The Psychology of Genetic Sexual Attraction - Chapter 5/7
When he landed in Atlanta, he rented a car and called Sam’s office, asking for Lori, the AA in Sam’s department who made all the travel arrangements for Sam’s team. She was more than happy to give him the details of Sam’s hotel, cooing over how romantic it was that Dean had flown out all that way just to surprise him.
He hung up with a grim smile and programmed the GPS in his rental to take him directly to Sam’s hotel. He booked a room, wincing as he removed his credit card from his wallet again. He’d already given it a battering today with the last-minute flight, last-minute car rental and now the not-at-all-reasonably-priced hotel room. Not to mention all the spending he’d been doing in the Bay Area’s hottest night spots over the past few days and the bottles of JD, Beam, Johnnie Walker and Maker’s Mark littering the apartment. Sam would not be happy when he did the next monthly reconciliation of their joint finances.
If Sam ever did the monthly reconciliation of their joint finances again.
He swallowed back the familiar lump at the back of his throat, his stomach starting to clench, nervous butterflies fluttering as he accepted the key card from the smiling clerk.
Considering what he’d just paid for it, the room was not that impressive. Though he guessed you had to take these sort of kicks in the face when you booked at the last minute, and you were going through the biggest crisis of your entire sorry life, and the one thing - the only thing - that mattered was seeing the guy who’d caused the crisis once more.
He sat on the edge of the crappy queen size bed, and dropped his head into his hands. He felt terrible. He hadn’t eaten all day, he couldn’t eat, the nerves making him itchy and jumpy. And he still had no idea what he was going to say to Sam when he saw him again.
He’d been avoiding thinking about it for over a week, letting Stu, Aunt Marion, the guys at the garage think that he and Sam had just had a fight, that Sam was in Atlanta for work (which okay, he was, technically), unwilling to confront the reality of what had happened.
But - Jesus - how the fuck did you deal with this? What was the game plan when life threw you a curveball like this?
The guy he’d been living with - the guy he’d been screwing - for nearly eight years, the one he’d always assumed he’d spend the rest of his life with (though, he’d never actually admitted that out loud to Sam), was his long-lost brother. He and Sam had the same parents, he and Sam were related, he and Sam were brothers.
It just didn’t compute.
They had to break up. They had to end things. It was the only possible way this could go. Even if no one else knew, they knew. He couldn’t touch Sam again. He couldn’t look at Sam in the same way, knowing that he was committing incest, that his Sam was also the baby brother he’d held in his arms while their home burned down.
But if he ended things with Sam, then what would he do? This was Sam. He’d been with Sam for eight years. Sam was his only serious relationship. Sam and he were partners in the garage. Sam and he shared everything. Sam was everything to him. It was the two of them against the world. He didn’t want to think about life without Sam. The idea of carrying on, of living the rest of his life without Sam, of maybe seeing Sam one horrible future day with another guy on his arm, Sam turning to this other guy with that smile and that look that was only supposed to be for Dean.
Sam was his. He’d taught Sam everything, well, everything sex-related, though he’d thrown in some real-life lessons over the years, ‘cause let’s face it, Sammy had been pretty green when they’d first met. Sam was going to have an awesome career, he was going to be a kick-ass lawyer. Sam would help fight for gay rights and defend gay causes. Sam would change the world, and Dean wanted to be there to see him do it, to know that he helped, that his support and his belief and his love for Sam had meant something.
He wasn’t going to let Sam go so easily. He couldn’t.
With a sigh, he pushed himself up off the bed and picked up the room phone. He dialed Sam’s cell number from memory. Sam would answer if he didn’t recognize the number. Sam might not pick up to him, but he would answer an unknown number. Sam was too curious for his own good.
“Hello?”
“Sam.”
A pause, then he heard Sam swallow. “Dean? Um, wait - wait a moment, I’ll just - find an empty room. Hold on, man.”
Dean cradled the phone between his shoulder and his jaw and breathed in and out carefully as he heard the background noise of footsteps and creaking floorboards, doors swishing and clicking open, then finally a sharp, snicking sound as another door closed.
“Sammy? You there?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I’m in an empty office. Um, Dean, why are you calling?”
“I’m in Atlanta.”
“You’re in Atlanta?”
“Yeah. I’m in Atlanta. I landed a couple of hours ago. I got a room at your hotel.”
“My hotel?”
Okay, so obviously today Sam was only capable of dumbly repeating every one of Dean’s statements. Never mind, Dean could work with that. Plain simple sentences were a good start.
“Yes, Sam, I’m at your hotel. I flew here this morning. I wanted to see you.”
“Oh,” Sam breathed out. There was a long pause and Dean listened to Sam breathe some more. When Sam finally spoke again, his voice was uneven, a little cracked. “I - yeah. Okay. I want to see you too. I’ve missed you, man. I’ve been - Jesus, Dean - so fucking miserable. I - I don’t care anymore. I just wish - God - I should never have done it. I’m so fucking sorry, I fucked up everything.”
Dean swallowed, spoke quickly, it was always good to cut Sam off when he was about to launch into one of his moments of emo. “When do you finish up? I’m in room 409 at the hotel. You should just come here.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “I - I guess I’m almost done. I’ll be there in about thirty - forty minutes. Is that alright?”
“Yeah, Sammy, yeah, that’s good. Listen, I’ll see you then, okay? Just come straight up here. Room 409. Got it?”
“Yeah, room 409. See you soon.”
“Yeah, see you.”
Dean replaced the receiver on the cradle and let out a long breath. Thirty or forty minutes. Okay, that was plenty of time to get ready. He stalked into the bathroom, snapped on the light and stared at himself in the mirror.
He looked like shit. And that was probably a flattering description. He looked at least six or seven years older than his actual thirty years. Dark circles under his eyes, his skin pale and puffy and clammy, about five days stubble on his cheeks. Not the cool sexy sort of stubble that he usually went for, but the sort that screamed: I passed out in my car last night, I haven’t changed my underwear for two days, I haven’t eaten a decent meal in two weeks, I can’t remember the last time I slept without alcoholic assistance.
He peeled off his dirty, sweaty clothes and climbed into the shower. The pressure was awesome, about the only thing about this place that was awesome so far. He washed himself thoroughly, soaping his balls, cock and ass with a tingling anticipatory feeling in his gut. He washed his hair using the separate complimentary bottles of shampoo and conditioner, then got out the shower, and stood at the sink to shave. When he was done, he rubbed some of the complimentary moisturizer into his skin. The skin around his eyes felt dry and papery under his fingertips, the lines around his eyes looking more prominent - and wait - was that a grey hair at his temple? He cursed and used the complimentary tweezers to pull it out, giving his reflection a little valedictory smile when he was done.
He went back into the room and applied deodorant. Standing over the trash can, he clipped his nails with the clippers from the travel kit Sam had gotten him two or three years ago and he’d never used. He then opened his suitcase and dressed in the soft faded jeans and dark blue Henley Sam had always loved.
Okay, so he was done, now all he had to do was wait.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, mindlessly flicking through the range of TV channels, when someone knocked on the door.
He leapt to his feet, swallowing anxiously and smoothing down the front of his shirt with the sort of nervousness he hadn’t felt since that first Thanksgiving when he’d met Sam’s folks, the one where he’d made a total ass of himself by gaping at Sam’s parents just ‘cause Sammy had been too damn distracted to mention he was adopted -
Right, yeah, adopted. Well, he wasn’t going there right now.
He opened the door.
“Dean?”
“Sam.”
Jesus, Sam looked good, rumpled and work-tired in his pinstripe suit, but so fucking good. How had he managed to forget how freaking hot Sam was over the last couple of weeks? Fuck.
“Dean,” Sam repeated, and this time it was like a breath, an exhalation, and Sam was surging forward, making fists in Dean’s Henley. “Dean,” Sam said, “Dean.”
Dean gulped and tilted his head back, meeting Sam’s eyes. Sam made a strange choking sound and then his mouth was on Dean’s, big and wide and devouring, and Dean was sucking Sam’s tongue into his own mouth, feeling Sam’s body press up against him, hard and muscled and familiar.
He let Sam push him back inside the room, the heavy door slamming shut behind them as Sam’s arms wound around his waist, pulling him in closer and tighter, Sam’s mouth not leaving his the entire time.
Dean groaned and made a fist in the soft fabric of Sam’s suit jacket, bunching up the pinstripe between his fingers, letting his other hand slide upwards to caress the back of Sam’s neck, grabbing a handful of his silky hair. Sam was moaning and kissing him, over and over, biting and rubbing at his lips, nuzzling his lightly stubbled face against Dean’s clean shaven one.
Dean pulled away and panted for breath, his free hand going up to touch his lips, feel how bruised and sore they felt from Sam’s onslaught. He raised his eyes to Sam; Sam was staring at him, mesmerized, his eyes so dark the irises were faint circles. Slowly, Sam raised one of his hands, his expression going almost reverent as he cupped Dean’s cheek, brushed his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone, caressing the soft thin skin under his eyes.
Dean let his eyes fall closed, feeling opened up under Sam’s burning, glittering gaze. He felt Sam draw close once more, his big hand carefully tipping Dean’s head back as his mouth lowered and he kissed Dean’s cheek, his closed eyelids, the line between his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, his temples and jaw line, slowly and gently fluttering kisses across all of Dean’s face.
Dean gulped and snapped his eyes open; he felt shaken, broken apart. He fumbled out with his hand, wrapped it around Sam’s burgundy silk tie, stilling him, making Sam draw back and look at him, a question in his dark lidded eyes. He swallowed and jerked his head towards the bed, hoping that the suggestion would be obvious. It was obvious, Sam letting him tug him towards the bed, his eyes entirely focused on Dean, as if looking away for just one second meant never seeing him again.
They sat on the edge of the bed and took their clothes off slowly, reaching out to touch each other as each garment was tossed to the floor. Sam’s tie, his belt, his suit jacket, his pristine white dress shirt. Dean’s shirt, his belt, his jeans, Sam’s dress pants, his undershirt, their socks… until they were sitting at the edge of the bed, dressed only in boxer briefs, just staring at each other. Sam’s gaze was rapt as his palms ran down and over Dean’s chest, around his back and down his arms, back up to his shoulders and around to his collarbone, down over his pecs and around his navel. Sam pulled away and bent to pick up his discarded dress pants. He fumbled into the pocket and drew out a condom - their brand - he pressed it into Dean’s hand, curling Dean’s fingers around it.
Dean nodded and watched Sam shift backwards onto the bed, pushing down his boxers as he went, his cock, big and red as it slapped against his hard, flat belly. Dean swallowed, feeling his own cock, hard enough to cut glass, as he pushed down his own underwear. He gave it a squeeze, feeling it throb under his fingers as he stared at Sam, drank in Sam’s body, sprawled out over the queen bed, dominating, taking up every inch of space as he always did.
He licked his lips and turned to follow, on his hands and knees, his hard cock bobbing against his belly as he loomed over Sam. He watched Sam swallow, saw the ripple of his throat and he wanted to trace it with his mouth, so he did, leaning down to kiss gently over Sam’s Adam’s apple and down across his chest, tonguing one nipple then the other, watching the gooseflesh rise under his lips, Sam’s entire body trembling underneath him.
Sam grabbed Dean’s hand and brought it to his mouth. He sucked on Dean’s forefinger and middle finger, coating them with spit, running his tongue along the edges and around until Dean’s stomach burned and his cock throbbed, the sensation of Sam’s tongue against his skin lighting him up from inside. Sam let his hand go and bucked up, lifting his ass up from the mattress, the look in his eyes getting pleading, and Dean knew this part; he was intimately familiar with this part.
He lowered his hand, fingers coated, dripping with spit, and circled Sam’s asshole before he pushed inside with a squelchy, sucking sound. It was so warm, so hot - burning - in there, inside Sam’s body, dry and tight and barely enough room for both fingers. He slid them in and out, finding a rhythm, matching it to Sam’s short panted breaths, his moans and gasps and pleading whimpers. He felt Sam grab onto his arm, clamp his fingers around his bicep like a vice, hard enough to leave marks.
Dean pulled his fingers out, turned to grab the lube from his suitcase, but Sam stopped him, clamped his arm harder. When Dean glanced down at him, Sam was shaking his head, lips shaping, “No”. Dean swallowed, nodded briefly, then bowed his head and rolled the condom onto his painfully hard cock.
He could feel Sam watching him, Sam’s gaze like a brand, hot and laser-like in its intensity. He slid the condom down his dick and spat carefully into his hand, seeing the saliva pool, slimy and bubbly in the middle of his palm. He slicked up the head of his sheathed cock, and carefully lined it up. He could feel Sam resist at first, his breathing quicken, then slowly, second by second, relax… until he was letting Dean in all the way, arching his ass up from the bed, reaching for and gripping onto Dean’s biceps with both hands.
It felt wondrous to slide into Sam again, to slot inside him like two hinges coming together, like a screw on a butterfly nut. He paused, heart hammering, pulse thudding, blood beating in his head, his entire body feeling on the edge, about to explode from the inside out, white burning heat gathering inside, a bomb about to go off. He gathered himself, taking a long breath before he started to thrust, in and out of Sam, fucking him just the way Sam liked it, their bodies, the slapping sound of flesh on flesh, their panted breaths the only noises in the silent room.
They didn’t do it like this very often, dry and painful and tight. There was a reason Sam bulk ordered lube along with condoms. But this time Dean wanted to feel it. He wanted to hurt, he wanted the pain, the soreness of Sam’s almost dry flesh against his, aided only by spit and sweat. He wanted to feel everything, and Jesus, he was close, so fucking close. And so was Sam. He could tell by the fluttering of Sam’s eyelashes, the clenching of his muscles around Dean’s cock, the tight panted moans getting higher and tighter. He jacked Sam’s cock, rough and dry, one, two, three, four pulls, and Sam was coming, his orgasm resonating through every cell in both their bodies, Sam shuddering and shaking and gasping out loud as the hot strings of come gathered on Dean’s fingers.
He leaned down, pushed their mouths together, tongue slipping between Sam’s lips, gasping, exhaling into Sam’s mouth as his own orgasm ripped from his body, his cock pumping and twitching and pulsing inside Sam. He sighed out loud, one last breathless noise, and collapsed on top of Sam.
He could feel Sam’s heart thumping through his own chest, his mouth turned against the side of Sam’s cheek, their chests and legs and arms pressed together with sticky sweat and congealing jizz. Sam’s legs were still wrapped around his body, hot and hairy and itchy against his sweaty skin, Sam’s heels tapping against the backs of his thighs.
With a huge effort, he raised his head, meeting Sam’s eyes, putting some air between their bodies. He smiled, euphoric and exhausted, pressed a kiss to Sam’s damp forehead, nuzzled at his sweat-drenched hair, felt the scrape of Sam’s stubble against his own face.
“Dean,” Sam sighed. It was the first word he’d said since they’d started this. The only word he’d said since he’d knocked on Dean’s door.
“Sammy,” he murmured back. He lifted his head again and gazed down into Sam’s eyes, watched him swallow, his pupils slowly retracting, the hazel color returning to his eyes. He pushed Sam’s hair back off his face, cupped his cheek.
“Dean,” Sam repeated. “Dean, we’re - we’re brothers, Dean.” He said the words as if he was still trying to figure them out, like he couldn’t fathom what they really meant.
Dean flinched and pulled away; making to sit up, pull his softening cock out of Sam’s ass.
“No -“ Sam protested, grabbing onto Dean’s arm and pulling him back in. “No, don’t move. Not - yet.”
Dean bit his lip and nodded.
Sam gulped, said, “Don’t want to let you go yet.”
“Not going anywhere,” Dean told him. “If that’s what you want.”
Sam fluttered his eyes shut, and nodded, relieved.
He had to pull out eventually, he could feel his cock getting smaller, softer, the condom starting to slip off. He pulled out gently. His cock was still throbbing, slightly sore, raw to the touch, and for a moment, he felt guilty, knowing that Sam must be hurting even more, his asshole used and tender. He removed the condom, getting up gingerly from the bed to dispose of it. This time Sam made no protest, though Dean could feel Sam's eyes follow him as he walked stiffly to the bathroom.
He flushed the condom and turned, catching his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked used, debauched, red flush to his entire body, his chest and throat and face; white opaque strings of Sam’s come sticky and claggy on his belly. He didn’t stay and look for long, quickly turning away and gathering up the complementary face-cloth, rinsing it under the warm water. He padded back into the bedroom. Sam hadn’t moved, still sprawled out on his back, arms and legs thrown wide, cock lying limp and big against the crease of his thigh.
Dean perched on the edge of the bed and leaned over to carefully clean Sam up, washing and wiping his belly, thighs, ass and cock clean with gentle, reverent movements. When he was done, he turned to go again, but Sam reached out, caught his hand.
“No, come back here,” Sam said, tugging at his hand.
Dean dropped the used cloth to the floor, and let Sam pull him into bed. Sam curled up against him as he always did, putting his mouth to Dean’s throat, one long leg thrown over Dean’s thigh, his thick hair brushing at Dean’s mouth and chin. Dean draped his arm around Sam’s back, running his palm up and down his soft damp skin, an unbearable rush of tenderness and love pushing at the edges of his body, threatening to spill over. He’d missed this so much, missed the feel of Sam, the smell of him and the touch of him under his fingertips. He heard Sam breathe in and out, quiet snuffling breaths, felt Sam’s lips open up, press kisses to his throat and sternum, hum against his skin.
“Sam,” he whispered.
Sam pulled back, tilted his head back and blinked at him. He looked curiously young, like the eighteen year old kid Dean’d met and fallen for eight years ago, his eyes wide and doe-like, lashes dark and wet. Dean stared at him, trying to see it: the resemblance, any traits in Sam’s face, in the slant of his eyebrows or his cheekbones, the curve of his lips or the small cleft in his chin - any resemblance to his own face or to his faded memories of his father, to those blink-and-miss-it memories of Mom or his mythical baby brother.
He couldn’t see it. There was nothing there. Sam was still just Sam.
Sam’s lips parted and he smiled, slow and sad. He reached up to cup the back of Dean’s skull, and murmured: “Don’t wanna talk about it now. Later, Dean. Just wanna - wanna be close to you. Missed you.”
Dean swallowed, felt the breath catch in his lungs. He nodded, pressed his lips together. “Okay.”
Sam smiled again, his gaze getting serene, that hazy sheen to his eyes that meant he was really fucking exhausted, that he’d run his stupid ass ragged from working every night, from not getting any sleep. Oh well, Dean felt pretty exhausted too, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like he could actually sleep.
***
When Dean woke up, Sam was still lying beside him. He was awake; Dean could tell by the way he was breathing, the way he held his body. He blinked his eyes open and stared at Sam’s face; Sam was watching him sleep, his eyes wide and soft.
“You watching me sleep now? Creepy, dude.”
Sam’s mouth twitched. “You know I can’t get enough of you.”
“I know,” Dean said. He yawned and rolled onto his back, putting a few inches distance between them. “What time is it?”
“Ten fifteen. PM,” Sam said.
“Oh, right.” Dean blinked again, said, “Fuck, I’m hungry.”
Sam laughed and shifted around, moving into a sitting position. Dean gave him a sideways glance; Sam was still naked, at least his chest was, the covers hid the rest. He watched Sam lean over and snatch up the room service menu from the nightstand, toss it onto Dean’s chest. “You wanna pick something? The burgers are okay; I had them the last two nights.”
“Oh, you haven’t been out at all?”
Sam shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Been busy, work, you know how it is.” He paused, then he turned, looked down at Dean. “Not like you.”
“Huh?”
Sam reached over, placed one long finger over the mark on Dean’s shoulder, a love-bite shaped mark, made by… Christ, he had no idea, any one of the many dudes or chicks he’d fucked over the past week.
“You’ve been busy too,” Sam said pointedly.
Dean made a face and batted Sam’s hand away; he sat up and picked up the menu.
“So, you’ve been out a lot these past few days? Getting a lot of action?” Sam asked, his tone catty and pissed. Dean should’ve expected this, should’ve known that once Sam noticed, he wouldn’t let it go. Sam had always had a jealous streak about a mile wide, not that Dean had ever really complained about his boyfriend’s possessive bitch tendencies, it was flattering, in a fucked-up way.
“Yeah,” Dean said shortly. “And don’t ask me how many, ‘cause I got no fuckin’ clue, I kinda lost count.”
“Fuck’s sake, Dean! I hope you were careful.”
“What! Course I was careful! You know me better than that.”
Sam let out a harsh bark of a laugh. “Right, whatever.”
“Sam, c’mon, man, be reasonable. You left me! You just fucked off and left me -“
“I’d just found out you were my long-lost brother!” Sam blurted out. “Excuse me if I freak out at that! I didn’t know what to do! I didn’t -“
“Neither did I!” Dean yelled.
Sam hesitated, eyes wide, locked on Dean, unblinking. Dean licked his lips, let out a hollow laugh. “I - there’s no rulebook for this, Sammy. I thought that was it, I thought we were over. I thought you didn’t want me anymore. And I went - I kinda lost it for a while. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was drinkin’ and takin’ shit and just fuckin’ any dude or chick who looked at me twice -“ he let out a long breath, shook his head. “I was a mess without you. I missed you, man. That’s why I flew out here. Don’t you get that?”
Sam’s face fell, mouth getting loose and sloppy. Dean stared at him, watched him bow his head, run one of those enormous hands through his hair. “I don’t know what to do,” Sam admitted in a soft broken voice. He raised his head and Dean saw the tears in his eyes, the wetness spilling over, running down his cheeks. “Tell me what to do, Dean. What do we do?”
Dean swallowed, trying to find his voice, make it strong, sure, give Sam what he needed. “We carry on.”
“But you and me - we’re brothers. It would be - it’s wrong, it’s incest.”
Dean flinched at the sound of that word, but he swallowed it back. “Sam, we’ve been doing it for years,” he said finally, trying to make his voice sound as firm and reassuring as possible. It was the truth after all; they had been doing it for years. The two of them had had a helluva lot of sex over the past eight years, and they were both still standing, no fire-bolts had been sent down just yet to raze their sinful asses from the earth.
“We didn’t know! It wasn’t - that wasn’t our fault!” Sam protested.
“We know now and still - just then - we couldn’t help ourselves, man. Soon as we saw each other -“ he trailed off, blowing out a breath, a half-hearted chuckle.
Sam’s face was guarded, his body tense. He blinked, catching Dean’s eyes, and shook his head, confusion darkening his expression. “Dean, I don’t -“
“You’re not my brother,” Dean insisted, talking over Sam, cutting off his protests. “You don’t feel like my brother. You’re Sam, you’re my boyfriend, my better half, whatever. You’ve always been that.”
“But, Dean -“
“But, what? Tell me, be honest, man. Do I feel like your brother? Does it feel wrong when I touch you or when I do this?” He moved his hand to cradle Sam’s face, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips, feel the moist clammy warmth of Sam’s skin under his mouth. Sam gave in almost immediately, sighing and parting his lips, letting Dean’s tongue in, deepening and lengthening the kiss, until Sam was dragging one hand up into Dean’s hair, turning the kiss into one of their usual sloppy, breathless kisses.
Dean pulled away and gasped for breath, stared at Sam’s flushed, glittering eyes, his bruised parted lips.
“Sammy, does that feel like you’re kissing your brother?”
Sam’s lip twitched, his mouth quirking sheepishly. “I’ve never had a brother, but I - I don’t reckon it would feel like that if I kissed him. But, Dean, I still -“
Dean shook his head exasperatedly. “But what, Sam? What do you want? What’s the alternative here? Do you wanna break up? Go our separate ways and never see each other again? Do you want that?”
“God, no!” Sam said helplessly.
Dean tilted Sam’s head back, forcing him to look him in the eyes. “Well, then,” he said simply. He smiled, going for his most reassuring disarming grin, the one that had so charmed Sam back when they’d first met.
Sam exhaled and smiled back at him, soft at first then slowly getting bigger - that goddamn beautiful grin of his. “Okay, okay, Dean. We can do this, right? You and me?”
“We can do this,” Dean repeated, feeling the certainty in the words as he spoke. They had to do this - the alternative just wasn’t on the table, it wasn’t anywhere near the goddamn table. “C’mere,” he murmured, pulling Sam in, pushing him back down into the mattress. “We got some time to make up for.”
***
The following day was Saturday. Sam didn’t have to work, so they decided to get up early, do the tourist thing, check out the city of Atlanta. Dean went down to the lobby to check out of his room, moving all his shit into Sam’s room and leaving an extra big tip for the poor maid who would have to deal with the used condoms, dirty tissues, disgusting sheets and well-fucked bed they’d left behind them.
Sam’s room was in as almost a bad state, papers and books and files on the bed, dresser, desk and floor, evidence that Sam really had been working every single hour he wasn’t asleep since he’d gotten there. At least the bed was made, the bathroom cleaned and there were clean towels.
They went to the World of Coca Cola because it was Atlanta. It was the thing to do, and Dean was genuinely interested in the history of the world’s conquering brand, plus the opportunity to taste every variety of his favorite soft drink was too exciting to miss. They took their time going through the exhibits, reading about the social history that surrounded the invention, distribution and later world-domination of the Coca Cola Company. They lingered through the tasting area where Dean insisted on tasting every single variety on offer while Sam bitched and whined about Dean having “taste buds like a freaking six year old” and wandered off to wait for him in one of the cafes.
Dean made it up to him by buying him one of those old branded yoyos he could remember playing with when he was a kid, and a baseball cap.
“Something to tame that ass-rag hair of yours,” he said when he tossed the cap at Sam.
Sam fumbled and dropped it onto the table next to his cup of coffee (dude could never have made a good catcher, which was fucking ironic). He smiled up at Dean, and asked if Dean wanted a Coke from the café or was he ready to move onto the aquarium?
“I don’t think I could drink another freakin’ Coke in my entire life,” Dean groaned. “My teeth feel like they’re about to fall out.”
Sam laughed and got up from the table, jamming the baseball cap onto his head as he said, “Serves you right. So, aquarium now?”
Dean groaned and agreed, but it was all for show. He was secretly pretty psyched about the aquarium, and anyway, anything that made Sam grin like that was worth doing as far as he was concerned.
The aquarium was heaving with people, tourists and locals, mainly families with young kids and their harassed looking parents, all of them jostling to get a prime spot in front of the huge water tanks. Dean hung back with Sam, the two of them loomed over almost everyone else (Sam especially, the Sasquatch) so really, it was the polite thing to do. He took a seat towards the back of one of the rooms, letting Sam wander off and stare into the tanks, read all the information notices and follow the guidebook he’d insisted on shelling out $15 for at the entrance. Dean stretched out his legs and watched the families skipping past, the excited kids and exasperated parents calling out to them.
He found himself wondering what his own childhood would’ve been like if he and Sam had grown up together. Would he have been happier, less lonely if he’d had his own little brother to play with and torment? At the time, when he was growing up, he hadn’t really felt lonely. He’d had baseball friends, girlfriends, kids he did school projects with. He’d gotten on with everybody, he’d always been sociable, always found it easy to find something to say, to find some way of interacting with people. Even when he’d begun to figure out that he was bisexual, that he was attracted to guys as well as girls, he’d been able to hide it well enough to continue being accepted, to keep blending in. Until the end of senior year of course, until he’d broken up with Liza Dumont, and Scott Thompson had started spreading all the rumors.
In retrospect, looking back on that period now, with the benefit of hindsight and all that, he could see that he’d been a pretty lonely kid. He’d never had any close friends, never had a best friend or a BFF or whatever the acceptable male equivalent was. He’d never had anyone to share secrets with or talk about how he felt about shit with, though, he was pretty sure that teenage boys didn’t do that (whatever Sam said). Even after he’d left South Dakota, when he’d cut and run and just kept moving, he'd never gotten close to anybody, passing through places, hooking up with girls and guys here and there, never making a real connection, never really letting anyone in.
Until Sam, of course.
Aunt Marion had said it once, during one of his and Sam’s visits to South Dakota. “It’s funny, you and Sam. I wouldn’t have chosen it for you, honey, and I’m still - I still worry about you - being gay. But now, seeing the two of you together, you’re like a different person. You seem so much happier, baby. We used to worry about you so much. You were such an independent little boy, you never let anyone in, you never let anyone get close to you. I guess you were just waiting for the right person.”
He licked his lips, stared across the groups of people, the dark rippling lights from the aquariums playing over everyone’s faces, making them look eerie and fascinating. It was easy to spot Sam, at least a head taller than everyone else, leaning up against one of the less popular tanks, his big hand pressed against the glass, every ounce of concentration on the fish inside. Sam loved fish, he’d told Dean once that he’d thought about studying oceanography before he’d become obsessed with the law. But Sam’d grown up by the ocean, had gotten up every morning to be greeted by the sight of the Pacific through his bedroom window. Sam’d had a happy childhood, though in many ways, he’d been like Dean, an outsider, no real close friends, no one who’d truly gotten him - he’d told Dean that himself.
Dean got to his feet, making his way through the crowds of kids, to Sam’s side. He placed his hand on the Sam’s back; Sam turned his head and smiled at him, the reflection of the tank, the swirling blue light, casting an otherworldly glow over his skin, emphasizing the slight animalistic slant of his eyes, the dark inky strands of hair as it fell across his forehead, the cut of his cheekbones and that generous wide mouth. He looked ethereal, mysterious and really fucking gorgeous, reminding Dean with a lurch of that moment on their first date, how he’d looked under that street light before Dean’d kissed him for the first time.
“Hey, you’re getting bored, aren’t you?”
Dean shook his head, finding his voice again. “Nah, no, s’cool, but where’re the sharks, Sammy? I thought you promised me some sharks.”
Sam laughed. “Yeah, okay, let’s go find the sharks.”
They went back to the hotel again to freshen up before going out in the evening, and Sam hit up a few websites to find recommendations for gay friendly restaurants and bars.
“It’s depressing me that you haven’t already done this,” Dean commented as he flicked through the channels on the TV, sprawled back against the headboard. He glanced down at the laptop on Sam’s knees beside him. “Hey, how about that place, that guy looks cute.”
Sam batted his hand away with a glare. “What do I tell you about backseat surfing?”
“That it’s annoying?”
“Yeah. Anyway, like I said before, I’ve been working, every night.”
“You’ve been missing out. S’fuckin’ Atlanta, man. Supposed to have one of the largest gay populations in the country.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not an enormous slut like you,” Sam muttered.
Dean sighed and turned the TV to the ESPN revolving news; there was seriously nothing else worth watching. “Look, I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. But you were gone, and I didn’t know what the fuck was going on between us. I just - I lost it for a week. It was like my lost weekend. But I’m here now. And we’re okay, aren’t we? Sam, we’re okay, right?”
He saw Sam’s fingers hesitate on his keyboard, saw him blink, the swoop of his eyelashes, black feathery shape against the hollows of his face. Sam raised his eyes, swallowed as he looked at Dean. “Yeah, we’re okay.”
Dean exhaled in relief, nodding to himself. “Good, good. You know, man, I had a great time today. You and me, just hangin’ out. We don’t do that kinda shit enough.”
“Yeah, you’re right, we don’t.”
“I’m always right.”
Sam huffed out a breath, his mouth twitching into a smile. “Of course you are.”
“Exactly. So how about you put that thing away and show me some love?”
Sam snorted, rolling his eyes as he closed the laptop and turned to place it on the nightstand. “’Cause I haven’t already shown you enough love?”
“No such thing as enough.”
They didn’t make it out in the end. After round whatever it was (Dean was beginning to lose count), going out seemed pointless. Instead they called for room service, more burgers and beers ‘cause they had to keep their strength up and Sam was billing the lot to his work expense account. They sprawled across the bed, tangled in the dirty sheets, naked and sweaty and aching, and still unable to keep their hands off each other.
“I have to keep touching you,” Sam murmured, rolling onto his front and burying his face into Dean’s side, his lips against Dean’s ribs. “God, you smell so good. It’s like a compulsion, Dean. I think I’m seriously addicted to you. I can’t stop touching you.”
“Mmm, Sammy,” groaned Dean, he wasn’t sure he could string words together by this point. He placed one hand on Sam’s hair, twisting his fingers in the thick dark strands, guiding Sam’s head down lower. “Go on, suck me off.”
Sam tilted his head back, stared at him through heavy lidded eyes, lips bruised and pink. “Okay.”
They flew back to California on Tuesday evening on the red-eye. It was pretty quiet and Sam piled up the seat on his right with his briefcase and laptop, that absorbed study-licious look creeping over his face as he opened his briefcase and took out several dense and incredibly boring looking documents.
“Seriously? You gonna work for the entire flight?”
Sam sighed and fumbled about in his briefcase, locating his iPod and tossing it into Dean’s lap. “There you go, entertain yourself.”
Dean looked down at the iPod, then looked at Sam. “No freaking way I’m listening to your music.”
Sam sighed again and reached for the iPod. He switched it on and started scrolling and pressing some of the annoying fiddly little buttons. “Here,” he said shortly, handing it back to Dean.
Dean frowned and glanced at the screen: DEAN’S PLAYLIST. He highlighted it and scrolled through the tracks: Sabbath, Priest, ACDC, Zeppelin, Stones. Well, okay then.
He lifted his head and grinned at Sam.
“I know, I’m awesome,” Sam said, his mouth doing that twitching thing that meant he was trying not to smile. “Now shut up and let me work.”
Next Chapter