That Phantom World So Fair (5 of 5) | Sam/OFC, Sam/Dean | NC-17

[rei_c]

The drive back to the motel is quiet, neither of them saying much. Dean’s trying to poke at that ache he feels in the back of his skull, like picking at a piece of food stuck in a tooth, and they’re five minutes from the room when Sam leans over and punches him in the arm, says, “Stop it, or you’ll make it worse.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but stops, and when they’re back in the room, behind salt lines and wards, Dean asks, “What kinds of cool things will I be able to do now?”

Sam’s sitting at the table, sipping at a cup of coffee, something they haven’t been allowed for three weeks. He’s still and calm, his hands aren’t shaking, and his eyes are closed but Sam’s smiling. Sam looks better, looks more relaxed, as if he feels safe. “You know the EMF you wanted to rig?” Sam asks, and when Dean grunts in affirmation, Sam says, “You won’t need it now.”

Dean laughs, says, “That’s awesome,” and then asks, “What else? Will Missouri be able to sense me?”

Sam shakes his head and says, “Only if you keep your barriers down, which I don’t recommend. What stopped her from sensing me before were the drugs along with the barriers. You’ll be able to hide from every psychic and every spell in the world.”

“Speaking of the drugs,” Dean says.

Sam cuts him off before he can say another word, just by opening his eyes and looking at Dean. “I don’t care what you do with them,” he says. “You’ve taken enough of the power. I won’t need them anymore. Feel like sleeping for the next decade, but that's all.”

Dean grins, takes the baggies of cocaine and flushes every flake, every speck of powder, down the toilet. He comes out of the bathroom, sees Sam with his head down on the table, one hand around an empty Styrofoam cup, fast asleep. He stands there and looks, just watches Sam sleep, for longer than he should, leaning against the doorframe as he studies the curve of Sam’s neck, the way Sam’s hair curls around his ears, the slow and steady rise-and-fall of Sam’s chest as he breathes.

Like he can feel Dean watching him, Sam twitches in his sleep, says, “Siempre, siempre para usted,” and starts to snore.

Dean smiles again, crashes on to the bed, and pokes at the ache in his head until he falls asleep as well.

He dreams of snow, of things that are cold, dying alone in piles of frost and snow, the smell of desperation all around, and he can’t wake up. He knows he’s asleep, knows he’s talking in his sleep, but he can’t leave, as if he’s the one that’s frozen, until there’s a long line of heat pressed against his back, warming him from the outside as well as the inside. He mumbles words, he doesn’t know what they are, but he can feel his throat work, feel his tongue and teeth form word after word, and he moves back into the heat, presses himself into it, like it’s a warm blanket that he just needs to wrap around himself.

It evens out, until he’s warm but not too warm, and the heat behind him isn’t overpowering, has cooled down enough not to scorch him, and then he dreams of a girl in the middle of the country, a brunette, who stares into the eyes of a woman possessed by a Medusa-demon and turns to stone.

Dean wakes up, groans as his entire head is one mass of aches and pains. It takes a moment to realise that Sam’s behind him, one arm draped over Dean’s side, hand splayed out on Dean’s stomach, and that the warmth he dreamt of was actually his brother crawling in to bed and spooning behind him.

He thinks that realisation should make him more upset than it does, but Sam mumbles, “We have time before we need to be there. Go back to sleep.”

And so Dean does.

--

The drive to Iowa takes a couple days. Sam drives, the cocaine out of his system after a few days of sleep and moodiness, but leaving him all the better for it, and he starts instructing Dean on using his abilities, tells Dean story after story of how he learnt to deal with being psychic, with the visions and dreams and precognition and telepathy.

When they sleep, they start off in two different beds, but Dean ends up shivering and he thinks Sam ends up burning, and it only takes a couple hours before Sam’s in Dean’s bed, draped all over him, and they’re sharing warmth and coolness in a manner that feels like natural balance, complementary opposites. Neither of them talk about it in the morning.

Dean’s a quick study and by the time they track down the possessed woman, Dean knows how to sense the demon inside of her and how to stop from sensing it before the pain overloads his nervous system. They’re having difficulty with the exorcism simply because they can’t look at the demon, and when Sam loses his place for the third time, Dean growls and takes the book out of Sam’s hands.

His hands slide against Sam’s, and the skin-on-skin contact, the first outside of sleep, outside of a bed, makes Dean shudder and has Sam jerking backwards, but there’s a weight to the air and the sound of burning behind them, and Sam pulls up a mirror, angles it towards the floor.

“Ash,” he whispers, and turns around before Dean can stop him. When Sam’s still breathing, still staring, obviously not turned to stone, Dean turns as well, and sees a small, smoking pile of ash on the floor, the formerly possessed woman passed out behind it.

“Like the demons and spirits,” Dean says, when he finds his breath. “Sam, what?”

Sam hisses, air between his teeth, and says, “The two are one, the one are two. Fuck.”

They leave before the woman wakes up, hightail it out of there, and when they’re far enough away, Dean pulls over on the side of the two-lane state highway and turns to face his brother, who looks as if he’s trying to decide between throwing up or passing out. “I don’t get it,” Dean says. “Explain it to me, Sam. Please.”

“The ritual,” Sam says, obviously searching for words. “It split the power, but it left it connected as well. We each have half, but when we touch, maybe, it’s like it’s all back together.”

Dean’s beginning to understand. “The really big things you could do before, the setting demons on fire, the precognitive dreams, we can do that if we’re touching.” Sam nods, and Dean says, “Huh. Did you know that would happen?”

Sam looks almost insulted, but he just shakes his head. “No clue. I knew it would split the power; I mean, you got most of the ability to sense the supernatural, I have most of the empathy and aura-sight, but I thought we’d lose the big stuff as a price for binding the power and splitting it between the two of us.”

“Empathy and aura-sight,” Dean says, flatly, knowing that he’s off topic, but he can’t help the anger he feels building up in the pit of his stomach. He gets out of the Impala, walks off the shoulder on to the grass next to the road, and kicks at the dirt. Dean knows when Sam’s out of the car and waiting, knows it just like he’s knows every move Sam makes these days, knows Sam’s moods without needing to look, and the reason for that makes sense now.

He turns, glares at Sam, and says, “You kept the empathy and aura-sight. I thought they were lost, or the intensity wasn’t as strong.” Sam swallows, looks away, and Dean strides back to his brother, curls his hands in Sam’s shirt and slams Sam against the car.

“Dean, come on,” Sam says, but Dean shakes him, slams him backwards again.

“You kept the things that cause the most pain, didn’t you,” Dean says. “You gave me all the happy, pretty gifts, and you kept the painful ones. What’s the worse thing that can happen to me, huh? So I get a little headache if I don’t keep track of things, so a demon senses me when I get close to it if I’m not blocking. But you, fuck, Sam. I thought we were supposed to sharing this! I thought I was supposed to help you. Why’d you do it?”

Sam’s eyes are full of fire, and he shoots back, “What, you think you’re the only one who can protect everyone else? I’m used to the stupid gifts! I know how to handle them, and I don’t mind doing it.”

“If you don’t care, why do you need me?” Dean argues. As soon as he says the words, he wants to take them back, knows they have to have hurt Sam by the way Sam’s eyes darken and his skin flushes.

“You want them, fine,” Sam says, and presses his palms against Dean’s chest.

It’s like he’s being electrocuted. Dean can feel power move into him, strange and alien in the middle of what he’s come to think of as his power, and as soon as he assimilates it, starts to understand what Sam’s just somehow given him, he’s flooded over with sensations, emotions. Fear, anger, desperation, and below all of it, around it all, well-spring deep need like Dean’s never felt before.

He looks at Sam, Sam who’s surrounded by this deep, burning green colour, his aura pulsing with every breath he takes. Dean opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a high, wordless cry, echoing the pain and agony he feels battering at his mind, his heart. It hurts, so much, and then, as suddenly as it was there, it’s gone.

Dean tries to catch his breath, feels Sam’s hands drop from his chest, and he says his brother’s name, a question and a plea at once.

“I’m sorry,” Sam murmurs, hands going around to Dean’s back, pulling Dean flush against his body. “I’m sorry, but Dean, I can’t ask you to carry that.”

“It was so strong,” Dean breathes, closer to regaining his equilibrium but unwilling to leave the safety of Sam’s arms, Sam’s body. “How do you do it?”

Sam’s stroking Dean’s hair, and when he says, “I’m used to it. There are tricks, but nothing’s fool-proof,” his breath ghosts across Dean’s ear, gets lost in Dean’s skin.

“I’d do it,” Dean says, pushing off of Sam just enough to look up at his brother.

“I know you would,” is all Sam replies, and then Sam’s lips are on Dean’s, and Dean’s kissing back, hands curling even tighter in Sam’s shirt, teeth tearing at Sam’s mouth.

There’s no magic this time, no ritual, no need to be doing this, kissing on the side of an Iowa state highway, but Dean can’t stop, doesn’t want to. Sam’s an idiot, but Sam’s his idiot, whimpering under Dean’s mouth, Dean’s hands, cock hard in Sam’s jeans and rubbing against Dean.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says when Dean leans back. “I’m sorry, I just.”

Dean shuts him up by kissing him again, shoves his tongue in Sam’s mouth without even a hint of gentleness, and moves his hands to Sam’s hips, fingers snaking their way under Sam’s shirt to dig into his brother’s hips. His nails catch Sam’s skin and claw down, and when Sam’s hips move, thrust against Dean, he does it again.

Sam tilts his head back, turns to the side and while Dean’s biting his way down Sam’s neck, Sam says, “Dean, tell me you want this. Tell me I’m not making you, please, I don’t want to be making you do this.”

Dean stops just long enough to look at Sam, and says, “I want this. Now shut the fuck up.” He undoes Sam’s jeans just enough to get a hand down them, and as he sucks on Sam’s neck, listens to the noises Sam makes, rubs against Sam’s leg, he’s jerking Sam’s cock, fast and rough.

Sam comes over Dean’s hand, and while Sam’s leaning against the Impala, catching his breath and looking at Dean with lazy-lidded eyes, Dean undoes his own jeans and uses the hand covered in Sam’s come to jerk himself off. It doesn’t take long, feeling echoes of that need bounce around in the part of his head he’s come to think of as Psychic Central, and when he’s done, Dean cleans off his hand in Sam’s shirt.

Sam’s nose wrinkles, but he looks at Dean with fondness and hesitation, so Dean leans forward and up, and kisses Sam again, softer this time, tongue twining around his brother’s as a car flies past.

“You’re not making me do anything I don’t want to do,” Dean says, fingers hanging in the belt loops of Sam’s jeans. “Promise. And I won’t bug you about the power anymore. I don’t like it, but you’re right, that would’ve driven me insane before I could’ve gotten it trained.” He reaches up, ruffles Sam’s hair, and says, “Now, can we go back to the motel and shower?”

--

The next job they get is up in Wisconsin, and after two weeks of nothing but training Dean’s new powers and decidedly not talking about what happened on the side of the road, they stop in at Missouri’s on the way north. They break into her house, Sam picking the lock on the front door and disabling her wards, Dean going ‘round back and doing the same. She’s puttering around in the kitchen, and Sam sneaks up behind her and grabs her, covers her eyes and mouth. While she’s struggling, Dean moves to stand in front of her. He looks at Sam, who nods, and Dean says, “Boo.”

Sam lets go of Missouri, who stares at Dean first, then turns and looks at Sam. “You boys are gonna be the death of me yet,” she mutters, smacking Dean’s head first, then pinching Sam’s arm hard. “How’d you do that, hmm?” she asks Dean, before turning back to Sam. She narrows her eyes, tugs his head down and searches his face, before murmuring, “Well, bless my soul. How on earth did you manage to.”

She stops, turns back to Dean, eyes narrowing even further, and then she steps back, looks at both of them, Dean then Sam then back to Dean. Dean grins, and Sam can’t help smiling, and they look at each other before dropping the majority of their barriers at the same time.

Missouri takes another step back, hand over her heart. “Why?” she asks Dean. “And how?”

Dean and Sam exchange another look, and Dean doesn’t need any trace of Sam’s empathy to know his brother’s starting to retreat behind his barriers, behind a mask of indifference and apathy, thanks to Missouri’s first question. Dean frowns, elbows Sam, and says, “There was a ritual. And I did because I wanted to help my little brother. Is there a problem here, Missouri?”

“What ritual?” Missouri asks, and the look of shock on her face has changed a little, looks more like she’s afraid to hear the answer.

Sam’s face has completely closed down. It’s one of the things that scares Dean the most, that somehow, despite the drug use and Sam’s natural self-expression, Sam’s learned to control his reaction, his emotions. It’s not just his face, either; Sam can modulate his voice and the manifestation of his power to sound or feel like anything Sam wants them to. The few traces of empathy that Dean possesses now give him the edge in guessing what Sam’s thinking, how he feels, but it’s not enough to completely wipe out the worry that seeing a blank Sam causes.

“It was a tantric ritual,” Dean says. “Sam and I bound his power, then we split it between us.”

Missouri takes another step back, looking between them, at their auras. It takes a moment, and then she says, “That’s not possible.”

“Yeah, well, neither is using cocaine to keep the power at bay,” Sam says, with a curiously vacant tone that Dean’s never heard before, but knows instinctively he doesn’t like.

Dean elbows Sam again, and when Sam takes his eyes off of Missouri, Dean tilts his head toward the living room, giving Sam a silent order. Sam stands there for a moment, then turns and leaves without arguing.

When he’s gone, Dean sits down at the kitchen table and looks up at Missouri, who’s half the room away. “Missouri, you know I like you, I respect you and I appreciate what you’ve done for my family,” he says. “But if this is going to be a problem, then Sam and I will leave you alone. I did what needed to be done to help my brother. I don’t regret it, and if I had to do again, I’d do it with a smile on my face.”

Missouri shakes her head, like she’s shaking herself out of a trance, and she gives Dean a worried smile, sits down across from him at the table. “I’m sorry, Dean,” she says. “I’ve just never heard of something like this before, and the change in your brother, it’s hard to believe. He’s not doing the drugs any more, you’re sure of that?”

“Positive,” Dean says.

“And there aren’t any long-term effects?” Missouri asks, disbelief colouring her tone.

Dean shrugs, says, “None that we’ve seen so far and it’s been about three weeks since the ritual. He slept for a few days, went through that whole jumpy, anxious stage, but I made sure he didn't do anything except stare at the wall. He still gets moody and depressed sometimes; that's more him than the drugs. Sam’s not screaming when he sleeps, though I think we both talk all night long. He’s putting on weight again, doesn’t eat as much as I do, but more than before.”

Missouri leans forward, holds out a hand, and when Dean takes it, after making sure his barriers are all up, she asks, “And what about you, sweetie? What’s it like to be psychic? What kinds of training have you done?”

Dean grins, says, “Missouri, it’s one of the coolest things ever. Sam taught me everything he knows and I’m learning some tricks of my own, but did you know I can sense demons now?” His enthusiasm is so obvious, he’s making it as over the top as possible, but it seems to work as Missouri relaxes slightly. “Can Sam come back in now?”

“Oh, sure,” Missouri says, as if she’d forgotten all about Sam. “Come on, sugar,” she calls out, and Sam appears moments later at the doorway, looking at Dean, who nods. Sam takes a step into the kitchen, and Missouri says, “I’m sorry, Sam. You two just took me a little off-guard.”

Sam smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “No problem,” he says easily, before asking, “Missouri, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help looking, but the tarot cards in the other room. Who was that reading for?”

Missouri leans back in her chair, as if she’s thinking, and says, “One of my regular clients. He comes in once a month for a little guidance. You can read the cards?”

“You should see him,” Dean says, proud but worried at the same time, because Sam hasn’t tried reading the cards since the ritual and he can see small pain lines around the corners of Sam’s eyes. Dean stands, goes over to his brother, lifts his hand and squeezes Sam’s shoulder, feels a small burst of danger echo over to him from Sam’s empathic gift. “What’s wrong?”

Sam shakes his head, says, “I’m not sure. I had the basics, but I think I need.”

He stops, and Dean nods, says, “Let’s go.”

They go into the living room, Missouri following, and Sam sits down in front of the cards, the traditional Rider-Waite deck, twenty eight cards spread out seven to a row, four rows, with Dean standing behind him. Dean puts his hands on Sam’s shoulder, lowers the barriers separating him and Sam, and leans over Sam’s head to look at the cards. He doesn’t understand them any better than before but thinks these pictures are a hell of a lot more entertaining than the other ones.

Sam, though, tenses under Dean’s hands, and reaches out, letting one hand hover over the middle card in the second row. Dean blinks, feels that burst of danger from before, but this time from his own supernatural radar. As Sam moves his hand, the feeling grows and decreases in turns, and when Sam’s finished with the layout, Dean says, “It’s strongest every fourth day, but the strongest on the ninth. Weird. What’s it mean?”

“It’s a curse,” Sam says, studying the cards. “A quarter-life curse.”

“Which means what?” Dean asks, moving to Sam’s side, elbowing his brother and sitting down next to Sam on the loveseat, knee knocking against Sam’s.

Sam frowns, looks up at Missouri, who raises an eyebrow and shakes her head. “A quarter-life curse. It’s not hard to cast on a person, though the hex usually goes back the other way, too. Every fourth day, the victim feels weaker, sluggish, because their energy is being drained away and given to the person who cast the hex. You felt it stronger on the ninth because that’s the day this month when the curse renews itself.”

Dean looks up at Missouri, who says, “I never got that from the cards, but my gift isn’t in reading tarot cards. Sam, how do you know about this curse? And is there a way to take it off?”

“It’s not a hard reversal,” Sam says, and he adds, quieter, “It’s something I learned in San Francisco.” He refuses to answer more questions about it.

--

They stay at Missouri’s for dinner, and she invites them to spend the night, get a good night’s sleep before heading on to Wisconsin. It’s obvious, to Dean, at least, that Sam doesn’t want to take her up on it; Sam doesn’t trust Missouri, that much is clear to see. Dean accepts her offer, though, and when they all finally scatter for bed, Dean standing in the doorway to the guest bedroom, he understands why Sam wanted to leave.

“You two can fight over the bed,” Missouri says, walking behind them from the bathroom to her bedroom, “and whoever loses can have the couch downstairs. The house is warded even better than before, so there’s no need to worry ‘bout supernatural things searching you out and coming here. Pillows and blankets in the linen closet, and I’ll thank you to put them back there in the morning.”

Sam’s inside the room, going through his duffel, and when Missouri’s bedroom door shuts behind her, he gives Dean a look, and says, “It’s no use trying to sleep apart, and the couch is too small for both of us.”

“Bed’s not much bigger,” Dean says. Sam stands up, straightens slowly, and just looks at Dean.

It’s not a big deal. They sleep together because of the ritual, because otherwise they can’t sleep at all. At least, that’s how it started. Now it has more to do with Dean needing to feel his brother behind him, feeling Sam’s breath in sync with his own, like he’s not alone with Sam’s hand always pressed on the same spot of Dean’s stomach every morning. Now he wakes up with a smile, pressing back into Sam’s half-erection, feeling a chill go up and down his spine when Sam’s breath stirs the hair on the back of his neck.

Inside of a motel room, just the two of them in a place where no one knows them and where they won’t be staying around, there’s no problem. Under Missouri’s roof, though, makes it more real, lets it sink in: sure, they’re doing this because of the ritual, but also because they want to fuck each other and that’s not legal in any country.

Sam’s watching Dean, waiting for Dean to say something, and Dean realises that Sam’s been waiting, again, for Dean to make the first move. Second, really, because Sam’s already made his, against the Impala in Iowa, telling Dean he wanted it by making sure he wasn’t somehow controlling Dean’s reactions. It’s such a Sam way to get his point across, that underhanded, backwards method, and Dean’s an idiot for not seeing it sooner.

“The bed’s bigger than the couch, though,” he says, watching Sam for a reaction, “and I bet it’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than the couch. Which side do you want?”

Sam’s smile is enough to make Dean feel at once lower than dirt and higher than heaven, and they get ready in a comfortable silence.

The bed’s a tight fit, but Sam lifts an arm and Dean plasters his back against Sam’s chest. When Sam’s hand settles on the same spot on Dean’s stomach that it has every night since the ritual, Dean’s hand covers it, squeezes, and then Dean closes his eyes.

--

He can’t get to sleep. It’s been hours, its dark outside and Sam’s breathing low and rhythmic behind him, but Dean can’t sleep. He’s tried everything he can think of, but nothing will work, not any trick he’s used before. His entire body is humming, electric, and the only thing he can think of is Sam behind him, the press of skin against skin, the calluses of Sam’s fingertips on Dean’s stomach.

Dean eventually moves, shifts, can’t help the aching need to move. Sam sighs when Dean does, and opens his eyes a moment later, bleary eyes blinking at Dean.

“S’a matter?” Sam asks, and the roughness of his voice so close to Dean’s ear goes right to Dean’s cock.

Dean mutters something under his breath, random words, and Sam laughs a moment later, moves his hand just enough so that his fingernails scratch Dean’s stomach. Dean freezes.

Sam’s motionless behind him, but says, a second later, “Sorry,” sounding much more awake than he had been before.

“No,” Dean says, too fast. Sam doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t move, either. They’re still in the same position they went to bed in, and Dean doesn’t have to look at Sam when he says, almost whispering, “I want to fuck you.” There's silence for a long moment, and then Dean says, “Sam, I want.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, cutting Dean off in a tone that’s just as quiet, just as intense. “Yeah, Dean.”

They’re still, as if the question and answer need time to settle in their heads, and then they explode in a flurry of motion. Dean tumbles out of the bed and grabs lube and condom from his duffel, stripping on his way back to the bed, while Sam kicks the comforter and sheets down to the foot of the bed, moves the box of Kleenex from the desk to the nightstand next to the bed, taking his own clothes off and tossing them in a pile on the floor.

Sam gets back to the bed first, lays down, and then Dean’s hovering over him, kissing and biting and licking his way down those miles of skin. Sam still smells like cinnamon and milk, even outside of the ritual, and he’s giving off a subtle glow of deep, dark green at the edges of his body, the colour of his eyes. Dean knows he’s staring, but Sam’s staring back at him, so it’s all right.

“Rojo,” Sam murmurs, reaching up and running his hand over Dean’s scalp and hair, scratching with his fingernails. “Usted ha sido siempre rojo.”

“I don’t speak Spanish,” Dean says, nudging Sam’s legs apart, shifting his brother.

Sam smiles, lets Dean position him, and says, “I know.”

There aren’t any words after that. Dean coats three fingers in lube, fucks Sam open with one before adding another, scissoring his brother’s hole before adding another, the three moving inside of Sam, coaxing out groans that Dean eats, swallows down his throat.

Sam’s dick is hard and leaking, he’s moving his hips in shallow thrusts, trying to get Dean’s fingers deeper inside, and he finally growls, bucks up, a clear sign. Dean grins, puts the condom on and then lubes himself up. As he positions himself at Sam’s entrance, Dean looks at Sam and drops his barriers, all of them. Sam blinks, then drops his own, and as Sam’s gasping at the sudden surge of his empathic gift, Dean slides inside.

It’s tight, Sam’s tight, and there’s resistance at first, but then Dean’s inside all the way, and it’s better than he’s imagined over the past two weeks. The noises Sam made during the ritual, with Dean’s fingers inside, are lower, deeper, this time, with Dean’s cock in him, and Dean can feel those noises rumble through Sam and against his own skin even as the green tinge around Sam gets darker and richer.

Dean’s having a hell of a time trying to keep Sam quiet; he never would’ve pegged his brother for a screamer, but if this is Sam trying not to make much noise, Dean’s looking forward to getting him in a place where he’s not pressing his lips over Sam’s, where Sam’s not biting his shoulder with every thrust just to keep quiet, and as much as Dean wants this to last, wants to draw this out until Sam’s beyond words, beyond anything except Dean, he knows it’s just not possible with Missouri two rooms over.

He pounds into Sam with increasing force, until Sam’s panting, doing his damnedest to permanently imprint the pattern of his teeth all over Dean’s skin and keening even underneath that, little noises every time Dean’s cock moves over his prostate. Dean’s close, too close, and he digs his fingers into whatever part of Sam they’re on, thrusts once, twice, three times, and comes inside of his brother.

“Sam, come on,” he murmurs, forehead against Sam, sweat-slicked skin pressing against sweat-slicked skin, and reaches to jerk Sam’s cock. As soon as his hand tightens around Sam’s erection, Sam trembles and comes, and Dean forgets himself and groans, feeling Sam’s muscles clench around Dean, still inside.

They both pant, get their breath back, and then freeze when they hear footsteps outside. The footsteps pause outside of their door, and then keep going on to the bathroom. They relax slightly but don’t move, not until Missouri’s bedroom door closes again.

Dean lifts himself up, grins at Sam, and leans down, kisses his brother. When he finally pulls out, Sam grimaces but doesn’t do anything except reach for the tissues and wipe off his stomach before sliding back to his side of the bed. Dean takes off the condom, ties it off and is about ready to drop it in the garbage before he stops, looks back at Sam.

“She’s your friend,” Sam says, and Dean considers that, what that means, before he shrugs and drops the condom in the small garbage can and goes back to bed.

He falls asleep in minutes, Sam’s fingers tracing out patterns on his stomach.

--

In the morning, after breakfast, Dean loads up the Impala and walks back into the house. He goes straight to the living room, knowing without a doubt that Sam’s inside, and he’s almost surprised to see Missouri in there as well, clutching a piece of paper.

Sam turns, and Dean sees the cautious look his brother’s wearing, but, beneath that, the happiness and contentment, and Dean smiles.

“You two comparing notes on something?” he asks, and Missouri snorts.

“Hardly,” she says, but then turns back to Sam and gives him a hug, whispering something in his ear. Dean sees Sam blush, can sense how awkward Sam feels, but then Sam hugs her back, and Dean feels like his life is finally starting to come together.

“You boys take care now, y’hear?” Missouri says, once she’s moved away from Sam and given Dean a hug as well. “And come back whenever you’re passing through.”

Dean smiles, says, “You know we will. Cheaper than a motel and with food, of course we’ll be back.”

Missouri smacks Dean on the back of his head, and Dean doesn’t stop rubbing his head until he and Sam are getting in to the Impala, movements synchronised without thought.

“What were you two talking about?” Dean asks, turning the car on, smiling as his baby starts to purr.

“The counter-hex for her client,” Sam says, waving at Missouri, who’s standing on her front step. “I only know it in Spanish, so I had to write it down for her.” Dean shakes his head, and Sam says, “What?”

Dean laughs, says, “You are such a softie.”

Sam leans over, punches Dean in the arm, and as they drive out of Lawrence, heading north, Dean’s cell phone rings. He pulls it out, answers without even looking, says, “Hello?”

Sam looks over, frowning, and understands the sudden panic Dean’s showing as soon as Dean says, “Dad. Hi.”