SPN fic for spn_j2_xmas
Title: keep your candle burning
Author: bloodnfire
Rating: M
Wordcount: 3730
Summary: More often than not, when Dean wakes up with a Fuck You on the tip of his tongue, Sam is already awake and watching him with tired, red eyes. Dean isn't sure if it's because of him or if his brother is receiving night time visits of his own
Notes: Written for polyesterrage for spn_j2_xmas. I'm sorry it's so late! I tried to use some of your likes: first time, angst that ends happily, a bit of UST. There's no desperate sex, I'm afraid but there is making out! Hope you had a wonderful Christmas and a happy New Year! :D
Michael comes to Dean in his dreams. The bastard never appears as more than a flicker of light, just to the side of Dean's line of vision; never just comes out and asks. He's the feeling of doubt in Dean's chest when he wakes after only a couple of hours sleep, exhaustion weighing him down, and he's the voice that whispers guilt in Dean's ear when his head is full of burning bodies and charred remains. He is the offer of reprieve that Dean won't let himself consider. More often than not, when Dean wakes up with a Fuck You on the tip of his tongue, Sam is already awake and watching him with tired, red eyes. Dean isn't sure if it's because of him or if his brother is receiving night time visits of his own. Probably the latter. They'll swap concerned looks, turn on the television, watch infomercials in silence and wait out the night. The next day they take it in turns to buy coffee, maybe make the occasional joke about miracle knives that will cut through anything and skin care regimes that'll take a decade off your face but their conversation doesn't go deeper.
*
It turns out that Famine is pretty. She looks like a supermodel, long slender limbs and glossy black hair, but the emaciated corpses she leaves behind her barely look human. When they catch up with her, she's reclining back on the hood of her trendy little sports car with a smile curving her lips. She zeros in on Sam, and the smile widens.
"Sammy," she says, like she's greeting an old friend. "I was hoping I'd get the chance to meet you while you're still, well you."
Sam's jaw clenches, and Dean's got the colt levelled at her head before he even registers reaching for it.
"Cut the small talk, sweetheart," Dean says. Famine fixes him with an unimpressed look and before he can pull the trigger, pain flares through his hand and the gun slips from his suddenly weak grip. Sam is saying, Fuck and Dean, it's hard to focus on anything beyond the searing agony but dammit, he needs to get it together.
"Now, now," Famine says as the flesh and muscle in Dean's hand start to consume each other and he tries not to scream. "There's no need for this to get unfriendly. I just want to have a little conversation with your brother."
The pain is spreading, starting to shoot up his wrist and Dean drops to his knees, foot brushing the gun and he kicks it back to where he really fucking hopes Sam is.
"Consider it over," Sam says, and her body sparks and crumples. So, the colt works on horsemen. That's good to know, even better is the sudden lack of pain in Dean's hand. Sam is beside him now, hands frantically tugging at him until he's got Dean's mangled hand in his own, looking it over, and Dean finally lets himself take stock of the damage. It's a goddamn mess, the meat of his palm and fingers all but gone, muscle wasted. Dean kind wants to throw up but forces himself to swallow the taste of bile.
Sam's fingers lightly skim over his skin, eyes wide and he murmurs, "Christ, man. We gotta get you to a hospital."
"You think a doctor's going to be able to fix this, Sam?" Dean says, and it comes out harsher than he means it too. He gets to his feet, letting Sam help him as a kind of silent apology, but shrugs off the hand that lingers on the small of his back. He pulls the keys out of his pocket with his good hand and throws them to Sam. "Guess you're gonna have to drive."
Dean slumps in the passenger seat and tries not to think, ignores Sam when he suggests that it will heal.
*
Dean doesn't expect to sleep that night. They're heading to Bobby's in the morning, and Dean figures at least being around Bobby will stop him feeling sorry for himself, but, hell, he may have permanently lost the use of his gun-hand and his brain can't quite seem to grasp that little fact. Sam keeps shooting awkward little glances at him, goes out and returns with burgers and beer but doesn't touch either. Dean knocks back a couple of beers and eats half his burger, and damn it's frustrating trying to do everything with the wrong hand.
He only turns off the light to get out from under Sam's uncomfortably focused gaze, but he's no sooner rolled onto his back than he finds himself in a familiar room. Gilded walls and stupid statues; Dean hates this place.
"Dean," he turns and comes face to face with himself, and for a moment he thinks that it's the him from the future that he refuses to become. But only for a moment, then he really looks at him, sees that alien tilt of his head and the detached look in his eyes that could never belong to Dean.
"Michael," Dean says, letting all the hatred he feels for this creature seep into his voice. "Finally decided to show your face, huh? Well, my face. Hope you enjoy it now, it's the closest you're getting to the real thing."
"Dean," Michael says again, gently chiding. "Why are you go angry with me? I want to help you."
"Help me?" Dean says, a bitter laugh forcing its way out his throat. "By taking over my body and leaving me a vegetable like Raphael did to his host? I'll pass."
"I can save your brother from his fate." Michael says, stepping forward and reaching for Dean. Dean jerks back. "You died for him. You suffered as no man should suffer, but you will not do this? Or is that itself the reason? You don't wish to make anymore sacrifices for him?"
"Sam can take care of himself," Dean says, taking another step away from the angel wearing his face. "He'll keep saying no, and so will I. We're not gonna be supporting acts in your little family feud."
Michael smiles, but doesn't reply. Instead he reaches for Dean again and this time Dean is unable to move away, rooted to the spot by an invisible force. Micheal's fingers close around Dean's wrist, pulling his withered hand up for inspection. He turns it over, carefully examining the damage, the same way Sam did.
"Does it hurt?" He asks, not sounding sympathetic so much as curious. Dean shakes his head, unable to form words while this creature is touching him. "I could heal it for you."
Dean shakes his head again, wanting desperately to pull away. He doesn't want any favours from the being that wants to take control of his body but Micheal isn't letting go, he brings Dean's hand up to his lips and pressing a kiss to the palm and Dean finally finds the strength to move. He tears his arm from Michael's grip, tries to move further away but his back hits the wall and he has to make do with darting to the side. Michael watches him with mild interest, but doesn't try to approach him again. His gaze lingers on Dean's hand and when Dean almost jumps when he looks at it, flesh perfectly restored as though the day never happened.
"I didn't ask for this," Dean hisses at him, waiting for the catch.
"I know," Michael replies. "You didn't ask for any of this. Consider it a gift, Dean, a token of my affection for you. No strings attached, I have no wish to see you damaged, that's all."
"Right," Dean mutters, flexing his fingers. "Of course you don't."
Michael smiles a weird, tight smile that Dean thinks might be exasperation. It looks weird on his face. "I know you're having trouble coming to terms with this, but if you take too long to face the facts it's going to be too late."
*
When Dean's eyes snap open he finds himself automatically looking for Sam; and there he is, remote already in hand, staring at the flickering screen with the volume turned off. He seems to sense Dean's descent into consciousness because he glances over, almost as soon as Dean's eyes fix on him.
"Oh," Sam says softly, "hey."
"Hey," Dean replies, voice rough with sleep. He moves his hand under the covers. Sam's breath hitches when Dean draws it free, and his eyes quickly snap up to meet Dean's.
"How?" Sam says, studying Dean's face and no doubt finding his complete lack of surprise at the immaculately healed flesh.
"Michael," Dean replies with a sharp smile. "Nice guy, huh?"
"You didn't..." Sam trails off.
"What? Make a deal with him? Give him an all access pass to my body?" Sam remains quiet, just waits for Dean to continue with a twisted, frightened expression on his face. "No way in hell, Sam! It's a gift, apparently, and one I didn't ask for. No strings."
Sam snorts and Dean nods his agreement. They hold eye contact like that for longer than Dean can remember them doing in a long time. Letting himself study his brother's face, Dean tries to find the changes, the ways that Sam is different now but all he can see is his little brother. He can, however, see the toll that their lives have taken on him, the worry lines a twenty-six year old shouldn't have, the exhaustion written across Sam's face and the repressed fear and constant guilt and anger in his eyes. He wonders briefly what Sam is seeing in him but decided that he doesn't want to know, isn't sure he wants Sam seeing anything at all.
Dean breaks eye contact first, glancing towards the television where colourful flashing letters announce that whatever the hell this product is cooks food in half the time, and cuts out at least half the fat. He leans back against the headboard of his bed and waits for Sam to turn up the volume. He never does and Dean never asks. Whenever Dean catches a glimpse of Sam out the corner of his eye his brother is still watching him, the TV lighting up the room with random splashes of colour.
Eventually, Dean hauls himself off the bed and shuffles into the bathroom. He takes a piss, then decides he may as well shower while he's in here. The water is loud after the heavy silence, but a relief. Dean listens to the rhythm it beats into his skin, turning his face up into the spray and letting it sting his eyes. It feels good to wash away the remnants of the dream that wasn't a dream and by the time he exits the bathroom with a towel around his waist and water still dripping from his hair he almost feels okay. The whole time he's searching through his duffel bag for a clean pair of shorts and a t-shirt he can feel Sam's eyes on his skin.
*
Dean doesn't sleep at all the next night, instead he sits at the wobbly table by the window of their motel room, computer open in front of him. Hours of research and a phone call to Castiel later, and he's still got nothing on how to keep Michael out of his dreams. Behind him Sam moans in his sleep, making Dean twist around in his chair to look at him. There's not enough light in the room to see Sam's face properly and Dean is debating whether or not he should wake him up when Sam makes the decision for him, stirring with another soft moan before his eyes blink open. Sam sits up, and Dean realises that him just sitting here watching him is probably kinda creepy so he forces a smile.
"Good dream or a bad dream?" He asks without thinking, adding a slight leer because it seems like something he'd do.
Sam licks his lips, clears his throat, and doesn't make eye contact. Dean's pretty much given up on getting an answer when Sam says, "Both. Neither, I don't even know."
And then he laughs, which Dean really wasn't expecting but isn't going to complain about because it's a rare sound these days, something he didn't know he missed until now.
"Let's get out of here," Sam says suddenly, and Dean raises an eyebrow.
"Where do you want to go?" He asks and can't help smiling when Sam laughs again.
"Anywhere that isn't a motel room or a morgue."
Dean drives until they find an all night truck stop, it's a greasy hole with bad fluorescent lighting that casts a sickly yellow tinge over everything, with one waitress who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world but here. The only other customers are a middle-aged trucker drinking cup after cup of the bad coffee and two teenage girls who hold hands under the table and whisper softly to one another, sharing a single plate of french fries. After bickering over what was appropriate three am food Sam orders pancakes and Dean orders a cheeseburger. They both get a cup of weak coffee and damn, if this isn't the nicest place they've been in at least a month. Probably longer.
They stay sitting in the booth until dawn, Sam's long legs pressed up against Dean's. The sun is just starting to rise when Dean finally works up the balls to ask, "What do you dream about? I mean, it's Lucifer, right? What does he say to you?"
Sam takes a careful sip of coffee then places his cup down and looks at Dean.
"He says a lot of things. He asks me to let him in, tells me it'll make everything better, easier. He offers me things the he thinks I want," Sam's lips quirk humourlessly them. "Sometimes he's right, sometimes he's not."
"What do you say to him?" Dean asks and wonders if he's pushing too far. They don't talk about this, but Dean needs to know.
"Nothing," Sam replies. "I used to, I'd say no, tell him to fuck off, but now I just don't. It's easier."
Sam falls silent and Dean doesn't press him, instead he pulls out his wallet and tosses a couple of bills on the table.
They walk out into the early morning chill, the sky a pale pink-streaked gray stretching out above them. Dean's got his hand on the door handle when he notices that Sam has followed him round to the driver's side and is standing there staring at him.
"What, you wanna drive, boy wonder?" Dean asks but then Sam is surging forward and their lips are pressed together. Sam's hand comes to rest tentatively on Dean's shoulder as Sam kisses him, tongue darting lightly across Dean's bottom lip. The kiss ends just as suddenly as it began, leaving Dean standing stunned with his mouth hanging open, mind reeling with the fact that his brother just kissed him and that's not even the most fucked up thing in their lives right now.
"It's always you," Sam says quietly. "It's happening every night now and it's always you. But he doesn't get it, why I can resist. It's because I know that when I wake up you'll be there. I'm sorry, I just needed to know what it would be like. I'm sorry."
Dean blinks, takes in the worried expression on Sam's face; something twists in his gut and his heart is pounding when he leans forward and up - Damn, Sam's tall - Sam's mouth is bitter with the taste of coffee and sticky with maple syrup, and Dean finds himself parting his lips wider to allow Sam's tongue inside, sucking at it and Sam moans into Dean's mouth. They're both breathless when they break apart; Dean pressed up against the Impala, Sam pressed up against Dean and it feel good, solid and grounding. Sam leans forward so his forehead is resting on Dean's shoulder, breath warm against Dean's neck and, to his surprise, Dean feels sorry when he pulls away. Sam clears his throat, stepping out of Dean's space and moving around the car to the passenger door. They study each other across the car, Sam watching Dean like he's waiting for him to bolt.
"So," Dean says, opening the door and sliding inside. "We heading back or what?"
"Uh, yeah," Sam says quickly folding himself into the seat. Dean pulls out of the truck stop and onto the road, waiting for the impact of what they just did to hit him and carefully avoiding looking directly at Sam.
*
"I'm sorry," Sam says again when they arrive back at the motel they're currently calling home. He's hovering between Dean and the door, making Dean wonder just what kind of reaction Sam is expecting from him. "I shouldn't have done that; it's my problem, not yours."
"My tongue was in your mouth. Kinda seems like that might be my problem too."
"Yeah, well it shouldn't be," Sam says with a sigh that sounds like every night of missed sleep in his life time is crashing down on him.
Dean sits down heavily on his bed and Sam continues to pace in front of the door. Neither of them speak for what seems like a very long time, silence only broken when Sam steps on a creaky floor board or Dean shifts on the bed. Silence use to be easy between them, as comfortable as conversation, sometimes more so. Now it's heavy and swollen with the things they can't say. Fuck it, Dean thinks, and speaks.
"Most of the people we've known, people we've loved, are dead," Sam stops, turns to face him. Dean continues. "You kissed me and I didn't stop you, didn't even think about stopping you. That sure as hell isn't normal, and god knows, it's not right."
Sam nods, looks away for one brief moment that makes Dean's heart jump, then he seems to make up his mind about something and when he looks back at Dean his eyes are challenging.
"You kissed me back," he says.
"I know," Dean replies. "That's the thing. You're acting like you're about to board up the exits, and I should be flipping out, but, Sam, what's the point?"
"The point?" Sam repeats incredulously.
"Yeah, I just. The world is ending and -" Dean sighs, unsure how to explain how he's feeling. "I mean, I am freaked out by this. Fuck, I really am. But what's really getting me is that I kind of want to kiss you again." The last words come out in a jumbled rush and Dean hears Sam's breath hitch.
"You sure about that?" Sam says and Dean frowns at him. Sam seems to get the point, because he's suddenly kneeling in front of the bed, face barely an inch away from Dean's, eyes darting over Dean's lips then up to meet his eyes, questioning. Sam opens his mouth to speak, but before he can question whether Dean's capable of making up his own mind again, Dean breaks the gap between them. At first, the only parts of them touching are their lips, pressed together almost chastely; then Sam's hands are on Dean's face, tilting his head to give Sam better access to his mouth, tongues and teeth get involved and Dean's fingers tangling in Sam's hair.
Dean falls back on the mattress, and Sam goes with him, crawling forward so he's on top of Dean. Sam's hands are everywhere, lips exploring Dean's throat while Dean's mind reels. Dean slides his hands under Sam's shirt, over the warm, muscled flesh of his back, while their tongues twist together, sucking and caressing. Sam is murmuring things into Dean's skin, his voice is muffled but Dean can make out fuck, and Dean and god, you're beautiful, want you so bad. Need you, and all Dean can think is, Sam Sam Sam.
When they finally break apart, Dean's breath is coming out in rough bursts and Sam is sprawled across the bed beside him.
"How long?" Dean asks when he has breath enough to speak. Sam seems to understand him straight away, body tensing then relaxing again.
"You really wanna know?" He asks, like maybe he's pushing his luck.
"I asked didn't I?"
"I've spent my whole life loving you, somewhere along the line it got kind of -" Sam says, tilting his head so he's looking at Dean, considering.
"Fucked up?" Dean offers and Sam smiles.
"Something like that."
*
They lay side by side in silence, bodies pressed close together and Dean lets himself slip into sleep without a struggle. Unsurprisingly, Michael is waiting for him, staring at Dean with a look of concern identical to the one Dean knows he sometimes wears; Michael is beginning to master Dean's face. Bastard better not get used to it. He opens his mouth to speak but Dean cuts him off.
"We're going to take down Lucifer, me and Sam." Dean says, if Sam can play zen master with the devil then Dean can surely lay things out plain and simple for this angelic douchebag. "We don't need you, any of you. Stay out of our way, and stay out of my head."
"You think it's that simple, Dean? We will find you."
"You haven't yet."
"The actions you and your brother take now will have serious consequences for the world." Michael says, peering at Dean like he's trying to understand him.
"Yeah," Dean says. "I know that, probably better than you do."
"And you can live with this?" No judgement, just vague curiosity.
"Managed so far." Dean says, turning his back on Michael and following the feeling of Sam's fingers on his flesh back into waking.
*
The TV taints their exposed skin; flickering blue and red and green. Sam is warm beside him, one arm curled around Dean's back, keeping him close. Dean strokes his fingers through Sam's hair, then tugs him forward until their lips meet. They always seem to end up sleeping in shifts, an unintentional constant that one will drift off for a few hours while the other keeps watch over him and together they wait out the night. During the day, Dean will think it seems stupid - overly paranoid - but the thing is, it works.
Author: bloodnfire
Rating: M
Wordcount: 3730
Summary: More often than not, when Dean wakes up with a Fuck You on the tip of his tongue, Sam is already awake and watching him with tired, red eyes. Dean isn't sure if it's because of him or if his brother is receiving night time visits of his own
Notes: Written for polyesterrage for spn_j2_xmas. I'm sorry it's so late! I tried to use some of your likes: first time, angst that ends happily, a bit of UST. There's no desperate sex, I'm afraid but there is making out! Hope you had a wonderful Christmas and a happy New Year! :D
Michael comes to Dean in his dreams. The bastard never appears as more than a flicker of light, just to the side of Dean's line of vision; never just comes out and asks. He's the feeling of doubt in Dean's chest when he wakes after only a couple of hours sleep, exhaustion weighing him down, and he's the voice that whispers guilt in Dean's ear when his head is full of burning bodies and charred remains. He is the offer of reprieve that Dean won't let himself consider. More often than not, when Dean wakes up with a Fuck You on the tip of his tongue, Sam is already awake and watching him with tired, red eyes. Dean isn't sure if it's because of him or if his brother is receiving night time visits of his own. Probably the latter. They'll swap concerned looks, turn on the television, watch infomercials in silence and wait out the night. The next day they take it in turns to buy coffee, maybe make the occasional joke about miracle knives that will cut through anything and skin care regimes that'll take a decade off your face but their conversation doesn't go deeper.
*
It turns out that Famine is pretty. She looks like a supermodel, long slender limbs and glossy black hair, but the emaciated corpses she leaves behind her barely look human. When they catch up with her, she's reclining back on the hood of her trendy little sports car with a smile curving her lips. She zeros in on Sam, and the smile widens.
"Sammy," she says, like she's greeting an old friend. "I was hoping I'd get the chance to meet you while you're still, well you."
Sam's jaw clenches, and Dean's got the colt levelled at her head before he even registers reaching for it.
"Cut the small talk, sweetheart," Dean says. Famine fixes him with an unimpressed look and before he can pull the trigger, pain flares through his hand and the gun slips from his suddenly weak grip. Sam is saying, Fuck and Dean, it's hard to focus on anything beyond the searing agony but dammit, he needs to get it together.
"Now, now," Famine says as the flesh and muscle in Dean's hand start to consume each other and he tries not to scream. "There's no need for this to get unfriendly. I just want to have a little conversation with your brother."
The pain is spreading, starting to shoot up his wrist and Dean drops to his knees, foot brushing the gun and he kicks it back to where he really fucking hopes Sam is.
"Consider it over," Sam says, and her body sparks and crumples. So, the colt works on horsemen. That's good to know, even better is the sudden lack of pain in Dean's hand. Sam is beside him now, hands frantically tugging at him until he's got Dean's mangled hand in his own, looking it over, and Dean finally lets himself take stock of the damage. It's a goddamn mess, the meat of his palm and fingers all but gone, muscle wasted. Dean kind wants to throw up but forces himself to swallow the taste of bile.
Sam's fingers lightly skim over his skin, eyes wide and he murmurs, "Christ, man. We gotta get you to a hospital."
"You think a doctor's going to be able to fix this, Sam?" Dean says, and it comes out harsher than he means it too. He gets to his feet, letting Sam help him as a kind of silent apology, but shrugs off the hand that lingers on the small of his back. He pulls the keys out of his pocket with his good hand and throws them to Sam. "Guess you're gonna have to drive."
Dean slumps in the passenger seat and tries not to think, ignores Sam when he suggests that it will heal.
*
Dean doesn't expect to sleep that night. They're heading to Bobby's in the morning, and Dean figures at least being around Bobby will stop him feeling sorry for himself, but, hell, he may have permanently lost the use of his gun-hand and his brain can't quite seem to grasp that little fact. Sam keeps shooting awkward little glances at him, goes out and returns with burgers and beer but doesn't touch either. Dean knocks back a couple of beers and eats half his burger, and damn it's frustrating trying to do everything with the wrong hand.
He only turns off the light to get out from under Sam's uncomfortably focused gaze, but he's no sooner rolled onto his back than he finds himself in a familiar room. Gilded walls and stupid statues; Dean hates this place.
"Dean," he turns and comes face to face with himself, and for a moment he thinks that it's the him from the future that he refuses to become. But only for a moment, then he really looks at him, sees that alien tilt of his head and the detached look in his eyes that could never belong to Dean.
"Michael," Dean says, letting all the hatred he feels for this creature seep into his voice. "Finally decided to show your face, huh? Well, my face. Hope you enjoy it now, it's the closest you're getting to the real thing."
"Dean," Michael says again, gently chiding. "Why are you go angry with me? I want to help you."
"Help me?" Dean says, a bitter laugh forcing its way out his throat. "By taking over my body and leaving me a vegetable like Raphael did to his host? I'll pass."
"I can save your brother from his fate." Michael says, stepping forward and reaching for Dean. Dean jerks back. "You died for him. You suffered as no man should suffer, but you will not do this? Or is that itself the reason? You don't wish to make anymore sacrifices for him?"
"Sam can take care of himself," Dean says, taking another step away from the angel wearing his face. "He'll keep saying no, and so will I. We're not gonna be supporting acts in your little family feud."
Michael smiles, but doesn't reply. Instead he reaches for Dean again and this time Dean is unable to move away, rooted to the spot by an invisible force. Micheal's fingers close around Dean's wrist, pulling his withered hand up for inspection. He turns it over, carefully examining the damage, the same way Sam did.
"Does it hurt?" He asks, not sounding sympathetic so much as curious. Dean shakes his head, unable to form words while this creature is touching him. "I could heal it for you."
Dean shakes his head again, wanting desperately to pull away. He doesn't want any favours from the being that wants to take control of his body but Micheal isn't letting go, he brings Dean's hand up to his lips and pressing a kiss to the palm and Dean finally finds the strength to move. He tears his arm from Michael's grip, tries to move further away but his back hits the wall and he has to make do with darting to the side. Michael watches him with mild interest, but doesn't try to approach him again. His gaze lingers on Dean's hand and when Dean almost jumps when he looks at it, flesh perfectly restored as though the day never happened.
"I didn't ask for this," Dean hisses at him, waiting for the catch.
"I know," Michael replies. "You didn't ask for any of this. Consider it a gift, Dean, a token of my affection for you. No strings attached, I have no wish to see you damaged, that's all."
"Right," Dean mutters, flexing his fingers. "Of course you don't."
Michael smiles a weird, tight smile that Dean thinks might be exasperation. It looks weird on his face. "I know you're having trouble coming to terms with this, but if you take too long to face the facts it's going to be too late."
*
When Dean's eyes snap open he finds himself automatically looking for Sam; and there he is, remote already in hand, staring at the flickering screen with the volume turned off. He seems to sense Dean's descent into consciousness because he glances over, almost as soon as Dean's eyes fix on him.
"Oh," Sam says softly, "hey."
"Hey," Dean replies, voice rough with sleep. He moves his hand under the covers. Sam's breath hitches when Dean draws it free, and his eyes quickly snap up to meet Dean's.
"How?" Sam says, studying Dean's face and no doubt finding his complete lack of surprise at the immaculately healed flesh.
"Michael," Dean replies with a sharp smile. "Nice guy, huh?"
"You didn't..." Sam trails off.
"What? Make a deal with him? Give him an all access pass to my body?" Sam remains quiet, just waits for Dean to continue with a twisted, frightened expression on his face. "No way in hell, Sam! It's a gift, apparently, and one I didn't ask for. No strings."
Sam snorts and Dean nods his agreement. They hold eye contact like that for longer than Dean can remember them doing in a long time. Letting himself study his brother's face, Dean tries to find the changes, the ways that Sam is different now but all he can see is his little brother. He can, however, see the toll that their lives have taken on him, the worry lines a twenty-six year old shouldn't have, the exhaustion written across Sam's face and the repressed fear and constant guilt and anger in his eyes. He wonders briefly what Sam is seeing in him but decided that he doesn't want to know, isn't sure he wants Sam seeing anything at all.
Dean breaks eye contact first, glancing towards the television where colourful flashing letters announce that whatever the hell this product is cooks food in half the time, and cuts out at least half the fat. He leans back against the headboard of his bed and waits for Sam to turn up the volume. He never does and Dean never asks. Whenever Dean catches a glimpse of Sam out the corner of his eye his brother is still watching him, the TV lighting up the room with random splashes of colour.
Eventually, Dean hauls himself off the bed and shuffles into the bathroom. He takes a piss, then decides he may as well shower while he's in here. The water is loud after the heavy silence, but a relief. Dean listens to the rhythm it beats into his skin, turning his face up into the spray and letting it sting his eyes. It feels good to wash away the remnants of the dream that wasn't a dream and by the time he exits the bathroom with a towel around his waist and water still dripping from his hair he almost feels okay. The whole time he's searching through his duffel bag for a clean pair of shorts and a t-shirt he can feel Sam's eyes on his skin.
*
Dean doesn't sleep at all the next night, instead he sits at the wobbly table by the window of their motel room, computer open in front of him. Hours of research and a phone call to Castiel later, and he's still got nothing on how to keep Michael out of his dreams. Behind him Sam moans in his sleep, making Dean twist around in his chair to look at him. There's not enough light in the room to see Sam's face properly and Dean is debating whether or not he should wake him up when Sam makes the decision for him, stirring with another soft moan before his eyes blink open. Sam sits up, and Dean realises that him just sitting here watching him is probably kinda creepy so he forces a smile.
"Good dream or a bad dream?" He asks without thinking, adding a slight leer because it seems like something he'd do.
Sam licks his lips, clears his throat, and doesn't make eye contact. Dean's pretty much given up on getting an answer when Sam says, "Both. Neither, I don't even know."
And then he laughs, which Dean really wasn't expecting but isn't going to complain about because it's a rare sound these days, something he didn't know he missed until now.
"Let's get out of here," Sam says suddenly, and Dean raises an eyebrow.
"Where do you want to go?" He asks and can't help smiling when Sam laughs again.
"Anywhere that isn't a motel room or a morgue."
Dean drives until they find an all night truck stop, it's a greasy hole with bad fluorescent lighting that casts a sickly yellow tinge over everything, with one waitress who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world but here. The only other customers are a middle-aged trucker drinking cup after cup of the bad coffee and two teenage girls who hold hands under the table and whisper softly to one another, sharing a single plate of french fries. After bickering over what was appropriate three am food Sam orders pancakes and Dean orders a cheeseburger. They both get a cup of weak coffee and damn, if this isn't the nicest place they've been in at least a month. Probably longer.
They stay sitting in the booth until dawn, Sam's long legs pressed up against Dean's. The sun is just starting to rise when Dean finally works up the balls to ask, "What do you dream about? I mean, it's Lucifer, right? What does he say to you?"
Sam takes a careful sip of coffee then places his cup down and looks at Dean.
"He says a lot of things. He asks me to let him in, tells me it'll make everything better, easier. He offers me things the he thinks I want," Sam's lips quirk humourlessly them. "Sometimes he's right, sometimes he's not."
"What do you say to him?" Dean asks and wonders if he's pushing too far. They don't talk about this, but Dean needs to know.
"Nothing," Sam replies. "I used to, I'd say no, tell him to fuck off, but now I just don't. It's easier."
Sam falls silent and Dean doesn't press him, instead he pulls out his wallet and tosses a couple of bills on the table.
They walk out into the early morning chill, the sky a pale pink-streaked gray stretching out above them. Dean's got his hand on the door handle when he notices that Sam has followed him round to the driver's side and is standing there staring at him.
"What, you wanna drive, boy wonder?" Dean asks but then Sam is surging forward and their lips are pressed together. Sam's hand comes to rest tentatively on Dean's shoulder as Sam kisses him, tongue darting lightly across Dean's bottom lip. The kiss ends just as suddenly as it began, leaving Dean standing stunned with his mouth hanging open, mind reeling with the fact that his brother just kissed him and that's not even the most fucked up thing in their lives right now.
"It's always you," Sam says quietly. "It's happening every night now and it's always you. But he doesn't get it, why I can resist. It's because I know that when I wake up you'll be there. I'm sorry, I just needed to know what it would be like. I'm sorry."
Dean blinks, takes in the worried expression on Sam's face; something twists in his gut and his heart is pounding when he leans forward and up - Damn, Sam's tall - Sam's mouth is bitter with the taste of coffee and sticky with maple syrup, and Dean finds himself parting his lips wider to allow Sam's tongue inside, sucking at it and Sam moans into Dean's mouth. They're both breathless when they break apart; Dean pressed up against the Impala, Sam pressed up against Dean and it feel good, solid and grounding. Sam leans forward so his forehead is resting on Dean's shoulder, breath warm against Dean's neck and, to his surprise, Dean feels sorry when he pulls away. Sam clears his throat, stepping out of Dean's space and moving around the car to the passenger door. They study each other across the car, Sam watching Dean like he's waiting for him to bolt.
"So," Dean says, opening the door and sliding inside. "We heading back or what?"
"Uh, yeah," Sam says quickly folding himself into the seat. Dean pulls out of the truck stop and onto the road, waiting for the impact of what they just did to hit him and carefully avoiding looking directly at Sam.
*
"I'm sorry," Sam says again when they arrive back at the motel they're currently calling home. He's hovering between Dean and the door, making Dean wonder just what kind of reaction Sam is expecting from him. "I shouldn't have done that; it's my problem, not yours."
"My tongue was in your mouth. Kinda seems like that might be my problem too."
"Yeah, well it shouldn't be," Sam says with a sigh that sounds like every night of missed sleep in his life time is crashing down on him.
Dean sits down heavily on his bed and Sam continues to pace in front of the door. Neither of them speak for what seems like a very long time, silence only broken when Sam steps on a creaky floor board or Dean shifts on the bed. Silence use to be easy between them, as comfortable as conversation, sometimes more so. Now it's heavy and swollen with the things they can't say. Fuck it, Dean thinks, and speaks.
"Most of the people we've known, people we've loved, are dead," Sam stops, turns to face him. Dean continues. "You kissed me and I didn't stop you, didn't even think about stopping you. That sure as hell isn't normal, and god knows, it's not right."
Sam nods, looks away for one brief moment that makes Dean's heart jump, then he seems to make up his mind about something and when he looks back at Dean his eyes are challenging.
"You kissed me back," he says.
"I know," Dean replies. "That's the thing. You're acting like you're about to board up the exits, and I should be flipping out, but, Sam, what's the point?"
"The point?" Sam repeats incredulously.
"Yeah, I just. The world is ending and -" Dean sighs, unsure how to explain how he's feeling. "I mean, I am freaked out by this. Fuck, I really am. But what's really getting me is that I kind of want to kiss you again." The last words come out in a jumbled rush and Dean hears Sam's breath hitch.
"You sure about that?" Sam says and Dean frowns at him. Sam seems to get the point, because he's suddenly kneeling in front of the bed, face barely an inch away from Dean's, eyes darting over Dean's lips then up to meet his eyes, questioning. Sam opens his mouth to speak, but before he can question whether Dean's capable of making up his own mind again, Dean breaks the gap between them. At first, the only parts of them touching are their lips, pressed together almost chastely; then Sam's hands are on Dean's face, tilting his head to give Sam better access to his mouth, tongues and teeth get involved and Dean's fingers tangling in Sam's hair.
Dean falls back on the mattress, and Sam goes with him, crawling forward so he's on top of Dean. Sam's hands are everywhere, lips exploring Dean's throat while Dean's mind reels. Dean slides his hands under Sam's shirt, over the warm, muscled flesh of his back, while their tongues twist together, sucking and caressing. Sam is murmuring things into Dean's skin, his voice is muffled but Dean can make out fuck, and Dean and god, you're beautiful, want you so bad. Need you, and all Dean can think is, Sam Sam Sam.
When they finally break apart, Dean's breath is coming out in rough bursts and Sam is sprawled across the bed beside him.
"How long?" Dean asks when he has breath enough to speak. Sam seems to understand him straight away, body tensing then relaxing again.
"You really wanna know?" He asks, like maybe he's pushing his luck.
"I asked didn't I?"
"I've spent my whole life loving you, somewhere along the line it got kind of -" Sam says, tilting his head so he's looking at Dean, considering.
"Fucked up?" Dean offers and Sam smiles.
"Something like that."
*
They lay side by side in silence, bodies pressed close together and Dean lets himself slip into sleep without a struggle. Unsurprisingly, Michael is waiting for him, staring at Dean with a look of concern identical to the one Dean knows he sometimes wears; Michael is beginning to master Dean's face. Bastard better not get used to it. He opens his mouth to speak but Dean cuts him off.
"We're going to take down Lucifer, me and Sam." Dean says, if Sam can play zen master with the devil then Dean can surely lay things out plain and simple for this angelic douchebag. "We don't need you, any of you. Stay out of our way, and stay out of my head."
"You think it's that simple, Dean? We will find you."
"You haven't yet."
"The actions you and your brother take now will have serious consequences for the world." Michael says, peering at Dean like he's trying to understand him.
"Yeah," Dean says. "I know that, probably better than you do."
"And you can live with this?" No judgement, just vague curiosity.
"Managed so far." Dean says, turning his back on Michael and following the feeling of Sam's fingers on his flesh back into waking.
*
The TV taints their exposed skin; flickering blue and red and green. Sam is warm beside him, one arm curled around Dean's back, keeping him close. Dean strokes his fingers through Sam's hair, then tugs him forward until their lips meet. They always seem to end up sleeping in shifts, an unintentional constant that one will drift off for a few hours while the other keeps watch over him and together they wait out the night. During the day, Dean will think it seems stupid - overly paranoid - but the thing is, it works.