Big Bang '10 - One Hundred Percent Reason to Remember [i. 17% skill]

Aug 17, 2010 11:02

Masterlist





The office of the 67th precinct in New Orleans is quiet. Most desks are deserted, their owners having gone home already; there are a few officers still working at their desks, trying to finish up the day's paperwork on some incident or another. Detective Dean Winchester props his feet up on his own desk and leans back in his chair. The night may be almost over for some of the others, but he still has mounds of paperwork to look over, and, if he's successful, a thief to catch.

The chief has put him in charge of a particular case that's been running for a while; there's this thief breaking and entering all over the precinct and no matter who they put on the case, no one can catch him. He doesn't have a calling card and there's really no way of proving that the thefts are related in any way, but Dean... well, Dean just knows.

There are police reports scattered all over his desk, incidents over the past month and a half that seem like run-of-the-mill thefts to the untrained eye. Dean, however, has been looking at things like this for the majority of his career.

All entry points are the same. The backdoor in places that had them and a kitchen window in those that didn't. The lock would be neatly picked on the doors, screens slashed with a small knife on the windows. Ignoring the fact that most B & E's used the same methods, there was something uncanny about the fact that there'd been no thefts in this part of the city (barring the normal sporadic ones) for the better part of a year, and then, suddenly, all of this.

He leafs through the papers again, searching for anything he may have missed and making notes on a small pad at the corner of his desk.

Detective Dean Winchester is going to catch this guy one way or another, if it's the last thing he does as an officer of the law




The lock on the door clicks, and Sam grins to himself.

It's almost too easy for someone as used to alarms and locks as he is to force his way inside the house. He's been working in his father's shop for as long as he can remember, and he’s installed all sorts of doors and locks, secured windows and so on.

It's child's play for him.

He steps inside as stealthily as he can; he doesn't want to scare the poor widow Phoebe and it's not like he's really there to steal anything, after all.

He moves around the living room, looking at the widow's duck collection and chuckling at the awful pictures of her dog, which looks more like a pig. Without noticing, he steps too close to the living room wall, and as he opens the cabinet containing the silver cutlery one of his elbows unlocks the alarmed window.

Sam only hears a low hiss, but he knows quite well what it means.

The alarm is connected to the police station; they'll be swarming the place in less than five minutes. A smug grin appears on his face.

And the game begins.



The sound of the alarms down the hall going off shatters Dean's concentration. He rushes down to the bank of monitors and watches the little red light blink for a minute - burglary alarm.

He grabs his jacket off his chair on the way back through, makes sure his gun is loaded and heads out to his car. There are others on the scene; he knows as soon as he starts up the scanner he's installed in the car's stereo system. The report's going off like crazy. He just hopes he isn't too late, that the thief sticks around long enough for Dean to see the look on his face as he's being arrested.




"There he is!" a policeman exclaims, pointing towards one of the tree in the yard of the house, and sure enough, Sam's there, hanging from the highest branch.

"Hi, guys!" He greets them cheerfully, waving a hand. A couple of cops even wave back.

Sam is a carefree, easygoing guy, and many of them even questioned the need of displaying forces this way for a small apartment burglar who usually doesn't even steal anything to begin with.

From the central office, they've been adamant: he disrupts the peace and breaks inside private citizens' houses; hence he must be secured to justice, no matter how nice a thief he is.

Whatever, no one has ever been able to catch him, anyway.

Sam's eyes shift from one car to another, but-

"Where's the detective?" he asks, and he's aware he probably sounds disappointed.

"Too busy with bigger fish to fry, I guess," he answers himself before any of them can.

He'd like to stick around and wait, but one of the policemen is approaching with a ladder, and he takes it as his cue to leave.

"It was fun, guys, thanks!" he shouts, before disappearing with a back-flip that has him landing on the backside of the roof, away from the lights.

Sam carefully jumps from one roof to the next, and only once he deems he’s put enough distance between him and the police does he dare stepping back onto the street.

He takes off the black overalls he was wearing and the cap he used to hide his face, shakes his mop of brown hair like a wet dog, and walks home, his head hanging low and a bitter taste in his mouth.




The red and blue lights are already flashing by the time he pulls up, slides in next to a patrol car and assesses the scene. They're talking to a woman just outside the door; her hair is in curlers and she holds her robe closed around herself. She looks horror-stricken.

Sighing, he climbs out of the car.

"Got anything?" He asks the nearest officer, who's making notes to put in a report.

"He got away again. Worst part was, they just sat there and let him go, didn't even give chase." The guy scowls over his shoulder to the huddle of cops hanging back, watching. "So no, we got nothing. Not even a description."

"Damnit," Dean swears, grinding his teeth together.

"Can I ask a question, Detective?"

Dean doesn't answer, and the guy takes that as initiative. "Why do you care so much? It's child's play; he never does anything harmful, hardly even steals anything. Why do you want to catch him so much?"

"Because," Dean sighs, rubs at his temples. He's in a bad mood already, and the bastard had to come play with him some more. Cat and mouse, only the mouse was Speedy Gonzales and he felt as inept as Tom. "I can't catch him."

"You want to catch him just because you haven’t been able to yet?” The officer seems amused, but keeps it to himself. Dean grunts and gets back in his car, turns the engine and speeds back to the station. No one in this part of the city will pull him over, anyway; they'd know the sound of his black ’67 Impala from blocks away. And if it was slightly against regulation, who cared?

Dean knew that there was something here. Paranoia, whatever you wanna call it, something was up with this thief. No one breaks and enters without intending to steal anything. He'd have another report to add to his collection in the morning.



When Dean heads to work the next day, his head is pounding. He grinds his teeth together and pulls out his file on the mysterious thief, only to have to drop it next moment when he's called into the Chief's office.

"Why haven't you caught your thief yet?" The Chief is a short, fat man with a shiny bald head who spits when he talks and even more when he yells. Which is what he's currently doing.

"Sir, I didn't get the call until there was already a squad dispatched. I didn't get there in time, I guess."

"So your men let him get away? Why didn't you give them orders to catch him?!"

Dean sighs. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll issue those orders right away."

"You know, Winchester, I put you on this case specifically because I know you can do it. You've been in the force for long enough to know the ins and outs and how to deal with people. I don't want to be disappointed again, or it'll be back to strictly desk work for you. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." Dean tries very hard not to look pissed, but he only holds out as long as he gets back to where his department sits, in the corner of the precinct.

"Give every squad orders to catch any thief they can get their hands on," he grumbles to the first officer he comes across, and slinks back to his desk. He shrugs his jacket off, loosens his tie at first, then gives up and takes it off, sets it on the corner of his desk. The Chief can deal with the dress code violation. Shouldn’t care anyway if Dean can catch the damn thief.

He sighs, and opens the new folder on top of the pile on his desk. It’s last night’s report; the woman swears that the thief accosted her dog, Cyrano. There’s a picture of Cyrano featured, wearing bows on both of his ears.

Dean thinks it’s got to be one of the ugliest dogs he’s ever seen. He’s halfway through a very detailed description of the dog’s pedigree (the woman saw fit to include it, maybe to add gravity to the situation) when he's interrupted by one of the secretaries on the front desk.

"Detective?" she says, cautiously, stopping a few feet short of her desk. She's seen what kind of mood he's in and is trying not to get on his bad side. Smart woman.

"Yes?" He says, drops the report and tries not to look too menacing. She's fairly pretty, and he likes to have his resources.

"There's a... there's a man here to see you. He says he needs to talk to you in private, that he might have some info for a case you're working on."

Dean's on his feet before she finishes the sentence, shrugging past her to one of the small conference rooms off to the side of the main area of the building. "Send him in."

He waits there for a while, tapping his fingers against the faux wood table, before the door opens and a homeless guy steps in.

The guy's gaze is skittish and nervous, and it flashes around the room, as if to situate the closest exit in case he has to bolt. In the end he clenches his hands against his chest, hidden under a dirty, torn shirt which has surely seen better days, and clears his throat. He looks at his feet; a great part of his face is hidden under long, greasy bangs, as he bites his lower lip uncomfortably.

"Look, officer-" he starts, his voice unsure and hoarse "I shouldn't be here. I mean, you bash people like me. It was a mistake, I'm sorry." He steps back and turns towards the door, reaching for the knob with trembling fingers.

As he's about to reach it, though, he clenches his fist, swallows noisily and turns towards Dean again.

"I've seen him," he mutters quickly, "the thief. I'm sure he was him. He was pacing suspiciously around a house on the outskirts of town, surveying the area. Then he took his cell phone out and called someone, telling him or her where the security system was placed and how to get around it, and then he assured that he was going to break in at 9 pm tonight."

Now that he's done talking, the man starts shaking, and his eyes look wide and terrified behind the curtain of brown hair.

"Can-can I go?" he asks tentatively.

Jackpot.

Suddenly, Dean's happier than he's been all day. "You can go in a second. First, though. Where is this house, exactly? I need to know so we can take care of the problem." He explained it slowly, trying not to look at the homeless man too closely or freak him out. "You aren't in any trouble," he assured, fishing a small notepad out of an inner pocket of his jacket and looking in the guy's general direction expectantly.

The guy stutters out an address, nodding to himself all the time as if to confirm that he's telling the truth.

"Are you going to hurt him, officer?" he asks in the end. “I mean, he looked like a nice enough kid," he explains.

Typical: they're both outcasts, so it's normal for them to look out for one another. Who knows why the thief does what he does, after all? There could be a million reasons.

"Oh, we aren't going to hurt him." Dean doesn't even feel guilty for lying. "We're just going to stop him from stealing anything, help him if he needs it. That sort of thing. Thanks for the info; we've been looking to help this guy for a while."

And yeah, he's aware that a two-year-old wouldn't buy that load of crap, but he can try. "You can go now, if you want. I'll make sure you remain anonymous."

The man nods vehemently. "I'd like that. Yeah."

He walks quickly out of the station, not before throwing a sidelong glance at Dean and murmuring "good luck", so low that he’s not even sure the detective actually heard it.



Dean doesn't tell anyone about it. At promptly 8:45 that night, he pulls up outside the address on the outskirts of New Orleans completely alone.

He checks his clip, makes sure he's loaded, and waits.

At promptly 9:15, Dean realizes that he's probably been had. There's no activity inside the house; the lights aren’t even on. There isn't a car in the driveway. He doesn't even know if the house is occupied. He's about to speed away when he realizes that he should probably check inside. In case the robbery's going on anyway and the thief just doesn't know how to set a watch right.

Yeah, he should totally go check.

He shuts the car door quietly and crosses the lawn as quickly as possible, clicking the safety off his gun. He tries the knob and finds it, curiously enough, wide open. Dean steps inside cautiously.

There is no furniture. It's completely empty, and it throws him for a minute.

Still, he has to check.

He walks through the house, rounding each door frame like he's in CSI or something, and finally comes to the conclusion that someone is clearly playing with him.

There's one last room. He rounds the door frame, tries to look menacing, and what he sees makes him drop his gun.

The room is empty, just as the rest of the house, except for a huge bed that fills almost all the available space.

The sheets are burgundy, and there's a weirdly enticing scent in the air. What’s shocking the detective is probably the person on the bed, though.

He's young, quite built, with long, brown hair disheveled and unruly but that still manage to look incredibly soft. His hazel eyes are open wide and filled with unshed tears, as almost half of his face is covered by a dark blue gag, preventing him from thinking.

His long arms are tied at the bedpost, and he pulls ineffectively at the metal handcuffs keeping him in place, producing an echoing clinging sound as his cheeks flush.

And the guy has a very good reason for being embarrassed: he’s bare-ass naked. His knees are pulled tight against his chest in order to save what little is left of his dignity, but it does the exact opposite; he’s completely exposed, open for anyone who walks in the door to see.

The effort of curling in a ball makes his ass muscles clench, and even if the night isn’t really cold, the exertion has covered his tanned skinned with a thin layer of sweat.

He shouts something unintelligible from behind the gag, and his gaze focuses on the detective.

And whoa, that is absolutely the last thing Dean thought he'd see. It takes him a few moments to recover higher brain function, but when he does, he takes a deep breath and picks up his gun. He hurries over to the bed and starts to try to remove the handcuffs. "Who did this to you?" he asks, focusing entirely on getting the lock on the handcuffs picked and not how beautiful the guy looks all stretched out and vulnerable like this.

It's at least three minutes before he realizes that he hasn't un-gagged him yet.

Focus.

The edges of the dark blue gag bite into the kid's tanned skin, pulls his mouth open at the edges, and Dean's dick twitches in his uniform pants.

Oh god no. He's a highly-trained professional. He will not let this get to him.

He unties the gag and tosses it to the side. "Can you tell me who did this to you?" he asks before the kid can get a word in edgewise.

As soon as the tie is removed, the guy starts snapping his jaw, and then licks repeatedly his dry lips.

"I don't know," he says, slightly panting, as he keeps pulling at his still blocked wrists, huffing in frustration when he doesn't succeed in breaking free.

“He came through the window and caught my by surprise,” he nods toward said window on the other side of the room, gaping open. “I was sleeping.”

The guy seems to relax a little, now that the detective is next to him, and he finally lets his legs drop, stretching and popping his back with a grimace.

"Who knew this position would be so uncomfortable?" he mutters, as he rolls his shoulders.

His muscles twitch under his slick skin and his biceps contract as he tries once more to get the cuffs undone.

"How did you get here, officer?" he asks then, his voice filled with something akin to awe, as he lays one leg on the bed and his foot rests casually against Dean's thigh.

"That isn't important." Dean clears his throat and tries to ignore the weight of the guy's foot on his thigh. This whole focusing thing, though? Not working out so well. He doesn't realize he's watching, but the muscles moving under the guy's skin, the way he flexes and stretches?

Yeah, Dean's totally there.

Only he can't be, because he's a professional.

He clears his throat again, shifts his weight awkwardly. "Are you sure you didn't get a good look at your attacker? And what's your name?"

The guy licks his lips once more.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see him." He slowly shakes his head, “As I told you, I was sleeping, so the light was off."

"And yes, of course it's important," he adds, after a moment, his tone shifting and turning low and seductive. "Because I have to show you my appreciation somehow, now; you saved me, after all. Who knows who could have come through that door, right?"

He winks at Dean, and grins.

"I'm Sam. I'd offer you my hand, but--" he shakes his handcuffed wrists, chuckling.

Then, without warning, he hooks his foot around the detective's thigh and pulls, making him lose his balance and fall on him.

"There, isn't this better?" Sam whispers, his mouth so close to Dean's face that the detective can feel his warm breath against his cheek.

Dean groans inwardly.

Professional. Be professional. Be---

"I am a professional." He says weakly, but oh does it feel good just here. And fuck, he can't even pretend anymore. His dick obviously approves of this shift of position; his erection tents the front of his uniform pants and there's no way Sam can't feel that. But Sam's cock is thick against his hip, and he needs to be chasing this thief, not fucking a victim. Focusfocusfocus...

Sam smirks as he feels Dean's erection against his groin.

"Is that your gun or are you just happy to see me, officer?" he asks, mockingly, as he shifts against Dean's body. The sweat is now running down his face and pooling on his upper lip, so he shakes his head, trying to free the locks of hair sticking against his forehead.

The temperature in the room is rising rapidly, and Sam feels like he's on fire.

Sam's forehead glistens with sweat. It's kind of distracting. Muttering, Dean reaches for the gag, undoes the knot and goes to wipe Sam's forehead.

Only now he realizes that the gag is in fact a tie, and its exact color of dark blue is oddly familiar.

He glances at it, all crumpled, wet with spit and tears, and frowns, then turns it and notices the weirdly shaped stain on the back of it.

"Is that..." Obviously there's no reason why it would be, but that's the association he makes and his job has thought me to trust his guts.

"Is that my tie?" He looks back at Sam, raises an eyebrow, and waits for an explanation.

Sam's jaw drops, his eyes shift and then he lowers his head, hiding his face behind his long bangs.
"Er... I..." he stutters, as his cheeks get pale. He quickly turns his face towards the window, away from Dean, as if he's afraid that Dean sees the answer on his face and he won't like it.

For a moment, Dean can't place where he's seen the kid before. He thinks back to when he noticed his tie wasn't on his desk, where he'd thrown it that morning after the meeting with the Chief. It could have easily have been any of the officers on the case, but Dean knew it wasn't. Then he remembers the homeless guy, the informant, and it clicks. "You..." he starts. “You impersonated a homeless guy to get me here? Why?!" He scrambles back off the bed, takes a few steps back toward the doorway. "What's this about?"

Sam swallows, hard, as he keeps staring at the wallpaper as if the design was particularly fascinating.
After a few moments of silence, as he can still feel Dean's eyes digging hole at his chest, he sighs and slowly turns his eyes on him, but he still can’t look at his face.

"I just-I wanted to talk to you," he stutters. "I tried it so many times, but you never pay any attention to me. I knew that you would have come for him." He spits the pronoun out with a bitter tone, as a regretful expression flickers on his face.

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and ignores the fact that he's still rock-hard. He's about to ask why Sam wants to talk to him so much, what could be so important that he'd lie to him and distract him from his case, but he thinks better of it. The next question that bubbles up is how Sam knows him anyway; before this morning, he'd never seen the kid. But that's too closely related to the other question and it doesn't matter, anyway. "Okay," he says, tries to be as stern as he can while talking to a man who's completely vulnerable and tied to the bed in front of him. "I'm here now. Talk."

Sam blushes furiously, so fast that he's afraid he's going to self-combust before he can get a single word out. Then he licks his lower lip and starts talking, trying to be as vague as he can, because he's dreading the moment Dean will finally understand what's going on.

"I've-seen you around," he admits, voice shaking, and damn, it's so not comfortable declaring his undying love as he's cuffed to the bed.

He probably should have planned this better, but after the previous night, when Dean didn't come to the widow's house, the fear of him getting tired of the cat and mouse game and just moving on had been like a punch to the gut.

"I tried to approach you in any possible way I could think of, but nothing. I was invisible," he continues, a little softer as he remembers. He recalls bumping into Dean at the mall, spilling his coffee on him, picking up a zucchini that fell from his basket at the supermarket.

Every single time he only got a polite, blank smile and a curt nod, before the officer walked out of his life again. Sam snorts.

"Now I can see it was stupid, and I'm sorry. I simply couldn't think of any other way you'd be concentrated on me long enough for me to actually speak to you."

He takes a deep breath and murmurs, “I-I’m in love with you.”

Something wells up in Dean's throat at that, something that's a lot like a red flag. There's something not quite right about this picture and Dean doesn't give himself another half-second to think about Sam's admission before he voices it. "So you let the thief I'm after tie you up and leave you here?" And yeah, it's not like the thief is dangerous as far as Dean can tell, but it's the principle.

Sudden, irrational concern rears its ugly head. "You could have been killed! You shouldn't..." Shouldn't what? Shouldn't have done this, shouldn't have let himself be interested in Dean? Oh god. He can't even finish his statement. And then he feels like a complete asshole for being so absorbed in work that he didn't notice running into the same guy several times over. "It's dangerous," he finally settles for, clearing his throat. "You shouldn't have let him do this to you just because you knew I'd rush to the scene."

Sam narrows his eyes; he can’t believe this. Even after his declaration, even after everything he has been going through to get to Dean, he still-

"Dammit, Dean! It's not dangerous! It wasn't dangerous, for me, and it will never be, simply I am the motherfucking thief, have been all along!” Sam doesn't realize he has been shouting until he can feel his throat burn once he finishes the sentence.
He clenches his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. "It's me," he repeats, lower, refusing once more to make eye contact.

Dean feels the familiar, numbing rage take over him. Every time they've rushed to help someone, some victim of a burglary, every time he's had to take shit from his boss because he couldn't catch this guy... it was personal, now. Sam was just toying with him? So quickly he doesn't register the movement, he walks around the side of the bed, catching hold of Sam's jaw and wrenching it upwards forcefully. Forcing him to meet his gaze. He leans down close, glaring with every ounce of anger he can summon.

"It's been you, all this time?" he hisses, and feels Sam shrink back. Still, he doesn't let go.

Sam freezes, terrified. He expects Dean to punch him, and God knows he deserves it, but he's not going to let it happen without saying everything he came to say.

He swallows again, and nods slowly.

"The first time I met you, I was barely 18," he starts, voice shaking as he tries to keep it even. “A few friends and me went and got beer, you know, graduation and all that. We just wanted to do something crazy, break the law. Somehow, I stayed back and you caught me.” Sam's cheeks flush.

"You could have taken me to the station, or called my parents and had them kick my ass, but you didn't. You sat next to me, popped a can of beer open and gave it to me, saying that if I had to get wasted, it was better if I had adult supervision as I did. I took a sip and almost puked right then and there, because the taste? Yuck." He chuckles.

"You laughed, and I found myself lost in the sound. Then you stood up, patted my shoulder and told me that I was a great kid and you didn't want to meet me again like that, because you knew I could do so much better with my life."

Dean's words that night had warmed Sam's heart, showing him that was possible to get to others without the long-ass words the school counselor used. His easygoing attitude, his smile, the way he seemed to know just what to say made Sam think about a person like Dean trying to talk a suicidal man into giving life a second chance, and that's when Sam decided he wanted to be a psychologist.

He wanted to help people, too. "So, I worked my ass off," he continues, clenching his fists "I studied and graduated and did my best to become the man I thought you wanted, then I came back looking for you." Sam lowers his eyes, not noticing that Dean's hold on his jaw has loosened, and sighs.

"But no matter how hard I tried, you never noticed me. At first I thought it was because you already belonged to someone else, and if it had been true I would have let you go, because your happiness it's what matters the most to me, you know? But you weren't." He tortures his lower lip with his teeth.

"No boyfriends or girlfriends, not even friends, as far as I've been able to see. Only your job catches your attention, thieves, murders, crimes. That's your life. And since I don't have it in me what it takes to kill another human being, I turned into a thief."

Sam blinks and looks back at Dean, grimacing as he attempts to shrug.

"And here you are, finally, with me...just to prove I was right."

Dean's grip goes slack on Sam's jaw and he takes a step back. He's a little touched, and little weirded out, but he's not stupid: he recognizes that what Sam says is true. He isn't sorry about it; rather, he's kind of proud of himself for being able to focus on one sole thing. But on the other hand, how could he have not noticed this? All of this, happening for him, right in front of him, and he'd never even risked a second glance.

"I..." he's struck speechless for a second, which hardly ever happens.

And even if Sam is the thief he's been pursuing, that just means that he's done his job better than he thought he could. That side of it, the side that nags him about his duty, is satisfied.

He sighs, drops his head and sits next to Sam on the bed. It doesn't escape his notice that Sam's still naked, and his arms have to be starting to burn pulled back like that, but he doesn't complain. Sam just watches him with his big hazel eyes, completely laid bare for him.

"I remember," he starts, and then doesn't know where to go with it because he isn't used to this. "I remember that summer. That used to be my thing. You know, catching kids and trying to set 'em right."

He snorts, looks out the window without seeing it. "Not long after I caught you, that same month, even, I got a call on the scanner. I was on some domestic thing when I heard about a robbery in progress and recognized my address."

"I completely lost my head, abandoned the first call and rushed over, but it was already done. Even though I was the first one on the scene, the thief made off with a bunch of our stuff and left my father on the kitchen floor with a fatal stab-wound. So yeah," Dean clears his throat, tears himself out of the images flashing before his eyes and looks down at Sam. "I'm still trying to set stuff right, you know? I barely even give myself time to think about anything else."

He half-turns and cups Sam's face, ignoring the way his stomach jumps as Sam leans in to it. He's suddenly filled with the urge to make it right, to make Sam think he's a little bit less of an asshole.

Dean's palms are rough, like those of a man used to manual labor, and Sam can't help craving the contact.
He closes his eyes for an instant, kissing the pad of Dean's thumb that's absentmindently brushing his lower lip. "I'm sorry," he murmurs "God, Dean I'm so sorry."

And he knows there's nothing he can say or do to make Dean feel better. He could offer himself to him, once more, but he's not as arrogant as to think that will be enough.

"I've wanted to go back to that summer so many times, you know," he adds, as an afterthought. "I kept thinking that maybe I missed something, and if I've had the chance of living that night again maybe- maybe you'd stay."

He offers Dean a small smile. "But now I see that we can't go back. We could, however, move on? Maybe?" he asks, his voice slightly hopeful, even if he does his best for it not to be.

He knows how crushed he'll be if Dean rejects him now that everything has been laid- literally -bare in front of him.

Dean is at a complete loss for what to do. He wants... god, he wants, but Sam is not only a criminal, he's been following him for the last few years. Idolizing him, looking up to him, hoping he could be with him. Dean isn't sure he can live up to that. He continues absently touching Sam's face, but he looks away; there's a car on the road outside, throwing the beam of its headlights across the wall.

He remembers, suddenly, where they are. "We're, uh. We're squatting in someone's house." He frowns. "We should go somewhere." He doesn't want to let Sam out of his sight, now, even if he wants to think things over. They could go back to his place; it's big and empty enough. It would work.

Sam wonders briefly if his cheeks are going to stay permanently flushed, seeing as he has never blushed this much in his entire life.

"Er, actually..." he coughs uncomfortably. "This is my house."

He hangs his head in shame because he knows how observant Dean is and therefore he expects him to ask.
Still, a little part of him hopes he won't question him, even if it's probably just wishful thinking.

Dean blinks, "But there's no furniture. It's completely bare except for this room." He frowns. There's a possibility that Sam's also crazy. After all, chasing Dean for all of these years? It'd take a special type of person to keep that up. Even at that, the whole chasing Dean thing was a special kind of crazy in and of itself.

Sam was either crazy or sweet or completely hopeless, but Dean hoped he wasn't crazy.

Sam sighs.

"It's empty for three good reasons. First, because I came back from college less than two months ago and I've been too busy with looking for a job during the day and trying to get your attention by night to go couch hunting. Second, because I know how good of a cop you are, so I expected you to shut me in a cell and throw away the key soon, which would have make the purchase of furniture pretty pointless. And finally, third..."

His eyes shift on the side before he thinks what the hell and goes for it.

"Third because I hoped we'd fall in love and you'd come back here with me, sooner or later, meaning that we would have to choose how to decorate the house together. Didn't want for it to be a house you'd hate to live in." Sam groans, as he lays his head back.

"I knew it was a bad idea to do this," he mutters, "but you were supposed to be too busy taking care of my bare ass to notice my bare house."

He huffs. "I guess I didn't take into proper account how obsessed you are with your job."

Dean's face grows hot, and he's so unaccustomed to the feeling that it takes him completely by surprise. He's flattered; really he is, now that he's getting passed the weirded-out stage. This guy... this guy is serious, isn't he? Acting like a twelve-year-old girl and all, he's still been waiting for Dean all this time.

And yeah, Dean doesn't think he can live up to the expectations, but he's willing to try. It's the least he can do, considering how awful he's been to this point. Sam deserves something better.

Needless to say, taking care of Sam's bare ass sounds like a really, really awesome idea right about now.
Dean lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Well," he starts, watching the metal of the handcuffs dig into Sam's wrists. "Pot, meet kettle." He chuckles. Sam looks like he's afraid he's going to get punched; his face has turned the color red usually associated with tomatoes.

Dean does pull back, watches the way Sam flinches, before he reassumes his position and leans in close to Sam's mouth. "I'm not going to hurt you because you're hopelessly, stupidly in love with me," he mutters, gives Sam a chaste kiss and pulls back incrementally again. "Not unless you want me to." He feels like he should smirk, but Sam's eyes are closed and it would probably be a moot point at this angle anyway.

Even if the kiss is over too soon, Sam can feel his mouth tingle. He slowly lifts his eyelids, and tries to focus his glassy stare on Dean's face, which is so close that he almost gets cross-eyed.

"Uh," he whispers, in awe. "You have freckles."

He leans in to kiss them, but the cuffs pull him back and he only manages to brush the tip of Dean's nose. Dean'll let that one slide, for now.

He lingers just out of reach for another moment, waits until Sam makes a frustrated noise and lets himself fall back before he swoops in and kisses him. Really kisses him, presses inside until Sam's mouth opens for him and takes what he's been so blatantly offered. But he can't do it like this; he wants to feel Sam's hands on him. He skims his fingertips up the insides of Sam's arms, loops a finger under the chain that links the handcuffs together. It's pulled tight with tension, and Dean yanks on it, can feel the edges digging into Sam's wrists.

He breaks away, breathing hard. "Want you out of these," he breathes.

Sam whines as he tries to chase Dean's mouth and once again he can't.

His cock has immediately recovered its interest in what's happening, and even if Sam feels still a little self conscious, he can't afford to be shy. This might be his only chance to be with Dean, because starting from tomorrow he won't be the elusive thief anymore, but just a guy; a normal one, at that.

He pulls at the cuffs and then turns towards the windowsill, where he had put the key, and his eyes widen when he realizes that the key’s not there anymore.

"The-the key-" he stutters, staring helplessly at the curtains that wave mockingly at him in the night breeze.

"The key?" Dean repeats and follows Sam's eyes to the table beside the bed. "Where is it?" He tilts his head this way and that, looking for a glint of moonlight off metal.

Sam swallows.

"It's gone. I left it on the windowsill and..." he shrugs as best he can, and arches an eyebrow. "Looks like I can't help being a dork and embarrass myself again and again in front of you," he mutters, pouting.

"Damn," Dean mutters. He could take the time to pick them, but he doubts his hands would stay still for long enough to get it done. Sam's just too damn distracting. "Looks like you'll just have to take it." He hisses these last words against Sam's ear, draws the lobe into his mouth and tugs.

Sam moans, loud, and he's suddenly grateful the only house he has been able to afford is basically in the countryside.

Not like he would care to wake up the entire neighborhood, anyway.

He starts to work on his clothes, tossing his shirts aside and toeing off his shoes. Groaning, he stands up and works his belt off, undoes the button on his pants and pushes them down. He can feel Sam's eyes on him, watching him, pupils almost swallowing his irises. Suddenly, there's no time; he wants Sam now, has to have him now or he'll explode with it.

Sam lets out a feral growl, urging him when he’s not quick enough, and for a minute it steals Dean’s breath and he raggedly draws air into his lungs before climbing back onto the bed, as naked as Sam now, and pushes his legs apart so he can settle between them.

Sam feels his cock leaking, and he almost sobs when Dean is finally laying between his thighs.

He puts his legs around Dean's waist and pulls him closer still, sighing in pleasure when their erections slide against each other, then he arches his back in the attempt to increase the friction.

The need to touch, bite and lick is overwhelming, and the inability to do so is driving him insane.

With Sam's legs around him, Sam's moans ringing in his ear and Sam's cock sliding against his, Dean is understandably distracted from the main objective for a few moments. He throws his head back, wrapped up in the sensation, and a ragged, feral growl tears from his own throat. His hips buck forward, rubbing himself all over Sam like a cat in heat, and it's only the lack of the delicious friction he wants that reminds him that, oh, there's something else he could do.

Dean trails his fingers back behind Sam's balls, searches for the spot he needs, and without warning, his fingers slip inside Sam. He makes a sound he won't ever admit to and realizes that Sam must have done this himself, must have stretched his spine and opened himself in anticipation for Dean. With all the other things that the guy's done for him, waiting for him, it seems a small thing, but Dean unconsciously thrusts forward with the knowledge that Sam was confident enough to think Dean wouldn't be able to focus with himself so displayed.

Dean makes his way inside of his body and Sam mewls and pats himself mentally on the back for being prepared.

Dean doesn't want to examine what that says about him. He slides another finger in, testing, then tries a third, but there's no resistance but slick, wet heat and he can't stand it anymore. He has to be just there.

"I didn't-" he pants as he grabs the bedpost in order to be able to push towards Dean's fingers "I didn't want to wait once you were here.”

Sam thrashes his head from side to side, and knows he's not going to last long if Dean keeps playing with him this way.

"I'm ready, I'm ready, Dean, goddammit!" he hisses through clenched teeth, "I'm ready, fuck me, come on."
I've been waiting almost 7 years for this.

Dean pulls his fingers away, groaning at the way Sam's body clings to him. He wraps a hand around Sam's cock, jutting up between them and leaking slightly, and lines himself up.

He's always been good at taking orders.

He knows he won't be able to take it slow, and Sam obviously needs this just as much as he does, so Dean positions himself and pushes forward with one long, sinuous movement, keeps pushing until his balls hit Sam's ass and he bottoms out. And here, he has to breathe. He collapses forward, lays his head over Sam's heart and breathes, trying not to move. If he moves, he'll lose it right here before they even get started, and that definitely won't live up to Sam's lofty expectation for him.

"Fuck," he grinds out as he tries to adjust.

It's a few minutes before he's confident the he won't blow his load if he breathes crooked; Sam writhes underneath him, bucks up into his lax hand, and he wants to be able to help with that but he's a bit busy clamping down on his control.

Then, he takes a deep breath and starts to move.

Sam loses his control as Dean breaches his body.

He will remember this night forever, whatever the outcome, but he'll remember it all in a weird, detached way. It's like he's out of his body, watching Dean giving it to him as hard as he can.

He can see his ass clenching around Dean's cock, as Dean tries to keep his grip on the situation, but that's not what he wants.

He wants Dean to lose it, just as he has.

He wants to see him as free and as lost as Sam has been since he has heard Dean laugh for the first time.
With a snappy movement of his hips, he pushes Dean away, turns around and gets on his knees.
He turns his head and winks at Dean, wriggling his hips.

"Show me what you've got, Officer" he whispers, seductively, trying to put all of his weight on his elbows, offering himself even more shamelessly to Dean's hungry eyes.

Dean makes a protesting sound as he loses contact with Sam's body, but it turns into a moan as he sees what Sam's doing. It's got to be painful, chain pulled tight and crossed over his wrists, but Sam's wriggling his hips and Dean would like to care, but he can't bring himself to. In that moment, all that exists is his throbbing cock and Sam's welcoming ass. He chokes off a growl as he moves behind him, sucks a mark to the top of his spine and enters him again in one swift movement.

He braces himself on one arm, attempts to reach around with the other, but Sam does this twisting thing with his hips that hits every single nerve in Dean's body at once. He yelps in surprise as he's pulled in deeper with Sam's ass tightening around him like a vice.

Sweat runs down his neck from the effort of not fucking him with everything he's got, and he tries to remember why exactly he isn't. Higher brain function eludes him and Dean pulls out until only the head of his dick is breaching Sam's hole, and drives forward with all of his weight.

Dean is still holding back, Sam can feel it in his trembling fingers pressing on his hips so hard he'll probably have bruises tomorrow, and the though makes him dizzy with happiness.

Dean's marks. Sam feels tears pooling in his eyes, but he pushes them back.

Now's so not the right moment to be melodramatic; he has Dean now, there's no need to think about when he will not have him anymore, right?

He pushes back, meeting Dean's thrusts one by one, before letting out a frustrated groan.

"I'm not a fucking girl, Dean," he hisses. "Fuck me like you mean it, dammit! Didn't you say you'd hurt me if I asked you to?"

And he knows he's playing with fire, but he has never wanted to get burned as bad as he wants it now.

At that, Dean stops moving altogether. He grins against Sam's spine and licks up the sweat that's pooled there. His next thrust is deliberately slow, dragging along Sam's insides incrementally, and it even drives Dean crazy. "Is that you asking me to?" he asks, smug, in Sam's ear. He's fucking gorgeous strung out like this, desperate for it, moving underneath him like a livewire.

The effort of staying still is killing him, but it's worth it to hear the sounds Sam makes and how he begs for it.

Sam's chuckle comes out broken and breathless. "You're such a dick," he mutters, clenching his ass muscles around Dean's cock. "I want to feel you for days; I want to come so hard I pass out. I want it to be worth a lifetime."

And if his voice shakes a little on the last words, he hopes Dean won't notice.

"Do you want me to beg?" he asks instead, feigning an arrogance he doesn't possess, but God, he'd like to.
Dean is so tempted to just do it, just slam home and give it to Sam with everything he's got, but he won't. But Sam's words make his cock twitch where it's buried inside of him, and he whimpers a little.

He regains what little composure he's got left and lets his voice slide, low and dirty. "Depends. Do you want me to move?"

Even if he does risk incurring Sam's wrath, it's so, so worth it. Will be worth it, in the end. Asking Sam to have patience is a little bit too mean, even for him; seven years is long enough to wait. But Dean wants to make this memorable as much as Sam wants to remember it. Dean knows that if they just get it over with as quickly as they can, they'll lose the potential for this to be earth-shattering. So he grips Sam's hip with his fingers, keeps perfectly still inside of him, and is impervious to Sam's attempts to get him to move.

Sam feels Dean's muscles tense, and gets perfectly well how strenuous the effort must be. And he doesn't understand why Dean is making it so difficult, but he knows that he wants to give Dean everything he wants.

"Please," he begs, then, not worrying about dignity, or shame, or the fact that the man with him is fundamentally a stranger. "Please, fuck me hard. Give it to me, Dean, come on, I've wanted it, you, for so long I'm going crazy! Please..." He cranes his neck to look at Dean, and this time he doesn't stop a couple of frustrated tears from running down his cheeks.

Dean loses it. At those words, so pretty and broken, he can't control it any more. He fucks into Sam so hard the whole bed shakes, headboard smacking against the wall; Sam slides up a few inches, catches himself just before his head smacks into the iron where his hands are tied. He slams in and out of Sam's ass with all the strength he possesses, drives the breath out of him in short bursts and changes angle mid-thrust. There's an art to the way Sam's whole body tightens at that, the way Sam bucks up to meet him, and soon he can't even support himself on his elbows.

And god, it's so good. He knows he's making sounds but he can't quite hear them over the rush of blood in his ears, over the pleasure crawling up his spine; he bites every inch of skin he can reach with his mouth, possibly draws blood a few times, but he can't be sure.

All he's sure of is that just then, in the rush and the heat of it, some sort of fucking miracle is taking place. He can't remember ever fucking anyone the way he's fucking Sam, but then again, he can't think about anyone else when he's wrapped around, inside, through Sam, twined tight against him like a rope. Stars burst behind his eyes, and he knows that this is going to add up to be the best orgasm he's ever had. His legs shake with the effort of pushing forward, but the tightening there is an afterthought to the bright, sharp sensation that rips through him.

Once Dean finally lets go it's like a dam has broken.

He pounds into Sam as if there's no tomorrow, and Sam tries to give it back equally as hard, using his limited possibilities.

He twitches, and pushes, and clenches, all the time moaning like a two-dollar whore, but he doesn't care.
Dean is taking everything Sam has to offer, and he couldn't ask for more.

His knees ache, and he can't feel his hands anymore, and still he wouldn't change it for anything else in the world.

He feels a well known pull at the base of his dick, and shakes violently.

"Dean-" he pleads, his voice hoarse and raw "I'm gonna- touch me, please."

Sam arches his back as far as it goes, feels muscles he didn't even know he had tense, and he wishes he could kiss Dean now.

Sam's plea reaches Dean as if from a distance; it echoes inside of his mind until he finally realizes he's got to stop pressing bruises into Sam's hip. He fumbles, uncoordinated, too busy keeping his hard, steady rhythm going to be good at it.

Dean finally finds what he's looking for, wraps a hand around Sam's cock and pulls; as he pushes Sam's hips downward with his thrusts, Sam's cock slides through his fingers. He squeezes lightly, finds the knot just under the head and presses into it, hard.

He can feel it snaking down his spine, pooling in his belly; his own release isn't far away and he has to make sure Sam comes first. He absolutely has to.

"Come on," he growls, and he can't tell if Sam can hear him or not. "Come for me."

Dean voice tightens around his cock like a vice, more than his hand, and it's the demanding tone that Sam has dreamed about so many times that's his undoing.

He comes instantly, so hard that some of his come reaches his own chin, and then he sobbing in the pillow under his cheek, because it's too much, too good, and now that he has had it he's gonna have to live without it, and he's not sure he'll ever be able to.

His cock twitches and spurts a few more drops on Dean's fingers, before Sam falls boneless on the sheets, panting and completely spent.

He uses what's left of his strength to clench around Dean's dick, urging him with broken, senseless words to mark Sam as his.

Feeling Sam lose it nearly tips Dean over the edge. He's muttering, a low chain of words and sounds that have no meaning. God, he can let go now, he can let himself take what's his to claim.

A few more thrusts and he's coming, ripping apart at the seams with how intense it is. He spurts deep inside of Sam, fills him up with his come until it's leaking out of him, and even then he can't stop. He rides the wave of it, stays at the very crest for as long as he can until his muscles can't give anymore. Already exhausted from exertion, his legs crumple underneath him. Weakly, he tries to pump his hips but has no leverage and finally just gives in to the twitchy aftershocks.

His orgasm doesn't just stop; the edge of his pleasure softens and trails off, and when he finally, blissfully comes back to earth, there are three things he's aware of.

He's crying. There's wet running down his cheeks and his chest seizes like he's been doing it for a while.
He's sticky, and Sam beneath him is sticky, and he's got to be heavy but Sam isn't complaining.

And he never wants to move. He wants to be here, in this gray space where only he and Sam exist, for as long as he can. Forever is a lofty word, but it pretty much sums up how he feels; he wants to have Sam as much as Sam wants him, as often as he can.

He's not going anywhere.

Sam's breath is taken away by the feeling of Dean coming inside of him.

True, no one’s ever done before, so he doesn't actually have any term of comparison, but he doesn't need to. He knows that with Dean is different, because Dean is different.

Dean is everything Sam has ever wanted, and now that he has had him so close he's even surer of it.

Once finally Dean is spent, he falls on Sam, putting a considerable strain on his already hurting arms, but he won't say a word, because every second he spends skin on skin with Dean is a second to treasure.

"Wow," is all he can say, and he's not even sure he has said it out loud, and then he closes his eyes, breathing in Dean's scent mixed with sex, sweat and Sam.

There is no better smell in the world, Sam decides then and there.

At some point, though, the metal of the cuffs starts to actually tear his skin, and Sam can't help whimpering in pain.

"Dean..." he mutters, shaking his wrists and making the cuffs tingle.

Dean sighs, contented, and kisses Sam's aching shoulder before he rolls off. His legs don't want to work on the way back to his pants, even less when he has to crouch to retrieve them, but he keeps his winces of pain to himself. Sam's got to be hurting far more. He finds the kit in his back pocket and opens it with shaking hands, taking out the equipment he needs, and returns to the bed. He sits on the bed near Sam's outstretched arms and leans in close to the cuffs, feeling around for the keyhole.

There's a small knob on the side of one of them. Dean frowns and presses it, and the cuffs spring open.
"Uh," he says as he gently takes Sam's wrists out of the metal.

Sam's eyes go wide when he hears the soft click and feels the muscles in his arms finally relax. He looks up at where the cuffs hang, open, and blinks.

"What the hell?" he exclaims, surprised and feeling more than a little stupid. He’s been suffering for hours when all it had taken was for him to read the instructions on the box. "You must think I'm a complete spaz," he says, not even looking at Dean's face.

Everything he’s done to impress him has only made things worse.

Dean snorts. "I don't," before he starts to laugh. Really laugh, for the first time since he can remember. The whole bed shakes with it and he can't control it; the sound booms around the walls, and he only notices when he trails off that Sam has joined him.

When the moment passes, and they settle down again, Sam softly brushes Dean's arm.

"I've missed your laugh," he admits, with a shy little smile. Any awkwardness that could have been laying on them until then has vanished, and what's left is… the warmth.

Sam would like to hide his feelings; he doesn't want to feel more vulnerable than he already does, but if not with Dean then with who?

So he simply lets his walls fall, and stares at Dean with all the love, admiration and earnestness of his 25 years. Dean looks down at Sam. He hasn't moved, but something about him is changed.

It's almost like he expects Dean to leave.

"Dude," he says, scoots down the bed and kisses Sam. "I'm not going anywhere." He whispers, close, so close he can feel Sam breathing. "Do you know how long it's been since I laughed, man? Too long. I want you to be happy, and you make me happy, so. Unless I'm missing some vital part of the equation..."

Sam's voice gets stuck in his throat, as he finally gets to touch Dean's face with trembling fingers.

"I used to think that I just needed to get you out of my system." His voice is soft and laced with emotion. "And that once I had, I was finally going to be able to move on, find a nice, easy job and settle down." He shakes his head, snorting.

"Now, I'm having second thoughts."

He looks back at Dean and squeezes his wrist. “I don't want a nice job. And I don't want regular. I want this. You. For as long as I'll be allowed to have you."

Once he's done talking, he beams at Dean and then he snuggles closer, laying his head on Dean's shoulder and sighing happily.

Dean rests his cheek on top of Sam's head. "Really?"

"Yeah, I think," Sam answers, grinning sleepily at Dean as he tightens his possessive hold on his chest.
"This cop I met when I was 18 would have wanted me to stick with what feels right."

He's already drifting off, when Dean's voice snaps him out of it.

"Sam?" Dean waits until Sam makes a sleep sound that says he's listening. "Have you ever considered joining the police force?"



"He's going to become a cop, you know that, right?" Uriel is quite sure Castiel didn't mean to sound this mocking - that would be so out of character for him - but it stings anyway.

"You did something," Uriel accuses. "You created that whole backstory to change his motives, didn't you?"

Castiel stares at him. "I didn't tamper with it. Perhaps Sam's intentions will remain true no matter what we change about their lives," he suggests, even if he can feel Uriel's wrath as a tangible thing.

Uriel is shaking and if he was a little less focused on the objective of this bet, he'd probably just shoot it all to Hell; matter of fact, he knows what is at stake and he's ready to work it out.

"Whatever," he mutters, as he snaps his fingers and the room around them fades to black. Castiel might have won the first battle, but the war is still long, and Uriel has more than an ace up his sleeve.




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