Not for Samson in the Temple - Dean/Sam, adult, Coda

[maygra]

Schmoop, sex, cucumbers, and parking lots. And, oh, yeah -- the end of the world.

None of which will make sense if you haven't read eighth-horizon's The Last Outpost of All That Is, which if you haven't, is a damn tragedy.

SPN, Dean/Sam, Adult. 3,444 words.

Not for Samson in the Temple
by Maygra

Sam cuts his hair in the late spring. He lets it grow out through the summer and the fall, until it's long enough again to brush his shoulders and sometimes be pulled back into a pony tail. When he wears it like that, tied back, it curls into an almost perfect ringlet and Dean can't help but make fun, and remind Sam he's a girl, even when he twists his fingers into the thick curl. He'll never tell Sam that he likes it that way, that the ritual cutting of hair when the frost finally fades twists something up inside him. It's ridiculous, really, because Sam isn't Samson, and Dean's no Delilah, and there's no loss of Sam's strength when Dean puts the heavy scissors to the thick, soft stuff. The hair goes into the compost heap, and the birds fight over it. More than one nest nearby is always made of strands of Sam's hair.

Dean lets Sam cut his hair more often. He can let it brush the back of his neck, run a bit over his forehead, but it makes him insane when he can feel it on his neck or along his eyebrows. So, Sam sits him down at the kitchen table, throws a towel around Dean's shoulders and cuts. He's gotten good at it, and the little battery operated trimmer does its job pretty well. They have four or five of them, just in case -- found them by accident in a Barber shop in Modesto.

Sam's always very careful about cutting Dean's hair, taking more time than Dean really has patience for, Sam's perfectionist streak showing up in bizarre ways sometimes. But Dean lets him take as long as he likes. He likes the feel of Sam's hands both firm and gentle on his head, the way Sam strokes the edge of a finger along the back of his neck to make sure the length is even. It's one of those pleasures he still won't admit to -- not out loud. He inevitably gets a hard-on at some point during the process, usually around the time Sam is blowing gently across the back of his neck to dislodge any stray, loose hairs.

He knows Sam notices but he never says; it's a bizarre competition they get into. Sam always gets right in front of him to cut his bangs, butt settled on the kitchen table, spray bottle and comb and scissors laid out on a towel, legs spread wide on either side of Dean's knees. It's sometimes hard to tell depending on what Sam's wearing -- jeans or loose sweats -- but he's pretty sure Sam gets hard too. It's like stealth foreplay.

Dean has to grip the arms of the kitchen chair, close his eyes as Sam's combing and snipping his bangs, knowing his brother's crotch is right there, dick maybe hard, breathing steady and measured. He could have Sam right there, tip him back on the sturdy table, jerk his pants down, know Sam would spread wide and easy for him, arms flung out and taking anything Dean offered him: fingers or tongue or dick -- a few carefully chosen kitchen implements, possibly a few vegetables. Sam's eyes had gone wide the first time Dean suggested it, a blush stuttering over his cheeks. "Jess liked cucumbers," he said when Dean teased and coaxed and pinned Sam to the refrigerator.

Put a whole new spin on the process of pickling when they got to it later that summer.

"Done," Sam says, a little breathy but steady still, combing Dean's hair back before standing up and taking the towel with him to the back door to shake the scraps of Dean's hair out into the grass.

Dean runs his hands through his still damp hair, getting up to check the evenness in the mirror in the hall between the kitchen and living room. His jeans rub snugly along his erection but it's already easing. The cut is good; markedly shorter. There' a little extra gray in his hair, showing up when he really looks. The grey in Sam's is more obvious; hair darker and longer usually.

Sam's still outside, folding the towel over the deck rail, eyes on the sun slanting across overgrown fields that don't yet completely obscure the reservoir. A few more weeks and they'll only be able to see it from the second floor.

They haven't cut Sam's hair yet this spring, and he's got it down this early in the day. Dean grabs two cups of coffee and goes outside, sliding one cup across the rail. There's still early morning frost on the new growth. Nothing serious, and nothing the house heaters can't handle.

The winters have turned out to be a little colder than they expected, the spring and summer a little wetter. Global warming, El Nino, a dozen explanations that all probably had something to do with the fact that most of the world was offline, shut down. They'd had traces of ash and heavy clouds about three years after the end. Mt. St. Helen's their first thought, but it hadn't been heavy enough really. The ash could have come from anywhere; fires further north or south, natural or some other part of California or Washington or Oregon finally collapsing or imploding. Maybe as far as Hawaii -- one of the big volcanoes finally going. There was no way to really know, no way to tap into the weather satellites they assumed were still circling the earth.

"Need to cut the brush back," Sam says, sipping his coffee, hip caught on the rail. They keep the brush cut back from the house. There's not much they can do about the occasional earthquakes, but they can ward against the inevitable fires. Having the brush cut back helps them keep the animals safer as well -- giving them clear shots at the predators that wander through.

There are more of them now than at the start (end), things bigger than the occasional coyote. Mostly it's dog packs; house pets gone feral but not really trained hunters so they look for easy prey. Wannabe wolves Dean calls them, but they are dangerous enough to the livestock both here and up the road where the cows still wander free. They'd brought down a calf last fall, and the scent of a fresh kill brought in other predators and scavengers. Hunger made them desperate, and neither of them begrudge the odd calf here or there really, except the dog packs are looking for the most vulnerable of prey. They don't go out unless they are armed, and for the most part they don't separate too often even if Sam's just going for milk. He needs both hands to milk a cow and the dogs aren't afraid of humans. Even humans with guns; not when there's food on the hoof trapped in the fenced-in area of the milking pen.

Bailey's a pretty good lookout and Dean's kept his eyes open for another pup; one for each of them. He isn't sure he's got the wherewithal to teach it to fight, but he can teach it to be another set of eyes.

Dean eyes the brush, following the same line of sight Sam does. Close to the house it's easier or will be for as long as they can keep the yard mower running. Dean keeps tuning it up and repairing it, showing Sam the mysteries of 2-cycle engine. They could just replace it when the blade got dull or the engine stutters. There's a whole display floor full of them at the yard and garden center in Modesto, but it was Sam who pointed out that at some point just time would make replacements less viable. Rubber seals would become brittle, steel frames would rust. Sam's been haunting the big library in Modesto looking for ways to preserve those things they can't make for themselves -- or not easily. Neither of them are really up to the idea of taking on blacksmithing except for small things: sharpen a blade, weld a seam. It doesn't really matter that it could be decades before they are at that point.

Besides, Dean finds working on engines -- and the sound of them -- to be soothing.

That's how it played out after they finished their coffee and took care of regular morning chores. Dean cranked up the mower and circled the house, Bailey pacing him, occasionally lunging at the wheels then dancing away. Sam took the smaller chainsaw to the heavier brush, thinning it out so Dean could get the mower in for the lower stuff. They cut it back nearly two hundred feet, well past the chicken coop and the shed.

By noon, Dean's done what he can, and goes inside to scare them up some lunch while Sam finishes around the solar panels; Bailey keeping him company and the cat watching from the steps of the deck. The day warms slightly, bright and clear and Dean brings the food out to the table on the deck, eyes on Sam.

Always on Sam.

Sam was done as well and now he's just fucking around, tossing a stick for Bailey, who chases and returns like a pro.

For a few moments at least, Sam's oblivious to Dean, and Dean gets to just look, which is something he can do pretty much any time, but rarely indulges in unless there's an immediate reason. Sam distracts the hell out of him and always has.

He's gotten leaner -- they both have -- because being in good shape was a necessity before, and even more so now. They had to learn a lot, teach themselves a lot. Harvesting fields to provide feed for their small herd of cows and the horses isn't something either of them had ever done before. Both of them could skin and prepare a kill, be it rabbits or deer, but despite the still working freezers, there was only so much they could store that way. Dean had really been serious about not giving up bacon or hot showers, so he'd taught himself what he needed to know, and they'd spent a couple of days tracking down any pigs they could in the area.

But that meant protecting more animals against predators, which meant more solar panels and rigging to provide some kind of electrical deterrent to smaller predators that regular fencing wouldn't keep out.

But the field work was worse, even with usable tractors and bailers, and milder winters. They haven't decided if they'll actually seed this summer for more alfalfa and hay or just see what comes up -- the fall harvest was a little thin, as much weed and grass as what the cows would actually eat. They'll need corn at least, to keep the small herd fed, keep the pigs from running wild again.

Dean had never thought to find himself a farmer, or a rancher, and he doesn't much like it, but he likes the milk, is perfectly okay with having fresh steak and that takes a little more work.

Sam had actually dug in and put in a vegetable garden the second year, up close to the house. Tomatoes and squash and potatoes and all those green vegetables that Dean once turned his nose up at, lettuce and onions and green beans. Cucumbers.

That still made Dean laugh and Sam blush. Something to occupy long nights with besides reading or watching movies. They've got plenty of books left to read in the world, but Dean's starting to think they've pretty much seen every movie every made -- even most not in English.

There's no reason to go out much at night, although twice they'd driven to the Cineplex in Modesto before the power failed. Dean had figured out how to run the projector in the theatre and Sam had managed to get the poppers running and found a vacuum sealed bag of popcorn and oil that hadn't gone rank, M&M's still bright in their bags. They'd had their own movie night, films on the big screen, Dolby turned high.

Six films in and it had gotten a little creepy -- familiar faces on the screen, but silence beyond. Watching a DVD didn't have the same effect as watching Johnny Depp and Kiera Knightly and Orlando Bloom be bigger than life, leaving a legacy of silliness and romance that no one was really left to appreciate.

They'd wandered the shopping districts of Modesto, found an adult toy store. Dean had finally scored some porn, found some things he could taunt and tease Sam with because that would never get old. There was something reassuring about the fact that Sam could still be embarrassed, even when there was no one to judge.

The porn lasted about a week before Dean got rid of it. It was more artifact than necessity or even desire. They drove sometimes and passed diners and salons, all silent, which just drove home that fact they could neither deny nor do anything about -- they were the last. Not that Dean would wish for kids at all in this world. Cruel, Sam had said once, not entirely out of the blue; to shove off being the last human beings on Earth onto another generation, maybe even onto a single individual. "We aren't those guys," he'd said.

One of them would be, Dean knew but didn't say and instead had just reached for Sam and agreed. He tried not to look at the mannequins in the windows of the shops, ignored the racks and racks of dresses and skirts and soft pastel blouses in the stores when they were scavenging.

He didn't miss women per se, but he missed the idea of them, not out of boredom or necessity, but the world seemed softer when they were in it. Probably a sexist remark that would get him totally busted if there was anyone left to take offense.

Some days he really wanted there to be someone to take offense.

Most of the time though, it was okay. Boredom was like an injury he had to learn to deal with, and it was fleeting because they worked their asses off to maintain some comfort and rewarded themselves for the effort.

Plus there was still Sam. Always Sam. Forever Sam, even when he made Dean nuts or pissed him off. Sam who scared him senseless every time the accidental or inevitable happened. A cut here, a brutal kick from an unhappy cow there -- and Sam had been lucky something hadn't gotten broken. Sam with his books and his notes on a hundred topics from simple food preservation to manufacturing on a small scale, eyes to the future.

Dean was so much the here and now guy, but Sam could no more stop looking forward than he could stop looking back. Sam who had decided that they needed to make the biggest Coke explosion ever when the plastic bottles of soda started going flat in the supermarket. It had taken them three days and they'd set up in the grocery store parking lot, Sam relying heavily on his memories of a YouTube video.

It had been better than any 4th of July Dean could ever remember. It had been wet, sticky-sweet, glorious fun. Plumes of syrup and foam shooting into the air, a brown lake of cola on the asphalt which would eventually be gross but immediately after was just hysterical, with Bailey lapping at it and barking . They played Frisbee in the parking lot, drew massive pictures and tic-tac-toe boards with spray paint, games that neither of them won. From the roof of the grocery store it looked like a graffiti festival or the world's biggest chalkboard. They dragged felt-backed tablecloths up there and food and Bailey finally hopped in the backseat of the car to nap when it was clear they weren't coming down for awhile.

Sometime before dusk Dean stared at their handywork, and wanted to add to it -- something girly and sweet and wholly sentimental, like painting it on the blacktop would be seen by anyone but them. Sam was asleep behind him, skinned flushed and gold and with Dean's marks still on him. He got it done before it got dark but not before Sam woke up and he looked up to see Sam staring down at him from the edge of the roof.

"You've got it backwards."

Dean chewed on his lip, felt heat burn at the tops of his ears, but grinned and flung his arms wide. "I don't think so."

Sam flung his head back and shouted his counterpoint to the skies. There was no one but them and Bailey to see or hear so it all ended up even.

It was still there, the paint unfaded in the parking lot. Less obvious signs everywhere else, maybe not as permanent but still there, every time Dean slid a mug of coffee Sam's way, or Sam's hand lingered on the back of Dean's neck or he skimmed the foam from the fresh milk because Dean didn't like it. There when Sam learned how to press olive oil and render fat so Dean could have fries even when the bottles and cans on the store shelves went rank. Fries made in olive oil were weird, but they were fries.

It didn't go one way, if it ever had. Dean had probably always known it, but been afraid to admit it from the start. There was no place to go if he'd been wrong.

Sam's t-shirt is clinging to him from sweat when he comes up for lunch, hair tied back with threads from the worn jeans he's wearing. There's grass and leaves in his hair, a streak of dirt along his throat and left forearm and scratches across the backs of his hands. Dean rolls his eyes and goes in to get a soapy cloth and makes Sam wash his hands. They have to be careful of cuts -- most antibiotic creams have a shelf life and they're getting close.

Sam finishes his sandwich and runs a clean hand through his hair at the front. "Need to cut it."

It's half a suggestion, but Dean shakes his head and reaches over to tug the tie from Sam's hair. Also maybe too close to a romance novel, but Dean doesn't even try to hide how much he likes being able to get a fistful of Sam without actually hurting him. Spring's not done yet but already Sam tastes of summer, of heat and sparse rain, the first of the early tomatoes and the last of the late greens they'd put out in January. He's bread and too much homemade mayonnaise, dust from the yard and salty with sweat.

He's never no, and rarely maybe.

The flexible iron deck chair bends but doesn't break under their combined weight. The cat watches for a moment before flicking her tail and sauntering off the railing and into the yard. They don't get naked but they do get bare, and the chair aids rather than hinders the lazy rock of their bodies against each other, translates Sam's shudders and tremors into something soothing.

There's no chores left for the day and after showers, Dean will spread Sam out on their bed and look some more, and not complain when Sam gets all touchy-feely, because he will. Dean puts up with it the same way he puts up with Sam's mouth on his dick, or the way Sam always crowds into Dean when they sleep.

The curl of hair at the nape of Sam's neck twines around Dean's fingers the same way Sam's hands curve around his waist and thigh. He doesn't get hard when he cuts Sam's hair -- it's a marker for another year, one more year past one end and one year closer to a different one.

He lets his fingers slide through Sam's hair while Sam pants softly against his throat, fingers flexing and rubbing at Dean's skin through denim and cotton. "New fetish?" Sam asks quietly, when Dean sorts through tangles and tugs out leaves and twigs. He can feel Sam's smile against his skin, contentment a rare and tangible thing.

"Yeah, maybe," Dean says and kisses him like it's part of the conversation.

It's not summer yet. Not yet. And autumn is far away, winter even further.

The days are getting longer; Sam's hair can get longer too. Dean's not religious and all his faith is focused on one truth. When this temple falls, it won't be from neglect or lack of reverence.

This temple will stand.