(SPN Fic) "And It Was So"
And It Was So
Sam/Dean
3,100~ words, R
For cassiopeia7 for 2014's spn_j2_xmas.
Also found in AO3.
Sam and Dean take a drive at their last night in this world.
They take the three-hour drive to Lawrence, not stopping and not talking. When Blue Oyster Cult declares "Oh no more horses, horses," for Vera Gemini, Dean changes the tape to belt out, "Hey, mama said the way you move...". An hour into the drive, Sam realizes all the tapes Dean plays are side ones.
They visit their old house. A middle-aged couple lives there now--Jenny and her two kids likely already moved out years ago. The decorations are garish with fairy lights hanging on the roof and a plastic Santa sits on the lawn. Sam notices that the roof was changed, the windows refurbished. Now, the house of their childhood is festive and bright.
They only stay for a few minutes.
They stop at a truck diner to grab food. Sam stretches across the table, wraps his fingers around his brother's wrist as soon as the waitress's head is turned. "
Dean replies with a smirk, hooks his foot around Sam's ankle and strokes upward. "Think you can drive the next few hours?" he asks.
Magic words, but Sam has to play this cool. He grins and ducks his head, lets his hair fall over his eyes like the young boy he isn't. "Only if you let me."
"S'cool, what's mine is yours," Dean promises.
Eyes from different corners of the diner catch their small touches, and Sam regrets that he has to pull away. This is a time for celebration, not confrontation. And time is limited for them. The food arrives and they concentrate on eating, only Dean draws his chair closer, practically puts his legs on Sam's lap. It can't be a comfortable way to eat--not while he's inhaling the burger like it's his last meal.
"Fuck, it's our last meal," Sam breathes.
Dean raises his eyes although he doesn't pause from chewing. His boot on Sam's lap teases lightly at the insides of Sam's thighs, head half raised. Sam's breathing hitches when he recognizes the view: Dean looking up at him while swallowing Sam's cock. Dean must know the effect because he looks like he's laughing.
"Last meal," Dean agrees. His mouth is full of half-chewed burger. It is with some relief that Sam still finds that disgusting.
Still, they take their time. They have three hours' worth of driving left, a quarter of it is on dirt road, but Sam likes his salad and he's gonna eat it even if his older brother pouts right across the table.
Trouble shows up when a bunch of muscled folks cast their shadows over Sam and Dean's table.
"Didn't recall this town becomin' some kinda faggotville," the asshole says.
Dean leers. "Didn't recall we asked you to join us," he says, "didn't we, Sammy?"
"No," Sam replies shortly. He doesn't want to be a part of this. "I just wanted a nice dinner. Don't encourage them."
"Listen to your pansy-ass boyfriend," another asshole simpers.
Dean stands. "That's my little brother you're talkin' about."
"Your brother--"
And that's when Dean throws the first punch--keeps right on punching. Everyone clears right out, and anyone who has a death wish joins in. Not Sam, though, oh no because Dean brought this upon himself and Sam wants to finish his salad on his last day here. Dean wants to get this out of his system, that's his problem.
Until he sees Dean straddling one body by the corner, arm raised to deliver the final blow. Something in his face makes Sam cross the room lighting-like to grab his fist before delivering the final blow.
"Don't kill him," Sam says sternly.
Dean raises his head, blood smears his nose his mouth. He's pouting. "Aww, c'mon Sammy."
"Dean."
Dean's teasing, Sam knows this, but he still gives Dean a firm look. There is no point at sparing a glance towards the man whimpering under Dean's form. His older brother heaves, drops the pounded meat without sparing it another glance.
"I didn't try to stop you when you crushed that poltergeist in Missouri," Dean accuses.
"That was different, that was a poltergeist," Sam says quickly, rolling his eyes. "They're human and last I checked, I thought we were looking to eat. Fucking last meal, my ass." He snorts. "Gimme the keys."
"They were asking for it!" Dean screeches.
"You didn't have to hand it to them. It's our last night. I wanted it to be special." The doors slam a little too hard, but Sam navigates the Impala away from the gravel and parked trucks, into the blackened highway.
His sentiment is not lost to Dean who, unfortunately, immediately bursts out laughing. "You're such a fucking girl!"
"You're the one who was flirting in plain sight," Sam retorts.
Dean leans forward, resting his chin on Sam's shoulder. "It turned you on, though."
"Fucking did not." Sam wrinkled his nose, makes a show out of it even though he knows Dean can see through his shit. "You still got blood all over you. Doesn't turn me on at all."
Dean nuzzles his ear--yeah, there's still blood on his face and fingers, fingers that are now finding their way to the V of Sam's pants. Palm grinds Sam's jeans and of course Sam's cock just has to respond to that, doesn't it, the fucking traitor. Sam bites back the moan climbing out of his throat but Dean knows, he has to know.
"Yeah, that's it," Dean mutters to his ear. "Pull over, I wanna ride you."
"Figures you'd do that when I'm the one finally driving," Sam complains. "You know how orgasms affect me." Sam gets lethargic and schmoopy. Their three-hour driving plan will become a five-hour driving plan unless Dean takes over the wheel again.
Dean pulls away, oncoming headlights catching his sulking expression. "Our last night on the outside and you'd rather drive than fuck me under the stars."
Sam is quick to protest, "I didn't say that!"
"That was pretty much what I was hearing," Dean growls, pulls back to rip his jeans open, pulls out his cock. "Fuck that, I'll take care of this--"
He doesn't finish the sentence.
Sam manages to pull up at a nearby shoulder, prays (demands, cajoles, commands) that no car will pass by within the next half hour or else delays will be made.
Dean only grins and climbs over to the backseat. "S'gonna be fun, Sammy," he promises.
Outside, there is nothing but endless highways, a wasteland of darkened fields, lonely streetlights. Sam takes his time getting out of the driver's seat to the back, relishing the vision of his brother spread on the car seat.
"Gotta be fun," Sam says quietly.
Dean's eyes are dark, green at the edges of demon-black pupils. Sam wants to find it disturbing, thinks it is appropriate. He slides into the seat, one hand snaking over his brother's stomach and the other at the back of Dean's neck to pull him closer for a kiss.
Last night under the stars, he thinks.
--
Sam wakes up with Dean's hand on his shoulder. True enough, he'd felt sluggish, cuddled on Dean's leg as his brother continues to drive. When he sits up, he finds they're in front of Jody Mills's house--or the Christmas-decorated version of it anyway. It's simpler than the Kansas house they visited: blinking lights and a garland on the doorway.
Dean watches as Sam rubs the sleep from his eyes. "Guess who's havin' a white Christmas?"
Sam watches the shadows behind the curtains of the house. "Guess having Alex around makes Jody a little festive," he comments. He catches the melancholic look on Dean's face, nudges his shoulder. "That's one thing we did right, anyway."
"Jody did that all by herself," Dean says gruffly.
"Would've been great to get my hands on those vamps," Sam says, a little dreamily. He looks down at his hands: hands now capable of destroying monsters and ghosts. "There wouldn't be chances of that now."
Dean clears his throat, says quietly, "There's still time to drive away."
Sam shakes his head, more to clear his clouded thoughts. There will be no more monsters or freaks ripped apart by Sam Winchester's hands. The family business is now to protect the people they love. He smiles up at Dean. "We've got one more stop," he says.
The next part is the hardest.
Dean rolls the Impala through the gravel land as if it's second nature. Sam sits up as soon as the junkyard is in sight. Bobby's house is a parody of their memories. Graffiti spreads over what's left of the walls, and there are more beer cans on what used to be the porch. Sam reaches out to squeeze Dean's hand.
This house was as home as the Impala, more home than the bunker they now have.
They step on the rotten porch, half-heartedly investigating if there's anything else they can salvage--despite knowing that they've gotten everything they can over the years. Sam wonders if people in town think this place is haunted. They wouldn't be wrong--the metal scraps and car skeletons keep the monsters and humans' graves companion.
It doesn't stop from Sam wistfully mentioning, "Let's renegotiate for this. Make this a sacred space."
Dean indulges one gulp of beer before intoning, "And so Sammy declared it, and it was so."
"We get some perks, right? I mean, this deal comes with perks." Sam says, voice low. He knows how he sounds: like the kid who wants his big brother to tell him everything is alright.
It's a complete 180 from Sam's demeanor in the diner. Sam can feel Dean watch him, taking his time, measuring. "Yeah, Sam," Dean finally replies. The tone of his voice suggests he's smiling. "Yeah, we get some perks." He sits one step higher than Sam's seat, straddles his brother's back between his legs to embrace him.
Sam clutches his brother's hand and leans closer. They take a look at the stars, one last look at an open field.
--
They check into a motel one last time on the way back. It's one of the ugliest motels Sam has seen, with its hideous pink and green decorations that he thinks are parodies of Christmas colors. He remembers the last time he had an aversion to motels, remembers a long time ago: sobbing into a scratchy pillow, wishing he was home and holding Jess in his arms. It feels like someone else's life.
Here, they take some time. Sam undresses his brother, makes Dean sit on the bed while Sam blows him. Dean threads his fingers through his brother's hair, mutters encouragements and litanies--all turning to expletives when Sam pulls away.
And then Sam lies on the bed, wraps his long legs around his brother's waist. Sam begs, moans when Dean fucks him hard. Sam comes first, helps Dean to the edge by bearing down until Dean's orgasm rips a cry from his throat.
When Sam wakes up, Dean is still snoring beside him. Sam kisses his cheek, the corner of Dean's mouth, nips his lip until Dean half-heartedly opens his eyes.
"Couldn't y'take care of important things?" he groans, nudging his half-hard cock into Sam's hip when he turns to meet Sam's embrace.
Sam smiles. He whispers, "Merry Christmas," to his brother's ear.
Dean's eyes fly open. The change is quick: his face shuts down immediately. "We better get goin'," he says roughly, pulling away to turn to the window. "Snow got worse?"
"Melted already," Sam informs him, already regretting saying the words. "It'll be gone by the time we hit south."
Dean nods and begins to gather their haphazardly thrown clothes. Sam watches him for a while before broaching the subject, "You still sure about this?"
"It's the best idea we've had yet," Dean reminds him.
Sam nods. It's not an answer, but it'll do.
The girl manning the desk sneers at them when they arrive. "Couldn't ya keep your voices down?" she grumbles. "People were complainin'."
"That's 'cause they're not getting' fucked up their ass," Dean tells her sweetly.
The girl sniffs and hands the card back to them.
She's better than most, Sam has to remind himself. Humans can be shit, but they're better than what Sam and Dean are turning to--something they don't even know. These are only some of the people Sam and Dean have been trying to protect.
--
At the entrance of the bunker stand an angel and a demon.
Crowley and Castiel look apprehensive, likely armed to the teeth with hidden weapons. They give the Impala a wide berth, only coming closer then Sam and Dean step out of the car to meet them.
Crowley opens his arms wide although he makes no move to embrace them. "Gentlemen, I take there were no more rooms in the inn," he greets.
Dean's stance changes but Sam holds up an arm to block his path. "We came back as per our agreement," he says coolly, addressing both Crowley and Castiel. "You don't need any weapons."
Castiel appears startled, especially when Dean sneers, "I can smell them on both of you."
"We all knew the traditional protective Winchesters won't back out of the deal," Crowley agrees. "You've always had your head in you, Moose, but we needed to be prepared. So tell your dog to stand down," he addresses the scowling Dean.
Sam fights off the sneer on his face. I was his master first, he thinks smugly. Treating Dean as one of Crowley's hellhounds is not lost on him. The changes have affected their reasoning, enhanced their senses.
Making him move quickly-a hand preparing to land on his shoulder makes him twist, grab Dean to his side to snatch the angel blade from his brother's belt looks, raising it blink-fast to rest against Castiel's neck. "If you're making a move-"
Castiel quickly holds up his arms, his eyes alarmed and sad. "That's the change we've talked about, Sam."
"I've always been willing to protect Dean," Sam snarls.
"Enough that you eviscerated a poltergeist, ripped a werewolf with your bare hands--"
"It threw Dean to the wall!"
"--pulled a skinwalker's flesh apart until it cannot regenerate. Sam, you and Dean...you've changed things. You've changed the rules."
Abomination, the word whispers to Sam's head again, only now it's not just for him. It's describing Dean, too. Crowley and Castiel have used it to describe them.
And by the look on Dean's face, he's as troubled as Sam is.
"We'll keep our end of the deal," Crowley says firmly. "Ceasefire between Heaven and Hell--we've drawn up the contract, signed the dotted lines. And you Winchesters have to keep your end."
"And the people we want to keep safe--" Dean starts.
"Heaven and Hell will keep them under protection," Crowley assures. He adds with a smirk, "Hell, I'll even take care of Sherriff Mills for you."
"And Bobby's place to become a sacred space," Sam says.
Crowley and Castiel turn to each other as if holding a silent meeting. At Crowley's nod, Castiel turns to the brothers. "It will be done," he intones.
"Sacred for all," Crowley argues. "I won't tolerate being kept out of Bobby Singer's place."
"Sacred for all and Crowley," Castiel amends with enough irritation in his voice.
"And how long will you keep the bunker sealed?" Dean puts in.
"Just a couple of years."
Dean laugh is like a bark. "No sweat, I've got ten years in Hell to Sam's hundred years in the Cage. We'll be out in no time if age doesn't get us first."
"Age won't be your problem," Crowley tells them. "You've been changing the rules for the last couple of years. Aging is the last of it."
"They gotta get something out of the ceasefire, right?" Sam says. He can feel the weariness in his bones already, the slow changing in his blood. It's almost the same as when he was fired up on demon blood, or the time his body housed an angel.
The "ceasefire" between angels and demons, an agreement where both parties pull out of the human dimension--to leave it to the monsters and humans as it was always meant to be. And in return, the Winchesters will be locked inside their own bunker: Dean with Cain's Mark and the angel's handprint on his arm, Sam with his demon imaginary friend and the Grace in his soul.
No humans or freaks have faced these changes, and now it's changing them into something no one can understand. There are no records for this, "no rulebook on how to deal with Winchesters," as Crowley said.
The bunker is going to house the new freaks for centuries.
"Let's get this show on the road then," Dean says roughly. He reaches out for Sam and Sam accepts it instinctively.
It only takes a few minutes to put the spells and ritual in place--almost a year's worth of trials and researches borne of Castiel and Sam's persistence. No humans, monsters, or alphas can open the door. The only ones with the keys are Castiel and Crowley. And to turn the locks will signal the end of the ceasefire. There's no way for Sam or Dean to know when they'll be let out.
Castiel's form is grave, his hands squeezing Sam and Dean's arms like he's unable to let go. "You know there was no other way?" His voice is sorrowful and full of regret.
Sam looks in his eyes and smiles. "We know. We appreciate your help, Cas." He glances at the demon hovering behind their friend and can't help calling out, "Even you, Crowley."
"I'm gonna miss you, Moose, Squirrel," Crowley acknowledges, then shakes his head. "What do you know?"
Castiel embraces Dean, then Sam. "Merry Christmas, Cas," Sam tells him.
"Aptly messianic," Crowley interrupts, "that two saviors are hereon born on Christmas Day."
"Go fuck yourself, Crowley," Dean says nicely, then addresses Castiel, "You better take care of our baby, Cas. She's gotta be in top shape when we get out."
Our baby, Sam thinks proudly. He turns to Dean, half-expecting his older brother to spout more sentiments about leaving the Impala outside where it stands more chance of being serviced and finding updated parts. But he's surprised to find Dean only has his eyes on Sam. When their gazes meet, there is no stars aligning or universes colliding--there is only understanding.
So maybe Sam is anticipating spending the rest of forever with Dean. It's funny how he's now only realizing that it's Dean's eyes he's been taking his cues from all along. They've been doing this together for years. They won't need Castiel or Crowley now.
Sam says, "Let's close the gates."
"And so Sammy declared it, and it was so," Dean teases. Sam laughs.
The bunker doors slam shut.
-end-
Sam/Dean
3,100~ words, R
For cassiopeia7 for 2014's spn_j2_xmas.
Also found in AO3.
Sam and Dean take a drive at their last night in this world.
They take the three-hour drive to Lawrence, not stopping and not talking. When Blue Oyster Cult declares "Oh no more horses, horses," for Vera Gemini, Dean changes the tape to belt out, "Hey, mama said the way you move...". An hour into the drive, Sam realizes all the tapes Dean plays are side ones.
They visit their old house. A middle-aged couple lives there now--Jenny and her two kids likely already moved out years ago. The decorations are garish with fairy lights hanging on the roof and a plastic Santa sits on the lawn. Sam notices that the roof was changed, the windows refurbished. Now, the house of their childhood is festive and bright.
They only stay for a few minutes.
They stop at a truck diner to grab food. Sam stretches across the table, wraps his fingers around his brother's wrist as soon as the waitress's head is turned. "
Dean replies with a smirk, hooks his foot around Sam's ankle and strokes upward. "Think you can drive the next few hours?" he asks.
Magic words, but Sam has to play this cool. He grins and ducks his head, lets his hair fall over his eyes like the young boy he isn't. "Only if you let me."
"S'cool, what's mine is yours," Dean promises.
Eyes from different corners of the diner catch their small touches, and Sam regrets that he has to pull away. This is a time for celebration, not confrontation. And time is limited for them. The food arrives and they concentrate on eating, only Dean draws his chair closer, practically puts his legs on Sam's lap. It can't be a comfortable way to eat--not while he's inhaling the burger like it's his last meal.
"Fuck, it's our last meal," Sam breathes.
Dean raises his eyes although he doesn't pause from chewing. His boot on Sam's lap teases lightly at the insides of Sam's thighs, head half raised. Sam's breathing hitches when he recognizes the view: Dean looking up at him while swallowing Sam's cock. Dean must know the effect because he looks like he's laughing.
"Last meal," Dean agrees. His mouth is full of half-chewed burger. It is with some relief that Sam still finds that disgusting.
Still, they take their time. They have three hours' worth of driving left, a quarter of it is on dirt road, but Sam likes his salad and he's gonna eat it even if his older brother pouts right across the table.
Trouble shows up when a bunch of muscled folks cast their shadows over Sam and Dean's table.
"Didn't recall this town becomin' some kinda faggotville," the asshole says.
Dean leers. "Didn't recall we asked you to join us," he says, "didn't we, Sammy?"
"No," Sam replies shortly. He doesn't want to be a part of this. "I just wanted a nice dinner. Don't encourage them."
"Listen to your pansy-ass boyfriend," another asshole simpers.
Dean stands. "That's my little brother you're talkin' about."
"Your brother--"
And that's when Dean throws the first punch--keeps right on punching. Everyone clears right out, and anyone who has a death wish joins in. Not Sam, though, oh no because Dean brought this upon himself and Sam wants to finish his salad on his last day here. Dean wants to get this out of his system, that's his problem.
Until he sees Dean straddling one body by the corner, arm raised to deliver the final blow. Something in his face makes Sam cross the room lighting-like to grab his fist before delivering the final blow.
"Don't kill him," Sam says sternly.
Dean raises his head, blood smears his nose his mouth. He's pouting. "Aww, c'mon Sammy."
"Dean."
Dean's teasing, Sam knows this, but he still gives Dean a firm look. There is no point at sparing a glance towards the man whimpering under Dean's form. His older brother heaves, drops the pounded meat without sparing it another glance.
"I didn't try to stop you when you crushed that poltergeist in Missouri," Dean accuses.
"That was different, that was a poltergeist," Sam says quickly, rolling his eyes. "They're human and last I checked, I thought we were looking to eat. Fucking last meal, my ass." He snorts. "Gimme the keys."
"They were asking for it!" Dean screeches.
"You didn't have to hand it to them. It's our last night. I wanted it to be special." The doors slam a little too hard, but Sam navigates the Impala away from the gravel and parked trucks, into the blackened highway.
His sentiment is not lost to Dean who, unfortunately, immediately bursts out laughing. "You're such a fucking girl!"
"You're the one who was flirting in plain sight," Sam retorts.
Dean leans forward, resting his chin on Sam's shoulder. "It turned you on, though."
"Fucking did not." Sam wrinkled his nose, makes a show out of it even though he knows Dean can see through his shit. "You still got blood all over you. Doesn't turn me on at all."
Dean nuzzles his ear--yeah, there's still blood on his face and fingers, fingers that are now finding their way to the V of Sam's pants. Palm grinds Sam's jeans and of course Sam's cock just has to respond to that, doesn't it, the fucking traitor. Sam bites back the moan climbing out of his throat but Dean knows, he has to know.
"Yeah, that's it," Dean mutters to his ear. "Pull over, I wanna ride you."
"Figures you'd do that when I'm the one finally driving," Sam complains. "You know how orgasms affect me." Sam gets lethargic and schmoopy. Their three-hour driving plan will become a five-hour driving plan unless Dean takes over the wheel again.
Dean pulls away, oncoming headlights catching his sulking expression. "Our last night on the outside and you'd rather drive than fuck me under the stars."
Sam is quick to protest, "I didn't say that!"
"That was pretty much what I was hearing," Dean growls, pulls back to rip his jeans open, pulls out his cock. "Fuck that, I'll take care of this--"
He doesn't finish the sentence.
Sam manages to pull up at a nearby shoulder, prays (demands, cajoles, commands) that no car will pass by within the next half hour or else delays will be made.
Dean only grins and climbs over to the backseat. "S'gonna be fun, Sammy," he promises.
Outside, there is nothing but endless highways, a wasteland of darkened fields, lonely streetlights. Sam takes his time getting out of the driver's seat to the back, relishing the vision of his brother spread on the car seat.
"Gotta be fun," Sam says quietly.
Dean's eyes are dark, green at the edges of demon-black pupils. Sam wants to find it disturbing, thinks it is appropriate. He slides into the seat, one hand snaking over his brother's stomach and the other at the back of Dean's neck to pull him closer for a kiss.
Last night under the stars, he thinks.
--
Sam wakes up with Dean's hand on his shoulder. True enough, he'd felt sluggish, cuddled on Dean's leg as his brother continues to drive. When he sits up, he finds they're in front of Jody Mills's house--or the Christmas-decorated version of it anyway. It's simpler than the Kansas house they visited: blinking lights and a garland on the doorway.
Dean watches as Sam rubs the sleep from his eyes. "Guess who's havin' a white Christmas?"
Sam watches the shadows behind the curtains of the house. "Guess having Alex around makes Jody a little festive," he comments. He catches the melancholic look on Dean's face, nudges his shoulder. "That's one thing we did right, anyway."
"Jody did that all by herself," Dean says gruffly.
"Would've been great to get my hands on those vamps," Sam says, a little dreamily. He looks down at his hands: hands now capable of destroying monsters and ghosts. "There wouldn't be chances of that now."
Dean clears his throat, says quietly, "There's still time to drive away."
Sam shakes his head, more to clear his clouded thoughts. There will be no more monsters or freaks ripped apart by Sam Winchester's hands. The family business is now to protect the people they love. He smiles up at Dean. "We've got one more stop," he says.
The next part is the hardest.
Dean rolls the Impala through the gravel land as if it's second nature. Sam sits up as soon as the junkyard is in sight. Bobby's house is a parody of their memories. Graffiti spreads over what's left of the walls, and there are more beer cans on what used to be the porch. Sam reaches out to squeeze Dean's hand.
This house was as home as the Impala, more home than the bunker they now have.
They step on the rotten porch, half-heartedly investigating if there's anything else they can salvage--despite knowing that they've gotten everything they can over the years. Sam wonders if people in town think this place is haunted. They wouldn't be wrong--the metal scraps and car skeletons keep the monsters and humans' graves companion.
It doesn't stop from Sam wistfully mentioning, "Let's renegotiate for this. Make this a sacred space."
Dean indulges one gulp of beer before intoning, "And so Sammy declared it, and it was so."
"We get some perks, right? I mean, this deal comes with perks." Sam says, voice low. He knows how he sounds: like the kid who wants his big brother to tell him everything is alright.
It's a complete 180 from Sam's demeanor in the diner. Sam can feel Dean watch him, taking his time, measuring. "Yeah, Sam," Dean finally replies. The tone of his voice suggests he's smiling. "Yeah, we get some perks." He sits one step higher than Sam's seat, straddles his brother's back between his legs to embrace him.
Sam clutches his brother's hand and leans closer. They take a look at the stars, one last look at an open field.
--
They check into a motel one last time on the way back. It's one of the ugliest motels Sam has seen, with its hideous pink and green decorations that he thinks are parodies of Christmas colors. He remembers the last time he had an aversion to motels, remembers a long time ago: sobbing into a scratchy pillow, wishing he was home and holding Jess in his arms. It feels like someone else's life.
Here, they take some time. Sam undresses his brother, makes Dean sit on the bed while Sam blows him. Dean threads his fingers through his brother's hair, mutters encouragements and litanies--all turning to expletives when Sam pulls away.
And then Sam lies on the bed, wraps his long legs around his brother's waist. Sam begs, moans when Dean fucks him hard. Sam comes first, helps Dean to the edge by bearing down until Dean's orgasm rips a cry from his throat.
When Sam wakes up, Dean is still snoring beside him. Sam kisses his cheek, the corner of Dean's mouth, nips his lip until Dean half-heartedly opens his eyes.
"Couldn't y'take care of important things?" he groans, nudging his half-hard cock into Sam's hip when he turns to meet Sam's embrace.
Sam smiles. He whispers, "Merry Christmas," to his brother's ear.
Dean's eyes fly open. The change is quick: his face shuts down immediately. "We better get goin'," he says roughly, pulling away to turn to the window. "Snow got worse?"
"Melted already," Sam informs him, already regretting saying the words. "It'll be gone by the time we hit south."
Dean nods and begins to gather their haphazardly thrown clothes. Sam watches him for a while before broaching the subject, "You still sure about this?"
"It's the best idea we've had yet," Dean reminds him.
Sam nods. It's not an answer, but it'll do.
The girl manning the desk sneers at them when they arrive. "Couldn't ya keep your voices down?" she grumbles. "People were complainin'."
"That's 'cause they're not getting' fucked up their ass," Dean tells her sweetly.
The girl sniffs and hands the card back to them.
She's better than most, Sam has to remind himself. Humans can be shit, but they're better than what Sam and Dean are turning to--something they don't even know. These are only some of the people Sam and Dean have been trying to protect.
--
At the entrance of the bunker stand an angel and a demon.
Crowley and Castiel look apprehensive, likely armed to the teeth with hidden weapons. They give the Impala a wide berth, only coming closer then Sam and Dean step out of the car to meet them.
Crowley opens his arms wide although he makes no move to embrace them. "Gentlemen, I take there were no more rooms in the inn," he greets.
Dean's stance changes but Sam holds up an arm to block his path. "We came back as per our agreement," he says coolly, addressing both Crowley and Castiel. "You don't need any weapons."
Castiel appears startled, especially when Dean sneers, "I can smell them on both of you."
"We all knew the traditional protective Winchesters won't back out of the deal," Crowley agrees. "You've always had your head in you, Moose, but we needed to be prepared. So tell your dog to stand down," he addresses the scowling Dean.
Sam fights off the sneer on his face. I was his master first, he thinks smugly. Treating Dean as one of Crowley's hellhounds is not lost on him. The changes have affected their reasoning, enhanced their senses.
Making him move quickly-a hand preparing to land on his shoulder makes him twist, grab Dean to his side to snatch the angel blade from his brother's belt looks, raising it blink-fast to rest against Castiel's neck. "If you're making a move-"
Castiel quickly holds up his arms, his eyes alarmed and sad. "That's the change we've talked about, Sam."
"I've always been willing to protect Dean," Sam snarls.
"Enough that you eviscerated a poltergeist, ripped a werewolf with your bare hands--"
"It threw Dean to the wall!"
"--pulled a skinwalker's flesh apart until it cannot regenerate. Sam, you and Dean...you've changed things. You've changed the rules."
Abomination, the word whispers to Sam's head again, only now it's not just for him. It's describing Dean, too. Crowley and Castiel have used it to describe them.
And by the look on Dean's face, he's as troubled as Sam is.
"We'll keep our end of the deal," Crowley says firmly. "Ceasefire between Heaven and Hell--we've drawn up the contract, signed the dotted lines. And you Winchesters have to keep your end."
"And the people we want to keep safe--" Dean starts.
"Heaven and Hell will keep them under protection," Crowley assures. He adds with a smirk, "Hell, I'll even take care of Sherriff Mills for you."
"And Bobby's place to become a sacred space," Sam says.
Crowley and Castiel turn to each other as if holding a silent meeting. At Crowley's nod, Castiel turns to the brothers. "It will be done," he intones.
"Sacred for all," Crowley argues. "I won't tolerate being kept out of Bobby Singer's place."
"Sacred for all and Crowley," Castiel amends with enough irritation in his voice.
"And how long will you keep the bunker sealed?" Dean puts in.
"Just a couple of years."
Dean laugh is like a bark. "No sweat, I've got ten years in Hell to Sam's hundred years in the Cage. We'll be out in no time if age doesn't get us first."
"Age won't be your problem," Crowley tells them. "You've been changing the rules for the last couple of years. Aging is the last of it."
"They gotta get something out of the ceasefire, right?" Sam says. He can feel the weariness in his bones already, the slow changing in his blood. It's almost the same as when he was fired up on demon blood, or the time his body housed an angel.
The "ceasefire" between angels and demons, an agreement where both parties pull out of the human dimension--to leave it to the monsters and humans as it was always meant to be. And in return, the Winchesters will be locked inside their own bunker: Dean with Cain's Mark and the angel's handprint on his arm, Sam with his demon imaginary friend and the Grace in his soul.
No humans or freaks have faced these changes, and now it's changing them into something no one can understand. There are no records for this, "no rulebook on how to deal with Winchesters," as Crowley said.
The bunker is going to house the new freaks for centuries.
"Let's get this show on the road then," Dean says roughly. He reaches out for Sam and Sam accepts it instinctively.
It only takes a few minutes to put the spells and ritual in place--almost a year's worth of trials and researches borne of Castiel and Sam's persistence. No humans, monsters, or alphas can open the door. The only ones with the keys are Castiel and Crowley. And to turn the locks will signal the end of the ceasefire. There's no way for Sam or Dean to know when they'll be let out.
Castiel's form is grave, his hands squeezing Sam and Dean's arms like he's unable to let go. "You know there was no other way?" His voice is sorrowful and full of regret.
Sam looks in his eyes and smiles. "We know. We appreciate your help, Cas." He glances at the demon hovering behind their friend and can't help calling out, "Even you, Crowley."
"I'm gonna miss you, Moose, Squirrel," Crowley acknowledges, then shakes his head. "What do you know?"
Castiel embraces Dean, then Sam. "Merry Christmas, Cas," Sam tells him.
"Aptly messianic," Crowley interrupts, "that two saviors are hereon born on Christmas Day."
"Go fuck yourself, Crowley," Dean says nicely, then addresses Castiel, "You better take care of our baby, Cas. She's gotta be in top shape when we get out."
Our baby, Sam thinks proudly. He turns to Dean, half-expecting his older brother to spout more sentiments about leaving the Impala outside where it stands more chance of being serviced and finding updated parts. But he's surprised to find Dean only has his eyes on Sam. When their gazes meet, there is no stars aligning or universes colliding--there is only understanding.
So maybe Sam is anticipating spending the rest of forever with Dean. It's funny how he's now only realizing that it's Dean's eyes he's been taking his cues from all along. They've been doing this together for years. They won't need Castiel or Crowley now.
Sam says, "Let's close the gates."
"And so Sammy declared it, and it was so," Dean teases. Sam laughs.
The bunker doors slam shut.
-end-