Fic: Clean Getaway (1/2)
I've been working on this for months - actual timeline is too embarrassing to say. I haven't given up on Homesick Blues, but this kept harrassing me until I finally finished it. Now at least I can start focusing on something else...or refocusing I guess. Blargh.
Title: Clean Getaway
Author: vicious_trade
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 (like, for actual this time)
Words: 11,500
Summary: It was cute for about a week. But it it's been several months now and somehow Sam is still not getting it.
A/N: I had no intention of turning this into a 'verse when I first started on this journey, but apparently this one goes right along with Say It's Possible and ...And One More For the Road. You don't have to read those first, but it might help and make me happy at the same time :)
Has anyone ever seen the movie The Upside of Anger with Kevin Costner? A lot of the shower scenes were inspired by that.
Sometimes Dean wishes he was an avid smoker. Sure, there may be a rumpled pack or two stashed in the glove compartment of the Impala from 1989, but those are reserved for stress-related situations only - end of the world kind of angst. Maybe a victory puff after a zombie killing-spree. In another life he would have loved to die a slow and painful death from lung cancer, but now? He’s got shit to do.
Still, it would be nice to be the guy who props himself up against the headboard and lights up a Marlboro after a good fuck. Maybe pass it back and forth between the two of them until the ashes burned their fingers and scattered across the pillowcase.
On second thought, Sam would be more likely to try and shove the embers up his ass than to share a cigarette with him.
Whatever. It would at least give him something to do while he waited. Because Sam - sometimes Dean is barely one minute into the afterglow of blowing his load before Sam disappears into the bathroom. It’s a fairly recent thing, and it’s not every single time, but frequent enough that it’s becoming weird.
Dean would wonder what the hell he does in there - and maybe let the dirty and creative compartment of his brain run wild if the shower didn’t always turn on thirty seconds later.
After a moment of hesitation, Dean swings his legs off the mattress and tugs on the jeans he’d tossed in a heap on the floor before ambling to the bathroom. Sam always shuts the door, but their current choice of motel comes with squeak-free hinges, and with the shower curtain drawn Dean gets inside and seats himself on the closed lid of the toilet completely unnoticed.
He waits until the water shuts off. “So I’ve been meaning to ask.”
There’s a squeak of skin on slick tile and one of Sam’s hands latches onto the screen in a death grip. “Jesus!” His head appears first, hair slicked back and eyes wide. “Don’t - don’t do that!” He steps slowly out onto the bathmat, a dripping hand placed dramatically over his heart.
“Is this a hygiene thing? I mean, clearly it is, but is it embarrassing?” Sam has to step around him to get a towel, and maybe Dean leans back, enjoys the view for a moment or two. Maybe his hand slips out and drags down the side of a wet hipbone.
The towel goes tightly around his waist, killing any chance at fun. “What are you talking about?” Sam asks, frowning.
“Does it itch or something? ‘Cause when my junk has a healthy coating of lube, it’s not the nicest feeling in the world, but I can linger a minute or two.” Dean cranes his neck to get a better look at gentle slope of Sam’s lower back, where damp, bronzed skin meets fabric. He feels his forehead wrinkle. “Is it - bad? Because we can start buying a better brand - or maybe something flavoured. Although, that would probably just exacerbate the problem.” He reaches out to lift the edge of the towel and take a clinical look.
Sam looks grossed out. “Exacerbate...Dean, quit it!” he yelps, smacking the hand away.
Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Dean leans back against the tank of the toilet. “Just trying to help,” he says, shrugging.
“Well, stop. Our lube is fine.” Sam demands, rubbing down his hair with a hand towel. “If you’re trying to bug me about the shower, it’s all yours. You could have just asked.” He busies his hands with the toothpaste from one of their toiletry kits.
Dean knows a diversion tactic when he sees one, especially one of Sam’s. “Do you think I’m unclean or something? Gotta get me off your skin as soon as possible?” He challenges, rising to his feet. “’Cause that’s just cold, man. Did you catch me picking my nose? Forget to wash my hands after taking a piss? You’ve got to give a guy a chance to come to his own defence.”
Sam’s reflection in the mirror shoots him a dubious look, corners of his mouth tilting down around the toothbrush between his lips.
“Sex is a beautiful, natural act, Sammy,” Dean says, hedging closer. He waggles his eyebrows a couple times, dropping his voice. “There’s nothing dirty about it - I mean, sure, you and I have been trying some pretty kinky shit, but still...”
Sam spits and turns on him. “Dean. What the fuck are you talking about?”
Irritation rears up front and center, because Sam’s confusion actually seems genuine. Which is annoying, since you can’t tease someone if they aren’t going to play along. “I’m talking about the way you peace it to the bathroom as soon as you blow your load.” Dean decides to be honest. He’d heard somewhere that it was the best policy.
For a beat, Sam stares at him, dumbfounded. “Uh, you came, too.” He states, eyebrows arched.
“So?” Dean says, because now he’s really not following.
Sam turns off the faucet. “So that usually signals fruition.” He slaps the light switch and walks to the bedroom.
Dean watches from the darkened doorway as Sam goes to his duffel bag and swaps the towel for a pair of boxers. He wonders not for the first time how someone he knows so much about can remain such a gigantic question mark. He recognizes when he’s been rebuffed, and Sam might think he’s won this round, but Dean doesn’t leave any stones unturned.
He just doesn’t have to get them all tonight.
Once Sam is back under the covers, Dean kicks out of his wrinkled jeans and crawls in after him. He makes sure Sam can feel the length of his naked skin pressed against his side, cool against the younger man’s warm, fresh-smelling flesh. “G’night, Sam.” He yawns, jaw creaking.
He can feel when Sam turns his head against the pillow to look at him. “You’re not going to shower?” he asks curiously.
“Nah,” Dean replies, uncaringly. “’S nice. Like this.”
Sam makes a sound somewhere between a huff and a laugh as he shifts, settling down fast. Dean listens to him awhile, feeling sleepy and content. When an itch creeps up, slow and niggling, he does his best to scratch his balls as discreetly as possible.
“Here,” Sam says as he walks up and places a few items into the basket Dean’s carrying. They’re in some weird, crunchy-granola supermarket that Dean’s never heard of but Sam went absolutely ape-shit over when they drove by. It’s the kind of place Dean despises - organic, pretentious, and way overpriced. Not to mention all the checkout girls look like Bob Marley impersonators.
Dean glances down. “There’s two of those.” He states, holding out one of the pre-packed salads for Sam to put back.
“I know.” Sam says, making no move to retrieve the item. “You have to eat something green, dude. It’s getting disgusting. You wanna end up like John Wayne? The man had forty pounds of undigested red meat in his colon when he died.” He’s got that crinkle directly between his eyes that means he’s trying to be heartfelt.
Crossing his arms, Dean tries to look as fearless as a guy wielding a container of baby arugula can. “That’s just an urban legend.” He challenges, because yeah, maybe he’d read that somewhere.
Now Sam’s eyebrows rise until they’re about ready to jump off his gigantic forehead. “So is Bloody Mary. And the Hookman. Jersey Devil. The list goes on.” He gives a nod to the salads. “You want to take that chance?”
Point taken. After a moment’s pause, Dean scowls and drops the package back into the basket as they turn the corner to another aisle - his mood greatly improves. The one pro to shopping at an uppity-bitch market like this is the prepared food. Dean grabs a bag from the bakery section and starts filling it with doughnuts and Danishes. “You want a bagel?”
Sam is reading the back of something that lists flax as a main ingredient, which just sounds wrong on so many levels. “I don’t eat bagels.” He claims, not looking up.
That sounds like bullshit. “Why the hell not?”
“Bagels are like tar in your intestines. They ensure that everything you eat will stay in your body for the rest of your life.” Sam explains with grave seriousness.
For a beat or two, Dean just stares at him, disbelieving. “So, what, you just never want me to eat again? Is that it?” He drops the tongs like he’s been burned, turning away to the hot food. He makes an effort to ignore the disapproving looks Sam is giving him as he loads a takeout container with macaroni and cheese.
They’re on their way to the checkout when Sam swipes the box of Lucky Charms Dean had put into the basket and replaces it with All Bran. “Okay, seriously Sam? Is this part of some hidden agenda to turn my colon into a Slip N’ Slide? Talk about killing the romance.”
Sam’s face contorts in horror. “Jesus! Dean, shut up!
“What? It’s okay to harass me with fibre, but God forbid we discuss it?” Dean rolls his eyes as they fall in line behind a middle-aged soccer mom and three rugrats. Ten tills and naturally only one is open. “Didn’t know it was Fight Club.” He mutters under his breath.
Sam presses his lips together and says nothing.
Sighing, Dean starts placing things on the conveyor belt when it’s finally their turn. He adds bowel movements to the long list of subjects Sam doesn’t approve of talking about in public, right below blowjobs but directly above mocking the obese.
Then Sam is shuffling his feet and looking down at the floor. “Maybe I just want you to live forever,” he mumbles. There’s a faint blush to his cheeks and damn, he looks good like that - reminds Dean of why he works so hard to embarrass the kid in the first place. It makes his job a lot easier when Sam brings it upon himself. “So sue me.”
Insides feeling a little marshmallowy, Dean takes back what he said about romance and can’t help the grin he knows he’s sporting as a girl with dreadlocks and a lip piercing shoots them wise, approving smiles as she rings through their items. Sam turns redder and focuses on counting through bills, so Dean steps right up behind him, Sam’s back warm against his chest, and peers down over the broad shoulder. He lets one of his hands wander up the back of Sam’s coat, tucking a finger or two inside the waistband of his jeans.
Dean can feel the uncertainty coursing through Sam’s body - the rigid line of his spine, the shifting of his feet as he’s caught hovering, like he’s unsure of what to do with his hands. As if after all this time he’s still totally traumatized that someone is touching him in public without two week’s notice and a red carpet. It’s weird and kind of cute and fuckin’ hilarious, to be honest.
Lip ring winks at them. “That’ll be fifty-six forty-two, boys.”
It’s like a punch to the gut. “Say what?” Dean exclaims, rearing back from Sam’s shoulder.
“...And I’m deaf.” Sam says, wincing as he presses a finger against his ear.
“Sorry,” he mumbles apologetically, reaching up a gentle hand to knead the back of Sam’s neck. “You got this, babe?” He asks, just to see Sam flush again.
He isn’t disappointed. Sam looks like he wants to climb inside the change pocket of his wallet. “I need a nickel,” he says quietly.
It’s a nice day, so they drive a little ways to a lake at the edge of town and eat with plastic forks, sitting on the fender of the car. Sam devours his entire salad and moves on to a take-out container of something that doesn’t look entirely edible. Dean thinks he sees tofu.
“Are you gonna eat that, or what?” Sam asks, nodding at the container of offending leafy substances that has yet to be taken out of the bag. He seems really invested in vegetation.
Dean swallows a mouthful of mashed potatoes and roast chicken, washing it down with a gulp of Coke. “I’m saving it for the end of the meal - to cleanse my palate.” He defends seriously. “Like the French.”
Sam snorts. “Right.”
“Don’t mock culture, Sammy.”
“Sure. You’re just a regular Julia Child.”
“Who?”
Sam shakes his head. “Never mind.” He stops mid bite and smirks, miming a very vague circle around his own face with a fingertip. “You’ve got a little...” his gaze is zeroed in on the right corner of Dean’s mouth.
With gravy on his finger, Dean touches the opposite side of his jaw, leaving a streak behind. “What, here?” He asks, faking oblivion.
His brother is trying not to laugh. “No, uh, other side.”
“You know, you’ve got something there, too,” Dean warns, latching on to Sam’s sleeve so that he can’t pull away when Dean leans into him, rubbing their lips together until Sam stops squirming and he can kiss him properly. The inside of his mouth is hot and salty with an underlying taste of Sammy and maybe he’d written off tofu too soon.
He’s got Sam back against the windshield before he gets pushed away by a hand at his chest, but Sam is laughing hard, head back, can’t-catch-your-breath laughter that fills spaces in Dean’s soul that he didn’t know were empty. “I think...” Sam starts, still chuckling. “I think I got some of your chicken.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Dean grimaces, feeling vaguely like a momma bird. “Don’t worry. I’m the one with the sandpapery insides. You’ll be good to go in a few hours.”
Sam stays reclined against the glass, body relaxed in a way it rarely is but fuck, should be. He laughs more and shakes his head and makes a few jokes at Dean’s expense, and Dean can’t stop smiling the entire time.
He makes sure to eat every last bite of his salad.
Sometimes, at the end of a really good day, Dean hates going to sleep.
He’ll do everything in his power to stay up as long as he can, and keep Sam conscious as well, because in actuality, that’s the whole point. Motels with coffee makers are a plus. A good Magnum PI marathon can sometimes do the trick. Once he flicked the end of Sam’s nose for fifteen minutes every time he showed signs of dozing off.
He’d never tried explaining it, because Sam would only call him crazy. But after several months of trial and error, Dean is pretty sure Sam is some sort of robot. And not the cool Terminator kind, either. More along the lines of the creepy, Hailey-Joel Osment from AI type. Shit, that kid really deserved a beat-down.
Because at the end of every day, no matter how awesome, some kind of switch gets flipped in Sam’s brain. Doesn’t matter if they go to bed laughing, content, and wrapped in one another’s arms. Hell, they could spend a day skipping through a field of daisies and brushing each other’s hair and it wouldn’t make one speck of difference. Once the sun comes up, everything will change, and Sam won’t be the same person he went to bed with.
Sure, it’ll still be Sam lying beside him, but he’ll be transformed. A cautious, reserved version on the other side of the mattress that Dean will tease and manhandle and leer at all day until he can be coaxed from his shell. Through repetition and a few artfully mastered moves that only come from months of careful calculation and testing, Sam will relax under his touch, trade easy smiles and offhanded comments. He’ll stop looking at Dean with that sceptical glint in his eye, like a lamb waiting to be led to slaughter.
At first it wasn’t unusual to take the whole day. Lately Sam would start to thaw at around noon, if they could get there without incident (which came in many immeasurable forms). By the end of the year, Dean’s personal goal is to get the job done by breakfast.
It’ll be tough, but Dean’s more than willing to go the distance.
There’s a small town in Pennsylvania that Dean usually tries to make a point of stopping at whenever they’re rolling through. All the buildings are painted white like cathedrals, and when you walk down the street people nod their heads and smile. Plus, there’s a bar that serves some of the best hot wings Dean has ever had in his life and never hits last call before three o’clock in the morning.
It’s busy and smoky inside as they weave their way through bodies to a vacant high-top near the back of the pub. “I kind of don’t like this place,” Sam says as he pulls up a stool.
“I kind of don’t care.” Shooting a mock-sincere smile across the table, Dean immediately dives into a bowl of salted peanuts, grabbing a fistful and stuffing them into his mouth.
Sam is staring at him like he just ate dog turds. “Do you realize what you’re eating?”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Sam, this game is so five days ago.”
That doesn’t seem to deter him any. “These types of places are thrifty. And thrifty means they try to cut expenses and reuse as much product as possible. These nuts for example - at the end of the night the staff come around and collect all the leftover food from the bowls and repackage them for the next day, when they’re put out again.” He crosses his arms wisely, lip slightly curled. “Now think about that - well-mannered guys such as yourself, coming out of the bathroom after they may or may not have washed their hands...”
“Come on, that was one time!” Dean counters, disbelieving.
“...and sticking their fingers into these bowls just like you did, leaving behind a whole host of bacteria.” He gives Dean a pointed look, eyebrows raised. “And you want to eat those?”
Dean stills instantly, feeling his flesh crawl. “Are you saying I’m eating piss-covered nuts? Pee-nuts, Sam?” He yanks his hand back and wipes it vigorously on a cocktail napkin, cringing. “Christ. Where do you even hear about this shit, huh?”
Sam shrugs, looking mildly amused and a little bit smug. He leans forward, just opening his mouth to speak when -
“Dean!”
They both turn to look as a blonde creature in incredibly tight shorts and a white top that proudly states Wet T-Shirt Runner Up: 2005 winds her way over to their table, tray in hand. “Dean Winchester, I thought that was you!” She plants her hands on her hips and gives him an assessing look. “It’s been awhile. Though I figured it was getting to be that time again!” She laughs, dainty hand touching his bicep.
Shit. He’d forgotten the other reason why this bar had always been a favourite of his. He goes for an inconspicuous nametag check before speaking. “Krystal - hey.” He clears his throat. “You met my brother Sam?”
“I can’t say for sure - how’s it going, Sam?” Krystal chirps, grinning wide.
When Dean risks a glance in his brother’s direction, Sam is just looking on in amusement. “I’m good, Krystal. Yourself?” He asks, all polite smiles and easy conversation. Asshole.
Krystal heaves a dramatic sigh and fiddles with the back of a strappy sandal. “At the end of a double shift and ready to blow my brains out!” She huffs, lower lip jutting out in a pout. “Not to mention I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”
Sam picks up the bowl from the table and holds it out graciously. “Pee-nut?”
“Sam,” Dean warns, swatting the younger man’s hand aside so that a few of the kernels bounce out of the dish and onto the floor. “Hey, uh, Krystal, we’re ready to order.”
She flips open a notepad. “Oh, okay. Beer? Your usual?” She asks, doe-eyed and pen poised.
Only if he wanted the rest of this night to go by as slow as it was going to be painful. “No, I’m gonna go with whisky. Neat.” He glances across the table at Sam, who’s mockingly cheerful expression has given way to one Dean hadn’t expected or prepared for - calm and infuriatingly unsurprised. Dean returns his gaze to Krystal. “Better make it a double.”
It only takes a few seconds after she’s left the table before the silence becomes too much. “Okay, let me have it.” Dean sighs, gesturing towards his chest.
Sam kind of squints at him. “Come again?”
“I said let me have it - I deserve it. This time, I mean. Don’t get excited or anything.” He starts slowly, but the confused look on Sam’s face is just too convincing to be fake. It feels ridiculous to have to explain. “The girl, Sam. Kristen....”
“Krystal.” Sam supplies.
“...Whatever. The girl that came and ruined our evening. Lash out at me - deck me one, or force feed me urine nuts, whatever. I deserve it.” He’s acutely aware that the decibel of his voice is about to surpass what’s socially acceptable for loud bars, but there’s not much to be done about it.
Sam watches him quietly. “Why are you yelling at me?”
Isn’t it obvious? “Because you’re pissin’ me off!”
“I’m pissing you off?”
He spots blonde hair bobbing through the crowd. “Coming back, coming back.” He hisses under his breath, pasting on a polite smile as Krystal appears at the table.
“Here you go, boys.” She puts down their drinks.
“Thanks,” Dean says and looks away, praying that’ll be it - but of course, he’s never that lucky.
Krystal sashays a little closer and leans across the table. “So I’m off in a few hours. I was thinkin’ this time we could go back to my place. That motel down the street charges way too much by the hour and your car doesn’t have reclining seats, so last time my head kept bashing and bashing and bashing against the roof, I swear...” She stops herself there, because apparently there is a God, and she glances quickly to Sam, covering her mouth with am embarrassed giggle. “Listen to me! I’m sorry, Sam, you don’t need to know what I’m going on about.” She pats his shoulder apologetically.
Pressing his lips together, Sam just shrugs. “It’s okay. I would’ve just picked it up off the streets anyway.”
Krystal laughs. “Look at you! You’ve got your brother’s wit!”
Gulping back whisky comfort, Dean forces a chuckle. “Yeah, I really wish he’d give it back.”
“Anyhow, I only live a few blocks from here so afterwards...”
He’s got to stop her there. “Actually Krystal, that’s not going to happen tonight.” He says, clearing his throat and catching her off guard. “See, I’m actually kind of...involved with someone right now.” She doesn’t need to know that someone is his little brother.
Disappointment plays across her features. “Oh.”
Dean takes another drink and drags a hand across his mouth. “Yeah. But thanks.”
She leaves the table pretty quickly after that and Dean only manages to avoid Sam’s gaze for a few seconds before he has to look over - and Sam is fixing him with this mock-concerned expression, arms crossed in front of his chest. “How are you doing over there? Need some fresh air? Or a time machine?”
Tossing back the last of the liquid in his glass, Dean pulls out a couple bills and throws down enough to cover the alcohol and a pretty generous ‘apology’ tip. “Can we get out of here?” If this is going to go down the way he thinks it will, they need to be out of earshot and somewhere with a little less glass. And pool cues.
When they get outside and set out for the motel, a mere two minute walk away, Dean feels a morbid rush of excitement because this is different. It’s not like the time he made a crack about having a headache and he couldn’t get Sam to sleep in the same bed as him for a week, and it definitely trumped the confused, oblivious looks on the kid’s face the first times Dean had tried out pet names in public. This is an emotion at least, and it’s not just any emotion, it’s Sam angry - jealous, even. And that means maybe, just maybe, some of this is finally starting to sink in.
But the cool night air seems to have some sort of extinguishing effect on Sam’s anger, because the rigid line of his shoulders deflates down to nothing. He shoves his hands in his pockets and seems to try and disappear right before Dean’s very eyes.
A frown of concern replaces the frustrated anticipation. “Sam?” he tries, watching.
“I’m gonna...” Sam jerks a thumb over one of his shoulders, blindly gesturing down a long stretch of dark, deserted sidewalk. Like that explains everything.
Dean stares blankly. “...Work the corner? Streak butt-naked through town? What?”
Not so much as a smirk. “Take a walk.”
Fuck. Right up the ass with a rusty sheriff’s badge.
“Sam, come on,” Dean starts, taking a step toward him with a hand outstretched and steady, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. “Let’s just go - back to the room, okay? We can talk about this all to your little heart’s content. Or not, we can talk about whatever. Or not talk at all. I can paint your toenails Bull Durham style and we’ll stare into each other’s eyes until morning. Just come back with me.” Don’t walk away, he thinks. Not now, not when you’ve got that look on your face like you’re glad I proved you wrong.
But Sam is already backing up, putting miles and miles of distance between them with just a few timid steps. “I won’t be gone long. I promise.” He offers a tight, forced smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and then he turns and strides away.
Dean watches him go and lets out a sigh of defeat. “Rinse, lather, repeat.” He mutters under his breath, and walks slowly down the block.
He never would have thought in a million years that being in a relationship meant spending so much time alone.
Dean tries not to huff in annoyance when the sheet lifts up and a gust of cold air sweeps under the blanket, prickling the hairs on his calves. Impatiently jiggling his leg, he stabs at the remote control a few times but Star Trek reruns and some horrible Lifetime movie are the only things on at two in the morning.
Dean would rather let a pack of rabid dogs gnaw at his jewels, thank you very much.
The screech of water through old pipes propels him out of bed, padding barefoot across the floor. He leans casually against the bathroom door. “So I’ve decided that I’m going to take up smoking,” he makes sure he’s loud enough to be heard over the spray. “In bed.”
There’s a pause. “You wouldn’t dare.” Sam calls back to him, but doesn’t really sound all that concerned.
“Yup. It’s necessary. Either that or I’m gonna die from boredom every night when you leave me high and dry for the shower.”
Sam says nothing much, some kind of muted muttering that Dean can’t make out.
“What?” he calls back, feeling ridiculous.
The water cuts off suddenly and with alarming fluidity, the door at his back is flung open without warning and Dean nearly falls ass over tea-kettle onto the grungy tiled floor. “I said I’d really prefer if you didn’t. It’ll stink up the sheets.” Sam says matter-of-factly.
“So?” It’s hard to work on a decent argument and try not to stare appreciatively at Sam’s dripping, naked body at the same time. The little ass-muncher totally knows what he’s doing. “Then at least we’d be even. You eat mandarins in bed all the time. Sheets smell like a fucking Orange Julius.”
Without towelling off, Sam sort of shakes his head like a wet dog or one of those chicks from Baywatch, sending water droplets stinging across Dean’s bare chest. He barely notices, though, and maybe this is why Sam takes showers all the time - diversion tactic number 247. “Excuse me for trying to avoid scurvy.” He retorts, snorting. “Wouldn’t hurt to freshen up the bed linens, either.”
There’s very obvious bait dangling in the air. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean crosses his arms.
Sam makes a noise of indecisiveness but his expression says otherwise as he reaches for a clean shirt.
“Are you saying I smell bad, Sam?” He doesn’t really need a verbal answer for that one, because there’s a smile on his brother’s face working its way to the forefront. “Because not all of us have an inner Howie Mandel like you, you know. And a man’s got the right to pass a little gas without judgement every now and then.”
Sam’s expression turns murderous. “And trapping me underneath the sheets afterwards is a natural act as well?” He asks rhetorically, fiddling with the hem of a t-shirt.
“I haven’t done that since you were twelve!”
Glaring, Sam’s eyes narrow. “Two nights ago, Dean.”
He has to think a moment, chuckling to himself. “Forgot about that.” He gets distracted watching Sam lower himself down to the edge of the mattress, face bathed in the glow of the lamplight. Even mildly irritated, Sam’s expression is peaceful - relaxed and content as he ever gets these days and maybe Dean had a little something to do with it. It makes him sigh with relief and every second of the day feel like it was working toward this very moment.
Dean reaches forward and yanks the shirt out of Sam’s hands before he has a chance to stretch the neckhole over his head.
“Dean - come on!” Sam goes for outraged as he watches the piece of clothing got tossed across the room, but there’s definitely a smile creeping back there somewhere. Dean can hear it in his voice.
“Nope - sorry.” Before Sam can react, Dean grabs for one corner of the tangled sheets from the bed and wrestles them over the younger man’s head, slinking down underneath them as well and pinning Sam with his weight. With two hands holding the blankets down, Dean keeps them tented under the scratchy white fabric.
Sam is rolling his eyes, but not moving. “Dean, if you do it again I’ll kill you. I mean it. I’ll get my gun and I’ll shoot you in the face.”
Not answering, Dean blinks down at him and smiles. The sheets have built up some kind of static cling on Sam’s shaggy hair and it’s sticking up adorably, cheeks a bright pink from the shower and the heat of the blankets. When he presses a wet trail of open-mouthed kisses from Sam’s neck down to his chest, the skin is warm and dewy and seems to melt under his tongue. His dick turns to granite against Sam’s thigh.
“Again?” Sam asks, drawing Dean’s eyes upwards.
“Do you need to sound so surprised?” Going on three times in under three hours, Dean figures it does warrant some admiration. He grinds down with his hips.
Sam lets out an open-mouthed gasp that Dean tries to catch on his own breath. “Just - didn’t know you had it in you.”
So maybe he works a little harder than usual to prove that statement true - in his defence, he kind of doesn’t have a choice. After all, Dean doesn’t want to add his libido to the long list of doubts Sam has been keeping tally of since day one.
In some backwater town just outside of Wichita, Dean starts grinning and can’t stop. He’s just spent twenty minutes showering off seven hours worth of wading through an overgrown-cesspool looking for some kind of swamp creature. He’d had to walk six miles back to the motel with wet socks because he’d insisted on Sam taking the car. Not to mention said little brother was working on what was sure to become a pretty decent cold.
But none of it really mattered. Why? Because it had been a really good morning. Maybe even the best one Dean could remember since...well, ever.
Really, it didn’t take much to constitute a morning as good these days. But waking up with Sam in his arms instead of halfway across the mattress meant that maybe Sam skipped his late night rebooting process and something about the whole day is going to be different, and Dean? He’s all about the different.
He can hear the Impala pull up just as he’s finished kicking his pulled-apart duffel under the bed and out of sight. With one last glance around the now-tidy room, he rubs self-consciously at his half-dried hair just as the door creaks open. “Hey,” he tries to tone down the grin and wonders why he’s talking so loud.
Sam glances at him. “Hey,” he breathes it on the end of a long sigh.
He immediately picks up on his brother’s slumped posture, the slowness of his movements as he pulls off his jacket and drapes it on the chair. Figures he was probably right about the cold that’s going to be a major cock-block. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Sam moves to the bed and lowers himself down gingerly, splaying across the covers Dean just fixed and closing his eyes. “Day was a bust. I got to all the victims’ families, and as far as I can tell there are no connections. All different ages, genders, you name it. They live pretty far away from one another, too.” Fingers come up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
Dean sits beside him on the mattress and plants one hand on the opposite side of Sam’s body, leaning over him. “Hmm,” he responds neutrally, more focused on Sam’s pallor, the bright color to his cheeks. “Your voice is pretty croaky. Didn’t little old ladies ply you with hot tea and cookies?” That had been the whole point to splitting up, after all. As much as Dean hated it, especially after a morning of easy smiles and lingering touches over toothpaste and coffee, he’d known Sam would be taken care of.
“Nah,” Sam says indifferently, pulling out the sticky package of throat lozenges Dean had pressed to his palm that morning and laying them on the comforter.
“Well, these won’t do.” Transferring them to the bedside table, Dean refocuses on the eyes currently staring up at the water-stained ceiling. “You want me to run to the store? Pick you up some of the good stuff?”
Sam just shrugs. After that all he gets is very audible breathing.
Confused, Dean shifts on the mattress. Feels a line appear between his eyebrows and concern settle itself uneasily in the pit of his stomach. “What’s going on? Y’alright?” One of his hands finds its way to Sam’s face and settles on his forehead, feeling for fever.
Sam slinks away from his touch, dragging himself vertical again. “I’m telling you, I’m good.” He shakes off any illusion that speaks otherwise and nonchalantly turns on the TV.
Pulling back, Dean continues to stare and slowly feels it dawn on him - and wouldn’t it be just like Sam to go and change the rules behind his back? Because apparently now there were no longer sleeping restrictions on the whole brainwash gig and that’s just not cool.
“Clearly,” he says quietly, leaning away but still totally incapable of removing his gaze from his little brother’s profile. “Jesus, Sam. You’re a piece of work. You know that?” He shakes his head bitterly and rises from the bed.
Pulling his gaze from the screen, Sam just blinks at him. “What?”
It takes him a moment to find where he’d hidden his coat. When he’d been haphazardly cleaning the room, he’d planned on a comfortable evening in with take-out and a movie. Maybe getting lucky. Not making a break for it. “You’re either really, really dumb - not to mention blind as a freakin’ bat, or you’re actually trying to screw this thing up.” He jerks his arms through the sleeves. “I’m not sure which one is worse. So which of these two guys do you wanna be?” He waits.
He’s always waiting for Sam.
Sam’s eyes flit briefly back to the television, where a man with a stupid look on his face pratfalls down a set of stairs. His gaze slowly travels back, this time conveying hope that maybe alternate choices are allowed. “Um...”
Still holding strong to ignorance, then. “Shit, Sam. It stopped being endearing after the first week.” He snatches up the keys that were left on the table and goes for the door. Turns back. “You know, I can’t be with you twenty-four-seven. Sometimes you’re going to have to pull your head out of your own ass.” He sneers, glancing once at the bathroom door. “Take some Tylenol. Go to bed.” Damn it. So much for acting indifferent.
“Dean, what are you doing?” Sam asks from the bed, watching him anxiously.
“Taking a stab at this whole ‘walking out’ thing you seem so fond of.” Dean retorts. “So far, it beats the alternative.” He makes sure to slam the door behind him. And you know what? It feels good. Damn good.
For about ten seconds.
Because once he gets to the car, he has to wonder if giving Sam a taste of his own medicine is really the best way to go right now. Sam, who is without a doubt sitting just where he left him scratching his head. Sam, the emotional retard. Sam, who might not just know that Dean will always come back.
He feels like a kid that tries to run away from home and only gets as far as the sidewalk. It sucks, when he takes a deep breath and turns around, heading back to the room, but nothing, not even his pride is going to make him undo all of his own hard work.
Even if sundown is only an hour away.
Continued in Part 2