SPN Fic: Two Queens (Sam/Dean, Adult)
I'm leaving on vacation in a few hours, but before I go I wanted to post this.
Title: Two Queens
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Spoilers up through 2.17, but set in the future.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
Summary: Dean tries to figure out why so many people think he and Sam are a couple. The answer is…surprising.
It isn’t a problem, or anything - a problem is when Sam’s hair gets in his eyes during a hunt and he trips over an exposed root and nearly impales himself on his machete, forcing Dean to take care of the creature by himself and then spend half an hour lecturing Sam on proper haircuts. It’s not a crisis, either, because neither of them are dying, cursed, or suddenly a woman. It’s not an issue, because issues are things they have to talk about (or keep a secret until the worst possible moment, and then fight about), and Sam is well aware of this and doesn’t really seem to care. It’s not even a big deal, for Christ’s sake, but it bugs Dean, even if it shouldn’t, and he can’t for the life of him stop wondering - why do so many people think he and Sam are gay?
It was kind of funny the first time someone assumed they were a couple. When that crazy realtor lady raised an eyebrow and said “sexual orientation,” so delicately while giving the two of them an appraising look, Dean nearly strained something trying not to laugh. That’s why he went with it - because it was hilarious, someone thinking he and Sam were boyfriends or some shit like that.
But the more it keeps happening, the less humorous it gets, until it starts really pissing Dean off. He liked that lady at the inn in Connecticut just fine until she started assuming things about him and Sam that she had no business assuming (and using a fucking code word for her assumptions, like they’re a dirty little secret - how the hell was Dean supposed to know antiques automatically equal gay?). And she didn’t even look embarrassed when she found out they’re related - she looked like she wanted to laugh. If it wasn’t for the job they were working, Dean probably would have left her a nasty note in the suggestion box. As it was, with people mysteriously dying and Sam’s emo overflowing all over the place, Dean was a little busy.
But the real kicker comes when it happens four separate times in one week. Dean probably could have dealt with the waitress asking if his boyfriend wanted more coffee, and he doesn’t really blame the motel desk clerk, even if she did look disappointed when his answer was “Two queens " instead of “One king.” But it’s a little much when the librarian who’s been giggling and flashing her cleavage at Dean for fifteen minutes gives him a disappointed look and straightens up when Sam comes over to the counter, and it’s just plain wrong when a redneck witness (who actually gives them tips on how to shoot and cook squirrels, and tells them seriously that most roadkill’s edible if the eyes are still white) gives Dean a pat on the back after they interview him and says, “Well, I hope you boys find the critter that did this. And if you need a place to stay, me and the missus got a real nice guest room you can use - got a nice big bed for you and your fella there.” For God’s sake, the man is a hick living in a backwater town the size of a football field. Where’s the homophobia and small-mindedness when you need it?
Sam doesn’t seem concerned by the whole thing - he seems to find it odd but somewhat amusing, if he notices it at all - but Dean can’t help but wonder what kind of vibes they’re giving off if everyone’s first assumption is that they’re screwing each other.
He gives it a lot of serious thought. At first he thinks it might just be the fact that they’re two handsome men traveling together. He knows he’s good-looking, and it hasn’t exactly escaped his notice that Sam’s not ugly either. They have good genes, after all, even if they don’t look very much alike. But Dad wasn’t bad-looking, and people never made that kind of assumption when he and Dean were at diners and motels together. There’s the age difference, yeah, but Dean doesn’t think that’s it. It’s something about specifically about him and Sam.
Which leads to his next (and more likely) conclusion: it’s Sam. It has to be. Sam’s got that young, impressionable, fresh-out-of-college-and-off-to-save-the-world look to him, along with hair that seems to reflect his emotional state, and after what happened in San Francisco, he doesn’t even look at girls anymore. He barely ever lets Dean go anywhere alone, but he’ll spend the whole night glaring if Dean wants to play pool or flirt with the locals. It’s not hard to see how an outsider could think he’s the jealous boyfriend.
But there’s really nothing Dean can do about that - Sam refuses to cut his hair and Dean refuses to let him go off alone, so short of a flashing sign on Sam’s back that says “Heterosexual - no, really” (which, actually, might be false advertising, Dean isn’t totally sure) there’s nothing to be done.
It’s not the conclusion Dean would have preferred - it kind of sucks that Sam’s making him gay by association - but he does feel a little bit better now that he’s got a reason why it’s happening.
Well, he does for a while, anyway. Then on a job in Michigan he’s trying to get an inside line on a missing girl from her best friend, playing up to the kid in order to get the details the police might have overlooked. Sam’s off trying to get ahold of the police reports, so Dean has to pull out all the stops and try to look extra-attentive in the absence of Mr. You Can Tell Me Anything, throwing in a lot of sissy crap like, “That must be so hard,” and “You two must have been really close,” and faking an interest in the details of the missing Hannah’s emerging poetic talent. Sam’s always making fun of Dean for being bad with people, so he works all of his considerable charm with the kid, just to prove his annoying brother wrong once and for all.
Unfortunately, Kevin also has his own theories about why Hannah is missing, and Dean has to endure ten minutes of wild speculation about mythological trolls carrying people off and forcing them to clean and cook in their lairs. Finally, after what seems like forever and a decade, Kevin remembers that Hannah was having strange dreams the week before she disappeared, and when he starts describing them, Dean can’t keep the predatory grin off his face at hitting pay dirt.
The kid perks up a little at that, though, and he suddenly seems a lot more interested in the proceedings than he did when it was all sentimental remembrances of Hannah.
“Thanks, Kev,” Dean says. “You’ve been really helpful.”
“Really?” Kevin asks.
“Yeah,” Dean assures him. “I’ve got a lot of great stuff for my article now. Thanks a lot.”
“Well, thanks for listening to me,” Kevin says. “No one else has really wanted to hear what I thought about Hannah’s disappearance. It really means a lot.”
Dean really wants to roll his eyes, but he musters up a bland smile. “No problem. Well, I’d better get going.”
“Um, wait,” Kevin blurts. “Uh, do you think maybe we could meet up later?”
“Later?” Dean repeats.
“Yeah,” Kevin says. “You know, I might remember more stuff then. And we could get a drink, or something, and talk about the article you’re writing. I’m sure I could be even more helpful.” He bares his teeth.
At first Dean thinks the guy’s grimacing or squinting in the low light, but then he realizes Kevin’s trying to smile seductively at him, and oh hell no, there’s no way Dean just got asked out by a barely-out-of-college twenty-something who thinks his best friend is doing housekeeping for a troll.
But Kevin’s still standing in front of him, all hesitant and hopeful, and Dean puts his disgruntlement on hold to make some kind of excuse about deadlines and other work to do. Kevin looks disappointed, but Dean doesn’t stick around to soothe his hurt feelings, just gets the hell out of there as fast as he can.
It’s not until he’s in the Impala that he realizes something that makes the whole incident a million times worse: Kevin assumed Dean was gay, and Sam was not even there. Not even in the near vicinity. Not even in a five-mile radius. This means none of Sam’s possibly-gay vibes could have affected Kevin, which means that they weren’t Sam’s vibes in the first place. It hasn’t been Sam all this time - it’s Dean.
Dean promptly has a bit of a crisis, because Dean Winchester? Is not a pansy. Dean Winchester is extremely manly, and does manly things like drive a muscle car and shoot guns and kill things and eat a lot of meat on a very regular basis. No one should be looking at such a prime specimen of manliness and questioning Dean’s sexual orientation.
“Is something wrong?” Sam asks, after they waste the thing that kidnapped Hannah and burn the corpse it left behind.
“No,” Dean growls. “Why, do I look like I want to cry and share my feelings with you? Because I don’t. When I said no chick flick moments, I meant it!”
“I know,” Sam says, bewildered. “You just seem a little…on edge.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Okay,” Sam says. “You’re right. It’s totally normal to shoot a creature six times after it’s already dead, hack up its corpse with a knife, and then use half a gallon of lighter fluid and eight matches to light it on fire. And heck, everyone hits on a girl ten years younger than them after they’ve just rescued her from a week in a creature’s lair, right?”
“I was not hitting on her,” Dean retorts. “I was just reassuring her that she looked pretty good for having spent a week in a cave. Everybody needs a little compliment now and then.”
“Dean.”
Dean busies himself with collecting their stuff. “It’s nothing, Sam.”
“I wouldn’t call you suddenly channeling Chuck Norris ‘nothing,’” Sam says, watching Dean toss the last of their gear into the Impala. “Seriously, did something happen?” He moves closer, catching Dean’s shoulder with his hand.
Dean sighs, slamming the trunk down. Sam’s hand feels good, warm and familiar, but it just reminds Dean what other people would think of the contact, and he moves away rather than leaning into it like he wants to. “No. It’s just - it’s nothing, Sam.”
A spark of something that looks like hurt flashes in Sam’s eyes, but he drops his hand. “Are you sure?”
Dean forces a grin he doesn’t feel onto his face. “Yeah, I’m sure.” He gives Sam a (very manly) slap on the back. “Come on, let’s get back to the motel.”
* * *
The next day they’re on the road again, Sam asleep against the window on the passenger side, long legs bent to fit under the dash and broad shoulders twisted so his head can rest on his arm.
Dean keeps the stereo blasting cock rock, just on principle, but he spends the ride thinking. He’s back to square one with the gay problem, because apparently it’s something about him, and he has no idea how to make himself appear more straight. He suspects Sam’s right, that if he tried to be any more butch he’d go right over the top of the hill and down the other side into overkill, which wouldn’t help things.
He can’t change himself, but Dean hits upon a kind of solution as he crosses the border into Indiana - he can change them. After two years on the road together, sharing the car during the day and motel rooms at night, he and Sam have kind of foregone personal space out of necessity. If Dean was too modest to shave while Sam’s in the shower, he’d have a beard three feet long by now, because Sam takes forever in there (conditioning his hair, or shrinking his pores, or whatever it is he does), and if Dean was averse to Sam being in his space he’d have to find a new brother, because Sam is big enough that he’s always taking up more than his fair share. But while that’s normal for them, it’s not normal for other people, or at least, other brothers with extremely platonic relationships.
So when they stop for lunch, Dean makes sure to keep all of his limbs and appendages on his side of the restaurant booth, where they won’t come into contact with any of Sam’s, and he purposely walks ahead of Sam as they head back to the car, keeping a solid foot between them at all times.
When they pull into a motel for the night, Dean puts two rooms on Stanley Klinghorn’s credit card and makes sure to mention the other one is for his brother.
Sam looks confused when Dean hands him his own key, but Dean just says breezily, “Thought we could use the space,” and Sam nods, taking his duffel out of the car and unlocking the door.
It’s weird, having a room to himself. Dean’s used to Sam’s stuff mingling with his, the scent of Sam’s aftershave in the bathroom, and Sam himself, complaining about Dean’s choice of TV channels or tapping away on the laptop or just breathing a few feet away during the night. Dean starts to say something half a dozen times before he remembers Sam’s not there to listen, and he very nearly calls Sam at one point to tell him something funny he just remembered.
He puts his phone down on the bedside table and reminds himself that a little separation is good for them.
* * *
“Dean, what the hell is going on?” Sam asks the next afternoon, when they stop at a diner for lunch.
“What do you mean?” Dean asks around a mouthful of chicken-fried steak drenched in gravy. The food is so fantastic that he thinks the cook has to be either angelic or demonic, and he doesn’t even care which, it’s that good.
“I mean you,” Sam says, his own plate nearly untouched. “First, there was the whole two rooms thing. Then breakfast this morning - “
“What was wrong with breakfast?”
“You went without me!”
Dean rolls his eyes. “What, so now we have to eat every meal together? Jesus, we’re not attached at the hip.”
“No,” Sam says, “But we are partners, in case you’ve forgotten. You can’t just - ”
“Shh!” Dean checks the diners around them and the waitress up at the counter, but it doesn’t look like anyone heard Sam’s misleading announcement. When he turns back, Sam’s watching him, eyebrows drawn together.
“And that’s another thing - why do you keep telling random people that I’m your brother?”
“I don’t know what you’re - “
“Dean, you asked the waitress for “more coffee for my brother,” and you told the motel clerk how much “my brother and I” enjoyed our stay. You even pointed out two squirrels at a rest stop and said they were fighting over an acorn like brothers, and then added “Just like you and me!” loud enough for everyone in a ten-mile radius to hear.”
Dean shrugs, taking another bite of his food. “Just habit, I guess.”
“And the separate rooms? And the way you keep a foot of space between us at all times? Is that just habit, too?”
Dean just shrugs again.
Sam slams his hand down on the table, and the entire restaurant looks up, along with Dean. Sam’s face has gone from confused and curious to confused and angry, and his hazel eyes are hard, glaring at Dean across the table.
“Dean,” he says in a low voice that nevertheless carries across the room, “Tell me what’s going on.”
Shit. Dean hates it when Sam’s angry with him. He can spend a week bickering with him over stupid little things, sniping and pushing each others’ buttons just because they know them so well, but he’s never been able to stand having Sam really, truly mad at him. Dean’s also pretty sure that the entire restaurant thinks they’re having a lover’s spat, which is just impossibly ironic, and if he doesn’t think of a good reason for all the sudden changes he’s made, Sam’s probably going to say something like, “Why won’t you touch me anymore?” at top volume and ruin all of Dean’s hard work.
So he’s panicking a little, and he says the first thing that comes to mind: “You talk in your sleep.”
Sam blinks. “What?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, going with it. “Apparently as soon as you’re asleep your subconscious goes into Dear Diary mode, and I’m kind of tired of hearing your dirty little secrets on repeat all night.”
Sam looks horrified.
Dean clamps down on a smirk. “So I thought I’d get us separate rooms, so I could get some actual sleep.”
“Oh, God,” Sam says. “Oh, God. Dean, what did you hear? What did I say?”
It’s kind of funny how scandalized Sam is, especially since Dean’s pretty sure the most risqué thought Sam’s ever had is pretty vanilla compared to the things Dean says and does on a regular basis, and Dean can’t resist winding him up a little more. “Sam,” he says, shaking his head gravely, “I’m not going to repeat those things in public.”
He expects Sam to kick him in the shins or tell him to shut up, but instead Sam pales and looks like he might throw up. “Oh,” he says, and then, “I’m going to go outside.”
At first Dean thinks it’s hilarious, Sam being this embarrassed about some wet dream, but when fifteen minutes go by and he’s still not back, Dean starts to get worried. He doesn’t bother flagging down the waitress, since he can’t remember which one is even theirs anymore, just leaves a pile of bills on the table and goes.
Sam’s sitting on the ground next to the Impala, leaning back against one of the rear tires, staring at the gravel between his knees. He jumps slightly when Dean comes up next to him, but doesn’t answer when Dean asks if he’s okay. He just gets into the car, turns his face to the window, and refuses to say anything.
It’s not so funny anymore, and Dean’s considering telling Sam he was just kidding, but then he’d have to explain why he said it, which would involve admitting that he’s the one pinging everyone’s gaydar, and apologizing to Sam for making him gay by association, which will undoubtedly lead to Sam mocking him for…oh, forever. Besides, Sam’s always been a little overzealous about self-blame. He probably just had some fantasy about licking whipped cream off a woman and now he’s so mortified he’s convinced himself he’s responsible for original sin, global warming, and Lindsay Lohan’s downward spiral. He’ll get over it in an hour.
Sam’s still not talking to Dean when they get to another motel, though, and as soon as Dean’s got the car in park, he jumps out, crossing the parking lot to stand as far away from the Impala as possible. Dean goes in and gets two rooms again, then grabs their duffels out of the car, bringing Sam’s bag and room key over to him.
Sam takes them without a word, but Dean can’t do this anymore. Sam doesn’t just look mortified, he looks upset. And if there’s one thing Dean hates even more than Sam being angry at him, it’s Sam being miserable. “Sammy,” he begins, ready to spill the whole ridiculous story and out himself as the gay-assumption-causing brother, but Sam suddenly turns around, meeting Dean’s eyes for the first time since the diner, and says in a rush, “Look, I don’t know how much you heard, but I just want you to know, I would never do anything.”
When Dean doesn’t reply, Sam continues, “I know it’s weird and wrong, and if I could stop thinking about it, I would, but I can’t. But I know you’re not - I know you don’t want me, and I would never - I wouldn’t molest you in your sleep, Dean.”
Dean’s totally lost for a long second, before the implications of that statement slam into him like a sledgehammer. Sam thinks about - them? Sam wants him? Sam thinks that’s why Dean’s been doing all these stupid things?
“I don’t - Sam, I was just kidding,” Dean says faintly. “You don’t talk in your sleep.”
“What?” Sam asks blankly.
“I was lying,” Dean says. “I just wanted people to stop -“ He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Sam, what - you think about us? Like…that?”
Realization finally crosses Sam’s face, and he looks like his worst nightmares are coming true right in front of him. He stands very still for a long minute, then he says, “Fuck,” and turns to door number 12, where he jams his key into the lock.
“Sam - “ Dean doesn’t know what he’s going to say or do, just reaches out for Sam the only way he knows how.
But Sam gets the door open and slams it shut behind him, lock sliding into place, and Dean’s hand comes down on empty air.
* * *
Dean stands outside Sam’s motel room door for a few minutes trying to sort out his thoughts and sort through his options. His first instinct is still to go to Sam, to kick down the door or break the window and just be there, but this isn’t exactly the kind of thing that can be fixed by a comforting presence alone - it’s going to take words. Which means it’s going to take talking, and talking about feelings, which means Dean needs some time to think. And usually a stiff drink, but in the absence of alcohol, he’ll make do with strategy.
He’s always done his best thinking where he feels most at home, so it’s fortunate that his sanctuary is parked not ten feet away. Dean climbs into the back seat, stretching out and letting his head lean against one door and his feet hang out the other, and gets down to business.
The whole situation is a mess, and Dean isn’t totally sure how one lie escalated into a crisis of such epic proportions, but the bottom line is this: he needs to fix it. He needs to make this right, and he needs to do it as soon as possible.
Because he knows Sam, and he knows that Sam is in that room right now beating himself up over this, and Dad didn’t spend half Dean’s life telling him to watch out for his little brother so that Dean could go and completely fuck him up with one poorly-timed attempt at heterosexuality. Granted, Dad probably didn’t anticipate Sam being hurt because he accidentally revealed his feelings for Dean to be more lustful than fraternal, but Dean really doesn’t want to be wondering what Dad would think right now.
What he does want to do is just tell Sam that it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care, it doesn’t change anything. But that doesn’t seem right - even if Dean’s the most tolerant brother in the world, it should probably change things a little now that he knows Sam’s fantasizing about him.
It is a little weird to think of Sam thinking of him like that, though, because Dean doesn’t think of Sam that way. Well, not often, anyway. Okay, so he might have given Sam’s skills in the sack a little consideration when he first met Jess, but that was just because she was fucking hot, and Dean had never pegged his geek brother as talented enough to keep a girl like her satisfied, so a little rethinking on Sam as a sexual being was required.
And he might have had a thought or two about Sam and that Sarah girl, but that was just because she was clearly hot for Sam and doing everything but renting a billboard to spell it out for him, and with it all written out there on her face, it wasn’t hard for Dean to imagine what she wanted. It was a little weird to think that Sarah was turned on by the typical Sam-things Dean was so used to, like his geeky glee over research or his scrunchy little concentrating face, but when he caught her ogling Sam after they dug up the grave and looked at his brother through a Sarah-lens - flushed with exertion and smudged by dirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal the taut muscles of his forearms, wide palms wrapped around the shovel - he had to concede that she might have a point.
And okay, Dean spent a little time wondering what Sam and Madison were getting up to, because dude, banging a werewolf? Had to be hot. She might not have known what her wolf self was doing at night, but there was no way some of that animal instinct didn’t come out in bed, and if Sam was willing to let things get a little rough, Dean’s pretty sure the whole encounter had to be just as awesome and smoking hot as he imagined.
Which is not to say that Dean was actually thinking about Sam having sex, of course - he wasn’t. He was just imagining the possibilities. He’s not blind after all, he knows what women see in Sam. He’s seen them taking in broad shoulders and big hands, eyes lingering on lips and long fingers, and he can guess what they’re thinking, see them imagining the way those hands would touch them, wondering how that mouth would taste, contemplating what it would feel like to be pressed up against that body. And since Dean has seen Sam nearly naked more times than he can count and knows what those hands can do - knows how gentle they can be when tending a wound, how firm they are around the grip of a gun, how strong they can be when Dean needs the support - he probably has a better idea than those women do of exactly how hot sex with Sam would be.
It’s at this point that Dean has to pause for a second, because not only did it just become clear that he does think about Sam that way, it’s also become obvious that certain parts of his anatomy are not exactly averse to thinking about Sam that way. In fact, one in particular seems quite excited.
Dean looks out at the half-empty parking lot in front of him, then down at his lap. Huh. So this is what denial looks like.
* * *
Dean’s not exactly sure how to take the realization that he’s been hot for his brother for a long time, not right on top of the realization that Sam’s apparently hot for him as well, so he decides to take a short walk, hoping working his physical muscles will help his mental process along.
After forty-two circuits of the parking lot, Dean comes to a conclusion. His calves are burning unpleasantly, and he’s pretty sure the woman staying in #4 thinks he’s insane or a stalker after watching him go by every thirty seconds, but for the first time in several weeks, Dean really doesn’t care what anyone else thinks. The important facts are these: Sam wants Dean. Dean, to his surprise, is okay with this and wants Sam back.
Dean is aware that what he’s considering is generally considered sick and wrong, but he’s done with public opinion. This is Sam, his only brother, hunting partner, and best friend, and the one person Dean loves best in all the world. Their relationship already goes far beyond simple siblinghood, and if they even things up so the physical matches the emotional, then so what? It’s no one’s business but their own.
The decision is surprisingly liberating, and Dean spends a minute grinning stupidly before he remembers that Sam is currently miserable, and he’s finally figured out a way to fix it. Dean starts toward Sam’s door, ready to kick the damned thing down and settle this thing, but halfway there the haze of relief clears and he realizes that breaking the door down will probably only get him a pissed off Sam and an angry motel owner, both of which would impede the Sam-fixing. It’s the faster option, but a situation like this requires finesse, not speed. Let it never be said that Dean Winchester doesn’t do subtle.
He knocks first, just in case Sam feels like making things easier for him, but when no response comes, Dean considers it fair warning and goes to work with the lock picks.
Sam doesn’t make any move to stop him - in fact, there’s absolutely no sound coming from the room, which is a little worrying - so Dean concentrates on jimmying the tumblers into place as fast as possible, exhaling with relief when the bolt turns.
The room is dark, a collection of shapes just barely visible in the faded grey of twilight, but the light from the open door picks out Sam, sitting on the end of the single bed with his head in his hands and elbows resting on his knees. He doesn’t look up when Dean closes the door behind him.
Dean sits down next to him, close enough that their thighs press together. “Sammy.”
“Can we please just not talk about this?” Sam asks, his voice rough and hoarse. “We can just forget I ever said anything.”
“Well, as much as I enjoy our manly moments of non-communication, I don’t think that’d work,” Dean says. “We’re just going to have suck it up and have a chick flick moment here, Sammy.”
Sam finally looks up, but it’s just to glare at Dean in the faint light. “Right, because so many chick flicks feature moments where a guy is having inappropriate thoughts about his brother.”
“Okay, maybe not,” Dean admits. “But I’m pretty sure a lot of them have a moment where one person confesses their feelings for another person, and then the second person responds. That’s kind of where I was going with that.”
“What, so you’re going to let me down easy?” Sam demands. “Going to give me the whole “It’s not you, it’s me” speech? “Sorry, I just don’t think now is the right time for me to be in a gay incestuous relationship”? Thanks, but I kind of got that already.”
“Actually, I was thinking this might be a good time for the whole gay incestuous relationship thing,” Dean says.
Sam actually does a double take. “What?”
“Yeah. You know, like a chick flick where one dude confesses his feelings for the other, and then the other one says, “Hey, what do you know, I just happen to feel the same way,” and then it’s all happily ever after.”
“I still think you’re a little shaky on the chick flick concept,” Sam says faintly, but there’s a slight smile on his face and a hint of hope in his eyes. “Dean, do you really - ?”
“Uh, yeah.” Dean ducks his head a little to hide the blush he can feel warming his cheeks. Jesus, it’s just like junior high again, Sam asking if he likes him. Any minute now they’re going to start passing notes with hearts drawn all over them in glitter pen. “Sorry I made you wait in here, but I wasn’t exactly expecting you to confess all that stuff. I needed a few minutes to think it all over.”
Sam still looks a little confused. “Wait, let me get this straight - your brother tells you he’s got a thing for you, completely out of the blue, and all you need is a few minutes to think it over before you’re totally on board?”
“Well, it’s not like I haven’t noticed that you’re…whatever,” Dean says, waving his hands to encompass all of Sam. “And it’s not like I haven’t ever thought about you in…that sort of a way. I just…didn’t really know I knew. It took a little time to connect the dots, that’s all.”
Sam looks a slightly miffed at being described as “whatever,” but all he says is, “So - do you have the whole picture now?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, meeting Sam’s eyes. “Yeah, I do.” He lets his eyes drop to Sam’s mouth for a second, licking his lips in blatant invitation. “You gonna do something about it?”
Sam swallows hard, then takes a long, slow breath before leaning in. “Yeah, I am,” he whispers, lips almost brushing Dean’s, before he presses their mouths together in a brief, hesitant kiss.
It only lasts a second, though, before he pulls back. He probably wants to check that it’s really okay and Dean really wants this, or else he wants to talk more about their feelings or exchange promise rings, but either way Dean is having none of it. It’s getting too dark now to communicate any of this via facial expressions, however, so Dean fists a hand in Sam’s shirt to let him know he’s not getting away anytime soon. That seems to be all the reassurance Sam needs, because then he really goes for it, sliding his hands along Dean’s face, thumbs alongside his jaw to guide, tilt, and open, and they’re making out like they really are in a chick flick. Well, a pretty screwed-up one, anyway.
But amid enjoying Sam’s tongue in his mouth (and wondering where the fuck he learned to kiss like this, because damn. Sam has clearly taken the pointers Dean gave him half a lifetime ago and run with them - run a fucking marathon, if the ease with which he’s exploring Dean’s mouth is any indication. He alternates between bruising force and gentle nips and licks so quickly that it’s all pretty much all Dean can do to hang on and remember to breathe) a niggling worry pops into the back of his mind.
The thing is, Dean didn’t really have any plan as to how the making up with Sam was going to go. He assumed there would be talking, and then possibly some necking, but then he wondered if it would be weird to kiss Sam, and that’s all the further he got. Sam’s his brother after all, and he sort of half-expected genetics to step in and make their mouths to repel like magnets with like poles. What he didn’t expect was for Sam to kiss like this, all forceful and frantic and like the world might end in the next two minutes and he’s intent on getting as much pleasure in between now and then as is physically possible, and suddenly Dean has to consider what else might happen.
Dean’s sort of new to this whole sleeping with guys thing, but regardless of what comes next, he knows a few surefire ways to make it better. He pushes Sam back onto the bed, following him down, and starts working them out of their clothes.
He sheds his own shirt and jacket and gets Sam’s button-down open, pushing up the t-shirt underneath, but then as he’s working the sleeves down Sam’s arms their bare stomachs brush, and Dean is suddenly too distracted by the sensation of skin-to-skin contact to lift up and finish the job.
Sam twitches a little, trying to wriggle his way free of the shirts, but that kind of movement underneath him really isn’t an incentive for Dean to let him up. Finally, Sam gives up and rolls them over so he can sit up a bit and wrestle the damned things off (stupid layers - from now on Dean’s going to make Sam wear shirts with Velcro on all the seams so that they can be torn off in the blink of an eye, like Britney Spears at her slutty best). And being horizontal and closer to naked has definitely improved the situation, but while having sex in the dark is usually perfectly fine with Dean, this isn’t anywhere near his usual. It’s Sam, and he wants to do this right.
“Wait,” he says.
Sam, in the middle of lining kisses down Dean’s neck, freezes immediately and then pulls away like Dean’s just admitted he’s got a highly contagious case of bird flu. Dean clamps a hand around Sam’s arm to keep him from getting too far away, then leans over to flick on the bedside lamp.
They both wince at the bright glow, but the lamp is nothing compared to the sudden and blinding grin that spreads across Sam’s face when Dean settles against the pillows again and tugs him back down.
Sam refuses to get closer again, though, just sits there fucking smiling at Dean, who gets all flustered and embarrassed and tells Sam to stop looking at him like that and just fucking do something already.
Sam raises his eyebrows and slides a hand down to rest at the front of Dean’s jeans, fingers curling just inside the waistband. “Like this?”
“Fuck, yes,” Dean says. “Now get down here.”
This time Sam comes willingly, but Dean can still feel him grinning like an idiot against his mouth. Normally Dean might complain about all the sappiness, but Sam also happens to be excellent at multi-tasking, and in between the girly smiling and kissing he manages to get Dean’s jeans open and slide a hand inside.
Dean’s hands tighten on Sam’s back as Sam jacks him slowly. The only rough and callused hand he’s used to touching his dick is his own, and Sam’s wider palm and longer fingers feel strange at first. Strange, but definitely good - after a few experimental strokes, Sam settles into a rhythm, firm pulls and his thumb rubbing over the head, and now it’s strange in a way that’s going to get Dean off in a very short time.
But he’s not going anywhere without Sam, so he pushes against him, shifting them both onto their sides, and pulls away long enough to get his jeans and boxers out of the way. When Sam’s finished doing the same, Dean pushes in close, sliding a leg between Sam’s, and reaches out for him.
And now it’s strange again, because it’s a little weird to have his hand around a cock that’s not his own, and Dean spends a few seconds just cataloguing the weight and feel of Sam in his hand. He’s concentrating so hard on the task that he nearly forgets about the rest of Sam, and he doesn’t even notice that he’s biting his lip until Sam’s thumb rubs across it. He looks up to find Sam watching him, heat and something more darkening his eyes, and he leans in without thinking, pressing his mouth to Sam’s.
Sam makes a noise deep in his throat, then his hand is sliding away from Dean’s face and curling around him again. Their hands brush as they jerk each other off, and Dean lets his mouth slip away from Sam’s, following a drop of sweat from down his throat with his tongue. He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses at the base of Sam’s neck and along his collarbone, tasting skin that he knows as well as his own, pausing here and there to lick at a mole or scar.
He can feel Sam getting close, breath stuttering and hips jerking into his fist, and he pulls back to catch his eyes, pitching his voice low as he says, “Come on, Sammy. Want to see you come.”
Sam’s eyes widen briefly as his entire body tenses, then they flutter shut as he coats Dean’s hand with come.
Dean watches the whole thing, wondering for a moment that this Sam - the Sam who’s coming apart because Dean told him to, because Dean touched him, because of Dean - has always been inside the Sam he knew, and that he’s lucky enough to have found this, unlocked it somehow, got to have it for his own.
Then Sam’s hand, which had slowed down considerably, starts to move again around Dean’s dick, and he remembers that there are more important things to think about right now - namely, making sure this isn’t a one-man show.
Sam huffs, “Bossy,” when Dean’s hand joins his, but he interlaces their fingers with a grin.
“Not bossy, I’m right,” Dean replies. Nobody knows how he likes it better than him, after all, so it only seems right to lend a hand to the proceedings.
Sam just scoffs and does something with his wrist, and suddenly Dean has to face the possibility that he isn’t the expert on his own tastes, because when Sam does it again he comes so hard the entire room nearly whites out.
“Okay, you win that one,” Dean pants, when he’s capable of speech.
Sam just grins smugly.
* * *
Later, when they’re sated and sleepy and tangled around each other in the bed, Sam lifts his head. “Hey. Dean.”
“Mmff?”
“If you weren’t disgusted by me wanting you, then why were you treating me like a leper?”
Dean’s still in a blissed out state where skin disease does not compute. “What?”
“The separate rooms, the sudden increase in personal space, my name being changed to Sam-my-brother.”
“Oh, that,” Dean says. “I was tired of people assuming we’re gay.”
Sam looks down at them, bodies intertwined and bearing the marks of an hour spent mingling spit, sweat, and come, then raises his eyebrows.
“Shut up,” Dean says. “Just because you thought of it first doesn’t mean you get to be all smug about it. It’s not like you knew.”
“Well, I knew what I was feeling,” Sam counters, though he looks more amused then argumentative. “Which already puts me light years ahead of you. But it’s not your fault. You’ve always been a little slow to catch on.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean says, sitting up. “I’ll show you just how slow I am at catching on.”
Five minutes later, when Sam is completely at his mercy, Dean asks, “How’s that for slow, Sammy?”
Sam starts to say something, but he only gets as far as “Nnngh,” before it’s lost in a moan, and Dean considers his honor restored.
* * *
A few hours later they’re both starving, so they clean themselves up and head down the street to the only restaurant still open.
They eat in comfortable silence, knees brushing under the table, until Dean pauses in the middle of a mouthful of burger and says, “If wurf voo!”
Sam looks up from his club sandwich. “Excuse me?”
Dean swallows. “It was you! The whole time, I kept thinking it was me, but it was you!”
“What was me?”
“You were the one making everyone think we were gay! You were giving off the gay vibes, not me!”
Sam sighs. “Dean, nobody thinks we’re a couple because of gay vibes.”
“No?”
“No,” Sam says.
“Then why do so many people assume we’re together?”
“Because we’ve lived in each other’s pockets our whole lives,” Sam says matter-of-factly. “We spend almost every second of every day together, and we’ve never had any concept of personal space. We know practically everything about each other - even down to what we’re thinking about at any given time. That’s why.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” Dean scoffs.
Sam rolls his eyes.
“Fine, then tell me what I’m thinking right now.”
“Right now you’re thinking about the chicken-fried steak you had for lunch yesterday, and how good it was.”
“I am not,” Dean lies.
“And now you’re going to lie and say you were thinking about our waitress yesterday, but she spent the whole time flirting with a busboy, so you can’t even remember what she looks like.”
Okay, that’s just creepy.
“And now,” Sam goes on serenely, “You’re wondering if my freaky brain powers have developed into telepathy.” He pauses. “The answer’s no, by the way.”
“Thank god,” Dean says. “That’s creepy as hell, man.”
“I just know you,” Sam says simply. “That’s why people think we’re a couple.”
“Well, that and the fact that we screwed each other’s brains out not an hour ago,” Dean points out.
“That too,” Sam agrees, blushing. He grins at Dean, small and secretive, and Dean slides his foot against Sam’s under the table.
Later, when Sam disappears to the bathroom, the waitress wanders over to ask if they want dessert. Dean scans the menu, then orders himself a slice of key lime pie. Then he looks up to meet the waitress’s eyes and says with a big grin, “And a slice of blueberry for my boyfriend.” She doesn’t even bat an eye, just nods and smiles before walking off.
So it turns out everyone was right about the whole gay couple thing, anyway. It’s not a problem anymore, or a crisis, or even an issue. It’s just the two of them, like it always has been.
Title: Two Queens
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Spoilers up through 2.17, but set in the future.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
Summary: Dean tries to figure out why so many people think he and Sam are a couple. The answer is…surprising.
It isn’t a problem, or anything - a problem is when Sam’s hair gets in his eyes during a hunt and he trips over an exposed root and nearly impales himself on his machete, forcing Dean to take care of the creature by himself and then spend half an hour lecturing Sam on proper haircuts. It’s not a crisis, either, because neither of them are dying, cursed, or suddenly a woman. It’s not an issue, because issues are things they have to talk about (or keep a secret until the worst possible moment, and then fight about), and Sam is well aware of this and doesn’t really seem to care. It’s not even a big deal, for Christ’s sake, but it bugs Dean, even if it shouldn’t, and he can’t for the life of him stop wondering - why do so many people think he and Sam are gay?
It was kind of funny the first time someone assumed they were a couple. When that crazy realtor lady raised an eyebrow and said “sexual orientation,” so delicately while giving the two of them an appraising look, Dean nearly strained something trying not to laugh. That’s why he went with it - because it was hilarious, someone thinking he and Sam were boyfriends or some shit like that.
But the more it keeps happening, the less humorous it gets, until it starts really pissing Dean off. He liked that lady at the inn in Connecticut just fine until she started assuming things about him and Sam that she had no business assuming (and using a fucking code word for her assumptions, like they’re a dirty little secret - how the hell was Dean supposed to know antiques automatically equal gay?). And she didn’t even look embarrassed when she found out they’re related - she looked like she wanted to laugh. If it wasn’t for the job they were working, Dean probably would have left her a nasty note in the suggestion box. As it was, with people mysteriously dying and Sam’s emo overflowing all over the place, Dean was a little busy.
But the real kicker comes when it happens four separate times in one week. Dean probably could have dealt with the waitress asking if his boyfriend wanted more coffee, and he doesn’t really blame the motel desk clerk, even if she did look disappointed when his answer was “Two queens " instead of “One king.” But it’s a little much when the librarian who’s been giggling and flashing her cleavage at Dean for fifteen minutes gives him a disappointed look and straightens up when Sam comes over to the counter, and it’s just plain wrong when a redneck witness (who actually gives them tips on how to shoot and cook squirrels, and tells them seriously that most roadkill’s edible if the eyes are still white) gives Dean a pat on the back after they interview him and says, “Well, I hope you boys find the critter that did this. And if you need a place to stay, me and the missus got a real nice guest room you can use - got a nice big bed for you and your fella there.” For God’s sake, the man is a hick living in a backwater town the size of a football field. Where’s the homophobia and small-mindedness when you need it?
Sam doesn’t seem concerned by the whole thing - he seems to find it odd but somewhat amusing, if he notices it at all - but Dean can’t help but wonder what kind of vibes they’re giving off if everyone’s first assumption is that they’re screwing each other.
He gives it a lot of serious thought. At first he thinks it might just be the fact that they’re two handsome men traveling together. He knows he’s good-looking, and it hasn’t exactly escaped his notice that Sam’s not ugly either. They have good genes, after all, even if they don’t look very much alike. But Dad wasn’t bad-looking, and people never made that kind of assumption when he and Dean were at diners and motels together. There’s the age difference, yeah, but Dean doesn’t think that’s it. It’s something about specifically about him and Sam.
Which leads to his next (and more likely) conclusion: it’s Sam. It has to be. Sam’s got that young, impressionable, fresh-out-of-college-and-off-to-save-the-world look to him, along with hair that seems to reflect his emotional state, and after what happened in San Francisco, he doesn’t even look at girls anymore. He barely ever lets Dean go anywhere alone, but he’ll spend the whole night glaring if Dean wants to play pool or flirt with the locals. It’s not hard to see how an outsider could think he’s the jealous boyfriend.
But there’s really nothing Dean can do about that - Sam refuses to cut his hair and Dean refuses to let him go off alone, so short of a flashing sign on Sam’s back that says “Heterosexual - no, really” (which, actually, might be false advertising, Dean isn’t totally sure) there’s nothing to be done.
It’s not the conclusion Dean would have preferred - it kind of sucks that Sam’s making him gay by association - but he does feel a little bit better now that he’s got a reason why it’s happening.
Well, he does for a while, anyway. Then on a job in Michigan he’s trying to get an inside line on a missing girl from her best friend, playing up to the kid in order to get the details the police might have overlooked. Sam’s off trying to get ahold of the police reports, so Dean has to pull out all the stops and try to look extra-attentive in the absence of Mr. You Can Tell Me Anything, throwing in a lot of sissy crap like, “That must be so hard,” and “You two must have been really close,” and faking an interest in the details of the missing Hannah’s emerging poetic talent. Sam’s always making fun of Dean for being bad with people, so he works all of his considerable charm with the kid, just to prove his annoying brother wrong once and for all.
Unfortunately, Kevin also has his own theories about why Hannah is missing, and Dean has to endure ten minutes of wild speculation about mythological trolls carrying people off and forcing them to clean and cook in their lairs. Finally, after what seems like forever and a decade, Kevin remembers that Hannah was having strange dreams the week before she disappeared, and when he starts describing them, Dean can’t keep the predatory grin off his face at hitting pay dirt.
The kid perks up a little at that, though, and he suddenly seems a lot more interested in the proceedings than he did when it was all sentimental remembrances of Hannah.
“Thanks, Kev,” Dean says. “You’ve been really helpful.”
“Really?” Kevin asks.
“Yeah,” Dean assures him. “I’ve got a lot of great stuff for my article now. Thanks a lot.”
“Well, thanks for listening to me,” Kevin says. “No one else has really wanted to hear what I thought about Hannah’s disappearance. It really means a lot.”
Dean really wants to roll his eyes, but he musters up a bland smile. “No problem. Well, I’d better get going.”
“Um, wait,” Kevin blurts. “Uh, do you think maybe we could meet up later?”
“Later?” Dean repeats.
“Yeah,” Kevin says. “You know, I might remember more stuff then. And we could get a drink, or something, and talk about the article you’re writing. I’m sure I could be even more helpful.” He bares his teeth.
At first Dean thinks the guy’s grimacing or squinting in the low light, but then he realizes Kevin’s trying to smile seductively at him, and oh hell no, there’s no way Dean just got asked out by a barely-out-of-college twenty-something who thinks his best friend is doing housekeeping for a troll.
But Kevin’s still standing in front of him, all hesitant and hopeful, and Dean puts his disgruntlement on hold to make some kind of excuse about deadlines and other work to do. Kevin looks disappointed, but Dean doesn’t stick around to soothe his hurt feelings, just gets the hell out of there as fast as he can.
It’s not until he’s in the Impala that he realizes something that makes the whole incident a million times worse: Kevin assumed Dean was gay, and Sam was not even there. Not even in the near vicinity. Not even in a five-mile radius. This means none of Sam’s possibly-gay vibes could have affected Kevin, which means that they weren’t Sam’s vibes in the first place. It hasn’t been Sam all this time - it’s Dean.
Dean promptly has a bit of a crisis, because Dean Winchester? Is not a pansy. Dean Winchester is extremely manly, and does manly things like drive a muscle car and shoot guns and kill things and eat a lot of meat on a very regular basis. No one should be looking at such a prime specimen of manliness and questioning Dean’s sexual orientation.
“Is something wrong?” Sam asks, after they waste the thing that kidnapped Hannah and burn the corpse it left behind.
“No,” Dean growls. “Why, do I look like I want to cry and share my feelings with you? Because I don’t. When I said no chick flick moments, I meant it!”
“I know,” Sam says, bewildered. “You just seem a little…on edge.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Okay,” Sam says. “You’re right. It’s totally normal to shoot a creature six times after it’s already dead, hack up its corpse with a knife, and then use half a gallon of lighter fluid and eight matches to light it on fire. And heck, everyone hits on a girl ten years younger than them after they’ve just rescued her from a week in a creature’s lair, right?”
“I was not hitting on her,” Dean retorts. “I was just reassuring her that she looked pretty good for having spent a week in a cave. Everybody needs a little compliment now and then.”
“Dean.”
Dean busies himself with collecting their stuff. “It’s nothing, Sam.”
“I wouldn’t call you suddenly channeling Chuck Norris ‘nothing,’” Sam says, watching Dean toss the last of their gear into the Impala. “Seriously, did something happen?” He moves closer, catching Dean’s shoulder with his hand.
Dean sighs, slamming the trunk down. Sam’s hand feels good, warm and familiar, but it just reminds Dean what other people would think of the contact, and he moves away rather than leaning into it like he wants to. “No. It’s just - it’s nothing, Sam.”
A spark of something that looks like hurt flashes in Sam’s eyes, but he drops his hand. “Are you sure?”
Dean forces a grin he doesn’t feel onto his face. “Yeah, I’m sure.” He gives Sam a (very manly) slap on the back. “Come on, let’s get back to the motel.”
* * *
The next day they’re on the road again, Sam asleep against the window on the passenger side, long legs bent to fit under the dash and broad shoulders twisted so his head can rest on his arm.
Dean keeps the stereo blasting cock rock, just on principle, but he spends the ride thinking. He’s back to square one with the gay problem, because apparently it’s something about him, and he has no idea how to make himself appear more straight. He suspects Sam’s right, that if he tried to be any more butch he’d go right over the top of the hill and down the other side into overkill, which wouldn’t help things.
He can’t change himself, but Dean hits upon a kind of solution as he crosses the border into Indiana - he can change them. After two years on the road together, sharing the car during the day and motel rooms at night, he and Sam have kind of foregone personal space out of necessity. If Dean was too modest to shave while Sam’s in the shower, he’d have a beard three feet long by now, because Sam takes forever in there (conditioning his hair, or shrinking his pores, or whatever it is he does), and if Dean was averse to Sam being in his space he’d have to find a new brother, because Sam is big enough that he’s always taking up more than his fair share. But while that’s normal for them, it’s not normal for other people, or at least, other brothers with extremely platonic relationships.
So when they stop for lunch, Dean makes sure to keep all of his limbs and appendages on his side of the restaurant booth, where they won’t come into contact with any of Sam’s, and he purposely walks ahead of Sam as they head back to the car, keeping a solid foot between them at all times.
When they pull into a motel for the night, Dean puts two rooms on Stanley Klinghorn’s credit card and makes sure to mention the other one is for his brother.
Sam looks confused when Dean hands him his own key, but Dean just says breezily, “Thought we could use the space,” and Sam nods, taking his duffel out of the car and unlocking the door.
It’s weird, having a room to himself. Dean’s used to Sam’s stuff mingling with his, the scent of Sam’s aftershave in the bathroom, and Sam himself, complaining about Dean’s choice of TV channels or tapping away on the laptop or just breathing a few feet away during the night. Dean starts to say something half a dozen times before he remembers Sam’s not there to listen, and he very nearly calls Sam at one point to tell him something funny he just remembered.
He puts his phone down on the bedside table and reminds himself that a little separation is good for them.
* * *
“Dean, what the hell is going on?” Sam asks the next afternoon, when they stop at a diner for lunch.
“What do you mean?” Dean asks around a mouthful of chicken-fried steak drenched in gravy. The food is so fantastic that he thinks the cook has to be either angelic or demonic, and he doesn’t even care which, it’s that good.
“I mean you,” Sam says, his own plate nearly untouched. “First, there was the whole two rooms thing. Then breakfast this morning - “
“What was wrong with breakfast?”
“You went without me!”
Dean rolls his eyes. “What, so now we have to eat every meal together? Jesus, we’re not attached at the hip.”
“No,” Sam says, “But we are partners, in case you’ve forgotten. You can’t just - ”
“Shh!” Dean checks the diners around them and the waitress up at the counter, but it doesn’t look like anyone heard Sam’s misleading announcement. When he turns back, Sam’s watching him, eyebrows drawn together.
“And that’s another thing - why do you keep telling random people that I’m your brother?”
“I don’t know what you’re - “
“Dean, you asked the waitress for “more coffee for my brother,” and you told the motel clerk how much “my brother and I” enjoyed our stay. You even pointed out two squirrels at a rest stop and said they were fighting over an acorn like brothers, and then added “Just like you and me!” loud enough for everyone in a ten-mile radius to hear.”
Dean shrugs, taking another bite of his food. “Just habit, I guess.”
“And the separate rooms? And the way you keep a foot of space between us at all times? Is that just habit, too?”
Dean just shrugs again.
Sam slams his hand down on the table, and the entire restaurant looks up, along with Dean. Sam’s face has gone from confused and curious to confused and angry, and his hazel eyes are hard, glaring at Dean across the table.
“Dean,” he says in a low voice that nevertheless carries across the room, “Tell me what’s going on.”
Shit. Dean hates it when Sam’s angry with him. He can spend a week bickering with him over stupid little things, sniping and pushing each others’ buttons just because they know them so well, but he’s never been able to stand having Sam really, truly mad at him. Dean’s also pretty sure that the entire restaurant thinks they’re having a lover’s spat, which is just impossibly ironic, and if he doesn’t think of a good reason for all the sudden changes he’s made, Sam’s probably going to say something like, “Why won’t you touch me anymore?” at top volume and ruin all of Dean’s hard work.
So he’s panicking a little, and he says the first thing that comes to mind: “You talk in your sleep.”
Sam blinks. “What?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, going with it. “Apparently as soon as you’re asleep your subconscious goes into Dear Diary mode, and I’m kind of tired of hearing your dirty little secrets on repeat all night.”
Sam looks horrified.
Dean clamps down on a smirk. “So I thought I’d get us separate rooms, so I could get some actual sleep.”
“Oh, God,” Sam says. “Oh, God. Dean, what did you hear? What did I say?”
It’s kind of funny how scandalized Sam is, especially since Dean’s pretty sure the most risqué thought Sam’s ever had is pretty vanilla compared to the things Dean says and does on a regular basis, and Dean can’t resist winding him up a little more. “Sam,” he says, shaking his head gravely, “I’m not going to repeat those things in public.”
He expects Sam to kick him in the shins or tell him to shut up, but instead Sam pales and looks like he might throw up. “Oh,” he says, and then, “I’m going to go outside.”
At first Dean thinks it’s hilarious, Sam being this embarrassed about some wet dream, but when fifteen minutes go by and he’s still not back, Dean starts to get worried. He doesn’t bother flagging down the waitress, since he can’t remember which one is even theirs anymore, just leaves a pile of bills on the table and goes.
Sam’s sitting on the ground next to the Impala, leaning back against one of the rear tires, staring at the gravel between his knees. He jumps slightly when Dean comes up next to him, but doesn’t answer when Dean asks if he’s okay. He just gets into the car, turns his face to the window, and refuses to say anything.
It’s not so funny anymore, and Dean’s considering telling Sam he was just kidding, but then he’d have to explain why he said it, which would involve admitting that he’s the one pinging everyone’s gaydar, and apologizing to Sam for making him gay by association, which will undoubtedly lead to Sam mocking him for…oh, forever. Besides, Sam’s always been a little overzealous about self-blame. He probably just had some fantasy about licking whipped cream off a woman and now he’s so mortified he’s convinced himself he’s responsible for original sin, global warming, and Lindsay Lohan’s downward spiral. He’ll get over it in an hour.
Sam’s still not talking to Dean when they get to another motel, though, and as soon as Dean’s got the car in park, he jumps out, crossing the parking lot to stand as far away from the Impala as possible. Dean goes in and gets two rooms again, then grabs their duffels out of the car, bringing Sam’s bag and room key over to him.
Sam takes them without a word, but Dean can’t do this anymore. Sam doesn’t just look mortified, he looks upset. And if there’s one thing Dean hates even more than Sam being angry at him, it’s Sam being miserable. “Sammy,” he begins, ready to spill the whole ridiculous story and out himself as the gay-assumption-causing brother, but Sam suddenly turns around, meeting Dean’s eyes for the first time since the diner, and says in a rush, “Look, I don’t know how much you heard, but I just want you to know, I would never do anything.”
When Dean doesn’t reply, Sam continues, “I know it’s weird and wrong, and if I could stop thinking about it, I would, but I can’t. But I know you’re not - I know you don’t want me, and I would never - I wouldn’t molest you in your sleep, Dean.”
Dean’s totally lost for a long second, before the implications of that statement slam into him like a sledgehammer. Sam thinks about - them? Sam wants him? Sam thinks that’s why Dean’s been doing all these stupid things?
“I don’t - Sam, I was just kidding,” Dean says faintly. “You don’t talk in your sleep.”
“What?” Sam asks blankly.
“I was lying,” Dean says. “I just wanted people to stop -“ He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Sam, what - you think about us? Like…that?”
Realization finally crosses Sam’s face, and he looks like his worst nightmares are coming true right in front of him. He stands very still for a long minute, then he says, “Fuck,” and turns to door number 12, where he jams his key into the lock.
“Sam - “ Dean doesn’t know what he’s going to say or do, just reaches out for Sam the only way he knows how.
But Sam gets the door open and slams it shut behind him, lock sliding into place, and Dean’s hand comes down on empty air.
* * *
Dean stands outside Sam’s motel room door for a few minutes trying to sort out his thoughts and sort through his options. His first instinct is still to go to Sam, to kick down the door or break the window and just be there, but this isn’t exactly the kind of thing that can be fixed by a comforting presence alone - it’s going to take words. Which means it’s going to take talking, and talking about feelings, which means Dean needs some time to think. And usually a stiff drink, but in the absence of alcohol, he’ll make do with strategy.
He’s always done his best thinking where he feels most at home, so it’s fortunate that his sanctuary is parked not ten feet away. Dean climbs into the back seat, stretching out and letting his head lean against one door and his feet hang out the other, and gets down to business.
The whole situation is a mess, and Dean isn’t totally sure how one lie escalated into a crisis of such epic proportions, but the bottom line is this: he needs to fix it. He needs to make this right, and he needs to do it as soon as possible.
Because he knows Sam, and he knows that Sam is in that room right now beating himself up over this, and Dad didn’t spend half Dean’s life telling him to watch out for his little brother so that Dean could go and completely fuck him up with one poorly-timed attempt at heterosexuality. Granted, Dad probably didn’t anticipate Sam being hurt because he accidentally revealed his feelings for Dean to be more lustful than fraternal, but Dean really doesn’t want to be wondering what Dad would think right now.
What he does want to do is just tell Sam that it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care, it doesn’t change anything. But that doesn’t seem right - even if Dean’s the most tolerant brother in the world, it should probably change things a little now that he knows Sam’s fantasizing about him.
It is a little weird to think of Sam thinking of him like that, though, because Dean doesn’t think of Sam that way. Well, not often, anyway. Okay, so he might have given Sam’s skills in the sack a little consideration when he first met Jess, but that was just because she was fucking hot, and Dean had never pegged his geek brother as talented enough to keep a girl like her satisfied, so a little rethinking on Sam as a sexual being was required.
And he might have had a thought or two about Sam and that Sarah girl, but that was just because she was clearly hot for Sam and doing everything but renting a billboard to spell it out for him, and with it all written out there on her face, it wasn’t hard for Dean to imagine what she wanted. It was a little weird to think that Sarah was turned on by the typical Sam-things Dean was so used to, like his geeky glee over research or his scrunchy little concentrating face, but when he caught her ogling Sam after they dug up the grave and looked at his brother through a Sarah-lens - flushed with exertion and smudged by dirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal the taut muscles of his forearms, wide palms wrapped around the shovel - he had to concede that she might have a point.
And okay, Dean spent a little time wondering what Sam and Madison were getting up to, because dude, banging a werewolf? Had to be hot. She might not have known what her wolf self was doing at night, but there was no way some of that animal instinct didn’t come out in bed, and if Sam was willing to let things get a little rough, Dean’s pretty sure the whole encounter had to be just as awesome and smoking hot as he imagined.
Which is not to say that Dean was actually thinking about Sam having sex, of course - he wasn’t. He was just imagining the possibilities. He’s not blind after all, he knows what women see in Sam. He’s seen them taking in broad shoulders and big hands, eyes lingering on lips and long fingers, and he can guess what they’re thinking, see them imagining the way those hands would touch them, wondering how that mouth would taste, contemplating what it would feel like to be pressed up against that body. And since Dean has seen Sam nearly naked more times than he can count and knows what those hands can do - knows how gentle they can be when tending a wound, how firm they are around the grip of a gun, how strong they can be when Dean needs the support - he probably has a better idea than those women do of exactly how hot sex with Sam would be.
It’s at this point that Dean has to pause for a second, because not only did it just become clear that he does think about Sam that way, it’s also become obvious that certain parts of his anatomy are not exactly averse to thinking about Sam that way. In fact, one in particular seems quite excited.
Dean looks out at the half-empty parking lot in front of him, then down at his lap. Huh. So this is what denial looks like.
* * *
Dean’s not exactly sure how to take the realization that he’s been hot for his brother for a long time, not right on top of the realization that Sam’s apparently hot for him as well, so he decides to take a short walk, hoping working his physical muscles will help his mental process along.
After forty-two circuits of the parking lot, Dean comes to a conclusion. His calves are burning unpleasantly, and he’s pretty sure the woman staying in #4 thinks he’s insane or a stalker after watching him go by every thirty seconds, but for the first time in several weeks, Dean really doesn’t care what anyone else thinks. The important facts are these: Sam wants Dean. Dean, to his surprise, is okay with this and wants Sam back.
Dean is aware that what he’s considering is generally considered sick and wrong, but he’s done with public opinion. This is Sam, his only brother, hunting partner, and best friend, and the one person Dean loves best in all the world. Their relationship already goes far beyond simple siblinghood, and if they even things up so the physical matches the emotional, then so what? It’s no one’s business but their own.
The decision is surprisingly liberating, and Dean spends a minute grinning stupidly before he remembers that Sam is currently miserable, and he’s finally figured out a way to fix it. Dean starts toward Sam’s door, ready to kick the damned thing down and settle this thing, but halfway there the haze of relief clears and he realizes that breaking the door down will probably only get him a pissed off Sam and an angry motel owner, both of which would impede the Sam-fixing. It’s the faster option, but a situation like this requires finesse, not speed. Let it never be said that Dean Winchester doesn’t do subtle.
He knocks first, just in case Sam feels like making things easier for him, but when no response comes, Dean considers it fair warning and goes to work with the lock picks.
Sam doesn’t make any move to stop him - in fact, there’s absolutely no sound coming from the room, which is a little worrying - so Dean concentrates on jimmying the tumblers into place as fast as possible, exhaling with relief when the bolt turns.
The room is dark, a collection of shapes just barely visible in the faded grey of twilight, but the light from the open door picks out Sam, sitting on the end of the single bed with his head in his hands and elbows resting on his knees. He doesn’t look up when Dean closes the door behind him.
Dean sits down next to him, close enough that their thighs press together. “Sammy.”
“Can we please just not talk about this?” Sam asks, his voice rough and hoarse. “We can just forget I ever said anything.”
“Well, as much as I enjoy our manly moments of non-communication, I don’t think that’d work,” Dean says. “We’re just going to have suck it up and have a chick flick moment here, Sammy.”
Sam finally looks up, but it’s just to glare at Dean in the faint light. “Right, because so many chick flicks feature moments where a guy is having inappropriate thoughts about his brother.”
“Okay, maybe not,” Dean admits. “But I’m pretty sure a lot of them have a moment where one person confesses their feelings for another person, and then the second person responds. That’s kind of where I was going with that.”
“What, so you’re going to let me down easy?” Sam demands. “Going to give me the whole “It’s not you, it’s me” speech? “Sorry, I just don’t think now is the right time for me to be in a gay incestuous relationship”? Thanks, but I kind of got that already.”
“Actually, I was thinking this might be a good time for the whole gay incestuous relationship thing,” Dean says.
Sam actually does a double take. “What?”
“Yeah. You know, like a chick flick where one dude confesses his feelings for the other, and then the other one says, “Hey, what do you know, I just happen to feel the same way,” and then it’s all happily ever after.”
“I still think you’re a little shaky on the chick flick concept,” Sam says faintly, but there’s a slight smile on his face and a hint of hope in his eyes. “Dean, do you really - ?”
“Uh, yeah.” Dean ducks his head a little to hide the blush he can feel warming his cheeks. Jesus, it’s just like junior high again, Sam asking if he likes him. Any minute now they’re going to start passing notes with hearts drawn all over them in glitter pen. “Sorry I made you wait in here, but I wasn’t exactly expecting you to confess all that stuff. I needed a few minutes to think it all over.”
Sam still looks a little confused. “Wait, let me get this straight - your brother tells you he’s got a thing for you, completely out of the blue, and all you need is a few minutes to think it over before you’re totally on board?”
“Well, it’s not like I haven’t noticed that you’re…whatever,” Dean says, waving his hands to encompass all of Sam. “And it’s not like I haven’t ever thought about you in…that sort of a way. I just…didn’t really know I knew. It took a little time to connect the dots, that’s all.”
Sam looks a slightly miffed at being described as “whatever,” but all he says is, “So - do you have the whole picture now?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, meeting Sam’s eyes. “Yeah, I do.” He lets his eyes drop to Sam’s mouth for a second, licking his lips in blatant invitation. “You gonna do something about it?”
Sam swallows hard, then takes a long, slow breath before leaning in. “Yeah, I am,” he whispers, lips almost brushing Dean’s, before he presses their mouths together in a brief, hesitant kiss.
It only lasts a second, though, before he pulls back. He probably wants to check that it’s really okay and Dean really wants this, or else he wants to talk more about their feelings or exchange promise rings, but either way Dean is having none of it. It’s getting too dark now to communicate any of this via facial expressions, however, so Dean fists a hand in Sam’s shirt to let him know he’s not getting away anytime soon. That seems to be all the reassurance Sam needs, because then he really goes for it, sliding his hands along Dean’s face, thumbs alongside his jaw to guide, tilt, and open, and they’re making out like they really are in a chick flick. Well, a pretty screwed-up one, anyway.
But amid enjoying Sam’s tongue in his mouth (and wondering where the fuck he learned to kiss like this, because damn. Sam has clearly taken the pointers Dean gave him half a lifetime ago and run with them - run a fucking marathon, if the ease with which he’s exploring Dean’s mouth is any indication. He alternates between bruising force and gentle nips and licks so quickly that it’s all pretty much all Dean can do to hang on and remember to breathe) a niggling worry pops into the back of his mind.
The thing is, Dean didn’t really have any plan as to how the making up with Sam was going to go. He assumed there would be talking, and then possibly some necking, but then he wondered if it would be weird to kiss Sam, and that’s all the further he got. Sam’s his brother after all, and he sort of half-expected genetics to step in and make their mouths to repel like magnets with like poles. What he didn’t expect was for Sam to kiss like this, all forceful and frantic and like the world might end in the next two minutes and he’s intent on getting as much pleasure in between now and then as is physically possible, and suddenly Dean has to consider what else might happen.
Dean’s sort of new to this whole sleeping with guys thing, but regardless of what comes next, he knows a few surefire ways to make it better. He pushes Sam back onto the bed, following him down, and starts working them out of their clothes.
He sheds his own shirt and jacket and gets Sam’s button-down open, pushing up the t-shirt underneath, but then as he’s working the sleeves down Sam’s arms their bare stomachs brush, and Dean is suddenly too distracted by the sensation of skin-to-skin contact to lift up and finish the job.
Sam twitches a little, trying to wriggle his way free of the shirts, but that kind of movement underneath him really isn’t an incentive for Dean to let him up. Finally, Sam gives up and rolls them over so he can sit up a bit and wrestle the damned things off (stupid layers - from now on Dean’s going to make Sam wear shirts with Velcro on all the seams so that they can be torn off in the blink of an eye, like Britney Spears at her slutty best). And being horizontal and closer to naked has definitely improved the situation, but while having sex in the dark is usually perfectly fine with Dean, this isn’t anywhere near his usual. It’s Sam, and he wants to do this right.
“Wait,” he says.
Sam, in the middle of lining kisses down Dean’s neck, freezes immediately and then pulls away like Dean’s just admitted he’s got a highly contagious case of bird flu. Dean clamps a hand around Sam’s arm to keep him from getting too far away, then leans over to flick on the bedside lamp.
They both wince at the bright glow, but the lamp is nothing compared to the sudden and blinding grin that spreads across Sam’s face when Dean settles against the pillows again and tugs him back down.
Sam refuses to get closer again, though, just sits there fucking smiling at Dean, who gets all flustered and embarrassed and tells Sam to stop looking at him like that and just fucking do something already.
Sam raises his eyebrows and slides a hand down to rest at the front of Dean’s jeans, fingers curling just inside the waistband. “Like this?”
“Fuck, yes,” Dean says. “Now get down here.”
This time Sam comes willingly, but Dean can still feel him grinning like an idiot against his mouth. Normally Dean might complain about all the sappiness, but Sam also happens to be excellent at multi-tasking, and in between the girly smiling and kissing he manages to get Dean’s jeans open and slide a hand inside.
Dean’s hands tighten on Sam’s back as Sam jacks him slowly. The only rough and callused hand he’s used to touching his dick is his own, and Sam’s wider palm and longer fingers feel strange at first. Strange, but definitely good - after a few experimental strokes, Sam settles into a rhythm, firm pulls and his thumb rubbing over the head, and now it’s strange in a way that’s going to get Dean off in a very short time.
But he’s not going anywhere without Sam, so he pushes against him, shifting them both onto their sides, and pulls away long enough to get his jeans and boxers out of the way. When Sam’s finished doing the same, Dean pushes in close, sliding a leg between Sam’s, and reaches out for him.
And now it’s strange again, because it’s a little weird to have his hand around a cock that’s not his own, and Dean spends a few seconds just cataloguing the weight and feel of Sam in his hand. He’s concentrating so hard on the task that he nearly forgets about the rest of Sam, and he doesn’t even notice that he’s biting his lip until Sam’s thumb rubs across it. He looks up to find Sam watching him, heat and something more darkening his eyes, and he leans in without thinking, pressing his mouth to Sam’s.
Sam makes a noise deep in his throat, then his hand is sliding away from Dean’s face and curling around him again. Their hands brush as they jerk each other off, and Dean lets his mouth slip away from Sam’s, following a drop of sweat from down his throat with his tongue. He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses at the base of Sam’s neck and along his collarbone, tasting skin that he knows as well as his own, pausing here and there to lick at a mole or scar.
He can feel Sam getting close, breath stuttering and hips jerking into his fist, and he pulls back to catch his eyes, pitching his voice low as he says, “Come on, Sammy. Want to see you come.”
Sam’s eyes widen briefly as his entire body tenses, then they flutter shut as he coats Dean’s hand with come.
Dean watches the whole thing, wondering for a moment that this Sam - the Sam who’s coming apart because Dean told him to, because Dean touched him, because of Dean - has always been inside the Sam he knew, and that he’s lucky enough to have found this, unlocked it somehow, got to have it for his own.
Then Sam’s hand, which had slowed down considerably, starts to move again around Dean’s dick, and he remembers that there are more important things to think about right now - namely, making sure this isn’t a one-man show.
Sam huffs, “Bossy,” when Dean’s hand joins his, but he interlaces their fingers with a grin.
“Not bossy, I’m right,” Dean replies. Nobody knows how he likes it better than him, after all, so it only seems right to lend a hand to the proceedings.
Sam just scoffs and does something with his wrist, and suddenly Dean has to face the possibility that he isn’t the expert on his own tastes, because when Sam does it again he comes so hard the entire room nearly whites out.
“Okay, you win that one,” Dean pants, when he’s capable of speech.
Sam just grins smugly.
* * *
Later, when they’re sated and sleepy and tangled around each other in the bed, Sam lifts his head. “Hey. Dean.”
“Mmff?”
“If you weren’t disgusted by me wanting you, then why were you treating me like a leper?”
Dean’s still in a blissed out state where skin disease does not compute. “What?”
“The separate rooms, the sudden increase in personal space, my name being changed to Sam-my-brother.”
“Oh, that,” Dean says. “I was tired of people assuming we’re gay.”
Sam looks down at them, bodies intertwined and bearing the marks of an hour spent mingling spit, sweat, and come, then raises his eyebrows.
“Shut up,” Dean says. “Just because you thought of it first doesn’t mean you get to be all smug about it. It’s not like you knew.”
“Well, I knew what I was feeling,” Sam counters, though he looks more amused then argumentative. “Which already puts me light years ahead of you. But it’s not your fault. You’ve always been a little slow to catch on.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean says, sitting up. “I’ll show you just how slow I am at catching on.”
Five minutes later, when Sam is completely at his mercy, Dean asks, “How’s that for slow, Sammy?”
Sam starts to say something, but he only gets as far as “Nnngh,” before it’s lost in a moan, and Dean considers his honor restored.
* * *
A few hours later they’re both starving, so they clean themselves up and head down the street to the only restaurant still open.
They eat in comfortable silence, knees brushing under the table, until Dean pauses in the middle of a mouthful of burger and says, “If wurf voo!”
Sam looks up from his club sandwich. “Excuse me?”
Dean swallows. “It was you! The whole time, I kept thinking it was me, but it was you!”
“What was me?”
“You were the one making everyone think we were gay! You were giving off the gay vibes, not me!”
Sam sighs. “Dean, nobody thinks we’re a couple because of gay vibes.”
“No?”
“No,” Sam says.
“Then why do so many people assume we’re together?”
“Because we’ve lived in each other’s pockets our whole lives,” Sam says matter-of-factly. “We spend almost every second of every day together, and we’ve never had any concept of personal space. We know practically everything about each other - even down to what we’re thinking about at any given time. That’s why.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” Dean scoffs.
Sam rolls his eyes.
“Fine, then tell me what I’m thinking right now.”
“Right now you’re thinking about the chicken-fried steak you had for lunch yesterday, and how good it was.”
“I am not,” Dean lies.
“And now you’re going to lie and say you were thinking about our waitress yesterday, but she spent the whole time flirting with a busboy, so you can’t even remember what she looks like.”
Okay, that’s just creepy.
“And now,” Sam goes on serenely, “You’re wondering if my freaky brain powers have developed into telepathy.” He pauses. “The answer’s no, by the way.”
“Thank god,” Dean says. “That’s creepy as hell, man.”
“I just know you,” Sam says simply. “That’s why people think we’re a couple.”
“Well, that and the fact that we screwed each other’s brains out not an hour ago,” Dean points out.
“That too,” Sam agrees, blushing. He grins at Dean, small and secretive, and Dean slides his foot against Sam’s under the table.
Later, when Sam disappears to the bathroom, the waitress wanders over to ask if they want dessert. Dean scans the menu, then orders himself a slice of key lime pie. Then he looks up to meet the waitress’s eyes and says with a big grin, “And a slice of blueberry for my boyfriend.” She doesn’t even bat an eye, just nods and smiles before walking off.
So it turns out everyone was right about the whole gay couple thing, anyway. It’s not a problem anymore, or a crisis, or even an issue. It’s just the two of them, like it always has been.