Where There's Smoke, Sam/Dean, NC-17
Where There's Smoke
Sam/Dean, brief Dean/OMC, 4187 words, NC-17
Dean doesn't pick up when Bobby calls. He's not sure if Bobby knows what Sam did to get him out of hell, but he's sure as fuck not taking any chances.
He picks a city, just in case. They haven't had any trouble with the law since they opened Henricksen's eyes to the world's dirty paranormal underbelly, but Dean thinks maybe they should still play it safe for a few years.
Dean's pretty sure at this point, they deserve to play it safe forever.
"Ten thousand schools here, and you decide to become a freaking secretary?" Dean marvels.
Sam looks up at the students lounging around in the park where Sam and Dean are eating lunch. "I guess so," says Sam, and steals a sip of Dean's soda from where it rests on the bench between them.
Dean finishes his burrito and lets his arm rest behind Sam's head. If he wanted, he could curl his fingers into the soft back of Sam's skull, twist his palm against the base of his brother's neck. He leaves his hand where it is. Sam licks his fingers clean and crumples up his wrapper.
"A secretary, though," muses Dean.
"Hey, who are you to talk?" Sam points out. "You serve overpriced coffee."
"Smoking hot baristas," Dean explains again.
Sam rolls his eyes. It's a bad habit Dean has never managed to break him out of, but there's still time. Sam's right, though, the coffee shop suits Dean like a fucking minivan. He feels conspicuous, stupid apron or no. He watches the people come in and wonders how many will die or lose family without hunters to step in. It pisses him off- so many people, so few clues about what the world is really like.
"I'm going back to work," says Sam. When he stands up, he takes their trash with him. Dean lets his toes curl into the warm dirt under the bench, and blesses the inventor of sandals. Boots are great for hunting, but now that he spends most of his time standing behind a counter, Dean likes to let his feet breathe.
"I'll walk you back," says Dean. The law firm where Sam files paperwork and gets coffee is only a few blocks away. Dean waits until Sam is settled down behind his cheap desk before he heads back to the elevators. Sam's desk is too small for him, and Sam has to huddle behind it with his shoulders hunched and his knees up. He looks out of place, too big for this job, this little life.
Dean leaves him there, waving a goodbye to Ellen, the receptionist. Ellen is young and pretty and if she had any other name, Dean would be leaving complimentary coffees on her desk every day. As it is, Dean stays friendly and polite, but no more than that.
Dean's shifts at the coffee shop usually overlap with two coworkers. Kelly has a tongue piercing and three tattoos and a bad attitude. She's the classic barista Dean always envisioned, picturing Sam hitting up some overpriced coffee shop at Stanford with a bag full of textbooks. She's a student at Simmons and has a lot of opinions regarding the patriarchy. Dean likes to spend his breaks thinking about that tongue ring.
Dean's other coworker is named Brendon. Dean is older than both of them, by a decade, and feels every minute of it.
When Dean walks in after lunch, Brendon is double-knotting his apron around his skinny waist. "You're late," says Brendon. Dean cuffs him lightly on the back of the head.
"I'm not late," Dean says, "I'm fashionable."
Brendon hands him a coffee, hidden behind the register. "Black, like God intended," he says loudly for the benefit of the customers, smirking.
Deans avoids the eyes of their customers as he takes a cautious sip. Hazelnut and caramel with extra sugar. Perfect.
"You're a good man, Brendon Michaels," says Dean, winking at Brendon as he ducks into the staff room. Kelly's waiting back there, pouncing on his free coffee as soon as he enters. Dean lets her have it, still mesmerized by the flash of silver that her open mouth reveals.
She makes a face when she swallows. "God, it's exactly like what I ordered when I was twelve years old and didn't know any better." Dean takes his coffee back, clutching it protectively.
"You know," says Kelly, flipping her newspaper closed and tucking it under one arm, "one day you're going to tell me who exactly you meet for lunch every day." She must read something in his face, because she reaches out as if to start an apology. Dean heads for the counter.
"Don't be like that," Kelly yells to his retreating back. Brendon is serving the last customer of the day when Dean sneaks up behind him and leans over his shoulder to check out the exposed cleavage of the soccer mom he's serving.
Brendon smiles back at Dean after she leaves. "Didn't even look surgically enhanced."
Dean hadn't realized how close he was to Brendon. The sharp tang of Brendon's aftershave, mixed with sweat from a long day bustling around the store, reaches him. Brendon knocks into Dean solidly as he turns around, trapped between the counter and Dean's body.
"Sorry, dude," Dean says, holding his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender.
Brendon just gives him a fond look and ducks around Dean to head out. His shaggy bangs fall into his eyes as he fiddles with the ties on his extremely girly apron. Dean would mock him more if he wasn't forced to wear one too.
"How many times I gotta tell you not to double knot this thing?" says Dean, and he knocks Brendon's fingers gently out of the way to reach the string at his waist.
When his own shift ends, Dean goes to pick Sam up from work. He steals Ellen a brownie- only slightly stale- before he goes, because he's pretty sure she's not supposed to let him upstairs without an appointment. The brownie buys him passage, and he saunters past her desk with a smile.
Sam is staring down at his desk, face blank. He's stuffing important-looking envelopes and placing them into a neat pile.
"You're so anal," says Dean, watching Sam's fingers fly over the papers. Sam jumps at the sound of his voice, knocking his pile over. Dean ignores this. "Ready to go?" Sam won't meet his eyes. One of Sam's bad days, then, and Dean wonders absently what's happened since lunch.
Sam nods stiffly and stands. Dean's halfway to the door before he realizes Sam isn't behind him, is in fact still standing over his desk, organizing his pens and pencils into their proper holders.
"Sam," Dean interrupts, and hates himself for the crack in his voice. He waves to Ellen on the way out, but her face closes down when she sees Sam and she ducks her head hastily. Dean hates her a little.
On the way home, his phone vibrates in his pocket. Dean fumbles for it, one hand on the wheel of the Impala. It's a text message from Brendon, complaining about his upstairs neighbor's loud, obnoxious music, and blaming Dean for contributing to the general plague of bad classic rock in Brendon's life.
"What's so funny?" Sam asks, and even if he's smiling his voice is tight.
"Nothing, Sammy," Dean says, and stuffs the phone back into his pocket. Sam goes back to staring out the window at the passing storefronts.
Dean makes spaghetti for dinner, with tomato sauce from a jar. He adds some leftover meatballs from yesterday, though, and it turns out all right.
On his bad days, Sam eats- wrong, shoveling it in like Dean never painstakingly taught him how to use a fork and knife. He stares right through Dean, and won't respond to Dean's tentative questions. Dean takes his plate into the other room and eats in front of television, letting Jeopardy and Deal or No Deal numb him. There's this one model who looks just like that girl from the haunting in Boxborough. Dean kicks his sandals off and rests his toes over each other, pressing at the ache in the balls of his feet.
He falls asleep that way, and only wakes up when Sam sits down next to him. Sam curls his socked feet under himself and lets the muted glow of the television light his face. Sam looks guilty, but Dean cuts him off before he can start to apologize, voice rough. "You should go to bed, Sammy."
Sam nods, but lingers on their ratty couch for another minute. "Tomorrow," Sam hesitates, "I was thinking maybe I could meet you at the coffee shop. For lunch. And maybe meet your... Kelly. And Brendon, right?"
Dean fights down a grin, nodding like it's easy. "Just try not to freak them out with your geeky ways," he says. One corner of Sam's mouth crooks up nervously. Sam heads off to bed, then, shoulders slouched and hands in his pockets.
Dean leans his head back against the couch, closing his eyes. It's not that he needs proof that Sammy is still in there, hidden under the permanent scowl and obsessive habits, but it's nice to have it anyways. It's been two months since Sam got him back, a year since his deal came due, and Dean wishes he knew what happened in that time to mess Sam up this bad. But mostly he's just glad to not remember it himself. He can't imagine Hell was anything- anywhere Dean would have liked to stay for longer than he did. Ten months, fuck.
Sam got him back, though. Dean doesn't remember much about the days after, but he vividly recalls the half-crazed panic in Sam's eyes, the trouble Sam had forming words, like he hadn't talked to anybody in- well, in ten months. He remembers the feel of Sam's breath against his neck, Sam's weight curled into his aching body. He doesn't want to remember anything else.
When Dean wakes up the next morning, Sam is making oatmeal.
"What," Sam says defensively. "I like oatmeal."
Dean helps himself to a bowl. "This crap is disgusting," he says, watching it drip from his spoon, and pours in half a jar of brown sugar.
Sam makes a face back and eats his own oatmeal, pointedly ignoring Dean's disgust.
"Kelly, Brendon," Dean says five hours later, "This is Sam, my geek brother."
Brendon starts forward to shake Sam's hand, giving Dean a strange look until Dean realizes he's still standing in front of Sam, blocking the way. He steps back hastily, shaking the tension out of his shoulders. Kelly gives Sam an appraising once-over and breaks into a wide smile, following Brendon's lead and holding out bright magenta fingernails to shake.
There's a moment of awkwardness, in which Dean realizes Sam hasn't said anything yet. Sam is, in fact, shaking a little. He looks like he's trying to choke out words, and Dean's not sure if they're going to be stilted greetings or a panicked plea to get out of here, but either way Dean makes his apologies to Kelly and Brendon and pushes Sam out the door.
Dean sits Sam down on the curb in front of the coffee shop and crouches in front of him. He can feel himself talking, a steady stream of Sam it's okay hey Sammy look at me Sam c'mon it's just me, Sam, Sam LOOK AT ME SAM and he wants to shake his brother into awareness, wants to trap Sam's hands down to stop them shivering.
It takes Sam a minute but he focuses on Dean's eyes again, and the blank stare Dean gets is worse than shame, than fear, than humiliation. Sam doesn't say anything, just reaches out absently for Dean's lower lip. The sharp sting and the blood on Sam's finger alerts Dean to the fact he's bitten his lip. Dean collapses down next to Sam on the curb, letting the crunch of the first leaves of fall drown out the pounding of his heart for a second.
"I'm sorry," Sam says a few minutes later.
Dean doesn't look back at the windows of the coffee shop, where his coworkers must be looking at them, confused. He lets the silence between them settle for a moment, then stands and pulls his brother to his feet.
"Did you see her tongue ring?" Dean asks.
Sam doesn't answer. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets and heads for the falafel place on Crescent, nudging his brother along.
Jerry, his asshole manager who's six years younger than Dean and snotty about it, makes him stay late to do inventory. Dean calls Sam and tells him to take the T home. It's only a few stops, so there's no reason Dean should be forcing thoughts of Sam out of his mind as he counts bags of 16 oz. cups.
Brendon is sitting on the floor with a clipboard, eyes closed, tipping slightly to one side. Dean nudges him with his foot. "Quit sleeping and get your ass to work. I'm hungry."
"Deean," Brendon whines, burying his face in his knee and hiding under the clipboard.
"I mean it," says Dean.
"Jerk," mumbles Brendon as he gets up. His eyes are still closed halfway. So friggin' tall- not quite as big as Sammy but more than eye to eye with Dean.
"Bit-" Dean bites down on the word, hard, and the tightness of his throat is nothing Dean can do anything about. Dean pushes Brendon in the direction of the bags of imported coffee.
Dean leans over to pick up his own clipboard. When he turns around, Brendon is in his face, suddenly alert, and Dean jerks backward. There's shelves behind him, though, so there's nowhere to go.
"Dean," Brendon begins, "tell me if I'm reading this wrong." And before Dean can joke it off, Brendon's lips are pressed against his, dry and soft, not moving, just hesitant pressure. He pulls back an inch after a moment. Dean can feel their shared breath, can see the nervous flicks of Brendon's eyes, glancing between Dean and the floor. His hair is in his eyes, and Dean feels his hand come up automatically to smooth his bangs out of his face.
As soon as he touches Brendon's face, Dean knows he's going to yank Brendon forward, dragging him in with hands fisted at the back of his head. Dean spins Brendon around and shoves him up against the shelves, pushing him off balance and biting at his lips. Dean's never been so hungry for anything in his life, not even after he brought back Sam and had his first meal for two days, not even after Sam dragged him back from hell and put a perfect cheeseburger in his hands. Brendon gets with the program quick enough, curling hands into Dean's belt and rocking against him.
Bags of coffee are falling off the shelves, as Dean bites bruises into the soft skin of his neck. Dean jerks him off, nothing but spit to ease the way. When he comes into Dean's hand, he's scrabbling at the shelves for balance, cheeks flushed a deep red. Dean's cock is pressing against his jeans, probably leaving a hell of a wet spot, but as Brendon takes a minute to recover Dean can feel the panic set in. Brendon looks like he's just been beaten up by the world's gayest mugger, disheveled clothes and red marks that will be bruises tomorrow.
"Here," says Brendon, reaching for Dean's zipper, but Dean backs away.
Brendon's eyes widen. "Are you- Dean, are you okay? Because I have to say-"
Dean doesn't stay to find out what Brendon has to say. He bolts, leaving behind the clipboards, the inventory, his jacket. When he reaches the Impala, he stares at the driver's door blankly, reaching for his jacket pockets. No coat, no keys, fuck. Fuck.
He's not jimmying open the Impala unless he absolutely has to, so Dean gathers his courage and walks back, hoping against hope that Brendon will have left by now.
He hasn't, of course. When Dean walks into the back room, Brendon is gathering up the coffee from the floor, eyes red and swollen. He's just a kid, and Dean hates himself on ten thousand levels when Brendon refuses to look up at him.
"Brendon-" Dean starts, and of course that's when Sam walks in.
He's carrying three sodas and a bag from the sandwich place two blocks over, and he's smiling nervously. "Hey, Dean- Brendon- I brought you guys some dinner, thought you might- want- something to eat-" and that must be when Sam notices the coffee on the floor, the come smeared at the bottom of Brendon's t-shirt, and the serious level of tension in the room. The speech is clearly rehearsed, though, because he keeps on stuttering the words even as his fingers tighten on the bag, "as, you know- an apology for earlier-"
Dean can't say anything, wants to explain, but Sam takes one look at his face and drops the food. It's not a big room, so it's only two steps before Sam is slamming Brendon up against the shelves, not two steps away from where Dean had shoved his hand down Brendon's pants.
Dean tries to yank Sam away, but Sam shoves him backward hard enough to send Dean sprawling. He's still holding Brendon up with, jesus, one hand.
"Let him go, Sam," Dean says, cradling his shoulder. He's gonna have a bruise tomorrow.
Sam ignores him.
Dean can feel the words spill out in a panic, "Sam- let him go, for the love of God, what the fuck- Sam, it wasn't anything- he didn't do anything-" and then "he's a civilian, Sam," and that's what makes Sam's hands unclench in Brendon's shirt. The kid throws his hands in the air and books it while Sam's still turning on Dean, slowly, deadly.
"You got something to say to me, Dean?" and no, Dean doesn't, Dean is never ever going there, but apparently he is because he can't stop the words coming out of his mouth.
"Yeah, I do, Sam, which is we don't hurt people," Dean's voice is rising of its own accord, "We help people, Sam, we don't- we don't use them to- to-" and he can't choke the rest of it out.
Everything about Sam is tensed, steady, and very fucking dangerous. "So what, Dean? What I just supposed to leave you there? In Hell, Dean?" His voice has dropped a register or two, and Dean shoves his hands in his pockets to hide the shaking.
"You weren't supposed to hurt anybody, Sam. There had to be some other-"
"There wasn't, Dean! There was no other way! And I wasn't going to waste forever looking while you burned, Dean!" Dean hates, hates that Sam has four inches on him at times like this, because the way Sam is towering over him is infuriating as hell and scary as fuck.
Sometimes, Dean sits bolt upright in the middle of the night, blurry images still fading behind his eyes. The blackened roof of a chapel. What looks like an inverted Devil's trap, drawn in reddish chalk on the floor. Long blond hair. Blood. He remembers forcing his eyes open, even though the light was still too bright, and trying to clean the smears of blood off Sam's face, running his hands over Sammy's nose and cheeks and the soft skin of his eyelids.
He always puts a hand on the knife underneath his pillow and goes back to sleep, shaking. There's nothing else to do, because Sam is his brother and Dean picked his side a long time ago.
"You can't-" Dean says.
"I can and I would again, Dean," says Sam, advancing. "Do you want to know who she was? What her obit said? Do you want to hear about her parents, her boyfriend, her dogs?"
Dean stops hearing, then, Sam's yelling dissolving into a comfortable blank. He looks at Sam's face as he yells, instead, memorizing the soft indents of his lips, the flared tips of his nostrils, the wide span of his eyelashes. His brother.
"I'd do it again," Sam says, defiant, and pulls Dean in.
Sam take deep, shuddering breaths against Dean's neck, his arms are crushingly tight around Dean's ribs. Dean lets Sam's weight drag him down, until he's sitting in grainy piles of spilled coffee. Sam's forehead knocks against Dean's collarbone.
"I'd do it again," Sam repeats, softer.
"I know," says Dean, and buries his face in his brother's hair. If his lips brush Sam's head, it's just because he's resting there.
Sam doesn't take it that way, though, banging his skull into Dean's nose as he jumps. He's got one arm pinning Dean to the floor, is kneeling over Dean's thighs, heavy and broad. Dean still doesn't know exactly what happened in those four years to bulk Sam up from a lanky teenager into this- this man, pressing Dean down like he's got the right to crush him into the ground. He probably does.
"Let me up," Dean tries to order, clearing his throat when his voice doesn't work. Sam's not moving, staring at Dean's face like he's gonna find something there.
Dean's always trusted his gut, and it's telling him now that he should get up, move away, take Sam and go. He can't, though, because Sam is clutching at the back of his neck and leaning in to bite at Dean's bottom lip. Dean can't breathe around Sam's mouth, feels like his chest is constricted by Sam's other hand on his ribs, wants out and can't do anything but let Sam press him down and thumb at his open, panting mouth.
"C'mon, Dean," Sam urges, and he's so close to the Sam that Dean had picked up in Palo Alto, before all this hunting crap had messed him up again, that Dean closes his eyes, fists a hand in Sam's hair and drags him in to press their mouths together, firmly, almost chastely, willing Sam to stay.
Sam grins against Dean's mouth and hooks his fingers into the top of Dean's jeans, digging into warm skin. Dean's almost distracted from Sam's clever fingers unbuttoning and unzipping by the way Sam is biting a trail down Dean's chest, hot and wet through Dean's shirt. Dean stares down at the top of his brother's head, nipping at the skin revealed where Dean's shirt has ridden up.
Sam rests a possessive hand on the curve of Dean's hip, right at the crease of his thigh. "You're not gonna- Dean, I can't let you go away from me anymore." His fingers are digging in, tight enough to make Dean try to shift away. Sam digs his other an elbow into Dean's leg, pinning him almost casually. For a second, Dean flashes back to roughhousing with Sam as a kid, his awkward limbs flailing around, Dean laughing and ruffling his hair- and then Sam is lunging at him, trapping him, still waiting for Dean to promise his life away again.
Dean nods, "Yeah, Sammy, you know I won't," and hates himself until Sam's eyes brighten. Sam kisses at his jaw, briefly, lightly, and then moves down Dean's body to yank his jeans and two-dollar boxers down. The cool air of the coffeehouse hits Dean's dick and he shivers, before Sam wraps a warm hand around it and cups it to his cheek, letting his rough stubble burn against the head in just the right way.
Then Sam's mouth is on him, no warning, and Dean can't stop his back from arching or his hand from fisting in Sam's hair. He stares up at the ceiling of the coffeehouse, because if he looks down at the way Sam's head is bobbing over his open zipper, he probably won't be able to stop himself from thrusting wildly up into Sam's throat, maybe banging his skull back against the floor.
When he comes, it's because he sneaks a look and discovers Sam's free hand working busily in his own jeans, still kneeling over Dean. Dean tries to keep his eyes wide as he gives up and presses Sam's head down onto him, holds him there as Dean comes- probably a bit too roughly- because Sam's thrusting against Dean's calf and his own hand in a jerky rhythm. Sam lets Dean's dick slide out of his mouth and pants against Dean's hip through his jeans. Dean pets his head, still out of it, until Sam cries out and shudders once more.
They don't bother cleaning up when they leave.
Dean's pretty sure they're never coming back, though they could probably use the last couple weeks' wages. It's not worth it to stay.
"Maybe we'll get a dog," Dean says, Impala rumbling underneath him, heading southwest. Somewhere warm this time, where Dean can dig his bare toes into the warm dirt.
"Yeah," Sam says from across the front seat. He's still looking out the window, at the landscapes flying by.
Sam/Dean, brief Dean/OMC, 4187 words, NC-17
Dean doesn't pick up when Bobby calls. He's not sure if Bobby knows what Sam did to get him out of hell, but he's sure as fuck not taking any chances.
He picks a city, just in case. They haven't had any trouble with the law since they opened Henricksen's eyes to the world's dirty paranormal underbelly, but Dean thinks maybe they should still play it safe for a few years.
Dean's pretty sure at this point, they deserve to play it safe forever.
"Ten thousand schools here, and you decide to become a freaking secretary?" Dean marvels.
Sam looks up at the students lounging around in the park where Sam and Dean are eating lunch. "I guess so," says Sam, and steals a sip of Dean's soda from where it rests on the bench between them.
Dean finishes his burrito and lets his arm rest behind Sam's head. If he wanted, he could curl his fingers into the soft back of Sam's skull, twist his palm against the base of his brother's neck. He leaves his hand where it is. Sam licks his fingers clean and crumples up his wrapper.
"A secretary, though," muses Dean.
"Hey, who are you to talk?" Sam points out. "You serve overpriced coffee."
"Smoking hot baristas," Dean explains again.
Sam rolls his eyes. It's a bad habit Dean has never managed to break him out of, but there's still time. Sam's right, though, the coffee shop suits Dean like a fucking minivan. He feels conspicuous, stupid apron or no. He watches the people come in and wonders how many will die or lose family without hunters to step in. It pisses him off- so many people, so few clues about what the world is really like.
"I'm going back to work," says Sam. When he stands up, he takes their trash with him. Dean lets his toes curl into the warm dirt under the bench, and blesses the inventor of sandals. Boots are great for hunting, but now that he spends most of his time standing behind a counter, Dean likes to let his feet breathe.
"I'll walk you back," says Dean. The law firm where Sam files paperwork and gets coffee is only a few blocks away. Dean waits until Sam is settled down behind his cheap desk before he heads back to the elevators. Sam's desk is too small for him, and Sam has to huddle behind it with his shoulders hunched and his knees up. He looks out of place, too big for this job, this little life.
Dean leaves him there, waving a goodbye to Ellen, the receptionist. Ellen is young and pretty and if she had any other name, Dean would be leaving complimentary coffees on her desk every day. As it is, Dean stays friendly and polite, but no more than that.
Dean's shifts at the coffee shop usually overlap with two coworkers. Kelly has a tongue piercing and three tattoos and a bad attitude. She's the classic barista Dean always envisioned, picturing Sam hitting up some overpriced coffee shop at Stanford with a bag full of textbooks. She's a student at Simmons and has a lot of opinions regarding the patriarchy. Dean likes to spend his breaks thinking about that tongue ring.
Dean's other coworker is named Brendon. Dean is older than both of them, by a decade, and feels every minute of it.
When Dean walks in after lunch, Brendon is double-knotting his apron around his skinny waist. "You're late," says Brendon. Dean cuffs him lightly on the back of the head.
"I'm not late," Dean says, "I'm fashionable."
Brendon hands him a coffee, hidden behind the register. "Black, like God intended," he says loudly for the benefit of the customers, smirking.
Deans avoids the eyes of their customers as he takes a cautious sip. Hazelnut and caramel with extra sugar. Perfect.
"You're a good man, Brendon Michaels," says Dean, winking at Brendon as he ducks into the staff room. Kelly's waiting back there, pouncing on his free coffee as soon as he enters. Dean lets her have it, still mesmerized by the flash of silver that her open mouth reveals.
She makes a face when she swallows. "God, it's exactly like what I ordered when I was twelve years old and didn't know any better." Dean takes his coffee back, clutching it protectively.
"You know," says Kelly, flipping her newspaper closed and tucking it under one arm, "one day you're going to tell me who exactly you meet for lunch every day." She must read something in his face, because she reaches out as if to start an apology. Dean heads for the counter.
"Don't be like that," Kelly yells to his retreating back. Brendon is serving the last customer of the day when Dean sneaks up behind him and leans over his shoulder to check out the exposed cleavage of the soccer mom he's serving.
Brendon smiles back at Dean after she leaves. "Didn't even look surgically enhanced."
Dean hadn't realized how close he was to Brendon. The sharp tang of Brendon's aftershave, mixed with sweat from a long day bustling around the store, reaches him. Brendon knocks into Dean solidly as he turns around, trapped between the counter and Dean's body.
"Sorry, dude," Dean says, holding his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender.
Brendon just gives him a fond look and ducks around Dean to head out. His shaggy bangs fall into his eyes as he fiddles with the ties on his extremely girly apron. Dean would mock him more if he wasn't forced to wear one too.
"How many times I gotta tell you not to double knot this thing?" says Dean, and he knocks Brendon's fingers gently out of the way to reach the string at his waist.
When his own shift ends, Dean goes to pick Sam up from work. He steals Ellen a brownie- only slightly stale- before he goes, because he's pretty sure she's not supposed to let him upstairs without an appointment. The brownie buys him passage, and he saunters past her desk with a smile.
Sam is staring down at his desk, face blank. He's stuffing important-looking envelopes and placing them into a neat pile.
"You're so anal," says Dean, watching Sam's fingers fly over the papers. Sam jumps at the sound of his voice, knocking his pile over. Dean ignores this. "Ready to go?" Sam won't meet his eyes. One of Sam's bad days, then, and Dean wonders absently what's happened since lunch.
Sam nods stiffly and stands. Dean's halfway to the door before he realizes Sam isn't behind him, is in fact still standing over his desk, organizing his pens and pencils into their proper holders.
"Sam," Dean interrupts, and hates himself for the crack in his voice. He waves to Ellen on the way out, but her face closes down when she sees Sam and she ducks her head hastily. Dean hates her a little.
On the way home, his phone vibrates in his pocket. Dean fumbles for it, one hand on the wheel of the Impala. It's a text message from Brendon, complaining about his upstairs neighbor's loud, obnoxious music, and blaming Dean for contributing to the general plague of bad classic rock in Brendon's life.
"What's so funny?" Sam asks, and even if he's smiling his voice is tight.
"Nothing, Sammy," Dean says, and stuffs the phone back into his pocket. Sam goes back to staring out the window at the passing storefronts.
Dean makes spaghetti for dinner, with tomato sauce from a jar. He adds some leftover meatballs from yesterday, though, and it turns out all right.
On his bad days, Sam eats- wrong, shoveling it in like Dean never painstakingly taught him how to use a fork and knife. He stares right through Dean, and won't respond to Dean's tentative questions. Dean takes his plate into the other room and eats in front of television, letting Jeopardy and Deal or No Deal numb him. There's this one model who looks just like that girl from the haunting in Boxborough. Dean kicks his sandals off and rests his toes over each other, pressing at the ache in the balls of his feet.
He falls asleep that way, and only wakes up when Sam sits down next to him. Sam curls his socked feet under himself and lets the muted glow of the television light his face. Sam looks guilty, but Dean cuts him off before he can start to apologize, voice rough. "You should go to bed, Sammy."
Sam nods, but lingers on their ratty couch for another minute. "Tomorrow," Sam hesitates, "I was thinking maybe I could meet you at the coffee shop. For lunch. And maybe meet your... Kelly. And Brendon, right?"
Dean fights down a grin, nodding like it's easy. "Just try not to freak them out with your geeky ways," he says. One corner of Sam's mouth crooks up nervously. Sam heads off to bed, then, shoulders slouched and hands in his pockets.
Dean leans his head back against the couch, closing his eyes. It's not that he needs proof that Sammy is still in there, hidden under the permanent scowl and obsessive habits, but it's nice to have it anyways. It's been two months since Sam got him back, a year since his deal came due, and Dean wishes he knew what happened in that time to mess Sam up this bad. But mostly he's just glad to not remember it himself. He can't imagine Hell was anything- anywhere Dean would have liked to stay for longer than he did. Ten months, fuck.
Sam got him back, though. Dean doesn't remember much about the days after, but he vividly recalls the half-crazed panic in Sam's eyes, the trouble Sam had forming words, like he hadn't talked to anybody in- well, in ten months. He remembers the feel of Sam's breath against his neck, Sam's weight curled into his aching body. He doesn't want to remember anything else.
When Dean wakes up the next morning, Sam is making oatmeal.
"What," Sam says defensively. "I like oatmeal."
Dean helps himself to a bowl. "This crap is disgusting," he says, watching it drip from his spoon, and pours in half a jar of brown sugar.
Sam makes a face back and eats his own oatmeal, pointedly ignoring Dean's disgust.
"Kelly, Brendon," Dean says five hours later, "This is Sam, my geek brother."
Brendon starts forward to shake Sam's hand, giving Dean a strange look until Dean realizes he's still standing in front of Sam, blocking the way. He steps back hastily, shaking the tension out of his shoulders. Kelly gives Sam an appraising once-over and breaks into a wide smile, following Brendon's lead and holding out bright magenta fingernails to shake.
There's a moment of awkwardness, in which Dean realizes Sam hasn't said anything yet. Sam is, in fact, shaking a little. He looks like he's trying to choke out words, and Dean's not sure if they're going to be stilted greetings or a panicked plea to get out of here, but either way Dean makes his apologies to Kelly and Brendon and pushes Sam out the door.
Dean sits Sam down on the curb in front of the coffee shop and crouches in front of him. He can feel himself talking, a steady stream of Sam it's okay hey Sammy look at me Sam c'mon it's just me, Sam, Sam LOOK AT ME SAM and he wants to shake his brother into awareness, wants to trap Sam's hands down to stop them shivering.
It takes Sam a minute but he focuses on Dean's eyes again, and the blank stare Dean gets is worse than shame, than fear, than humiliation. Sam doesn't say anything, just reaches out absently for Dean's lower lip. The sharp sting and the blood on Sam's finger alerts Dean to the fact he's bitten his lip. Dean collapses down next to Sam on the curb, letting the crunch of the first leaves of fall drown out the pounding of his heart for a second.
"I'm sorry," Sam says a few minutes later.
Dean doesn't look back at the windows of the coffee shop, where his coworkers must be looking at them, confused. He lets the silence between them settle for a moment, then stands and pulls his brother to his feet.
"Did you see her tongue ring?" Dean asks.
Sam doesn't answer. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets and heads for the falafel place on Crescent, nudging his brother along.
Jerry, his asshole manager who's six years younger than Dean and snotty about it, makes him stay late to do inventory. Dean calls Sam and tells him to take the T home. It's only a few stops, so there's no reason Dean should be forcing thoughts of Sam out of his mind as he counts bags of 16 oz. cups.
Brendon is sitting on the floor with a clipboard, eyes closed, tipping slightly to one side. Dean nudges him with his foot. "Quit sleeping and get your ass to work. I'm hungry."
"Deean," Brendon whines, burying his face in his knee and hiding under the clipboard.
"I mean it," says Dean.
"Jerk," mumbles Brendon as he gets up. His eyes are still closed halfway. So friggin' tall- not quite as big as Sammy but more than eye to eye with Dean.
"Bit-" Dean bites down on the word, hard, and the tightness of his throat is nothing Dean can do anything about. Dean pushes Brendon in the direction of the bags of imported coffee.
Dean leans over to pick up his own clipboard. When he turns around, Brendon is in his face, suddenly alert, and Dean jerks backward. There's shelves behind him, though, so there's nowhere to go.
"Dean," Brendon begins, "tell me if I'm reading this wrong." And before Dean can joke it off, Brendon's lips are pressed against his, dry and soft, not moving, just hesitant pressure. He pulls back an inch after a moment. Dean can feel their shared breath, can see the nervous flicks of Brendon's eyes, glancing between Dean and the floor. His hair is in his eyes, and Dean feels his hand come up automatically to smooth his bangs out of his face.
As soon as he touches Brendon's face, Dean knows he's going to yank Brendon forward, dragging him in with hands fisted at the back of his head. Dean spins Brendon around and shoves him up against the shelves, pushing him off balance and biting at his lips. Dean's never been so hungry for anything in his life, not even after he brought back Sam and had his first meal for two days, not even after Sam dragged him back from hell and put a perfect cheeseburger in his hands. Brendon gets with the program quick enough, curling hands into Dean's belt and rocking against him.
Bags of coffee are falling off the shelves, as Dean bites bruises into the soft skin of his neck. Dean jerks him off, nothing but spit to ease the way. When he comes into Dean's hand, he's scrabbling at the shelves for balance, cheeks flushed a deep red. Dean's cock is pressing against his jeans, probably leaving a hell of a wet spot, but as Brendon takes a minute to recover Dean can feel the panic set in. Brendon looks like he's just been beaten up by the world's gayest mugger, disheveled clothes and red marks that will be bruises tomorrow.
"Here," says Brendon, reaching for Dean's zipper, but Dean backs away.
Brendon's eyes widen. "Are you- Dean, are you okay? Because I have to say-"
Dean doesn't stay to find out what Brendon has to say. He bolts, leaving behind the clipboards, the inventory, his jacket. When he reaches the Impala, he stares at the driver's door blankly, reaching for his jacket pockets. No coat, no keys, fuck. Fuck.
He's not jimmying open the Impala unless he absolutely has to, so Dean gathers his courage and walks back, hoping against hope that Brendon will have left by now.
He hasn't, of course. When Dean walks into the back room, Brendon is gathering up the coffee from the floor, eyes red and swollen. He's just a kid, and Dean hates himself on ten thousand levels when Brendon refuses to look up at him.
"Brendon-" Dean starts, and of course that's when Sam walks in.
He's carrying three sodas and a bag from the sandwich place two blocks over, and he's smiling nervously. "Hey, Dean- Brendon- I brought you guys some dinner, thought you might- want- something to eat-" and that must be when Sam notices the coffee on the floor, the come smeared at the bottom of Brendon's t-shirt, and the serious level of tension in the room. The speech is clearly rehearsed, though, because he keeps on stuttering the words even as his fingers tighten on the bag, "as, you know- an apology for earlier-"
Dean can't say anything, wants to explain, but Sam takes one look at his face and drops the food. It's not a big room, so it's only two steps before Sam is slamming Brendon up against the shelves, not two steps away from where Dean had shoved his hand down Brendon's pants.
Dean tries to yank Sam away, but Sam shoves him backward hard enough to send Dean sprawling. He's still holding Brendon up with, jesus, one hand.
"Let him go, Sam," Dean says, cradling his shoulder. He's gonna have a bruise tomorrow.
Sam ignores him.
Dean can feel the words spill out in a panic, "Sam- let him go, for the love of God, what the fuck- Sam, it wasn't anything- he didn't do anything-" and then "he's a civilian, Sam," and that's what makes Sam's hands unclench in Brendon's shirt. The kid throws his hands in the air and books it while Sam's still turning on Dean, slowly, deadly.
"You got something to say to me, Dean?" and no, Dean doesn't, Dean is never ever going there, but apparently he is because he can't stop the words coming out of his mouth.
"Yeah, I do, Sam, which is we don't hurt people," Dean's voice is rising of its own accord, "We help people, Sam, we don't- we don't use them to- to-" and he can't choke the rest of it out.
Everything about Sam is tensed, steady, and very fucking dangerous. "So what, Dean? What I just supposed to leave you there? In Hell, Dean?" His voice has dropped a register or two, and Dean shoves his hands in his pockets to hide the shaking.
"You weren't supposed to hurt anybody, Sam. There had to be some other-"
"There wasn't, Dean! There was no other way! And I wasn't going to waste forever looking while you burned, Dean!" Dean hates, hates that Sam has four inches on him at times like this, because the way Sam is towering over him is infuriating as hell and scary as fuck.
Sometimes, Dean sits bolt upright in the middle of the night, blurry images still fading behind his eyes. The blackened roof of a chapel. What looks like an inverted Devil's trap, drawn in reddish chalk on the floor. Long blond hair. Blood. He remembers forcing his eyes open, even though the light was still too bright, and trying to clean the smears of blood off Sam's face, running his hands over Sammy's nose and cheeks and the soft skin of his eyelids.
He always puts a hand on the knife underneath his pillow and goes back to sleep, shaking. There's nothing else to do, because Sam is his brother and Dean picked his side a long time ago.
"You can't-" Dean says.
"I can and I would again, Dean," says Sam, advancing. "Do you want to know who she was? What her obit said? Do you want to hear about her parents, her boyfriend, her dogs?"
Dean stops hearing, then, Sam's yelling dissolving into a comfortable blank. He looks at Sam's face as he yells, instead, memorizing the soft indents of his lips, the flared tips of his nostrils, the wide span of his eyelashes. His brother.
"I'd do it again," Sam says, defiant, and pulls Dean in.
Sam take deep, shuddering breaths against Dean's neck, his arms are crushingly tight around Dean's ribs. Dean lets Sam's weight drag him down, until he's sitting in grainy piles of spilled coffee. Sam's forehead knocks against Dean's collarbone.
"I'd do it again," Sam repeats, softer.
"I know," says Dean, and buries his face in his brother's hair. If his lips brush Sam's head, it's just because he's resting there.
Sam doesn't take it that way, though, banging his skull into Dean's nose as he jumps. He's got one arm pinning Dean to the floor, is kneeling over Dean's thighs, heavy and broad. Dean still doesn't know exactly what happened in those four years to bulk Sam up from a lanky teenager into this- this man, pressing Dean down like he's got the right to crush him into the ground. He probably does.
"Let me up," Dean tries to order, clearing his throat when his voice doesn't work. Sam's not moving, staring at Dean's face like he's gonna find something there.
Dean's always trusted his gut, and it's telling him now that he should get up, move away, take Sam and go. He can't, though, because Sam is clutching at the back of his neck and leaning in to bite at Dean's bottom lip. Dean can't breathe around Sam's mouth, feels like his chest is constricted by Sam's other hand on his ribs, wants out and can't do anything but let Sam press him down and thumb at his open, panting mouth.
"C'mon, Dean," Sam urges, and he's so close to the Sam that Dean had picked up in Palo Alto, before all this hunting crap had messed him up again, that Dean closes his eyes, fists a hand in Sam's hair and drags him in to press their mouths together, firmly, almost chastely, willing Sam to stay.
Sam grins against Dean's mouth and hooks his fingers into the top of Dean's jeans, digging into warm skin. Dean's almost distracted from Sam's clever fingers unbuttoning and unzipping by the way Sam is biting a trail down Dean's chest, hot and wet through Dean's shirt. Dean stares down at the top of his brother's head, nipping at the skin revealed where Dean's shirt has ridden up.
Sam rests a possessive hand on the curve of Dean's hip, right at the crease of his thigh. "You're not gonna- Dean, I can't let you go away from me anymore." His fingers are digging in, tight enough to make Dean try to shift away. Sam digs his other an elbow into Dean's leg, pinning him almost casually. For a second, Dean flashes back to roughhousing with Sam as a kid, his awkward limbs flailing around, Dean laughing and ruffling his hair- and then Sam is lunging at him, trapping him, still waiting for Dean to promise his life away again.
Dean nods, "Yeah, Sammy, you know I won't," and hates himself until Sam's eyes brighten. Sam kisses at his jaw, briefly, lightly, and then moves down Dean's body to yank his jeans and two-dollar boxers down. The cool air of the coffeehouse hits Dean's dick and he shivers, before Sam wraps a warm hand around it and cups it to his cheek, letting his rough stubble burn against the head in just the right way.
Then Sam's mouth is on him, no warning, and Dean can't stop his back from arching or his hand from fisting in Sam's hair. He stares up at the ceiling of the coffeehouse, because if he looks down at the way Sam's head is bobbing over his open zipper, he probably won't be able to stop himself from thrusting wildly up into Sam's throat, maybe banging his skull back against the floor.
When he comes, it's because he sneaks a look and discovers Sam's free hand working busily in his own jeans, still kneeling over Dean. Dean tries to keep his eyes wide as he gives up and presses Sam's head down onto him, holds him there as Dean comes- probably a bit too roughly- because Sam's thrusting against Dean's calf and his own hand in a jerky rhythm. Sam lets Dean's dick slide out of his mouth and pants against Dean's hip through his jeans. Dean pets his head, still out of it, until Sam cries out and shudders once more.
They don't bother cleaning up when they leave.
Dean's pretty sure they're never coming back, though they could probably use the last couple weeks' wages. It's not worth it to stay.
"Maybe we'll get a dog," Dean says, Impala rumbling underneath him, heading southwest. Somewhere warm this time, where Dean can dig his bare toes into the warm dirt.
"Yeah," Sam says from across the front seat. He's still looking out the window, at the landscapes flying by.