Play It Again, Sam - 8/10
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When Sam was a chubby ten-year-old, they’d wound up on the lousy edge of a fairly nice neighborhood, which meant they were outclassed by the other students at the public school. After eight hours of pretty merciless teasing on the first day, Sam had come home in tears. Dean had tried to reassure him that it didn’t matter what their clothes looked like or where they lived, because their dad was a hero. When that didn’t help, Dean had taken out his pocket knife, sliced his hand open, and offered it up. Sam had cut his hand, too, albeit a little reluctantly. As they’d pressed their bleeding palms together, Dean promised that some of his cool would rub off on Sam through their shared blood. He’d also promised that blood brothers never turned away from each other. No matter who was mean to Sam or why, Dean would always have his back.
In many ways, the important ones, the soul-merge idea of Dean’s sounds a lot the same. Sam wonders how many times in his life Dean will have to give his essence to make Sam whole again.
(He didn’t mean for that to sound dirty.)
Sam raises objections. What if my soul damages yours, instead of yours healing mine? he asks. Dean takes it as a threat to his masculinity: Are you saying my soul’s not strong enough? Sam tries humor: What if my soul takes one look at yours and then gets even more messed up? Dean’s not amused. While Sam is flattered his brother wants to do this, there is the very real possibility that he’ll be condemning Dean to his own life of soulless dickwaddery: What if your soul just leaves your body entirely, Dean? Then what? Finally, there’s What if we can’t get them back apart? What if they’re always merged? Can we live like that?
At a certain point, though, Sam stops objecting. He’s tried pills, alcohol, extra sleep, healthier eating, toughing it out, sharing his feelings, going inside his own mind to confront the various facets of his psyche (soul, whatever) - and he still turns into a slobbering mess when the wrong song comes on the radio. Through all of it, Dean has stood by, feeling helpless, maybe even responsible since he was the one who had the wall installed in the first place, and since it was his angel who smashed it down. Letting Dean try this crazy soul-merge will help alleviate Dean’s guilt and, who knows, maybe make Sam better.
And Sam hasn’t forgotten that Dean said I can’t until I know you’re better.
Bobby’s birthday is low key. Sam answers the phones for a few hours while Bobby and Dean install the new radio in the Impala. Then they give Bobby a bottle of the good stuff, no rotgut on a special occasion, and after dinner there’s chocolate cake with trick candles that don’t fool Bobby for a second. They give him presents, but Sam blocks those ten minutes from his memory. After that they play a few hands of poker, chatting about everything from the weather (you can feel fall coming) to hunter gossip (Bobby agrees to have Daniel Deacon watched) to Bobby’s memories of the first time he met little Sam and Dean (Sam was shy, Dean was a terror).
At eleven-thirty Bobby tugs on his ball cap and pushes back from the table. “I’m going to bed,” he announces.
Dean scoffs at the clock. “It’s early!”
“I’m an old man,” Bobby retorts. “And it’s my birthday, so I can do what I want.”
Sam smiles. “Night, Bobby. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks, kid.” Bobby pauses. “This was a nice birthday, boys. It’s been rough for awhile, but, well, this was a day to remember.”
“Go to bed, old man,” Dean says affectionately. “You’re about two minutes away from waterworks.”
Bobby gives Dean a look like You’re not too old to be taken over my knee. “You boys set for the night?”
Dean glances at Sam. “Yeah, hey, uh, we need you to help us with an incantation tomorrow.”
“An incantation for what?”
Sam stares hard at the two of hearts facing up on the table, waiting for Bobby to flip out and call them idjits.
To his credit, Bobby just rolls with it. At this point he’s lived through so much Winchester bullshit nonsense, Sam supposes, that it’s not outside the realm of possibility that he’ll be asked to help them merge their souls.
The actual process starts out easy enough: Sam and Dean lie side by side on the living room floor, and Bobby hovers over them, reciting the Latin. From the tone of Bobby’s voice, it’s obvious he’s skeptical the procedure will work; Sam, too, has his doubts. Mostly he’s just staring up at the cracked plaster of the ceiling. He’s pretty sure that something as profound as a soul-merge should come with more fireworks.
He can tell the minute it starts to work. Dean’s soul starts forcing itself into his body, and Sam feels as if he’s being torn in half. He’s felt that way before (Lucifer didn’t always torture psychologically), but this time the pain isn’t concentrated in one specific area. It’s everywhere and nowhere. He feels like screaming and crying, and he very well might be - the pain is so intense he wouldn’t know it.
After a bit, though, Sam can feel himself relaxing around Dean’s soul, which slips easily inside. The pain eases, and there’s just a feeling of fullness, of someone else being there, inside him. Sam felt Lucifer inside him after he said yes, but that was sort of like being behind the lens of a camera. This is more like having something deep in his belly, something pulsing through his veins. It’s not as if Dean can take his body out for a drive.
The final thing that happens is that Sam’s soul, now all shiny and polished, reaches out for Dean’s, and Sam can actually feel the moment Dean relents and lets him inside. He wonders if Dean finds the sensation as satisfying as he does. If Dean feels as complete.
When it’s over, Bobby sets the paper with the incantation down on his desk and makes excuses to leave.
* * * * *
It’s not as if they’re so moved by the complementary nature of their souls that they jump into bed together. Sam worked up a sweat during the process, so he heads upstairs to take a shower. Dean sprawls out on the sofa, worn out and dizzy. Then there’s lunch. Sam finds some salad mix that Bobby must have bought especially for him, and Dean stares with longing at the bread, mayonnaise, and turkey until Sam makes him a sandwich. They clean up the mess from Bobby’s birthday, which, of course, nobody bothered to do last night.
Sometime in the afternoon, Sam ends up at the kitchen table with the small radio in front of him. He feels better, his soul feels better, but they’ll never really know until he experiments with music, right? He scans up and down the dial while Dean watches from the doorway, nervously anticipating another breakdown but keeping his mouth shut, letting Sam try this. (Riding his bicycle without the training wheels for the first time, You can’t catch me, Dean!, and he hadn’t fallen off at all.) Sam catches bits and pieces of songs, mostly inconsequential, and a few that seem ominous or portentous, but nothing happens. He remains fully conscious, and Lucifer’s nowhere in sight.
Halfway through Ozzy singing about the crazy train, Sam can’t resist shooting a broad smile at Dean. Dean grins in response. It worked.
Bobby’s still not back by three-fifteen. Dean calls to check on him, but Bobby says he won’t be home until after dinner. Sam finds himself sitting on the porch steps again, waiting without knowing he’s doing it for Dean to join him.
When Dean does come, it’s with two beer bottles in hand. They drink in silence for a minute, until Sam feels like he’s going to burst with how full he feels inside. “I’m better now.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“What was it like for you?” he wonders. “Could you, like, see and hear inside my head?”
Dean shakes his head. “It was more like sensations. You?”
“Same. I guess I should be glad you weren’t really walking around in my brain. You might have found out something embarrassing.”
“Like the fact that you dream about being Wonder Woman?”
Sam laughs good-naturedly at the ribbing. “Hey, at least her powers don’t come from toys.”
Dean gives a slight chuckle through a sip of beer, his strong fingers pale against the brown glass of the bottle, eyes creased at the corners in mirth. The angle of the afternoon sun hits him so that he looks golden. Something inside Sam stirs, a part of him reaching out for Dean. At first he thinks some leftover remnant of Dean’s soul, a fuck-up, but then he understands that it’s all him. He’s always been reaching out for Dean.
“What are you still laughing about, Batman?”
Dean licks his lips. “Sam, if Lucifer was in your head, then all those bopping pop hits -” he shakes his head slightly - “man, that was all you.”
“Uh…”
“I don’t know what’s worse. Finding out my brother’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, or that he’s…”
“Secretly harboring Boy George fantasies?” Dean laughs, and Sam punches him - hard - in the shoulder. “It’s not funny, asshole. I could have lost my mind.”
“Oh, man, you have crappy taste,” Dean says, but he pulls Sam toward him and kisses his temple. “Come here, you’re going to be fine.”
“You sound sure.” Sam tries not to make it a big thing that Dean just kissed him.
“I am sure.” Dean gives him an open smile. “I never felt anything but warm fuzzies when I was poking around your soul.”
“I’m in love with you,” Sam announces out of the blue.
Dean doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “Me too.”
Sam is once again reminded that he doesn’t know his brother as well as he thinks, because Dean is totally throwing him for a loop, but it’s a good loop, so good, but he can’t care about what he does or doesn’t know about Dean right now because Dean just said he was in love with him. Not that he loves him like a brother (of course he does), not that he wants to have sex with him (I can’t until you’re better), but that he is in love with Sam. It’s a small difference syntactically and huge one emotionally.
“You are?” Sam can’t help asking.
“Yeah, asshole,” Dean responds. “Why do you think I’ve been doing everything?”
Everything? Sam wonders, then holy shit, it hits him. The near-threesome, the way he snapped when Sam got upset (jealous) about the woman in the bar, even that first case in the bowling alley - Dean’s been trying to give Sam everything he wanted. Wow, there have just been so many misunderstandings between them. They’ll have to sift through them before they can jump back into anything together. Have a Conversation about Feelings first.
Or maybe not. Dean sets his beer carefully on the step behind them and reaches for Sam again. This time he studies Sam’s face for a second before licking his lips and leaning in. Sam meets him halfway.
* * * * *
“I’m not going to screw around in Bobby’s house, Sam,” Dean hisses, but his body is betraying his words.
Sam likes having this kind of power over his brother. Most people would probably expect him to be the one protesting sex in inappropriate places while Dean eggs him on, but there’s something about the way Dean is pushing his hips forward, a slight flush on his face, his eyelids hooded with desire, that makes Sam want to ravage him right there in the middle of Bobby’s living room, Bobby’s presence be damned.
“He’s not home,” he murmurs in Dean’s ear. They nuzzle their faces together unconsciously until their mouths meet again. Dean kisses him hungrily, his tongue reaching for the back of Sam’s throat. Sam reaches a hand around the back of Dean’s head and holds him in place, tongue-fucking as he thrusts his hips against Dean’s.
They stumble toward the sofa, rutting and kissing and moaning like a couple of sex-starved teenagers. Sam hits first, landing on an angle against the arm. Dean tumbles on top of him, just barely bracing himself with a foot on the floor and a hand on the back of the couch. Sam reaches for his belt loops and pulls him all the way down.
“Sammy, come on.” Dean puts a hand on Sam’s chest to give himself a little space, but Sam can’t help chasing his mouth. “Dude, it’s Bobby’s house.”
Although Dean looks a little wrecked - eyes still heavy, those embarrassingly puffy lips extra plump and red - he’s utterly serious. Like Bobby’s house is something sacred, like they’d be defiling it, it would be sacrilege.
Sam, on the other hand, is horny and desperate. It’s been three years, three months, and three days since the last time he had Dean fully naked and spread underneath him - or on top of him for that matter - and now that he’s finally gotten confirmation of Dean’s interest, the last thing he wants to do is stop at the fifty-yard line. He lets his head fall back on the sofa and sighs heavily. When he brings his head up, Dean has a look on his face that’s one-part pleading, one-part lust, and one-part adorable. The hand on Sam’s chest curls into itself slightly, fingertips scratching lightly at Sam’s shirt. Sam reaches up to smooth the hair on the side of Dean’s head. The thing is, as much as Sam wants to fuck into the next decade, it’s not just about the sex.
“Okay,” he agrees softly, “we can do this later.”
“What?”
Sam tries really hard not to sound disappointed. “We’ve waited this long…”
The hand on his chest clenches into a fist and pounds him. “No, you moron, I’m not saying stop. I’m saying let’s get out of here.”
“Oh.”
Dean grins, leans down to kiss Sam quickly, before he stands up and hauls Sam to his feet as well. “God, you’re an idiot. Maybe you turn into an idiot when you’re hard.”
It’s probably true. “Where are we going?” Sam asks as he trails Dean out the back door. “Are we going to have sex in the car?”
“One, no way would there be room, Paul Bunyan, and two, Bobby could still come home and see us.” He pulls the keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door. Sam stands near the trunk, still confused. “Get in the car, Sam.”
“Where are we going?” he repeats.
“Motel,” Dean says, like it’s the most obvious answer on the planet. “Jesus Christ, do you want to do this or not?”
“Yeah,” Sam answers reflexively. He feels a warmth start spreading throughout his body; it’s their merged souls pulsing like a quasar. “Yeah, I want to do this.”
“Okay. Then get in the car. I need to be able to make you moan and scream without worrying about Bobby hearing.”
Sam nearly leaps into the passenger seat, grinning like an idiot.
Dean gets in after him, puts the key in the ignition, looks over at Sam, and shakes his head in annoyance. For about a half-second. Then he lets out a little laugh and grins back.
Dean’s hand reaches for the radio reflexively, because it’s always been part of their driving M.O. But then he remembers and yanks it away.
“It’s just music, Dean,” Sam chides, but they’re both laughing because everything really is fine for once in their lives. “Want to make a bet on what it’ll be?”
Dean purses his lips together in mock concentration - really he’s just doing it because he thinks it’ll make them look sexier, and he wants to rile Sam up (like Sam needs it at this point). “Zeppelin.”
“Why?”
“Perfect music for fucking. My life could be scored to Zeppelin.”
Sam doesn’t say, Because of all the fucking?, since it’s kind of a mood killer to think about all the other people Dean’s been with. Instead, he thinks about the music he’s been hearing lately. “Nuh-uh, it’s not gonna be Zeppelin. It’ll be the Stones.”
“Why the Stones?”
“Because every phase of our life could be titled after a Stones album.” Sam’s actually never thought about it before, but it sounds pretty convincing as he’s saying it.
“You sound awfully sure of yourself. Wanna make a little wager?”
“Fine, five bucks says it’s the Stones.”
“Five bucks?” Dean whistles. “Awfully steep wager there, Chip. Do you think our allowance will cover it?”
“Screw you.”
“Mmm, that’s the plan.”
“You’re going to owe me five bucks when you turn that radio on.”
Dean just nods and switches on the radio.
In one final coup from the jukebox of fate, Sam wins. And they are going to spend the night together.
* * * * *
It’s all happening too fast, Sam wants to say, and he wants to say, I won’t believe it’s real until I get to fuck you. He wants to give every last piece of himself to Dean, let Dean do whatever he wants with him, because it’s the only way he can show his brother he’s really here for the long haul - he’s not going to end up soulless again, not going to start sneaking around with demons, not going to retreat into his own mind and never come out. But he needs to know Dean feels the same way. He needs to know that Dean trusts him again, like he used to, and Sam knows the only way he’ll be convinced is if Dean lets his body inside the way he let Sam’s soul inside.
By the time they get to a motel, they’ve calmed down a lot. Still ready to go, but not desperate and frenzied like they were at Bobby’s house. They kiss slowly and deeply while shrugging off jackets and shirts. Dean’s nimble fingers undo Sam’s belt and fly. He follows that with his own pants, and once they’re down to underwear and t-shirts, they ease onto the bed together.
It’s nice and slow, and it’s like coming home even as it’s all fresh and new. Dean tugs at the elastic of Sam’s briefs and whispers, “Take these off,” and Sam thinks he might die right there. It takes a lot longer than either of them were expecting for Sam to be ready. Sam can tell Dean has to talk himself through it, to be patient. He can see it in the set of his brother’s jaw and the little padding of flesh underneath. But his eyes alter between what his hands are doing and Sam’s face, and every time they make eye contact, Dean seems to be saying, Yeah, Sammy, so good to have you back.
They end up on their sides, which isn’t the most intimate position for reconciliation sex, but it just works out that way, and, Sam supposes, it’s better than a face in the pillow. Anyway, their legs tangle together, and Dean has his right arm firmly wrapped around Sam. His chest is a warm presence against Sam’s back, and his breath comes out in short puffs right underneath Sam’s ear in when he’s not lavishing Sam’s neck with open-mouthed kisses. Sam doesn’t reach down to touch himself. He just lets Dean have this moment.
It feels as good as the soul merge, but it doesn’t feel the same. Sam is once again split into two and then filled up, and his insides begin to vibrate again, all warmth and light, and he can sense Dean everywhere, behind him, inside him, all around him. There’s so much Dean that Sam should be afraid of losing himself, but he’s not.
Afterward Dean is gentle and concerned. He looks down at Sam, smoothing his hair from his face. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“I’m not going to break, Dean.”
Dean opens his mouth, like he wants to say, Yes, you will or You might or I know you won’t, but it’s the thing I’m most scared of. Instead he gives a false little smile and an embarrassed shrug. “I just like to be careful with virgins is all.”
“Hardly a virgin.”
“Double-rehymenated by my accounts,” Dean explains, and Sam doesn’t argue any further. It’s kind of sweet to think that Dean wants to pop his double-rehymenated cherry.
They lie quietly for awhile. Sam’s just about at the point where he thinks he’ll manage to lose his erection without spontaneously combusting when Dean stretches and announces, “All right, I think I’ve got my second wind,” and starts moving over him. “Your turn, Sammy.”
“My turn?” Sam can feel the corners of his mouth turning up. He runs a hand along Dean’s flank.
* * * * *
Dean is riding Sam. He’s honest to god riding him, and Sam can’t help feeling like he’s won the grand prize. It doesn’t take long for his body to arch off the bed, everything going white, his hands squeezing bruises into Dean’s hips. Before he pulls out, Dean leans down and looks at him in equal parts adoration and worry. Again. “You okay?”
Sam smiles the lazy, contented smile that can only happen post-orgasm. “Oh yeah.” He takes note of how Dean is leaning on his forearms and elbows, still convinced that if he puts weight on Sam, it will trigger memories of hell and a psychotic episode. They’re going to have to talk about this, eventually. Dean needs to know that, while Sam appreciates the concern, he’s going to get very annoyed, very quickly. This is, after all, why they did the soul merge in the first place - so Dean wouldn’t have to worry anymore.
But for now Sam just runs his hands over Dean’s biceps and eventually puts his arms around Dean’s back, looping loosely enough that Dean won’t feel trapped. After a minute, Dean acquiesces and puts his full weight on Sam, nestling his head in the crook of Sam’s neck. Sam squeezes him more tightly. He looks up at the ceiling and thinks about how out of everyone in the world Dean chose him.
Sam is feeling so high that he doesn’t even care when the radio in his mind starts blasting some awful movie song. He didn’t even know he knew the words, and he doesn’t, not all of them, but his brain just keeps going anyway. It’s another mortifying song selection from the Sam Winchester treasure trove, but that’s all it is, just a song, a happy song because he just got laid, and he doesn’t care.
Dean eases carefully off him and then stretches out on his back with his head on the same pillow. He’s gloriously naked and exposed, the covers heaped somewhere by the floor. “What’s the smile for?” he asks, like he knows the answer is going to be something he can tease Sam about for months. “It’s your brain radio, isn’t it? What are you hearing right now?”
Sam bites his lip. Some things he can keep to himself. He settles back against the pillows, knowing the smile on his face must be absolutely goofy, and for the first time in a long time not caring a lick about anything.
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