyes and freckles and who's just the right height... "I'm not a virgin," he says instead, and Dean snorts. "Keys are in my jacket pocket." Dean fishes them out, glances at the tacky novelty key ring Sam's added with pure horror, and climbs to his feet; he moves with a sort of sleek grace that Sam is perfectly content to lie back and admire. He thinks maybe he could just watch Dean until midnight comes, attempting to memorise every line of his brother's body; he'd rather do more, however, and his cock stirs in his boxers at the thought, half-hard.
The box of condoms aren't new - Sam bought them in Washington, just before he picked up another kid who reminded him too much of Dean, a stoned classics student named Jason who had a smile that promised sinful things and a mouth that'd delivered. He'd spent two days more than he should've, there, just smoking weed and discussing mythical monsters and fucking in bed and in the shower and against the wall and hell, anywhere. He'd left when Jason started bitching about his professors and his paper, his heart aching, hard.
Dean rifles through the glove compartment, pulling out some of the junk Sam stores in there - tissues, motel stationary, maps, old polystyrene coffee cups, three or four dead pens and a bottle of mouse blood - before drawing back, evidently having found the condoms and the lube.
Sam watches him closely as he slams the car door, pads over the dirt road back to stand over Sam's side. He drops the box and the bottle by Sam's head, kneeling slowly with a leg on either side of Sam's hips, a hand pressed to the hard lean muscle of Sam's chest for balance. His expression is soft, softer than maybe Dean wants anybody to know he can be.
"Hey," his older brother says, hoarse, and leans in, an air of awkward nervousness about him that doesn't suit him. Sam pushes himself up on his elbows, meets Dean midway and just kisses him, opening his brother's mouth with his own and digging his fingers into the smooth leather jacket, scraping his blunt nails across the sleek surface as he kisses harder and harder, counting Dean's teeth with his tongue and pressing himself against his brother as much as he can. Dean's warm and smells of summer; he can feel his cock stiffen at the sensation, feel Dean tense when he feels Sam's dick pressed into the curve of his hip.
"Dean?" he asks softly after several heartbeats, when Dean remains tense. He strokes Dean's back, the leather under his hand sun-warmed and familiar; schools his expression into a carefully neutral one, one he hopes emits the words you can back out now, and I won't mind. It won't affect us, if you want.
But Dean sighs, gently, and all the tension leaks out of him; he grins, green eyes bright, and lazily rocks his hips back against Sam, his cock hard against Sam's belly even through four layers of clothing. Sam tightens his grip on his brother, pulling Dean against him, tipping his head back up at the blue sky and laughing quietly, in the very back of his throat. "Yeah," he whispers, "I didn't wanna stop, either."
Dean kisses the divot of his throat, sinks his teeth in very gently. He's still rocking against Sam, dry-humping him with a sort of grace that is entirely Dean; his warmth and scent and eagerness together might be enough to make Sam come in his pants, and that's really not what Sam has planned. He unwinds his arms from around his brother, slides them up under the leather jacket and begin pulling it off. Dean shifts, helping him as much as he can without moving from Sam's jaw line, outlining it with slow licks and a steady glide of his tongue, tasting and sampling and seemingly savouring every inch of skin there.
"Dean," Sam whispers, pushing the jacket aside and letting it fall in a heap on one side. "Dean." His brother doesn't listen, tucking his head under Sam's, pushing his jaw up to reach the sensitive spot, just below his right ear, and only stops when Sam slaps his ass, hard as he can. "Dean!"
"Sam?" Dean looks up and Sam winces at what he sees there - the guarded caution, the flicker of apprehension, the lack of trust. It was Dean's insecurities which led him to make the bargain, Dean's need to be needed that broke him and left him easy meat, left him a man with so little opinion of himself he gave himself up, in an effort to give Sam back his normal life.
I love you, he thinks, a powerful burn in his chest that he wants to speak out loud but doesn’t dare. He reaches up, cups his brother's face in his hands, strokes his thumbs along the lines of Dean's cheekbones and tries to put as much as he feels into the gesture. Dean's a physical man, refuses words as nothing more than things which can be manipulated, that can be used to distort or twist the truth. You can fake physical gestures, too, but Sam hopes Dean won't think that, not about this one. Not this one.
Dean's eyelids lower, half-shuttered, and he's so warm and god, Sam has missed him so fucking much. He tries to put not only the love but also the pain of being without Dean, day after day, into the slow stroke of his thumbs over Dean's cheekbones, into the expression on his face; catches the way Dean's eyes widen and hopes, hopes, that it's enough.
"You need to be naked," he whispers, after he hopes enough time has passed. Dean nods, slowly, eyes fixed on Sam's face like he's mesmerised, and Sam just... wants. He rocks up as Dean rears back, and for a moment it's a flurry of tangle-grab-clutch, hands on shoulders, knees in the dust; Sam grips the back of Dean's neck and bends his brother's head down, kisses him long and breathless, an apology, a promise. Dean shrugs off his button-down, awkwardly, one arm thrown around back of Sam's shoulder blades as a support; can't get the shirt fully off and lets it hang from his elbow as he kisses Sam back, warm and sure.
They don't part until they feel dizzy from air loss, and when they finally do it's with great reluctance. Sam nuzzles at Dean's chin, feels his brother sigh and gently lean forward, pushing him down so he can finish stripping, and that's not a goal Sam disagrees with. The button-down and the grey tee beneath go the same way as the jacket, heaps of tawdry cloth, picking up road dust like everything Dean owns; the skin beneath the layers Dean wears is golden and hard, nothing like Jess, nothing like a woman's. Sam raises a hand, runs the tips of his fingers over the faint webs of scar tissue over Dean's chest, recalls the weight of the gun in his hand, the look in Dean's eyes. His brother had been handed a raw deal right from the start, maybe, but he'd dealt with it with a grace most would never dream of, genuinely convinced everything was fine if his family was.
Funny, how quickly that one sentence had torn his world down. Sam and John hadn't noticed the wound festering, not for weeks and weeks as they hunted, because it never occurred to them that Dean - Dean, who was strong and brave and only scared of flying, nothing so mundane as a taunt from the thing which killed his mother - could ever be wounded like that, not until it was too late and the damage was done, the two of them short a brother and a son.
Even when self-destructing, Dean'd made sure it'd have benefits for Sam, and maybe that was what had torn the youngest Winchester apart, cruellest of all. He remembers the day after, the argument he'd had with his dad, the worst since the one right before Sam had left for college. He remembers seeing the Impala, repaired, sitting in the garage; signing the bills the mechanic thrust at him without even noticing, unable to take his eyes off her as she gleamed in the sun, a relic of a time before.
Dean's hands are busy on his belt buckle, topless and heavy on Sam's hips, and his cock throbs lazily within his jeans, reminding him of the here and now. His brother strips his belt from his jeans slowly, eyes on his, and flashes a brief smile just for him. Sam grins back.
"So how do you wanna do this?" Dean asks, deliberately slipping into a Kansas slur; Sam presses his hands to his brother's hips, touching warm skin, worn denim. He curls his thumbs into the waistband of boxers and jeans both, tugging at them, then lifts a hand and presses it to his brother's groin as Dean watches, eyes heated, pupils widening.
"Like this," Sam replies, voice pitched deep and even, an edge of rough want in his voice he's never noticed before. Dean shivers but smirks, his spine stiffening as he rocks on Sam’s hips and presses into his hand. Sam can feel how hard his brother is through his jeans, and it's enough to make his dick twitch; he pops the button, pulling the zipper down slowly and grinning as the teeth part, tugging at the waistband with his other hand. "Stand up, dude, it's kinda hard to get your jeans off like this," he says softly, and Dean blinks, like the idea hasn't crossed his mind; then tilts his head and grins, pressing his hands against Sam's chest and leaning forward.
"You too, man," he says evenly, lifting his eyebrows. "Not fair if I have to get naked and you don't."
Sam raises his chin, smiles and runs his thumb back and forth, gently, over the smooth skin of Dean's hip. "Want to help?" he says, pitching his voice low, and Dean's pupils dilate just a bit.
His response is entirely non-verbal, which is just fine with Sam; his brother slips a hand underneath his shirt, warm on Sam's skin. There's a look in Dean's eyes that Sam vaguely recognises from years of dusty motels, of slutty women in low-cut dresses.
I'm sorry, he thinks, and tilts his face up as Dean bends to kiss him, messy and not at all romantic in a way which somehow is.
He marvels at how his brother tastes a little like pomegranate seeds, sharp and sweet and tangy in a warm, strange way. The thought makes his spine crawl, and then Dean's hands are on him, busy and needy and motion tinged with desperation, and there's no time for thinking at all.
It rains just before dusk, a light rain that fades before it has a chance to do more than leave droplets on the windscreen. Dean sticks an arm out of the window, runs his thumb over the Impala's side and then puts it in his mouth, tasting rainwater and road dust in one go.
The dark is slow in coming, doesn't so much creep upon them as slink furtively over the field. They're not really talking - just sitting there watching the storm clouds blowing over a sky tinting towards deepest purple, the wheat wavering in the wind. Sam keeps checking the time on his cell phone, counting down the minutes until Dean has to leave; his body still tingles vaguely with remembered pleasure, and Dean's got this quiet, pleased little smile on his face.
"It's nearly quarter to ten," Sam says eventually, stirring, unfolding his legs; they're cramped from sitting too long in the passenger seat without moving. Dean nods thoughtfully, and glances at his own watch. "Hey, man... do you... uh... do you get to choose? Where you, like, turn up?"
Dean nods, settling back in his seat. "A little," he replies quietly, staring at the centre of the steering wheel. "Not, you know, like I could just be in your motel room or whatever, but I can... generally. You know."
Sam thinks about crop circles as measures of paranormal activity and kids people never see, about Dean carrying the potential for every so-called gift he has, including the telekinesis. "Yeah," he says softly, "I do."
Dean swallows, lowers his eyes, traces a finger over the edge of the wheel and lets his other hand rest on his thigh, balled up tight. Sam tilts his head, curiously, and his brother sighs. "Thanks for getting the car repaired," he says, and it's obviously not what he meant to say. Sam shrugs, nods, thinks of their father and his grief, of Dean's very real presence.
"Two hours and ten minutes," he says instead of lecturing, and Dean sighs, pushing the door open. He doesn't get out, though, but shifts himself awkwardly, climbing over towards Sam and untangling his legs so that he's straddling his little brother's lap, while Sam settles his too-large hands gently on Dean's hips. There's something lingering in the air, something so sharp and sweet and clean he can almost taste it, and he shivers when Dean leans close, kisses him with no preamble, just tongue and teeth and spit.
"Again?" Dean asks softly when they break apart, his words a huff of warm air over Sam's lips. It's partially a statement and partially a question, and Sam answers it by nipping at Dean's lower lip, catching it between his teeth and biting gently, hoping his expression is permission enough.
They both went commando after last time, too bone-sated to pull on underwear and jeans both. Dean undoes Sam's zipper with a casual sort of ease, nuzzling at Sam's face in a motion possessive and needy both; Sam tips his head back, baring his throat to his brother and moaning softly as Dean licks down his chin to the centre of his collarbone, tongue cat-rough over delicate skin.
Dean is heavy in his lap, fingers still playing with Sam's zipper. Sam rocks his hips up, gritting his teeth as his jeans are worked down, Dean moving with him to get them around his thighs. His cock pulses, newly-freed and aching; Dean runs the edge of a blunt thumbnail up the underside of the shaft, moving ever-so-slowly towards the head and grinning as Sam squirms, wriggles uncomfortable on the sticky leather seat.
"Dean," Sam hisses then pants as Dean kisses the corner of his mouth, sloppy-wet and hungry. "Dean, c'mon, man, wanna fuck you." He threw the condoms and lube on the dashboard when he swung into the car, clumsy and lazy with just-came peace of mind; he gropes for them now, leaving one hand behind to clutch at the barely-there curve of Dean's hip.
Dean hums in agreement, rocking back and forth on Sam's lap. He unbuttons Sam's shirt with a sort of slow leisure and shoves it backwards off his shoulders with maybe more force than necessary, leaning forward to lap wetly along Sam's jaw line, his tongue rasping over the slight stubble growing there.
Sam's nipples are almost as hard as his dick is, peaked sharp and brown against the paler skin of his chest, and he gasps despite himself when Dean dips his head, dragging his tongue over the raised nub. The condom foil is shiny and slippery in his hand, the bottle of lube smooth and cool; the rain patters quietly on the roof of the Impala and all Sam can think of is that he has to get Dean to stop that if he wants to put the damn stuff on.
"Dean," he says again, his brother's name soft and heavy on his tongue. "Dean, man -"
Dean nips quietly at the skin just below and beneath his ear, soothes the sting immediately with rough strokes of his tongue, and Sam has to grab the base of his cock and squeeze it to keep himself from coming. Dean smells of something between sweet and sour, strong, and when Sam slants his head, angling his jaw to brush his mouth against Dean's, he can taste a tangy flavour on Dean's tongue that goes straight down to his dick.
He's reminded of the time Jess had taken him out to this cultural market thing going on in Palo Alto. They'd been dating for six months by then, were already thinking about moving in together; they'd walked through brightly-coloured stalls, hand-in-hand, entranced with the difference of it all, by the costumes and the strange foods and the voices gabbling in dozens of languages. They'd come away from the market with bags bulging, everything from French mustard to Danish-prepared duck, things Sam would normally never try if it hadn't been for Jess' sweet smile of encouragement. And despite that smile, he hadn't really liked much of what they'd bought: too strong, too fatty, too spicy, too dry - all but the little bunch of pomegranates they'd been given by an Iranian woman who hadn't smiled, just pressed them into Sam's hands as they wandered past and said, "You will like. Have. Free."
The seeds had tasted somewhere between sweet and sour, and he'd loved them. Jess'd complained that they were gross.
Dean growls and bites on his lower lip, raises himself up and rocks urgently into Sam's lap. Sam hisses, hearing the condom wrapper crinkle as his hands shake, invisible behind Dean; he tears the foil open without looking, butts pointedly at his brother's chest until Dean rocks back, gives him enough room to try and fit the latex thing on.
His brother is so very warm in his arms, head tilted down now and green eyes smoky and still, lashes dark against pale cheeks as he watches Sam put on the condom; he's close enough that Sam can almost count his brother's freckles. He remembers trying to, once, nine and bored, cross-legged on the bed with the gun in his hand, Dean's knee brushing his as the pair of them watched the closet solemly. "Twenty nine," he whispers under his breath, and Dean makes an inquisitive noise at the back of his throat, shifts and twists to reach for the lube, still clasped in one of Sam's hands.
"I'll get myself ready," Dean says, casually, popping the cap with a thumb and leaking the contents over his fingers. Some of it trickles through the gaps, lands on Sam's bare forearm, and the hairs on his arms stand up despite himself. His brother reaches for the one of his hands, empties the bottle onto his palm. "Slick yourself up," Dean orders, lazily, and begins to lean back, so that his weight is mostly supported by Sam's legs and his back rests on the dash. Sam curls a hand briefly around the tip, pumps twice without any real sort of heat, eyes fixed on how the pad of Dean's finger is pressed against his own hole.
He licks his lips, swallows, and glances up to see Dean's eyes half-closed. His brother is smirking, and Sam's heart beats faster, aches. God. Despite himself, his eyes flit to his cell. Ten twenty-four. He swallows again, and then Dean thrusts that finger inside of him, lips parting with a wordless cry; Sam's dick practically lurches in his fist, needy and demanding. "How many?" he asks, his voice sounding gruff and wanting to his own ears, and Dean grits his teeth, hisses three. Sam can't help himself.
He reaches out and takes his brother's hand, pulling it out; twines them together, skin slippery with the lube. His fingers are a lot bigger than Dean's, and he sees his brother's eyes widen, a smile flickering across his face in fits and starts like a stop-motion movie when he sees what Sam intends. Because, sappy at it sounds, Sam does kinda want this to be together.
Dean hisses sharply when he slips both of their index fingers in at the same time. His brother is tight and hot, and Sam whimpers when it occurs to him that this is where his dick is gonna be in a very short while. Dean's hand is slick against his, hot, but Sam refuses to let go; he watches Dean's face carefully, waiting for the sign that he can move, and dips his head uncomfortably to press a kiss that's more a brush of his lips than anything else to Dean's chest. His neck aches too much to prolong the contact, but hell, that's okay. He has an hour and forty minutes left for kissing.
Someday, he thinks, fiercely determined as Dean presses down on his lap with his free hand and twists himself on their fingers, I am going to get you out of there. Dean thinks he belongs in the shadow world, like Persephone knew she belonged in the light; Sam briefly envisions himself as Orpheus in what has to be the most confusing crossing of myths anywhere, leading his brother out of hell. Although Dean, the stubborn bastard, would probably ensure Sammy left him, too wrapped up in a cloud of I'm doing this to keep you safe. His brother's never had any sense, when it came to Sam.
Sam moans quietly as Dean tenses; crooks their fingers, thoughtfully, and grins as Dean throws his head back, howls out his pleasure to the dark. He doesn't think they need three, not really, and he draws their hands out slowly, smoothly. Dean tips his head back down, lips parting in protest; Sam curls his other hand around his brother's shoulder, tugs him close to kiss him long and deep and wet, and thinks of fingers sticky with pomegranate juice while he does so.
Dean hisses when Sam curls his fingers around his older brother's cock, darker with blood, thick and hard and curving towards his belly. He rubs a thumb over the crown, spiralling gradually inwards towards the slit, sweeps up a drop of pre-come and raises it to their mouths, still joined. Dean exhales slowly when he pushes it in between them; the flavour is strong, and Dean whimpers as Sam curls his tongue around his digit, savouring the taste of his brother's fluids.
He breaks the kiss, leaving behind a brief connecting strand of saliva before it breaks over their chins; Sam's tongue darts out to wipe it away, hoping his expression conveys his thoughts. It seems to, because Dean is pale, lips kiss-red, eyes wide and the pupils blown to hell. "Jesus, Sam," he whispers, and Sam smiles, reaches back down to his brother's dick and is stopped by a light touch to his wrist. Dean shakes his head quietly when Sam glances up, and Sam feels a brief stab of paranoia, glances sideways at the time: one hour thirty-two minutes.
"Let me," Dean says forcefully, and then he's shifting, fast, pushing himself up and curling strong hands over the sharp jut of Sam's shoulders, clutching to support himself as he moves his hips down towards Sam's cock, still painfully hard, leaking inside the condom; Sam's mouth opens in a perfect 'o' as his brother slides himself down, and then thought is blasted away in a simple wave of oh fuck hot tight deandeanDEAN.
Sam's not a virgin. He'd known what to expect, known it would be rough but good; he hadn't anticipated how good, however, and he throws his head back hard enough it rebounds off the back of the passenger seat, settles his hands on Dean's hips and digs his fingers in hard enough there would be bruises in the morning, if Dean was going to be there in the morning.
Dean is chanting Sam's name under his breath, a mantra, a prayer, and Sam wishes with a dull sort of anger that he'd been better, been stronger, been quicker to act when Dean made his offer all that time ago. He grits his teeth, sucks in a lungful of air and hisses as Dean uses his thighs to ride him, moving up and down, naked and warm and so fucking beautiful in the dark.
His brother. His. Christ. Sam shifts on the seat, the leather sticking to his thighs and back and ass, moans softly as Dean does a lazy roll of his hips that nearly has him coming right then and there. Dean's supporting himself, so Sam removes his hands from his brother's hips, skates them up past scarred skin to the dark circles of his nipples, sweeping around them with the pads of his thumbs and enjoying the way Dean tenses, shivers and breathes Sammy on a low, hoarse note.
He rolls the hard bud of Dean's left nipple between his index and forefingers, is rewarded with a downwards slide, Dean's blunt nails digging so hard into his shoulders he thinks he can already feel the skin tearing. He'll be wearing these marks for weeks, and relishes the thought; thrusts upwards hard, taking Dean by surprise and pinching his nipple as he does so. Dean's cock is desperately hard, slapping against his belly with each thrust; Sam slips his free hand down, wraps his fist around the base and moans as Dean leans forward, curving around him with a sort of flexibility he hadn't known his brother possessed, kissing his neck, marking him with hard nips.
Oh, hell, Sam thinks, tipping his head back, because it turns out that spot of skin right there is one of his fucking erogenous zones, and the next thing he knows, he's coming, harder than he has since he was twelve and first discovering what masturbation was. Christ. Dean's hands are heavy on his skin and his brother is patient, sliding down and matching Sam's breathing, watching him with alert green eyes and making no move to finish himself off.
They stay there for several sweet, slow seconds, breathing in unison, close in more ways than just physically. Sam's shoulders ache, the euphoria of sex is wearing off; there's blood gathering in the dent where Dean's right thumbnail is, and though Sam feels a pleasant buzz tingling throughout his body, making his nipples tighten despite the recent orgasm, at being marked by Dean, he's not love struck or foolish enough not to want to put a fucking Band-Aid on.
He also doesn't want to move, except Dean shifts quietly, releasing his shoulders and sliding up and off him before straddling Sam's lap again, pressing their foreheads together. "Sam," he says, quietly, and Sam knows with a flicker of something sharp and hot and pleased that Dean hasn't come yet, that his dick is hard and flushed dark with blood, clear drops of pre-come gathering at the tip. Dean just watches him, hands hot and warm, splayed out on Sam's chest, and Sam feels giddy with a startling rush of emotions, far too countless to name.
"Dean," he replies, quietly, reaching for his brother's cock with one large hand, and Dean lifts his chin, giving Sam open access to his throat. And Sam winces, mumbles an apology, and jerks his brother off the way he likes it; rough and slow, with a twist of his wrist at the end, scraping the pad of his thumb over the sensitive spot under the head. Dean smiles, the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkling, and leans forward, placing his cheek in the smooth slope where Sam's shoulder bleeds into Sam's neck, warm. His hands stay on Sam's chest, and Sam feels a rush of fierce protectiveness; he gives one last tug and grins as Dean tenses, as his brother comes over his bare hands with a sharp little inhale.
Dean doesn't move his head from its resting spot, although his eyes do widen when Sam raises hands coated with his come and experimentally slips an index finger in his mouth. "Hmm," Sam says, as though it's nothing. "Needs more salt."
There's a pause, then Dean punches him in the side, grinning. "Sammy," he says, as though offended, and it's nothing, then, for Sam to turn his head, jostle Dean a little with his shoulder and lean a little closer and kiss his brother, right there on the mouth.
They taste of semen, salt, bitter and sour and sweet and bright. It's like nothing Sam's ever tasted before, and that's okay; he strokes his tongue lazily over the roof of Dean's mouth, curls it with his brother's, and thinks, this is how it's going to be.
When all is said and done, and after a somewhat lengthy post-coital make-out session, they are left with something like seventy five minutes of Dean's one day on this world. Dean says he'd rather spend it outside, that as much as he loves his car, he hasn't seen the sky in a while. Well, actually, he says it with a lot more hesitation, because he's a Winchester and a man and some things are ingrained.
There's a pair of ratty blankets in the trunk, that they use when they can't get a hotel and have to sleep in the car. Sam takes them out to the crop circle where he found Dean, his older brother ghosting along at his heels, silent in the wheat, then helping him lay them out, two of them on top of the other. It's chilly but not yet that cold, and they lay on their bellies on the blankets like they had when they were kids, their elbows touching. Sam carefully, deliberately, avoids glancing at the watch. They don't say much, just lay in companionable silence, like they had before when they'd finished a hunt and gotten back to the motel, moving around each other and understanding everything without words.
When Sam does speak, it is after several long moments of silence; Dean's head is resting on his forearms, though his eyes are open and alert, and Sam's hand is on the nape of his brother's neck, fingers toying with the fine blond hairs there. "Dean?" he asks, and his voice seems shockingly loud after just this short time with only the sound of the wheat shifting in the wind.
Dean's eyelashes flutter, and he makes a soft curious noise at the back of his throat. Sam leans over, kisses the spot where his fingers had been stroking. "Sammy?"
"I've been hearing stories about crop circles for weeks before you turned up again," Sam says slowly, sounding like he's puzzling out the question as he says it, and Dean nods. "Are there-?"
Dean shakes his head, smiles sadly. "No," he says. "Just a couple of local kids. I, er, kinda scared the hell out of them when I turned up."
Sam smiles despite himself, and Dean turns, rolling onto his side and placing one hand on his hip. His ring is bright in the darkness, almost as bright as the whites of his eyes, and Sam leans forward and kisses him, taking his time and nothing sexual behind it. Kissing for kissing's sake. Dean tastes of the pomegranate seeds Sam loved so much, and he thinks of Persephone again, beautiful and tragic, stolen away from the mother who loved her.
"I'll miss you," he says, softly, and Dean smiles, kisses him again. "I'll work harder on the telekinesis thing, maybe kick up some more leads - there was a trail that went cold in New Orleans, maybe I gave up on it too quickly."
Dean's smile this time is sad, indulgent. He raises his hand and brushes Sam's hair away from his eyes. "I'll be back in fifty days," he says, softly, and Sam closes his eyes against the sudden sting there, nods. "It's in the terms of agreement, somewhere."
"Is that before or after the part where it says I should be there instead?" Sam asks, muffling his voice in the warm solidity of Dean's shoulder. His brother breathes out in a manner that might be a chuckle, rubs a small circle over his temple.
"I think it's after the part where I willingly put myself into its hands, and before the one where I agreed not to run away," he says, and Sam growls, low and animal in the back of his throat.
Ending the first:
He pulls Dean into a huge hug then, buries his face in the side of his brother's neck and inhales deeply, sharply. Fifty days. Yeah. Practically nothing, right? Except... seven days out of a year, and his heart aches, painful and strong. Dean runs slow hands over his back, soothing, gentle, like Sam's just a little kid again. It hurts more than Sam thought it would.
"I swear," he whispers, muffled, into Dean's skin. "I swear, man, I am going to get you out of there."
"I believe you," Dean whispers back, and Sam dips his head, hugs Dean tight enough it must hurt. Dean doesn't say anything if it does.
He thinks of Demeter, wandering in mourning all those months her daughter is gone, hurting others with her pain.
Sometimes the old myths get something right.
-fini
Ending the second:
Dean presses their bodies closer, his hand lingering on Sam's temple. He smells of sweat and sex and dirt. It's a good scent for him. Sam tucks his head into the hollow of Dean's throat, sucks in a deep breath, taking all of the Dean he can get; strong, steel. "I love you," he says, determined, because he needs to say it and he thinks Dean needs to hear it, and he can sense the pleasure on Dean's voice even when all he says in reply is, "God, Sammy, if I'd known sex would turn you into even more of a girl..."
He lets the sentence trail off and Sam laughs obediently, tired, and pulls him closer. He can feel the weight of his watch on his wrist, and the temptation to check it is a hard one to resist. He distracts himself by kissing Dean again, aiming to see how long he can go without either of them breaking for air. It feels like forever.
Afterwards Dean wraps Sam up in his arms like Sam's much younger and smaller than he really is, tells him stories from their mutual childhood, even snippets of those four years Dean was alone while Sam was at school, things he's never shared before. Sam puts his face to Dean's throat, feels the vibrations of his voice, and tries to let the tension go, stares up at the stars wheeling quietly in the sky above him. Dean occasionally plants soft kisses in his hair or on his forehead, and he smiles at each and every one.
Time passes slowly. Sam supposes that's inevitable; he remembers leaving his girlfriend when he moved out of North Dakota, sixteen and awkward, and their last day had seemed to be drawn out forever. Dean is a damn sight more important than Lydia ever was, and he didn't even get a full day. He wonders what will happen when the clock strikes midnight; some of the Persephone stories he's read indicate she fell into the underworld by a crack in the ground, others, that Hades snatched her and stole her away on his chariot. He wonders if that happened every time she left her mother, or if she just faded, disappearing into nothing more than a fine mist, and he tightens his grip on Dean hard enough that Dean stirs and makes a muffled noise of protest; he forces himself to let go.
He wonders when it’ll come, if he’ll be able to do anything about it: grab Dean's hands, sink his heels in and refuse to be budged. He's not sure he's strong enough.
"Does it hurt?" he asks, softly, and Dean stirs. "The - moving thing."
Dean pauses before answering - not the pause of someone thinking about it, but the pause of someone considering how much information to give. "A little," Dean says, quietly, and then adds, "I'm not normally conscious when I get there."
Sam bares his teeth and closes his eyes, pressing his face closer and thinking of the different ways he's going to kill the demon that took his brother. He and his dad, they're going to hunt it down and get Dean back and they're going to kill it, no matter what. He hopes it'll be painful.
He's not sure how long it's been when Dean strokes his cheek with his thumb, tilting Sam's head towards him. His eyes are green and bright in the night; Sam raises his eyebrows, curious and worried by the solemn air he sees there.
"Sammy," Dean says, and Sam swallows, apprehension settling in his gut like a punch.
"Dean?" he forces himself to ask, resisting the urge to bite his lip, and Dean abruptly releases him, sits upright. Sam closes his eyes, briefly, his brain stamped with the words notenoughtime in big angry red letters. Oh, god. He sits upright, slowly, and watches as Dean grabs his wrist, the one with the watch, twisting it so that he can see the time.
"Huh," he says, which doesn't help any. Sam bites his lip. "That thing accurate?"
Sam can't bring himself to speak, just nods. Dean glances over at him. "Check the time," he says, voice soft and distant.
Sam draws his wrist to his chest, dreading the display and slowly raises it, waiting with baited breath - and blinks, taps the face once with a fingernail.
"Huh," he says, in a strangled tone. And then he lets out this ear-piercing yell that makes Dean flinch and the farmers Sam spoke to on his way here dial the police, because he's supposed to be the smart Winchester, and he knows what it means that Dean's still right here and it's twelve-thirty, the day after.
He supposes it's fair. Persephone ate six seeds, one for every month, and Dean and he have certainly exchanged more than six kisses, each with the flavour of the pomegranate. It's the inverse of Persephone's story: every seed she ate kept her in the dark, kept her away from where she thought she was supposed to be, the world where the sun shone and her mother waited. Dean went to the demon of his own free will, seeking to substitute himself to protect Sam; that place is where he thinks he's supposed to be, and each kiss keeps him away, keeps him in the light where his brother waits.
Well, actually, that's what he'll reason two days later, explaining his brother's return to his father over the phone (if an abridged one, without the sex), Dean snacking on a greasy burger in the driver's seat of the Impala and occasionally shouting things he finds funny, such as "You can take my freedom, but you can never take my life!" in a really bad Scottish accent.
What he does at the time is hug Dean hard enough to bruise.
-fini
notes: I'd originally planned on picking and posting only one of the two endings - the second one, which I prefer because I am a fucking addict for happy endings. However, I decided not to do so on marecagee's recommendation that while the second was happier, the first felt more like the 'real' ending. You can choose whichever suits you.
Love to bleedingsand, keepaofthecheez, wendy, rachel_shanz, impertinence and anybody else who gave me encouragement on this monster, and in particular my maypirate, who doesn't even like SPN and read it for me anyway. ♥