Knowledge of Dead Secrets (10 of 10)
Dean wakes up to the slow sense of someone touching his neck. He lies there for a minute, trying to remember what’s going on, but then the finger strokes one of the charms and he knows its Sam just from the action, deliberate and yet restrained, as if Sam’s cataloguing texture and sensation for future reference.
Dean’s not excited about that, because it makes him feel like Sam’s doing this to leave again, like his brother’s taking the opportunity to make one more memory, to answer one more internal question, before skipping town, so he reaches up, grips Sam’s wrist tightly.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice ragged with sleep, and as Dean opens his eyes, he sees that it’s dark, that they’ve been sleeping at least six hours, maybe more.
“Wondering why you’re still wearing the charm to help you understand Creole,” Sam replies, and from the sound of his voice, he hasn’t been awake long either. “It should’ve worn off by now.”
That makes Dean feel a little better, especially when he says, “Maybe I just like it,” and Sam snort-laughs, shakes his head a bit, sends curls flying every which way. “Say something in Creole, then,” Dean suggests. “We’ll see if it has. I didn’t notice.”
Sam shrugs a little, slides his hand out of Dean’s hold, and sits up, cross-legged, looking down at Dean. “Why did you come back?” he says, but Dean’s watching Sam’s mouth, doesn’t see lips matching up with sound.
“Well, it still works,” Dean mutters, before he reaches up again, pulls Sam back down and holds Sam to his side, nestled there, until Sam relaxes, starts drawing little circles around Dean’s belly-button.
“You gonna answer the question?” Sam asks, and even though it’s Sam, Dean hears strains of the south in his brother’s voice, echoes of heat and swamps, depths of bayou and lake, sun-drenched and sweat-shimmering.
He’s not sure what to say, whether to say that Sam’s his brother, of course he’d be back, or about what John said, that Dean needs to protect his brother, or what Lakwa said about grounding Sam before he turns Petro and goes homicidal, or what, because everything he can think of makes it sound like he’s doing this because someone else told him to or because he’s worried, doesn’t trust Sam’s judgment.
Finally, Sam still waiting and more patient than Dean ever would have given his brother credit for before he went to California, Dean says, “I can’t do this alone, Sam.”
He’s not sure what he’s talking about, whether he means the job, or being here in the south, or even living, but when Sam says, just as quietly, “Yes, you can,” he knows Sam understands, gets instantly, like he never has before, that Sam has a fear of being rejected by his family just as much as Dean’s scared of them leaving him alone.
“Yeah, well,” he says, tightening his grip on Sam for just a moment. “I don’t want to.”
Sam’s quiet for a long time and Dean’s content to lay there and wait, listening to his brother breathing, hearing Sam’s heart beat. Sam finally says, “They won’t ever go, Dean. I’ve got their vévés in my head and on my skin, and I’ve bound myself to them, willingly. Can you accept that?”
“I don’t think I have a choice,” Dean says wryly. He feels Sam start to pull away, not physically, but out of this quiet, open space they’ve created, and he goes on, says, “They aren’t that bad. Danny’s got a mouth on her the size of Texas, and the other two are downright terrifying, but I’ll get used to it. I wasn’t crazy about it, I’m still not, I probably won’t ever be, but one good thing’s come out of this.”
He can almost hear Sam frown, so when Sam asks him what the benefit is, Dean grins, leans up and looks down at Sam, gives his brother a smirk, and says, “Lean back, and I’ll show you.”
Sam’s got a puzzled look on his face but he does as Dean says, and the gasp that comes out of his lips when Dean leans down and lets his tongue glide across one sweeping line of ink is one of the best noises Dean’s ever heard Sam make.
“I’m going to lick every inch of every one of these tattoos,” Dean murmurs, letting his tongue flick out to taste another line of ink, this one small, pink, heart-shaped. “And you’re going to tell me what they all mean and when you got them, whether they hurt or not and where you were.” His teeth graze the next tattoo, black-outlined bone near one of Sam’s nipples. “If you stop, we’ll just have to start all over again.”
“I don’t think I’ll,” Sam starts to say, though his words break apart into a groan as Dean circles his tongue around Sam’s other nipple, tracing a curlicue, before sucking on the hard nub, biting down and pulling gently with his teeth, eyes watching the look on Sam’s face.
Dean grins, leans back, and says, “You don’t think you’ll what, little brother?”
Sam opens his eyes, glares at Dean, and says, “Story time later. Fuck now,” and yanks Dean, pulls him up, starts sucking on Dean’s lips, hips canting to rub his cock against Dean’s. “Come on, Dean,” he murmurs, biting on Dean’s lower lip, gliding his tongue across the nip a moment later, soothing out the sting.
It’s never been easy to resist Sam’s puppy-dog eyes, but looking down, seeing the way Sam’s eyes looked back in St. Louis, dark and hot, Dean completely loses his ability to refuse. He likes the look in Sam’s eyes, the way he put it there, wants to see how big Sam’s pupils can dilate, how Sam sounds when Dean’s buried deep inside him, whether Sam talks or screams or does nothing but pant when he’s being fucked.
“Do you have,” Dean starts to ask, but he stops when Sam looks up at him and shakes his head. “A place to hide,” he sighs, leans up, away from his brother. He’s got lube and condoms out in the Impala but the thought of having to put on jeans, at the very least, and run out to get them doesn’t exactly help the mood.
Sam’s fingers stroke down Dean’s chest, and Dean looks down at his brother, thoughtfully.
“When Danny,” Sam says, and Dean tilts his head. “She didn’t lie,” Sam says, as if he’s worried Dean doesn’t believe him, is getting upset. “I’m clean. We all were, and we made sure we got tested every six weeks. I don’t,” he pauses, swallows, “I don’t know what access you’ve had to tests, but I. Dean, it doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does,” Dean says, but he leans back down, licks a stripe up Sam’s face, stubble burning against his tongue. “I’m clean, but I have things in the car.”
Sam shudders against him, under him, and says, “We’ll get them later.” Dean moves down, starts sucking at the skin under Sam’s jaw, and he can feel Sam’s adam’s apple move when Sam adds, “Dean, come on, please.”
The plea, almost begging, it’s enough to have Dean raise an eyebrow as well as his head, looking at his brother’s face, and he sees behind Sam’s mask, all of Sam’s barriers down like they haven’t been in years. His breath catches in his throat, seeing it, the way Sam’s face is filled with such desperate longing, such pained need, and Dean’s cock throbs, hard and leaking pre-come.
“Fuck you so hard,” Dean mutters, crawling down Sam’s body and playing with thin, wiry hairs around the base of Sam’s dick. Sam arches, so Dean does it again, scratches his fingers the same way, and watches with a smirk as Sam groans, thigh muscles tensing. “Make you scream so loud, all those fancy neighbours of yours’ll be calling the cops.”
Sam laughs, high and shaky sound, and spreads his legs. “Bet you can’t,” he says.
Dean glances up, sees challenge under the need, lust under the desperation. Its better, but not what he wanted, not yet, so he shoots Sam a cocky grin and puts one finger in his mouth, starts sucking, cheeks hollowing.
“Fuck,” Sam says, eyes fixated on Dean’s finger sliding in and out of Dean’s mouth. Sam smiles, licks his lips and moves his hips, one hand snaking down to lazily stroke at his dick. “Anytime,” he says, then, and arches up.
--
Sam’s a talker, pours words into Dean’s ears that don’t help Dean’s concentration, push Dean toward orgasm faster than he’s strictly comfortable with. He’s moving inside of his brother, fucking Sam deep and hard and slow, Sam’s heels pressing into Dean’s back, and it’s not perfect but it’s on its way there.
Dean’s learning his brother in a whole new way, learning the keys to a new language of Sam, the groans and whimpers and growls, what he has to do to get Sam panting, to have Sam arch beneath him, to have Sam shift from lewd English into even filthier Creole. Sam’s moving, fucking himself on Dean just as much as Dean’s fucking him, not fighting but not laying there, either, somewhere in the middle, and as Dean slides out and then moves in again, Sam bends his spine and shudders, coming all over his stomach.
Sam’s clenched around Dean’s cock as he rides out his orgasm, and Dean’s never been in someone so hot before, never had his dick gripped so tightly. It makes him groan, twist a little, and the next thrust is harder, deeper, like he’s trying to find out how to bury all of himself inside of Sam.
“Come on, Dean,” Sam whispers, breath still ragged, riding the waves and valleys of aftershock. “Wanna feel you come in me, split me apart, come on, milk you dry.”
Dean thrusts once, twice, five times, and then freezes, motions jerking to a halt as he spills inside of Sam.
--
It’s hot and dirty and messy, but when Dean pulls out and Sam groans, when Dean lies down and Sam sighs, turns over and curls into him, unable to hide a vaguely surprised wince, it’s worth it. Dean reaches down on the floor, picks up his t-shirt and wipes off his dick, reaches over and wipes drying come off of Sam’s stomach, then tosses the shirt in the direction of the door, just so long as its not on or near the bed.
They’re quiet, content to lie there for a long time, let silent minutes pass. Dean’s mind is whirling under a post-coital haze, trying to figure out how things have changed so much in two months, how they could move from him thinking of Sam as his brother to this, fucking his brother, his brother who also happens to be something near-sacred to the vodouisantes across the country.
Dean thinks of the charms around his neck, pieces of tin that bounce against his amulet, and says, “The first charm you gave me, back in San Francisco,” feeling Sam’s lazy breathing hitch, “what did it do?”
Sam tilts his head, looks up at Dean with shuttered eyes, asks, “Why?”
“The demon said something about it,” Dean says, taken aback at the look in Sam’s eyes, the way it makes his brother look old, the way it shows hints of the loa circling in his mind. “He said something about children, about how your gift was the best, and that the charm, it was like you were there in my place.”
Dean feels Sam pulling away and holds his brother tighter, won’t let Sam leave. Sam fights the hold for a moment, like he actually believes Dean will let him go again, but Dean says, “No, Sam. I’m not letting you run off again, not without a fight. You can tell me anything.”
Sam tenses, then his muscles shake as Sam forces them to relax. “The charm, it draws up memories of, of home. Safe places,” Sam says, and Dean wonders what Sam would think if he told his brother what he saw that first time, what he felt, holding the charm.
“Using connections like that’s always been the best way to protect something, but I put some of myself in it as well, the gift I have. Pierre told you I have vévés drawn in my head,” Sam says after a moment, and his tone of voice makes Dean shiver. “It’s more than that. It’s like an open invitation to possession. The gift, it was blocked for a long time, maybe because of Mom, we’re not sure. When it started to open, that’s when I was in San Francisco, and the loa found me somehow and pushed me to the café.”
Sam pauses, shifts a little, and then adds, “When the loa came in, that first night, they blocked off the opening and turned it into a vévé so that demons, spirits, things like that, can’t come in. If they aren’t there, it’s like my mind being open to everything, anything. It’s terrifying,” Sam says, and his voice sounds hollow, blank.
Dean tightens his hold on Sam, gives him something physical to hold on to, and says, softly, “The Rohypnol blocks that off?” He tries not to sound judgmental, tries not to sound accusing or pissy, because he’s honestly curious, baffled as to how this works.
“Yeah,” Sam murmurs. “Clouded my mind enough to make it feel like there was a loa inside, enough to make me forget that there wasn’t.”
“But you won’t need it anymore,” Dean says, pushing. “Since you’ve bound the Petro to yourself. Why didn’t you ever do that before?”
Sam’s silent for long enough that Dean thinks his brother’s fallen asleep, maybe, or drifted off in to some quiet communication with the loa, and he’s about to ask, but then Sam says, “Because I always thought I’d find some way out of this.” He’s quiet, too quiet, sounds almost broken underneath the blank tone he’s using. “If I never bound myself to them, I always had the hope that I could leave, that I could go back to, to you and Dad, I guess, and no one would ever know.”
Dean hadn’t been expecting that, and in his sad shock, he says, “You did it for me,” like he’s only just now getting it, even though he knew that before, knew it but didn’t want to accept it, that it’s for him that Sam’s given up every hope and dream of normality he ever had.
Sam pulls away, slips out of Dean’s hold like soap, slick and sour, and before Dean can react, Sam’s out of the bedroom. Dean doesn’t wait, though, doesn’t even stop to think, gets up and follows Sam downstairs, through the living room to someplace in the back, laundry room with clothes everywhere, dirty ones piled near the dryer, clean ones folded, hanging up, the room reeking of detergent and fabric conditioner, hot humid air swirling the smell around through an open window.
Sam’s putting clothes on when Dean fists his hands in Sam’s t-shirt, slams Sam against the wall, knocking Sam’s head back with an audible thunk.
“You did it for me,” Dean growls, before biting his way into Sam’s mouth. He fucks Sam’s mouth with his tongue, until Sam’s limp and pliant under him, arms wrapped around Dean’s neck. Dean pulls back, bumps his forehead against Sam’s, says, “I’m not letting you run away again, Sam. You’re stuck with me, okay? Dad told me to make sure I have your back, Lakwa told me not to leave you alone, and I don’t want to have to explain to either of them why I’m not here with you.”
Sam sighs, thumps his head back so he can look away, past Dean, not into his brother’s eyes as he says, “Dean, just because they told you.”
Dean cuts him off, takes Sam’s chin in his hand, forces Sam to look at him. “You know I hate talking about shit, so I’m only going to say this one more time before I fuck you right here. I am not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me. I don’t give a damn what anyone else says and I don’t give a damn about the loa, they’ll have to learn to deal with me. I’m not going anywhere and neither are you. Got it?”
Sam searches Dean’s eyes, finally rolls his eyes and leans forward, presses his lips against Dean’s for a split-second. Dean knows Sam could disappear if he wanted, knows Sam could run and make Dean forget all about his brother if he wanted, so when Sam says, “Got it,” a thrill of triumph runs up and down Dean’s spine.
“Good,” Dean mutters, then strips Sam, flips him and presses his hands to the wall. “Don’t move them,” he orders, voice dark, ragged, and feels Sam shudder underneath him.
They fuck and there’s nothing nice, soft, or gentle about it. Sam pants, scratches his nails into the wall, and Dean’s leaving fingerprint bruises on Sam’s hips, biting into the tattoos curling their way around Sam’s neck, raking his teeth over skin and drawing blood more often than not. It’s vicious, fast, and Dean buries his teeth in Sam’s shoulder when he comes.
Sam’s pleading, begging, and Dean pulls out, drops to his knees and whirls Sam around, swallows Sam’s dick down his throat. Nails rake through his hair, dig into the back of his skull, and Sam comes, spills thick and salty inside of Dean’s mouth, head thrown back and body gleaming with sweat.
Dean leans forward, rests one cheek on Sam’s hipbone, and tries to catch his breath, can feel Sam doing the same.
“Stuck with you, huh?” Sam asks, and Dean looks up, surprised, but relaxes when he sees Sam smiling easy and lazy. “More like to you.”
Dean snorts, stands up, feels one knee pop, and leans on Sam, warmer and more inviting than the wall. “What’s a guy have to do to get some food around here?” he asks. “Because damn, I could eat a horse.”
Sam laughs, says, “How’s sandwiches sound? There’s a new place that just opened up a couple blocks over, they’re pretty good, and they should still be open.” At Dean’s puzzled look, Sam grins even wider, says, “Two a.m., give or take five minutes,” and nods at what Dean guesses is a clock behind him.
“Sandwiches it is,” he says, reluctantly pulling himself away from Sam. He looks down at himself, still naked, wipes a stray strand of come off of his chin, and says, “Do we need to shower for sandwiches?”
--
Dean looks down at the plate in front of him with a raised eyebrow. Sam had said sandwiches, so Dean was thinking of something small, cut into four corners with fries or chips piled in the middle and a pickle spear on the side, but this plate is huge and the sandwich on it is even bigger.
Sam, across from him, rubs his foot against Dean’s under the table, and after Dean looks up, says with a shrug, “It’s not New Orleans, not even the café in San Francisco, but they’re good. Still southern, y’know?”
“Starting to get that impression,” Dean says, and ponders the best way to attack the sandwich on his plate, some kind of monstrous pile of meats and cheeses inside of enough bread to remind his stomach he hasn’t eaten more than beignets since the Georgia state line. Finally he just picks part of the sandwich up and hopes no one’s laughing at him.
Sam grins when Dean looks at him, but doesn’t say anything, just does the same, and the two sit there in silence, stuffing their faces. Their waitress comes over with a pitcher of sweet tea, refills their glasses, says, “Y’all’re up late,” eyelashes flickering in invitation.
Dean smiles, says, “Yes, ma’am, we are,” and doesn’t take her up on it. He sees Sam duck his head and try to hide a grin, and Dean’s smile turns warm, soft. He doesn’t realise the waitress is still looking at them until he sees her eyes widen in recognition, then she smiles, tilting her head to the side.
“Y’all enjoying Savannah?” she asks, like if they aren’t, she’ll go after whoever’s responsible with her bare hands.
This time it’s Sam who answers, and he lets loose with his best southern drawl, something Dean’s teased the edges of but has never actually heard, and he’s blindsided by how natural it sounds coming from Sam’s throat, how much it makes his cock throb.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam says. “Enjoyin’ it just fine, thanks for asking.”
Dean’s phone, jammed in his pocket, starts ringing Styx, and he’s fishing it out as the waitress is smiling and telling them to wave her over if they need anything else. Dean's focused on Sam, the way Sam's watching him, so he doesn’t check the caller ID, answers without even looking, says, “Hello?”
Sam looks over, frowning, and understands the sudden panic Dean’s showing as soon as Dean says, “Dad. Hi.”