Fic: The King of Imperfection Takes Back the Prince of Mistakes
Title: The King of Imperfection Takes Back the Prince of Mistakes
Author: britomart_is
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3600
Notes: For girlmostlikely: this is not the fic you asked for. It'll have to do. Title. Quotes.
The King of Imperfection Takes Back the Prince of Mistakes
a fairy tale
~
And they lived happily ever after.
No, wait. Back up.
Once upon a time, two heroes were born, but they weren't heroes yet. They journeyed through deep dark woods, slew fearsome beasts, and weathered torrential storms. In this way they grew into men.
Much better.
The men fought a great and terrible war. Trials of deceit, despair and desolation imperiled them at every turn. Though heartsick and weary, they prevailed.
Much, much better. The war. The good parts.
But the good parts were still to come.
The heroes won the war, and then-they lived happily ever after.
~
In the mornings, they wake in a room that's drafty, with windows whose panes rattle alarmingly in a storm (and oh, there are storms, there will always be storms.) Sam rolls over accidentally into the sagging spot in the mattress-it's an old bed, with springs that squeak and a heavy wooden headboard that's chipped the white paint on the wall behind it. Sam could have repainted that wall when he did the rest of the house, proudly brush-wielding and covered in white spatters, but he couldn't bring himself to. Not when he remembered the proud smile Dean gets on his face when he looks at the chipped paint, the way Dean'll nudge him conspiratorially until Sam tumbles him into bed and the headboard tha-thuds once more.
Sam pulls himself out of the sagging spot and into Dean's body heat, snuggling close. Dean's full lips part gently and Sam-Sam is hit with a blast of the rankest morning breath in the history of mornings. He recoils backward. The mattress squeaks. He sighs.
Sam levers himself out of bed with exaggerated caution-if he jostles Dean and wakes him, there'll be hell to pay (and Sam knows a thing or two about hell, and the paying of it.)
Sam steps into his bunny slippers. Yes, they're bunnies. Dean bought them for him. It's an old house-formerly haunted, bought cheap due to its unsavory reputation and thoroughly cleansed using only ritual ingredients they already had in their pockets-and the floorboards pull in the cold and keep it like shitty Midwestern winters are going out of style. The first few weeks after they moved in, Sam would moan disconsolately when he got out of bed, big bony awkward feet dancing uncomfortably on the ice-cold floorboards until he hit the rug downstairs. At the beginning of week three, Dean got up early and went to the store. When Sam rolled to sitting that morning, toes curling in anticipation of the cold, his feet bumped the waiting slippers-the cheeriest, fluffiest bunny slippers Dean could find. Sam's worn them till they're gray and floppy-eared. He wears them all around the house, sometimes even forgets and answers the door for a package in them. Once Dean tried to bend Sam over the back of the couch and fuck him while Sam was wearing slippers and sweats. Dean barely got Sam's sweats down his thighs when Sam freaked out. Not only is it awkward and dorky, like doing it in socks, but, like-. The bunnies are watching.
Boxered and beslippered, Sam pads down the stairs. He waters Rambo VII on the windowsill (Sam let Dean name the first plant, and by extension its successors. They tend to last a few weeks before someone forgets to water them or knocks them over or sets them on fire-that last one was all Dean.) He scratches his belly idly as he pours water in the coffeemaker and sends the first pot of the day burbling into being. He sniffs at the bread and tries to decide if it's beginning to mold or just stale. He isn't sure but pops it in the toaster anyway.
Dean thumps down the stairs like a herd of elephants, if a herd of elephants were a bleary-eyed stubbly barefoot dude with nice abs. Dean reaches for the coffee. Sam hands him a mug that says #1 Dentist. (They hit up the Goodwill.) Sam eats stale toast until Dean's had half a cup of coffee and regained the ability to form words. He looks at Sam's plate of crumbs. "You didn't make me toast."
"Make your own toast." Sam watches Dean fumble at the plastic bag and find it empty. "Except I finished the bread."
Dean clutches his mug. "But you made me coffee."
"'Cause you're an asshole without it. I'm self-serving." Dean licks the crumbs and butter off Sam's plate, then tries to kiss him. Sam dodges. "Monster breath." Dean tries again. Sam pinches his arm. "You smell like a hodag crawled in your mouth and died."
Dean bites the skin of Sam's neck instead, nips sharply like a cat warning you to set it down or face the consequences. "Sammy Sammy Sam." Sam leans his face against Dean's beard-rough jaw. He's going to sit Dean down and shave him later. "Sam." Sam hmms. "I'm'onna go brush my teeth."
Sam rubs his face against Dean's. "Yeah, okay."
Sam follows Dean back upstairs and curls in the still-warm blankets while he listens to Dean scrub furiously, rinse and spit. Sam keeps his eyes shut, hears the soft thud of Dean's feet move from the bathroom tile to the wood floor, feels the mattress sag. Warm weight lowers over Sam, and Dean attacks him with minty breath and scratchy beard. Sam's hands are cold, so he pushes them beneath the elastic of Dean's boxers to warm them, palms cupped under the muscle there. He can feel Dean's sit-bones. Dean twitches and rumbles. "Cold."
"Will you suck me off?" Sam mumbles into Dean's ear. He just feels like a blowjob. He's been thinking about it all morning.
"Yeah," Dean says, "Okay." Dean tugs Sam's boxers down and skritches at the hair on Sam's leg, smacks a kiss against his thigh. Sam clenches his fists and turns his face into the pillow when Dean sucks on his balls, his mouth all soft and warm and careful. The muscles in Sam's legs twitch and shiver when Dean's down there between his thighs, face hidden, just quiet wet sounds and a soft head of hair for Sam to run his fingers through.
Sam's had one or two truly expert blowjobs in his life, and none of them were from Dean. Dean can't get the full length of Sam's dick down his throat, and Sam figures he probably never will. He's cool with that.
If the greatest tragedy in Sam's life at the moment is looking down at Dean-Dean with his bedhead sticking up in spikes and cowlicks, pillow creases still lining his cheek, smiling in between licks and sucks and slurps like he's getting away with something, having to push himself a little as he sucks Sam's dick with his hand wrapped around the base, all messy with spit, thumbs massaging the V of muscle that tapers to Sam's groin-if this is Sam's fate, then he will face it bravely.
Sam curls up off the mattress when he comes, curls over Dean, hands in Dean's hair, cradling his head.
~
The apocalypse was kind of surprising, mostly because Sam always kind of figured that the world might look a little different after becoming the battleground for an epic slapfight between heaven and hell. It didn't. Well, not really.
There was the brief period of expected chaos-blackouts and aimless evacuations (because really, when the lakes started boiling where did everyone think they were going to go?) and martial law and anarchy and salvaging and looting and racist headlines and bloggers who claimed to see it coming all along. And the Brothers Winchester, now famous enough to have their own Snopes page, fought the war. And won it. Well, presumably the war is still ongoing, but after Sam and Dean served the entire celestial hair-pulling match with an eviction notice, humans have taken rather less notice of it.
But the world seems to have taken the existence of angels and demons and witchcraft and roaming bands of rock-salt-carrying vigilantes largely in stride. The salt companies and the sole remaining manufacturer of goofer dust jacked their prices up and are now widely reviled as the new generation of oil barons. VH1's ratings initially skyrocketed and then plummeted after an ill-fated attempt at a reality show housing humans and demons together in a New York loft, complete with confessional video booth. Congress is held up for the foreseeable future attempting to pass the Paranormal Protection Act, a massive clunker of a bill that struggles to regulate all things supernatural. And there are fourteen high schools, twenty-one elementary schools, a Stanford dormitory and a national holiday named after the Winchesters.
Not to mention the action figures. Dean owns a set. They're currently posed lewdly on the coffee table.
Like most celebrities, the Winchester brothers' fame grew exponentially after their deaths. Oh yes, they died-together, it is said, and brave to the last-in the final showdown with the forces of heaven and hell.
And as for the Sam Page and Dean Plant currently residing in a clapboard house in Elk Plain, Minnesota-well, Elk Plain is a small town, and Sam and Dean are good neighbors. No one's run to the tabloids yet, though the locals are suspiciously kind to them. Sam hasn't paid for groceries in years, no matter how much he insists, and the little old lady across the street keeps making Dean baked goods. And if their faces are just a little too recognizable-if rumors crop up every time they go into the city, if the occasional blurry cell phone photo makes it online-well, there are conspiracy theories about Elvis, too. Doesn't mean anybody listens.
Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. Sam remembers a bit of both, but never expected them to be followed by reality television, legislative bickering, and snuggling in the morning.
~
Boredom. Intense irritation. Malaise. Disappointment, frustration, limitations. These are major fixtures of Sam's life now. He gathers from Dr. Phil (there was nothing else on, it was that or Martha Stuart, okay?) that the same is true of Normal People in general.
Sam considers it a big step up from constant, mind-bending, soul-shattering existential terror.
And sometimes, of course, the discontents of the human condition are the last thing on Sam's mind. Sometimes it's just fucking awesome.
They've got kindling and pine crackling in the fireplace-it's not like they couldn't turn on the radiators, but chopping wood makes Dean feel manly-and it's enough to warm their fronts but not their backs. Sam's reading Kerouac (and it's kind of creeping him out) and Dean's reading Heinlein, leaning against opposite arms of the couch, their legs a tangle in the middle.
Sam pokes Dean in the side with his toe. "Dean, listen to this-they have worries, they're counting the miles, they're thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they'll get there--and all the time they'll get there anyway, you see."
Dean sighs and whaps Sam's foot with his paperback. "You keep stopping to read me something every other page, might as well read the damn thing myself."
"Sal and Dean. S'just freaking me out." But Sam settles deeper into the couch, tugs up on the blanket they've got over their legs. He leaves his foot tucked up against Dean's side, pleased when Dean's thumb absently strokes his ankle. Before long it gets kind of-distracting. Sam's got a belly full of dinner and he's warm and comfortable and there's really only one thing that could make this better. Sam shifts his foot, casually as he can, into Dean's lap.
Dean's half-hard by the time he looks up from his book, finally noticing what Sam's up to. His affronted look is deeply unconvincing. "Hey. Trying to read here."
Sam's foot presses ever so lightly against Dean. "In myriad pricklings of heavenly radiation I had to struggle to see Dean's figure, and he looked like God."
A smile teases at the corner of Dean's mouth. "Damn straight." He shifts a little on the soft couch, legs spreading wider as he picks up his book again.
Sam tries to read, all his concentration lost to studying the little hitches in Dean's breath. It gets harder still when Dean closes his book, drops it on the floor, rocks up onto all fours and advances on Sam.
It's only years of fanatical training in self-discipline that keep Sam's eyes on the page when Dean's straddling his lap. He pulls the book in close to his face, and Dean leans in on the other side of it.
The words are right there in front of him, and Dean's eyes are studying him over the top of the page. Sam's voice is steady when he reads aloud: "All I hope, Dean, is someday we'll be able to live on the same street with our families and get to be a couple of oldtimers together."
The book is lost between them when Dean crushes against Sam and then his mouth is open against Sam's, stealing his breath. "Sammy," he breathes. He grinds down against Sam and Sam takes the hint, grasps Dean's ass and pulls him down tighter.
When Sam tips Dean back against the couch and tries to insinuate himself between Dean's legs, it's kind of a disaster of limbs and elbows and knees, and they both nearly fall off the couch. Dean's shirt is halfway off, and Sam's pants are trapping his ankles. Dean pants against Sam's neck. "Okay. New plan."
Sam has no complaints when Dean gets pushy, and he finds himself settled on his back, stretched out on the couch. He can lie back and look up at the expanse of Dean's body as Dean guides Sam to his hole, a look of concentration on his face as he slides down, and down, little shimmies of his hips and a far-away look of bliss when he's finally seated against Sam, like he doesn't even know where he is 'cause he so focused on the feeling inside of him.
Dean seems to know exactly what he wants, and he rides Sam at a steady pace, hand braced against Sam's shoulder, until he comes on Sam's cock. He slumps forward, boneless and exhausted, and starts lazily sucking a sore spot into Sam's neck. Sam's hands span the curved expanse of Dean's back as he goes on pushing into Dean, taking advantage of Dean's contented pliability to push and pull, to mold Dean against him.
They lie sticky and warm and sleepy as the fire dies down to embers. Sam slowly realizes that Dean is drooling on his shoulder and nudges him awake. "Bed."
"Mmkay, Sammy."
Sam brushes his teeth while Dean snores in bed. He takes a gulp of water, swishes it in his mouth, and spits it out in the sink. Straightens to look at himself in the mirror. This is not where he thought his road would lead. Not how he thought his story would end. He rubs the bruise on his neck and smiles.
~
Because they are, despite it all, still human, it still feels like the end of the world when they fight. It makes Dean physically ill, cold sweats and indigestion. Heartache gives him heartburn (and oh, there is heartache, there will always be heartache.)
Dust clouds hover over the South Dakota road, ghosts of the car that's already roared past. Bobby's door swings open with a squeal-he could oil it, but he likes to know when someone's coming in. There's a crow hopping in the dirt outside, and there's a dumbass on Bobby's porch.
"It's all over, Bobby." The steps creak under Dean's boots.
"You'd better not be here with another apocalypse for me, boy, I'm barely recovered from the last one." Bobby takes his hat off and runs a hand over his head.
"I'm moving out."
A dangerous silence. "So this is about Sam."
Dean shifts his weight, and the steps wail plaintively. "Yeah."
Bobby puts his hat back on. "Get the hell off my porch."
"Bobby?" There's always been room for Dean on Bobby's couch.
"Go home, Dean."
Dean has no retort for that, because he's not used to having a home to be sent unceremoniously back to. He feels like a little kid who runs away but only makes it as far as the end of the driveway before getting homesick and crying. Indignant, Dean spends a few nights sleeping in the car. He wakes up on the third day with a stiff neck and a rumbling belly and no breakfast. It's cold and there's no coffee. He has to remind himself that he had good reasons, really good reasons for storming out on Sam, and okay, the righteous anger is still there, simmering. But Dean thinks he'd maybe rather be angry at home with Sam than here on his own.
The car rocks as a semi truck goes thundering past. Dean sits with his hands on the wheel for half an hour before he starts the car up.
Dean lurks outside the window. He's well-practiced at lurking outside windows like a creepy stalker, but historically he's had very reasonable demon-related excuses. Not this time. His foot comes down on top of the pansies (shut up shut up shut UP it was not Dean's idea, an admiring neighbor insisted on sprucing up their garden) as he tries to get a better view inside.
Sam comes downstairs in his worn-out robe. It looks ratty as hell, but Dean knows from experience that it's at that perfect point of softness. Dean knows this from resting his head on Sam's shoulder, against Sam's arm, in Sam's lap. He knows from absentmindedly caressing Sam's flank as he reads the newspaper at the kitchen counter.
Pressed close to the house, Dean hears the moan and groan of the percolator. Sam is making coffee. Sam doesn't even like coffee, just drinks it when it's there because he can't help himself. Dean peers in at the coffee pot-Sam's making enough for two people, and Dean gets this pang. Probably just a chest pain. Probably just some horrible heart condition.
Sam trudges to the table and sits down. Not reading the paper or some clunky million-page historical book. Not eating the last of the cereal (which he still does, goddamnit). Sam's sitting there staring contemplatively at his own knees, looking like his puppy just got hit by a truck, and he's wearing the goddamn stupid slippers that Dean got for him. One of the bunnies' ears is flopping over to the side, tip brushing the floor.
Dean already knows that he's going to go inside. He made the choice about where he belonged a very long time ago. He steps on another pansy first, just for the hell of it.
Dean's got his key, but he knocks anyway, and listens to the pause inside. Listens to the muffled footsteps and completely overthinks why they aren't faster. The door opens and Jesus fucking Christ, the flood of relief that washes over Dean is almost too much for him to bear. He wavers on his feet. Sam stares at him for a moment before stepping aside to let him in. Dean makes a beeline for the coffee, wraps his cold hands around the hot mug. It shakes a little.
Sam takes the mug out of Dean's hands, takes a sip, gives it back to him. He leans his forehead against the wooden cabinets, thunks it there. He looks tired, the way he used to after an all-night stakeout. Dean comes up behind him, arms around his waist. His cheek fits against the muscle of Sam's shoulder. "So, I'm like an idiot."
"Yeah," Sam says against the wood. "You kind of are."
"Thanks for making me coffee."
Dean feels Sam's shrug. "Figured you'd want it."
"I'm still pissed," Dean says.
"Yeah." Sam turns around. He leans against the cupboard and Dean leans against him. "So am I."
Dean rests his hands on Sam's hipbones. "Why do we always have to fuck things up?"
"Dunno," Sam says, suspiciously breathless. "'Cause we're both fuckups, I think."
Dean peers at Sam. Sam's avoiding his gaze. Dean leans a little closer into Sam, knee slipping between Sam's legs.
"I have stuff to make pancakes," Sam says.
"Hmm," Dean says. "If you made pancakes, would you put them on that table over there?"
Sam looks at the kitchen table. It's still just a table. "Uh. Yeah?"
"Then they'll have to wait." Sam barely registers that Dean's sneakily undone the tie on his bathrobe before he's flat on his back on the table.
A salt shaker hits the floor and spills. Sam kicks his slippers off when he wraps his long legs around Dean.
Sam stops Dean before he can kiss him. "Are we okay?"
Dean studies Sam's face for a moment. Sam's warm and disheveled and pressed up against Dean. There are storms, there is heartache, and here they are, tangled up in each other on the kitchen table. "Yeah." He smiles, shifts against Sam. "We're Team Fuckup. We're okay."
They save the world. They break the kitchen table. And they live happily ever after.
Author: britomart_is
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3600
Notes: For girlmostlikely: this is not the fic you asked for. It'll have to do. Title. Quotes.
The King of Imperfection Takes Back the Prince of Mistakes
a fairy tale
~
And they lived happily ever after.
No, wait. Back up.
Once upon a time, two heroes were born, but they weren't heroes yet. They journeyed through deep dark woods, slew fearsome beasts, and weathered torrential storms. In this way they grew into men.
Much better.
The men fought a great and terrible war. Trials of deceit, despair and desolation imperiled them at every turn. Though heartsick and weary, they prevailed.
Much, much better. The war. The good parts.
But the good parts were still to come.
The heroes won the war, and then-they lived happily ever after.
~
In the mornings, they wake in a room that's drafty, with windows whose panes rattle alarmingly in a storm (and oh, there are storms, there will always be storms.) Sam rolls over accidentally into the sagging spot in the mattress-it's an old bed, with springs that squeak and a heavy wooden headboard that's chipped the white paint on the wall behind it. Sam could have repainted that wall when he did the rest of the house, proudly brush-wielding and covered in white spatters, but he couldn't bring himself to. Not when he remembered the proud smile Dean gets on his face when he looks at the chipped paint, the way Dean'll nudge him conspiratorially until Sam tumbles him into bed and the headboard tha-thuds once more.
Sam pulls himself out of the sagging spot and into Dean's body heat, snuggling close. Dean's full lips part gently and Sam-Sam is hit with a blast of the rankest morning breath in the history of mornings. He recoils backward. The mattress squeaks. He sighs.
Sam levers himself out of bed with exaggerated caution-if he jostles Dean and wakes him, there'll be hell to pay (and Sam knows a thing or two about hell, and the paying of it.)
Sam steps into his bunny slippers. Yes, they're bunnies. Dean bought them for him. It's an old house-formerly haunted, bought cheap due to its unsavory reputation and thoroughly cleansed using only ritual ingredients they already had in their pockets-and the floorboards pull in the cold and keep it like shitty Midwestern winters are going out of style. The first few weeks after they moved in, Sam would moan disconsolately when he got out of bed, big bony awkward feet dancing uncomfortably on the ice-cold floorboards until he hit the rug downstairs. At the beginning of week three, Dean got up early and went to the store. When Sam rolled to sitting that morning, toes curling in anticipation of the cold, his feet bumped the waiting slippers-the cheeriest, fluffiest bunny slippers Dean could find. Sam's worn them till they're gray and floppy-eared. He wears them all around the house, sometimes even forgets and answers the door for a package in them. Once Dean tried to bend Sam over the back of the couch and fuck him while Sam was wearing slippers and sweats. Dean barely got Sam's sweats down his thighs when Sam freaked out. Not only is it awkward and dorky, like doing it in socks, but, like-. The bunnies are watching.
Boxered and beslippered, Sam pads down the stairs. He waters Rambo VII on the windowsill (Sam let Dean name the first plant, and by extension its successors. They tend to last a few weeks before someone forgets to water them or knocks them over or sets them on fire-that last one was all Dean.) He scratches his belly idly as he pours water in the coffeemaker and sends the first pot of the day burbling into being. He sniffs at the bread and tries to decide if it's beginning to mold or just stale. He isn't sure but pops it in the toaster anyway.
Dean thumps down the stairs like a herd of elephants, if a herd of elephants were a bleary-eyed stubbly barefoot dude with nice abs. Dean reaches for the coffee. Sam hands him a mug that says #1 Dentist. (They hit up the Goodwill.) Sam eats stale toast until Dean's had half a cup of coffee and regained the ability to form words. He looks at Sam's plate of crumbs. "You didn't make me toast."
"Make your own toast." Sam watches Dean fumble at the plastic bag and find it empty. "Except I finished the bread."
Dean clutches his mug. "But you made me coffee."
"'Cause you're an asshole without it. I'm self-serving." Dean licks the crumbs and butter off Sam's plate, then tries to kiss him. Sam dodges. "Monster breath." Dean tries again. Sam pinches his arm. "You smell like a hodag crawled in your mouth and died."
Dean bites the skin of Sam's neck instead, nips sharply like a cat warning you to set it down or face the consequences. "Sammy Sammy Sam." Sam leans his face against Dean's beard-rough jaw. He's going to sit Dean down and shave him later. "Sam." Sam hmms. "I'm'onna go brush my teeth."
Sam rubs his face against Dean's. "Yeah, okay."
Sam follows Dean back upstairs and curls in the still-warm blankets while he listens to Dean scrub furiously, rinse and spit. Sam keeps his eyes shut, hears the soft thud of Dean's feet move from the bathroom tile to the wood floor, feels the mattress sag. Warm weight lowers over Sam, and Dean attacks him with minty breath and scratchy beard. Sam's hands are cold, so he pushes them beneath the elastic of Dean's boxers to warm them, palms cupped under the muscle there. He can feel Dean's sit-bones. Dean twitches and rumbles. "Cold."
"Will you suck me off?" Sam mumbles into Dean's ear. He just feels like a blowjob. He's been thinking about it all morning.
"Yeah," Dean says, "Okay." Dean tugs Sam's boxers down and skritches at the hair on Sam's leg, smacks a kiss against his thigh. Sam clenches his fists and turns his face into the pillow when Dean sucks on his balls, his mouth all soft and warm and careful. The muscles in Sam's legs twitch and shiver when Dean's down there between his thighs, face hidden, just quiet wet sounds and a soft head of hair for Sam to run his fingers through.
Sam's had one or two truly expert blowjobs in his life, and none of them were from Dean. Dean can't get the full length of Sam's dick down his throat, and Sam figures he probably never will. He's cool with that.
If the greatest tragedy in Sam's life at the moment is looking down at Dean-Dean with his bedhead sticking up in spikes and cowlicks, pillow creases still lining his cheek, smiling in between licks and sucks and slurps like he's getting away with something, having to push himself a little as he sucks Sam's dick with his hand wrapped around the base, all messy with spit, thumbs massaging the V of muscle that tapers to Sam's groin-if this is Sam's fate, then he will face it bravely.
Sam curls up off the mattress when he comes, curls over Dean, hands in Dean's hair, cradling his head.
~
The apocalypse was kind of surprising, mostly because Sam always kind of figured that the world might look a little different after becoming the battleground for an epic slapfight between heaven and hell. It didn't. Well, not really.
There was the brief period of expected chaos-blackouts and aimless evacuations (because really, when the lakes started boiling where did everyone think they were going to go?) and martial law and anarchy and salvaging and looting and racist headlines and bloggers who claimed to see it coming all along. And the Brothers Winchester, now famous enough to have their own Snopes page, fought the war. And won it. Well, presumably the war is still ongoing, but after Sam and Dean served the entire celestial hair-pulling match with an eviction notice, humans have taken rather less notice of it.
But the world seems to have taken the existence of angels and demons and witchcraft and roaming bands of rock-salt-carrying vigilantes largely in stride. The salt companies and the sole remaining manufacturer of goofer dust jacked their prices up and are now widely reviled as the new generation of oil barons. VH1's ratings initially skyrocketed and then plummeted after an ill-fated attempt at a reality show housing humans and demons together in a New York loft, complete with confessional video booth. Congress is held up for the foreseeable future attempting to pass the Paranormal Protection Act, a massive clunker of a bill that struggles to regulate all things supernatural. And there are fourteen high schools, twenty-one elementary schools, a Stanford dormitory and a national holiday named after the Winchesters.
Not to mention the action figures. Dean owns a set. They're currently posed lewdly on the coffee table.
Like most celebrities, the Winchester brothers' fame grew exponentially after their deaths. Oh yes, they died-together, it is said, and brave to the last-in the final showdown with the forces of heaven and hell.
And as for the Sam Page and Dean Plant currently residing in a clapboard house in Elk Plain, Minnesota-well, Elk Plain is a small town, and Sam and Dean are good neighbors. No one's run to the tabloids yet, though the locals are suspiciously kind to them. Sam hasn't paid for groceries in years, no matter how much he insists, and the little old lady across the street keeps making Dean baked goods. And if their faces are just a little too recognizable-if rumors crop up every time they go into the city, if the occasional blurry cell phone photo makes it online-well, there are conspiracy theories about Elvis, too. Doesn't mean anybody listens.
Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. Sam remembers a bit of both, but never expected them to be followed by reality television, legislative bickering, and snuggling in the morning.
~
Boredom. Intense irritation. Malaise. Disappointment, frustration, limitations. These are major fixtures of Sam's life now. He gathers from Dr. Phil (there was nothing else on, it was that or Martha Stuart, okay?) that the same is true of Normal People in general.
Sam considers it a big step up from constant, mind-bending, soul-shattering existential terror.
And sometimes, of course, the discontents of the human condition are the last thing on Sam's mind. Sometimes it's just fucking awesome.
They've got kindling and pine crackling in the fireplace-it's not like they couldn't turn on the radiators, but chopping wood makes Dean feel manly-and it's enough to warm their fronts but not their backs. Sam's reading Kerouac (and it's kind of creeping him out) and Dean's reading Heinlein, leaning against opposite arms of the couch, their legs a tangle in the middle.
Sam pokes Dean in the side with his toe. "Dean, listen to this-they have worries, they're counting the miles, they're thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they'll get there--and all the time they'll get there anyway, you see."
Dean sighs and whaps Sam's foot with his paperback. "You keep stopping to read me something every other page, might as well read the damn thing myself."
"Sal and Dean. S'just freaking me out." But Sam settles deeper into the couch, tugs up on the blanket they've got over their legs. He leaves his foot tucked up against Dean's side, pleased when Dean's thumb absently strokes his ankle. Before long it gets kind of-distracting. Sam's got a belly full of dinner and he's warm and comfortable and there's really only one thing that could make this better. Sam shifts his foot, casually as he can, into Dean's lap.
Dean's half-hard by the time he looks up from his book, finally noticing what Sam's up to. His affronted look is deeply unconvincing. "Hey. Trying to read here."
Sam's foot presses ever so lightly against Dean. "In myriad pricklings of heavenly radiation I had to struggle to see Dean's figure, and he looked like God."
A smile teases at the corner of Dean's mouth. "Damn straight." He shifts a little on the soft couch, legs spreading wider as he picks up his book again.
Sam tries to read, all his concentration lost to studying the little hitches in Dean's breath. It gets harder still when Dean closes his book, drops it on the floor, rocks up onto all fours and advances on Sam.
It's only years of fanatical training in self-discipline that keep Sam's eyes on the page when Dean's straddling his lap. He pulls the book in close to his face, and Dean leans in on the other side of it.
The words are right there in front of him, and Dean's eyes are studying him over the top of the page. Sam's voice is steady when he reads aloud: "All I hope, Dean, is someday we'll be able to live on the same street with our families and get to be a couple of oldtimers together."
The book is lost between them when Dean crushes against Sam and then his mouth is open against Sam's, stealing his breath. "Sammy," he breathes. He grinds down against Sam and Sam takes the hint, grasps Dean's ass and pulls him down tighter.
When Sam tips Dean back against the couch and tries to insinuate himself between Dean's legs, it's kind of a disaster of limbs and elbows and knees, and they both nearly fall off the couch. Dean's shirt is halfway off, and Sam's pants are trapping his ankles. Dean pants against Sam's neck. "Okay. New plan."
Sam has no complaints when Dean gets pushy, and he finds himself settled on his back, stretched out on the couch. He can lie back and look up at the expanse of Dean's body as Dean guides Sam to his hole, a look of concentration on his face as he slides down, and down, little shimmies of his hips and a far-away look of bliss when he's finally seated against Sam, like he doesn't even know where he is 'cause he so focused on the feeling inside of him.
Dean seems to know exactly what he wants, and he rides Sam at a steady pace, hand braced against Sam's shoulder, until he comes on Sam's cock. He slumps forward, boneless and exhausted, and starts lazily sucking a sore spot into Sam's neck. Sam's hands span the curved expanse of Dean's back as he goes on pushing into Dean, taking advantage of Dean's contented pliability to push and pull, to mold Dean against him.
They lie sticky and warm and sleepy as the fire dies down to embers. Sam slowly realizes that Dean is drooling on his shoulder and nudges him awake. "Bed."
"Mmkay, Sammy."
Sam brushes his teeth while Dean snores in bed. He takes a gulp of water, swishes it in his mouth, and spits it out in the sink. Straightens to look at himself in the mirror. This is not where he thought his road would lead. Not how he thought his story would end. He rubs the bruise on his neck and smiles.
~
Because they are, despite it all, still human, it still feels like the end of the world when they fight. It makes Dean physically ill, cold sweats and indigestion. Heartache gives him heartburn (and oh, there is heartache, there will always be heartache.)
Dust clouds hover over the South Dakota road, ghosts of the car that's already roared past. Bobby's door swings open with a squeal-he could oil it, but he likes to know when someone's coming in. There's a crow hopping in the dirt outside, and there's a dumbass on Bobby's porch.
"It's all over, Bobby." The steps creak under Dean's boots.
"You'd better not be here with another apocalypse for me, boy, I'm barely recovered from the last one." Bobby takes his hat off and runs a hand over his head.
"I'm moving out."
A dangerous silence. "So this is about Sam."
Dean shifts his weight, and the steps wail plaintively. "Yeah."
Bobby puts his hat back on. "Get the hell off my porch."
"Bobby?" There's always been room for Dean on Bobby's couch.
"Go home, Dean."
Dean has no retort for that, because he's not used to having a home to be sent unceremoniously back to. He feels like a little kid who runs away but only makes it as far as the end of the driveway before getting homesick and crying. Indignant, Dean spends a few nights sleeping in the car. He wakes up on the third day with a stiff neck and a rumbling belly and no breakfast. It's cold and there's no coffee. He has to remind himself that he had good reasons, really good reasons for storming out on Sam, and okay, the righteous anger is still there, simmering. But Dean thinks he'd maybe rather be angry at home with Sam than here on his own.
The car rocks as a semi truck goes thundering past. Dean sits with his hands on the wheel for half an hour before he starts the car up.
Dean lurks outside the window. He's well-practiced at lurking outside windows like a creepy stalker, but historically he's had very reasonable demon-related excuses. Not this time. His foot comes down on top of the pansies (shut up shut up shut UP it was not Dean's idea, an admiring neighbor insisted on sprucing up their garden) as he tries to get a better view inside.
Sam comes downstairs in his worn-out robe. It looks ratty as hell, but Dean knows from experience that it's at that perfect point of softness. Dean knows this from resting his head on Sam's shoulder, against Sam's arm, in Sam's lap. He knows from absentmindedly caressing Sam's flank as he reads the newspaper at the kitchen counter.
Pressed close to the house, Dean hears the moan and groan of the percolator. Sam is making coffee. Sam doesn't even like coffee, just drinks it when it's there because he can't help himself. Dean peers in at the coffee pot-Sam's making enough for two people, and Dean gets this pang. Probably just a chest pain. Probably just some horrible heart condition.
Sam trudges to the table and sits down. Not reading the paper or some clunky million-page historical book. Not eating the last of the cereal (which he still does, goddamnit). Sam's sitting there staring contemplatively at his own knees, looking like his puppy just got hit by a truck, and he's wearing the goddamn stupid slippers that Dean got for him. One of the bunnies' ears is flopping over to the side, tip brushing the floor.
Dean already knows that he's going to go inside. He made the choice about where he belonged a very long time ago. He steps on another pansy first, just for the hell of it.
Dean's got his key, but he knocks anyway, and listens to the pause inside. Listens to the muffled footsteps and completely overthinks why they aren't faster. The door opens and Jesus fucking Christ, the flood of relief that washes over Dean is almost too much for him to bear. He wavers on his feet. Sam stares at him for a moment before stepping aside to let him in. Dean makes a beeline for the coffee, wraps his cold hands around the hot mug. It shakes a little.
Sam takes the mug out of Dean's hands, takes a sip, gives it back to him. He leans his forehead against the wooden cabinets, thunks it there. He looks tired, the way he used to after an all-night stakeout. Dean comes up behind him, arms around his waist. His cheek fits against the muscle of Sam's shoulder. "So, I'm like an idiot."
"Yeah," Sam says against the wood. "You kind of are."
"Thanks for making me coffee."
Dean feels Sam's shrug. "Figured you'd want it."
"I'm still pissed," Dean says.
"Yeah." Sam turns around. He leans against the cupboard and Dean leans against him. "So am I."
Dean rests his hands on Sam's hipbones. "Why do we always have to fuck things up?"
"Dunno," Sam says, suspiciously breathless. "'Cause we're both fuckups, I think."
Dean peers at Sam. Sam's avoiding his gaze. Dean leans a little closer into Sam, knee slipping between Sam's legs.
"I have stuff to make pancakes," Sam says.
"Hmm," Dean says. "If you made pancakes, would you put them on that table over there?"
Sam looks at the kitchen table. It's still just a table. "Uh. Yeah?"
"Then they'll have to wait." Sam barely registers that Dean's sneakily undone the tie on his bathrobe before he's flat on his back on the table.
A salt shaker hits the floor and spills. Sam kicks his slippers off when he wraps his long legs around Dean.
Sam stops Dean before he can kiss him. "Are we okay?"
Dean studies Sam's face for a moment. Sam's warm and disheveled and pressed up against Dean. There are storms, there is heartache, and here they are, tangled up in each other on the kitchen table. "Yeah." He smiles, shifts against Sam. "We're Team Fuckup. We're okay."
They save the world. They break the kitchen table. And they live happily ever after.