Supernatural fic: two sides of an ampersand
two sides of an ampersand [Supernatural, Dean/Sam, adult, 1,683 words, firsttime, 4.17 coda. For lazy-daze, who asked for a coda to 4.17 with happy Sam. A huge thank you to girlmostlikely for the beta and serotonin_storm for checking for stray Briticisms.]
"What the-" The voice is as familiar as his own.
Dean looks up. Zachariah keeps smiling his smug smile and walks out, calm as you please, as Sam enters. Sam's still wearing his stupid uniform, but everything else has changed. Dean knows him now.
"Yeah, my weekly touched by an angel moment," Dean says flatly, which should cover it all. He doesn't elaborate. Sam can join the dots. He's the one who really went to Stanford, after all.
"What, they thought they'd teach us a lesson?" Sam's missing some of the dots, but the general picture's right, and Dean's not going to correct him. He's definitely not going to point out that it wasn't a lesson for both of them, that the whole charade was for his benefit. All because he's too weak. Because he's trying to beg off being the one to stop the apocalypse, and excuse him if he doesn't really feel up to that this week.
"As if we didn't already know that you're freaky with or without your memory," Dean says, but his heart isn't in it. He can still feel the excitement, the rush of knowing he was doing the right thing, the thrill of destroying that ghost. Worst of all, he can still feel the sense of kinship with Sam, the underlying exhilaration. The thought that it might be more, no matter what he'd said in the elevator. He can still remember hoping Sam would try hitting on him again, and thinking maybe he'd flirt back next time.
Sam had known him deep down, right from the start, but Dean didn't remember Sam, didn't once look at him and think he was someone he might know from somewhere. Dean hadn't once considered that the dreams might mean something, that they might be more than two virtual strangers, barely colleagues, connecting over mutual attraction and a natural skill for ghost hunting. He just looked at him and thought - fuck. He bites his lip and pushes the thoughts out of his mind.
He's one sick sonofabitch.
"I just had dreams," Sam says and shrugs, like it was nothing that the angels hadn't managed to wipe his memories completely. At least he hasn't added mind reading to his freaky powers. That'd be uncomfortable right about now. "You were the one drinking your vegan lattes and bemoaning the state of your portfolio. And wearing such stylish suspenders." He manages to make stylish sound like the ultimate insult, which is fair enough. Dean's not gonna disagree, though he wishes he could wipe the smirk off Sam's face. "Polka dots, man. That's freaky."
Dean flushes. He knows he does. He can feel it heating his face, and he knows the second it's enough to be obvious by the way Sam's grin increases.
A knowing grin isn't enough for Sam though. He tilts back his head and laughs. The sort of deep, carefree belly laugh that Dean hasn't heard from him in far too long. And just for a moment it's worth it. The test, the way angels are making a helpless dancing puppet out of him, the three weeks of believing he was Dean Smith, Stanford graduate and VP in the making. The sinking feeling he has in his gut knowing that for a while, there, he was looking at Sam and wanting him. Worth it all to hear Sam laugh like he used to.
"I drove a Prius," he admits with a wry grin. He wants Sam to keep laughing, and the Prius- Dean shudders just thinking of it.
Sam goes silent for a second, stares at Dean, then just collapses in on himself, helpless with laughter.
Yeah, Dean thinks. Worth it.
Then thinks of one more thing.
"Dude. We took advice from the Ghostfacers," he says in mounting horror, each word slower out of his mouth as the sheer wrongness hits him.
Sam chokes, and his face goes straight from glee to dismay. "You were in awe of them," he says accusingly, as though it's Dean's fault.
"So were you." Dean would like to thump his head on his desk, but he's already got a headache.
Sam leans over the desk and glares at Dean. "'Real, actual ghost hunters.' I think those were your words."
Dean tries to hide his wince. "So. You hit on me in the elevator," he counters. He doesn't even think until the words are out there.
He expects Sam to contradict him. Insist it was nothing of the sort, a joke or a misunderstanding or an office dare, anything, but he doesn't. He just goes quiet and swallows uncomfortably, hands tucked in his pockets and shoulders hunched like he's trying to hide. He won't even meet Dean's eyes.
The ball's in Dean's court. He's got two options.
He isn't a coward. And he isn't a good man - even the angels know that. He leans forward, elbows on the desk, and makes it sound easy. "'Course, you were a pussy and didn't even try to follow up," he says. "No wonder you never get laid."
Sam's never looked further from laughter. But there's this look on his face, wide-eyed and hopeful, that Dean thinks he might like even better than the laughter.
"You're saying I need to work on the follow up?" Sam asks, all casual sounding. Doesn't fool Dean though. The answer matters to Sam.
"Yeah," Dean says, his voice coming out hoarse all of a sudden. He coughs. He'd kill for a beer. A man's not supposed to have this conversation stone cold sober. Not meant to have it at all, but that's another issue.
"So I should be more direct?" Sam asks, moving around the desk towards him. "Or what, just go for it?"
Dean doesn't trust his voice at all now. He just nods and stares at his shoes. Very black, very polished. Probably cost enough to keep the Impala on the road for a month, and they're not even half as comfortable as his favorite boots.
"Quit staring at the reflection in your shoes, Dean," Sam says, and Dean's looking up to reject that ridiculous claim when Sam's huge hand grips his jaw, and Sam angles his head back for him. "Just go for it, huh," Sam says, and does.
Sam's technique is shocking. He simply presses his lips to Dean's like he's trying to smother him; his hair's flopping over Dean's face, and Sam must be just about breaking his back in half bending over. Dean's going to have to give him some pointers.
He can't fault his enthusiasm though. Or the way it's turning Dean on; the hot, sharp scent of him, the knowledge that this is Sam, his Sam. Who wants Dean the way Dean wants him.
"Fuck, Sammy," he says, and pushes up out of the chair. Sam doesn't let him get far, just twists them around and shoves him against the desk, and Dean's fine with that, absurdly fine with that, even if Sam is pushing him around like Dean's a girl. He pulls Sam in further, presses against him and proves he's not a girl.
Sam lets out a little grunt, more moan than anything, and the sound goes straight to Dean's dick. And maybe Sam has picked up some mind reading skills after all, useful ones, because he pulls back and drops to his knees in front of Dean. He fumbles at Dean's belt, and it takes a moment for Dean to realize Sam's not actually opening it, that his hands are shaking too much.
"You don't have-" he starts, and really he deserves sainthood for getting that far, because he's this close to begging Sam not to stop.
But Sam interrupts. "Want to," he says tersely. Then again; quieter, slower, sure. "I want to." It sounds like a promise.
Dean closes his eyes and breathes in deep. He feels the belt loosen, and hears the sound of his zipper, and then Sam's hand is on his cock. Dean's never had another guy's hand on his cock, had no idea how good it would be. Better than his own, bigger and stronger and more real than a woman's, and this is Sam. That alone makes it better. Perfect.
Dean's panting now, can't help it, and he's not even ashamed, because he's been waiting for this, wanting it, for longer than he's ever going to admit, even to himself, and Sam's touch alone is almost enough to set him off. When Sam sucks him down it's too much. He jerks up off the desk, forcing a muffled curse out of Sam, but he can't help himself, can't help anything that happens now. Everything's meant to be, he feels it with the certainty of a drunk man, or an angel. He has faith in this; in them.
Sam's holding him now, one hand cupped around his hip, one on the root of his cock, holding him still while he sucks him down in eager slurps. Dean wants to see what he looks like; he opens his eyes and looks down. Sees a mass of shaggy hair and the tip of Sam's nose pressed against Dean's pubes, then as Sam pulls off, he looks up. Looks right at Dean, nothing hidden, and Dean's lost, Dean's seeing white and Sam's swallowing him, swallowing everything.
"Fuck," Dean says later, which he thinks is pretty fucking eloquent, considering. He tucks his spent cock away, and flicks at the drying spunk on the front of his pants. A flake lands in Sam's hair.
Sam wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and leans his head against Dean's thigh. It's a comfortable weight, grounding. "Later," Sam offers, and Dean's mouth goes dry.
The end-of-the-day sun is shining through the window, wandering golden-red over Sam's hair and the side of his face. The sunset is beautiful, but Sam, he takes Dean's breath away.
"We've got all the time in the world," Dean says, and picks his come out of Sam's hair. "All the time in the world," and they will, even if he has to avert an apocalypse for it.
//
"What the-" The voice is as familiar as his own.
Dean looks up. Zachariah keeps smiling his smug smile and walks out, calm as you please, as Sam enters. Sam's still wearing his stupid uniform, but everything else has changed. Dean knows him now.
"Yeah, my weekly touched by an angel moment," Dean says flatly, which should cover it all. He doesn't elaborate. Sam can join the dots. He's the one who really went to Stanford, after all.
"What, they thought they'd teach us a lesson?" Sam's missing some of the dots, but the general picture's right, and Dean's not going to correct him. He's definitely not going to point out that it wasn't a lesson for both of them, that the whole charade was for his benefit. All because he's too weak. Because he's trying to beg off being the one to stop the apocalypse, and excuse him if he doesn't really feel up to that this week.
"As if we didn't already know that you're freaky with or without your memory," Dean says, but his heart isn't in it. He can still feel the excitement, the rush of knowing he was doing the right thing, the thrill of destroying that ghost. Worst of all, he can still feel the sense of kinship with Sam, the underlying exhilaration. The thought that it might be more, no matter what he'd said in the elevator. He can still remember hoping Sam would try hitting on him again, and thinking maybe he'd flirt back next time.
Sam had known him deep down, right from the start, but Dean didn't remember Sam, didn't once look at him and think he was someone he might know from somewhere. Dean hadn't once considered that the dreams might mean something, that they might be more than two virtual strangers, barely colleagues, connecting over mutual attraction and a natural skill for ghost hunting. He just looked at him and thought - fuck. He bites his lip and pushes the thoughts out of his mind.
He's one sick sonofabitch.
"I just had dreams," Sam says and shrugs, like it was nothing that the angels hadn't managed to wipe his memories completely. At least he hasn't added mind reading to his freaky powers. That'd be uncomfortable right about now. "You were the one drinking your vegan lattes and bemoaning the state of your portfolio. And wearing such stylish suspenders." He manages to make stylish sound like the ultimate insult, which is fair enough. Dean's not gonna disagree, though he wishes he could wipe the smirk off Sam's face. "Polka dots, man. That's freaky."
Dean flushes. He knows he does. He can feel it heating his face, and he knows the second it's enough to be obvious by the way Sam's grin increases.
A knowing grin isn't enough for Sam though. He tilts back his head and laughs. The sort of deep, carefree belly laugh that Dean hasn't heard from him in far too long. And just for a moment it's worth it. The test, the way angels are making a helpless dancing puppet out of him, the three weeks of believing he was Dean Smith, Stanford graduate and VP in the making. The sinking feeling he has in his gut knowing that for a while, there, he was looking at Sam and wanting him. Worth it all to hear Sam laugh like he used to.
"I drove a Prius," he admits with a wry grin. He wants Sam to keep laughing, and the Prius- Dean shudders just thinking of it.
Sam goes silent for a second, stares at Dean, then just collapses in on himself, helpless with laughter.
Yeah, Dean thinks. Worth it.
Then thinks of one more thing.
"Dude. We took advice from the Ghostfacers," he says in mounting horror, each word slower out of his mouth as the sheer wrongness hits him.
Sam chokes, and his face goes straight from glee to dismay. "You were in awe of them," he says accusingly, as though it's Dean's fault.
"So were you." Dean would like to thump his head on his desk, but he's already got a headache.
Sam leans over the desk and glares at Dean. "'Real, actual ghost hunters.' I think those were your words."
Dean tries to hide his wince. "So. You hit on me in the elevator," he counters. He doesn't even think until the words are out there.
He expects Sam to contradict him. Insist it was nothing of the sort, a joke or a misunderstanding or an office dare, anything, but he doesn't. He just goes quiet and swallows uncomfortably, hands tucked in his pockets and shoulders hunched like he's trying to hide. He won't even meet Dean's eyes.
The ball's in Dean's court. He's got two options.
He isn't a coward. And he isn't a good man - even the angels know that. He leans forward, elbows on the desk, and makes it sound easy. "'Course, you were a pussy and didn't even try to follow up," he says. "No wonder you never get laid."
Sam's never looked further from laughter. But there's this look on his face, wide-eyed and hopeful, that Dean thinks he might like even better than the laughter.
"You're saying I need to work on the follow up?" Sam asks, all casual sounding. Doesn't fool Dean though. The answer matters to Sam.
"Yeah," Dean says, his voice coming out hoarse all of a sudden. He coughs. He'd kill for a beer. A man's not supposed to have this conversation stone cold sober. Not meant to have it at all, but that's another issue.
"So I should be more direct?" Sam asks, moving around the desk towards him. "Or what, just go for it?"
Dean doesn't trust his voice at all now. He just nods and stares at his shoes. Very black, very polished. Probably cost enough to keep the Impala on the road for a month, and they're not even half as comfortable as his favorite boots.
"Quit staring at the reflection in your shoes, Dean," Sam says, and Dean's looking up to reject that ridiculous claim when Sam's huge hand grips his jaw, and Sam angles his head back for him. "Just go for it, huh," Sam says, and does.
Sam's technique is shocking. He simply presses his lips to Dean's like he's trying to smother him; his hair's flopping over Dean's face, and Sam must be just about breaking his back in half bending over. Dean's going to have to give him some pointers.
He can't fault his enthusiasm though. Or the way it's turning Dean on; the hot, sharp scent of him, the knowledge that this is Sam, his Sam. Who wants Dean the way Dean wants him.
"Fuck, Sammy," he says, and pushes up out of the chair. Sam doesn't let him get far, just twists them around and shoves him against the desk, and Dean's fine with that, absurdly fine with that, even if Sam is pushing him around like Dean's a girl. He pulls Sam in further, presses against him and proves he's not a girl.
Sam lets out a little grunt, more moan than anything, and the sound goes straight to Dean's dick. And maybe Sam has picked up some mind reading skills after all, useful ones, because he pulls back and drops to his knees in front of Dean. He fumbles at Dean's belt, and it takes a moment for Dean to realize Sam's not actually opening it, that his hands are shaking too much.
"You don't have-" he starts, and really he deserves sainthood for getting that far, because he's this close to begging Sam not to stop.
But Sam interrupts. "Want to," he says tersely. Then again; quieter, slower, sure. "I want to." It sounds like a promise.
Dean closes his eyes and breathes in deep. He feels the belt loosen, and hears the sound of his zipper, and then Sam's hand is on his cock. Dean's never had another guy's hand on his cock, had no idea how good it would be. Better than his own, bigger and stronger and more real than a woman's, and this is Sam. That alone makes it better. Perfect.
Dean's panting now, can't help it, and he's not even ashamed, because he's been waiting for this, wanting it, for longer than he's ever going to admit, even to himself, and Sam's touch alone is almost enough to set him off. When Sam sucks him down it's too much. He jerks up off the desk, forcing a muffled curse out of Sam, but he can't help himself, can't help anything that happens now. Everything's meant to be, he feels it with the certainty of a drunk man, or an angel. He has faith in this; in them.
Sam's holding him now, one hand cupped around his hip, one on the root of his cock, holding him still while he sucks him down in eager slurps. Dean wants to see what he looks like; he opens his eyes and looks down. Sees a mass of shaggy hair and the tip of Sam's nose pressed against Dean's pubes, then as Sam pulls off, he looks up. Looks right at Dean, nothing hidden, and Dean's lost, Dean's seeing white and Sam's swallowing him, swallowing everything.
"Fuck," Dean says later, which he thinks is pretty fucking eloquent, considering. He tucks his spent cock away, and flicks at the drying spunk on the front of his pants. A flake lands in Sam's hair.
Sam wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and leans his head against Dean's thigh. It's a comfortable weight, grounding. "Later," Sam offers, and Dean's mouth goes dry.
The end-of-the-day sun is shining through the window, wandering golden-red over Sam's hair and the side of his face. The sunset is beautiful, but Sam, he takes Dean's breath away.
"We've got all the time in the world," Dean says, and picks his come out of Sam's hair. "All the time in the world," and they will, even if he has to avert an apocalypse for it.
//