It's the Blueprint of Your Life [NC17] Sam/Dean - part four

[queenklu]

“Hey,” Dean says between mouthfuls of diner pancakes. “I know we’ve got, uh, an agenda or whatever, but I might have found us a job to squeeze in between things. Looks like small fry.”

“Yeah?” Sam steals a mouthful of Dean’s hash browns, which would be a hanging offense if Dean could find it in him to care this morning. Sam needs to eat more, anyway. “What’ve you got?”

Dean spins the newspaper and taps the headline under missing persons, already fighting back a smirk at the irony. “Professor Dexter Hassleback, debunker of supernatural tourist attractions. Last known location? Broward County Mystery Spot.”

Sam’s fork drops with a clatter loud enough to make Dean twitch. “Sam?” Sam doesn’t look up, eyes fixed unblinking at the smears left on his plate from his half-eaten omelet. “Hey. Hey, Sammy?”

He reaches across the table-to snap his fingers in Sam’s face, maybe, he isn’t entirely sure-when Sam flinches back and shakes his head, shifting his hands under the table, but not before Dean can see them trembling.

“Sammy, you okay?” Still nothing, though Dean can see Sam struggling to form a response. He tries for the joke, instead. “Those hash browns taste funny to you, or some-“

Sam knocks his water glass on the floor when he scrambles from the booth, little plastic cup jittering across the faded diner tiles, sounding about as solid as Sam’s knees. He has to brace himself on the table for a split second before he can move, and that’s the only reason Dean has enough time to throw down a pair of twenties on the table before Sam makes it to the door and out, into the pale South Dakota sunlight.

He’s headed for the Impala, but Dean isn’t sure he’s going to make it. It won’t be from weak knees, now; Dean knows the signs of a guy getting furious at himself and Sam has the collector’s set.

“You want to tell me what’s going on here?” Dean offers, sticking just close enough to have a snowball’s chance at catching Sam if he falls.

“I’m getting the laptop,” Sam snarls at him, bristling all over. His face is chalk white, jaw set. “So we can research-shit.”

Sam rounds on the car, and Dean gets ready to dive-bomb-fucking-tackle Sam if he raises a hand against his baby, but that’s about what it’s going to take for Dean to get within swinging distance right now. The idea of a drag-out fight with his brother in this deserted parking lot in Bumfuck, Nowhere is not appealing.

But Sam just puts his hands on her roof to brace himself, shaking with tension, faint sheen of sweat glistening under the hair falling across his face. He sinks to his elbows, head hung down so he can get a hand tangled in his mane and push it back. Dean can hear him breathing, mouth closed, probably has his big moose nostrils flaring and his eyes squeezed shut.

Dean tucks his hands in his pockets and leans his back against the Impala, letting her hold them both up while he waits for his heartbeat to pick a rhythm and stick to it. “I’m guessing this is a case that doesn’t actually need you to research it again.”

Sam’s hair flops everywhere when he drops his hand and shakes his head. Dean wants to reach over and push it out of Sam’s eyes so he can get a better read on him, but he really doesn’t dare.

“Do we need to take it?” Sam straightens up at that, at the hard, angry edge in Dean’s tone. “Is there another life lesson that I need to learn that you’d be willing to put yourself through something so bad it’s freaking you out like this? I’m guessing it’d have to be worse than a psycho taking a baseball bat to your kneecaps, because you’ve already done that without breaking a sweat.”

“Dean-“ Sam starts, but Dean is absolutely done with this shit.

“This ends, right now,” he bites out, snatching back eye-contact when Sam tries to look away. “No. Sam. No more spreading it for the timeline and the demons and every other thing chasing us down. We’ve got our plan, and we’ll hold to it. No matter what happens. But I’m either going to get the moral of this story on my own terms, or we’ll make up a goddamn new one.”

He drags a hand over his mouth to give himself a second, stubble dragging against his palm before he lets go. There’s green showing in the cracks of pavement beneath his feet, some sort of moss that doesn’t mind the occasional boot-scuff.

“What do you think?” The question about falls out of his mouth. But he makes himself lift his gaze back up.

Sam is smiling like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, eyes glittering in a way that Dean pretends he can’t see; he can’t focus on it anyway, too caught up in everything else showing in Sam’s expression right now. The sun is so thin, here, bleaches Sam out, turns his eyes a solid, translucent green. It’s too much to look at, but Sam’s the one who looks away first, mouth working a couple times before sound comes out. “I think you should have totally been jamming-“

Dean leans in, because he has to, and Sam shuts up. Their arms were already touching, their shoes nudged together. Dean moved maybe an inch and it’s terrifying, it’s terrifying how calm he feels, how easy it is to reach over and put a hand on the back of Sam’s neck, where the tag’s rucked up. How easy it is to tug Sam and push forward, press their lips together, and tip the world on its end.

Sam’s breath puffs out against Dean’s mouth, startled even though Dean telegraphed every single move coming into this. He tastes like coffee and cantaloupe and Dean’s mother fucking hash browns and Sam, just Sam, a flavor he knows immediately without having tasted it before. Dean knows he’s fucked with a clarity that feels electric; he’s going to be looking for this in every mouth he kisses after, looking for Sam.

You’re my goddamn Peter Parker, zips through his skull without-a-doubt unbidden, because it’s just enough of a shock to make him pull back, an image of Sam dangling upside down that’s never going to get out of his head, now. Awesome.

Sam is staring at his mouth, and yeah, Dean knows he has a good one, but he’d like a little eye-contact here before he absolutely loses his mind. “Hey,” he says, gently knocking Sam’s shoulder. “Up top, dude.”

His brother twitches under his hand, a sharp jerk out of whatever thoughts he’d been lost in, and Dean lets his hands fall.

“Um,” Sam says, but he doesn’t move away.

Dean slips on a smirk. “See? Different already.”

“…Right.” Sam licks his lips, realizes what he just did, and flushes a crimson Dean hasn’t seen on him since he was eighteen. “I, uh. Yeah. You’ve-definitely never done that before.”

Dean’s smirk splits into an utterly shameless grin, then a laugh, so sudden he has to tip his head back with it. His gaze snags on a jet trail cutting the sky in two; the Impala is warm against his back, and Sam is at his side. “That’s the best fucking news I’ve heard in months.”

~*~

Caleb’s old cabin is still outside Lincoln, Nebraska-well, probably still there, it’s far enough off the beaten track that it’s a safe bet no one’s been near it since Bobby drove out to bury him. Dean drives.

Sam watches him, like there’s been a boycott on blinking, or embarrassment, or whatever walls Sam built up to keep Dean from noticing. It should make him uncomfortable, maybe, but Dean’s rat’s ass meter is fubar. He can feel a smile on his mouth every mile the odometer flips over, warmth in his belly like whiskey in November with Sam in the passenger’s seat, where he’s been all along.

“We shouldn’t do this,” Sam says just past Elk Point.

Dean’s smile gets wider, but he shrugs in deference to Sam’s emo. “Probably.”

“You don’t understand what I did,” Sam grits out in Walthill when they stop for gas. “I was a monster. You wanted to hunt me.”

Dean rolls his eyes. He has his hands full of Slim Jims and Sam is blocking his door. “Did I tell you, to your face, that I was going to kill you?”

Sam’s eyebrows, already doing an impressive impersonation of a knot, tighten up. “You…left a voicemail.”

For all the times Sam is a friggin’ genius, he has moments when he’s so spectacularly dumb Dean wonders how he functions. “You don’t think demons can screw with your phone? Come on, haven’t you seen The Ring?”

“That was a spirit,” Sam says, eyes narrowing, “And also a movie.” But he looks like he’s thinking about it, which was the point.

Dean forks over his best Whatever look and kicks at Sam’s foot so he’ll move the fuck out of the way.

“Slim Jim?” he offers when Sam’s back in the passenger’s seat. Sam takes it tentatively, like Dean might snatch it back at any minute, turns it over and over and over in his hands as Dean starts the car and merges back onto the highway.

“You did tell me I was a monster, though,” he says, and it takes quite a lot of effort not to pull over and thump Sam, really.

“Were you doing something to deserve it?”

“Yes,” Sam says, bleak.

“Well there you go,” Dean spins off before he can chicken out. “And I bet you anything I wished I’d never said it.”

Sam is quiet all the way to Oakland, where they stop for lunch. They sit across from each other in a diner booth and it’s exactly like this morning, and suddenly about a million times stranger. This is-he’s kissed Sam, now, so this is sort of like a date or something, maybe.

“You’re fidgeting.” Sam’s gigantic feet trap Dean’s under the table, backed up against the footboard as Sam pins him in place with a look. It isn’t easy, but Dean makes himself sit still.

For about two seconds. His shoulders roll. “What?”

Sam’s eyes narrow into slits, and Dean’s heartbeat skips in an uncomfortably familiar way. Uncomfortable because it shouldn’t be familiar. Uncomfortable because Dean doesn’t mind it, and Dean is used to repressing the hell out of things he should mind but doesn’t. He’s just winging it, here. He doesn’t know-

Their drinks arrive, and Sam gives the waitress a quick smile when Dean is too caught up in behaving like a gentleman to flirt with her. Dean gets a suspicious glare, which he tries to deflect with an eyebrow or two. “You got something to say, Sammy?”

“Nope.” Sam, because he’s a bitch, waits until Dean is in the middle of his first slurp of Coke to add, “Just waiting for you to freak out about the gay thing.”

Dean doesn’t choke, keeps his eyes on Sam’s to show just how much he isn’t choking, so Sam knows that when Dean hiccups it’s because Dean always hiccups right after his first sip of anything carbonated. To his credit, Sam looks faintly caught-out around the stubborn set of his jaw.

“Hey,” Dean hollers, loud enough to turn a few heads. He smirks at the old guy cozied up to the breakfast bar, their twenty-something waitress, anyone who looks their way. “We-“ he points between Sam and himself. “-are a couple. You got a problem with that, meet us in the parking lot. We’ll show you a real good time.”

There’s a flurry of murmurs that Dean honestly couldn’t give a shit about, and Dean leans over the table, wiggling his straw at Sam’s drink enticingly. “C’mon, Sammy,” he croons as Sam slumps as low as he can in his seat, “We’ll share, it’ll be straight out of Lady and the Tramp or something.”

“Dean-“ Sam starts, instantly shifting into lawyer mode.

“You think people wouldn’t be disgusted if they knew where you got that stain on your shirt? Or how I got this scar?” He shoves his sleeve up to show the mark on his elbow left by an adlet the summer Dean was sixteen. “I hate to break it to you, Sam, but what other people think is not on my list of priorities.” Other people besides Sam; that should go without saying.

For whatever reason, showing off his scar seems to settle Sam in a way Dean probably won’t ever get. His fingers tap at the condensation on his glass, and Dean knows the other people are already out of Sam’s head, shoved aside to make room for a bigger problem.

“Dean, have you…” He frowns, not like he’s disapproving, like he’s not sure if he should be confused. “Have you thought about this?”

Dean winces a little because-it feels like he has. It feels like he’s spent a lifetime wanting Sam, and he has. Just not quite this far, not this extra step off the cliff. It feels like he’s been standing at the edge looking down for a very long time, stifling the fuck out of feelings he thought were impossible, even for a Winchester.

“If you’re asking why I have all the answers,” Dean says, pursing his lips together, “I think it’s because I’m so awesome.”

Sam’s lips twitch, and Dean figures this is enough soul-searching for today, pushes back against Sam’s giant boots but not enough to kick him off. “So come on. I heard the new Raiders movie is coming out-how was it?”

Sam stabs at the bottom of his glass with his straw, once, then folds his arms. “Didn’t see it. You were dead at the time.”

“Jesus, Sam.” Way to be an absolute downer, and there’s a set to Sam’s jaw that hints he’s lying just to get a reaction, but Dean ignores his paranoia. Any more heartache and he’s gonna need to take a Tums. He tries for playful sarcasm. “What the hell were you doing that you couldn’t take two hours for a Raiders movie?”

“Fucking Ruby,” Sam drops bluntly.

“Oh, whoops,” Dean says when nothing more comes out. “Sorry, was that supposed to shock me?”

Sam’s mouth opens, then shuts.

Dean feels tired down to his bone marrow, last of the adrenaline clicking like an empty magazine. “Sam, I wish I could say I didn’t know what your face looks like after you shoot a girl you’ve slept with. And that’s the god’s honest truth.”

Their food chooses that moment to arrive, in the hands of a suddenly pale waitress who looks like she doesn’t know if backing away to go call the cops would be a really excellent idea. Dean shoves a friendly smile onto his face but it’s impatient and he knows it bleeds through.

“Helping him go over his lines,” he tells her, leveling a finger at Sam. “You’re looking at the latest walk-on love interest for Days of Our Lives.”

“Yeah-huh,” she says, eyebrows high as she sets their plates down and turns to leave. But there’s a toddler throwing mashed potatoes a few booths over, so they probably have time to chow down before police sirens light up the parking lot.

When Dean looks back at Sam there’s a strange expression on his face; intense, Dean would have to call it, narrowed in on Dean with a focus Sam usually reserves for figuring out that last little thing in a case. And Dean knows-the way he knows exactly how much fuel is in the Impala and the optimum number of minutes before his lunch goes cold-that Sam thinks he’s finally got a handle on the straw that’s going to break this giant pink elephant’s back.

“Do you miss him?” Sam asks, all the words pushed together and his guards up like he didn’t learn how to make guards from watching Dean. It takes a couple extra seconds for the words to sink in because Dean gets stuck watching Sam sometimes, most times, all the time but especially when they eat together like this, when their knees are mashed together and it’s okay to be turned towards his brother.

“Wait, what?” Dean blurts, brain kicking back into gear. “Miss who?”

“Your Sam.” His gaze drops, jaw set like he’s bracing to get punched. “The Sam from this timeline. Cas said-he said I sort of obliterated him when I fucked things up. I keep waiting for you to tell me to pick a direction and start walking.”

Dean takes a moment to chew, because this burger deserves at least a moment of his time, time that Dean needs to shake off the sheer stupidity of what he’s just heard. “Sam,” he says after he swallows, “of the two of us, I am not the one who runs.”

“Or whatever, Dean!” Sam snaps, voice a barely-reined-in shout, “I’m not the Sam I was two years ago, and you’re never getting him back! Doesn’t that bother you?”

Dean braces his elbows on either side of his plate, shoulders hunched up in what Dad used to call his linebacker-stance. It should be a clear as hell signal to Sam that this is where Dean is digging his heels in, if Sam is paying attention. “I have a theory,” Dean tells him, patience more of a threat than a promise. “But I’m not fucking telling you until you eat everything on your plate and we’re back on the road.”

He lets his expression do the rest of the talking, the You think I haven’t noticed you’re not eating like you should, you think I don’t know that means you’re stressed to hell about everything, you think I’m gonna let that stand? And Sam could fight him, Sam could pull the Stop Acting Like You’re My Dad Card-which just got even creepier in this context, great-or Sam could realize he’s not going to win this one, not this time.

Instead Sam leans across the table, every inch of him a dare, so challenging it’s lucky Dean doesn’t clock him on instinct. “Sam.” He forces his voice back down to something that might not pull every single eye in the place. “If you want to try to prove some sort of point go right ahead,” he says, “But fair warning, the next time you kiss me I’m not gonna stop.”

He means Be sure. Be so fucking sure. Please. But he also means exactly what he said, and there’s no doubt that if Sam tries to call this bluff he’s going to find his back flat on this tiny diner table with Dean between his thighs, burgers be damned. The thought makes his palms sweat and his jeans feel too tight-if Sam wanted it, if he really wanted it, then there wouldn’t be a thing in the world big enough to stop Dean from doing it for him.

He doesn’t think Sam would, though-especially when Sam’s mouth snaps shut and his eyes go big and wary-this isn’t something for other people to see. This is just him and Sam.

Sam eats his sandwich like he’s counting out the bites, eyes on Dean the whole time. Dean’s feet feel heavy with the weight of Sam’s boots, but he doesn’t dislodge them, and Sam doesn’t move them, and Dean tells himself that’s a good sign.

They don’t talk through lunch, don’t talk when they get back in the car; Dean’s pride won’t let him bring up his theory until he’s asked, so if Sam wants to pout, it’s his loss.

In Wahoo, South Dakota Sam drops his hand on Dean’s thigh so suddenly Dean about drives them off the road.

“Dude, what-“ Sam’s fingers flex, high up on Dean’s leg but not touching his junk. “What are you doing?”

“Not kissing you, that’s for sure,” is Sam’s instant reply. It sounds petulant-it…sort of is, in a weird way, like one of those obnoxious kid games of I’m not touching you. But Dean could swear he hears a smile in there somewhere, too. He stares until Sam nods at the road and says, “You know you’re going ten miles under the speed limit?” and Dean has to focus on driving because-no, his baby doesn’t do under the speed limit.

And Sam’s hand is still there.

Ten miles later it creeps up about an inch. Dean isn’t fighting to keep his breathing under control because that would be stupid, it’s just a hand. But it’s huge, Jesus, Sam has paws like a fucking bear; his palm is warm, heat bleeding through the worn-thin denim of Dean’s jeans right to his skin. If Sam’s hand was on his bare thigh, when Sam’s fingertips are already brushing Dean’s inseam-

The pavement gives out under construction and Dean grits his teeth so they won’t rattle. He can’t grit his balls, though, (he’s tried), and the vibrations from the gravel-which is also probably dinging the fuck out of his undercarriage, in more ways than one, har dee har… Fuck, what is he even thinking right now? He hits a pothole that could’ve easily been avoided and Sam’s hand jumps into his lap, right over his cock all chubbed up in his jeans. He isn’t hard but he’s not-not soft, and Sam’s fingers spasm like he’s surprised.

“It’s the-construction,” Dean grits out, gruff.

Sam huffs. “Yeah, sure it is.”  But he doesn’t move his hand.

“Dude, seriously,” Dean starts because he’s about ten seconds away from squirming in his seat, up, down, freaking sideways, he isn’t sure. “What-“

“You’d really get hard for me?” Sam asks, quiet. His ring finger twitches and Dean doesn’t even know if Sam realizes it’s right over the head of Dean’s cock or if he’s just accidentally teasing. Dean strangles back a groan and he’s gone, just gone, dick straining up against his fly and the meat of Sam’s palm.

“Sam,” Dean chokes out, “I’d-“

Sam’s hand vanishes, and with it almost every functioning brain cell in Dean’s body. “You’re gonna miss the turn.”

“Fuck,” Dean breathes out, staring at the steering wheel. How does he make it go left?

~*~

The Impala shoulders her way through all the nature trying to retake Caleb’s driveway, tree limbs reaching out to brush their leaves against her glossy paint. Sam is out of the car before she’s rolled to a stop, not that Dean can blame him; it feels like there isn’t enough air in the car to keep a mouse alive, let alone two grown men.

Dean has to take a minute before he can even think about moving without-just without. His dick aches and he’s kind of sweaty and it’s Sam’s fault, and maybe this should be freaking him out.

But this is good. It feels good. Dean has maybe been turned on this much before in his life but not this way, like he’s gonna have blue balls from hell and he won’t even care because he has the ghost of Sam’s hand on his dick and he knows what Sam tastes like.

So damaged. He’s so damaged.

The trunk squeaks when Sam pops it open, and it always has, Dean makes sure she always lets them know when someone’s digging through their stuff. So apparently they’re going to check on Caleb’s defenses first, before-before more agonizingly long talks and self-flagellation. Dean’s not even mad.

“Seriously fucked in the head over your own brother,” he mutters to himself, just to hear the words aloud. And okay, wow, there it is, pinpricks of something creeping right up the back of his spine. It doesn’t feel like panic, though. Feels like-excitement, heat, want, Sam. “Well, Dean, you kinky son of a bitch,” he breathes out, and it feels easy. Like something he’s always known about himself.

Well, there was that one time with the pink silk panties. And the time with the twins. Oh and Stephan, who’d been a pretentious asshole but looked-shit, looked just like Sam. Dean huffs a laugh into his fist, a Jesus Christ kind of laugh. Maybe it shakes a little.

Sam thumps on the hood when he walks by with a duffle bag of salt and red spray paint, a little whump, You coming? Dean jumps. Takes a breath. Gets out of the car.

“You gonna keep doing this?” Dean calls out as his brother crosses the lawn to Caleb’s cabin. Sam doesn’t slow down. “Huh? It’s okay if you do,” he says and means it, wants Sam to keep testing him so he can prove himself again and again. It’s a new feeling, feeling worthy of something, but he can do anything for Sam. He can try.

Sam lets the screen door slam behind him before Dean can get to it, shoulders high. But Dean’s no invalid, he can get it himself. He spares a cursory glance for the room, exactly how he remembered it as a kid only…smaller-peeling wallpaper stretched over protection sigils, steel sheet installed in the back of the sagging green couch in case someone had to duck behind it for cover, no pictures on the walls, no mirrors anywhere, everything arranged with a military precision that Dad had admired and Sam used to say gave him hives. Glass missing from most of the windows and a nice cross-breeze kept the place pretty dust-free, but Dean’s gaze gets snagged on the line of duct tape along the bottom of the door traveling all around the room, edges flecked with white. “Yo, Sam,” he starts, whistling, “Check out the salt lines-“

The duffle hits the creaky wooden floor with a thud. Which is impressive considering Sam’s hands are clenched so tight it looks painful.

“Or…not,” Dean offers.

“Why are you doing this?” Sam demands, volume forced quiet. “And why are you doing this now?”

It shouldn’t blindside him as hard as it does.

“I mean, is it your deal?” Sam turns around, and Dean wishes he hadn’t. “Is this a tick box on your bucket list you never got around to last time? You think you’re gonna die so why not plant one on me?”

“Sam,” Dean tries, drags a hand over his mouth to give himself a second to figure out which gut-wrenchingly wrong thing to tackle first. “If I really thought I was going to kick it,” he settles on, finally, “I would never do that to you.”

Sam looks like someone put a hand on his chest and gave him a hard shove, though he doesn’t move an inch. The words roll over in Dean’s head in a heavy, well-oiled grind, something that’s been turning for a while-sometime when he wasn’t looking, his deal stopped being an inevitable death sentence. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and it’s not Hellfire. It’s Sam.

“Do you think I don’t get that our relationship is already so colossally fucked up, even without this piled on top?” Dean asks, even though it feels like something is caving in. “Christ, you ripped the universe in two for me, Sammy. That’s something that didn’t happen before.”

He takes a step closer, bracing himself and refusing to back down. “Now, I know you might want to take a swing at me and I get it, I do. Go ahead, Sam. We’ll never talk about this again.”

Sam looks like the thought of decking Dean is making him feel sick-Dean has seen this look, clammy and wild eyed, seconds before Sam starts heaving. Or maybe it’s…maybe it’s not that at all. Maybe it’s the big fat ‘incest’ neither one of them has said aloud that’s making Sam nauseous.

“Or say the word,” Dean says, fighting past the fist closing around the back of his throat. “I’ll take off for a bit, come back to get Bela out of her deal, and…we’ll just be brothers again.” He tries to smile, tries to tell himself that there’s no way Sam will want him gone for good. Then again, Sam has always been better at fighting off the addiction Dean feels about family, maybe he will.

Sam makes this noise, then, like Dean is hurting him, which isn’t-

Dean feels his shoulder knock the door shut before he knows Sam is shoving him back, and then his spine jams flat against the wall. Sam is flush up against him, hands fisted in his clothes and Dean thinks Here it comes and waits for the pain to snap his head back after all.

‘Kiss’ seems like a fragile word for what Sam does instead. It’s hard and hot and messy, clumsy desperate. It makes Dean’s legs shake, something he thought was just shitty romance novel tripe but isn’t, not with Sam sucking Dean’s tongue in his mouth like he doesn’t know how but he wants to.

Dean gets a frantic grip on Sam’s hair, clutching at it, banging arms together on the way because they’re both used to being tallest in a kiss. There’s a sharp pain in his chest, on his chest, where Sam’s hand is shoved up hard against the amulet, digging it into Dean’s collarbone, leaving a bruise. Right next to the tattoo circling his heart, fuck.

“I’m never gonna be able to listen to Asia,” Sam tears off just long enough to say, mouth back on Dean’s skin before he can blink.

“Wh-what?”

Sam growls against his jaw in frustration, gives up and leans back to see his fingers tearing at Dean’s belt buckle, the big heavy silver thing Sam got him for Christmas. There’s a wonky clasp and Dean tries showing him how, hardly aware that he’s actually verbally defending Asia on auto-pilot.  Sam bites him, on his throat, under his ear, and holds on while Dean pants out a god damn encyclopedia of curses and tries to keep his knees from giving out.

Sam lets go with a hiss like he’s surprised at himself and Dean grabs at him, trying to convey that it is so okay. Screw Asia, right in the face. Sam laughs against Dean’s shoulder-maybe Dean said that out loud-and gives the bite mark an apologetic lick. “The, um, jury’s still out on Dead or Alive.”

“Sam, if you don’t-“ Dean breaks off with a noise he will never cop to making when Sam shoves his belt aside with his wrist and slides his hand into Dean’s boxers in one eye-crossing move. There’s this moment that Dean desperately needs where they just breathe, Sam getting used to Dean’s cock perked up hot and drippy against his hand, Dean gathering enough control not to fucking come right there. It’s Sam’s hand, it’s Sam’s hand.

At some point his eyes slid shut, but he makes them open when Sam drops a kiss on his mouth. “Dean.” Another, quick but giving, and when he pulls back Dean can see the smile on Sam’s lips, just how deep his dimples go.

“This for me?” Sam asks, rubs his palm along the underside of Dean’s dick.

Dean takes a deep, shuddery breath and lets it out. Sam is entirely too coherent.

He doesn’t think about it, just moves; a lifetime of sparring with Sam has imprinted his muscles with the priceless knowledge of how to knock his brother on his ass and keep him there.

“What the-” Sam wheezes out around the breath he’s lost. Dean couldn’t stop grinning if it meant averting the apocalypse.

“Easy, tiger,” he mutters as Sam twists a little, uncertain if this is an actual match or what before Dean settles on him, straddles him, pins his wrists above his head and rides it out. The angle has Dean’s still-fastened jeans pulled taut across his dick, width of Sam’s hips spreading Dean’s legs and Dean spreads them a little wider just to feel the burn.

“I get bigger,” Sam warns, eyes dark as he fits his hands to Dean’s hips, mouth wet and red and parted.

“Yeah, okay man, you’re a grower not a shower,” Dean snorts, ignoring the way his breathing snags. Jesus, the guy’s almost popping the zipper, how much bigger is he gonna get?

“No, I-“ Sam’s eyes roll up, and Dean isn’t sure if it’s sarcasm or the slow grind of his hips. “Fuck, Dean, I meant-fuck-I get s…stronger, more muscle, what are you-“

Dean makes himself stop, even though the feel of Sam through their worn-thin jeans is just about turning his mind to mush. There’s a literal heat between them, maybe just from the rough rut of denim-on-denim but what the fuck ever it is, Dean loves it, leans forward just a fraction more-

Sam flips him. Dean is absolutely not surprised. “Could always get you on your back, though,” Sam says, and Dean tries to think of a nicer word for ‘leering.’

“Pretty sure I always let you.” It feels startlingly true.

When Sam ducks down Dean blows at his bangs to be a jackass, until Sam says, “Knock it off,” and kisses him with a grin still curling his lips.  Dean jerks his own damn buckle finally open and zipper down, shoving aside his underwear just far enough to free himself before he goes to work on getting at Sam. It’s dizzying, the contrast between fresh air on his cock and Sam kissing like they’re at the junior prom, careful and sweet and thorough.

Sam’s dick just about leaps into Dean’s hand, and there’s nothing junior about it. Sam huffs against his mouth at the feel of Dean fisting it, once, a long slow drag up and slicker on the way back down, and Dean bites at Sam’s lower lip when a scalding drop of precome hits Dean just below the cut of his hip. Sam braces himself on shaking arms either side of Dean’s head, eyes so dark that rational thought fucks right off, because Sam’s mouth is open and smiling so slightly and quivering even slighter than that.

“Dean,” Sam breathes, and Dean nods too fast, feeling too much to hold it all in.

Sam takes it as an answer to something, backing up even though Dean digs his nails in trying to make him stay. Sam settles him with a sharp nip to his stomach, over his shirt, so all he can feel is the shape of Sam’s teeth and the muted scrape of cotton. Dean gasps out Sam’s name, twisting under the tease of it, and Sam’s hands fit to his bare hips.

It should not be such a shock, what happens next. Dean is not a stranger to blowjobs, giving or receiving. But he is such a stranger to this, to the sheer fucking heat of Sam’s mouth, the same plush tongue he used to watch lap up ice cream suddenly turned to the head of Dean’s dick as Sam pushes it flat against Dean’s belly, dragging a wet, sloppy line from just under the crown to the rim of Dean’s bellybutton.

“Fuck,” Dean shouts like a gunshot. He can feel Sam smile against his skin, shudders and wishes he had anything solid to hold onto.

And maybe Sam gets it, or maybe he needs it too, because he puts one arm across Dean’s hips to hold him still and reaches up with the other until they can grab on, fingers closing around wrists to push their pulse points together. Dean isn’t even sure if he did it on purpose, but it’s perfect.

Sam goes to town on Dean’s cock, but he won’t let Dean get inside. His lips slide over Dean in messy, slippery, soaking wet glides, mouthing at his shaft, tonguing at his slit to get the globs of precome Dean can’t help blurt out so he can smear it down to Dean’s balls. He keeps murmuring against the slick, things like, “Dean,” and “God,” and other, wordless sounds that vibrate through Dean’s skin and build in the throb of his balls.

Dean’s brain is gone, done, fried-he doesn’t even know what to call this, not a bowjob because Sam won’t fucking suck him, just gets him so wet the hair around his dick slicks into curls and Dean is so hard it makes something snap.

He snarls, yanks Sam off-balance with their joined hands and Sam falls forward, almost on top of him, which is what Dean wants. It’s close enough to grab him-Dean gets his fingers bunched in Sam’s shirt and starts pulling, Sam scrambling up as soon as he can figure how to work his limbs, and Dean seals their mouths together so he won’t lose it at the sight of Sam’s face so wet he might as well have been eating out a girl.

Sam tastes like Dean, though, just Dean, and moans into it as he settles chest to chest, belly to belly, hip to goddamn hip and everything in between. Dean wriggles on instinct and Sam gasps, bucks into him-Dean just about sees stars it’s so fucking good. He can feel everything, every inch of Sam, from the plush shape of his balls to the fat head pushing up Dean’s shirt with every rocking thrust Sam makes. The tight drum of Sam’s belly, rough drag blurring as he picks up the soaking mess he left on Dean’s skin. He’s locked around Dean and Dean locks around Sam, arm around his ribs and one over his shoulders, his brother panting against him and Sam’s scent everywhere, like he could drown in every sensation.

“You’d come for me?” Sam gasps as Dean’s face starts to screw up, just like in the car like he can’t believe Dean would, even after everything.

It’s too-too fucking intimate, too new, too raw and desperate and real, and Sam, god, Sam, and Dean’s neck strains when he comes, too intense to even scream it out when Sam pulls back just enough to watch. It’s so much wetter between them in an instant, flinchingly hot and sloppy and there are sparks behind Dean’s eyelids when he pumps and bucks and thrills in the way Sam holds him together.

“Oh, Sammy, fuck,” he hisses when his muscles finally unlock enough to let his head bounce back against the floor. He feels so very fucked out and boneless, fingers twitching with aftershocks where they’re twisted in Sam’s clothing.

His back arches up when Sam gives a tentative roll of his hips, shaking with the effort it took not to keep fucking Dean into the floor, and there’s a fingerprint of discomfort on Dean’s chest when he moves. It takes him one lethargic second to figure out what it is-Dean’s amulet, caught between their collarbones-and Sam makes a noise half-way between Dean’s name and a shout and comes everywhere, quaking, biting too hard on his lip until Dean thumbs it away from his teeth. Sam bears down on the pad of his thumb instead, careful not to hurt, and turns his face against Dean’s palm until his cock finishes spurting against Dean’s belly.

Dean hugs him-it’s what this is, a hug with less clothes and more bodily fluids-and doesn’t let go for a second as Sam wrings out noises and shudders back into his skin. It takes him a while, too keyed up; he’s all uncoordinated jitters, paws fumblingly at Dean’s right shoulder, dragging the clothing off it until he can fit his hand to Dean’s skin. “Mine,” he says against Dean’s neck, nails digging in, “Mine.”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean promises, breathless, “Yours.”

Sam smears kisses down his chest, over Dean’s t-shirt until he shoves it up under Dean’s armpits to get his mouth on Dean’s tattoo. It’s all healed up but Dean drags in a sharp breath anyway, ragged and strained. “You’ll keep all your marks,” Sam whispers, stroking unsteady hands over Dean’s sides. “All your scars.”

Dean tries to laugh to lighten the mood, but also because his scars aren’t exactly something he’s had to worry about keeping. They crisscross over his skin, little ones mostly, paling as he got better at ducking and dodging and first aid. His hand settles on Sam’s side and the middle of his back, knows where Sam’s worst physical scars are better than he knows his own. He wonders what Sam told Jess about the one tucked under his ribs, if he told her it was from getting his appendix out instead of from pushing Dean out of the path of a pishacha when he was twelve.

“I dunno, man,” he chokes out, half laughing, “Might be easier to bag chicks if I was baby smooth-“

Sam growls, pins Dean’s wrists up above his head, looming up over him. “No more chicks,” he growls, but it’s somehow more like begging. “No more-no more. Just me.”

“Just you,” Dean says instantly, struggling free to pull Sam down on top of him. “Just you, you big jealous bitch. It was a bad joke, I’m sorry.”

“Jerk,” Sam mutters, and finally relaxes under Dean’s hands.

Dean can’t remember the last time he smiled so wide.

~*~

“So what’s your theory?” Sam asks out of the blue when they’re mopping up. He’s dragging on a new pair of boxers, new jeans, fumbling a little with the belt Dean might have damaged in the process of ripping it off Sam to get to his dick.   Dean gets caught up in the way Sam’s hands move, the curve of his spine, the sheer god damn length of him (no pun intended). He wants to bend Sam over and tuck his face against the scar in Sam’s back, wants to tackle him and wrestle until one of them gets pinned, wants to wake up with Sam’s hands on him, sucking hickeys on the back of his neck.

“Hmm? Oh.” Dean blinks, then shakes his head to clear it. No more post-orgasmic haze.

“About your Sam and-me,” Sam adds before Dean can respond. He’s really super focused on folding his dirty laundry all of a sudden.

Dean rolls his eyes. “You’re one and the same, dude.”

Sam turns just enough to give him a look, the look that means Think with your upstairs brain even though Dean definitely, definitely is. “I’m not,” Sam says, voice flat, “I’m not who I was two years ago.”

Dean gives him a look back, the Please stop being a dumbfuck look he learned from Bobby as a kid, though Bobby would probably use a nicer word. “You want to hear the theory or what?”

Sam nods, gaze slipping off Dean like it can’t find purchase.

Okay.

“I don’t know if I ever told you,” Dean says, scratching the back of his neck, “but, uh, before I killed old Yellow Eyes, he asked me if I was sure you came back 100% Sam. And I know it’s just demons spewing bullshit but I wasn’t sure, you know, not- You’d just plugged that Jake kid full of lead in cold blood right in front of me.”

“Not cold,” Sam cuts in, rounding on him. “Not cold blood, Dean. He killed me.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t-“

“I did know!” Sam shouts. “I knew, Dean. I knew I shouldn’t have come back from that, I knew you had to make a deal. I knew he’d killed me, and you had to watch me die. So I’m sorry if I lost it,” he grinds out, dragging his volume back down. “But I’d kill anyone who put you through that.”

And-well, alright, that’s a lot to swallow, but Dean manages it after a long, struggling minute. “Yeah, okay. I didn’t have that step figured in. But it doesn’t change my theory,” he says, because he can’t say it doesn’t change anything when the whole damn universe feels slotted into place.

“I don’t think you came back wrong, Sam. And I don’t think you deleted 2007-Sam when you put a wrinkle in time. You haven’t had a single vision. You said your demon blood cravings are gone. I haven’t even seen you looking twice at the demons we gank and I bet you anything 2009-Sam would’ve been tempted.”

“I-“ Sam breaks off, pale and confused. “What are you saying? I remember-“

“Yeah, you remember, of course you do.” Dean steps up, eyes locked with Sam’s. “Because it happened. But Sam, I think it took more than you had to give to run time through the shredder. I think you burned the demon blood out of you. And when that wasn’t enough, you burned your way through two whole years of poison in your system. And that left enough space for the two clean pieces to just-“ He threads his fingers together. “-mesh. Or whatever, man, I’m pulling stuff out of my ass here-”

Sam drags a hand over his face and Dean shuts up. “I don’t…I don’t know,” Sam pushes out finally, through his fingers. “It doesn’t feel…wrong…”

“Sammy.” Dean touches Sam’s arm, surprised at how easy it is. He shrugs when Sam looks at him, a little helpless gesture. “Does it matter? That Cas guy-the angel-he said this is for good. Can we just let it be? I don’t miss you. You’re right here.”

Sam blows out a shaky breath after a long, too-still moment but he nods, which is what counts. Then he looks at Dean and tries to smirk, a little bit lopsided, embarrassed. “Man, the no chick flick moments rule has really been taking a beating lately.”

Dean lifts his shoulders in a Well, what can you do? kind of shrug. “Let’s go drink beer and grunt at things. And maybe later more sex.”

“Oh yeah,” Sam says, dimples going deeper, “Manly sex.”

“Oo-rah,” Dean agrees and thumps him on the shoulder. Then he snags the duffle bag with the spray paint and fishes out a can, heading outside with it to give Sam some space.

Caleb’s house has a porch that runs all the way around the bottom floor; there are devils traps on the sheet metal Caleb covered the floorboards with, and interlocking sigils on the roof. The paint is faded a dull black, but mostly solid. The demons hadn’t attacked Caleb in his house, instead nabbed him at the Brown Jug down the road a ways and dragged him to an abandoned cabin so he wouldn’t have the home turf advantage. This place will be easy to fortify and hole up in for as long as they need.

It’s dangerous, thinking ahead like he wants to, in months and years instead of hours or days. He’s not very good at it, anyway. The picture in his head keeps shuttering in and out of focus, life on the road blurring into some half-baked notion of a white picket fence and back again, together in the Impala until the wheels fall off. Sam is always there, always solid and sharp, which is…new. It’s new but it’s good, god is it good to be sure of Sam again. Dean has to take a minute just to breathe in the feeling, this moment right here which is worth any sort of fallout if his deal goes badly.

A hand drops on his shoulder and Dean nearly twists something spinning around, paint can raised, before his body can clue in to his brain that it’s Sam. “Son of a bitch,” Dean let’s out, relaxing instantly even though he still has to play annoyed. “Jesus, Sam, I almost sprayed you in the face.”

Sam’s laugh starts small and blooms out from an clumsy, helpless snort, something Dean hasn’t seen in so long it makes his heart ache-like when he eats three cheeseburgers in one sitting and his stomach feels too full for anything else.

“I just, sorry,” Sam says when he calms a little, laughter still sneaking in between his words. “Um. I was just thinking about- We should probably figure out how to initiate kissing without it getting socially awkward, sorry, oh man, your face…” He leans back against the side of the house and just shakes with it, laughs until tears start appearing on his eyelashes. He’s got one hand on Dean’s arm, keeping him close, uses the other to wipe the wetness away with a few last scattered snickers.

Dean watches every second like he’s storing up for the apocalypse. Maybe he is. “Was that a serious question, Shirley?” he asks when Sam has calmed down.

Sam grins like he doesn’t know how to stop, kind of sheepish. “Maybe…60% serious? It’s not like we’re exactly used to displays of affection-“

“I am always showing you affection!” Dean protests.

Sam’s face scrunches a little, incredulous. “Oh yeah? What if I want to cuddle?”

“Then I’ll deal,” Dean counters. Obviously he will deal. He has done far more affectionate things for Sam in the last few hours. Cuddling is-he will never admit this, but cuddling sounds pretty good right now. He’d be exactly where Sam wants him, and nothing bad could ever happen to Sam with Dean that close.

“What if you want to cuddle?” Sam demands doggedly, the way he does when he’s looking for a chink.

“Then I’ll ask.”

“What if I want to be the little spoon?”

“Dude, that’s-“ Not what Dean had expected, actually, but absolutely cool; he still flounders for a fraction of a second. “-that’s fine-“

“What if I want to fuck you into the mattress?”

Dean chokes, just a little, in the back of his throat. But Sam’s question, as much as it is a dare, also seems genuine. Dean gives a straight answer. “I’ve seen your dick, so I want more prep than you’ve ever seen in your life, with real lube. And a condom. At least the first time. We can discuss barebacking like rational adults, and, like, a fifth of whiskey.”

Sam’s eyes went dark right around the word ‘prep’ so by the time Dean finishes they’re downright predatory.

“And,” Dean adds, rallying even though his mouth is paper dry, “I am not the only bottom in this relationship. You are not the only top. Sound good?”

“So, what?” Sam asks, lips pursed up in an attempt at fake sincerity, “We’re gonna contract out, or…”

“Ha ha ha,” Dean drawls, voice flat, face scrunched up to mimic Sam’s. “You’re hilarious.”

But Sam doesn’t look shocked or disbelieving or disgusted like Dean half-thought he might. He looks…eager, maybe, if Dean is reading him right. Sam’s eyes are still locked on his brother, mouth barely parted, intent.

“What if I just want to kiss you?” Sam asks as he takes a step closer. “Not leading to sex. A kiss just to kiss you.”

Dean is backing up before he realizes he’s moving, and stops as soon as he catches himself. At least Sam doesn’t seem thrown. “I, uh,” Dean stumbles and tries again. “Not sure I know how to kiss like that.”

“That’s why I’m asking.” Sam’s smile is just pushing at the corners of his lips, a heady mix of little brother love and something else. “I don’t want you breaking my nose just ‘cause you don’t know it’s coming.”

Sam is really close now, and really unnaturally tall. “Uh,” Dean says, and makes himself stay put. “Just say ‘heads up’ or s-“

“Heads up,” Sam cuts him off and leans in like a test, like even when Dean has spunk drying on Sam’s discarded clothes he might still push him away. Like Dean can even remember motor function when Sam is kissing him, even when it’s brief and sweet like this, warm and gone before Dean can get enough.

He narrows his eyes. “I like the kisses that lead to sex better.”

Sam’s eyes go all soft in a way Dean doesn’t know what to do with, but luckily he grins and turns them away when Dean starts shifting his weight. “Yeah, well…”

Dean has to make himself stop staring at the way Sam’s dimples keep tugging at the corners of his mouth, turns his attention back to the damn devil’s trap. “So what’s next on the list?” he asks as casually as he can. “Skipping the case we aren’t on at this moment.”

“Lilith might send some demons to teach me about sacrificing virgins for the greater good.” Sam pauses to shake up his spray paint can while Dean does his best not to sputter. “Or she might just try to kill us. Cas can’t keep Lilith out of the loop forever, and with Ruby dead…everything’s a little bit up in the air.” Sam’s jaw tightens.

“Dude,” Dean scowls, giving his brother a light shove to get that look off Sam’s face. “Nothing you or anyone can say is going to make me think we didn’t gank Ruby a second before she deserved to be ganked.”

Sam glances at Dean, visibly forces himself to chill out enough to shake his head. There’s a hint of relief in his body language that even Dean has trouble picking up on, but it’s there. “Either way, we should still make sure Caleb’s holy water sprinkler system is operational.”

“Okay.” Dean turns to finish a sigil in a puff of red paint. “What’s our timeline on getting this place demon proof?”

Sam lifts a shoulder and lets it fall in a way that pings Dean’s radar. “Couple of weeks.”

There may be a little jaw dropping, Dean isn’t going to admit it. And then he shuts his mouth, and watches the way Sam is facing away from him, and Dean knows his brother’s body language so well that he can tell Sam is feeling vulnerable just by the curve of his spine. “So we’ll just-hole up here for a while then, huh?” Dean asks, surprised to hear his voice come out kind of vulnerable around the edges.

Sam picks up on it-of course he does-but he doesn’t call Dean on it, just shifts until their shoulders knock together, warm and solid as he fits their comfort zones together into something no one else can touch.

“And then,” Sam says after a moment of nothing at all, “we’re gonna go save Corbett.” Dean watches Sam nod like it’s already final, and then Sam hmms and goes back to work. Dean could almost swear he hears Sam mumble something like, “gay love pierces through the veil of death…” but he really wouldn’t bet on it.

For some reason, watching Sam finish up the sting of the scorpion’s tail makes him think about the Sam in his dream, the one in the kitchen with the pie and the newspaper. Sam perfectly content. He can almost see bits of that Sam in this one, stubbornly digging its heels in against the parts of Sam that won’t let him breathe easy until Lilith is dead and Dean is firmly topside.

But Dean will get him there if it takes everything he has. All he has to do is stay alive. No sweat.

“You could read the timeline,” Sam offers, pausing with his spray can raised, looking back over his shoulder to Dean. “If you wanted.”

“Nah,” Dean waves off, no hesitation. He can feel a smile creeping in and lets it happen. “I like surprises.”

Sam grins wide, wide enough to push his eyes shut when ducks his head. And he’s a miracle, he’s the strongest being in the whole damn universe, and he broke the world and put it back together again in a way that meant he could keep his brother.

So Dean must be something worth fighting for.



Dean coughs out a cloud of flour, spits when it starts sticking to his teeth and tongue and sees blood hit the pavement at his feet. But it’s just a split cheek from when Lilith flung him against the wall, no big deal. It really shouldn’t send Sam skidding to his side, but maybe Sam had already been running for him.

He can hear Bela’s heaving gasps from the far corner even over the echoing ring left in his ears from Sam’s prerecorded exorcism, the clatter of the Colt against the wall before she uses both hands to steady it. Dean has one second to send a smirk her general direction before Sam is on him, one hand under his jaw and fingertips of the other prodding at the growing bruise under his eye before Dean swats him away, dropping Ruby’s bloody knife so he doesn’t accidentally stab his brother.

He doesn’t let Sam get far, though, grabs a fistful of Sam’s shirt right over his heart and holds on, as Sam fits his palm to the back of Dean’s neck and puts their foreheads together, just taking a moment to breathe.

“Did it, Sammy,” he says, and feels Sam shudder like he might fall apart.

Sam shuts his eyes for a moment and then pries them back open, pulling away just far enough to look Dean over. “Are you really okay? Don’t bullshit me, Dean, are you hurt?”

Yeah, it got a little crazy in there after the speaker system blew, Hellhound blood turning the floor slick as they fired until their trigger fingers felt raw. The flour still hasn’t settled, lingering around them in a thick, protective haze. Dean can just make out the shock of Lilith’s blond hair against the cement, and for one brief second before the dust shifts he can see the gaping hole in her head, the scorch-marks left from the Colt’s bullet. Bela is a damn good shot, got her right between the eyes and once more in the heart as she went down.

Bobby starts cussing his way over half-visible lumps of demon dogs to get to the switch for the ceiling fan, and Dean can hear the muffled groans of half-aware people reeling from the effects of mass exorcism outside the panic room. That’s going to be a mess to clean up, but not right now.

“Fine, Sammy, I’m good, promise.” Dean’s hands are roaming restlessly over Sam while he still can, but Sam touches him in systematic sweeps, pressing against all his sticky bits to see if he hisses. None of it is Dean’s blood except for the blood in his mouth. Sam leans against Dean like he doesn’t quite know how to hold himself up.

“Dean, what-“ Sam’s voice falters and gives, tremors running through his body in adrenaline-fueled, exhausted waves. Dean holds his brother tighter. “Dean, I don’t even… Wh-what the hell do we do now?”

“Dunno,” Dean says. Then, with a helpless sort of laugh, “Make our own future?”

Sam rests his hand over Dean’s amulet and his head against Dean’s, where they’re propping each other up. “Guess we’re gonna have to.”

Dean hears a faint, “Balls,” from across the room, a click, and then a hum as the ceiling fan kicks in. The first billow reveals Lilith’s empty shell for an instant, before it hides her again.

“Hey,” Dean says, knuckles bumping Sam’s chin as white dust swirls around them. “Heads up.”

THE END
comments are ♥
be sure to give your love to the artist!
Eta: this fic can now be found on AO3, where you can download it as a PDF if you're interested!