fic: Melted By Your Touch
Title: Melted By Your Touch
Author: wolfish_willow
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Brady
Rating: R
Genre: angst, hurt/comfort
Spoilers: If you know who Brady is, you’re good
Warnings: attempted non-con, unbeta'd
Word Count: 2717
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Just using them for a bit of fun. They belong to Kripke.
Summary: Alternate events to A Taste of Innocence. What if Dean had been in Palo Alto that night?
A/N: Written for a prompt given by insertcode11, who wanted a Sam/Dean alternate events from my Sam/Brady fic. Brady roofies Sam and attempts to rape him. Dean’s here for some reason and saves Sam. I also managed to sort of work in some ‘Sam thinks he’ll never be redeemed in the eyes of his family for leaving”. But only sort of.
A/N 2: I’m not at all sure how coherent this is. I haven’t looked it over thoroughly yet as I’ve been up all night. I will be checking it over again tomorrow/later today, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. Feel free to point them out to me ;D
A/N 3: I really hope this fits at all what you wanted, bb!
Sam tried to focus; his friend was out there waiting for him. But he found himself getting distracted by the slippery slide of soap on the palm of his hands and the bubbles formed when it mixed with the running water from the rusted faucet. The world darkened and Sam almost panicked until he realized he’d only closed his eyes. Blinking rapidly for a moment, he rubbed his hands - slip...slide...bubbleslip - sluggishly under the water until the last of the foam disappeared, swirling down the drain in a dizzying whirl.
The paper towel scratched over his skin, but did its job, soaking up the water from his hands. When Sam turned to leave the bathroom, the world tilted around him and he grabbed the door handle to keep from falling along with it. A long moment passed - and Sam wished he could breath deep, in and out, but he was in a bathroom and even through this strange haze he had enough sense to keep from doing just that - but he gained his equilibrium and pulled the door open. He wouldn’t admit that leaning into it was probably the only thing that kept him upright while he did so.
He saw Brady across the bar and hoped his legs could carry him to the table without falling flat on his face. At this point, he’d have been more surprised if he did reach his friend without that happening.
His tolerance for alcohol must have seriously diminished since hustling at pool took a backseat to studying for exams.
And he must have been drunker than he thought if he was letting himself remember something from before Stanford. Those thoughts made him that much dizzier, but the next thing Sam knew he was standing at their table, concerned blue eyes focusing on him. Blinking away the memory of green eyes that had once done the same, Sam shook his head and sat down slowly for fear of falling over; he realized a moment later Brady was talking to him.
“Are you feelin’ alright there, Sammy?”
The nickname sounded wrong on his lips but Sam couldn’t find the energy to say so. Everything felt wrong right then and worry was beginning to itch at him; he hadn’t had that much to drink.
“I’m… actually, no,” Sam answered. He furrowed his brow; was he slurring? The words felt heavy on his tongue and it was a fight getting his mouth to cooperate, “I think… home. We should go…”
Brady nodded and Sam watched him stand. The touch on his arm didn’t register at first, but Sam looked up to find his friend beside him and he stood, leaning his weight into the man at his side. He draped his shoulder across Brady’s shoulders, sure that he would have face planted without the added support.
Focusing all his energy on putting on foot in front of the other, Sam let Brady navigate around the crowd of people and lead them out of the bar into the night. The chill didn’t clear his mind like he’d hoped; but this was California, what had he expected? It was barely cool enough to require his hoodie let alone shock him sober.
It was getting harder to concentrate on walking, even with Brady helping him out. He didn’t notice where they were going - could barely see anything with the way his vision kept turning fuzzy combined with the dark of the street outside the bar - until his back collided into the rough brick of the alley he vaguely remembered was beside the bar. His breath hissed out through his teeth at the impact; it didn’t help his already faltering grasp on the world around him.
He looked down at Brady, frowning at the odd smile adorning his friend’s face. It didn’t look quite right and Sam would have flinched at the hand coming towards his face, but his body wouldn’t listen to him; legs barely holding him up anymore. Fingertips tickled at his forehead, bangs brushed to the side and when Sam blinked this time it was even more difficult to open them again.
Suddenly they were moving, Brady’s hands tugging at his arms even as Sam tried to push him off.
“Wht’re you d’in,” he slurred, unable to do anything but let himself be pulled and pushed into something solid and half his size. A dumpster. Distantly, Sam thought of how it smelled, how he wasn’t sure the stench would come out of his clothes in the wash.
The metal clattered against his knees as he was flipped around. Cold seeped through his jeans and Sam shivered even as he struggled, tried to shy away from the chest that pressed into his back; he only ended up pushed forward, cheek digging into the dumpster’s filthy lid.
“Stop! Ger’off!”
A hand snaked its way under both his shirt and hoodie, palm hot as it slid up and Sam froze at the feeling, braced himself for pain, though he couldn’t quite grasp why. It kept moving up while Sam breathed harshly underneath the weight of the man practically on top of him. His nipple being tweaked brought him out of his stupor and he tried to push the hands away, to get this man off but his arms only flailed weakly at his sides.
The sharp sting of teeth biting into the back of his neck forced a yelp and he barely felt the tug at his jeans while still reeling from the sudden shock of pain. He didn’t register the hand being ripped away or the sudden loss of weight against him. One moment he was being held, bent over a dumpster in an alley, and the next, the ground was sliding out from under him.
Sam landed against something warm and solid; familiar in a way he didn’t understand in the state he was currently in. He blinked up, gaze caught by a pair of green eyes staring down at him. The man’s mouth was moving, saying something to him but Sam felt his eyes closing and it was too much effort to try opening them again. He let the darkness have him, somehow knowing he was finally safe enough to do so.
* * *
The back of his neck was hot; that was the first thing Sam noticed. His head felt like it was going to fall off, drums pounding away and if he’d had the energy, he might have lifted a hand to dig his knuckles into throbbing temples. It was too much effort, though, so Sam lay still while full awareness of the world around him slowly filtered through his sleepy haze.
Light pierced through closed eyes and he groaned at the annoyance, wanted to fall back asleep until the pain in his head had ebbed. Suddenly, arms tightened around him - one around his chest while the other gripped his waist - and Sam’s eyes flew open in alarm. It took him all of a moment to realize that the warmth he felt along his neck was the result of someone’s breathing against him. And from the chest pressed close - a line of heat, solid behind him - it was a man.
The night before started to come back in a series of flashes - the rusted faucet of the restroom, the concerned look Brady gave him before they left - but Sam held himself still through the onslaught of fuzzy memories.
Brady, the man he’d considered a friend had…
Suddenly the body - the very male body - wrapped around him was too hot, circle of arms too confining and Sam couldn’t breathe. Finally his limbs decided to cooperate and he was kicking the leg over his thighs off, pushing at the arms that had him trapped where he was. It was like the damn dumpster, the alley all over again and what if it was Brady behind him - again - holding him down. He refused to let himself be caught so off guard again, not now, without some sort of drug restraining him.
“Sam!”
The voice - an all too-familiar rumble he felt through his ribs - shocked him still, arms and legs lowering to the mattress and Sam didn’t know what to do or what to say because this couldn’t be real. He must have hit his head sometime before he got away last night - how the hell did he get away; Brady obviously hadn’t been the one to drag him home - and he was hallucinating. It didn’t feel like a dream and Sam knew that the mind was pretty damned powerful; wouldn’t put it past his imagination to torture him, make Dean feel real when he wasn’t there at all.
In the next moment a hand Sam would recognize anywhere - it had patched him up more times than he could count - pulled him until he was on his back, looking up into green eyes that he never thought he’d get to see again, not full of concern directed at him. It jogged something in him, another flash of the night before and Sam’s own eyes widened as he remembered seeing those same eyes - Dean’s eyes - after Brady’s hold was ripped away.
“How are you feeling?”
Sam didn’t - couldn’t - answer, the lump in his throat making it impossible to do more than open and close his mouth in a horrible impression of a fish out of water that, in another time, would have gotten him a heaping helping of brotherly teasing.
“Sammy?”
Dean’s brow furrowed and Sam felt the worry rolling off his brother in waves but couldn’t bring himself to do anything to quell the man’s anxiety. He was still trying to process the fact that Dean was there. In Palo Alto. Was there a hunt? Was he there to see Sam?
No. He’d made it clear that he agreed with Dad that night; let Sam walk out the door without as much as a ‘good luck’. No ‘good bye’. Nothing. Sam didn’t know what Dean was doing at Stanford, but it wasn’t to check up on the brother who left them.
The sensation of fingers in his hair, nails lightly scratching over his scalp, brought him back to the present. He realized by the way Dean’s eyes narrowed that his brother was checking for any signs of discomfort, probably afr - not afraid, because Dean never was - but worried that he missed a head wound somehow. But Sam’s head was fine and the gentle ministrations were resulting more in his having to fight a rising blush than finding any injuries.
“I’m fine,” he finally blurted out, the words kicking past his teeth as he sat up. Dean’s fingers quit their movement and slid down, out of his hair until the rough hand was cupping the back of his neck. There was nothing he wanted more than to lean back into the touch when Dean gave a light squeeze - well, there was something, but Dean had been clear on his opinion of that as well - but he kept still.
“You sure?”
He nodded in response and regretted it immediately afterward. Closing his eyes against the throbbing in his temples, Sam was unable to hold back a small groan at the movement and he heard Dean snort in front of him.
“Yeah, ‘cause that’s convincing.”
Sam sighed and opened his eyes to glare at Dean, “It’s just a headache. Probably an after-effect of whatever the hell Brady - “
He stopped as his breath caught on the name, suddenly remembering why his brother was checking him for injuries.
Brady was his friend. How the hell could he just…?
“Oh my God,” Sam breathed out.
“Hey hey hey, you’re okay - “
Dean tried, but Sam shook his head back and forth, “No. No, no, no, no. He’s my friend. He wouldn’t just… Brady couldn’t. He…”
And suddenly Sam couldn’t breathe. He stared at Dean, eyes wide and wet - though nothing had spilled over and Sam would be grateful about keeping the tears from falling later - while he tried and failed to suck oxygen into burning lungs.
“Woah, Sammy. You gotta breathe. Easy, in out. In out.”
It wasn’t working; Sam tried to slow himself down but he couldn’t get his body to listen to him. He was so sick of his body refusing to listen to him.
A second later he was being manhandled, Dean grabbing him and arranging them until Dean was sat with his back to the headboard of the bed; - in a motel room, Sam realized distantly - Sam sitting in the vee of his brother’s legs. Instinctively he relaxed into Dean, copying the steady rise and fall of his brother’s chest with his own.
When he no longer had to concentrate fully on mimicking Dean’s breathing, Sam realized those fingers were back, combing through his hair, soothing in a way only Dean’s touch could be and he felt himself relaxing until his head was rested against a solid shoulder. He closed his eyes, decided getting lost in this, just for a little while, couldn’t hurt. Not anymore than being without it for years had.
All too soon Dean spoke, “Still alive, dude?”
Sam nodded and reluctantly sat up, shifted forward and away. Dean’s hand slid down, a warm weight against his shoulder and Sam had to fight to keep from shivering at the touch. “Thanks,” he said softly, swiping the wetness out of his eyes.
They sat in a not quite comfortable silence for a while before Sam sighed and decided to just bite the bullet. Find out what Dean was there for and prepare himself for being alone - just like when he first left for Stanford - again. No Brady to rely on anymore.
“So what’s the hunt?”
Dean’s nose crinkled, like he was confused or didn’t understand the question, “What hunt?”
God, he wasn’t allowed to be in the know, even when the hunt took place in the place he’d called home for the past two years.
“Don’t play dumb, Dean. I’m not stupid.”
He paused, eyebrows raised in expectation while he waited for Dean to admit it. But Dean only continued to look at Sam like he was being difficult.
“You’re in Palo Alto for a reason, Dean. And since you and Dad made it pretty damn clear about my coming to Stanford, I know that reason’s not me. So what. Are you. Hunting?”
“Well geek-boy, you’re right. I am here for a reason. But there isn’t any hunt - “ Sam scoffed, cutting Dean off. His brother’s eyes narrowed as he started again, voice dismissing, “Fine Sammy, you believe whatever makes you feel better.”
“Feel better? Are you freaking kidding me?” Sam spat out, shuffling off the bed to pace, movements jerky in his anger, “It’s supposed to make me feel better that you and Dad want nothing to do with me? That he only thing that could possibly get you to talk to me again after two years is my best friend trying to…trying to - “
Dean cut the rest of the words Sam wouldn’t have been able to choke out off and he thought ridiculously of how his brother is the only person in the world who can make him grateful while he’s spitting mad, “Look, I didn’t come here to hunt and I don’t want ‘nothing to do with you’. I just came to see my brother. Sorry if that makes me a dick!” His brother stood, fists clenched at his sides and Sam stopped his pacing a few feet from him.
“Two years, Dean! I haven’t seen or heard from you in two years and you expect me to believe that you mmph- “
Dean’s mouth on his effectively ceased any further argument. When the wet heat of a tongue swept over his lips, Sam opened easily, eagerly. Two years since he’d felt his brother’s body fitted against his own, like two pieces of a puzzle. Fingers gripped his hair, pleasant tingles shooting across his scalp, while Dean’s other hand slid beneath his shirt to grip at his waist and Sam melted into Dean’s touch. Apparently Sam had been mistaken when he thought Dean would never want to touch him again.
With his back pressed into a wall in some random motel room, Dean hot and heavy and hard against him, hips grinding together; Sam was more than okay with being wrong.
~END~
Author’s Note 4: I know I’m evil for leaving it there. I might be convinced to give them their smexy times after a couple hours sleep.
Author: wolfish_willow
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Brady
Rating: R
Genre: angst, hurt/comfort
Spoilers: If you know who Brady is, you’re good
Warnings: attempted non-con, unbeta'd
Word Count: 2717
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Just using them for a bit of fun. They belong to Kripke.
Summary: Alternate events to A Taste of Innocence. What if Dean had been in Palo Alto that night?
A/N: Written for a prompt given by insertcode11, who wanted a Sam/Dean alternate events from my Sam/Brady fic. Brady roofies Sam and attempts to rape him. Dean’s here for some reason and saves Sam. I also managed to sort of work in some ‘Sam thinks he’ll never be redeemed in the eyes of his family for leaving”. But only sort of.
A/N 2: I’m not at all sure how coherent this is. I haven’t looked it over thoroughly yet as I’ve been up all night. I will be checking it over again tomorrow/later today, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. Feel free to point them out to me ;D
A/N 3: I really hope this fits at all what you wanted, bb!
Sam tried to focus; his friend was out there waiting for him. But he found himself getting distracted by the slippery slide of soap on the palm of his hands and the bubbles formed when it mixed with the running water from the rusted faucet. The world darkened and Sam almost panicked until he realized he’d only closed his eyes. Blinking rapidly for a moment, he rubbed his hands - slip...slide...bubbleslip - sluggishly under the water until the last of the foam disappeared, swirling down the drain in a dizzying whirl.
The paper towel scratched over his skin, but did its job, soaking up the water from his hands. When Sam turned to leave the bathroom, the world tilted around him and he grabbed the door handle to keep from falling along with it. A long moment passed - and Sam wished he could breath deep, in and out, but he was in a bathroom and even through this strange haze he had enough sense to keep from doing just that - but he gained his equilibrium and pulled the door open. He wouldn’t admit that leaning into it was probably the only thing that kept him upright while he did so.
He saw Brady across the bar and hoped his legs could carry him to the table without falling flat on his face. At this point, he’d have been more surprised if he did reach his friend without that happening.
His tolerance for alcohol must have seriously diminished since hustling at pool took a backseat to studying for exams.
And he must have been drunker than he thought if he was letting himself remember something from before Stanford. Those thoughts made him that much dizzier, but the next thing Sam knew he was standing at their table, concerned blue eyes focusing on him. Blinking away the memory of green eyes that had once done the same, Sam shook his head and sat down slowly for fear of falling over; he realized a moment later Brady was talking to him.
“Are you feelin’ alright there, Sammy?”
The nickname sounded wrong on his lips but Sam couldn’t find the energy to say so. Everything felt wrong right then and worry was beginning to itch at him; he hadn’t had that much to drink.
“I’m… actually, no,” Sam answered. He furrowed his brow; was he slurring? The words felt heavy on his tongue and it was a fight getting his mouth to cooperate, “I think… home. We should go…”
Brady nodded and Sam watched him stand. The touch on his arm didn’t register at first, but Sam looked up to find his friend beside him and he stood, leaning his weight into the man at his side. He draped his shoulder across Brady’s shoulders, sure that he would have face planted without the added support.
Focusing all his energy on putting on foot in front of the other, Sam let Brady navigate around the crowd of people and lead them out of the bar into the night. The chill didn’t clear his mind like he’d hoped; but this was California, what had he expected? It was barely cool enough to require his hoodie let alone shock him sober.
It was getting harder to concentrate on walking, even with Brady helping him out. He didn’t notice where they were going - could barely see anything with the way his vision kept turning fuzzy combined with the dark of the street outside the bar - until his back collided into the rough brick of the alley he vaguely remembered was beside the bar. His breath hissed out through his teeth at the impact; it didn’t help his already faltering grasp on the world around him.
He looked down at Brady, frowning at the odd smile adorning his friend’s face. It didn’t look quite right and Sam would have flinched at the hand coming towards his face, but his body wouldn’t listen to him; legs barely holding him up anymore. Fingertips tickled at his forehead, bangs brushed to the side and when Sam blinked this time it was even more difficult to open them again.
Suddenly they were moving, Brady’s hands tugging at his arms even as Sam tried to push him off.
“Wht’re you d’in,” he slurred, unable to do anything but let himself be pulled and pushed into something solid and half his size. A dumpster. Distantly, Sam thought of how it smelled, how he wasn’t sure the stench would come out of his clothes in the wash.
The metal clattered against his knees as he was flipped around. Cold seeped through his jeans and Sam shivered even as he struggled, tried to shy away from the chest that pressed into his back; he only ended up pushed forward, cheek digging into the dumpster’s filthy lid.
“Stop! Ger’off!”
A hand snaked its way under both his shirt and hoodie, palm hot as it slid up and Sam froze at the feeling, braced himself for pain, though he couldn’t quite grasp why. It kept moving up while Sam breathed harshly underneath the weight of the man practically on top of him. His nipple being tweaked brought him out of his stupor and he tried to push the hands away, to get this man off but his arms only flailed weakly at his sides.
The sharp sting of teeth biting into the back of his neck forced a yelp and he barely felt the tug at his jeans while still reeling from the sudden shock of pain. He didn’t register the hand being ripped away or the sudden loss of weight against him. One moment he was being held, bent over a dumpster in an alley, and the next, the ground was sliding out from under him.
Sam landed against something warm and solid; familiar in a way he didn’t understand in the state he was currently in. He blinked up, gaze caught by a pair of green eyes staring down at him. The man’s mouth was moving, saying something to him but Sam felt his eyes closing and it was too much effort to try opening them again. He let the darkness have him, somehow knowing he was finally safe enough to do so.
* * *
The back of his neck was hot; that was the first thing Sam noticed. His head felt like it was going to fall off, drums pounding away and if he’d had the energy, he might have lifted a hand to dig his knuckles into throbbing temples. It was too much effort, though, so Sam lay still while full awareness of the world around him slowly filtered through his sleepy haze.
Light pierced through closed eyes and he groaned at the annoyance, wanted to fall back asleep until the pain in his head had ebbed. Suddenly, arms tightened around him - one around his chest while the other gripped his waist - and Sam’s eyes flew open in alarm. It took him all of a moment to realize that the warmth he felt along his neck was the result of someone’s breathing against him. And from the chest pressed close - a line of heat, solid behind him - it was a man.
The night before started to come back in a series of flashes - the rusted faucet of the restroom, the concerned look Brady gave him before they left - but Sam held himself still through the onslaught of fuzzy memories.
Brady, the man he’d considered a friend had…
Suddenly the body - the very male body - wrapped around him was too hot, circle of arms too confining and Sam couldn’t breathe. Finally his limbs decided to cooperate and he was kicking the leg over his thighs off, pushing at the arms that had him trapped where he was. It was like the damn dumpster, the alley all over again and what if it was Brady behind him - again - holding him down. He refused to let himself be caught so off guard again, not now, without some sort of drug restraining him.
“Sam!”
The voice - an all too-familiar rumble he felt through his ribs - shocked him still, arms and legs lowering to the mattress and Sam didn’t know what to do or what to say because this couldn’t be real. He must have hit his head sometime before he got away last night - how the hell did he get away; Brady obviously hadn’t been the one to drag him home - and he was hallucinating. It didn’t feel like a dream and Sam knew that the mind was pretty damned powerful; wouldn’t put it past his imagination to torture him, make Dean feel real when he wasn’t there at all.
In the next moment a hand Sam would recognize anywhere - it had patched him up more times than he could count - pulled him until he was on his back, looking up into green eyes that he never thought he’d get to see again, not full of concern directed at him. It jogged something in him, another flash of the night before and Sam’s own eyes widened as he remembered seeing those same eyes - Dean’s eyes - after Brady’s hold was ripped away.
“How are you feeling?”
Sam didn’t - couldn’t - answer, the lump in his throat making it impossible to do more than open and close his mouth in a horrible impression of a fish out of water that, in another time, would have gotten him a heaping helping of brotherly teasing.
“Sammy?”
Dean’s brow furrowed and Sam felt the worry rolling off his brother in waves but couldn’t bring himself to do anything to quell the man’s anxiety. He was still trying to process the fact that Dean was there. In Palo Alto. Was there a hunt? Was he there to see Sam?
No. He’d made it clear that he agreed with Dad that night; let Sam walk out the door without as much as a ‘good luck’. No ‘good bye’. Nothing. Sam didn’t know what Dean was doing at Stanford, but it wasn’t to check up on the brother who left them.
The sensation of fingers in his hair, nails lightly scratching over his scalp, brought him back to the present. He realized by the way Dean’s eyes narrowed that his brother was checking for any signs of discomfort, probably afr - not afraid, because Dean never was - but worried that he missed a head wound somehow. But Sam’s head was fine and the gentle ministrations were resulting more in his having to fight a rising blush than finding any injuries.
“I’m fine,” he finally blurted out, the words kicking past his teeth as he sat up. Dean’s fingers quit their movement and slid down, out of his hair until the rough hand was cupping the back of his neck. There was nothing he wanted more than to lean back into the touch when Dean gave a light squeeze - well, there was something, but Dean had been clear on his opinion of that as well - but he kept still.
“You sure?”
He nodded in response and regretted it immediately afterward. Closing his eyes against the throbbing in his temples, Sam was unable to hold back a small groan at the movement and he heard Dean snort in front of him.
“Yeah, ‘cause that’s convincing.”
Sam sighed and opened his eyes to glare at Dean, “It’s just a headache. Probably an after-effect of whatever the hell Brady - “
He stopped as his breath caught on the name, suddenly remembering why his brother was checking him for injuries.
Brady was his friend. How the hell could he just…?
“Oh my God,” Sam breathed out.
“Hey hey hey, you’re okay - “
Dean tried, but Sam shook his head back and forth, “No. No, no, no, no. He’s my friend. He wouldn’t just… Brady couldn’t. He…”
And suddenly Sam couldn’t breathe. He stared at Dean, eyes wide and wet - though nothing had spilled over and Sam would be grateful about keeping the tears from falling later - while he tried and failed to suck oxygen into burning lungs.
“Woah, Sammy. You gotta breathe. Easy, in out. In out.”
It wasn’t working; Sam tried to slow himself down but he couldn’t get his body to listen to him. He was so sick of his body refusing to listen to him.
A second later he was being manhandled, Dean grabbing him and arranging them until Dean was sat with his back to the headboard of the bed; - in a motel room, Sam realized distantly - Sam sitting in the vee of his brother’s legs. Instinctively he relaxed into Dean, copying the steady rise and fall of his brother’s chest with his own.
When he no longer had to concentrate fully on mimicking Dean’s breathing, Sam realized those fingers were back, combing through his hair, soothing in a way only Dean’s touch could be and he felt himself relaxing until his head was rested against a solid shoulder. He closed his eyes, decided getting lost in this, just for a little while, couldn’t hurt. Not anymore than being without it for years had.
All too soon Dean spoke, “Still alive, dude?”
Sam nodded and reluctantly sat up, shifted forward and away. Dean’s hand slid down, a warm weight against his shoulder and Sam had to fight to keep from shivering at the touch. “Thanks,” he said softly, swiping the wetness out of his eyes.
They sat in a not quite comfortable silence for a while before Sam sighed and decided to just bite the bullet. Find out what Dean was there for and prepare himself for being alone - just like when he first left for Stanford - again. No Brady to rely on anymore.
“So what’s the hunt?”
Dean’s nose crinkled, like he was confused or didn’t understand the question, “What hunt?”
God, he wasn’t allowed to be in the know, even when the hunt took place in the place he’d called home for the past two years.
“Don’t play dumb, Dean. I’m not stupid.”
He paused, eyebrows raised in expectation while he waited for Dean to admit it. But Dean only continued to look at Sam like he was being difficult.
“You’re in Palo Alto for a reason, Dean. And since you and Dad made it pretty damn clear about my coming to Stanford, I know that reason’s not me. So what. Are you. Hunting?”
“Well geek-boy, you’re right. I am here for a reason. But there isn’t any hunt - “ Sam scoffed, cutting Dean off. His brother’s eyes narrowed as he started again, voice dismissing, “Fine Sammy, you believe whatever makes you feel better.”
“Feel better? Are you freaking kidding me?” Sam spat out, shuffling off the bed to pace, movements jerky in his anger, “It’s supposed to make me feel better that you and Dad want nothing to do with me? That he only thing that could possibly get you to talk to me again after two years is my best friend trying to…trying to - “
Dean cut the rest of the words Sam wouldn’t have been able to choke out off and he thought ridiculously of how his brother is the only person in the world who can make him grateful while he’s spitting mad, “Look, I didn’t come here to hunt and I don’t want ‘nothing to do with you’. I just came to see my brother. Sorry if that makes me a dick!” His brother stood, fists clenched at his sides and Sam stopped his pacing a few feet from him.
“Two years, Dean! I haven’t seen or heard from you in two years and you expect me to believe that you mmph- “
Dean’s mouth on his effectively ceased any further argument. When the wet heat of a tongue swept over his lips, Sam opened easily, eagerly. Two years since he’d felt his brother’s body fitted against his own, like two pieces of a puzzle. Fingers gripped his hair, pleasant tingles shooting across his scalp, while Dean’s other hand slid beneath his shirt to grip at his waist and Sam melted into Dean’s touch. Apparently Sam had been mistaken when he thought Dean would never want to touch him again.
With his back pressed into a wall in some random motel room, Dean hot and heavy and hard against him, hips grinding together; Sam was more than okay with being wrong.
~END~
Author’s Note 4: I know I’m evil for leaving it there. I might be convinced to give them their smexy times after a couple hours sleep.