Gift for wincest_whore
Title: The Tick-Tock Man
Recipient: wincest_whore
Gifter: blackrabbit42
Pairing/Characters: Sam Winchester & Dean Winchester
Word count/Medium: ~5700
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Summary: Ever wish you could just stop time?
Anyone else would call it a deal. But to Dean it’s a gift. Always has been, always will be. Because with a deal there’s a give and there’s a take. He has never had any intention of giving the Tick-Tock Man what he’s hoping for. At best this was a wager-one he’s always known he’ll win.
When Dean was six, Sammy had the croup and Dad took him to the doctors. The three books in the waiting room had long since lost their appeal and Dean was considering asking the receptionist if she had any stickers when he noticed there was a man who didn’t belong in the waiting room with him. For one thing, he didn’t have any kids with him. For another, he just gave Dean a feeling; kind of a bad feeling, but also secretly thrilling. He looked around briefly for his dad and wasn’t completely disappointed to note that the door to the examining room was still firmly shut.
“The minutes stretch out at times like these, don’t they, Dean?”
It doesn’t surprise Dean in the least to find that this man knows his name. He nods, fascinated.
“I bet you wish you could skip over times like these and make the good times, the fun times, last forever.”
“You’re a stranger,” Dean says. But he was right. Dean does wish that. All the time.
The man who was not a daddy stands up and walks over to sit in the chair right next to Dean. The receptionist glances up and smiles at the two of them.
“Look at this,” the man says. In his hands he’s holding a pocket watch. Nothing fancy, a little battered even, but it makes Dean hold out his hand instinctively. The man places the watch on Dean’s palm. It feels heavy for its size and the steady ticking inside its hidden heart makes it seem alive. Dean’s never seen one before in real life, only in books and pictures. He instantly covets it with a fierceness that scares him a little.
The man smiles even broader, showing his teeth which aren’t quite right and definitely too white and gleaming. He does something with his hand, palm up, and suddenly the waiting room grows absolutely silent and somehow far away.
“Keep it,” the man says. “It’s yours.”
Dean knows this is beyond the line that separates “naughty” from “dangerous.” This isn’t just a stranger; this is one of the bad guys. This is what his dad has been talking about. The man didn’t try to trick him or gain his trust. He just knows that what he has to offer was much stronger than Dean’s sense of right and wrong.
“I know you wish you could go back in time. Back to before.”
Dean nods. He wishes that more than anything. Already the sound of his mother’s voice is fading in his memory, and he can only remember what she looks like in brief sideways flashes that don’t all come together to make a clear, complete picture.
“I’m sorry I can’t do anything about that. But,” he taps the pocket watch. “This could help you make sure there won’t be anything like that for you ever again.”
He takes the watch out of Dean’s palm and Dean fights down the grabby black goblin inside himself that wants to snatch it back. The man sees this and chuckles indulgently. “You open it like this,” he says, pressing the crown. The front flips open with a satisfying click, and Dean is surprised to see there are no numbers on the face of the watch, nor hands. In fact, there’s nothing- just a black empty space punched out of the universe. “And then that’s where the time goes. Every second that passes ceases to exist,” he explains. “Down the garbage chute, so to speak.”
Dean glances up at the man’s face. His eyes have become two black holes as well. Dean feels really, really lucky that he didn’t wet himself.
“Unless you shut it down,” the man who is definitely, definitely not a daddy says. “Look.” He grasps the ring at the top of the watch and turns it. A gold shutter snicks into place over the blackness in the watch. “Can you feel that?”
Dean does. Something is different, something he cannot put his finger on. He knows it’s wrong. He knows it’s just more of the type of thing his dad would warn him about, and yet it feels… mesmerizing. Soothing. Safe.
“We stopped time. It can’t go back, and it can’t go forward. I can do that any time I like. Now isn’t that a neat trick?”
Dean doesn’t appreciate being patronized, but he nods and holds his palm out. Although he’s only six he instantly grasps what this could mean.
“You get one chance,” the man says. “I can stop and start, but then, I’m me. You’re just Dean Winchester. You choose your time and you stick with it.”
“I want Dad and Sammy back now,” Dean says.
The man who isn’t a daddy and probably was a bad guy leans over so his eyes are level with Dean’s. “You have to understand though, Dean. If your own time runs out, if you die before you use the watch, you’ll have to come live with me. You get that, right?”
Even way back then Dean got it. But he isn’t worried, not even a little bit.
“Then give me a kiss on the cheek,” the not-a-daddy says. When Dean obediently does exactly that, the man turns the ring once more, and the black hole appears again. He snaps the case closed. “One chance,” he says and then gets up and walks out of the room just as the examining room door opens and John emerges with a squalling, squirming, and probably very hungry Sam.
Dean puts the watch in his pocket before anyone can see.
++++++++
When Dean is seven and Sam is three they stay with one of Dad’s friends for a couple of days. The trailer is small and full of mildew, so Dean keeps Sam outside all that he can. They play in the dirt-yard or read in the set of scratchy folding chairs by the door. One afternoon there’s a stranger sleeping on the cheap sofa with breath like something dead and a white, rheumy crust in the corner of his eyes.
“Who is this?” Dean asks. Sam usually has his nap on that sofa.
Mr. Reid, Dad’s friend, doesn’t look up from the sports page he’s reading. “That’s my little brother, Max.
Dean creeps closer, fascinated and horrified at the same time. Little brother? This man has a three-day growth of beard and droopy skin on his neck. There are grey hairs mixed in with the muddy brown of his hair. He is, frankly, disgusting. And old.
Dean takes Sam out beside the trailer with an old blanket and a ratty throw pillow, intending to make a bed for him. He looks at the dark, ambiguous stains on the pillow, the places where the weave on the blanket has pilled or pulled, and puts them aside. Not for his little brother.
“C’mon, Sam, let’s go for a walk.”
Sam is sleepy, but he takes Dean’s hand and stumbles along after him. There’s a wild, overgrown lot behind the trailer park, all tangles of goldenrod and sumac. Dean scouts around a little looking for the perfect place then pushes down the grass making a little nest among the green growing things for Sam.
While Sam sleeps, Dean peers closely at him. Sees changes there he hadn’t before. At three years old, Sam is beginning to lose his baby-fat cheeks. His hair isn’t silky and fine any longer, but lush and curly. Dean strokes the super soft skin on the inside of Sam’s wrists and studies the delicate tracing of blue-tinted veins in his eyelids. He lays down next to Sam and smells his sweet child's breath; it smells like grape Kool-aid.
Dean loves all of Sam exactly as he is right now in this moment. The thought of him changing-becoming anything other than this exact perfect creature beside him gives Dean a feeling of panic. Like he might be missing something or letting something get away.
The watch is hidden deep in his duffle bag wrapped in a few pieces of yellow paper he tore out of a phone book and secured with scotch tape that he took from school. The sleeping man in the trailer scares him enough to think about the watch. But that watch- it doesn’t just stop Sam, it stops time. As much as Dean would like to keep Sam, this Sam, he doesn’t want to live in a trailer like this for all time. He wouldn’t care so much for himself, there’s always potato chips on the counter and He-Man on TV, but when he thinks of the cigarette burns in the carpet and the funny smell in Mr. Reid’s bedroom he knows he doesn’t want that for Sam.
He pulls Sam a little closer, burying his face in the soft skin of Sam’s neck, and tries really hard not to think about how one of his teeth is loose.
++++++++
Dean meets the Watch Man again when he’s ten. He and Sam are standing in a grubby and straggling line at a county fair, waiting to get on some sort of kiddy kars ride. He recognizes the man immediately, although he no longer looks the same. He’s wearing a different face.
“Why, hello, Dean,” the man says, feigning surprise. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“We’re not supposed to talk to strangers,” Sam says, inserting himself between Dean and this interloper.
The man laughs. “I’m not a stranger, I’m Mister Tick-Tock. Surely Dean has told you about me? We’re old friends.”
Sam looks back at Dean, uncertain. The Tick-Tock Man looks like your average middle-aged dad. No kids with him, of course, but the harmless air of someone who probably has kids. Even so, he has Sam’s hackles up.
“But right you are, Sam, you shouldn’t talk to strangers. Especially in a place like this.” Mister Tick-Tock waves his arm around expansively at the dusty midway. The few other fair-goers look to Dean like the kind of people who can go to a fair in the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday because they are out of work and need something to do to pass the time until it’s beer-thirty, as his dad would say. He puts his arm around Sam and pulls him closer.
“Move along now, boys, time and tide wait for no one.” The Tick-Tock Man gestures forward-it’s their turn to get on the ride next.
Sam shoots him one last distrustful look and stands next to the-“you must be this tall to ride”-stick. Dean, the ride operator, and Mister Tick-Tock all see him lift his heels slightly off the ground so the top of his head hits the mark. The ride operator pretends not to see. Mister Tick-Tock just chuckles. “It won’t be long,” he says, dropping Dean a wink. “They grow so fast. One minute they’re babes in arms, and the next minute-” he makes a blowing motion, like blowing away the desiccated remains of dandelion fluff. “Poof, they’re gone.” He makes as if to walk away but then stops as if he just thought of something. “Oh, by the way, Dean, how’s your dad?” His face is all innocence and concern.
“Dean, come on,” Sam urges.
Dean hesitates but there will never be a contest for his attention that Sam does not win. He scrambles after Sam to get on the ride. When he looks back, the Tick-Tock Man is gone.
When Dad picks him up later that afternoon both boys are silent. Sam is tired and irritable, and Dean feels dirty. It’s not the kind of tired and dirty that a boy gets from a long day messing around in the woods and fields. It’s an overstimulated and vaguely anxious kind of tired. It’s a greasy, polluted kind of dirty.
“You boys need a bath,” Dad says into the silence of the back seat. “Dean, you help Sam wash his hair, okay?”
Dean does, using a waxy bar of hotel soap to lather up Sam’s hair. He’s very careful not to get any in Sam’s eyes. “Tilt your head way back,” he says, pouring water so it only cascades down Sam’s slippery back. Sam does as Dean says, and Dean imagines the white suds washing away the residue of disquiet that Mister Tick-Tock left over them.
When they get out of the bathroom, Dad is gone. Dean is not surprised; it’s been like that a lot lately. It’s fine; Dean knows how to put Sam to bed.
Dean climbs in bed with Sam curled up in the curve of his chest. Normally he can follow the slow, steady rhythm of Sam’s breath down the darkness to sleep but not tonight.
Oh, by the way, Dean, how’s your dad?
That is a very good question. Something happened that Dad doesn’t want to talk about and it’s got him in a bad way. When he is around, he’s restless and short-tempered. But more often than not, he’s just gone. No note, no orders, no sign of when he’ll be back.
Dean threads his arm underneath Sam’s neck and pulls him closer. Mister Tick-Tock is right. He’s growing fast. They both are.
At first, Dean had had some sense that the watch was a way he could keep Sam and Dad safe. That Dad was going to… do whatever it was he needed to do, things would get back to normal, and then Dean would make sure it stayed that way forever. It didn’t take long for him to realize that wasn’t going to happen.
He’d been tempted more than once to use it. Last summer, they’d stayed for weeks in a big farmhouse out in the country with plenty of space to run around. The lady Dad had left them with was an ex-hunter so she knew how to keep them safe when Dad was gone. But Sam had been mysteriously ill the whole time-vaguely lethargic and uncharacteristically unhappy. The watch had to wait.
Now it’s the same thing. Dean wants to keep Sam safe. Keep him for himself. Make sure time won’t change him into something else, or worse yet, take him away. But the time just isn’t right. Dad’s on edge and unpredictable. A motel like this is a luxury since they’re usually either squatting in abandoned hunting camps or sleeping in the car. Sam started kindergarten last year but Dad hasn’t signed them up yet at a school this fall. School would be good for Sam. Dean thinks he’d like it.
No, he’ll wait. Maybe when Dad has whatever’s troubling him sorted out. Maybe the next good house they stay at. Dean thinks- not yet. He’ll know when the time is right, but not just yet.
+++++++
When Dean is fourteen, he develops an irritating sort of tinnitus. At first, he doesn’t realize it’s in his head. Then when Dad gets irritated at him for asking “do you hear that?” too many times Dean realizes what it is. Dad says it’s probably from not wearing protection when they do target practice. “Too bad, kiddo,” he says. “There’s no cure.” Eventually, he hears it referred to as ringing in the ears enough times to realize that’s not what he has. What he has going on in his head is not a ringing sound-not by a long shot. It’s a steady, inexorable ticking noise. Like the sound of a clock.
++++++++
Dean can’t remember the first time Sam made him come. Maybe there wasn’t a first time. Maybe it was so slow and gradual-waking up from a wet dream to find himself rutting up against Sam’s stomach, Sam watching him, wide-eyed in the dark; hips grinding together when they wrestled; mutual jerk-off sessions in the dark- that there really wasn’t a before and after line. But he does realize that this is the first time he’s asking Sam on purpose to get him off.
They’re in a long-term motel and Dad had just called from Georgia. He says to keep going to school and to call Bobby if there are any problems. There are two beds, but they use the other one for spreading out their stuff. Sam is curled up against Dean’s side with his head warm against Dean’s shoulder. Dean has his dick out, stroking it lazily while Sam watches. No big deal.
“Hey, Sam,” Dean says, and he lets go of his dick and puts his hand gently on top of Sam’s head and pushes. Sam doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t exactly take the initiative from there, either.
“Please, Sam?” Dean asks, pushing Sam a little further down so there’s really no doubt what Dean is asking for. “I just want to know what it’s like.”
What it’s like is the fucking best thing that’s ever happened to Dean in his life. They’ve watched pornos together so Sam knows more or less what to do, and even if he’s clumsy at it his mouth is still warm and wet. Besides, it’s fucking Sam down there and that alone turns Dean inside out with a gut-twisting, possessive pleasure. He comes in thirty seconds flat; a rush of intensity that hits him so suddenly he doesn’t have time to warn Sam. Sam splutters and chokes a bit, then pulls back and off. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve and looks up at Dean, uncertain.
“So good, Sammy,” Dean reassures him. Perfect, he thinks.
Not long after, Dean goes out to the vending machine to get them some Cokes. Mister Tick-Tock is leaning against the machine, smoking a cigarette underneath the stuttering circle of the security light.
“I know what you di-id,” he says softly in a sing-song voice.
Dean doesn’t care. He’s going to buy two Cokes, then go directly back into the hotel room and pull that watch out of his duffel and make sure he spends the rest of his life getting his dick sucked by Sam and then letting Sam kneel over him and jerk off onto his chest. Dean can still smell the copper-scented traces of Sam on his neck; a bunched up tee-shirt only does so good of a job for clean-up.
He gives Tick-Tock the finger. He grabs his Cokes and turns back to the room.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s pretty good. I remember my first time. But you know what else is good?”
Dean stops but doesn’t turn around.
“You know. I don’t need to spell it out for you. But Sam’s not ready for that yet. Probably neither are you. I’ll tell you one thing though, you try it once and you’ll be hooked for life. I promise.” He throws the butt of his cigarette onto the gravel at his feet and doesn’t bother snuffing it out. “You’ll see.”
Sam is sleeping when Dean gets back to the room. With his eyes closed, his breath passing softly through slightly parted lips, Sam looks so much younger. Innocent, like an angel, as people are always saying. Dean knows now that that train has left the station. If he had wanted to preserve Sam’s innocence, he should have done it years ago.
Things are happening fast. Sam is changing every day. Not just his body, not just the things they do, but his mind. His way of thinking. Every day he surprises Dean. It used to be that Sammy learned everything from Dean, and they always thought alike. Now? The shit this kid comes up with blows Dean away. Dean can’t always count on Sam being on his side of every argument. Can’t even count on understanding Sam’s side of things. The Sam he wanted to keep is already slipping away.
The Sam laying in front of him may be having dark dreams. And the life they’re living? Not likely to get significantly better. This is a decent hotel. Dad’s not around that much. He had been fully intending on coming back into this room and pulling that watch out of the duffel and making sure Sam doesn’t get one day older. Fourteen is old enough. This has gone too far.
And yet? The ship has sailed on Sam’s innocence, but maybe the Tick-Tock Man was right. Maybe there were better things to come.
++++++++
Sam hasn’t seemed to notice the calendars. The last time Dean saw one was at least three years ago. It’s not like the kind of thing they would carry around with them. But somewhere along the line, Dean noticed that they just seemed to be… gone. Not a big deal. If they lose track of what day it is they just look at a stack of newspapers when they fill up for gas or check the banner at the bottom of the news reports on TV. Lately, though, Dean has been seeing those less and less as well.
++++++++
The guidance office secretary seems a little flustered. “I’m sorry. I expected Mr. Winchester would be keeping the appointment today.”
“That’s me,” Dean says with a flirty wink.
The secretary is only distracted for a moment. Dean watches the crow’s feet around her eyes tighten as she stretches a smile across her face. “I meant Sam’s father.”
“I know,” Dean answers. “But Dad’s been out of town for a few weeks, and I don’t expect him back until the week after next. In the meantime, I’m the responsible adult of the household.”
The secretary, Mrs. Amser, Dean sees now on the desk plate, heaves a big sigh. “That’s fine. I’m sorry. I’m just flustered. All of our appointment times are mixed up today. Does Mr. Takah know you’re coming?”
Dean nods, but suddenly the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. The note Sam had given him had just mentioned an appointment with a guidance counselor. There had never been a specific name. Dean knows who he will see on the other side of the closed door behind Mrs. Amser.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he says. “He knows.”
Dean walks into the office and is not surprised at all to see the Tick-Tock Man sitting behind the guidance counselor’s desk. He wears a much younger face today than he had the last time Dean had seen him. His skin is unlined and firm, his jaw square and tight. His smile, as always, is overly large and toothy.
“Welcome, Dean, welcome. I’m glad you could come.” The Tick-Tock Man gestures for Dean to take a seat. Dean does not. The fake guidance counselor frowns an exaggerated expression of disappointment. “Oh, come on now, Dean, don’t be that way. I have excellent news for you and Sam. I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“You leave Sam out of this,” Dean says, low, but still on the polite side. His heart rate doesn’t go up, but it does seem to beat harder. “This is between you and me.”
Mr. Tick-Tock raises an eyebrow. “Oh, is it now? This has nothing to do with Sam?” He smirks. “Well, if this has nothing to do with Sam, then the good news I have for Sam won’t make a difference one way or the other, will it?”
“Just tell me what you want to tell me.”
The Tick-Tock Man taps the folder on the desk in front of him. “Sam’s going to get a full-ride to Stanford,” he says.
Dean schools his face carefully. The Tick-Tock Man has just made a grave miscalculation. He thinks he’s giving Dean hope. He thinks he’s dangling another temptation to wait just a little longer. He thinks this is all about what is best for Sam, but he doesn’t know fuck-all about what’s best for Sam. “Seriously?” Dean says, hoping that he sounds as excited as he is supposed to. He doesn’t want to tip his hand.
“Scout’s honor,” the Tick-Tock Man says, holding three fingers up. “And believe it or not, it wasn’t my doing. No, Sam earned this one on his own Dean, and want to know why? Because Sam loves school, and he worked really hard on this. This is his dream. This is his Golden Ticket.” The Tick-Tock Man taps the folder again in rhythm with the word: tick-et. “You want to keep Sam safe? You want a good life for Sam? This is it, Dean, this is the path. Ten years from now, and all those shitty hotels and hungry weekends are going to be nothing more than a bad memory for Sam.”
“Ten years, huh?” Dean says, pretending to consider.
“Tops. That’s not so long to wait, is it?” The Tick-Tock Man looks at Dean, almost pleadingly. Dean has dealt with supernatural beings long enough to distrust any emotion they appear to display, but this has a genuine ring to it. Dean knows the motivation here-if Dean dies before he uses the watch, Tick-Tock Man gets his soul. But he’s never stopped to consider what might be the consequence for old TTM if he loses this wager. Dean studies the face in front of him for a moment. Yeah, there’s definitely a hint of fear there. But too bad, so sad, a deal’s a deal.
“Sam is going to be very happy there.” Yup. Definitely the stink of desperation.
Dean doesn’t mind stringing him along, not one bit. “Ok,” he says, turning to walk out of the office. “But I get to tell him.”
When Dean gets home, the clocks aren’t just broken. They’re gone.
+++++++
Sam is lean and long coming down the road from school. He must have stopped at the post office box on the way because now he’s shuffling through junk to find the glossy brochures from colleges that covet him and his GPA. He separates them out so Dad won’t see, but he doesn’t have any secrets from Dean. Even so, he smiles at Dean and doesn’t talk about it.
Through the screen door and into the cabin, Sam sheds his backpack, they both shed their flannels. Sam is needy and handsy- maybe trying to distract Dean from the college brochures. Dad’s been gone three days. That’s almost been long enough so that Dean doesn’t listen for a car in the driveway even as he’s settling back with Sam between his legs. Almost. There’s just enough fear there to keep it slightly scary. It’s a good time to be. Dean keeps track of these things.
“How was school today, Sammy?” He tries to push Sam’s bangs away from his eyes. He loves seeing Sam look up at him from down there. The angle makes his eyes look all big and innocent. Not young, exactly, but it does take away some of the hardness that’s been creeping in over the past few years.
“I got that chemistry test back. Aced it,” Sam says.
Dean loves him so much in that moment. Not for what he could and never will be, but for what he is right now in this moment. The days of the week cease to exist.
“Hey, Sam,” Dean says, and puts his hand on Sam’s chin. “Come up here.”
Sam does. Tries to straddle Dean’s lap. “No, no. Take your clothes off first.”
Sam toes off his sneakers and shucks off his jeans and boxers. Dean shimmies his own jeans down while Sam takes off his shirt. When Sam climbs back into his lap, Dean puts his hand on Sam’s neck, thumb on his pulse.
He counts the beats. He’s read somewhere that the number of heartbeats in a lifetime is consistent across species- long-lived whales have slow, ponderous heartbeats, while a mouse’s heart can beat over 500 times per minute over their two-year lifespan. Would Sam’s heart stop? Or would it blow the curve and continue beating at this steady 92 beats per minute for all eternity?
It doesn’t matter. All that matters now is Sam rocking back and forth on his lap, leaning down to mouth on Dean’s neck, saying things like, “You feel that, Dean? Feel how hard I am for you?” Dean puts his mouth over Sam’s and lets Sam do the work. He loves how Sam explores his mouth like it’s one of his science projects. Thoroughly, with a joyful enthusiasm that leaves no doubt how much he loves it. Dean keeps his hand on Sam’s neck, fingers feeling the way Sam’s jaw works while they kiss.
With his other hand, Dean reaches behind Sam and palms it against Sam’s backside. Sam groans and rocks back, closing his eyes. He’s jerking off his own cock, hand rubbing against Dean’s stomach.
“Hey, hey, slow down,” Dean says, “we’ve got all th-” he catches himself from saying all the time we want. “We’ve got all afternoon.” He brushes his thumb over Sam’s lips. He runs his hand down over the delicate curve of Sam’s ribs and the youthful flat of his stomach. His hands do not tremble. Sam is not beautiful and sacred; he is warm and fun and a needy little shit and Dean wouldn’t have him any other way.
He just won’t. The ticking in Dean’s ears begins to slow.
“You want me to do the thing?” Dean asks.
Sam nods and turns his mouth towards Dean’s hand. He takes two fingers in his mouth and sucks, his tongue slithering between and around Dean’s knuckles. Dean loves that wet, sucking heat and feeds his brother his fingers just to see how pretty it is, how far Sam will go. But as much as he loves pulling his dripping wet fingers from Sam’s mouth and working them slowly up his ass, it’s not going to be enough today.
“I got us something,” he says, his voice failing him as his throat closes up with want. Sam looks at him quizzically for only a second before he gets it. A tiny nod.
Dean has to be careful as he is reaching for the bottle of lube he’d picked up while Sam was at school; the anticipation of what they are going to do has him right there, right at the edge. Every movement pushes his too-sensitive hard-on up against the heat of Sam’s skin and sends his head spinning.
“You ready, Sam?” Dean teases in the tip of one finger. Sam lets out a breathy whimper in reply. He nods his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. Dean works first one, and then the other finger in, and Sam starts rocking down onto them. “Hey, hey now Sam,” Dean soothes his other hand down Sam’s back. Sam is so tight and hot around his fingers, and if Sam gets worked up and loses control then Dean will too. It will be over before it starts.
Sam settles down. Kisses Dean slowly enough for Dean to savor it as Dean works his fingers deeper, sliding back when it seems like Sam is too close. Time winds down to molasses-slow moments. All there is is Sam, Sam, Sam filling his whole world. When it’s time, Dean doesn’t even need to ask. Sam helps him line up and he works his way down, taking control when all Dean can do is throw his head back and hold on to Sam’s hips.
It doesn’t matter that it doesn’t last long. They’ve got all the time in the world.
++++++++
“Sammy, c’mere. I want to show you something.” Dean doesn’t want to wait. It’s a warm spring evening, with clear skies that promise a beautiful night of stars. And of course, there’s the matter of that folder on the guidance counselor’s desk. He can’t have Sam longing for a future that never happens. Can’t risk waiting any longer.
The watch feels heavy in Dean’s hand, and Dean can feel it ticking as the moments drain away. The ticking in his ears has stopped completely.
“What’s that?” Sam asks, frowning. Dean smiles to himself. This might be the last watch in existence. In their existence. Dean doesn’t know if the rest of the world will carry on downstream once they’ve drifted into their own little loop. Doesn’t know if everyone else will still have calendars and days of the week and clocks. He really doesn’t care. He puts the watch into Sam’s hand.
“Open it up and see,” Dean says, pointing at the latch release. The first of the fireflies start winking in the gathering dark.
Sam gasps when he sees that streaming black bit of nothingness. Dean stands toe to toe with him, just enough room for the watch and all of time between them. Dean can see every version of Sam he ever loved and every version he never will be pulled together into this one Sam. It has to be now.
“But what is it, Dean?” Sam looks up from the watch.
Dean doesn’t answer. Can’t put into words what it is, because the idea of keeping track of the passage of time isn’t part of their world any longer. He can no sooner explain the idea of a watch than he can describe the taste of darkness. And even if he could, it isn’t just a watch. It’s everything. It’s Sam, safe and his. It’s not having to be afraid of losing him. It’s letting go of every single thing in this world that’s not Sam. It means he put it all on the line for this, and he finally made it to this moment. The one that matters.
Sam is peering at him curiously, a question in his eyes. There’s a brief moment where Dean sees a future Sam, much older, walking towards him on a bridge. A small voice in his heart tells him he can just wait. Just wait and he doesn’t have to do this.
The moment passes, telescoping back through all the others, and then time bends again and he sees a vision much closer; Sam standing at a bus stop, duffle slung over his shoulder. It fills Dean with a dread he cannot explain. It’s a near-future that he cannot face.
Infinite answers to Sam’s unspoken question. But only one answer.
“It’s time.”
++++++++
Recipient: wincest_whore
Gifter: blackrabbit42
Pairing/Characters: Sam Winchester & Dean Winchester
Word count/Medium: ~5700
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Summary: Ever wish you could just stop time?
Anyone else would call it a deal. But to Dean it’s a gift. Always has been, always will be. Because with a deal there’s a give and there’s a take. He has never had any intention of giving the Tick-Tock Man what he’s hoping for. At best this was a wager-one he’s always known he’ll win.
When Dean was six, Sammy had the croup and Dad took him to the doctors. The three books in the waiting room had long since lost their appeal and Dean was considering asking the receptionist if she had any stickers when he noticed there was a man who didn’t belong in the waiting room with him. For one thing, he didn’t have any kids with him. For another, he just gave Dean a feeling; kind of a bad feeling, but also secretly thrilling. He looked around briefly for his dad and wasn’t completely disappointed to note that the door to the examining room was still firmly shut.
“The minutes stretch out at times like these, don’t they, Dean?”
It doesn’t surprise Dean in the least to find that this man knows his name. He nods, fascinated.
“I bet you wish you could skip over times like these and make the good times, the fun times, last forever.”
“You’re a stranger,” Dean says. But he was right. Dean does wish that. All the time.
The man who was not a daddy stands up and walks over to sit in the chair right next to Dean. The receptionist glances up and smiles at the two of them.
“Look at this,” the man says. In his hands he’s holding a pocket watch. Nothing fancy, a little battered even, but it makes Dean hold out his hand instinctively. The man places the watch on Dean’s palm. It feels heavy for its size and the steady ticking inside its hidden heart makes it seem alive. Dean’s never seen one before in real life, only in books and pictures. He instantly covets it with a fierceness that scares him a little.
The man smiles even broader, showing his teeth which aren’t quite right and definitely too white and gleaming. He does something with his hand, palm up, and suddenly the waiting room grows absolutely silent and somehow far away.
“Keep it,” the man says. “It’s yours.”
Dean knows this is beyond the line that separates “naughty” from “dangerous.” This isn’t just a stranger; this is one of the bad guys. This is what his dad has been talking about. The man didn’t try to trick him or gain his trust. He just knows that what he has to offer was much stronger than Dean’s sense of right and wrong.
“I know you wish you could go back in time. Back to before.”
Dean nods. He wishes that more than anything. Already the sound of his mother’s voice is fading in his memory, and he can only remember what she looks like in brief sideways flashes that don’t all come together to make a clear, complete picture.
“I’m sorry I can’t do anything about that. But,” he taps the pocket watch. “This could help you make sure there won’t be anything like that for you ever again.”
He takes the watch out of Dean’s palm and Dean fights down the grabby black goblin inside himself that wants to snatch it back. The man sees this and chuckles indulgently. “You open it like this,” he says, pressing the crown. The front flips open with a satisfying click, and Dean is surprised to see there are no numbers on the face of the watch, nor hands. In fact, there’s nothing- just a black empty space punched out of the universe. “And then that’s where the time goes. Every second that passes ceases to exist,” he explains. “Down the garbage chute, so to speak.”
Dean glances up at the man’s face. His eyes have become two black holes as well. Dean feels really, really lucky that he didn’t wet himself.
“Unless you shut it down,” the man who is definitely, definitely not a daddy says. “Look.” He grasps the ring at the top of the watch and turns it. A gold shutter snicks into place over the blackness in the watch. “Can you feel that?”
Dean does. Something is different, something he cannot put his finger on. He knows it’s wrong. He knows it’s just more of the type of thing his dad would warn him about, and yet it feels… mesmerizing. Soothing. Safe.
“We stopped time. It can’t go back, and it can’t go forward. I can do that any time I like. Now isn’t that a neat trick?”
Dean doesn’t appreciate being patronized, but he nods and holds his palm out. Although he’s only six he instantly grasps what this could mean.
“You get one chance,” the man says. “I can stop and start, but then, I’m me. You’re just Dean Winchester. You choose your time and you stick with it.”
“I want Dad and Sammy back now,” Dean says.
The man who isn’t a daddy and probably was a bad guy leans over so his eyes are level with Dean’s. “You have to understand though, Dean. If your own time runs out, if you die before you use the watch, you’ll have to come live with me. You get that, right?”
Even way back then Dean got it. But he isn’t worried, not even a little bit.
“Then give me a kiss on the cheek,” the not-a-daddy says. When Dean obediently does exactly that, the man turns the ring once more, and the black hole appears again. He snaps the case closed. “One chance,” he says and then gets up and walks out of the room just as the examining room door opens and John emerges with a squalling, squirming, and probably very hungry Sam.
Dean puts the watch in his pocket before anyone can see.
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When Dean is seven and Sam is three they stay with one of Dad’s friends for a couple of days. The trailer is small and full of mildew, so Dean keeps Sam outside all that he can. They play in the dirt-yard or read in the set of scratchy folding chairs by the door. One afternoon there’s a stranger sleeping on the cheap sofa with breath like something dead and a white, rheumy crust in the corner of his eyes.
“Who is this?” Dean asks. Sam usually has his nap on that sofa.
Mr. Reid, Dad’s friend, doesn’t look up from the sports page he’s reading. “That’s my little brother, Max.
Dean creeps closer, fascinated and horrified at the same time. Little brother? This man has a three-day growth of beard and droopy skin on his neck. There are grey hairs mixed in with the muddy brown of his hair. He is, frankly, disgusting. And old.
Dean takes Sam out beside the trailer with an old blanket and a ratty throw pillow, intending to make a bed for him. He looks at the dark, ambiguous stains on the pillow, the places where the weave on the blanket has pilled or pulled, and puts them aside. Not for his little brother.
“C’mon, Sam, let’s go for a walk.”
Sam is sleepy, but he takes Dean’s hand and stumbles along after him. There’s a wild, overgrown lot behind the trailer park, all tangles of goldenrod and sumac. Dean scouts around a little looking for the perfect place then pushes down the grass making a little nest among the green growing things for Sam.
While Sam sleeps, Dean peers closely at him. Sees changes there he hadn’t before. At three years old, Sam is beginning to lose his baby-fat cheeks. His hair isn’t silky and fine any longer, but lush and curly. Dean strokes the super soft skin on the inside of Sam’s wrists and studies the delicate tracing of blue-tinted veins in his eyelids. He lays down next to Sam and smells his sweet child's breath; it smells like grape Kool-aid.
Dean loves all of Sam exactly as he is right now in this moment. The thought of him changing-becoming anything other than this exact perfect creature beside him gives Dean a feeling of panic. Like he might be missing something or letting something get away.
The watch is hidden deep in his duffle bag wrapped in a few pieces of yellow paper he tore out of a phone book and secured with scotch tape that he took from school. The sleeping man in the trailer scares him enough to think about the watch. But that watch- it doesn’t just stop Sam, it stops time. As much as Dean would like to keep Sam, this Sam, he doesn’t want to live in a trailer like this for all time. He wouldn’t care so much for himself, there’s always potato chips on the counter and He-Man on TV, but when he thinks of the cigarette burns in the carpet and the funny smell in Mr. Reid’s bedroom he knows he doesn’t want that for Sam.
He pulls Sam a little closer, burying his face in the soft skin of Sam’s neck, and tries really hard not to think about how one of his teeth is loose.
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Dean meets the Watch Man again when he’s ten. He and Sam are standing in a grubby and straggling line at a county fair, waiting to get on some sort of kiddy kars ride. He recognizes the man immediately, although he no longer looks the same. He’s wearing a different face.
“Why, hello, Dean,” the man says, feigning surprise. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“We’re not supposed to talk to strangers,” Sam says, inserting himself between Dean and this interloper.
The man laughs. “I’m not a stranger, I’m Mister Tick-Tock. Surely Dean has told you about me? We’re old friends.”
Sam looks back at Dean, uncertain. The Tick-Tock Man looks like your average middle-aged dad. No kids with him, of course, but the harmless air of someone who probably has kids. Even so, he has Sam’s hackles up.
“But right you are, Sam, you shouldn’t talk to strangers. Especially in a place like this.” Mister Tick-Tock waves his arm around expansively at the dusty midway. The few other fair-goers look to Dean like the kind of people who can go to a fair in the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday because they are out of work and need something to do to pass the time until it’s beer-thirty, as his dad would say. He puts his arm around Sam and pulls him closer.
“Move along now, boys, time and tide wait for no one.” The Tick-Tock Man gestures forward-it’s their turn to get on the ride next.
Sam shoots him one last distrustful look and stands next to the-“you must be this tall to ride”-stick. Dean, the ride operator, and Mister Tick-Tock all see him lift his heels slightly off the ground so the top of his head hits the mark. The ride operator pretends not to see. Mister Tick-Tock just chuckles. “It won’t be long,” he says, dropping Dean a wink. “They grow so fast. One minute they’re babes in arms, and the next minute-” he makes a blowing motion, like blowing away the desiccated remains of dandelion fluff. “Poof, they’re gone.” He makes as if to walk away but then stops as if he just thought of something. “Oh, by the way, Dean, how’s your dad?” His face is all innocence and concern.
“Dean, come on,” Sam urges.
Dean hesitates but there will never be a contest for his attention that Sam does not win. He scrambles after Sam to get on the ride. When he looks back, the Tick-Tock Man is gone.
When Dad picks him up later that afternoon both boys are silent. Sam is tired and irritable, and Dean feels dirty. It’s not the kind of tired and dirty that a boy gets from a long day messing around in the woods and fields. It’s an overstimulated and vaguely anxious kind of tired. It’s a greasy, polluted kind of dirty.
“You boys need a bath,” Dad says into the silence of the back seat. “Dean, you help Sam wash his hair, okay?”
Dean does, using a waxy bar of hotel soap to lather up Sam’s hair. He’s very careful not to get any in Sam’s eyes. “Tilt your head way back,” he says, pouring water so it only cascades down Sam’s slippery back. Sam does as Dean says, and Dean imagines the white suds washing away the residue of disquiet that Mister Tick-Tock left over them.
When they get out of the bathroom, Dad is gone. Dean is not surprised; it’s been like that a lot lately. It’s fine; Dean knows how to put Sam to bed.
Dean climbs in bed with Sam curled up in the curve of his chest. Normally he can follow the slow, steady rhythm of Sam’s breath down the darkness to sleep but not tonight.
Oh, by the way, Dean, how’s your dad?
That is a very good question. Something happened that Dad doesn’t want to talk about and it’s got him in a bad way. When he is around, he’s restless and short-tempered. But more often than not, he’s just gone. No note, no orders, no sign of when he’ll be back.
Dean threads his arm underneath Sam’s neck and pulls him closer. Mister Tick-Tock is right. He’s growing fast. They both are.
At first, Dean had had some sense that the watch was a way he could keep Sam and Dad safe. That Dad was going to… do whatever it was he needed to do, things would get back to normal, and then Dean would make sure it stayed that way forever. It didn’t take long for him to realize that wasn’t going to happen.
He’d been tempted more than once to use it. Last summer, they’d stayed for weeks in a big farmhouse out in the country with plenty of space to run around. The lady Dad had left them with was an ex-hunter so she knew how to keep them safe when Dad was gone. But Sam had been mysteriously ill the whole time-vaguely lethargic and uncharacteristically unhappy. The watch had to wait.
Now it’s the same thing. Dean wants to keep Sam safe. Keep him for himself. Make sure time won’t change him into something else, or worse yet, take him away. But the time just isn’t right. Dad’s on edge and unpredictable. A motel like this is a luxury since they’re usually either squatting in abandoned hunting camps or sleeping in the car. Sam started kindergarten last year but Dad hasn’t signed them up yet at a school this fall. School would be good for Sam. Dean thinks he’d like it.
No, he’ll wait. Maybe when Dad has whatever’s troubling him sorted out. Maybe the next good house they stay at. Dean thinks- not yet. He’ll know when the time is right, but not just yet.
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When Dean is fourteen, he develops an irritating sort of tinnitus. At first, he doesn’t realize it’s in his head. Then when Dad gets irritated at him for asking “do you hear that?” too many times Dean realizes what it is. Dad says it’s probably from not wearing protection when they do target practice. “Too bad, kiddo,” he says. “There’s no cure.” Eventually, he hears it referred to as ringing in the ears enough times to realize that’s not what he has. What he has going on in his head is not a ringing sound-not by a long shot. It’s a steady, inexorable ticking noise. Like the sound of a clock.
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Dean can’t remember the first time Sam made him come. Maybe there wasn’t a first time. Maybe it was so slow and gradual-waking up from a wet dream to find himself rutting up against Sam’s stomach, Sam watching him, wide-eyed in the dark; hips grinding together when they wrestled; mutual jerk-off sessions in the dark- that there really wasn’t a before and after line. But he does realize that this is the first time he’s asking Sam on purpose to get him off.
They’re in a long-term motel and Dad had just called from Georgia. He says to keep going to school and to call Bobby if there are any problems. There are two beds, but they use the other one for spreading out their stuff. Sam is curled up against Dean’s side with his head warm against Dean’s shoulder. Dean has his dick out, stroking it lazily while Sam watches. No big deal.
“Hey, Sam,” Dean says, and he lets go of his dick and puts his hand gently on top of Sam’s head and pushes. Sam doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t exactly take the initiative from there, either.
“Please, Sam?” Dean asks, pushing Sam a little further down so there’s really no doubt what Dean is asking for. “I just want to know what it’s like.”
What it’s like is the fucking best thing that’s ever happened to Dean in his life. They’ve watched pornos together so Sam knows more or less what to do, and even if he’s clumsy at it his mouth is still warm and wet. Besides, it’s fucking Sam down there and that alone turns Dean inside out with a gut-twisting, possessive pleasure. He comes in thirty seconds flat; a rush of intensity that hits him so suddenly he doesn’t have time to warn Sam. Sam splutters and chokes a bit, then pulls back and off. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve and looks up at Dean, uncertain.
“So good, Sammy,” Dean reassures him. Perfect, he thinks.
Not long after, Dean goes out to the vending machine to get them some Cokes. Mister Tick-Tock is leaning against the machine, smoking a cigarette underneath the stuttering circle of the security light.
“I know what you di-id,” he says softly in a sing-song voice.
Dean doesn’t care. He’s going to buy two Cokes, then go directly back into the hotel room and pull that watch out of his duffel and make sure he spends the rest of his life getting his dick sucked by Sam and then letting Sam kneel over him and jerk off onto his chest. Dean can still smell the copper-scented traces of Sam on his neck; a bunched up tee-shirt only does so good of a job for clean-up.
He gives Tick-Tock the finger. He grabs his Cokes and turns back to the room.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s pretty good. I remember my first time. But you know what else is good?”
Dean stops but doesn’t turn around.
“You know. I don’t need to spell it out for you. But Sam’s not ready for that yet. Probably neither are you. I’ll tell you one thing though, you try it once and you’ll be hooked for life. I promise.” He throws the butt of his cigarette onto the gravel at his feet and doesn’t bother snuffing it out. “You’ll see.”
Sam is sleeping when Dean gets back to the room. With his eyes closed, his breath passing softly through slightly parted lips, Sam looks so much younger. Innocent, like an angel, as people are always saying. Dean knows now that that train has left the station. If he had wanted to preserve Sam’s innocence, he should have done it years ago.
Things are happening fast. Sam is changing every day. Not just his body, not just the things they do, but his mind. His way of thinking. Every day he surprises Dean. It used to be that Sammy learned everything from Dean, and they always thought alike. Now? The shit this kid comes up with blows Dean away. Dean can’t always count on Sam being on his side of every argument. Can’t even count on understanding Sam’s side of things. The Sam he wanted to keep is already slipping away.
The Sam laying in front of him may be having dark dreams. And the life they’re living? Not likely to get significantly better. This is a decent hotel. Dad’s not around that much. He had been fully intending on coming back into this room and pulling that watch out of the duffel and making sure Sam doesn’t get one day older. Fourteen is old enough. This has gone too far.
And yet? The ship has sailed on Sam’s innocence, but maybe the Tick-Tock Man was right. Maybe there were better things to come.
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Sam hasn’t seemed to notice the calendars. The last time Dean saw one was at least three years ago. It’s not like the kind of thing they would carry around with them. But somewhere along the line, Dean noticed that they just seemed to be… gone. Not a big deal. If they lose track of what day it is they just look at a stack of newspapers when they fill up for gas or check the banner at the bottom of the news reports on TV. Lately, though, Dean has been seeing those less and less as well.
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The guidance office secretary seems a little flustered. “I’m sorry. I expected Mr. Winchester would be keeping the appointment today.”
“That’s me,” Dean says with a flirty wink.
The secretary is only distracted for a moment. Dean watches the crow’s feet around her eyes tighten as she stretches a smile across her face. “I meant Sam’s father.”
“I know,” Dean answers. “But Dad’s been out of town for a few weeks, and I don’t expect him back until the week after next. In the meantime, I’m the responsible adult of the household.”
The secretary, Mrs. Amser, Dean sees now on the desk plate, heaves a big sigh. “That’s fine. I’m sorry. I’m just flustered. All of our appointment times are mixed up today. Does Mr. Takah know you’re coming?”
Dean nods, but suddenly the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. The note Sam had given him had just mentioned an appointment with a guidance counselor. There had never been a specific name. Dean knows who he will see on the other side of the closed door behind Mrs. Amser.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he says. “He knows.”
Dean walks into the office and is not surprised at all to see the Tick-Tock Man sitting behind the guidance counselor’s desk. He wears a much younger face today than he had the last time Dean had seen him. His skin is unlined and firm, his jaw square and tight. His smile, as always, is overly large and toothy.
“Welcome, Dean, welcome. I’m glad you could come.” The Tick-Tock Man gestures for Dean to take a seat. Dean does not. The fake guidance counselor frowns an exaggerated expression of disappointment. “Oh, come on now, Dean, don’t be that way. I have excellent news for you and Sam. I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“You leave Sam out of this,” Dean says, low, but still on the polite side. His heart rate doesn’t go up, but it does seem to beat harder. “This is between you and me.”
Mr. Tick-Tock raises an eyebrow. “Oh, is it now? This has nothing to do with Sam?” He smirks. “Well, if this has nothing to do with Sam, then the good news I have for Sam won’t make a difference one way or the other, will it?”
“Just tell me what you want to tell me.”
The Tick-Tock Man taps the folder on the desk in front of him. “Sam’s going to get a full-ride to Stanford,” he says.
Dean schools his face carefully. The Tick-Tock Man has just made a grave miscalculation. He thinks he’s giving Dean hope. He thinks he’s dangling another temptation to wait just a little longer. He thinks this is all about what is best for Sam, but he doesn’t know fuck-all about what’s best for Sam. “Seriously?” Dean says, hoping that he sounds as excited as he is supposed to. He doesn’t want to tip his hand.
“Scout’s honor,” the Tick-Tock Man says, holding three fingers up. “And believe it or not, it wasn’t my doing. No, Sam earned this one on his own Dean, and want to know why? Because Sam loves school, and he worked really hard on this. This is his dream. This is his Golden Ticket.” The Tick-Tock Man taps the folder again in rhythm with the word: tick-et. “You want to keep Sam safe? You want a good life for Sam? This is it, Dean, this is the path. Ten years from now, and all those shitty hotels and hungry weekends are going to be nothing more than a bad memory for Sam.”
“Ten years, huh?” Dean says, pretending to consider.
“Tops. That’s not so long to wait, is it?” The Tick-Tock Man looks at Dean, almost pleadingly. Dean has dealt with supernatural beings long enough to distrust any emotion they appear to display, but this has a genuine ring to it. Dean knows the motivation here-if Dean dies before he uses the watch, Tick-Tock Man gets his soul. But he’s never stopped to consider what might be the consequence for old TTM if he loses this wager. Dean studies the face in front of him for a moment. Yeah, there’s definitely a hint of fear there. But too bad, so sad, a deal’s a deal.
“Sam is going to be very happy there.” Yup. Definitely the stink of desperation.
Dean doesn’t mind stringing him along, not one bit. “Ok,” he says, turning to walk out of the office. “But I get to tell him.”
When Dean gets home, the clocks aren’t just broken. They’re gone.
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Sam is lean and long coming down the road from school. He must have stopped at the post office box on the way because now he’s shuffling through junk to find the glossy brochures from colleges that covet him and his GPA. He separates them out so Dad won’t see, but he doesn’t have any secrets from Dean. Even so, he smiles at Dean and doesn’t talk about it.
Through the screen door and into the cabin, Sam sheds his backpack, they both shed their flannels. Sam is needy and handsy- maybe trying to distract Dean from the college brochures. Dad’s been gone three days. That’s almost been long enough so that Dean doesn’t listen for a car in the driveway even as he’s settling back with Sam between his legs. Almost. There’s just enough fear there to keep it slightly scary. It’s a good time to be. Dean keeps track of these things.
“How was school today, Sammy?” He tries to push Sam’s bangs away from his eyes. He loves seeing Sam look up at him from down there. The angle makes his eyes look all big and innocent. Not young, exactly, but it does take away some of the hardness that’s been creeping in over the past few years.
“I got that chemistry test back. Aced it,” Sam says.
Dean loves him so much in that moment. Not for what he could and never will be, but for what he is right now in this moment. The days of the week cease to exist.
“Hey, Sam,” Dean says, and puts his hand on Sam’s chin. “Come up here.”
Sam does. Tries to straddle Dean’s lap. “No, no. Take your clothes off first.”
Sam toes off his sneakers and shucks off his jeans and boxers. Dean shimmies his own jeans down while Sam takes off his shirt. When Sam climbs back into his lap, Dean puts his hand on Sam’s neck, thumb on his pulse.
He counts the beats. He’s read somewhere that the number of heartbeats in a lifetime is consistent across species- long-lived whales have slow, ponderous heartbeats, while a mouse’s heart can beat over 500 times per minute over their two-year lifespan. Would Sam’s heart stop? Or would it blow the curve and continue beating at this steady 92 beats per minute for all eternity?
It doesn’t matter. All that matters now is Sam rocking back and forth on his lap, leaning down to mouth on Dean’s neck, saying things like, “You feel that, Dean? Feel how hard I am for you?” Dean puts his mouth over Sam’s and lets Sam do the work. He loves how Sam explores his mouth like it’s one of his science projects. Thoroughly, with a joyful enthusiasm that leaves no doubt how much he loves it. Dean keeps his hand on Sam’s neck, fingers feeling the way Sam’s jaw works while they kiss.
With his other hand, Dean reaches behind Sam and palms it against Sam’s backside. Sam groans and rocks back, closing his eyes. He’s jerking off his own cock, hand rubbing against Dean’s stomach.
“Hey, hey, slow down,” Dean says, “we’ve got all th-” he catches himself from saying all the time we want. “We’ve got all afternoon.” He brushes his thumb over Sam’s lips. He runs his hand down over the delicate curve of Sam’s ribs and the youthful flat of his stomach. His hands do not tremble. Sam is not beautiful and sacred; he is warm and fun and a needy little shit and Dean wouldn’t have him any other way.
He just won’t. The ticking in Dean’s ears begins to slow.
“You want me to do the thing?” Dean asks.
Sam nods and turns his mouth towards Dean’s hand. He takes two fingers in his mouth and sucks, his tongue slithering between and around Dean’s knuckles. Dean loves that wet, sucking heat and feeds his brother his fingers just to see how pretty it is, how far Sam will go. But as much as he loves pulling his dripping wet fingers from Sam’s mouth and working them slowly up his ass, it’s not going to be enough today.
“I got us something,” he says, his voice failing him as his throat closes up with want. Sam looks at him quizzically for only a second before he gets it. A tiny nod.
Dean has to be careful as he is reaching for the bottle of lube he’d picked up while Sam was at school; the anticipation of what they are going to do has him right there, right at the edge. Every movement pushes his too-sensitive hard-on up against the heat of Sam’s skin and sends his head spinning.
“You ready, Sam?” Dean teases in the tip of one finger. Sam lets out a breathy whimper in reply. He nods his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. Dean works first one, and then the other finger in, and Sam starts rocking down onto them. “Hey, hey now Sam,” Dean soothes his other hand down Sam’s back. Sam is so tight and hot around his fingers, and if Sam gets worked up and loses control then Dean will too. It will be over before it starts.
Sam settles down. Kisses Dean slowly enough for Dean to savor it as Dean works his fingers deeper, sliding back when it seems like Sam is too close. Time winds down to molasses-slow moments. All there is is Sam, Sam, Sam filling his whole world. When it’s time, Dean doesn’t even need to ask. Sam helps him line up and he works his way down, taking control when all Dean can do is throw his head back and hold on to Sam’s hips.
It doesn’t matter that it doesn’t last long. They’ve got all the time in the world.
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“Sammy, c’mere. I want to show you something.” Dean doesn’t want to wait. It’s a warm spring evening, with clear skies that promise a beautiful night of stars. And of course, there’s the matter of that folder on the guidance counselor’s desk. He can’t have Sam longing for a future that never happens. Can’t risk waiting any longer.
The watch feels heavy in Dean’s hand, and Dean can feel it ticking as the moments drain away. The ticking in his ears has stopped completely.
“What’s that?” Sam asks, frowning. Dean smiles to himself. This might be the last watch in existence. In their existence. Dean doesn’t know if the rest of the world will carry on downstream once they’ve drifted into their own little loop. Doesn’t know if everyone else will still have calendars and days of the week and clocks. He really doesn’t care. He puts the watch into Sam’s hand.
“Open it up and see,” Dean says, pointing at the latch release. The first of the fireflies start winking in the gathering dark.
Sam gasps when he sees that streaming black bit of nothingness. Dean stands toe to toe with him, just enough room for the watch and all of time between them. Dean can see every version of Sam he ever loved and every version he never will be pulled together into this one Sam. It has to be now.
“But what is it, Dean?” Sam looks up from the watch.
Dean doesn’t answer. Can’t put into words what it is, because the idea of keeping track of the passage of time isn’t part of their world any longer. He can no sooner explain the idea of a watch than he can describe the taste of darkness. And even if he could, it isn’t just a watch. It’s everything. It’s Sam, safe and his. It’s not having to be afraid of losing him. It’s letting go of every single thing in this world that’s not Sam. It means he put it all on the line for this, and he finally made it to this moment. The one that matters.
Sam is peering at him curiously, a question in his eyes. There’s a brief moment where Dean sees a future Sam, much older, walking towards him on a bridge. A small voice in his heart tells him he can just wait. Just wait and he doesn’t have to do this.
The moment passes, telescoping back through all the others, and then time bends again and he sees a vision much closer; Sam standing at a bus stop, duffle slung over his shoulder. It fills Dean with a dread he cannot explain. It’s a near-future that he cannot face.
Infinite answers to Sam’s unspoken question. But only one answer.
“It’s time.”
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