Eight Crazy Nights: Five (SPN)
sanj: Sam/Dean, please, or SPN gen, on the theme of security. PG; read it however you want.
When it’s over, Sam finds them a house for rent, cheaper than a month at a motel. Dean doesn’t tell Sam that he sleeps better in a place that feels like it’s not supposed to be somebody’s home. Dean doesn’t mind the restlessness that much. He’d rather not be trapped in sleep anyway. He doesn’t remember his dreams, but when he wakes he never feels better, so he figures they’re pretty much exactly what you’d expect for a guy with so many nightmares to choose from.
Sam puts their stuff in the same bedroom, at least. Means they’re sharing a California king, which is just barely big enough, but Dean doesn’t say a word, even with Sam peeking out from under his bangs as if expecting some of Dean’s usual aspersions on his masculinity. Things are still fragile enough that if he complains Sam might well call his bluff, and Dean isn’t ready for that. Dean’s not sure if he’ll be able to sleep at all without the sound of Sam breathing nearby, the glow of his laptop, even the sour smell of his dirty clothes.
What Dean really doesn’t like, what makes a roadside motel ten times better, is that in a house the door and the windows are on freaking opposite sides of the room, which defeats his usual side-picking strategy. On the occasions they’ve stayed in motels where the doors are on a central corridor, Dean’s reluctantly chosen the door side, after closing the curtains and salting and blessing the windowsills, but he’s never been comfortable with that. For some reason his agitation is worse in a house, even though they’re on the second floor and so he should have a lot less to worry about in terms of what might come through the window. Being up that high just makes him nervous. If there was an emergency (a fire), it’d be the stairs or a broken bone, and that’s just not enough choices.
Sam seems content to be where they are, and it’s not like Dean’s got some better plan (drive, drive, drive, let the road run forever on-Dean knows that’s a song and not something he gets to have). The house is always cold, but Sam doesn’t say anything and Dean gives up tinkering with the heater after the first week because it never seems to make any difference. Sam buys food at the grocery store four blocks away and carries the bags back: it’s bad for the environment to drive such short distances, Dean. Dean rolls his eyes and cooks; it’s criminal what Sam can do to innocent cuts of meat, and not the good kind of criminal either.
Sam spends his days at the library. Or he tells Dean so, and Dean knows what will happen if he checks up on Sam and gets caught, which is pretty much the way his luck runs, so he decides to believe Sam. There are a bunch of things Sam can do at the library that end up with Sam elsewhere, so it’s plausible enough.
Dean spends his days restocking. They are near to out of regular ammo, not having bothered with that during the almost-Apocalypse, and he drives around until he finds a gun shop where the owner has the right kind of memorabilia over the door and behind the counter. Dad knew almost all of them, but it’s been years and new folks are popping up, especially with all the shit that had gone down with Lucifer. This one’s a woman, reminds Dean of Ellen but maybe that’s just the fact that he misses her and he doesn’t have any better models for scary mom-type hot chicks. He wants very much to get down on his knees for Lexa, but she’s wearing a ring and also, much as he wants it, he knows he’s not in any shape to risk rejection by someone whose opinion matters to him for even a second.
So all he does is pay for the bullets, and the more exotic equipment, with their cash reserves. Then he goes to the magic shop Lexa refers him to, which allows him to replace what Lexa couldn’t help him with.
After that he doesn’t have much to do, other than detail the car. He’s been neglecting her for too long, so that eats up a couple of days, but Sam’s still heading to the library first thing in the morning, never a word about what he’s doing there. Dean remembers when he had to tune out Sam’s recap of his day-kid could give you every detail of what the teachers had said and still find time to explain who among his classmates wanted to get in whose pants-and while he doesn’t want that back (learned well enough that Sam wasn’t that boy any more and Dean had no business trying to keep him in a box, even if the box would’ve held him), he’d appreciate some sort of one-sentence summary. He isn’t looking forward to “I’ve found a school that will take my credits from Stanford,” but he’d appreciate some warning that it’s coming.
And, yeah, a lot of his internal whining is jealousy, he gets that. If he had more than a GED and a bad attitude, if he’d seen normal as close as Sam had for more than a couple hallucinated/angel-wiped days, he’d be aching to jump on that train too. He lets himself wallow because he’s decided he’s going to be happy for Sam when the time comes, and the promise is what lets him indulge in the meantime.
So it’s kind of a shock when he comes back to the house from a day spent doing a little recon for a friend of Lexa’s, a hunter who wants to get some experience with black dogs, and finds Sam all set up in the dining room, Dean’s favorite mac and cheese in a baking dish Sam must’ve scared up from somewhere, a beer sweating right by Dean’s plate.
This is it, Dean thinks, and it’s a relief, like finally seeing the ghost or feeling the werewolf’s hot breath at the back of your neck.
“Why the party?” he asks, proud that his smirk feels like it’s working. Wasted effort, because Sam’s staring down at his plate, willing to stick the knife in but not to watch the blood-and no, Dean’s not gonna be that guy. This is hard, really hard, and Sam’s entitled to his defenses same as Dean to his. Dean shuffles his feet, then sits down and serves himself, still waiting for Sam’s answer. He hunches into his jacket against the chill in the room, curses himself for giving up on the bastard heater.
“I’ve been thinking,” Sam says, low, his hair falling down over his eyes. “We should go back to Indiana.”
Dean takes a bite, chews. It’s really good. Dean kind of wants to ask whether Sam performed a ritual to improve his cooking, but he doesn’t think the joke would fly tonight. Swallows. “What’s in Indiana?”
Sam looks up now. His jaw is set, decision made. Dean feels something like a pain all down his right arm, fights to keep it off his face. “Lisa. And Ben.”
Dean doesn’t drop his fork, but it’s a near thing. “What?”
Sam’s nostrils flare. “Look, I know-I know what you want, what you think you can’t have. But things are different now, and-you’ll be an awesome father. I want you to get that, get out of this. You deserve-” He stops, and Dean is glad beyond the telling of it, because Sam tends to forget that any calculation of what Dean deserves ought to take ten years in Hell into account.
Dean clears his throat. “What’s your plan, then?”
And there goes the eye contact. Sam plays with his food for a second. “I’ve been talking online to these hunters, there’s kind of a group of them. I was thinking I’d join up. Actually,” he grins, like they’re in some conspiracy together, “I’ve been using the name Sam Wesson.”
It was a good precaution, even if most of the people who knew the extent of the Winchesters’ involvement in nearly ending the world were already dead. If Dean forced aside the automatic rejection of putting Sam’s safety in anyone’s hands but his own, it wasn’t a terrible plan. Except-“I don’t get it,” putting every bit of honesty he possessed into the words. “I figured you were gonna, you know, retire.”
“Retire?” Sam repeats, as incredulous as if Dean had just suggested he join the ballet. “Dean, what I did-I can’t just walk away. I can’t-repentance isn’t enough. I’ve got to do something, even if it’s never going to be enough.”
Dean’s hand jerks and he nearly knocks over his beer. He bolts to his feet, unable to do this without pacing. “And what the fuck do you think I should be doing? First seal, last seal, there’s no difference! You think it’s okay for me to walk, or you just think I can’t cut it any more?”
“You could get out,” Sam repeats, like Dean will understand if he just says it louder. “You, you have this life waiting for you, and you could have it.”
Dean scrubs at the back of his neck, looks down at his boots. They’re scuffed and they still have Lucifer’s blood on them, though honestly that makes him less likely to clean them rather than more. “’s not waiting for me, Sam.” He shoots Sam a look that makes his brother subside. “Lisa, she’s seeing this guy, works construction. I, uh, I got a text from Ben last week. He sounds happy. People move on.” Except for me, he thinks. Dean only moves in space. So in a way it’s perfect that he’s got forty more years on him than anyone thinks to look at him.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says, subdued.
Dean shrugs. Maybe he fantasized, a lifetime ago, but who doesn’t? Sam might as well have picked Cassie, or Jamie, or any of a dozen others. “So, now that’s settled, is this you sayin’ you want to split up?”
Sam freezes. After a minute, he makes as if to stand up, then seems to think better of it, like he doesn’t want to spook Dean (which it wouldn’t’ve; Dean’s gotten over the split-second of wondering, when his brother approaches, whether it’s for good or ill). “I want what’s good for you,” he says cautiously.
Dean shouldn’t snigger, but he’s weak like that, and Sam gets this pissy look on his face that Dean never fails to find even more hilarious, and suddenly he’s laughing so hard he has to sit back down in his chair. By the time he’s able to stop, his stomach hurts and Sam looks like he’s fixing to come over and pound Dean a couple of good ones. “Sorry,” he gasps, slapping his hand down on the table and narrowly missing getting a palmful of cooling mac and cheese. “But do you really think either of us knows what’s good for us?”
Sam’s curled lip isn’t much of a smile, but it’ll do for a bandage. “When you put it like that …” he says.
“I thought you were planning to go back to school,” Dean admits, and it feels good to say the words, like he’s had food poisoning and just needed to empty himself out.
Sam shakes his head, but more like he’s just now figuring out what was going on in Dean’s mind (and if he does get it, he’s more than welcome to let Dean know; Dean’s often curious himself). “Afraid you’re stuck with me,” he says, and the room is suddenly about ten degrees warmer.
“Back at you,” Dean mumbles, then immediately stuffs a bite of dinner into his mouth and grabs at his beer. Maybe he’s overplaying it a little, but if they do more revelations now he’s seriously going to melt into a puddle of hunter goo on the floor, because he’s that fried.
Besides, he figures he can say more of what he’s got inside tonight, when the lights are off. Sam will give him that, easy.
Sam, maybe, will give him what he wants all around.
justabi: Smith/Wesson fic, only not the like *waves hands* sanitized incestless happy wincest stuff. I want House of Yes Wesson family dynamics, because seriously I always wanted Jo to actually be their sister and want Dean like burning anyway, and the irony of boyfriend Sam being horrified by wessoncest would make my life complete. Note: AU in that Sam and Dean stay mindwiped for a while. NC-17, Sam Wesson/Dean Smith/Jo Smith.
In retrospect, Sam should have known that meeting the Smith family was not going to go well when Dean’s little sister spared him not a glance before she for-real climbed up Dean, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing their cheeks together. Dean just closed his eyes (and was he breathing in her smell, would he do that in public? Sam was never sure; his memory was not to be relied on) and hugged her right back, twisting back and forth a little, almost like he was rocking her.
Then somehow Sam was shuffled into the back seat of the rental, even though he was practically taller than Dean and Jo stacked together, and Jo commisserated with Dean about his fear of flying all the way to the Smith house. The little in-jokes and half-told stories were way too frequent to be anything but deliberate on Jo’s part. Dean looked a little guilty when he caught Sam’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, but he kept on talking to Jo.
And Sam felt bad when he thought about it: Dean hadn’t seen his family in nearly a year, and he was coming home to explain how he’d left his Stanford education and his high-powered, high-paying job to travel the country with his slacker boyfriend, all of which were pretty big changes. They weren’t going to explain the hunting ghosts part, but that absence of rationale was likely to make the conversation even more stilted. Dean could use all the goodwill he could get, including from playing ‘how it used to be’ with his sister.
Dinner went better than he’d feared. Ellen Smith obviously suspected that Sam was corrupting her little boy beyond the whole gay sex thing, but she was polite, and Bobby-Sam quickly learned he was serious about not being called Mr. Smith-was nearly friendly, once he’d shown Sam his gun collection. Jo was mostly silent, picking at her food and snapping at Ellen when she asked her daughter about how college was going. Sam filled the silence by talking about his own background and telling a couple of innocuous tech support stories that had nothing to do with either hot guys in elevators or vengeful spirits.
They all turned in early, not having talked much about Dean’s present circumstances or his future, which was fine by Sam. Ellen’s smile was strained when she showed them both up to Dean’s room, laden with stacks of towels, but Sam was just grateful not to have been exiled to a different part of the house.
The two of them changed into their sweats-sleeping in the nude was definitely not for family visits-and Sam read for a while, books the Ghostfacers site had suggested, while Dean tinkered with an old iPod. He had some idea of turning it into an EMF reader.
Right about when Sam was thinking about suggesting that they turn in for the night, there was a soft knock on the door. Without waiting for a reply, Jo pushed the door open and leaned into the room, smiling big at Dean. “So,” she said. “Was dinner awkward enough for you?”
Dean snorted, and Sam took that as his cue to smile and nod as well, not that Jo was looking at him. She came in and leaned up against the door, locking it behind her. She was wearing a white tank top and baby blue boy shorts, and carrying a bottle of Jack. God had blessed the Smith family with two extremely attractive children this generation, Sam thought, trying very hard to keep his eyes above Jo’s neck.
“I say,” Jo announced, “that as your sister, I have a need to get to know Sam better.” She brandished the alcohol. “This’ll help.”
She hadn’t brought glasses, so they ended up passing the bottle around, Jo telling embarrassing stories from Dean’s childhood and Dean reciprocating. It wasn’t as tense as it had been in the car, like Jo was trying to bond with Sam, even if it was by showing how well she knew Dean and Sam really didn’t; it felt more like she was giving him useful information. Plus, once she was tipsy, her stories were pretty hilarious-Dean’s pretty face and his, let’s face it, somewhat self-centered attitude had apparently gotten him into a number of scrapes when they were growing up. Sam particularly liked the one with the teacher’s aide, the supply closet, and the visiting show choir.
“So tell me, big bro,” Jo said at last, showing her teeth, “what convinced you to cross the line?” Sam was leaning against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him, while she was crosslegged, her knee snugged against his thigh, and Dean perched on the end of the bed, watching them both with drunken amusement.
Dean took another swig. “Well,” he said, and there was something sharp in the way he looked back and forth between them, “I don’t like to brag, but. Let’s just say Sam’s real convincing when he wants to be.”
Jo leaned over and peered at Sam’s crotch. Sam was just tipsy enough that he smirked at her and spread his legs a little. Her thigh was warm against his.
“Hunh,” she said, biting her lower lip. “Do you share?”
Later, Sam would think that she’d never specified who she was asking, but in the moment, with all the blood rushing to his dick, it didn’t occur to him to wonder.
So that was how he found himself on his back, in a bed that threatened to collapse under their combined weight, while Dean slicked him up and rode his cock and Jo sat on his face. He couldn’t see much, just got the vague impression that Jo was squeezing her own breasts as she surged up and down. She was delicious-Sam really missed eating a girl out-and she made little choked-off noises that showed how much she was into it.
“Come on,” she urged, when they were all close; he could feel her fingers working alongside his tongue, and then Dean spattered all over Sam’s stomach and onto Jo’s back; he could feel the come dripping off of her skin and onto his chest, which was enough to bring him off too.
And then Jo pulled herself up on her knees, hovering above him so that he was panting into the sweetness of her pussy, and said, “Are you gonna clean this mess up?”
Dean made a punched sound and raised off of Sam, still braced over him, and started licking his come off the skin of her back. When he was done with her, he dropped down (Jo moving to one side so that she could watch; out of the corner of his eye Sam saw her arm moving, still working herself) and did the same with the streaks and drips on Sam’s skin. Then he laid down on Sam, so hot and heavy that it was hard for Sam to breathe, and licked over every inch of Sam’s face, sucking off all the juices, holding Sam pinned with hands wrapped around Sam’s shoulders.
Sam probably should have been horrified, but he was too busy getting another incredibly insistent erection, humping incoherently up against Dean.
He was never sure how Jo pried Dean off of him, but all of a sudden she was the one on top, slick and thrilling around him. She set a fast rhythm, each bounce of her breasts draining more of Sam’s intelligence, until Dean’s hands came around her back to cup them, his darker fingers denting her pale flesh. Jo’s head was thrown back to rest on Dean’s shoulder, her whole body leaning back into him, while Dean stared down at Sam as if daring him to freak out. Dean’s weight rested on Sam’s legs, keeping him pinned, and when Sam came he had to muffle his scream against his own forearm.
He closed his eyes then, feeling the bed shake as they reconfigured themselves, and heard the soft sounds as Dean pulled his pants back on and Jo got herself dressed. He didn’t know what he was thinking. He wasn’t going to think. There were ghosts and demons in the world, and this was still almost inconceivable, like it hadn’t really happened.
“You’ve got him now,” Jo whispered in his ear just before she got up to sneak back to her own room. “But he’ll always be my brother.”
Sam thought about that line a lot, after he got his memories back.
thuviaptarth: Dean pov during Only Sweeter (Sam/Dean)
When Dean asked about Sam’s memories of learning to walk, Sam said that most people didn’t remember much of anything until they were four or five. Dean hadn’t picked learning to walk for any particular reason; he just didn’t know how it worked, the whole memory thing.
“What’s the first thing you remember?” he asked Sam as a follow-up. He had about two questions before Sam got antsy-like Sam was ashamed of being a whole person when Dean wasn’t. He’d ask about Sam’s past whenever it seemed like Sam was in a mood to give him more. Dean didn’t think it was about living vicariously through Sam; he just wanted to know who Sam was. He thought about it like this: if he’d been in a wheelchair, he wouldn’t have wanted Sam to pretend not to be able to walk. Not that Sam would have enjoyed that comparison one bit, so he didn’t share it.
Anyway, Sam chewed over that question for a while before he answered. “My brother,” he said, which Dean totally should have expected. Some days he kind of hated poor dead John Winchester, which was really unfair but nonetheless true. Despite Sam’s occasional grumblings, it was obvious that Sam thought the man had walked on water, and Dean was acutely aware that he was a damn disappointing substitute, a paper-doll cutout compared to the real man.
“What about him?” Dean wasn’t a glutton for punishment, not entirely. It was just that, for all his sighing and sad eyes, Sam seemed better after he’d shared one of his memories of John, as if he might be able to keep him alive in somebody else’s head. And (another thing Dean was never going to say to Sam), Dean certainly had the room to store Sam’s shared reminiscences.
Sam’s eyes unfocused, and his lips turned up. “Tying my shoes,” he said. “‘Don’t trip,’ he told me. I was probably three? He barely knew how to tie his own shoes, but-” He stopped and blinked. Dean recognized that the moment was over. If he didn’t cheer Sam up, the night was going to go downhill quick.
“Speaking of ties,” Dean said, and grabbed for the red-and-blue-striped annoyance he’d worn as an FBI agent for about eight hours too long that day. He held it out invitingly, wrapping one end around his wrist.
Sam tilted his head, like he was thinking about calling Dean on his diversionary tactics. But then he must’ve remembered just how much he liked Dean’s diversionary tactics, because he smiled and raised his eyebrows, drawing Dean towards him easy as water flowing downhill, and that was the end of the night’s history lesson.
END
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