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Under the cut is some NC-17 fic with spoilers for SPN 504. In the interests of the unspoiled, I am putting additional information under the cut.
My Epitaph Will Go
Sam/Dean, 2000 words
Present!Sam/Future!Dean, from an idea of audrarose's. Hopefully something like she imagined it.
OH YEAH I also pretty much BSed the timeline between "Good God, Y'All" and "The End." Because I don't know how long it was supposed to be, and this seemed good. I make good choices.
Dean has the angels; Sam has the Trickster.
Sam's not sure who's worse off.
*
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," is what he hears when he opens his eyes. He's on the ground, looking up at the gray sky. He gets the feeling it hasn't been bright in a while.
He groans and rolls over. The Trickster is sitting on a tree stump.
"What am I going to do with you?"
"Isn't this a little out-of-character?" Sam asks. "You just coming out and talking to me?"
The Trickster shrugs. "I'm a god. I make my own rules."
Sam takes in his surroundings; nothing interesting. Woods and more woods. He could be anywhere.
"What do you want?"
"What do I want," the Trickster repeats, like this is all one big joke. It probably is. "You know what's not very fun?"
Sam has a thousand responses to this. Sam knows from not fun.
"Armageddon," says the Trickster. "Oh, it sounds good on paper, big explosions, car chases, angels versus demons, all that, but it's the fight that's the fun part. Either side winning gets rid of my favorite playground." He hops off the stump. "So I thought, hey, maybe if I just get him to give up on his brother, the whole thing'll work itself out. But no. Angels are watching over him."
Sam cracks his back. "What do you want?" he asks again.
"I want you to figure this out," says the Trickster. And then he disappears.
"Well," says Sam, to the empty forest, "that's great."
He doesn't have cell phone reception, of course, and doesn't know who he'd call even if he did, so he starts going north, on the grounds that he has to go some direction.
He's only been going for ten minutes when he hears a gunshot.
He still has a gun on him--he might not be hunting right now, but he's not stupid--and he finds himself inching through the woods, no idea what he's going to find, or where he could be.
He almost doubles over with relief when he sees Dean.
Maybe the Trickster changed his mind, decided that they're better off together. Maybe he thinks Sam is being stupid.
Scratch that--he definitely thinks Sam is being stupid. He always does.
He comes out of the woods slowly, making noise so Dean won't get spooked and do something stupid; Dean spins and aims the gun at him, eyes widening as he sees Sam.
"Hey, it's me," says Sam, hands up. "The Tric--" Dean's still staring at him, still got the gun trained on his heart. "Dean?" he asks.
Dean's hands are shaking, just a little, his finger itching against the trigger but not pulling.
"Dean," he says again, taking a step forward, because--Jesus, he's missed Dean, and Dean looks horrible, wrecked and alone, and Sam's stupidly happy that Dean missed him too.
"What the hell are you doing," says Dean, not even a question. "If you're gonna kill me, just kill me."
"Kill you?" asks Sam. "Dean, why would I--"
Dean cocks the gun. "You son of a bitch," he grits out. "Don't you fucking act like my brother."
"I am--Dean, what happened?"
Dean snorts and shakes his head. "I'm not buying this."
Sam takes another step forward, even though Dean has a gun trained on him. Because he knows--Dean isn't going to shoot him. He would have already.
"Dean," he says again.
"Stop saying that," says Dean.
Sam gets close enough, reaches out and just takes the gun, and Dean pulls back like he's been burned.
"Look, I know--you don't trust me," he manages, and Dean lets out a broken little snort of a laugh. It's the saddest thing Sam's ever heard. "But, Dean, I--I miss you."
He waits for Dean to make fun of him for saying it, but he doesn't.
"Right," he says, deflating a little. "So you want me to--I'll go."
"Like I'm just letting you walk out of here," says Dean. "We might not have the Colt yet, but you aren't allowed to come in here and fuck with my head and just leave."
"Dean, I don't--what did I do? I didn't--" he reaches out for Dean, abortively, because Dean moves back like Sam might burn him.
"Give me the gun back," he says, and Sam does, because he's worried.
Dean looks wary, like he's trying to figure out Sam's game. "Come on," he says, pointing the gun back at Sam. "Don't try anything."
"Dean--"
"Walk," says Dean, and Sam walks.
*
Castiel is sitting on the hood of the Impala, dozing, and Sam starts more at the car than the angel, because--there's no way the Impala got so wrecked in a month. There's no way Dean would let that happen.
"Dean, what happened to your car?" he asks.
"My car?" he asks, incredulous, and Castiel looks up. He stares at Sam, and that's when Sam registers the differences in him--scruffier, no hairgel, a change of clothes. Nothing revolutionary for a normal person, but Castiel isn't a person.
"Dean," says Castiel.
"We can't kill him until we have the Colt," says Dean. "We need one hell of a devil's trap, but I don't know if that even--"
"That's not Lucifer," says Castiel, cutting him off.
"Of course I'm not Lucifer, Jesus--" says Sam, but Dean doesn't let him finish.
"What," he says, like this is the worst news he's ever heard.
"When are you from?" asks Castiel, not looking at Dean.
"When?"
"What year," Castiel clarifies.
"2009. What--why? Dean?" he asks, because Dean is shaking, staring at Sam like he doesn't know what to do.
"I'm going to leave you alone," says Castiel, hopping off the hood and brushing off his pants.
"Dean," says Sam again, reaching out, and Dean still dodges just out of his grasp.
"What's the last thing you remember," says Dean, his voice so calm it's scary.
Sam swallows. "Lucifer, he--told me I'm his vessel. I didn't know--we split up last month. You and me, I mean. I haven't--I wanted to call, but I didn't know what to say." He swallows. "Dean, what happened? What year is it?"
"2014," says Dean quietly.
"Dean--"
"You should've called," he says, and Sam can't fucking take it, Dean just this ball of hurt and anger, and Sam's missed him, a month of not being able to sleep because Dean isn't breathing on the other side of the room, a month of not knowing what state his brother was in, or if he was safe, or if he'd ever see him again.
It's the future, and the future's clearly screwed. He doesn't know what the Trickster wants him to learn from this, but he knows what he needs to do, needs so much he can't resist it, like he has been ever since Dean came back from hell, if not longer.
"Dean," he says, and pushes forward, hands on Dean's shoulders, and kisses him.
The problem is that for Sam, there's such a thing as too much Dean, but there's never enough of him. Once he lost Dean--maybe ever since the Trickster, and the endless Tuesdays, or maybe even before--he realized that he couldn't ever have as much of him as he wanted, that he could never be close enough. Sometimes he wanted to crawl inside Dean, live there so that they'd have to die together, so they'd never have to be alone.
This is as close as he can get.
Dean's stiff beneath him--not like turned on, like terrified, ready to bolt, but he's not.
"Dean," says Sam, into Dean's mouth, "Dean, Dean, please."
Dean lets out a broken little noise and fists his hands in Sam's shirt, pulling him in so fast their teeth knock together. And it's suddenly like Dean doesn't think there's enough Sam either, and for Dean there must not be, because somewhere in this world there is a Sam who said yes, a Sam who is Lucifer.
"Sammy," says Dean, in a voice like his heart is breaking, "Sammy, come on."
"Anything," says Sam. He kisses Dean's neck, pushes his hands under Dean's shirt, wants to touch everything.
"You gonna fuck me on the hood of my car?" Dean asks, and it's almost a joke, but Sam's going to. He remembers being seventeen and jerking off to that idea, and he wants to try it out.
Somewhere, he hopes the Trickster is getting an eyeful and regretting it.
Sam pushes off Dean's jacket and pulls of his shirt, trying to get down to skin, and he suddenly sees a bright mark, right on Dean's sternum.
"Dean--" he starts, tracing his fingers over the mark on Dean's chest. It's not his necklace, but it's the same image, the same face Sam is so used to seeing around Dean's neck. It's like his fingerprints are right there, carved into Dean's skin, as deep as Castiel's are.
Dean looks away. "Never got it back," he says.
Sam wants to ask--he wants to know what happened to Dean, what Dean's done. He wants to tell Dean he's forgiven, that he's okay, but he doesn't know how.
All he knows is he has to go home and save his brother from ever being this.
He leans down and kisses the tattoo, and then he drags his tongue down, pushing Dean back onto the hood as he works open his jeans.
Dean keeps saying Sammy, like he's reminding himself that this is real, and Sam slips his hand into Dean's boxers. He's already hard, and Sam loves the feel of Dean in his hand already. He shoves the jeans open roughly, pushes down Dean's boxers and wraps his lips around the head of Dean's cock. He hasn't done this very much, but he wants it, wants Dean to fuck his mouth, wants to be able to feel it when he gets home, in case he can never have this again.
Dean moans and thrusts up, hard enough Sam gags a little, but doesn't give up, sucks and twirls his tongue, lets Dean fuck his mouth shallowly. Dean's making desperate noises already, like he's going to come any minute, and Sam wraps his hand around the part of Dean's cock he can't fit in his mouth, jerking him off hard and fast.
On impulse, he drops his hand down, slick with spit, and rubs Dean's balls, dips lower and tries a finger inside Dean, barely has time to register how hot and tight it is before Dean's gasping and coming in his mouth.
He coughs and chokes a little, and Dean looks wrecked under him, totally debauched on the hood of the car, jeans barely off, shirt under his head.
Sam kisses him again, almost wants to cry when Dean laughs, just a little, into his mouth. "Gross," he says, and Sam wonders how it's possible to miss Dean so much when he's right here.
Dean manages to get himself together, reaches up and strokes Sam through his jeans, and Sam gasps at the feel of it, thrusts helplessly with how much he wants.
Dean pops the button on his zipper, yanks down the fly, and there's the barest touch of Dean's hand against his dick, the perfect pressure, exactly what he's wanting--
And then he's in his hotel room, looking around anxiously for Dean.
"So," he hears, an obnoxious and cheerfully familiar voice from the chair in the corner, and he sinks back down onto the pillow, willing his hard-on to die faster. "If you ever want to see how that disturbing sex scene pans out, get your head out of your ass and call your brother. Not to be melodramatic," he adds, "but it you don't? It actually will be the end of the world."
Sam doesn't even have to look up to know he's already gone.
Sam grabs his phone.
"Damnit, Cas," he hears, low and irritated, but so much his Dean he can't stand it, "I need to sleep."
"Dean," he says, hesitantly, praying for the first time in a while, "it's me."
My Epitaph Will Go
Sam/Dean, 2000 words
Present!Sam/Future!Dean, from an idea of audrarose's. Hopefully something like she imagined it.
OH YEAH I also pretty much BSed the timeline between "Good God, Y'All" and "The End." Because I don't know how long it was supposed to be, and this seemed good. I make good choices.
Dean has the angels; Sam has the Trickster.
Sam's not sure who's worse off.
*
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," is what he hears when he opens his eyes. He's on the ground, looking up at the gray sky. He gets the feeling it hasn't been bright in a while.
He groans and rolls over. The Trickster is sitting on a tree stump.
"What am I going to do with you?"
"Isn't this a little out-of-character?" Sam asks. "You just coming out and talking to me?"
The Trickster shrugs. "I'm a god. I make my own rules."
Sam takes in his surroundings; nothing interesting. Woods and more woods. He could be anywhere.
"What do you want?"
"What do I want," the Trickster repeats, like this is all one big joke. It probably is. "You know what's not very fun?"
Sam has a thousand responses to this. Sam knows from not fun.
"Armageddon," says the Trickster. "Oh, it sounds good on paper, big explosions, car chases, angels versus demons, all that, but it's the fight that's the fun part. Either side winning gets rid of my favorite playground." He hops off the stump. "So I thought, hey, maybe if I just get him to give up on his brother, the whole thing'll work itself out. But no. Angels are watching over him."
Sam cracks his back. "What do you want?" he asks again.
"I want you to figure this out," says the Trickster. And then he disappears.
"Well," says Sam, to the empty forest, "that's great."
He doesn't have cell phone reception, of course, and doesn't know who he'd call even if he did, so he starts going north, on the grounds that he has to go some direction.
He's only been going for ten minutes when he hears a gunshot.
He still has a gun on him--he might not be hunting right now, but he's not stupid--and he finds himself inching through the woods, no idea what he's going to find, or where he could be.
He almost doubles over with relief when he sees Dean.
Maybe the Trickster changed his mind, decided that they're better off together. Maybe he thinks Sam is being stupid.
Scratch that--he definitely thinks Sam is being stupid. He always does.
He comes out of the woods slowly, making noise so Dean won't get spooked and do something stupid; Dean spins and aims the gun at him, eyes widening as he sees Sam.
"Hey, it's me," says Sam, hands up. "The Tric--" Dean's still staring at him, still got the gun trained on his heart. "Dean?" he asks.
Dean's hands are shaking, just a little, his finger itching against the trigger but not pulling.
"Dean," he says again, taking a step forward, because--Jesus, he's missed Dean, and Dean looks horrible, wrecked and alone, and Sam's stupidly happy that Dean missed him too.
"What the hell are you doing," says Dean, not even a question. "If you're gonna kill me, just kill me."
"Kill you?" asks Sam. "Dean, why would I--"
Dean cocks the gun. "You son of a bitch," he grits out. "Don't you fucking act like my brother."
"I am--Dean, what happened?"
Dean snorts and shakes his head. "I'm not buying this."
Sam takes another step forward, even though Dean has a gun trained on him. Because he knows--Dean isn't going to shoot him. He would have already.
"Dean," he says again.
"Stop saying that," says Dean.
Sam gets close enough, reaches out and just takes the gun, and Dean pulls back like he's been burned.
"Look, I know--you don't trust me," he manages, and Dean lets out a broken little snort of a laugh. It's the saddest thing Sam's ever heard. "But, Dean, I--I miss you."
He waits for Dean to make fun of him for saying it, but he doesn't.
"Right," he says, deflating a little. "So you want me to--I'll go."
"Like I'm just letting you walk out of here," says Dean. "We might not have the Colt yet, but you aren't allowed to come in here and fuck with my head and just leave."
"Dean, I don't--what did I do? I didn't--" he reaches out for Dean, abortively, because Dean moves back like Sam might burn him.
"Give me the gun back," he says, and Sam does, because he's worried.
Dean looks wary, like he's trying to figure out Sam's game. "Come on," he says, pointing the gun back at Sam. "Don't try anything."
"Dean--"
"Walk," says Dean, and Sam walks.
*
Castiel is sitting on the hood of the Impala, dozing, and Sam starts more at the car than the angel, because--there's no way the Impala got so wrecked in a month. There's no way Dean would let that happen.
"Dean, what happened to your car?" he asks.
"My car?" he asks, incredulous, and Castiel looks up. He stares at Sam, and that's when Sam registers the differences in him--scruffier, no hairgel, a change of clothes. Nothing revolutionary for a normal person, but Castiel isn't a person.
"Dean," says Castiel.
"We can't kill him until we have the Colt," says Dean. "We need one hell of a devil's trap, but I don't know if that even--"
"That's not Lucifer," says Castiel, cutting him off.
"Of course I'm not Lucifer, Jesus--" says Sam, but Dean doesn't let him finish.
"What," he says, like this is the worst news he's ever heard.
"When are you from?" asks Castiel, not looking at Dean.
"When?"
"What year," Castiel clarifies.
"2009. What--why? Dean?" he asks, because Dean is shaking, staring at Sam like he doesn't know what to do.
"I'm going to leave you alone," says Castiel, hopping off the hood and brushing off his pants.
"Dean," says Sam again, reaching out, and Dean still dodges just out of his grasp.
"What's the last thing you remember," says Dean, his voice so calm it's scary.
Sam swallows. "Lucifer, he--told me I'm his vessel. I didn't know--we split up last month. You and me, I mean. I haven't--I wanted to call, but I didn't know what to say." He swallows. "Dean, what happened? What year is it?"
"2014," says Dean quietly.
"Dean--"
"You should've called," he says, and Sam can't fucking take it, Dean just this ball of hurt and anger, and Sam's missed him, a month of not being able to sleep because Dean isn't breathing on the other side of the room, a month of not knowing what state his brother was in, or if he was safe, or if he'd ever see him again.
It's the future, and the future's clearly screwed. He doesn't know what the Trickster wants him to learn from this, but he knows what he needs to do, needs so much he can't resist it, like he has been ever since Dean came back from hell, if not longer.
"Dean," he says, and pushes forward, hands on Dean's shoulders, and kisses him.
The problem is that for Sam, there's such a thing as too much Dean, but there's never enough of him. Once he lost Dean--maybe ever since the Trickster, and the endless Tuesdays, or maybe even before--he realized that he couldn't ever have as much of him as he wanted, that he could never be close enough. Sometimes he wanted to crawl inside Dean, live there so that they'd have to die together, so they'd never have to be alone.
This is as close as he can get.
Dean's stiff beneath him--not like turned on, like terrified, ready to bolt, but he's not.
"Dean," says Sam, into Dean's mouth, "Dean, Dean, please."
Dean lets out a broken little noise and fists his hands in Sam's shirt, pulling him in so fast their teeth knock together. And it's suddenly like Dean doesn't think there's enough Sam either, and for Dean there must not be, because somewhere in this world there is a Sam who said yes, a Sam who is Lucifer.
"Sammy," says Dean, in a voice like his heart is breaking, "Sammy, come on."
"Anything," says Sam. He kisses Dean's neck, pushes his hands under Dean's shirt, wants to touch everything.
"You gonna fuck me on the hood of my car?" Dean asks, and it's almost a joke, but Sam's going to. He remembers being seventeen and jerking off to that idea, and he wants to try it out.
Somewhere, he hopes the Trickster is getting an eyeful and regretting it.
Sam pushes off Dean's jacket and pulls of his shirt, trying to get down to skin, and he suddenly sees a bright mark, right on Dean's sternum.
"Dean--" he starts, tracing his fingers over the mark on Dean's chest. It's not his necklace, but it's the same image, the same face Sam is so used to seeing around Dean's neck. It's like his fingerprints are right there, carved into Dean's skin, as deep as Castiel's are.
Dean looks away. "Never got it back," he says.
Sam wants to ask--he wants to know what happened to Dean, what Dean's done. He wants to tell Dean he's forgiven, that he's okay, but he doesn't know how.
All he knows is he has to go home and save his brother from ever being this.
He leans down and kisses the tattoo, and then he drags his tongue down, pushing Dean back onto the hood as he works open his jeans.
Dean keeps saying Sammy, like he's reminding himself that this is real, and Sam slips his hand into Dean's boxers. He's already hard, and Sam loves the feel of Dean in his hand already. He shoves the jeans open roughly, pushes down Dean's boxers and wraps his lips around the head of Dean's cock. He hasn't done this very much, but he wants it, wants Dean to fuck his mouth, wants to be able to feel it when he gets home, in case he can never have this again.
Dean moans and thrusts up, hard enough Sam gags a little, but doesn't give up, sucks and twirls his tongue, lets Dean fuck his mouth shallowly. Dean's making desperate noises already, like he's going to come any minute, and Sam wraps his hand around the part of Dean's cock he can't fit in his mouth, jerking him off hard and fast.
On impulse, he drops his hand down, slick with spit, and rubs Dean's balls, dips lower and tries a finger inside Dean, barely has time to register how hot and tight it is before Dean's gasping and coming in his mouth.
He coughs and chokes a little, and Dean looks wrecked under him, totally debauched on the hood of the car, jeans barely off, shirt under his head.
Sam kisses him again, almost wants to cry when Dean laughs, just a little, into his mouth. "Gross," he says, and Sam wonders how it's possible to miss Dean so much when he's right here.
Dean manages to get himself together, reaches up and strokes Sam through his jeans, and Sam gasps at the feel of it, thrusts helplessly with how much he wants.
Dean pops the button on his zipper, yanks down the fly, and there's the barest touch of Dean's hand against his dick, the perfect pressure, exactly what he's wanting--
And then he's in his hotel room, looking around anxiously for Dean.
"So," he hears, an obnoxious and cheerfully familiar voice from the chair in the corner, and he sinks back down onto the pillow, willing his hard-on to die faster. "If you ever want to see how that disturbing sex scene pans out, get your head out of your ass and call your brother. Not to be melodramatic," he adds, "but it you don't? It actually will be the end of the world."
Sam doesn't even have to look up to know he's already gone.
Sam grabs his phone.
"Damnit, Cas," he hears, low and irritated, but so much his Dean he can't stand it, "I need to sleep."
"Dean," he says, hesitantly, praying for the first time in a while, "it's me."