spn holidays!!!
Title: Everything Changes, Everything Stays the Same
Author: Merrin/walkawayslowly
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Dean, with a Bobby cameo
Word Count: 6790
Disclaimer: Don’t own them, never did. I am making no profit off of being twisted and perverted. Sadly.
Summary: They fall into something they’ve never done before, only to find out it’s better than anything else.
Author’s Notes: (Extended notes at the bottom...) Written for spn_holidays, for the lovely belyste. I hope you like it, hon! Merry Christmas!
Everything Changes, Everything Stays the Same
by Merrin
Laid out on the ground, covered in dirt and soot and ash and Dean is patting him down, like flames are still licking at him, like Dean could even pat out hellfire. It’s funny somehow, it’s all suddenly hilarious and Sam laughs, laughs and laughs and he feels weightless in a way he hasn’t in a year, like the only thing holding him to the earth is his brother stretched on top of him.
It takes him a while to come down from that. It’s Dean’s voice in his ear, Dean’s face pressing into his neck and his fingers clenched so hard in Sam’s shirt his arms are shaking that kills the laughter but can’t kill the joy. They’re still, quiet, just for a moment, and this is all Sam needs right now, the knowledge of infinite time in front of him, deadlines and deals broken and done. It tastes like relief on his tongue, it tastes like freedom, it tastes like love. He strokes Dean’s back, hand slipping under the tattered t-shirt to smooth over warm, alive skin and then Bobby’s standing over them, head and its battered trucker hat blocking the sun.
“You boys want to get out of here?”
Sam raises his head, looks past Bobby to Ellen and Jo and Deacon, the other hunters behind them and they’re smiling and he’s smiling and he looks back at Dean and Dean’s smiling, lips stretched across his face, white teeth and Sam thinks mine and lifts his head, just a bit. Jo gives out a whoop of joy just then and Sam stops, realizes he was about to kiss Dean, kiss Dean in front of God and Bobby and everyone.
Instead, he shoves Dean’s shoulder, moves to sit up and Dean rolls off, butt hitting the ground next to Sam. Bobby pulls them up and Sam doesn’t want to look at his brother but it hurts not do something, so he grabs Dean’s hand. Nothing like middle school, he’s not threading their fingers together or anything, he just holds on. They’re all stumbling towards the cars and Sam is still clutching Dean’s hand and Dean lets him. He pulls open the car door and the Impala’s creaky joints make him smile and they make him think home. He doesn’t even argue when Dean slips in behind the wheel, because this is how it’s supposed to be.
“-back at the house?” Bobby is saying, and Sam nods and Dean waves.
Their cars kick up dust and ash as they drive away, one by one (the ants go marching), and it makes Sam want to laugh again, the precision, the order with which they leave the scene of chaos. Dean touches his thigh, light fingers asking a question and Sam doesn’t turn from the window but he catches Dean’s hand in his again. “Nothing,” he says, “it’s nothing.”
Dean’s hand in his, flesh and blood and bone and he clutches it, knows their fingers are white with how hard he’s holding on but he can’t stop. It’s always been there, his big brother’s hand, all he ever had to do was reach out. Dean’s thumb moves on the back of his hand but it’s not comforting like it’s been before. It turns him on, weird and perfect at the same time.
He doesn’t notice they’re slowing down at first, not till Jo’s truck gets swallowed by a cloud of dust, fading off into the distance and then they’re not moving at all. Dean shifts into park with his left hand and drops his head to the wheel, harsh breath like it’s all just catching up to him now and he pulls their hands towards him, up to his chest.
Sam lets him sit like that for a bit but not long. Not long before he reaches over, following impulses he can’t explain and couldn’t begin to control and hell, Dean can hit him later. He pulls his hand out of Dean’s death grip to touch his face and they’re both across the front seat in an instant, no space between them and there are tears slicking Dean’s face when Sam kisses him.
Just an awkward slide of lips at first, tasting slightly of ash and dirt, chin stubble and the hard line of Dean’s jaw and it’s nothing like anything Sam’s ever done before and it’s better than anything he’s ever done before. Dean, Dean’s mouth, Dean’s tongue when their lips open, soft moan in the still air. Dean’s definitely not going to hit him, he’s too busy licking into Sam’s mouth to bother. Licking and kissing (and kissing and kissing), like time would stop for them, like it doesn’t matter.
Dean’s hands are under his shirt, smoothing over and raking across his skin, and finding every single place that makes Sam crazy (and Christ, how does he know?) and they still aren’t close enough, not at all. Sam pulls back enough to pull his shirt off, pull Dean’s shirt off and it’s skin on skin and he leans back against the door and the handle cuts into his back but he doesn’t care. Dean shifts over him, loud thunk when his head hits the ceiling but he keeps coming, thighs open over Sam’s. He pulls Dean in close, presses in hard enough that he feels Dean’s heart beat against his chest, fast, frantic and more solid than Sam can imagine and he wants to cry because it’s everything he almost lost, everything his brother tried to give up for him and Sam holds tighter, pulls Dean harder against him, wants to imprint Dean on his skin so he’ll never go away.
Dean’s fingers hard on his waist, he’s grinding down into Sam’s lap, and they’re both hard and it’s beyond fucked up and Sam bites at Dean’s neck, licks at the warm salty skin, comes away with ash on his tongue but he doesn’t care and he can’t think about anything, there’s nothing beyond this moment.
Fingers fumbling at his buttons and then Dean’s hands are on him and he doesn’t think at all, can’t. Warm hands and soft mouth and it’s a confused, bruising tangle over the seat but then they’re there, in the backseat, Dean’s pants over the steering wheel and Sam’s hanging off his ankle.
Dean’s belly up on the seat, cock hard and red against his stomach and Sam wants to taste it, wants it in his mouth, more than anything he’s ever needed before. He grabs at the handle behind him, almost falls when it opens but he backs out, knees on the dirt beside the car, ignoring the hard stones digging into his skin. He grabs Dean’s hips, pulls him to the edge of the seat, ass almost hanging out of the car before he presses in between his legs, one long lick up Dean’s cock and Dean’s hand fists in his hair and he closes his lips over the head, takes as much as he can in his mouth. It should be weird, it should be disgusting but it isn’t, it’s Dean and it’s awesome. He sucks in, hollowing his cheeks and Dean’s hand yanks at his hair, hard and sharp, and he pulls up, away.
He presses in between Dean’s thighs but Dean pulls him up higher, till he’s in the car again, further and further till he’s got one knee on the seat next to Dean’s shoulder and his leg braced against the front seat and his head crammed against the window and Dean opens his mouth, breathes hot over Sam’s dick before he sucks it in. Sam’s mouth falls open on a choked cry, harsh sound against the quiet. His eyes are open, face pressed against the hot glass of the window, but everything outside is faded, dim like one of those old movies and the only thing real and colorful is Dean. He looks down at Dean, head back against the seat and he’s looking up at Sam, lips stretched around his dick and it’s almost too much. Dean’s hands are on his ass, pulling him closer, tighter, Sam’s full on fucking his mouth and it’s the hottest thing ever. His hands clench on the seats but it doesn’t seem right, doesn’t seem real and he wants there to be more. He pulls back, out, slides down again till their tangled legs hang out of the car but he’s over Dean, their cocks lined up beside each other on Dean’s belly.
Dean wraps his hand around Sam’s neck, hitches himself up on one elbow to kiss him, wet and open, breath catching between them. He tastes himself on Dean’s tongue, Dean’s taste still on his, both of them mixing and just right in their mouths. Sweat beads on Dean’s face, drops down his cheek and Sam follows it, catches it on his tongue at the corner of Dean’s mouth.
It’s warm and close in the car, the smell of sex is overwhelming and sweat drips off Sam, pools between them and as he presses against Dean, slow and thick and hot, he looks in Dean’s eyes and he can pretend that nothing else exists, only them and the car and the heat. He reaches down, wraps his huge hand around both their dicks, pulls them together and he drops his forehead to Dean’s, breath brushing across his cheek. Dean shifts up and mouths along his jaw, fucking undulating on the seat below him.
Sam moves with him and then his hand’s in the way and he lets go, sweat and come slicking them enough to rub against each other and he does, grinding down into Dean. Again, again, and again and the rhythm makes the door shake, squeaky counterpart to their gusting breaths and they’re both close, like it’s been building for months but it’s only been minutes and Sam would have-should have- known. But then Dean’s hand slips lower on Sam’s ass, sweat slick finger pressing inside, sharp and stinging and Sam can’t hold it anymore, can’t think beyond reaching between them and just that, just the touch of his fingers is enough and Dean’s coming all over his stomach, Sam’s stomach and watching Dean fall apart is enough for Sam. He muffles his shout against Dean’s neck as he comes.
Minutes, hours, days (definitely minutes) later, Dean squirms under him a bit and Sam sits up, and it’s disgusting, everything that’s not quite dry on his stomach and Dean’s stomach and it’s itchy and kind of gross. He can’t look at Dean when he stands outside the car and pulls his pants back up, covers the mess with his shirt and doesn’t even try to wipe it away. He steps back when Dean climbs out, pants in his hands and he watches the dirt on the side of the road, late afternoon sun still hot on his shoulders.
He doesn’t look up when Dean says, “well, we should get to Bobby’s,” and he’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t look at him when he says, “yeah.”
So they get back in the car, only now it smells like sweat and sex over the ash and soot and Sam rolls the window down as Dean starts the car up. He leans his head out, hunched down in the seat and his cheek resting on the hot metal of the door and he’s busy digging himself into one hell of a pit of denial. He has to sit on his hands, all they want to do is touch Dean again, like once wasn’t enough, like visiting hell (literally) today wasn’t enough of a deterrent to ever sin again.
They don’t talk the rest of the way to Bobby’s. They don’t talk as Dean pulls up behind Bobby’s truck and they don’t talk over the creaking of the doors as they open. They don’t talk when Deacon meets them at the car with two open beers in his hand, cold, the bottle sweating in Sam’s hand, slicking his palm. He sips quickly, hoping the dry taste will wash away everything he’s been savoring from his mouth.
“Where you been?” Bobby calls from the porch.
“Wrong turn,” Dean says, easy as anything, and everyone turns back to what they were doing, everyone but Bobby and Sam know he’s looking at them, watching them. Bobby reads them better than a lot of people and Sam feels exposed, ripped open, a book a three year old could understand. He slips past Bobby quickly, into the cool interior of the house, signs and symbols and traps all over, heaping piles of papers and books and talismans and he could get lost in here, easy. Context he understands, at least, a place he’s familiar with. He leaves his beer on Bobby’s table, it’ll be there when he gets back.
He heads upstairs to the small room in the back, two twin beds that have been theirs since they were kids. His duffel’s still on the floor next to the one under the window, Dean’s spilled across the other, and it calms him a bit, optimistic little bags, waiting for both of them to return.
He goes to shower, washes off layers of dirt and ash, sulfur and the disgusting mix of sweat and... other (he refuses to think about it too hard) caking his stomach. He stays in until the water runs cold and no one will thank him for that later but it’s a warm day, they’ll deal. Dean’s in the room when he goes back for clothes, sprawled on his bed, staring hard at the ceiling like it’s got the secrets of the universe scrawled across it in tiny print.
“You took all the hot water?” First words since The Car, since before The Car and they’ve got nothing to do with anything involving The Car but it still makes Sam’s heart pound in his chest, loud enough he’s sure Dean hears it.
“Yeah,” he says, a little too loudly, a little too slowly.
“Bitch.” Dean hauls himself off the bed, quickly, and he’s standing right next to Sam, right next to Sam when he’s in a towel, nothing but the towel and he stumbles back, away, because what he really wants to do is step closer. Drop his towel and step closer to Dean, closer to everything he never knew he wanted.
Dean doesn’t say anything, doesn’t tease him for being a freak or a spazz and that’s almost worse because Dean knows why and it’s a hot flush of shame up Sam’s spine. He turns away towards his bed and his bag, digs through for something clean and doesn’t watch as Dean leaves the room, clumping down the hall to the bathroom and he’ll get a cold shower even though it’s Sam that desperately needs one.
Everyone’s gone when he gets back downstairs, cleared out to their various homes, hotels, they’ll each celebrate in their own way tonight. They’ve never all been entirely comfortable around each other, too much history written on those pages, too few social graces to pretend anything else. Bobby’s at his table, cleaning the guns he’d taken along, the Colt, even though there are (again) no bullets left.
“Where you boys gonna go now?” Bobby asks.
Sam drops into a chair across from him shrugs. Beer’s still there and it’s warmish now but it doesn’t matter. “Don’t know yet,” he says. “Back out on the road?”
“Are you asking me?”
“No. We just haven’t talked about it. There are still things out there.”
Bobby doesn’t look up from cleaning his gun, won’t meet his gaze any more than Dean will, but it’s different, thank God, for different reasons. Sam’s pretty sure his twisted libido won’t take him down that particular road. “There are some would say you’ve done your part,” Bobby’s saying. “Hell, more than. I don’t think anyone’d be surprised if you boys retired.”
“And leave this life of crime?” Sam smiles a bit, takes another sip of lukewarm beer.
“Well, seriously. Get yourselves a job, a girl, a home somewhere.”
Time was, (God, this morning) that’d been exactly what Sam had always wanted, always dreamed of. A home, some place just his, his name on the deed, a job he doesn’t have to lie about, a life shared with someone that knows him, knows all about him and loves him anyway. And it freaks him the fuck out that picturing that life now, right now in the darkening day (should have been Dean’s last, turns out it wasn’t), it’s Dean with him, Dean who knows all about him, knows him better than anyone ever has or ever will and still loves him anyway. The way Dean has always loved him.
Bobby’s still waiting, watching him now for a response. “Nah,” he says, finally. “Not in the cards.”
“I’d expect that answer from Dean, not from you.”
“It’s my answer too. There’s still the remnants of an army that we let out.”
“Could be someone else’s job.”
“But it’s ours, Bobby. Mine. My mess, my responsibility.”
“You were right the first time, it’s ours.” Dean’s come up behind him, heady scent of soap and Dean and Sam’s hand clenches around the beer bottle and he hopes Dean doesn’t notice. Hell, he hopes Bobby doesn’t notice. He wonders if he’s possessed, if Dean’s possessed. He’s sure Bobby would have noticed. “It’s our problem still,” Dean says. “We’re going back out there, nothing’s changed.”
Sam knows he’s talking to Bobby, answering Bobby’s question, it’s all directed at Bobby, but it’s also directed at him. Nothing’s changed, nothing’s different, what happened in the car doesn’t matter, isn’t anything, won’t make a difference. Even though Sam wants to do it again, even though Sam’s skin is tingling, alive with Dean standing so close, burning with the need to touch him again, taste him again. He can’t, he won’t, it’s all still the same.
“Just thought you’d like a rest, is all,” Bobby says, fidgeting with the Colt now, clean and reassembled and still utterly useless again.
And Sam feels stupid admitting that he knows how it feels. Because nothing has changed.
Sam spends most of the night staring at the window, not the ceiling, where he’d still be able to see Dean in his peripheral vision, but turned over completely and facing the curtains and trying to pretend he’s sleeping and not listening carefully, closely, for every sigh, every rustle of sheets as Dean shifts again, turns over again. It’s dark, black, no streetlights or stop lights illuminating the night, just the tiny sliver of a new moon peeking between the faded, dusty fabric.
Dark, black, and that’s when Sam starts thinking, can’t stop thinking, remembering the feel of Dean’s hands on him, Dean’s mouth on him, just kissing Dean was the hottest thing he’s ever done. Thrill of the forbidden? Maybe, Dean is his brother, after all. But it doesn’t seem like enough. There are a lot of forbidden things he’s already done, and none of them felt as good, as right, as this did. He’d been happy, ecstatic, that Dean is still alive, that he has the usual life expectancy of a hunter ahead of him which, while still distressingly low, is much more than a year. But that explanation doesn’t feel like enough either.
He can feel Dean falling asleep behind him, hear the rhythm of his breath evening out, the restless movements slowing down. The tension, the awareness that’s been holding him together all day lets him go, suddenly, all at once and he feels like he presses further into the mattress because of it and it makes him so tired he can’t keep his eyes open. He rolls over without thinking about it, just lets his body find the most comfortable way to rest and it really doesn’t surprise him that the last thing he sees before he falls asleep is Dean. He doesn’t know if he dreams.
They leave early the next morning, Bobby reluctantly tells them of a poltergeist in Idaho and for a while, it mostly feels like nothing really has changed except for the low level itch that Sam ignores, crawling beneath his skin. They check into motels and Dean still twitches at the king or two queens question (although clearly with more reason now). Dean eats his weight in cheese fries and Sam picks at salads. Dean sings along loudly with whatever mullet rock he’s got blaring out of the radio and Sam stares moodily out the window.
Except everything’s different. First night in the hotel and Dean carefully faces the wall when he changes his shirt. Sam grabs sweat pants and a t-shirt and changes in the bathroom, stares at himself in the mirror under the freakishly bright lights. “What are you doing?” he asks himself, like he’ll answer. Like he knows.
Dean’s flicking through the stations when he comes back out, hasn’t automatically ordered porn on someone else’s dime. He doesn’t look up at Sam, doesn’t turn away from the TV and it’s early(ish), but he doesn’t suggest a night out. Sam drops into his bed, pulls the covers up to his chin, like he’s hiding. Dean stops on an infomercial for a set of ginsu knives and they both let the announcers voice bore them into unconsciousness.
The poltergeist has set up residence in a tiny lodge up in the mountains and Sam can’t really fault it, the view is gorgeous. Sawtooth Mountains, picturesque lake, he wonders if the poltergeist appreciates the view, then he wonders about the brain capacity of a poltergeist, then he wonders if poltergeists have brains. And then he wonders why he’s spent so much time wondering about poltergeists, and what that means about his own brain.
“C’mon, princess,” Dean says, poking him in the back when he stands staring at the lake too long. Anyway, after a while it reminds him too much of another lake, grasping hands pulling Dean down into oblivion and he turns away, shuddering.
It doesn’t take long, poltergeists are (mostly) old hat and this one has nothing on the malevolent force of the one in Lawrence. Still, it manages to get something, Sam can’t feel what, wrapped around his neck before the end and he’s wondering why every supernatural thing out there is obsessed with choking him, vision getting black around the edges and then it’s all gone. Poltergeist handled, apparently, the last little bag shoved into the hole Dean knocked into the wall, and Dean’s unraveling whatever the hell it is then he’s moving down Sam’s chest, fingers scrabbling at his belt and his pants and Dean swallows him down and Sam arches up into it, into Dean, little whimpers escaping among the coughs as he tries to catch his breath again. He doesn’t know, God he doesn’t know what this is about, what it means, but it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care.
What’s a little blow job between brothers?
He presses his hands into the floor, fingers scrabbling at the hardwood. He doesn’t want to touch Dean, put his hand on Dean’s head because he’s afraid if he does Dean will remember what he’s doing, he’ll remember that nothing’s changed and he’ll stop. It hadn’t even been that life threatening, the poltergeist, just a run of mill, temporary lack of air. He groans when Dean pulls off, feels like the inevitable, but then Dean’s fingers are working between his legs and he tongues the crease of Sam’s thigh, bites down at his hip bone. Sam can feel Dean hard against his leg and he lifts it, pressing up against Dean and it makes him stutter a bit, mouth slipping along Sam’s skin and then he’s bearing down, humping Sam’s leg. He’s licking all around Sam’s cock, his stomach, his thighs, while his hand slowly jacks up and down, not enough to get Sam off, just enough to make him crazy.
He bites back on Dean’s name but he lifts his hands up, catches Dean’s head between them and pushes Dean’s mouth back on his cock. There’s a happy mutter from Dean as closes his mouth back over Sam, but it’s nothing to the deep groan Sam lets out, echoing back off the big picture window looking out over the lake. Dean’s got his fingers in his mouth, next to Sam’s cock, slicking them up and they’re there, at Sam’s ass, just one at first, slowly pushing inside.
Not the first time, but it’s different than before, in the car. That was just a quick thrust, nothing at all like this and at first it’s weird, slightly uncomfortable but then Dean gets further in, crooks his finger and it’s fantastic. He opens his mouth on a thin, high noise he’d never believed he could make, eyes closed because if he looks down, if he sees Dean doing this, it’s all over and it’s only just started. Dean works his finger around, adds another and Sam can’t stop moaning, can’t stop the embarrassing noises coming out of his mouth. He wants to cry when Dean takes his mouth off his cock but he just slips down further, further, until his tongue is at Sam’s ass, licking in with his fingers and Sam opens his eyes as he falls apart.
Feels like he’s coming forever and he’s still feebly spurting, eyes just beginning to focus again, trying to catch his breath when Dean crouches over him on his knees and rips his pants open. He watches, licking his lips as Dean jacks off over him and with a few hard pulls, spills onto Sam’s stomach. Watches, eyes on Dean’s face almost as much as they’re on Dean’s dick (because c’mon) but Dean never looks up at his face, keeps his eyes on Sam’s belly, Sam’s softening cock. A minute, just a minute to catch his breath and then Dean pulls off, away and they both look at the floor, the window, anything but each other.
Dean stands, buttoning his pants. “Let’s get out of here,” he says. “This job’s done.”
“Yeah.” He pulls his pants up, drags his shirt down to cover another congealing mess. Dean’s already out the door.
They ride back to the motel in silence and while it isn’t anymore uncomfortable than the first time, it isn’t any less either. It’s just more confusing. Once, maybe, Dean’s newly back from dead, Sam’s a little excited, sure, fine, he can see that. But this is once more, once more on an ordinary hunt where, except for the bit where Sam got choked (and really, what’s so unusual about that?) nothing was different.
They have breakfast three days later in a greasy spoon in Arkansas, “good eats” in neon flashing in the window. Dean flops into the booth across from Sam and his legs bracket Sam’s when he spreads them out underneath the table. Sam tries to concentrate over the warm buzz of Dean’s leg touching his. He’s got his lap top open, picking up wireless from the truck stop next door.
“Anything?” Dean asks, flipping through the menu, even though Sam knows he’ll order eggs and three kinds of meat with a side of pancakes and lard, just like he always does. Dean grimaces when Sam orders the oatmeal but what the hell, Sam actually thinks about his arteries sometimes.
“I’ve only been on for five minutes,” he says.
“So why’s it taking so long?”
“It’s not like there’s a data base for weird things we should investigate. I don’t get emails from the web list.”
Dean stretches his arm along the back of the booth, leans back with his coffee cup in the other hand, arches his back and his shirt rides up on his belly. Just a tiny bit of skin revealed and Sam tries to think of what it would taste like (fantastic, great, fucking fabulous, he bets) and he wonders what that makes him. He wonders how far up incest goes on the hierarchy of sin. He’s also got sodomy, sex outside of marriage (on multiple occasions, with multiple partners), lust... Sam stops tapping at the keyboard, making a laundry list of his sexual sins in his head.
Dean snorts and it draws his attention back to the computer screen, away from sex, away from Dean’s warm skin. “Well don’t get your panties in a twist,” Dean says and Sam, still flushing at almost getting caught lusting over his brother’s belly, mutters, “shut up” and hunches over his computer. He placates Dean with a series of vicious animal attacks in Wisconsin that Dean is convinced are werewolf related and starts in on his bowl of oatmeal, slimy and lukewarm and slightly congealed and completely disgusting.
They get into town early, not quite a full moon yet and they end up at a bar just down from their motel. Dean starts out at the table with Sam while Sam steals wifi from the shop next door and checks the lunar cycles and his sixteen email addresses.
It’s a normal bar, normal bar fare, and Sam watches the women in it watch Dean, like they can’t help it, couldn’t look away if they wanted to and Sam knows exactly how they feel. Dean’s been ridiculously good looking since, well, birth, and it’s like a gravitational pull, like everything revolves around him and Dean is the center of everything. It used to piss Sam off, when he had pimples and awkward limbs that were too long and unwieldy and even after he grew into himself and the acne cleared up and he had the validation of the hottest girlfriend in the state of California, it still bothered him a bit. Nothing much, but every now and then it’ll catch him, like an itch he can’t scratch, a minor irritation he’ll never be rid of.
Only now, now that Sam knows the feel of Dean’s mouth on his, the harsh rasp of his cheek scraping down Sam’s neck, now he wants to touch Dean, his arm, the small of his back, to throw Dean down on the table and blow him right there, anything to stake a claim, to plant a flag on Dean’s ass that says “mine” in huge, sparkly letters. He wants it so badly he curls his hands into fists, stuffs them under his thighs.
Dean gets up after awhile, several beers into the night and only after four different attempts to start casual conversation, all of which Sam meets with a stutter and a one word answer, too busy swallowing down everything he wants to say, everything he’d beg Dean for if he thought Dean would listen. He watches Dean cross the bar to the pool tables in the back, just visible through the smoky haze Sam will spend all of tomorrow washing out of his hair and clothes. He watches Dean rack up the balls, watches him steadily win over the next hour, watches the blonde who’d been eyeing Dean from the bar head over to cheer loudly ever time he sinks another ball. Dean smiles, lets her hang off him, buys her drinks and rests his hand against her waist when she leans in close.
Typical night, Sam thinks, typical hook up and as much as he wants to protest it won’t make any difference. They’re close enough he can walk back to the motel and he shoves the lap top back in his bag, squares up at the bar and heads for the door. He’s only just left the dim circle of light underneath the one lamp post outside when Dean catches up with him, hooks his arm around Sam’s neck. “Haven’t you learned anything?” Dean says, pulling Sam towards the Impala. “Be afraid of the dark, Sammy, don’t go wandering around by yourself in it.”
Sam lets Dean push him towards the passenger door and ignores the sharp taste of victory in his mouth. He screws it up a breath later when he asks, “where’s the girl?”
“Got her number.” Dean shrugs. “Might call her.”
“Might?”
“You want to make a thing out of this?”
Sam shakes his head, leans against the door, as far as he can get, like if he gets far enough away he can resist the urge to reach out and hold on. He doesn’t say anything as Dean drives them back to the motel, follows him inside, as he watches Dean kick his shoes off and spread out on Sam’s bed. Dean turns the TV on, finds Ghost Hunters on the sci fi channel and offers a scathing running commentary to the hosts as they traipse through another haunted house.
Sam doesn’t say anything, but he wonders.
Full moon two nights later and turns out it’s not werewolves, just an outbreak of rabies in the local wild dog population, foaming mouths and everything. Nothing animal control couldn’t handle eventually, but they take out what they run across anyway, since they’re already there and all. They stumble back to the car near dawn, covered in mud and leaves and little pine needles but thankfully nothing bloody or icky or unwashable. Dean doesn’t say anything as he starts up the car but he reaches a hand out before Sam can move away, and he curves it over Sam’s thigh and ignores the stutter in Sam’s breath and the way Sam can’t look at him but rests his hand on his own leg, just barely touching Dean. They’re hardly back inside their room and Dean has him backed up against a wall, mouth open and hot on his.
“But,” Sam wants to say, “it wasn’t even...” what? Supernatural? Life-threatening? Sure, one of them could have bitten him, but a few rounds of rabies shots and he’d be fine. They wouldn’t even have to break out the hoodoo spell books for that.
But Dean’s mouth is still on his, Dean’s tongue is licking at his lips and Sam opens them on a soft moan and he doesn’t want to say anything, not anything at all that could possibly make this stop. Some awkward fumbling (they’re not quite pros at this yet, not together, anyway) and they’re naked on the bed and Dean pulls out lube from somewhere (Sam stopped paying attention while Dean sucked a bruise on his neck) and slicks Sam’s fingers up, presses Sam’s hand against his ass. Yes, Sam thinks, fuck yes, and he slides his fingers inside, stretches Dean open. Dean’s whimpering against his lips, hands shaking, clutching at his shoulders when Sam pulls his fingers out, slicks up his cock and presses forward and Dean clamps his thighs around Sam’s hips, his heels digging into Sam’s back. He grips Sam’s ass, pulls him further in, arches up to meet him and Sam lets go, just fucks into him and it’s the best thing ever. Dean’s mouth opens on a silent cry when he comes, hands braced against the head board, his ass and thighs clenching around Sam and Sam doesn’t even remember coming, he’s sure he blacked out at some point.
He wakes up sometime in the afternoon, sunlight coming bright through the crack in the curtains, right into his eye (and what are those odds?), and last night has the hazy quality of a (really fantastically good) dream and he wonders if it happened at all, but Dean’s warm and snug against his back and still completely naked and Sam’s thighs are sticky, apparently Dean couldn’t be bothered to clean them up.
Dean snuffles awake shortly after and smacks Sam’s ass on the way into the bathroom. Sam listens to the water, imagines it rushing over Dean’s skin, washing everything away.
And so it goes. One month, two. In August they find themselves in Texas, fucking hottest state in the fucking hottest month, running around in the hill country after ghosts of dead soldiers from the fucking Alamo. “Remember the Alamo ” Dean keeps yelling, just to piss them off and Sam thinks it’s safe to say that it’s working. They burn what bodies they can find with the old records but Dean thinks to really get rid of them they’d have to torch the actual Alamo and they’re both pretty sure they’d never make it out of Texas alive if they did. He figures the locals can live with what’s left. Dean bends Sam over the rickety table in their room afterward, slick and hot and Sam comes without anyone even touching him.
They take out a coven of witches in September and spend a month looking like extras off a George Lucas set. Sam can tell Dean’s pretty geekily impressed at first, who wouldn’t want a couple extra limbs anyway, but the charm wears off quickly when they realize they don’t actually have any sort of control over them so they stop leaving the motel room for anything but the basic necessities. In October, when they finally get their own bodies back, Sam impresses Dean with the incredible strength in his arms (and not a little with his sexual prowess) when he fucks him against the wall, Dean’s legs hooked around his waist, fingers tangled in Sam’s hair, mouth open and warm and wet against Sam’s face.
In November it’s demons, another round from the gate in Wyoming and Sam finishes the ritual on the last of them, voice hoarse and raspy and he wonders how many more there can possibly be. He wonders if they compare notes in hell, all the different lies they’ve taunted the Winchesters with as they’re being exorcized, because it’s all getting a little redundant. Dawn is just breaking when they stumble back into their room, holy water and crucifixes and books dropping, heavy burdens lifted on their way to bed. They’re too tired to actually fuck that morning, just sleepy groping and a lot of kisses later, they switch beds to avoid the wet spot and fall asleep tucked up together, sharing breath.
Then it’s almost Christmas, tiny town in Montana, and this time they don’t talk about it, Sam just picks up some cheap lights from a dollar bin and Dean drags in the last Christmas tree left in the lot down the street. They set it up in the corner of the room and lay down underneath, looking up into the sparse, tangled branches and blinking lights. They carefully pour sips of beer into their mouths and grimace when the position makes it foam up their noses, but they don’t sit up. Dean flops his arm down so very casually, his hand lands right against Sam’s and their fingers thread together and neither one of them says anything about it.
It’s been months (before Dean almost died) since they’ve slept with anyone but each other and Sam sometimes forgets it wasn’t always like this, and he forgets breasts and clits and the soft skin on the inside of a woman’s thigh and at some point, he realizes he doesn’t care. Dean’s never been one for words, not really, for talking things out and expressing his emotions. But this, here, his hand clenched white knuckled around Sam’s, the smell of pine and beer and brother all around him, this is what Dean has chosen, this is the life he wants. In all his freaking out, in all his worry that Dean would realize how much Sam wanted this, wanted to touch Dean in what Sam would have thought were completely inappropriate ways, Sam had completely overlooked that. Had almost missed Dean reaching out for him. Had almost walked right on by. He strokes his thumb over Dean’s knuckles and Dean’s grip loosens fractionally, just enough that Sam feels the rush of blood to his fingertips and the flower of hope in his chest.
Christmas Eve they stay up late, exchange slightly meaningless but ultimately useful presents (toothpaste and nail clippers among them) and fall asleep during the third back to back showing of It’s a Wonderful Life. Sam dreams about angels and ice and ringing bells.
Next morning, Sam blinks awake, pale sunlight off of white snow in his eyes, even through the curtains. Dean’s face is against his shoulder and their fingers are still tangled together and he moves back a bit, turns on his side so he’s facing Dean. Light’s too dim to see detail but Sam knows him by heart and he doesn’t look away when Dean’s eyes open and his mouth stretches wide in a yawn.
“Yeah?” Sam says.
“C’mere,” Dean says, tugging on Sam’s hand and Sam spreads over him and Dean’s hands go to his shoulder, smooth over his back, strong and sure and Sam thinks yes and he thinks this is who we are now and he kisses Dean until everything changes, until everything stays the same.
More author's notes: So I chose prompt #1, which was post deal celebratory Sam/Dean, though it became more of a stepping off point than anything else. This started out as one thing that my beta (here’s looking at you, Nemo) hated, so it turned into something else infinitely more (and also less) complicated and wordy. Not quite as schmoopy as I normally write (which is to say, clearly it’s plenty schmoopy, but you'll notice it's not at levels that would choke an elephant) and I think that’s DEAN’s fault, thank you very much. That taciturn bastard. Thanks to nemoinis and misskittye for beta and to incredulity, who heard about this in all its various incarnations.
Author: Merrin/walkawayslowly
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Dean, with a Bobby cameo
Word Count: 6790
Disclaimer: Don’t own them, never did. I am making no profit off of being twisted and perverted. Sadly.
Summary: They fall into something they’ve never done before, only to find out it’s better than anything else.
Author’s Notes: (Extended notes at the bottom...) Written for spn_holidays, for the lovely belyste. I hope you like it, hon! Merry Christmas!
Everything Changes, Everything Stays the Same
by Merrin
Laid out on the ground, covered in dirt and soot and ash and Dean is patting him down, like flames are still licking at him, like Dean could even pat out hellfire. It’s funny somehow, it’s all suddenly hilarious and Sam laughs, laughs and laughs and he feels weightless in a way he hasn’t in a year, like the only thing holding him to the earth is his brother stretched on top of him.
It takes him a while to come down from that. It’s Dean’s voice in his ear, Dean’s face pressing into his neck and his fingers clenched so hard in Sam’s shirt his arms are shaking that kills the laughter but can’t kill the joy. They’re still, quiet, just for a moment, and this is all Sam needs right now, the knowledge of infinite time in front of him, deadlines and deals broken and done. It tastes like relief on his tongue, it tastes like freedom, it tastes like love. He strokes Dean’s back, hand slipping under the tattered t-shirt to smooth over warm, alive skin and then Bobby’s standing over them, head and its battered trucker hat blocking the sun.
“You boys want to get out of here?”
Sam raises his head, looks past Bobby to Ellen and Jo and Deacon, the other hunters behind them and they’re smiling and he’s smiling and he looks back at Dean and Dean’s smiling, lips stretched across his face, white teeth and Sam thinks mine and lifts his head, just a bit. Jo gives out a whoop of joy just then and Sam stops, realizes he was about to kiss Dean, kiss Dean in front of God and Bobby and everyone.
Instead, he shoves Dean’s shoulder, moves to sit up and Dean rolls off, butt hitting the ground next to Sam. Bobby pulls them up and Sam doesn’t want to look at his brother but it hurts not do something, so he grabs Dean’s hand. Nothing like middle school, he’s not threading their fingers together or anything, he just holds on. They’re all stumbling towards the cars and Sam is still clutching Dean’s hand and Dean lets him. He pulls open the car door and the Impala’s creaky joints make him smile and they make him think home. He doesn’t even argue when Dean slips in behind the wheel, because this is how it’s supposed to be.
“-back at the house?” Bobby is saying, and Sam nods and Dean waves.
Their cars kick up dust and ash as they drive away, one by one (the ants go marching), and it makes Sam want to laugh again, the precision, the order with which they leave the scene of chaos. Dean touches his thigh, light fingers asking a question and Sam doesn’t turn from the window but he catches Dean’s hand in his again. “Nothing,” he says, “it’s nothing.”
Dean’s hand in his, flesh and blood and bone and he clutches it, knows their fingers are white with how hard he’s holding on but he can’t stop. It’s always been there, his big brother’s hand, all he ever had to do was reach out. Dean’s thumb moves on the back of his hand but it’s not comforting like it’s been before. It turns him on, weird and perfect at the same time.
He doesn’t notice they’re slowing down at first, not till Jo’s truck gets swallowed by a cloud of dust, fading off into the distance and then they’re not moving at all. Dean shifts into park with his left hand and drops his head to the wheel, harsh breath like it’s all just catching up to him now and he pulls their hands towards him, up to his chest.
Sam lets him sit like that for a bit but not long. Not long before he reaches over, following impulses he can’t explain and couldn’t begin to control and hell, Dean can hit him later. He pulls his hand out of Dean’s death grip to touch his face and they’re both across the front seat in an instant, no space between them and there are tears slicking Dean’s face when Sam kisses him.
Just an awkward slide of lips at first, tasting slightly of ash and dirt, chin stubble and the hard line of Dean’s jaw and it’s nothing like anything Sam’s ever done before and it’s better than anything he’s ever done before. Dean, Dean’s mouth, Dean’s tongue when their lips open, soft moan in the still air. Dean’s definitely not going to hit him, he’s too busy licking into Sam’s mouth to bother. Licking and kissing (and kissing and kissing), like time would stop for them, like it doesn’t matter.
Dean’s hands are under his shirt, smoothing over and raking across his skin, and finding every single place that makes Sam crazy (and Christ, how does he know?) and they still aren’t close enough, not at all. Sam pulls back enough to pull his shirt off, pull Dean’s shirt off and it’s skin on skin and he leans back against the door and the handle cuts into his back but he doesn’t care. Dean shifts over him, loud thunk when his head hits the ceiling but he keeps coming, thighs open over Sam’s. He pulls Dean in close, presses in hard enough that he feels Dean’s heart beat against his chest, fast, frantic and more solid than Sam can imagine and he wants to cry because it’s everything he almost lost, everything his brother tried to give up for him and Sam holds tighter, pulls Dean harder against him, wants to imprint Dean on his skin so he’ll never go away.
Dean’s fingers hard on his waist, he’s grinding down into Sam’s lap, and they’re both hard and it’s beyond fucked up and Sam bites at Dean’s neck, licks at the warm salty skin, comes away with ash on his tongue but he doesn’t care and he can’t think about anything, there’s nothing beyond this moment.
Fingers fumbling at his buttons and then Dean’s hands are on him and he doesn’t think at all, can’t. Warm hands and soft mouth and it’s a confused, bruising tangle over the seat but then they’re there, in the backseat, Dean’s pants over the steering wheel and Sam’s hanging off his ankle.
Dean’s belly up on the seat, cock hard and red against his stomach and Sam wants to taste it, wants it in his mouth, more than anything he’s ever needed before. He grabs at the handle behind him, almost falls when it opens but he backs out, knees on the dirt beside the car, ignoring the hard stones digging into his skin. He grabs Dean’s hips, pulls him to the edge of the seat, ass almost hanging out of the car before he presses in between his legs, one long lick up Dean’s cock and Dean’s hand fists in his hair and he closes his lips over the head, takes as much as he can in his mouth. It should be weird, it should be disgusting but it isn’t, it’s Dean and it’s awesome. He sucks in, hollowing his cheeks and Dean’s hand yanks at his hair, hard and sharp, and he pulls up, away.
He presses in between Dean’s thighs but Dean pulls him up higher, till he’s in the car again, further and further till he’s got one knee on the seat next to Dean’s shoulder and his leg braced against the front seat and his head crammed against the window and Dean opens his mouth, breathes hot over Sam’s dick before he sucks it in. Sam’s mouth falls open on a choked cry, harsh sound against the quiet. His eyes are open, face pressed against the hot glass of the window, but everything outside is faded, dim like one of those old movies and the only thing real and colorful is Dean. He looks down at Dean, head back against the seat and he’s looking up at Sam, lips stretched around his dick and it’s almost too much. Dean’s hands are on his ass, pulling him closer, tighter, Sam’s full on fucking his mouth and it’s the hottest thing ever. His hands clench on the seats but it doesn’t seem right, doesn’t seem real and he wants there to be more. He pulls back, out, slides down again till their tangled legs hang out of the car but he’s over Dean, their cocks lined up beside each other on Dean’s belly.
Dean wraps his hand around Sam’s neck, hitches himself up on one elbow to kiss him, wet and open, breath catching between them. He tastes himself on Dean’s tongue, Dean’s taste still on his, both of them mixing and just right in their mouths. Sweat beads on Dean’s face, drops down his cheek and Sam follows it, catches it on his tongue at the corner of Dean’s mouth.
It’s warm and close in the car, the smell of sex is overwhelming and sweat drips off Sam, pools between them and as he presses against Dean, slow and thick and hot, he looks in Dean’s eyes and he can pretend that nothing else exists, only them and the car and the heat. He reaches down, wraps his huge hand around both their dicks, pulls them together and he drops his forehead to Dean’s, breath brushing across his cheek. Dean shifts up and mouths along his jaw, fucking undulating on the seat below him.
Sam moves with him and then his hand’s in the way and he lets go, sweat and come slicking them enough to rub against each other and he does, grinding down into Dean. Again, again, and again and the rhythm makes the door shake, squeaky counterpart to their gusting breaths and they’re both close, like it’s been building for months but it’s only been minutes and Sam would have-should have- known. But then Dean’s hand slips lower on Sam’s ass, sweat slick finger pressing inside, sharp and stinging and Sam can’t hold it anymore, can’t think beyond reaching between them and just that, just the touch of his fingers is enough and Dean’s coming all over his stomach, Sam’s stomach and watching Dean fall apart is enough for Sam. He muffles his shout against Dean’s neck as he comes.
Minutes, hours, days (definitely minutes) later, Dean squirms under him a bit and Sam sits up, and it’s disgusting, everything that’s not quite dry on his stomach and Dean’s stomach and it’s itchy and kind of gross. He can’t look at Dean when he stands outside the car and pulls his pants back up, covers the mess with his shirt and doesn’t even try to wipe it away. He steps back when Dean climbs out, pants in his hands and he watches the dirt on the side of the road, late afternoon sun still hot on his shoulders.
He doesn’t look up when Dean says, “well, we should get to Bobby’s,” and he’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t look at him when he says, “yeah.”
So they get back in the car, only now it smells like sweat and sex over the ash and soot and Sam rolls the window down as Dean starts the car up. He leans his head out, hunched down in the seat and his cheek resting on the hot metal of the door and he’s busy digging himself into one hell of a pit of denial. He has to sit on his hands, all they want to do is touch Dean again, like once wasn’t enough, like visiting hell (literally) today wasn’t enough of a deterrent to ever sin again.
They don’t talk the rest of the way to Bobby’s. They don’t talk as Dean pulls up behind Bobby’s truck and they don’t talk over the creaking of the doors as they open. They don’t talk when Deacon meets them at the car with two open beers in his hand, cold, the bottle sweating in Sam’s hand, slicking his palm. He sips quickly, hoping the dry taste will wash away everything he’s been savoring from his mouth.
“Where you been?” Bobby calls from the porch.
“Wrong turn,” Dean says, easy as anything, and everyone turns back to what they were doing, everyone but Bobby and Sam know he’s looking at them, watching them. Bobby reads them better than a lot of people and Sam feels exposed, ripped open, a book a three year old could understand. He slips past Bobby quickly, into the cool interior of the house, signs and symbols and traps all over, heaping piles of papers and books and talismans and he could get lost in here, easy. Context he understands, at least, a place he’s familiar with. He leaves his beer on Bobby’s table, it’ll be there when he gets back.
He heads upstairs to the small room in the back, two twin beds that have been theirs since they were kids. His duffel’s still on the floor next to the one under the window, Dean’s spilled across the other, and it calms him a bit, optimistic little bags, waiting for both of them to return.
He goes to shower, washes off layers of dirt and ash, sulfur and the disgusting mix of sweat and... other (he refuses to think about it too hard) caking his stomach. He stays in until the water runs cold and no one will thank him for that later but it’s a warm day, they’ll deal. Dean’s in the room when he goes back for clothes, sprawled on his bed, staring hard at the ceiling like it’s got the secrets of the universe scrawled across it in tiny print.
“You took all the hot water?” First words since The Car, since before The Car and they’ve got nothing to do with anything involving The Car but it still makes Sam’s heart pound in his chest, loud enough he’s sure Dean hears it.
“Yeah,” he says, a little too loudly, a little too slowly.
“Bitch.” Dean hauls himself off the bed, quickly, and he’s standing right next to Sam, right next to Sam when he’s in a towel, nothing but the towel and he stumbles back, away, because what he really wants to do is step closer. Drop his towel and step closer to Dean, closer to everything he never knew he wanted.
Dean doesn’t say anything, doesn’t tease him for being a freak or a spazz and that’s almost worse because Dean knows why and it’s a hot flush of shame up Sam’s spine. He turns away towards his bed and his bag, digs through for something clean and doesn’t watch as Dean leaves the room, clumping down the hall to the bathroom and he’ll get a cold shower even though it’s Sam that desperately needs one.
Everyone’s gone when he gets back downstairs, cleared out to their various homes, hotels, they’ll each celebrate in their own way tonight. They’ve never all been entirely comfortable around each other, too much history written on those pages, too few social graces to pretend anything else. Bobby’s at his table, cleaning the guns he’d taken along, the Colt, even though there are (again) no bullets left.
“Where you boys gonna go now?” Bobby asks.
Sam drops into a chair across from him shrugs. Beer’s still there and it’s warmish now but it doesn’t matter. “Don’t know yet,” he says. “Back out on the road?”
“Are you asking me?”
“No. We just haven’t talked about it. There are still things out there.”
Bobby doesn’t look up from cleaning his gun, won’t meet his gaze any more than Dean will, but it’s different, thank God, for different reasons. Sam’s pretty sure his twisted libido won’t take him down that particular road. “There are some would say you’ve done your part,” Bobby’s saying. “Hell, more than. I don’t think anyone’d be surprised if you boys retired.”
“And leave this life of crime?” Sam smiles a bit, takes another sip of lukewarm beer.
“Well, seriously. Get yourselves a job, a girl, a home somewhere.”
Time was, (God, this morning) that’d been exactly what Sam had always wanted, always dreamed of. A home, some place just his, his name on the deed, a job he doesn’t have to lie about, a life shared with someone that knows him, knows all about him and loves him anyway. And it freaks him the fuck out that picturing that life now, right now in the darkening day (should have been Dean’s last, turns out it wasn’t), it’s Dean with him, Dean who knows all about him, knows him better than anyone ever has or ever will and still loves him anyway. The way Dean has always loved him.
Bobby’s still waiting, watching him now for a response. “Nah,” he says, finally. “Not in the cards.”
“I’d expect that answer from Dean, not from you.”
“It’s my answer too. There’s still the remnants of an army that we let out.”
“Could be someone else’s job.”
“But it’s ours, Bobby. Mine. My mess, my responsibility.”
“You were right the first time, it’s ours.” Dean’s come up behind him, heady scent of soap and Dean and Sam’s hand clenches around the beer bottle and he hopes Dean doesn’t notice. Hell, he hopes Bobby doesn’t notice. He wonders if he’s possessed, if Dean’s possessed. He’s sure Bobby would have noticed. “It’s our problem still,” Dean says. “We’re going back out there, nothing’s changed.”
Sam knows he’s talking to Bobby, answering Bobby’s question, it’s all directed at Bobby, but it’s also directed at him. Nothing’s changed, nothing’s different, what happened in the car doesn’t matter, isn’t anything, won’t make a difference. Even though Sam wants to do it again, even though Sam’s skin is tingling, alive with Dean standing so close, burning with the need to touch him again, taste him again. He can’t, he won’t, it’s all still the same.
“Just thought you’d like a rest, is all,” Bobby says, fidgeting with the Colt now, clean and reassembled and still utterly useless again.
And Sam feels stupid admitting that he knows how it feels. Because nothing has changed.
Sam spends most of the night staring at the window, not the ceiling, where he’d still be able to see Dean in his peripheral vision, but turned over completely and facing the curtains and trying to pretend he’s sleeping and not listening carefully, closely, for every sigh, every rustle of sheets as Dean shifts again, turns over again. It’s dark, black, no streetlights or stop lights illuminating the night, just the tiny sliver of a new moon peeking between the faded, dusty fabric.
Dark, black, and that’s when Sam starts thinking, can’t stop thinking, remembering the feel of Dean’s hands on him, Dean’s mouth on him, just kissing Dean was the hottest thing he’s ever done. Thrill of the forbidden? Maybe, Dean is his brother, after all. But it doesn’t seem like enough. There are a lot of forbidden things he’s already done, and none of them felt as good, as right, as this did. He’d been happy, ecstatic, that Dean is still alive, that he has the usual life expectancy of a hunter ahead of him which, while still distressingly low, is much more than a year. But that explanation doesn’t feel like enough either.
He can feel Dean falling asleep behind him, hear the rhythm of his breath evening out, the restless movements slowing down. The tension, the awareness that’s been holding him together all day lets him go, suddenly, all at once and he feels like he presses further into the mattress because of it and it makes him so tired he can’t keep his eyes open. He rolls over without thinking about it, just lets his body find the most comfortable way to rest and it really doesn’t surprise him that the last thing he sees before he falls asleep is Dean. He doesn’t know if he dreams.
They leave early the next morning, Bobby reluctantly tells them of a poltergeist in Idaho and for a while, it mostly feels like nothing really has changed except for the low level itch that Sam ignores, crawling beneath his skin. They check into motels and Dean still twitches at the king or two queens question (although clearly with more reason now). Dean eats his weight in cheese fries and Sam picks at salads. Dean sings along loudly with whatever mullet rock he’s got blaring out of the radio and Sam stares moodily out the window.
Except everything’s different. First night in the hotel and Dean carefully faces the wall when he changes his shirt. Sam grabs sweat pants and a t-shirt and changes in the bathroom, stares at himself in the mirror under the freakishly bright lights. “What are you doing?” he asks himself, like he’ll answer. Like he knows.
Dean’s flicking through the stations when he comes back out, hasn’t automatically ordered porn on someone else’s dime. He doesn’t look up at Sam, doesn’t turn away from the TV and it’s early(ish), but he doesn’t suggest a night out. Sam drops into his bed, pulls the covers up to his chin, like he’s hiding. Dean stops on an infomercial for a set of ginsu knives and they both let the announcers voice bore them into unconsciousness.
The poltergeist has set up residence in a tiny lodge up in the mountains and Sam can’t really fault it, the view is gorgeous. Sawtooth Mountains, picturesque lake, he wonders if the poltergeist appreciates the view, then he wonders about the brain capacity of a poltergeist, then he wonders if poltergeists have brains. And then he wonders why he’s spent so much time wondering about poltergeists, and what that means about his own brain.
“C’mon, princess,” Dean says, poking him in the back when he stands staring at the lake too long. Anyway, after a while it reminds him too much of another lake, grasping hands pulling Dean down into oblivion and he turns away, shuddering.
It doesn’t take long, poltergeists are (mostly) old hat and this one has nothing on the malevolent force of the one in Lawrence. Still, it manages to get something, Sam can’t feel what, wrapped around his neck before the end and he’s wondering why every supernatural thing out there is obsessed with choking him, vision getting black around the edges and then it’s all gone. Poltergeist handled, apparently, the last little bag shoved into the hole Dean knocked into the wall, and Dean’s unraveling whatever the hell it is then he’s moving down Sam’s chest, fingers scrabbling at his belt and his pants and Dean swallows him down and Sam arches up into it, into Dean, little whimpers escaping among the coughs as he tries to catch his breath again. He doesn’t know, God he doesn’t know what this is about, what it means, but it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care.
What’s a little blow job between brothers?
He presses his hands into the floor, fingers scrabbling at the hardwood. He doesn’t want to touch Dean, put his hand on Dean’s head because he’s afraid if he does Dean will remember what he’s doing, he’ll remember that nothing’s changed and he’ll stop. It hadn’t even been that life threatening, the poltergeist, just a run of mill, temporary lack of air. He groans when Dean pulls off, feels like the inevitable, but then Dean’s fingers are working between his legs and he tongues the crease of Sam’s thigh, bites down at his hip bone. Sam can feel Dean hard against his leg and he lifts it, pressing up against Dean and it makes him stutter a bit, mouth slipping along Sam’s skin and then he’s bearing down, humping Sam’s leg. He’s licking all around Sam’s cock, his stomach, his thighs, while his hand slowly jacks up and down, not enough to get Sam off, just enough to make him crazy.
He bites back on Dean’s name but he lifts his hands up, catches Dean’s head between them and pushes Dean’s mouth back on his cock. There’s a happy mutter from Dean as closes his mouth back over Sam, but it’s nothing to the deep groan Sam lets out, echoing back off the big picture window looking out over the lake. Dean’s got his fingers in his mouth, next to Sam’s cock, slicking them up and they’re there, at Sam’s ass, just one at first, slowly pushing inside.
Not the first time, but it’s different than before, in the car. That was just a quick thrust, nothing at all like this and at first it’s weird, slightly uncomfortable but then Dean gets further in, crooks his finger and it’s fantastic. He opens his mouth on a thin, high noise he’d never believed he could make, eyes closed because if he looks down, if he sees Dean doing this, it’s all over and it’s only just started. Dean works his finger around, adds another and Sam can’t stop moaning, can’t stop the embarrassing noises coming out of his mouth. He wants to cry when Dean takes his mouth off his cock but he just slips down further, further, until his tongue is at Sam’s ass, licking in with his fingers and Sam opens his eyes as he falls apart.
Feels like he’s coming forever and he’s still feebly spurting, eyes just beginning to focus again, trying to catch his breath when Dean crouches over him on his knees and rips his pants open. He watches, licking his lips as Dean jacks off over him and with a few hard pulls, spills onto Sam’s stomach. Watches, eyes on Dean’s face almost as much as they’re on Dean’s dick (because c’mon) but Dean never looks up at his face, keeps his eyes on Sam’s belly, Sam’s softening cock. A minute, just a minute to catch his breath and then Dean pulls off, away and they both look at the floor, the window, anything but each other.
Dean stands, buttoning his pants. “Let’s get out of here,” he says. “This job’s done.”
“Yeah.” He pulls his pants up, drags his shirt down to cover another congealing mess. Dean’s already out the door.
They ride back to the motel in silence and while it isn’t anymore uncomfortable than the first time, it isn’t any less either. It’s just more confusing. Once, maybe, Dean’s newly back from dead, Sam’s a little excited, sure, fine, he can see that. But this is once more, once more on an ordinary hunt where, except for the bit where Sam got choked (and really, what’s so unusual about that?) nothing was different.
They have breakfast three days later in a greasy spoon in Arkansas, “good eats” in neon flashing in the window. Dean flops into the booth across from Sam and his legs bracket Sam’s when he spreads them out underneath the table. Sam tries to concentrate over the warm buzz of Dean’s leg touching his. He’s got his lap top open, picking up wireless from the truck stop next door.
“Anything?” Dean asks, flipping through the menu, even though Sam knows he’ll order eggs and three kinds of meat with a side of pancakes and lard, just like he always does. Dean grimaces when Sam orders the oatmeal but what the hell, Sam actually thinks about his arteries sometimes.
“I’ve only been on for five minutes,” he says.
“So why’s it taking so long?”
“It’s not like there’s a data base for weird things we should investigate. I don’t get emails from the web list.”
Dean stretches his arm along the back of the booth, leans back with his coffee cup in the other hand, arches his back and his shirt rides up on his belly. Just a tiny bit of skin revealed and Sam tries to think of what it would taste like (fantastic, great, fucking fabulous, he bets) and he wonders what that makes him. He wonders how far up incest goes on the hierarchy of sin. He’s also got sodomy, sex outside of marriage (on multiple occasions, with multiple partners), lust... Sam stops tapping at the keyboard, making a laundry list of his sexual sins in his head.
Dean snorts and it draws his attention back to the computer screen, away from sex, away from Dean’s warm skin. “Well don’t get your panties in a twist,” Dean says and Sam, still flushing at almost getting caught lusting over his brother’s belly, mutters, “shut up” and hunches over his computer. He placates Dean with a series of vicious animal attacks in Wisconsin that Dean is convinced are werewolf related and starts in on his bowl of oatmeal, slimy and lukewarm and slightly congealed and completely disgusting.
They get into town early, not quite a full moon yet and they end up at a bar just down from their motel. Dean starts out at the table with Sam while Sam steals wifi from the shop next door and checks the lunar cycles and his sixteen email addresses.
It’s a normal bar, normal bar fare, and Sam watches the women in it watch Dean, like they can’t help it, couldn’t look away if they wanted to and Sam knows exactly how they feel. Dean’s been ridiculously good looking since, well, birth, and it’s like a gravitational pull, like everything revolves around him and Dean is the center of everything. It used to piss Sam off, when he had pimples and awkward limbs that were too long and unwieldy and even after he grew into himself and the acne cleared up and he had the validation of the hottest girlfriend in the state of California, it still bothered him a bit. Nothing much, but every now and then it’ll catch him, like an itch he can’t scratch, a minor irritation he’ll never be rid of.
Only now, now that Sam knows the feel of Dean’s mouth on his, the harsh rasp of his cheek scraping down Sam’s neck, now he wants to touch Dean, his arm, the small of his back, to throw Dean down on the table and blow him right there, anything to stake a claim, to plant a flag on Dean’s ass that says “mine” in huge, sparkly letters. He wants it so badly he curls his hands into fists, stuffs them under his thighs.
Dean gets up after awhile, several beers into the night and only after four different attempts to start casual conversation, all of which Sam meets with a stutter and a one word answer, too busy swallowing down everything he wants to say, everything he’d beg Dean for if he thought Dean would listen. He watches Dean cross the bar to the pool tables in the back, just visible through the smoky haze Sam will spend all of tomorrow washing out of his hair and clothes. He watches Dean rack up the balls, watches him steadily win over the next hour, watches the blonde who’d been eyeing Dean from the bar head over to cheer loudly ever time he sinks another ball. Dean smiles, lets her hang off him, buys her drinks and rests his hand against her waist when she leans in close.
Typical night, Sam thinks, typical hook up and as much as he wants to protest it won’t make any difference. They’re close enough he can walk back to the motel and he shoves the lap top back in his bag, squares up at the bar and heads for the door. He’s only just left the dim circle of light underneath the one lamp post outside when Dean catches up with him, hooks his arm around Sam’s neck. “Haven’t you learned anything?” Dean says, pulling Sam towards the Impala. “Be afraid of the dark, Sammy, don’t go wandering around by yourself in it.”
Sam lets Dean push him towards the passenger door and ignores the sharp taste of victory in his mouth. He screws it up a breath later when he asks, “where’s the girl?”
“Got her number.” Dean shrugs. “Might call her.”
“Might?”
“You want to make a thing out of this?”
Sam shakes his head, leans against the door, as far as he can get, like if he gets far enough away he can resist the urge to reach out and hold on. He doesn’t say anything as Dean drives them back to the motel, follows him inside, as he watches Dean kick his shoes off and spread out on Sam’s bed. Dean turns the TV on, finds Ghost Hunters on the sci fi channel and offers a scathing running commentary to the hosts as they traipse through another haunted house.
Sam doesn’t say anything, but he wonders.
Full moon two nights later and turns out it’s not werewolves, just an outbreak of rabies in the local wild dog population, foaming mouths and everything. Nothing animal control couldn’t handle eventually, but they take out what they run across anyway, since they’re already there and all. They stumble back to the car near dawn, covered in mud and leaves and little pine needles but thankfully nothing bloody or icky or unwashable. Dean doesn’t say anything as he starts up the car but he reaches a hand out before Sam can move away, and he curves it over Sam’s thigh and ignores the stutter in Sam’s breath and the way Sam can’t look at him but rests his hand on his own leg, just barely touching Dean. They’re hardly back inside their room and Dean has him backed up against a wall, mouth open and hot on his.
“But,” Sam wants to say, “it wasn’t even...” what? Supernatural? Life-threatening? Sure, one of them could have bitten him, but a few rounds of rabies shots and he’d be fine. They wouldn’t even have to break out the hoodoo spell books for that.
But Dean’s mouth is still on his, Dean’s tongue is licking at his lips and Sam opens them on a soft moan and he doesn’t want to say anything, not anything at all that could possibly make this stop. Some awkward fumbling (they’re not quite pros at this yet, not together, anyway) and they’re naked on the bed and Dean pulls out lube from somewhere (Sam stopped paying attention while Dean sucked a bruise on his neck) and slicks Sam’s fingers up, presses Sam’s hand against his ass. Yes, Sam thinks, fuck yes, and he slides his fingers inside, stretches Dean open. Dean’s whimpering against his lips, hands shaking, clutching at his shoulders when Sam pulls his fingers out, slicks up his cock and presses forward and Dean clamps his thighs around Sam’s hips, his heels digging into Sam’s back. He grips Sam’s ass, pulls him further in, arches up to meet him and Sam lets go, just fucks into him and it’s the best thing ever. Dean’s mouth opens on a silent cry when he comes, hands braced against the head board, his ass and thighs clenching around Sam and Sam doesn’t even remember coming, he’s sure he blacked out at some point.
He wakes up sometime in the afternoon, sunlight coming bright through the crack in the curtains, right into his eye (and what are those odds?), and last night has the hazy quality of a (really fantastically good) dream and he wonders if it happened at all, but Dean’s warm and snug against his back and still completely naked and Sam’s thighs are sticky, apparently Dean couldn’t be bothered to clean them up.
Dean snuffles awake shortly after and smacks Sam’s ass on the way into the bathroom. Sam listens to the water, imagines it rushing over Dean’s skin, washing everything away.
And so it goes. One month, two. In August they find themselves in Texas, fucking hottest state in the fucking hottest month, running around in the hill country after ghosts of dead soldiers from the fucking Alamo. “Remember the Alamo ” Dean keeps yelling, just to piss them off and Sam thinks it’s safe to say that it’s working. They burn what bodies they can find with the old records but Dean thinks to really get rid of them they’d have to torch the actual Alamo and they’re both pretty sure they’d never make it out of Texas alive if they did. He figures the locals can live with what’s left. Dean bends Sam over the rickety table in their room afterward, slick and hot and Sam comes without anyone even touching him.
They take out a coven of witches in September and spend a month looking like extras off a George Lucas set. Sam can tell Dean’s pretty geekily impressed at first, who wouldn’t want a couple extra limbs anyway, but the charm wears off quickly when they realize they don’t actually have any sort of control over them so they stop leaving the motel room for anything but the basic necessities. In October, when they finally get their own bodies back, Sam impresses Dean with the incredible strength in his arms (and not a little with his sexual prowess) when he fucks him against the wall, Dean’s legs hooked around his waist, fingers tangled in Sam’s hair, mouth open and warm and wet against Sam’s face.
In November it’s demons, another round from the gate in Wyoming and Sam finishes the ritual on the last of them, voice hoarse and raspy and he wonders how many more there can possibly be. He wonders if they compare notes in hell, all the different lies they’ve taunted the Winchesters with as they’re being exorcized, because it’s all getting a little redundant. Dawn is just breaking when they stumble back into their room, holy water and crucifixes and books dropping, heavy burdens lifted on their way to bed. They’re too tired to actually fuck that morning, just sleepy groping and a lot of kisses later, they switch beds to avoid the wet spot and fall asleep tucked up together, sharing breath.
Then it’s almost Christmas, tiny town in Montana, and this time they don’t talk about it, Sam just picks up some cheap lights from a dollar bin and Dean drags in the last Christmas tree left in the lot down the street. They set it up in the corner of the room and lay down underneath, looking up into the sparse, tangled branches and blinking lights. They carefully pour sips of beer into their mouths and grimace when the position makes it foam up their noses, but they don’t sit up. Dean flops his arm down so very casually, his hand lands right against Sam’s and their fingers thread together and neither one of them says anything about it.
It’s been months (before Dean almost died) since they’ve slept with anyone but each other and Sam sometimes forgets it wasn’t always like this, and he forgets breasts and clits and the soft skin on the inside of a woman’s thigh and at some point, he realizes he doesn’t care. Dean’s never been one for words, not really, for talking things out and expressing his emotions. But this, here, his hand clenched white knuckled around Sam’s, the smell of pine and beer and brother all around him, this is what Dean has chosen, this is the life he wants. In all his freaking out, in all his worry that Dean would realize how much Sam wanted this, wanted to touch Dean in what Sam would have thought were completely inappropriate ways, Sam had completely overlooked that. Had almost missed Dean reaching out for him. Had almost walked right on by. He strokes his thumb over Dean’s knuckles and Dean’s grip loosens fractionally, just enough that Sam feels the rush of blood to his fingertips and the flower of hope in his chest.
Christmas Eve they stay up late, exchange slightly meaningless but ultimately useful presents (toothpaste and nail clippers among them) and fall asleep during the third back to back showing of It’s a Wonderful Life. Sam dreams about angels and ice and ringing bells.
Next morning, Sam blinks awake, pale sunlight off of white snow in his eyes, even through the curtains. Dean’s face is against his shoulder and their fingers are still tangled together and he moves back a bit, turns on his side so he’s facing Dean. Light’s too dim to see detail but Sam knows him by heart and he doesn’t look away when Dean’s eyes open and his mouth stretches wide in a yawn.
“Yeah?” Sam says.
“C’mere,” Dean says, tugging on Sam’s hand and Sam spreads over him and Dean’s hands go to his shoulder, smooth over his back, strong and sure and Sam thinks yes and he thinks this is who we are now and he kisses Dean until everything changes, until everything stays the same.
More author's notes: So I chose prompt #1, which was post deal celebratory Sam/Dean, though it became more of a stepping off point than anything else. This started out as one thing that my beta (here’s looking at you, Nemo) hated, so it turned into something else infinitely more (and also less) complicated and wordy. Not quite as schmoopy as I normally write (which is to say, clearly it’s plenty schmoopy, but you'll notice it's not at levels that would choke an elephant) and I think that’s DEAN’s fault, thank you very much. That taciturn bastard. Thanks to nemoinis and misskittye for beta and to incredulity, who heard about this in all its various incarnations.