SPN Fic: through the pathless roads (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
Title: through the pathless roads
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The world’s coming down around them.
Notes: Written for
spn_apocasmut . The prompts I used are under my name here, and the title comes from the second one.
Warnings: Spoilers up to 3.11.
Word count: 6,300 words.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
When the world ends, there’s no warning. No signs, no symbols, nothing out of the ordinary. It’s just a sunny Wednesday morning like a million others before it until, suddenly, the earth skips in orbit like a heart missing a beat and there’s a second of perfect, impossible silence before the ground jerks like the world’s been torn off its foundation.
Sam and Dean are in a motel room in Illinois, just back from breakfast and planning their next move, when everything shudders, taking a hard tilt to the right. There’s a second of inertia and overwhelming wrongness where they stay completely still, unable to comprehend what happened, before they begin to move cautiously.
“Earthquake?” Dean asks, righting the lamp on the table next to him.
Sam, running his hands over the seams of the laptop, shakes his head. “Too far north. Some kind of explosion, maybe?”
“Felt too big for that,” Dean replies, but it’s just idle talk, meant to cover the fact that they both know something is seriously wrong. The air is charged with something, sharp and sour at the back of Dean’s throat, and he feels the thrum of it under his skin, uneasy and unsettling.
He ends up in front of the window, but the parking lot doesn’t hold any answers. A few people are out going about their business, and the motel owner’s walking around, checking for damage from the jolt, but the sky’s still bright and sunny, no hint of a storm, and it seems the residents of Roscoe are mostly unconcerned.
Sam’s watching him when he turns around. “What do you think?” Dean asks.
Sam doesn’t have to ask what he means. “There’s a case on the UP - women keep disappearing just before they’re supposed to get married, good chance it’s some kind of spirit.” He nods toward the window. “Might be good to get out of here. Go somewhere less crowded.”
Dean nods. He’s feeling restless, that formless feeling of wrong crawling under his skin, and he agrees with Sam - if something big is going down, he’d rather take his chances with the Wisconsin highways than a city full of panicking people.
He and Sam gather up their stuff and pack the Impala quickly.
It’s unusually warm out for late April in the northern Midwest, has been all week, and they keep the windows down and shirtsleeves rolled up. They’re barely ten miles down the road when Van Zant’s cut off mid-word and the announcer’s breaking in with a news bulletin - earthquake on the West Coast, closest to a 10 on the Richter they’ve ever seen, and the resulting tsunami is headed straight for Japan. Mass casualties, thousands more expected when the wave makes land. But that’s not all - a tropical storm’s come up from nowhere in the Pacific, heading straight for southern Asia, and torrential rain over the Baltic is already causing flooding in Stockholm and Helsinki.
Dean pulls the car over to the side of the road and flips the radio off. The sudden silence seems strange. The world’s full of chaos, but here, there’s only the soft ticking of the engine. Finally, he turns to look at Sam, but he’s not even sure what question to ask. “What do you think we should do?”
Sam looks just as shell-shocked as Dean feels, eyes wide. “I don’t know,” he says.
“Do we keep going? Do we stop? Should we be helping somehow?”
“I don’t know,” Sam repeats, shrugging helplessly. “I don’t know if we can do anything.”
Dean hesitates for a second, but it’s a question that needs to be asked. He clears his throat. “It seems pretty coincidental that this is happening now, after what went down last spring. You think this is because of - “ He stops himself before us can come out. “Because of what happened in Wyoming?”
Sam’s shaking his head before he finishes, though. “Demons love natural disasters,” he admits, “But this doesn’t feel like that. Like them.” He looks over at Dean, slightly incredulous. “I think this is just - the way things play out. How it was meant to be.”
Dean swallows hard. “Jesus.”
“Maybe,” Sam says, mouth quirking a little.
Dean snorts, shaking his head. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. So, probably no way of stopping it. Doesn’t seem likely we can outrun it. So what the hell are we supposed to do?”
Their cell phones died right after they got on the road, so they don’t even have the luxury of a second opinion or Bobby’s usual levelheaded advice.
Sam doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head.
“Well, we’re sure as hell not sitting here and waiting to die,” Dean declares, starting up the car again.
He doesn’t know where he’s going - there’s pretty much nowhere to go, if Sam’s right - but the lever’s dropping toward E on the gas gauge, so Dean makes that his temporary destination, pointing the car north on 51.
They leave the radio on at first, sliding between news reports, but after fifteen minutes of unrelenting bad news, the reporters’ voices going ragged with helpless disbelief, Sam reaches out and flips it off. There are freak tornadoes in Montana, a squall battering Newfoundland, London is burning after lightning storms, and multiple volcanoes in Indonesia are spitting ash into the air. The list goes on and on, reports growing dull as one disaster tops another, and although Dean usually has a sick fascination for stuff like this, even he can’t listen anymore. The world is crumbling, and all he wants is to keep them ahead of the avalanche.
When Dean finds a gas station, half an hour later, he fills up the car and two gas cans they keep in the trunk. When he goes in to pay, the clerk is glued to a television set that’s flipping rapidly between locations, flashing from the wreck of one city to the ruins of another, not even bothering to narrate what’s going on anymore. As Dean’s pulling twenties out of his wallet, the signal dies, and the TV goes fuzzy for a second before the power cuts out altogether. In the distance, there’s another faint boom.
“Shit,” the guy says. “Shit. That’s it.” He ducks out from behind the counter, heading for the door.
“Hey, what about - “ Dean says, gesturing to the bottled water and money sitting on the counter.
“You really think that matters now?” the guy asks, incredulous. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of here as fast as you can. Go to ground somewhere. Hope like hell you survive.”
He stiff-arms the door, barely avoiding a head-on collision with Sam, who gives him a bewildered look. “What the - “
“Never mind,” Dean says, gathering up the money and water. “Just grab as much stuff as you can.”
They find crates in the back, near the dairy cooler, and load them up with all the water and nonperishable food they can. It might be an overly optimistic move, given what’s going down around the world, but they know more about the world than most people, and Dean’s not just going to give up without a fight, apocalypse or no. When the Impala’s trunk and backseat are full, Dean climbs in and starts her up.
“You got somewhere in mind?” Sam asks from the passenger seat.
“Not really,” Dean says, tires kicking up dust as they bump back onto the highway. “What’s coming up ahead of us?”
“Uh, Madison’s northwest,” Sam says, fumbling for the map. “Milwaukee to the east. A couple of small towns to the east of 90, and…looks like nothing but woods and a lake to the west.”
Dean nods, then hangs a left at the next intersection, following the road until it dissolves into a thinner, gravel track winding through the woods. Dean hasn’t exactly thought about what they’re going to do, but he knows he wants to be as far away from civilization as possible. They got rid of the tent they used to haul in the trunk when one of the zippers stopped working (which was also when they discovered exactly how many mosquito bites it was possible to get in six hours), but even if it’s just the two of them in the car, out in the middle of nowhere, that’s good enough for Dean. Even when it seems like nature is turning on the rest of the world, he feels safer out here, under the trees and open sky, than in a city of chaotic, panicking people.
And as it turns out, they don’t have to sleep in the car. The road comes out of a meandering curve and spreads into a grassy field, fading into a mix of gravel and sand before it hits the shoreline of a small, shallow lake. There’s a small, stout cabin on the left, and it’s evident by the time Dean lets the car coast to a stop that it’s unoccupied, and probably has been for years. It’s not much to look at - weathered siding that’s been worn colorless, one shuttered window, roof missing half its shingles - but it’s sturdy and squat, like it’s been hunched against the elements for decades and plans to see a few more. Dean’s got a soft spot for things that have stood the test of time, age and character more important than the year or mileage. He raises an eyebrow at Sam, who nods, then puts the car in park and turns off the engine.
The cabin doesn’t even have a lock on the front door, just a rusty metal hook inside the flimsy screen door that no one bothered to latch, and he and Sam pile the crates of supplies just inside the door, along with a good portion of their arsenal, just in case. The cabin’s nearly empty, just one open room with a ratty, moth-eaten sofa in one corner and a broken bed frame and some mattresses stacked in the other. The tiny kitchen’s grease-stained and dirty, fridge gaping open, and a pair of spindly antlers is tacked onto the wall over a stone fireplace, a contextless remnant of someone else’s life.
It only strikes Dean as they’re shaking blankets out over the pair of mattresses arranged in the center of the room that they’re unpacking like it’s any of the million motel rooms or vacant houses they’ve stayed in over the years, spreading out their stuff and tracing salt lines and protective symbols like it’s just another roof and four walls, rather than what might soon be their final resting place. It’s strange to think this little cabin, barely more than a shack in the middle of nowhere, could be where they end their lives. But where Dean expects to find fear and regret, there’s just a vague ache of resignation, like pressing on a half-healed bruise. Sam looks up then, just a glance as he’s unzipping his sleeping bag, and that’s when Dean understands.
Normal people would probably be freaking out now, panicking over not seeing loved ones again or getting to say goodbye, but they’ve never been normal. Dean would have liked to say goodbye to Bobby or maybe Ellen, but they left things square between them - there’s never been any question of where they stand with Bobby, even when he and Dad were pissed at each other, and Ellen, although she doesn’t forget, doesn’t hold grudges. There’s no need for apologies or last-minute confessions.
And normal people might be freaked about dying, but Dean’s been preparing to die all year, after all. There’s not much left on his to-do list anyway. Going a few weeks early would have been a big deal before, but that was when he was leaving Sam behind. Whatever happens here, they’re going to be together. And at this point, there’s really nothing more they could say to each other that hasn’t already been proven a hundred times over in blood and gunpowder and sacrifice.
But then Sam looks up again, catching Dean looking at him, and ducks his head a little, like he’s flustered or uncomfortable, and Dean remembers that there is one little thing left unresolved between them.
It’s nothing more than a moment - just one out of the countless minutes they’ve spent together when things deviated from the way they’re supposed to be and dipped into something dangerous.
It was after Dad, after that roadside confession on the hood of the Impala. Sam was silent, nothing to say that would make it okay, but apparently he did have an answer (or at least a reply) and after they’d split half a bottle of Jack that night, he crawled into Dean’s bed and kissed him.
It was unexpected and unwanted. Dean was still trying to figure out how it was possible to be so angry at someone and almost sick with grief at the same time, never mind what the fuck he was supposed to do with that kind of a secret, and there was no way he could handle their last boundary being crossed like that. He needed Sam to be his brother, to understand what was gone from their lives, to remind Dean why they still needed to keep going. There wasn’t room for complications.
Sam had apologized at the time, then again in the morning, but after Dean changed the subject six times before breakfast, he gave up and let it go.
It didn’t go away - there were still odd little moments here and there where Dean would catch Sam’s gaze lingering a little too long, or times when Sam came out of the shower flushed with more than the hot water and avoiding Dean’s eyes, and through it all, Dean could feel Sam watching him. But Dean had never met an emotional issue he couldn’t ignore, and he shut it all out.
And maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about this right now, because what does it even matter - the world’s going to hell outside, and he and Sam could join it at any minute. Dean should be thinking about important things right now, like what the fuck they’re going to do or what he believes in, or what all this means, whether they’re going to be here tomorrow to care.
But somehow, his thoughts keep coming back to it, to Sam that night, curling around him warm and clumsy, broad hands cradling Dean’s face as he leaned down. Dean didn’t want it then, resented it, but now the thought sends a dart of heat through his stomach, remembering the way Sam’s mouth fit against his own for those few seconds, sweet and slick.
Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about it right now, maybe a normal person wouldn’t, but he’s never been one for doing things he’s supposed to, and he’s sure as hell never been normal. And right now, here in this cabin, Sam’s the only thing he’s got left.
Sam clears his throat across the room, breaking Dean’s train of thought. “This place got water?” he asks, gesturing toward the little kitchen.
Dean shrugs. “Didn’t check.”
Sam twists the rusty faucets, but nothing comes. There’s no bathroom either, just the great outdoors, so it looks like their options are bottled or lake water. “I’m going to go wash up in the lake,” Sam says, rubbing dusty hands on his hands on his jeans.
Dean nods and sets aside his duffel, following Sam outside. It’s only a few steps down to the lakeshore, grass blending into pebbled sand, and there’s a rickety wooden dock that extends a few feet into the shallow water. It’s obvious no one’s used it for years, at least - weeds have crept up near the shore, giving the water a murky green tinge, and the dock’s cracked and weathered from winter ice.
Sam strips down on the shore, tossing his shirt and jeans behind him, but he leaves his boxers on. He wouldn’t have, a year ago, but ever since kissing Dean, he’s adopted a stricter policy on nudity. Or maybe it’s modesty, Dean doesn’t know.
He takes his clothes off too, strewing them out on the dock, and sits on the edge and dangles his feet into the water, watching as Sam wades cautiously into the shallows. They both spent a lot of time in the lake behind Pastor Jim’s house, and Dean will never forget the shock of a freezing cold Minnesota lake in early June, stealing his breath and searing his nerves. He was always the one to jump straight in, letting the shock of cold slice through him, getting it over with in one plunge. Sam was the one who went in slowly, adjusting at each stage of depth, always sure of where he was and when he was ready to go further.
This lake is fairly warm, though, heated by the week’s unusually high temperatures, and the boards of the dock are sun-warmed and worn silky with age under Dean. He dips his toes in and out of the water, watching the ripples they create, marring the reflection of the sky. The sun’s just going down to the west, catching a haze of smoke on the horizon, and the remaining light is tinged with red. Sailor’s delight.
Sam’s waist-deep now, hair wet and slicked back, splashing water onto his arms, and Dean wonders when it changed, when Sam started going after exactly what he wanted with so much certainty and Dean was the one left hesitating. Or maybe nothing’s changed at all, Sam still precise and careful and Dean in over his head. He watches his brother, dying sunlight hitting wet skin, and before he knows it he’s dropping down into the water, moving closer.
He doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, or even if he should, but he and Sam have never been normal brothers, after all, and sometimes it seems inevitable, that they’ve been drifting this way all their lives. Toward each other, toward this. No other way.
“Sam,” he says, when his boxers are soaked and he’s a foot away, just behind him.
Sam doesn’t turn. Dean reaches out for the curve of his lower back, just trailing fingertips, and says it again. Sam’s skin is cool under his fingers, slick with water, and Dean’s fingertips catch and drag, stopping just above the waistband of Sam’s shorts. This time Sam turns, slowly, and Dean moves into his space, a swirl of water displacing between them, waves lapping against their bellies as the distance disappears.
Sam just watches Dean, a drop of water sliding off the end of his nose, but his breathing picks up, his chest going up down faster. Dean curls a hand around Sam’s shoulder, molding it to the curve of bone and muscle, then leans up and kisses him. It’s just a gentle cling of lips, scant seconds of contact, but it feels like an electric shock, and Dean’s stomach swoops crazily.
He pulls back on an unsteady inhale. “Is this - do you still - “
“Yeah. God, yes,” Sam says, and then he’s kissing Dean, a hand around the back of his neck to bring him closer, adjust the angle, and their chests are pressing together, warm skin under a sheen of cool water. Kissing Sam is like nothing else Dean’s ever done, equal parts pleasure and pain, and he’s not sure if the sparks it sends down his nerves, speeding up his pulse and sending a shot of heat down his spine, are because he’s turned on or terrified.
“God,” Sam says again when they break apart, reverent and hushed, like he can’t believe this is happening. Dean’s not sure he really believes it, either. It all seems so surreal - the blood-tinged sunset and the strange, out-of-season heat blend together like vague impressions, half-formed ideas from a dream that heat his blood but leave him with only a faint memory of want, bone-deep.
But Sam’s shoulder is warm and real underneath his hand, heartbeat strong and steady, and there’s no way Dean’s imagining the hard press of a cock against his leg when Sam sways a little closer, or the way Sam hisses in reaction, sharp breath against Dean’s cheek. They’re really doing this.
It’s a little weird, but it’s good. Dean doesn’t move away, and after a second Sam slides a hand down to the small of his back, pushing their hips together and rocking a little, and that’s even better, the drag of their wet shorts creating friction. Sam sucks a line of kisses down Dean’s neck, mouthing his collarbone, and even if Dean never knew he wanted this before, he’s not going to stop. He’s got this one chance to find out where this can go, and he’s going to follow, no matter where it takes him.
So when Sam pulls back a little, just enough to meet his eyes and ask, “Dean, can I - ?“ he doesn’t wait to hear the rest of the question, just nods. Sam makes a noise at the back of his throat, then he’s turning Dean, walking him backwards until the water’s only brushing Dean’s shins. Then he pushes hard on Dean’s shoulders and says, “Down,” and before Dean realizes what’s happening, his ass is firmly on the sandy ground, water still swirling around his ankles, and Sam only pauses to yank his boxers off before settling between Dean’s knees, shoving his thighs apart.
Dean barely has time for a heartfelt “Holy shit” before Sam’s warm breath gusts across his balls and he’s licking a stripe up the underside of Dean’s cock. After Sam takes him in his mouth, there’s no way Dean can make his mouth shape coherent words anymore.
Sam’s cautious and careful, slow and a little unsteady as he slides his mouth down, and Dean sucks in a sharp breath when he realizes Sam hasn’t done this before. It’s unexpectedly hot, knowing that he’s the first to have this, and even the slight shiver of unease it provokes, the hint of wrong that comes along with being his baby brother’s first blowjob, disappears in a second.
Right and wrong don’t mean much now, not when tomorrow morning’s only a maybe, and Dean’s really more interested in the way his brother has always been a fast learner. Sam’s going at this like any other skill to be mastered, brows furrowed in concentration as he licks and sucks, and pretty soon he’s found a good rhythm, cheeks hollowing as he works his mouth further down to meet his hand, and Dean realizes in a rush that he’s already close.
Sam slips a bit, then, a slight scrape of teeth, and that’s it. Dean’s gone, arching against the wet sand, coming in a hot rush. Sam chokes a little, pulling back and spitting his mouthful into the water, but then he’s back, pressing Dean into the rocky sand. He’s still hard, cock sliding urgently into the groove of Dean’s hip as he rocks down, and Dean doesn’t think about it, just pulls Sam closer and lifts his hips. It only takes a minute, Sam panting harshly against his neck, and then there’s come slicking Dean’s skin and Sam bites down hard on his shoulder.
Neither of them move for a few minutes, just breathing and taking stock, before Dean pushes Sam off and sits up, grimacing.
Sam watches, raising a curious eyebrow.
“Fucking song is misleading,” Dean says, wincing as he gets to his feet.
“What?”
“Sex on the beach. Nobody’d want it so bad if they got this much sand up their ass.”
Sam grins. “I can help you with that.” He drags Dean back out into the water, and they spend a few minutes scooping up handfuls of water and trying to get clean. It devolves into a splash fight, of course, and Dean has to dunk Sam three times before Sam finally admits defeat, but finally they’re both on their feet and mostly clean.
Sam sluices a few more handfuls of water over Dean’s back, but from the way his hands linger lower, fingers straying a little too long, he’s more interested in getting his hands on Dean than making sure he’s clean. Dean’s about to call him on it, make some kind of joke about groping, but then he notices that Sam’s acting a little weird, tentative and half-shy as his fingers brush lightly over Dean’s ass.
“You got some kind of fixation with my ass?” Dean asks. It’s meant to be a joke, light and teasing, but Sam’s eyes jerk up to his quickly, almost guilty, and Dean swallows hard.
“Is this - you think about this?” he asks, voice unsteady. “Think about doing this, when you’re jerking off? Think about - about fucking me?”
The catch in Sam’s breathing tells him he’s right, even before Sam clenches his jaw and nods tightly.
Dean wasn’t expecting this, but the knowledge sends a rush of heat through him, making him inhale sharply. He knew Sam had some kind of feelings for him that went beyond fraternal, but knowing that Sam’s thought about this, thought about it when he was alone in the shower or bed, got himself off imagining what it would be like, wants Dean that much - it’s overwhelming. And intoxicating. Dean’s already come this far, after all, and there’s no real reason not to go all the way. If he’s going out, he’s doing it with a hell of a bang.
As if in reply, thunder rumbles in the distance. On the horizon, what Dean assumed earlier to be more hazy smoke is actually a line of heavy clouds, sweeping across the sky faster than any other storm he’s seen, and lightning’s already flashing between the clouds, brilliant blue-white. The wind’s picking up, too, rustling leaves and raising waves, and Dean turns to Sam. “We’d better get inside.”
They grab their clothes and head in, the first spatters of rain already coming down, and Dean carefully redoes the salt lines after pushing a couple crates against the door, hoping a combination of the two will keep out anything unfriendly.
When he turns around, hoping to find a towel and dry off, he’s met instead with Sam, suddenly in his space. Dean sucks in a breath without meaning to, stumbling back an automatic half-step, but Sam catches him with one hand on his back, sliding low and possessive, and Dean stills.
Sam just looks at him for a long second, eyes tracing the curves of Dean’s face, and Dean feels the weight of it like a physical touch. He hates this, the way Sam looks at him sometimes like he can see straight through Dean, through the leather jacket and layers right down to his sold soul. But then Sam meets Dean’s gaze head-on, and there’s none of his usual contemplation, just heat and want. “We doing this?” he asks.
The question echoes through the room. It’s not that loud - barely audible over the rushing wind and steady patter of rain - but Dean feels the reverberations anyway.
He thinks about saying no, but it’s just reflex, an impulse that dies before it ever reaches his lips. He wants this. If this is the end - and even if it isn’t - he wants to have this. To be this, with Sam. They’ve been everything to each other their whole lives, closer than any married couple Dean’s ever met, and wanting this - needing this from each other - it’s less fucked up than a lot of what they’ve dealt with. Sick and wrong is demon wars or deals with devils. This is just getting what they both want. Something they can actually have, for a change.
“Yeah,” Dean says, hoarse and rough. “Yeah, we are.”
Sam doesn’t even pause for a breath before he’s ducking down for a bruising kiss, thumb under Dean’s chin to tilt his head. A bright streak of lightning flashes out the window, crack of thunder just behind, and Dean’s hands are tight on Sam’s biceps as he pushes up, meeting Sam’s mouth with equal force.
Storm’s here, and nothing’s holding it back now.
It’s almost completely dark in the cabin when Sam pushes Dean down onto the makeshift bed, the old Coleman lantern glowing softly in the corner providing the only light, and Sam’s half in shadow as he kneels over Dean, digging in his duffel.
Dean feels a squirm of something uncomfortable in his stomach when Sam pushes his legs apart, and he tips his head back and closes his eyes. A blowjob on a beach is one thing, but this - spread out on his back like a girl as Sam gets him ready - it’s too much.
But Sam doesn’t soothe or gentle him, just slicks up a finger and pushes in hard. It’s surprising and strange, sudden blunt pressure, and Sam barely gives him the chance to adjust before he’s adding another finger, but it’s okay. The edge of pain reminds him this is real, that it’s not just anyone touching him. The third finger’s almost too much, a burn that Dean only barely keeps from arching away from, but then Sam touches something inside him that sends a rush of heat up his spine, and it’s a little easier to relax after that.
Well, until Sam’s pulling away and urging him up onto hands and knees, because then it’s Sam’s cock pressing against and inside him, blunt and thick, and Dean’s skin prickles with heat, sweat gathering between his shoulders as he tries to breathe through it.
Sam drops kisses on his back and shoulders, pulling out slow before pushing back in, and Dean can’t help a groan at that, the way Sam’s cock slides so deep and feels so full. Lightning strikes again, thunder close behind, and Dean feels the tremble of the earth in his own shaky limbs. The rain’s coming down even harder now, whipping at the window in sheets, and the noise nearly drowns out Sam’s half-gasped breaths behind him.
But then Sam reaches a hand down to stroke Dean, and the storm becomes muted white noise in the background, Sam’s fingers tight and slick around him overwhelming his senses and the chaos outside.
Lightning still flickers at the corners of his vision, bright blue-white even when his eyes slide closed, but the fierce wind and driving rain are barely noticeable when Sam slides his hand up, palm flat against Dean’s stomach, and speeds up his thrusts, hitting that spot on every pass that has Dean’s mouth going without his consent, mindless repetitions of “God, God, yes,” and “More, harder, Sam.”
But even the constant pleasure that keeps spiraling higher just isn’t enough, and Dean groans in frustration, trying to get a hand on his cock again. Sam catches on after a second, though, and instead of helping out he grunts and shifts slightly before sitting back, pulling Dean with him. And as if abruptly finding himself spread out over Sam’s lap isn’t enough, Sam has to go and thrust up, lifting them both, and close his hand around Dean’s cock.
It only takes a few rough, fast strokes before Dean’s at the edge, and then a blinding flash of lightning fills the cabin as thunder like an explosion goes off, and that’s it. The cabin walls shudder with the force of the storm, windows rattling in their frames, and Sam bites down hard just where his neck meets his shoulder and slams up into him one last time. When the vibrations die out, Dean’s slumped back against Sam, head tipped back onto his shoulder, and Sam’s panting hard against his neck.
Which is throbbing now, thanks to Sam’s sharp teeth. Dean wants to reach up and touch the tender skin, feel the heat of blood gathering under the surface, but his arms are too heavy to lift. None of his limbs are working particularly well, come down to it, so it’s a good thing that Sam’s still coordinated enough to get them both stretched out on the blanket pile.
Dean throws a leg over Sam’s, half to keep him there and half because after Florida, Sam sleeps a lot better when he has a tangible reminder that Dean’s right next to him. Sam huffs and pulls him closer, skating a hand down his back before his fingers slide lower, slipping in the mess he made as he rubs them in gentle circles.
Dean groans and shifts away a little, but Sam just says, “Shh, s’okay,” and keeps his movements slow and soft on tender skin, like he just wants to prove to himself that it really happened.
“Can’t believe we did this,” he says a few minutes later.
A loud boom interrupts any reply Dean might have had, the ground shuddering beneath them, and the rain pounds down even harder. “Storm’s getting worse,” he says instead.
“Wonder what’ll be left when the sun comes out,” Sam mumbles, voice deep and raspy.
“If the sun comes out,” Dean corrects.
Sam doesn’t reply, and Dean’s not sure if that’s optimism or sleep finally overtaking him. Either way, he drags a blanket up over their legs and gets comfortable. There’s no way he’s going to be able to sleep, not with the noise level outside, but that doesn’t mean Sam can’t catch some shut-eye while Dean waits this thing out.
Because that’s what he’s going to do. The weather could take a worse turn any minute - storms like this can spawn tornados easy, even if it’s not the season, and the cabin isn’t exactly a stronghold - but it doesn’t really matter. Even if a twister springs up and tears the place down, even if the world comes apart at the seams or the earth drops away beneath them, it’s all right. It’s not the way Dean would have preferred to go, not exactly a blaze of glory, but looking at Sam, sticky and sweaty and asleep next to him, he can’t really complain.
* * *
Sam wakes up sometime in the early hours of the morning, rubbing a hand over his face like it’s any other morning. But then he sees Dean and his eyes widen as he takes in the cabin around them, still in one piece.
“Storm’s over,” he says, surprised.
“It’s been quiet for a few hours now,” Dean tells him. He nods toward the window. “Check it out.”
It’s weak and watery, just pale grey light, but it’s a sunrise nonetheless. They watch together as the sky lightens to a dusty blue.
They get up when it’s fully light, pulling on clothes and venturing out. It’s eerily silent outside the cabin, none of the usual morning sounds of distant traffic, birds chirping, or airplanes overhead. Evidence of the storm is all around - branches sheared off, trees bent, debris strewn across the ground, shingles missing from the roof, the old dock ripped away and scattered across the yard. Even the Impala’s worse for wear, her hood and roof dotted with hail dents, but Dean can’t even muster up anger, just runs his fingers along the shallow dips and gives thanks to whoever’s listening that she’s still in one piece.
And that’s kind of the thing, really. The entire landscape is torn up, and from what little they’ve heard, the rest of the world’s gone to hell. It’s like someone wanted to purge the earth. But here they are, alive and whole, and Dean’s not sure if he and Sam are lucky or cursed. Or maybe just forgotten by a higher power? It figures.
They clean up a little at the lake’s edge and pack the car, working in tandem like hundreds of other mornings. Finally, after they’ve loaded the last crate into the car and Dean shuts the screen door one last time, Sam leans up against the passenger door and says, “You know, we could just stay here. We’ve got everything we need.”
It’s the first time they’ve spoken out here, and Sam’s voice seems louder than usual in the strange silence. Dean looks down at the keys in his hand, then out at the lake. “Nah,” he says, finally. “Could be more people out there. We should see what’s going on. Maybe see if we can help.”
Sam thinks about it for a long minute, but nods.
“Besides,” Dean says, opening the driver’s door, “If there’s any repopulating the earth to be done, I want to be first in line.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Great. That’s just what we need, you creating your own nation.”
Dean spreads his arms. “Can’t be helped, Sammy. You can’t let genes this good die out.”
Sam shakes his head, but when they’re both inside the car, he reaches a hand over to brush the bruise he left on Dean’s neck, rubbing his thumb against the damaged skin. It sparks pain and pleasure at the same time, and Dean can’t suppress a shiver. Sam smirks, then pulls away to settle on his own side of the car.
“Let’s go, then,” he says.
They have no idea what’s out there. They don’t know if anyone else made it, if there’s any resources left, if there’s any reason to keep going. But somehow, they’re going to have to learn how to live in this new, reforged world. The Impala may have surface damage, but she starts without complaint, engine rumbling like a million times before. They’ve got a car packed with food and weapons, a full tank of gas, and each other. Dean shares a last look with Sam, then puts her in gear.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The world’s coming down around them.
Notes: Written for
spn_apocasmut . The prompts I used are under my name here, and the title comes from the second one.
Warnings: Spoilers up to 3.11.
Word count: 6,300 words.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
When the world ends, there’s no warning. No signs, no symbols, nothing out of the ordinary. It’s just a sunny Wednesday morning like a million others before it until, suddenly, the earth skips in orbit like a heart missing a beat and there’s a second of perfect, impossible silence before the ground jerks like the world’s been torn off its foundation.
Sam and Dean are in a motel room in Illinois, just back from breakfast and planning their next move, when everything shudders, taking a hard tilt to the right. There’s a second of inertia and overwhelming wrongness where they stay completely still, unable to comprehend what happened, before they begin to move cautiously.
“Earthquake?” Dean asks, righting the lamp on the table next to him.
Sam, running his hands over the seams of the laptop, shakes his head. “Too far north. Some kind of explosion, maybe?”
“Felt too big for that,” Dean replies, but it’s just idle talk, meant to cover the fact that they both know something is seriously wrong. The air is charged with something, sharp and sour at the back of Dean’s throat, and he feels the thrum of it under his skin, uneasy and unsettling.
He ends up in front of the window, but the parking lot doesn’t hold any answers. A few people are out going about their business, and the motel owner’s walking around, checking for damage from the jolt, but the sky’s still bright and sunny, no hint of a storm, and it seems the residents of Roscoe are mostly unconcerned.
Sam’s watching him when he turns around. “What do you think?” Dean asks.
Sam doesn’t have to ask what he means. “There’s a case on the UP - women keep disappearing just before they’re supposed to get married, good chance it’s some kind of spirit.” He nods toward the window. “Might be good to get out of here. Go somewhere less crowded.”
Dean nods. He’s feeling restless, that formless feeling of wrong crawling under his skin, and he agrees with Sam - if something big is going down, he’d rather take his chances with the Wisconsin highways than a city full of panicking people.
He and Sam gather up their stuff and pack the Impala quickly.
It’s unusually warm out for late April in the northern Midwest, has been all week, and they keep the windows down and shirtsleeves rolled up. They’re barely ten miles down the road when Van Zant’s cut off mid-word and the announcer’s breaking in with a news bulletin - earthquake on the West Coast, closest to a 10 on the Richter they’ve ever seen, and the resulting tsunami is headed straight for Japan. Mass casualties, thousands more expected when the wave makes land. But that’s not all - a tropical storm’s come up from nowhere in the Pacific, heading straight for southern Asia, and torrential rain over the Baltic is already causing flooding in Stockholm and Helsinki.
Dean pulls the car over to the side of the road and flips the radio off. The sudden silence seems strange. The world’s full of chaos, but here, there’s only the soft ticking of the engine. Finally, he turns to look at Sam, but he’s not even sure what question to ask. “What do you think we should do?”
Sam looks just as shell-shocked as Dean feels, eyes wide. “I don’t know,” he says.
“Do we keep going? Do we stop? Should we be helping somehow?”
“I don’t know,” Sam repeats, shrugging helplessly. “I don’t know if we can do anything.”
Dean hesitates for a second, but it’s a question that needs to be asked. He clears his throat. “It seems pretty coincidental that this is happening now, after what went down last spring. You think this is because of - “ He stops himself before us can come out. “Because of what happened in Wyoming?”
Sam’s shaking his head before he finishes, though. “Demons love natural disasters,” he admits, “But this doesn’t feel like that. Like them.” He looks over at Dean, slightly incredulous. “I think this is just - the way things play out. How it was meant to be.”
Dean swallows hard. “Jesus.”
“Maybe,” Sam says, mouth quirking a little.
Dean snorts, shaking his head. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. So, probably no way of stopping it. Doesn’t seem likely we can outrun it. So what the hell are we supposed to do?”
Their cell phones died right after they got on the road, so they don’t even have the luxury of a second opinion or Bobby’s usual levelheaded advice.
Sam doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head.
“Well, we’re sure as hell not sitting here and waiting to die,” Dean declares, starting up the car again.
He doesn’t know where he’s going - there’s pretty much nowhere to go, if Sam’s right - but the lever’s dropping toward E on the gas gauge, so Dean makes that his temporary destination, pointing the car north on 51.
They leave the radio on at first, sliding between news reports, but after fifteen minutes of unrelenting bad news, the reporters’ voices going ragged with helpless disbelief, Sam reaches out and flips it off. There are freak tornadoes in Montana, a squall battering Newfoundland, London is burning after lightning storms, and multiple volcanoes in Indonesia are spitting ash into the air. The list goes on and on, reports growing dull as one disaster tops another, and although Dean usually has a sick fascination for stuff like this, even he can’t listen anymore. The world is crumbling, and all he wants is to keep them ahead of the avalanche.
When Dean finds a gas station, half an hour later, he fills up the car and two gas cans they keep in the trunk. When he goes in to pay, the clerk is glued to a television set that’s flipping rapidly between locations, flashing from the wreck of one city to the ruins of another, not even bothering to narrate what’s going on anymore. As Dean’s pulling twenties out of his wallet, the signal dies, and the TV goes fuzzy for a second before the power cuts out altogether. In the distance, there’s another faint boom.
“Shit,” the guy says. “Shit. That’s it.” He ducks out from behind the counter, heading for the door.
“Hey, what about - “ Dean says, gesturing to the bottled water and money sitting on the counter.
“You really think that matters now?” the guy asks, incredulous. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of here as fast as you can. Go to ground somewhere. Hope like hell you survive.”
He stiff-arms the door, barely avoiding a head-on collision with Sam, who gives him a bewildered look. “What the - “
“Never mind,” Dean says, gathering up the money and water. “Just grab as much stuff as you can.”
They find crates in the back, near the dairy cooler, and load them up with all the water and nonperishable food they can. It might be an overly optimistic move, given what’s going down around the world, but they know more about the world than most people, and Dean’s not just going to give up without a fight, apocalypse or no. When the Impala’s trunk and backseat are full, Dean climbs in and starts her up.
“You got somewhere in mind?” Sam asks from the passenger seat.
“Not really,” Dean says, tires kicking up dust as they bump back onto the highway. “What’s coming up ahead of us?”
“Uh, Madison’s northwest,” Sam says, fumbling for the map. “Milwaukee to the east. A couple of small towns to the east of 90, and…looks like nothing but woods and a lake to the west.”
Dean nods, then hangs a left at the next intersection, following the road until it dissolves into a thinner, gravel track winding through the woods. Dean hasn’t exactly thought about what they’re going to do, but he knows he wants to be as far away from civilization as possible. They got rid of the tent they used to haul in the trunk when one of the zippers stopped working (which was also when they discovered exactly how many mosquito bites it was possible to get in six hours), but even if it’s just the two of them in the car, out in the middle of nowhere, that’s good enough for Dean. Even when it seems like nature is turning on the rest of the world, he feels safer out here, under the trees and open sky, than in a city of chaotic, panicking people.
And as it turns out, they don’t have to sleep in the car. The road comes out of a meandering curve and spreads into a grassy field, fading into a mix of gravel and sand before it hits the shoreline of a small, shallow lake. There’s a small, stout cabin on the left, and it’s evident by the time Dean lets the car coast to a stop that it’s unoccupied, and probably has been for years. It’s not much to look at - weathered siding that’s been worn colorless, one shuttered window, roof missing half its shingles - but it’s sturdy and squat, like it’s been hunched against the elements for decades and plans to see a few more. Dean’s got a soft spot for things that have stood the test of time, age and character more important than the year or mileage. He raises an eyebrow at Sam, who nods, then puts the car in park and turns off the engine.
The cabin doesn’t even have a lock on the front door, just a rusty metal hook inside the flimsy screen door that no one bothered to latch, and he and Sam pile the crates of supplies just inside the door, along with a good portion of their arsenal, just in case. The cabin’s nearly empty, just one open room with a ratty, moth-eaten sofa in one corner and a broken bed frame and some mattresses stacked in the other. The tiny kitchen’s grease-stained and dirty, fridge gaping open, and a pair of spindly antlers is tacked onto the wall over a stone fireplace, a contextless remnant of someone else’s life.
It only strikes Dean as they’re shaking blankets out over the pair of mattresses arranged in the center of the room that they’re unpacking like it’s any of the million motel rooms or vacant houses they’ve stayed in over the years, spreading out their stuff and tracing salt lines and protective symbols like it’s just another roof and four walls, rather than what might soon be their final resting place. It’s strange to think this little cabin, barely more than a shack in the middle of nowhere, could be where they end their lives. But where Dean expects to find fear and regret, there’s just a vague ache of resignation, like pressing on a half-healed bruise. Sam looks up then, just a glance as he’s unzipping his sleeping bag, and that’s when Dean understands.
Normal people would probably be freaking out now, panicking over not seeing loved ones again or getting to say goodbye, but they’ve never been normal. Dean would have liked to say goodbye to Bobby or maybe Ellen, but they left things square between them - there’s never been any question of where they stand with Bobby, even when he and Dad were pissed at each other, and Ellen, although she doesn’t forget, doesn’t hold grudges. There’s no need for apologies or last-minute confessions.
And normal people might be freaked about dying, but Dean’s been preparing to die all year, after all. There’s not much left on his to-do list anyway. Going a few weeks early would have been a big deal before, but that was when he was leaving Sam behind. Whatever happens here, they’re going to be together. And at this point, there’s really nothing more they could say to each other that hasn’t already been proven a hundred times over in blood and gunpowder and sacrifice.
But then Sam looks up again, catching Dean looking at him, and ducks his head a little, like he’s flustered or uncomfortable, and Dean remembers that there is one little thing left unresolved between them.
It’s nothing more than a moment - just one out of the countless minutes they’ve spent together when things deviated from the way they’re supposed to be and dipped into something dangerous.
It was after Dad, after that roadside confession on the hood of the Impala. Sam was silent, nothing to say that would make it okay, but apparently he did have an answer (or at least a reply) and after they’d split half a bottle of Jack that night, he crawled into Dean’s bed and kissed him.
It was unexpected and unwanted. Dean was still trying to figure out how it was possible to be so angry at someone and almost sick with grief at the same time, never mind what the fuck he was supposed to do with that kind of a secret, and there was no way he could handle their last boundary being crossed like that. He needed Sam to be his brother, to understand what was gone from their lives, to remind Dean why they still needed to keep going. There wasn’t room for complications.
Sam had apologized at the time, then again in the morning, but after Dean changed the subject six times before breakfast, he gave up and let it go.
It didn’t go away - there were still odd little moments here and there where Dean would catch Sam’s gaze lingering a little too long, or times when Sam came out of the shower flushed with more than the hot water and avoiding Dean’s eyes, and through it all, Dean could feel Sam watching him. But Dean had never met an emotional issue he couldn’t ignore, and he shut it all out.
And maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about this right now, because what does it even matter - the world’s going to hell outside, and he and Sam could join it at any minute. Dean should be thinking about important things right now, like what the fuck they’re going to do or what he believes in, or what all this means, whether they’re going to be here tomorrow to care.
But somehow, his thoughts keep coming back to it, to Sam that night, curling around him warm and clumsy, broad hands cradling Dean’s face as he leaned down. Dean didn’t want it then, resented it, but now the thought sends a dart of heat through his stomach, remembering the way Sam’s mouth fit against his own for those few seconds, sweet and slick.
Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about it right now, maybe a normal person wouldn’t, but he’s never been one for doing things he’s supposed to, and he’s sure as hell never been normal. And right now, here in this cabin, Sam’s the only thing he’s got left.
Sam clears his throat across the room, breaking Dean’s train of thought. “This place got water?” he asks, gesturing toward the little kitchen.
Dean shrugs. “Didn’t check.”
Sam twists the rusty faucets, but nothing comes. There’s no bathroom either, just the great outdoors, so it looks like their options are bottled or lake water. “I’m going to go wash up in the lake,” Sam says, rubbing dusty hands on his hands on his jeans.
Dean nods and sets aside his duffel, following Sam outside. It’s only a few steps down to the lakeshore, grass blending into pebbled sand, and there’s a rickety wooden dock that extends a few feet into the shallow water. It’s obvious no one’s used it for years, at least - weeds have crept up near the shore, giving the water a murky green tinge, and the dock’s cracked and weathered from winter ice.
Sam strips down on the shore, tossing his shirt and jeans behind him, but he leaves his boxers on. He wouldn’t have, a year ago, but ever since kissing Dean, he’s adopted a stricter policy on nudity. Or maybe it’s modesty, Dean doesn’t know.
He takes his clothes off too, strewing them out on the dock, and sits on the edge and dangles his feet into the water, watching as Sam wades cautiously into the shallows. They both spent a lot of time in the lake behind Pastor Jim’s house, and Dean will never forget the shock of a freezing cold Minnesota lake in early June, stealing his breath and searing his nerves. He was always the one to jump straight in, letting the shock of cold slice through him, getting it over with in one plunge. Sam was the one who went in slowly, adjusting at each stage of depth, always sure of where he was and when he was ready to go further.
This lake is fairly warm, though, heated by the week’s unusually high temperatures, and the boards of the dock are sun-warmed and worn silky with age under Dean. He dips his toes in and out of the water, watching the ripples they create, marring the reflection of the sky. The sun’s just going down to the west, catching a haze of smoke on the horizon, and the remaining light is tinged with red. Sailor’s delight.
Sam’s waist-deep now, hair wet and slicked back, splashing water onto his arms, and Dean wonders when it changed, when Sam started going after exactly what he wanted with so much certainty and Dean was the one left hesitating. Or maybe nothing’s changed at all, Sam still precise and careful and Dean in over his head. He watches his brother, dying sunlight hitting wet skin, and before he knows it he’s dropping down into the water, moving closer.
He doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, or even if he should, but he and Sam have never been normal brothers, after all, and sometimes it seems inevitable, that they’ve been drifting this way all their lives. Toward each other, toward this. No other way.
“Sam,” he says, when his boxers are soaked and he’s a foot away, just behind him.
Sam doesn’t turn. Dean reaches out for the curve of his lower back, just trailing fingertips, and says it again. Sam’s skin is cool under his fingers, slick with water, and Dean’s fingertips catch and drag, stopping just above the waistband of Sam’s shorts. This time Sam turns, slowly, and Dean moves into his space, a swirl of water displacing between them, waves lapping against their bellies as the distance disappears.
Sam just watches Dean, a drop of water sliding off the end of his nose, but his breathing picks up, his chest going up down faster. Dean curls a hand around Sam’s shoulder, molding it to the curve of bone and muscle, then leans up and kisses him. It’s just a gentle cling of lips, scant seconds of contact, but it feels like an electric shock, and Dean’s stomach swoops crazily.
He pulls back on an unsteady inhale. “Is this - do you still - “
“Yeah. God, yes,” Sam says, and then he’s kissing Dean, a hand around the back of his neck to bring him closer, adjust the angle, and their chests are pressing together, warm skin under a sheen of cool water. Kissing Sam is like nothing else Dean’s ever done, equal parts pleasure and pain, and he’s not sure if the sparks it sends down his nerves, speeding up his pulse and sending a shot of heat down his spine, are because he’s turned on or terrified.
“God,” Sam says again when they break apart, reverent and hushed, like he can’t believe this is happening. Dean’s not sure he really believes it, either. It all seems so surreal - the blood-tinged sunset and the strange, out-of-season heat blend together like vague impressions, half-formed ideas from a dream that heat his blood but leave him with only a faint memory of want, bone-deep.
But Sam’s shoulder is warm and real underneath his hand, heartbeat strong and steady, and there’s no way Dean’s imagining the hard press of a cock against his leg when Sam sways a little closer, or the way Sam hisses in reaction, sharp breath against Dean’s cheek. They’re really doing this.
It’s a little weird, but it’s good. Dean doesn’t move away, and after a second Sam slides a hand down to the small of his back, pushing their hips together and rocking a little, and that’s even better, the drag of their wet shorts creating friction. Sam sucks a line of kisses down Dean’s neck, mouthing his collarbone, and even if Dean never knew he wanted this before, he’s not going to stop. He’s got this one chance to find out where this can go, and he’s going to follow, no matter where it takes him.
So when Sam pulls back a little, just enough to meet his eyes and ask, “Dean, can I - ?“ he doesn’t wait to hear the rest of the question, just nods. Sam makes a noise at the back of his throat, then he’s turning Dean, walking him backwards until the water’s only brushing Dean’s shins. Then he pushes hard on Dean’s shoulders and says, “Down,” and before Dean realizes what’s happening, his ass is firmly on the sandy ground, water still swirling around his ankles, and Sam only pauses to yank his boxers off before settling between Dean’s knees, shoving his thighs apart.
Dean barely has time for a heartfelt “Holy shit” before Sam’s warm breath gusts across his balls and he’s licking a stripe up the underside of Dean’s cock. After Sam takes him in his mouth, there’s no way Dean can make his mouth shape coherent words anymore.
Sam’s cautious and careful, slow and a little unsteady as he slides his mouth down, and Dean sucks in a sharp breath when he realizes Sam hasn’t done this before. It’s unexpectedly hot, knowing that he’s the first to have this, and even the slight shiver of unease it provokes, the hint of wrong that comes along with being his baby brother’s first blowjob, disappears in a second.
Right and wrong don’t mean much now, not when tomorrow morning’s only a maybe, and Dean’s really more interested in the way his brother has always been a fast learner. Sam’s going at this like any other skill to be mastered, brows furrowed in concentration as he licks and sucks, and pretty soon he’s found a good rhythm, cheeks hollowing as he works his mouth further down to meet his hand, and Dean realizes in a rush that he’s already close.
Sam slips a bit, then, a slight scrape of teeth, and that’s it. Dean’s gone, arching against the wet sand, coming in a hot rush. Sam chokes a little, pulling back and spitting his mouthful into the water, but then he’s back, pressing Dean into the rocky sand. He’s still hard, cock sliding urgently into the groove of Dean’s hip as he rocks down, and Dean doesn’t think about it, just pulls Sam closer and lifts his hips. It only takes a minute, Sam panting harshly against his neck, and then there’s come slicking Dean’s skin and Sam bites down hard on his shoulder.
Neither of them move for a few minutes, just breathing and taking stock, before Dean pushes Sam off and sits up, grimacing.
Sam watches, raising a curious eyebrow.
“Fucking song is misleading,” Dean says, wincing as he gets to his feet.
“What?”
“Sex on the beach. Nobody’d want it so bad if they got this much sand up their ass.”
Sam grins. “I can help you with that.” He drags Dean back out into the water, and they spend a few minutes scooping up handfuls of water and trying to get clean. It devolves into a splash fight, of course, and Dean has to dunk Sam three times before Sam finally admits defeat, but finally they’re both on their feet and mostly clean.
Sam sluices a few more handfuls of water over Dean’s back, but from the way his hands linger lower, fingers straying a little too long, he’s more interested in getting his hands on Dean than making sure he’s clean. Dean’s about to call him on it, make some kind of joke about groping, but then he notices that Sam’s acting a little weird, tentative and half-shy as his fingers brush lightly over Dean’s ass.
“You got some kind of fixation with my ass?” Dean asks. It’s meant to be a joke, light and teasing, but Sam’s eyes jerk up to his quickly, almost guilty, and Dean swallows hard.
“Is this - you think about this?” he asks, voice unsteady. “Think about doing this, when you’re jerking off? Think about - about fucking me?”
The catch in Sam’s breathing tells him he’s right, even before Sam clenches his jaw and nods tightly.
Dean wasn’t expecting this, but the knowledge sends a rush of heat through him, making him inhale sharply. He knew Sam had some kind of feelings for him that went beyond fraternal, but knowing that Sam’s thought about this, thought about it when he was alone in the shower or bed, got himself off imagining what it would be like, wants Dean that much - it’s overwhelming. And intoxicating. Dean’s already come this far, after all, and there’s no real reason not to go all the way. If he’s going out, he’s doing it with a hell of a bang.
As if in reply, thunder rumbles in the distance. On the horizon, what Dean assumed earlier to be more hazy smoke is actually a line of heavy clouds, sweeping across the sky faster than any other storm he’s seen, and lightning’s already flashing between the clouds, brilliant blue-white. The wind’s picking up, too, rustling leaves and raising waves, and Dean turns to Sam. “We’d better get inside.”
They grab their clothes and head in, the first spatters of rain already coming down, and Dean carefully redoes the salt lines after pushing a couple crates against the door, hoping a combination of the two will keep out anything unfriendly.
When he turns around, hoping to find a towel and dry off, he’s met instead with Sam, suddenly in his space. Dean sucks in a breath without meaning to, stumbling back an automatic half-step, but Sam catches him with one hand on his back, sliding low and possessive, and Dean stills.
Sam just looks at him for a long second, eyes tracing the curves of Dean’s face, and Dean feels the weight of it like a physical touch. He hates this, the way Sam looks at him sometimes like he can see straight through Dean, through the leather jacket and layers right down to his sold soul. But then Sam meets Dean’s gaze head-on, and there’s none of his usual contemplation, just heat and want. “We doing this?” he asks.
The question echoes through the room. It’s not that loud - barely audible over the rushing wind and steady patter of rain - but Dean feels the reverberations anyway.
He thinks about saying no, but it’s just reflex, an impulse that dies before it ever reaches his lips. He wants this. If this is the end - and even if it isn’t - he wants to have this. To be this, with Sam. They’ve been everything to each other their whole lives, closer than any married couple Dean’s ever met, and wanting this - needing this from each other - it’s less fucked up than a lot of what they’ve dealt with. Sick and wrong is demon wars or deals with devils. This is just getting what they both want. Something they can actually have, for a change.
“Yeah,” Dean says, hoarse and rough. “Yeah, we are.”
Sam doesn’t even pause for a breath before he’s ducking down for a bruising kiss, thumb under Dean’s chin to tilt his head. A bright streak of lightning flashes out the window, crack of thunder just behind, and Dean’s hands are tight on Sam’s biceps as he pushes up, meeting Sam’s mouth with equal force.
Storm’s here, and nothing’s holding it back now.
It’s almost completely dark in the cabin when Sam pushes Dean down onto the makeshift bed, the old Coleman lantern glowing softly in the corner providing the only light, and Sam’s half in shadow as he kneels over Dean, digging in his duffel.
Dean feels a squirm of something uncomfortable in his stomach when Sam pushes his legs apart, and he tips his head back and closes his eyes. A blowjob on a beach is one thing, but this - spread out on his back like a girl as Sam gets him ready - it’s too much.
But Sam doesn’t soothe or gentle him, just slicks up a finger and pushes in hard. It’s surprising and strange, sudden blunt pressure, and Sam barely gives him the chance to adjust before he’s adding another finger, but it’s okay. The edge of pain reminds him this is real, that it’s not just anyone touching him. The third finger’s almost too much, a burn that Dean only barely keeps from arching away from, but then Sam touches something inside him that sends a rush of heat up his spine, and it’s a little easier to relax after that.
Well, until Sam’s pulling away and urging him up onto hands and knees, because then it’s Sam’s cock pressing against and inside him, blunt and thick, and Dean’s skin prickles with heat, sweat gathering between his shoulders as he tries to breathe through it.
Sam drops kisses on his back and shoulders, pulling out slow before pushing back in, and Dean can’t help a groan at that, the way Sam’s cock slides so deep and feels so full. Lightning strikes again, thunder close behind, and Dean feels the tremble of the earth in his own shaky limbs. The rain’s coming down even harder now, whipping at the window in sheets, and the noise nearly drowns out Sam’s half-gasped breaths behind him.
But then Sam reaches a hand down to stroke Dean, and the storm becomes muted white noise in the background, Sam’s fingers tight and slick around him overwhelming his senses and the chaos outside.
Lightning still flickers at the corners of his vision, bright blue-white even when his eyes slide closed, but the fierce wind and driving rain are barely noticeable when Sam slides his hand up, palm flat against Dean’s stomach, and speeds up his thrusts, hitting that spot on every pass that has Dean’s mouth going without his consent, mindless repetitions of “God, God, yes,” and “More, harder, Sam.”
But even the constant pleasure that keeps spiraling higher just isn’t enough, and Dean groans in frustration, trying to get a hand on his cock again. Sam catches on after a second, though, and instead of helping out he grunts and shifts slightly before sitting back, pulling Dean with him. And as if abruptly finding himself spread out over Sam’s lap isn’t enough, Sam has to go and thrust up, lifting them both, and close his hand around Dean’s cock.
It only takes a few rough, fast strokes before Dean’s at the edge, and then a blinding flash of lightning fills the cabin as thunder like an explosion goes off, and that’s it. The cabin walls shudder with the force of the storm, windows rattling in their frames, and Sam bites down hard just where his neck meets his shoulder and slams up into him one last time. When the vibrations die out, Dean’s slumped back against Sam, head tipped back onto his shoulder, and Sam’s panting hard against his neck.
Which is throbbing now, thanks to Sam’s sharp teeth. Dean wants to reach up and touch the tender skin, feel the heat of blood gathering under the surface, but his arms are too heavy to lift. None of his limbs are working particularly well, come down to it, so it’s a good thing that Sam’s still coordinated enough to get them both stretched out on the blanket pile.
Dean throws a leg over Sam’s, half to keep him there and half because after Florida, Sam sleeps a lot better when he has a tangible reminder that Dean’s right next to him. Sam huffs and pulls him closer, skating a hand down his back before his fingers slide lower, slipping in the mess he made as he rubs them in gentle circles.
Dean groans and shifts away a little, but Sam just says, “Shh, s’okay,” and keeps his movements slow and soft on tender skin, like he just wants to prove to himself that it really happened.
“Can’t believe we did this,” he says a few minutes later.
A loud boom interrupts any reply Dean might have had, the ground shuddering beneath them, and the rain pounds down even harder. “Storm’s getting worse,” he says instead.
“Wonder what’ll be left when the sun comes out,” Sam mumbles, voice deep and raspy.
“If the sun comes out,” Dean corrects.
Sam doesn’t reply, and Dean’s not sure if that’s optimism or sleep finally overtaking him. Either way, he drags a blanket up over their legs and gets comfortable. There’s no way he’s going to be able to sleep, not with the noise level outside, but that doesn’t mean Sam can’t catch some shut-eye while Dean waits this thing out.
Because that’s what he’s going to do. The weather could take a worse turn any minute - storms like this can spawn tornados easy, even if it’s not the season, and the cabin isn’t exactly a stronghold - but it doesn’t really matter. Even if a twister springs up and tears the place down, even if the world comes apart at the seams or the earth drops away beneath them, it’s all right. It’s not the way Dean would have preferred to go, not exactly a blaze of glory, but looking at Sam, sticky and sweaty and asleep next to him, he can’t really complain.
* * *
Sam wakes up sometime in the early hours of the morning, rubbing a hand over his face like it’s any other morning. But then he sees Dean and his eyes widen as he takes in the cabin around them, still in one piece.
“Storm’s over,” he says, surprised.
“It’s been quiet for a few hours now,” Dean tells him. He nods toward the window. “Check it out.”
It’s weak and watery, just pale grey light, but it’s a sunrise nonetheless. They watch together as the sky lightens to a dusty blue.
They get up when it’s fully light, pulling on clothes and venturing out. It’s eerily silent outside the cabin, none of the usual morning sounds of distant traffic, birds chirping, or airplanes overhead. Evidence of the storm is all around - branches sheared off, trees bent, debris strewn across the ground, shingles missing from the roof, the old dock ripped away and scattered across the yard. Even the Impala’s worse for wear, her hood and roof dotted with hail dents, but Dean can’t even muster up anger, just runs his fingers along the shallow dips and gives thanks to whoever’s listening that she’s still in one piece.
And that’s kind of the thing, really. The entire landscape is torn up, and from what little they’ve heard, the rest of the world’s gone to hell. It’s like someone wanted to purge the earth. But here they are, alive and whole, and Dean’s not sure if he and Sam are lucky or cursed. Or maybe just forgotten by a higher power? It figures.
They clean up a little at the lake’s edge and pack the car, working in tandem like hundreds of other mornings. Finally, after they’ve loaded the last crate into the car and Dean shuts the screen door one last time, Sam leans up against the passenger door and says, “You know, we could just stay here. We’ve got everything we need.”
It’s the first time they’ve spoken out here, and Sam’s voice seems louder than usual in the strange silence. Dean looks down at the keys in his hand, then out at the lake. “Nah,” he says, finally. “Could be more people out there. We should see what’s going on. Maybe see if we can help.”
Sam thinks about it for a long minute, but nods.
“Besides,” Dean says, opening the driver’s door, “If there’s any repopulating the earth to be done, I want to be first in line.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Great. That’s just what we need, you creating your own nation.”
Dean spreads his arms. “Can’t be helped, Sammy. You can’t let genes this good die out.”
Sam shakes his head, but when they’re both inside the car, he reaches a hand over to brush the bruise he left on Dean’s neck, rubbing his thumb against the damaged skin. It sparks pain and pleasure at the same time, and Dean can’t suppress a shiver. Sam smirks, then pulls away to settle on his own side of the car.
“Let’s go, then,” he says.
They have no idea what’s out there. They don’t know if anyone else made it, if there’s any resources left, if there’s any reason to keep going. But somehow, they’re going to have to learn how to live in this new, reforged world. The Impala may have surface damage, but she starts without complaint, engine rumbling like a million times before. They’ve got a car packed with food and weapons, a full tank of gas, and each other. Dean shares a last look with Sam, then puts her in gear.