SPN Fic: Between You and the Devil I Stand
Title: Between You and the Devil I Stand
Author: deirdre_c
Rating/Pairing: PG-13, Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~2600 words
Spoilers: through SPN episode 7.16
Summary: If Sam can't fight anymore, Dean will fight for him.
Author's Note: A coda to episode 7.16 ("Out With the Old"), written for the silverbullets challenge for halfshellvenus's prompt, protection. Heartfelt thanks to neros_violin for the superb beta. All remaining errors are mine.
*****
Since Sam was a little kid, he’s insisted on fighting all his own battles. He always refused to let Dean get involved when some local bully marked him on the playground or if Dad gave him a particular job on a hunt or, you know, if he was trying to stop the goddamned Apocalypse. That’s Sam, wanting to take care of himself. But right now Sam’s huddled in the passenger seat of the Pontiac they “borrowed” from Frank’s. He’s got his face buried in his hands like a two year old who’s convinced that if he can’t see Lucifer, Lucifer can’t see him, and Dean figures he’s let his brother fight alone long enough.
He eases the car to a stop on the shoulder of the thickly-wooded two-lane they’re taking southbound towards Nevada, climbs out from behind the wheel, and strides around to the other side.
He yanks open the passenger side door. “Get out.”
“Me?” Sam rasps up at him, bleary-eyed.
“No, him.” Dean points into the empty backseat. He’s tried reasoning, insisting that Lucifer’s not real, reassuring and coaxing and counseling an increasingly whacked-out Sam in the calmest of tones. But reason has gotten him fuck-all at this point, and Dean’s always been more comfortable with a frontal assault anyway. Screw logic.
He follows Sam’s startled gaze to glare into the vacant spot by the rear window. “Get the hell out of my car, you mind-fucking son of a bitch, or I swear I will come back there and wring your neck ‘til your head twists off.” Dean’s not even sure whether Lucifer has a head, but, hey, it sounded good rolling off the tongue.
He stands there in silence-jaw clenched, balanced on the balls of his feet- for a full minute, unsure of what will happen if he actually does have to get in, not that he lets an ounce of uncertainty show. He’s finally about make some kind of move when Sam says, quietly, “Dean. He’s gone.”
Well. How about that. Dean nods sharply. “Damn straight he is.”
Two minutes later, they’re back on the road. Three minutes after that, Sam’s asleep.
*****
Dean refuses to stop as long as Sam keeps snoring, so they spend the night easing on down the road and sunrise finds them shuffling into one of those standard-issue diners with the blue vinyl tablecloths and three-quarters empty ketchup bottles on all the tables.
Dean’s stiff deep in his joints, his ribs ache with the reminder of his most recent Leviathan beat-down, and as he peruses the illustrated, laminated, jelly-smeared menu he wonders what the waitress will say if he orders four cups of full-octane coffee, three for him and one for Sam.
In the end, he makes due with one cup at a time, and while they’re waiting for food to arrive, Dean slurps at his and watches Sam over the rim. The night’s sleep probably did him a world of good, but he still looks like a side of butchered meat. He’s been losing weight steadily for weeks now, shirt hanging loose across his chest, nail-bitten fingers shaky as he sets his own cup down. And Sam may delude himself that he’s being stealthy, but Dean notices every time his eyes slip to the right -a quick flick over and then back again- drawn to the spare space between Dean and the window.
Dean throws his arm across the back of the booth, and Sam flinches.
Okay then.
This time Dean spares the dramatics; he nonchalantly leans over to grab some napkins from the holder, sprawling his legs unnecessarily wide, shifting and fidgeting and gradually scooting over in the bench seat, inch by inch, until he’s up against the wall, squeezing Lucifer out. No room left for the Boogieman. He can see the moment of Sam’s release, an easing of his shoulders, a soft shake of his head that sends long strands of hair into his eyes.
And maybe this is no cure at all, maybe Dean is simply joining Sam on his extended holiday to the Land of Crazy, but Sam manages to finish off his eggs and turkey sausage- offense to all right-thinking people that it is-and a whole pile of toast besides and that’s more than Dean’s seen him eat in a week.
Lucifer can kiss Dean’s ass.
*****
Weirdly enough, when Dean pulls into a random town that evening, too exhausted to roll out any more mileage, they stumble headfirst into a case. Over what’s either a late lunch or an early dinner they hear word of three separate kids gone missing three days in a row, with talk of a big black dog and glowing red eyes that make them both suspect it’s a Barghest.
They go back to the motel and Sam hunkers down over the laptop to brush up on the lore while Dean walks down to the office to pay an extra day’s charge for the room. Less than an hour later they’re headed out to see what there is to be seen before the sun fully sets. The most recent disappearance happened the day before at a nearby middle school baseball diamond. Dean can see signs of trouble from the parking lot: neat chalk lines smudged and broken along the base lines, abandoned equipment left scattered in the dugouts.
They park and he follows right behind Sam as he ducks under an impotent line of yellow police tape. As they wander around the field looking for whatever clues might jump up and bite them, Dean says, “Remember the time you played ball? Where was that, somewhere in South Carolina?”
He knows exactly how Sam’s snort will sound half a second before it comes, regular as a clock powered by exasperated amusement. “Yeah, sophomore year, maybe? The Bobcats? Or the Wildcats, something like that. Mostly I remember you gave me shit for playing outfield.”
“Everyone knows that’s where they stick the nerds and hopeless cases, Sammy. Still came to all your games, didn’t I? Give a guy a little credit.”
He examines the chain link fence behind home plate for damage, waits for Sam’s next rejoinder, but it doesn’t come. Dean glances up to see Sam frozen in place, staring into the dugout on the first base line. Dean whips out his pistol, pulse jumping, thinking the Barghest has returned to the scene of the crime. But as he races forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam, he scans the deepening shadows under the shelter and finds nothing there.
Beside him, Sam hasn’t moved a muscle.
It’s another visit from Lucifer, and Dean’s suddenly seeing red. Hot adrenaline sluices through him with nowhere to drain. Fuck, what if it had been a real threat, and here’s Sam standing, helpless, like a heaping helping of dog chow. It blindsides him that Sam’s not operating at 100%. It doesn’t compute. And it’s not only that Dean’d gotten kind of used to the ruthless skill and efficiency of the soulless version last year, but more that Sam- his Sam, the real Sam-had always pulled his own weight, and extra too, when they were on a hunt.
“Where is he?” Dean asks, flipping the safety and shoving his gun back into his waistband.
Not even bothering to deny it, Sam indicates the low bench with a jerk of his chin.
Dean starts forward, doesn’t even know what he’s going to do when he gets there until he finds himself leaning down, mid-stride, scooping up a forsaken aluminum bat from the dirt and flipping it so that the taped grip settles firm in his palm. He lets his momentum carry him forward and swings the bat up over his head like an axe falling to split wood. The bat clangs down on the metal bench, and the force of the blow reverberating up Dean’s shoulder surprises him, as if he’d half-expected it to meet with flesh and bone. But that just pisses him off even more. He clutches the bat in both hands, slamming it again and again into the bench, the ground, the walls of the dugout hard enough to knock chips out of the cinderblock. Dean hopes Sam is watching this poor-man’s exorcism, but at this point he doesn’t even care, so vividly can he picture Lucifer scrambling away, trying to escape. So Dean advances, blow upon blow from the bat driving his brother’s enemy backward into the darkness until it’s as if he’s cornered and cowering. Which is where Dean beats the shit out of him.
*****
They quickly head back to the car, not having worked out a good enough cover story to explain to any passing cops why two strange men would be hanging around a kidnapping scene at night. Dean swipes his sleeve across his sweaty face, slightly embarrassed by how he lost it back there, but Sam catches his eye and says, “Thank you,” with that little duck of the head he does, and that’s all it takes to make Dean’s sore shoulders and raw hands worthwhile.
On the way back to the motel Sam seems good, chilled out. Dean doesn’t once catch him twitching or listening to a voice that isn’t there.
It may be early, but they’re both worn out, so they get ready for bed, Dean leaning against the bathroom doorframe to watch Sam in what must be the eighth minute of his complicated dental-hygiene regimen. He quips, "Two night's sleep in a row for you, man. That must he some kind of record.” Sam just throws the hand towel at Dean’s head, smiling a foamy smile.
This is working. This could work.
Of course, some time after midnight he wakes to the sound of Sam begging. Harsh, heart-broken cries of "Please stop," and, "Don’t," which have Dean up and out of bed in an instant. He touches Sam’s shoulder lightly to wake him, and Sam comes up swinging, eyes sightless, looking through Dean and into the mad vision projected by his brain.
Dean turns his back to Sam, yelling, “Oh fuck you!” into the vacant darkness and taking one step backward, then another, bumping against Sam, herding him toward the far corner where the pea-green carpet is peeling up. He doesn’t stop to think, just pulls the twin mattress off of Sam’s bed to form a barricade of sorts, dragging Sam down behind it to the triangle of floor as if to hide them both from whatever Sam thinks is out there.
Sam falls into Dean and Dean hauls him close, shifts them so his back’s to the wall, legs spread to make a space for Sam to sit resting against Dean’s chest, and Dean can feel both of their hearts trip-skipping in time where they’re pressed together. Sam’s gasping for air and Dean slows his own breathing in an effort to get Sam to follow. Deep breaths, in and out.
They sit there in their make-shift shelter, silent, Dean doesn’t know how long, until finally Sam lets his head fall back onto Dean’s shoulder.
“Sorry.”
Dean doesn’t answer, too busy trying to keep himself together, deal with the sudden feel of Sam in his arms again.
Most days Dean tries not to think about it, and most days he manages. He doesn’t think about those last miserable, frantic weeks when the scourge of angels was running them to ground and Sam had resolved to say ‘yes’ to the real Lucifer as sacrifice. How the two of them, that last night at Bobby’s place, had found each other in the dark, Sam reaching out, and Dean grabbing hold. Hands and mouths and the desperate press of skin-on-skin, an impulsive attempt to find one last connection, one final way every piece of them could fit together. Dean didn’t think of it as sex, or incest, or whatever else some outsider might label it. But that doesn’t mean having Sam nestled up against him in the dark for the first time since then doesn’t provoke a reaction deep in his gut, a sense-memory of the taste of Sam, the feel of him moving underneath Dean, that makes Dean’s head fuzzy and his hands tremble.
Sam’s never spoken of that night, so neither has Dean. Not the next day, not after Sam came back from the Pit, nor since his memories returned after the Wall came down.
It was a gigantic elephant in the room, but, honestly, Dean felt like it tended to blend in with the herd.
However, in this moment, as they sit pressed together in the darkness, Dean finds himself reflexively leaning forward into Sam’s bulk, taking in the warm, private smell at the crook of Sam’s neck, his hair brushing Dean’s cheek in a caress. Dean’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest as he jerks back, wrung by the conflict between how much he wants this and how much he needs to protect Sam from everything, including himself. He clears his throat, pulls away, shifting in preparation to stand.
“Wait.” Sam takes Dean’s hands and draws them up around his chest, trapping Dean in place. Dean can feel the tension running through him, can’t imagine what’s coming next. But despite Dean’s laser focus and the quiet of the room, he almost misses Sam’s low whisper. “Can we have this?” Sam intertwines their fingers, his thumb circling slowly, meaningfully in the heart of Dean’s palm.
Dean feels as if he’s balanced on a wire between two skyscrapers, just one way forward and a death drop below. He reaches for an answer. “Yeah, Sam. We can. We could.” His belly swoops. “If you want.”
Sam sucks in a sharp breath, then lets it out in a sigh. “I’m just-God, Dean, I’m so fucked up.”
“I don’t care.”
“And I’m not ever going to be-“
“I don’t care.”
“Dean-“
“You’re not listening to me. I don’t know what happened to you… down there, and although I have some ideas, I don’t know all that you’re going through now. But I’m here and no matter what your cracked noggin churns out, we can beat it together, alright? So…” Dean pauses, fumbles for more words that will convince Sam that this is good, but Sam’s busy turning, twisting to face Dean. There’s really not enough room inside their little fortress, so their legs end up at strange angles, Dean propped up half in Sam’s lap, randomly wondering why moments like this are so much more awkward in real life than in the movies. But then Sam’s hands are on his face, and his lips brush softly across Dean’s, and nothing else matters.
Minutes go by measured in nothing but puffs of shared breath and the soft, wet sounds of their mouths, until Dean pulls back an inch to ask, “Is he here?”
Sam cocks his head to listen, then straightens up to peer over the edge of the mattress like a soldier patrolling the walls on orders from his general. “No. Not right--”
And then his eyes are back on Dean, glittering in the dimness of the barely-moonlit room. "No." Dean feels it like a touch as the shift of Sam’s heated gaze slips from his lips to the pulse in his neck and down, down his body.
Dean grins. “Too scared to show his face I guess.” He slides his hands over Sam’s shoulders and up into his hair, taking a firm grip and tilting Sam’s head back up, adding, “Good thing, too… I’m gonna want some privacy for this.”
Then he reels Sam back in for good.
Author: deirdre_c
Rating/Pairing: PG-13, Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~2600 words
Spoilers: through SPN episode 7.16
Summary: If Sam can't fight anymore, Dean will fight for him.
Author's Note: A coda to episode 7.16 ("Out With the Old"), written for the silverbullets challenge for halfshellvenus's prompt, protection. Heartfelt thanks to neros_violin for the superb beta. All remaining errors are mine.
*****
Since Sam was a little kid, he’s insisted on fighting all his own battles. He always refused to let Dean get involved when some local bully marked him on the playground or if Dad gave him a particular job on a hunt or, you know, if he was trying to stop the goddamned Apocalypse. That’s Sam, wanting to take care of himself. But right now Sam’s huddled in the passenger seat of the Pontiac they “borrowed” from Frank’s. He’s got his face buried in his hands like a two year old who’s convinced that if he can’t see Lucifer, Lucifer can’t see him, and Dean figures he’s let his brother fight alone long enough.
He eases the car to a stop on the shoulder of the thickly-wooded two-lane they’re taking southbound towards Nevada, climbs out from behind the wheel, and strides around to the other side.
He yanks open the passenger side door. “Get out.”
“Me?” Sam rasps up at him, bleary-eyed.
“No, him.” Dean points into the empty backseat. He’s tried reasoning, insisting that Lucifer’s not real, reassuring and coaxing and counseling an increasingly whacked-out Sam in the calmest of tones. But reason has gotten him fuck-all at this point, and Dean’s always been more comfortable with a frontal assault anyway. Screw logic.
He follows Sam’s startled gaze to glare into the vacant spot by the rear window. “Get the hell out of my car, you mind-fucking son of a bitch, or I swear I will come back there and wring your neck ‘til your head twists off.” Dean’s not even sure whether Lucifer has a head, but, hey, it sounded good rolling off the tongue.
He stands there in silence-jaw clenched, balanced on the balls of his feet- for a full minute, unsure of what will happen if he actually does have to get in, not that he lets an ounce of uncertainty show. He’s finally about make some kind of move when Sam says, quietly, “Dean. He’s gone.”
Well. How about that. Dean nods sharply. “Damn straight he is.”
Two minutes later, they’re back on the road. Three minutes after that, Sam’s asleep.
*****
Dean refuses to stop as long as Sam keeps snoring, so they spend the night easing on down the road and sunrise finds them shuffling into one of those standard-issue diners with the blue vinyl tablecloths and three-quarters empty ketchup bottles on all the tables.
Dean’s stiff deep in his joints, his ribs ache with the reminder of his most recent Leviathan beat-down, and as he peruses the illustrated, laminated, jelly-smeared menu he wonders what the waitress will say if he orders four cups of full-octane coffee, three for him and one for Sam.
In the end, he makes due with one cup at a time, and while they’re waiting for food to arrive, Dean slurps at his and watches Sam over the rim. The night’s sleep probably did him a world of good, but he still looks like a side of butchered meat. He’s been losing weight steadily for weeks now, shirt hanging loose across his chest, nail-bitten fingers shaky as he sets his own cup down. And Sam may delude himself that he’s being stealthy, but Dean notices every time his eyes slip to the right -a quick flick over and then back again- drawn to the spare space between Dean and the window.
Dean throws his arm across the back of the booth, and Sam flinches.
Okay then.
This time Dean spares the dramatics; he nonchalantly leans over to grab some napkins from the holder, sprawling his legs unnecessarily wide, shifting and fidgeting and gradually scooting over in the bench seat, inch by inch, until he’s up against the wall, squeezing Lucifer out. No room left for the Boogieman. He can see the moment of Sam’s release, an easing of his shoulders, a soft shake of his head that sends long strands of hair into his eyes.
And maybe this is no cure at all, maybe Dean is simply joining Sam on his extended holiday to the Land of Crazy, but Sam manages to finish off his eggs and turkey sausage- offense to all right-thinking people that it is-and a whole pile of toast besides and that’s more than Dean’s seen him eat in a week.
Lucifer can kiss Dean’s ass.
*****
Weirdly enough, when Dean pulls into a random town that evening, too exhausted to roll out any more mileage, they stumble headfirst into a case. Over what’s either a late lunch or an early dinner they hear word of three separate kids gone missing three days in a row, with talk of a big black dog and glowing red eyes that make them both suspect it’s a Barghest.
They go back to the motel and Sam hunkers down over the laptop to brush up on the lore while Dean walks down to the office to pay an extra day’s charge for the room. Less than an hour later they’re headed out to see what there is to be seen before the sun fully sets. The most recent disappearance happened the day before at a nearby middle school baseball diamond. Dean can see signs of trouble from the parking lot: neat chalk lines smudged and broken along the base lines, abandoned equipment left scattered in the dugouts.
They park and he follows right behind Sam as he ducks under an impotent line of yellow police tape. As they wander around the field looking for whatever clues might jump up and bite them, Dean says, “Remember the time you played ball? Where was that, somewhere in South Carolina?”
He knows exactly how Sam’s snort will sound half a second before it comes, regular as a clock powered by exasperated amusement. “Yeah, sophomore year, maybe? The Bobcats? Or the Wildcats, something like that. Mostly I remember you gave me shit for playing outfield.”
“Everyone knows that’s where they stick the nerds and hopeless cases, Sammy. Still came to all your games, didn’t I? Give a guy a little credit.”
He examines the chain link fence behind home plate for damage, waits for Sam’s next rejoinder, but it doesn’t come. Dean glances up to see Sam frozen in place, staring into the dugout on the first base line. Dean whips out his pistol, pulse jumping, thinking the Barghest has returned to the scene of the crime. But as he races forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam, he scans the deepening shadows under the shelter and finds nothing there.
Beside him, Sam hasn’t moved a muscle.
It’s another visit from Lucifer, and Dean’s suddenly seeing red. Hot adrenaline sluices through him with nowhere to drain. Fuck, what if it had been a real threat, and here’s Sam standing, helpless, like a heaping helping of dog chow. It blindsides him that Sam’s not operating at 100%. It doesn’t compute. And it’s not only that Dean’d gotten kind of used to the ruthless skill and efficiency of the soulless version last year, but more that Sam- his Sam, the real Sam-had always pulled his own weight, and extra too, when they were on a hunt.
“Where is he?” Dean asks, flipping the safety and shoving his gun back into his waistband.
Not even bothering to deny it, Sam indicates the low bench with a jerk of his chin.
Dean starts forward, doesn’t even know what he’s going to do when he gets there until he finds himself leaning down, mid-stride, scooping up a forsaken aluminum bat from the dirt and flipping it so that the taped grip settles firm in his palm. He lets his momentum carry him forward and swings the bat up over his head like an axe falling to split wood. The bat clangs down on the metal bench, and the force of the blow reverberating up Dean’s shoulder surprises him, as if he’d half-expected it to meet with flesh and bone. But that just pisses him off even more. He clutches the bat in both hands, slamming it again and again into the bench, the ground, the walls of the dugout hard enough to knock chips out of the cinderblock. Dean hopes Sam is watching this poor-man’s exorcism, but at this point he doesn’t even care, so vividly can he picture Lucifer scrambling away, trying to escape. So Dean advances, blow upon blow from the bat driving his brother’s enemy backward into the darkness until it’s as if he’s cornered and cowering. Which is where Dean beats the shit out of him.
*****
They quickly head back to the car, not having worked out a good enough cover story to explain to any passing cops why two strange men would be hanging around a kidnapping scene at night. Dean swipes his sleeve across his sweaty face, slightly embarrassed by how he lost it back there, but Sam catches his eye and says, “Thank you,” with that little duck of the head he does, and that’s all it takes to make Dean’s sore shoulders and raw hands worthwhile.
On the way back to the motel Sam seems good, chilled out. Dean doesn’t once catch him twitching or listening to a voice that isn’t there.
It may be early, but they’re both worn out, so they get ready for bed, Dean leaning against the bathroom doorframe to watch Sam in what must be the eighth minute of his complicated dental-hygiene regimen. He quips, "Two night's sleep in a row for you, man. That must he some kind of record.” Sam just throws the hand towel at Dean’s head, smiling a foamy smile.
This is working. This could work.
Of course, some time after midnight he wakes to the sound of Sam begging. Harsh, heart-broken cries of "Please stop," and, "Don’t," which have Dean up and out of bed in an instant. He touches Sam’s shoulder lightly to wake him, and Sam comes up swinging, eyes sightless, looking through Dean and into the mad vision projected by his brain.
Dean turns his back to Sam, yelling, “Oh fuck you!” into the vacant darkness and taking one step backward, then another, bumping against Sam, herding him toward the far corner where the pea-green carpet is peeling up. He doesn’t stop to think, just pulls the twin mattress off of Sam’s bed to form a barricade of sorts, dragging Sam down behind it to the triangle of floor as if to hide them both from whatever Sam thinks is out there.
Sam falls into Dean and Dean hauls him close, shifts them so his back’s to the wall, legs spread to make a space for Sam to sit resting against Dean’s chest, and Dean can feel both of their hearts trip-skipping in time where they’re pressed together. Sam’s gasping for air and Dean slows his own breathing in an effort to get Sam to follow. Deep breaths, in and out.
They sit there in their make-shift shelter, silent, Dean doesn’t know how long, until finally Sam lets his head fall back onto Dean’s shoulder.
“Sorry.”
Dean doesn’t answer, too busy trying to keep himself together, deal with the sudden feel of Sam in his arms again.
Most days Dean tries not to think about it, and most days he manages. He doesn’t think about those last miserable, frantic weeks when the scourge of angels was running them to ground and Sam had resolved to say ‘yes’ to the real Lucifer as sacrifice. How the two of them, that last night at Bobby’s place, had found each other in the dark, Sam reaching out, and Dean grabbing hold. Hands and mouths and the desperate press of skin-on-skin, an impulsive attempt to find one last connection, one final way every piece of them could fit together. Dean didn’t think of it as sex, or incest, or whatever else some outsider might label it. But that doesn’t mean having Sam nestled up against him in the dark for the first time since then doesn’t provoke a reaction deep in his gut, a sense-memory of the taste of Sam, the feel of him moving underneath Dean, that makes Dean’s head fuzzy and his hands tremble.
Sam’s never spoken of that night, so neither has Dean. Not the next day, not after Sam came back from the Pit, nor since his memories returned after the Wall came down.
It was a gigantic elephant in the room, but, honestly, Dean felt like it tended to blend in with the herd.
However, in this moment, as they sit pressed together in the darkness, Dean finds himself reflexively leaning forward into Sam’s bulk, taking in the warm, private smell at the crook of Sam’s neck, his hair brushing Dean’s cheek in a caress. Dean’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest as he jerks back, wrung by the conflict between how much he wants this and how much he needs to protect Sam from everything, including himself. He clears his throat, pulls away, shifting in preparation to stand.
“Wait.” Sam takes Dean’s hands and draws them up around his chest, trapping Dean in place. Dean can feel the tension running through him, can’t imagine what’s coming next. But despite Dean’s laser focus and the quiet of the room, he almost misses Sam’s low whisper. “Can we have this?” Sam intertwines their fingers, his thumb circling slowly, meaningfully in the heart of Dean’s palm.
Dean feels as if he’s balanced on a wire between two skyscrapers, just one way forward and a death drop below. He reaches for an answer. “Yeah, Sam. We can. We could.” His belly swoops. “If you want.”
Sam sucks in a sharp breath, then lets it out in a sigh. “I’m just-God, Dean, I’m so fucked up.”
“I don’t care.”
“And I’m not ever going to be-“
“I don’t care.”
“Dean-“
“You’re not listening to me. I don’t know what happened to you… down there, and although I have some ideas, I don’t know all that you’re going through now. But I’m here and no matter what your cracked noggin churns out, we can beat it together, alright? So…” Dean pauses, fumbles for more words that will convince Sam that this is good, but Sam’s busy turning, twisting to face Dean. There’s really not enough room inside their little fortress, so their legs end up at strange angles, Dean propped up half in Sam’s lap, randomly wondering why moments like this are so much more awkward in real life than in the movies. But then Sam’s hands are on his face, and his lips brush softly across Dean’s, and nothing else matters.
Minutes go by measured in nothing but puffs of shared breath and the soft, wet sounds of their mouths, until Dean pulls back an inch to ask, “Is he here?”
Sam cocks his head to listen, then straightens up to peer over the edge of the mattress like a soldier patrolling the walls on orders from his general. “No. Not right--”
And then his eyes are back on Dean, glittering in the dimness of the barely-moonlit room. "No." Dean feels it like a touch as the shift of Sam’s heated gaze slips from his lips to the pulse in his neck and down, down his body.
Dean grins. “Too scared to show his face I guess.” He slides his hands over Sam’s shoulders and up into his hair, taking a firm grip and tilting Sam’s head back up, adding, “Good thing, too… I’m gonna want some privacy for this.”
Then he reels Sam back in for good.