Questions Already Have Answers
Title: Questions Already Have Answers
Author: jalu2
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 2,363
Spoilers: Up to episode 8.22
Summary: Dean’s still pissy because Sam didn’t look for him while he was in purgatory. So he chains his brother up. Seems legit.
Warnings: Bondage, D/s elements, edgeplay (gunplay), small amounts of S&M. Started off as a PWP...evolved into something grand.
A/N: I don’t even fucking know. Blame Dean - he’s the one that said “We have a dungeon, Sammy!” (or, y’know, words to that effect).
Disclaimer: Supernatural does not belong to me. This piece of fiction was written from entertainment purposes only, no profit is gained.
They’ve got a dungeon. Weirdest fucking thing Dean’s ever thought to see owned by a Winchester. Well, the white picket fence with flowers lining the drive would win. At least the Men of Letters headquarters is in the middle of where-are-we-again and it’s mostly dirt with patches of grass Sam won’t let him cut.
The dungeon, with chains, and darkened walls, and a hidden entrance only two people in the whole world know about. Good reason for that. Good reason for anyone and everyone to sit behind the prison walls the Winchester’s have involved themselves in. It’s a crazy, mind-twisting, turn the world upside down in order to believe confusing. Dean and Sam stopped letting the world in a long time ago, too much effort, and Dean can’t find anyone else who understands.
He’s leaning against a wall, freezing cold bricks dripping through his shirt. Sam’s there, across from him, hands held high with him trying out the new additions. The restraints of metal, covered in all the intricate spell work college boy tried to decipher, but he failed after the first pentagram. So Dean had just shrugged and told Sammy he’s getting tied up.
That was close to an hour ago, and now they’re just watching each other.
“Didn’t think I’d say it, Sam,” Dean says, “But there’s something fucking hot about you like that.”
Sam looks at him and Dean thinks there’s a smile. He’s not allowed to talk, not yet. Dean just holds onto the quiet, closes his eyes briefly and presses his head against frozen bricks. Sam’s safe in front of him, Sam’s not going anywhere.
When he walks forward it’s with his eyelids still down, feeling his way with touch and memory. Sam plays the eyes and his skin plays the sensor, Dean’s hands running over his brother’s bare chest, fingertips pressing ripped muscle and the hint of bone. He presses teeth down, bites gently on a segment of skin, and Sam’s taking in a harsh breath. Dean opens his eyes.
“You haven’t said why you didn’t look for me.” He didn’t want to turn this into a sharing-and-caring chick-flick session, but the question’s been burning tight in his chest and he knows it’s going to erupt one way or another. Sam’s here to listen, nowhere to run. His little brother’s all trapped, and petty Dean has to make the most of it. “Why didn’t you look for me, Sam?”
He can talk when it’s a direct question. He has to talk when it’s a direct question. Dean’s hands dig until Sam’s hips until Sam’s rocking away from him. Not much chance, the chains are short and he barely manages a gap between skin and rock wall.
“Didn’t know where to start,” he’s murmuring the words.
“And you think I always did?”
“Dean -"
Looking at Sam, hands clenched into fists against the wall and hair hanging low over his eyes, his brother like that, and Dean’s cock is pressing hard against his jeans. Sam moves and there’s a ripple of muscle in his torso. So fucking perfect. Dean’s forgetting why his gut’s churning in the first place, why his heart feels heavy. Some otherworldly force pulls him closer and Sam isn’t only the guide, he’s also the magnet to Dean’s hands. It fits, all of it, perfectly, like a puzzle of all the questions in life forming the answers. It’s Sam sighing and Dean’s eyes closing against the touch of his brother’s body, fingers splaying out to cover as much skin as they can.
“I’m sorry.”
“Not ‘sposed to talk.” Dean’s eyes stay squeezed shut and he moves splayed fingers across Sam’s chest, kneading over his pec until Sam lets out a groan.
“Then ask me a question.”
Sam’s panting and pressing himself further into Dean’s touch. Dean just wants to stay like this, exactly like this, while the rest of the world disappears and it’s just his brother’s breath filling in the empty spaces of Dean’s long broken body.
“Why didn’t you look?” he repeats the words, sounds muffled by his lips on Sam’s skin.
He feels Sam move, swallow, pull back and make the chains rattle their deafening tone in the hollow basement dungeon. “Didn’t know where to go...didn’t know what to do.” A pause, a raspy intake of breath and Dean kisses Sam’s chest. “I just wanted my brother back.”
He reaches up and pulls the pin from one of Sam’s heavy cuffs. His brother’s hand falls, findings its way to Dean’s neck and squeezing. “Don’t have to,” Sam says with his lips brushing at Dean’s ear.
Dean just finds Sam’s lips, bites down softly and tastes copper dusting the tip of his tongue. The rest of the world is gone, like the puzzle’s completed and the end of the world can finally fall down upon them. Everything else is faded into the background and coated with a dust nobody wants to clean. All Dean’s aware of is Sam against him, wrapped around him, and there’s a hand playing over the waistband of his jeans. He realises just what Sam is trying to do.
His hand rises, running up Sam’s arm until there’s a shudder, Sam’s lips upturning against Dean’s. His other hand reaches down, slides over Sam’s callused fingers, before holding the gun to his brother’s chest. The trigger’s as cold on his finger as the walls of this room, and Sam’s breaking out into shivering goosebumps with just the faintest touch of the muzzle. His cock hardens, Dean watching and pressing the gun harder, harder, until he’s sure there’s some mark of the barrel imbedded on Sam’s flesh.
“Fuck, Dean -"
Sam’s hand reaches out and swipes over Dean. There’s a moan, somewhere, maybe out loud and echoing from the walls, or maybe it’s somewhere deep in his body. He wants to hold onto it, every physical part and every mental part, to wrap his hand around Sam’s, but the gun’s still playing to the left of his brother’s chest, fluttering over his heart. Dean pulls up Sam’s hand and laces it once again in the cuffs. No complaint and no struggle. He’s back at the mercy of Dean’s every movement once again.
“Just wanted me back, huh?” Dean tries to keep his voice deep, commanding, but the words and out and all breathy before he’s given the chance. He whispers them by Sam’s ear, feels a shiver as his breath runs across Sam’s shoulder.
“Just wanted you back,” Sam repeats, and his voice is as strangled as Dean’s.
He’s keening against the guns and his eyes drop closed as Dean’s lowers the weapon, traces it over every ridge in the middle of Sam’s chest and stomach, lower still, until it’s swiping over his waist, stalling at the base of his cock. Dean reaches out his hand, swipes it over Sam and he hears an honest to God fucking whimper coming from his brother.
“You want something you usually go looking for it,” Dean says. His hand, the gun, they’re pulled away from Sam’s body and Dean takes a step backward.
Sam’s eyes fly open, search for Dean. “Gez-Dean-c’mon.”
Dean’s watching him, Sam all needy with his body twitching in its restraints, like he’s forgotten he allowed Dean to do this in the first place.
“Woulda tried anything, anything, to get you back.”
Dean steps forward and, once again, the gun is lined with Sam’s heart, end jutting in until it’s stopped by the hard bone of ribcage. Sam gasps, his mouth slackens, and Dean’s cock is painful against too-tight jeans at the sight. To see Sam, to see him like that, like he’s given up on fixing his expression as something more fitting, and Dean’s fallen halfway off the edge of Niagara Falls. The gun presses harder, and there’ll be bruises.
“Do it,” Sam gasps out, “If it makes it better - do it. Anything -"
There’s nothing in the gun, but Sam doesn’t know that. He’s pushing, begging, his eyes are pleading. Dean to do something, anything, and Dean’s just standing there with his fingers curled around an empty trigger. Sam doesn’t know there’s no bullets, and he wants Dean to pull the trigger. Trusts Dean to do anything, anything, and Dean’s body is crumbling in on itself on the way his brother looks right now, what his brother will let him do.
The breath is being pulled from Dean’s lungs in staccato gasps and the guns shaking, lowering without Dean’s permission, and it brushes against Sam’s cock with its cold, biting body. Sam’s own breathing stops, he sucks it in with a gasp and a murmured string of deandeandean against the metal. And it’s so fucking perfect. All of it.
“Wanted to find you.” Sam’s voice is lost somewhere, in a murmur and a whisper, and Dean thinks there might even be a sob hiding somewhere amongst it all. “Do anything.”
Everything about this suddenly hits home, Dean’s façade snapping and he lets the gun drop to the ground, clattering, echoing, swirling across the walls and chains and concrete flooring. “Shh - it’s okay.” His hands wrap their way around Sam’s hips with thumbs brushing over the join of thigh, hip, and groin. “Know you would have. Always, Sammy.”
Sam bucks toward him, as close as possible with wrists held tight to the wall. Hisses through his teeth and Dean’s leaning in to kiss Sam’s chest. Stopping the hissing, stopping all of it - everything inside him that hurts, stopping it. Sam’s just whining sounds of all vowels and maybe Dean’s name thrown in for good measure as Dean’s hand winds its way to Sam’s cock.
He tugs, almost experimental, grins into Sam’s skin when every muscle taunts in response, “Fuck, yeah -" Dean pulls again. “Shoulda looked - I’m so sorry - oh, fuck - Dean - sorry.”
Dean’s lips move back, brushing every inch along the way to their destination of Sam’s neck. There they rest, in a space he’s moulded to be perfect for him. “I’m back,” Dean whispers, “Not going anywhere. Should know by now demons can’t keep me away.”
Sam murmurs meaningless sounds down at Dean, his breath a wave of warmth in the otherwise cold room. Dean lowers to his knees, an afterthought to the whole setup he’s created. Tried and failed, because it’s Sam who owns him.
It’s always been that way.
There’s a, “What--?” then, “Holy fuck -" and Dean’s having a hard time doing anything around the grin that’s worked its way over his mouth. Sam can’t move, and that’s what makes it all it is. Right now, Sam’s everything in Dean’s world and Dean’s world is everything in Sam.
Funny thing; Dean doesn’t think it’s ever been any different.
There’s sweat dripping from his hair into his eyes, and Sam’s plastered with it on every piece of exposed skin. Slick like oil on his hands after changing his car, and Dean’s thinking it should be really fucking gross - but it’s not. None of this is.
“Fuck, Dean -" Sam’s words are cut off with a low groan, a thrust, and Dean moves back to flick his thumb over Sam, until Sam’s at a complete stoic and comes hard. Like this is normal, like this is the way the world is supposed to turn and where the Winchesters are supposed to fit in.
On his feet again, Dean’s kissing Sam, arms trailing blindly to pull the pins from Sam’s shackles. They didn’t work, not the way they had intended, not to play with power and right and wrong and to search for the answers - not ones he didn’t already know. Dean had just let himself go, let everything fall apart and away with his brother’s touch. Sam’s arms drop and wrap themselves around Dean’s body, encasing him in long fingers and overgrown limbs.
At some point they’ve made it to the floor. Sam’s arms are heavy and his veins bulge with the flexing, un-flexing, and uneven breathing. His lips are by Dean’s ear, kissing down his neck to the hollow of his throat. Lips that are too clammy, too dry.
“You need water,” Dean murmurs.
“I’m fine,” Sam says. He finds the corner of Dean’s lips with soft close-mouthed kisses that chaff and scratch.
“Gonna get you water.” Dean moves with slow, gentle movements and presses Sam against the wall, kissing all possible protest out of him until his lips join Sam’s at the dessert and he’s reluctantly pulling himself back up. “Be right back.”
The water bottles line the fridge, stacked in rows of three up, three across. Sam tells him not to trust the piping, and Dean goes out to replace half his beer with bottles of the clear liquid instead. He grabs a bottle, twists it round to rest under his arm, and is back in the basement to play hide and seek with its twisting, winding path to the dungeon.
Sam’s slack against the wall, legs half curled under him like some overgrown panther, and Dean’s reawakened to the erection chaffing against the zip of his jeans. He readjusts, smuggles a groan, and sits behind Sam, wordlessly moving his arms around the body and unscrewing the bottle lid.
“Drink,” he says and holds the bottle to Sam’s lips. Sam’s acting like a stubborn router that refuses to turn over, head turning from Dean’s hand. Dean presses his face into Sam’s hair, ignores the sweat that drips, and moves, and sticks. Whispers at his ear, “Drink the fucking water Sam.”
Dean presses his face further against Sam’s shoulder until Sam accepts the water, drinks until it’s bubbling over and the liquid is running over Dean’s hand like a low-pressure tap in one of their seedy old motel rooms. The empty bottle drops to the ground with a clatter surrounding them and Dean holds tighter.
“Think you can stand?”
“Just stay here.” He stretches back and Dean finds his lips half upside down, mixing warm breath from their throats.
“Okay.” He doesn’t know what it means, but he knows Sam’s settles back and lets out a sigh. All his muscles relax, his weight pressing Dean against the wall. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Author: jalu2
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 2,363
Spoilers: Up to episode 8.22
Summary: Dean’s still pissy because Sam didn’t look for him while he was in purgatory. So he chains his brother up. Seems legit.
Warnings: Bondage, D/s elements, edgeplay (gunplay), small amounts of S&M. Started off as a PWP...evolved into something grand.
A/N: I don’t even fucking know. Blame Dean - he’s the one that said “We have a dungeon, Sammy!” (or, y’know, words to that effect).
Disclaimer: Supernatural does not belong to me. This piece of fiction was written from entertainment purposes only, no profit is gained.
They’ve got a dungeon. Weirdest fucking thing Dean’s ever thought to see owned by a Winchester. Well, the white picket fence with flowers lining the drive would win. At least the Men of Letters headquarters is in the middle of where-are-we-again and it’s mostly dirt with patches of grass Sam won’t let him cut.
The dungeon, with chains, and darkened walls, and a hidden entrance only two people in the whole world know about. Good reason for that. Good reason for anyone and everyone to sit behind the prison walls the Winchester’s have involved themselves in. It’s a crazy, mind-twisting, turn the world upside down in order to believe confusing. Dean and Sam stopped letting the world in a long time ago, too much effort, and Dean can’t find anyone else who understands.
He’s leaning against a wall, freezing cold bricks dripping through his shirt. Sam’s there, across from him, hands held high with him trying out the new additions. The restraints of metal, covered in all the intricate spell work college boy tried to decipher, but he failed after the first pentagram. So Dean had just shrugged and told Sammy he’s getting tied up.
That was close to an hour ago, and now they’re just watching each other.
“Didn’t think I’d say it, Sam,” Dean says, “But there’s something fucking hot about you like that.”
Sam looks at him and Dean thinks there’s a smile. He’s not allowed to talk, not yet. Dean just holds onto the quiet, closes his eyes briefly and presses his head against frozen bricks. Sam’s safe in front of him, Sam’s not going anywhere.
When he walks forward it’s with his eyelids still down, feeling his way with touch and memory. Sam plays the eyes and his skin plays the sensor, Dean’s hands running over his brother’s bare chest, fingertips pressing ripped muscle and the hint of bone. He presses teeth down, bites gently on a segment of skin, and Sam’s taking in a harsh breath. Dean opens his eyes.
“You haven’t said why you didn’t look for me.” He didn’t want to turn this into a sharing-and-caring chick-flick session, but the question’s been burning tight in his chest and he knows it’s going to erupt one way or another. Sam’s here to listen, nowhere to run. His little brother’s all trapped, and petty Dean has to make the most of it. “Why didn’t you look for me, Sam?”
He can talk when it’s a direct question. He has to talk when it’s a direct question. Dean’s hands dig until Sam’s hips until Sam’s rocking away from him. Not much chance, the chains are short and he barely manages a gap between skin and rock wall.
“Didn’t know where to start,” he’s murmuring the words.
“And you think I always did?”
“Dean -"
Looking at Sam, hands clenched into fists against the wall and hair hanging low over his eyes, his brother like that, and Dean’s cock is pressing hard against his jeans. Sam moves and there’s a ripple of muscle in his torso. So fucking perfect. Dean’s forgetting why his gut’s churning in the first place, why his heart feels heavy. Some otherworldly force pulls him closer and Sam isn’t only the guide, he’s also the magnet to Dean’s hands. It fits, all of it, perfectly, like a puzzle of all the questions in life forming the answers. It’s Sam sighing and Dean’s eyes closing against the touch of his brother’s body, fingers splaying out to cover as much skin as they can.
“I’m sorry.”
“Not ‘sposed to talk.” Dean’s eyes stay squeezed shut and he moves splayed fingers across Sam’s chest, kneading over his pec until Sam lets out a groan.
“Then ask me a question.”
Sam’s panting and pressing himself further into Dean’s touch. Dean just wants to stay like this, exactly like this, while the rest of the world disappears and it’s just his brother’s breath filling in the empty spaces of Dean’s long broken body.
“Why didn’t you look?” he repeats the words, sounds muffled by his lips on Sam’s skin.
He feels Sam move, swallow, pull back and make the chains rattle their deafening tone in the hollow basement dungeon. “Didn’t know where to go...didn’t know what to do.” A pause, a raspy intake of breath and Dean kisses Sam’s chest. “I just wanted my brother back.”
He reaches up and pulls the pin from one of Sam’s heavy cuffs. His brother’s hand falls, findings its way to Dean’s neck and squeezing. “Don’t have to,” Sam says with his lips brushing at Dean’s ear.
Dean just finds Sam’s lips, bites down softly and tastes copper dusting the tip of his tongue. The rest of the world is gone, like the puzzle’s completed and the end of the world can finally fall down upon them. Everything else is faded into the background and coated with a dust nobody wants to clean. All Dean’s aware of is Sam against him, wrapped around him, and there’s a hand playing over the waistband of his jeans. He realises just what Sam is trying to do.
His hand rises, running up Sam’s arm until there’s a shudder, Sam’s lips upturning against Dean’s. His other hand reaches down, slides over Sam’s callused fingers, before holding the gun to his brother’s chest. The trigger’s as cold on his finger as the walls of this room, and Sam’s breaking out into shivering goosebumps with just the faintest touch of the muzzle. His cock hardens, Dean watching and pressing the gun harder, harder, until he’s sure there’s some mark of the barrel imbedded on Sam’s flesh.
“Fuck, Dean -"
Sam’s hand reaches out and swipes over Dean. There’s a moan, somewhere, maybe out loud and echoing from the walls, or maybe it’s somewhere deep in his body. He wants to hold onto it, every physical part and every mental part, to wrap his hand around Sam’s, but the gun’s still playing to the left of his brother’s chest, fluttering over his heart. Dean pulls up Sam’s hand and laces it once again in the cuffs. No complaint and no struggle. He’s back at the mercy of Dean’s every movement once again.
“Just wanted me back, huh?” Dean tries to keep his voice deep, commanding, but the words and out and all breathy before he’s given the chance. He whispers them by Sam’s ear, feels a shiver as his breath runs across Sam’s shoulder.
“Just wanted you back,” Sam repeats, and his voice is as strangled as Dean’s.
He’s keening against the guns and his eyes drop closed as Dean’s lowers the weapon, traces it over every ridge in the middle of Sam’s chest and stomach, lower still, until it’s swiping over his waist, stalling at the base of his cock. Dean reaches out his hand, swipes it over Sam and he hears an honest to God fucking whimper coming from his brother.
“You want something you usually go looking for it,” Dean says. His hand, the gun, they’re pulled away from Sam’s body and Dean takes a step backward.
Sam’s eyes fly open, search for Dean. “Gez-Dean-c’mon.”
Dean’s watching him, Sam all needy with his body twitching in its restraints, like he’s forgotten he allowed Dean to do this in the first place.
“Woulda tried anything, anything, to get you back.”
Dean steps forward and, once again, the gun is lined with Sam’s heart, end jutting in until it’s stopped by the hard bone of ribcage. Sam gasps, his mouth slackens, and Dean’s cock is painful against too-tight jeans at the sight. To see Sam, to see him like that, like he’s given up on fixing his expression as something more fitting, and Dean’s fallen halfway off the edge of Niagara Falls. The gun presses harder, and there’ll be bruises.
“Do it,” Sam gasps out, “If it makes it better - do it. Anything -"
There’s nothing in the gun, but Sam doesn’t know that. He’s pushing, begging, his eyes are pleading. Dean to do something, anything, and Dean’s just standing there with his fingers curled around an empty trigger. Sam doesn’t know there’s no bullets, and he wants Dean to pull the trigger. Trusts Dean to do anything, anything, and Dean’s body is crumbling in on itself on the way his brother looks right now, what his brother will let him do.
The breath is being pulled from Dean’s lungs in staccato gasps and the guns shaking, lowering without Dean’s permission, and it brushes against Sam’s cock with its cold, biting body. Sam’s own breathing stops, he sucks it in with a gasp and a murmured string of deandeandean against the metal. And it’s so fucking perfect. All of it.
“Wanted to find you.” Sam’s voice is lost somewhere, in a murmur and a whisper, and Dean thinks there might even be a sob hiding somewhere amongst it all. “Do anything.”
Everything about this suddenly hits home, Dean’s façade snapping and he lets the gun drop to the ground, clattering, echoing, swirling across the walls and chains and concrete flooring. “Shh - it’s okay.” His hands wrap their way around Sam’s hips with thumbs brushing over the join of thigh, hip, and groin. “Know you would have. Always, Sammy.”
Sam bucks toward him, as close as possible with wrists held tight to the wall. Hisses through his teeth and Dean’s leaning in to kiss Sam’s chest. Stopping the hissing, stopping all of it - everything inside him that hurts, stopping it. Sam’s just whining sounds of all vowels and maybe Dean’s name thrown in for good measure as Dean’s hand winds its way to Sam’s cock.
He tugs, almost experimental, grins into Sam’s skin when every muscle taunts in response, “Fuck, yeah -" Dean pulls again. “Shoulda looked - I’m so sorry - oh, fuck - Dean - sorry.”
Dean’s lips move back, brushing every inch along the way to their destination of Sam’s neck. There they rest, in a space he’s moulded to be perfect for him. “I’m back,” Dean whispers, “Not going anywhere. Should know by now demons can’t keep me away.”
Sam murmurs meaningless sounds down at Dean, his breath a wave of warmth in the otherwise cold room. Dean lowers to his knees, an afterthought to the whole setup he’s created. Tried and failed, because it’s Sam who owns him.
It’s always been that way.
There’s a, “What--?” then, “Holy fuck -" and Dean’s having a hard time doing anything around the grin that’s worked its way over his mouth. Sam can’t move, and that’s what makes it all it is. Right now, Sam’s everything in Dean’s world and Dean’s world is everything in Sam.
Funny thing; Dean doesn’t think it’s ever been any different.
There’s sweat dripping from his hair into his eyes, and Sam’s plastered with it on every piece of exposed skin. Slick like oil on his hands after changing his car, and Dean’s thinking it should be really fucking gross - but it’s not. None of this is.
“Fuck, Dean -" Sam’s words are cut off with a low groan, a thrust, and Dean moves back to flick his thumb over Sam, until Sam’s at a complete stoic and comes hard. Like this is normal, like this is the way the world is supposed to turn and where the Winchesters are supposed to fit in.
On his feet again, Dean’s kissing Sam, arms trailing blindly to pull the pins from Sam’s shackles. They didn’t work, not the way they had intended, not to play with power and right and wrong and to search for the answers - not ones he didn’t already know. Dean had just let himself go, let everything fall apart and away with his brother’s touch. Sam’s arms drop and wrap themselves around Dean’s body, encasing him in long fingers and overgrown limbs.
At some point they’ve made it to the floor. Sam’s arms are heavy and his veins bulge with the flexing, un-flexing, and uneven breathing. His lips are by Dean’s ear, kissing down his neck to the hollow of his throat. Lips that are too clammy, too dry.
“You need water,” Dean murmurs.
“I’m fine,” Sam says. He finds the corner of Dean’s lips with soft close-mouthed kisses that chaff and scratch.
“Gonna get you water.” Dean moves with slow, gentle movements and presses Sam against the wall, kissing all possible protest out of him until his lips join Sam’s at the dessert and he’s reluctantly pulling himself back up. “Be right back.”
The water bottles line the fridge, stacked in rows of three up, three across. Sam tells him not to trust the piping, and Dean goes out to replace half his beer with bottles of the clear liquid instead. He grabs a bottle, twists it round to rest under his arm, and is back in the basement to play hide and seek with its twisting, winding path to the dungeon.
Sam’s slack against the wall, legs half curled under him like some overgrown panther, and Dean’s reawakened to the erection chaffing against the zip of his jeans. He readjusts, smuggles a groan, and sits behind Sam, wordlessly moving his arms around the body and unscrewing the bottle lid.
“Drink,” he says and holds the bottle to Sam’s lips. Sam’s acting like a stubborn router that refuses to turn over, head turning from Dean’s hand. Dean presses his face into Sam’s hair, ignores the sweat that drips, and moves, and sticks. Whispers at his ear, “Drink the fucking water Sam.”
Dean presses his face further against Sam’s shoulder until Sam accepts the water, drinks until it’s bubbling over and the liquid is running over Dean’s hand like a low-pressure tap in one of their seedy old motel rooms. The empty bottle drops to the ground with a clatter surrounding them and Dean holds tighter.
“Think you can stand?”
“Just stay here.” He stretches back and Dean finds his lips half upside down, mixing warm breath from their throats.
“Okay.” He doesn’t know what it means, but he knows Sam’s settles back and lets out a sigh. All his muscles relax, his weight pressing Dean against the wall. “I’m not going anywhere.”