Fic: Babylon, SPN, Sam/Dean
Title: Babylon
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dean kind of develops a thing for Sam's abs. And then there's a curse. Set late season 1, post Hell House. Allusions to past wincest (though no underage).
Notes: Written for oddishly for the 2013 spn_j2_xmas exchange. I hope you enjoy!
Word Count: ~5200
“You know what sucks?” says Sam.
“You?” deadpans Dean. Sam rolls his eyes.
“Really classy there Dean,” he drawls. “Original too.” He pauses, scratches at his chest and then announces firmly, “Itchy nipples.”
“Dude!” yelps Dean. “Too much information!”
“It’s your own damn fault,” huffs Sam, all scowls and raking at his chest. “Jesus Christ. That itching powder. I still itch.”
“Yeah, well,” mutters Dean, squinting at the water-shimmer mirage ahead of them. “My hand still hurts from your stupid bottle prank.”
“Fuck,” says Sam. Out of his periphery, Dean can see Sam peeling off his layers of clothing and tossing them in the back. He reaches bare skin and suddenly, Sam’s sitting shirtless in the passenger seat, scratching out constellations of tiny welts, leaving white and pink lines in the wake of his fingernails.
It’s kinda gay, and Sam’s little whines of distress are a lot annoying,
“Stop scratching,” he orders, big brother like. Sam ignores him. Typical little brother behavior. Hell, he even scratches harder, ever the bastard, leaves another flurry of marks on his abs.
And. Abs. Jesus. Sam has abs now, actual muscles. Something Dean didn’t notice till after he dosed baby brother’s clothes with itching powder and Sam ran out of the bathroom in a fucking towel skirt.
It bothers him that Sam has abs now; the kid was always either too pudgy or too skinny. And then he was gone. Well, there was the summer, before he was gone, when Sam was still skinny, but in a way that was all collarbones and hipbones, long legs and dark, devastating looks.
And Jesus, Dean’s always promised himself he wouldn’t think about it. He can’t think about that.
Dean tries to remember if Sam had muscles like this when Dean dragged him from the burning apartment, or if they’re a more recent development. If they’re from Jess and Stanford, or from hunting and him. It bothers him that it bothers him, that he cares so much. Thinking about Sam’s abs. Jesus Christ on a tortilla.
“Put a shirt on, college boy,” he says, then changes the subject. “We’ll do the laundry next time we see a town with more than 500 people.”
Sam flips him off casually. But he puts a shirt on. Typical Sam, letting his modesty win out over annoying Dean.
***
“You need a haircut,” says Dean, four days and three motel rooms later.
“I’m not twelve,” Sam bites back, irritation flashing dark in his face,
“It’s gonna get in your eyes,” Dean insists. “You’re not gonna be able to see and you’re gonna get us killed.”
Sam slams shut the book he’s reading and glares.
“I’m not really into the butch look,” he says coolly, and there’s the potential for a full blown piss-off, because what the fuck does that mean Sam? But Sam stands and grabs the car key from off the dresser. He tosses Dean a haughty scowl and stalks out the door.
A few hours later, he comes back with his hair still too fucking long, but a couple of inches shorter. Which, okay. It’s okay.
“Looking good, Sammy,” he calls.
Sam smirks like he knows what Dean’s thinking, and hell, maybe he does, who knows what kind of psychic powers the kid has now. Every day’s a new adventure.
Sam chucks a folded newspaper at Dean.
“Found us a job,” he says smugly.
Dean looks at the circled article and smiles. “Black dogs. Fun.”
It’s not, but they get the job done and they get it done alive. They even save the girl, nineteen and peach-skinned who’s looking at Dean with eyes of adoration. Normally he’d stick around and see where that went, but not now. Fuck, not now.
Sam’s glassy-eyed and bleeding all over the place. Dean doesn’t even give the girl a lift, just shoves Sam into the back of the Impala and drives, drives to the nearest hospital because the gash is at least seven inches and Dean’s hands are shaking too badly to sew stitches.
He half-carries Sam into the ER. They get him in quick and don’t ask too many questions, thank God. Dean spends the next hour cramped in a chair and staring past the freaks who come into an ER at three in the morning.
But Sam comes out eventually. And yeah, he’s sore and a little woozy from blood loss and the happy-drugs he’s one. But he’s alive. He’s alive, and Dean commits insurance fraud beaming.
Getting in the car, Dean smacks Sam upside the head and says, “Should’ve cut it shorter. Would’ve seen the sucker then.”
Sam shrugs and then winces. He winces again as he hooks his seatbelt.
Dean smiles because, yeah, he’s concerned. But mostly he’s just happy because Sam, Sam’s gonna be all right.
***
Dean checks on Sam’s stitches the next morning. He probably doesn’t need to. Sam left hunting for four years; he didn’t get a fucking lobotomy. He knows how to take care of his stitches.
But Dean soldiers past all the reasons he’s being a fucking idiot and moves forward anyway. Dean’s good at that. He lifts his brother’s shirt.
“Looking really pretty,” says Dean, once he’s satisfied Sam’s not, like, oozing pus or anything. And shit, abs again. He shouldn’t be thinking about his brother’s abs and oozing pus so close together. He shouldn’t be thinking about his brother’s fucking abs in the first place.
“Thanks for the bill of clean health,” says Sam, rolling his eyes. He swats Dean’s hand away.
When Sam moves, he moves slow and hesitant. Dean’d get him some of the pain pills, but that shit can be hard to get. They can’t go using it on pussy shit like stitches.
Dean resolves to be an extra nice brother that day.
***
Dean’s not nice enough or karma’s just a straight up fucking bitch no matter what you do, because, two days later, a ghost throws Dean through two fucking doors and he cracks a rib and dislocates his shoulder before Sam puts the damn thing down.
“Shit,” says Sam, crazy-laughing, as he drags Dean’s ass out afterwards. “You were like a - Jesus, Dean. You were like a bowling ball.”
“That a fat joke?” hisses Dean through the pain. “Help me pop my shoulder back into place.”
Sam does the crazy-laugh again.
“We’re going to the ER.”
Dean kicks him. “No. Fuck you. Pop my shoulder back in place and gimme your pills from when you got too friendly with Fido.”
It takes a little more arguing, but eventually Sam does like he’s told. He help Dean pop his shoulder back in place, and doesn’t mention it when Dean nearly faints, vision going white with pain.
He does shove his entire fucking bottle of pills at Dean, though.
***
“Fuck,” says Dean, later, when the pills start to hit and everything goes swimmy-blurry-bright. He sits up. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Sammy.”
Sam looks at him. He’s sitting cross-legged on his own bed, his nose in Dad’s journal. Dean doesn’t know what the fuck he’s looking at that thing for. They just wrapped up a case and they know John’s not dead now. It’s not like they need to scour it like fucking Kabbalists any more.
“Dean, what is it?” says Sam, eyebrows knitting in that concerned, hip with the kids high school counselor way he has. He’s wearing that fucking shirt. The purple one with the fucking dog on it that makes Dean super aware of how toned his brother is now. Dean remembers being with Sam when he bought that shirt. It was right after the fire; all of Sam’s clothes were gone. And the Goodwill in Palo Alto didn’t have many options in ‘giant.’
“Dean?” says Sam, voice pitching high with worry. He puts Dad’s journal on his bed and crosses the divide to kneel on the bed next to Dean. “What are you apologizing for?”
“Keep thinking about your fucking abs,” mutters Dean. He rests his head on Sam’s shoulder. Sam smells like the cheap laundry detergent they use, and it’s a strong enough smell to cancel out anything else.
Sam pushes Dean off of him gently.
“My abs?” he says, looking confused.
“Shit, like, I fucked up,” babbles Dean. “Right before you left, right? I fucking. Yeah.”
He sees comprehension dawn slowly on Sam’s face and waits for the horror to follow. Sam’s mouth twists in a frown.
“You’re fucking high, man,” is all Sam says. He pushes Dean back till Dean’s shoulders are touching his pillows and his head’s resting against the backboard of the bed. “Get some sleep.”
Dean tries to sit up, tries to protest. Because he knows this thing is like a fucking mine between, like the fucking mines countries leave behind after wars, that blow up kids years later. And they gotta, they gotta defuse it. But the room is spinning around him and Dean gets dragged under.
***
He wakes up with a massive headache and serious cottonmouth. Sam’s there as soon as he’s conscious, shoving a glass of water and some ibuprofen into Dean’s hand once Dean’s sitting up.
“Can I get a coffee, too?” asks Dean, sweetly. “Black, two sugars.”
“Shut up,” growls Sam, shoving his (still too fucking long) bangs off his forehead. “How much do you remember from last night?”
He’s angry. Dean can read it in all the lines of him. And Dean’s used to that, the simmering, feverish anger Sam carries with him everywhere. The man’s no different from the boy in that respect. But it’s been a couple weeks since Dean’s seen it. And now he’s fucking set if off again because he couldn’t hold his pills. He’s gonna just grit it through the pain next time.
“Why?” he says. It’s not his best dissemble.
Sam’s nostrils flare in annoyance, which has always been hilarious to Dean. But he’s not laughing now. He feels a little sick, actually. Sam squats down so he’s on eye level with Dean.
“Dean,” he says, voice deep and a little rough and fuck that shouldn’t be - Dean swallows hard, makes himself focus on Sam’s eyes instead of the long line of Sam’s throat.
“Sam.” Dean still has cottonmouth, goddammit.
“You didn’t - you didn’t bad touch me or anything, okay?” Sam’s eyes are sharp, intent, like he’s trying to drill two neat holes into the back of Dean’s skull. And shit - what if Sam develops laser eyes. “I was eighteen. I wanted it.”
“Um,” says Dean. “Okay.”
Sam stares at Dean for another long moment, and his thighs have gotta be burning, then he nods to himself and stands up sharply.
“Good,” he says. “I’m going for a run.”
He leaves Dean on the bed, feeling shell-shocked. Sam said wanted, not wants. Past tense, not present. And that’s the fucking, that’s the fucking big red button between them. Dean’s still sick. He thought four years might be enough to get over it, but apparently not.
And don’t get Dean wrong; he’s delighted, Mary Poppins and rainbows delighted, to have Sam back, even at the cost that he came - dead girlfriend, absentee father, crazy psychic visions and possible laser eyes and all. He’s not gonna fuck it up, not gonna lose Sam again.
But this thing between them, it’s poisonous.
They don’t talk about it though.
***
Dean tries to get Sam to sleep with Sarah. Dean tries really fucking hard. If he were Sam, he would have had Sarah three times and then six times again on Sunday.
It would be best for all parties involved, really. Sarah’s clearly willing, and Sam getting laid would help his mental health, and Dean getting Sam laid would, shit, he doesn’t know. It would help Dean out a lot - vicariously, of course.
But Sam’s a prude, so of course he doesn’t sleep with Sarah. He doesn’t even take Dean up on his very generous offer to maybe swing back and see her again. Which would be fucking romantic, if you ask Dean.
Instead, Sam’s just kind of grumpy. Of course.
“If I wanted your help with girls, I would ask,” says Sam shortly.
Dean rolls his eyes. “No, you wouldn’t. I’m the only fucking reason you had a date to prom.”
Sam glares at him. “And I didn’t ask for your help then either, Dean.”
“Yeah, but you needed it.”
“God,” says Sam, standing suddenly. They’re at a diner, about two hundred miles away from where they left Sarah. Dean stares at him.
“The hell are you doing?”
Sam sputters at him, spreading his hands in the way he does when he gets truly exasperated. “You just - you.”
“I’m just what?” Dean raises his eyebrows and smirks. “Dashing? Rakish? Adorable?”
“Fuck you,” says Sam with a laugh. “I’m going for a walk.”
He storms off, leaving half the diner staring at Dean. When the waitress comes to take his order, she tuts sympathetically.
“Happens to all of us, sweetie,” she says. “Hopefully he comes around.”
It takes Dean a moment to realize she thinks they’re a couple. And that. Fuck that.
***
Sam’s in the motel room when Dean gets back from the diner. And that’s good, means Dean doesn’t have to send out the search party. He throws a greasy bag of food at Sam’s chest.
“Brought you dinner, princess.”
“I’m not hungry,” says Sam sulkily. He tosses the bag onto the nightstand.
Dean narrows his eyes at him. He’s tempted to ask what the fuck Sam’s problem is, but he’s ninety-nine percent sure that’s just gonna result in Sam doing his offended ostrich impression and going, What’s my problem? as if Dean were the one acting like a moody teenage girl.
“You need to eat,” he says instead. “Have you had anything to eat today?”
This is, apparently, the hill he has chosen to die on.
Sam sneers at him and doesn’t answer, just turns and stalks to the bathroom. Because yeah, that’s a great way to solve their problems. And Sam - fucking Sam doesn’t eat any more, and it freaks Dean out, because Dean remembers all the times when they were kids when Sam wouldn’t eat anything. When he was teething and when he was two and hated everything and when he was eight and did it as a kind of moral protest for having to leave the gifted and talented program he liked so much and when he was twelve and just ate protein and spinach because he was kind of pudgy.
Dean turns and leaves, too. He goes straight to a bar.
When he gets back, three hours later, he’s buzzing and bright and feeling generous and forgiving. But Sam’s asleep - or at least doing a good job pretending at it - and Dean’s planned demonstration of magnanimity falls through. Sam doesn’t get enough sleep for it to be worth Dean waking him up.
Still, Dean feels more than a little smug when he sees the mostly eaten hamburger in the trashcan. He won that round, Sammy.
***
They’ve got another ghost next, a seriously pissed off family therapist, ha fucking ha, and its curse hits as soon as they leave the cemetery. One second, Sam's bitching about the hole he tore in his pants when he tripped over a moss-covered headstone. The next, it sounds like Sam's speaking fucking Esperanto.
"The hell did you just say?" demands Dean.
Sam's eyebrows knit in confusion, and he opens his mouth to reply. Whatever comes out definitely isn't English.
"This is a weird fucking joke," says Dean.
Sam looks hilariously affronted, eyes widening and back going stiff. He always does that when he thinks Dean isn't being serious enough. He garbles something at Dean again, hands waving expressively and angrily.
It takes a second for it to hit Dean: Sam can't understand him either. He gestures sharply at his ear, then shrugs. Sam's supposed to be smart, so maybe he can figure the universal gesture for, I've got no fucking clue what you just said.
Sam frowns and then his big chest heaves in a sigh.
Oh, he mouths, and Dean can lip read that just fine.
***
Back at the motel, Dean tries calling their dad. It goes straight to voicemail, which is unsurprising but still disappointing. He shrugs at Sam and drops the phone on the bed, trying to get the point across that Dad didn’t pick up.
Sam rolls his eyes in a way Dean interprets as, “Of course.”
He scowls at Sam. “Dad’s got better things to do than wipe our asses,” he says. “We’re adults. We can figure this out.”
Sam gestures at his ear and shrugs, then smiles. The universal sign for, I've got no fucking clue what you just said and also you’re an idiot.
Dean flips him off. Sam just sneers like he’s soooo fucking superior to Dean and stalks off to the bathroom. Dean sticks his tongue out after him and picks up his phone again. He may as well use this as an excuse to annoy the fuck out of Sam. What's that Sam? I can't understand you. You want me to turn the volume up on Busty Asian Beauties?
And he'll start by ordering a shit ton of Sam's least favorite pizza.
***
"How'd you sleep?" he asks Sam the next morning.
Sam frowns at him and when he answers, Dean still can't understand him. He sighs and flops back on his bed. So the curse hasn't worn off yet.
They eat cold pizza and drink shitty motel coffee while they pack. Sam's got a look on his face that makes Dean kinda grateful they can't understand each other right now. That pinched, bitchy look always precedes some passive ass aggressive comment about how Sam sure didn't miss this or at least this is a better breakfast than what Dad usually got for him. And it drives Dean fucking nuts sometimes, how much Sam doesn't want to be here.
They don't have a destination in mind when they finally pack up. But it doesn't really matter. Dad’s still set to radio silence. All they can do is head off in some new direction, look for a new case, wait for the curse to wear off.
It's going to be a quiet ride, and Dean shoves in a Metallica tape as soon as they get in. Sam rolls his eyes super dramatically.
"Bite me," says Dean.
Sam looks unimpressed.
Sam grabs a pad of paper from the glove department and writes something down. It looks like fucking wingdings. Dean shakes his head, but at least he can read Sam’s answering huff and pout loud and clear.
Most of the day is spent like that. Annoying each other and trying to find some way to communicate. So far, facial expressions and hand gestures seem to work the best for them. They even try to get a gas station clerk to try to translate for them, but it just meant everything the clerk repeated from Sam sounded just as garbled as if Sam said it himself.
And, fuck, it sets Dean on edge, the way that everything that comes out of Sam's mouth doesn't mean anything.
The thing with the clerk had ended with him telling them to go see a therapist. And, Jesus, if only the kid knew.
***
Sam still gets nightmares. Dean just hopes to God he doesn’t get one of his premonitions while they’re going through this whole not being able to talk to each other thing.
But he gets a bad nightmare that night, and Dean wakes up to him yelping and thrashing. He’s over in Sam’s bed in a flash and shakes his brother awake.
Sam’s eyes are wide and horrified when he opens them, the pupils blown wide with terror. He’s damp with sweat and breathing hard. Dean keeps his hands on him, two solid points of contact, tries his best to be an anchor.
“Sam,” he says. “Come on Sam. Look at me, Sammy.”
He hopes Sam can understand the sentiment of comfort, even if he can’t understand the words. Winchesters have always been bad at words anyway.
Sam rakes in a deep breath, as if he’d been swimming for a long time. He grabs onto Dean’s arms tightly, fingers digging in hard. Dean thinks there might be bruises in the morning. His eyes focus on Dean slowly.
“Vision?” says Dean, saying the word slowly.
Sam looks confused.
“Vision,” tries Dean again, more slowly this time.
Sam breathes in sharply through his nose and shakes his head.
“Jess,” he mouths, but it takes a moment for Dean to get it. Sam shook his head, but it looks like he’s saying ‘yes’… And then it clicks for him. Jess. Fuck. Jess.
He pulls Sam to him and holds him tightly. It’s not like anything they would usually do, a level of physical intimacy usually beyond them. But it seems okay then, neither of them able to understand the other, and the night a dark blanket around them.
Sam tenses and then goes slack in his arms, his whole body loosening and pouring into Dean’s.
“M’not gonna let anything happen to you,” he says into Sam’s temple. It’s a promise he’s made before. He still means it.
They stay like that for a few minutes. Dean feels Sam’s heartbeat slow and steady out against his own chest. Sam’s the one who pulls away, and Dean feels a little empty.
But Sam cups Dean’s face then and looks at him. Dean’s eyes have adjusted to the dark by now, but the expression on Sam’s face, washed in gray, is unreadable.
Sam leans in, so that their foreheads are nearly touching. His breath is hot on Dean’s face, over Dean’s mouth. Dean brings his hands up and cradles Sam’s face too, his thumbs pressing gently into Sam’s cheekbones.
They don’t kiss; they don’t do anything like that. They just sit there for a bit, looking at each other, listening to the other breathe.
***
The next day, they act like nothing happened. Which is pretty par the course, really. But as they’re packing up, Sam grabs an old obits page from the back of the Impala and pulls a pen from his pocket.
“What are you doing?” asks Dean, even though he knows it’s useless. Sam makes a face at him like he’s thinking the same thing and then shoves the obit page at Dean. He’s circled a string of letters.
CAN YOU R EA D TH IS ?
“Yeah,” says Dean. He nods exaggeratedly. “Yeah, I can.”
Sam smirks, and then, as if Dean couldn’t fucking understand that, draws an equally sanctimonious smiley face on the top margin of the paper.
Dean can’t be too mad though. He punches Sam in the shoulder, grinning.
“You clever bastard. I guess that college education was worth something after all.”
It’s an imperfect system, but, hey. It works.
***
They kill a swamp monster in north Florida next. A fucking swamp monster. But they manage to do it without speaking. It's all through fucking coded messages in the newspapers and body language. They're a pretty good team, Dean thinks proudly.
And then the Impala gets stuck in the mud.
Dean revs helplessly for a few minutes, but they're not going anywhere. Sam raises his eyebrows at him.
"We're stuck," he tells Sam, panic rising in his chest. Fuck. Dad's gonna kill him if he doesn't kill himself, which he will, if he fucks up his baby. "Fuck." He slams his hands on the steering wheel.
"Fuck."
Sam grabs at his hands and stares at him. Dean stares back, forcing himself to calm down. It's not worth panicking over. He wouldn't be panicking if it were any other car. It's just that the Impala is the one thing he has to call his. Anyone else would be panicking too if their home were sinking in the black mud of fucking Okefenokee.
Dean pulls his hands away from Sam and twirls one finger, indicating their wheels spinning helplessly in the mud. Sam nods and undoes his seatbelt.
"Are you - " Dean doesn't know why he's even asking. Even if Sam could understand him, it's pretty obvious what Sam is doing.
Sam gets out and walks around the car. A couple seconds later, the Impala shudders and lifts a tiny bit. Shit, but Sam's gotten strong. Dean revs the engine again, puts his foot down on the pedal. The wheel's spin in the air for a minute, and then there's a jolt forward - Sam putting his shoulder into it - and the Impala lurches forward, front wheels hitting more solid ground, and back wheels following shortly after.
Dean stops the car and sags in relief, the panic draining out of him.
Sam raps on the passenger window a second later, covered in mud and looking smug. Dean just rolls his eyes. He's got to keep some cool after all, but he doesn't yell at Sam for getting mud on the Impala's seat when he gets back in.
He'll yell at him later. When Sam can understand him. Which'll be any day now, Dean's sure.
It's an hour back to their motel. The swamp monster was really in the fucking sticks, and by the time they get there, the mud's mostly caked dry on Sam.
Dean snorts and looks Sam over.
“You can take the first shower,” he says generously. He still talks to Sam, even if Sam can't understand him. It makes him feel less crazy, and he thinks it's a comfort to Sam as well.
“Wow. How nice of you,” snorts Sam.
Dean freezes just as Sam does.
“Did you?” they both say at once.
Sam laughs loudly.
“Jesus,” he says. “And I thought I’d be lucky enough to never have to hear your voice again.”
Dean laughs and shoves at Sam. “Shut up. I’m the one who’s gonna have to deal with your bitch ass whining all the goddamn time.”
Sam catches Dean’s hand as he shoves at him, and smiles, bright and blinding.
“Fuck,” says Dean, grinning. He pulls his hands away and then shoves at Sam again. “Go shower. You got mud all over the fucking Impala, asshole.”
“Yeah, yeah. Your car’d still be stuck in the mud if it weren’t for me,” says Sam smugly.
He steps away from Dean, pulling his shirt off as he goes.
Dean stares at Sam’s back. He can’t help himself sometimes. Fuck. He’s such a fucking freak.
“Maybe. We made a good team back there, Sammy.”
Sam turns to respond. He catches Dean looking.
“Dean,” he says slowly. Dean looks away, flushed. And fuck if it doesn’t feel good to hear Sam say his name again.
Sam takes a half-step toward him, looking uncertain.
“You gotta help me out here, man,” he says quietly, eyes big and lost.
Dean clenches his jaw.
“Pretty sure you know how to operate a shower, dude. They’ve even got these nifty markings that let you know what’s hot and what’s cold.”
“God,” laughs Sam incredulously. “It’s like you don’t even fucking know what you’re doing.”
Dean’s eyes cut back to him.
“And what am I doing, Sam?” he asks softly. He takes a step forward, crowding Sam.
Sam turns red, and Dean sees the flush spread all the way down to his chest. Jesus Christ.
“You know what you’re doing,” says Sam accusingly. He swallows hard, and Dean watches the movement of his throat.
Dean frowns, upset. They’ve only been able to talk to each other again for two whole fucking minutes, and they’re already fighting.
“I don’t,” he says. “Honest. What am I doing?”
“You - you fucking. Like what you said when you were on those pain meds after that ghost threw you through those doors. And you’re always. You’re always fucking looking at me, Dean.”
Shame floods Dean.
“I know. Shit. I know, Sam. I’m trying. I’m trying not to, okay? I don’t wanna chase you off again. I’m trying -”
“No, you don’t understand,” cuts in Sam. He looks vulnerable and defiant. “I don’t - I don’t want you to, okay? I don’t want you to stop. I mean, I want.” Sam flexes his hands helplessly. He’s staring at Dean, tall and built and still looking like the kid Dean’s worried he’ll lose in WalMart.
“I just want,” finishes Sam, sounding small.
And fuck if this isn’t the worst thing Dean’s ever gonna do.
He touches Sam’s shoulders gently, like if he touched him too hard, he might brand him, or Sam might bolt, horse-like and startled.
“Yeah?” he says, looking up at Sam. His stomach is roiling,
“Yeah,” says Sam nervously. “I thought, I thought that’s why you never called, you know? Because of what happened.”
Dean’s stunned. “I never called because you didn’t call. I thought you didn’t want me to.”
Sam laughs in a way that means he doesn’t think this shit is funny. Dean doesn’t think it’s funny either, but he understands the impulse to laugh.
“Fuck,” says Sam, pressing his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. “We’re fucked up.”
“Nah.” Dean tugs Sam’s face up so he can look at him. “We’re not so bad.”
Sam looks at him, studying him until Dean starts to blush.
“The hell are you looking at?” he demands.
One corner of Sam’s mouth curls up in a smile.
“You’re full of shit, Dean,” he says, and he kisses him.
Dean makes a soft noise and opens his mouth, lets Sam guide the kiss at first. They never really kissed, when they did this kind of thing before. And it's a weird, at first, getting kissed by someone taller than him, but then Sam licks into his mouth gently and Dean groans and goes a little weak at the knees. And yeah, this is okay. This is awesome.
He brings his hand up, grips it in Sam's too long hair and bites down gently on Sam's lower lip, hears an answering moan that sends heat radiating down his spin to pool in his gut. Fuck, who needs words anyway?
His other hand ends up on Sam's stomach, slides over hot skin and hard muscle, and Jesus it feels as good as Dean never let himself think it might. He digs his nails in a bit, leaves behind little crescent moons that'll fade soon enough. Sam grabs his shoulders roughly in response and shoves him towards the wall.
Dean laughs into his mouth and tugs at Sam's hair. "Easy."
He flips Sam around, makes it so Sam's the one with his back to the wall, and he shoves Sam hard against it, gets his thigh in between Sam's legs.
Sam's covered in swamp mud still, though. And Dean's - Dean's hard as he's ever been in his whole entire life. But he's still got standards.
"Take a fucking shower," he says into Sam's mouth, and then steps away.
Sam snorts. He looks completely flustered, face flushed and eyes dark. Dean swallows hard and drops his eyes to Sam’s chest. Doesn’t help his resolve.
"Do I have to buy you dinner, too?"
"Nah, you'd just be paying with my fucking credit card."
"You mean Bert Aframian's credit card."
"Same difference," says Dean, and he kisses Sam again.
This probably isn’t the best idea, but he can’t help it; it feels like four years of everything he’s needed to say pouring out of his fucking chest. Everything feels familiar, and everything feels new.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dean kind of develops a thing for Sam's abs. And then there's a curse. Set late season 1, post Hell House. Allusions to past wincest (though no underage).
Notes: Written for oddishly for the 2013 spn_j2_xmas exchange. I hope you enjoy!
Word Count: ~5200
“You know what sucks?” says Sam.
“You?” deadpans Dean. Sam rolls his eyes.
“Really classy there Dean,” he drawls. “Original too.” He pauses, scratches at his chest and then announces firmly, “Itchy nipples.”
“Dude!” yelps Dean. “Too much information!”
“It’s your own damn fault,” huffs Sam, all scowls and raking at his chest. “Jesus Christ. That itching powder. I still itch.”
“Yeah, well,” mutters Dean, squinting at the water-shimmer mirage ahead of them. “My hand still hurts from your stupid bottle prank.”
“Fuck,” says Sam. Out of his periphery, Dean can see Sam peeling off his layers of clothing and tossing them in the back. He reaches bare skin and suddenly, Sam’s sitting shirtless in the passenger seat, scratching out constellations of tiny welts, leaving white and pink lines in the wake of his fingernails.
It’s kinda gay, and Sam’s little whines of distress are a lot annoying,
“Stop scratching,” he orders, big brother like. Sam ignores him. Typical little brother behavior. Hell, he even scratches harder, ever the bastard, leaves another flurry of marks on his abs.
And. Abs. Jesus. Sam has abs now, actual muscles. Something Dean didn’t notice till after he dosed baby brother’s clothes with itching powder and Sam ran out of the bathroom in a fucking towel skirt.
It bothers him that Sam has abs now; the kid was always either too pudgy or too skinny. And then he was gone. Well, there was the summer, before he was gone, when Sam was still skinny, but in a way that was all collarbones and hipbones, long legs and dark, devastating looks.
And Jesus, Dean’s always promised himself he wouldn’t think about it. He can’t think about that.
Dean tries to remember if Sam had muscles like this when Dean dragged him from the burning apartment, or if they’re a more recent development. If they’re from Jess and Stanford, or from hunting and him. It bothers him that it bothers him, that he cares so much. Thinking about Sam’s abs. Jesus Christ on a tortilla.
“Put a shirt on, college boy,” he says, then changes the subject. “We’ll do the laundry next time we see a town with more than 500 people.”
Sam flips him off casually. But he puts a shirt on. Typical Sam, letting his modesty win out over annoying Dean.
***
“You need a haircut,” says Dean, four days and three motel rooms later.
“I’m not twelve,” Sam bites back, irritation flashing dark in his face,
“It’s gonna get in your eyes,” Dean insists. “You’re not gonna be able to see and you’re gonna get us killed.”
Sam slams shut the book he’s reading and glares.
“I’m not really into the butch look,” he says coolly, and there’s the potential for a full blown piss-off, because what the fuck does that mean Sam? But Sam stands and grabs the car key from off the dresser. He tosses Dean a haughty scowl and stalks out the door.
A few hours later, he comes back with his hair still too fucking long, but a couple of inches shorter. Which, okay. It’s okay.
“Looking good, Sammy,” he calls.
Sam smirks like he knows what Dean’s thinking, and hell, maybe he does, who knows what kind of psychic powers the kid has now. Every day’s a new adventure.
Sam chucks a folded newspaper at Dean.
“Found us a job,” he says smugly.
Dean looks at the circled article and smiles. “Black dogs. Fun.”
It’s not, but they get the job done and they get it done alive. They even save the girl, nineteen and peach-skinned who’s looking at Dean with eyes of adoration. Normally he’d stick around and see where that went, but not now. Fuck, not now.
Sam’s glassy-eyed and bleeding all over the place. Dean doesn’t even give the girl a lift, just shoves Sam into the back of the Impala and drives, drives to the nearest hospital because the gash is at least seven inches and Dean’s hands are shaking too badly to sew stitches.
He half-carries Sam into the ER. They get him in quick and don’t ask too many questions, thank God. Dean spends the next hour cramped in a chair and staring past the freaks who come into an ER at three in the morning.
But Sam comes out eventually. And yeah, he’s sore and a little woozy from blood loss and the happy-drugs he’s one. But he’s alive. He’s alive, and Dean commits insurance fraud beaming.
Getting in the car, Dean smacks Sam upside the head and says, “Should’ve cut it shorter. Would’ve seen the sucker then.”
Sam shrugs and then winces. He winces again as he hooks his seatbelt.
Dean smiles because, yeah, he’s concerned. But mostly he’s just happy because Sam, Sam’s gonna be all right.
***
Dean checks on Sam’s stitches the next morning. He probably doesn’t need to. Sam left hunting for four years; he didn’t get a fucking lobotomy. He knows how to take care of his stitches.
But Dean soldiers past all the reasons he’s being a fucking idiot and moves forward anyway. Dean’s good at that. He lifts his brother’s shirt.
“Looking really pretty,” says Dean, once he’s satisfied Sam’s not, like, oozing pus or anything. And shit, abs again. He shouldn’t be thinking about his brother’s abs and oozing pus so close together. He shouldn’t be thinking about his brother’s fucking abs in the first place.
“Thanks for the bill of clean health,” says Sam, rolling his eyes. He swats Dean’s hand away.
When Sam moves, he moves slow and hesitant. Dean’d get him some of the pain pills, but that shit can be hard to get. They can’t go using it on pussy shit like stitches.
Dean resolves to be an extra nice brother that day.
***
Dean’s not nice enough or karma’s just a straight up fucking bitch no matter what you do, because, two days later, a ghost throws Dean through two fucking doors and he cracks a rib and dislocates his shoulder before Sam puts the damn thing down.
“Shit,” says Sam, crazy-laughing, as he drags Dean’s ass out afterwards. “You were like a - Jesus, Dean. You were like a bowling ball.”
“That a fat joke?” hisses Dean through the pain. “Help me pop my shoulder back into place.”
Sam does the crazy-laugh again.
“We’re going to the ER.”
Dean kicks him. “No. Fuck you. Pop my shoulder back in place and gimme your pills from when you got too friendly with Fido.”
It takes a little more arguing, but eventually Sam does like he’s told. He help Dean pop his shoulder back in place, and doesn’t mention it when Dean nearly faints, vision going white with pain.
He does shove his entire fucking bottle of pills at Dean, though.
***
“Fuck,” says Dean, later, when the pills start to hit and everything goes swimmy-blurry-bright. He sits up. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Sammy.”
Sam looks at him. He’s sitting cross-legged on his own bed, his nose in Dad’s journal. Dean doesn’t know what the fuck he’s looking at that thing for. They just wrapped up a case and they know John’s not dead now. It’s not like they need to scour it like fucking Kabbalists any more.
“Dean, what is it?” says Sam, eyebrows knitting in that concerned, hip with the kids high school counselor way he has. He’s wearing that fucking shirt. The purple one with the fucking dog on it that makes Dean super aware of how toned his brother is now. Dean remembers being with Sam when he bought that shirt. It was right after the fire; all of Sam’s clothes were gone. And the Goodwill in Palo Alto didn’t have many options in ‘giant.’
“Dean?” says Sam, voice pitching high with worry. He puts Dad’s journal on his bed and crosses the divide to kneel on the bed next to Dean. “What are you apologizing for?”
“Keep thinking about your fucking abs,” mutters Dean. He rests his head on Sam’s shoulder. Sam smells like the cheap laundry detergent they use, and it’s a strong enough smell to cancel out anything else.
Sam pushes Dean off of him gently.
“My abs?” he says, looking confused.
“Shit, like, I fucked up,” babbles Dean. “Right before you left, right? I fucking. Yeah.”
He sees comprehension dawn slowly on Sam’s face and waits for the horror to follow. Sam’s mouth twists in a frown.
“You’re fucking high, man,” is all Sam says. He pushes Dean back till Dean’s shoulders are touching his pillows and his head’s resting against the backboard of the bed. “Get some sleep.”
Dean tries to sit up, tries to protest. Because he knows this thing is like a fucking mine between, like the fucking mines countries leave behind after wars, that blow up kids years later. And they gotta, they gotta defuse it. But the room is spinning around him and Dean gets dragged under.
***
He wakes up with a massive headache and serious cottonmouth. Sam’s there as soon as he’s conscious, shoving a glass of water and some ibuprofen into Dean’s hand once Dean’s sitting up.
“Can I get a coffee, too?” asks Dean, sweetly. “Black, two sugars.”
“Shut up,” growls Sam, shoving his (still too fucking long) bangs off his forehead. “How much do you remember from last night?”
He’s angry. Dean can read it in all the lines of him. And Dean’s used to that, the simmering, feverish anger Sam carries with him everywhere. The man’s no different from the boy in that respect. But it’s been a couple weeks since Dean’s seen it. And now he’s fucking set if off again because he couldn’t hold his pills. He’s gonna just grit it through the pain next time.
“Why?” he says. It’s not his best dissemble.
Sam’s nostrils flare in annoyance, which has always been hilarious to Dean. But he’s not laughing now. He feels a little sick, actually. Sam squats down so he’s on eye level with Dean.
“Dean,” he says, voice deep and a little rough and fuck that shouldn’t be - Dean swallows hard, makes himself focus on Sam’s eyes instead of the long line of Sam’s throat.
“Sam.” Dean still has cottonmouth, goddammit.
“You didn’t - you didn’t bad touch me or anything, okay?” Sam’s eyes are sharp, intent, like he’s trying to drill two neat holes into the back of Dean’s skull. And shit - what if Sam develops laser eyes. “I was eighteen. I wanted it.”
“Um,” says Dean. “Okay.”
Sam stares at Dean for another long moment, and his thighs have gotta be burning, then he nods to himself and stands up sharply.
“Good,” he says. “I’m going for a run.”
He leaves Dean on the bed, feeling shell-shocked. Sam said wanted, not wants. Past tense, not present. And that’s the fucking, that’s the fucking big red button between them. Dean’s still sick. He thought four years might be enough to get over it, but apparently not.
And don’t get Dean wrong; he’s delighted, Mary Poppins and rainbows delighted, to have Sam back, even at the cost that he came - dead girlfriend, absentee father, crazy psychic visions and possible laser eyes and all. He’s not gonna fuck it up, not gonna lose Sam again.
But this thing between them, it’s poisonous.
They don’t talk about it though.
***
Dean tries to get Sam to sleep with Sarah. Dean tries really fucking hard. If he were Sam, he would have had Sarah three times and then six times again on Sunday.
It would be best for all parties involved, really. Sarah’s clearly willing, and Sam getting laid would help his mental health, and Dean getting Sam laid would, shit, he doesn’t know. It would help Dean out a lot - vicariously, of course.
But Sam’s a prude, so of course he doesn’t sleep with Sarah. He doesn’t even take Dean up on his very generous offer to maybe swing back and see her again. Which would be fucking romantic, if you ask Dean.
Instead, Sam’s just kind of grumpy. Of course.
“If I wanted your help with girls, I would ask,” says Sam shortly.
Dean rolls his eyes. “No, you wouldn’t. I’m the only fucking reason you had a date to prom.”
Sam glares at him. “And I didn’t ask for your help then either, Dean.”
“Yeah, but you needed it.”
“God,” says Sam, standing suddenly. They’re at a diner, about two hundred miles away from where they left Sarah. Dean stares at him.
“The hell are you doing?”
Sam sputters at him, spreading his hands in the way he does when he gets truly exasperated. “You just - you.”
“I’m just what?” Dean raises his eyebrows and smirks. “Dashing? Rakish? Adorable?”
“Fuck you,” says Sam with a laugh. “I’m going for a walk.”
He storms off, leaving half the diner staring at Dean. When the waitress comes to take his order, she tuts sympathetically.
“Happens to all of us, sweetie,” she says. “Hopefully he comes around.”
It takes Dean a moment to realize she thinks they’re a couple. And that. Fuck that.
***
Sam’s in the motel room when Dean gets back from the diner. And that’s good, means Dean doesn’t have to send out the search party. He throws a greasy bag of food at Sam’s chest.
“Brought you dinner, princess.”
“I’m not hungry,” says Sam sulkily. He tosses the bag onto the nightstand.
Dean narrows his eyes at him. He’s tempted to ask what the fuck Sam’s problem is, but he’s ninety-nine percent sure that’s just gonna result in Sam doing his offended ostrich impression and going, What’s my problem? as if Dean were the one acting like a moody teenage girl.
“You need to eat,” he says instead. “Have you had anything to eat today?”
This is, apparently, the hill he has chosen to die on.
Sam sneers at him and doesn’t answer, just turns and stalks to the bathroom. Because yeah, that’s a great way to solve their problems. And Sam - fucking Sam doesn’t eat any more, and it freaks Dean out, because Dean remembers all the times when they were kids when Sam wouldn’t eat anything. When he was teething and when he was two and hated everything and when he was eight and did it as a kind of moral protest for having to leave the gifted and talented program he liked so much and when he was twelve and just ate protein and spinach because he was kind of pudgy.
Dean turns and leaves, too. He goes straight to a bar.
When he gets back, three hours later, he’s buzzing and bright and feeling generous and forgiving. But Sam’s asleep - or at least doing a good job pretending at it - and Dean’s planned demonstration of magnanimity falls through. Sam doesn’t get enough sleep for it to be worth Dean waking him up.
Still, Dean feels more than a little smug when he sees the mostly eaten hamburger in the trashcan. He won that round, Sammy.
***
They’ve got another ghost next, a seriously pissed off family therapist, ha fucking ha, and its curse hits as soon as they leave the cemetery. One second, Sam's bitching about the hole he tore in his pants when he tripped over a moss-covered headstone. The next, it sounds like Sam's speaking fucking Esperanto.
"The hell did you just say?" demands Dean.
Sam's eyebrows knit in confusion, and he opens his mouth to reply. Whatever comes out definitely isn't English.
"This is a weird fucking joke," says Dean.
Sam looks hilariously affronted, eyes widening and back going stiff. He always does that when he thinks Dean isn't being serious enough. He garbles something at Dean again, hands waving expressively and angrily.
It takes a second for it to hit Dean: Sam can't understand him either. He gestures sharply at his ear, then shrugs. Sam's supposed to be smart, so maybe he can figure the universal gesture for, I've got no fucking clue what you just said.
Sam frowns and then his big chest heaves in a sigh.
Oh, he mouths, and Dean can lip read that just fine.
***
Back at the motel, Dean tries calling their dad. It goes straight to voicemail, which is unsurprising but still disappointing. He shrugs at Sam and drops the phone on the bed, trying to get the point across that Dad didn’t pick up.
Sam rolls his eyes in a way Dean interprets as, “Of course.”
He scowls at Sam. “Dad’s got better things to do than wipe our asses,” he says. “We’re adults. We can figure this out.”
Sam gestures at his ear and shrugs, then smiles. The universal sign for, I've got no fucking clue what you just said and also you’re an idiot.
Dean flips him off. Sam just sneers like he’s soooo fucking superior to Dean and stalks off to the bathroom. Dean sticks his tongue out after him and picks up his phone again. He may as well use this as an excuse to annoy the fuck out of Sam. What's that Sam? I can't understand you. You want me to turn the volume up on Busty Asian Beauties?
And he'll start by ordering a shit ton of Sam's least favorite pizza.
***
"How'd you sleep?" he asks Sam the next morning.
Sam frowns at him and when he answers, Dean still can't understand him. He sighs and flops back on his bed. So the curse hasn't worn off yet.
They eat cold pizza and drink shitty motel coffee while they pack. Sam's got a look on his face that makes Dean kinda grateful they can't understand each other right now. That pinched, bitchy look always precedes some passive ass aggressive comment about how Sam sure didn't miss this or at least this is a better breakfast than what Dad usually got for him. And it drives Dean fucking nuts sometimes, how much Sam doesn't want to be here.
They don't have a destination in mind when they finally pack up. But it doesn't really matter. Dad’s still set to radio silence. All they can do is head off in some new direction, look for a new case, wait for the curse to wear off.
It's going to be a quiet ride, and Dean shoves in a Metallica tape as soon as they get in. Sam rolls his eyes super dramatically.
"Bite me," says Dean.
Sam looks unimpressed.
Sam grabs a pad of paper from the glove department and writes something down. It looks like fucking wingdings. Dean shakes his head, but at least he can read Sam’s answering huff and pout loud and clear.
Most of the day is spent like that. Annoying each other and trying to find some way to communicate. So far, facial expressions and hand gestures seem to work the best for them. They even try to get a gas station clerk to try to translate for them, but it just meant everything the clerk repeated from Sam sounded just as garbled as if Sam said it himself.
And, fuck, it sets Dean on edge, the way that everything that comes out of Sam's mouth doesn't mean anything.
The thing with the clerk had ended with him telling them to go see a therapist. And, Jesus, if only the kid knew.
***
Sam still gets nightmares. Dean just hopes to God he doesn’t get one of his premonitions while they’re going through this whole not being able to talk to each other thing.
But he gets a bad nightmare that night, and Dean wakes up to him yelping and thrashing. He’s over in Sam’s bed in a flash and shakes his brother awake.
Sam’s eyes are wide and horrified when he opens them, the pupils blown wide with terror. He’s damp with sweat and breathing hard. Dean keeps his hands on him, two solid points of contact, tries his best to be an anchor.
“Sam,” he says. “Come on Sam. Look at me, Sammy.”
He hopes Sam can understand the sentiment of comfort, even if he can’t understand the words. Winchesters have always been bad at words anyway.
Sam rakes in a deep breath, as if he’d been swimming for a long time. He grabs onto Dean’s arms tightly, fingers digging in hard. Dean thinks there might be bruises in the morning. His eyes focus on Dean slowly.
“Vision?” says Dean, saying the word slowly.
Sam looks confused.
“Vision,” tries Dean again, more slowly this time.
Sam breathes in sharply through his nose and shakes his head.
“Jess,” he mouths, but it takes a moment for Dean to get it. Sam shook his head, but it looks like he’s saying ‘yes’… And then it clicks for him. Jess. Fuck. Jess.
He pulls Sam to him and holds him tightly. It’s not like anything they would usually do, a level of physical intimacy usually beyond them. But it seems okay then, neither of them able to understand the other, and the night a dark blanket around them.
Sam tenses and then goes slack in his arms, his whole body loosening and pouring into Dean’s.
“M’not gonna let anything happen to you,” he says into Sam’s temple. It’s a promise he’s made before. He still means it.
They stay like that for a few minutes. Dean feels Sam’s heartbeat slow and steady out against his own chest. Sam’s the one who pulls away, and Dean feels a little empty.
But Sam cups Dean’s face then and looks at him. Dean’s eyes have adjusted to the dark by now, but the expression on Sam’s face, washed in gray, is unreadable.
Sam leans in, so that their foreheads are nearly touching. His breath is hot on Dean’s face, over Dean’s mouth. Dean brings his hands up and cradles Sam’s face too, his thumbs pressing gently into Sam’s cheekbones.
They don’t kiss; they don’t do anything like that. They just sit there for a bit, looking at each other, listening to the other breathe.
***
The next day, they act like nothing happened. Which is pretty par the course, really. But as they’re packing up, Sam grabs an old obits page from the back of the Impala and pulls a pen from his pocket.
“What are you doing?” asks Dean, even though he knows it’s useless. Sam makes a face at him like he’s thinking the same thing and then shoves the obit page at Dean. He’s circled a string of letters.
CAN YOU R EA D TH IS ?
“Yeah,” says Dean. He nods exaggeratedly. “Yeah, I can.”
Sam smirks, and then, as if Dean couldn’t fucking understand that, draws an equally sanctimonious smiley face on the top margin of the paper.
Dean can’t be too mad though. He punches Sam in the shoulder, grinning.
“You clever bastard. I guess that college education was worth something after all.”
It’s an imperfect system, but, hey. It works.
***
They kill a swamp monster in north Florida next. A fucking swamp monster. But they manage to do it without speaking. It's all through fucking coded messages in the newspapers and body language. They're a pretty good team, Dean thinks proudly.
And then the Impala gets stuck in the mud.
Dean revs helplessly for a few minutes, but they're not going anywhere. Sam raises his eyebrows at him.
"We're stuck," he tells Sam, panic rising in his chest. Fuck. Dad's gonna kill him if he doesn't kill himself, which he will, if he fucks up his baby. "Fuck." He slams his hands on the steering wheel.
"Fuck."
Sam grabs at his hands and stares at him. Dean stares back, forcing himself to calm down. It's not worth panicking over. He wouldn't be panicking if it were any other car. It's just that the Impala is the one thing he has to call his. Anyone else would be panicking too if their home were sinking in the black mud of fucking Okefenokee.
Dean pulls his hands away from Sam and twirls one finger, indicating their wheels spinning helplessly in the mud. Sam nods and undoes his seatbelt.
"Are you - " Dean doesn't know why he's even asking. Even if Sam could understand him, it's pretty obvious what Sam is doing.
Sam gets out and walks around the car. A couple seconds later, the Impala shudders and lifts a tiny bit. Shit, but Sam's gotten strong. Dean revs the engine again, puts his foot down on the pedal. The wheel's spin in the air for a minute, and then there's a jolt forward - Sam putting his shoulder into it - and the Impala lurches forward, front wheels hitting more solid ground, and back wheels following shortly after.
Dean stops the car and sags in relief, the panic draining out of him.
Sam raps on the passenger window a second later, covered in mud and looking smug. Dean just rolls his eyes. He's got to keep some cool after all, but he doesn't yell at Sam for getting mud on the Impala's seat when he gets back in.
He'll yell at him later. When Sam can understand him. Which'll be any day now, Dean's sure.
It's an hour back to their motel. The swamp monster was really in the fucking sticks, and by the time they get there, the mud's mostly caked dry on Sam.
Dean snorts and looks Sam over.
“You can take the first shower,” he says generously. He still talks to Sam, even if Sam can't understand him. It makes him feel less crazy, and he thinks it's a comfort to Sam as well.
“Wow. How nice of you,” snorts Sam.
Dean freezes just as Sam does.
“Did you?” they both say at once.
Sam laughs loudly.
“Jesus,” he says. “And I thought I’d be lucky enough to never have to hear your voice again.”
Dean laughs and shoves at Sam. “Shut up. I’m the one who’s gonna have to deal with your bitch ass whining all the goddamn time.”
Sam catches Dean’s hand as he shoves at him, and smiles, bright and blinding.
“Fuck,” says Dean, grinning. He pulls his hands away and then shoves at Sam again. “Go shower. You got mud all over the fucking Impala, asshole.”
“Yeah, yeah. Your car’d still be stuck in the mud if it weren’t for me,” says Sam smugly.
He steps away from Dean, pulling his shirt off as he goes.
Dean stares at Sam’s back. He can’t help himself sometimes. Fuck. He’s such a fucking freak.
“Maybe. We made a good team back there, Sammy.”
Sam turns to respond. He catches Dean looking.
“Dean,” he says slowly. Dean looks away, flushed. And fuck if it doesn’t feel good to hear Sam say his name again.
Sam takes a half-step toward him, looking uncertain.
“You gotta help me out here, man,” he says quietly, eyes big and lost.
Dean clenches his jaw.
“Pretty sure you know how to operate a shower, dude. They’ve even got these nifty markings that let you know what’s hot and what’s cold.”
“God,” laughs Sam incredulously. “It’s like you don’t even fucking know what you’re doing.”
Dean’s eyes cut back to him.
“And what am I doing, Sam?” he asks softly. He takes a step forward, crowding Sam.
Sam turns red, and Dean sees the flush spread all the way down to his chest. Jesus Christ.
“You know what you’re doing,” says Sam accusingly. He swallows hard, and Dean watches the movement of his throat.
Dean frowns, upset. They’ve only been able to talk to each other again for two whole fucking minutes, and they’re already fighting.
“I don’t,” he says. “Honest. What am I doing?”
“You - you fucking. Like what you said when you were on those pain meds after that ghost threw you through those doors. And you’re always. You’re always fucking looking at me, Dean.”
Shame floods Dean.
“I know. Shit. I know, Sam. I’m trying. I’m trying not to, okay? I don’t wanna chase you off again. I’m trying -”
“No, you don’t understand,” cuts in Sam. He looks vulnerable and defiant. “I don’t - I don’t want you to, okay? I don’t want you to stop. I mean, I want.” Sam flexes his hands helplessly. He’s staring at Dean, tall and built and still looking like the kid Dean’s worried he’ll lose in WalMart.
“I just want,” finishes Sam, sounding small.
And fuck if this isn’t the worst thing Dean’s ever gonna do.
He touches Sam’s shoulders gently, like if he touched him too hard, he might brand him, or Sam might bolt, horse-like and startled.
“Yeah?” he says, looking up at Sam. His stomach is roiling,
“Yeah,” says Sam nervously. “I thought, I thought that’s why you never called, you know? Because of what happened.”
Dean’s stunned. “I never called because you didn’t call. I thought you didn’t want me to.”
Sam laughs in a way that means he doesn’t think this shit is funny. Dean doesn’t think it’s funny either, but he understands the impulse to laugh.
“Fuck,” says Sam, pressing his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. “We’re fucked up.”
“Nah.” Dean tugs Sam’s face up so he can look at him. “We’re not so bad.”
Sam looks at him, studying him until Dean starts to blush.
“The hell are you looking at?” he demands.
One corner of Sam’s mouth curls up in a smile.
“You’re full of shit, Dean,” he says, and he kisses him.
Dean makes a soft noise and opens his mouth, lets Sam guide the kiss at first. They never really kissed, when they did this kind of thing before. And it's a weird, at first, getting kissed by someone taller than him, but then Sam licks into his mouth gently and Dean groans and goes a little weak at the knees. And yeah, this is okay. This is awesome.
He brings his hand up, grips it in Sam's too long hair and bites down gently on Sam's lower lip, hears an answering moan that sends heat radiating down his spin to pool in his gut. Fuck, who needs words anyway?
His other hand ends up on Sam's stomach, slides over hot skin and hard muscle, and Jesus it feels as good as Dean never let himself think it might. He digs his nails in a bit, leaves behind little crescent moons that'll fade soon enough. Sam grabs his shoulders roughly in response and shoves him towards the wall.
Dean laughs into his mouth and tugs at Sam's hair. "Easy."
He flips Sam around, makes it so Sam's the one with his back to the wall, and he shoves Sam hard against it, gets his thigh in between Sam's legs.
Sam's covered in swamp mud still, though. And Dean's - Dean's hard as he's ever been in his whole entire life. But he's still got standards.
"Take a fucking shower," he says into Sam's mouth, and then steps away.
Sam snorts. He looks completely flustered, face flushed and eyes dark. Dean swallows hard and drops his eyes to Sam’s chest. Doesn’t help his resolve.
"Do I have to buy you dinner, too?"
"Nah, you'd just be paying with my fucking credit card."
"You mean Bert Aframian's credit card."
"Same difference," says Dean, and he kisses Sam again.
This probably isn’t the best idea, but he can’t help it; it feels like four years of everything he’s needed to say pouring out of his fucking chest. Everything feels familiar, and everything feels new.