Supernatural: All Fired Up, This Soul [Part 1/2]
PART ONE
Sam leans back in his chair; Dean tosses. His foot begins to shake, restless, bored; Dean turns. He’s not a peaceful sleeper. He never has been. He doesn’t make Sam miss it much.
Sam stands. Paces from one end of their crap motel room to the other. He could be doing something right now. Hunting. Fucking. Eating. Anything but watching some guy-his brother, he reminds himself, because that’s somehow supposed to matter-sleep. Sam could have walked to Alaska in the time he’s wasted like this since he found Dean.
Mistake, going to get him. He’s been no help. Too many feelings. Too many attachments. Too many expectations. And the sleeping-the sleeping is what’s going to do Sam in.
He sits back down in the same chair. He’s stuck to it, no matter how many times he tries convincing himself otherwise by walking in circles around their room. His eyes fix on Dean, just because there’s nothing else to look at.
Sam should leave. He can steal a car, go his own way, hunt and avoid Dean, Bobby, all these strangers with familiar faces who can’t appreciate what he’s capable of. But Dean won’t give up on this soul thing, and Sam needs to keep him in sight, make sure he blocks any and all attempts at getting it back.
Sam remembers the pain of being Sam Winchester about as vividly as he remembers the love he once felt for his brother. The soft touch of the carpet under his feet is more impressive. But he knows, he remembers, what it was like before that all went numb. It won’t be insignificant once Dean’s shoved his soul back in. It’ll be millions of times worse.
Sam won’t have it.
“Stop staring,” Dean murmurs.
“Oh, good, you’re up,” Sam answers.
“No.” Dean pulls the blankets over his head, attempting to hide from Sam. “But I can feel your creepy ass staring at me, and it’s not letting me sleep.”
“That makes two of us,” says Sam. “Might as well hit the road, then.”
“It’s four in the morning.”
“If you trust the clock.”
“I’m sleeping.”
“Awfully talkative for someone in the throes of slumber.”
“Fuck off,” Dean replies. It’s basically how he says goodnight.
Sam knows the moment he actually slips back out of consciousness. He memorized Dean’s breathing patterns long before he actually had a reason to be up watching his brother sleep, and, even now, the lullaby has a calming effect.
At least until Sam remembers he’s bored.
_______________________________________________________________
They’re on a vampire case in Minnesota a few days after the fight about whether to get Sam’s soul back or not. Dean’s been strung out since it happened, and Sam thought a good hunt might take the edge off. Make him stop tossing so much at night, so he won't snap at every word Sam says or treat him like a child who doesn’t know a bad fucking idea when he hears it.
Dean’s bound to get over it someday, Sam figures. After all, it’s just his brother’s soul, not really Dean’s problem. He’ll get used to it.
The hunt doesn’t flesh out the way Sam was hoping, though.
“Don’t,” Dean snaps before Sam even gets a chance to shoot.
It’s all he ever says these days.
“Why not?” If he was in Dean’s shoes, he wouldn’t trust Sam around vampires for more than a minute. Sam would want this one dead as soon as possible, without anyone getting a chance to turn.
“Because I said so.”
Sam rolls his eyes, wonders why he even bothered asking. “I had a clear shot.”
“You had a clear shot-assuming it’s okay if you accidentally shoot the girl instead of the vamp.”
“I never miss anymore. I’m a better hunter than you now, and you know it.”
“You’re not better at anything, Sam. Hunters don’t kill innocent people.”
“She’s just going to turn into a vampire, too, if we don’t gun him. Then we’ll have to kill her anyway.” Sam raises the crossbow, dead man's blood-tipped arrow in position, and Dean sticks a hand out to push it down.
“Give me that, Sam. I don’t know why I thought I could trust you with it.”
“Something about months of obeying your bullshit instructions for no other reason than because you said so?”
“Yeah, well, I obviously overestimated you.”
He snatches the weapon away and gives Sam a nasty look. Then he turns to search out a new place to attack from, assuming Sam will follow. Sam doesn’t really remember why he agreed to this in the first place.
He’s been nothing but loyal for months: hasn’t screwed up on a job or done anything to offend Dean’s overdeveloped moral code. Dean still won’t treat him like a person. He’s going to hate Sam as long as he isn’t his brother, and Sam’s dead set on making sure that’s forever.
_______________________________________________________________
“Would you relax?” Sam snaps.
Dean struggles away from him, then realizes he’s only hurting himself and moves back into place. “Don’t like you touching me,” he says.
“Yeah, well, unless you want to sew your own ass up...” Dean starts under Sam’s hands. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me shoot him.”
“Just fucking focus and stop getting handsy.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Dean. I’m not that desperate, and you’re not all that great.”
It’s a lie. Sam’s taking plenty of pleasure in the compromising position, in Dean’s soft, pretty flesh, and the frustrated groans his brother occasionally lets out. Dean doesn’t need to know that.
“Unless you want me to help you out with that obvious problem you have going on there,” Sam adds after a minute or so, when he figures out exactly why Dean is angling himself the way he is. “Bet you’re thinking of all those times I had my mouth here instead of my hands.”
“Are you done closing it up or not?” Dean snaps, voice strung tight.
Sam laughs and gives him a smack, knowing the stitches will tug at Dean’s skin uncomfortably. “All good to go, your highness.”
Dean shoots him a hot glare before hurrying into the bathroom and slamming the door.
_______________________________________________________________
“Coffee?” Sam offers as soon as Dean shows some signs of being alive.
He rolls over, and Sam holds it out to him-black with just the right amount of sugar. Dean’s eyes go comically round, and he looks down at the simple paper cup as if it’s magical, then up at Sam. “You got me coffee?” he asks, voice warm and scratchy with sleep.
“Yeah,” Sam answers. He was up, he was bored, and he remembers years and years of doing this for Dean, feeling a giddiness Sam no longer understands imagining the way Dean was going to react to the wake-up call. “That’s what I do, right?”
Dean’s smile slips off his face. He looks back down at the coffee, but the light has all died out of him, and the face he’s aiming at the drink he’d been so excited about makes Sam feel like he just served his brother a steaming cup of mud. Which is a kind of awesome idea, he thinks, filing it away for next time.
“That’s why you did it, huh? Because it’s what you do?”
“Sure,” Sam says. “I’m supposed to be doing what you want, right?”
Dean takes a sip, shakes his head. “You know what, Sam? Don’t do this one again, okay?”
“Is it bad? I can go somewhere else next time.”
Dean takes another, longer sip. “No, it’s great,” he admits. “Thanks.” Sam is about to ask, and Dean sets the cup aside. “But don’t do it.”
He doesn’t touch it again. Winchesters, Sam thinks with a roll of his eyes.
_______________________________________________________________
“Sammy,” Dean moans, writhing in a way that makes Sam sit up straighter.
It’s nothing he’s not used to, hearing Dean speak…not to him. Never Sam. Always Sammy. But Sam figures a fuck is a fuck, and Dean’s not dreaming about anything innocent.
He climbs onto the bed and positions Dean on his back, moving between his brother’s legs. He slides one hand down Dean’s body, grips him-hot, hard flesh under all those covers-and Dean sighs. When Sam kisses, Dean kisses back, thrusts up into his hand.
Sam thinks they’re having a pretty nice time, so he doesn’t see the hit coming at all. He rolls off Dean, hands immediately moving to trace the sore skin around his eye where Dean punched him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Dean snaps, as if Sam’s the one who just attacked.
“I was trying to get you off, asshole.”
“Don’t,” Dean says. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Sam laughs. “Come on, man. I told you I have all my memories, you can’t really play blushing virgin with me.”
“I’m not trying to.”
Sam smiles, trying to kiss Dean again, and Dean shoves him away.
“Then what’s the problem?” he asks.
“You are,” Dean answers, venom in his tone.
Sam reaches for Dean’s dick again, still rock hard, and, despite his complaints, he grinds into Sam’s fist on instinct. “Come on, Dean, I know you want me.” He licks at his brother’s skin, and Dean shivers. “Want you, too. May not remember anything else right, but I remember this.”
Ever since he came back from Hell, especially since he’s been living with Dean again, he’s ached for his brother. It may have started with love-a million years ago when Sam was someone else, and Dean was everything-but now it’s written into his bones. Sam knows there’s no amount of sex that’ll satisfy him the way finally getting to fuck Dean again will. And Sam could use something to get excited about with the way life’s been going lately.
“Don’t…” Dean gasps. “Please, don’t.”
Sam pauses, looks closely at Dean’s face. “But you want it.”
“Yeah, but…” He swallows, looks away. “No.”
He doesn’t mean it, not all the way. Just enough to make Sam stop. He backs down, returns to his own bed, his own hand, which is really all the mattress is good for. Dean’s breathing stays erratic for an hour, but he doesn’t let himself come. Not until he finally falls asleep and goes back to Sammy.
_______________________________________________________________
“Thank you,” Dean says first thing the next morning.
Sam feels his eyebrows draw in. “For?”
“You could have made me,” Dean says. “I thought you were going to.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I can get laid without forcing you, you know.”
“Yeah, the image is still seared into my brain.” Dean bites his lips. “But you kind of had no reason not to, either.”
Sam stops to think on it. It’s true-he could have gone through with it, it wouldn’t have bothered him if Dean was hurt by it. It occurs to him that he should have done it; he would have gotten what he wanted. Sam’s even a little shocked he did stop, wonders what it means.
Dean clears his throat. “I’ve been pretty shitty to you.”
“It’s alright,” Sam says, shrugging. “It’s not like it’s hurting my feelings.”
“No, I guess not.” He pauses, then nods. “But that’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?”
“You’re not my brother, and I don’t like you.”
“Right.”
“And…you’re not human. Not a person, really.”
“Agree to disagree.”
“But you…it’s not your fault.”
Sam tilts his head.
“I’ve been hating you this whole time,” Dean continues. “Treating you like shit. Even getting a little enjoyment out of it, because you’re pretending and you’re not even close and it hurts. But it’s not your fault Sam’s stuck down there, you don’t know better than…I guess I’m trying to apologize here, okay?”
“Umm, sure?” Sam laughs. “I hope this is really helping you get the guilt off your shoulders, because it’s not doing anything for me.”
“Yeah, I know.” Dean looks away. “And I appreciate that you’re telling me that. Just, I’ll promise to be nicer if you’ll promise not to pretend, okay? You’re not him. I hate it when you try to be.”
“Sure,” says Sam. “Will you promise not to try and get my soul back?”
Dean scowls. “No.”
“Will you let me fuck you?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Sam sits back. “Well, whatever then.”
_______________________________________________________________
Sam comes home from a day at the library-research is the only thing Dean trusts him to do on his own, though whatever pathetic interest he’d once had in it has been squashed-to find Dean watching television, sitting with a beer in his lap, smiling at what Sam immediately identifies as the shower scene from Porky’s.
He grabs a bottle out of the pack on the table and motions for Dean to make room on the couch. Dean lifts an eyebrow as he scoots.
Sam spends maybe ten minutes watching, laughing occasionally, before Dean turns to him.
“You don’t like this movie,” he accuses. “It offends your delicate sensibilities, remember? You used to call me and Dad pigs every time it was on. ‘It objectifies women, Dean.’”
“I do remember,” Sam says. “But I don’t really have any sensibilities left, now do I?”
Dean looks down at his drink, knocks it against his knee a few times. “Right. Of course.” He waits a few seconds, then stands. “I’m going to bed.”
“But your favorite part hasn-”
“Not in the mood,” Dean answers.
Sam watches him go, weirdly put out by it, and turns back to the screen.
_______________________________________________________________
Breakfast is a business arrangement between them now.
It used to be his favorite part of the day, but now he has to wonder what about eating in the morning was so special. Dean makes eggs, mediocre at best, and occasionally bacon, if they get comfortable enough in a motel. Sam sets the table, pours drinks. The sun streams in, bright and happy and a little out of place between them.
Once upon a time, this was when they laughed. This was when they talked about things other than their hunts or the problems of Apocalypse. This was when Sam would creep up behind his brother, hands wrapping around waist, lips kissing Dean’s throat too slowly to be worth the trouble of bending his neck.
It’s not bad this way. They work well together, and it beats the shit out of how things were going for a few months there. Dean blocking his path just for the sake of inefficiency, just to bother Sam the one way he actually could. Dean glaring at him from across the table-which hadn’t bothered Sam much, except that the one thing his brother really has going for him is his looks, and the scowl never fit his features.
Now Dean sets aside the cream and sugar Sam will need when he’s standing in their way. They exchange tidbits of conversation, ‘how about this weather?’ and guesses about the hunts they’re on. The food turns out better because it’s made without bitterness, no burnt edges just because they’ll taste worse. They get in, they eat, they get out, and they get things done.
Sam could go on like that indefinitely.
_______________________________________________________________
The shifter is huddled by a group of kids, using them as human shields. He thinks they won’t strike, won’t take the chance. Sam pulls out his silver knife and gets ready to throw it, because the monster’s taller than them by a foot, and Sam knows he won’t miss.
“Sam,” Dean says.
“Okay, before you say it, I promise I know what I’m doing.”
“They’re kids.”
“He’s about to kill one.”
“But what if you…” Dean closes his eyes and nods slowly. “You never miss.”
“Not lately.”
“Alright,” he says. “Hurt one of them and I’ll kick your ass, but do it.”
Sam downs the monster in a matter of seconds.
_______________________________________________________________
“Here’s to us,” Sam says, raising his shot glass.
“For what?”
“We finished a hunt successfully without pissing each other off once. So. A toast?”
Dean looks around a little guiltily, picks up his own glass, which is already empty, and clinks it against Sam’s just for effect. “Sure, yeah.”
They have a few more drinks, just enough to loosen up. Dean never gets drunk with Sam, though he’s got no reservations about doing it alone. The conversation goes light, amusing even, now that Dean’s not shutting it down just because he can.
“When was the last time you got laid, man?” Sam finally asks, because he has an agenda and the slimmest chance Dean will be drunk enough to fold. “Was it Lisa?”
Dean sits back against his bed. “What’s it to you, Tin Man?”
“It just seems impractical,” he says. “You must be dying. I mean, it’s only been a few weeks for me, and I’m dying.”
“This is a really awkward conversation,” Dean says-as if they haven’t been fucking for the last ten years.
“You should just let me fuck you,” Sam says. “Or blow you. Or…anything. I promise I’ll make it good.”
“Don’t ask me that, man.”
“Why not?”
Dean looks over at him, lips thin. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m trying to.”
“Yeah, but you won’t,” he snaps, though he immediately looks guilty about it. “Sorry, it’s just…”
He reaches for another shot and smiles at Sam in a way that makes all of his blood migrate south. Sam thinks he’s actually going to get lucky.
“Yeah?” Sam asks, crawling towards Dean’s side of the room.
“You can go out, you know, I’m not going to stop you.” He swallows hard, as if the words are burning his throat more than the liquor. “You should. Find a bar, first creepy chick who bats an eye, have a party. You did a good job today, and it’s not like you’ll have trouble waking up tomorrow.”
Sam sits back, disappointed. “Yeah, alright. Beats the hell out of fucking my hand.”
_______________________________________________________________
Dean walks into the bar nearest to their motel about twenty minutes after Sam, and Sam considers going up to him, saying something. He decides against it. Dean would have come with him if he wanted Sam around.
Sam’s not really sure if he’s trying to be considerate or petty, not really sure why he’d go out of his way to be either, but something drives him back out the door. He takes the Impala, which Dean offered him as some kind of consolation prize for not getting into his pants, and drives farther from home base, finds a sleazier bar with a much less selective clientele. It’s not twenty minutes before he’s in the back seat of the car again, some nameless slut under him.
She unhooks her bra, huge, gorgeous tits spilling out, right into Sam’s hands. Her legs are wrapped tight around him, and she pulls her hips up to grind against his dick. She’s starving for him, and Sam is just plain starving.
He leans down to kiss her, his hands beginning to work the leather on his belt, but he pauses and pulls back as soon as their lips meet.
“What’s wrong, sugar?” she asks in a deep, ugly voice that makes it sound like she’s been smoking since she was eight.
Sam shakes his head. What the fuck does he care what she sounds like? She’s begging for him. “Nothing,” he says, leaning back down.
But there it is again, as soon as his tongue slides against hers. The familiar mixture of cheap alcohol, cheap lipstick, and cheap thrills. Everything good in his life since he got back from Hell. It doesn’t taste right.
“Come on, baby, no one likes a tease.” She cups Sam through his jeans and smiles. “Thank God, I thought you were broken for a moment there. The best looking ones are sometimes.”
Sam’s not really listening to her. “Right, yeah,” he agrees uninterestedly.
“Are you cramped or something? We can move around if you want.” She leans close and whispers against his ear, but not into it, no little bite at the shell the way Dean used to do when they still…
Dean, Sam thinks.
He smiles at the girl wickedly, and she lights up. He grabs her hips and turns her over, ready to close his eyes and imagine his brother, and, yeah. He’s gonna enjoy this after all.
It’s not the first time he thinks of Dean while he fucks, has been doing it pretty regularly for the last year and a half. It’s the first time it doesn’t work.
He lifts himself off her and snatches his hands back. “You should go.”
“What?” she asks, turning a little. The light filtering in from the bar’s parking lot is harsh, and Sam sees her sloppy make-up, the degraded way she’s only halfway out of her clothes, the desperation in her eyes.
It doesn’t turn him on right now; it almost makes him sad. Or, not sad. Sam doesn’t know what sad is. But he thinks, probably, it might feel a little bit like this.
“You should go,” Sam says a second time, firmer. Convinced.
“I thought we were gonna-”
“And not back to the bar,” he adds. “Somewhere better.”
She gives him a nasty look and grabs her clothes, slipping on the essentials. “Yeah, thanks for nothing, asshole."
_______________________________________________________________
He drives back to the motel, hoping Dean’s home. He probably is, the way he’s been lately. Hung up on Lisa and Sammy, no chance he’s getting any. And Sam…Sam’s glad for it. Not because he’s upset with Dean. He doesn’t know why.
He thinks of his brother, back in their room, a little drunker and a little sadder. He could use some company. He doesn’t seem to mind Sam’s as much lately, tells the kind of jokes Sam knows he would have scowled at in another life, but which now make him laugh so hard his sides hurt.
If Sam’s being honest, he likes Dean’s company, too, and he feels oddly light thinking of how they’ll spend the night. Watching TV, same old. Dean will let him sit beside him; they’ll make commentary, and Dean might even smile, and it will be fun.
But Dean is not alone when Sam gets back. Dean is not nodding off in front of the television. He’s not wondering when Sam will walk in. He’s on all fours, some guy behind him. The guy has long brown hair and a soft body and he’s making Dean moan out on every thrust, but Dean’s eyes are closed so tight Sam can see the lines from outside the window. He swats the other man’s hand away, strokes himself exactly how Sam would, if Dean would give him a chance.
It’s pretty pathetic, as replacement sex goes, and Sam has to wonder how the hell this is better than just letting Sam do it. Sam may not be 100%, but he’s definitely closer to what Dean’s aiming for.
The guy says something, and it carries through the thin motel walls, a warning that he’s close. Dean nods, speeds his hand up and comes only a few seconds after the man behind him. His moan is loud and shameless, and, of course, Sammy’s name.
“My name’s Jack,” the guy says, as if it matters.
“All the more reason it’s time for you to get the fuck out of here,” Dean grits out, staying on his hands and knees instead of looking at the guy.
It bothers Sam. Not just because he imposed celibacy on himself only to come home and find Dean decided to spend his night having sex. It’s something else. Sam recognizes it, but he can’t touch it. An itch-right in the middle of his back. He’ll never reach it, and it’ll just bother him more and more until he scratches it.
Sam wonders if it’s too late to drive back to the bar and find another girl. It’s not, but it’s definitely too late to want to. He sighs.
Sam watches the man dress quickly, open the door, and meets him face-to-face as he turns to go. Jack pauses when their eyes meet, caught red-handed, and bites his lip. “I’m guessing you’re Sammy,” he says.
Sam shakes his head. “No. Just Sam.”
_______________________________________________________________
“You must’ve had a good night, huh?” Dean asks, smirking at him from across a row of washers. “Didn’t come home before I passed out.”
“Drove around for a few hours,” says Sam.
“That what you kids are calling it these days?”
Sam copies Dean’s naughty smile, because for some reason the idea of letting Dean know that he’s telling the truth makes his stomach hurt. “Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell, Dean.”
“I don’t see any gentleman here,” he answers. Then he looks around and lowers his voice. “Unless you mean them?”
He inclines his head at the two old ladies gossiping in the corner, and Sam has to cover his mouth to fight the laughter.
“Dean,” he hisses.
Dean gives him a curious look. “You don’t mind pissing off the rogue angels, but God forbid the blue-haired grandmas at the laundromat get their feelings hurt?”
Sam doesn’t want to give it much thought.
“What’s gotten into you, Vadar?”
“Just tired. Had a long night.”
“I thought you don’t get tired,” Dean says.
It’s true, Sam doesn’t. But that isn’t the kind of tired he’s talking about. “I don’t sleep. Doesn’t mean I don’t get tired.”
“That sucks,” Dean says, actually sounding a little sorry, which feels…nice, maybe.
“Yeah, I guess.”
Dean stops following the circles of the dryer with his eyes, a habit he always used to deny when Sam teased him for it, but which has remained ingrained since he was a kid, and walks over to the soda machine at the other side of the room.
He smiles at the old ladies as he passes, asks how their day’s been and offers them something from the machine, flirting shamelessly. Sam watches, completely lost. He knows Dean wants nothing from them. They smile back, bat their eyelashes, and politely refuse his offer, which makes Dean press his hand to his chest and say something about how they’re breaking his heart. Sam finds himself smiling for no reason, raises his fingers to his lips to touch it.
Dean brings Sam back a soda, offers it wordlessly.
“Thanks?” Sam says, studying the drops beading along the red and white letters instead of what it means that his heart is speeding up.
“Don’t mention it,” Dean says. “Don’t actually know if caffeine works on you, but it’s worth trying, right?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, not caring that it won’t help. Sam’s pretty sure it’ll be the best soda he’s tasted in years, anyway.
Sam swallows down the last few drops as their dryers slow to a halt, and they each take one machine, tossing whites on one folding table, blues, greens, and browns on the other. Sam begins to fold his half, can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he does it.
“What?” he asks, annoyed.
“No, nothing,” Dean answers, looking back down at his own pile. “My brother used to fold his clothes like that.”
The irony is, apparently, entirely lost on Dean, who sets about his task without much more to Sam in the way of conversation. Sam wants to hit him or grab him close and shake him and force him to see that he’s Dean’s brother, too.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam is watching Dean sleep. It’s getting to be a bad habit.
He doesn’t have to anymore. Dean trusts him to go out at night. He won’t get 30 missed calls, with voicemails asking where he is or what he’s doing or who he’s killing. In fact, Sam pretends some days, leaves just a bit before Dean wakes up so he doesn’t know Sam was watching.
Dean is always beautiful, but it’s better when he sleeps. He doesn’t give Sam nasty looks, he’s not on guard. Not peaceful, never peaceful, always tossing and turning and begging for someone Dean won’t get-won’t ever get, and it’s Sam’s fault.
He’s not peaceful, but he’s sweet, spending his time with someone he actually likes in his dreams. After a while, he calms, soothed by…Sam has no idea what. He digs back into his memory, tries to remember something important for Dean to dream about, but the moments that come to mind are stupid and insignificant, and Sam wonders why they pop up at all.
Dean doesn’t dream about the nights he read Sam stories or the hours they spent sharing a beer and the occasional kiss, pretending to know the first thing about the stars they were looking at. Dean must have things to dream about that matter. But if Sam could dream, he would want it to be about those things.
Dean leaves space in his bed; Sam thinks of slipping into it, brushing a hand up his brother’s side. Dean would hate him, even if he never found out. Dean hates him anyway, Sam reminds himself, but he still resists. Sam wants…Sam wants Dean to want him-not just to fuck, but to lie behind him so Sam can better hear the gentle, memorized music of his unconscious exhalations.
Dean breathes fourteen times per minute while he’s asleep, though every four and a half minutes or so, an odd breath will throw it off: a quick, almost-snorting sound that makes Sam’s chest ache. Sam is safe when Dean is breathing like this.
He looks at the clock by the bedside, 9:45 a.m. Dean should be up within the half hour, and Sam suddenly decides, despite what Dean told him, he must get his brother coffee before he’s awake. He slips out of the room and back just in time to find Dean still rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
“Coffee?”
“Sam, I thought I told you not to-”
“I wanted to.” Sam says it almost in a questioning tone, because…he doesn’t really get it either. He clears his throat, not wanting Dean to realize something, something Sam doesn’t understand even though it’s inside of him. He misses the days when he could say exactly what he meant and not care who heard it. “Anyway, the coffee is right here waiting for you, and it’s not like you’re going to turn it down, so drink it already.”
Dean reaches out to take it from Sam. Sam would swear there’s static electricity when their fingers brush.
_______________________________________________________________
“Everything in this diner is stale,” Sam says. “The coffee in this diner is stale.”
“Stop bitching,” Dean replies, mouth full. There are at least three strips of bacon shoved in there. It’s really pretty disgusting.
“So, how is the search for my soul going?” Sam asks casually.
Dean stops chewing and stabs his eggs as if they offended him personally. “You suck at small talk.”
“I was just wondering.”
“Just trying to see if I’m stupid enough to tell you? So you can get in the way?”
“No, Dean, it’s not that at all.”
“Well, don’t you worry your pretty, not-so-little head about it.”
“I’m not, really.”
Dean frowns, misreading the easiness in Sam’s tone. “I guess you know, then. I’ve got nothing. Bobby’s got nothing. No one’s got anything-” Dean’s voice wavers. “You win, alright? Happy?”
“I don’t know if I can feel happy,” Sam answers.
It’s apparently the wrong thing to say.
Dean shoves his plate away. “Great, you’ve fucked up breakfast. What’s the next stop? You can gloat in the car as we drive to the next town, that’ll be fun, right?”
“I don’t want to gloat,” Sam replies defensively. “You’re just assuming the worst of me. I thought we were…forget it.”
“You want it back?” Dean asks.
“No,” Sam replies. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to fail, Dean. But I’m not wishing you luck.”
“You’re weird lately,” Dean says after what feels like an eternity.
“I know.”
Dean nods, grudgingly spears some hash browns onto his fork.
“Something wrong with your food, hon?” the waitress asks, coming over to study Dean. He turns from the potatoes and looks her over. She’s cute, nothing special, a little older than Dean but well taken care of.
“No, ma’am,” he replies, drawing it out. “I was just trying to attract your attention.” He winks at her in a way that lacks all subtlety, and she laughs, brushing it off easily. Dean doesn’t seem to mind one way or the other.
Sam does mind, feels his face contort without his permission, kicks his brother under the table. Dean looks up at him, smiling in a way he hasn’t in weeks.
“Don’t make that sour lemon face at me, Samm-” He cuts off before he deals the death blow, but the damage is done, written all over Dean’s face.
He doesn’t say another word during breakfast, and, as soon as they’ve found a place to settle in the town, Dean and the Impala immediately disappear.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam doesn’t let the day go to waste. He cruises through the preliminary steps of their hunt, reads the relevant newspaper articles, interviews a few people, google searches some possible explanations for the missing persons cases. He calls Dean between each stop, leaves no messages, and pretends to be less worried than he is.
Dean doesn’t come home until after dark, when Sam’s long since given up on getting more work done and has resorted to sitting in their room, staring at the door.
He stumbles through the entrance, and Sam’s first thought is that he’s impressed Dean made it home at all. Dean’s no stranger to driving compromised. Drunk, bleeding, Sam’s mouth in his lap-Dean is a better driver than most no matter what. It’s no surprise, he certainly has enough experience. But this, this is too drunk, even for Dean. This is just asking to get killed.
Sam tries to murder that thought before it has time to take root.
“Dean?”
“Sam,” he says, smiling vapidly. “Hello there, Sam.”
“Jesus, dude, what did you drink?”
“Some of this,” Dean says, raising one hand. “Some of that.” He raises the other. “A whole lot of everything else.” He laughs hysterically. “You name it, I probably had at least four shots of it.”
“And there’s something to be proud of,” Sam answers, steadying his brother with one hand on his shoulder, the other patting him on the back.
“Proud,” Dean says, trying the word out. “Proud. I’m proud of you.”
“No, you’re not, Dean, you’re drunk.”
“No, I am. You saved the world.” Dean pets Sam’s head indulgently. “Good Sam, that’s a very good Sam.”
“Great, thanks man. Let’s get you to bed, okay?”
“The whole world,” Dean continues, taking a wobbly step in the direction Sam ushers him. “That’s a big world.”
“Yeah, okay, you’re welcome.”
“No, I’m not-” He shakes his head. “I wish you’d never done it.”
“Dean, shut up.”
“Proud but not happy.”
Sam pushes him a little as they reach the bed, and Dean falls easily.
“Goodnight, Dean.” Dean grabs him and pulls him in by his shirt until Sam has no choice but to sit on the bed by Dean’s pillow. “What?”
“I love you,” he says. “I love you. I don’t think I’ve ever actually said that to you, but I do.”
“You-”
“No, I know you know. But you should know because I told you, not just ‘cause you know, you know? I think you do know.”
“Sure, Dean, go to bed, all right?”
He reaches up, runs a finger softly along Sam’s jaw, and Sam can’t help closing his eyes, leaning into it. It’s not for him. He’ll take it.
Sam doesn’t see the moment Dean changes his mind, stops touching and decides to pull him in for a long, languid kiss instead. Dean sobs into Sam’s mouth, tastes like he literally tried something from every bottle in whatever dive bar he ended up in all day. He was certainly gone long enough. Sam returns it just as long as he needs to before he shoves Dean away.
“Don’t,” Sam warns.
Dean smiles, tugs at Sam’s shirt insistently. “Come on, Sammy. Lots of room for you. Want you to sleep with me.”
“You don’t.”
“Sammy, please,” Dean whispers.
“I’m not him,” Sam says, voice breaking, eyes overflowing, dirty, sharp metal impaling his heart, rubbing it in gravel and dirt, and laughing at the infection. “I’m not him, Dean,” he continues, almost hysterical. “I wish I was, but I’m not.”
“Close enough,” Dean murmurs.
His eyes are lidded and his face is relaxed for the first time Sam can remember. He tugs one more time without much force, which is the reason Sam can’t help himself from climbing in, wrapping around Dean, burying his face in his brother’s neck, and hoping it’ll somehow make him stop hurting.
Dean drops off in minutes, back into that gentle pattern Sam knows too well for Dean to fake.
Sam’s body feels like it weighs 800 pounds.
He breathes in deep, trying to match Dean’s rhythm.
Sam is suddenly very, very sleepy.
ON TO PART TWO
or
BACK TO MASTERPOST
Sam leans back in his chair; Dean tosses. His foot begins to shake, restless, bored; Dean turns. He’s not a peaceful sleeper. He never has been. He doesn’t make Sam miss it much.
Sam stands. Paces from one end of their crap motel room to the other. He could be doing something right now. Hunting. Fucking. Eating. Anything but watching some guy-his brother, he reminds himself, because that’s somehow supposed to matter-sleep. Sam could have walked to Alaska in the time he’s wasted like this since he found Dean.
Mistake, going to get him. He’s been no help. Too many feelings. Too many attachments. Too many expectations. And the sleeping-the sleeping is what’s going to do Sam in.
He sits back down in the same chair. He’s stuck to it, no matter how many times he tries convincing himself otherwise by walking in circles around their room. His eyes fix on Dean, just because there’s nothing else to look at.
Sam should leave. He can steal a car, go his own way, hunt and avoid Dean, Bobby, all these strangers with familiar faces who can’t appreciate what he’s capable of. But Dean won’t give up on this soul thing, and Sam needs to keep him in sight, make sure he blocks any and all attempts at getting it back.
Sam remembers the pain of being Sam Winchester about as vividly as he remembers the love he once felt for his brother. The soft touch of the carpet under his feet is more impressive. But he knows, he remembers, what it was like before that all went numb. It won’t be insignificant once Dean’s shoved his soul back in. It’ll be millions of times worse.
Sam won’t have it.
“Stop staring,” Dean murmurs.
“Oh, good, you’re up,” Sam answers.
“No.” Dean pulls the blankets over his head, attempting to hide from Sam. “But I can feel your creepy ass staring at me, and it’s not letting me sleep.”
“That makes two of us,” says Sam. “Might as well hit the road, then.”
“It’s four in the morning.”
“If you trust the clock.”
“I’m sleeping.”
“Awfully talkative for someone in the throes of slumber.”
“Fuck off,” Dean replies. It’s basically how he says goodnight.
Sam knows the moment he actually slips back out of consciousness. He memorized Dean’s breathing patterns long before he actually had a reason to be up watching his brother sleep, and, even now, the lullaby has a calming effect.
At least until Sam remembers he’s bored.
_______________________________________________________________
They’re on a vampire case in Minnesota a few days after the fight about whether to get Sam’s soul back or not. Dean’s been strung out since it happened, and Sam thought a good hunt might take the edge off. Make him stop tossing so much at night, so he won't snap at every word Sam says or treat him like a child who doesn’t know a bad fucking idea when he hears it.
Dean’s bound to get over it someday, Sam figures. After all, it’s just his brother’s soul, not really Dean’s problem. He’ll get used to it.
The hunt doesn’t flesh out the way Sam was hoping, though.
“Don’t,” Dean snaps before Sam even gets a chance to shoot.
It’s all he ever says these days.
“Why not?” If he was in Dean’s shoes, he wouldn’t trust Sam around vampires for more than a minute. Sam would want this one dead as soon as possible, without anyone getting a chance to turn.
“Because I said so.”
Sam rolls his eyes, wonders why he even bothered asking. “I had a clear shot.”
“You had a clear shot-assuming it’s okay if you accidentally shoot the girl instead of the vamp.”
“I never miss anymore. I’m a better hunter than you now, and you know it.”
“You’re not better at anything, Sam. Hunters don’t kill innocent people.”
“She’s just going to turn into a vampire, too, if we don’t gun him. Then we’ll have to kill her anyway.” Sam raises the crossbow, dead man's blood-tipped arrow in position, and Dean sticks a hand out to push it down.
“Give me that, Sam. I don’t know why I thought I could trust you with it.”
“Something about months of obeying your bullshit instructions for no other reason than because you said so?”
“Yeah, well, I obviously overestimated you.”
He snatches the weapon away and gives Sam a nasty look. Then he turns to search out a new place to attack from, assuming Sam will follow. Sam doesn’t really remember why he agreed to this in the first place.
He’s been nothing but loyal for months: hasn’t screwed up on a job or done anything to offend Dean’s overdeveloped moral code. Dean still won’t treat him like a person. He’s going to hate Sam as long as he isn’t his brother, and Sam’s dead set on making sure that’s forever.
_______________________________________________________________
“Would you relax?” Sam snaps.
Dean struggles away from him, then realizes he’s only hurting himself and moves back into place. “Don’t like you touching me,” he says.
“Yeah, well, unless you want to sew your own ass up...” Dean starts under Sam’s hands. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me shoot him.”
“Just fucking focus and stop getting handsy.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Dean. I’m not that desperate, and you’re not all that great.”
It’s a lie. Sam’s taking plenty of pleasure in the compromising position, in Dean’s soft, pretty flesh, and the frustrated groans his brother occasionally lets out. Dean doesn’t need to know that.
“Unless you want me to help you out with that obvious problem you have going on there,” Sam adds after a minute or so, when he figures out exactly why Dean is angling himself the way he is. “Bet you’re thinking of all those times I had my mouth here instead of my hands.”
“Are you done closing it up or not?” Dean snaps, voice strung tight.
Sam laughs and gives him a smack, knowing the stitches will tug at Dean’s skin uncomfortably. “All good to go, your highness.”
Dean shoots him a hot glare before hurrying into the bathroom and slamming the door.
_______________________________________________________________
“Coffee?” Sam offers as soon as Dean shows some signs of being alive.
He rolls over, and Sam holds it out to him-black with just the right amount of sugar. Dean’s eyes go comically round, and he looks down at the simple paper cup as if it’s magical, then up at Sam. “You got me coffee?” he asks, voice warm and scratchy with sleep.
“Yeah,” Sam answers. He was up, he was bored, and he remembers years and years of doing this for Dean, feeling a giddiness Sam no longer understands imagining the way Dean was going to react to the wake-up call. “That’s what I do, right?”
Dean’s smile slips off his face. He looks back down at the coffee, but the light has all died out of him, and the face he’s aiming at the drink he’d been so excited about makes Sam feel like he just served his brother a steaming cup of mud. Which is a kind of awesome idea, he thinks, filing it away for next time.
“That’s why you did it, huh? Because it’s what you do?”
“Sure,” Sam says. “I’m supposed to be doing what you want, right?”
Dean takes a sip, shakes his head. “You know what, Sam? Don’t do this one again, okay?”
“Is it bad? I can go somewhere else next time.”
Dean takes another, longer sip. “No, it’s great,” he admits. “Thanks.” Sam is about to ask, and Dean sets the cup aside. “But don’t do it.”
He doesn’t touch it again. Winchesters, Sam thinks with a roll of his eyes.
_______________________________________________________________
“Sammy,” Dean moans, writhing in a way that makes Sam sit up straighter.
It’s nothing he’s not used to, hearing Dean speak…not to him. Never Sam. Always Sammy. But Sam figures a fuck is a fuck, and Dean’s not dreaming about anything innocent.
He climbs onto the bed and positions Dean on his back, moving between his brother’s legs. He slides one hand down Dean’s body, grips him-hot, hard flesh under all those covers-and Dean sighs. When Sam kisses, Dean kisses back, thrusts up into his hand.
Sam thinks they’re having a pretty nice time, so he doesn’t see the hit coming at all. He rolls off Dean, hands immediately moving to trace the sore skin around his eye where Dean punched him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Dean snaps, as if Sam’s the one who just attacked.
“I was trying to get you off, asshole.”
“Don’t,” Dean says. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Sam laughs. “Come on, man. I told you I have all my memories, you can’t really play blushing virgin with me.”
“I’m not trying to.”
Sam smiles, trying to kiss Dean again, and Dean shoves him away.
“Then what’s the problem?” he asks.
“You are,” Dean answers, venom in his tone.
Sam reaches for Dean’s dick again, still rock hard, and, despite his complaints, he grinds into Sam’s fist on instinct. “Come on, Dean, I know you want me.” He licks at his brother’s skin, and Dean shivers. “Want you, too. May not remember anything else right, but I remember this.”
Ever since he came back from Hell, especially since he’s been living with Dean again, he’s ached for his brother. It may have started with love-a million years ago when Sam was someone else, and Dean was everything-but now it’s written into his bones. Sam knows there’s no amount of sex that’ll satisfy him the way finally getting to fuck Dean again will. And Sam could use something to get excited about with the way life’s been going lately.
“Don’t…” Dean gasps. “Please, don’t.”
Sam pauses, looks closely at Dean’s face. “But you want it.”
“Yeah, but…” He swallows, looks away. “No.”
He doesn’t mean it, not all the way. Just enough to make Sam stop. He backs down, returns to his own bed, his own hand, which is really all the mattress is good for. Dean’s breathing stays erratic for an hour, but he doesn’t let himself come. Not until he finally falls asleep and goes back to Sammy.
_______________________________________________________________
“Thank you,” Dean says first thing the next morning.
Sam feels his eyebrows draw in. “For?”
“You could have made me,” Dean says. “I thought you were going to.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I can get laid without forcing you, you know.”
“Yeah, the image is still seared into my brain.” Dean bites his lips. “But you kind of had no reason not to, either.”
Sam stops to think on it. It’s true-he could have gone through with it, it wouldn’t have bothered him if Dean was hurt by it. It occurs to him that he should have done it; he would have gotten what he wanted. Sam’s even a little shocked he did stop, wonders what it means.
Dean clears his throat. “I’ve been pretty shitty to you.”
“It’s alright,” Sam says, shrugging. “It’s not like it’s hurting my feelings.”
“No, I guess not.” He pauses, then nods. “But that’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?”
“You’re not my brother, and I don’t like you.”
“Right.”
“And…you’re not human. Not a person, really.”
“Agree to disagree.”
“But you…it’s not your fault.”
Sam tilts his head.
“I’ve been hating you this whole time,” Dean continues. “Treating you like shit. Even getting a little enjoyment out of it, because you’re pretending and you’re not even close and it hurts. But it’s not your fault Sam’s stuck down there, you don’t know better than…I guess I’m trying to apologize here, okay?”
“Umm, sure?” Sam laughs. “I hope this is really helping you get the guilt off your shoulders, because it’s not doing anything for me.”
“Yeah, I know.” Dean looks away. “And I appreciate that you’re telling me that. Just, I’ll promise to be nicer if you’ll promise not to pretend, okay? You’re not him. I hate it when you try to be.”
“Sure,” says Sam. “Will you promise not to try and get my soul back?”
Dean scowls. “No.”
“Will you let me fuck you?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Sam sits back. “Well, whatever then.”
_______________________________________________________________
Sam comes home from a day at the library-research is the only thing Dean trusts him to do on his own, though whatever pathetic interest he’d once had in it has been squashed-to find Dean watching television, sitting with a beer in his lap, smiling at what Sam immediately identifies as the shower scene from Porky’s.
He grabs a bottle out of the pack on the table and motions for Dean to make room on the couch. Dean lifts an eyebrow as he scoots.
Sam spends maybe ten minutes watching, laughing occasionally, before Dean turns to him.
“You don’t like this movie,” he accuses. “It offends your delicate sensibilities, remember? You used to call me and Dad pigs every time it was on. ‘It objectifies women, Dean.’”
“I do remember,” Sam says. “But I don’t really have any sensibilities left, now do I?”
Dean looks down at his drink, knocks it against his knee a few times. “Right. Of course.” He waits a few seconds, then stands. “I’m going to bed.”
“But your favorite part hasn-”
“Not in the mood,” Dean answers.
Sam watches him go, weirdly put out by it, and turns back to the screen.
_______________________________________________________________
Breakfast is a business arrangement between them now.
It used to be his favorite part of the day, but now he has to wonder what about eating in the morning was so special. Dean makes eggs, mediocre at best, and occasionally bacon, if they get comfortable enough in a motel. Sam sets the table, pours drinks. The sun streams in, bright and happy and a little out of place between them.
Once upon a time, this was when they laughed. This was when they talked about things other than their hunts or the problems of Apocalypse. This was when Sam would creep up behind his brother, hands wrapping around waist, lips kissing Dean’s throat too slowly to be worth the trouble of bending his neck.
It’s not bad this way. They work well together, and it beats the shit out of how things were going for a few months there. Dean blocking his path just for the sake of inefficiency, just to bother Sam the one way he actually could. Dean glaring at him from across the table-which hadn’t bothered Sam much, except that the one thing his brother really has going for him is his looks, and the scowl never fit his features.
Now Dean sets aside the cream and sugar Sam will need when he’s standing in their way. They exchange tidbits of conversation, ‘how about this weather?’ and guesses about the hunts they’re on. The food turns out better because it’s made without bitterness, no burnt edges just because they’ll taste worse. They get in, they eat, they get out, and they get things done.
Sam could go on like that indefinitely.
_______________________________________________________________
The shifter is huddled by a group of kids, using them as human shields. He thinks they won’t strike, won’t take the chance. Sam pulls out his silver knife and gets ready to throw it, because the monster’s taller than them by a foot, and Sam knows he won’t miss.
“Sam,” Dean says.
“Okay, before you say it, I promise I know what I’m doing.”
“They’re kids.”
“He’s about to kill one.”
“But what if you…” Dean closes his eyes and nods slowly. “You never miss.”
“Not lately.”
“Alright,” he says. “Hurt one of them and I’ll kick your ass, but do it.”
Sam downs the monster in a matter of seconds.
_______________________________________________________________
“Here’s to us,” Sam says, raising his shot glass.
“For what?”
“We finished a hunt successfully without pissing each other off once. So. A toast?”
Dean looks around a little guiltily, picks up his own glass, which is already empty, and clinks it against Sam’s just for effect. “Sure, yeah.”
They have a few more drinks, just enough to loosen up. Dean never gets drunk with Sam, though he’s got no reservations about doing it alone. The conversation goes light, amusing even, now that Dean’s not shutting it down just because he can.
“When was the last time you got laid, man?” Sam finally asks, because he has an agenda and the slimmest chance Dean will be drunk enough to fold. “Was it Lisa?”
Dean sits back against his bed. “What’s it to you, Tin Man?”
“It just seems impractical,” he says. “You must be dying. I mean, it’s only been a few weeks for me, and I’m dying.”
“This is a really awkward conversation,” Dean says-as if they haven’t been fucking for the last ten years.
“You should just let me fuck you,” Sam says. “Or blow you. Or…anything. I promise I’ll make it good.”
“Don’t ask me that, man.”
“Why not?”
Dean looks over at him, lips thin. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m trying to.”
“Yeah, but you won’t,” he snaps, though he immediately looks guilty about it. “Sorry, it’s just…”
He reaches for another shot and smiles at Sam in a way that makes all of his blood migrate south. Sam thinks he’s actually going to get lucky.
“Yeah?” Sam asks, crawling towards Dean’s side of the room.
“You can go out, you know, I’m not going to stop you.” He swallows hard, as if the words are burning his throat more than the liquor. “You should. Find a bar, first creepy chick who bats an eye, have a party. You did a good job today, and it’s not like you’ll have trouble waking up tomorrow.”
Sam sits back, disappointed. “Yeah, alright. Beats the hell out of fucking my hand.”
_______________________________________________________________
Dean walks into the bar nearest to their motel about twenty minutes after Sam, and Sam considers going up to him, saying something. He decides against it. Dean would have come with him if he wanted Sam around.
Sam’s not really sure if he’s trying to be considerate or petty, not really sure why he’d go out of his way to be either, but something drives him back out the door. He takes the Impala, which Dean offered him as some kind of consolation prize for not getting into his pants, and drives farther from home base, finds a sleazier bar with a much less selective clientele. It’s not twenty minutes before he’s in the back seat of the car again, some nameless slut under him.
She unhooks her bra, huge, gorgeous tits spilling out, right into Sam’s hands. Her legs are wrapped tight around him, and she pulls her hips up to grind against his dick. She’s starving for him, and Sam is just plain starving.
He leans down to kiss her, his hands beginning to work the leather on his belt, but he pauses and pulls back as soon as their lips meet.
“What’s wrong, sugar?” she asks in a deep, ugly voice that makes it sound like she’s been smoking since she was eight.
Sam shakes his head. What the fuck does he care what she sounds like? She’s begging for him. “Nothing,” he says, leaning back down.
But there it is again, as soon as his tongue slides against hers. The familiar mixture of cheap alcohol, cheap lipstick, and cheap thrills. Everything good in his life since he got back from Hell. It doesn’t taste right.
“Come on, baby, no one likes a tease.” She cups Sam through his jeans and smiles. “Thank God, I thought you were broken for a moment there. The best looking ones are sometimes.”
Sam’s not really listening to her. “Right, yeah,” he agrees uninterestedly.
“Are you cramped or something? We can move around if you want.” She leans close and whispers against his ear, but not into it, no little bite at the shell the way Dean used to do when they still…
Dean, Sam thinks.
He smiles at the girl wickedly, and she lights up. He grabs her hips and turns her over, ready to close his eyes and imagine his brother, and, yeah. He’s gonna enjoy this after all.
It’s not the first time he thinks of Dean while he fucks, has been doing it pretty regularly for the last year and a half. It’s the first time it doesn’t work.
He lifts himself off her and snatches his hands back. “You should go.”
“What?” she asks, turning a little. The light filtering in from the bar’s parking lot is harsh, and Sam sees her sloppy make-up, the degraded way she’s only halfway out of her clothes, the desperation in her eyes.
It doesn’t turn him on right now; it almost makes him sad. Or, not sad. Sam doesn’t know what sad is. But he thinks, probably, it might feel a little bit like this.
“You should go,” Sam says a second time, firmer. Convinced.
“I thought we were gonna-”
“And not back to the bar,” he adds. “Somewhere better.”
She gives him a nasty look and grabs her clothes, slipping on the essentials. “Yeah, thanks for nothing, asshole."
_______________________________________________________________
He drives back to the motel, hoping Dean’s home. He probably is, the way he’s been lately. Hung up on Lisa and Sammy, no chance he’s getting any. And Sam…Sam’s glad for it. Not because he’s upset with Dean. He doesn’t know why.
He thinks of his brother, back in their room, a little drunker and a little sadder. He could use some company. He doesn’t seem to mind Sam’s as much lately, tells the kind of jokes Sam knows he would have scowled at in another life, but which now make him laugh so hard his sides hurt.
If Sam’s being honest, he likes Dean’s company, too, and he feels oddly light thinking of how they’ll spend the night. Watching TV, same old. Dean will let him sit beside him; they’ll make commentary, and Dean might even smile, and it will be fun.
But Dean is not alone when Sam gets back. Dean is not nodding off in front of the television. He’s not wondering when Sam will walk in. He’s on all fours, some guy behind him. The guy has long brown hair and a soft body and he’s making Dean moan out on every thrust, but Dean’s eyes are closed so tight Sam can see the lines from outside the window. He swats the other man’s hand away, strokes himself exactly how Sam would, if Dean would give him a chance.
It’s pretty pathetic, as replacement sex goes, and Sam has to wonder how the hell this is better than just letting Sam do it. Sam may not be 100%, but he’s definitely closer to what Dean’s aiming for.
The guy says something, and it carries through the thin motel walls, a warning that he’s close. Dean nods, speeds his hand up and comes only a few seconds after the man behind him. His moan is loud and shameless, and, of course, Sammy’s name.
“My name’s Jack,” the guy says, as if it matters.
“All the more reason it’s time for you to get the fuck out of here,” Dean grits out, staying on his hands and knees instead of looking at the guy.
It bothers Sam. Not just because he imposed celibacy on himself only to come home and find Dean decided to spend his night having sex. It’s something else. Sam recognizes it, but he can’t touch it. An itch-right in the middle of his back. He’ll never reach it, and it’ll just bother him more and more until he scratches it.
Sam wonders if it’s too late to drive back to the bar and find another girl. It’s not, but it’s definitely too late to want to. He sighs.
Sam watches the man dress quickly, open the door, and meets him face-to-face as he turns to go. Jack pauses when their eyes meet, caught red-handed, and bites his lip. “I’m guessing you’re Sammy,” he says.
Sam shakes his head. “No. Just Sam.”
_______________________________________________________________
“You must’ve had a good night, huh?” Dean asks, smirking at him from across a row of washers. “Didn’t come home before I passed out.”
“Drove around for a few hours,” says Sam.
“That what you kids are calling it these days?”
Sam copies Dean’s naughty smile, because for some reason the idea of letting Dean know that he’s telling the truth makes his stomach hurt. “Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell, Dean.”
“I don’t see any gentleman here,” he answers. Then he looks around and lowers his voice. “Unless you mean them?”
He inclines his head at the two old ladies gossiping in the corner, and Sam has to cover his mouth to fight the laughter.
“Dean,” he hisses.
Dean gives him a curious look. “You don’t mind pissing off the rogue angels, but God forbid the blue-haired grandmas at the laundromat get their feelings hurt?”
Sam doesn’t want to give it much thought.
“What’s gotten into you, Vadar?”
“Just tired. Had a long night.”
“I thought you don’t get tired,” Dean says.
It’s true, Sam doesn’t. But that isn’t the kind of tired he’s talking about. “I don’t sleep. Doesn’t mean I don’t get tired.”
“That sucks,” Dean says, actually sounding a little sorry, which feels…nice, maybe.
“Yeah, I guess.”
Dean stops following the circles of the dryer with his eyes, a habit he always used to deny when Sam teased him for it, but which has remained ingrained since he was a kid, and walks over to the soda machine at the other side of the room.
He smiles at the old ladies as he passes, asks how their day’s been and offers them something from the machine, flirting shamelessly. Sam watches, completely lost. He knows Dean wants nothing from them. They smile back, bat their eyelashes, and politely refuse his offer, which makes Dean press his hand to his chest and say something about how they’re breaking his heart. Sam finds himself smiling for no reason, raises his fingers to his lips to touch it.
Dean brings Sam back a soda, offers it wordlessly.
“Thanks?” Sam says, studying the drops beading along the red and white letters instead of what it means that his heart is speeding up.
“Don’t mention it,” Dean says. “Don’t actually know if caffeine works on you, but it’s worth trying, right?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, not caring that it won’t help. Sam’s pretty sure it’ll be the best soda he’s tasted in years, anyway.
Sam swallows down the last few drops as their dryers slow to a halt, and they each take one machine, tossing whites on one folding table, blues, greens, and browns on the other. Sam begins to fold his half, can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he does it.
“What?” he asks, annoyed.
“No, nothing,” Dean answers, looking back down at his own pile. “My brother used to fold his clothes like that.”
The irony is, apparently, entirely lost on Dean, who sets about his task without much more to Sam in the way of conversation. Sam wants to hit him or grab him close and shake him and force him to see that he’s Dean’s brother, too.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam is watching Dean sleep. It’s getting to be a bad habit.
He doesn’t have to anymore. Dean trusts him to go out at night. He won’t get 30 missed calls, with voicemails asking where he is or what he’s doing or who he’s killing. In fact, Sam pretends some days, leaves just a bit before Dean wakes up so he doesn’t know Sam was watching.
Dean is always beautiful, but it’s better when he sleeps. He doesn’t give Sam nasty looks, he’s not on guard. Not peaceful, never peaceful, always tossing and turning and begging for someone Dean won’t get-won’t ever get, and it’s Sam’s fault.
He’s not peaceful, but he’s sweet, spending his time with someone he actually likes in his dreams. After a while, he calms, soothed by…Sam has no idea what. He digs back into his memory, tries to remember something important for Dean to dream about, but the moments that come to mind are stupid and insignificant, and Sam wonders why they pop up at all.
Dean doesn’t dream about the nights he read Sam stories or the hours they spent sharing a beer and the occasional kiss, pretending to know the first thing about the stars they were looking at. Dean must have things to dream about that matter. But if Sam could dream, he would want it to be about those things.
Dean leaves space in his bed; Sam thinks of slipping into it, brushing a hand up his brother’s side. Dean would hate him, even if he never found out. Dean hates him anyway, Sam reminds himself, but he still resists. Sam wants…Sam wants Dean to want him-not just to fuck, but to lie behind him so Sam can better hear the gentle, memorized music of his unconscious exhalations.
Dean breathes fourteen times per minute while he’s asleep, though every four and a half minutes or so, an odd breath will throw it off: a quick, almost-snorting sound that makes Sam’s chest ache. Sam is safe when Dean is breathing like this.
He looks at the clock by the bedside, 9:45 a.m. Dean should be up within the half hour, and Sam suddenly decides, despite what Dean told him, he must get his brother coffee before he’s awake. He slips out of the room and back just in time to find Dean still rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
“Coffee?”
“Sam, I thought I told you not to-”
“I wanted to.” Sam says it almost in a questioning tone, because…he doesn’t really get it either. He clears his throat, not wanting Dean to realize something, something Sam doesn’t understand even though it’s inside of him. He misses the days when he could say exactly what he meant and not care who heard it. “Anyway, the coffee is right here waiting for you, and it’s not like you’re going to turn it down, so drink it already.”
Dean reaches out to take it from Sam. Sam would swear there’s static electricity when their fingers brush.
_______________________________________________________________
“Everything in this diner is stale,” Sam says. “The coffee in this diner is stale.”
“Stop bitching,” Dean replies, mouth full. There are at least three strips of bacon shoved in there. It’s really pretty disgusting.
“So, how is the search for my soul going?” Sam asks casually.
Dean stops chewing and stabs his eggs as if they offended him personally. “You suck at small talk.”
“I was just wondering.”
“Just trying to see if I’m stupid enough to tell you? So you can get in the way?”
“No, Dean, it’s not that at all.”
“Well, don’t you worry your pretty, not-so-little head about it.”
“I’m not, really.”
Dean frowns, misreading the easiness in Sam’s tone. “I guess you know, then. I’ve got nothing. Bobby’s got nothing. No one’s got anything-” Dean’s voice wavers. “You win, alright? Happy?”
“I don’t know if I can feel happy,” Sam answers.
It’s apparently the wrong thing to say.
Dean shoves his plate away. “Great, you’ve fucked up breakfast. What’s the next stop? You can gloat in the car as we drive to the next town, that’ll be fun, right?”
“I don’t want to gloat,” Sam replies defensively. “You’re just assuming the worst of me. I thought we were…forget it.”
“You want it back?” Dean asks.
“No,” Sam replies. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to fail, Dean. But I’m not wishing you luck.”
“You’re weird lately,” Dean says after what feels like an eternity.
“I know.”
Dean nods, grudgingly spears some hash browns onto his fork.
“Something wrong with your food, hon?” the waitress asks, coming over to study Dean. He turns from the potatoes and looks her over. She’s cute, nothing special, a little older than Dean but well taken care of.
“No, ma’am,” he replies, drawing it out. “I was just trying to attract your attention.” He winks at her in a way that lacks all subtlety, and she laughs, brushing it off easily. Dean doesn’t seem to mind one way or the other.
Sam does mind, feels his face contort without his permission, kicks his brother under the table. Dean looks up at him, smiling in a way he hasn’t in weeks.
“Don’t make that sour lemon face at me, Samm-” He cuts off before he deals the death blow, but the damage is done, written all over Dean’s face.
He doesn’t say another word during breakfast, and, as soon as they’ve found a place to settle in the town, Dean and the Impala immediately disappear.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam doesn’t let the day go to waste. He cruises through the preliminary steps of their hunt, reads the relevant newspaper articles, interviews a few people, google searches some possible explanations for the missing persons cases. He calls Dean between each stop, leaves no messages, and pretends to be less worried than he is.
Dean doesn’t come home until after dark, when Sam’s long since given up on getting more work done and has resorted to sitting in their room, staring at the door.
He stumbles through the entrance, and Sam’s first thought is that he’s impressed Dean made it home at all. Dean’s no stranger to driving compromised. Drunk, bleeding, Sam’s mouth in his lap-Dean is a better driver than most no matter what. It’s no surprise, he certainly has enough experience. But this, this is too drunk, even for Dean. This is just asking to get killed.
Sam tries to murder that thought before it has time to take root.
“Dean?”
“Sam,” he says, smiling vapidly. “Hello there, Sam.”
“Jesus, dude, what did you drink?”
“Some of this,” Dean says, raising one hand. “Some of that.” He raises the other. “A whole lot of everything else.” He laughs hysterically. “You name it, I probably had at least four shots of it.”
“And there’s something to be proud of,” Sam answers, steadying his brother with one hand on his shoulder, the other patting him on the back.
“Proud,” Dean says, trying the word out. “Proud. I’m proud of you.”
“No, you’re not, Dean, you’re drunk.”
“No, I am. You saved the world.” Dean pets Sam’s head indulgently. “Good Sam, that’s a very good Sam.”
“Great, thanks man. Let’s get you to bed, okay?”
“The whole world,” Dean continues, taking a wobbly step in the direction Sam ushers him. “That’s a big world.”
“Yeah, okay, you’re welcome.”
“No, I’m not-” He shakes his head. “I wish you’d never done it.”
“Dean, shut up.”
“Proud but not happy.”
Sam pushes him a little as they reach the bed, and Dean falls easily.
“Goodnight, Dean.” Dean grabs him and pulls him in by his shirt until Sam has no choice but to sit on the bed by Dean’s pillow. “What?”
“I love you,” he says. “I love you. I don’t think I’ve ever actually said that to you, but I do.”
“You-”
“No, I know you know. But you should know because I told you, not just ‘cause you know, you know? I think you do know.”
“Sure, Dean, go to bed, all right?”
He reaches up, runs a finger softly along Sam’s jaw, and Sam can’t help closing his eyes, leaning into it. It’s not for him. He’ll take it.
Sam doesn’t see the moment Dean changes his mind, stops touching and decides to pull him in for a long, languid kiss instead. Dean sobs into Sam’s mouth, tastes like he literally tried something from every bottle in whatever dive bar he ended up in all day. He was certainly gone long enough. Sam returns it just as long as he needs to before he shoves Dean away.
“Don’t,” Sam warns.
Dean smiles, tugs at Sam’s shirt insistently. “Come on, Sammy. Lots of room for you. Want you to sleep with me.”
“You don’t.”
“Sammy, please,” Dean whispers.
“I’m not him,” Sam says, voice breaking, eyes overflowing, dirty, sharp metal impaling his heart, rubbing it in gravel and dirt, and laughing at the infection. “I’m not him, Dean,” he continues, almost hysterical. “I wish I was, but I’m not.”
“Close enough,” Dean murmurs.
His eyes are lidded and his face is relaxed for the first time Sam can remember. He tugs one more time without much force, which is the reason Sam can’t help himself from climbing in, wrapping around Dean, burying his face in his brother’s neck, and hoping it’ll somehow make him stop hurting.
Dean drops off in minutes, back into that gentle pattern Sam knows too well for Dean to fake.
Sam’s body feels like it weighs 800 pounds.
He breathes in deep, trying to match Dean’s rhythm.
Sam is suddenly very, very sleepy.
ON TO PART TWO
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