SPN/J2 BIG BANG: DEAD YET AGAIN (SAM/DEAN, NC-17) V
Fic title: Dead Yet Again
Author name: arysteia
Genre: wincest
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 21, 000
Warnings/Spoilers: Explicit sex. Some violence, but not more than you'd expect from an episode. No spoilers.
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester are at odds while dealing with a seemingly routine haunted mansion. As usual, nothing is what it seems, and nothing goes according to plan. Before long Sam is experiencing strange dreams of another life. A life where he and Dean had a very different relationship. A life that shattered when Sam Menzies-Hall brutally murdered his lover. Or maybe the truth is not so simple. Is there really such a thing as past lives? Is the notion any crazier than anything else they've had to deal with? Is Sam finally just cracking up? Or is there some other force at work? Who really killed Dean Paterson? And what impact will the revelations have on Sam's relationship with Dean today?
The store is closed, dark, when Dean arrives, and he has no hesitation in tossing a pried loose cobblestone through the front window and climbing through after it. An alarm starts ringing but he ignores it.
"Mrs. Heyward! Mrs. Heyward," he shouts. "I know you're here you crazy bitch."
He forces the door behind the desk, and hurries through the study into the private rooms beyond. Anna Heyward is a tiny, frail woman in a floral nightgown and shawl, her long white hair loose around her shoulders.
"Who are you?" she demands. "I've called the police."
"Good," Dean snaps. "You can tell them what really happened to Dean and Sam all those years ago."
"What?" She tries for innocent sweet old lady, but misses it by a mile.
"You lied on the stand," Dean says. "You were the one who came up with all that crap about how violent they were, how they were always fighting. It wasn't true was it? Any of it? The loyal housekeeper, forced to testify."
"They deserved it," Anna hisses, face like fury. "The way they lived! You should have seen them, the way they behaved. Living like that, two men."
"You bitch."
"That Dean. He knew when he was on to a good thing. Sam spent so much money on him, money he didn't have. It was his fault. Little whore."
It all comes together in an instant.
"You were in love with him, weren't you," Dean says. It's not a question. "With Sam."
"I looked after him for twelve years!" Anna shrieks. "I nursed him when he came home from France, I was there when Rachel died, I took care of him. He wouldn't have made it if not for me. I told him to come to America."
"Yeah," Dean scoffs. "And he treated you like a servant. You washed his clothes and cooked his meals, and that was it. You couldn't stand it, could you, the fact he loved Dean instead of you?"
"Love?" she shrieks. "Love? That's not love. Two men like that, flaunting their filth in front of me, in front of my son."
"In their own goddamn home," Dean roars, infuriated beyond bearing.
"I made it a home. We could have been a family, Sam and me and Frankie. A real family."
"Yeah. Because only your fucked up idea of family counts. It's not love if it doesn't meet your idea of it."
She shrugs nonchalantly.
"So what happened?" Dean demands. "Frankie stole Dean's watch and he'd finally had enough, he talked Sam into firing you?"
"Sam would never have fired me!" Anna insists. "But I couldn't stay there. I tried to explain to Frankie that we had to leave that house. That Sam wanted Dean and not me. And Frankie hated him for it."
"Frankie? Your son, the creepy kid who was always around but never said anything?"
"I didn't know how angry it made him. But he was my son."
Dean looks at her incredulously.
"We could hear them that night, from our sitting room. Working on the play. Sam had finally gotten the big breakthrough he'd been waiting for. They ran around like wild things, up the stairs and across the landings, climbing onto the furniture and shouting back and forth. It was like a circus." Anna sighs. "It was like the main character was written for Dean. I suppose it was. He wasn't an actor, that was obvious, but he was Sam's muse, and he put so much feeling into the part. He made it come to life. And Sam was writing the whole time, laughing and crying. They spilt red wine all over the carpet in the hall and they didn't even stop to clean it up."
"Oh, god, Sam, the carpet."
"Leave it!"
"But Anna..."
"Can clean it or not, I don't care. I'll point to it at parties, and say, 'This. This is where I won my Tony.'"
Dean laughed. "It's your house."
"It's our house, Dean." Sam's face was serious. "I know I've said things recently, to make you feel bad, and I didn't mean it, any of it. You're not a guest here."
"Okay," Dean whispered, blush creeping over his cheekbones, hiding the freckles Sam loved to count and kiss. "Are we done with the scene? Can you take a break?"
"I'm on a roll," Sam said pompously, "Why ever would I take a break?"
Dean smirked. "No reason," he flung over his shoulder, and then he was gone, up the stairs again and down the hall, unbuttoning his shirt as he ran.
Sam tossed his manuscript over the balustrade and followed.
Dean was already on the bed when he reached their room, barefoot, shirt tossed haphazardly to cover one boot on the floor. Sam pounced, knee-walking his way up the bed to straddle Dean's thighs. "Let me," he said, shifting Dean's hand off his belt buckle.
Dean grinned and let his arms fall to his sides.
Sam unbuckled the belt, dragged it slowly, teasingly through the loops and tossed it to a far corner of the room. He popped the buttons one by one, then yanked on the waistband. Dean raised his lower body cooperatively, and Sam slid his jeans and briefs together down his legs, letting them slide off the end of the bed. "What next?" he asked.
Dean grinned, then sat up suddenly, shucking his t-shirt in one sinuous motion. Sam leaned in to suck at one brown nipple, laving it with his tongue then pulling back to blow gently. Dean's whole body shivered and he collapsed back onto the bed. Sam followed him, pressing down with his whole weight. "I love you," he said seriously.
"I love you too," Dean said. "Come here, Sammy."
Sam's mouth met his in a deep kiss, wet and perfect. He sucked on his tongue for a moment, then licked out and across Dean's jaw to nuzzle under his ear. "I want you," he whispered.
Dean laughed. "I thought I'd been fairly plain with my permission."
"I don't ever want to take you for granted," Sam swore.
"Just shut up and take me."
Sam reached for the little bottle of oil they kept in the drawer of the bedside table, taking time to warm it in his hands before using it on Dean.
Dean squirmed delightfully under him. "Come on."
Sam wiped his hands on Dean's chest and belly in revenge, then unbuttoned his trousers, pushing them down to his knees, his briefs with them.
"That's it?" Dean queried. "You're a man of style and class, Samuel Menzies-Hall."
"I'm a man who works for a living," Sam countered. "And I have to go back to work, unlike some, slugabed."
He shoved Dean's knees apart and moved into position between them. "I do love you," he whispered as he slid home.
Dean moaned beneath him, arms wrapping tightly round his shoulders, legs drawing up to cradle him. "Kiss me again."
Sam did.
"You watched them?" Dean explodes. He's never in his life hit a woman who wasn't undead or possessed, god rest Meg Masters, but his hands twitch at his sides.
Anna shrugs. "They left the door open. I wanted to see what the fuss was about. Animals."
Dean flinches.
"Sam left him lying there in their filth, went back downstairs to his study to finish the play. He sat up all night, I could hear the typewriter from my room. I wanted to kill myself."
"But you didn't," Dean hisses. "You waited for Dean to fall asleep, and then you went in there, and you... I guess hell really does have no fury."
"Me?" Anna laughs. "I didn't know until it was too late."
"Know what, you psycho bitch?"
"That Frankie wasn't asleep."
Dean gapes. "Frankie? Your kid Frankie? That crazy old... Fuck!" He turns to leave.
"Wait," Anna calls after him. She reaches under her nightgown, pulls out a long chain, slips something off it. "You'll want this," she says, throwing it at him, hard.
*****
Sam's barricaded in their room when Dean gets there, chair up against the door.
"Let me in Sammy," Dean shouts. Fuck, how could they have been so blind? No wonder Sam's been so out of sorts, who knows what kind of crap Frankie Heyward has been feeding him the last week?
"Go away," Sam cries.
Dean kicks the door in. "Just listen to me," he says urgently. "Sam did not kill Dean! He was downstairs writing his damn play!"
"Don't come near me, Dean," Sam insists.
"I'm not Dean!" Dean shouts. "Now look, this is for you." He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket. He realises even as he's doing it that it's a mistake.
"Dean, don't," Sam gasps, "Oh, god."
It's the reflex of a lifetime's training that saves him, diving to the side as the gun comes up. The fact Sam can pull the trigger - again - hurts more than the bullet that catches him in the side. He goes down hard, and lies unmoving.
"Oh god." Sam stands over Dean, the gun in his hand. He nudges Dean's hand with his foot and it falls open. It's Dean's ring inside, the one Sam gave him.
Sam falls to his knees. "Dean!" He tosses the gun aside and tears his shirt off frantically, uses it to try to stem the steady flow of blood from Dean's side.
"Oh, now this is sweet." Heyward's voice. It's no longer gentle or charming. Sam turns to face him, but something cold and hard impacts the side of his face, making him see stars. He falls back onto the floor beside Dean.
"Perhaps even sweeter than the first time," Heyward crows. "But of course Sam knew there was no hope the moment he found Dean. So very much blood on the sheets. And on the walls."
"Why?" Sam asks, struggling to sit up, to stay conscious, to keep Heyward talking.
"He was asleep when I came in. Dean. Sprawled there, naked, like he owned the place. The scissors were just lying on the dressing table."
He brandishes the gun he'd obviously picked up from the floor where Sam dropped it. "I do love symmetry," he croons, measuring them both with his eyes. "Murder-suicide, I think. They hadn't invented those in 1949. Ah, progress." He stands over Sam, pointing it. "Head for you, heart for him. Nothing personal, dear boy."
There's a blur in the corner of Sam's vision, a cry, the sound of the gun going off. Sam blinks and tries to roll over. Heyward has gone down on one knee. Sticking crazily out of his thigh is the pair of scissors from the first aid kit, the ones Sam had thrown across the room earlier. "I like symmetry too, fucker," Dean growls, collapsing back against Sam.
The dive for the gun isn't even a competition. Sam has all the rage of two broken hearts, and the desperate fear of his own, beating its way out of his chest. He shoots Heyward twice, in the heart and in the head, for symmetry, then dives for Dean.
"Hey, hey," he says desperately, rolling Dean onto his back, shoving up his shirt. The wound's still bleeding sluggishly, but it's nowhere near as bad as he'd first feared. He presses hard on it with the heel of his hand.
Dean groans and tries to buck him off.
"Ssh, ssh," Sam croons, "I got you. I got you, Dean."
"C'mere," Dean manages, and Sam does, leaning over to kiss him gently on the mouth.
"Harder, bitch," Dean says.
Sam laughs. "Jerk. Just you wait till you're well enough for what I want to do to you."
"Yeah, yeah, Sammy," Dean agrees, drifting off again. You're all talk."
Sam manages to get the wound cleaned with minimal swearing from Dean, and stitches him up as quickly and neatly as he can, thanking god the whole time there was no one around to hear the shot. He has one last look around the old house, the house Sam built and he and Dean lived in together for so short a time. There's no way to know for sure what was holding them here, if it was just the fact that the man who was responsible for their deaths had returned, or whether they were waiting, as crazy as it sounds, for Sam and Dean. It's clear they've gone now, at peace at last. The whole place feels different.
Sam doesn't stop driving till they're in Pennsylvania, and even then it's only to pull off the highway and sack out for a few hours in a truck stop parking lot before getting back on the road. There hadn't been enough time to clean up as thoroughly as he'd have liked, and both the desk clerks saw them when they checked in. Sam tries a couple of times to apologise, ashamed and embarrassed at his own credulity, horrified that he could ever have believed the worst about his brother. Dean pretends to be asleep every time. He's dozing for real when they hit Ohio and Sam finally judges them far enough away to relax, pulling in to a small motel on the 106 off ramp to Canton. He leaves him there in the car when he goes to check in, and with his heart in his mouth he asks for a king. The motel's about their usual standard, cheap and "discreet". The walls in their room have steam trains on them, and so does the curtain around the old fashioned bathtub. It feels like home.
Dean follows, wide awake, once Sam's made two trips to carry in all the bags. His eye skitters over the bed without comment, then he inspects the bathroom and pronounces it to his liking, trains be damned.
"Dean," Sam starts, careful but firm.
"No, Sam," Dean interrupts, just as firm.
"But Dean-"
"I said no, Sam. We're not talking about it. That's a deal breaker for me."
Oh. Sam finds himself able to breathe again. "Okay," he agrees. "Okay. That's fair. But I want to say one thing. One thing and then never again, I swear."
Dean looks at him suspiciously, but nods.
"I always wanted this, Dean," he says. "Always. It's not post-hypnotic suggestion, and it's not because I feel trapped, or because I'm afraid I'll never have anything else. I wanted it before I went away. It's half the reason I went away. Because I wanted it and I thought you didn't, and I thought that made me a freak, even more of a freak than I already was, and I couldn't bear it, okay?"
Dean nods again, sharply. Sam looks around for something, anything to do to break the moment. Dean clears his throat. Sam looks at him again and he's bone white, freckles standing out starkly on his face. He swallows convulsively, and then he opens his mouth.
"It wasn't just you, Sammy," Dean blurts. "It was never just you. Since we're doing this."
"Dean-"
"But you have to understand, Sam. You have to understand."
Sam smiles and nods, and tries to look as encouraging and non-threatening as he can. If he screws this up Dean will never, ever, find the strength to try again. And if there's one thing, just one, that he's learned from the misery of the last two weeks, it's that all the love in the world won't be enough if they can't be at least a little open with each other.
"I was in my twenties," Dean whispers. "And you were just a kid. You were my kid brother. God, you were like my kid. And I could never. I could never, Sam. I would never."
It's like the sun coming out at last, warming Sam all the way to the bone. "I know that, Dean," he says. "I know. But I'm not a kid now. I'm twenty-six years old, and I know what I'm doing."
Dean looks at him long and hard. Opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it and just looks some more. "There is an awesome bathtub here," he announces at last, "and I'm using it. Go get me a burger from that place across the street."
Sam shrugs, pulls on his jacket, and heads back out.
*****
He's gone a lot longer than Dean expects, and he's out of the bath and half asleep in front of the Pro-Am Monster Truck Spectacular by the time Sam gets back.
"Ah," Sam says, gesturing at the television with an arm laden with bags. "All's right with the world. Turn it off."
"Huh?"
"Turn off the television set," Sam says slowly, enunciating each word.
Dean grumbles but does.
A moment later he's staring awkwardly at the dinner Sam bought him that isn't a burger from across the road. There's steak and baked potatoes and corn, and two kinds of salad, but Sam will eat most of that, and some fancy pants strudel for dessert, but it's got cream and ice cream and might as well be pie.
There's also a couple of bottles of wine. Red. Dean looks at it sceptically, but what the hey, this is Sam's party. It's actually pretty good, even out of cheap plastic tumblers, and goes fine with the meal. By the time they're done he's feeling a very pleasant buzz.
"Why, Mr. Winchester," he quips. "I think you're trying to seduce me."
"If I'm still trying," Sam snarks right back, "my evening is way behind schedule."
Dean laughs, and the warm feeling he thought was from the wine spreads right through his whole body. Fancy dinners are well and good, but if they can have this, the banter and the silliness and the Winchester brothers, then they'll be okay.
Sam clears the debris off the bed, and heads for the bathroom. Dean strips off to the sound of running water and Sam's off-key singing. It's good.
When Sam comes back out his towel makes him feel over-dressed. Dean's shamelessly, gloriously naked, sprawled across the nylon coverlet. Even the paisley fades around him. Sam drops his towel and grasps Dean's legs, pulling him across the bed towards him. He kneels at the foot of the bed, leaning in to nose the crease of Dean's thigh and groin. He smells of soap, and faint antiseptic from the fresh dressing on his side, and Dean. Sam bites his hip bone, then licks across to his navel, stabbing in and circling with his tongue. Dean shivers and clamps down on Sam's shoulders with both hands, trying to drag him where he wants him.
"Driver picks the tempo," Sam chuckles, licking over to the other hipbone. It has a scar across it from an encounter with a wendigo when they were kids. Sam traces it with his tongue, suckling each raised bump, then finally, finally taking pity.
He takes a deep breath, and then Dean's whole length in one controlled slide. Dean has a heartbeat to feel outraged at the ease of the movement, then there's nothing but the wetness of Sam's mouth, the tightness of his throat. Sam screws himself up and down with aggressive speed, nuzzling at Dean's pubic bone then pulling off to flick his tongue at the tip of his cock, catching just perfectly in the slit, then sliding back down again. He pulls off entirely to lick up one side and down the other, then uses his hand to push Dean's dick to the side and out of the way of his questing tongue. He mouths each ball in turn, sucking them into his mouth then releasing them with a wet pop to nuzzle further back. Dean writhes against him and keens like he's in pain.
Sam sits up, and the look of outrage on Dean's face would be enough to make him laugh at any other time. Any other time.
"Yeah?" he asks, and there's a wealth of meaning in it.
"Yeah," Dean replies, and it's an answer to every question.
Sam hooks a hand under the small of Dean's back, and flips him over onto his stomach. Dean goes willingly, moaning again and spreading his legs. Sam kisses the small of his back, then licks one broad stripe down into the cleft. Dean rears up, gasping, and Sam leans over the side of the bed to rummage in his jacket. His cock drags across Dean's back, heavy and hot and wanting, leaving a sticky smear in its path that Dean can feel. He shudders. Sam finds the tube he'd bought earlier, and somehow finds the dexterity to get it open. He can't wait to warm it though, and Dean yelps in surprise as the first drop splashes on his back.
Sam slicks his fingers well, and drags his thumb across the small of Dean's back, from dimple to dimple, and down into the cleft. It skims over Dean's hole lightly, just a touch, waiting for permission, and Dean gives it silently, spreading his legs further. Sam's first finger slides in so easily he wastes no time in following with two together. This time there is resistance, but not much, and Dean groans encouragingly. Sam scissors his fingers to stretch the muscle, then withdraws to add more lube. He wants this to be perfect, no complaints, so Dean will want it forever. Anything less is unacceptable. Dean curses at the loss, and Sam hushes him, pushing back in again, spreading the slick around.
"Come on, come on," Dean moans. "Do it, Sam, fuck me."
Sam wipes the last of the lube on his cock, then squeezes hard at the base to calm himself down. "I love you, Dean," he says firmly.
There's a sudden silence, broken only by the sound of his own harsh breathing. For three, four, five beats of his breaking heart he thinks it's too much for Dean, he's finally pushed him too far, and then Dean responds, "I love you too, Sammy, but you got work to do."
Sam laughs, and pushes forward, lining himself up. The head of his cock slips in easily, and he waits a moment for Dean to adjust around him, then pushes in the rest of the way. It's hot, and tight, and Christ, Dean. He stops for a breath, thumbs stroking Dean's hips. Dean squirms under him, groaning, and it sends a spark through his whole body. He can't hold back any more, and he starts thrusting, deep, coring thrusts that reach to the heart of Dean, the hottest, most secret places of him, the places that are just for Sam. There's no way on god's green earth that this is Dean's first time, but it's their first, the first of the rest of their lives. Dean's moaning under him, pushing wantonly back to meet him, and it's not enough, Sam pulls him to his knees, thighs splaying wide over his own, back plastered tight against his own front. Dean grunts as the penetration deepens, flings a hand back to pull Sam's head hard against his neck, angles his own head so their mouths can meet. Sam can't believe it's their first kiss since the encounter began. Dean doesn't seem to care though, opening wide, biting savagely at Sam's lips, sucking at his tongue, panting hot and wet against his cheek. It's still not enough.
Sam pushes Dean off him with difficulty, pulls out, and rolls him onto his back. Dean moans and tries to fight him - "Sam, no, no" - but then Sam's back against him, slotting into place, grasping his hips and pushing back in. He grinds hard against Dean, and Dean wraps his arms and legs around Sam's back, holding tight. Sam stretches to reach Dean's mouth, the position must be hell on his abdominals, but Dean goes with it, opening again and they kiss hard, teeth clacking, noses bumping. It's a hell of a mess, sweat slicking, saliva smearing, Dean's cock leaking copiously where it's sandwiched between their bellies. Sam snakes a hand between them and wraps it around Dean, setting off another breathy moan. He barely manages a swipe of his closed hand before Dean's coming, fountaining between them, whole body jerking uncontrollably in Sam's arms, ass clenching around his cock, milking him. Sam manages another six strokes, shorter now, jerky, all rhythm lost, and then he's coming too, harder than he's ever come before, lights flashing and black swamping his vision. He slumps heavily against Dean's chest, still deeply seated, and tries to remember how to breathe.
He's drifting off when Dean shoves at him gently. "Sammy," he whispers, throat hoarse. "Sam! You're not actually any lighter than you look, Sasquatch."
Sam smirks, and rolls off, eliciting a grunt from Dean as he slips out of him.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"Can't," Dean croaks. "I'm broken. You always break your toys, bro."
Sam laughs. Yeah. They'll be okay.
They lie there in companionable silence for a while, chests heaving in unison, breath slowly evening out.
"I've got something for you," Sam says at last, then off Dean's look, "Okay, I could have phrased that better." He sits up and rummages in his jacket pocket again, while Dean watches quizzically from his boneless sprawl.
"Dean," he starts.
"Ye-es, Samuel?"
"Ah, fuck it." Sam reaches over and grabs Dean's hand off his chest. His ring slides off easily, slippery with sweat.
Dean sits up, surprised. "That's mine, Sam."
Sam ignores him and slides the silver band onto his own hand. It's fractionally loose, his fingers longer and thinner than Dean's, but not enough to matter.
"Sam." Dean's voice is warning.
"Dean."
He picks up Dean's hand and slides Sam's heavy antique band onto his ring finger. It's rose gold and intricately worked, ivy tendrils and small flower buds knotted tightly in a wreath. It's beautiful. It's nothing to the sight of Dean still breathing heavily, flushed and sweat slicked, covered in their combined fluids.
"Sam." Dean's voice sounds choked and wet.
"I don't think they'll mind, Dean," Sam says. "I don't think they'll mind at all."
Dean's blush does indeed cover his whole body.
"Whatever," he says at last, when he can speak again. "We're not taking a trip to Iowa, Sammy, so don't even think about it."
"How about Connecticut?"
"Sam," Dean declares, self possession returning, "an entire squadron of screaming banshees couldn't drag me to Connecticut."
Yeah, Sam thinks, as he lies down and drags Dean into his arms, hard up against him - no room for ghosts, holy or otherwise - they'll be okay.
Author name: arysteia
Genre: wincest
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 21, 000
Warnings/Spoilers: Explicit sex. Some violence, but not more than you'd expect from an episode. No spoilers.
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester are at odds while dealing with a seemingly routine haunted mansion. As usual, nothing is what it seems, and nothing goes according to plan. Before long Sam is experiencing strange dreams of another life. A life where he and Dean had a very different relationship. A life that shattered when Sam Menzies-Hall brutally murdered his lover. Or maybe the truth is not so simple. Is there really such a thing as past lives? Is the notion any crazier than anything else they've had to deal with? Is Sam finally just cracking up? Or is there some other force at work? Who really killed Dean Paterson? And what impact will the revelations have on Sam's relationship with Dean today?
The store is closed, dark, when Dean arrives, and he has no hesitation in tossing a pried loose cobblestone through the front window and climbing through after it. An alarm starts ringing but he ignores it.
"Mrs. Heyward! Mrs. Heyward," he shouts. "I know you're here you crazy bitch."
He forces the door behind the desk, and hurries through the study into the private rooms beyond. Anna Heyward is a tiny, frail woman in a floral nightgown and shawl, her long white hair loose around her shoulders.
"Who are you?" she demands. "I've called the police."
"Good," Dean snaps. "You can tell them what really happened to Dean and Sam all those years ago."
"What?" She tries for innocent sweet old lady, but misses it by a mile.
"You lied on the stand," Dean says. "You were the one who came up with all that crap about how violent they were, how they were always fighting. It wasn't true was it? Any of it? The loyal housekeeper, forced to testify."
"They deserved it," Anna hisses, face like fury. "The way they lived! You should have seen them, the way they behaved. Living like that, two men."
"You bitch."
"That Dean. He knew when he was on to a good thing. Sam spent so much money on him, money he didn't have. It was his fault. Little whore."
It all comes together in an instant.
"You were in love with him, weren't you," Dean says. It's not a question. "With Sam."
"I looked after him for twelve years!" Anna shrieks. "I nursed him when he came home from France, I was there when Rachel died, I took care of him. He wouldn't have made it if not for me. I told him to come to America."
"Yeah," Dean scoffs. "And he treated you like a servant. You washed his clothes and cooked his meals, and that was it. You couldn't stand it, could you, the fact he loved Dean instead of you?"
"Love?" she shrieks. "Love? That's not love. Two men like that, flaunting their filth in front of me, in front of my son."
"In their own goddamn home," Dean roars, infuriated beyond bearing.
"I made it a home. We could have been a family, Sam and me and Frankie. A real family."
"Yeah. Because only your fucked up idea of family counts. It's not love if it doesn't meet your idea of it."
She shrugs nonchalantly.
"So what happened?" Dean demands. "Frankie stole Dean's watch and he'd finally had enough, he talked Sam into firing you?"
"Sam would never have fired me!" Anna insists. "But I couldn't stay there. I tried to explain to Frankie that we had to leave that house. That Sam wanted Dean and not me. And Frankie hated him for it."
"Frankie? Your son, the creepy kid who was always around but never said anything?"
"I didn't know how angry it made him. But he was my son."
Dean looks at her incredulously.
"We could hear them that night, from our sitting room. Working on the play. Sam had finally gotten the big breakthrough he'd been waiting for. They ran around like wild things, up the stairs and across the landings, climbing onto the furniture and shouting back and forth. It was like a circus." Anna sighs. "It was like the main character was written for Dean. I suppose it was. He wasn't an actor, that was obvious, but he was Sam's muse, and he put so much feeling into the part. He made it come to life. And Sam was writing the whole time, laughing and crying. They spilt red wine all over the carpet in the hall and they didn't even stop to clean it up."
"Oh, god, Sam, the carpet."
"Leave it!"
"But Anna..."
"Can clean it or not, I don't care. I'll point to it at parties, and say, 'This. This is where I won my Tony.'"
Dean laughed. "It's your house."
"It's our house, Dean." Sam's face was serious. "I know I've said things recently, to make you feel bad, and I didn't mean it, any of it. You're not a guest here."
"Okay," Dean whispered, blush creeping over his cheekbones, hiding the freckles Sam loved to count and kiss. "Are we done with the scene? Can you take a break?"
"I'm on a roll," Sam said pompously, "Why ever would I take a break?"
Dean smirked. "No reason," he flung over his shoulder, and then he was gone, up the stairs again and down the hall, unbuttoning his shirt as he ran.
Sam tossed his manuscript over the balustrade and followed.
Dean was already on the bed when he reached their room, barefoot, shirt tossed haphazardly to cover one boot on the floor. Sam pounced, knee-walking his way up the bed to straddle Dean's thighs. "Let me," he said, shifting Dean's hand off his belt buckle.
Dean grinned and let his arms fall to his sides.
Sam unbuckled the belt, dragged it slowly, teasingly through the loops and tossed it to a far corner of the room. He popped the buttons one by one, then yanked on the waistband. Dean raised his lower body cooperatively, and Sam slid his jeans and briefs together down his legs, letting them slide off the end of the bed. "What next?" he asked.
Dean grinned, then sat up suddenly, shucking his t-shirt in one sinuous motion. Sam leaned in to suck at one brown nipple, laving it with his tongue then pulling back to blow gently. Dean's whole body shivered and he collapsed back onto the bed. Sam followed him, pressing down with his whole weight. "I love you," he said seriously.
"I love you too," Dean said. "Come here, Sammy."
Sam's mouth met his in a deep kiss, wet and perfect. He sucked on his tongue for a moment, then licked out and across Dean's jaw to nuzzle under his ear. "I want you," he whispered.
Dean laughed. "I thought I'd been fairly plain with my permission."
"I don't ever want to take you for granted," Sam swore.
"Just shut up and take me."
Sam reached for the little bottle of oil they kept in the drawer of the bedside table, taking time to warm it in his hands before using it on Dean.
Dean squirmed delightfully under him. "Come on."
Sam wiped his hands on Dean's chest and belly in revenge, then unbuttoned his trousers, pushing them down to his knees, his briefs with them.
"That's it?" Dean queried. "You're a man of style and class, Samuel Menzies-Hall."
"I'm a man who works for a living," Sam countered. "And I have to go back to work, unlike some, slugabed."
He shoved Dean's knees apart and moved into position between them. "I do love you," he whispered as he slid home.
Dean moaned beneath him, arms wrapping tightly round his shoulders, legs drawing up to cradle him. "Kiss me again."
Sam did.
"You watched them?" Dean explodes. He's never in his life hit a woman who wasn't undead or possessed, god rest Meg Masters, but his hands twitch at his sides.
Anna shrugs. "They left the door open. I wanted to see what the fuss was about. Animals."
Dean flinches.
"Sam left him lying there in their filth, went back downstairs to his study to finish the play. He sat up all night, I could hear the typewriter from my room. I wanted to kill myself."
"But you didn't," Dean hisses. "You waited for Dean to fall asleep, and then you went in there, and you... I guess hell really does have no fury."
"Me?" Anna laughs. "I didn't know until it was too late."
"Know what, you psycho bitch?"
"That Frankie wasn't asleep."
Dean gapes. "Frankie? Your kid Frankie? That crazy old... Fuck!" He turns to leave.
"Wait," Anna calls after him. She reaches under her nightgown, pulls out a long chain, slips something off it. "You'll want this," she says, throwing it at him, hard.
*****
Sam's barricaded in their room when Dean gets there, chair up against the door.
"Let me in Sammy," Dean shouts. Fuck, how could they have been so blind? No wonder Sam's been so out of sorts, who knows what kind of crap Frankie Heyward has been feeding him the last week?
"Go away," Sam cries.
Dean kicks the door in. "Just listen to me," he says urgently. "Sam did not kill Dean! He was downstairs writing his damn play!"
"Don't come near me, Dean," Sam insists.
"I'm not Dean!" Dean shouts. "Now look, this is for you." He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket. He realises even as he's doing it that it's a mistake.
"Dean, don't," Sam gasps, "Oh, god."
It's the reflex of a lifetime's training that saves him, diving to the side as the gun comes up. The fact Sam can pull the trigger - again - hurts more than the bullet that catches him in the side. He goes down hard, and lies unmoving.
"Oh god." Sam stands over Dean, the gun in his hand. He nudges Dean's hand with his foot and it falls open. It's Dean's ring inside, the one Sam gave him.
Sam falls to his knees. "Dean!" He tosses the gun aside and tears his shirt off frantically, uses it to try to stem the steady flow of blood from Dean's side.
"Oh, now this is sweet." Heyward's voice. It's no longer gentle or charming. Sam turns to face him, but something cold and hard impacts the side of his face, making him see stars. He falls back onto the floor beside Dean.
"Perhaps even sweeter than the first time," Heyward crows. "But of course Sam knew there was no hope the moment he found Dean. So very much blood on the sheets. And on the walls."
"Why?" Sam asks, struggling to sit up, to stay conscious, to keep Heyward talking.
"He was asleep when I came in. Dean. Sprawled there, naked, like he owned the place. The scissors were just lying on the dressing table."
He brandishes the gun he'd obviously picked up from the floor where Sam dropped it. "I do love symmetry," he croons, measuring them both with his eyes. "Murder-suicide, I think. They hadn't invented those in 1949. Ah, progress." He stands over Sam, pointing it. "Head for you, heart for him. Nothing personal, dear boy."
There's a blur in the corner of Sam's vision, a cry, the sound of the gun going off. Sam blinks and tries to roll over. Heyward has gone down on one knee. Sticking crazily out of his thigh is the pair of scissors from the first aid kit, the ones Sam had thrown across the room earlier. "I like symmetry too, fucker," Dean growls, collapsing back against Sam.
The dive for the gun isn't even a competition. Sam has all the rage of two broken hearts, and the desperate fear of his own, beating its way out of his chest. He shoots Heyward twice, in the heart and in the head, for symmetry, then dives for Dean.
"Hey, hey," he says desperately, rolling Dean onto his back, shoving up his shirt. The wound's still bleeding sluggishly, but it's nowhere near as bad as he'd first feared. He presses hard on it with the heel of his hand.
Dean groans and tries to buck him off.
"Ssh, ssh," Sam croons, "I got you. I got you, Dean."
"C'mere," Dean manages, and Sam does, leaning over to kiss him gently on the mouth.
"Harder, bitch," Dean says.
Sam laughs. "Jerk. Just you wait till you're well enough for what I want to do to you."
"Yeah, yeah, Sammy," Dean agrees, drifting off again. You're all talk."
Sam manages to get the wound cleaned with minimal swearing from Dean, and stitches him up as quickly and neatly as he can, thanking god the whole time there was no one around to hear the shot. He has one last look around the old house, the house Sam built and he and Dean lived in together for so short a time. There's no way to know for sure what was holding them here, if it was just the fact that the man who was responsible for their deaths had returned, or whether they were waiting, as crazy as it sounds, for Sam and Dean. It's clear they've gone now, at peace at last. The whole place feels different.
Sam doesn't stop driving till they're in Pennsylvania, and even then it's only to pull off the highway and sack out for a few hours in a truck stop parking lot before getting back on the road. There hadn't been enough time to clean up as thoroughly as he'd have liked, and both the desk clerks saw them when they checked in. Sam tries a couple of times to apologise, ashamed and embarrassed at his own credulity, horrified that he could ever have believed the worst about his brother. Dean pretends to be asleep every time. He's dozing for real when they hit Ohio and Sam finally judges them far enough away to relax, pulling in to a small motel on the 106 off ramp to Canton. He leaves him there in the car when he goes to check in, and with his heart in his mouth he asks for a king. The motel's about their usual standard, cheap and "discreet". The walls in their room have steam trains on them, and so does the curtain around the old fashioned bathtub. It feels like home.
Dean follows, wide awake, once Sam's made two trips to carry in all the bags. His eye skitters over the bed without comment, then he inspects the bathroom and pronounces it to his liking, trains be damned.
"Dean," Sam starts, careful but firm.
"No, Sam," Dean interrupts, just as firm.
"But Dean-"
"I said no, Sam. We're not talking about it. That's a deal breaker for me."
Oh. Sam finds himself able to breathe again. "Okay," he agrees. "Okay. That's fair. But I want to say one thing. One thing and then never again, I swear."
Dean looks at him suspiciously, but nods.
"I always wanted this, Dean," he says. "Always. It's not post-hypnotic suggestion, and it's not because I feel trapped, or because I'm afraid I'll never have anything else. I wanted it before I went away. It's half the reason I went away. Because I wanted it and I thought you didn't, and I thought that made me a freak, even more of a freak than I already was, and I couldn't bear it, okay?"
Dean nods again, sharply. Sam looks around for something, anything to do to break the moment. Dean clears his throat. Sam looks at him again and he's bone white, freckles standing out starkly on his face. He swallows convulsively, and then he opens his mouth.
"It wasn't just you, Sammy," Dean blurts. "It was never just you. Since we're doing this."
"Dean-"
"But you have to understand, Sam. You have to understand."
Sam smiles and nods, and tries to look as encouraging and non-threatening as he can. If he screws this up Dean will never, ever, find the strength to try again. And if there's one thing, just one, that he's learned from the misery of the last two weeks, it's that all the love in the world won't be enough if they can't be at least a little open with each other.
"I was in my twenties," Dean whispers. "And you were just a kid. You were my kid brother. God, you were like my kid. And I could never. I could never, Sam. I would never."
It's like the sun coming out at last, warming Sam all the way to the bone. "I know that, Dean," he says. "I know. But I'm not a kid now. I'm twenty-six years old, and I know what I'm doing."
Dean looks at him long and hard. Opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it and just looks some more. "There is an awesome bathtub here," he announces at last, "and I'm using it. Go get me a burger from that place across the street."
Sam shrugs, pulls on his jacket, and heads back out.
*****
He's gone a lot longer than Dean expects, and he's out of the bath and half asleep in front of the Pro-Am Monster Truck Spectacular by the time Sam gets back.
"Ah," Sam says, gesturing at the television with an arm laden with bags. "All's right with the world. Turn it off."
"Huh?"
"Turn off the television set," Sam says slowly, enunciating each word.
Dean grumbles but does.
A moment later he's staring awkwardly at the dinner Sam bought him that isn't a burger from across the road. There's steak and baked potatoes and corn, and two kinds of salad, but Sam will eat most of that, and some fancy pants strudel for dessert, but it's got cream and ice cream and might as well be pie.
There's also a couple of bottles of wine. Red. Dean looks at it sceptically, but what the hey, this is Sam's party. It's actually pretty good, even out of cheap plastic tumblers, and goes fine with the meal. By the time they're done he's feeling a very pleasant buzz.
"Why, Mr. Winchester," he quips. "I think you're trying to seduce me."
"If I'm still trying," Sam snarks right back, "my evening is way behind schedule."
Dean laughs, and the warm feeling he thought was from the wine spreads right through his whole body. Fancy dinners are well and good, but if they can have this, the banter and the silliness and the Winchester brothers, then they'll be okay.
Sam clears the debris off the bed, and heads for the bathroom. Dean strips off to the sound of running water and Sam's off-key singing. It's good.
When Sam comes back out his towel makes him feel over-dressed. Dean's shamelessly, gloriously naked, sprawled across the nylon coverlet. Even the paisley fades around him. Sam drops his towel and grasps Dean's legs, pulling him across the bed towards him. He kneels at the foot of the bed, leaning in to nose the crease of Dean's thigh and groin. He smells of soap, and faint antiseptic from the fresh dressing on his side, and Dean. Sam bites his hip bone, then licks across to his navel, stabbing in and circling with his tongue. Dean shivers and clamps down on Sam's shoulders with both hands, trying to drag him where he wants him.
"Driver picks the tempo," Sam chuckles, licking over to the other hipbone. It has a scar across it from an encounter with a wendigo when they were kids. Sam traces it with his tongue, suckling each raised bump, then finally, finally taking pity.
He takes a deep breath, and then Dean's whole length in one controlled slide. Dean has a heartbeat to feel outraged at the ease of the movement, then there's nothing but the wetness of Sam's mouth, the tightness of his throat. Sam screws himself up and down with aggressive speed, nuzzling at Dean's pubic bone then pulling off to flick his tongue at the tip of his cock, catching just perfectly in the slit, then sliding back down again. He pulls off entirely to lick up one side and down the other, then uses his hand to push Dean's dick to the side and out of the way of his questing tongue. He mouths each ball in turn, sucking them into his mouth then releasing them with a wet pop to nuzzle further back. Dean writhes against him and keens like he's in pain.
Sam sits up, and the look of outrage on Dean's face would be enough to make him laugh at any other time. Any other time.
"Yeah?" he asks, and there's a wealth of meaning in it.
"Yeah," Dean replies, and it's an answer to every question.
Sam hooks a hand under the small of Dean's back, and flips him over onto his stomach. Dean goes willingly, moaning again and spreading his legs. Sam kisses the small of his back, then licks one broad stripe down into the cleft. Dean rears up, gasping, and Sam leans over the side of the bed to rummage in his jacket. His cock drags across Dean's back, heavy and hot and wanting, leaving a sticky smear in its path that Dean can feel. He shudders. Sam finds the tube he'd bought earlier, and somehow finds the dexterity to get it open. He can't wait to warm it though, and Dean yelps in surprise as the first drop splashes on his back.
Sam slicks his fingers well, and drags his thumb across the small of Dean's back, from dimple to dimple, and down into the cleft. It skims over Dean's hole lightly, just a touch, waiting for permission, and Dean gives it silently, spreading his legs further. Sam's first finger slides in so easily he wastes no time in following with two together. This time there is resistance, but not much, and Dean groans encouragingly. Sam scissors his fingers to stretch the muscle, then withdraws to add more lube. He wants this to be perfect, no complaints, so Dean will want it forever. Anything less is unacceptable. Dean curses at the loss, and Sam hushes him, pushing back in again, spreading the slick around.
"Come on, come on," Dean moans. "Do it, Sam, fuck me."
Sam wipes the last of the lube on his cock, then squeezes hard at the base to calm himself down. "I love you, Dean," he says firmly.
There's a sudden silence, broken only by the sound of his own harsh breathing. For three, four, five beats of his breaking heart he thinks it's too much for Dean, he's finally pushed him too far, and then Dean responds, "I love you too, Sammy, but you got work to do."
Sam laughs, and pushes forward, lining himself up. The head of his cock slips in easily, and he waits a moment for Dean to adjust around him, then pushes in the rest of the way. It's hot, and tight, and Christ, Dean. He stops for a breath, thumbs stroking Dean's hips. Dean squirms under him, groaning, and it sends a spark through his whole body. He can't hold back any more, and he starts thrusting, deep, coring thrusts that reach to the heart of Dean, the hottest, most secret places of him, the places that are just for Sam. There's no way on god's green earth that this is Dean's first time, but it's their first, the first of the rest of their lives. Dean's moaning under him, pushing wantonly back to meet him, and it's not enough, Sam pulls him to his knees, thighs splaying wide over his own, back plastered tight against his own front. Dean grunts as the penetration deepens, flings a hand back to pull Sam's head hard against his neck, angles his own head so their mouths can meet. Sam can't believe it's their first kiss since the encounter began. Dean doesn't seem to care though, opening wide, biting savagely at Sam's lips, sucking at his tongue, panting hot and wet against his cheek. It's still not enough.
Sam pushes Dean off him with difficulty, pulls out, and rolls him onto his back. Dean moans and tries to fight him - "Sam, no, no" - but then Sam's back against him, slotting into place, grasping his hips and pushing back in. He grinds hard against Dean, and Dean wraps his arms and legs around Sam's back, holding tight. Sam stretches to reach Dean's mouth, the position must be hell on his abdominals, but Dean goes with it, opening again and they kiss hard, teeth clacking, noses bumping. It's a hell of a mess, sweat slicking, saliva smearing, Dean's cock leaking copiously where it's sandwiched between their bellies. Sam snakes a hand between them and wraps it around Dean, setting off another breathy moan. He barely manages a swipe of his closed hand before Dean's coming, fountaining between them, whole body jerking uncontrollably in Sam's arms, ass clenching around his cock, milking him. Sam manages another six strokes, shorter now, jerky, all rhythm lost, and then he's coming too, harder than he's ever come before, lights flashing and black swamping his vision. He slumps heavily against Dean's chest, still deeply seated, and tries to remember how to breathe.
He's drifting off when Dean shoves at him gently. "Sammy," he whispers, throat hoarse. "Sam! You're not actually any lighter than you look, Sasquatch."
Sam smirks, and rolls off, eliciting a grunt from Dean as he slips out of him.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"Can't," Dean croaks. "I'm broken. You always break your toys, bro."
Sam laughs. Yeah. They'll be okay.
They lie there in companionable silence for a while, chests heaving in unison, breath slowly evening out.
"I've got something for you," Sam says at last, then off Dean's look, "Okay, I could have phrased that better." He sits up and rummages in his jacket pocket again, while Dean watches quizzically from his boneless sprawl.
"Dean," he starts.
"Ye-es, Samuel?"
"Ah, fuck it." Sam reaches over and grabs Dean's hand off his chest. His ring slides off easily, slippery with sweat.
Dean sits up, surprised. "That's mine, Sam."
Sam ignores him and slides the silver band onto his own hand. It's fractionally loose, his fingers longer and thinner than Dean's, but not enough to matter.
"Sam." Dean's voice is warning.
"Dean."
He picks up Dean's hand and slides Sam's heavy antique band onto his ring finger. It's rose gold and intricately worked, ivy tendrils and small flower buds knotted tightly in a wreath. It's beautiful. It's nothing to the sight of Dean still breathing heavily, flushed and sweat slicked, covered in their combined fluids.
"Sam." Dean's voice sounds choked and wet.
"I don't think they'll mind, Dean," Sam says. "I don't think they'll mind at all."
Dean's blush does indeed cover his whole body.
"Whatever," he says at last, when he can speak again. "We're not taking a trip to Iowa, Sammy, so don't even think about it."
"How about Connecticut?"
"Sam," Dean declares, self possession returning, "an entire squadron of screaming banshees couldn't drag me to Connecticut."
Yeah, Sam thinks, as he lies down and drags Dean into his arms, hard up against him - no room for ghosts, holy or otherwise - they'll be okay.