[fic] Who Here Would Choose (To Walk in Those Shoes) (2/2)
Who Here Would Choose (To Walk in Those Shoes) (2/2)
( Part 1)
They get a room in the same motel they stayed at before. In the parking lot Dean fiddles with something in the trunk while Sam pulls their bags out of the backseat.
There's a man getting out of a pickup truck several spaces away, a fast food bag in one hand and a cell phone in the other, and he'll die in six years when he drinks too much at a buddy's bachelor party and runs his truck off the road on the drive home, hits a tree head-on. It won't be quick, and he'll feel every second of it.
"You know," Sam shouts to Dean, "every two minutes someone is injured in an alcohol-related car crash, and every thirty minutes someone dies in one!"
"Huh," Dean answers. "Fascinating. You remembering how you drove my car drunk like a moron last time we were here and how I'll kill you if you ever do it again?"
Sam's seen Dean drive his car half-conscious and with most of his blood on the wrong side of his body, has done the same thing himself, and he thinks alcohol really doesn't compare to that. Especially in the mind of someone whose judgment is clouded by alcohol, like Sam's was when he made the decision to do it. But that's not the point here.
"Yes. And I'll never do it again, because about 25% of traffic fatalities among children involve alcohol!"
Dean peers around the popped trunk at Sam, eyebrow raised and staring like he doesn't know what Sam is doing but he wishes he'd stop. "Dude, I'm standing right here. You don't have to yell."
The man's gone by now anyway, without even glancing at Sam, so Sam stops talking. He thinks about the sixteen year old back in Utah, wonders if he really did any good at all or if he inadvertently screwed with Dean's head and failed a kid who needed him all in the same moment.
The first thing Sam does when they get into the motel room is head to the bathroom to pee and splash cold water on his face. Everything in the bathroom smells like lavender, which he remembers from their first visit because the scent helped him puke a few times when he was hung over. Smelling it now makes his stomach turn and consider reliving the experience, but he leaves before it can get the chance.
When Sam comes out, Dean's tossing his car keys in the air and catching them with one hand, slowly going higher and higher like he's showing off. "So I was thinking the first thing we should do," he says, "is stop by that bar, talk to a few people, see if we can't get some info on this old woman who took advantage of poor, defenseless you."
Dean managed to bounce back fairly quickly from his earlier mood. When Sam woke up from his nap in the car, Dean had his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up, and Sam stared groggily at his bare arms and thought about licking the vein on the inside of Dean's wrist, sucking until it bruised. When he realized what he was thinking, his whole body jolted, and he ended up cracking his knee into the door and his elbow into the window, and Dean can't ever see Sam get hurt because of his own stupidity without commenting on it. And then somehow everything was okay again, with Dean fiddling cheerfully with the radio and Sam finishing off a bag of sunflower seeds he found under the seat, and Dean seemed content to pretend he wasn't apparently having incestuous fantasies and Sam didn't know about them now.
But Sam's not content with pretending. Not at all.
"Actually," he says, "I was thinking the first thing we should do is talk."
Dean catches the keys and clenches his fist around them. He stares up at where the wall meets the ceiling and looks far too calm for him to really feel it. "Nah. Sounds like a pretty crappy plan to me."
"Yeah, well. You don't have much of a choice. I know where the bar is, I know what she looks like, I know what her name is, so you won't get anywhere without me. And I'm not leaving this room until we talk."
Sam sits down on the bed Dean's claimed for himself and nudges Dean's stuff over until it's hanging halfway off the edge.
Dean tells Sam with just a glance what he thinks of Sam being in his bed right now; he's not happy about it. "Told you, Sam. Just let it go."
"No."
"Dammit, Sam, you don't-" Dean cuts himself off, stares at Sam the closest to helpless and pleading Sam's seen him since they were kids.
But Sam only stares back stubborn and determined. Tells Dean, 'No fucking way,' with every muscle in his body. He knows how to dig his heels in when something's important. And this is.
Dean narrows his eyes and curls his lip in a snarl. "Fine," he says. "You wanna talk? Talk to yourself. You sit in here and have a nice long heart-to-heart with yourself about whatever the fuck you want. But I'm in the mood for a nice cold beer, so I'm gonna go get one from every bar I can find in a ten mile radius, and while I'm having my beer I'm gonna do what you should be more concerned about doing, which is trying to find this stupid witch who cursed you. So don't wait up."
Dean grabs his jacket and makes like he's going to storm out of the motel room. Sam does the first thing he can think of to stop him, which is jump off the bed and grab Dean by the shoulders before he can get the door unlocked and open, spin him to face Sam, and hold him in place. The jacket falls from Dean's hands and lands by Sam's feet.
Sam hasn't had much time to think about this, hasn't given it all the thought it deserves. It's not something he's considered before-not seriously, anyway-but now that Dean's put it in his head, he knows he's going to have a hell of a lot of trouble getting it back out. It'll weigh on them both, drive a wedge between them deeper than the one that's already there, and he can't have that. It'll kill them.
And it's not like Sam's a stranger to doing stupid things. He abandoned his family, ran off to a school in a town he'd never even seen before with nothing more than a scholarship, a few hundred dollars, and whatever he could fit in a single backpack, and that was a monumentally stupid thing for an eighteen year old to do. And he still considers it to be one of the smartest decisions he's ever made.
This one won't be any different. He can feel it.
Sam cups one hand against Dean's jaw, rubs his palm over the stubble and gets his thumb as close as he can to Dean's bottom lip without actually touching it, a gesture he figures no one can misunderstand. "It's okay," he says, in the gentlest voice he's capable of. "We can do this."
There's nowhere for Dean to go except back against the wall, and that's exactly what he does. He pushes away from Sam so hard his back slams into the wall, and he hisses, reaches over his shoulder to rub at one of his shoulder blades, and looks everywhere but at Sam.
"Don't do this," he says. "Christ, Sam, you have no idea what you're doing right now. No idea. You don't know shit about any of this."
"So tell me."
Dean shakes his head and tries to sidle across the wall away from Sam, but Sam steps closer, makes it so Dean can't run from this without touching Sam, and that's enough to stop Dean where he stands.
"I told you, Sam. You have no idea what you're fucking with here, so just leave it alone."
"No."
Sam kisses Dean. The corner of his mouth, because the minute Dean realizes what's happening he tries to turn his head away, but Sam's faster and planning for it. Half a second later, Dean turns his head back and meets Sam's lips full on, grabs Sam's shoulders and pulls him up against him.
It's weird. There's no way around that. Sam's only ever kissed girls, and those girls didn't have stubble scratching Sam's face or a near-painful grip on Sam's shoulders, didn't snatch the dominance from Sam's hands before he offered it first, and sure as hell hadn't been the ones to steal Sam porn as a sex ed tool back when he tripped into puberty. It's weird. But to be a Winchester is to be weird, so it's almost sort of normal.
Dean pulls back from Sam's lips to kiss his chin, then his jaw, and then lick down his throat. There's a spot on Sam's neck just below his ear that gets him weak and hungry every time, and he grabs the back of Dean's head and tries to lead him toward it gently. Dean catches the hint and lets himself be led. He nuzzles the spot first before he closes his mouth on it and sucks, and Sam falls forward, traps Dean against the wall, and moans.
Sam pants into Dean's hair and tries to groan, "Fuck, Dean," but the sound that comes out of his mouth isn't so coherent.
Dean pushes Sam away suddenly, sending Sam into a moment of panic, thinking maybe Dean's still intent on freaking out after all and going to bolt for real this time. But Dean only kicks off his shoes and then pushes Sam backwards again, and again, until his knees hit Dean's bed and buckle, sending him flat on his back. Then he gets the picture and scoots himself higher up until only his feet are hanging off the edge while Dean slides his outer shirt off his shoulders and tosses it somewhere off to the left.
"Fucking hell, Sam," Dean breathes. He's staring down at where Sam's shirt is inched up and Sam's jeans are inched down, and then he's climbing on top of Sam and stroking the bared sliver of skin with two fingers. "Be sure. Be absolutely fucking sure here, Sammy, I'm not kidding. We do this, and you're opening up something real goddamn big. And I'm telling you right now, it isn't gonna go back in easy. So if you can't handle it, say it now, and we stop. No harm, no foul."
If Sam was going to freak out, it would have been earlier, probably around the time he encouraged his big brother to start sucking on his neck. Right now Sam's dick is already so hard it hurts, and the only thing he couldn't handle is Dean getting up and walking out.
"You can't dish out anything I can't take," Sam says. "I've been telling you that for years."
Dean makes a face like that's the last answer he expected to come out of Sam's mouth, and then he smirks. "Punk."
Sam's wearing two shirts, a long-sleeve button-up over a plain t-shirt, and Dean goes for the top layer, starts unbuttoning it and glaring down at his own fingers when they fumble a little on the first button. Sam swats his hands away and finishes for him, shrugs the long-sleeve shirt off his shoulders and pulls the t-shirt over his head.
"If I, you know, do something you don't want," Dean says, getting a knee between Sam's thighs and both hands on Sam's chest, keeping him down on his back, "kick me."
Then Dean's mouth is on Sam's neck, right at the spot below his ear, closing his teeth around a small circle of skin and sucking hard. It hurts, but hurts really fucking good, and Sam rocks his hips into Dean's thigh. Dean moves his mouth lower, near Sam's collarbone, grinds his leg down, and Sam just clutches at Dean's shoulders and groans.
Dean pulls back, stares down at Sam with eyes that are all pupil, and his hands are shaking just a little on Sam's chest, gripping harder to try and hide it. Sam can't remember ever seeing Dean shake before. It makes his vision go a little hazy.
"Think I just figured out why everyone always wants to choke you," Dean says. "Your neck was fucking made to be marked up."
The bruises on Dean's neck from the spirit in Minneapolis are nowhere near cleared up yet, but Sam's been looking at them all day and consequently has stopped noticing them. Until now, anyway. Now Sam wants to touch them, run the pads of his fingers over them and maybe press a few light kisses to the darker ones. But Dean knocks his hand away when he tries and grins in a way that says, 'Well, aren't you real cute?'
So Sam concentrates on getting Dean's t-shirt off instead. He gets both hands under the bottom edge and starts tugging up, but when his knuckles rub against Dean's bare stomach, Dean knocks them away, still grinning.
"Dean?"
"Sorry, Sammy," Dean says, pulling back so he can drag Sam's legs far enough apart that he can kneel between them. "Usually I encourage exploring. Well, usually I'd be going about this whole thing a hell of a lot different. See, if you were anyone else, I'd go slow. Let you touch me however you fucking want, and then take my damn sweet time touching you."
Dean's eyes are on the bulge in Sam's jeans now, gaze so hard and hungry it makes Sam squirm just a little. Then Dean unbuttons his jeans and drags them down carefully just off his hips and follows with his underwear. It's not like Dean's never seen his dick before about a dozen times. But there's seeing and then there's looking and licking his lips like he'd be happy wrapping them around it, and it's the first time he's done that. But Sam likes that, really likes that, and if Dean wants to put those lips on his cock Sam won't complain.
"But this is you," Dean continues. "And I got a couple edges I need to get rid of first before we can go slow."
He wraps his hand loosely around the tip of Sam's cock, thumbs at the slit. It's too good, too strong, Sam can't take it. He whines high and long, one of the most girly noises that's ever come out of him, and he thinks for sure that Dean'll tease him for it, at least call him on it.
But Dean doesn't. Instead he makes a quiet shushing sound, moves his thumb, and tightens his grip, strokes his palm down to the base Sam's erection. The curse it drags out of Sam's throat is rough and low, distinctly more masculine, and Dean answers it with, "Fuck, yes, that's it, Sam," and strokes him again, hard but slow, so Sam can feel every inch slide against Dean's palm.
"After this we can do whatever you want," Dean tells him, eyes on his own hand, on Sam's hips rocking up into it. "You can touch me. Jerk me, suck me, lie there and let me hump you like a fucking dog in heat. Or you can make me sit here aching for it until you can get it up again to fuck me. But first, just-" He lets go of Sam long enough to spit into his palm, and then he closes his fingers around Sam's dick again, grabbing a hold of Sam's hip with his free hand and using it to pull Sam's ass up onto his thighs. "First just give me this. I want your come all over me, Sammy, want you to make me fucking filthy."
Dean's hand is better than anyone else that's had their hand on Sam's cock. Every stroke is sure and sweet; Dean knows what he's doing, and he knows that he knows what he's doing. With the spit, his dick slides easily in Dean's fist, makes dirty wet noises that drive Sam almost as crazy as the friction.
"And I'll fuck you later," Dean breathes, finally raising his eyes from between Sam's legs, meeting Sam's gaze and sending a shiver all the way to Sam's toes with how dark it is, how open and hot. "You'll let me fuck you, won't you Sammy?"
Sam imagines how he'd feel stretched around Dean's cock, on all fours, Dean's teeth in his shoulder, grunting in his ear. The sound that comes out of Sam's mouth is low and filthy and embarrassing and all the answer Dean needs.
"Yeah, thought so. I'll make it good for you, I promise, best fuck you've ever had. Slick you up good and stretch you open. I'm fucking amazing with my fingers, Sammy, believe me, and I'll work you so sweet you'll be begging to come. By the time I get my dick in you, you'll be damn near crying for it."
Dean leans forward and uses his free hand to smooth Sam's hair off his forehead. Sam angles his head so that he can press his lips to Dean's wrist and then open his mouth and suck hard. Dean growls, and his grip on Sam's dick tightens, painfully at first and then fucking perfect. Slick and tight, and Sam just thrusts into Dean's hand again and again, encouraging him to move faster.
"I'll let you get us started," Dean groans, speeding up his strokes, breath hitching when Sam moans against his wrist. "Let you be the one to start rocking your ass against me, fucking yourself on my cock, watch you turn into such a little cockslut for me. And all the while I'll be stroking your dick like this."
He loosens his grip abruptly, fingers falling open until they're just barely brushing against Sam's cock. It's pure torture, and Sam lets out a loud whimper-whine that makes Dean laugh.
"Yeah, that's right," Dean says, voice close to a purr as his grip tightens again, ripping a curse from Sam's throat, "and you'll be making sounds like that the whole time. By the time I take over, you'll be out of your fucking mind, Sam, won't be thinking a goddamn thing except how much you need me, how fucking perfect my dick feels in your ass."
Dean pulls his hand away from Sam's face, fingers damp with sweat, and brings it to his mouth, licks the sweat away. The sight of it, Dean's tongue working his own fingers, getting them wet and shiny, makes Sam want like he's never wanted before. He reaches for Dean's hand and brings it down to his own lips, sucking each finger into his mouth, tasting Dean's spit and traces of his own sweat. Dean stares down at him, suddenly looking dazed, lost, like Sam just took something crucial from him and he has no idea how to get it back. Right now Sam thinks it's the hottest expression he's seen on anyone's face ever.
"Jesus," Dean groans, slides the finger in Sam's mouth halfway out and then back in, fucking Sam's lips. "Goddammit, Sam, can't even keep my fucking head straight around you."
He all but rips his fingers from Sam's mouth and brings them between Sam's legs, strokes Sam's balls, gets them nice and wet, and then cups them in his palm, squeezes. Then Dean's jerking his cock harder and faster, and it feels so good it almost hurts. Sam thrusts up roughly into his fist, groans loud and long, and clenches his fingers in the bedspread, feeling his orgasm coming up on him quick.
"Dean," he moans. "Dean, please, so close."
Dean gives Sam a look that's all desperation, like he's the one who's close, like he's the one about to come unhinged in Sam's hand instead of the other way around. It makes Sam want to pull him down and kiss him, but there's no way to do that without messing up Dean's rhythm, and Sam wants to come too badly right now to risk it.
"Yeah, that's it," Dean breathes. "Just let it come. Fuck, want you to shoot your come all over me, make a fucking mess of me. Want you everywhere, Sammy, c'mon."
"Shit, yeah," Sam moans, grabbing Dean's arm, digging his fingertips into the skin, hips moving erratically. He comes on Dean's shirt, his jeans, his knuckles, whining low and closing his eyes, listening to Dean pant and feeling Dean's hand slow, his grip loosen, but still not let go.
*
The fourth time in his life Sam jerked off, he raised his hand to his mouth and licked himself clean. He was sure then that his come was the grossest thing he'd ever tasted, and he ducked his head in the bathroom sink and filled his mouth with water straight from the faucet to chase the taste away. He never did it again.
Dean's come tastes like that, and somehow the taste isn't quite so repulsive now as it was then. It's familiar; it reminds him of what it was like to be young and content, in that time only a month or two before he really looked at his life and started wanting more, started resenting his dad for refusing to give him more.
Instead of rushing to the bathroom to wash his mouth out, he stays on the bed and watches Dean get up to pee. The walls are thin enough that Sam can hear the stream of piss hitting toilet water. He's heard Dean pee and even shit and puke dozens of times, but now he's hearing it when he can still taste Dean's come on his tongue. It makes the moment seem even more surreal, and for a minute Sam wonders if he'll be jerking awake any second now and have to spend the rest of the day listening to Dean make fun of him for having dirty dreams and creaming his shorts. It doesn't happen.
Dean washes his hands but doesn't bother drying them, and when he comes out of the bathroom the first thing he does is flick cold water on Sam and grin when Sam shouts, "Hey!" Then he glances between Sam's bed and his own like he doesn't know which one to jump in, and his grin fades.
"I guess you won't be fucking any women in my bed this time, huh," Sam says, and rolls onto his stomach, resting his cheek on his forearm.
"Could fuck you in your bed," Dean answers, voice low and guarded, testing the waters.
"Yeah, you could."
Dean grins again, wider this time, and shoots Sam an over-exaggerated lecherous wink.
He'll freak out later, Sam knows, once this sinks in, and it'll be Sam's job to keep him from doing too much damage to either of them when he does. He can do it, though, because Sam knows he did a good thing here, and he's not about to take it back.
"Wonder if any places are still open for delivery," Dean mutters, and turns to the menus that are sitting in a neat stack on top of the phone book next to the TV.
And that's when it happens. One second Sam's smirking at Dean's bare ass on display right in front of him, and the next he's seeing Dean on the floor of an unfamiliar room, backed into a corner. There's a hellhound staring right at Dean, and Dean's staring back, no guns, no salt rings, nothing to fight back with. He's gripping the amulet around his neck fiercely in his fist, and he's terrified out of his mind but trying not to show it, except you can't hide fear when it's so close to consuming you. Dean's last thought will be of Sam, of how much he loves his little brother and how the best thing he's done in his whole life is die for him.
The worst part is that Sam doesn't have a fucking clue where he is in this thing. Why Dean's dying and Sam's not there doing everything in his power to stop it.
The second worst part is that when the vision ends, Sam is still no closer to discovering how to save his brother than he was a month ago. And he's wasted time trying to figure out these goddamn death visions when he should have been ignoring them and continuing his research.
Sam can't cry. Dean'll turn around and see, and he'll demand Sam tell him what's wrong. And whether or not Sam actually tells him is irrelevant; either way, it'll end badly. He can't cry.
He rubs his eyes viciously and accidentally pokes one of them hard, and then he's crying anyway, body's natural reaction. Dean chooses that moment to turn around and find Sam wiping tears from the corner of his eye.
"Sam," Dean says, worry and just a tinge of panic in his tone. "Sam, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just poked myself in the eye."
"Good job, Einstein." Dean smirks at him and then holds up one of the menus. "This Chinese place is open for a couple more hours. It's got a pretty high delivery fee, but…"
"Yeah," Sam answers, and lifts himself so he's kneeling instead of lying down. "Sure, but-" He reaches for Dean and nearly falls forward off the bed in the process, but he manages to get his fingers around Dean's wrist and tug him forward. "Fuck me first."
Dean's eyes widen and glance down at Sam's cock, which isn't hard or particularly interested in sex at the moment but could easily be persuaded to be. "Dude. We just went two rounds. You want to go again?"
"Why not?" Sam puts as much confusion into his voice as possible and then fakes a sudden realization. "Oh. You can't do it. Okay, that's fine. Just didn't realize Dean Winchester wouldn't have the stamina for-"
Dean slams the menu back down where he found it. "Bitch," he growls, and shoves Sam onto his back.
*
When Dean's asleep, eyelids fluttering in REM, Sam grabs his cell phone and shuts himself in the bathroom, sitting naked on the floor with his back against the side of the bathtub.
He almost calls Bobby first, but then decides against it. He can't say it out loud yet; he doesn't want to hear himself say it. Instead Sam calls the bar again, and this time the bartender says, "Are you Sam? Got a message for you. A woman calls herself Miranda came in about a week ago, said you might call. I've got her number here, if you want it."
It's the middle of the night, no time to be calling a woman past sixty he's only talked to once, but Sam does it anyway. He gets her machine the first and second time, but Miranda picks up on the third and sounds happy to hear from him even if she makes no attempt to deny he just woke her up.
"It's nice to talk to you again," she says. "Thought I'd be getting a call from you one of these days. Of course, I didn't realize it'd be at this hour."
"Sorry," Sam lies. "I just needed to speak to you as soon as possible."
"So I suppose you'll be wanting to talk in person, hm?"
There's the sound of a bed creaking in the other room, and then Dean makes a noise somewhere between a snore and a snort. Out of REM sleep, then, and into one of the lighter stages. He probably just sprawled all across the bed, and Sam'll have to shove him back to one side when he goes to bed. Probably wake him up, and then Dean'll give him a grouchy look before falling right back to sleep. Or maybe this time he'll smile. Sam's never woken Dean up only a few hours after fucking, so for all he knows sex makes Dean more pleasant in the middle of the night.
"Yeah, that'd be nice," Sam tells Miranda. "How about tomorrow night?"
"Tomorrow night," she replies, "is just fine with me."
*
Sam can manipulate people easily when he puts his mind to it. His dad and Dean raised him to be good at it, and he'd be awful at his job if he hadn't learned. Sam's heard people say you can never overtake your teacher, but that's bullshit because he can manipulate Dean without Dean ever realizing it. If he really tries, if he really wants to. And he does.
He has his mouth on Dean before either of them is even fully awake. Sam sucks on the head of Dean's cock, tongues at the slit just for the coating of pre-come it earns him. When Dean groans and gets clumps of Sam's hair between his fingers, Sam pulls off and crawls up to kiss the skin just behind his ear. He presses his erection against Dean's thigh, rocks his hips, moans, "Fuck, Dean, need you," until Dean grabs Sam by the back of the neck and twists his head until their mouths meet.
After Dean takes a shower, he comes out of the bathroom to find Sam on the bed, dick in his hand, stroking slowly, drawing it out. "Dean," he sighs, and instantly Dean is on the bed, swallowing Sam so deep he gags on it a little before his throat relaxes.
When Dean sits down and tries to put one foot in his jeans, Sam climbs into his lap, one knee on either side of Dean's hips, and uses the hair at the nape of Dean's neck to tilt his head back. "Let me ride you, please," he breathes against Dean's lips, groans long and low when Dean grips Sam's hips and grinds him down against his cock.
They've got their dinner-pizza delivered to the motel when Sam makes a big deal about not wanting to put on clothes-finished when Dean says, tinge of suspicion in his voice, "Don't forget why we're here, Sammy. Now that we're done eating, we should-" But Sam's already on his stomach, legs spread and hips angled up so Dean can see everything, saying, "I know. I know, but I want you again. Please, Dean, please." And maybe Dean's suspicious, maybe he knows something's up, but still he spreads Sam's cheeks with desperate hands and tongue-fucks Sam wide open.
By the end of the day, coming hurts as much as it feels good, and both of their dicks are sore as hell, along with Sam's ass. It's worth it, though, for more reasons than just how Dean passes out cold at about ten o'clock and doesn't look like he'll be waking up anytime soon. But that's the part that matters most now, so everything else will have to wait.
Sam would love to pass out too; every part of him screams for it. But he can't. He leaves the motel room as silently as he can, and Dean doesn't even stir.
The bar seems different than Sam remembers it. He remembers it being smoky, but maybe that was just the alcohol blurring his vision. He also remembers it being quieter, with significantly less people, but that sort of thing changes depending on the day, he figures.
Miranda's got a table to herself right in the center of the room. Sam sees her before she sees him, and he takes two steps toward her before he freezes. She'll have a stroke in three years and live in a state of constant confusion before she dies less than a year after that. Sam watches her collapse and then raise a trembling hand to the ceiling, reaching toward the light. She looks so sickly, like she's been walking on the edge of death for a long time, hardly the woman Sam is looking at now.
A few days ago, it probably would have affected him more. But now he knows that she'll outlive Dean, and he can't make himself feel anything at all.
Miranda finally notices Sam and smiles at him like she's delighted to see him. Sam takes a deep breath and then keeps walking.
"Did you get what you wanted?" she asks when Sam sits down across from her. She has a glass of ice water in front of her, and her fingers tap gently on the rim.
"Yes." And suddenly Sam wants to cry. Not too much, not hysterically-it's still too early for hysteria, he can't be anything to Dean if he succumbs to it now-but a little, a couple sobs and a few fat tears. He doesn't know how Miranda would respond to crying, but he thinks she'd respond better than Dean. He doesn't, though.
She sees it on his face anyway. "Not what you hoped you'd see?"
Sam shakes his head. "The one thing I hoped I wouldn't see, actually."
She makes a quiet, sympathetic noise and takes a sip of water. "Let me tell you something I learned a long time ago, Sam," she says. "You've seen how I go, right?"
Sam blinks at her, considers lying, but then realizes there's not much point to it. "Yeah."
"And it's not pretty, is it?"
"I've seen worse." He saw worse long before he ever met her, before he even knew what he was seeing.
Miranda smiles at him like he just said something pleasant. "Oh, I don't doubt that. I didn't say it was awful, just that it isn't pretty. Death is never pretty."
She takes another drink of water and smacks her lips a few times before she continues. "But the thing about me is I've always been one of those people who believes you can change your fate."
Miranda grabs a large purse hanging on the back of her chair, which Sam hadn't noticed until now. She opens it and tips it a little so Sam can see inside. It's full of pill bottles. Lots of them. He can't see the names of any, but he knows the names aren't the point.
"I think a person can have just as much control over their death as they do over their life," she says, closing her purse. "Some more than others, of course. And I think you believe the same thing, or else you wouldn't have tried to save all those people you met in the last month."
It takes a minute before the words sink in, but when they do, Sam frowns and tries to decide if he really wants to ask how she knows what he's been doing. "Who are you?"
"Just a tired old witch who prefers to keep tabs on her investments," she says, smiling again, but more sadly this time. "I'll take back what I gave you. And you'll change your brother's fate."
"Do you really think I can?" Sam doesn't know what she knows, if she knows anything at all, but somehow he thinks she might. If she knows that Sam's been trying to save people from the deaths he sees, then it makes sense she'd know what death Sam wants to save Dean from.
Miranda puts her hand on Sam's, so small compared to his. "I wouldn't say it if I wasn't sure of it."
*
When Sam gets back, Dean's awake, pacing in the space between the two beds, cell phone pressed to his ear. He looks murderous when he sees Sam.
"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean ends whatever call he was in the middle of, yanks the phone away from his ear, and grips it so tightly Sam wonders vaguely if it will break. "I wake up and you're gone, my car's gone, your phone's off, and I have no goddamn clue where you are."
It hadn't occurred to Sam that Dean might wake up while he was gone, and he feels guilty about that now. "I'm sorry. My stuff's still here, though, so you knew I'd be back. But I should have left a note or something."
"A note? Jesus Christ, Sam, you-" But then Dean cuts himself off, and the anger cools, just a little, leaves a frown on his lips like he's just thought of something and isn't happy about it. "Is this-are you freaking out? Is that what happened? Did you finally wake up, realize what kind of sick shit we're getting into in, and run? Because if that's what's going on, Sam, I wouldn't blame you."
"No," Sam answers. It finally occurs to him that Dean's put on shorts and a shirt since Sam left, but compared to Sam who's fully dressed with multiple layers, that might as well be totally naked. He kicks his boots off, takes off his jacket, and starts to unbutton his shirt. "No, I'm not freaking out. But if you want to, go ahead. Earlier I came up with a whole list of things to say if you do. Might as well test them out sooner than later."
"Always got a plan for everything, huh Sammy." Dean's voice isn't kind, but it's not unkind either. "So you gonna tell me what the hell you were doing?"
Sam sits down on the bed to pull off his jeans. He wants to take a shower, feels dirty all of a sudden for keeping so much from Dean and still wanting to go on holding it all in for just a little longer. He won't, though, not all of it; Sam owes that much to Dean.
"The curse is off," he says, quietly.
"Off," Dean echoes. It takes a second for that to sink in, but when it does Dean's face goes stony and Sam sees all the muscles in his arms tense. "Off as in, 'Huh, woke up and it was gone,' or off as in, 'Ran out of here while Dean was asleep and met up with a witch and got her to take it off'?"
"Guess I can't get away with asking you to fuck me again, huh?"
It's a stupid thing to say, and even if Sam didn't know it when he said it, he knows it now that it's out of his mouth. Dean steps one foot back like Sam just took a swing at him, and his eyes widen half a second before they narrow dangerously.
"The hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean snarls. "And what the fuck is wrong with you? I know I've been known to call you an idiot now and then, but that doesn't mean you have to go acting like one. Goddammit, Sam, you know what kinda shit a witch can do to a person who pisses her off too much, and you walk in there alone after she's already got you cursed once-"
"It wasn't exactly a curse," Sam interrupts, sticking firm to his calm and hoping it's enough to cool Dean's anger at least a little. "She thought she was giving me a gift. The first time we talked, I as good as asked for it without realizing it."
"You asked for it," Dean repeats, voice going totally flat. "What, the demon's gone, takes your visions with him, and you can't handle not being special anymore, is that it? You put 'new psychic abilities' at the top of your Christmas list this year, and some old witch decides to wrap mind-reading up nice and pretty, throw a big bow on top, and hand it to you?"
Sam almost says, "Death-reading, actually." Almost. But he doesn't. That'd spawn a conversation he doesn't want right now. Dean'd say, "So what's the verdict then, how do I die?" and when Sam tells him, he'd respond, "Huh. Well, there you go," and Sam'd say, "No. I know you're tired and the last thing you want is to cheat death a third time, but as long as I'm around that's exactly what you're going to do."
They can have that fight later. When Dean finds the research on Sam's computer, all the notes and texts and contacts he's been hiding that show Sam's not giving up no matter what Dean says. When that happens, Sam'll say, "Oh, by the way, remember that curse that was actually more of a gift? Well…" and give Dean even more to be angry about. Just another thing Sam's been keeping from him. It'll be an ugly, awful fight, and maybe they'll never be the same again. But that's fine. Dean can be pissed off for the rest of his life, but as long as that's many, many years past this one Sam'll be happy.
"Maybe I just want to know what you're feeling sometimes," Sam says vaguely. It's not a lie, at least.
Dean looks stunned and offended and ready to respond with something sarcastic and maybe nasty, but Sam manages to jump in first.
"So," he says. "Are you freaking out?"
The sudden change in subject throws Dean a little; his expression says as much. But he goes with it anyway. He snorts, and his frown turns into something that could almost pass as a smirk. "What are you talking about? I never freak out."
"Dude. You do."
"Shut up. I totally don't."
Dean glances down at the cell phone in his hand like he'd forgotten he was holding it. He sets it down on the dresser and then sits next to Sam on the bed, keeping a good foot between them.
"Seriously, man," Dean says. "You're okay with this? You know I like, changed your diapers and shit, right? And you peed all over me more than once. You still cool with this whole sex thing?"
Sam pretends to consider it. If he thinks too hard about it, it probably won't end well. Sometimes, he figures, it's better just to go with it. "Yeah. Just think of it this way. We've already got the golden shower thing covered. Also, don't forget how you offered to show me how to jerk off when I was twelve. If I'd taken you up on it, we'd have been halfway there already."
"Yeah, and maybe you should've taken me up on that. Maybe you'd be able to get a decent grip now if I'd have taught you how to do it right."
Sam kicks him in the ankle. Hard. Dean chuckles, punches Sam in the arm, and in the process scoots a few inches closer.
"Don't think I didn't see what you did there," Dean tells him. "Changing the subject and all. And don't think we're not coming back to it later. I'll show you my Sammy impression and hound your ass and make you spill every thought in that stupid head of yours."
"Sure," Sam says, ducking his head to hide his grin but knowing Dean can hear it anyway. "Whatever."
*
They leave Peoria first thing the next morning.
Sam checks them out of the motel while Dean loads up the car. The man at the front desk is eating a powdered doughnut, reading a Stephen King novel, and looking thoroughly bored. He cleans his fingers on his shirt, smears white powder all over his chest. Sam has no idea how the man dies, but he hopes it's a long time from now and that it's peaceful.
"Take care of yourself," he tells the man as he leaves, and gets a grunted, "You too," in response.
Three hours later, Dean gets off the highway at a random exit, stops the car on a gravel road in the middle of nowhere, and shakes Sam out of his doze just so he can get his hand around Sam's dick and mumble, "Didn't know you were such a whore, Sammy, ready to spread for me anywhere," into Sam's throat when Sam groans and tries to give Dean more room to work in.
When Sam comes, it shoots everywhere, including on all over the floor and the dash and the seat, which causes Dean to have a conniption. And because it's Sam's come and Sam's dick, that makes it Sam's fault even though it's Dean who starts it, Dean who causes it, and Dean who breathes, "That's my boy, just like that," when it happens.
"That's what being sexually frustrated for months on end does to a guy, Sam," Dean says, scowling at Sam when all the napkins in the car still can't get the stains out of the seat. "You go off like a goddamn cannon until your dick remembers how it's supposed to work. It's a good thing you've got me around, dude, or you'd be embarrassing yourself in front of someone who doesn't already know how you are."
They drive to the nearest gas station, and then it's Sam's job to buy the cleaner and scrub out the stains while Dean eats a stick of beef jerky and reminds Sam darkly that if when he's done, there's any sign there were ever come stains in the Impala he doesn't even want to know what Dean'll do to him.
Somehow, Sam thinks, it's one of the brightest days he's had in a while.
He calls Bobby later from a Subway parking lot when Dean goes inside to get them both sandwiches to go.
"I managed to track Miranda down," Sam tells him. "She took the spell off."
"No catch, she just agreed to take it off?" Bobby pauses so Sam can give a small noise of affirmation. "Huh. Well, that's good. So did you ever see it? You know, that thing you wanted to?"
There's something in Bobby's tone that, very subtly, begs Sam to say yes. Tells Sam that he doesn't want Dean gone any more than Sam does, that if Sam can save Dean Bobby'll help.
"Yeah, I saw it," Sam answers.
Sam glances into the Subway. The car is parked too far away for him to be able to see anyone inside clearly, but he doesn't really need to see too clearly to pick out Dean from everyone else. He knows how tall Dean is compared to the average person, the shape of Dean's body, how Dean stands.
"He doesn't go like that," Sam tells Bobby. "He doesn't belong in hell. Now it's just up to us to figure out how to break that contract so he doesn't go there."
Right now, Dean's rocking back slightly on his heels, hands in the front pockets of his jeans, relaxed. Seeing him right then makes everything in Sam's chest seize up and hurt, but it's a good hurt. It's a fight-or-flight response, and everything in Sam is screaming for him to fight. So he will.
( Part 1)
They get a room in the same motel they stayed at before. In the parking lot Dean fiddles with something in the trunk while Sam pulls their bags out of the backseat.
There's a man getting out of a pickup truck several spaces away, a fast food bag in one hand and a cell phone in the other, and he'll die in six years when he drinks too much at a buddy's bachelor party and runs his truck off the road on the drive home, hits a tree head-on. It won't be quick, and he'll feel every second of it.
"You know," Sam shouts to Dean, "every two minutes someone is injured in an alcohol-related car crash, and every thirty minutes someone dies in one!"
"Huh," Dean answers. "Fascinating. You remembering how you drove my car drunk like a moron last time we were here and how I'll kill you if you ever do it again?"
Sam's seen Dean drive his car half-conscious and with most of his blood on the wrong side of his body, has done the same thing himself, and he thinks alcohol really doesn't compare to that. Especially in the mind of someone whose judgment is clouded by alcohol, like Sam's was when he made the decision to do it. But that's not the point here.
"Yes. And I'll never do it again, because about 25% of traffic fatalities among children involve alcohol!"
Dean peers around the popped trunk at Sam, eyebrow raised and staring like he doesn't know what Sam is doing but he wishes he'd stop. "Dude, I'm standing right here. You don't have to yell."
The man's gone by now anyway, without even glancing at Sam, so Sam stops talking. He thinks about the sixteen year old back in Utah, wonders if he really did any good at all or if he inadvertently screwed with Dean's head and failed a kid who needed him all in the same moment.
The first thing Sam does when they get into the motel room is head to the bathroom to pee and splash cold water on his face. Everything in the bathroom smells like lavender, which he remembers from their first visit because the scent helped him puke a few times when he was hung over. Smelling it now makes his stomach turn and consider reliving the experience, but he leaves before it can get the chance.
When Sam comes out, Dean's tossing his car keys in the air and catching them with one hand, slowly going higher and higher like he's showing off. "So I was thinking the first thing we should do," he says, "is stop by that bar, talk to a few people, see if we can't get some info on this old woman who took advantage of poor, defenseless you."
Dean managed to bounce back fairly quickly from his earlier mood. When Sam woke up from his nap in the car, Dean had his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up, and Sam stared groggily at his bare arms and thought about licking the vein on the inside of Dean's wrist, sucking until it bruised. When he realized what he was thinking, his whole body jolted, and he ended up cracking his knee into the door and his elbow into the window, and Dean can't ever see Sam get hurt because of his own stupidity without commenting on it. And then somehow everything was okay again, with Dean fiddling cheerfully with the radio and Sam finishing off a bag of sunflower seeds he found under the seat, and Dean seemed content to pretend he wasn't apparently having incestuous fantasies and Sam didn't know about them now.
But Sam's not content with pretending. Not at all.
"Actually," he says, "I was thinking the first thing we should do is talk."
Dean catches the keys and clenches his fist around them. He stares up at where the wall meets the ceiling and looks far too calm for him to really feel it. "Nah. Sounds like a pretty crappy plan to me."
"Yeah, well. You don't have much of a choice. I know where the bar is, I know what she looks like, I know what her name is, so you won't get anywhere without me. And I'm not leaving this room until we talk."
Sam sits down on the bed Dean's claimed for himself and nudges Dean's stuff over until it's hanging halfway off the edge.
Dean tells Sam with just a glance what he thinks of Sam being in his bed right now; he's not happy about it. "Told you, Sam. Just let it go."
"No."
"Dammit, Sam, you don't-" Dean cuts himself off, stares at Sam the closest to helpless and pleading Sam's seen him since they were kids.
But Sam only stares back stubborn and determined. Tells Dean, 'No fucking way,' with every muscle in his body. He knows how to dig his heels in when something's important. And this is.
Dean narrows his eyes and curls his lip in a snarl. "Fine," he says. "You wanna talk? Talk to yourself. You sit in here and have a nice long heart-to-heart with yourself about whatever the fuck you want. But I'm in the mood for a nice cold beer, so I'm gonna go get one from every bar I can find in a ten mile radius, and while I'm having my beer I'm gonna do what you should be more concerned about doing, which is trying to find this stupid witch who cursed you. So don't wait up."
Dean grabs his jacket and makes like he's going to storm out of the motel room. Sam does the first thing he can think of to stop him, which is jump off the bed and grab Dean by the shoulders before he can get the door unlocked and open, spin him to face Sam, and hold him in place. The jacket falls from Dean's hands and lands by Sam's feet.
Sam hasn't had much time to think about this, hasn't given it all the thought it deserves. It's not something he's considered before-not seriously, anyway-but now that Dean's put it in his head, he knows he's going to have a hell of a lot of trouble getting it back out. It'll weigh on them both, drive a wedge between them deeper than the one that's already there, and he can't have that. It'll kill them.
And it's not like Sam's a stranger to doing stupid things. He abandoned his family, ran off to a school in a town he'd never even seen before with nothing more than a scholarship, a few hundred dollars, and whatever he could fit in a single backpack, and that was a monumentally stupid thing for an eighteen year old to do. And he still considers it to be one of the smartest decisions he's ever made.
This one won't be any different. He can feel it.
Sam cups one hand against Dean's jaw, rubs his palm over the stubble and gets his thumb as close as he can to Dean's bottom lip without actually touching it, a gesture he figures no one can misunderstand. "It's okay," he says, in the gentlest voice he's capable of. "We can do this."
There's nowhere for Dean to go except back against the wall, and that's exactly what he does. He pushes away from Sam so hard his back slams into the wall, and he hisses, reaches over his shoulder to rub at one of his shoulder blades, and looks everywhere but at Sam.
"Don't do this," he says. "Christ, Sam, you have no idea what you're doing right now. No idea. You don't know shit about any of this."
"So tell me."
Dean shakes his head and tries to sidle across the wall away from Sam, but Sam steps closer, makes it so Dean can't run from this without touching Sam, and that's enough to stop Dean where he stands.
"I told you, Sam. You have no idea what you're fucking with here, so just leave it alone."
"No."
Sam kisses Dean. The corner of his mouth, because the minute Dean realizes what's happening he tries to turn his head away, but Sam's faster and planning for it. Half a second later, Dean turns his head back and meets Sam's lips full on, grabs Sam's shoulders and pulls him up against him.
It's weird. There's no way around that. Sam's only ever kissed girls, and those girls didn't have stubble scratching Sam's face or a near-painful grip on Sam's shoulders, didn't snatch the dominance from Sam's hands before he offered it first, and sure as hell hadn't been the ones to steal Sam porn as a sex ed tool back when he tripped into puberty. It's weird. But to be a Winchester is to be weird, so it's almost sort of normal.
Dean pulls back from Sam's lips to kiss his chin, then his jaw, and then lick down his throat. There's a spot on Sam's neck just below his ear that gets him weak and hungry every time, and he grabs the back of Dean's head and tries to lead him toward it gently. Dean catches the hint and lets himself be led. He nuzzles the spot first before he closes his mouth on it and sucks, and Sam falls forward, traps Dean against the wall, and moans.
Sam pants into Dean's hair and tries to groan, "Fuck, Dean," but the sound that comes out of his mouth isn't so coherent.
Dean pushes Sam away suddenly, sending Sam into a moment of panic, thinking maybe Dean's still intent on freaking out after all and going to bolt for real this time. But Dean only kicks off his shoes and then pushes Sam backwards again, and again, until his knees hit Dean's bed and buckle, sending him flat on his back. Then he gets the picture and scoots himself higher up until only his feet are hanging off the edge while Dean slides his outer shirt off his shoulders and tosses it somewhere off to the left.
"Fucking hell, Sam," Dean breathes. He's staring down at where Sam's shirt is inched up and Sam's jeans are inched down, and then he's climbing on top of Sam and stroking the bared sliver of skin with two fingers. "Be sure. Be absolutely fucking sure here, Sammy, I'm not kidding. We do this, and you're opening up something real goddamn big. And I'm telling you right now, it isn't gonna go back in easy. So if you can't handle it, say it now, and we stop. No harm, no foul."
If Sam was going to freak out, it would have been earlier, probably around the time he encouraged his big brother to start sucking on his neck. Right now Sam's dick is already so hard it hurts, and the only thing he couldn't handle is Dean getting up and walking out.
"You can't dish out anything I can't take," Sam says. "I've been telling you that for years."
Dean makes a face like that's the last answer he expected to come out of Sam's mouth, and then he smirks. "Punk."
Sam's wearing two shirts, a long-sleeve button-up over a plain t-shirt, and Dean goes for the top layer, starts unbuttoning it and glaring down at his own fingers when they fumble a little on the first button. Sam swats his hands away and finishes for him, shrugs the long-sleeve shirt off his shoulders and pulls the t-shirt over his head.
"If I, you know, do something you don't want," Dean says, getting a knee between Sam's thighs and both hands on Sam's chest, keeping him down on his back, "kick me."
Then Dean's mouth is on Sam's neck, right at the spot below his ear, closing his teeth around a small circle of skin and sucking hard. It hurts, but hurts really fucking good, and Sam rocks his hips into Dean's thigh. Dean moves his mouth lower, near Sam's collarbone, grinds his leg down, and Sam just clutches at Dean's shoulders and groans.
Dean pulls back, stares down at Sam with eyes that are all pupil, and his hands are shaking just a little on Sam's chest, gripping harder to try and hide it. Sam can't remember ever seeing Dean shake before. It makes his vision go a little hazy.
"Think I just figured out why everyone always wants to choke you," Dean says. "Your neck was fucking made to be marked up."
The bruises on Dean's neck from the spirit in Minneapolis are nowhere near cleared up yet, but Sam's been looking at them all day and consequently has stopped noticing them. Until now, anyway. Now Sam wants to touch them, run the pads of his fingers over them and maybe press a few light kisses to the darker ones. But Dean knocks his hand away when he tries and grins in a way that says, 'Well, aren't you real cute?'
So Sam concentrates on getting Dean's t-shirt off instead. He gets both hands under the bottom edge and starts tugging up, but when his knuckles rub against Dean's bare stomach, Dean knocks them away, still grinning.
"Dean?"
"Sorry, Sammy," Dean says, pulling back so he can drag Sam's legs far enough apart that he can kneel between them. "Usually I encourage exploring. Well, usually I'd be going about this whole thing a hell of a lot different. See, if you were anyone else, I'd go slow. Let you touch me however you fucking want, and then take my damn sweet time touching you."
Dean's eyes are on the bulge in Sam's jeans now, gaze so hard and hungry it makes Sam squirm just a little. Then Dean unbuttons his jeans and drags them down carefully just off his hips and follows with his underwear. It's not like Dean's never seen his dick before about a dozen times. But there's seeing and then there's looking and licking his lips like he'd be happy wrapping them around it, and it's the first time he's done that. But Sam likes that, really likes that, and if Dean wants to put those lips on his cock Sam won't complain.
"But this is you," Dean continues. "And I got a couple edges I need to get rid of first before we can go slow."
He wraps his hand loosely around the tip of Sam's cock, thumbs at the slit. It's too good, too strong, Sam can't take it. He whines high and long, one of the most girly noises that's ever come out of him, and he thinks for sure that Dean'll tease him for it, at least call him on it.
But Dean doesn't. Instead he makes a quiet shushing sound, moves his thumb, and tightens his grip, strokes his palm down to the base Sam's erection. The curse it drags out of Sam's throat is rough and low, distinctly more masculine, and Dean answers it with, "Fuck, yes, that's it, Sam," and strokes him again, hard but slow, so Sam can feel every inch slide against Dean's palm.
"After this we can do whatever you want," Dean tells him, eyes on his own hand, on Sam's hips rocking up into it. "You can touch me. Jerk me, suck me, lie there and let me hump you like a fucking dog in heat. Or you can make me sit here aching for it until you can get it up again to fuck me. But first, just-" He lets go of Sam long enough to spit into his palm, and then he closes his fingers around Sam's dick again, grabbing a hold of Sam's hip with his free hand and using it to pull Sam's ass up onto his thighs. "First just give me this. I want your come all over me, Sammy, want you to make me fucking filthy."
Dean's hand is better than anyone else that's had their hand on Sam's cock. Every stroke is sure and sweet; Dean knows what he's doing, and he knows that he knows what he's doing. With the spit, his dick slides easily in Dean's fist, makes dirty wet noises that drive Sam almost as crazy as the friction.
"And I'll fuck you later," Dean breathes, finally raising his eyes from between Sam's legs, meeting Sam's gaze and sending a shiver all the way to Sam's toes with how dark it is, how open and hot. "You'll let me fuck you, won't you Sammy?"
Sam imagines how he'd feel stretched around Dean's cock, on all fours, Dean's teeth in his shoulder, grunting in his ear. The sound that comes out of Sam's mouth is low and filthy and embarrassing and all the answer Dean needs.
"Yeah, thought so. I'll make it good for you, I promise, best fuck you've ever had. Slick you up good and stretch you open. I'm fucking amazing with my fingers, Sammy, believe me, and I'll work you so sweet you'll be begging to come. By the time I get my dick in you, you'll be damn near crying for it."
Dean leans forward and uses his free hand to smooth Sam's hair off his forehead. Sam angles his head so that he can press his lips to Dean's wrist and then open his mouth and suck hard. Dean growls, and his grip on Sam's dick tightens, painfully at first and then fucking perfect. Slick and tight, and Sam just thrusts into Dean's hand again and again, encouraging him to move faster.
"I'll let you get us started," Dean groans, speeding up his strokes, breath hitching when Sam moans against his wrist. "Let you be the one to start rocking your ass against me, fucking yourself on my cock, watch you turn into such a little cockslut for me. And all the while I'll be stroking your dick like this."
He loosens his grip abruptly, fingers falling open until they're just barely brushing against Sam's cock. It's pure torture, and Sam lets out a loud whimper-whine that makes Dean laugh.
"Yeah, that's right," Dean says, voice close to a purr as his grip tightens again, ripping a curse from Sam's throat, "and you'll be making sounds like that the whole time. By the time I take over, you'll be out of your fucking mind, Sam, won't be thinking a goddamn thing except how much you need me, how fucking perfect my dick feels in your ass."
Dean pulls his hand away from Sam's face, fingers damp with sweat, and brings it to his mouth, licks the sweat away. The sight of it, Dean's tongue working his own fingers, getting them wet and shiny, makes Sam want like he's never wanted before. He reaches for Dean's hand and brings it down to his own lips, sucking each finger into his mouth, tasting Dean's spit and traces of his own sweat. Dean stares down at him, suddenly looking dazed, lost, like Sam just took something crucial from him and he has no idea how to get it back. Right now Sam thinks it's the hottest expression he's seen on anyone's face ever.
"Jesus," Dean groans, slides the finger in Sam's mouth halfway out and then back in, fucking Sam's lips. "Goddammit, Sam, can't even keep my fucking head straight around you."
He all but rips his fingers from Sam's mouth and brings them between Sam's legs, strokes Sam's balls, gets them nice and wet, and then cups them in his palm, squeezes. Then Dean's jerking his cock harder and faster, and it feels so good it almost hurts. Sam thrusts up roughly into his fist, groans loud and long, and clenches his fingers in the bedspread, feeling his orgasm coming up on him quick.
"Dean," he moans. "Dean, please, so close."
Dean gives Sam a look that's all desperation, like he's the one who's close, like he's the one about to come unhinged in Sam's hand instead of the other way around. It makes Sam want to pull him down and kiss him, but there's no way to do that without messing up Dean's rhythm, and Sam wants to come too badly right now to risk it.
"Yeah, that's it," Dean breathes. "Just let it come. Fuck, want you to shoot your come all over me, make a fucking mess of me. Want you everywhere, Sammy, c'mon."
"Shit, yeah," Sam moans, grabbing Dean's arm, digging his fingertips into the skin, hips moving erratically. He comes on Dean's shirt, his jeans, his knuckles, whining low and closing his eyes, listening to Dean pant and feeling Dean's hand slow, his grip loosen, but still not let go.
*
The fourth time in his life Sam jerked off, he raised his hand to his mouth and licked himself clean. He was sure then that his come was the grossest thing he'd ever tasted, and he ducked his head in the bathroom sink and filled his mouth with water straight from the faucet to chase the taste away. He never did it again.
Dean's come tastes like that, and somehow the taste isn't quite so repulsive now as it was then. It's familiar; it reminds him of what it was like to be young and content, in that time only a month or two before he really looked at his life and started wanting more, started resenting his dad for refusing to give him more.
Instead of rushing to the bathroom to wash his mouth out, he stays on the bed and watches Dean get up to pee. The walls are thin enough that Sam can hear the stream of piss hitting toilet water. He's heard Dean pee and even shit and puke dozens of times, but now he's hearing it when he can still taste Dean's come on his tongue. It makes the moment seem even more surreal, and for a minute Sam wonders if he'll be jerking awake any second now and have to spend the rest of the day listening to Dean make fun of him for having dirty dreams and creaming his shorts. It doesn't happen.
Dean washes his hands but doesn't bother drying them, and when he comes out of the bathroom the first thing he does is flick cold water on Sam and grin when Sam shouts, "Hey!" Then he glances between Sam's bed and his own like he doesn't know which one to jump in, and his grin fades.
"I guess you won't be fucking any women in my bed this time, huh," Sam says, and rolls onto his stomach, resting his cheek on his forearm.
"Could fuck you in your bed," Dean answers, voice low and guarded, testing the waters.
"Yeah, you could."
Dean grins again, wider this time, and shoots Sam an over-exaggerated lecherous wink.
He'll freak out later, Sam knows, once this sinks in, and it'll be Sam's job to keep him from doing too much damage to either of them when he does. He can do it, though, because Sam knows he did a good thing here, and he's not about to take it back.
"Wonder if any places are still open for delivery," Dean mutters, and turns to the menus that are sitting in a neat stack on top of the phone book next to the TV.
And that's when it happens. One second Sam's smirking at Dean's bare ass on display right in front of him, and the next he's seeing Dean on the floor of an unfamiliar room, backed into a corner. There's a hellhound staring right at Dean, and Dean's staring back, no guns, no salt rings, nothing to fight back with. He's gripping the amulet around his neck fiercely in his fist, and he's terrified out of his mind but trying not to show it, except you can't hide fear when it's so close to consuming you. Dean's last thought will be of Sam, of how much he loves his little brother and how the best thing he's done in his whole life is die for him.
The worst part is that Sam doesn't have a fucking clue where he is in this thing. Why Dean's dying and Sam's not there doing everything in his power to stop it.
The second worst part is that when the vision ends, Sam is still no closer to discovering how to save his brother than he was a month ago. And he's wasted time trying to figure out these goddamn death visions when he should have been ignoring them and continuing his research.
Sam can't cry. Dean'll turn around and see, and he'll demand Sam tell him what's wrong. And whether or not Sam actually tells him is irrelevant; either way, it'll end badly. He can't cry.
He rubs his eyes viciously and accidentally pokes one of them hard, and then he's crying anyway, body's natural reaction. Dean chooses that moment to turn around and find Sam wiping tears from the corner of his eye.
"Sam," Dean says, worry and just a tinge of panic in his tone. "Sam, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just poked myself in the eye."
"Good job, Einstein." Dean smirks at him and then holds up one of the menus. "This Chinese place is open for a couple more hours. It's got a pretty high delivery fee, but…"
"Yeah," Sam answers, and lifts himself so he's kneeling instead of lying down. "Sure, but-" He reaches for Dean and nearly falls forward off the bed in the process, but he manages to get his fingers around Dean's wrist and tug him forward. "Fuck me first."
Dean's eyes widen and glance down at Sam's cock, which isn't hard or particularly interested in sex at the moment but could easily be persuaded to be. "Dude. We just went two rounds. You want to go again?"
"Why not?" Sam puts as much confusion into his voice as possible and then fakes a sudden realization. "Oh. You can't do it. Okay, that's fine. Just didn't realize Dean Winchester wouldn't have the stamina for-"
Dean slams the menu back down where he found it. "Bitch," he growls, and shoves Sam onto his back.
*
When Dean's asleep, eyelids fluttering in REM, Sam grabs his cell phone and shuts himself in the bathroom, sitting naked on the floor with his back against the side of the bathtub.
He almost calls Bobby first, but then decides against it. He can't say it out loud yet; he doesn't want to hear himself say it. Instead Sam calls the bar again, and this time the bartender says, "Are you Sam? Got a message for you. A woman calls herself Miranda came in about a week ago, said you might call. I've got her number here, if you want it."
It's the middle of the night, no time to be calling a woman past sixty he's only talked to once, but Sam does it anyway. He gets her machine the first and second time, but Miranda picks up on the third and sounds happy to hear from him even if she makes no attempt to deny he just woke her up.
"It's nice to talk to you again," she says. "Thought I'd be getting a call from you one of these days. Of course, I didn't realize it'd be at this hour."
"Sorry," Sam lies. "I just needed to speak to you as soon as possible."
"So I suppose you'll be wanting to talk in person, hm?"
There's the sound of a bed creaking in the other room, and then Dean makes a noise somewhere between a snore and a snort. Out of REM sleep, then, and into one of the lighter stages. He probably just sprawled all across the bed, and Sam'll have to shove him back to one side when he goes to bed. Probably wake him up, and then Dean'll give him a grouchy look before falling right back to sleep. Or maybe this time he'll smile. Sam's never woken Dean up only a few hours after fucking, so for all he knows sex makes Dean more pleasant in the middle of the night.
"Yeah, that'd be nice," Sam tells Miranda. "How about tomorrow night?"
"Tomorrow night," she replies, "is just fine with me."
*
Sam can manipulate people easily when he puts his mind to it. His dad and Dean raised him to be good at it, and he'd be awful at his job if he hadn't learned. Sam's heard people say you can never overtake your teacher, but that's bullshit because he can manipulate Dean without Dean ever realizing it. If he really tries, if he really wants to. And he does.
He has his mouth on Dean before either of them is even fully awake. Sam sucks on the head of Dean's cock, tongues at the slit just for the coating of pre-come it earns him. When Dean groans and gets clumps of Sam's hair between his fingers, Sam pulls off and crawls up to kiss the skin just behind his ear. He presses his erection against Dean's thigh, rocks his hips, moans, "Fuck, Dean, need you," until Dean grabs Sam by the back of the neck and twists his head until their mouths meet.
After Dean takes a shower, he comes out of the bathroom to find Sam on the bed, dick in his hand, stroking slowly, drawing it out. "Dean," he sighs, and instantly Dean is on the bed, swallowing Sam so deep he gags on it a little before his throat relaxes.
When Dean sits down and tries to put one foot in his jeans, Sam climbs into his lap, one knee on either side of Dean's hips, and uses the hair at the nape of Dean's neck to tilt his head back. "Let me ride you, please," he breathes against Dean's lips, groans long and low when Dean grips Sam's hips and grinds him down against his cock.
They've got their dinner-pizza delivered to the motel when Sam makes a big deal about not wanting to put on clothes-finished when Dean says, tinge of suspicion in his voice, "Don't forget why we're here, Sammy. Now that we're done eating, we should-" But Sam's already on his stomach, legs spread and hips angled up so Dean can see everything, saying, "I know. I know, but I want you again. Please, Dean, please." And maybe Dean's suspicious, maybe he knows something's up, but still he spreads Sam's cheeks with desperate hands and tongue-fucks Sam wide open.
By the end of the day, coming hurts as much as it feels good, and both of their dicks are sore as hell, along with Sam's ass. It's worth it, though, for more reasons than just how Dean passes out cold at about ten o'clock and doesn't look like he'll be waking up anytime soon. But that's the part that matters most now, so everything else will have to wait.
Sam would love to pass out too; every part of him screams for it. But he can't. He leaves the motel room as silently as he can, and Dean doesn't even stir.
The bar seems different than Sam remembers it. He remembers it being smoky, but maybe that was just the alcohol blurring his vision. He also remembers it being quieter, with significantly less people, but that sort of thing changes depending on the day, he figures.
Miranda's got a table to herself right in the center of the room. Sam sees her before she sees him, and he takes two steps toward her before he freezes. She'll have a stroke in three years and live in a state of constant confusion before she dies less than a year after that. Sam watches her collapse and then raise a trembling hand to the ceiling, reaching toward the light. She looks so sickly, like she's been walking on the edge of death for a long time, hardly the woman Sam is looking at now.
A few days ago, it probably would have affected him more. But now he knows that she'll outlive Dean, and he can't make himself feel anything at all.
Miranda finally notices Sam and smiles at him like she's delighted to see him. Sam takes a deep breath and then keeps walking.
"Did you get what you wanted?" she asks when Sam sits down across from her. She has a glass of ice water in front of her, and her fingers tap gently on the rim.
"Yes." And suddenly Sam wants to cry. Not too much, not hysterically-it's still too early for hysteria, he can't be anything to Dean if he succumbs to it now-but a little, a couple sobs and a few fat tears. He doesn't know how Miranda would respond to crying, but he thinks she'd respond better than Dean. He doesn't, though.
She sees it on his face anyway. "Not what you hoped you'd see?"
Sam shakes his head. "The one thing I hoped I wouldn't see, actually."
She makes a quiet, sympathetic noise and takes a sip of water. "Let me tell you something I learned a long time ago, Sam," she says. "You've seen how I go, right?"
Sam blinks at her, considers lying, but then realizes there's not much point to it. "Yeah."
"And it's not pretty, is it?"
"I've seen worse." He saw worse long before he ever met her, before he even knew what he was seeing.
Miranda smiles at him like he just said something pleasant. "Oh, I don't doubt that. I didn't say it was awful, just that it isn't pretty. Death is never pretty."
She takes another drink of water and smacks her lips a few times before she continues. "But the thing about me is I've always been one of those people who believes you can change your fate."
Miranda grabs a large purse hanging on the back of her chair, which Sam hadn't noticed until now. She opens it and tips it a little so Sam can see inside. It's full of pill bottles. Lots of them. He can't see the names of any, but he knows the names aren't the point.
"I think a person can have just as much control over their death as they do over their life," she says, closing her purse. "Some more than others, of course. And I think you believe the same thing, or else you wouldn't have tried to save all those people you met in the last month."
It takes a minute before the words sink in, but when they do, Sam frowns and tries to decide if he really wants to ask how she knows what he's been doing. "Who are you?"
"Just a tired old witch who prefers to keep tabs on her investments," she says, smiling again, but more sadly this time. "I'll take back what I gave you. And you'll change your brother's fate."
"Do you really think I can?" Sam doesn't know what she knows, if she knows anything at all, but somehow he thinks she might. If she knows that Sam's been trying to save people from the deaths he sees, then it makes sense she'd know what death Sam wants to save Dean from.
Miranda puts her hand on Sam's, so small compared to his. "I wouldn't say it if I wasn't sure of it."
*
When Sam gets back, Dean's awake, pacing in the space between the two beds, cell phone pressed to his ear. He looks murderous when he sees Sam.
"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean ends whatever call he was in the middle of, yanks the phone away from his ear, and grips it so tightly Sam wonders vaguely if it will break. "I wake up and you're gone, my car's gone, your phone's off, and I have no goddamn clue where you are."
It hadn't occurred to Sam that Dean might wake up while he was gone, and he feels guilty about that now. "I'm sorry. My stuff's still here, though, so you knew I'd be back. But I should have left a note or something."
"A note? Jesus Christ, Sam, you-" But then Dean cuts himself off, and the anger cools, just a little, leaves a frown on his lips like he's just thought of something and isn't happy about it. "Is this-are you freaking out? Is that what happened? Did you finally wake up, realize what kind of sick shit we're getting into in, and run? Because if that's what's going on, Sam, I wouldn't blame you."
"No," Sam answers. It finally occurs to him that Dean's put on shorts and a shirt since Sam left, but compared to Sam who's fully dressed with multiple layers, that might as well be totally naked. He kicks his boots off, takes off his jacket, and starts to unbutton his shirt. "No, I'm not freaking out. But if you want to, go ahead. Earlier I came up with a whole list of things to say if you do. Might as well test them out sooner than later."
"Always got a plan for everything, huh Sammy." Dean's voice isn't kind, but it's not unkind either. "So you gonna tell me what the hell you were doing?"
Sam sits down on the bed to pull off his jeans. He wants to take a shower, feels dirty all of a sudden for keeping so much from Dean and still wanting to go on holding it all in for just a little longer. He won't, though, not all of it; Sam owes that much to Dean.
"The curse is off," he says, quietly.
"Off," Dean echoes. It takes a second for that to sink in, but when it does Dean's face goes stony and Sam sees all the muscles in his arms tense. "Off as in, 'Huh, woke up and it was gone,' or off as in, 'Ran out of here while Dean was asleep and met up with a witch and got her to take it off'?"
"Guess I can't get away with asking you to fuck me again, huh?"
It's a stupid thing to say, and even if Sam didn't know it when he said it, he knows it now that it's out of his mouth. Dean steps one foot back like Sam just took a swing at him, and his eyes widen half a second before they narrow dangerously.
"The hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean snarls. "And what the fuck is wrong with you? I know I've been known to call you an idiot now and then, but that doesn't mean you have to go acting like one. Goddammit, Sam, you know what kinda shit a witch can do to a person who pisses her off too much, and you walk in there alone after she's already got you cursed once-"
"It wasn't exactly a curse," Sam interrupts, sticking firm to his calm and hoping it's enough to cool Dean's anger at least a little. "She thought she was giving me a gift. The first time we talked, I as good as asked for it without realizing it."
"You asked for it," Dean repeats, voice going totally flat. "What, the demon's gone, takes your visions with him, and you can't handle not being special anymore, is that it? You put 'new psychic abilities' at the top of your Christmas list this year, and some old witch decides to wrap mind-reading up nice and pretty, throw a big bow on top, and hand it to you?"
Sam almost says, "Death-reading, actually." Almost. But he doesn't. That'd spawn a conversation he doesn't want right now. Dean'd say, "So what's the verdict then, how do I die?" and when Sam tells him, he'd respond, "Huh. Well, there you go," and Sam'd say, "No. I know you're tired and the last thing you want is to cheat death a third time, but as long as I'm around that's exactly what you're going to do."
They can have that fight later. When Dean finds the research on Sam's computer, all the notes and texts and contacts he's been hiding that show Sam's not giving up no matter what Dean says. When that happens, Sam'll say, "Oh, by the way, remember that curse that was actually more of a gift? Well…" and give Dean even more to be angry about. Just another thing Sam's been keeping from him. It'll be an ugly, awful fight, and maybe they'll never be the same again. But that's fine. Dean can be pissed off for the rest of his life, but as long as that's many, many years past this one Sam'll be happy.
"Maybe I just want to know what you're feeling sometimes," Sam says vaguely. It's not a lie, at least.
Dean looks stunned and offended and ready to respond with something sarcastic and maybe nasty, but Sam manages to jump in first.
"So," he says. "Are you freaking out?"
The sudden change in subject throws Dean a little; his expression says as much. But he goes with it anyway. He snorts, and his frown turns into something that could almost pass as a smirk. "What are you talking about? I never freak out."
"Dude. You do."
"Shut up. I totally don't."
Dean glances down at the cell phone in his hand like he'd forgotten he was holding it. He sets it down on the dresser and then sits next to Sam on the bed, keeping a good foot between them.
"Seriously, man," Dean says. "You're okay with this? You know I like, changed your diapers and shit, right? And you peed all over me more than once. You still cool with this whole sex thing?"
Sam pretends to consider it. If he thinks too hard about it, it probably won't end well. Sometimes, he figures, it's better just to go with it. "Yeah. Just think of it this way. We've already got the golden shower thing covered. Also, don't forget how you offered to show me how to jerk off when I was twelve. If I'd taken you up on it, we'd have been halfway there already."
"Yeah, and maybe you should've taken me up on that. Maybe you'd be able to get a decent grip now if I'd have taught you how to do it right."
Sam kicks him in the ankle. Hard. Dean chuckles, punches Sam in the arm, and in the process scoots a few inches closer.
"Don't think I didn't see what you did there," Dean tells him. "Changing the subject and all. And don't think we're not coming back to it later. I'll show you my Sammy impression and hound your ass and make you spill every thought in that stupid head of yours."
"Sure," Sam says, ducking his head to hide his grin but knowing Dean can hear it anyway. "Whatever."
*
They leave Peoria first thing the next morning.
Sam checks them out of the motel while Dean loads up the car. The man at the front desk is eating a powdered doughnut, reading a Stephen King novel, and looking thoroughly bored. He cleans his fingers on his shirt, smears white powder all over his chest. Sam has no idea how the man dies, but he hopes it's a long time from now and that it's peaceful.
"Take care of yourself," he tells the man as he leaves, and gets a grunted, "You too," in response.
Three hours later, Dean gets off the highway at a random exit, stops the car on a gravel road in the middle of nowhere, and shakes Sam out of his doze just so he can get his hand around Sam's dick and mumble, "Didn't know you were such a whore, Sammy, ready to spread for me anywhere," into Sam's throat when Sam groans and tries to give Dean more room to work in.
When Sam comes, it shoots everywhere, including on all over the floor and the dash and the seat, which causes Dean to have a conniption. And because it's Sam's come and Sam's dick, that makes it Sam's fault even though it's Dean who starts it, Dean who causes it, and Dean who breathes, "That's my boy, just like that," when it happens.
"That's what being sexually frustrated for months on end does to a guy, Sam," Dean says, scowling at Sam when all the napkins in the car still can't get the stains out of the seat. "You go off like a goddamn cannon until your dick remembers how it's supposed to work. It's a good thing you've got me around, dude, or you'd be embarrassing yourself in front of someone who doesn't already know how you are."
They drive to the nearest gas station, and then it's Sam's job to buy the cleaner and scrub out the stains while Dean eats a stick of beef jerky and reminds Sam darkly that if when he's done, there's any sign there were ever come stains in the Impala he doesn't even want to know what Dean'll do to him.
Somehow, Sam thinks, it's one of the brightest days he's had in a while.
He calls Bobby later from a Subway parking lot when Dean goes inside to get them both sandwiches to go.
"I managed to track Miranda down," Sam tells him. "She took the spell off."
"No catch, she just agreed to take it off?" Bobby pauses so Sam can give a small noise of affirmation. "Huh. Well, that's good. So did you ever see it? You know, that thing you wanted to?"
There's something in Bobby's tone that, very subtly, begs Sam to say yes. Tells Sam that he doesn't want Dean gone any more than Sam does, that if Sam can save Dean Bobby'll help.
"Yeah, I saw it," Sam answers.
Sam glances into the Subway. The car is parked too far away for him to be able to see anyone inside clearly, but he doesn't really need to see too clearly to pick out Dean from everyone else. He knows how tall Dean is compared to the average person, the shape of Dean's body, how Dean stands.
"He doesn't go like that," Sam tells Bobby. "He doesn't belong in hell. Now it's just up to us to figure out how to break that contract so he doesn't go there."
Right now, Dean's rocking back slightly on his heels, hands in the front pockets of his jeans, relaxed. Seeing him right then makes everything in Sam's chest seize up and hurt, but it's a good hurt. It's a fight-or-flight response, and everything in Sam is screaming for him to fight. So he will.