Two-Headed Boy: Eighteen
Sam’s still asleep when Dean gets out of the shower. He’d tried to make as much noise as he could, sang in the shower, let himself grumble when he stubbed his toe on the door frame. But Sam’s curled up right over the empty spot Dean had left when he got up, hair an untamed mess all over the pillow, face a little scruffy, sleep-soft.
Dean pulls on a pair of mostly clean underwear and tosses the towel toward the bathroom before sitting down on the side of the unused bed.
Last night had been… different. Different than all the hundreds of nights before when they’d fallen asleep in a bed together. Different than all the other nights they’ve been on the road together the last couple of weeks.
He can still feel the heat of Sam’s skin under his palms, can still hear the quiet of his breathing in his ear.
And he wants to get back in bed with him. Say fuck it and not get back out on the road, just get back in the bed with Sammy, under the covers that he knows are still warm. It’s cold out, truly winter now, first day of December. And Sam has the softest skin.
“Sammy,” he whispers, leaning forward to trail the crook of his finger up along Sam’s exposed forearm. So soft. He slips from the bed and onto his knees, water still dripping from his hair down his chest, down his back, bare knees digging into cheap carpet. He touches Sam’s arm again.
“Time to get up, sleepyhead.” Two fingers trailing down to Sam’s wrist, over the back of his hand, bumping over Sam’s long fingers. “C’mon, it’s Christmas morning.”
Sam makes the tiniest sound, one with a question mark at the end which Dean knows means he wants to be left the fuck alone, just wants to sleep. Sam’s hand wakens under Dean’s touch, fingers loosening in their grip on his pillow. It lowers down to the mattress, palm splayed wide, fingers sleep-curled. Dean strokes over the inside of that hand, over life and heartlines, down over that strange little full moon of a scar just on the inside of Sam’s wrist, like a brand.
He remembers that morning, that terrible morning in Tennessee when he’d found Sam sleeping in the bed of Bobby’s truck. Remembers when that scar was still fresh, a perfect, horror-colored circle. A burn. Sam probably thinks Dean’s forgotten, that he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t thought about it, maybe. Maybe he's forgotten that they'd almost talked about it once, that nightmare of a last night in Denver all those years ago.
He circles the scar with the wide pad of his thumb before stroking over it as tender as he can, like it’s a rose petal. Like it still hurts.
He glances up into Sam’s open eyes, caught.
“Did you do this?” He knows he shouldn’t ask, that it’s pretty much a guarantee that Sam’s going to ignore him for the rest of the day because of it, but it just comes out. He keeps his thumb over it, covering it, feeling the thrum of Sam’s heartbeat underneath.
Sam doesn’t blink, his expression staying smooth, almost serene. Keeps his eyes open when he finally nods, just once, yes.
Dean nods, too, an echo. He rubs his thumb back up into Sam’s palm, revealing the scar to himself again. He leans forward, bare belly against the side of the bed so he can get closer, really look at it, almost like he’s been given permission.
“Why?” He’s whispering, like he’s afraid someone will hear him. He meets Sam’s eyes again, searching them, looking for an answer there in case Sam’s words are a lie.
“Punishment.”
Sam’s voice is low, scratchy, reminding Dean that Sam’s an adult now, just like him. He’s not that skinny heartbreak of a boy he found that morning, sleeping in the bed of Bobby’s truck like an abandoned dog. He survived that and he’s here now, giving real answers. Dean swallows, his throat clicking.
“Punishment for what?”
The corner of Sam’s mouth twitches, a flash of a smile, of a dimple, then gone. Dean searches his eyes, counts the colors in them like he always does, finds three, maybe four in the light pushing through the curtains.
“It’s not Christmas morning,” Sam sighs, sliding his hand down until it twins with Dean’s, fingers lacing together just like last night.
Dean frowns, lost for a second before he picks up the thread of the conversation. He pushes up off the floor in a single movement, turning to sit on the bed next to Sam, not letting go of his hand.
“Punishment for what, Sammy? Tell me?” He’s not demanding, not pushing him. Just asking, almost begging. He watches Sam’s eyes trail over his body, over the water still clinging to him, making his nipples hard, making goosebumps fly all up and down his chest, his arms.
“Maybe punishment’s not the right word,” Sam sighs, shifting closer to Dean on the bed, his free hand coming out from under the covers to touch Dean’s knee, warm palm against his cool, clean skin, fingers playing with the hairs on his leg. “More like keeping myself in line.”
Dean muses over that, watches Sam’s fingers stroke over his knee cap, thumb rubbing at the bony jut of it. Maybe lets his thighs spread a little, moving into it when Sam’s hand ventures ever so slightly toward the inside of his thigh.
“Control.” It’s not a question, but Sam nods anyway. Their eyes lift and meet again, and Sam’s hand shies away, slips down Dean’s shin. “What else did you do to keep yourself in line?”
Sam hums, chest rising quick and big before he lets out a heavy sigh. He blinks, and just like that, the spell’s broken, all the softness leaving him, all the sleep falling away. He sits up a little, takes his hand back from Dean’s leg to rub at his eyes.
“I need to take a shower. I smell like shit.” He sucks in a yawn and lets it out in a rush before pushing to sit up completely. “What’re we doing today? Heading back out?”
Dean shrugs, the disappointment of almost hearing a confession taking away his smile, pulls his shoulders down once again.
“Dunno. Thought we could just take it easy today. Maybe go see a movie or something.”
Sam raises his eyebrows, a hopeful light flashing through his eyes before it disappears behind a wall again.
“Really? Just, a day off. No hunting at all.”
Dean laughs, standing up so Sam can move finally. Sam’s eyes slide down his body again, gaze dragging hard, and Dean just pushes his shoulders back, pulls in his stomach a little, and lets him.
“I can go twenty-four hours without gutting something, if you can believe it, Sam.”
Sam stands up, clothes rumpled, his entire body so warm that Dean has to force himself not to lean into it.
“Guess you’ll just have to prove it,” Sam smiles, looking up at Dean through his eyelashes, a fucking flirty look if Dean’s ever seen one. His heart jumps just once in his chest.
“If you hurry and go wash that funky smell off of you, we could get the hell out of here and get some breakfast.” He shoves Sam toward the bathroom, fingers seeking a little as they connect with his chest and let go just as fast. Sam stumbles back toward the bathroom, his grin out completely now, bright as his little laugh.
“Gimme ten.” He looks at Dean just a few more seconds, eyes caught up on Dean’s chest before he disappears into the bathroom, door pulled closed behind him.
Dean exhales in a rush, two bright spots of color on his cheeks.
“I-I’m givin’ you seven and I’m leaving without you!”
He hears Sam scoff and he has to smile. They both know Dean would never leave him there, not in a million years.
They track down a Cracker Barrel and Dean gets the Country Boy Breakfast with a big smile at their waitress and makes a show of rolling his eyes at Sam’s Fresh Start whatever, with its granola whatever and fresh blah blah.
Sam only smiles at him when the waitress walks away and it makes Dean squirm, makes him fight every muscle in his face to keep in the dorky grin he just knows is dying to come out.
“Chilly in here, isn’t it?” Dean tugs his jacket tighter around him, frowning around the restaurant, eyes narrowing on the unused, gigantic fireplace. “Seriously? Man, if I had a fireplace, I’d have it on all the time. Remember that one in the shack Dad left us at here in Indiana that one winter, Sammy?”
He turns to face his brother again who’s playing the golf tee game on every Cracker Barrel in every small town on the planet, whose smile is soft and faraway and Dean questions for a second if Sam even heard him.
“Believe me, Dean. I’ll never forget that winter.” Sam lifts his eyes and they fix on something behind Dean. “Uh, excuse me, sir?”
Dean cranes around and sees a man in a uniform with a nametag headed straight for their table. He cringes, like he’s in school and the principal’s coming and he’s got a lit cigarette in his hand (what? he never did that). “Sammy, what the hell--”
“Can I help you?” The guy is greying and small-town politeness, and it calms Dean slightly. He looks up at Sam, eyebrows raised, completely curious as to what’s gonna come out of Sam’s mouth.
“It’s chilly in here. Is there any way you can get a fire going in that fireplace?” Sam is decidedly not looking at Dean now, his neck and cheeks a little flushed. Dean sinks down into his seat, equal parts touched and annoyed. He’s not that cold. Just chilly, is all.
“Sure thing, son! You’re the second one to ask in the last few minutes. It’ll be up and blazing in no time.”
Dean rolls his eyes.
Sam’s grin is little-boy wholesome. “Thank you, sir.”
The guy walks away from their table, and Sam goes back to his game, hair falling in his eyes. Dean smirks.
“Didn’t have to do that, you know.”
“You’re welcome,” Sam mumbles, a smile ghosting his lips.
“Not that cold,” Dean’s voice is soft, can’t help it, his eyes matching. Sam looks up through the long strands in his eyes and his smile widens, every single bit of him trained on Dean, nowhere else. Dean shifts closer to him.
Dean feels Sam’s fingers brushing his own where they’re spread across his thigh. He tips his fingers up, lets them slide over Sam’s, hands tangling together for the third time in less than a day. But this time is different, it’s in public, in Smalltown, USA, and they both know it.
“Fingers are freezing,” Sam murmurs, rubbing his thumb over and over Dean’s scarred knuckles. Dean shifts again in the seat, ribs pressed hard into the side of the table, as close as he can get. His cheeks are hot now, and the fire hasn’t even been started yet.
“You do this for all your girlfriends?” Dean’s going for flirty, but he realizes what he says after he’s said it. Sam’s face shuts down, smile disappearing like it was never there. He pulls his hand away before Dean can even react, before he can stumble back over his own stupidity.
They can’t talk about Jessica in everyday conversation, not yet. Not even hint at it, not without Sam reacting exactly like this.
Sam turns back to the game, moving the tees from one peg to another until he ends up with only one. He pushes them all back into place and shoves the game toward Dean.
“Your turn.”
Dean knows he should apologize, but he also knows it’ll just make Sam more angry. He holds in a sigh and reaches for the game, staring at all the tees before he starts to move them.
“You think, uh, think maybe we can stop back by the motel on the way to the movie theater so I can borrow your hoodie for the movies? Gets even colder in there, and this jacket’s not exactly snuggly.”
Sam looks up at him, looks him full in the face, mouth parted, eyes wide with surprise. Dean’s just relieved Sam’s not ignoring him.
“You wanna wear my hoodie?”
Dean hesitates, chews on his bottom lip, thinks over his words. Tries to figure out if this is some kind of trap.
“Yeah?”
Sam’s smile is so sudden and so bright it’s nearly blinding. He ducks his head, tries to hide it, but the damage has already been done. Dean laughs, a short bark, relieved.
“That okay? Think you can share with me, little brother? I promise I’ll wash it after I wear it.”
Sam’s hand is back on his knee suddenly, seeking out his hand. Dean stops playing the stupid game and rushes his hand back under the table, letting Sam’s lace with it, clutch at it. Sam’s eyes are burning into his.
“No, you won’t.”
There’s a heat in his words, one that’s so thick right here between them, right now. Dean licks his lips, body thrumming low for the way Sam watches it. Watches him.
“Okay,” Dean says, soft, only for Sam, not for the middle-aged couple at the table next to them who have been eyeing them a little accusingly ever since they sat down. “I won’t. Kinky bastard.”
That draws a laugh out of Sam, a shy one. There are serving trays carrying plates just above their heads suddenly, the smell of bacon permeating Dean’s brain, making his stomach growl.
They let go of each other’s hands, but Sam’s still watching Dean as plates are lowered to the table, filling up the tiny space. The fire’s going now, a welcome heat at Dean’s back, truly warming his cold fingertips. And he’s used to being cold, being hot, being rained on, being sunburned, being stabbed, being stitched back together, but this feels good. Really good. Like a luxury. Like it’s okay to want to just be warm.
“Eat up, Sammy,” he says finally, after the servers are gone, as he unrolls his silverware from the napkin. “Don’t let your granola get cold.”
Sam smirks, just like Dean knew he would, and Sam’s foot kicks out at his shins just as Dean laughs. Sam keeps his foot where it lands between both of Dean’s, and Dean tightens his legs just to cradle it as he starts in on his eggs.
They argue about seeing Syriana or Walk the Line for ten minutes outside the theater just to waste some time. Sam knows he’ll give in and see Walk the Line because Dean wants to see it, knows he doesn’t give a shit what they see because all that matters is that today isn’t about a hunt, or about driving, or about the nightmares he can’t stop having. It’s about the way Dean keeps looking at him out of the corners of his eyes, like some shy kid on his first date, the way Sam can still feel the ghost of each whorl of Dean’s fingertips on his skin where they’d held hands--held hands, like teenagers, like children, like a lovesick couple of saps who can’t stand to not touch even while they’re eating their breakfast.
So, yeah, he forks out the nearly twenty dollars to see some Johnny Cash flick, near the last of his money from his part-time job in the bookstore back at school.
The little smile on Dean’s face as he pockets their tickets makes it worth it. All of it.
Dean’s wearing his hoodie, his brown one. It’s a little long on his arms, a little big across his shoulders, hiding the tight of his body under too-soft cotton but, for Sam, it’s almost better than having Dean naked. It’s Dean in something that’s his, something he’d asked to wear. It’s Dean looking a little claimed, at least to Sam.
He heads for the boy waiting to collect their tickets and stumbles a little when he feels Dean grab hold of his arm.
“Dean, what the--”
“Whoa, whoa. Sammy, it’s like you don’t know me at all.” Dean looks dumbfounded, like Sam is the most absurd human being on the planet. Sam just stares at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for an explanation.
Dean sighs, his shoulders falling, the picture of disappointment but they’re both still almost smiling.
“Popcorn, man! Those gummy frogs! Nestle Crunch! Cherry Coke! Cookie--”
“Okay, okay, I get it. Jesus, you don’t have to name off everything on the menu,” Sam mutters, reaching for his wallet again as Dean walks right up to the girl at the counter with a big grin on his face.
Five minutes later, they’re feeling their way into a nearly empty theater, weighted down with way too much junk food.
“Sorry they didn’t have any carrots, Sammy. You’d think they’d have a hippie section.” Dean slides down into a seat in the very last row in the back of the theater, where only the bad kids or the horny ones sit. Sam wonders which ones they are as he sinks down next to his brother.
“You just had breakfast,” Sam points out as he passes Dean the popcorn and the weird gummy frogs. Dean pokes a straw into his drink and takes a sip before he blinks over at Sam thoughtfully, like that hadn’t really occurred to him.
“Yeah, well. That was like half an hour ago.” He gives Sam his best little boy grin as he rips into the package of frogs, popping two in his mouth right alongside a handful of popcorn. “Hey, Sammy, you ‘member that summer we lived next door to that dollar theater? And we saw a movie every damn day?”
Sam snorts, twisting the cap on and off his bottle of water. “When we saw House Arrest nine times?”
“Yeah! Oh, shit. We need to find that movie. I bet we still know all the words.” Dean munches and crunches and opens his other candy, offering Sam each one as he does and not reacting when Sam shakes his head every time.
“Haven’t been to the movies in a long time.” Sam lowers his voice just as the theater goes dark and the previews start up, but there’s only two more people in here, down near the front.
“Didn’t go back at school?” Dean pushes everything aside but his gummy frogs, turned a little toward Sam, like he’s here to listen to Sam in a huge dark room instead of here to see a movie. Sam smiles, angles a little toward Dean in return, not really able to meet his eyes.
Sam shakes his head, chewing on his bottom lip. “Couldn’t really afford it. Plus I was always too busy studying. And Jess and I just liked to watch TV.”
It hurts to bring her up, but he does it on purpose, to give Dean a hint into how he’s feeling, that he’s doing better, can bring her up without falling apart. Dean gets it, he can tell, can see it in the flick of his eyes, in the way he straightens his shoulders a little.
“I haven’t been in awhile either. Not like I’m gonna take a girl out on a date or anything. And I haven’t been to the movies with Dad since the second Ghostbusters movie came out. He almost got us kicked out because he wouldn’t stop pointing out every fucking thing they were doing wrong in it.” Dean offers Sam a frog again, and Sam takes one just for something to do, just for a reason to reach out for Dean for a second.
They both grin at the thought of Dad and his hatred for the Ghostbusters, at all his lectures about the movies over the years.
“He’s such a dick,” Sam says with a quiet laugh and a shake of his head, the frog squishing in his mouth.
“He’d never go see this movie with me.” Dean’s voice is soft, his way of saying thank you. He’s looking down at his half-eaten bag of gummies, looks so much like a little boy in the hoodie with his candy that Sam’s chest aches.
He sinks back in his seat, heart racing for the words he wants to say, that he’s working up to. He leans over, mouth close to Dean’s ear, eyes turned toward the screen showing a preview for some action movie about cars.
“Look good in my hoodie.” He sounds much more confident than he is, his nose brushing against the curve of Dean’s ear. He pulls away and busies himself with his water, unscrewing the cap and taking a big drink, ignoring how hot his cheeks feel. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, feel his smirk.
“Yeah? Would it look better on your floor?”
Sam glances over at him, his eyebrows raised.
“...No. Cause, I mean. Then it’s just my hoodie on the floor. Not that hot then.”
Dean’s face lights up, even in the dark, a grin taking over.
“Think I look hot, huh?”
Sam’s definitely blushing now, and he nudges Dean with his shoulder.
“Shh, movie’s starting.”
They’re quiet for awhile, Dean probably watching the movie and Sam just staring at the screen, his mind and focus on the boy beside him, thinking about how Dean’s fingers probably taste sweet with candy and salty with popcorn, thinking about how soft he probably feels if they could curl up somewhere right now, how good he’d feel to hold, about how good it feels to sit next to his brother and they aren’t heading anywhere, they aren’t fighting, they aren’t threatening or being threatened.
Just when he’s about to turn his attention to the movie, to try and catch up with the plot, he feels Dean shift beside him, feels his mouth right up against his ear, just like Sam’s had been on him earlier.
“Used to feel like that when you wore that Zeppelin shirt of mine. Loved seeing you in it, ‘specially at school, around all those people, around your friends. Like you were mine, no matter where you were. Like everybody knew it or somethin’.”
Sam’s eyes are stuck on the screen, glued there, unblinking, his breath stuck in his throat, his entire face on fire, heart stampeding in his chest. He can’t believe it, can’t believe Dean just said that, can’t believe it could be true, that Dean felt like that back then, back when. When.
“Didn’t take a shirt to make me yours,” Sam murmurs, eyes lowered finally, staring down at his hands trembling a little in his lap.
“What would it take to make you mine again, Sammy? Tell me. Just tell me.” He feels the slide of Dean’s pinky against the side of his hand, feels it stroke across his palm and his eyes fall closed, forcing himself to breathe normally, slowly.
He wants to get on his knees right here, in a movie theater in the middle of the day in some tiny town in Indiana, wants to show Dean that nothing’s changed even though everything did change, that they’re still who they were back then, when they were young, when they were already dancing around each other, eyes always on each other.
“Watch the movie, Dean,” he says softly, unable to keep the plea out of his voice. Dean’s whole hand is stroking over his own now, spooned on top of it, fingertips stroking over Sam’s fingernails, his knuckles.
“Can’t believe you’re here with me.” Dean’s voice is so soft Sam feels like maybe Dean isn’t talking to him, that he wasn’t supposed to hear that. Dean’s forehead rests against his temple and Sam’s eyes slip closed as he leans on Dean, nuzzles toward him, his throat too tight to swallow. “God, just can’t believe it sometimes. Feels like I’m dreamin’.”
He doesn’t say anything back, couldn’t possibly find words right now. His eyes are stinging with tears and he’s clutching at Dean’s hand on his thigh, gripping it tight, his lifeline. He tips his head up so that their noses graze each other, just for a second. There’s a song playing right now in the movie, some slow heartache of a song, and Sam feels like he’s in a movie himself, like this is the breath before the plunge.
He sighs when Dean’s mouth slides over his jaw, when his soft lips brush down over the line of his neck, damp heat of his breath everywhere. There’s a rhythm between them even now, a cadence to their movements, to the give and take of breath, to the clutch of their hands, to the ghost of Dean’s mouth on his neck, to the way he strains toward it, begs for it, begs for it.
“Did it used to be like this? Has it always been like this?” Dean sounds like he’s in a trance, like he’s not himself, like he’s wondering out loud. Sam nods then, knows the answer to those questions, knows the truth. Yes, it’s always been like this, always felt like this, at least for him. Even when he was young, too young, he always felt the ache of being close to Dean, close but not close enough. Never close enough.
They’re still never close enough. He realizes now that there’s no such thing.
They’re quiet when they leave the movie theater, a good kind of quiet like they’re on the same page, like they don’t really need to talk because they’re riding the same wave.
Dean drives Sam to a chain bookstore and sticks close by him while Sam browses, while he pokes at the classics section and the plays, while he digs around in the reference books and skims through sexuality. He pulls a beginners guide to gay sex out and smiles a little to himself when he sees how red Dean’s cheeks are, when Dean turns away and looks way too interested in the astrology books.
“Hm,” Sam finally says when he’s done looking through it, when he’s seen some interesting positions and actually read a paragraph about which one is best for both partners. He sticks the book back on the shelf and pretends he doesn’t see it when Dean pulls it back out and slides it into the pocket of his hoodie.
They venture around awhile longer, and Sam buys a copy of On the Road and a couple of Americanos from the little cafe inside before they leave, walking out into the late afternoon of a cloudy day. Dean tosses Sam the keys without looking at him and Sam doesn’t question it, just unlocks the car and climbs in the driver seat.
“Your jacket’s a klepto,” Dean announces, pulling the book out of his pocket and squinting down at it as Sam snorts and starts the car up. “Bend Over: The Complete Guide to Anal Sex.”
Sam blushes but he manages to keep his dignity as he backs out of the parking lot, very purposefully not looking over at his fucking stunning, beautiful brother looking through a book about gay sex.
“Huh,” Dean grunts, turning the book over on its side as he stares at one of the pages. “Doesn’t look all that different than fuckin’ a chick.”
Sam licks his lips before drawing the bottom one into his mouth to chew on it. He’s not going to start campaigning for gay sex, spouting off reasons a guy can and would do it so much better. Not in broad daylight, not while he’s driving, and not to his brother.
“Don’t know why you’d need to look through this anyway,” Dean continues, finally glancing over at Sam. Sam raises his eyebrows out at the car in front of him, not looking at Dean, absolutely refusing. “I’m sure what’s-his-name gave you plenty of pointers himself.”
Sam’s eyebrows go a little higher. “Who?”
Dean’s flipping through the book more aggressively now, not really looking at anything before he turns the page. “That dick, the one who wouldn’t keep his hands offa you.”
Sam finally glances over at him. “You mean Dom?”
Dean shuts the book with a hard slap, tossing it in the floorboard and slumping back in the seat. “Yeah, I guess. Whatever his fuckin’ name was.”
“You know what his name was. He was your boss,” Sam reminds him, coming to a stop at a redlight. He’s maybe enjoying this a little, Dean still scowling and getting pissed over something that happened years ago.
“Yeah, well. You knew him better. He didn’t fuck me.” Dean’s jaw is set, a scowl taking over his entire face. Sam just stares at him, mouth parted. A car horn blasts behind him and he slams on the gas, turning his attention back to the road.
Well,” Sam starts, licking his lips nervously. He glances in the rearview, hands tightening on the wheel. “He didn’t really fuck me either.”
They’re quiet for a few beats, both of them still but then Dean’s looking over at him, confusion coming off of him in waves.
“What are you talking about? You spent the weekend at his place. You came home that day, and. And you told me. Y-you told me what he did to you. You told me.”
Sam pulls into the parking lot of the motel, sliding the car into a space and killing the engine. The world falls so quiet around them that the air is thrumming with it, with the silence that Dean’s waiting in, watching him in. Sam keeps his hands on the wheel, eyes trained on the yellowed curtains in the motel lobby.
“Maybe I lied.”
A few more beats and Dean leans toward him, moves closer. The heat of him is so good in the still-cold car, the smell of him enough to make Sam’s eyes flutter.
“Why would you lie about that? Why would you tell me that when it wasn’t true?”
“Doesn’t matter now,” Sam mutters, hands falling from the wheel and landing in his lap. “Does it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it does matter, Sam. I fucking broke that guy’s nose. I. It was all I could think about for weeks. It was my fault that you left when you did. Because I got pissed at you for that. I could have had you there a little bit longer, if I hadn’t’ve. If.”
“I didn’t know all that was going to happen, Dean,” Sam laughs in a breathless, humorless huff, still not daring to look over at his brother even though he can feel those eyes burning on him. “It’s over now though. That was years ago. There’s nothing we can do about it now.”
He opens the door and steps out into the cold afternoon, the grey of it pushing down all around them. He pulls his jacket closer around him and closes his door just in time to see Dean climb out, too, the book getting shoved back in his pocket.
Sam walks to the door of their room and waits there for Dean. Dean’s hand closes around Sam’s arm for the second time that afternoon and he pushes Sam this time, shoves him back against the door and Sam goes, falls back against it, eyes lowered, not meeting Dean’s gaze, not even now.
“So he didn’t fuck you? Answer me, yes or no.”
“No,” Sam grits out, his teeth grinding together.
“Are you tellin’ me you’re still a virgin?”
Sam looks up at him then, looks right up into his eyes in surprise.
“Dean, I had a girlfriend for--”
“I mean,” Dean starts way too loudly, realizing it with a start when he hears a car door close nearby. He steps closer into Sam’s space, voice dropping low. “I mean. With guys.”
He doesn’t want to tell him about Jess, about what she’d done to him, what they’d done together. It had been different and Sam had known it then, knows it now. Letting Jess fuck him in the ass is much different than if he’d let Dom. Let any guy. And he knows what Dean is asking.
“Yeah.” He feels a little embarrassed, like it’s something to be ashamed of. He feels Dean’s eyes on him, studying his face. Hates the way his cheeks are burning red.
He makes a soft noise when Dean steps in against him, their chests brushing and then digging together, and Sam has no choice now, has to look up at him, has to meet Dean’s eyes. Dean is completely unreadable right now, looking pissed off and pleased all at the same time.
“Don’t lie to me again,” he huffs out right against Sam’s mouth, the words a growl against his lips. He nods, a shaky jerk of movement, the rest of him frozen, too afraid of messing up, of ruining this, to move.
They stay there for another few seconds and Sam lets his eyes fall closed, lips going slack because it feels so close, feels like maybe Dean wants to kiss him, like maybe--
Dean pulls away, hands dropping away from their grip on Sam’s arms. He tugs the keys out of Sam’s grasp and steps back toward the car, his back to Sam before he speaks again.
“Goin’ out. I’ll be back later.” He doesn’t glance back at Sam, doesn’t even pause as he climbs in the car and pulls the door shut behind him, the engine firing up only a second later. He pulls out just as the snow starts up again, and Sam turns back to the door, moving on autopilot as he digs the key out of his pocket.
There’s a Law and Order: Criminal Intent marathon on cable, and Sam watches every single episode. It goes off at midnight, makes way for infomercials.
Dean’s still gone.
Sam had called him once, braved being yelled at, being told to fuck off, but Dean hadn’t answered.
He has his laptop out, fumbling around on the internet, catching up on some online comics and checking his email. He has a few porn videos stowed away in a folder on his desktop, but even when he clicks on the folder and looks through them, nothing sparks his interest. He scrubs a hand over his face and shuts the computer.
He climbs into bed in just his sweatpants, pulls the covers up to just beneath his nose. The sheets still smell like Dean.
Dean who’s been gone for nearly seven hours now, who’s still wearing his hoodie, who is furious at him for something that didn’t happen four fucking years ago.
He thinks very cruelly about calling Dom, telling him everything that’s happened, let him know he’s okay. It’s only then that he realizes he’ll never talk to Dom again, that he can’t drag him into whatever his life is now. That it’s the only real way to make sure somebody stays safe.
And anyway, Dom has a boyfriend now, some college boy named Zach, some pert and perky dimpled thing with a careless smile, or at least he has one in the pictures on Dom’s Myspace. And good for them. Good for them for being happy. Good for Dom for finding someone who will love him.
It’s not wrong to want someone to love you. It’s not wrong to know who you want to love you.
Sam turns over with a sigh, facing Dean’s empty bed and thinks just as his eyes slip closed that this bed he’s in had felt like theirs, even if it had only been true for one night.
His eyes snap open when he hears a key in the door.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed, doesn’t know what time it is, just knows that he’s completely awake, that he feels like he’s been waiting more than sleeping.
“You gonna keep suckin’ my dick, or’s your jaw hurt yet?”
Dean’s slurring a little, just a little, talking louder than he probably realizes. Sam hears the wet sound of kissing and his stomach lurches hard, painful. A girl. He’s brought a fucking girl to their room.
“Want you to fuck me.” Her voice is soft, annoying flower-dainty girl soft, plenty whiskey-soaked itself because she giggles at the end. Sam’s eyes adjust to the dark and he sees them, sees a long spill of brown hair and Dean’s hands on her ass, yanking up the flower-printed dress to reveal it, giving both cheeks two hard slaps. She gasps, whines a little, and all Sam can see is the wild, wet look in Dean’s eyes as he walks them back toward the bed, closer to Sam.
“What’d you say? Hm? Get my dick out again.”
The back of the girl’s knees hit the mattress and she sits down immediately, too drunk to react fast enough to stay on her feet. Her little hands yank at Dean’s zipper, the button already undone. He’s looming over her as she pulls his pants down and reaches into his underwear, shoulders broad, jaw set, eyes focused completely on her, like Sam’s not even there, like Sam’s getting a view into Dean’s life alone, what it had been like while he was at Stanford.
Except he’s here now, and Dean knows it. Knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Said I want you to fuck me.” She sounds like she means it this time, and Dean’s dick is out now, grasped in her hand as she starts to jerk him off and god it’s beautiful, Sam can see how fucking gorgeous it is even when he feels the bile burning in the back of his throat. He has to get up, has to leave, has to get out of here somehow.
Dean moves suddenly, gets his arms underneath the girl’s legs and he lifts them as he shoves her back up on the bed, the blankets dragging up with her. He shoulders Sam’s hoodie off and tosses it on the floor, like it’s nothing before he crawls up after her, pulling her legs up onto his shoulders. There’s the tell-tell crinkle of a condom packet and a tight look on Dean’s face as the girl apparently fits it over his dick.
Sam closes his eyes the second Dean pushes in, right when the girl lets out the first gasp, the first whimper.
The bedframe starts to snap against the wall immediately, the bed whining and squeaking under their weight, under the rut of Dean’s hips. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t grunt or pant, and all Sam can hear is her, her little cries, the wet sounds of her pussy, all her.
“What-what about him? Wh-what if he wakes up?”
The sound of the bed gets even louder then, even more frantic, and Sam hears Dean growl, a low, warning sound.
“He doesn’t care. Doesn’t matter. Don’t fucking look at him. Don’t. Look. At him.”
Dean apparently hits something perfectly right because she’s moaning now, long, keening sounds that have Sam nearly hyperventilating, unable to breathe. He can’t process it all, doesn’t know what to feel, doesn’t know what to focus on other than no, no, no, not this, please not this, have to leave, can’t be here have to get out of here.
It doesn’t take long for her to come for the first time, the rhythm getting even more violent, even deeper, the wet, sucking slap of their bodies overpowering nearly everything else and Dean’s panting now, the air smelling like salt and sweat and Sam’s nail is digging so hard into his scar that he breaks skin, blood smearing all over.
“Gonna come,” Dean grits out, the rough slaps slowing down, get even harder. “Gonna come in that pussy.”
Sam’s frozen, his muscles tense and shaking and he feels light-headed, like he’s never going to take a full breath again. He thinks stupidly, childishly of Dean’s hand in his own when Dean finally comes, thinks of the way they’d practically cuddled in the movie theater, thinks of how naive he’d been only a few hours ago that maybe it meant something, that maybe they were heading for something. But now.
Now Dean’s finishing her off again with his hand, more wet sounds and she’s practically screaming just like Dean always gets his girls to do. Sam’s got his face buried in the blankets, chest lifting and falling erratically. Maybe this isn’t really happening. This can’t really be happening.
He doesn’t hear them kiss, not even once. Just hears a few movements and then her voice is away, closer to the door.
“So, if you wanna do that again, I’ll--”
“I don’t aim to be here longer than tonight.” Dean sounds sluggish, like he’s not even really listening, like he just knows what most girls say at this point. She says something else, something a little sad, like a goodbye. The door opens again and it’s freezing cold out there, more snow on the ground. And then she’s gone.
The quiet that settles in is awake, knowing.
They’re listening to each other, listening for each other.
Sam wants to be a child again just so he can cry, just so he can throw a tantrum. Just so he can say how could you? and deserve an answer.
Dean shifts around on the bed and then he’s standing up, shuffling toward the bathroom. The light from it floods the room before the door closes, leaving Sam alone in the dark once again.
The shower comes on.
He thinks about leaving. About gathering all his shit up and taking off, hotwire a car in the parking lot, hitchhike. Hell, maybe he will call Dom.
But he won’t. He won’t, and he can’t, and he feels deep down, somewhere, that he deserved that. That he earned it. He can imagine what Jess would say to that, what Dom would say, if they knew. If they really knew Sam and knew what he thought when he looked at his brother. They’d both call him a fucking idiot. Call him obsessed. Tell him how unhealthy it is, that Sam didn’t do anything wrong.
But he did, and he knows he did. Even if it was years ago. He’s paying for it now.
And that’s why he stays where he is.
Dean comes out just a couple of minutes later, towel around his waist like an afterthought. He smells so fucking good, like soap and wet and he’s tugging on a pair of boxers and ripping all the sheets off the bed, Sam watching all of it through barely-open eyes, through his lashes.
Dean falls down into his bare bed and turns over on his side away from Sam, and that’s that. Punishment dealt, punishment taken. Like Dean’s some kind of emotionally blackmailing vigilante.
Sam hates Indiana.
They don’t talk about it.
They head to St. Louis, meet up with Sam’s friend Becky from college, and walk right into Sam’s nightmare.
He’s the one who takes the necklace from Dean, the one who ties a new knot in it and only really breathes when Dean slips it back around his neck, the amulet hanging heavy against his chest.
Sam keeps looking at him, looking into his eyes, looking for the flash of silver to give Dean away as a shapeshifter again. Dean looks shock-pale, drained, even under the sweat. Sam knows Dean keeps picturing the shapeshifter-Dean slumped over, unmoving, two bullets in him.
Sam can’t unsee it, can’t unknow the fact that he’s now seen what Dean would look like dead. It’s enough to make tears rise in his eyes, to make him look over at Dean in the passenger seat when he yanks the door closed, Becky climbing into the back.
“What?” Dean’s looking straight ahead into the damp night as he starts the car up, not over at Sam even though he knows the answer to his own question. They both do. Sam reaches over, fingers a trembling silhouette in the streetlit dark before they light on Dean’s neck, touch at the knot in the cord of his necklace.
“Just,” Sam whispers, knowing that Becky is listening to them, watching them, doesn’t understand. His fingers tumble over the necklace and push at the sweaty strands of Dean’s hair, just a reminder, just real quick, that Dean’s okay, that he’s alive, real, right here.
Dean looks over at him, the hunter-mask slipping as their eyes meet and it’s all right there, all in the vulnerable soft of his expression. Sam wants to press in close, to move next to him, to tuck up under his arm, to smell Dean, just to make sure. The shapeshifter had smelled different, a weird, metallic smell, like something artificial. He just wants to make sure.
“It’s me, Sammy,” Dean says soft, quiet, just over Queen playing from the radio, hopefully muffling the words from Becky because they aren’t for her.
“Just. Let’s take her home.” Sam lets his hand fall away, fingers sliding across as much skin, as much of Dean as he can before he curls back up on himself. He’s bleeding, lip busted, hurting all over but there’s a weird, liquid relief pulsing through him, like something right has happened, underneath it all.
They drive through the afternoon, stopping when Dean’s stomach can’t handle being empty anymore. They share a bag of Krystals and a huge Coke and check into a motel that’s just been cleaned right before they show up, the sheets still fresh-smelling and warm. Dean showers with the door cracked and Sam sits on the bed and listens to it, the sound of the water over Dean’s body, the sound of Dean being here.
He still feels a strange need to cry, like he’d been holding his breath and can now let it go. His elbows dig into his knees as he buries his face in his hands and sighs into his palms, fingertips pushing hard at his eyes. He wants to be shaken, to be pulled out of this like being yanked out of the water when you’re drowning. He knows Dean’s okay. He just needs to feel that Dean’s okay.
“Sammy?”
Sam lifts his head, his eyes red and sore and Dean’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom, his hair sticking up in crazy ways, amulet resting faithfully on his bare chest. He’s wearing the same kind of black boxer briefs that Sam had gotten him years ago, and Sam gives Dean the barest hint of a smile.
“You need to shave, Dean. You’re gettin’ a nine o’clock shadow now.”
Dean frowns, all the real concern leaving his face as he reaches up and rubs over his scruffy cheeks. He looks infuriatingly adorable as he crinkles his eyebrows.
“Really?”
Sam’s smile is tired but he pushes himself up to his feet, his body loose as he walks toward his brother.
“Yeah, a little.”
Dean takes a step back into the bathroom, like he’s luring Sam there. He’s smirking now, almost like he knows how sexy he is.
“You wanna shave me? Since apparently I’m so shitty at knowin’ when I need to?”
Sam feels warm all over at the thought, at the glimpse of what could be his immediate future. Apparently the answer is all over his face because Dean is grinning, all timid and cute, taking a few more steps back until his butt hits the sink.
“My razor needs a battery,” Dean finally admits, looking a little sheepish about it when he meets Sam’s eyes again. “Forgot to get one in St. Louis.”
“We were a little busy.” Sam smiles, not a full one, not one that reaches his eyes. He pictures him again, the thing that pretended to be his brother, that made his brother frightening, a threat. “We can, uh. We can use mine? I’m old school.”
Sam manages to leave the bathroom again and dig through his duffel for his razor and shaving cream, coming back to find Dean in the same spot, looking a little tired, maybe a little haunted.
“Hop up,” Sam instructs him, nodding up at the sink. Dean turns and glances at the sink before looking back up at Sam, his eyebrows lifting.
“Dunno, Sammy. Thinkin’ my fat ass’ll break that thing.”
Sam snorts, shaking his head as he tugs off his hoodie so he doesn’t get it wet. “There’s nothing fat on you, Dean. Go on.”
Dean hefts himself up, and the sink moves a little under his weight but stays, predictably, intact. “Gotta fat dick,” he retorts, lifting his eyes to smirk at Sam.
Sam flushes, can’t fucking help it, feeling it go all the way to the tips of his ears. He plugs up the sink and runs hot water in it, turning his gaze to Dean while it fills.
“Scruff McGruff,” he mumbles, letting his eyes rake over Dean’s face from this close, where he can see every individual hair, every tiny color in his eyes. Dean huffs a laugh but doesn’t say anything in reply, looking shy, of all the things in the world for Dean Winchester to be.
He shuts off the water and grabs a clean towel off the back of the toilet, wrapping it around Dean’s neck. He steps between his bare thighs as he squeezes some shaving cream out onto his fingers, getting in probably closer than he needs to while he spreads the cream out on Dean’s cheeks.
Dean takes a deep breath, his eyes falling closed while Sam gets some water on his fingers and rubs back over the cream, slicking it up a little, keeping his touch light, all gentle, careful. He grabs the razor and lets his mind shut down as he focuses on the task at hand, eyes zeroing in as he starts on one cheek, dragging the razor down as he holds Dean’s head in place with the other hand.
Dean doesn’t tense, doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t react at all. He’s utterly docile, moving how Sam wants him to, trusting him so much that it makes Sam ache. He tips Dean’s face up with a crooked finger under his chin, shaving up his throat and the sharp lines of his jaw, all the places that he’s wanted to kiss since he was in grade school, all the places that are tender and exposed to him, just to him right now.
“Didn’t know somebody so tall’n goofy could have such a light touch.” Dean’s just barely smiling, hardly moving his mouth to speak, and Sam can’t help but grin.
“Shouldn’t make fun of somebody who’s got a razor to your throat,” he reminds him, stroking his fingers over Dean’s Adam’s apple just as Dean tightens his legs around his waist a little, the insides of his knees catching on Sam’s hips.
“Not makin’ fun. It was a compliment.” Dean’s hands are on his own thighs but his fingertips are touching Sam’s belt loops, forefingers tugging on the ones closest to the button on his jeans. Sam pauses, raises his eyebrows at Dean even though his eyes are closed.
“Goofy is a compliment?”
“Goofy’s my favorite of Mickey’s friends,” Dean mumbles as Sam shaves his upper lip, pulling his lips down a little so Sam can get to it before he continues to the other cheek. “Total stud. Badass.”
“So you think I’m a tall, badass stud?” He rinses the blades out before he starts in on Dean’s sideburns and continues over the wide part of his cheek, so close to being done but he doesn’t want this to end.
“Maybe,” Dean shrugs, all coy but he’s smiling, smiling in a way that Sam can tell means Dean’s probably actually thinking of Goofy, probably thinking of a hundred lame jokes before he settles on one. “Or maybe I’m just bein’ nice because you have a razor to my throat.”
Sam sighs, so put-upon, rinsing out the razor one last time and lifting the towel around Dean’s neck to dab at his cheeks until they’re dry.
“So sweet, Dean.”
Dean reaches up and touches his smooth cheeks, his eyes bright when they find Sam’s, grin lighting up his whole face. “Gawrsh, Sammy! Thanks.”
Sam lets the water out of the sink, rinsing it clean, all without moving from the warm hug of Dean’s thighs. “Jerk,” he mumbles, drying his hands off on the towel, strangely timid about meeting Dean’s eyes again.
“Pretty good at that, little brother.” Dean’s voice is soft and feels closer now, like he’s looking right at Sam, wanting his eyes on him. “Might have to keep you around. Get you to do that every once in awhile.”
Sam shrugs, blushing again, taking a step back before he can look up and catch Dean’s eyes. “If you want.”
Dean holds his gaze, not letting go even when he slides down from the sink. “I do.”
He turns around and faces the mirror, examining his newly-shaven face, stroking across his cheeks like he knows how beautiful he is. Sam steps up again, can’t help it, his hands feeling so big as they light on Dean’s hips, nearly spanning his narrow waist. He dips down just a little, eyes closing in some kind of reverence as he presses a kiss to Dean’s cool, clean shoulder, right over a particularly favorite smatter of freckles.
He keeps his lips there for just a second, just so they both know it wasn’t an accident, that he doesn’t regret it. He’s not brave enough to look up though, to meet Dean’s eyes in the mirror before he leaves the bathroom, stepping back out into the main room, busying himself with putting his bag away.
They stay quiet for a few minutes, a waiting kind of feeling in the air. Sam checks his gun, sets it on the table next to Dean’s. Checks the locks on the door. Checks the windows. Dean steps out of the bathroom, wearing jeans now, two bright points of red on his cheeks.
So, uh,” he starts, clearing his throat gently. “We’re in Kansas.”
“I know, Dorothy,” Sam smiles, shoving his hands in his pockets, eyes on his own feet.
“Know what that means?” Dean’s pulling a shirt on now, and Sam sighs as all those long, lovely muscles disappear underneath.
“Um. Lots of flat land and Wal-Marts and bored people?”
“Flat land, yes,” Dean points at him, eyes light up. “Lotsa fields. Think maybe we should. I dunno. Go find one and look at the stars. Gonna be a clear night.”
Sam bites on his bottom lip to keep in a smile. “It’s January. It’s cold out.”
Dean lifts a shoulder in a lazy shrug, careful not to meet Sam’s eyes. “We can keep warm somehow.”
Sam’s heart skips, breath trembling a little as he exhales. “Yeah. Somehow.”
next.
Dean pulls on a pair of mostly clean underwear and tosses the towel toward the bathroom before sitting down on the side of the unused bed.
Last night had been… different. Different than all the hundreds of nights before when they’d fallen asleep in a bed together. Different than all the other nights they’ve been on the road together the last couple of weeks.
He can still feel the heat of Sam’s skin under his palms, can still hear the quiet of his breathing in his ear.
And he wants to get back in bed with him. Say fuck it and not get back out on the road, just get back in the bed with Sammy, under the covers that he knows are still warm. It’s cold out, truly winter now, first day of December. And Sam has the softest skin.
“Sammy,” he whispers, leaning forward to trail the crook of his finger up along Sam’s exposed forearm. So soft. He slips from the bed and onto his knees, water still dripping from his hair down his chest, down his back, bare knees digging into cheap carpet. He touches Sam’s arm again.
“Time to get up, sleepyhead.” Two fingers trailing down to Sam’s wrist, over the back of his hand, bumping over Sam’s long fingers. “C’mon, it’s Christmas morning.”
Sam makes the tiniest sound, one with a question mark at the end which Dean knows means he wants to be left the fuck alone, just wants to sleep. Sam’s hand wakens under Dean’s touch, fingers loosening in their grip on his pillow. It lowers down to the mattress, palm splayed wide, fingers sleep-curled. Dean strokes over the inside of that hand, over life and heartlines, down over that strange little full moon of a scar just on the inside of Sam’s wrist, like a brand.
He remembers that morning, that terrible morning in Tennessee when he’d found Sam sleeping in the bed of Bobby’s truck. Remembers when that scar was still fresh, a perfect, horror-colored circle. A burn. Sam probably thinks Dean’s forgotten, that he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t thought about it, maybe. Maybe he's forgotten that they'd almost talked about it once, that nightmare of a last night in Denver all those years ago.
He circles the scar with the wide pad of his thumb before stroking over it as tender as he can, like it’s a rose petal. Like it still hurts.
He glances up into Sam’s open eyes, caught.
“Did you do this?” He knows he shouldn’t ask, that it’s pretty much a guarantee that Sam’s going to ignore him for the rest of the day because of it, but it just comes out. He keeps his thumb over it, covering it, feeling the thrum of Sam’s heartbeat underneath.
Sam doesn’t blink, his expression staying smooth, almost serene. Keeps his eyes open when he finally nods, just once, yes.
Dean nods, too, an echo. He rubs his thumb back up into Sam’s palm, revealing the scar to himself again. He leans forward, bare belly against the side of the bed so he can get closer, really look at it, almost like he’s been given permission.
“Why?” He’s whispering, like he’s afraid someone will hear him. He meets Sam’s eyes again, searching them, looking for an answer there in case Sam’s words are a lie.
“Punishment.”
Sam’s voice is low, scratchy, reminding Dean that Sam’s an adult now, just like him. He’s not that skinny heartbreak of a boy he found that morning, sleeping in the bed of Bobby’s truck like an abandoned dog. He survived that and he’s here now, giving real answers. Dean swallows, his throat clicking.
“Punishment for what?”
The corner of Sam’s mouth twitches, a flash of a smile, of a dimple, then gone. Dean searches his eyes, counts the colors in them like he always does, finds three, maybe four in the light pushing through the curtains.
“It’s not Christmas morning,” Sam sighs, sliding his hand down until it twins with Dean’s, fingers lacing together just like last night.
Dean frowns, lost for a second before he picks up the thread of the conversation. He pushes up off the floor in a single movement, turning to sit on the bed next to Sam, not letting go of his hand.
“Punishment for what, Sammy? Tell me?” He’s not demanding, not pushing him. Just asking, almost begging. He watches Sam’s eyes trail over his body, over the water still clinging to him, making his nipples hard, making goosebumps fly all up and down his chest, his arms.
“Maybe punishment’s not the right word,” Sam sighs, shifting closer to Dean on the bed, his free hand coming out from under the covers to touch Dean’s knee, warm palm against his cool, clean skin, fingers playing with the hairs on his leg. “More like keeping myself in line.”
Dean muses over that, watches Sam’s fingers stroke over his knee cap, thumb rubbing at the bony jut of it. Maybe lets his thighs spread a little, moving into it when Sam’s hand ventures ever so slightly toward the inside of his thigh.
“Control.” It’s not a question, but Sam nods anyway. Their eyes lift and meet again, and Sam’s hand shies away, slips down Dean’s shin. “What else did you do to keep yourself in line?”
Sam hums, chest rising quick and big before he lets out a heavy sigh. He blinks, and just like that, the spell’s broken, all the softness leaving him, all the sleep falling away. He sits up a little, takes his hand back from Dean’s leg to rub at his eyes.
“I need to take a shower. I smell like shit.” He sucks in a yawn and lets it out in a rush before pushing to sit up completely. “What’re we doing today? Heading back out?”
Dean shrugs, the disappointment of almost hearing a confession taking away his smile, pulls his shoulders down once again.
“Dunno. Thought we could just take it easy today. Maybe go see a movie or something.”
Sam raises his eyebrows, a hopeful light flashing through his eyes before it disappears behind a wall again.
“Really? Just, a day off. No hunting at all.”
Dean laughs, standing up so Sam can move finally. Sam’s eyes slide down his body again, gaze dragging hard, and Dean just pushes his shoulders back, pulls in his stomach a little, and lets him.
“I can go twenty-four hours without gutting something, if you can believe it, Sam.”
Sam stands up, clothes rumpled, his entire body so warm that Dean has to force himself not to lean into it.
“Guess you’ll just have to prove it,” Sam smiles, looking up at Dean through his eyelashes, a fucking flirty look if Dean’s ever seen one. His heart jumps just once in his chest.
“If you hurry and go wash that funky smell off of you, we could get the hell out of here and get some breakfast.” He shoves Sam toward the bathroom, fingers seeking a little as they connect with his chest and let go just as fast. Sam stumbles back toward the bathroom, his grin out completely now, bright as his little laugh.
“Gimme ten.” He looks at Dean just a few more seconds, eyes caught up on Dean’s chest before he disappears into the bathroom, door pulled closed behind him.
Dean exhales in a rush, two bright spots of color on his cheeks.
“I-I’m givin’ you seven and I’m leaving without you!”
He hears Sam scoff and he has to smile. They both know Dean would never leave him there, not in a million years.
They track down a Cracker Barrel and Dean gets the Country Boy Breakfast with a big smile at their waitress and makes a show of rolling his eyes at Sam’s Fresh Start whatever, with its granola whatever and fresh blah blah.
Sam only smiles at him when the waitress walks away and it makes Dean squirm, makes him fight every muscle in his face to keep in the dorky grin he just knows is dying to come out.
“Chilly in here, isn’t it?” Dean tugs his jacket tighter around him, frowning around the restaurant, eyes narrowing on the unused, gigantic fireplace. “Seriously? Man, if I had a fireplace, I’d have it on all the time. Remember that one in the shack Dad left us at here in Indiana that one winter, Sammy?”
He turns to face his brother again who’s playing the golf tee game on every Cracker Barrel in every small town on the planet, whose smile is soft and faraway and Dean questions for a second if Sam even heard him.
“Believe me, Dean. I’ll never forget that winter.” Sam lifts his eyes and they fix on something behind Dean. “Uh, excuse me, sir?”
Dean cranes around and sees a man in a uniform with a nametag headed straight for their table. He cringes, like he’s in school and the principal’s coming and he’s got a lit cigarette in his hand (what? he never did that). “Sammy, what the hell--”
“Can I help you?” The guy is greying and small-town politeness, and it calms Dean slightly. He looks up at Sam, eyebrows raised, completely curious as to what’s gonna come out of Sam’s mouth.
“It’s chilly in here. Is there any way you can get a fire going in that fireplace?” Sam is decidedly not looking at Dean now, his neck and cheeks a little flushed. Dean sinks down into his seat, equal parts touched and annoyed. He’s not that cold. Just chilly, is all.
“Sure thing, son! You’re the second one to ask in the last few minutes. It’ll be up and blazing in no time.”
Dean rolls his eyes.
Sam’s grin is little-boy wholesome. “Thank you, sir.”
The guy walks away from their table, and Sam goes back to his game, hair falling in his eyes. Dean smirks.
“Didn’t have to do that, you know.”
“You’re welcome,” Sam mumbles, a smile ghosting his lips.
“Not that cold,” Dean’s voice is soft, can’t help it, his eyes matching. Sam looks up through the long strands in his eyes and his smile widens, every single bit of him trained on Dean, nowhere else. Dean shifts closer to him.
Dean feels Sam’s fingers brushing his own where they’re spread across his thigh. He tips his fingers up, lets them slide over Sam’s, hands tangling together for the third time in less than a day. But this time is different, it’s in public, in Smalltown, USA, and they both know it.
“Fingers are freezing,” Sam murmurs, rubbing his thumb over and over Dean’s scarred knuckles. Dean shifts again in the seat, ribs pressed hard into the side of the table, as close as he can get. His cheeks are hot now, and the fire hasn’t even been started yet.
“You do this for all your girlfriends?” Dean’s going for flirty, but he realizes what he says after he’s said it. Sam’s face shuts down, smile disappearing like it was never there. He pulls his hand away before Dean can even react, before he can stumble back over his own stupidity.
They can’t talk about Jessica in everyday conversation, not yet. Not even hint at it, not without Sam reacting exactly like this.
Sam turns back to the game, moving the tees from one peg to another until he ends up with only one. He pushes them all back into place and shoves the game toward Dean.
“Your turn.”
Dean knows he should apologize, but he also knows it’ll just make Sam more angry. He holds in a sigh and reaches for the game, staring at all the tees before he starts to move them.
“You think, uh, think maybe we can stop back by the motel on the way to the movie theater so I can borrow your hoodie for the movies? Gets even colder in there, and this jacket’s not exactly snuggly.”
Sam looks up at him, looks him full in the face, mouth parted, eyes wide with surprise. Dean’s just relieved Sam’s not ignoring him.
“You wanna wear my hoodie?”
Dean hesitates, chews on his bottom lip, thinks over his words. Tries to figure out if this is some kind of trap.
“Yeah?”
Sam’s smile is so sudden and so bright it’s nearly blinding. He ducks his head, tries to hide it, but the damage has already been done. Dean laughs, a short bark, relieved.
“That okay? Think you can share with me, little brother? I promise I’ll wash it after I wear it.”
Sam’s hand is back on his knee suddenly, seeking out his hand. Dean stops playing the stupid game and rushes his hand back under the table, letting Sam’s lace with it, clutch at it. Sam’s eyes are burning into his.
“No, you won’t.”
There’s a heat in his words, one that’s so thick right here between them, right now. Dean licks his lips, body thrumming low for the way Sam watches it. Watches him.
“Okay,” Dean says, soft, only for Sam, not for the middle-aged couple at the table next to them who have been eyeing them a little accusingly ever since they sat down. “I won’t. Kinky bastard.”
That draws a laugh out of Sam, a shy one. There are serving trays carrying plates just above their heads suddenly, the smell of bacon permeating Dean’s brain, making his stomach growl.
They let go of each other’s hands, but Sam’s still watching Dean as plates are lowered to the table, filling up the tiny space. The fire’s going now, a welcome heat at Dean’s back, truly warming his cold fingertips. And he’s used to being cold, being hot, being rained on, being sunburned, being stabbed, being stitched back together, but this feels good. Really good. Like a luxury. Like it’s okay to want to just be warm.
“Eat up, Sammy,” he says finally, after the servers are gone, as he unrolls his silverware from the napkin. “Don’t let your granola get cold.”
Sam smirks, just like Dean knew he would, and Sam’s foot kicks out at his shins just as Dean laughs. Sam keeps his foot where it lands between both of Dean’s, and Dean tightens his legs just to cradle it as he starts in on his eggs.
They argue about seeing Syriana or Walk the Line for ten minutes outside the theater just to waste some time. Sam knows he’ll give in and see Walk the Line because Dean wants to see it, knows he doesn’t give a shit what they see because all that matters is that today isn’t about a hunt, or about driving, or about the nightmares he can’t stop having. It’s about the way Dean keeps looking at him out of the corners of his eyes, like some shy kid on his first date, the way Sam can still feel the ghost of each whorl of Dean’s fingertips on his skin where they’d held hands--held hands, like teenagers, like children, like a lovesick couple of saps who can’t stand to not touch even while they’re eating their breakfast.
So, yeah, he forks out the nearly twenty dollars to see some Johnny Cash flick, near the last of his money from his part-time job in the bookstore back at school.
The little smile on Dean’s face as he pockets their tickets makes it worth it. All of it.
Dean’s wearing his hoodie, his brown one. It’s a little long on his arms, a little big across his shoulders, hiding the tight of his body under too-soft cotton but, for Sam, it’s almost better than having Dean naked. It’s Dean in something that’s his, something he’d asked to wear. It’s Dean looking a little claimed, at least to Sam.
He heads for the boy waiting to collect their tickets and stumbles a little when he feels Dean grab hold of his arm.
“Dean, what the--”
“Whoa, whoa. Sammy, it’s like you don’t know me at all.” Dean looks dumbfounded, like Sam is the most absurd human being on the planet. Sam just stares at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for an explanation.
Dean sighs, his shoulders falling, the picture of disappointment but they’re both still almost smiling.
“Popcorn, man! Those gummy frogs! Nestle Crunch! Cherry Coke! Cookie--”
“Okay, okay, I get it. Jesus, you don’t have to name off everything on the menu,” Sam mutters, reaching for his wallet again as Dean walks right up to the girl at the counter with a big grin on his face.
Five minutes later, they’re feeling their way into a nearly empty theater, weighted down with way too much junk food.
“Sorry they didn’t have any carrots, Sammy. You’d think they’d have a hippie section.” Dean slides down into a seat in the very last row in the back of the theater, where only the bad kids or the horny ones sit. Sam wonders which ones they are as he sinks down next to his brother.
“You just had breakfast,” Sam points out as he passes Dean the popcorn and the weird gummy frogs. Dean pokes a straw into his drink and takes a sip before he blinks over at Sam thoughtfully, like that hadn’t really occurred to him.
“Yeah, well. That was like half an hour ago.” He gives Sam his best little boy grin as he rips into the package of frogs, popping two in his mouth right alongside a handful of popcorn. “Hey, Sammy, you ‘member that summer we lived next door to that dollar theater? And we saw a movie every damn day?”
Sam snorts, twisting the cap on and off his bottle of water. “When we saw House Arrest nine times?”
“Yeah! Oh, shit. We need to find that movie. I bet we still know all the words.” Dean munches and crunches and opens his other candy, offering Sam each one as he does and not reacting when Sam shakes his head every time.
“Haven’t been to the movies in a long time.” Sam lowers his voice just as the theater goes dark and the previews start up, but there’s only two more people in here, down near the front.
“Didn’t go back at school?” Dean pushes everything aside but his gummy frogs, turned a little toward Sam, like he’s here to listen to Sam in a huge dark room instead of here to see a movie. Sam smiles, angles a little toward Dean in return, not really able to meet his eyes.
Sam shakes his head, chewing on his bottom lip. “Couldn’t really afford it. Plus I was always too busy studying. And Jess and I just liked to watch TV.”
It hurts to bring her up, but he does it on purpose, to give Dean a hint into how he’s feeling, that he’s doing better, can bring her up without falling apart. Dean gets it, he can tell, can see it in the flick of his eyes, in the way he straightens his shoulders a little.
“I haven’t been in awhile either. Not like I’m gonna take a girl out on a date or anything. And I haven’t been to the movies with Dad since the second Ghostbusters movie came out. He almost got us kicked out because he wouldn’t stop pointing out every fucking thing they were doing wrong in it.” Dean offers Sam a frog again, and Sam takes one just for something to do, just for a reason to reach out for Dean for a second.
They both grin at the thought of Dad and his hatred for the Ghostbusters, at all his lectures about the movies over the years.
“He’s such a dick,” Sam says with a quiet laugh and a shake of his head, the frog squishing in his mouth.
“He’d never go see this movie with me.” Dean’s voice is soft, his way of saying thank you. He’s looking down at his half-eaten bag of gummies, looks so much like a little boy in the hoodie with his candy that Sam’s chest aches.
He sinks back in his seat, heart racing for the words he wants to say, that he’s working up to. He leans over, mouth close to Dean’s ear, eyes turned toward the screen showing a preview for some action movie about cars.
“Look good in my hoodie.” He sounds much more confident than he is, his nose brushing against the curve of Dean’s ear. He pulls away and busies himself with his water, unscrewing the cap and taking a big drink, ignoring how hot his cheeks feel. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, feel his smirk.
“Yeah? Would it look better on your floor?”
Sam glances over at him, his eyebrows raised.
“...No. Cause, I mean. Then it’s just my hoodie on the floor. Not that hot then.”
Dean’s face lights up, even in the dark, a grin taking over.
“Think I look hot, huh?”
Sam’s definitely blushing now, and he nudges Dean with his shoulder.
“Shh, movie’s starting.”
They’re quiet for awhile, Dean probably watching the movie and Sam just staring at the screen, his mind and focus on the boy beside him, thinking about how Dean’s fingers probably taste sweet with candy and salty with popcorn, thinking about how soft he probably feels if they could curl up somewhere right now, how good he’d feel to hold, about how good it feels to sit next to his brother and they aren’t heading anywhere, they aren’t fighting, they aren’t threatening or being threatened.
Just when he’s about to turn his attention to the movie, to try and catch up with the plot, he feels Dean shift beside him, feels his mouth right up against his ear, just like Sam’s had been on him earlier.
“Used to feel like that when you wore that Zeppelin shirt of mine. Loved seeing you in it, ‘specially at school, around all those people, around your friends. Like you were mine, no matter where you were. Like everybody knew it or somethin’.”
Sam’s eyes are stuck on the screen, glued there, unblinking, his breath stuck in his throat, his entire face on fire, heart stampeding in his chest. He can’t believe it, can’t believe Dean just said that, can’t believe it could be true, that Dean felt like that back then, back when. When.
“Didn’t take a shirt to make me yours,” Sam murmurs, eyes lowered finally, staring down at his hands trembling a little in his lap.
“What would it take to make you mine again, Sammy? Tell me. Just tell me.” He feels the slide of Dean’s pinky against the side of his hand, feels it stroke across his palm and his eyes fall closed, forcing himself to breathe normally, slowly.
He wants to get on his knees right here, in a movie theater in the middle of the day in some tiny town in Indiana, wants to show Dean that nothing’s changed even though everything did change, that they’re still who they were back then, when they were young, when they were already dancing around each other, eyes always on each other.
“Watch the movie, Dean,” he says softly, unable to keep the plea out of his voice. Dean’s whole hand is stroking over his own now, spooned on top of it, fingertips stroking over Sam’s fingernails, his knuckles.
“Can’t believe you’re here with me.” Dean’s voice is so soft Sam feels like maybe Dean isn’t talking to him, that he wasn’t supposed to hear that. Dean’s forehead rests against his temple and Sam’s eyes slip closed as he leans on Dean, nuzzles toward him, his throat too tight to swallow. “God, just can’t believe it sometimes. Feels like I’m dreamin’.”
He doesn’t say anything back, couldn’t possibly find words right now. His eyes are stinging with tears and he’s clutching at Dean’s hand on his thigh, gripping it tight, his lifeline. He tips his head up so that their noses graze each other, just for a second. There’s a song playing right now in the movie, some slow heartache of a song, and Sam feels like he’s in a movie himself, like this is the breath before the plunge.
He sighs when Dean’s mouth slides over his jaw, when his soft lips brush down over the line of his neck, damp heat of his breath everywhere. There’s a rhythm between them even now, a cadence to their movements, to the give and take of breath, to the clutch of their hands, to the ghost of Dean’s mouth on his neck, to the way he strains toward it, begs for it, begs for it.
“Did it used to be like this? Has it always been like this?” Dean sounds like he’s in a trance, like he’s not himself, like he’s wondering out loud. Sam nods then, knows the answer to those questions, knows the truth. Yes, it’s always been like this, always felt like this, at least for him. Even when he was young, too young, he always felt the ache of being close to Dean, close but not close enough. Never close enough.
They’re still never close enough. He realizes now that there’s no such thing.
They’re quiet when they leave the movie theater, a good kind of quiet like they’re on the same page, like they don’t really need to talk because they’re riding the same wave.
Dean drives Sam to a chain bookstore and sticks close by him while Sam browses, while he pokes at the classics section and the plays, while he digs around in the reference books and skims through sexuality. He pulls a beginners guide to gay sex out and smiles a little to himself when he sees how red Dean’s cheeks are, when Dean turns away and looks way too interested in the astrology books.
“Hm,” Sam finally says when he’s done looking through it, when he’s seen some interesting positions and actually read a paragraph about which one is best for both partners. He sticks the book back on the shelf and pretends he doesn’t see it when Dean pulls it back out and slides it into the pocket of his hoodie.
They venture around awhile longer, and Sam buys a copy of On the Road and a couple of Americanos from the little cafe inside before they leave, walking out into the late afternoon of a cloudy day. Dean tosses Sam the keys without looking at him and Sam doesn’t question it, just unlocks the car and climbs in the driver seat.
“Your jacket’s a klepto,” Dean announces, pulling the book out of his pocket and squinting down at it as Sam snorts and starts the car up. “Bend Over: The Complete Guide to Anal Sex.”
Sam blushes but he manages to keep his dignity as he backs out of the parking lot, very purposefully not looking over at his fucking stunning, beautiful brother looking through a book about gay sex.
“Huh,” Dean grunts, turning the book over on its side as he stares at one of the pages. “Doesn’t look all that different than fuckin’ a chick.”
Sam licks his lips before drawing the bottom one into his mouth to chew on it. He’s not going to start campaigning for gay sex, spouting off reasons a guy can and would do it so much better. Not in broad daylight, not while he’s driving, and not to his brother.
“Don’t know why you’d need to look through this anyway,” Dean continues, finally glancing over at Sam. Sam raises his eyebrows out at the car in front of him, not looking at Dean, absolutely refusing. “I’m sure what’s-his-name gave you plenty of pointers himself.”
Sam’s eyebrows go a little higher. “Who?”
Dean’s flipping through the book more aggressively now, not really looking at anything before he turns the page. “That dick, the one who wouldn’t keep his hands offa you.”
Sam finally glances over at him. “You mean Dom?”
Dean shuts the book with a hard slap, tossing it in the floorboard and slumping back in the seat. “Yeah, I guess. Whatever his fuckin’ name was.”
“You know what his name was. He was your boss,” Sam reminds him, coming to a stop at a redlight. He’s maybe enjoying this a little, Dean still scowling and getting pissed over something that happened years ago.
“Yeah, well. You knew him better. He didn’t fuck me.” Dean’s jaw is set, a scowl taking over his entire face. Sam just stares at him, mouth parted. A car horn blasts behind him and he slams on the gas, turning his attention back to the road.
Well,” Sam starts, licking his lips nervously. He glances in the rearview, hands tightening on the wheel. “He didn’t really fuck me either.”
They’re quiet for a few beats, both of them still but then Dean’s looking over at him, confusion coming off of him in waves.
“What are you talking about? You spent the weekend at his place. You came home that day, and. And you told me. Y-you told me what he did to you. You told me.”
Sam pulls into the parking lot of the motel, sliding the car into a space and killing the engine. The world falls so quiet around them that the air is thrumming with it, with the silence that Dean’s waiting in, watching him in. Sam keeps his hands on the wheel, eyes trained on the yellowed curtains in the motel lobby.
“Maybe I lied.”
A few more beats and Dean leans toward him, moves closer. The heat of him is so good in the still-cold car, the smell of him enough to make Sam’s eyes flutter.
“Why would you lie about that? Why would you tell me that when it wasn’t true?”
“Doesn’t matter now,” Sam mutters, hands falling from the wheel and landing in his lap. “Does it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it does matter, Sam. I fucking broke that guy’s nose. I. It was all I could think about for weeks. It was my fault that you left when you did. Because I got pissed at you for that. I could have had you there a little bit longer, if I hadn’t’ve. If.”
“I didn’t know all that was going to happen, Dean,” Sam laughs in a breathless, humorless huff, still not daring to look over at his brother even though he can feel those eyes burning on him. “It’s over now though. That was years ago. There’s nothing we can do about it now.”
He opens the door and steps out into the cold afternoon, the grey of it pushing down all around them. He pulls his jacket closer around him and closes his door just in time to see Dean climb out, too, the book getting shoved back in his pocket.
Sam walks to the door of their room and waits there for Dean. Dean’s hand closes around Sam’s arm for the second time that afternoon and he pushes Sam this time, shoves him back against the door and Sam goes, falls back against it, eyes lowered, not meeting Dean’s gaze, not even now.
“So he didn’t fuck you? Answer me, yes or no.”
“No,” Sam grits out, his teeth grinding together.
“Are you tellin’ me you’re still a virgin?”
Sam looks up at him then, looks right up into his eyes in surprise.
“Dean, I had a girlfriend for--”
“I mean,” Dean starts way too loudly, realizing it with a start when he hears a car door close nearby. He steps closer into Sam’s space, voice dropping low. “I mean. With guys.”
He doesn’t want to tell him about Jess, about what she’d done to him, what they’d done together. It had been different and Sam had known it then, knows it now. Letting Jess fuck him in the ass is much different than if he’d let Dom. Let any guy. And he knows what Dean is asking.
“Yeah.” He feels a little embarrassed, like it’s something to be ashamed of. He feels Dean’s eyes on him, studying his face. Hates the way his cheeks are burning red.
He makes a soft noise when Dean steps in against him, their chests brushing and then digging together, and Sam has no choice now, has to look up at him, has to meet Dean’s eyes. Dean is completely unreadable right now, looking pissed off and pleased all at the same time.
“Don’t lie to me again,” he huffs out right against Sam’s mouth, the words a growl against his lips. He nods, a shaky jerk of movement, the rest of him frozen, too afraid of messing up, of ruining this, to move.
They stay there for another few seconds and Sam lets his eyes fall closed, lips going slack because it feels so close, feels like maybe Dean wants to kiss him, like maybe--
Dean pulls away, hands dropping away from their grip on Sam’s arms. He tugs the keys out of Sam’s grasp and steps back toward the car, his back to Sam before he speaks again.
“Goin’ out. I’ll be back later.” He doesn’t glance back at Sam, doesn’t even pause as he climbs in the car and pulls the door shut behind him, the engine firing up only a second later. He pulls out just as the snow starts up again, and Sam turns back to the door, moving on autopilot as he digs the key out of his pocket.
There’s a Law and Order: Criminal Intent marathon on cable, and Sam watches every single episode. It goes off at midnight, makes way for infomercials.
Dean’s still gone.
Sam had called him once, braved being yelled at, being told to fuck off, but Dean hadn’t answered.
He has his laptop out, fumbling around on the internet, catching up on some online comics and checking his email. He has a few porn videos stowed away in a folder on his desktop, but even when he clicks on the folder and looks through them, nothing sparks his interest. He scrubs a hand over his face and shuts the computer.
He climbs into bed in just his sweatpants, pulls the covers up to just beneath his nose. The sheets still smell like Dean.
Dean who’s been gone for nearly seven hours now, who’s still wearing his hoodie, who is furious at him for something that didn’t happen four fucking years ago.
He thinks very cruelly about calling Dom, telling him everything that’s happened, let him know he’s okay. It’s only then that he realizes he’ll never talk to Dom again, that he can’t drag him into whatever his life is now. That it’s the only real way to make sure somebody stays safe.
And anyway, Dom has a boyfriend now, some college boy named Zach, some pert and perky dimpled thing with a careless smile, or at least he has one in the pictures on Dom’s Myspace. And good for them. Good for them for being happy. Good for Dom for finding someone who will love him.
It’s not wrong to want someone to love you. It’s not wrong to know who you want to love you.
Sam turns over with a sigh, facing Dean’s empty bed and thinks just as his eyes slip closed that this bed he’s in had felt like theirs, even if it had only been true for one night.
His eyes snap open when he hears a key in the door.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed, doesn’t know what time it is, just knows that he’s completely awake, that he feels like he’s been waiting more than sleeping.
“You gonna keep suckin’ my dick, or’s your jaw hurt yet?”
Dean’s slurring a little, just a little, talking louder than he probably realizes. Sam hears the wet sound of kissing and his stomach lurches hard, painful. A girl. He’s brought a fucking girl to their room.
“Want you to fuck me.” Her voice is soft, annoying flower-dainty girl soft, plenty whiskey-soaked itself because she giggles at the end. Sam’s eyes adjust to the dark and he sees them, sees a long spill of brown hair and Dean’s hands on her ass, yanking up the flower-printed dress to reveal it, giving both cheeks two hard slaps. She gasps, whines a little, and all Sam can see is the wild, wet look in Dean’s eyes as he walks them back toward the bed, closer to Sam.
“What’d you say? Hm? Get my dick out again.”
The back of the girl’s knees hit the mattress and she sits down immediately, too drunk to react fast enough to stay on her feet. Her little hands yank at Dean’s zipper, the button already undone. He’s looming over her as she pulls his pants down and reaches into his underwear, shoulders broad, jaw set, eyes focused completely on her, like Sam’s not even there, like Sam’s getting a view into Dean’s life alone, what it had been like while he was at Stanford.
Except he’s here now, and Dean knows it. Knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Said I want you to fuck me.” She sounds like she means it this time, and Dean’s dick is out now, grasped in her hand as she starts to jerk him off and god it’s beautiful, Sam can see how fucking gorgeous it is even when he feels the bile burning in the back of his throat. He has to get up, has to leave, has to get out of here somehow.
Dean moves suddenly, gets his arms underneath the girl’s legs and he lifts them as he shoves her back up on the bed, the blankets dragging up with her. He shoulders Sam’s hoodie off and tosses it on the floor, like it’s nothing before he crawls up after her, pulling her legs up onto his shoulders. There’s the tell-tell crinkle of a condom packet and a tight look on Dean’s face as the girl apparently fits it over his dick.
Sam closes his eyes the second Dean pushes in, right when the girl lets out the first gasp, the first whimper.
The bedframe starts to snap against the wall immediately, the bed whining and squeaking under their weight, under the rut of Dean’s hips. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t grunt or pant, and all Sam can hear is her, her little cries, the wet sounds of her pussy, all her.
“What-what about him? Wh-what if he wakes up?”
The sound of the bed gets even louder then, even more frantic, and Sam hears Dean growl, a low, warning sound.
“He doesn’t care. Doesn’t matter. Don’t fucking look at him. Don’t. Look. At him.”
Dean apparently hits something perfectly right because she’s moaning now, long, keening sounds that have Sam nearly hyperventilating, unable to breathe. He can’t process it all, doesn’t know what to feel, doesn’t know what to focus on other than no, no, no, not this, please not this, have to leave, can’t be here have to get out of here.
It doesn’t take long for her to come for the first time, the rhythm getting even more violent, even deeper, the wet, sucking slap of their bodies overpowering nearly everything else and Dean’s panting now, the air smelling like salt and sweat and Sam’s nail is digging so hard into his scar that he breaks skin, blood smearing all over.
“Gonna come,” Dean grits out, the rough slaps slowing down, get even harder. “Gonna come in that pussy.”
Sam’s frozen, his muscles tense and shaking and he feels light-headed, like he’s never going to take a full breath again. He thinks stupidly, childishly of Dean’s hand in his own when Dean finally comes, thinks of the way they’d practically cuddled in the movie theater, thinks of how naive he’d been only a few hours ago that maybe it meant something, that maybe they were heading for something. But now.
Now Dean’s finishing her off again with his hand, more wet sounds and she’s practically screaming just like Dean always gets his girls to do. Sam’s got his face buried in the blankets, chest lifting and falling erratically. Maybe this isn’t really happening. This can’t really be happening.
He doesn’t hear them kiss, not even once. Just hears a few movements and then her voice is away, closer to the door.
“So, if you wanna do that again, I’ll--”
“I don’t aim to be here longer than tonight.” Dean sounds sluggish, like he’s not even really listening, like he just knows what most girls say at this point. She says something else, something a little sad, like a goodbye. The door opens again and it’s freezing cold out there, more snow on the ground. And then she’s gone.
The quiet that settles in is awake, knowing.
They’re listening to each other, listening for each other.
Sam wants to be a child again just so he can cry, just so he can throw a tantrum. Just so he can say how could you? and deserve an answer.
Dean shifts around on the bed and then he’s standing up, shuffling toward the bathroom. The light from it floods the room before the door closes, leaving Sam alone in the dark once again.
The shower comes on.
He thinks about leaving. About gathering all his shit up and taking off, hotwire a car in the parking lot, hitchhike. Hell, maybe he will call Dom.
But he won’t. He won’t, and he can’t, and he feels deep down, somewhere, that he deserved that. That he earned it. He can imagine what Jess would say to that, what Dom would say, if they knew. If they really knew Sam and knew what he thought when he looked at his brother. They’d both call him a fucking idiot. Call him obsessed. Tell him how unhealthy it is, that Sam didn’t do anything wrong.
But he did, and he knows he did. Even if it was years ago. He’s paying for it now.
And that’s why he stays where he is.
Dean comes out just a couple of minutes later, towel around his waist like an afterthought. He smells so fucking good, like soap and wet and he’s tugging on a pair of boxers and ripping all the sheets off the bed, Sam watching all of it through barely-open eyes, through his lashes.
Dean falls down into his bare bed and turns over on his side away from Sam, and that’s that. Punishment dealt, punishment taken. Like Dean’s some kind of emotionally blackmailing vigilante.
Sam hates Indiana.
They don’t talk about it.
They head to St. Louis, meet up with Sam’s friend Becky from college, and walk right into Sam’s nightmare.
He’s the one who takes the necklace from Dean, the one who ties a new knot in it and only really breathes when Dean slips it back around his neck, the amulet hanging heavy against his chest.
Sam keeps looking at him, looking into his eyes, looking for the flash of silver to give Dean away as a shapeshifter again. Dean looks shock-pale, drained, even under the sweat. Sam knows Dean keeps picturing the shapeshifter-Dean slumped over, unmoving, two bullets in him.
Sam can’t unsee it, can’t unknow the fact that he’s now seen what Dean would look like dead. It’s enough to make tears rise in his eyes, to make him look over at Dean in the passenger seat when he yanks the door closed, Becky climbing into the back.
“What?” Dean’s looking straight ahead into the damp night as he starts the car up, not over at Sam even though he knows the answer to his own question. They both do. Sam reaches over, fingers a trembling silhouette in the streetlit dark before they light on Dean’s neck, touch at the knot in the cord of his necklace.
“Just,” Sam whispers, knowing that Becky is listening to them, watching them, doesn’t understand. His fingers tumble over the necklace and push at the sweaty strands of Dean’s hair, just a reminder, just real quick, that Dean’s okay, that he’s alive, real, right here.
Dean looks over at him, the hunter-mask slipping as their eyes meet and it’s all right there, all in the vulnerable soft of his expression. Sam wants to press in close, to move next to him, to tuck up under his arm, to smell Dean, just to make sure. The shapeshifter had smelled different, a weird, metallic smell, like something artificial. He just wants to make sure.
“It’s me, Sammy,” Dean says soft, quiet, just over Queen playing from the radio, hopefully muffling the words from Becky because they aren’t for her.
“Just. Let’s take her home.” Sam lets his hand fall away, fingers sliding across as much skin, as much of Dean as he can before he curls back up on himself. He’s bleeding, lip busted, hurting all over but there’s a weird, liquid relief pulsing through him, like something right has happened, underneath it all.
They drive through the afternoon, stopping when Dean’s stomach can’t handle being empty anymore. They share a bag of Krystals and a huge Coke and check into a motel that’s just been cleaned right before they show up, the sheets still fresh-smelling and warm. Dean showers with the door cracked and Sam sits on the bed and listens to it, the sound of the water over Dean’s body, the sound of Dean being here.
He still feels a strange need to cry, like he’d been holding his breath and can now let it go. His elbows dig into his knees as he buries his face in his hands and sighs into his palms, fingertips pushing hard at his eyes. He wants to be shaken, to be pulled out of this like being yanked out of the water when you’re drowning. He knows Dean’s okay. He just needs to feel that Dean’s okay.
“Sammy?”
Sam lifts his head, his eyes red and sore and Dean’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom, his hair sticking up in crazy ways, amulet resting faithfully on his bare chest. He’s wearing the same kind of black boxer briefs that Sam had gotten him years ago, and Sam gives Dean the barest hint of a smile.
“You need to shave, Dean. You’re gettin’ a nine o’clock shadow now.”
Dean frowns, all the real concern leaving his face as he reaches up and rubs over his scruffy cheeks. He looks infuriatingly adorable as he crinkles his eyebrows.
“Really?”
Sam’s smile is tired but he pushes himself up to his feet, his body loose as he walks toward his brother.
“Yeah, a little.”
Dean takes a step back into the bathroom, like he’s luring Sam there. He’s smirking now, almost like he knows how sexy he is.
“You wanna shave me? Since apparently I’m so shitty at knowin’ when I need to?”
Sam feels warm all over at the thought, at the glimpse of what could be his immediate future. Apparently the answer is all over his face because Dean is grinning, all timid and cute, taking a few more steps back until his butt hits the sink.
“My razor needs a battery,” Dean finally admits, looking a little sheepish about it when he meets Sam’s eyes again. “Forgot to get one in St. Louis.”
“We were a little busy.” Sam smiles, not a full one, not one that reaches his eyes. He pictures him again, the thing that pretended to be his brother, that made his brother frightening, a threat. “We can, uh. We can use mine? I’m old school.”
Sam manages to leave the bathroom again and dig through his duffel for his razor and shaving cream, coming back to find Dean in the same spot, looking a little tired, maybe a little haunted.
“Hop up,” Sam instructs him, nodding up at the sink. Dean turns and glances at the sink before looking back up at Sam, his eyebrows lifting.
“Dunno, Sammy. Thinkin’ my fat ass’ll break that thing.”
Sam snorts, shaking his head as he tugs off his hoodie so he doesn’t get it wet. “There’s nothing fat on you, Dean. Go on.”
Dean hefts himself up, and the sink moves a little under his weight but stays, predictably, intact. “Gotta fat dick,” he retorts, lifting his eyes to smirk at Sam.
Sam flushes, can’t fucking help it, feeling it go all the way to the tips of his ears. He plugs up the sink and runs hot water in it, turning his gaze to Dean while it fills.
“Scruff McGruff,” he mumbles, letting his eyes rake over Dean’s face from this close, where he can see every individual hair, every tiny color in his eyes. Dean huffs a laugh but doesn’t say anything in reply, looking shy, of all the things in the world for Dean Winchester to be.
He shuts off the water and grabs a clean towel off the back of the toilet, wrapping it around Dean’s neck. He steps between his bare thighs as he squeezes some shaving cream out onto his fingers, getting in probably closer than he needs to while he spreads the cream out on Dean’s cheeks.
Dean takes a deep breath, his eyes falling closed while Sam gets some water on his fingers and rubs back over the cream, slicking it up a little, keeping his touch light, all gentle, careful. He grabs the razor and lets his mind shut down as he focuses on the task at hand, eyes zeroing in as he starts on one cheek, dragging the razor down as he holds Dean’s head in place with the other hand.
Dean doesn’t tense, doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t react at all. He’s utterly docile, moving how Sam wants him to, trusting him so much that it makes Sam ache. He tips Dean’s face up with a crooked finger under his chin, shaving up his throat and the sharp lines of his jaw, all the places that he’s wanted to kiss since he was in grade school, all the places that are tender and exposed to him, just to him right now.
“Didn’t know somebody so tall’n goofy could have such a light touch.” Dean’s just barely smiling, hardly moving his mouth to speak, and Sam can’t help but grin.
“Shouldn’t make fun of somebody who’s got a razor to your throat,” he reminds him, stroking his fingers over Dean’s Adam’s apple just as Dean tightens his legs around his waist a little, the insides of his knees catching on Sam’s hips.
“Not makin’ fun. It was a compliment.” Dean’s hands are on his own thighs but his fingertips are touching Sam’s belt loops, forefingers tugging on the ones closest to the button on his jeans. Sam pauses, raises his eyebrows at Dean even though his eyes are closed.
“Goofy is a compliment?”
“Goofy’s my favorite of Mickey’s friends,” Dean mumbles as Sam shaves his upper lip, pulling his lips down a little so Sam can get to it before he continues to the other cheek. “Total stud. Badass.”
“So you think I’m a tall, badass stud?” He rinses the blades out before he starts in on Dean’s sideburns and continues over the wide part of his cheek, so close to being done but he doesn’t want this to end.
“Maybe,” Dean shrugs, all coy but he’s smiling, smiling in a way that Sam can tell means Dean’s probably actually thinking of Goofy, probably thinking of a hundred lame jokes before he settles on one. “Or maybe I’m just bein’ nice because you have a razor to my throat.”
Sam sighs, so put-upon, rinsing out the razor one last time and lifting the towel around Dean’s neck to dab at his cheeks until they’re dry.
“So sweet, Dean.”
Dean reaches up and touches his smooth cheeks, his eyes bright when they find Sam’s, grin lighting up his whole face. “Gawrsh, Sammy! Thanks.”
Sam lets the water out of the sink, rinsing it clean, all without moving from the warm hug of Dean’s thighs. “Jerk,” he mumbles, drying his hands off on the towel, strangely timid about meeting Dean’s eyes again.
“Pretty good at that, little brother.” Dean’s voice is soft and feels closer now, like he’s looking right at Sam, wanting his eyes on him. “Might have to keep you around. Get you to do that every once in awhile.”
Sam shrugs, blushing again, taking a step back before he can look up and catch Dean’s eyes. “If you want.”
Dean holds his gaze, not letting go even when he slides down from the sink. “I do.”
He turns around and faces the mirror, examining his newly-shaven face, stroking across his cheeks like he knows how beautiful he is. Sam steps up again, can’t help it, his hands feeling so big as they light on Dean’s hips, nearly spanning his narrow waist. He dips down just a little, eyes closing in some kind of reverence as he presses a kiss to Dean’s cool, clean shoulder, right over a particularly favorite smatter of freckles.
He keeps his lips there for just a second, just so they both know it wasn’t an accident, that he doesn’t regret it. He’s not brave enough to look up though, to meet Dean’s eyes in the mirror before he leaves the bathroom, stepping back out into the main room, busying himself with putting his bag away.
They stay quiet for a few minutes, a waiting kind of feeling in the air. Sam checks his gun, sets it on the table next to Dean’s. Checks the locks on the door. Checks the windows. Dean steps out of the bathroom, wearing jeans now, two bright points of red on his cheeks.
So, uh,” he starts, clearing his throat gently. “We’re in Kansas.”
“I know, Dorothy,” Sam smiles, shoving his hands in his pockets, eyes on his own feet.
“Know what that means?” Dean’s pulling a shirt on now, and Sam sighs as all those long, lovely muscles disappear underneath.
“Um. Lots of flat land and Wal-Marts and bored people?”
“Flat land, yes,” Dean points at him, eyes light up. “Lotsa fields. Think maybe we should. I dunno. Go find one and look at the stars. Gonna be a clear night.”
Sam bites on his bottom lip to keep in a smile. “It’s January. It’s cold out.”
Dean lifts a shoulder in a lazy shrug, careful not to meet Sam’s eyes. “We can keep warm somehow.”
Sam’s heart skips, breath trembling a little as he exhales. “Yeah. Somehow.”
next.