Fic: Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This. SPN. Sam/Dean. Adult
I wasn't going to post any more fic until I'd answered feedback to the ones I posted last. But then... Well, just slap me over the head. I'm weak willed, ok? This was supposed to be a drabble for mygothangel that I promised her ages ago. It kinda spun out of control. Also it seems to be having trouble deciding whether it should be angsty, schmoopy or funny, with a side dish of porn. And its unbeta'd because... yeah, I don't know. Anyway...
Based on this icon
by carmendove
Title: Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This
Author: felisblanco
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Adult, I guess
Word count: A little over 4200
Summary: "I have these nightmares and sometimes they come true." Well, Dean has his own dreams and it looks like one of them, the one he's tried his best to chase away, might have come true. He thinks. Maybe. Thing is... he can't really remember.
Author's note: Unbeta'd. Lethe's bramble is stolen from several Buffy episodes. As far as I can find there is no such herb. Also? Happy birthday, Jensen!
As far as Dean can tell it happened in their sleep. Which is... Yeah. Dean’s not sure if that deems it as innocent or if even in his sleep he’s the slut Sam seems to think he is. All he knows is that he wakes up with the memory of soft lips and warm fingers and his thigh is condemningly sticky. At first he thinks, a wet dream, that’s all it is. Not the first one he’s had involving Sam and it will certainly not be the last one however much he wishes it.
But when Sam wakes up there’s a look in his eyes that’s all confusion and what Dean thinks might be fear. He refuses to meet Dean’s eyes and when he rolls out of bed, back turned, and disappears into the bathroom, he leaves a wet spot on the bed.
It’s still explainable, although oddly coincidental, and there’s nothing that says Sam really was dreaming of Dean, except for that strange look in his eyes and the blush that traveled up his face as Dean caught him looking. Dean stays in bed, staring up at the ceiling until the shower is turned off and when Sam comes out of the bathroom Dean has his back turned, eyes closed as he pretends to have dozed off. He waits until Sam is dressed before rolling over, yawning as he gets up and heads for the bathroom, never looking Sam’s way.
He glances at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he closes the door behind him. Then does a double take and stares at what he sees. Because there, just a little to the left of his collarbone, is a mark made of insistent lips and blunt teeth, that he’s sure was not there last night. He frowns and leans forward, studying the bruise as he would any supernatural phenomenon but it looks as innocent as a hickey can.
Ok, this is weird.
He runs his eyes over his image in the mirror, first the front, then twisting to look at his back. On his left shoulder blade are four small round bruises and somehow he knows they’ll match Sam’s fingertips. The fifth rests in the grove of his neck, a small red scratch leading down to it, like a nail slipped across his skin. Suddenly wary he glances down and true enough, there on his right buttock are a matching set of prints, etched into his skin like scarlet letters.
Straightening up slowly he doesn’t even dare to think for now, just steps into the shower and turns on the water. His hand trembles and he pulls it briefly into a tight fist before reaching for the bottle of shampoo. Isn’t until he’s stepping out again that he realizes he’s washed all trace of Sam’s scent off without savoring first the memory of it clinging to his skin. He’s not sure how that’s supposed to make him feel but regret is probably not the right response.
When he comes out of the bathroom he finds himself alone and for a second he irrationally panics until he realises Sam probably went out for breakfast. Usually he’s up long before Dean and when Dean wakes up he’s greeted with the necessary gallon of caffeine Sam knows his brother needs to face the day, as well as whatever pastry he can find. But this morning something had kept Sam sleeping until much later. Something.
Shaking that thought away Dean gets dressed and packs their bags, making sure to fold Sam’s clothes exactly the way he likes it, then goes on to roll up his socks and underwear from last night’s laundry. There, hidden under the pile, he finds a pair of boxer briefs, damp and with a rip up one side, and he freezes, staring at them in his hand. He’s damn sure Sam wore those to bed last night and now he thinks of it he knows he himself had on a t-shirt and boxers. Sure enough he finds the t-shirt under his pillow and the underwear at the bottom of the bed, twisted into the sheets.
He sits heavily down on his bed, staring blankly into space, thoughts racing through his head at a dizzying speed.
Could they really have…? But how come he can’t remember? They only had a couple of beers last night so it’s not that. He remembers watching some old horror movie on the small TV and looking over to see Sam had fallen asleep so he’d turned off the sound and kept watching until he was tired enough to close his eyes and fall asleep himself.
He’d dreamt of Sam.
That doesn’t mean anything. He always dreams of Sam. Sometimes Sam is hurt or lost, sometimes he’s walking away. Sometimes he’s dead or dying and Dean’s stuffing bullets into his .45 with shaky hands.
Sometimes it’s like it was last night.
Sam, slipping into bed beside Dean, warm lips kissing their way from Dean’s shoulder and up his neck and jaw until they reach his lips. Those big hands slipping over Dean’s skin, claiming every inch of him as Sam’s tongue licks his lips open. They kiss, hot and deep and with all the gentleness they never show each other in reality. Dean arches into Sam’s touch, wanting to feel the pressure of his brother’s fingers against his skin, wanting them to leave evidence his subconscious knows won’t be there when he wakes up. When Sam reaches his cock and those long fingers wrap around them both and start stroking them firmly, he gasps into Sam’s mouth and closes his eyes, surrendering to Sam’s care for once.
It’s a dream he’s had too many times to count but it’s always been just a dream. Nothing he would ever act upon because however damned he is he won’t do that to Sammy. And until now he’s not had any reason to believe he wouldn’t be pushed away with the disgust he deserves.
The door opens and he looks up, too late realizing he’s still holding the ripped and damp underwear in his hands. Sam stops in the doorway, holding two cups of coffee and a bag with whatever the diner had to offer. He stares at the item in Dean’s hands and the look on his face changes from wary to freaked-the-fuck-out in a blink of an eye. Dean sighs.
“Sam, we need to talk.”
Of all the things he could have said that was probably the worst. He’s never been the one that wants to talk. It’s always Sam with his Psych 101 compulsion, needing to analyze whatever little emotional crisis he thinks Dean is going through at the moment. Sam’s eyes widen and he steps back and for a moment Dean thinks he’s going to turn on his heel and flee but after a short hesitation he crosses the floor instead, holding out the coffee for Dean.
“Thanks.” He takes a sip, sighing at the divine taste and then puts the cup on the bedside table. “Sam, sit down.”
Sam does, long legs folding a little too fast, like they’re too weak to hold him up. He holds his own cup in his hands, the bag dropped to the floor by his feet. He doesn’t look up.
“Sammy, do you remember anything happening after… after we went to bed?”
Sam licks his lips, staring down at his hands. They tremble, sloshing the coffee in his cup. “Maybe.”
“Did we…” Dean swallows. “Sam, I don’t remember. Not really.”
“Me neither. I just…” Sam’s voice is so small Dean has to strain his ears to hear him. “I thought it was a dream but then…”
He hesitates then pulls up his t-shirt. There are bruises matching Dean’s lips scattered across his chest and stomach.
“Christ.” Dean suddenly feels sick. “Did I… Sam, did I hurt you?”
“What?”
“Were you hurt? I mean…” God, he can’t have, can he? “Did I force you?”
Sam is still staring at him, looking about twelve years old in his confusion. “What?”
“Did I rape you, Sam?” Dean snaps, far harsher than he intended and the nausea triples when Sam flinches. “Did I? Tell me!”
“No!” Sam sits up straight, the lost look in his eyes replaced by incredulity. “Of course not! Are you insane?”
“I don’t know what I am! I wake up with bite-marks and bruises and too much fucking come on my thighs to just be mine and you… look at you! You’re all battered and…” He runs one hand over his face, feeling an inch from throwing up. “Were you fighting back? Did I… did I attack you? Just fucking tell me!”
“Dean.”
Sam’s voice is eerily calm, like he’s fighting to keep from screaming, and Dean looks up, expecting to get a fist in his teeth. Instead Sam is gazing at him with sad softness in his big puppy eyes.
“Dean, you would never hurt me. Never. I don’t remember more than bits and pieces but I know you didn’t hurt me.” He gives Dean a half-smile. “In fact, just the opposite.”
“How can you be so fucking calm about this? I… molested you! My own brother!” Dean yells and waves his arms in anger. This can’t be happening. How the fuck can this be happening?
Sam grabs him by the wrists, holding him still. “How do you know I’m not the one who molested you? Maybe I-”
“Because you’re not the one who’s been-!” He snaps his mouth shut but it’s too late. He can see the realization dawn on Sam and wonders how fast he can get up and be in the car, driving the fuck away from there.
“Oh.” Sam stares at him, biting his lower lip, brow furrowing. “Oh,” he repeats and blinks.
Dean’s eyes dart from Sam and to the door and back again. His feet itch to run but Sam is still holding his wrists and somehow he just. can’t. move.
“Sam,” he starts but then doesn’t have a clue what to say and just stares down at his hands resting in Sam’s lap, the insides of his wrists pale against Sam’s tanned fingers. He doesn’t know why, but that seems so wrong. Like he should be the one dark and tainted and Sam white and pure.
They sit still, neither moving except for their sync breathing. When Sam finally stirs it’s surprisingly enough not to push Dean away but instead he rubs his thumbs in slow circles over Dean’s wrists. It sends shivers down Dean’s spine and his nose whistles as he sucks in his breath.
“Dean.” Sam watches him, waiting patiently until Dean raises his head to meet his eyes. “Is that it? Do you want me? Really?”
Dean opens his mouth to lie but the word that comes out is, “Yes,” and his eyes widen in fear. He tries to pull his hands away but Sam’s grip only tightens and after a brief struggle he gives up. “Sam…”
“Ok.”
He blinks. “What?”
“It’s ok, Dean,” Sam says and leans forward and before Dean has time to pull back Sam’s lips are on his, kissing him softly.
It’s all he’s ever imagined and more. Softer, sweeter, warmer. And real. Oh God, it’s real! How can it be real? It shouldn’t be, it can’t.
Dean tries to move away again but at some time Sam’s hands must have let go of his wrists because they’re holding him still, long fingers spread over the back of his skull, cradling his head like a baby’s. He has a memory flash of Sam kissing Sarah, enveloping her face with his palms, fingers long enough to touch at the nape of her neck and he wonders if he should feel insulted that Sam kisses him like a girl. But he hasn’t felt as safe in what seems a lifetime and girly or not, it’s like every kiss he’s ever craved and never gotten until now.
“It’s ok,” Sam repeats against Dean’s lips, breathless, and Dean hiccoughs an, “Ok,” not sure what he’s really saying. But all it takes is a questioning lick at his lips and he’s parting them, inviting Sam into his mouth without hesitation. He should feel fear, disgust, horror, but all he feels is Sam and Sam has always been the only right thing in his life. Why change that now?
When Sam finally pulls away Dean is out of breath, his head feels so light his eyes keep threatening to roll back, and he finds his hands fisted in Sam’s shirt with no recollection of putting them there. Sam smiles, eyes searching Dean’s for something he doesn’t know how to answer, unless it’s ‘You and me?’ to which the answer can only be ‘Yes.’ So he nods and slowly uncurls his fingers from Sam’s shirt, dazedly stroking away the wrinkles from the material before sitting back, breathing once in and out before offering Sam a tentative smile of his own.
“We should… we should find out what happened. Because hell if I’m going to forget this.”
Sam laughs and visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping and the tendons in his neck going slack. “Damn right.” He ducks his head, a blush pinking his ears as he looks up through his bangs, teeth worrying his upper lip. “So… we’re okay?”
Dean nods and reaches out, tucking the strands behind Sam’s ears. “We’re always okay, Sammy.”
It’s not strictly true but still in a way it is. They’ve had their fallouts and thrown their share of punches but it’s never changed what they are and Dean can’t imagine anything could. Not even this.
Sam smiles, then moves over to sit beside Dean on his bed. His right hand hovers for a second before settling on Dean’s hip, arm around his waist. Dean runs his hand up Sam's back until it reaches his neck, and he starts stroking it with his fingertips. If this was any random girl he would be ready to push her down on the bed and start undressing her by now. With Sam he only wants to breathe for a while. It seems enough of a challenge, to breathe, with Sam pressed up against his side, his heat soaking through Dean’s t-shirt. He’s not sure he could handle more at the moment.
“So how long have you…?” Sam finally says, rubbing his thumb over the thin skin along Dean’s hipbone.
“Dude, I’m not telling you that,” Dean laughs shakily, turning his head to kiss Sam’s shoulder even if it makes him feel ridiculously gay.
Sam grins. “That long? Pervert.”
“Shut up.”
He smirks but he still feels the sting. It’s true. He is a pervert. And not of the funny ‘nudge, nudge, wink, wink’ kind. He’s perving on his brother. His goddamn baby brother that he’s supposed to keep safe from everything bad in the world. Sam is watching him and Dean tries to meet his eyes but he can’t and instead stares at Sam’s knee, standing at least two inches further out than his own. The boy is freakishly tall. If they kiss standing up Dean will have to tip his head, perhaps even stand on his toes. How fucked up is that? How totally fucking wrong.
“Dean, I’m just yanking your chain. Stop it.”
He purses his lips. “What?”
“Blaming yourself. Thinking you’re corrupting me or something. I’m not a kid, Dean. And you’re not the only one that’s been wondering…” Sam smiles awkwardly as the blush returns to his face. “I mean, c’mon, Dean. How could I not?”
“How could you not? I don’t know, Sam.” His voice is light, mocking, but he feels nauseous. “Seems most people go through their lives without ever lusting after their siblings, no matter how fucking hot they are.”
“Who said you were hot?” Sam keeps the same light tone but his grip tightens around Dean’s waist. “Maybe I just thought you were lonely and pathetic and obviously needed to get laid.”
“Shut up.” Dean wraps a strand of Sam's hair around his fingers, tugging it hard, but he can’t help smiling slightly. “Besides, you’re one to talk. If anyone needed to be rescued from the pathetic life of celibacy, it’s you.”
Sam scratches Dean’s hip lightly with the nail of his thumb. “Dean… Ever wonder why I never hooked up with anyone after… you know?”
That gets Dean’s attention. He looks up, annoyed. “Don’t give me that crap. That had nothing to do with me, and you know it. You were grieving for Jess and…”
Sam shakes his head. “Dean, it’s been two years. Yes, I loved her. Yes, I grieve for her. Every day.” He runs his palm up Dean’s side and over his shoulderblade until he reaches his neck, pulling Dean closer until his cheek rests on Sam’s shoulder. “But I’m not Dad, Dean. I moved on. Because I know she would have wanted me to be happy, with or without her.” He turns his head, nuzzling into Dean’s neck.
“Sam…”
“I hate when you pick up girls in bars, Dean,” Sam breathes into the still damp hair behind Dean’s ear. “Always have, even before I went to Stanford. I used to lie awake at night, imagining what you were doing with them and feeling annoyed and confused because I was jealous and I didn’t understand why.”
Dean says nothing, because he has no idea what to say, so Sam shifts on the bed, sliding one leg over Dean’s knee, pulling him closer by his waist. “She was my first real girlfriend, Dean, but I wasn’t exactly a virgin. With girls or guys.”
What? Dean twists his fingers again in Sam’s hair, the sudden anger taking him more by surprise than Sam, whose only reaction is to breathe heavily into Dean’s ear before continuing.
“I’d be kissing them, their hands roaming over me and I’d catch myself thinking ‘Is this how Dean kisses, how he moves, how he feels? Is this how he fucks?’”
Dean growls and pulls Sam’s head back, attacking his mouth and then his jaw and neck with hard and violent kisses. He can’t stand the thought of another man kissing Sam, touching Sam, goddamn fucking his Sam. His Sammy!
“I’d… I’d close my eyes and I’d see you.” Sam’s breath is hitching, his fingers digging into Dean’s biceps as Dean pushes Sam down on the bed, hands sliding under Sam’s shirt and t-shirt. “Your eyes, your smile, those lips wrapped around my cock. And I’d come so hard that for a second I’d hallucinate, thinking you were actually there.” He gasps when Dean yanks up his shirts and latches onto one nipple, sucking it hard. “I thought I was going insane. I thought… I thought I’d been possessed or cursed. I tried every chant I could find, every exorcism, every charm. Nothing worked. Until… until I met Jess.”
Dean stops, his lips wet and warm below Sam’s belly button. “She cured you,” he says into Sam's skin, not daring to continue even if he can feel Sam hard and twitching beneath his chin.
“She loved me. Despite everything. Despite my nightmares and paranoia and… you.” Dean can feel Sam’s stomach tightening under his cheek. “I told her and she still loved me. How could I not love her back?”
Dean raises his head, staring at Sam in shock. “You told your girlfriend you wanted to fuck your brother? What the hell, Sam?”
Sam shakes his head, gazing down at Dean with wide-blown eyes and teeth-marked lips. “I told her I loved you. That… that I didn’t know if I could love anyone as much as I loved you. And she… She said ok.”
Dean swallows. “Jesus.”
“Well, she said that too.” Sam laughs shakily. “And a few other words that would make even you blush. But she didn’t push me away and she didn’t judge me, Dean. She just… she said ok.”
Dean pushes himself up, sitting back on his hunches as he runs one hand through his hair. “It’s not. You know that, right? Sam, it’s not ok. We can’t… It will never be ok.”
“I don’t care, Dean. I don’t care.” Sam reaches up, curling his fingers around Dean’s neck. “Do you?”
Dean stares down at him. He feels like his whole world is spinning, like he’s bound to fall off any second and tumble into Hell. And no, he doesn’t care. At all. “No.”
They kiss. They kiss until Sam’s stomach growls loudly and he starts laughing. Head thrown back, lips curled, teeth shining white. Dean wants to lick Sam’s long neck and bite at his jaw. Instead he sits up and gives Sam a smile. They need to take this slow.
“Come on. Let’s eat. What did you buy?”
“Donuts and chocolate chip muffins.” Sam blushes when Dean raises an eyebrow at him. “I was feeling guilty, ok?” He reaches out with one long arm, grabbing the bag from the floor. “Besides, sex makes me sugar starved.”
“Really? Huh.” Dean takes the bag from him, pulling out a frosted donut with sprinkles. “How much do you actually remember?”
“Pretty much everything.” Sam averts his eyes. “I kinda… Ok, promise not to freak?”
Dean frowns at him, sugar spotting his upper lip as he chews. “Wha’?”
Sam bites his lip, the picture of guilt, and Dean sits back, glaring at him. “Sam, what the hell did you do?”
“Nothing. I just…” He swallows. “I did a little spell. Nothing big, just…”
“Sam!”
“Just listen, ok?”
Sam goes all serious, putting on what Dean likes to think of as his ‘So…’ face, the one he uses when he’s trying to convince Dean it’s not a case of college kids hallucinating on E but some demon no one’s ever heard of unless they’re I-read-the-whole-book-of-Solomon-three-times-over Sam.
“Ok, I’m listening.” He takes another bite of the donut and makes a grab for his coffee. Damn, it’s barely lukewarm by now. “This better be good,” he grumbles and swallows it with a grimace.
Sam closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before continuing. “Midsummer night, Dean. You put seven herbs under your pillow and dream of your future… love.” He blushes. “And don’t tell me that’s so twelve because I know, ok? So shut up.”
Dean dismisses that impatiently because when the hell isn’t Sam twelve? “This was more than a dream, Sam.”
“I know! Guess the myth got it wrong. Or possibly it had something to do with the herbs I picked…” He frowns. “Mixing cowbane and marigold might have done it.”
“You’re actually serious?” He’s not sure whether to laugh or slap Sam over the head. “This all happened because you put some fricking herbs under your pillow?”
“And yours,” Sam mumbles.
“And mine. Great.” Dean rolls his eyes. “So how come I don’t remember anything? Huh, Sam? And I already checked under my pillow when looking for my goddamn underwear and there were no herbs. No herbs, Sam!” He’s starting to sound a tiny bit hysterical but he thinks he’s entitled. After all, his little brother put the whammy on him.
“Yeah, well…” Sam ducks his head, blushing. “I kinda removed them while you took your shower. And… Ok, so I might accidentally have put Lethe’s bramble among yours.” At Dean’s outraged look Sam quickly raises his hands in defense. “I swear, I didn’t mean to! Not like I wanted you to forget the whole thing if you actually did dream about me!”
Well, that makes sense. He’s still pissed though, at being manipulated like this. He never would have… Ok, so maybe pissed isn’t the right reaction considering it got him what he’s always wanted. However fucking wrong the whole thing is. But damn if he’s gonna be grateful for Sam putting some damn hoodoo, or whatever this is, on him. Things could have gone all kinds of wrong. Like…
“And what if I’d dreamt about someone else, what then? Or you. What if you’d dreamt of that Sarah girl or whoever?” he demands, the possibility suddenly making him nauseous.
Sam raises his head and looks Dean straight in the eye. “Then I’d stopped waiting for a sign and let you go.”
Dean stares at him. He should be angry, he really should, but Sam’s eyes are so damn big and wide and he’s got this annoying hopeful look in them and his lower lip is quivering as if he might actually start to cry if Dean yells more at him and damn, how’s anyone supposed to resist that?
“So what did we do, Sam? How about you give me a full report?”
Sam blinks and then his face splits into a relieved smile. “How about I show you instead?” he says softly and takes the cup of coffee out of Dean’s hand, putting it on the table, before pulling him down to lick the donut frosting off his lips.
They’re taking it slow. They really are. This is just a re-enactment of last night’s events. It already happened so it totally doesn’t count.
Besides, it’s not fair that Sam got to remember everything and Dean didn’t. He’s going to make Sam show him, step-by-step, how every single one of those bruises got there. And then add some.
fin
Based on this icon
by carmendove
Title: Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This
Author: felisblanco
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Adult, I guess
Word count: A little over 4200
Summary: "I have these nightmares and sometimes they come true." Well, Dean has his own dreams and it looks like one of them, the one he's tried his best to chase away, might have come true. He thinks. Maybe. Thing is... he can't really remember.
Author's note: Unbeta'd. Lethe's bramble is stolen from several Buffy episodes. As far as I can find there is no such herb. Also? Happy birthday, Jensen!
As far as Dean can tell it happened in their sleep. Which is... Yeah. Dean’s not sure if that deems it as innocent or if even in his sleep he’s the slut Sam seems to think he is. All he knows is that he wakes up with the memory of soft lips and warm fingers and his thigh is condemningly sticky. At first he thinks, a wet dream, that’s all it is. Not the first one he’s had involving Sam and it will certainly not be the last one however much he wishes it.
But when Sam wakes up there’s a look in his eyes that’s all confusion and what Dean thinks might be fear. He refuses to meet Dean’s eyes and when he rolls out of bed, back turned, and disappears into the bathroom, he leaves a wet spot on the bed.
It’s still explainable, although oddly coincidental, and there’s nothing that says Sam really was dreaming of Dean, except for that strange look in his eyes and the blush that traveled up his face as Dean caught him looking. Dean stays in bed, staring up at the ceiling until the shower is turned off and when Sam comes out of the bathroom Dean has his back turned, eyes closed as he pretends to have dozed off. He waits until Sam is dressed before rolling over, yawning as he gets up and heads for the bathroom, never looking Sam’s way.
He glances at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he closes the door behind him. Then does a double take and stares at what he sees. Because there, just a little to the left of his collarbone, is a mark made of insistent lips and blunt teeth, that he’s sure was not there last night. He frowns and leans forward, studying the bruise as he would any supernatural phenomenon but it looks as innocent as a hickey can.
Ok, this is weird.
He runs his eyes over his image in the mirror, first the front, then twisting to look at his back. On his left shoulder blade are four small round bruises and somehow he knows they’ll match Sam’s fingertips. The fifth rests in the grove of his neck, a small red scratch leading down to it, like a nail slipped across his skin. Suddenly wary he glances down and true enough, there on his right buttock are a matching set of prints, etched into his skin like scarlet letters.
Straightening up slowly he doesn’t even dare to think for now, just steps into the shower and turns on the water. His hand trembles and he pulls it briefly into a tight fist before reaching for the bottle of shampoo. Isn’t until he’s stepping out again that he realizes he’s washed all trace of Sam’s scent off without savoring first the memory of it clinging to his skin. He’s not sure how that’s supposed to make him feel but regret is probably not the right response.
When he comes out of the bathroom he finds himself alone and for a second he irrationally panics until he realises Sam probably went out for breakfast. Usually he’s up long before Dean and when Dean wakes up he’s greeted with the necessary gallon of caffeine Sam knows his brother needs to face the day, as well as whatever pastry he can find. But this morning something had kept Sam sleeping until much later. Something.
Shaking that thought away Dean gets dressed and packs their bags, making sure to fold Sam’s clothes exactly the way he likes it, then goes on to roll up his socks and underwear from last night’s laundry. There, hidden under the pile, he finds a pair of boxer briefs, damp and with a rip up one side, and he freezes, staring at them in his hand. He’s damn sure Sam wore those to bed last night and now he thinks of it he knows he himself had on a t-shirt and boxers. Sure enough he finds the t-shirt under his pillow and the underwear at the bottom of the bed, twisted into the sheets.
He sits heavily down on his bed, staring blankly into space, thoughts racing through his head at a dizzying speed.
Could they really have…? But how come he can’t remember? They only had a couple of beers last night so it’s not that. He remembers watching some old horror movie on the small TV and looking over to see Sam had fallen asleep so he’d turned off the sound and kept watching until he was tired enough to close his eyes and fall asleep himself.
He’d dreamt of Sam.
That doesn’t mean anything. He always dreams of Sam. Sometimes Sam is hurt or lost, sometimes he’s walking away. Sometimes he’s dead or dying and Dean’s stuffing bullets into his .45 with shaky hands.
Sometimes it’s like it was last night.
Sam, slipping into bed beside Dean, warm lips kissing their way from Dean’s shoulder and up his neck and jaw until they reach his lips. Those big hands slipping over Dean’s skin, claiming every inch of him as Sam’s tongue licks his lips open. They kiss, hot and deep and with all the gentleness they never show each other in reality. Dean arches into Sam’s touch, wanting to feel the pressure of his brother’s fingers against his skin, wanting them to leave evidence his subconscious knows won’t be there when he wakes up. When Sam reaches his cock and those long fingers wrap around them both and start stroking them firmly, he gasps into Sam’s mouth and closes his eyes, surrendering to Sam’s care for once.
It’s a dream he’s had too many times to count but it’s always been just a dream. Nothing he would ever act upon because however damned he is he won’t do that to Sammy. And until now he’s not had any reason to believe he wouldn’t be pushed away with the disgust he deserves.
The door opens and he looks up, too late realizing he’s still holding the ripped and damp underwear in his hands. Sam stops in the doorway, holding two cups of coffee and a bag with whatever the diner had to offer. He stares at the item in Dean’s hands and the look on his face changes from wary to freaked-the-fuck-out in a blink of an eye. Dean sighs.
“Sam, we need to talk.”
Of all the things he could have said that was probably the worst. He’s never been the one that wants to talk. It’s always Sam with his Psych 101 compulsion, needing to analyze whatever little emotional crisis he thinks Dean is going through at the moment. Sam’s eyes widen and he steps back and for a moment Dean thinks he’s going to turn on his heel and flee but after a short hesitation he crosses the floor instead, holding out the coffee for Dean.
“Thanks.” He takes a sip, sighing at the divine taste and then puts the cup on the bedside table. “Sam, sit down.”
Sam does, long legs folding a little too fast, like they’re too weak to hold him up. He holds his own cup in his hands, the bag dropped to the floor by his feet. He doesn’t look up.
“Sammy, do you remember anything happening after… after we went to bed?”
Sam licks his lips, staring down at his hands. They tremble, sloshing the coffee in his cup. “Maybe.”
“Did we…” Dean swallows. “Sam, I don’t remember. Not really.”
“Me neither. I just…” Sam’s voice is so small Dean has to strain his ears to hear him. “I thought it was a dream but then…”
He hesitates then pulls up his t-shirt. There are bruises matching Dean’s lips scattered across his chest and stomach.
“Christ.” Dean suddenly feels sick. “Did I… Sam, did I hurt you?”
“What?”
“Were you hurt? I mean…” God, he can’t have, can he? “Did I force you?”
Sam is still staring at him, looking about twelve years old in his confusion. “What?”
“Did I rape you, Sam?” Dean snaps, far harsher than he intended and the nausea triples when Sam flinches. “Did I? Tell me!”
“No!” Sam sits up straight, the lost look in his eyes replaced by incredulity. “Of course not! Are you insane?”
“I don’t know what I am! I wake up with bite-marks and bruises and too much fucking come on my thighs to just be mine and you… look at you! You’re all battered and…” He runs one hand over his face, feeling an inch from throwing up. “Were you fighting back? Did I… did I attack you? Just fucking tell me!”
“Dean.”
Sam’s voice is eerily calm, like he’s fighting to keep from screaming, and Dean looks up, expecting to get a fist in his teeth. Instead Sam is gazing at him with sad softness in his big puppy eyes.
“Dean, you would never hurt me. Never. I don’t remember more than bits and pieces but I know you didn’t hurt me.” He gives Dean a half-smile. “In fact, just the opposite.”
“How can you be so fucking calm about this? I… molested you! My own brother!” Dean yells and waves his arms in anger. This can’t be happening. How the fuck can this be happening?
Sam grabs him by the wrists, holding him still. “How do you know I’m not the one who molested you? Maybe I-”
“Because you’re not the one who’s been-!” He snaps his mouth shut but it’s too late. He can see the realization dawn on Sam and wonders how fast he can get up and be in the car, driving the fuck away from there.
“Oh.” Sam stares at him, biting his lower lip, brow furrowing. “Oh,” he repeats and blinks.
Dean’s eyes dart from Sam and to the door and back again. His feet itch to run but Sam is still holding his wrists and somehow he just. can’t. move.
“Sam,” he starts but then doesn’t have a clue what to say and just stares down at his hands resting in Sam’s lap, the insides of his wrists pale against Sam’s tanned fingers. He doesn’t know why, but that seems so wrong. Like he should be the one dark and tainted and Sam white and pure.
They sit still, neither moving except for their sync breathing. When Sam finally stirs it’s surprisingly enough not to push Dean away but instead he rubs his thumbs in slow circles over Dean’s wrists. It sends shivers down Dean’s spine and his nose whistles as he sucks in his breath.
“Dean.” Sam watches him, waiting patiently until Dean raises his head to meet his eyes. “Is that it? Do you want me? Really?”
Dean opens his mouth to lie but the word that comes out is, “Yes,” and his eyes widen in fear. He tries to pull his hands away but Sam’s grip only tightens and after a brief struggle he gives up. “Sam…”
“Ok.”
He blinks. “What?”
“It’s ok, Dean,” Sam says and leans forward and before Dean has time to pull back Sam’s lips are on his, kissing him softly.
It’s all he’s ever imagined and more. Softer, sweeter, warmer. And real. Oh God, it’s real! How can it be real? It shouldn’t be, it can’t.
Dean tries to move away again but at some time Sam’s hands must have let go of his wrists because they’re holding him still, long fingers spread over the back of his skull, cradling his head like a baby’s. He has a memory flash of Sam kissing Sarah, enveloping her face with his palms, fingers long enough to touch at the nape of her neck and he wonders if he should feel insulted that Sam kisses him like a girl. But he hasn’t felt as safe in what seems a lifetime and girly or not, it’s like every kiss he’s ever craved and never gotten until now.
“It’s ok,” Sam repeats against Dean’s lips, breathless, and Dean hiccoughs an, “Ok,” not sure what he’s really saying. But all it takes is a questioning lick at his lips and he’s parting them, inviting Sam into his mouth without hesitation. He should feel fear, disgust, horror, but all he feels is Sam and Sam has always been the only right thing in his life. Why change that now?
When Sam finally pulls away Dean is out of breath, his head feels so light his eyes keep threatening to roll back, and he finds his hands fisted in Sam’s shirt with no recollection of putting them there. Sam smiles, eyes searching Dean’s for something he doesn’t know how to answer, unless it’s ‘You and me?’ to which the answer can only be ‘Yes.’ So he nods and slowly uncurls his fingers from Sam’s shirt, dazedly stroking away the wrinkles from the material before sitting back, breathing once in and out before offering Sam a tentative smile of his own.
“We should… we should find out what happened. Because hell if I’m going to forget this.”
Sam laughs and visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping and the tendons in his neck going slack. “Damn right.” He ducks his head, a blush pinking his ears as he looks up through his bangs, teeth worrying his upper lip. “So… we’re okay?”
Dean nods and reaches out, tucking the strands behind Sam’s ears. “We’re always okay, Sammy.”
It’s not strictly true but still in a way it is. They’ve had their fallouts and thrown their share of punches but it’s never changed what they are and Dean can’t imagine anything could. Not even this.
Sam smiles, then moves over to sit beside Dean on his bed. His right hand hovers for a second before settling on Dean’s hip, arm around his waist. Dean runs his hand up Sam's back until it reaches his neck, and he starts stroking it with his fingertips. If this was any random girl he would be ready to push her down on the bed and start undressing her by now. With Sam he only wants to breathe for a while. It seems enough of a challenge, to breathe, with Sam pressed up against his side, his heat soaking through Dean’s t-shirt. He’s not sure he could handle more at the moment.
“So how long have you…?” Sam finally says, rubbing his thumb over the thin skin along Dean’s hipbone.
“Dude, I’m not telling you that,” Dean laughs shakily, turning his head to kiss Sam’s shoulder even if it makes him feel ridiculously gay.
Sam grins. “That long? Pervert.”
“Shut up.”
He smirks but he still feels the sting. It’s true. He is a pervert. And not of the funny ‘nudge, nudge, wink, wink’ kind. He’s perving on his brother. His goddamn baby brother that he’s supposed to keep safe from everything bad in the world. Sam is watching him and Dean tries to meet his eyes but he can’t and instead stares at Sam’s knee, standing at least two inches further out than his own. The boy is freakishly tall. If they kiss standing up Dean will have to tip his head, perhaps even stand on his toes. How fucked up is that? How totally fucking wrong.
“Dean, I’m just yanking your chain. Stop it.”
He purses his lips. “What?”
“Blaming yourself. Thinking you’re corrupting me or something. I’m not a kid, Dean. And you’re not the only one that’s been wondering…” Sam smiles awkwardly as the blush returns to his face. “I mean, c’mon, Dean. How could I not?”
“How could you not? I don’t know, Sam.” His voice is light, mocking, but he feels nauseous. “Seems most people go through their lives without ever lusting after their siblings, no matter how fucking hot they are.”
“Who said you were hot?” Sam keeps the same light tone but his grip tightens around Dean’s waist. “Maybe I just thought you were lonely and pathetic and obviously needed to get laid.”
“Shut up.” Dean wraps a strand of Sam's hair around his fingers, tugging it hard, but he can’t help smiling slightly. “Besides, you’re one to talk. If anyone needed to be rescued from the pathetic life of celibacy, it’s you.”
Sam scratches Dean’s hip lightly with the nail of his thumb. “Dean… Ever wonder why I never hooked up with anyone after… you know?”
That gets Dean’s attention. He looks up, annoyed. “Don’t give me that crap. That had nothing to do with me, and you know it. You were grieving for Jess and…”
Sam shakes his head. “Dean, it’s been two years. Yes, I loved her. Yes, I grieve for her. Every day.” He runs his palm up Dean’s side and over his shoulderblade until he reaches his neck, pulling Dean closer until his cheek rests on Sam’s shoulder. “But I’m not Dad, Dean. I moved on. Because I know she would have wanted me to be happy, with or without her.” He turns his head, nuzzling into Dean’s neck.
“Sam…”
“I hate when you pick up girls in bars, Dean,” Sam breathes into the still damp hair behind Dean’s ear. “Always have, even before I went to Stanford. I used to lie awake at night, imagining what you were doing with them and feeling annoyed and confused because I was jealous and I didn’t understand why.”
Dean says nothing, because he has no idea what to say, so Sam shifts on the bed, sliding one leg over Dean’s knee, pulling him closer by his waist. “She was my first real girlfriend, Dean, but I wasn’t exactly a virgin. With girls or guys.”
What? Dean twists his fingers again in Sam’s hair, the sudden anger taking him more by surprise than Sam, whose only reaction is to breathe heavily into Dean’s ear before continuing.
“I’d be kissing them, their hands roaming over me and I’d catch myself thinking ‘Is this how Dean kisses, how he moves, how he feels? Is this how he fucks?’”
Dean growls and pulls Sam’s head back, attacking his mouth and then his jaw and neck with hard and violent kisses. He can’t stand the thought of another man kissing Sam, touching Sam, goddamn fucking his Sam. His Sammy!
“I’d… I’d close my eyes and I’d see you.” Sam’s breath is hitching, his fingers digging into Dean’s biceps as Dean pushes Sam down on the bed, hands sliding under Sam’s shirt and t-shirt. “Your eyes, your smile, those lips wrapped around my cock. And I’d come so hard that for a second I’d hallucinate, thinking you were actually there.” He gasps when Dean yanks up his shirts and latches onto one nipple, sucking it hard. “I thought I was going insane. I thought… I thought I’d been possessed or cursed. I tried every chant I could find, every exorcism, every charm. Nothing worked. Until… until I met Jess.”
Dean stops, his lips wet and warm below Sam’s belly button. “She cured you,” he says into Sam's skin, not daring to continue even if he can feel Sam hard and twitching beneath his chin.
“She loved me. Despite everything. Despite my nightmares and paranoia and… you.” Dean can feel Sam’s stomach tightening under his cheek. “I told her and she still loved me. How could I not love her back?”
Dean raises his head, staring at Sam in shock. “You told your girlfriend you wanted to fuck your brother? What the hell, Sam?”
Sam shakes his head, gazing down at Dean with wide-blown eyes and teeth-marked lips. “I told her I loved you. That… that I didn’t know if I could love anyone as much as I loved you. And she… She said ok.”
Dean swallows. “Jesus.”
“Well, she said that too.” Sam laughs shakily. “And a few other words that would make even you blush. But she didn’t push me away and she didn’t judge me, Dean. She just… she said ok.”
Dean pushes himself up, sitting back on his hunches as he runs one hand through his hair. “It’s not. You know that, right? Sam, it’s not ok. We can’t… It will never be ok.”
“I don’t care, Dean. I don’t care.” Sam reaches up, curling his fingers around Dean’s neck. “Do you?”
Dean stares down at him. He feels like his whole world is spinning, like he’s bound to fall off any second and tumble into Hell. And no, he doesn’t care. At all. “No.”
They kiss. They kiss until Sam’s stomach growls loudly and he starts laughing. Head thrown back, lips curled, teeth shining white. Dean wants to lick Sam’s long neck and bite at his jaw. Instead he sits up and gives Sam a smile. They need to take this slow.
“Come on. Let’s eat. What did you buy?”
“Donuts and chocolate chip muffins.” Sam blushes when Dean raises an eyebrow at him. “I was feeling guilty, ok?” He reaches out with one long arm, grabbing the bag from the floor. “Besides, sex makes me sugar starved.”
“Really? Huh.” Dean takes the bag from him, pulling out a frosted donut with sprinkles. “How much do you actually remember?”
“Pretty much everything.” Sam averts his eyes. “I kinda… Ok, promise not to freak?”
Dean frowns at him, sugar spotting his upper lip as he chews. “Wha’?”
Sam bites his lip, the picture of guilt, and Dean sits back, glaring at him. “Sam, what the hell did you do?”
“Nothing. I just…” He swallows. “I did a little spell. Nothing big, just…”
“Sam!”
“Just listen, ok?”
Sam goes all serious, putting on what Dean likes to think of as his ‘So…’ face, the one he uses when he’s trying to convince Dean it’s not a case of college kids hallucinating on E but some demon no one’s ever heard of unless they’re I-read-the-whole-book-of-Solomon-three-times-over Sam.
“Ok, I’m listening.” He takes another bite of the donut and makes a grab for his coffee. Damn, it’s barely lukewarm by now. “This better be good,” he grumbles and swallows it with a grimace.
Sam closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before continuing. “Midsummer night, Dean. You put seven herbs under your pillow and dream of your future… love.” He blushes. “And don’t tell me that’s so twelve because I know, ok? So shut up.”
Dean dismisses that impatiently because when the hell isn’t Sam twelve? “This was more than a dream, Sam.”
“I know! Guess the myth got it wrong. Or possibly it had something to do with the herbs I picked…” He frowns. “Mixing cowbane and marigold might have done it.”
“You’re actually serious?” He’s not sure whether to laugh or slap Sam over the head. “This all happened because you put some fricking herbs under your pillow?”
“And yours,” Sam mumbles.
“And mine. Great.” Dean rolls his eyes. “So how come I don’t remember anything? Huh, Sam? And I already checked under my pillow when looking for my goddamn underwear and there were no herbs. No herbs, Sam!” He’s starting to sound a tiny bit hysterical but he thinks he’s entitled. After all, his little brother put the whammy on him.
“Yeah, well…” Sam ducks his head, blushing. “I kinda removed them while you took your shower. And… Ok, so I might accidentally have put Lethe’s bramble among yours.” At Dean’s outraged look Sam quickly raises his hands in defense. “I swear, I didn’t mean to! Not like I wanted you to forget the whole thing if you actually did dream about me!”
Well, that makes sense. He’s still pissed though, at being manipulated like this. He never would have… Ok, so maybe pissed isn’t the right reaction considering it got him what he’s always wanted. However fucking wrong the whole thing is. But damn if he’s gonna be grateful for Sam putting some damn hoodoo, or whatever this is, on him. Things could have gone all kinds of wrong. Like…
“And what if I’d dreamt about someone else, what then? Or you. What if you’d dreamt of that Sarah girl or whoever?” he demands, the possibility suddenly making him nauseous.
Sam raises his head and looks Dean straight in the eye. “Then I’d stopped waiting for a sign and let you go.”
Dean stares at him. He should be angry, he really should, but Sam’s eyes are so damn big and wide and he’s got this annoying hopeful look in them and his lower lip is quivering as if he might actually start to cry if Dean yells more at him and damn, how’s anyone supposed to resist that?
“So what did we do, Sam? How about you give me a full report?”
Sam blinks and then his face splits into a relieved smile. “How about I show you instead?” he says softly and takes the cup of coffee out of Dean’s hand, putting it on the table, before pulling him down to lick the donut frosting off his lips.
They’re taking it slow. They really are. This is just a re-enactment of last night’s events. It already happened so it totally doesn’t count.
Besides, it’s not fair that Sam got to remember everything and Dean didn’t. He’s going to make Sam show him, step-by-step, how every single one of those bruises got there. And then add some.
fin