SPN Fic: Keepsake (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
Title: Keepsake
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sam has a plan.
Notes: Written for
fluffandfold, for the prompt Sam wants a picture of he and Dean together. 5,400 words.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
They aren’t the type of family to collect mementos. Sam knows that. The only permanent storage they had while he was growing up, after all, was a car, and the Impala’s limited space was reserved only for the essentials: the three of them and supplies to keep them alive. Hell, even the few frivolous items they did hang onto weren’t the normal childhood remnants - it says a lot about their life that John chose to preserve his twelve-year-old son’s first sawed-off rather than a Father’s Day card drawn in messy crayon or a pointless, leaning popsicle stick sculpture. The few photos they do have are from the early days, probably Mom’s doing, and as far as Sam knows, the only pictures taken of him or Dean since have been for fake IDs or mugshots, not to celebrate any occasion.
It doesn’t bother him. Well, not really. He did like that picture he kept on his dresser at Stanford - it was the only picture where he’d seen his father look truly happy, after all, and it was the only picture he’d ever seen of his mother - but it became just another thing he’d lost to a fire, and the least of those he wanted back. It was nice to find those photos at the old house in Lawrence, so that he could share some of the memories that had been solely Dean’s, but in the end, they were just moments in time, moments long gone by, and he had a future to worry about.
So, yeah, their family wasn’t the type to have meticulous scrapbooks documenting every first day of school or birthday or Christmas. It might have bothered Sam a little as a kid, when he would have given anything to have a mom to do those normal things, but not now, not when he and Dean are all that’s left and all the history they have wouldn’t fit into a few frames, anyway, too complicated and convoluted to be neatly pasted on a page.
So he doesn’t even think of it until one evening when Dean pulls another stupid move, earning himself a night in the local drunk tank for some disorderly behavior at a bar, and loses his one phone call after he uses some choice names to describe the girl he got in a fight over - the girl who just happens to be the deputy’s daughter. Sam has to go through the town on foot the next morning, describing his brother at every likely-looking establishment, and he gets a few raised eyebrows at his description - “blondish-brownish hair, brownish-greenish eyes, kinda short?” - and after his dozenth inquiry, it occurs to him that the process could have been greatly streamlined if he just had a picture of Dean. When he finally gets a lead and springs his brother out of jail (where nobody has bothered to actually run his name - god bless lazy employees), he mentions it to Dean.
Dean looks at him like he’s crazy. “Yeah, there’s a reason for that, Sam,” he says, exchanging smoky, beer-soaked clothes for fresh ones at a rest stop a few miles out of town. “I’m a wanted felon, it’s not really a good idea for me to have my face all over someone’s film.”
“I’m not suggesting you pose for a centerfold,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “Just that it would be convenient for me to have your picture, in case of emergencies. It’s not like the FBI doesn’t know I’m your partner in crime, after all. Your picture in my wallet isn’t going to be the one piece of evidence that takes me down.”
But Dean isn’t even listening, gone at the mention of a centerfold. He grins, tongue sliding over his bottom lip in blissful contemplation. “I’d totally do Playgirl,” he says dreamily. He snaps his fingers. “Or one of those naked fireman charity calendars. That’d be the best pickup line ever - ‘Hi, I’m Mr. December, and I want to make all of your holiday wishes come true.’” He gives Sam a smile that’s more smarmy than seductive. “Have you been nice or very, very naughty?”
Sam doesn’t really know whether to be disgusted or amazed that Dean has ever gotten laid. He settles for shaking his head.
“What?” Dean asks. “They use the money from those calendars for good causes.”
“It warms my heart that you’re willing to get naked for charity,” Sam says. “But can we get back to the actual issue here?”
“Download my mugshot from the FBI database,” Dean says shortly, tossing his duffel back into the car. “Problem solved.”
“Right, because waving a freaking mugshot around town isn’t suspicious,” Sam points out. “Come on, I just want something I can show people when I have to rescue your ass from the next drunk tank.”
“No, you want to put a picture of me in your wallet like I’m your girlfriend,” Dean counters. “And I really don’t like it when people take pictures of me, so the answer is no.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Sam says. “I want to put a picture of you in my wallet like you’re my boyfriend.”
Dean glares over the roof of the Impala.
“Okay, okay,” Sam relents. “How about we take a picture of the both of us?”
“Still no.”
“Dean - “
“No pictures. Let it go.” Dean’s door slams when he gets in the car.
* * *
And normally Sam might, but now that he’s thinking about it, he really does want a picture of the two of them. It suddenly seems ridiculous that they’ve spent almost their entire lives together, and yet there isn’t a single piece of visual evidence to support that fact that’s not surveillance footage or crime scene reports in some warehouse somewhere.
Sam doesn’t have a single memory of his mom while she was alive, but looking at her smiling face in that picture had at least kept her face fresh in his mind. And it’s not like Dean’s going to die soon - Sam got him out of his deal, and he plans on keeping Dean’s face right in front of him for many more years to come - but the two of them operate outside the law, behind the scenes, and under the radar, and Sam suddenly wants proof that they were here, they were real, they were together.
And it doesn’t help that Dean gave him a flat-out no, because when Dean orders him not to do something with only a flimsy excuse for why not, it just makes Sam all the more determined to do it. He’ll just have to be stealthy.
The first thing he needs, obviously, is a camera. He lets Dean loose in the food court of a mall not far from their next motel, then ditches him just long enough to grab the most popular model from an electronics store. Dean doesn’t even miss him, completely enraptured by so much fast food in a small area, and Sam reads the instruction manual at the table while Dean works through his taco, sub, fried chicken, and spring rolls.
Dean threatens to smash the thing when Sam takes it out at the motel and tries a few practice shots, but Sam keeps it pointed away from him, taking random snaps of scenery and furniture instead, and he subsides with a scowl.
Over the next few days, Sam accumulates dozens of pictures of trees, buildings, and blurred countryside, anything to convince Dean his sudden interest in photography is due to his life as a glorified tourist, not his newfound desire to capture his brother on film. He knows he’s got Dean lulled into a false sense of security when he doesn’t even blink when Sam whips out the camera (and even suggests the best angle for a shot of the Impala), and that’s when Sam puts his real plan in action.
He keeps framing careful shots of the scenery, but every time Dean’s the slightest bit distracted, Sam’s hands just happen to shift until his brother gets caught in the edge of the viewscreen. And it’s not his fault when the camera goes off in the car, while he’s innocently fiddling with the settings while facing the driver’s side. And it’s not a crime to take a picture of himself in front of a historical landmark - how could he possibly have known Dean was standing behind him?
But it turns out Dean has some innate knack for avoiding the camera lens, and Sam ends up with a half dozen pictures of the back of his head, a few of his blurry profile, and one of his ass (and it’s not even a good one). It’d be nice if Dean could have the same innate knack for avoiding the FBI, or the police, or trouble, or something.
But Sam’s not giving up that easy. The camera has a self-timer function, so every time Dean turns his back, he stashes it somewhere and then makes an excuse to stand right next to his brother. But it’s next to impossible to make Dean look at the hidden camera without giving it away, and it turns out it’s really fucking hard to get the angle just right, so Sam ends up with several pictures of their knees, arms, or hair.
He thinks he’s got a foolproof plan when he sticks the camera behind the napkinholder at a diner when Dean’s in the bathroom and then slides into the booth next to Dean when he returns, casually scratching his head before letting his arm drop down along the back of the seat. Dean turns to give him his what-the-fuck eyebrow, just as the camera makes that little tch sound Sam hasn’t figured out how to turn off yet, and before Sam can even formulate a plausible excuse, Dean shoves him out of the booth and onto the floor.
It’s a bitch to spend hours in a car with a bruised ass, especially when Dean purposefully takes them over speed bumps and down gravel roads, so that pretty much puts an end to that plan.
Sam makes one more halfhearted attempt, but when Dean rolls over and says groggily, “Dude, what the fuck? Are you taking pictures of me while I’m sleeping?” even Sam has to admit he’s getting kind of desperate and perverted and it might be time to stop.
Dean, on the other hand, looks interested. “Hey, does that thing have video on it?”
Sam blinks. “Yeah, I think.”
Dean grins and licks his lips, looking down at Sam’s sheet-covered lap, then raises his eyebrows. “Want to film a little documentary?”
“Are you kidding me?” Sam demands. “You won’t let me take a picture of you, but you’re willing to record yourself giving head?”
“Naked for a good cause,” Dean reminds him. “What, you don’t want to know what you look like when you come?”
“Uh, not really.”
“Let me rephrase that,” Dean says, leaning closer so his words are warm puffs of air against Sam’s neck. “You don’t want to know what I look like with your cock shoved down my throat? You fucking my mouth and me taking it, taking all of you?”
“Jesus,” Sam sputters.
Dean grins and grabs the camera.
* * *
Incredibly hot, as it turns out, is how Dean looks when doing all of the aforementioned things. Sam’s used to seeing the show from above, at least until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore, and while that’s definitely worth watching, the digital version is so impossibly hot it’s practically scorching.
The camera is zoomed in on Dean’s head, every lick, suck, and swallow visible in the grainy picture as he drives Sam crazy, working his cock down his throat one minute, and pulling back to swirl his tongue around the head the next.
It’s kind of embarrassing to hear the noises Sam makes, and he was right, he looks like a total idiot when he comes, but watching Dean do that to him while the sense memory is still fresh in his mind is intoxicating, and the video’s barely finished before he’s tackling Dean back down onto the bed. Dean’s been busy while Sam was watching, and it’s only a second before slick fingers are teasing at his entrance, circling and pushing in. Dean grabs the camera again, just after Sam lowers himself onto his cock, and Sam doesn’t have the spare brainpower to protest.
An hour later, the camera’s memory card is completely taken up by sex videos, and although Sam now knows what Dean’s cock looks like disappearing into him (again, impossibly hot), he’s no closer to having a picture of the two of them together. Or at least, one that’s not X-rated.
He’s not giving up, though.
* * *
Since looking at the camera after that incident results in an embarrassing physical reaction, Sam decides to give that part of his plan a rest. There are other ways to get pictures of him and Dean together.
One morning he prods Dean awake earlier than usual and promises they’re going for coffee before pushing him out to the car. He detours to a local mall, dragging a bleary, half-asleep Dean inside with a story about an awesome coffee shop, and just when Dean’s shuffling along complacently, Sam takes a sudden sharp turn.
The photobooth is way too small for the both of them, and there’s only one stool, so Dean ends up half on Sam’s lap while Sam stuffs quarters into the machine. Dean wakes up a little when Sam pulls him closer, and he takes one look around him before saying, “Oh, fuck no,” and kicking Sam in the shin while bailing.
Three minutes later, he nearly falls over laughing when the machine spits out a strip with five stunning frames of the bitchface. Sam “accidentally” spills hot coffee all over him at breakfast, and takes some satisfaction from Dean’s pathetic attempts at his own pissy expression.
* * *
He drags Dean into an amusement park in Oklahoma, figuring at this point even one of those open-mouthed shots of them on the rollercoaster will suffice, because the two of them will at least be in the frame together.
But Dean insists on eating three bags of cotton candy before they even get to the rides, and when they’re belted in and grinding up the incline, he gets a funny look on his face and says, “I don’t feel so good.”
When the cars come back into the station, Sam doesn’t bother going to look at the picture, but when he comes out of the bathroom, Dean’s holding a copy of it, laughing. Sam takes a brief glance at it - Dean is smiling, the bastard, apparently unconcerned that Sam, next to him, is scowling and covered in blue-tinted puke.
“There, now you’ve got a picture of us together,” Dean says happily.
Sam thinks it’s only fair when he tries to smother Dean with his damp, smelly shirt.
* * *
Sam comes upon his best plan, somewhat appropriately, while making out with Dean. He doesn’t usually do a lot of thinking beyond yes, God, more when he and Dean are in bed, but at this particular moment they’re not in a bed - they’re not even in private. Dean has Sam pushed up against the passenger door of the Impala, fingers hooked in his belt loops, and he’s licking lazily into Sam’s mouth for absolutely no reason, just a good morning kiss at the gas station before they get back on the road.
A woman at the next pump is unabashedly staring, the nozzle dangling in her hand, and Sam thinks irritably, take a goddamned picture, it’ll last longer. And that’s when inspiration hits.
When they stop for the night, Sam suggests they head out for a drink, and Dean, though surprised, agrees. He doesn’t even notice when Sam slips away for a second and puts his plan in motion.
Dean does ask why Sam’s smiling so much, somewhere after their third beers, but Sam just says he’s in a good mood, which is true, and slings an arm around Dean’s shoulders like he’s a little drunk already. Dean raises an eyebrow, but he bumps Sam gently with his shoulder and smiles back.
That is, until he sees something over Sam’s shoulder and his smile drops completely off his face. “Sam, don’t move,” he says tersely. “We’ve got trouble.”
Before Sam can even ask what’s going on, Dean ducks his arm and starts off across the bar, strides quick and angry. When Sam sees where he’s heading, he barely has time to say, “Oh, shit” with feeling before he’s chasing after.
Dean’s got the girl’s arm in a tight grip by the time he gets there, and he’s hissing questions in her ear, low demands to know who she is, how she knows who they are, who she’s working for.
The girl looks terrified, shaking and protesting.
“Dean, don’t,” Sam pleads, trying to pull Dean back. “Just leave her, she’s not - “
“She was taking pictures of us,” Dean growls, not loosening his hold. “I’m not going to let her hand those over to the local PD.” He smiles at the girl, all sharp edges. “You looking to collect some reward money, sweetheart? Sorry, not going to happen.”
The girl’s eyes get wider at the mention of the police, and she starts stammering something about not wanting any money. Sam tries to reassure her with his eyes, but from the glare he gets in return, it’s not working.
People are looking at them now, with Dean forcibly holding a pretty girl’s arm, and Sam says desperately, “Just let her go, Dean, we’ll erase the pictures off the camera.”
Dean shakes his head. “Not good enough.” He takes the camera from the girl’s wrist and throws it on the floor, stomping on it with his boot. “You never saw us, you got that?” he growls. She nods, and he drops her arm. “Sam, come on, we’re leaving.”
Sam mouths sorry at the girl, but she glares at him like he’s some kind of serial killer before getting the hell out of there.
Sam sighs and fishes the memory card out of the pile of camera parts on the floor. Dean never listened to Sam about which parts of machines actually needed to be broken to render them inoperable, thank god, but the camera’s a total loss.
Dean tosses a twenty on the bar to cover their drinks, then drags Sam out to the car. “Come on, we’ve got to get the motel room wiped down and get out of here,” he says, gunning the engine. “We should probably ditch the card we used for the room, too, just in case she did ID us.”
“Dean, I don’t think she had any idea who we were,” Sam says, feeling horribly guilty. “She was probably just taking pictures for a photography class, or something.”
“Well, then she’s kind of a pervert,” Dean says. “Taking pictures of us without us knowing. She deserved it.”
“She did not!”
“You probably just wanted a copy,” Dean says.
Sam can’t answer that one without giving himself away, so he settles for scowling.
* * *
So, the plan is pretty fucked after Dean smashes the camera, but Sam gives it one last try, because he really is that sad and desperate. He buys another camera on the Internet, has it shipped to one of their P.O. boxes, and picks it up the next time they swing through Kansas. This phase of the plan actually requires more work than all the stealth from earlier - Sam has to steal that stupid picture of them on the rollercoaster from Dean’s duffel, scan it at a library, and then email the picture to himself. It’s the only decent picture he has of Dean, and Dean’s even smiling, so it should work okay. The next requirement is a picture of himself, and he waits until Dean’s in the shower to position himself in front of a blank wall and set the self-timer.
Unfortunately, Dean comes back out to grab a clean pair of boxers, and when he catches Sam sitting on the bed with his arm out to his side, he stops and says, “Uh, Sam? What are you doing?”
Sam gives him some bullshit answer about stretches or yoga or something for his shoulder, but then the damned camera goes off, and Dean gets a huge grin on his face, like Christmas has come early and his present is a lifetime’s worth of blackmail material.
“Go ahead,” Sam says sourly, waving a hand. “I can see it’s killing you to hold yourself back, so let it out. Mock away.”
“No, no,” Dean says, smirking. “I’m just happy for you. You didn’t tell me Fernando had come back.”
“Fernando?” Sam asks blankly.
“Yeah, your imaginary friend,” Dean says. “Don’t you remember? He came everywhere with us when you were five. You used to whisper stuff to him all the time.”
Sam has no recollection of any of this, but from the way Dean’s beaming, it has to be true.
“Drove Dad crazy,” Dean goes on. “You used to make all these self-important little announcements, and then blame them on Fernando.” He puts on a falsetto. “‘Fernando thinks Des Moines is boring.’ ‘Fernando wants to sleep in a motel, not the car.’ ‘Fernando doesn’t like hotdogs. His mom makes him meatloaf whenever he wants it.’ And then you told us that Fernando thought the car was ugly, Dad really loved that.”
Sam blushes, because it’s bad enough to find out he had to invent himself a friend when he was little (and that he was apparently an ABBA fan), but even worse, he doesn’t have a better explanation for Dean that won’t give him away. He settles for “Whatever, fuck you,” but Dean just grins like it’s better than every single damn holiday wrapped up together.
He refuses to drop the whole imaginary friend thing, overjoyed at so much mocking potential, and at the next restaurant they stop at, he orders his usual heart attack on a plate and then asks the waitress for an extra plate of fries. “It’s for his imaginary friend,” he adds in a stage whisper, pointing behind his hand at Sam. The woman looks at Sam like he’s crazy, then realizes he might be and switches to a pitying look before she leaves. Sam kicks Dean under the table, but he’s laughing too hard to care.
* * *
Later that night, Sam waits until Dean’s asleep before he starts the final phase of the plan. He’s never really done this before, but a lot of his friends at Stanford used Photoshop, and Jess was always touching up photos or whatever with it, so it can’t be that difficult. He just has to cut Dean out of the rollercoaster picture and paste him under Sam’s outstretched arm in the other picture. Simple.
An hour later, he has to admit that this Photoshop thing is harder than he thought. He can’t figure out how to make the two different pictures the same scale, and the lighting is completely different, and he kind of sucks at the whole cutting-and-pasting thing. Dean looks like a little five year old kid with no lower body who’s been cut out of a magazine and glued next to a giant, shadowy Sam. It’s pretty awful.
Sam deletes the picture and gives up for the night. He’ll try something simpler tomorrow.
* * *
But Dean, being Dean, manages to screw up that plan, too. Sam’s at the laptop again, this time armed with a picture of two completely random guys from the Internet with their arms around each other. They’re of a similar height and coloring, and it can’t be that hard to just take Sam and Dean’s heads and slap them on these guys’ necks.
But it turns out that it’s still a bitch to cut out one head and make it look like it belongs somewhere else, and even after another hour of work, all Sam’s got is a picture that looks like…well, like two random dudes with his and Dean’s heads pasted on them.
And then, just to make things worse, Dean comes back from the bar early and catches Sam staring at his failure. “What the hell, Sam, is this some kind of self-insertion porn?”
“What? No!” Sam yelps, trying to cover the screen with his hands.
“It totally is!” Dean crows. “You’ve got some crush on a celebrity and you’re pasting your face on his girlfriend to satisfy your sick fantasies.” He clucks his tongue. “Sad, Sammy, very sad.”
“I am not,” Sam says, feeling five years old again. “Shut up, Dean. You’re the one who has all the celebrity crushes, not me.”
Dean shrugs, busy trying to pull Sam’s hands away from the laptop. “Come on, let me see your little mancrush. Is it Brad Pitt? If it’s George Clooney, I kind of agree with you.”
Sam gets a little sidetracked by that admission, and Dean wrestles him back in his chair, wrapping arms around him so he can’t move, and then looks at the picture.
“Uh, Sam,” he says, after a long moment, “Why are our heads pasted on those guys?”
Sam sighs. “Because I’m an idiot,” he says.
“Well, I already knew that,” Dean replies. “But seriously, why are you making fake pictures of us? Are you inventing a secret life where we’re happy little boyfriends and you blog about it on the Internet?”
“No,” Sam says, stung. “I just wanted one fucking picture of us, but I guess that was too much to ask.” He sighs. “This is the part where you call me a girl and joke about my hormones, right?”
Dean just steps back, letting Sam go, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Why are you so obsessed with having a picture of me?” he asks, irritation mixed with exasperation in his tone.
Sam doesn’t think he’s out of the woods on the girl jokes yet, so he shrugs instead of explaining his reasons.
Dean rolls his eyes. “You’ve got the real thing right here, okay? You don’t need some picture of me to jerk off to. And in case you didn’t notice, I’ve practically got your name stamped across my neck already.” He gestures to a line of hickeys disappearing into his collar that Sam sucked into his skin last night. “You really need more proof of ownership?”
Sam blinks. “That’s what you think this is about? Ownership?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No, Dean, it’s not,” Sam says, sighing. “I’m not obsessed with having a picture of you. I just wanted a picture of us. You and me, together. Not to show anyone, not to prove anything, just to have.” He swallows. “’Cause in case you haven’t noticed, or job is kind of dangerous, and in case something happened, I just -“ He takes a breath. “It would be nice to have something to show we were here. You and me.”
Dean doesn’t say anything, just looking at Sam like he’s trying to translate a complicated passage of Latin, but he doesn’t look angry anymore, just thoughtful.
“Still want to make some girl jokes?” Sam asks after a minute, just to break the tension.
Dean snorts, but just shakes his head. “Nah.” He takes a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh. “Actually, what I really want right now is a drink. You want to hit a bar?”
“You just got back from a bar,” Sam points out.
“I know, but I only had a couple drinks. I’m going to need to be drunk for this.”
“For what?” Sam asks, bewildered.
“Just come on,” Dean orders, closing the laptop and throwing Sam his coat.
* * *
Dean doesn’t say anything more about the picture, just drags Sam into a bar a few blocks from their motel, waves to the bartender, and starts in on a steady stream of beers. Sam drinks along with him, since it seems to be part of Dean’s mysterious plan, and it’s not too long before both of them have left sober a ways behind.
Dean, cheeks flushed, downs the last of his beer with a flourish and says, “Okay. I’m drunk enough to make bad decisions now. Stay here.”
Sam, bewildered, obeys, and Dean comes back a few minutes later with an attractive brunette in tow, giggling at something he says. Sam can guess where this is going and feels a sharp flare of anger, because if Dean thinks he’s going to solve this issue by getting one (or both) of them laid, he’s very wrong.
But Dean pulls away from the girl to stand next to Sam, slinging his arm around Sam’s shoulders, and it’s only then that Sam realizes the girl has a camera in her hand - his camera.
He turns to Dean in shock, but his brother just pats his chest, his hand over Sam’s heart, and says, “Smile.”
There’s not much that could stop Sam from smiling at this point, even when the flash nearly blinds him.
“There,” Dean says. “I hope you’re freaking ecstatic.” But he’s smiling as he says it, and Sam leans into him a little, figuring he’s drunk enough to get away with it.
“Yeah, pretty much,” he says, grinning up at Dean.
He hears the camera click again, and the girl says, “Y’all are so cute.”
Dean groans, covering his face with his hand. Sam just laughs.
* * *
Sam makes Dean stop at a Walmart the next day before they leave, and prints copies off the memory card while Dean wanders around the pet food section, making faces at the giant tank of fish.
He makes a different kind of face when Sam hands him a copy of the first picture they took in the bar.
“I suppose you’re going to expect me to put this thing in my wallet,” he grumbles.
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, am I taking up valuable space usually reserved for Playboy bunnies, or something?”
Dean pulls out his wallet and flips it open, revealing the photo currently occupying the laminated part.
“You have a picture of the Impala in your wallet?” Sam asks incredulously. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What? She’s my best girl,” Dean says. “Relax, dude, you get second billing.” He ducks Sam’s swipe, but isn’t fast enough to avoid the headlock.
* * *
A few months later, even Dean admits the camera is sort of useful. They use it for a case every now and again, sometimes printing shots to tape into the journal for a visual reference, but mostly, the pictures Sam takes document their life, not their job. Dean lets Sam take whatever pictures he wants, now, and even deigns to be in a few of them, when the scenery is right or he’s in a good mood, or, of course, when he’s naked. He says he’s only doing it to document how amazingly good-looking he is, so there’ll be some evidence to support the legends, but sometimes he steals the camera and takes pictures of Sam, too (saving the most embarrassing ones for wallpaper on the laptop when he wants to torture Sam, of course).
Either way, Sam has a folder of pictures on his computer now of the two of them together, sitting on the hood of the Impala, in front of a statue of Paul Bunyan, even kissing (although Dean would mock him mercilessly if he knew Sam kept that one) and it’s good. It’s enough. They’re never going to have a scrapbook or a family album, but they do have a messy stack of photos in the glovebox, Sam and Dean mixed in with younger versions of themselves and Mom and Dad. They have a camera that can prove, at any moment or location, that they were here, they were real, and they were together. And, of course, they have each other. It’s enough.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sam has a plan.
Notes: Written for
fluffandfold, for the prompt Sam wants a picture of he and Dean together. 5,400 words.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
They aren’t the type of family to collect mementos. Sam knows that. The only permanent storage they had while he was growing up, after all, was a car, and the Impala’s limited space was reserved only for the essentials: the three of them and supplies to keep them alive. Hell, even the few frivolous items they did hang onto weren’t the normal childhood remnants - it says a lot about their life that John chose to preserve his twelve-year-old son’s first sawed-off rather than a Father’s Day card drawn in messy crayon or a pointless, leaning popsicle stick sculpture. The few photos they do have are from the early days, probably Mom’s doing, and as far as Sam knows, the only pictures taken of him or Dean since have been for fake IDs or mugshots, not to celebrate any occasion.
It doesn’t bother him. Well, not really. He did like that picture he kept on his dresser at Stanford - it was the only picture where he’d seen his father look truly happy, after all, and it was the only picture he’d ever seen of his mother - but it became just another thing he’d lost to a fire, and the least of those he wanted back. It was nice to find those photos at the old house in Lawrence, so that he could share some of the memories that had been solely Dean’s, but in the end, they were just moments in time, moments long gone by, and he had a future to worry about.
So, yeah, their family wasn’t the type to have meticulous scrapbooks documenting every first day of school or birthday or Christmas. It might have bothered Sam a little as a kid, when he would have given anything to have a mom to do those normal things, but not now, not when he and Dean are all that’s left and all the history they have wouldn’t fit into a few frames, anyway, too complicated and convoluted to be neatly pasted on a page.
So he doesn’t even think of it until one evening when Dean pulls another stupid move, earning himself a night in the local drunk tank for some disorderly behavior at a bar, and loses his one phone call after he uses some choice names to describe the girl he got in a fight over - the girl who just happens to be the deputy’s daughter. Sam has to go through the town on foot the next morning, describing his brother at every likely-looking establishment, and he gets a few raised eyebrows at his description - “blondish-brownish hair, brownish-greenish eyes, kinda short?” - and after his dozenth inquiry, it occurs to him that the process could have been greatly streamlined if he just had a picture of Dean. When he finally gets a lead and springs his brother out of jail (where nobody has bothered to actually run his name - god bless lazy employees), he mentions it to Dean.
Dean looks at him like he’s crazy. “Yeah, there’s a reason for that, Sam,” he says, exchanging smoky, beer-soaked clothes for fresh ones at a rest stop a few miles out of town. “I’m a wanted felon, it’s not really a good idea for me to have my face all over someone’s film.”
“I’m not suggesting you pose for a centerfold,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “Just that it would be convenient for me to have your picture, in case of emergencies. It’s not like the FBI doesn’t know I’m your partner in crime, after all. Your picture in my wallet isn’t going to be the one piece of evidence that takes me down.”
But Dean isn’t even listening, gone at the mention of a centerfold. He grins, tongue sliding over his bottom lip in blissful contemplation. “I’d totally do Playgirl,” he says dreamily. He snaps his fingers. “Or one of those naked fireman charity calendars. That’d be the best pickup line ever - ‘Hi, I’m Mr. December, and I want to make all of your holiday wishes come true.’” He gives Sam a smile that’s more smarmy than seductive. “Have you been nice or very, very naughty?”
Sam doesn’t really know whether to be disgusted or amazed that Dean has ever gotten laid. He settles for shaking his head.
“What?” Dean asks. “They use the money from those calendars for good causes.”
“It warms my heart that you’re willing to get naked for charity,” Sam says. “But can we get back to the actual issue here?”
“Download my mugshot from the FBI database,” Dean says shortly, tossing his duffel back into the car. “Problem solved.”
“Right, because waving a freaking mugshot around town isn’t suspicious,” Sam points out. “Come on, I just want something I can show people when I have to rescue your ass from the next drunk tank.”
“No, you want to put a picture of me in your wallet like I’m your girlfriend,” Dean counters. “And I really don’t like it when people take pictures of me, so the answer is no.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Sam says. “I want to put a picture of you in my wallet like you’re my boyfriend.”
Dean glares over the roof of the Impala.
“Okay, okay,” Sam relents. “How about we take a picture of the both of us?”
“Still no.”
“Dean - “
“No pictures. Let it go.” Dean’s door slams when he gets in the car.
* * *
And normally Sam might, but now that he’s thinking about it, he really does want a picture of the two of them. It suddenly seems ridiculous that they’ve spent almost their entire lives together, and yet there isn’t a single piece of visual evidence to support that fact that’s not surveillance footage or crime scene reports in some warehouse somewhere.
Sam doesn’t have a single memory of his mom while she was alive, but looking at her smiling face in that picture had at least kept her face fresh in his mind. And it’s not like Dean’s going to die soon - Sam got him out of his deal, and he plans on keeping Dean’s face right in front of him for many more years to come - but the two of them operate outside the law, behind the scenes, and under the radar, and Sam suddenly wants proof that they were here, they were real, they were together.
And it doesn’t help that Dean gave him a flat-out no, because when Dean orders him not to do something with only a flimsy excuse for why not, it just makes Sam all the more determined to do it. He’ll just have to be stealthy.
The first thing he needs, obviously, is a camera. He lets Dean loose in the food court of a mall not far from their next motel, then ditches him just long enough to grab the most popular model from an electronics store. Dean doesn’t even miss him, completely enraptured by so much fast food in a small area, and Sam reads the instruction manual at the table while Dean works through his taco, sub, fried chicken, and spring rolls.
Dean threatens to smash the thing when Sam takes it out at the motel and tries a few practice shots, but Sam keeps it pointed away from him, taking random snaps of scenery and furniture instead, and he subsides with a scowl.
Over the next few days, Sam accumulates dozens of pictures of trees, buildings, and blurred countryside, anything to convince Dean his sudden interest in photography is due to his life as a glorified tourist, not his newfound desire to capture his brother on film. He knows he’s got Dean lulled into a false sense of security when he doesn’t even blink when Sam whips out the camera (and even suggests the best angle for a shot of the Impala), and that’s when Sam puts his real plan in action.
He keeps framing careful shots of the scenery, but every time Dean’s the slightest bit distracted, Sam’s hands just happen to shift until his brother gets caught in the edge of the viewscreen. And it’s not his fault when the camera goes off in the car, while he’s innocently fiddling with the settings while facing the driver’s side. And it’s not a crime to take a picture of himself in front of a historical landmark - how could he possibly have known Dean was standing behind him?
But it turns out Dean has some innate knack for avoiding the camera lens, and Sam ends up with a half dozen pictures of the back of his head, a few of his blurry profile, and one of his ass (and it’s not even a good one). It’d be nice if Dean could have the same innate knack for avoiding the FBI, or the police, or trouble, or something.
But Sam’s not giving up that easy. The camera has a self-timer function, so every time Dean turns his back, he stashes it somewhere and then makes an excuse to stand right next to his brother. But it’s next to impossible to make Dean look at the hidden camera without giving it away, and it turns out it’s really fucking hard to get the angle just right, so Sam ends up with several pictures of their knees, arms, or hair.
He thinks he’s got a foolproof plan when he sticks the camera behind the napkinholder at a diner when Dean’s in the bathroom and then slides into the booth next to Dean when he returns, casually scratching his head before letting his arm drop down along the back of the seat. Dean turns to give him his what-the-fuck eyebrow, just as the camera makes that little tch sound Sam hasn’t figured out how to turn off yet, and before Sam can even formulate a plausible excuse, Dean shoves him out of the booth and onto the floor.
It’s a bitch to spend hours in a car with a bruised ass, especially when Dean purposefully takes them over speed bumps and down gravel roads, so that pretty much puts an end to that plan.
Sam makes one more halfhearted attempt, but when Dean rolls over and says groggily, “Dude, what the fuck? Are you taking pictures of me while I’m sleeping?” even Sam has to admit he’s getting kind of desperate and perverted and it might be time to stop.
Dean, on the other hand, looks interested. “Hey, does that thing have video on it?”
Sam blinks. “Yeah, I think.”
Dean grins and licks his lips, looking down at Sam’s sheet-covered lap, then raises his eyebrows. “Want to film a little documentary?”
“Are you kidding me?” Sam demands. “You won’t let me take a picture of you, but you’re willing to record yourself giving head?”
“Naked for a good cause,” Dean reminds him. “What, you don’t want to know what you look like when you come?”
“Uh, not really.”
“Let me rephrase that,” Dean says, leaning closer so his words are warm puffs of air against Sam’s neck. “You don’t want to know what I look like with your cock shoved down my throat? You fucking my mouth and me taking it, taking all of you?”
“Jesus,” Sam sputters.
Dean grins and grabs the camera.
* * *
Incredibly hot, as it turns out, is how Dean looks when doing all of the aforementioned things. Sam’s used to seeing the show from above, at least until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore, and while that’s definitely worth watching, the digital version is so impossibly hot it’s practically scorching.
The camera is zoomed in on Dean’s head, every lick, suck, and swallow visible in the grainy picture as he drives Sam crazy, working his cock down his throat one minute, and pulling back to swirl his tongue around the head the next.
It’s kind of embarrassing to hear the noises Sam makes, and he was right, he looks like a total idiot when he comes, but watching Dean do that to him while the sense memory is still fresh in his mind is intoxicating, and the video’s barely finished before he’s tackling Dean back down onto the bed. Dean’s been busy while Sam was watching, and it’s only a second before slick fingers are teasing at his entrance, circling and pushing in. Dean grabs the camera again, just after Sam lowers himself onto his cock, and Sam doesn’t have the spare brainpower to protest.
An hour later, the camera’s memory card is completely taken up by sex videos, and although Sam now knows what Dean’s cock looks like disappearing into him (again, impossibly hot), he’s no closer to having a picture of the two of them together. Or at least, one that’s not X-rated.
He’s not giving up, though.
* * *
Since looking at the camera after that incident results in an embarrassing physical reaction, Sam decides to give that part of his plan a rest. There are other ways to get pictures of him and Dean together.
One morning he prods Dean awake earlier than usual and promises they’re going for coffee before pushing him out to the car. He detours to a local mall, dragging a bleary, half-asleep Dean inside with a story about an awesome coffee shop, and just when Dean’s shuffling along complacently, Sam takes a sudden sharp turn.
The photobooth is way too small for the both of them, and there’s only one stool, so Dean ends up half on Sam’s lap while Sam stuffs quarters into the machine. Dean wakes up a little when Sam pulls him closer, and he takes one look around him before saying, “Oh, fuck no,” and kicking Sam in the shin while bailing.
Three minutes later, he nearly falls over laughing when the machine spits out a strip with five stunning frames of the bitchface. Sam “accidentally” spills hot coffee all over him at breakfast, and takes some satisfaction from Dean’s pathetic attempts at his own pissy expression.
* * *
He drags Dean into an amusement park in Oklahoma, figuring at this point even one of those open-mouthed shots of them on the rollercoaster will suffice, because the two of them will at least be in the frame together.
But Dean insists on eating three bags of cotton candy before they even get to the rides, and when they’re belted in and grinding up the incline, he gets a funny look on his face and says, “I don’t feel so good.”
When the cars come back into the station, Sam doesn’t bother going to look at the picture, but when he comes out of the bathroom, Dean’s holding a copy of it, laughing. Sam takes a brief glance at it - Dean is smiling, the bastard, apparently unconcerned that Sam, next to him, is scowling and covered in blue-tinted puke.
“There, now you’ve got a picture of us together,” Dean says happily.
Sam thinks it’s only fair when he tries to smother Dean with his damp, smelly shirt.
* * *
Sam comes upon his best plan, somewhat appropriately, while making out with Dean. He doesn’t usually do a lot of thinking beyond yes, God, more when he and Dean are in bed, but at this particular moment they’re not in a bed - they’re not even in private. Dean has Sam pushed up against the passenger door of the Impala, fingers hooked in his belt loops, and he’s licking lazily into Sam’s mouth for absolutely no reason, just a good morning kiss at the gas station before they get back on the road.
A woman at the next pump is unabashedly staring, the nozzle dangling in her hand, and Sam thinks irritably, take a goddamned picture, it’ll last longer. And that’s when inspiration hits.
When they stop for the night, Sam suggests they head out for a drink, and Dean, though surprised, agrees. He doesn’t even notice when Sam slips away for a second and puts his plan in motion.
Dean does ask why Sam’s smiling so much, somewhere after their third beers, but Sam just says he’s in a good mood, which is true, and slings an arm around Dean’s shoulders like he’s a little drunk already. Dean raises an eyebrow, but he bumps Sam gently with his shoulder and smiles back.
That is, until he sees something over Sam’s shoulder and his smile drops completely off his face. “Sam, don’t move,” he says tersely. “We’ve got trouble.”
Before Sam can even ask what’s going on, Dean ducks his arm and starts off across the bar, strides quick and angry. When Sam sees where he’s heading, he barely has time to say, “Oh, shit” with feeling before he’s chasing after.
Dean’s got the girl’s arm in a tight grip by the time he gets there, and he’s hissing questions in her ear, low demands to know who she is, how she knows who they are, who she’s working for.
The girl looks terrified, shaking and protesting.
“Dean, don’t,” Sam pleads, trying to pull Dean back. “Just leave her, she’s not - “
“She was taking pictures of us,” Dean growls, not loosening his hold. “I’m not going to let her hand those over to the local PD.” He smiles at the girl, all sharp edges. “You looking to collect some reward money, sweetheart? Sorry, not going to happen.”
The girl’s eyes get wider at the mention of the police, and she starts stammering something about not wanting any money. Sam tries to reassure her with his eyes, but from the glare he gets in return, it’s not working.
People are looking at them now, with Dean forcibly holding a pretty girl’s arm, and Sam says desperately, “Just let her go, Dean, we’ll erase the pictures off the camera.”
Dean shakes his head. “Not good enough.” He takes the camera from the girl’s wrist and throws it on the floor, stomping on it with his boot. “You never saw us, you got that?” he growls. She nods, and he drops her arm. “Sam, come on, we’re leaving.”
Sam mouths sorry at the girl, but she glares at him like he’s some kind of serial killer before getting the hell out of there.
Sam sighs and fishes the memory card out of the pile of camera parts on the floor. Dean never listened to Sam about which parts of machines actually needed to be broken to render them inoperable, thank god, but the camera’s a total loss.
Dean tosses a twenty on the bar to cover their drinks, then drags Sam out to the car. “Come on, we’ve got to get the motel room wiped down and get out of here,” he says, gunning the engine. “We should probably ditch the card we used for the room, too, just in case she did ID us.”
“Dean, I don’t think she had any idea who we were,” Sam says, feeling horribly guilty. “She was probably just taking pictures for a photography class, or something.”
“Well, then she’s kind of a pervert,” Dean says. “Taking pictures of us without us knowing. She deserved it.”
“She did not!”
“You probably just wanted a copy,” Dean says.
Sam can’t answer that one without giving himself away, so he settles for scowling.
* * *
So, the plan is pretty fucked after Dean smashes the camera, but Sam gives it one last try, because he really is that sad and desperate. He buys another camera on the Internet, has it shipped to one of their P.O. boxes, and picks it up the next time they swing through Kansas. This phase of the plan actually requires more work than all the stealth from earlier - Sam has to steal that stupid picture of them on the rollercoaster from Dean’s duffel, scan it at a library, and then email the picture to himself. It’s the only decent picture he has of Dean, and Dean’s even smiling, so it should work okay. The next requirement is a picture of himself, and he waits until Dean’s in the shower to position himself in front of a blank wall and set the self-timer.
Unfortunately, Dean comes back out to grab a clean pair of boxers, and when he catches Sam sitting on the bed with his arm out to his side, he stops and says, “Uh, Sam? What are you doing?”
Sam gives him some bullshit answer about stretches or yoga or something for his shoulder, but then the damned camera goes off, and Dean gets a huge grin on his face, like Christmas has come early and his present is a lifetime’s worth of blackmail material.
“Go ahead,” Sam says sourly, waving a hand. “I can see it’s killing you to hold yourself back, so let it out. Mock away.”
“No, no,” Dean says, smirking. “I’m just happy for you. You didn’t tell me Fernando had come back.”
“Fernando?” Sam asks blankly.
“Yeah, your imaginary friend,” Dean says. “Don’t you remember? He came everywhere with us when you were five. You used to whisper stuff to him all the time.”
Sam has no recollection of any of this, but from the way Dean’s beaming, it has to be true.
“Drove Dad crazy,” Dean goes on. “You used to make all these self-important little announcements, and then blame them on Fernando.” He puts on a falsetto. “‘Fernando thinks Des Moines is boring.’ ‘Fernando wants to sleep in a motel, not the car.’ ‘Fernando doesn’t like hotdogs. His mom makes him meatloaf whenever he wants it.’ And then you told us that Fernando thought the car was ugly, Dad really loved that.”
Sam blushes, because it’s bad enough to find out he had to invent himself a friend when he was little (and that he was apparently an ABBA fan), but even worse, he doesn’t have a better explanation for Dean that won’t give him away. He settles for “Whatever, fuck you,” but Dean just grins like it’s better than every single damn holiday wrapped up together.
He refuses to drop the whole imaginary friend thing, overjoyed at so much mocking potential, and at the next restaurant they stop at, he orders his usual heart attack on a plate and then asks the waitress for an extra plate of fries. “It’s for his imaginary friend,” he adds in a stage whisper, pointing behind his hand at Sam. The woman looks at Sam like he’s crazy, then realizes he might be and switches to a pitying look before she leaves. Sam kicks Dean under the table, but he’s laughing too hard to care.
* * *
Later that night, Sam waits until Dean’s asleep before he starts the final phase of the plan. He’s never really done this before, but a lot of his friends at Stanford used Photoshop, and Jess was always touching up photos or whatever with it, so it can’t be that difficult. He just has to cut Dean out of the rollercoaster picture and paste him under Sam’s outstretched arm in the other picture. Simple.
An hour later, he has to admit that this Photoshop thing is harder than he thought. He can’t figure out how to make the two different pictures the same scale, and the lighting is completely different, and he kind of sucks at the whole cutting-and-pasting thing. Dean looks like a little five year old kid with no lower body who’s been cut out of a magazine and glued next to a giant, shadowy Sam. It’s pretty awful.
Sam deletes the picture and gives up for the night. He’ll try something simpler tomorrow.
* * *
But Dean, being Dean, manages to screw up that plan, too. Sam’s at the laptop again, this time armed with a picture of two completely random guys from the Internet with their arms around each other. They’re of a similar height and coloring, and it can’t be that hard to just take Sam and Dean’s heads and slap them on these guys’ necks.
But it turns out that it’s still a bitch to cut out one head and make it look like it belongs somewhere else, and even after another hour of work, all Sam’s got is a picture that looks like…well, like two random dudes with his and Dean’s heads pasted on them.
And then, just to make things worse, Dean comes back from the bar early and catches Sam staring at his failure. “What the hell, Sam, is this some kind of self-insertion porn?”
“What? No!” Sam yelps, trying to cover the screen with his hands.
“It totally is!” Dean crows. “You’ve got some crush on a celebrity and you’re pasting your face on his girlfriend to satisfy your sick fantasies.” He clucks his tongue. “Sad, Sammy, very sad.”
“I am not,” Sam says, feeling five years old again. “Shut up, Dean. You’re the one who has all the celebrity crushes, not me.”
Dean shrugs, busy trying to pull Sam’s hands away from the laptop. “Come on, let me see your little mancrush. Is it Brad Pitt? If it’s George Clooney, I kind of agree with you.”
Sam gets a little sidetracked by that admission, and Dean wrestles him back in his chair, wrapping arms around him so he can’t move, and then looks at the picture.
“Uh, Sam,” he says, after a long moment, “Why are our heads pasted on those guys?”
Sam sighs. “Because I’m an idiot,” he says.
“Well, I already knew that,” Dean replies. “But seriously, why are you making fake pictures of us? Are you inventing a secret life where we’re happy little boyfriends and you blog about it on the Internet?”
“No,” Sam says, stung. “I just wanted one fucking picture of us, but I guess that was too much to ask.” He sighs. “This is the part where you call me a girl and joke about my hormones, right?”
Dean just steps back, letting Sam go, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Why are you so obsessed with having a picture of me?” he asks, irritation mixed with exasperation in his tone.
Sam doesn’t think he’s out of the woods on the girl jokes yet, so he shrugs instead of explaining his reasons.
Dean rolls his eyes. “You’ve got the real thing right here, okay? You don’t need some picture of me to jerk off to. And in case you didn’t notice, I’ve practically got your name stamped across my neck already.” He gestures to a line of hickeys disappearing into his collar that Sam sucked into his skin last night. “You really need more proof of ownership?”
Sam blinks. “That’s what you think this is about? Ownership?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No, Dean, it’s not,” Sam says, sighing. “I’m not obsessed with having a picture of you. I just wanted a picture of us. You and me, together. Not to show anyone, not to prove anything, just to have.” He swallows. “’Cause in case you haven’t noticed, or job is kind of dangerous, and in case something happened, I just -“ He takes a breath. “It would be nice to have something to show we were here. You and me.”
Dean doesn’t say anything, just looking at Sam like he’s trying to translate a complicated passage of Latin, but he doesn’t look angry anymore, just thoughtful.
“Still want to make some girl jokes?” Sam asks after a minute, just to break the tension.
Dean snorts, but just shakes his head. “Nah.” He takes a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh. “Actually, what I really want right now is a drink. You want to hit a bar?”
“You just got back from a bar,” Sam points out.
“I know, but I only had a couple drinks. I’m going to need to be drunk for this.”
“For what?” Sam asks, bewildered.
“Just come on,” Dean orders, closing the laptop and throwing Sam his coat.
* * *
Dean doesn’t say anything more about the picture, just drags Sam into a bar a few blocks from their motel, waves to the bartender, and starts in on a steady stream of beers. Sam drinks along with him, since it seems to be part of Dean’s mysterious plan, and it’s not too long before both of them have left sober a ways behind.
Dean, cheeks flushed, downs the last of his beer with a flourish and says, “Okay. I’m drunk enough to make bad decisions now. Stay here.”
Sam, bewildered, obeys, and Dean comes back a few minutes later with an attractive brunette in tow, giggling at something he says. Sam can guess where this is going and feels a sharp flare of anger, because if Dean thinks he’s going to solve this issue by getting one (or both) of them laid, he’s very wrong.
But Dean pulls away from the girl to stand next to Sam, slinging his arm around Sam’s shoulders, and it’s only then that Sam realizes the girl has a camera in her hand - his camera.
He turns to Dean in shock, but his brother just pats his chest, his hand over Sam’s heart, and says, “Smile.”
There’s not much that could stop Sam from smiling at this point, even when the flash nearly blinds him.
“There,” Dean says. “I hope you’re freaking ecstatic.” But he’s smiling as he says it, and Sam leans into him a little, figuring he’s drunk enough to get away with it.
“Yeah, pretty much,” he says, grinning up at Dean.
He hears the camera click again, and the girl says, “Y’all are so cute.”
Dean groans, covering his face with his hand. Sam just laughs.
* * *
Sam makes Dean stop at a Walmart the next day before they leave, and prints copies off the memory card while Dean wanders around the pet food section, making faces at the giant tank of fish.
He makes a different kind of face when Sam hands him a copy of the first picture they took in the bar.
“I suppose you’re going to expect me to put this thing in my wallet,” he grumbles.
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, am I taking up valuable space usually reserved for Playboy bunnies, or something?”
Dean pulls out his wallet and flips it open, revealing the photo currently occupying the laminated part.
“You have a picture of the Impala in your wallet?” Sam asks incredulously. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What? She’s my best girl,” Dean says. “Relax, dude, you get second billing.” He ducks Sam’s swipe, but isn’t fast enough to avoid the headlock.
* * *
A few months later, even Dean admits the camera is sort of useful. They use it for a case every now and again, sometimes printing shots to tape into the journal for a visual reference, but mostly, the pictures Sam takes document their life, not their job. Dean lets Sam take whatever pictures he wants, now, and even deigns to be in a few of them, when the scenery is right or he’s in a good mood, or, of course, when he’s naked. He says he’s only doing it to document how amazingly good-looking he is, so there’ll be some evidence to support the legends, but sometimes he steals the camera and takes pictures of Sam, too (saving the most embarrassing ones for wallpaper on the laptop when he wants to torture Sam, of course).
Either way, Sam has a folder of pictures on his computer now of the two of them together, sitting on the hood of the Impala, in front of a statue of Paul Bunyan, even kissing (although Dean would mock him mercilessly if he knew Sam kept that one) and it’s good. It’s enough. They’re never going to have a scrapbook or a family album, but they do have a messy stack of photos in the glovebox, Sam and Dean mixed in with younger versions of themselves and Mom and Dad. They have a camera that can prove, at any moment or location, that they were here, they were real, and they were together. And, of course, they have each other. It’s enough.