Rome Was Also Built on Ruins
Part 1
At the three-week mark, Dean gets a walking cast. Sam drives him there but he fights Dean on driving home - "your foot is three times the size of the pedal, you can't drive like that" - for which Dean extracts a tax of "all right, but I'm making dinner."
"You drive a tough bargain," Sam smirks.
"I'm not putting up with any more of your rabbit food. We're going to the store and getting some meat and potatoes. Every kind of meat."
So they do. Dean mans the grocery cart, Sam does the running around, and the menu for the night is hamburgers with grilled onions and barbeque sauce. Sam wolfs his, hungry but also surprised at the fact that Dean can cook.
"Dude, I know how to do hamburgers. Most basic thing, really. You act like I never had a kitchen."
Sam's eyebrows raise, but he doesn't say anything, mostly because his mouth is full of his second burger. Dean chews his slower and frankly basks in the attention.
"I should keep you around," Sam says when they're leaning back on the couch, full stomachs. "You can have dinner ready when I come back from work. A couple more weeks ought to pay me back for taking care of your gimpy ass."
"Do I look like June Cleaver to you?"
Sam snorts, and turns on the TV. It's one of the Terminator movies. Good enough.
"So how's settling in going?"
"... Huh?" Sam blinks, then turns away from the TV to look at Dean. "Fine, why?"
"Cause you almost always come home at the same time. And you never tell me about friends or anyone you meet." He sounds more and more like a worried mother of a teenager the more he says, but Dean soldiers on. "I mean I know I'm an embarrassment and all, can't bring anyone home, but you don't even go out. Aren't you trying to get a normal life?"
"Sure," says Sam. "I've got jobs. I'm doing what I'm interested in." He comes around the corner within Dean's eyesight.
"But, didn't you want to stay here to be friends with Amelia?" Sam makes a strained face. Dean's gotta ask him about that later. "And get a social support group or whatever? One happy hour with the coworkers isn't going to kill you. I'm not asking you to take me or anything."
"I dunno, Dean..."
"Dude, if you're doing this because you're afraid I'm gonna fall and break my other leg while you're gone, you're dumb and you're sabotaging your career."
Sam's eyes are wide.
"You can't believe I'm encouraging you, I know."
"Shut up," says Sam, his voice fond.
Dean makes a face that's suppose to convey his offense that Sam would have thought otherwise, that Sam thinks he's so selfish. But really, he is selfish. Trying like hell not to be, but what else do you call someone who crawls into his brother's bed and smells his shirts and stays on his couch even with crutch mobility?
Sam says, "Thanks, yeah, okay. I'll do it. Tomorrow night."
Dean holds him to it. When Sam comes back Friday night at 7:30, a bit later than normal but hardly partying, Dean looks up from his telenovela.
"Whoa. Happy hour not so happy?"
Sam looks down around the mouth. He shrugs. "Yeah. I know schmoozing's all part of the gig, but... those guys are kinda tools."
Dean feels a little bad for Sam, but a little pleased at his own luck. "Let's go out tonight, okay? Obviously you can't get drunk if you're gonna drive our asses home, but there's gotta be some place with pool. We could have a good time. Whaddaya say?"
So they go.
There's not much pool to be played at first, so they have a game of cards in the corner with some other guys. Dean knows Sam's tells, and Dean's poker face sucks but he's great at grandiose bluffing. He feels more like himself, his old self, and instead of Sam growing more distant with the greater number of people and more space in the room they're closer. Like those nights they scammed at cards and cheated at pool, the two of them in cahoots. Only tonight they don't have any tricks planned. Dean likes the feel of it.
Then one of the poker guys calls for a game of pool, and Dean says "School him, Sammy." Sam does while Dean watches, living vicariously through his brother. Sam's tall and long and lean and stalking around the table occasionally he un-hunches and looks as towering as he is, and damn, it looks good on him, always did. And so what if Dean lets himself look while Sam's bent over the table, if he's appreciative it's only for the sheer familiar aesthetic spectacle of the thing, his very long brother stretched out and posing, an athlete of his own kind.
"You don't know anyone here, do you?" Dean asks Sam when he sits back down.
Sam shakes his head. "Not my side of town."
"No Amelia?"
Sam makes that face again.
"Dude, you wanna tell me what's going on there?" Dean's chest feels funny. It's awkward asking since Sam has never, ever brought her up since he first settled here.
Sam fiddles with his fingers, rubbing the blue chalk collected on the tips from the pool cues. "Nothing. I dunno. We really had something but when it came to me or her husband... she wanted it both ways, but I can't. I can't do that kind of thing. I wouldn't have wanted her to. And unfortunately the guy doesn't look too kindly on us just being friends."
"That When Harry Met Sally thing? Men and women can't be friends?"
Sam snorts. "We had a bit more than friendship going on, for almost a year, Dean. But yeah, total crap. Working's kept me busy and my mind off things."
Dean shakes his head. He's had enough to drink that he doesn't mind slapping Sam on the shoulder, and telling him "Busy ain't happy. Wish you'd get some more of that second one."
Sam quirks the corner of his mouth, looking down at his pint glass. He raises it to smile at Dean so Dean clinks his against Sam's, feeling weirdly lighter, a little more unhinged. Alcohol. It's been a while.
They get back to their place around one in the morning. Dean only had a couple beers in all, since it was only economical, and anyway he hasn't been drinking in a bit, had to keep sharp enough for that card game. Sam had a couple too, which is great, Dean tells him. "You gotta relax after a week of work, Sam, come on, just have one more" - of course Sam ignored him eventually, knowing his limit to safely drive them back.
Sam's tired, sure, and so is Dean. Dean feels stretched and warmed up, like he wants to go all night. He knows this feeling, like when he wants to go home with a woman, continue the night elsewhere. There's that warmth jumping under his skin to get out of the bar, do something, not necessarily in that order.
Of course this cast wasn't going to get him any action and he didn't really see any he wanted - fact he wasn't even looking -, but he can't help his feeling of excitement. First time really getting out in weeks, and not playing it up to win big money, not gearing up to or down from a fight - low-key, just hanging out.
Dean's babbling about Sam's pool game, like he'd have anything to really say about it that Sam didn't already know because he was there, and Dean's telling stories in the age old tradition of stuff they both already know - old memories of people they duped who really walked right into that one, they deserved what was coming to them they were just so gullible, and Sam's snickering at their own antics, too late to disapprove so he might as well laugh.
Dean's sitting on the couch, Sam is walking back and forth across the living room. He gets them both glasses of water because he is always that guy, till he really goes over the drunk line. Which, really, neither of them are. They're just very very happy, and buzzed.
Dean grabs the cup mug Sam holds out and hooks his other hand around the back of Sam's knee. He doesn't think about the consequences, just wants to bring Sam and his tall self closer, trip him up a little. Sam wobbles a bit but stays upright, eyes locked on Dean.
Dean finds himself looking straight up, neck straining, as Sam's brought close with his hips kinda close to Dean's face. His neck is cricked and his throat is strained and Sam from this angle looks kinda weird, but hell - "I'd know you from any angle" he says out loud, and for some weird fucking reason Sam blushes, his face going all red at that. Without saying anything back to Dean. Without moving. Letting himself be tugged close.
Dean imagines hooking his fingers through Sam's belt loops and pulling him down closer that way. He grabs Sam's wrist. Sam's skin feels hot to the touch.
"All right, you're drunk," Sam says. "C'mon, just drink the water."
"No, I'm not drunk, I'm fine. C'mon Sam, let's stay up."
Sam looks like he doesn't know about that. "No, man, you're drunk."
Dean tugs Sam's wrist but instead of Sam overbalancing and plunking down onto the couch, he pulls back so hard it lifts Dean's ass up off the couch, has him on his heels for a split second. He lets go quick and leans back, puts a hand to his cast on instinct.
"Shit, sorry," Sam says. He starts to lean over, reaches out a hand towards Dean, and Dean hears the breath catch in his own throat. Sam stops.
Dean's gut flips.
"'S okay, I'm okay. You okay?" His throat is dry but he doesn't drink the water in his mug.
"Yeah," Sam says. "I'm just tired and I shouldn't. You shouldn't." Dean's still looking up at him, Sam still standing kinda close to look at comfortably. "Sorry," Sam says again, and he looks really sorry, horribly sorry, and then he slides his open hand gently along the side of Dean's head. The ball of his thumb slides towards the dip of Dean's temple, Sam's palm warm and solid. It feels really good. Sam combs the short hairs there between his fingers for a few seconds, and then his hand falls away, leaving Dean aching, honestly aching.
"Don't," Dean says, then swallows hard, feeling the muscles in his throat working, seeing Sam watching. "Yeah, okay, you go sleep. Thanks. For the water."
As Dean drifts off he thinks, I don't want to leave. It's a thought he's terrified of, ever since he's been feeling it, and he's been feeling it all his life. It's been enough to live with that. He doesn't know how he can live with this constant awareness of Sam's hands and how they feel on him, his shameful grasping, the want turned to yearning - doesn't know if he can live with himself, if this goes too far.
He watches Sam close all the next morning, and if Sam's avoiding his gaze or Dean's just being paranoid, he can't tell. After Sam closes the door behind him and Dean clicks the lock shut, like they've been doing for weeks now, he rolls into his little brother's bed still smelling like him and humps the mattress, eyes squeezed furiously shut, blocking out the sound of the small moans that escape him. He goes till he's on the edge of coming, then rolls over and brings himself off neatly in his hand, wipes up with his own t-shirt. There's a burning shame in his stomach, a flush on his chest, and everything is so fucking wrong but he can't help feel the flood of physical relief that rushes through him, calming him despite the recognition.
He's got to head out today, or tomorrow. It's gone far enough.
-
With his walking cast he does a load of laundry, packs his bag and vacuums the whole place with Sam's absurd bachelor vacuum cleaner. He calls Garth, who tells him about a case and when Dean says he's not looking for work just yet, offers him a bed to crash in on his houseboat. He sets steaks to thaw on the counter. He's terrified enough that he'd almost leave a note and drive away but they're in a good place. It'd kill him to throw away everything he got back over not just the past few weeks, but months.
Dean's got it worked out. He'll come visit now and then. He'll stop at Sam's between hunts. When Sam needs help moving he'll lend him a hand, and Sam's not always one to ask favors but whatever he needs, Dean'll do for him. He almost feels bad about not sticking around to be more useful... but it's clear they both need space now.
Dean's at the stove when Sam comes home. Sam looks surprised, then smiles, then admires the rest of the room. Then he notices Dean's packed bag, sitting out.
"You plannin on going somewhere?"
Dean feels the impulse to be prickly, like any other time, but he just feels sad. "Thought it was about time I gave you a break, stop taking up all your couch space." Light and joking, not too self-deprecating, it's not that big a deal.
Despite Dean's best efforts, Sam still looks mad. "When? Tonight? When were you planning on telling me any of this?"
"Jesus, Sam, I just - I got the walking cast, the pain's manageable, I'm getting restless." He shrugs, as if it's that simple. Should be. "Besides, you were busting your back taking care of me for the first couple weeks, and I'm here all the time keeping you from getting settled in. I should be driving you crazy."
"What? I'm settling in fine." Sam looks uncomfortable. "I've got jobs."
"Yeah, Sam, but what about last night? You said you were busy, but are you happy?"
Sam's mouth opens, closes. He works his jaw. "I'm doing what I want. I'm happy."
"Man, I don't think so."
"What?" Sam says again, this time defensive instead of confused.
"This place," Dean gestures. "All your second-hand crappy furniture. I get that you don't have money for fancy shit, hell I wouldn't know a thing about it, but none of this stuff matches. It doesn't fit. It's not really yours, it's not you. I've seen your room, it's emptier than a motel room. Nobody'd guess you were planning on sticking around." He turns the boiling potatoes on low and hobbles to the other side of the room, for no other reason than a need to not feel cornered in the kitchen.
Sam watches him and leans against the wall. "Guess I don't feel ready to settle in this town. If this job goes well but nothing else comes up I can still go to law school - if something else comes up it might come up somewhere else..." Sam runs a hand through his hair.
"That's what I'm saying, though. Maybe you want a normal life but what have you got? Thinking of moving but you don't know where to, and an ex you never see?"
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture Dean knows well and feels bad about. "Why the hell are you saying all this? What's it to you?"
"I want good things for you," Dean says, and feels a twinge at how selfish he's really being, what his real reasons are.
"Well you're being a real dick about it."
"Yeah, well -" Dean runs a hand over his face. "Sorry. See, I've been here too long. It's about time I get out of your hair, give us some space."
"Dean, come on, you clean the living room and make dinner and say you're in my hair? You're not - you only just got your walking cast. Just... take it easy and I can finish cooking -"
"I'm fine, Sam, geez. I already called Garth."
Sam stops. Shit. Here comes the puppydog look.
"He's got a cot on his houseboat for me, till I get my sea legs again. No hunts, not till I'm out of the cast, I know. But you gotta spend your time on your life, Sam, not on me. I owe you a huge fucking favor, and you gotta call me in on it 'cause I know you don't always like help but I wanna, you know."
Sam's doing that fish-mouth thing again for a brief moment, which Dean remembers from the hospital when he said he'd only be there a little while. Finally, he says, "Shut up, Dean, just shut up."
"What's your problem?" Dean bursts out. "You quit the job and the road, you wanted your own place, you wanted us to be apart -"
"Not that -"
"Yes, that. Come on, Sam. You wanted a break and here you go, it was good for us, but now I can't go? You're not about to jump back into shotgun and go on the road with me."
"That's what you want?" Sam asks, voice rising.
"No, not - I mean, so sue me if it is what I want, but I haven't been trying to persuade you to come me or anything because I know you just want a good thing here -"
Sam snaps at him, "Do you want you or me to finish dinner?"
"Uh." What the fuck, Sam. "Me."
"Then wake me up when it's done." And then Sam lurches into his bedroom and shuts the door. It's a loud shut, and he hears Sam rattling around in there, bouncing off the squeaking bed.
This makes no fucking sense. Dean finishes dinner while trying to figure out what the hell Sam is so mad about. He thinks about what to say and all he doesn't want to say, everything he was trying to avoid by skating out of here with just a note.
The steaks are done and the onions are fried and the potatoes boiled and mashed. Sam's stopped making noise for the last half hour and Dean hopes he got some time to calm down, maybe nap. He goes over and knocks on Sam's door.
"Hey, Sammy."
He hears the faint squeak of the bed, but before Sam replies at all the door suddenly opens and there he is standing there, in his undershirt and shorts, hair rumpled about his face. He looks more tired than sleepy, and radiates warmth and that smell, his particular Sam smell.
Dean is wrecked. He's completely fucked. He can feel all the stupid symptoms coming over him, pupils dilating, nostrils flaring, lips suddenly dry. His heart hurts. This is what he's leaving. Sam's face is barely a foot from his and he can see where the lines are starting at the corners of Sam's eyes, between his brows.
Dean was going to say something about dinner or how they're adult men who need their own space, but instead he blurts out, "You look exhausted."
"Yeah," Sam crackles. He clears his throat of sleep. "Long day. Pretty shitty." He's looking right at Dean, eyelids drooping heavy, still blinking sleep away. He's leaning against the door jamb and Dean is right there still.
"Shit," Dean says. He wipes his palms on his jeans, a nervous gesture. "Sorry about that."
"You know, Dean, you're not. You're not really." Dean's surprised, hurt. "You act like you're a huge burden around here or like you're keeping me from being normal, but I'm as normal as I'm gonna be, and you're just leaving cause you're scared. Again."
"I'm not -"
"Yes you are. You're running. I don't know what from -"
"You calling me a coward?"
"Yeah, I am!" They're leaning even closer, angry now, and Dean's taking a step into Sam's room. "If you were anybody else I'd believe you were just restless, but you're my brother, you think you can just walk in and out and I'd have no clue?"
"You don't have a fucking clue, Sam," Dean growls, jostling Sam's shoulder.
Sam takes a swipe at his hand, backs up but Dean doesn't let him get far. "Then why don't you tell me?"
"I told you! Not gonna stick around and fuck things up -"
Sam grabs Dean's upper arm. "You think you've been ruining my life this past weeks?" Dean pushes him off. "What is your problem? You weren't the only one there last night, Dean."
Dean freezes, breathing hard. He realizes he's backed Sam into his room, but Sam's still looming over him, it's not an unfair fight. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Fine. You wanna ignore it, then fine, go ahead and leave."
"Dammit, Sam," Dean growls, and now they're shoving at each other. "Don't get fucking mad when I'm trying to let you - "
Sam trips backwards onto the bed, and Dean falls onto him, a thigh between Sam's legs, struggles against the heat of his brother's body and feels Sam's dick half-hard against his hip.
It should freak him the fuck out. But all he can think of is Sam's arms under his hands, how soft his shirt is and how thin. He doesn't stop to look at Sam's eyes, just kisses him, mouth already open, dirty and moving and licking Sam's lips. Explaining, as it were, what a sick fuck Dean was and why exactly Sam needed his own space to himself and Dean should really get out of here.
Sam shudders underneath him, opens his mouth under Dean's and - jesus christ - kisses back sure and strong and solid, laving Dean's tongue against his, his mouth hot and wet. He moves as if he's the one who coaxed Dean into this.
Dean breaks off, then - "Fuck," he says, while Sam tries to reach his mouth again. "What the fuck, Sam? You're not freaking out?"
"God, Dean," and it's not the shocked tone, it's the you're so dumb smartass little brother tone. Stupidly fond. "You think I didn't see this coming?"
"I didn't fucking see it coming! You don't have to," but then Sam's kissing him, and Dean grinds involuntarily against Sam's hip. Sam lifts his outer leg to wrap around Dean, and Dean 's got Sam's arms pinned to the bed, and they kiss and bite each other's mouths, pushing and pulling, Sam hooking his leg around Dean's waist, fitting them snug together.
Dean pulls back again - "I swear to god, Sam, if you're fucking with me -"
"You think this is a joke?"
"I mean it, fuck, Sam, this isn't just - I'm being honest here." Dean leans up to look Sam in the eye. Sam's looking at him, serious too. "I don't wanna - this isn't normal, and we were getting so good, but I don't have anything here and if you want anything else -"
"I'm serious, shut up, Dean, and stop freaking out. Please." Sam leans his head up, nips Dean's lower lip, sucks it into his mouth and pulls, drags it out. Dean's all the way back to breathless by the time he's done. "You can punch me later, even, just."
"Not gonna punch you." Dean reaches down to cup Sam's thigh, right under his ass, pushing to nudge Sam up towards the head of the bed. Sam goes quick and eager, and is he serious? Dean scoots his own lame ass up the bed, then reaches out a hand to grab the waist of Sam's boxers. Sam's eyes are glued on Dean's hands, and so Dean hesitates till Sam nods, croaks "Yeah" and hurries to take them off himself. Dean sees a drip of precome clinging to them, stretching thin into a strand before it releases, dripping down onto Sam's bare thigh. Dean has the impulse to catch it with his tongue, but he's slow, so he settles for reaching a hand down and wrapping it around Sam's cock. Sam groans, "Please" and hearing Sam say please does shit to Dean so Dean ducks his head down, spreads Sam's thighs open with his hands, and moves close press his face against Sam's stomach. Awkwardly leaning on his side but too eager to give a fuck, Dean pushes his lips against the trail of Sam's hair on his belly, nudging up the t-shirt with his nose, tonguing Sam's salty skin along the trail of hairs till he gets to the base of Sam's dick. Panting hard now, Sam pushes his hand up along the side of Dean's head, cupping it just as he had the night before, and Dean hums with pleasure.
Right as he's about to open his mouth on Sam's dick, he pauses, looks up, and says, "You sure you want this?"
He does it to get a look at Sam, he admits. Half terror and half bravado, he wants to drink Sam in. That's what this has always been about. Sam doesn't disappoint, as if he could. The tips of his hair are stuck in sweaty curls to his neck and collar, his mouth is hanging open in this dangerous 'o' shape. Dean wants to watch that mouth do terrible things to him. Sam's staring at him, eyes dark and wide.
"Fuck, Dean," Sam says, gasping. "Isn't it a little late?"
"I mean," croaks Dean, throat dry. "You really want me to blow you? I'm your brother. You want this, this incest thing?"
Sam groans and closes his eyes, pushes Dean's head involuntarily and grips his own thigh with white fingers. "Please, please" he pants. The sight of Dean's little brother all twisted up and flushed like this, over him, the temptation he's just laid out - it makes the heat pool and coil in his belly again, sends a rush straight to his head.
"I slept in here after you left every day this week," he says, settling down onto his stomach the way he's used to in Sam's bed now. Sam is downright panting at his words. "I jerked myself off here this morning with my face in your pillow. Smelled like you."
"You - fucking tease," Sam grits out, and Dean can't help but grin. "If you're not gonna -" The rest of his words are cut off by a gasp, as Dean sucks the head of Sam's cock into his mouth, tonguing the underside. The taste of it is a bitter, bleachy shock, the smell of come familiar but Sam's is different - Sam's - his face so close to the dark musk of his brother's groin, and Dean shudders. Sam is making these breathy moans that draw out long when Dean tongues his slit, sounds Dean would associate with someone much younger, and boy does that twist his gut and key him up. His mind goes blank for a second with how blindingly hot this shit is, and with that he sucks Sam down as far as he can go.
With saliva and Sam's precome dripping down from his mouth he uses his hand at the base to pump Sam's cock, resting his forearms against Sam's thighs, the bed, nearly faceplanting as he gets a rhythm going with Sam's hips. Sam's not pushing his head down but the warm weight of his hand moves down to the back of Dean's neck, slides over to his shoulder where it grabs tight and kneads. Dean's jaw aches. He's not exactly used to this but he gets the idea. Sam's grip tightens soon, and Dean knows his brother's going to come, the stutter and irregular force of Sam's thrusts giving way to long, guttural moans from Sam, to "Fuck, Dean - fuck, fuck, Dean, gonna come" - hearing his name jerking rough out of Sam like that shoots lust through Dean's belly to his dick, which is pressed hard against the mattress.
Sam nudges Dean away with his hand, then removes it from Dean's shoulder, choking out a sound as he comes right into Dean's mouth, and Dean sucks Sam off all the way, and swallows.
"Are you serious?" Sam asks. Dean doesn't know what he's talking about, it's a little late to be questioning that move.
"I'm all in, Sammy," Dean smirks, raising an eyebrow.
Sam laughs at that, then before Dean can get a handle on it he grabs at Dean, gets an arm around his shoulders and another around his waist, and rolls him over and onto his back before Dean can complain about being handled. Dean's dick lifts from the bed jutting hard into the air, bobbing and drooling. He's got a mess of precome stuck to the sheets where he lay, a thick string of it between his dick and the bed, and the cool air hits his smeared-wet belly. Sam's looking at him, and he looks fucking eager. Hell.
Sam crawls down to put his own face near Dean's dick and Dean's head jerks back, eyes rolling. He doesn't know why he can't handle this but he nearly can't - "You don't have to" he blurts - and then the heavy round head of his cock swings against Sam's cheek, then taps his jaw, and it's the hottest thing Dean could never have possibly imagined.
Sam's eyes are dark and narrow down there, and Dean sees his grin flash at the choking gasp Dean makes when Sam presses his face against Dean's dick again. Dean puts a hand in Sam's hair and strokes, doesn't push, just strokes, and Sam makes a low content noise in his throat at that.
Sam rubs his face on Dean's dick and it makes Dean wanna die. Before Dean can come just from that, he moves down, licking his tongue all over Dean's balls, leaving them wet with spit. He moves at what feels like a glacial pace from there back up Dean's shaft in long stripes, till Dean is shaking on his back, hands cramped in aching claws from trying to dig them into the mattress.
Finally Sam's hot wet mouth sucks tight and hot around the head, one of his hands around the base and shaft, the other cupping Dean's ass with a finger pushing towards Dean's asshole. He clenches and tenses and bucks, and Sam sucks, and he comes like hell as Sam pulls off, getting some of Dean's come around his mouth.
Dean, still quivering, reaches a finger out to wipe the come off Sam's lip. Sam's mouth drops open at his touch, and as Dean sees it, he knows he can trust this, this is what he's been looking for.
-
-
EPILOGUE
-
-
Dean's really fucking into it, okay - this, the not-splitting-up thing, the making out thing, the fucking thing - because he's really into Sam and he's spent a lot of time thinking about forbidden closeness and shit. And yet Sam is so fucking calm, back to not saying things like "you can't go now", not because he's afraid of Dean proving him wrong and turning tail, but because he can wait and see. Really takes things as they come.
Dean realizes this thing they have, domestic and insanely intimate, isn't something Sam's afraid of wanting. Sam's made some peace here, and it takes his breath away how calm he can be about this. Dean both doesn't understand it and aches to have a real role in this life. It's still hard for him.
In his head, Sam's the fussy one who wants to talk about shit, but now he's just taking this all in stride. Dean doesn't know how it isn't driving Sam crazy.
"How is this not driving you crazy?" he asks, and Sam shrugs, says "It's too much work to worry about it."
"So you just decided you don't wanna worry?"
"Yeah."
"Easy as pie?"
Sam chuckles. "Wow, you are so not easy," which Dean snorts at. "But it's okay. Everthing's okay."
Dean doesn't want to say What about when I'm better and on the road again, will it be easy then? Or will this just be over? Will it go back to before where I visit sometimes, and we watch football and drink beer, and we ignore each others' arms on the back of the couch? The thought of returning to hunting for Dean feels, as always in life, like an inevitability. It goes best when he doesn't think of it at all.
And of course, while Dean does mental and emotional gymnastics, Sam's just making his bed, and Dean's leaning against the door frame, taking all the worry up for himself. Figures Sam would be unreasonably calm about this.
Dean watches Sam silently till Sam notices, and keeps watching as Sam silently lets him. Dean's stir-crazy is going to get worse before it gets better, but at the end of the day, Sam is where he wants to be - on the couch, next to Dean, probably cupping the back of his head and kissing him absurdly, insanely slowly.
-
Sam suggests that once the cast comes off, Dean should stave off boredom by getting some kind of job, one that'll let him heal fully before he puts more stress on the leg - "unlike last time," Sam emphasizes, and Dean just glares: "We're not gonna talk about whose fault that was".
Construction is a relatively rough job for a man just bouncing back from an injury, especially when it comes to standing. Dean ends up finding luck when he recognizes the guy who owns the closest non-foreign-car garage as the man whose family they saved six months ago.
"Yeah, we moved - wanted to be closer to family, you know, appreciate the good things. Life is short."
"You're telling me," Dean says, smiles big and genuine. "Just got back on this leg, had a real close call. You don't wanna hear about it."
"As long as you're not in town because there's any trouble..."
"No, no, nothing like that. I'm doing the same thing you are. Maybe not retiring but laying low a while. Family."
Rick looks at him, and nods in approval. "Well, I can do you this favor - you willing to come on part-time? I know it's not much..."
"Good, part time is good. Not aching too hard for money." Dean doesn't say "two incomes", is used to being secretive about how he gets money but secretive is different from closeted - well, if they're sticking around maybe he's nervous about what people think he and Sam are.
Basically just the same, is what they are - Dean comes home, Sam's making burgers in a pan on the stove, they watch each other and nudge each other, and though sometimes they just don't do anything, some nights Sam straddles Dean on the couch, or Dean follows Sam into his bedroom without Sam saying anything. Things get so much better after Dean loses the cast.
They aren't buying less shitty furniture or whatever still because Sam is intent on moving as soon as he finds the right place to move, so the apartment doesn't really feel more like a home except that Dean starts feeling more used to it. They're getting a bigger bed though, because this one is too small to sleep in, and the couch is becoming truly miserable.
Still, their direction feels uncertain, despite Dean's newly-affirmed devotion to his brother. Their refusal to talk about the future shows the aggressive allowances Sam is making for Dean's restlessness, and Dean isn't sure he can keep himself away from hunting forever.
Then one day, Dean sees a pathetic little dog, big paws and short nose putting it at six months at most, dripping wet hanging out outside of the garage. The owner says he's never seen it before, and the thing looks half-starved, no collar. The garage isn't in a residential area, so Dean takes it to the vet, where a young woman (not Amelia - Dean's gonna be honest, he felt a little scared at that prospect) tells him there's no chip on the dog either.
So Dean feeds the dog the second half of his sandwich, puts him in the back seat of the Impala, and takes him home.
"Sorry I didn't give you any warning, Sam, but I've got a friend here - you think we can get dinner for one more?"
When he pokes his head around the corner from the kitchen and sees the wiggling wet doberman mix Dean has in his arms, Sam's face is priceless.
This entry was originally posted at http://zempasuchil.dreamwidth.org/279649.html.
At the three-week mark, Dean gets a walking cast. Sam drives him there but he fights Dean on driving home - "your foot is three times the size of the pedal, you can't drive like that" - for which Dean extracts a tax of "all right, but I'm making dinner."
"You drive a tough bargain," Sam smirks.
"I'm not putting up with any more of your rabbit food. We're going to the store and getting some meat and potatoes. Every kind of meat."
So they do. Dean mans the grocery cart, Sam does the running around, and the menu for the night is hamburgers with grilled onions and barbeque sauce. Sam wolfs his, hungry but also surprised at the fact that Dean can cook.
"Dude, I know how to do hamburgers. Most basic thing, really. You act like I never had a kitchen."
Sam's eyebrows raise, but he doesn't say anything, mostly because his mouth is full of his second burger. Dean chews his slower and frankly basks in the attention.
"I should keep you around," Sam says when they're leaning back on the couch, full stomachs. "You can have dinner ready when I come back from work. A couple more weeks ought to pay me back for taking care of your gimpy ass."
"Do I look like June Cleaver to you?"
Sam snorts, and turns on the TV. It's one of the Terminator movies. Good enough.
"So how's settling in going?"
"... Huh?" Sam blinks, then turns away from the TV to look at Dean. "Fine, why?"
"Cause you almost always come home at the same time. And you never tell me about friends or anyone you meet." He sounds more and more like a worried mother of a teenager the more he says, but Dean soldiers on. "I mean I know I'm an embarrassment and all, can't bring anyone home, but you don't even go out. Aren't you trying to get a normal life?"
"Sure," says Sam. "I've got jobs. I'm doing what I'm interested in." He comes around the corner within Dean's eyesight.
"But, didn't you want to stay here to be friends with Amelia?" Sam makes a strained face. Dean's gotta ask him about that later. "And get a social support group or whatever? One happy hour with the coworkers isn't going to kill you. I'm not asking you to take me or anything."
"I dunno, Dean..."
"Dude, if you're doing this because you're afraid I'm gonna fall and break my other leg while you're gone, you're dumb and you're sabotaging your career."
Sam's eyes are wide.
"You can't believe I'm encouraging you, I know."
"Shut up," says Sam, his voice fond.
Dean makes a face that's suppose to convey his offense that Sam would have thought otherwise, that Sam thinks he's so selfish. But really, he is selfish. Trying like hell not to be, but what else do you call someone who crawls into his brother's bed and smells his shirts and stays on his couch even with crutch mobility?
Sam says, "Thanks, yeah, okay. I'll do it. Tomorrow night."
Dean holds him to it. When Sam comes back Friday night at 7:30, a bit later than normal but hardly partying, Dean looks up from his telenovela.
"Whoa. Happy hour not so happy?"
Sam looks down around the mouth. He shrugs. "Yeah. I know schmoozing's all part of the gig, but... those guys are kinda tools."
Dean feels a little bad for Sam, but a little pleased at his own luck. "Let's go out tonight, okay? Obviously you can't get drunk if you're gonna drive our asses home, but there's gotta be some place with pool. We could have a good time. Whaddaya say?"
So they go.
There's not much pool to be played at first, so they have a game of cards in the corner with some other guys. Dean knows Sam's tells, and Dean's poker face sucks but he's great at grandiose bluffing. He feels more like himself, his old self, and instead of Sam growing more distant with the greater number of people and more space in the room they're closer. Like those nights they scammed at cards and cheated at pool, the two of them in cahoots. Only tonight they don't have any tricks planned. Dean likes the feel of it.
Then one of the poker guys calls for a game of pool, and Dean says "School him, Sammy." Sam does while Dean watches, living vicariously through his brother. Sam's tall and long and lean and stalking around the table occasionally he un-hunches and looks as towering as he is, and damn, it looks good on him, always did. And so what if Dean lets himself look while Sam's bent over the table, if he's appreciative it's only for the sheer familiar aesthetic spectacle of the thing, his very long brother stretched out and posing, an athlete of his own kind.
"You don't know anyone here, do you?" Dean asks Sam when he sits back down.
Sam shakes his head. "Not my side of town."
"No Amelia?"
Sam makes that face again.
"Dude, you wanna tell me what's going on there?" Dean's chest feels funny. It's awkward asking since Sam has never, ever brought her up since he first settled here.
Sam fiddles with his fingers, rubbing the blue chalk collected on the tips from the pool cues. "Nothing. I dunno. We really had something but when it came to me or her husband... she wanted it both ways, but I can't. I can't do that kind of thing. I wouldn't have wanted her to. And unfortunately the guy doesn't look too kindly on us just being friends."
"That When Harry Met Sally thing? Men and women can't be friends?"
Sam snorts. "We had a bit more than friendship going on, for almost a year, Dean. But yeah, total crap. Working's kept me busy and my mind off things."
Dean shakes his head. He's had enough to drink that he doesn't mind slapping Sam on the shoulder, and telling him "Busy ain't happy. Wish you'd get some more of that second one."
Sam quirks the corner of his mouth, looking down at his pint glass. He raises it to smile at Dean so Dean clinks his against Sam's, feeling weirdly lighter, a little more unhinged. Alcohol. It's been a while.
They get back to their place around one in the morning. Dean only had a couple beers in all, since it was only economical, and anyway he hasn't been drinking in a bit, had to keep sharp enough for that card game. Sam had a couple too, which is great, Dean tells him. "You gotta relax after a week of work, Sam, come on, just have one more" - of course Sam ignored him eventually, knowing his limit to safely drive them back.
Sam's tired, sure, and so is Dean. Dean feels stretched and warmed up, like he wants to go all night. He knows this feeling, like when he wants to go home with a woman, continue the night elsewhere. There's that warmth jumping under his skin to get out of the bar, do something, not necessarily in that order.
Of course this cast wasn't going to get him any action and he didn't really see any he wanted - fact he wasn't even looking -, but he can't help his feeling of excitement. First time really getting out in weeks, and not playing it up to win big money, not gearing up to or down from a fight - low-key, just hanging out.
Dean's babbling about Sam's pool game, like he'd have anything to really say about it that Sam didn't already know because he was there, and Dean's telling stories in the age old tradition of stuff they both already know - old memories of people they duped who really walked right into that one, they deserved what was coming to them they were just so gullible, and Sam's snickering at their own antics, too late to disapprove so he might as well laugh.
Dean's sitting on the couch, Sam is walking back and forth across the living room. He gets them both glasses of water because he is always that guy, till he really goes over the drunk line. Which, really, neither of them are. They're just very very happy, and buzzed.
Dean grabs the cup mug Sam holds out and hooks his other hand around the back of Sam's knee. He doesn't think about the consequences, just wants to bring Sam and his tall self closer, trip him up a little. Sam wobbles a bit but stays upright, eyes locked on Dean.
Dean finds himself looking straight up, neck straining, as Sam's brought close with his hips kinda close to Dean's face. His neck is cricked and his throat is strained and Sam from this angle looks kinda weird, but hell - "I'd know you from any angle" he says out loud, and for some weird fucking reason Sam blushes, his face going all red at that. Without saying anything back to Dean. Without moving. Letting himself be tugged close.
Dean imagines hooking his fingers through Sam's belt loops and pulling him down closer that way. He grabs Sam's wrist. Sam's skin feels hot to the touch.
"All right, you're drunk," Sam says. "C'mon, just drink the water."
"No, I'm not drunk, I'm fine. C'mon Sam, let's stay up."
Sam looks like he doesn't know about that. "No, man, you're drunk."
Dean tugs Sam's wrist but instead of Sam overbalancing and plunking down onto the couch, he pulls back so hard it lifts Dean's ass up off the couch, has him on his heels for a split second. He lets go quick and leans back, puts a hand to his cast on instinct.
"Shit, sorry," Sam says. He starts to lean over, reaches out a hand towards Dean, and Dean hears the breath catch in his own throat. Sam stops.
Dean's gut flips.
"'S okay, I'm okay. You okay?" His throat is dry but he doesn't drink the water in his mug.
"Yeah," Sam says. "I'm just tired and I shouldn't. You shouldn't." Dean's still looking up at him, Sam still standing kinda close to look at comfortably. "Sorry," Sam says again, and he looks really sorry, horribly sorry, and then he slides his open hand gently along the side of Dean's head. The ball of his thumb slides towards the dip of Dean's temple, Sam's palm warm and solid. It feels really good. Sam combs the short hairs there between his fingers for a few seconds, and then his hand falls away, leaving Dean aching, honestly aching.
"Don't," Dean says, then swallows hard, feeling the muscles in his throat working, seeing Sam watching. "Yeah, okay, you go sleep. Thanks. For the water."
As Dean drifts off he thinks, I don't want to leave. It's a thought he's terrified of, ever since he's been feeling it, and he's been feeling it all his life. It's been enough to live with that. He doesn't know how he can live with this constant awareness of Sam's hands and how they feel on him, his shameful grasping, the want turned to yearning - doesn't know if he can live with himself, if this goes too far.
He watches Sam close all the next morning, and if Sam's avoiding his gaze or Dean's just being paranoid, he can't tell. After Sam closes the door behind him and Dean clicks the lock shut, like they've been doing for weeks now, he rolls into his little brother's bed still smelling like him and humps the mattress, eyes squeezed furiously shut, blocking out the sound of the small moans that escape him. He goes till he's on the edge of coming, then rolls over and brings himself off neatly in his hand, wipes up with his own t-shirt. There's a burning shame in his stomach, a flush on his chest, and everything is so fucking wrong but he can't help feel the flood of physical relief that rushes through him, calming him despite the recognition.
He's got to head out today, or tomorrow. It's gone far enough.
-
With his walking cast he does a load of laundry, packs his bag and vacuums the whole place with Sam's absurd bachelor vacuum cleaner. He calls Garth, who tells him about a case and when Dean says he's not looking for work just yet, offers him a bed to crash in on his houseboat. He sets steaks to thaw on the counter. He's terrified enough that he'd almost leave a note and drive away but they're in a good place. It'd kill him to throw away everything he got back over not just the past few weeks, but months.
Dean's got it worked out. He'll come visit now and then. He'll stop at Sam's between hunts. When Sam needs help moving he'll lend him a hand, and Sam's not always one to ask favors but whatever he needs, Dean'll do for him. He almost feels bad about not sticking around to be more useful... but it's clear they both need space now.
Dean's at the stove when Sam comes home. Sam looks surprised, then smiles, then admires the rest of the room. Then he notices Dean's packed bag, sitting out.
"You plannin on going somewhere?"
Dean feels the impulse to be prickly, like any other time, but he just feels sad. "Thought it was about time I gave you a break, stop taking up all your couch space." Light and joking, not too self-deprecating, it's not that big a deal.
Despite Dean's best efforts, Sam still looks mad. "When? Tonight? When were you planning on telling me any of this?"
"Jesus, Sam, I just - I got the walking cast, the pain's manageable, I'm getting restless." He shrugs, as if it's that simple. Should be. "Besides, you were busting your back taking care of me for the first couple weeks, and I'm here all the time keeping you from getting settled in. I should be driving you crazy."
"What? I'm settling in fine." Sam looks uncomfortable. "I've got jobs."
"Yeah, Sam, but what about last night? You said you were busy, but are you happy?"
Sam's mouth opens, closes. He works his jaw. "I'm doing what I want. I'm happy."
"Man, I don't think so."
"What?" Sam says again, this time defensive instead of confused.
"This place," Dean gestures. "All your second-hand crappy furniture. I get that you don't have money for fancy shit, hell I wouldn't know a thing about it, but none of this stuff matches. It doesn't fit. It's not really yours, it's not you. I've seen your room, it's emptier than a motel room. Nobody'd guess you were planning on sticking around." He turns the boiling potatoes on low and hobbles to the other side of the room, for no other reason than a need to not feel cornered in the kitchen.
Sam watches him and leans against the wall. "Guess I don't feel ready to settle in this town. If this job goes well but nothing else comes up I can still go to law school - if something else comes up it might come up somewhere else..." Sam runs a hand through his hair.
"That's what I'm saying, though. Maybe you want a normal life but what have you got? Thinking of moving but you don't know where to, and an ex you never see?"
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture Dean knows well and feels bad about. "Why the hell are you saying all this? What's it to you?"
"I want good things for you," Dean says, and feels a twinge at how selfish he's really being, what his real reasons are.
"Well you're being a real dick about it."
"Yeah, well -" Dean runs a hand over his face. "Sorry. See, I've been here too long. It's about time I get out of your hair, give us some space."
"Dean, come on, you clean the living room and make dinner and say you're in my hair? You're not - you only just got your walking cast. Just... take it easy and I can finish cooking -"
"I'm fine, Sam, geez. I already called Garth."
Sam stops. Shit. Here comes the puppydog look.
"He's got a cot on his houseboat for me, till I get my sea legs again. No hunts, not till I'm out of the cast, I know. But you gotta spend your time on your life, Sam, not on me. I owe you a huge fucking favor, and you gotta call me in on it 'cause I know you don't always like help but I wanna, you know."
Sam's doing that fish-mouth thing again for a brief moment, which Dean remembers from the hospital when he said he'd only be there a little while. Finally, he says, "Shut up, Dean, just shut up."
"What's your problem?" Dean bursts out. "You quit the job and the road, you wanted your own place, you wanted us to be apart -"
"Not that -"
"Yes, that. Come on, Sam. You wanted a break and here you go, it was good for us, but now I can't go? You're not about to jump back into shotgun and go on the road with me."
"That's what you want?" Sam asks, voice rising.
"No, not - I mean, so sue me if it is what I want, but I haven't been trying to persuade you to come me or anything because I know you just want a good thing here -"
Sam snaps at him, "Do you want you or me to finish dinner?"
"Uh." What the fuck, Sam. "Me."
"Then wake me up when it's done." And then Sam lurches into his bedroom and shuts the door. It's a loud shut, and he hears Sam rattling around in there, bouncing off the squeaking bed.
This makes no fucking sense. Dean finishes dinner while trying to figure out what the hell Sam is so mad about. He thinks about what to say and all he doesn't want to say, everything he was trying to avoid by skating out of here with just a note.
The steaks are done and the onions are fried and the potatoes boiled and mashed. Sam's stopped making noise for the last half hour and Dean hopes he got some time to calm down, maybe nap. He goes over and knocks on Sam's door.
"Hey, Sammy."
He hears the faint squeak of the bed, but before Sam replies at all the door suddenly opens and there he is standing there, in his undershirt and shorts, hair rumpled about his face. He looks more tired than sleepy, and radiates warmth and that smell, his particular Sam smell.
Dean is wrecked. He's completely fucked. He can feel all the stupid symptoms coming over him, pupils dilating, nostrils flaring, lips suddenly dry. His heart hurts. This is what he's leaving. Sam's face is barely a foot from his and he can see where the lines are starting at the corners of Sam's eyes, between his brows.
Dean was going to say something about dinner or how they're adult men who need their own space, but instead he blurts out, "You look exhausted."
"Yeah," Sam crackles. He clears his throat of sleep. "Long day. Pretty shitty." He's looking right at Dean, eyelids drooping heavy, still blinking sleep away. He's leaning against the door jamb and Dean is right there still.
"Shit," Dean says. He wipes his palms on his jeans, a nervous gesture. "Sorry about that."
"You know, Dean, you're not. You're not really." Dean's surprised, hurt. "You act like you're a huge burden around here or like you're keeping me from being normal, but I'm as normal as I'm gonna be, and you're just leaving cause you're scared. Again."
"I'm not -"
"Yes you are. You're running. I don't know what from -"
"You calling me a coward?"
"Yeah, I am!" They're leaning even closer, angry now, and Dean's taking a step into Sam's room. "If you were anybody else I'd believe you were just restless, but you're my brother, you think you can just walk in and out and I'd have no clue?"
"You don't have a fucking clue, Sam," Dean growls, jostling Sam's shoulder.
Sam takes a swipe at his hand, backs up but Dean doesn't let him get far. "Then why don't you tell me?"
"I told you! Not gonna stick around and fuck things up -"
Sam grabs Dean's upper arm. "You think you've been ruining my life this past weeks?" Dean pushes him off. "What is your problem? You weren't the only one there last night, Dean."
Dean freezes, breathing hard. He realizes he's backed Sam into his room, but Sam's still looming over him, it's not an unfair fight. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Fine. You wanna ignore it, then fine, go ahead and leave."
"Dammit, Sam," Dean growls, and now they're shoving at each other. "Don't get fucking mad when I'm trying to let you - "
Sam trips backwards onto the bed, and Dean falls onto him, a thigh between Sam's legs, struggles against the heat of his brother's body and feels Sam's dick half-hard against his hip.
It should freak him the fuck out. But all he can think of is Sam's arms under his hands, how soft his shirt is and how thin. He doesn't stop to look at Sam's eyes, just kisses him, mouth already open, dirty and moving and licking Sam's lips. Explaining, as it were, what a sick fuck Dean was and why exactly Sam needed his own space to himself and Dean should really get out of here.
Sam shudders underneath him, opens his mouth under Dean's and - jesus christ - kisses back sure and strong and solid, laving Dean's tongue against his, his mouth hot and wet. He moves as if he's the one who coaxed Dean into this.
Dean breaks off, then - "Fuck," he says, while Sam tries to reach his mouth again. "What the fuck, Sam? You're not freaking out?"
"God, Dean," and it's not the shocked tone, it's the you're so dumb smartass little brother tone. Stupidly fond. "You think I didn't see this coming?"
"I didn't fucking see it coming! You don't have to," but then Sam's kissing him, and Dean grinds involuntarily against Sam's hip. Sam lifts his outer leg to wrap around Dean, and Dean 's got Sam's arms pinned to the bed, and they kiss and bite each other's mouths, pushing and pulling, Sam hooking his leg around Dean's waist, fitting them snug together.
Dean pulls back again - "I swear to god, Sam, if you're fucking with me -"
"You think this is a joke?"
"I mean it, fuck, Sam, this isn't just - I'm being honest here." Dean leans up to look Sam in the eye. Sam's looking at him, serious too. "I don't wanna - this isn't normal, and we were getting so good, but I don't have anything here and if you want anything else -"
"I'm serious, shut up, Dean, and stop freaking out. Please." Sam leans his head up, nips Dean's lower lip, sucks it into his mouth and pulls, drags it out. Dean's all the way back to breathless by the time he's done. "You can punch me later, even, just."
"Not gonna punch you." Dean reaches down to cup Sam's thigh, right under his ass, pushing to nudge Sam up towards the head of the bed. Sam goes quick and eager, and is he serious? Dean scoots his own lame ass up the bed, then reaches out a hand to grab the waist of Sam's boxers. Sam's eyes are glued on Dean's hands, and so Dean hesitates till Sam nods, croaks "Yeah" and hurries to take them off himself. Dean sees a drip of precome clinging to them, stretching thin into a strand before it releases, dripping down onto Sam's bare thigh. Dean has the impulse to catch it with his tongue, but he's slow, so he settles for reaching a hand down and wrapping it around Sam's cock. Sam groans, "Please" and hearing Sam say please does shit to Dean so Dean ducks his head down, spreads Sam's thighs open with his hands, and moves close press his face against Sam's stomach. Awkwardly leaning on his side but too eager to give a fuck, Dean pushes his lips against the trail of Sam's hair on his belly, nudging up the t-shirt with his nose, tonguing Sam's salty skin along the trail of hairs till he gets to the base of Sam's dick. Panting hard now, Sam pushes his hand up along the side of Dean's head, cupping it just as he had the night before, and Dean hums with pleasure.
Right as he's about to open his mouth on Sam's dick, he pauses, looks up, and says, "You sure you want this?"
He does it to get a look at Sam, he admits. Half terror and half bravado, he wants to drink Sam in. That's what this has always been about. Sam doesn't disappoint, as if he could. The tips of his hair are stuck in sweaty curls to his neck and collar, his mouth is hanging open in this dangerous 'o' shape. Dean wants to watch that mouth do terrible things to him. Sam's staring at him, eyes dark and wide.
"Fuck, Dean," Sam says, gasping. "Isn't it a little late?"
"I mean," croaks Dean, throat dry. "You really want me to blow you? I'm your brother. You want this, this incest thing?"
Sam groans and closes his eyes, pushes Dean's head involuntarily and grips his own thigh with white fingers. "Please, please" he pants. The sight of Dean's little brother all twisted up and flushed like this, over him, the temptation he's just laid out - it makes the heat pool and coil in his belly again, sends a rush straight to his head.
"I slept in here after you left every day this week," he says, settling down onto his stomach the way he's used to in Sam's bed now. Sam is downright panting at his words. "I jerked myself off here this morning with my face in your pillow. Smelled like you."
"You - fucking tease," Sam grits out, and Dean can't help but grin. "If you're not gonna -" The rest of his words are cut off by a gasp, as Dean sucks the head of Sam's cock into his mouth, tonguing the underside. The taste of it is a bitter, bleachy shock, the smell of come familiar but Sam's is different - Sam's - his face so close to the dark musk of his brother's groin, and Dean shudders. Sam is making these breathy moans that draw out long when Dean tongues his slit, sounds Dean would associate with someone much younger, and boy does that twist his gut and key him up. His mind goes blank for a second with how blindingly hot this shit is, and with that he sucks Sam down as far as he can go.
With saliva and Sam's precome dripping down from his mouth he uses his hand at the base to pump Sam's cock, resting his forearms against Sam's thighs, the bed, nearly faceplanting as he gets a rhythm going with Sam's hips. Sam's not pushing his head down but the warm weight of his hand moves down to the back of Dean's neck, slides over to his shoulder where it grabs tight and kneads. Dean's jaw aches. He's not exactly used to this but he gets the idea. Sam's grip tightens soon, and Dean knows his brother's going to come, the stutter and irregular force of Sam's thrusts giving way to long, guttural moans from Sam, to "Fuck, Dean - fuck, fuck, Dean, gonna come" - hearing his name jerking rough out of Sam like that shoots lust through Dean's belly to his dick, which is pressed hard against the mattress.
Sam nudges Dean away with his hand, then removes it from Dean's shoulder, choking out a sound as he comes right into Dean's mouth, and Dean sucks Sam off all the way, and swallows.
"Are you serious?" Sam asks. Dean doesn't know what he's talking about, it's a little late to be questioning that move.
"I'm all in, Sammy," Dean smirks, raising an eyebrow.
Sam laughs at that, then before Dean can get a handle on it he grabs at Dean, gets an arm around his shoulders and another around his waist, and rolls him over and onto his back before Dean can complain about being handled. Dean's dick lifts from the bed jutting hard into the air, bobbing and drooling. He's got a mess of precome stuck to the sheets where he lay, a thick string of it between his dick and the bed, and the cool air hits his smeared-wet belly. Sam's looking at him, and he looks fucking eager. Hell.
Sam crawls down to put his own face near Dean's dick and Dean's head jerks back, eyes rolling. He doesn't know why he can't handle this but he nearly can't - "You don't have to" he blurts - and then the heavy round head of his cock swings against Sam's cheek, then taps his jaw, and it's the hottest thing Dean could never have possibly imagined.
Sam's eyes are dark and narrow down there, and Dean sees his grin flash at the choking gasp Dean makes when Sam presses his face against Dean's dick again. Dean puts a hand in Sam's hair and strokes, doesn't push, just strokes, and Sam makes a low content noise in his throat at that.
Sam rubs his face on Dean's dick and it makes Dean wanna die. Before Dean can come just from that, he moves down, licking his tongue all over Dean's balls, leaving them wet with spit. He moves at what feels like a glacial pace from there back up Dean's shaft in long stripes, till Dean is shaking on his back, hands cramped in aching claws from trying to dig them into the mattress.
Finally Sam's hot wet mouth sucks tight and hot around the head, one of his hands around the base and shaft, the other cupping Dean's ass with a finger pushing towards Dean's asshole. He clenches and tenses and bucks, and Sam sucks, and he comes like hell as Sam pulls off, getting some of Dean's come around his mouth.
Dean, still quivering, reaches a finger out to wipe the come off Sam's lip. Sam's mouth drops open at his touch, and as Dean sees it, he knows he can trust this, this is what he's been looking for.
-
-
EPILOGUE
-
-
Dean's really fucking into it, okay - this, the not-splitting-up thing, the making out thing, the fucking thing - because he's really into Sam and he's spent a lot of time thinking about forbidden closeness and shit. And yet Sam is so fucking calm, back to not saying things like "you can't go now", not because he's afraid of Dean proving him wrong and turning tail, but because he can wait and see. Really takes things as they come.
Dean realizes this thing they have, domestic and insanely intimate, isn't something Sam's afraid of wanting. Sam's made some peace here, and it takes his breath away how calm he can be about this. Dean both doesn't understand it and aches to have a real role in this life. It's still hard for him.
In his head, Sam's the fussy one who wants to talk about shit, but now he's just taking this all in stride. Dean doesn't know how it isn't driving Sam crazy.
"How is this not driving you crazy?" he asks, and Sam shrugs, says "It's too much work to worry about it."
"So you just decided you don't wanna worry?"
"Yeah."
"Easy as pie?"
Sam chuckles. "Wow, you are so not easy," which Dean snorts at. "But it's okay. Everthing's okay."
Dean doesn't want to say What about when I'm better and on the road again, will it be easy then? Or will this just be over? Will it go back to before where I visit sometimes, and we watch football and drink beer, and we ignore each others' arms on the back of the couch? The thought of returning to hunting for Dean feels, as always in life, like an inevitability. It goes best when he doesn't think of it at all.
And of course, while Dean does mental and emotional gymnastics, Sam's just making his bed, and Dean's leaning against the door frame, taking all the worry up for himself. Figures Sam would be unreasonably calm about this.
Dean watches Sam silently till Sam notices, and keeps watching as Sam silently lets him. Dean's stir-crazy is going to get worse before it gets better, but at the end of the day, Sam is where he wants to be - on the couch, next to Dean, probably cupping the back of his head and kissing him absurdly, insanely slowly.
-
Sam suggests that once the cast comes off, Dean should stave off boredom by getting some kind of job, one that'll let him heal fully before he puts more stress on the leg - "unlike last time," Sam emphasizes, and Dean just glares: "We're not gonna talk about whose fault that was".
Construction is a relatively rough job for a man just bouncing back from an injury, especially when it comes to standing. Dean ends up finding luck when he recognizes the guy who owns the closest non-foreign-car garage as the man whose family they saved six months ago.
"Yeah, we moved - wanted to be closer to family, you know, appreciate the good things. Life is short."
"You're telling me," Dean says, smiles big and genuine. "Just got back on this leg, had a real close call. You don't wanna hear about it."
"As long as you're not in town because there's any trouble..."
"No, no, nothing like that. I'm doing the same thing you are. Maybe not retiring but laying low a while. Family."
Rick looks at him, and nods in approval. "Well, I can do you this favor - you willing to come on part-time? I know it's not much..."
"Good, part time is good. Not aching too hard for money." Dean doesn't say "two incomes", is used to being secretive about how he gets money but secretive is different from closeted - well, if they're sticking around maybe he's nervous about what people think he and Sam are.
Basically just the same, is what they are - Dean comes home, Sam's making burgers in a pan on the stove, they watch each other and nudge each other, and though sometimes they just don't do anything, some nights Sam straddles Dean on the couch, or Dean follows Sam into his bedroom without Sam saying anything. Things get so much better after Dean loses the cast.
They aren't buying less shitty furniture or whatever still because Sam is intent on moving as soon as he finds the right place to move, so the apartment doesn't really feel more like a home except that Dean starts feeling more used to it. They're getting a bigger bed though, because this one is too small to sleep in, and the couch is becoming truly miserable.
Still, their direction feels uncertain, despite Dean's newly-affirmed devotion to his brother. Their refusal to talk about the future shows the aggressive allowances Sam is making for Dean's restlessness, and Dean isn't sure he can keep himself away from hunting forever.
Then one day, Dean sees a pathetic little dog, big paws and short nose putting it at six months at most, dripping wet hanging out outside of the garage. The owner says he's never seen it before, and the thing looks half-starved, no collar. The garage isn't in a residential area, so Dean takes it to the vet, where a young woman (not Amelia - Dean's gonna be honest, he felt a little scared at that prospect) tells him there's no chip on the dog either.
So Dean feeds the dog the second half of his sandwich, puts him in the back seat of the Impala, and takes him home.
"Sorry I didn't give you any warning, Sam, but I've got a friend here - you think we can get dinner for one more?"
When he pokes his head around the corner from the kitchen and sees the wiggling wet doberman mix Dean has in his arms, Sam's face is priceless.
This entry was originally posted at http://zempasuchil.dreamwidth.org/279649.html.