I am on a roll
Won't be writing for a while after this, so I'm running on all cylinders. Hope you like.
Title: Mow Them Lawns (it turns me on)
By: weekend_exile
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Summary: Domestic bliss, Winchester style. AU where they're married. Includes blackmail, blowjobs and a ridiculously happy ending.
Notes: Unbeta'd, which is a mistake seeing how I can't spell the word 'separate' without help. Comments will be welcomed with hugs and kisses and rainbows.
Sam grins up at Dean, letting Dean's dick slide out of his mouth with an obscene pop. Dean's eyes lose their dazed expression, beginning to focus around a scowl and a protest, but Sam cuts him off, saying, "Jenna thinks we're high school sweethearts."
The indignation in Dean's eyes quickly give way to utter horror. Laughing, Sam goes back to sucking him off. Midway, Dean's fingers curl in Sam's hair, just the right amount of pressure, and when he comes, Sam swallows hungrily and licks at the head before letting go.
He stands up and pats Dean on the head. Dean's no longer clinging on to the kitchen counter for dear life, instead leaning bonelessly against it. He glares at Sam, but he fails epically to look actually pissed off, so they end up kind of staring at each other instead.
Sam would be crowing about how he gives such good head it burns out what little brain cells Dean has, but he knows that kind of trash talk leads inevitably to Dean going to his knees on the kitchen carpet to prove some point or the other, and while he's far from opposed to seeing Dean's girly pink lips wrapped around his cock, he's running late.
He clears his throat. "Uh. Happy birthday, old man."
He smirks and leaves Dean to process that. When he's almost out of their kitchen, Dean calls out, "That was a fucking birthday blowjob?"
Sam grins all the more wider. "Just don't expect any presents!" he calls back.
He hears Dean mumbling obscenities, and laughter begins building in his chest, echoing off the walls. He's just ridiculously happy as he is.
*
Dean drops Sam off at work before heading back home. In front of the steps leading to the firm, Sam turns around to look at him. "Jenna and Dex are meeting us for drinks at seven. Look pretty."
Dean flips him off easily. "I ain't got to take no shit from you. Senior citizen, remember?"
Sam snorts. "You're thirty seven, Dean. That hardly counts as welfare material."
Dean leers up at him, and Sam holds out his hands before he can make whatever dirty joke he had on the tip of his tongue. "Fine, fine. Just get your feeble ass to the bar on time, alright?"
Dean smirks. "You gonna get me drunk and take advantage, Sammy?"
Unexpectedly, Sam's eyes go dark. In front of the fucking law firm. In the middle of the crowd. Dean feels the slightest hint of a shiver run up and down his spine.
"Don't have to get you drunk, Dean." He says, a hint of a growl on his voice. "Gonna bend you over and you're gonna let me, stone cold sober."
Dean swallows, nods. "Aren't," he clears his throat, and tries again. "Your ass is getting late, Sam. Better book it."
Sam’s expression goes from gonna-fuck-you-till-you-scream to what Dean calls his 'preppy, upstanding citizen look'. He pats the side of the car hurriedly. "See ya when I see ya."
Dean watches him go inside, long legs stretching to overtake everyone else, and laughs a little to himself in disbelief.
He's not one for keeping track of timelines -that's the kind of geekery Sam excels at- but even he knows that it's been close to fifteen years they've been keeping this up. He'd barely been twenty two when he'd attended Sam's graduation, and they'd just made one pit stop to cram all of Sam's possessions in a suitcase before leaving town a hundred miles and hour, Sam laughing in the shotgun seat the whole way.
Dean thinks, for the briefest moment, of the life they'd lead before that, getting passed from home to home separately. Dean had worked in a garage the summer of his sixteenth birthday, renovating a beat-down Buick from scratch just to take him across the state to where Sam was.
Dean remembers the dark circles around Sam's eyes and the bruises on his face in those later years, the way his shoulders were hunched like a shield. When he saw Dean pull up that first time, he got an expression of almost reverence, standing up from the porch steps with his left eye swelling shut even as Dean watched. The irony of that had been, back when they were still young enough to be a two-for-one package, it was Dean who got into fights and Sam was the one winning their foster parents over, even when they were sleeping in musty attic rooms and living on a meal a day. They first went to separate homes when Dean was ten, and as soon as Sam turned eleven, he went from the sweet-faced, perfect orphan to a vicious monster, and it only got worse the further he was from Dean. The longest he lasted in the same place were the two years with the Farrels, and even that was after he'd planned it all out: he would graduate, and then Dean could come get him. For good.
Dean had been working odd jobs even back then, saving up for the big gay crescendo of their lives. When Sam had laid out the plan for him, he'd shrugged, done some quick calculations, and said, "Stanford, huh, hotshot?" and Sam had blushed and kissed him breathless.
That was the other thing, the one that nearly killed them both. Sam had hit his teenage years with the grace and ferocity of a cannonball, and before Dean knew it, he had nowhere to run from the badbadbad thoughts but straight into Sam's arms.
So they added incest to the list of crosses to bear, until it became less the burden and more the refuge.
They're still running on all cylinders, which is nothing short of a miracle. Fake ID's and birth certificates and careful not to let on their absolute synchronicity in public, and they'd settled down in California with as much ease as Dean had never dared to pray for.
Dean pulls up in front of their house and shakes his head, thumping his hands on the wheel a little. He'd thought this specific brand of girly reminiscing was more Sam's thing than his own. Who knew?
He gets out of the Impala, the door shutting with a familiar creak. Sam sometimes asks him why the hell he doesn't get the doors fixed, but he can't very well admit that he likes the familiarity of it. He isn't, unlike Sam, a total girl, after all.
He stands in the driveway for a minute, then two, then five, his back against the smooth metal of his car, their house in front of him. The sunlight floods lavishly on his skin, and he thinks, clearly, made it.
*
Jenna calls him at work, and Dean rolls his eyes as Mike raises his eyebrows.
"Buy you a cane for your birthday?" She asks by way of greeting. "I've seen the stairs at your place, those have to be a bitch to climb with killer arthritis."
"Sam carries me bridal style, so don't bother." He says easily. "And I thought I told you not to call me at work."
"I mostly wanted to scope out the relative usefulness of a cane." She says without missing a beat. On her end, Dean hears muffled voices, and wonders whether she's even bothering to fake an emergency when she's on a personal phone call on office hours. It doesn't seem very likely, all in all. "I forgot the big gay romance thing, which is pretty impressive since no one rocks big gay romance like you and Sam do."
"You just want to watch us fuck," he points out. The new kid standing nearby looks shocked, and Dean shrugs with no remorse.
"Hell's yeah, bitch." Jenna hums a little, possibly picturing the whole thing. As always, Dean finds her disturbing, in an entertaining sort of way. "So. Drinks later?"
"Yeah," he says, distracted, as he watches Mike come out from under the Mustang he'd been working on. He's got a streak of black against his cheek like war paint, and he looks about ten like that.
"Cool," Jenna breaks into his contemplation of his twinky co-workers. "I'll be bringing Caleb 'round, 'kay?"
Dean raises his eyebrows. "You will?"
"Well, yeah." Even over the phone, she sounds uncomfortable. "We've been going out for almost three months, and, um. Just thought you'd like to meet him."
Dean smirks. "Naw, it's great you're so serious," he assures her. "Just be sure to make Sammy the receiving end of your rant about how hot he is, and we're good."
"Screw you, Winchester." She says wryly. "Whoops, gotta go. Nate's making noises about actually working in working hours at a workplace. The tool."
"Yeah, how dare he." Dean replies. "Dex coming tonight?"
There's a silence, and Dean groans inwardly. Jenna and Dexter were worse than fucking teenagers, seriously. Idiotic high school drama every other week, dating and then not dating. Dean wouldn’t even be so involved if it didn't interfere with his drinking patterns.
"Not the slightest." Jenna says, somewhat stiffly. "Gotta run, babes. See ya tonight."
"Uh huh." Dean hangs up and walks straight to the Mustang. Mike looks questioningly up at him.
"Keep up the good work, kid." He tells him, and Mike rolls his eyes.
"Hey, nearly forgot." Mike's voice stops him as he's about to leave. "I hear it's your birthday. If it is, have a good one. If it isn't, fuck off and die."
"You sweet-talker, you." Dean deadpans, and he hears Mike laugh.
"Husband get you anything special?" Mike asks, sounding genuinely curious. He's a newlywed, and looks to anyone and everyone for pointers.
Dean shrugs. "Yeah, a cock ring."
Mike begins laughing, surprised and then amused, and Dean grins and tells him to get back to work.
*
As far as the law is concerned, Sam and Dean Winchester are the furthest from blood relatives you could get: they're married.
If you look hard enough, you'll find records of marriage and birth for Sam Campbell-Wesson and Dean Winchester, but very little else of their past. Sam will appear as a high-powered lawyer working for the best-known firm in the state, and Dean, his mechanic husband. Look at us, Dean says sometimes, getting all responsible and shit.
Dean used to joke that him having their real last name and sharing it with Sam made Sam the wife of the situation. Sam never quite says it out loud, but they both know Sam made sure that Dean got to keep his real name because family was so much more important to him than it was to Sam. Dean's the one who actually remembers how it all got started, remembers the two people who managed to love them, before they learned to love each other to make up for all the rest. Dean remembers what it was like to be a family in the conventional sense.
For Sam, Dean's always been all there was to the story. The plot, the hero and the villain; Dean was all of that rolled into one, and Sam never quite manages to muster any amount of indignation over that.
The life they've built here seems more and more like the fairytale ending, and every year's better than the last. It's all so far off from where both of them thought they'd be at this point in life.
So yeah, their life's good. Weird, but really fucking good.
*
Caleb says, "Winchester?" and Dean thinks, motherfucker.
They shake hands anyway. It's not like they really have much of a choice.
Jenna looks from Dean to Caleb to Sam, and only the latter offers a response, shrugging a little.
Dean and Caleb barely speak during the rest of the evening, even when Dexter swoops in to make out unabashedly with Dean. Sam watches with amusement as Dean's eyes widen and his hands come up to shove Dex away, only to have him plant himself firmly on Dean's lap. Dean casts aspersions to Dexter's character -something about making advances on respectable married men- but simmers down faster than usual.
They all give Dean various useless presents, and he rolls his eyes and makes truly terrible jokes as usual, but it all seems muted somehow. When Dean opens the collection of Led Zeppelin CD's from Sam, he manages one off his blinding smiles, but that's the only time that night he seems himself.
Sam asks about it later, after they'd gone home. He makes sure to speak clearly, makes sure Dean's got nowhere to run.
Dean makes a noise of protest and shifts his hips, but it's useless. Sam's buried to the hilt in his ass and isn't moving until he gets a straight answer. He's had years of practice with Dean, and this works best of all.
Dean turns his head to the side, biting his swollen lip. Sam touches his shoulder blades lightly, urging.
Finally, Dean says, "Tell you after, Sam. Promise." and Sam has to fight down a surge of panic and guilt at the weariness in his voice. Dean smiles up at him wryly. "Just fuck me, already."
Sam's flagging erection comes back full force when Dean clenches suddenly, so tight he forgets to breathe. He begins moving, angling his hips on instinct, and Dean gasps. It's over faster than Sam was planning on, the last of his thrusts turning messy and uncoordinated, pushing roughly into Dean's heat while Dean fisted his angrily red cock, making soft whimpers with each thrust.
When they’re sprawling next to each other on the bed, loose-limbed and tangled, Sam nudges Dean with his shoulder.
Dean sighs with his eyes closed. "You're not gonna let this go, are you?"
Sam shakes his head, and Dean sighs again. "Fine."
Without warning, Dean sits up, the lovely curve of his back turned to Sam. His head bows, and Sam tenses upon instinct, despite the calm of the orgasm.
"Singer," Dean says, in a low voice, and Sam frowns. He thinks about whether Dean's being enigmatic on purpose, when Dean adds, "Caleb. His last name's Singer."
Sam nods, still frowning. "Yeah, so?"
"So, he's the Singers' kid."
"Yeah, that’s pretty much a given, Dean." Sam says impatiently.
Dean finally turns his head to look at Sam, and he's smiling a bit wistfully, almost sadly. "Remember the Singers, Sammy? They bought you that stupid stuffed toy of yours, that panda."
Sam sucks in a breath, and it sits like barbed wire in his lungs until he begins coughing.
All of it was so long ago, he thinks, desperate. He'd been eight, newly abandoned by his big brother in an unfamiliar home. The people there had been kind, not the kind to keep him just for the sake of the check, and they had been willing to adopt him if he said yes. He'd said no, horrified and disbelieving, and promptly run away to find Dean wherever he was until child services got him again. The Singers made sure he got in contact with Dean again, though. Random acts of kindness of people like the Singers pretty much got them here.
But yeah, now he remembers. The Singers had a kid, a couple of years older than him but younger than Dean. He was polite to Sam but didn't hang out much, immersed knee-deep in the land of all ten-year-olds. He remembers the kid confiding that he thought Dean was wicked cool, the one time Dean got to visit.
"That was Caleb?" Sam asks shakily.
Dean's still smiling sadly, and Sam's struck by how tired he looks. For a second, Dean actually looks like he's in his late thirties. He nods.
Sam watches his own hands clench and unclench around the pale blue comforter. There's a taste like rust under his tongue, and he feels almost light-headed.
Dean says, almost questioning, "And it's not like I can cram you into the backseat and put this town in the rearview."
Sam's head snaps up to look at him, and Dean looks utterly helpless.
"No," he says, sharper than he's intended, and Dean flinches. Cursing, Sam controls his tone. "No, Dean. We're not running, not anymore."
Dean nods, looking down at his hands. He looks utterly miserable, not even bothering to hide it, like maybe he doesn't have the energy even to try.
It pisses Sam off.
"No, we sure as fuck aren't getting in the Impala and driving away just 'cause some punk knows we're brothers." Sam says, low and furious. Dean looks up sharply, his eyes huge and green, and Sam can feel the exhilaration of saying it out loud course through his bloodstream like a drug. Brothers. It'd been so long since he'd even thought of them as that. It seems not enough, in comparison, but they haven't found a label that sticks yet. "We're not teenagers anymore, Dean. We have lives here. A home. We're not gonna let that, that bastard ruin the best thing that's happened to us." his voice goes even lower. "We fought so hard to get here, Dean."
Dean nods, like he knew Sam would say all this. Sam adds, "And there's always the possibility he won't do anything."
Dean shrugs, looking skeptical. Sam really can't stand seeing him like this, seeing his laughing, joyful Dean retreat into this weary shell of a man. He begins babbling to compensate. "Who knows, man, maybe he'll be cool with it. He doesn't strike me as a world-class homophobe or anything."
A corner of Dean's lips lift in a bitter smile Sam had been hoping never to see again after he first saw it at the age of sixteen. "The homosexuality is practically a non-crisis when it comes to us, Sam." he slumps further. "Especially considering all the sketchy documents."
Sam makes a growl of frustration, and grabs at Dean's shoulders. "Dean, just fucking listen to me."
When Dean's green eyes finally focus on his, Sam says, clearly, "Dean. The only reason neither of us are in jail, or even dead, is because we had each other's backs. We made it because we had each other, and just because our legal system and civilization or whatever want some bullshit requirements doesn't mean that we won't be together. I will literally do whatever it takes to be with you, Dean, I'm fucking serious."
Dean's eyes grow to the size of two adjacent moons by the time Sam finishes speaking. Sam breathes heavily, fiercely proud of the fit of his fingers in Dean's collarbone.
Finally, Dean visibly shakes himself out of it. He bats his eyelashes at Sam, who rolls his eyes. "That was beautiful, Sammy. Should we hug?"
Sam settles for pushing him back and covering his body with his own, and kissing Dean deep and slow, like a man who can afford the time. After a while, Dean makes a soft noise and melts, and they both smile.
*
The next morning, Dean drops a mug of coffee annd he tries to pretend it wasn't because his hands shook so much. And then Sam comes into the kitchen, all raised eyebrows and you alright, man? expression and Dean curses fluently under his breath.
He turns towards the sink in a last-ditch attempt to hide just how nervy, how outright terrified, he is. He looks out into the yard, the grass as green as a dream come true. Suburban haven. Who knew?
Sam comes up behind him, slow, letting Dean ttrack his approach even with his back turned. Sam stands just behind him, bodies not quite touching. Dean feels warm breath on his neck and closes his eyes.
"Dean," Sam murmurs.
Dean bites his lip, his knuckles clenching on the counter. Can't let Sammy see me like this, he thinks, desperate.
As if reading his mind, Sam's hands come up to his shoulders, and spins him around gently.
"You could lose everything from this," Dean says in a raspy voice, throat desert-dry. "You have a good life here, Sammy. This...this could fuck it all up, your fucking job, man, you've worked so hard for that thing, and." He slumps, eyes not meeting Sam's.
"And?" Sam prompts, a dangerous edge in his voice.
Dean inhales deeply. It doesn't seem to make it into his lungs, because he still pretty much feels like he's drowning. "And, you don't need me as much as you used to. You'll get by just fine on your own."
He keeps his eyes fixed away from Sam's, a little to the left, so it takes him a second longer to realize Sam's shaking.
Just shaking bodily, like Dean just punched him in the ribs and kicked his head for good measure.
"Dean," he says, in a voice Dean can tell he's struggling to keep even. "Are you suggesting that you... That I..." he shakes his head in wonder. "Jeez, I can't even say it."
He shoves at Dean's shoulder roughly, making him stagger against the sink and stepping forward so Dean's got nowhere to run. He kisses him, rough and ungraceful, his mouth attacking Dean's so Dean can almost feel the bruises. Dean gives himself over, goes pliant under the attack, his hands coming up to the sides of Sam's face.
Sam's hair falls into his eyes and there's this reckless abandon to his kiss, something that reminds Dean of those terrible years of separation. It opens all those old wounds; the ones he'd thought had healed a long time ago.
Sam kisses like a sixteen year old whose only link to life is his big brother.
Sam nips savagely at Dean's lip and draws blood just as Dean has his epiphany. Bitter tang of copper, and then Sam's tongue's running over it. Sam's making these noises, soft whimpers that Dean hasn't heard in a long, long time that mean he's about to cry.
Sammy, Dean whispers against his mouth, soundless, and lets his fingers glide over the soft mess of Sam's hair, his defined cheekbones. Little brother, some part of his mind recognizes.
Nah, Dean thinks dazedly. Not just that. Love of my fucking life.
"Don't," and Sam's breath comes out shallow and stuttering, like he's run a thousand miles. "Don't say anything like that ever again, Dean."
They fuck right there, on the kitchen floor, Sam pounding into him rough and fast and Dean meeting every thrust. He clings to Sam's hair and Sam never takes his eyes off him, even when he's coming with a bitten-off cry. Sam bites his neck and marks him up so that he could never hope to cover it up, and Dean doesn't bother pretending it doesn't turn him on like crazy.
"Okay," Dean says after, shaky, Sam's softening cock still shoved deep inside, Sam's body covering his. "Plan to get the punk kid out of town and get back to gay paradise?"
Sam grins down at him, wicked curve of his mouth, and Dean's breathing gets easier. "It just so happens that I happen to be in a profession where we're trained to handle this kinda thing."
Dean's eyebrows hike up. "Stanford teaches gay incestuous crisis handling now, hotshot?"
Sam slides off with a pout. "Jerk. No, it's just that I'm pretty confident we can talk this through."
Dean inhales and tries to look away, but Sam's hand's on his face, unyielding.
"Sam," he says, reasonably. "There's a very big chance he won't exactly listen to reason."
Sam's grin turns positively wolfish. "That's where law school comes in. Counter-argument, man."
It takes a moment for Dean to get it, and when he does, his eyebrows rise even further. "Blackmail, Sammy? Not very upstanding of you."
Sam waves this away, slumped on the carpet looking utterly relaxed. "You think I'd run the risk of getting caught?" catching Dean's expression, he amends, "If I had the choice, I mean. Which we have right now." Sam sits up and looks down at him, his finger idly tracing a path up and down Dean's stomach, the insides of his thighs. "That Caleb guy's pretty sketchy."
"Yeah?" Dean asks, focus stubbornly drifting to Sam's hand on him.
"Yeah." Sam's eyes have a familiar glint in them, come toilet-paper the neighbors' front yard with me. Dean's breath catches. "I dunno, Dean, I've got a pretty good feeling about this."
Dean doesn't argue.
*
"Godammit, Sam!"
Dean's phone lands with a clatter when he throws it across the room. He rakes a hand through his hair, gritting his teeth. He's going to kill Sam. No, really.
The house waits, huge and silent. Dean feels like he's been tossed into a storm, no land in sight. He's breathing hard.
This is probably the best or stupidest plan Sam's come up with, he thinks almost hysterically. Sam had been all matter-of-fact about it, got to see where he stands in all of this, no way to do that without some straight talk.
Dean knows better than anyone that there's no going against that tone.
He finds himself longing once more for their former fugitive lifestyle, being able to pack their lives in the trunk and take off a hundred miles an hour. It's not like he's not absolutely content in their life here: it's just that he'd really like a quick getaway right about now.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, his phone begins ringing from the other end of the room. Dean crosses in a handful of strides and picks it up, answering without checking ID. "Answer your phone every once in a while, will ya?"
"We're heading over," Sam says tersely.
Dean nods to himself, trying to drum up some confidence. "That's something, at least."
Sam stays silent. "Guess so," he says, finally, in such a quiet voice it makes Dean's stomach roll.
Dean says, "See you when I see you," and they both hang up.
*
The first thing Caleb says is, "Nice place you've got here."
His tone is casual, like it's for the purposes of small talk only. Sam manages to summon a strained smile as he locks his car behind him .
Dean opens the door, and a quick communication runs between them, as quick as lighting: how's it going? Alright, so far.
Caleb's clearly freaked out by the time they're all sitting in the living room, Sam and Dean on the same couch almost in defiance of his judgment. Caleb raises his eyebrows, but says nothing.
"Beer?" Dean offers, getting up to go to the kitchen. Sam puts a restraining hand on his arm.
"Wait, Dean." He tugs a little, and Dean sits back down reluctantly. Sam looks Caleb directly in the eye. "You probably know already that we're married."
Caleb looks a little uncomfortable at Sam's lack of preamble. "Yeah, I heard."
Sam nods, business-like. "And you're one of the few people in the world who know that we're brothers." he takes a deep breath. "Are you planning to do anything about it?"
Caleb shrugs, his eyes fixing on Sam's. "Dunno. It seems kinda pointless, you know? Everyone here thinks you're the gay Brangelina."
The comment takes them both by surprise, and Sam's eyes dart to Dean's for a brief exchange of confused looks.
Caleb grins a little. "I mean, I could probably dig up some files from Kansas, but from what I hear, blackmailing the hotshot lawyer may not be too hot an idea, either." He shrugs. "As far as I'm concerned, you can skip off to whatever marital paradise you fancy."
Sam gapes. "Wh-What?"
Caleb shrugs again. "Hey, I'm an open-minded guy. And you two don't actually seem to be doing anyone harm, so what the hell."
Sam can feel Dean's skepticism through where his fingertips rest on Sam's back. What he says, however, is, "That's mighty kind of you,"
Caleb smiles a little, and Sam sees right then how supremely uncomfortable he really is. It makes him feel a little better himself.
In the end, he sticks around for just one beer. It's awkward as hell, Dean sitting tense and still next to Sam. Sam and Caleb chat uneasily, and after he's left, Sam and Dean look at each other.
Finally, Dean voices it: "The fuck was that?"
Sam shrugs. "You tell me."
Dean moves closer, not appearing to think about it. He's frowning. "Dude, that was seriously creepy. He was so Zen about it. I think I freaked more than he did when I first figured it out."
"Yeah, but that's 'cause you're a girl." Sam points out distractedly. "No, man, he was freaked out alright. He was..." Sam shrugs, effortlessly smug. It makes him look about six years old, Dean thinks. "He was scared shitless, too."
"By what? Our combined masculinity?" Dean asks, sounding incredulous.
Sam shakes his head. "No, I think...remember the lawyer comment?"
Dean nods, his eyes filling with comprehension. "You did roll on the blackmail card?"
Sam shakes his head, even before Dean's done asking. "I promised you I'd hold it back until it was absolutely necessary. Either way," Sam adds, a slow smile building on his lips, "he's off our asses for now."
Dean grins back, mischief sparkling in his green eyes, and Sam thinks, maybe for the billionth time this lifetime, wow, just fucking wow.
"Might as well spend our hard-earned time productively, hmm, Sammy?" he purrs, stepping closer. "Since, I quote, there's nothing you wouldn't do to be with me?"
Sam groans. "Jerk."
"Bitch." And then Dean kisses him, and Sam kisses back, bewildered and happy.
*
Later, Sam looms over Dean, Dean's dick in his hand, and whispers in a low, sex-drenched voice in Dean's ear, "Like that, big brother?"
Abruptly, Dean comes all over both of them.
-END
Now with timestamps!
Title: Mow Them Lawns (it turns me on)
By: weekend_exile
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Summary: Domestic bliss, Winchester style. AU where they're married. Includes blackmail, blowjobs and a ridiculously happy ending.
Notes: Unbeta'd, which is a mistake seeing how I can't spell the word 'separate' without help. Comments will be welcomed with hugs and kisses and rainbows.
Sam grins up at Dean, letting Dean's dick slide out of his mouth with an obscene pop. Dean's eyes lose their dazed expression, beginning to focus around a scowl and a protest, but Sam cuts him off, saying, "Jenna thinks we're high school sweethearts."
The indignation in Dean's eyes quickly give way to utter horror. Laughing, Sam goes back to sucking him off. Midway, Dean's fingers curl in Sam's hair, just the right amount of pressure, and when he comes, Sam swallows hungrily and licks at the head before letting go.
He stands up and pats Dean on the head. Dean's no longer clinging on to the kitchen counter for dear life, instead leaning bonelessly against it. He glares at Sam, but he fails epically to look actually pissed off, so they end up kind of staring at each other instead.
Sam would be crowing about how he gives such good head it burns out what little brain cells Dean has, but he knows that kind of trash talk leads inevitably to Dean going to his knees on the kitchen carpet to prove some point or the other, and while he's far from opposed to seeing Dean's girly pink lips wrapped around his cock, he's running late.
He clears his throat. "Uh. Happy birthday, old man."
He smirks and leaves Dean to process that. When he's almost out of their kitchen, Dean calls out, "That was a fucking birthday blowjob?"
Sam grins all the more wider. "Just don't expect any presents!" he calls back.
He hears Dean mumbling obscenities, and laughter begins building in his chest, echoing off the walls. He's just ridiculously happy as he is.
*
Dean drops Sam off at work before heading back home. In front of the steps leading to the firm, Sam turns around to look at him. "Jenna and Dex are meeting us for drinks at seven. Look pretty."
Dean flips him off easily. "I ain't got to take no shit from you. Senior citizen, remember?"
Sam snorts. "You're thirty seven, Dean. That hardly counts as welfare material."
Dean leers up at him, and Sam holds out his hands before he can make whatever dirty joke he had on the tip of his tongue. "Fine, fine. Just get your feeble ass to the bar on time, alright?"
Dean smirks. "You gonna get me drunk and take advantage, Sammy?"
Unexpectedly, Sam's eyes go dark. In front of the fucking law firm. In the middle of the crowd. Dean feels the slightest hint of a shiver run up and down his spine.
"Don't have to get you drunk, Dean." He says, a hint of a growl on his voice. "Gonna bend you over and you're gonna let me, stone cold sober."
Dean swallows, nods. "Aren't," he clears his throat, and tries again. "Your ass is getting late, Sam. Better book it."
Sam’s expression goes from gonna-fuck-you-till-you-scream to what Dean calls his 'preppy, upstanding citizen look'. He pats the side of the car hurriedly. "See ya when I see ya."
Dean watches him go inside, long legs stretching to overtake everyone else, and laughs a little to himself in disbelief.
He's not one for keeping track of timelines -that's the kind of geekery Sam excels at- but even he knows that it's been close to fifteen years they've been keeping this up. He'd barely been twenty two when he'd attended Sam's graduation, and they'd just made one pit stop to cram all of Sam's possessions in a suitcase before leaving town a hundred miles and hour, Sam laughing in the shotgun seat the whole way.
Dean thinks, for the briefest moment, of the life they'd lead before that, getting passed from home to home separately. Dean had worked in a garage the summer of his sixteenth birthday, renovating a beat-down Buick from scratch just to take him across the state to where Sam was.
Dean remembers the dark circles around Sam's eyes and the bruises on his face in those later years, the way his shoulders were hunched like a shield. When he saw Dean pull up that first time, he got an expression of almost reverence, standing up from the porch steps with his left eye swelling shut even as Dean watched. The irony of that had been, back when they were still young enough to be a two-for-one package, it was Dean who got into fights and Sam was the one winning their foster parents over, even when they were sleeping in musty attic rooms and living on a meal a day. They first went to separate homes when Dean was ten, and as soon as Sam turned eleven, he went from the sweet-faced, perfect orphan to a vicious monster, and it only got worse the further he was from Dean. The longest he lasted in the same place were the two years with the Farrels, and even that was after he'd planned it all out: he would graduate, and then Dean could come get him. For good.
Dean had been working odd jobs even back then, saving up for the big gay crescendo of their lives. When Sam had laid out the plan for him, he'd shrugged, done some quick calculations, and said, "Stanford, huh, hotshot?" and Sam had blushed and kissed him breathless.
That was the other thing, the one that nearly killed them both. Sam had hit his teenage years with the grace and ferocity of a cannonball, and before Dean knew it, he had nowhere to run from the badbadbad thoughts but straight into Sam's arms.
So they added incest to the list of crosses to bear, until it became less the burden and more the refuge.
They're still running on all cylinders, which is nothing short of a miracle. Fake ID's and birth certificates and careful not to let on their absolute synchronicity in public, and they'd settled down in California with as much ease as Dean had never dared to pray for.
Dean pulls up in front of their house and shakes his head, thumping his hands on the wheel a little. He'd thought this specific brand of girly reminiscing was more Sam's thing than his own. Who knew?
He gets out of the Impala, the door shutting with a familiar creak. Sam sometimes asks him why the hell he doesn't get the doors fixed, but he can't very well admit that he likes the familiarity of it. He isn't, unlike Sam, a total girl, after all.
He stands in the driveway for a minute, then two, then five, his back against the smooth metal of his car, their house in front of him. The sunlight floods lavishly on his skin, and he thinks, clearly, made it.
*
Jenna calls him at work, and Dean rolls his eyes as Mike raises his eyebrows.
"Buy you a cane for your birthday?" She asks by way of greeting. "I've seen the stairs at your place, those have to be a bitch to climb with killer arthritis."
"Sam carries me bridal style, so don't bother." He says easily. "And I thought I told you not to call me at work."
"I mostly wanted to scope out the relative usefulness of a cane." She says without missing a beat. On her end, Dean hears muffled voices, and wonders whether she's even bothering to fake an emergency when she's on a personal phone call on office hours. It doesn't seem very likely, all in all. "I forgot the big gay romance thing, which is pretty impressive since no one rocks big gay romance like you and Sam do."
"You just want to watch us fuck," he points out. The new kid standing nearby looks shocked, and Dean shrugs with no remorse.
"Hell's yeah, bitch." Jenna hums a little, possibly picturing the whole thing. As always, Dean finds her disturbing, in an entertaining sort of way. "So. Drinks later?"
"Yeah," he says, distracted, as he watches Mike come out from under the Mustang he'd been working on. He's got a streak of black against his cheek like war paint, and he looks about ten like that.
"Cool," Jenna breaks into his contemplation of his twinky co-workers. "I'll be bringing Caleb 'round, 'kay?"
Dean raises his eyebrows. "You will?"
"Well, yeah." Even over the phone, she sounds uncomfortable. "We've been going out for almost three months, and, um. Just thought you'd like to meet him."
Dean smirks. "Naw, it's great you're so serious," he assures her. "Just be sure to make Sammy the receiving end of your rant about how hot he is, and we're good."
"Screw you, Winchester." She says wryly. "Whoops, gotta go. Nate's making noises about actually working in working hours at a workplace. The tool."
"Yeah, how dare he." Dean replies. "Dex coming tonight?"
There's a silence, and Dean groans inwardly. Jenna and Dexter were worse than fucking teenagers, seriously. Idiotic high school drama every other week, dating and then not dating. Dean wouldn’t even be so involved if it didn't interfere with his drinking patterns.
"Not the slightest." Jenna says, somewhat stiffly. "Gotta run, babes. See ya tonight."
"Uh huh." Dean hangs up and walks straight to the Mustang. Mike looks questioningly up at him.
"Keep up the good work, kid." He tells him, and Mike rolls his eyes.
"Hey, nearly forgot." Mike's voice stops him as he's about to leave. "I hear it's your birthday. If it is, have a good one. If it isn't, fuck off and die."
"You sweet-talker, you." Dean deadpans, and he hears Mike laugh.
"Husband get you anything special?" Mike asks, sounding genuinely curious. He's a newlywed, and looks to anyone and everyone for pointers.
Dean shrugs. "Yeah, a cock ring."
Mike begins laughing, surprised and then amused, and Dean grins and tells him to get back to work.
*
As far as the law is concerned, Sam and Dean Winchester are the furthest from blood relatives you could get: they're married.
If you look hard enough, you'll find records of marriage and birth for Sam Campbell-Wesson and Dean Winchester, but very little else of their past. Sam will appear as a high-powered lawyer working for the best-known firm in the state, and Dean, his mechanic husband. Look at us, Dean says sometimes, getting all responsible and shit.
Dean used to joke that him having their real last name and sharing it with Sam made Sam the wife of the situation. Sam never quite says it out loud, but they both know Sam made sure that Dean got to keep his real name because family was so much more important to him than it was to Sam. Dean's the one who actually remembers how it all got started, remembers the two people who managed to love them, before they learned to love each other to make up for all the rest. Dean remembers what it was like to be a family in the conventional sense.
For Sam, Dean's always been all there was to the story. The plot, the hero and the villain; Dean was all of that rolled into one, and Sam never quite manages to muster any amount of indignation over that.
The life they've built here seems more and more like the fairytale ending, and every year's better than the last. It's all so far off from where both of them thought they'd be at this point in life.
So yeah, their life's good. Weird, but really fucking good.
*
Caleb says, "Winchester?" and Dean thinks, motherfucker.
They shake hands anyway. It's not like they really have much of a choice.
Jenna looks from Dean to Caleb to Sam, and only the latter offers a response, shrugging a little.
Dean and Caleb barely speak during the rest of the evening, even when Dexter swoops in to make out unabashedly with Dean. Sam watches with amusement as Dean's eyes widen and his hands come up to shove Dex away, only to have him plant himself firmly on Dean's lap. Dean casts aspersions to Dexter's character -something about making advances on respectable married men- but simmers down faster than usual.
They all give Dean various useless presents, and he rolls his eyes and makes truly terrible jokes as usual, but it all seems muted somehow. When Dean opens the collection of Led Zeppelin CD's from Sam, he manages one off his blinding smiles, but that's the only time that night he seems himself.
Sam asks about it later, after they'd gone home. He makes sure to speak clearly, makes sure Dean's got nowhere to run.
Dean makes a noise of protest and shifts his hips, but it's useless. Sam's buried to the hilt in his ass and isn't moving until he gets a straight answer. He's had years of practice with Dean, and this works best of all.
Dean turns his head to the side, biting his swollen lip. Sam touches his shoulder blades lightly, urging.
Finally, Dean says, "Tell you after, Sam. Promise." and Sam has to fight down a surge of panic and guilt at the weariness in his voice. Dean smiles up at him wryly. "Just fuck me, already."
Sam's flagging erection comes back full force when Dean clenches suddenly, so tight he forgets to breathe. He begins moving, angling his hips on instinct, and Dean gasps. It's over faster than Sam was planning on, the last of his thrusts turning messy and uncoordinated, pushing roughly into Dean's heat while Dean fisted his angrily red cock, making soft whimpers with each thrust.
When they’re sprawling next to each other on the bed, loose-limbed and tangled, Sam nudges Dean with his shoulder.
Dean sighs with his eyes closed. "You're not gonna let this go, are you?"
Sam shakes his head, and Dean sighs again. "Fine."
Without warning, Dean sits up, the lovely curve of his back turned to Sam. His head bows, and Sam tenses upon instinct, despite the calm of the orgasm.
"Singer," Dean says, in a low voice, and Sam frowns. He thinks about whether Dean's being enigmatic on purpose, when Dean adds, "Caleb. His last name's Singer."
Sam nods, still frowning. "Yeah, so?"
"So, he's the Singers' kid."
"Yeah, that’s pretty much a given, Dean." Sam says impatiently.
Dean finally turns his head to look at Sam, and he's smiling a bit wistfully, almost sadly. "Remember the Singers, Sammy? They bought you that stupid stuffed toy of yours, that panda."
Sam sucks in a breath, and it sits like barbed wire in his lungs until he begins coughing.
All of it was so long ago, he thinks, desperate. He'd been eight, newly abandoned by his big brother in an unfamiliar home. The people there had been kind, not the kind to keep him just for the sake of the check, and they had been willing to adopt him if he said yes. He'd said no, horrified and disbelieving, and promptly run away to find Dean wherever he was until child services got him again. The Singers made sure he got in contact with Dean again, though. Random acts of kindness of people like the Singers pretty much got them here.
But yeah, now he remembers. The Singers had a kid, a couple of years older than him but younger than Dean. He was polite to Sam but didn't hang out much, immersed knee-deep in the land of all ten-year-olds. He remembers the kid confiding that he thought Dean was wicked cool, the one time Dean got to visit.
"That was Caleb?" Sam asks shakily.
Dean's still smiling sadly, and Sam's struck by how tired he looks. For a second, Dean actually looks like he's in his late thirties. He nods.
Sam watches his own hands clench and unclench around the pale blue comforter. There's a taste like rust under his tongue, and he feels almost light-headed.
Dean says, almost questioning, "And it's not like I can cram you into the backseat and put this town in the rearview."
Sam's head snaps up to look at him, and Dean looks utterly helpless.
"No," he says, sharper than he's intended, and Dean flinches. Cursing, Sam controls his tone. "No, Dean. We're not running, not anymore."
Dean nods, looking down at his hands. He looks utterly miserable, not even bothering to hide it, like maybe he doesn't have the energy even to try.
It pisses Sam off.
"No, we sure as fuck aren't getting in the Impala and driving away just 'cause some punk knows we're brothers." Sam says, low and furious. Dean looks up sharply, his eyes huge and green, and Sam can feel the exhilaration of saying it out loud course through his bloodstream like a drug. Brothers. It'd been so long since he'd even thought of them as that. It seems not enough, in comparison, but they haven't found a label that sticks yet. "We're not teenagers anymore, Dean. We have lives here. A home. We're not gonna let that, that bastard ruin the best thing that's happened to us." his voice goes even lower. "We fought so hard to get here, Dean."
Dean nods, like he knew Sam would say all this. Sam adds, "And there's always the possibility he won't do anything."
Dean shrugs, looking skeptical. Sam really can't stand seeing him like this, seeing his laughing, joyful Dean retreat into this weary shell of a man. He begins babbling to compensate. "Who knows, man, maybe he'll be cool with it. He doesn't strike me as a world-class homophobe or anything."
A corner of Dean's lips lift in a bitter smile Sam had been hoping never to see again after he first saw it at the age of sixteen. "The homosexuality is practically a non-crisis when it comes to us, Sam." he slumps further. "Especially considering all the sketchy documents."
Sam makes a growl of frustration, and grabs at Dean's shoulders. "Dean, just fucking listen to me."
When Dean's green eyes finally focus on his, Sam says, clearly, "Dean. The only reason neither of us are in jail, or even dead, is because we had each other's backs. We made it because we had each other, and just because our legal system and civilization or whatever want some bullshit requirements doesn't mean that we won't be together. I will literally do whatever it takes to be with you, Dean, I'm fucking serious."
Dean's eyes grow to the size of two adjacent moons by the time Sam finishes speaking. Sam breathes heavily, fiercely proud of the fit of his fingers in Dean's collarbone.
Finally, Dean visibly shakes himself out of it. He bats his eyelashes at Sam, who rolls his eyes. "That was beautiful, Sammy. Should we hug?"
Sam settles for pushing him back and covering his body with his own, and kissing Dean deep and slow, like a man who can afford the time. After a while, Dean makes a soft noise and melts, and they both smile.
*
The next morning, Dean drops a mug of coffee annd he tries to pretend it wasn't because his hands shook so much. And then Sam comes into the kitchen, all raised eyebrows and you alright, man? expression and Dean curses fluently under his breath.
He turns towards the sink in a last-ditch attempt to hide just how nervy, how outright terrified, he is. He looks out into the yard, the grass as green as a dream come true. Suburban haven. Who knew?
Sam comes up behind him, slow, letting Dean ttrack his approach even with his back turned. Sam stands just behind him, bodies not quite touching. Dean feels warm breath on his neck and closes his eyes.
"Dean," Sam murmurs.
Dean bites his lip, his knuckles clenching on the counter. Can't let Sammy see me like this, he thinks, desperate.
As if reading his mind, Sam's hands come up to his shoulders, and spins him around gently.
"You could lose everything from this," Dean says in a raspy voice, throat desert-dry. "You have a good life here, Sammy. This...this could fuck it all up, your fucking job, man, you've worked so hard for that thing, and." He slumps, eyes not meeting Sam's.
"And?" Sam prompts, a dangerous edge in his voice.
Dean inhales deeply. It doesn't seem to make it into his lungs, because he still pretty much feels like he's drowning. "And, you don't need me as much as you used to. You'll get by just fine on your own."
He keeps his eyes fixed away from Sam's, a little to the left, so it takes him a second longer to realize Sam's shaking.
Just shaking bodily, like Dean just punched him in the ribs and kicked his head for good measure.
"Dean," he says, in a voice Dean can tell he's struggling to keep even. "Are you suggesting that you... That I..." he shakes his head in wonder. "Jeez, I can't even say it."
He shoves at Dean's shoulder roughly, making him stagger against the sink and stepping forward so Dean's got nowhere to run. He kisses him, rough and ungraceful, his mouth attacking Dean's so Dean can almost feel the bruises. Dean gives himself over, goes pliant under the attack, his hands coming up to the sides of Sam's face.
Sam's hair falls into his eyes and there's this reckless abandon to his kiss, something that reminds Dean of those terrible years of separation. It opens all those old wounds; the ones he'd thought had healed a long time ago.
Sam kisses like a sixteen year old whose only link to life is his big brother.
Sam nips savagely at Dean's lip and draws blood just as Dean has his epiphany. Bitter tang of copper, and then Sam's tongue's running over it. Sam's making these noises, soft whimpers that Dean hasn't heard in a long, long time that mean he's about to cry.
Sammy, Dean whispers against his mouth, soundless, and lets his fingers glide over the soft mess of Sam's hair, his defined cheekbones. Little brother, some part of his mind recognizes.
Nah, Dean thinks dazedly. Not just that. Love of my fucking life.
"Don't," and Sam's breath comes out shallow and stuttering, like he's run a thousand miles. "Don't say anything like that ever again, Dean."
They fuck right there, on the kitchen floor, Sam pounding into him rough and fast and Dean meeting every thrust. He clings to Sam's hair and Sam never takes his eyes off him, even when he's coming with a bitten-off cry. Sam bites his neck and marks him up so that he could never hope to cover it up, and Dean doesn't bother pretending it doesn't turn him on like crazy.
"Okay," Dean says after, shaky, Sam's softening cock still shoved deep inside, Sam's body covering his. "Plan to get the punk kid out of town and get back to gay paradise?"
Sam grins down at him, wicked curve of his mouth, and Dean's breathing gets easier. "It just so happens that I happen to be in a profession where we're trained to handle this kinda thing."
Dean's eyebrows hike up. "Stanford teaches gay incestuous crisis handling now, hotshot?"
Sam slides off with a pout. "Jerk. No, it's just that I'm pretty confident we can talk this through."
Dean inhales and tries to look away, but Sam's hand's on his face, unyielding.
"Sam," he says, reasonably. "There's a very big chance he won't exactly listen to reason."
Sam's grin turns positively wolfish. "That's where law school comes in. Counter-argument, man."
It takes a moment for Dean to get it, and when he does, his eyebrows rise even further. "Blackmail, Sammy? Not very upstanding of you."
Sam waves this away, slumped on the carpet looking utterly relaxed. "You think I'd run the risk of getting caught?" catching Dean's expression, he amends, "If I had the choice, I mean. Which we have right now." Sam sits up and looks down at him, his finger idly tracing a path up and down Dean's stomach, the insides of his thighs. "That Caleb guy's pretty sketchy."
"Yeah?" Dean asks, focus stubbornly drifting to Sam's hand on him.
"Yeah." Sam's eyes have a familiar glint in them, come toilet-paper the neighbors' front yard with me. Dean's breath catches. "I dunno, Dean, I've got a pretty good feeling about this."
Dean doesn't argue.
*
"Godammit, Sam!"
Dean's phone lands with a clatter when he throws it across the room. He rakes a hand through his hair, gritting his teeth. He's going to kill Sam. No, really.
The house waits, huge and silent. Dean feels like he's been tossed into a storm, no land in sight. He's breathing hard.
This is probably the best or stupidest plan Sam's come up with, he thinks almost hysterically. Sam had been all matter-of-fact about it, got to see where he stands in all of this, no way to do that without some straight talk.
Dean knows better than anyone that there's no going against that tone.
He finds himself longing once more for their former fugitive lifestyle, being able to pack their lives in the trunk and take off a hundred miles an hour. It's not like he's not absolutely content in their life here: it's just that he'd really like a quick getaway right about now.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, his phone begins ringing from the other end of the room. Dean crosses in a handful of strides and picks it up, answering without checking ID. "Answer your phone every once in a while, will ya?"
"We're heading over," Sam says tersely.
Dean nods to himself, trying to drum up some confidence. "That's something, at least."
Sam stays silent. "Guess so," he says, finally, in such a quiet voice it makes Dean's stomach roll.
Dean says, "See you when I see you," and they both hang up.
*
The first thing Caleb says is, "Nice place you've got here."
His tone is casual, like it's for the purposes of small talk only. Sam manages to summon a strained smile as he locks his car behind him .
Dean opens the door, and a quick communication runs between them, as quick as lighting: how's it going? Alright, so far.
Caleb's clearly freaked out by the time they're all sitting in the living room, Sam and Dean on the same couch almost in defiance of his judgment. Caleb raises his eyebrows, but says nothing.
"Beer?" Dean offers, getting up to go to the kitchen. Sam puts a restraining hand on his arm.
"Wait, Dean." He tugs a little, and Dean sits back down reluctantly. Sam looks Caleb directly in the eye. "You probably know already that we're married."
Caleb looks a little uncomfortable at Sam's lack of preamble. "Yeah, I heard."
Sam nods, business-like. "And you're one of the few people in the world who know that we're brothers." he takes a deep breath. "Are you planning to do anything about it?"
Caleb shrugs, his eyes fixing on Sam's. "Dunno. It seems kinda pointless, you know? Everyone here thinks you're the gay Brangelina."
The comment takes them both by surprise, and Sam's eyes dart to Dean's for a brief exchange of confused looks.
Caleb grins a little. "I mean, I could probably dig up some files from Kansas, but from what I hear, blackmailing the hotshot lawyer may not be too hot an idea, either." He shrugs. "As far as I'm concerned, you can skip off to whatever marital paradise you fancy."
Sam gapes. "Wh-What?"
Caleb shrugs again. "Hey, I'm an open-minded guy. And you two don't actually seem to be doing anyone harm, so what the hell."
Sam can feel Dean's skepticism through where his fingertips rest on Sam's back. What he says, however, is, "That's mighty kind of you,"
Caleb smiles a little, and Sam sees right then how supremely uncomfortable he really is. It makes him feel a little better himself.
In the end, he sticks around for just one beer. It's awkward as hell, Dean sitting tense and still next to Sam. Sam and Caleb chat uneasily, and after he's left, Sam and Dean look at each other.
Finally, Dean voices it: "The fuck was that?"
Sam shrugs. "You tell me."
Dean moves closer, not appearing to think about it. He's frowning. "Dude, that was seriously creepy. He was so Zen about it. I think I freaked more than he did when I first figured it out."
"Yeah, but that's 'cause you're a girl." Sam points out distractedly. "No, man, he was freaked out alright. He was..." Sam shrugs, effortlessly smug. It makes him look about six years old, Dean thinks. "He was scared shitless, too."
"By what? Our combined masculinity?" Dean asks, sounding incredulous.
Sam shakes his head. "No, I think...remember the lawyer comment?"
Dean nods, his eyes filling with comprehension. "You did roll on the blackmail card?"
Sam shakes his head, even before Dean's done asking. "I promised you I'd hold it back until it was absolutely necessary. Either way," Sam adds, a slow smile building on his lips, "he's off our asses for now."
Dean grins back, mischief sparkling in his green eyes, and Sam thinks, maybe for the billionth time this lifetime, wow, just fucking wow.
"Might as well spend our hard-earned time productively, hmm, Sammy?" he purrs, stepping closer. "Since, I quote, there's nothing you wouldn't do to be with me?"
Sam groans. "Jerk."
"Bitch." And then Dean kisses him, and Sam kisses back, bewildered and happy.
*
Later, Sam looms over Dean, Dean's dick in his hand, and whispers in a low, sex-drenched voice in Dean's ear, "Like that, big brother?"
Abruptly, Dean comes all over both of them.
-END
Now with timestamps!